Asia

Look, until somewhere in the eighteenth century, the history of humanity owes more to Asia than Europe.  More humans reside now and have resided in the past in Asia.  Until the nineteenth century, Christianity was a minority religion.  Until the twentieth century, democracy was generally seen as lunacy.

Then, too,

I am a tired dense unhappy old fat man who's been handed one disappointment too many.  I have failed at everything I have tried to do in life.  That came home to me this weekend very powerfully.  I've reached the point, I just can't see any light at the end of the tunnel ever.  It's a cave and I've no way back and I just can't see going on into the dark. And yet I must.

Partly I was lied to.  Partly I liked believing the lies.  Partly I was stupid.  Partly I was too smart for my own good.  All I am left with is a cautionary tale that no one needs to hear, because the evils I can caution against are all gone.  And now I fear it's not just gone for me, but gone for us all. Gorbachev warns of a new Cold War; I warn of a new Dark Age, perhaps one that does not end, but surely will not end with democracy preserved.

Why should I care about democracy?  I do not truly believe in the equality of individuals, nor in self-determination except in the most trivial of matters.  The habits of childhood I suppose.  The desire to share the planet and not live so alone.  But alone is what there is.  And it cannot really be overcome, merely gone under. 

When does alone disappear?  When oneness disappears.  When we are subsumed by a multiple noun.  The chorus. The corps.  The team.  Only sex gives us no noun, unless we adopt the old euphemism: the two-backed beast.  Then we are not alone, but then, we are not ourselves.  To be a self is to be be alone.

See this is what I should be doing.  Here is where I find some bliss.  Not in my job.  But the day of the artist is over, or nearly so.  And the day of the philosopher is long gone. Philosophy was dying as I joined it and I died with it, without either of us noticing our death.

I want to share my dismal story.  I have kept it cooped up, pent in, unexpressed for so long.  Now no one cares.  No one wants to listen.  It is too hard for those near me.  Too dead for those who are not.

Forget I wrote this.  I will.

I don't do regret ...

... but I learned to day that the Ballantine Adult Fantasy series had been basically published one book a month from 1969 until 1974 and suddenly I am overwhelmed with remorse.  I have killed myself, only slowly.  It's hard to take, but it's true.