The White Stag: Discovered Neatly Bound on the Grave of Werner Heisenberg

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January 1, 2012

The problem is I’m not here. Not that I’m anywhere
else, either. It’s as if I’ve diffused, and I’m everywhere,
but not HERE. Or really ten percent of me lingers. The rest
is everywhere else.

I wonder if anyone else feels this way. Though that’s
not why I’ve decided to write all of this down. Mostly I
just don’t want to be noticed—but I think finally
something is going to happen. That’s why I’m writing it
down, because it might be interesting—when the rest of me
leaves.

It was on New Year’s Eve that I first had this
feeling—not the feeling of not being here, that happened a
long time ago—but the feeling that something was going to
happen. A lot of people think the world will end this year.
I guess that’s because people think it has become too
stupid, but as Camus said stupidity has a knack of getting
its way, so that doesn’t mean anything. Other people think
it’s a profound shift that’s coming. But the world’s been
shifting wildly for so long. I wish it would just hold
still, so that the little of me that’s left can hang on a
little longer.

January 2, 2012

Yesterday I stopped rather abruptly. I’m not used to
writing. I started to feel all cold and shivery and people
started to stare at me. I hate it when people notice me. I
just want to stay out of the way. The world moves on,
people move, they have their reasons.

I was talking about New Year’s Eve. I saw some
fireworks from my window. I wouldn’t have gone to see them.
To see them in full, unobstructed, would have been gaudy
and pointless, but to see just a little puff, because a few
decided to leap into view, around the cluster of buildings
between me and the water, that made them very beautiful.
And that’s when I had that thought—that something was
going to happen. Maybe it will be that the rest of me will
leave, and I will be part of everything again. That seems
so peaceful.

This tension, the terrible tension of holding onto
the idea that I exist, as me myself, as something apart
from everything else—this is becoming unbearable.

January 3, 2012

Ever since the majority of me left I just like to look
at people. Sometimes they try to talk to me, but it’s as if
their words fall into a bottomless well. I hear their
voices but they echo without meaning.

There is a skinny, sick-looking waiter that buses the
tables at the café I go to to sit and read and now to sit
and write and I always thought about how he looked like a
person whose loneliness has eaten him away little by
little. I felt so sorry for him that one day I decided that
I was going to try to smile at him when he came to clear my
table.

The next day he asked me out. He asked me out and I
understood him. I guess because we have something in common.
When I understood him it was as if all the sorrow in
the world burst in my chest all at once. I don’t remember
what happened but I remember being back at my room crying,
crying out in an endless river the sorrow of the whole
world. When I finally stopped crying I realized how absurd
it was. Absurd because I had no idea if I was straight or
gay or a man or a woman.

January 4, 2012

I need to tell you about myself, or nothing will make
sense. My earliest memory is a terrible one. The earliest
thing I can remember is Death. Not Old Mother Death as we
used to understand Her but the simple, abstract, rational
notion of non-being. Of one day no longer being, and how
this negated not only the meaning of me but the meaning of
the whole world. It was like a brick falling out of an
emptiness, an emptiness I had just invented. I lay in bed
writhing, fighting not against a demon but a hopeless
struggle against sheer nothingness. A holocaust consumed my
mind and I cried for help. I don’t remember if anyone came.
Eventually my small mind was consumed, and everything went
dark.

The next day I woke up with a fear that never entirely
left me. That is not until I left me. The fear just went
quiet when there was color and commotion, but then came
roaring back whenever the world was silent.

But this was not just me. It’s our story, all of us.
We’ve turned the living cosmos to emptiness and bricks, and
a child will see them crashing down…

January 5, 2012

I need to talk about Plato. And Socrates and Aristotle
but they are all the same to me. It is not just Socrates
but the rest of them and all of us—we have all been a long
time sick. Only that part of me which has dissolved is no
longer sick. That part of me is free.

Plato said that our most important sense is the sense
of sight. This isn’t true. He was looking through Perseus’s
shield. It was only when we started seeing through the
shield, when the whole world became a reflection, that we
became obsessed with our eyes. Our obsession with our eyes
is part of our possession by Reason.

And what of the gorgon? She is Woman. But it may be
soon that we can look at Her again. When we stopped seeing
Her and looking in the shield that is when we started
stomping Woman and Everything Else Powerful into the
ground. But She is becoming restless, the Earth is becoming
restless, Snakes are popping up like weeds. The frail crust
of Reason we have been walking on is crumbling.

January 6, 2012

I don’t like jumping forward and backward all the time
so I will stay with being chronological and tell you about
the other first thing I ever remember feeling.

The feeling is this: you realize that for some time,
though you never know how long it lasted, that you had
ceased to exist as yourself. This is my other earliest
sensation. Much later I read that Camus called this the
state of the Absurd. But this is actually the state of the
Normal. This is because in Copenhagen Heisenberg
discovered that Nature is Absurd.

And ever since then the rational world (though it
doesn’t know it yet) has been fading. The world Socrates
invented, that we invented, all of us, the world we thought
we could control, this world is ceasing to exist.

The question is, will we all cease to exist with It?
Will the Reemerging Oceanic re-digest us all?

January 7, 2012

There is a strange sound in my ears—it’s the sound of
the world fusing back together.

When the world was split in two, when good became good
and evil became evil, and good became equal to good and A
became equal to A, this was the beginning of the era that
is now ending.

In Copenhagen the world had to be discovered to be
Absurd, because A was never equal to A and good was never
really different from evil.

Nature is Absurd and now Nature, who created Reason
through us, is re-digesting It. She is re-digesting Us.
What is to become of Us? Are we to get swallowed back
up into the unfathomable?

Am I simply the first to go?

It may be why they wanted to drug me, why they are
drugging so many, to stop us from hearing the sound.

The Creative Advance Of The World cannot be stopped, the
Reemergence of the Oceanic cannot be stopped, the world
will fuse back together despite all the well-trained and
gullible psychiatrists in the whole world.

January 8, 2012

It is not easy to live in a time of so much change,
especially when We are the change itself.

I once had a vision of myself as a poor horse,
struggling to pull the Present into the Future. We are all
such poor horses, every one of Us.

But now, I know, I have done my part. I have said
Everything. It is not much, really, this little book, but
it is a whole lifetime of work.

January 9, 2012

I didn’t really doubt that my little part in this
great drama was finished but now I know for sure. I know
for sure because of what I saw on my way to the café
today, on my way to write what I knew would be my last
entry.

This is the first and last thing that I have ever
written. I have been, all my life, with Ahab, chasing the
White Whale. But it was not a White Whale it was a White
Stag that I saw today. It looked at me from a distance, but
did not come closer.

I know the reason it did not come closer is because I
have one last thing to do. I must give my little book, my
little lifetime of work, to someone, and there is only one
person who I know that could be the right one.

Once I have given it to this person, then the White
Stag will lead me out of this make-believe little life.
This silly rational life with its falling bricks and
terrified children. This life where I can’t believe any
longer in the idea that I am nothing else other than me
myself.

Yes, something is happening. The rest of me is leaving
now. I can finally be Everything.

Photo By: Indigo Skies

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About Author

William K Hugel is the founder of Mystic World Press, where he also writes under the pen name, B. Magnolia. His illustrated children's story, “Beautiful Wild Rose Girl,” received a gold medal from Children's Literary Classics International Book Awards and his play, Demons, was selected by The Hive Theatre for its 2014 Exposed Series in New York City.

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