Among those who
practice Black Magic, The
Phenomenologists
Amidst a dying forest we
came upon a workshop
In the center was a
metal table covered with tools
And just in reach of
all, a hacked stump of wood lay atop.
Men crowded round, and occasionally
would drop a knife
Or hammer to grab at
their hair-- or seizing on the brink
Of discovery they
froze, slavering to taste of life.
They moved together,
waves of anxiety rolling through
Like an ocean eternally
crashing against the shore
Each man working till
the appeasing day might rise anew.
But that honey colored sun,
they were never blessed to see.
One man broke away from
the group and wandered towards us,
He seemed to be trying
to tear the air from his body.
He mumbled
“being-towards-life… the meaning of not-being”
His face lit and he
shouted, “That being for whom being
Is no longer a concern
for it.” Then broke off mumbling,
“No, that is
present-at-hand, but, it is, it must be so.”
At that, this great
thinker I recognized as Heidegger
He noticed the sign in
my face and let his story go.
“You must be curious to
know: I lived to grasp of death.
I found and greedily
abused, the bliss of non-existence
Now I yearn only for
what I missed in that sweet life’s breath
Knowing not my soul would
endure thereafter, I lit upon anxiety,
And the emptiness that freed
me to choose
A meaning of my design.
God was a concept so petty.
We learned to resist
the one and the calm of his embrace
And in its stead sought
the thrill of self-slaved potential
It was a true Pyrrhic
victory, how my heart would race,
When it heard the cries of my tortured soul.”
With that he turned,
Though drawn to work by
sudden inspiration. I wondered
At this and questioned
my master, this answer he returned:
“They long to feel of
peace, the truth of life they shunned as such.
But their work they
never can complete, for all equipment
Breaks to unleash that anxiety
cursed to follow their touch.
As they taught ‘being-in-the-world,’
here their souls enact
To suffer what they thought,
and the air sticks to their bodies
As though there was no
freedom of the spirit from the fact.”
It sometimes seems that
they are freed, swimming in their strife, then
A thickened cry rises, as
the air turns like an angry sea
And they begin to
suffocate from that which gave them life.
“Each man believes what
he seeks is real, further, better
Than the others, yet sees
their tasks as futile as they truly are.”
“Is that not a
consolation?” I put to my master.
“Not at all,” he
replied, “If they knew their shared state,
Either vain or
fruitful, they might find comfort in common good
Rather than the silent
cage of loneliness breeding hate.”
