The Artist as Schizophrenic Revenant

Cool Hand Luke Johnson, Merry Burial in Boomerville (detail), redigitalized  of the lost original found between the pages of remastered copy of the  Voynich Manuscript (assumed to be a product of Alien Intelligence who are about the only ones left with intelligence at this point), 15th Century BC plus or minus a few centuries

So, before getting on to hell proper let’s first look at Jung’s analysis of Picasso as a Schizophrene. As this webpage states (who knows or cares about its authority as all is fake these days except me, of course, at least for the time being here now, as the baba rammed assians said back in the Olde Days). :

This pronouncement was not a condemnation because Jung saw in Picasso’s imagery an important process taking place which he referred to as Nekylia–the descent into hell. To Jung this was very important, for only undertaking such a journey could an individual ever hope to come to terms with himself spiritually and psychologically.

I’ll say. That’s what Jung referred to as the Shadow side or what Dick Cheney referred to as the Dark Side where the US needed to work from in order to rule the globe into the 21st century and beyond. We can all see how that turned out. That is me and my shadow can see but we’ve been walking for a while on the wild and dark side so it’s pretty familiar ground. But let’s take a musical intermission because I know most readers these days are no doubt already tasked beyond their limited capacities already to follow this kind of run on sentence that so many far far far better writers then myself employed long ago in the way back machine to the Golden Age of the American Dawn where Henry James and Thomas Wolfe held forth at length to readers capable of even reading Marcel Proust.

But who reads anymore? As why read when you can listen to the white Irish Blues? These are my peeps. But we’ve gone beyond the Dark Side all the way to the Dark End of the Street.:

Oh, yeah. Forgot. First an RIP to my old friend and colleague Bob Silvers. Bob is dead. Yesterday. And so the era of American Intellectual Supremacy ends with a whimper rather than a bang. C’est la vie, as they say in Baton Rouge. In which direction did Maximum Bob depart. Ours is not to reason why. It’s not to reason at all. Bon Voyage, Bob! Keep it cool, dude.

Here’s a drawing I did from memory a few years after we parted company. He’s standing among the infidels waiting outside the Gates of Eden. What was that Kafka story? Speak, meme-ory! Ah yes, “Before the Law.” Bob studied law a bit back in the early days.  But he went crazy later on, around the day that he discovered a figure lurking in a Jackson Pollock drip painting. But my fondest memory of Bob will be the long evening we spent together following the chase of the White Bronco through the highways of byways of Los Angeles in numbed and respectful silence for the solemnity of the occasion.

And to round things out in the roundabout cul-de-sac of the empty underground white room where the secrets are buried here’s the mighty C. S. Lewis from the Screwtape Letters with an a propos (pronounced ahhh pro prose) description of the path to Hell paved with Godless intentions.  Gesundheit!

You will say that these are very small sins; and doubtless, like all young tempters, you’re anxious to be able to report spectacular wickedness. But do remember, the only thing that matters is the extent to which you separate the man from the Enemy. It does not matter how small the sins are provided that their cumulative effect is to edge the man away from the Light and out into the Nothing. Murder is no better than cards if cards can do the trick. Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one–the gentle slope, soft, underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.

Add media:

Voynich Manuscript page, factsimile and factmetaphor

I can’t go without a listen to the immortal Gangsta Bitch by Apache. Back when rappers had a sense of humor. You think life be sheee– it. Get yo a definitely fuckable Gangsta Bitch! Word.

And as der Mann spaketh, Ludacris mit Pussy Poppin!

That (above) would be Circle Two of Dante’s Hell. The Lustful. Oscar Wilde Style.

About trueoutsider

I'm an artist.
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