Twentieth Song

The truth of psychiatric medicine and its use as a form of governance was set in 1934 when Germany's National Socialist government put on its infamous shows of modernist art titled "Entartete Kunst," or "degenerate art." 

Estrangement is a good candidate for the most far-reachingly important concept in thought in the European languages in the 20th century. (The other candidates would include the event as form of time, and the feminine as mode of personality). To abolish it is not only a Nazi idea, it is of the essence of the National Socialist idea of rightness, normality, health, and purity. “The good” for the bourgeois who puts money in his purse and always does the prudent thing. Loss would be lack, and what would you do then? (Gotcha!)

That there are also noble men and Jews who participate in this style and trend of thought is as annoyingly boring (yes, that's bad) of a fact as it is ironically true. The important thing here is that the mainstream is motivated by the desire to be happy, and claim to be happy, if necessary by eliminating all traces of misery and every testament to its reality and the possibility from whose knowledge we suffer.

For every testament of real socially instittuted and historical misery is a testament or the enduring reality, and the trasncendent force and meaning, of a God who suffers and complains and is annoyed when people do and are. Every testament of oppression therefore is testament of redemption and its possibility. 

The degenerate is the non-healthy, which is moving away from the generative and lively towards death. Nazism was enforced health and normality and propriety. 

Maybe it was just metaphysical perverse, mistaken, following the 19th century’s nobility of civilization progressing maturingly like some confident pedant leading his school, ignoring and counting its corpses.
It imagined movements forward did not come without a correspondent undoing, a redirected rebounding backwards toward the void of chaos. Innocence must spend itself and yes this is a loss. But, replies thought. But for the after of it, in thought.

Only the deformed can be loved, not perfect form but what is ugly too is beautiful, what has no lack has no potentiality, and only the mortal can matter, while it is lived, or when it is remembered as having lived by those who have it to live. It is in the face of death that we say, "to life." I suppose that this is only because all perspectives are finite, like a cube whose faces cannot all be visible at once, and because in the confusion and the falling, things matter, to us, and so, we care. These faces of the dice thrown matter, and I’ll take my holiness where it comes, thank you very much, in a New York diner at 3 a.m. when I’m really getting tired, and had enough of the coffee. There is grace where there is gravity. All flowers are mortal. 

And if tomorrow I will be committed it will be with your face on the screen of my mind. They can make me numb the bastards but not take that image. Images are from God. This is a fifty cent cup of rancid coffee.