Author: TJ McAvoy

  • on Nietzsche

    Flaming youth

    …Nietzsche wished to make a rule of the exception. The higher self becomes the measuring stick against which human life is evaluated. To realize his potential, man must struggle such that his higher self may rule. One seeks, in other words, to extend the time one lives in a state of inspiration…The feeling of inspiration, of a heightened sense of power, is attainable only when the soul rises above itself…Whoever demands greatness from himself is subject to unending inner struggle…

    Leslie Paul Thiele, Nietzsche and the Politics of the Soul

  • Letter to a reader

    IMG_1521

    Today I received a letter from a reader in Canada, asking if I’d ever read The Book of God. My news stories were lopsided, the reader wrote, and it seemed as if I’d never actually read the sacred text. I was a traditionalist sympathizer, or worse, a secret secularist, working for the other side.

    My intent has always been to make it clear that I work for no side. Yes, I am employed by the New Collective, which maintains unique autonomy in the global environment of information control. They offer meager pay but protection and the freedom to write as I wish. The words that readers see in the New Collective have been reviewed and reshaped (and often heavily chopped) by gatekeepers and editors who fashion the original message into something new, approved for readers, aligned with the New Collective’s editorial mission.

    I usually ignore the few letters I receive from readers and discard them without a thought. But when I do occasionally read one I’m not pleased with what I’ve read and it’s ultimately a waste of time because most readers have no energy or passion in their thoughts, there is no love or power or presence. I’m not upset when readers are critical of my work; I will always defend healthy criticism and discussion. The problem is that the letters are sabotaged by poor organization, sluggish prose, wildly inconsistent grammar, and puerile use of language in what basically amounts to a list of avid personal attacks. Most messages are critical in all the wrong ways, ultimately empty, useless, a waste of time.

    But as this particular letter arrived from Canada, a home of mine for many years after having fled my childhood village, I read it and chose to respond. This is what I answered privately:

    Dear reader, the first time I read The Book of God I didn’t understand it. I tried. It took two days of reading and rereading, and my first reaction was that it was incomplete. An adaptation of god’s words spoken through man, or so they say, the chosen son: an unknown and unauthenticated person of male or female gender writing from somewhere inside former Argentina. Sexless, they say. I read it after leaving the courier’s guild of North America to begin working for the New Collective. I remember hearing the story about this sexless child who could heal the sick and summon rain during drought. A demigod who could redirect streams of water to where it was needed and sate the hunger of its admirers when resources were hopelessly low. All of this according to legend, and all unauthenticated. Of course I never had the fortune of meeting this person (to date no one claiming to have met the child has been validated), but the stories I encountered pushed me toward the child so that I found myself at the New Collective, chasing leads across the world, a mercenary in the dialogue of ideas. If you’re still reading this.

    I am no religious scholar and do not pretend to be. The first time I read The Book of God it seemed to me like any other holy text, though, as I wrote — incomplete. All the traditional elements were in place: stern and merciless (but absent) authority, promises of redemption or punishment, engaging narrative, eschaton. I’ve read it three times, and don’t believe there will be a fourth. My current critical opinion of the text mostly mimics my first impressions of it. Perhaps if more of the text survived, a meaning would emerge for me (for you know as well as I that the “book” is incomplete).

    I can understand how some interpret the text as a salvo to rejuvenate a spiritually complacent human race. Perhaps there’s something to that. Religion has failed, they say. Man’s spiritual role in the universe has evolved. For that reason alone I gave your holy text a chance, dear reader. I read it carefully, three times, and it is only after careful thought that I believe the book to be an interesting historical artifact but logically unsound. I also believe the text to have been grossly misinterpreted by those who espouse it.

    The world has changed as it always changes. The human experience is a unique emotional phenomenon and people create a framework (or multiple, overlapping frameworks) in which to best interpret and understand it. The Book of God is one of those frameworks. Another is the anonymously penned The Enlightenment Project, the champion of man as the ideal spiritual guide. Or so they say. As I stated before, I am no religious scholar, but isn’t The Enlightenment Project critical of religion, and don’t those who use the Project as a social tool understand the terrible irony in their abuses against worshippers? These questions are further reasons why I believe The Enlightenment Project to have also been dreadfully misinterpreted.

    Unfortunately the authors in question are not present in the public forum to comment on the interpretations of their respective works. And so the readers and interpreters interpret and read at will, which is perhaps as it should be.

    I signed the letter and delivered it to a courier from the European guild. Then I left to investigate and write another assignment.

  • Excerpt: time machine

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    In the dream I leaned over a workspace surrounded by bolts and plastic casings and wires, writing and rewriting the user manual for the time machine as I built it. Every part or piece of the machine had a precise function and I used common household items like cloth and a plunger, I whittled hundreds of tiny working gears out of wood and I didn’t sleep for five days. When I was finished the machine stood just over three feet tall and four feet wide and I stood there in my workspace, staring at it. There were parts and wires and fragments of my life strewn everywhere and I pressed a button to set the machine into motion. It vibrated to life in cascades of light and sound and the scent of almonds and I knew it would work, it was inevitable. Then I took a sledgehammer and smashed the machine to pieces.

    In the dream I fell asleep upon the broken machine and dreamed again of time travel. In the dream’s dream I fashioned a drug rather than a machine for traveling forward and backward through time, a chemical compound of basic household ingredients in precise measurements, a subatomic cocktail in one compressed pill, and all one had to do to visit the Sixth Dynasty in Egypt was swallow that pill, all one had to do to help fight the imperialist invaders in the great galactic war of 3016 was snort a quick line, and when I woke from both dreams in simultaneity it was dark in my apartment and I didn’t know where I was until I looked out the window to the familiar lights of New York City across the bridge.

  • Notes from the overground

    MadTree

    [Madrid diametrically opposed to Berlin and Budapest, floral, still, you have your desolate and rotten neighborhoods, drugs, shit, disgrace, but the temperament is different in Madrid. Why is that? How far is the danger in days, in kilometers? Madrid, city of thieves, Madrid, city of whores. Madrid, the constant ever-changing putrid stench, how I love you. You’re like the bitch I let run wild at the back of the house. She’d wander home some nights after days of abandon with the carcass of another dog she’d killed. She’d lie with it near the house in whatever darkness remained and then take it back out to the fields, burying it, I assumed, at dawn. I wonder why she treated those carcasses that way, like kin, and I wonder why I wonder it. Men have no sanction here. Thirty thousand years ain’t shit next to four and a half billion…]

  • Apollo/Dionysus

    Gemini

    Man now expresses himself through song and dance as the member of a higher community; he has forgotten how to walk, how to speak, and is on the brink of taking wing as he dances. Each of his gestures betokens enchantment; through him sounds a supernatural power, the same power that makes the animals speak and the earth render up milk and honey. He feels himself to be godlike and strides with the same elation and ecstasy as the gods he has seen in his dreams. No longer the artist, he has himself become a work of art. – Nietzsche

  • Deconstructionist, pt. III

    Trane2

    A memory plagued with holes rendered my creative apparatus impotent, and I retired within the year. It was by far the most difficult decision I’ve made. My colleagues provided support at a respectful distance as I pondered the end of a career, the end of a lifetime of designing and constructing. All I’d ever known was that I was alive and I was a builder. But that foundation was now gone, forcing me to discover something else, to be something else.

    Brain damage due to seizures cast the world into a pall both surreal and morose. I maintained my office much as if working normally. It gave me an objective each day and held me close to the creative process. I observed my peers and encouraged them as I continued to lose clarity and understanding. At night idleness assailed me and I wandered the rooms of my home looking for anything of interest, picking books from shelves and walking about with them, reading aloud. I chose not to sleep but rather use my waking time searching those winter months for a new reason to live.

  • an excerpt from Esperanza’s story

    Esperanza paddled her way across the limitless expanse, her arms tired to the bone or past the bone to a place unnamed but doubtless real. Reflected in her eyes a sun red as fire began to wink out below the distant horizon of the sea and the girl wondered if she weren’t upon the waters of an alien world. Having been in the watercraft for so many days, she wondered if her legs would carry her when she finally arrived at land. Wind reached her from a distant place, carrying with it air chilled and fragrant with moist earth. She was getting close. 

    And from the silence into her awareness with sonic command, an unanticipated explosion of light and sound, the two ghastly creatures from the woods skimmed atop the water from afar directly toward her, incredibly fast. As they approached she failed to see their faces shrouded deep within their hoods. 

    We warned you once, one of them said in a high-pitched voice. 

    The creature lifted its bony arms into the darkening gradient and two balls of white light swelled and shot toward Esperanza, upending her raft and tossing her into the water. She had difficulty orienting herself in the water, cold and dark as it was. When she resurfaced the creatures hovered above her. Long bony fingers like twigs wrapped around her head and plucked her from the water, sending her airborne, floating through the air, a spaceward missile tumbling headlong back the way she’d paddled, thinking it was much colder up here, twenty meters above the water, and how serene it all seemed from this high up, how clear the moon was, ashen and pure and silent, how peaceful. 

    When she slammed back into the water all the air in her lungs evacuated from the shock of impact and her body somersaulted downward, downward at the mercy of the sea, the water dark and immense and silent, our friend a sleeping ballerina in perhaps her final solo performance…

  • Nietzsche on quiet fruitfulness:

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    The born aristocrats of the mind are not in too much of a hurry; their creations appear and fall from the tree on some quiet autumn evening, without being rashly desired, instigated, or pushed aside by new matter. The unceasing desire to create is vulgar, and betrays envy, jealousy, and ambition. If a man is something, it isn’t necessary for him to do anything−and yet he does a great deal. And still there is a human species higher than the “productive” man.

    Human, All Too Human