wille zum leben / machtgelust
what is the what and who is asking and why does one care to know? whose being is the being? twinkle in daddy’s eye, aye, ‘I’ was willed and now I will and on and down and back and up through jiggly chains of willing and wonting and rocking and rolling serving the primordial itch lolling in prioracle ooze – love is a nonapeptide with a sulphur bridge, the journeyman courier of ancient prioric priapic desire — is it pain that spurs us on or loves promise that leads us — pain I should think and a promise of an end to pain, of safe harbors in arms like mom’s, of warm bodies in cold darkness, of meaning out of chaos, light from night.
why does it will and how does it will and who does the willing and the wailing and the whiling and for what? the question is unanswered and as soon as man spoke he lied and after the lie he blamed it on a woman — typical we say as if the action follows inevitabilty from the type — and its unclear why that Old Wise-Lover Playdoh Graycoh seemed to think that the shapes preceded the clay, seems like wearing your shoes on your hands to this little cavedweller, or why Mr. Ari T. Tottle the Aristocrat thought the clay hid some transcendant clayness, or why such silly linedrawing could be adopted by that Fat Saint, Twinsies Horsies to explain how god got in my cracker — higher forms are higher forms and Neetches got it right, that all that stuff is tripe and gristle laid out like a garnish, a function of plating to make the peas more palatable — hiding behind the Oracleman to fool us into thinking that the world is Lit and not Dark, but bring the Chaos, says Neetch, the World is Dark, and the will is a small thing to stand against darkness, and little campfires singing to the the night only betray your presence to the hunters who hide there.
but doesn’t stop the WZL or the Machtlust, because the Machtlust, even if a lie, is a useful lies and useful lies are remembered in the place of not-so-useful truths. Evillution baby, the christolers are right to dislike, its cold and amoral and has nothing to do with their Hanging Apollo.
Maybe baby, maybe, but we’re all just children of the universe, every little willed and willing, and Hanging Apollo and Crazy Dionysus are children of the universe too, and you can’t fear the darkness because that’s where the Touch is, that’s where the Other Sits, and it’s Other-Touch that gets, that sends chills down spines and children down tunnels and its where the magic happens — the lie itself a bit of magic, in that it sketches the edges of ontology and shows you where I end and Yous begin — and that there is the sacred — Unity of God, but Divisibility Therefrom, the Universe revolves around the Eternal Dialogue not the One-Toned Monologue, and in the Dialogue, God hides, and in the Dialogue, Telos emerges, from foreheads and mortal souls like Pallas laughing at her self in the mirror.
Will to live; will to power; will to know;
Will to touch the other, see the other, to tremble and being looked at; not to see but to be seen; eyes of some great presence, some soul equal to yours or better, glancing and knowing; knowing the gods of your fathers and the gods of your mothers and gods of your brothers and sisters and lovers; walking in the world together, talking.
such is love.