The front cover of my upcoming book “Anti-Labyrinths” and a blurb about it.
Dear Friends, despite the scepticism of some, I have been able to fully justify your view that I am a philosopher of hope and joy.
I am proud and delighted to announce that recently, while attempting to come up with a new proof of the Pythagoras’ Theorem, I serendipitously stumbled across the most beautiful, elegant and ingenious mathematical proof that we are all, in fact, living in Hell.
Consequently, we have nothing at all to worry about as things cannot get any worse and there is no hope for salvation.
People who think that this is hell on Earth are actually extremely inane optimists living in a fool’s paradise, still clinging on to the false hope that things could improve, whereas our real situation is in fact infinitely worse. They should have their illusions demolished by a helpful and gentle pointing out of the error of their beliefs.
People who realize that this is not hell on Earth, but rather that the whole Earth is in Hell are free from any delusional hopes and are in a better position to deal with the realities of life.
I will attempt to render this proof accessible to a layperson some time soon.
Well, recently, I have been honoured to have one of my song parodies performed live by the very talented Belgian-Australian singer/songwriter/pianist Deborrah “Moogy” Morgan. The song is titled ” Those Were the Nights” and it is a parody of the classic song “Those Were the Days”.
Once upon a time we went to Claypots
Where we used to eat a fish or two
Remember how we boozed away the hours
And thought of all the dumb things we could do
Chorus
Those were the nights my friend
There was no time for bed
We drank mulled wine forever and a day
The band played all night long
We’d sing and dance along
For we were drunk
and didn’t care what people say
La la la la…
Then the busy week went rushing by us
Monday, Thursday… is it nearly the weekend?
If by chance I see you there this Tuesday
Will you still remember my full name?
Chorus
Just tonight I stood in front of Claypots
No one there looked familiar to me
In the glass I saw a strange reflection
Who’s that alco staring back at me?
Chorus
Through the door there came familiar singing
I saw Moogy and heard her call my name
Oh my friend we’re sober but no wiser
For in our brains all cells have died away
Chorus
“The Gift” by Alex Grey
Part I
“Take this Boris, may it serve you well!”, a booming voice commanded, as a hand, holding a shining writing implement, extended towards me.
I was all of thirteen years old when the Hand from Above bestowed the Pen of Plenty upon me.
” You shall be my voice! I shall speak through you with this pen. You shall be a conduit to that Other Reality, the one inhabited by Eternal Truths, Infinite Beauty and Ineffable Questions. From this pen will spring forth an inexhaustible flow of Magic, you will not be able to help begetting works of perfection, each one more perfect than the one before it.
There is a price to pay. You will not be able to feel, smile, laugh, love, pursue ordinary human activities. You will only be able to write, writing alone shall be your existence.
You shall move solely in the Infinite, Eternal, Universal sphere. You will capture and portray through your writings every permutation, manifestation and aspect of life, yet you shall remain cut off from mankind.
This pen shall be the bathyscaphe with which you will descend to the lowest abysses, and it shall be the alpenstock with which you will ascend to the highest heights not yet scaled by mankind. The world will ostracize, scorn, misunderstand, persecute, laugh at you and it will cherish, adore, worship, celebrate you. But you will stay numb, unmoved by both love and loathing.
You will not know how to be young, yet you will not grow old and will stay a man-child, for, by not partaking in the outer world, you shall be free of its deleterious effects.
You will give life to an infinity of uniquely bizarre, wondrous realities, yet you yourself will be a mere metaphor, an empty shell of a shadow, never being able to feel real, concrete. The worlds you engender will be suffused with sensation and meaning, while your own outer reality will be bare, senseless and pedestrian by comparison.
This pen shall be the flame that will illuminate truths as yet invisible, you will help others find their identity, will bring clarity and enlightenment to humanity, will reveal the underlying, inner structure of existence, yet you will be forever lost, confused, at odds with yourself and the world, drifting aimlessly through existence, a jellyfish in the ocean of life.
This pen shall speak with a thousand voices, educing hysterical laughter, uncontrollable tears, twisting minds into Moebius strips, creating transcendental beauty that will stop others dead in their tracks, dumbfounded with awe, even if they have had just a fleeting contact with it, but you will be blind and deaf to its powers and will stay frozen inside. You will feel no pride or pleasure in your creations, for you will know that you are merely a conduit.
But even though this is a Pen of Creative Cornucopia, one day it shall run out and will write no more. Consequently, writing will be the hardest and most terrifying task of your existence, for you will be forever insecure, not knowing when you no longer will be able to create any more. Yet, before that time comes, you shall be flooded with a ceaseless deluge that will demand every instant of your life and your very sanity.
Once you take this pen, it can never be un-taken, you can never disown it or rid yourself of it.”
The voice stopped. I waited a while for it to resume, but it remained silent. Then, with childish, reckless eagerness, I extended my hand upwards, to meet the hand reaching down from above, caring not at all about the consequences.
Part II
The Writer sits in his room, writing at his desk. He has access to the deepest secrets and mysteries of the Universe, but the question that the whole world, from the tiniest and simplest organism upwards, seems to know the answer to, he can not solve: ” Why live?”
The Writer is torn apart by two contradictory thoughts that occupy his mind simultaneously and seem equally valid. He is certain that he is blind to a fundamental truth that the rest of the world is in possession of, for how else can one explain the whole world choosing life over death and existing with a purpose, something that he is not capable of. Yet he also knows that he is in possession of a fundamental truth that the rest of the world is blind to, for if it was privy to this truth, it would not be able to live in certainty.
The Writer is triply trapped by his room, his mind and his pen. Occasionally, overcome by curiosity and longing, he steals a brief, wistful glimpse, through the window, of the world outside that is teeming and pulsating with life in all of its infinite variations, life that he can never be a part of and whose simple pleasures he could never enjoy or grasp the meaning of. Other times he catches sight of a sliver of the sky that is visible to him from his sitting position. But he immediately feels guilty for neglecting his sacred task and hurriedly resumes scribbling, letter after letter, word after word, sentence after sentence, in his notebooks of madness.
Life passes him by, and then death passes him by too. He has no time for life and he has no time for death either. Neither life nor death can arouse his interest or get their hands on him, and just as he has forgotten all about time, so time has forgotten all about him. In any case, the Writer can not die, for the pen is still working and so he must keep on writing, for his commitment to his pen is greater than his commitment to life and death.
Years, centuries, millennia, billions of years elapse. The Sun expands into a red giant and then collapses into a white dwarf. The stars are torn apart by the forces of the Universe’s expansion, and the protons themselves rot into pieces. Cosmos begins to wind down, all of its energy having dissipated and turned into useless forms. Then the fabric of space-time dissolves.
Still, the Writer remains writing at his desk, which is now floating in vacuum, separate from time and space. Now and then he sneaks looks at the outside world, even though nothing remains there but pure nothingness.
And then, for the very first time, something leads the Writer to take a close look at the pen he was gifted with. He examines it carefully and notices the faded blue letters forming the words MADE IN CHINA etched on its side. Distant memories come flooding back to him, memories of his mother buying pens at the local supermarket, for the start of the new school year; memories of the bare walls of the bathroom that distorted the acoustics, and how he liked to speak to himself there and listen to his boy voice transforming into the stentorian voice of a man. He remembers standing in the bathroom and hearing a million voices calling out his name, then turning around and seeing all of humanity in the mirror looking back at him, as his left hand passed the pen to his right hand.
The Writer now realises that he is the Creator. Having had encompassed the Universe with his mind, the Writer expands to encompass the Universe with his body, so that the Universe and the Writer become one and the same, identical entities, coinciding precisely with one another.
With quiet satisfaction the Writer slowly puts the pen down and that is how the Universe
( and this story) ends, not with a bang or a whimper, but with a .
Note
1) In Australian English, “.” is known as “full stop” rather than as “period”.
