Author: Lars Iyer

They want to outlaw drunkenness – of course. They want to condemn it. In the name of public health, which equals public death.

 

Their hatred for us. They’ve declared war on us. On our kind.

They hate us. They hate our joy.

They Object to us – of course they do. We talk too loudly. We even sing – in public. We celebrate – the very fact we are. That we exist.

We offend the new Puritanism.

 

They want state minions, afraid of authority. But we’re no longer controlled, molded, funnelled.

 

We’re not the haters, in the end. We hate this world – this form of the world. But we love what we could be. We love Potentiality. We love what’s Possible. We love Utopia.

But this world … no, we don’t love this world. This cess pit. This holding cell. This open prison. No, it’s not for us. We’re better than this. We’re more than this. Our eyes are open more widely.

The beauty of drunkenness. Why does no one talk about that? The glory of drunkenness. What drunkenness reveals. How it shows the world.

 

We’re not haters. We’re not loathers. We’re jubilant. We’re celebrants. We’re celebrators.

 

Our happiness is joined to the Great Happiness. To the Great Jubilation. To the Great Celebration.

 

This is a festival of all. Of the all in all. This is the happiness of immanence. This is the great, wide gladness.

 

We’re full of a great, all conquering happiness. Full of wide gladness. Full of a great Smile. That passes through us and thought everything.

 

Drunken thoughts. High, wide thoughts. Thoughts of altitude. Open-eyed thoughts. Wide-eyed thoughts.

As open-as-the-sky thoughts. Sky-widening thoughts. Supping-on-the-infinite thoughts.

 

This is the site of Creation. We're part of Creation. We further the Creation.

 

Our evening is lifted. Our night, lightened. This is the Level.

Imagine being absolutely beautiful.

Anything could happen to you. You could just be swept up. On an adventure. Have a string of lovers. Men and women besotted by you. Giving up everything for you.

Changing every room you enter. Becoming the centre of the world, for everyone. When all anyone wants to do is look at you. Like, bathe in your beauty.

The whole world recomposing around you – your beauty. Everyone wants to pay you compliments. To talk to you. They feel elevated just by your presence. Your magnificence. You’re beautifying the world. Sharing your beauty. Bestowing it upon all. Everyone feels uplifted. Gladdened …

The most lovely, harmonious thing. And alive. And moving.

And who doesn’t want to delight you, just to be able to see your face, delighted? Who doesn’t want to charm you, just to see your face, charmed? Who doesn’t want to make you smile, just to see you smile?

That’s what it means to be beautiful. To have that effect. And everyone finding you delightful. Innocent, with your beauty. People doing stuff for you. Opening doors. Walking you places. Just to be with you. Alongside you. To feel the magic. The good luck. And beauty just radiating out of you. Beaming out of you.

And you take your adoration as a matter of course. As just what happens (to you – only to you: but you don’t know that.) As though they had nothing to do with you. As though people were always as nice as that, and to everyone. As attentive as that. As desirous of company as that.

 

The extremity of beauty. The uttermost of beauty. You today. Your face touched with light. That mascara. That eye-shadow. The fascination of your eyes. Of being looked at, by those eyes. Of those eyes, turning towards us.

Beauty: you can make things happen just by your presence. People are shaken out of themselves. Reminded. Of what? That things are Possible, after all. Not for them, perhaps. But Possible in the world. That there’s Hope in the world, after all. Hope for the world. That it’s not all just careening into darkness.

Beauty: proof that God exists, after all. That we’re not all doomed, after all. That we’re not all destroyable, replaceable, murderable, strangleable, chokable, shootable, stabbable. That there is salvation here on earth.

 

Beauty: you’re the curator of your own body. Enhancing its beauty. Making it yet more fabulous. More special. More exceptional. Dressing it. Bathing it. Making up its face. Making it yet more radiant.

 

Awakening the desire to Court. That make men surprised by their own wit. By their attentiveness.

As though they were in a musical, or something. As though their business was to delight you.

To make you laugh, just to watch you laugh. Just to hear it: your laughter. Just to see your laughing face. Its marvel.

 

You can make things happen – just by your presence. People are shaken out of themselves. Reminded. Of what? That things are Possible, after all. Not for them, perhaps. But Possible in the world. That there’s Hope in the world, after all. Hope for the world. That it’s not all just careening into darkness.

 

The fact that beauty is alive. The fact that beauty can pass through the earth. The fact that beauty can arrive here, in this town, on these streets. The fact that miracles are possible: that there is beauty. That revolution is possible That the world really can be overturned. That beauty can reach this place. That beauty can shine its light even here. That beauty can penetrated this darkness. Can break through the veils.

 

You can’t be anonymous. You can’t be just no one. You’re at the centre of the world wherever you go. What’s it like to be at the centre of the world?

 

Beauty, don’t you like being uncertain of your effects on others? Don’t you enjoy your powers being suspended, somehow? Risked. Becoming a little unsure …

A gap in the adoration of the world. So you have to win it back. A Challenge. So that things aren’t quite as easy as they should be. So that the world isn’t completely yielding, completely seducable. So that things don’t always go your way, for a time, at least. For a few moments, at least.  

A bit of Doubt. A bit of Uncertainty. Isn’t there a thrill to that? Like being on a fairground ride. Like watching a scary movie. The lights go out or a moment. You’re bewildered, for a moment. Exciting, isn’t it? Not to be perpetually in control. To be Up Against something.

Here is a Challenge, to which you have to rise. Beauty isn’t enough. Charm isn’t enough. Loveliness can’t do all the work for you. This is another arena. Now you have to work. Now you have to do something, not just be beautiful. Isn’t it fun to do a little bit of work. Isn’t it a thrill? Don’t you want to struggle, a little?

Not to be Certain of the outcome. Not to know what will happen. Not to be able to predict the course of things. A surprise – but also a thrill. A marvel. So things don’t always go your way

Beauty, by itself, isn’t enough. There are other games – larger ones, greater games. You have to earn your way by more than beauty and your beauty’s curation …

 

Changing every space you enter. Its rules. How it operates. As everyone makes way for you. Stands back, for a moment. As everyone’s startled. There you are. The centre of everything. The measure of all things. The sun around which everything orbits.

What an effect to have. But you’re drawn to the one upon whom you don’t have that effect. It’s like dogs drawn to non dog lovers.

Your beauty is undeniable. But it’s not enough for you to hear that you’re beautiful, is it? You want more than that. You want to exercise all your faculties. You’re interested in the one immune to your charms.

We’ve given up – psychologically. We’ve thrown in the towel. We’re winded. We’re doubled up, on the floor. We’ve already accepted our defeat. On their terms!

We’ve surrendered. We do nothing but surrender. We’re waving the flag. We’ve given up. We’ll do anything they want.

We were outmanoeuvered. Out-strategised. At every turn. Outplayed …

My God, it was easy. It was effortless. Just a flick of the wing-tip. Just a slightly raised eyebrow. And that was it.

 

They won. They don’t even need their victory acknowledged. They’re generous like that. They don’t need us to pay tribute. To kneel at their feet, or whatever. They accept our subservience as a matter of course. Our obedience. It’s How Things Are. How Things Must Be.

We’ll say the last things we’ll ever say. We’ll say the last words, over and over. Ellipses, no full stops. We’ll slowly slur our words into nothing. We won’t need words, not anymore. Unwords, instead. Words of undoing. That just reverberate. Resonate with everything.

Nothing’s words. No one’s words. The dark words that mean nothing. The deep song of oblivion. Drone words. The anti-aum. The great unspooling.

 

Words turned from meaning. Become just obscure objects. Non-words. Thunder words. Foghorn words.

Words undone. Words turned from meaning. Become just obscure objects. Great erratics …

There’s an interruption. A suspension. Things aren’t allowed to complete themselves. To, resolve. So that what’s happening’s not happening … Nothing’s going to finish. Nothing’s going to come to term.

This is slurred time. Drawled time. This is time that, like, revolves around its absence. This is stranded time. This is nothing’s-happening time. You can’t narrate it. Can’t tell its story.

 

Slowing. Blurring. Nothing moves forward. Nothing gains purchase.

How much of our lives are like this? Isn’t the truth of our lives just like this?

This nothing time. This is nothing’s-happening time. This is time going neither forward not backward time. This pause …

Cicero wants to become a saint of the everyday. That’s what she said once. There are such people. The long term unemployed. The mentally ill. Who aren’t part of the world. Who lives in corners and nooks and crannies.

Like, with their mums.

Maybe.

On benefits?

Living how they can. Getting by. Who aren’t in gainful employment, or whatever. Who aren’t doing anything. Who aren’t, like occupied. Who are just kind of adrift. But willingly so. Like, happily so.

They sound kinda helpless. Good for nothing.

Sure – happily good for nothing. Just accepting that they’re good for nothing. Who are just immune to trying to get along. Make a meaningful contribution to society, or whatever. Like children. Or like mentally backward people.

You’re romanticising the, like, mentally ill. Like, suffering.

You don’t have to suffer, if you’re like that. Or it could be a sweet suffering. An endurable suffering. Where you just accept the things that happen to you. That befall you.

But you’d be totally dependent. Living off the state or off their parents or off someone. Off some handouts. God …

You wouldn’t feel yourself to be dependent – that’s the thing. You wouldn’t experience that. You’d just  do your own thing, and let the world do its own thing. You’d have your rituals and routines. You’d be in some weird state of grace. Like, immune or something. Above the world.

Is that what you’d like to be?

Is that what you’d like to be?

I wish I wasn’t so invested in all the bullshit. I wish I could just live separately. Like monks or nuns. Who have a pattern of life. Who hold the pattern. Who live alongside others who have likewise dissolved all ties to the world. Who’ve let them weaken. Until nothing holds you. Nothing earthly, anyway, There’s a beauty to that.

But wouldn’t you have to believe in stuff?

Maybe. But I think you could just live day to day, with all the big decisions taken for you. You’d have an instructor. An abbot or abbess, who’d look out for you. Tell you what to do. Warn you of temptations. Of, like, spiritual pitfalls – acadie, or whatever. Who could set you straight. Keep you on the path. And you’d be living within a greater Whole. You’d be part of order. Every day would be part of the ritual, part of the harmony …

Being a philosopher used to mean living a life like that. Living what you thought. Thinking from what you lived. Thought and life were one. The one grew out of another. There used to be all these philosophical schools, who’d just tell you how to live. Who’d give you rules for your betterment. Christianity was just one of those schools. There were Epicureans. Stoics. Cynics …

So start a school.

Maybe we have. Maybe that’s what we’re all doing out here at the coast.

A school of alcoholism.

Maybe that’s part of it.

 

Just to be part of the whole universe, doing it thing. Like, universing. Where your work’s part of that. Just the unfolding of some vast process. God’s will, or whatever. Reflecting a perfect congruity of laws. From heaven to earth. From up there to down here. Just living beautifully. Rightly. Living in the great Good. Being part of the realisation of the Good. Where your work is just part of the great unfolding. The great gift. Your work serving the Whole, part of the Whole. Sustained by the Whole. Unforced.

 

Most of all, I’d like to write. To have something to write and be able to write. Day after day. Where it’d come easily to you. Like keeping a journal. And you’d just live more and more deeply. You’d wear your groove into the ground. Follow your rounds. Do the allotted thing with care and tenderness and patience.

Just … instilling an order. Warding off all the distractions. Every day, just working – where it doesn’t even feel like work. Writing. And one day just melting into the next. A perfect rhythm of work. Beginning where you left off the previous day. Where you always know what to say, and how to say it. Where you’re never just scrabbling around in the dark.

And that’s your dream?

Writing as life. As a way of living. As a ritual. Where you always know what’s to be done. Where writing’s, like, a  total vocation. Something you live within. With perfect calm. Where it’s not work, but a way. A life. A good life, that isn’t wasted. Isn’t complicit …

Desire, opening out. As wide as the horizon. As wide as the coast … Your desire, horizon-wide. Horizon-annulling.

The infinite. The uttermost. Opening beyond this world and beyond every world. Beyond the sky. This sky, and all skies. Opening unto what. God? But what does God mean? Who is God anyway?

Desire, without limit. Untrammelled. Leading you where? Upwards. But up where?

Desire, raising its face, looking. Desire, the naked face, looking for … what? The face of another. The face of God? The eyes of God, to look into desire’s eyes.

God: that’s what we want to see. The face of God. That’s what our desire desires.

Desire itself. Yearning itself. Held in tension – absolute tension – with the world. Stretched – strained – as far as we can bear. Farther.

Ready for the reality-burst. Ready for the apocalypse. Ready for what is brighter than a thousand suns.

Your thirties – this is what they’re supposed to be like for the young intellectual, if you don’t cop out and have a family, or something. If you don’t get distracted. II you don’t become alcoholic.

These are your times! PhD behind you, a job, a steady income. A library. Into which you can order books. Optimum conditions. Evenings and weekends free! No caring responsibilities. No children. And somewhere decent enough to live. Somewhere bearable. And you can afford to feed yourself. You’re not on the breadline now. You’re not entirely skint.

See, this is the chance. This is what you’ve been given. Now it can all begin, your intellectual project. Where is it going to lead you? Where will you end up?

How good are you? How smart are you? What’s your true level? Now you’ll see. Now it’ll be revealed: your real intelligence. Your intellectual virtues.

Just you and your talent. Laughter. Just you and your brilliance. Has anyone ever called you brilliant? Has anyone ever looked at your work and exclaimed: brilliant? Or heard you speak and said, almost involuntarily, with in-taken breath: brilliant!

A thinker in potential! A brilliant young person. All we need do is step back to see what happens. To make way. And then … miracles! Did anyone ever say that?

We simply need to set brilliance loose. Give him a research fellowship – at once! Clear all the obstacles! Let him work! Were those words ever used?

Well, you won’t be able to hide now, will you? You can’t hide anymore in your mid-thirties. You’re out in the open in your mid-thirties. You’re going to be found out …

The coast.

Drunk on the infinite. On the afternoon. On the sky. We’re sky-drunk. We’re heavens-drunk. We’re expanse drunk. Vista drunk …

 

Drinking at the coast is different from drinking anywhere else. It’s a different drunkenness. More wistful. More yearning. More spiritual, even. It has a different flavour.

 

The unenclosable. The uncontainable. The unfinishable.

The infinite – is that what it is? The unfinite, at least. The no longer limited.

We see the Whole. The All. We have a sense of the Expanse. It’s the Universe – the one-all. We let it infuse our thoughts. Flavour them.

 

We are different people, out at the coast. We breathe more deeply here at the coast. We feel lighter somehow. We walk like astronauts on the moon.