The Subatomic Emotion

is Fear.

It is the building block on which rests entire structures of emotional spectra. Name it, Fear is the origin, the mother of it. Speak your emotion, however complex, however simple, Fear is its root.

Not to say that that is a bad thing. Without fear to temper courage--as in battle, war or rumble--you'd probably end up a suicide case. Without fear to sooth and mold bold intelligence--as in competitive scientific pride and vanity--you'd probably arrive at cold smart arrogance, and a product like the nuclear bomb. Without fear to rein love you lose fair discrimination between evaluation of your partner, which leads to ("unforeseen") break-ups, divorces, etc., etc., etc., include here abuse, emotional and physical and what-else-have-you, and death, like murder, accidental or intentional--which can also be cause due to TOO much fear.

What makes up fear? If fear is the subatomic emotion what is its composition? Are there components to this base ingredient or is it a pure substance? And does it have a super-string equivalent? Some very interesting queries. We shall explore.

I shall answer based on my experiences, what my intuitive intelligence tells me, what my logical mind contributes, and naturally, what my own fears are like, specifically and in a universal sense.

Having pondered on this with, I'd like to deduct, all my sentient being, I have come upon some evidence of only the meta-physical sort, what kind is there when dealing with such subject--the chemical and electric conclusions science has uncovered has sure to have some weight on the subject, but, fundamentally, I throw them out here (that is, I do not reiterate, though of course I integrate: like a backstory in a movie or novel, you never read, experience it, but serves as formidable back bone), this is an intuitive excercise--a thing so mysterious because of its origin, the unbordered expanses of the mind, where, as my personal, unaware Virgil states (I paraphrase), " gods surely dwell".

Let us use a subject, Mr. A, for example, here below:

Mr. A is of average physical condition and aesthetic, intelligence and psychology (that is to say, he is very malleable).

When Mr. A was an infant, Mr. A did not fear. There was nothing to fear. Experience was not at all a lot, or close to nil; and even then, continous medical shots for preventive purposes, shots that do hurt, inspire tears and cries, do not transplant in him anymore fear than if it didn't happen.

So, fear, certainly very obvious, is an Adult concept.

(Now, you protest, you came to now fear before your pubic hair sprouted! Yes. But. See! "Adults," as I discern them, carry on, mostly, the same level of maturity as if they were pre-pubescent. Agree. Take a pill. That's fear in the form of denial. You, my friend, as such I, are as immature as we were before masturbation. Did we really change that much, look around you, no, is the answer. So, allow the term Adult to apply to a level of maturity above the infant, though before wetdreams. I mean, is there really a difference between two brothers murderously competing to be numero uno in the household at StreetFighter and two countries playing at--let's not kid ourselves, comic books have their Doctor Dooms, we have our Nixons and Bushs--world domination? The only distinguishing fact here is that the two brothers are in healthy competition...for now.)

Is fear, therefore, an illusion? I will answer our first question. What makes up fear? If fear is the subatomic emotion what is its composition? Are there components to this base ingredient or is it a pure substance?

Awareness.

Awareness is the substance fear is composed of, infinite eyes of attention, detection, comparative retention, ancient fugue-recorders that began in East Africa, our real Eden, states of caution and studiousness--the Manhattan Project was developed because of the fear that the Nazis might pull-out a nuke before them; the Joliot-Curies, was vanity their motive? they knew their findings would be used as weaponry, isn't vanity a shallow fear, dangerous in this instance, maybe, they thought, "I want to be remembered": I am sure Nagasaki and Hiroshima will never forget you--and as society has evolved and mutated, so did this Sentiency, into phobia, paranoia, global schizophrenia(?): as we move farther away from our Original States of Consciousness (like Mr. A whence a babe) we divide, and divide, religion cuts, social rules cut, your peers' commandments further divide, your parents' wishes too want a piece, don't they? mostly, well no wonder we have never had more cases of multiple personalities, all feel like out in the rain, vulnerable and cold and it's dark, and of course, the dark, the unknown quality, is fear's breeding ground, where it is most happy with distorted fruition.

Unless you are real smart and imaginative and maybe even lucky and then fear can work for you, work for you in beautiful ways. Creation is intention or necessity or will equals intuition or sensitivity or compassion equals to fear, awareness or intelligence, and finally, its teetotal: existence or creation or space-time-matter materialization. This equation is an Ouroboros.

Another virtue, I be sarcastic, of Man, is, I guess, here I can't not use some science, fear can be a stimulus. The adrenaline-blood-oxygen rush, the tweaking of tuned-in awareness rise; the sweat, hairs erect, the fight-or-flight expression, debate, on the face, in the mind; the flood of light and detail: it's pristine accuracy. I know it's beautiful. It's goddamn addictive.

It's addictive. Horror movies. Flight. Boxing. Fight. Confrontation: fight-or-flight? Decisions: fight-or-flight? Courtship: fight-or-flight? First base: fight-or-flight? Balrog charging at you: fight-or-flight, Chun-Li? The USSR's or Nazis' chutzpah: oh for the brave West--Fight! A tresspasser with a knife at your daughter's throat, you ran to her room, heard the scream, your wife heard it first though, and she's at your feet, you discover, sprawled red and immobile, and the snicker of the villain inspires scenes of rape and of course murder on both you and your kid's mind: Fight? Or flight? Either way, it's one hell of a drama, a natural, biological, psychological, physiological, intellectual, emotional (spiritual? why not!) orgy, and what's the climax: fight-or-flight? Who wins, who loses?

Some are, like drunks and gamblers and serial killers, like to be losers, yet they dramatize their battles with bottle, cards or marks, as if victory were the Holy Grail, and they, mere slaves of (k)nights. The athletes and celebrities and CEOs, they want to be winners. What's your high?

So is Fear a disease? Is there a cure, if so? Should there be, if so?

Ah, and I quote a character of His, from THE book of His, as I am required and compelled to: "It is all in your hands".

A Prayer to The Element(al)s

I pray my -half has my back.
I know she does, it is a fact.

I pray my child stays strong and bright.
I know he will, says so the gods of Health and Light.

I pray the monolith I face is destructible.
I know it is as still I am able.

I pray my tears whet my mind.
I know they will, I know as I am kind.

Let my joyous roar flood the skies, my Lord.
'Llow my brood triumph with Cup, Wand, Coin and Sword.

The Angel and The Demon

Z attracts Z.

Whoever you are, whatever you are: this is the law. When I had wanted destruction the world complied, delivered to me an amalgamation of pathologies in rich bitch format. And she did what she was created to do, what I asked her to execute. She annihilated me. And, yes, I thank her. Probably the most infuential living man in my life is right: what else can you do with murderers and rapists in prisons except learn from them, through dialogue. The killer can also be the ferryman over the Styx. But the point of any adventure is a return to the roots. The task is a Goliath. That's why we call those that make it Heroes and Heroines.

Y attracts Y.

When Dante needed it Virgil came. When Pooh needed help Tigger came. And when it was my turn, She came. She was much the answer to me as I was to Her. We no longer roam the Earth as glimp living question marks with myopic eye sight, and neurosis. Now, we are one big phat throbbing spherical punctuation mark: period. (--With neurosis.)

X attracts X, and sometimes, they multipy.

The Cross that Bears Me

Na Ra, an aspect of my Holy Guardian Angel, seems to be an agent of my Pure Will. The Black God, a doberman faced black man in an Egyptian Pharaoh get up. Na Ra more likely is a slave, to Pure Will, and is made of grains of Precambrian sand. The Black God is Intelligence. The mind of my Angel, possibly. This is all specualtion of course. There is The White Girl, she seems to be a person made up of sperm. Or sperm and eggcells, yeah. She is Inspiration. They all three live in the surface and orifices of the body of the Red Queen, the Holy Mother. The whore to all, the virgin to none, yet Purity is the founding word of her soul. These are my deities.

Na Ra came to me in half-dream. The rest followed in the same fashion. They came, for I needed them.

The Incredible Lightness of Purpose

I see kids play in the rain, and they remind me of when, I too, rejoiced in wet play. Do they know, one day, they'll have to earn to eat? When I was about three, my first memory, concerned my whole being immersed in sunlight, I was imagining the creases and folds of the powdered cement mountain as roads silkily winding down or up it and I must have had a toy car or one of those green plastic soldiers on surf boards for I was making car noises and winding movements down or up the grey, granule mount. I must have decided to terrorize it at some point for I recall traversing its upper surfaces, cutting nastily the ribbons of silky roads, when I found I had lost a slipper. Naturally, play was postponed, and work commenced. The search for the slipper daunted me. It was like, it slipped beyond this reality to another dimension. I could not find it, and the mount was nearly a plain by now. I talked to myself then. Should I continue, seems fruitless, and deep down I knew it was gone forever, and too, the sun was mercilessly on my back, riding me directly, and I felt I should quit. Quit. What's a flip-flop? But I did not. I with my pride relentlessly and I mean relentlessly persisted. The sun's rays by waves trashed on me, producing foam-sweat, and my shirt felt like it absorbed the Atlantic Ocean within its threads it was so heavy. And I remember saying to the effect that shit, shit, it has to be here it has to be here it can't not be here that just doesn't happen it does not happen it is here where else would it be? And with some vanity I thought I'll find it I'll find it and then it will be glorious 'cause I'd have won, finding it, finding it. I never found the damn missing piece. And it was just there. Then after some moments messing around, pfff. Gone.

Like childhood. Inexplicably.

The Tip of The Iceberg

The Hollow Wall. Is what I dreamt wide awake to be the transition between pure idea and our reality, this matter ridden space. It is the barrier between God-Idea and Matter-crafted. A space of no space. Infinite and nowhere. Here, but never to be. Where artists and scientists roam, exist. Where memes are the life-supporting bacteria. Here lingers the unmade dreams of future practitioners of art and science. Here stirs the collapsed relics of pre-antiquarian concepts. Always dynamic, movement is freedom, lightning is its rain. And it holds only that one season. Forever it pours, uneven and lunatic, sensible and dangerous, pungent and vivid and vague. The Hollow Wall.

My Home.