Is It The Music Or The Noise?

Notes on Living with Dignity in a World Gone Mad

Collage by Author

Originally published at Wrong Speak Publishing

The floodgates have opened, the dam is broken. Information gets passed around at the speed of sound—the individual has little resource for confirming any facts and is relatively helpless in the pursuit of themselves.

But who needs help—to be themselves?

One could quite easily smoke a joint and question all this “civilization” that we so deeply pride ourselves in. The internet is a ghastly machine—if it only had a mouth, it would surely be foaming. The “public square” is littered in flyers, pamphlets, theater, sardonic cynicism, algorithmic tampering. But ah! I am no cynic! I don’t shout through megaphones at passersby! Might as well feed the pigeons. Might as well stay home, perhaps.

Identity. Well, sure. Give it a go. What have you got to lose? How do you gauge your associates? What is the color of your skin? Your flag? What will have you up in arms with your group, chanting and marching in the streets? Is it pride? Is it possible to be proud? What is “pride’s” relationship with “resentment”?

I say I might have quit the whole winning and losing scenario—and better yet, toss aside good and evil, as far as I am concerned. For one, what feels good, what is good, and what is for the good are ever-changing—in the future, statues of those who ate meat will be torn down. It is only the most flagrant violence that we can identify as evil. I can ponder on the good and the evil, but I cannot get myself there. It is too fuzzy.

What I can count on is less moral, but a more intuitive type of thing. What I mean is authenticity, and everybody knows those who are authentic in the public eye, who do not fall into a type of blank stare when asked a question—they will also be vilified by those same pupils that make up the public “eye”. And so, whatever anybody says, whatever they do, or refuse to do, it will be something, regardless of the circumstance, that will garner them enemies, now, or in the future. And so, we must accept this, I suppose. To speak is to risk something, if not everything. And so there is a choice: you can speak or not, but to speak is not just so much as muttering phrases, but it is the art, in some ways, of making enemies. You must have them! You must.

When I think of “elites”, I shudder. Because I have heard about them for so long — whether they be financial, religious, academic, cheek bone, complexion—our “elites”, ahem, our betters in the high institutions of whatever-the-fuck, all the way down to the manager class—they are ruthless!

(I am reminded now briefly of going to the courthouse in downtown Los Angeles for some official type thing and after having found and paid for a parking spot and entered the courthouse I was then asked to fill out a document — and so I asked for a pen. No pens on loan, they said! I had to walk all the way back to my car and still couldn’t find a pen — when I looked back at that big courthouse from where I parked, I remember thinking “no pens on loan! A fortress of sandstone and marble! Ah, to hell with your damn pens!”)

Oh, how I know and loathe these types. So one must get used to “abuse of power” rather quickly. And plenty of times, if not most of the time, those with the most puny, paltry, pathetic type of power can wield it the most wildly, with the most lashing out — they’ve gripped the shaft of power once, and though it is a small shaft, they hold on to it for dear life. Knew a kid in school who was like that. When the teacher asked him to pass out the papers, he made everyone say “here” like it was roll call. His name was Noah. What a prick, eh?

And so, we are all born into a prison of a certain kind. A certain type of oppression is at the root of every experience, precisely because the experience has some limitations. I think of mores firstly — conventions, the “ways of life”. We all have them, good or bad.

Some of have it lucky. The Italians. The Portuguese. The country of Brasil. And I say lucky in the weather, the rhythm of life that seems built into the infrastructure. It seems a more poetic pace than that of many other “ways of life”. And so there is also, in addition to mores, the state of the arts. Culture. How, then, does one escape the prison of atmosphere? Culture? Heredity? Geography, physicality? Those things which limit us?

To see through the prison bars? I am certain, for myself at least, it is rooted in creativity and rebellion. So much so, that it is the only way I could ever honestly live. And so, I find my integrity in my work, but it is in a vacuum, like my heart, and the world, if given the chance, would almost surely rip it to shreds.

What I wish to reconsider is what constitutes the music and what constitutes the noise. There is no dignity in the noise—to listen to it, to make it. We are all looking for dignity, more or less. I believe dignity can be found anywhere, because it is a mindset, a constitution for the governing of values. I have not yet found out exactly what constitutes the noise, and what makes up the music—each day, though, I can hear the music better and more vividly, and when I avoid those undignified things (think the trappings of the internet, the pitfalls of the big city) I become more alive, more creative and more in touch with the rhythm of my own life’s song. I want it to be a long piece of music, and I believe everyone that I ever met deserves a song.

JSV

Minas Gerais, Brasil

12/29/2022

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