Aspassio Haronitaki to the Brain
artist Aspassio Haronitaki
“The cerebral cortex is similar to a garden filled with innumerable trees, the pyramidal cells, that can multiply their branches thanks to an intelligent cultivation, sending their roots deeper and producing more exquisite flowers and fruits everyday.”
-Santiago Roman y Cajal, 1894
The minds that constructed and now maintain the latest walls to surround us will have you believe—at all cost and with eyes on return—that laughing at life is better than scolding it. That playing the golden fiddle of irony while wearing the jester’s hat beats the king’s throne or the pauper’s anonymity. And with this slow march over the cliff shepherds turn to sheep and the architects of thought expand their kingdoms and ready their spoils. Since when does death come before life? Death’s promise is the first and lowest common denominator. Creation’s only destiny. There’s no need to giggle like the village idiot and be as agreeable as the lobotomized while matters of flesh, blood, time and space await seizure and inevitable decay. Not that you shouldn’t echo a belly laugh through metropolis valleys as you decapitate the surreptitiously ascended while liberating the yesman laughing-hyenas begging for scraps, false enlightenment and backhanded compliments (nothing like a little altruism with breakfast).
The loft housing the artist no more makes the canvas than the teepee makes the hunter. Don’t believe the hype (“it’s a sequel”) of public enemy number one declaring the leather encasing the chest to be the keys or the treasure. They’ll have you believe the guard has surpassed the guarded…
But this is not so. The brain is more archaic, more indestructible (as so, tending to self-destruct), more malleable (corrupted, mistaken, devious, resilient), more involved—more animal. The brain is the future. It also has no future as we don’t, because the brain belongs to us, death and all. Imminent expiration. The skull (the skull…the skull…the skull…basta!) will be here long after we’re gone, but without us. The brain is our God and there is no getting around that. A God without religion that shows up religiously, gives back what is given and rarely carries on in the manner we’d like. More often than not, we relegate our guide, higher power and biggest deceiver (self-deceiving to meet our demands) to patterns and habits, only maximizing its potential when under duress: a marathon runner’s lungs, a famished eagle’s eye, a philosopher’s homing device, a pole-dancer's accounting. And what have we made of the brain? Or, disregarding “we,” what do that lot imploring you to believe they are the apex of events, the leaking oil well of culture, the key-holders and truck-drivers of the rig transporting the best food-for-thought dare say? Certainly nothing claiming ownership of the scoundrels they are—and perhaps they are unaware? It would appear impossible but the impossible is so: the brain as circumventing deceiver and wayward angel. The limbic system run amok, preaching the fallible and fictitious. Praising the packaging and primordial and presenting a belief that this is the life of the “Intellectual” (which of course it is). There is a point when that miniscule sliver of existence (whom possess the conviction that those existing outside their sliver are the least concerned in their dalliances) have exceeded measure, lost the plot, and no longer are aware of their opinions belonging to others. Were they to have a stroke of genius, a vision, or a direct call from above they would no longer recognize the moment. Their need for self-sustenance, gesticulation, phallic observance and gossip page living won’t allow it.
Philosophy and self-deception (there is no other kind) run wild. We only use 10% of our brain. Not true. Not at all. Yet another mobile feel good cushion of feathered nonsense to tread upon. Our brains have been pushed to the max... by a few. The true Philosophers discarded and ran—sprinted—from that damning baptism, that self-fulfilling prophesy of stagnation, that social lubricant anointing you the fly dying a slow, amputating, encased and petrified Clash of applauded (“hands up for Hollywood”) and revered repetition (“hooray”). And when the electrons are firing in discombobulated unison? When your geography matches your forefathers allowed transcendentalism? When metaphysics are not mystical? Well that’s the moment, the brain’s time to shine. If this collision of planetary axes and familial torture occurs early in one’s arc there is but two ways to go: Rimbaud or Van Gogh. Let’s leave their homily to Henry and Theo. And when the tertiary, subterranean, first and final accessible God of the now extends a hand later in life...
And what of the soul? That eternal fratello in turmoil and hand-holder in Decline or Climb. True, there is nothing like a loyal accomplice, especially one capable of evading capture, dangling previously thought (and forever elusive) carrots of excess just beyond reach. If the soul is the variable it’s a pre-destined one. If it can be influenced, it’s from above or beyond—or below. An affliction without cure: avoidance or acceptance. Not so the brain. If the soul is the leader it’s the lead of a pace setter, pushing its brain towards takeover of its pioneering and past—licensed appropriation. The soul is older and wiser but lacks a true punk’s lifespan and predicament. Though unlike in a marathon this is not the pace-setting of a front runner, but the eternal both admonishing and uplifting the blessed, damned, and finite three pound God so often refused acquiescence. Accept the soul and demand of the brain.
No need to more than mention the heart, that most simple and overrated of organs (lifeline-of-a-cog-in-the-machine it may be), pumping filtered fuel to the overseer above (quickly replaced by that of a baboon or its human equivalent, leaving us no worse for the cognizant wear). A life sustainer and then a life ender. It’s to be stroked, managed and maintained. The enabler’s enabler. He’s all heart! No kidding.
To live life in constant exposition is to seek paralysis. To insult those sacrificed to evolution and limited by their insertion upon its timeline. Solipsism may be the only answer, but not the unwitting and denied sort. The instinctual is both freely given and drenched in familial blood, murder, expedition and colossal failure. It’s the instinctual that can be advanced and passed on (or eroded), avoiding the brain’s certain death and the skull’s ornamental destiny as commodity in a variable market. In this the brain is the truly transcendental, the patient God. The one run from in search of intellectualism and constant noise (or is intellectualism constant noise?), blogs and human-juxtaposed real estate, cosigners and the comfort of “scenes,” acceptance and Acceptance. The cart always before the horse. Can we not see the paradox in spoon-fed virtual reality and engineered idolatry? If our recent advances replace imagination and vision instead of aiding them, what’s the point? When my homeland has the nerve, audacity, wherewithal and cajones to invoke Haratio Algiers and turn the symbolic tide flowing across the Atlantic for eight years (ever briefly it may be, and then perhaps only when squinting through rose colored shades, vedremo…) shouldn’t the supposed “underground” and carriers of the avant-garde flame match, err… raise, the pot by taking the risks it so proudly boasts of and celebrates? Now I’m dreaming of course. Dreaming that self-anointed, self-advertised and self-pigeonholed inmates of any “scene” are anything but card carrying members of some new Digitized Masonic World Order bowing down to and squirming around the safest structure known to man supported by those two indefatigable pillars—NEPOTISM and PROSTITUTION. And there it is: the N word. What does it say when we’re more willing to assist the politician—the politician!—born “off the radar” than we are the artist. The A word, so dirty.
There are exceptions of course, dwindling every day as those in positions to stem the tide and alleviate the growing load of soulless, brainless, oh so well-thought-out, rationalized and intellectualized nonsense served a la carte choose surnames over substance, connections over conscious, dinners over dharma, the road more traveled (well paved with flashing street signs and updated GPS systems). Praise should be given to those humble few surpassing the level of success their lot in life guaranteed them. Do they not have a duty to pursue the passions lady liberty and monsieur means have granted them? And “prostitution” of course rarely refers to matters of the flesh. That would be too honest. There are inherently more creative and damning ways to sell one’s self, and one’s brain. New ones are invented every day. Just go to that dinner or that watering hole with ears and eyes open, brain free of opportunistic filters. How many people will you find not seeking with every ounce of existence to become a cliché? How many not aware of and plugged into the formulaic system of rhetoric, response and reward? How many—if all goes as planned, if all le voci sing of them in uniform praise, if all their slanderous gossip falls on well-heeled conspiring ears and brings down the intended, if all measures of sacrificed and slaughtered self-respect crown them the Judas of their own brain—will not realize their intended summit of Cliché? Bravo.
There is a great disservice being done these days to the truly subverted. The caustic casualties suffering like swine and bleeding hallucinatory realities while the usurping and ceremoniously syphilitic buy the blood bank. The compliant steal essence to wear façade. It’s the middle-class Englishman playing the Black Man’s blues fifty years ago…which is OK, inevitable, and to be expected, ma… know your role. Are you a creator of things or a stuttering sloth-of-a-puzzle-piece?