|Our Modern World and The Brave Nude Few Lost within It|
“And then again there are such as consider it virtue to say, ‘Virtue is necessary,’ but at bottom they believe only that the police is necessary.”—Thus Spake Zarathustra
When the sun is high and the air crisp with winter’s afternoon chill, I enjoy a long circular promenade to reflect on the day’s adventures around the perimeter of my own backyard every other day or so with a cigarette or glass of wine and I am content. And naked. Urban society and naked life. What’s wrong with it? The Western Ancients and Primitive Man both basked in the light of life sans the raiment Modern Man cowards beneath today in his cities and neighborhoods and urban dwellings of “progress”.
Yet it seems as though I cannot exercise this joyous activity in public, outside my own front door into the street among my brothers and sisters of the living human race because a disease from another land and another time has blackened their tongues and their eyes and their hearts and the very miracle that is the sensation of sensual feeling in the tiny pink tips of their fingers—all are blackened by the disease our “modern” world pins proudly to its small, fearful chest shrouded with the murk-grey cloth of worry, a disease my neighbors boast of in their sickness and one which they at once deny and yet cling to with the smug conceit of a new-born rapist: the disease we American moderns worship with more zeal than any Muslim, Jewish, Catholic or Protestant believer and yet is one carried by all of Abraham’s faithful and skeptics alike—from the brothel of “social democracy” we exchange our spiritual fluids of fear and doubt in the house of this disease at which we tremble in obeisance like children beaten black and blue before their mad father drunk with rage and violence and power, our obsequious timidity shines before this angry, vengeful god as he spites us, and we spit it this yellow bile of malice into the face of one another—our own brothers and sisters—its effect being its own cause today as it has poisoned us for centuries: the disease divides and conquers in its asexual, pathological reproduction and we cherish it with the same warmth a mother radiates as she adores the new babe who extracts warm milk from her swollen teat sensitive with touch and pain and subtle sexual stimulation. And little do we know that this child of disease we milk with glowing adoration will later fuck us and fuck us good and well before it drives us to hang ourselves by our own bed sheets on which this disease will spill its seed before plowing us with passion and vengeance and hatred: and this disease we call Guilt.
Thus, in my backyard I dance and walk alone. And naked. Often I feel I cannot live life in joy outside amongst my fellow creatures because too many of them have been infected by the disease Guilt and her equally omnipotent sister Shame. But I know there are others who do as I and dance naked in the streets within their hearts if not their own backyards. From miles and miles I can smell their zesty fruits that scent the earth with open beauty and laughter and joy.
And yet, there are those sad few who dare to breath life into their lives through their nakedness and love only to exhale it in fear through the creation of their private clubs and colonies and nudity. Fools! Don’t you see your clubs and your “lifestyle” colonies are nothing but clay statues built upon foundations of fear and the drive to join others not in spiritual ecstasy but in the wretched escapism of wrinkles and flab?
“But I want to be part of something special!”—such words reflect a heart nearing death and sickness. What joy and what love is there in your heart if you cannot bare it for all to see including the diseased? You’re nakedness is a blessing for the ill in the same way radiation can kill a cancer—the victim may hate and despise with true furry the treatment as it burns away the cancer, but knows its necessity deep in her heart if she the infected is to survive. To hide your medicine in the depths of camps and colonies is not the noble action of those wild and free spirits in Primitive Man you are attempting to emulate, but simply a ploy developed by our American Moderns to shame “the guilty” into crumbling clay prisons they willingly enter.
You are not Guilty! Free yourself of the dark bitch Shame that attempts to cloak your burning spirit with ugly, odious garments not worthy of a drunk beggar and dance naked in the streets as you do in your dreams. Such reveries are gifts sent from heaven and they are not free unless you use them.