My Opinion of the Word Problem by Biran Zimmerman
Well, this is it. Ultimately, the anti-art of Marcel Duchamp has become the anti-word, anti-language stance I have now come to embrace. And, really, this isn't nihilism. In fact, I feel kind of satisfied, content, happy to be giving up this useless endeavour of literature.
Initially, I was always fascinated by the absurdist language of Beckett, the irrational poems and blurring of lit. and life by dada. All of this lead me to believe in existentialism to come to an awareness of its fundamental principles. I fully embraced the works of Camus, Nietzsche, but Sartre supplied me with ultiamte conclusions in his seminal works like the Age of Reason or Being and Nothingness. Eventually, I came to view life as completely devoid of meaning, one's only task in life then being to live within this meaningless world free of inauthentic choices not reflecting that base meaninglessness. Oddly, this quote from William Barret's Irrational Man kept ringing through me, singing me, bringing me out to dry; I obsessed over this small point which seemed to be to be a Baudrillard statement of reality without truth and what we "should" do in this debased state: "[most people] Sartre says, have chosen as themselves their public stance or role, and thus really exist not as free beings for themselves but as beings in the eyes of others."
The authentic life was a choice. It, itself was a bias. Nature didn't care about what you choose, whether or not you chose authenticity or inauthenticity in life: it didn't matter! This is incongruous or so I thought to everything we were always told and even what the existentialist taught. There was no point and no difference. There’s not even a fundamental difference between authentic life and inauthentic life. It was a choice.
Suddenly, something rather odd began to happen, I stopped questioning myself. Living in this reality, this consciousness which Sartre places language as fundamental; I began to just stop asking myself what I should do. Soon I was roaming the streets in what the french radicals call "derives" or drifitng in which one can literally and in a primal state of action, do anything. This adrenaline was so different from anything Camus had talked about in his Stranger, I felt the mindlessness of action but never did I feel the joyless indifference of that stranger to the world. In fact, the only time I ever felt that indifference was, indeed, when I thought, when I wrote, when I allowed the rules and questions of reality to debase me.
This new feeling, this new thoughtlessness where one risks all in order to do some absurd physical exergtion, e.g., jumping over a fence, pretending to be a dinosaur in front of middleclass restaurant goers with their kids, etc. This was something beyond the words and descriptions, the formulations the existentialist could ever bring out about action and choice. Spontaneity had taken over my life and shit upon my mind and existentialism, and my soul, something they could never touch, soured. This was art taken to the street, this was 'poetic madness' taken to its logical and dada extreme; this was all artistic freedom and in life.
There is a point where freedom becomes its own limitation, and I've experienced this limitation and everyone who has ever read one word by an existentialist knows this limit. You honestly don't have all the answers, you will never have the right words and there will not be a rejoinder to the Bible, or a Great American Novel, or the masterpiece of our century or the word of God given to and existent in Borders. There is no such thing as perfection without these answers and when you try to answer them the only thing that becomes false is your soul and your emotional world. I say, abandon words, abandon logic and don't do so to satisfy dada, or to quench Mr. Derrida. Do this because when you stop thinking and reciting, you're world is filled with a joy no philosophy or theory or word could ever bring it. Let go of all logic all transcription and all separation because in nature you never possessed these things and when you thought you did you lost your very natural step outside, living you were plagued by the words of lesser men.
Letting go, words aren’t separate from your existence, poetry is the world and no philosophy or theory can take that feeling and calm resignation away. No one can talk away the feeling when you stop attaching importance, and let everything make a significance of its own accord.