The Atheism Deformity — Part 1
There is no God
We’ll be getting back to this in due time.
I’ll be free-associating here from time to time and coldly rational elsewhere. So get used to it or go read “The Bell Jar.” See what I mean? One good way of appraising the spirit of a culture is to study its popular “serious” art. But if I showed you this set of paintings and started talking philosophy you’d be back to reruns of Bachelor 3 in a heartbeat:
I’m not going to try to persuade you of certain things. I’ve studied art, seen a lot of art in some of the great museums of the world, and I don’t need any of that to assert confidently that the set of paintings above this paragraph is mere decorative fakery. Which is to say it’s post-modern, which is to say it’s post-belief in the divine. Meaning quite deliberately without meaning, a kind of middle finger to everyone from the talented.
There is no hierarchy in meaning, no better or worse. Everything that exists has meaning. Everything is a hologram of the whole, and therefore we have holograms inside holograms and they all have extensions to the outermost reaches of the culture and belief system that spawned them.
So if I choose to begin my discussion of atheism with British detective television, and even more specifically with a character named Inspector Morse, who are you to refute my claim of relevance?
What can you do take my measure and call it what you call absolutely everything, meaningless. (You can leave out the question mark when the answer to the question is built into the predicate.)
Inspector Morse. The archetype of the obsolete British male. He is a literary device made to be loved by people who will ultimately see his death and failure to attain the one thing on earth he truly wanted, the love of a good woman.
He has his drink, his romantic opera of life, his fear of the
Freemasons, and every woman he’s ever loved has let him
down. He’s the perfect fool. And a TV superstar. The way
men should be in our new progressive utopian female age.
He’s a British parable. All other British detective series are a kind of frame for his misery once you make him your focus. At his most ridiculous, Morse is obsessed with freemasonry, an irrational cult-like obsession with lots of Brits. The United States builds its capital city on a Masonic map of meaning. Morse has lost the ability to perceive meaning by any means but operatic music and the illusion of courtly love. He drives his slowly failing Jaguar from one crime scene to another, continually fails to identify the female killer he’s been falling in love with, and then somehow solves the case because his soul has been forever fermenting the knowledge of who women are and how they’re conquering and destroying the Empire. Freemasons are Scots. They are the enemy. Not women. Never women. And while he goes through all this sad romantic pain to the delight of American audiences, the women of Britain have had their answer. And they are laughing. Up to a point.
You know. There’s Prime Suspect. And every other British detective series portraying a Woman-in-Charge — DI, DCI, Superintendent, Commissioner — to understand this, we must ascertain the new rules of Britishness I learned when Emma Peel later in life turned into a man.
At the beginning there was the naiad Helen Mirren, who cheerfully stripped to the buff for any director who asked her.
They did their best to transform her from woman to man. Her greatest popular success was Prime Suspect. She was a sonofabitch of a female detective. All the Brit wusses got hard just watching her kick ass and claw her way up the ladder. It took us several years to discover she was it. The Prime Suspect. In the murder of Brit manhood. After her they were all called “cunts,” and the charge sticks to this day.
Except she couldn’t wholly restrain herself from stripping off in public. She liiikes it.
Did she have anything in particular in mind? No. She’s actually the perfect New Age Brit female. She just wants to get it on. Been that way since she played Caligula’s sister/wife in the Penthouse porn movie about Rome, the one where she gave birth in a chair to the son of the Emperor, with absolutely everybody important in attendance. Brits are Romans. They have no shame. They just do what they want — the ones with money and power and a license to kill.
And before that there was Caligula. Including this scene.
You think I exaggerate. And what does this have to do with atheism? Everything. And it involves everyone. EVERYONE.
They’re all implicated. And so are we.
Some facts about Britain. The Church of England is a stinking corpse. The Archbishop of Canterbury is an atheist homosexual. Nobody goes to any of the hundreds of beautiful churches and cathedrals the ancestors left behind. What else do you suppose is happening?
Not replacing themselves, British couples. They’re dying. Why?
What is happening? Why is Britain dying? Easier to see there than here. They have lost their faith in something greater and wiser than themselves. Oxford scholars, MPs, and scientists won the great debate between God and nihilism. So romantic love is explained away by behavioral science. The carnality of women, once a signpost of fertility, has become a tawdry signal of promiscuity, and men have ceased, utterly and in all ways, to be responsible citizens whose fondest desire is to leave behind a legacy of family and honorable effort on behalf of his own and others. We are all just rude, selfish fuckers. You can see it every night on the streets of London, Manchester, Yorkshire, and Glasgow. Drunk, knife-slashing turds in search of a quick exit from a meaningless life.
Guess who thinks they’re right. Try Richard Dawkins. Author of the Blind Watchmaker. Stephen Hawking. Who decided upon being stricken as a cripple for life that he needed to be smarter than God. These are the NEW gods. A malignant narcissist with delusions of grandeur and a desperate sick man with delusions of grandeur.
[TIME OUT: Just a joke. Really. Unless he’s the joke. The Slow Simple Course of Nature. And, no, I never made fun of Hawking. Bad enough to think you can know the Mind of God, regardless of your physical state. But here’s what I do know. Roger Penrose was the smart one in the Hawking-Penrose partnership. Penrose was the gentleman.] This is a a schematic of what you find when you start with a quote from the Book of Willie to the flat statement, “There is no God.”
Well, yeah. I did that. Let’s talk, finally, about atheism. Guess that would be Part 2.
[More to come]
Comments
Post a Comment