Posted on 03/31/2002 7:27:19 AM PST by Mahone
Credenda-Agenda
Volume 13, Issue 6 Similitudes
You Say You Want a Revolution
Douglas Wilson
I am Chaos. I am the primordial tumult that underlies civilization, and I am the reason for perpetual revolution.
Order and structure proceed from me, arising spontaneously, and depend upon me. I manifest order, showing that I can do so, but beneath, above, behind, and before is the ultimacy of whirl. And even when such orders develop and grow, they soon forget their maker and source, and so they grow stale, old, complacent, self-assured, and arrogant. And so, I, Chaos, extend my power once again, and revolution swallows up the vanity of all order so that I may burn away the dross of stability. Having done so, a new order bursts forth once again from my chaotic womb, and for a time seems to be fresh and lovely. But it too will fall into the authoritarian apostasy of oppressive power structures, and will have to be melted back down into the cauldron.
In every age, I have had faithful devotees who have understood that ruin, blood, and turmoil are the sacraments I use to usher in whatever tempestuous glory is to come. If original birth came from chaos, then all rebirth must come from returning to chaos. Those who burn, and guillotine, and fill their gulags are men who know the power and authority and potency of death. I am Chaos, and death is my daughter. The blood in the streets is up to the knee.
Some of my children have simply looked ahead in faith to the next temporary order, others have seen the cycles of time and chance, and only a few have had an informed faith in the final disorder. But all of them, in their turn, have been misunderstood and slandered by the small-minded pettiness of priests and lawyers, preachers and merchants. My children have always known me, and in recent centuries my children who have known me are legion. My children walked the corridors of power during the Terror, in the October Revolution, in the Holocaust, in the fire-bombing of Dresden, and today in Abortion America.
But those who have faith in me cannot do all the work. One of my most valuable children once said that his work, and mine, was advanced by the diligent labors of useful idiots. These fools do not know me, do not serve me, do not love me, do not understand me. But nevertheless, imbeciles all, they still do what I say.
I hate culture. The order I produce is not true culture, but is rather the order shown by one adept at blowing smoke rings. My enemy-culture seeks to hand down an inheritance from one generation to another. Cultures believe they can traffic in the permanent things. Cultures aspire to the righteousness that leaves an inheritance to childrens' children, and beyond. They prefer, always, the old to the new, the ancient to the recent.
But those who have learned from me devote themselves to the culture of smoke rings. They consume all they have, or make things that do not need to be torn down by the next generation's revolutionaries—because they are made to fall apart all by themselves. The castles in their Disneyland world are not made of tiresome granite, but rather of colored styrofoam.
And their music is defined as whatever sounds might be emitted by someone called a celebrity, and when the celebrity fades, the music is gone. When the airplane goes down with the rockers in it, the music dies because the celebrities die.
Their buildings, their clothes, their customs, their literature, their poetry, are all designed to fall apart in less than one human lifespan. Hand precious things down over generations? Like what? A Barbie doll collection? Elvis collectibles?
I hold countless churches in my grasp. They say they serve their God of heaven, and, in some ways, according to their lights, I suppose they do. But their liturgy was written by me. Instead of a faith once delivered to the saints, they insist that every generation has to start from scratch, and that their worship must be fresh, spontaneous, new. Instead of being the people of God, they want each generation to be aboriginal. Although they do not intend it, I do receive their labors.
They require their children to enter the Church the same way they did, as though their children had no heritage, as though they were bastards. "God has no grandchildren," they say. Fools and blind! I have no grandchildren. And they are so sincere about it. They talk about Peter, James, and John, but when it comes to the apostolic foundation stones, they build on Nietzche, Descartes, Rousseau, and de Sade. They have made the Revolution part of their institutional ritual, and they call it being "born again." They mean well, but I don't hold that against them.
From Ovid to Darwin, I have called men to acknowledge my primacy. From Ovid to Darwin and beyond, they have done so. Men with fire in their eyes see and adore me, and are remade in my image. Men with food in their bellies are content to shuffle off where they are told. Beetlewit theologians sell out their birthright, standing outside the laboratories of chaos, hats in hand, reassuring the men inside, serving at my altars, that there is is no final conflict between science and religion, as though we might care if there were.
There are only two choices: look at the abyss and call it your heaven, or look at the abyss and call it your hell. Some say the day will come when it must be called by its true name, but I do not choose to believe that just now. My name is Chaos. I have brought about the true revolution—the revolution of names. Welcome to my heaven.
Subliminal fascination with toilets?
No examples of this on the news today, is there?
Heh heh, the Phoenix crashes again into it's funeral pyre! - (more orgasmic thrills for Satan)
Me thinks the cycle is about to be terminated, and I have front row seats! :o)
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