Why should I give a shit about eternity?, Part 3: Why I give a shit about eternity

I was thinking about suicide bombers the other day because that's what I do: I think about the moral psychology of fundamental terrorists while on the shitter.  There is the expectation of 42 virgins in heaven (of course, at 3 virgins a day, that exact scenario would only work for 14 days; then what're you gonna do for eternity minus 14 days?), but the real value is an abstracted personal concept: honor, glory, whatever.  These intangibles are immortal.  The suicide bomber lives on eternally through these abstract ideals.  (Unfortunately it breaks down when one realizes that the immortal abstractions require mortal beings to carry them; the sun will eventually burn out, ya know...)

I think glory, honor, celebrity, freedom, pride, etc. is a bunch of bullshit.  It is the quasi-religious currency used for mass manipulation.  Your concept of personal glory dies with you.  The fundamental terrorist's ameliorated personal identity stuffed silly with honor incinerates itself when the bomb explodes.     

But I can't pretend that eternity doesn't matter to me.  Consciously or unconsciously, my baby girl represents a future beyond my future.  She carries my intangible currency: my semi-immortal genetic makeup.  Subjectively, eternity matters; objectively, it means nothing.  Eternity may mean dick, but the concept means everything.  The fact that eternity is somehow an innate part of my emotional existence, drives my actions now.  My irrational belief in a perpetual future shapes my present.  That's why I give a shit about eternity: because as a human being, I contradict myself and make no fucking sense.

A selfless rhythm

I remember there were times during football games in high school where I seemed to function independent of conscious thought.  My body was in rhythm with it's environment and acted without restraint.  I had the the perfect economy of motion.  I was invincible.  (You may cite my several concussions as a counterargument to my claims of invincibility, but my response would be that I have no recollection of these purported concussive events.  No really, I don't remember them at all.)

Oddly enough, I was reminded of this economy of motion at the VA hospital the other day.  To briefly acquaint you with the Vets, they are a wonderful group of guys (mainly guys anyway) who performed a remarkable service for the rest of us and are now suffering the mental and physical consequences of their efforts.  Diabetes, heart disease, obesity, hypertension, depression and numerous other ailments run rampant throughout the system.  Despite the seriousness of their disease states, the Vets are oddly robust.  They seem able to survive an acute decompensation of their physical status much better than most of the rest of us could. And when I ask a Vet what type of medical problems he has, the majority of the time he will respond with "none".  True, certain diseases in this group are so common they almost seem like they are not diseases at all (if everyone had diabetes, would we have a name for it?), but they appear truly unaware that anything could be wrong.  Or maybe they are ware but just don't care, brushing me off with "do what ya gotta do doc."

It makes me wonder if they have a certain economy of motion to their lives.  Having experienced an intensity that is not replicable, life now simply comes to them.  They move through it with a rhythm that lacks self-awareness.  Life comes and goes and they accept and release it.  The question that follows is, does this lack of self-consciousness effort strengthen an individual?  Is a lack of a self-concept and thus a fear of loss of that self, the key to prolonging life?

Why should I give a shit about eternity? Part II: The passion of Buddha

So I shouldn't give a shit about eternity.  But, of course I do.  It makes me wonder if I have been giving religion an unnecessarily bad rap.  Religion's purpose is to provide purpose.  It hides the existential emptiness inherent to self-consciousness under a pillow of soft, warm bullshit.  The bullshit bothers me. It enrages me.  It blinds me to the actual value:  the ritual.  Through ritual, religion provides purpose by eliminating purpose.  The genius of Hemingway, Picasso, Matisse, Neruda was not the actuality of their creations, but the ability to commit to their ritual and give it direction.  One cannot expect everyone to possess this genius.  It may come as shock, but I am not a genius.  I can't commit to my passion.  Hell, I don't even know what my passion is.  Maybe I need a helping hand, someone to provide me with self-effacing ritual.  Maybe if I had a passion for Christ or Mohammed or Buddha, I would have eternity.  Not the 40 virgins in heaven type of eternity, but the eternity I could hold in my hand now like Matisse did his paintbrush.  Maybe religion was meant to give us passion and ritual and not dogma.  Maybe religion was meant to make us all forget about ourselves. 

And maybe we should think about this next time we use religion to create counterfeit pedestals from which to judge the "non-believers" and thus individuate ourselves that much more.

Why should I give a shit about eternity?

I've totally figured out immortality and I'm going to share it with you.

You're welcome America.

John Logan pointed it out in his new-ish play "Red" about Rothko and some random guy who bitch at each other about the nature of art, change, and death (excellent play).  In it the random guy talks about Matisse and how fierce the colors of his later paintings were despite the fact that he knew he was dying.  And when he was to ill to paint, he took some scissors and made collages.  He made collages until he died.  That is immortality.

It certainly would be wonderful if this blog were dipped in titanium and bolted to the White House steps for eternity.  But why should I give a shit about eternity?  I'll be dead.  I won't care who reads the immortalized yet under-recognized genius of this blog.  Nor will I care about the millions of lives this blog will save through it's brilliant insight into the human condition.  Again: I'll be dead.

At this moment, Matisse doesn't care about his paintings nor his fame.  Matisse's a sense of immortality came from passion and the consequent loss of self.  Painting wasn't about creating a personal image.  It wasn't about demarcating a past or impregnating a future.  It was about a ritual.  The dipping of a brush into paint, into canvas, into self.  The ritual eliminated self-consciousness.  Death, illness, body, identity were meaningless.  And when the ritual became impossible, he developed a new one.  Death meant nothing.  That is immortality: not that something is left behind, but that you don't care if it is or not.  Immortality is now.