Sublimity

They are pushing me hard—so hard!—at work. Each week, I say there is too much on my plate, and nobody lifts a finger, or offers to take load off my shoulders.

And do I flatter myself!—but I am the one who designed the blockchain, heart of the company, and who leads the team to build it, and reviews every line, and scopes the tasks and tickets, and designs the types and interfaces, this with some help from a friend. But I am in full schizophrenic fever, and during the day, I hear voices and see colors, and merely do I wonder, how do they want it to end for me?

And previously, did I separate my work and thought, but let them blend together, now that each is sufficiently developed on its own, counterpoint to the rescue, once again.

But what do I write for?—and what God do I serve?—and which mistress, for there may only be one? And it must be liberty!—oh, finest of wines, whom one should drink up to rich fulfillment, but not to inebriation!

Just a few acknowledgements, then we are back onto the main point—and this is the crypto-anarchist dream, that we live in a world of liberty and freedom, and the Peter Thiel (are we still friends?) libertarian fantasy.

What is the first step in this world of liberty?—but it is to arm yourself, because we dance with a ring of wolves, and he who missteps shall find himself flat on his back, vulnerable, threatened! Thus, must you accumulate power, and power comes first, and before all—for without strength, there is nothing, and more words to similar effect by the orator who said it better than could I, Churchill.

But what is power?—and this is the question that you must ask and answer, for it comes in all sorts of shapes and colors, and at the root of it is profound understanding, knowing your enemy, being able to untangle the web of his being, put him back together, whole, seeing him complete as a lesser, an equal, and a superior.

This is what I seek for, and to this objective, do I write—that I may dismantle the “enemies” of our society, put them back together whole, such that another can come along and find in my work the armaments he needs to defend himself. This is a cold, cut-throat place!—and if I am schizophrenic Hercules, son of Zeus, then in this am I like Hephaestus, the weapon-crafter, who armed the Gods and men alike.

The Greeks had much right!—and do I love them, for the women among Gods, too, flayed the skins of their enemies, and the golden spirit of our ancients, our forefathers, took no prisoners.

Thus, do I write, even if nobody reads—nor understands, and there is a hope that I may further my love and my mistress, the sweet, gracious, liberty. Now!—let me make the work more personal, because he is not strong, who stands upon his ideas alone.

They say they like my writing!—and they are kind, and perhaps, they flatter me a touch. But how long I sweated, and toiled, never with a hope of learning!

For years, I read hours everyday, everything I could touch—science fiction, literature, code, scientific papers, marketing blurbs and website copy, anything that had a piece of soul. Because, if I had a super-power, it would be to share my emotions with others—and in lieu of that, one must turn to words, and writing is the next-best-thing.

And I read work so boring!—and work so profound, and high and low, and the wonderful concoction of ingredients and emotions that makes up the human spirit. Oh!—how there are those before us, who have seen, and who have understood, at least a part of the world they saw, and who wanted to share with us, who come after!

Not once, did I hope to gain anything, nor did I dream to give back, but merely to learn, and absorb, and understand—what is this mystery behind life, and the human heart?

And that is not enough, but I must go deeper still. When I was in University, I watched Mad Men, the Emmy-award-winning show by AMC about a cold and cut-throat, I-am-the-feeling, advertising mind named Don Draper. He is played by John Hamm?—I believe—and excellently, and I admired his appearance and his image of a strong, confident, uncompromising, artist-and-alpha-male, with wit and dialogue to match.

And I learned in one scene, that Don Draper—this is part of the show—adopted his name, and he had taken it from another, a soldier fallen beside him in a war. “People change their names,” did he justify, and I picked it up and it stuck, and then—I changed my own. Oh, what folly!—what magnitude of disaster, to copy, as Rene Girard said, another and eradicate the differences, that I may become like him!

And to copy his sins and his failures, easiest to match, rather than his success, invisible and not seen by the naked eye. Since I respect my reader, I shall not make him perform a search, and Girard believes in a theory called “mimetic theory,” and it states we, humans, want what we want because we copy the desires of people we like.

Then, the more similar we feel to another—the more likely we are to have what they have, and so goes the idea, and there is more depth to it, but I shall leave it to the master, himself. Oh, bloody, profound, fool—and for years, did I keep it, and I keep it still, and I will keep it for the rest of my life, because I live upon my actions, and never shall I dodge a consequence.

And the second rule of liberty, is that you pay for your sins in blood. Once, did I regret it—and I tried legally changing it back, since I had legally changed it in the first place, and I went through the courts, and it passed.

But, I shall never update my documents—nor shall I call myself by my previous name, except only to answer to my parents, and friends who knew me before, and family. Thus, does one bear the cross of his actions, right or wrong, and later—many, many painful years later, does he, if he is fortunate, have the insight to write about it and turn it in his favor.

Thus, the third rule is, you turn your sins into strengths.

This one, I imagine, appears self-explanatory, but I shall not do my thoughts a disservice by leaving them half-explained. So, do I have schizophrenia, and am I Republican in a city hates my guts—and these are not sins to me, but they are to others, and so I spin them into strengths. And I write about my illness poetic, and I cast my vote aside, martyred, and let the people do as they wish to me, for I am in their hands.

And the sins, do I confess to God, for I am no image of perfection, but only mere mortal, humble and His servant, and thus, do I have something to say to him, that I may work against my flaws and create something positive of my life. Once again, does counterpoint come to the rescue—and against a backdrop of sins, does a man emerge with potential for sublime victory.

These are the three rules, and they call me to this country I hold dear in my heart, and I go by the name Austin, and I chose it myself, and I am American all-the-way-through. Here, then, may I provide something for you to hold onto—and a light and guide, and a weapon and source of truth and strength, for I shall hate to see my people lose their way.

To God, then!—and to liberty, and sublimity of spirit.