Madness: a form of love

Beyond rational self-preservation . Enlightenment thinkers such Thomas Hobbes and John Locke tried to appeal to and foster what is called man's rational self-preservation, inserting it above all other goals as the centrepiece and pivot of the whole of society. Notice here the two concepts, reason, on the one hand, and self-preservation, on the other, are heavily intertwined, which still remains the case today. Madness, on the other hand, is commonly associated with throwing caution to the wind, tightrope walking over a precipice just for the sheer Hell of it, and embracing a variety of dangers that may very well end in personal extinction. However, when one considers the nature of our own inevitable mortality, is making self-preservation our highest goal really so rational? In order to face life in all its grim reality, is it not necessary, at some point or other, to eschew 'rational' self-preservation for a bold leap, (if only in the imagination, if not outward practice),

Stefan Molyneux's 'Universally Preferable Behaviour': A Critique 'Universally preferable behaviour', or UPB, is the moral theory of the prominent contemporary philosopher Stefan Molyneux . The book which explains it is available for free here on Mr. Molyneux's website:  Freedomain Radio – Free Books   https://freedomainradio.com/free/  It sets out to provide an objective, rational foundation for many of our common moral valuations, as well as clarifying them and providing guidance regarding more controversial moral and political issues. In this essay, I attempt to evaluate some of its chief arguments. I shall pass over the introduction, which is mainly about explaining the need for such a foundational moral theory based upon objective reality, which is all quite sound and I do not disagree with, and head straight for the core of the 'proof' for the new theory herein revealed. Stefan's first argument for UPB is that 'if there is no such

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Hewn on Manchester's hallowed fields, In the wake of those woebegotten Busby Babes. Before their illustrious tradition he kneeled, Like a dolphin playing sagely o'er their ocean graves. Shooting out from the demos, Like some blazing starre - He left the keepers at a loss, Nestling his freekicks just beneath the bar. Announcing himself, in the rush of youth, Letting waste no time. He looked up, struck it with Truth, And scored from the half-way line. Everything he did with an air of ease, While the crowds' eyes hung on his pixel-perfect passes. His manager and mentor, Alex Ferguson, he did please, As the opposition defence was split assunder on crisply-cut grasses. Inevitably, the accolades and endorsements rang in; Bringing great riches to this fair and fresh-faced fellow, And yet he seemed immune to the decadence and sin, Holding his head high, donating to the unlucky below. The girls all swooned at his handsome visage, And, so, like most men he had to splice! A girl nam

A poet has the luxury to sit back and be himself. A poet cares little whether he makes it to the shop shelf. A poet is wise beyond compare. A poet sees something fair everywhere. I am not wise, I see nothing fair; But if I don't prove I'm alright 'up there', I'll be treated like shit. I'll lose what mind I still have, what wit. In my words, I set no stall. How could I heed the Muses' Call? Ever since that little medication board, I resent beauty as something I cannot afford. I am something more raw, more pure. I am something more core, more poor. Adrenaline pumping through my veins, Brings the most acute quatrains. Do I write from the heart? So what if my rhymes only fart? I don't write some vain pleasure to derive... I merely write to survive!

She is a bit eccentric, and a nice-natured lady, Dreaming of space or time ships, And goblins with seventyeight different toes. But, when all is finally done and snipped, The party line she tows. At predetermined intervals she visits me, like a woman's monthly woes. Making sure that the child inside of me, often bleeds and never grows. "You've had your chance, to burst buds in freedom", so her teacher says. "This is for your own prudent protection, for the rest of all your days." It seems to her a wise precaution, to nip the peaks and tuck the lows. Because its at an expert's inspection, somebody who much better knows - Officious guardians of convention, who society's primitive fear allays. It is for us a most difficult sentence, because ours are not their ways. Each time she arrives, how I try and I scheme to prove myself pristinely sane. Yet all she probably sees is that chequered history, the hideous, unrelenting stain. Her luke

Confession is not in my disposition, Humility isn't for me. I have too much accusation, To stoop to mutual sympathy- To offer up in supplication, My rightful property, Or stand before adjudication, Bowing my head as if I were guilty. Even if I too have failed in perfection... It is probably due to thee. Moreover, it is for the criminals to come forth, Not for me to bring them to justice. After all they've done to murder my mirth, I deserve a medal for my mere lingering existence. So I don't come before you humbly... All stuttering, all mumbly. And though I might like to play the minstrel knight, I am not one who is made for easy delight. Though I may often seem only to want to punish grumpily, In reality, by beating this proverbial shield of tin, I beseech you to alter course that we may yet win. Hear me now! I am not casting a stone, Let alone the first. 'tis no violence to merely intone: I just searchingly bemoan. (In a forum less likely to get me in t

Just like the microscope, modern day science as a whole, in many ways, makes the world in which we live a lot uglier. In its fanatical fight against "illusion" at any cost, its Promethean bid to infiltrate to the hidden causes of all things, it has forgotten the humanly essential phenomena itself and robbed Life of the natural perspectives which render it worthwhile. When it attempts to address these phenomena at all, i.e. in the form of psychiatry, it has turned into a mere parody of itself, utilizing the jargon of science and its claims to universality, merely to sacralise unthinking and vulgar societal norms. Meanwhile, it teaches that Facts and Values are irreducible to one another, effectively rendering (at least for those under the sway of this absurd theory) the natural arbiter, which is Reason, impotent when it comes to deciding upon practical courses of action, and giving intellectual (i.e. the highest) license to absolutely anything - which in practice usually mea

A lunatic, according to its true definition, is he who is possessed by an amorous intoxication with the moon: In other words, with the unconscious motive principle of all Life on earth. To others, he can be identified as he who dances to, what is to them,an inaudible, non-existent tune. In reality, his jig is as inwardly necessary as are the fields of hops at their annual time of rebirth. Meddling with its natural course can cause tidal waves big enough to drown a seahorse. For he still carries the strength, that others have lost, for wild flights of ecstasy, home-brewed by his own gallant imagination. He would repudiate the very dirt we walk on if it stirs not the desire in his breast. But in his proud pursuit of self-realization comes abandonment to self-revelation, to unflinching honesty in a world of war and deception, that makes him the naked-infant-on-a-doorstep target of all well-trained busy-bodies, conformity enforcers. How they long to divorce him from the warm light o

They tortured me. You can't imagine the agony they all put me through. If you or I did it to someone, it'd be called kidnap and forced poisoning producing a condition known as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. When they do it, its called 'medicine'.   You bet I question the mainstream narratives. After what mainstream 'medicine' put me through. You have no idea even the courage it takes to stand up and say this. Even if you don't agree with me, if you believed in freedom of speech, the basic right of any civilized society, you would be saluting me for being willing to say it. After I've been locked up, drugged to oblivion and had my name slandered simply for behaving differently and holding unorthodox beliefs. Einstein was unorthodox once. Believe me, our time is coming. After all the problems you've been storing up for this world, its not gonna last much longer. Soon its all gonna come tumbling down, and when it does, its us crazies who are gonna t

Still-born God, biding his time forever in the cold, damp, wombly valleys of Southern Wales, aka 'The Depths Of Despair'. The Final 'Philoserpher' Of The West. Born crown-prince of Hell, aka the dreary and poverty-stricken South Wales valleys, Max James Lewy (1983-) spent an eternity in limbo before arising to take his proper and rightful throne. As he was scaling the almighty steps of the empyreal palace, called the Word, a beast most foul and uncouth, in the garb of a physician, cast itself upon him. The chemical-wielding barbarian known to the slumbering masses respectfully as a 'psychiatrist' slew by dint of overwhelming idiocy what a million petty hours of boredom (and computer games) had only mildly arrested. He lingers on merely as a memento to this unhappy happening, worshiping and picking over the ever-fragrant corpses of his spiritual ancestors, such as the great and lonely Friedrich Nietzsche, the wily Leo Strauss, the exquisite fanatic Yukio Mishim

From the synopsis of my newly released book (available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle format): "P.N.P. (POETRY NOT PILLS) Madness has always fascinated and terrified the mind of man, in equal measure. In today's medicalized, 'normalized' world, it has come to be seen simply as a 'disease', an ugly blight on the smooth, cog-like operation of the social organism. Our very language has become impoverished by the steady stream of scientistic neologisms which have rushed to take its stead, leaving us with only the cold apparatus of an all-too suspect, bullying and anti-septic 'reason'. Once the most intimate bedfellow not only of depthless despair, but also of high ecstasy and genius, we seem to have all but forgotten the myriad enchantments with which this fateful 'daimon' – to quote Socrates - once tempted us. This book is both a chronicling of the author's own personal voyage through such altered states of conscious, through to the far gr