Quo Heleth 3

Through the life that I have enjoyed, all has played out in patterns, in seasons. Despite my order, my design the wisdom and practicality of my plans they’ve all played out and there been a rhythm, a seasonal change for my life, whether I want things or need things, whether I’ve planned them or worked for them there has always been a different time for every activity in this rich existence we call life.

A time to be born, a time to die,

 A time to invest and a time to pull out.

A time to destroy and a time to heal,

A time to demolish and a time to build,

A time to cry and a time to laugh,

A time to mourn and a time to party,

A time to scatter and a time to gather.

A time for passion and a time to abstinence,

A time to strive for more and a time to give up,

A time to keep and a time to throw away,

A time to rip up and a time to mend,

 A time to be silent and a time to speak out,

A time to love and a time to hate,

A time for war and a time for peace.

So what does a worker gain from sweating day after day? It’s as if there is a huge burden that the almighty has put on the back of the worker. In the right time, in the right place everything has its value, its beauty. Like children in a toy shop we see all the potential tastes and sights around us but we’re stuck, staring at the glittering concoctions that surround us. Even if we overcome the apathy produced by choice and set our goal and then move heaven and earth to reach that goal, there’s still a hole.

And it’s not that there’s more sweet jars to put our stick our fingers into, but more that God has put a longing, a hole, a need, an aspiration into the very heart, the depth of the soul.

Why do we like dogs howl at the moon, why does eternity, the universe, the great question, weigh upon us, fill us with questions.

It’s simple, the easy good life is this; be happy and do good. Have you noticed that the music that survives in popular consciousness from the past decades isn’t meaningful, self-aggrandising, and long haired; it’s the ‘don’t worry, be happy’ sounds of happy popular music. 70’s disco never dies but prog rock is left to some middle aged men in their shed and offices.

We don’t actually want to be deep and profound, we want to be happy, Why do we listen to years of anti-drug, drink and sex at school and then live for the weekend? We want something joyful and as we can’t get it we go for the best substitute.

The thing is that the good life is taking pleasure from every day. Somewhere we lost the idea that work might be fulfilling, good honest toil. Toil no longer is a word, it’s t.o.i.l. an acrostic to cling onto, not be to be allowed to be dragged from our clinging dead fingers.

Is there anything worth working for? Did we lose it all when we lost the soil? No one wants any job other than singing or kicking a bladder. And that takes talent, but who decided that a goal-scorer is worth more than the surgeon who saves a life? They make the economy go round, but only we chose to let them. We live in envy, a journey of glossy mags that show us what we’re missing, what we could have if… moving from job to job, dream to dream, that person, whether child or lover who will be THE answer, until next time.

The secret to enjoying work is the knowledge of the greater, Nothing I do will last, but this earth, it’s cycle, it’s eternal circle will last. The one who set it in motion knew it was going to last, the laws and patterns of science continue, whether we know them or not. It’s been done and we do little to effect it, We little ants crawling of the face of a creator’s handiwork live out lives that follow the pattern, all been done, all been before, I’m sure God’s beginning to find human actions a wee bit repetitive by now.

As I observe the earth I see violence and injustice everywhere, from the estates and tenements to the third world terror cell. Whatever happened to fairness and justice? So I told myself that some cosmic force will pay back wicked and reward the good, whether God the judge or karma the force. We are tested to show that we’re merely animals, just like animals we breathe, breed and die, and we’re no better off than they are. I saw a piece of art, a glass tank more than six foot square, a race of flies are born in a white cube inside one half of the tank; in the other half rests a rotting cow’s head. To feed the flies have to find their way through openings into that part of their sealed world, - which is also where the artist has put an insect-o-cutor. In their rush to feed the flies find death. Whilst the artist plays God, we show ourselves as animals in relation to a God who can conceive of a world and a system like ours. We like to think that our human spirits go up and that animals only rot, but who can really tell you the truth? Who knows? The great scientist fanfares his debunking knowledge, but the experienced idiot can make him foolish. No one knows, truthfully, hence the centuries of argument. To get back to the point, we need to enjoy our work, we have evolved or regressed to a point where that feeling is rare. If we are to be happy, if we are to have meaningful existence and wisdom we must. When jobs are measured via pay over joy, society will be an unhappy place. 

Quo Heleth 2

Ok, that’s a bit depressing. I’ve left that darkened room now to enjoy some sunshine. I figure if everything’s pointless, why not enjoy life, have a laugh. I mean, dying laughing, blotting out the pain, living for the weekend, that’s got to be the least, worst way out.

I wondered round the comedy clubs, the back of my TV, surrounded myself with the dark and biting, the light and fluffy, the crazy reckless and the near insane. Each laughed and passed seconds, but many flew from height to depth, some only found humour in a bottle, some were sadder than the depressed, and some were already escaping this life and knew nothing of it. Each of the pleasures of the flesh, from the bathhouse to the brothel, via the arts and the pulp again these are all in vain, meaningless; Another someone attempting futile meaning on stage big enough for their ego alone.

Laughter and pleasure are a form of madness, they have no point, they accomplish nothing. Another meaningless end of human trying to find a point.

If all is meaningless as I am guessing, then how could I do that which is futile. In my pursuit of meaning, of a point, a greater than I and mine, I need to embrace foolishness, futility and mess. I’d like to drink to drunkenness, yet be able to observe myself mid-binge and understand our escapist tendencies. Maybe the place to stand to find a reason is where there is least reason, from that low vantage point I may see the top in clearer perspective.

And yet how many pursue this path and find the grave instead of the sky.

It’s become clear to me that being wise makes you sad. Or at least introverted. The idiot has a smile, the sage a frown. To know is to hurt, ignorance can be bliss.

The photographer, the journalist, the disaster tourist, they know. For their own twisted reasons they can’t flick the channel when the pictures of starvation, AIDS and humanity’s inhumanity flows. The camera has to keep whirring, the keyboard has to keep clicking and they know. How many can be happy? They are the kings of compartmentalism, or the ones on suicide watch. 

These people and I, having sought truth and wisdom must seek elsewhere.

So I tried achievement, having never truly felt like a son who could inherit and be happy I needed to work and earn my worth. I achieved great feats, finished great projects. My grand designs were visited, documented and splendoured. Not only building monuments and dwelling but businesses and farms, seeking after the way of completeness. I made gardens of great aesthetic and utility, I planned my own water courses, my own deep devices for producing energy whilst serving and harmonising the earth. I had vast numbers of people in my businesses, I watched them grow and change, prosper and burn me, love me and loath me. I watch them procreate and progenate. I never owned them but some resented the smell of me in all they did and felt purchased. I did own animals, flocks, endangered species and pacified slaughtered species. A business and a responsibility, a joy and a burden.

Whilst amassing these things which multiplied my wealth and worth I began to grow in the frippery, the extension of wealth; a publishing house, a patron, a subsidiary record company, a doctorate for which I am still to work. I collected a following of gold-diggers and philanthropists of the beautiful and vivacious. My attraction obvious and yet subtle.

And I denied myself nothing that took my fancy.

I refused myself no pleasure.

I was lifted and enraptured by my actions, my work and my achievement.

This was the true reward of my labour, the joy.

Yet when I survey, when I see what made the smooth callouses on my hands,

The fruit of my stresses and strains.

It was all meaningless, I’m chasing the wind again;

What have I actually gained?  

 Again I return to wisdom, to practical truth, to what works.

I have done nothing for the first time, the paths I choose are always well trodden, even when I seek the road less travelled.

I know that wisdom is better than being foolish, just like the light is better than the dark.

The wise man is walking with eyes open, seeing the path, the choices and playing his part, the fool is wandering in the dark, taking his chances.

But both are equally likely to fall into a trap, a hole, a ditch and a depression. Neither is insulated against disaster, and who enjoys the journey better

So my seeking after being wise seemed stupid, If I will end up in the same grave being wise or foolish, what’s the point of being clever! What’s the point of knowing the futility of it all? No one is remembered, we cannot leave an indelible mark, we cannot defeat death.

So I hated my whole life and existence. All the work that had been my pride, my meaning my worth it burned my eyes, it was a painful reminder of the pointlessness of wisdom and the life of practical wisdom, of doing well. I grew to hate everything I had ever worked for, things, people, organisations. All were bitter pills and the scrapings of the barrel.

Why did I hate them? I had to hand them on. How do I know if my successors, born or chosen will follow in my footsteps will keep my legacy. It is impossible to know if another is wise or foolish, if they are good or bad. We can all hide our true intentions. The rich and prosperous trust no one. The lives of the rich and famous are filled with divorce, litigation and strife. It’s not new it has ever been thus.

So now I despair of the future and of the work that I have done, both past and present seem pointless and hard work for no good. I mean a person works, a banker, a captain of industry, they work long and hard, puts it all in, leaves it all on the pitch, it hurts and he sweats and yet at night there is no rest from worry or stress. It all might disappear tomorrow, someone might take it, he might make the mistake that means it’s all gone. It’s all meaningless, pointless.

There’s nothing worth doing than eating, drinking and be happy with the work we do. Being rich, having things, doing great things, there is no point. God’s made it that way, don’t worry be simple, be happy. We’re dependant upon a greater power, for without the natural things around us who could find joy or food.

The one who seeks God, who wants to be enlightened finds wisdom, knowledge and happiness, but the one who ignores God gathers and stores a mountain of money and things, he seeks to hold onto it, but ends up needing to give it to the man who seeks God to gain his wisdom, contentment and joy.

This all is pointless, like chasing the wind

Quo Heleth 1

I use this room to reflect.

It’s a place that’s light, but pitched black.

I sat here in the fruit of my youth and I sit here now I’m old.

I come here mainly to think.

Maybe I’ll lose you here, but my problem is I’ve seen it all.

I mean who hasn’t, by 15 I’d watched enough TV to know everything I could ever desire, create, be, had already been done.

There’s nothing new under the Sun.

Yet still I’m asking questions.

It’s like this, here I am, with more than royalty. The pleasure at my finger tips would have had Cleopatra, Solomon or Henry VIII in orgasmic spasms. The level of health and cleanliness, the choice of food, the variety of everything, the availability of people, travel, the shrinking of the world, a phone, the net, free sex in 3D, reality or latex, light, sound, noise, love, loss, experience, speed…

It’s mind-numbing, all this available and I’m not, we’re not, happy yet. 

Empirical research is the way, that’s what they teach you in school today, mother.

Someone’s got to try it all, just to see why we aren’t happier, of course.

There’s a mental picture I have, of red rocks in the burning sun, one of those places, Australia probably, where there’s desert lands and everything’s difficult and unspoilt. I‘ve never been anywhere like that. Never touched it, but I know it, it was even in a bad film. It says to me that there’s somewhere real, clean, separate, but it’s polluted by its availability. No need for a life and death cruise to the other side of the world and a trek through uncharted territory, just push a squashy button, with a squashy digit and sit back. If it gets to you climb on a plane, take out your camera and tattoo “I woz ‘ere.” 

We know there’s a pleasure to be found away from the world as we know it, there’s poems and bearded men and women that tell us about it, there’s an awareness of a higher power that comes purely from the world around, I mean, I know evolution, I went to school, but the glory of the lakes, of a cave somewhere of the vastness of deserts, of the power of a waterfall somehow touches the soul. Says that there’s more.

So instead of the discovery channel, I chose to travel…

Sometimes the mundane and the spectacular combine, there’s a bridge in Stockton, on it written; ‘all the rivers run into the sea and yet it is not full.’ I know the water cycle, it’s GCSE geography, evaporation, condensation, over-retention. The point is that the same water is going constantly round. I saw a pointless probability study once. The probability that you’ve drunk a water particle that has previously passed through Julius Caesar is something like 98%. What am I on about…

It’s all circles, winds going round and round, water going round and round, matter, cells going round and round, you die, you rot and that become the matter under our feet that is a living organism, it produces plants and then is eaten by something that is eaten, it’s a cycle, it should the food cycle, not the food chain. We just try to make ourselves feel better with the names we give things.

It’s all futile, it’s all dust and air, we take our little lives so seriously, we record history, every birth every death is the source of so much soul jerking emotion but it’s meaningless.

Human beings come and go, millions upon billions, numbers we can’t get our heads around each one matters to someone because we have to pretend it’s important and not think about the big scale. No one talks about death. No one mentions that nothing really changes, a few new gadgets, but no real change, people are born, get happy, get sad, do stuff, die and are forgotten, even the famous fade.

I have set myself to find out the point, the point, wisdom, not knowledge, deeper than philosophy, but the practical point of this existence, is it a cosmic joke, an accident, a creators joke? Is it worth the aggravation to find yourself a job? What can you do that lasts, that doesn’t fade, that isn’t part of a cycle, that won’t be destroyed or lost? Every work that is done every structure that is built is constantly dependant on the next generation, the earth always overcomes. We can busy ourselves or we can be honest with ourselves.

Most work is vanity, self seeking, self aggrandising, done that our contemporaries value us, all about how we are perceived. Where’s the meaning in that?

I’ve seen a happy street cleaner and unhappy heiress, messed up dole takers and together premier sportsmen. What you do makes you do something. You may as well spend 80 years chasing the wind.

I’m well read, well studied. No that’s an understatement. It’s what I’ve set myself on. I have acquired knowledge and ideas, the written word like a desert traveller stocks up on water. But no one can carry enough to cross the desert. As I searched into the limits of human understanding I came face to face with the reality that is the darkness of insanity, the colour of craziness. Some people find satisfaction only in madness. Some of the great philosophers, artists, the famous, have dabbled with edges of sanity and we marvel at their ear-cutting feats. But again this is a self-aggrandising reverse psychology of pride. It’s is meaningless, lost, chasing more wind. A pointless effort done for the audience and to scream at the Sun, cursing its longevity and influence. The increase of knowledge, of wisdom, of understanding of the realities of the earth leaves me sad, broken, in sorrow.