Happy birthday you sad, overrated motherfucker.
May. 7th, 2015 | 12:12 pm
From:: zaralustra
I am holding a very critical view towards the interest and naive trust Sigmund Freud has generated towards his work and persona. In my humble opinion - academically documented orgies (not necessarily in a sexual way) with cocaine, heroin, ones academic success combined with an absolutely enormous ego (it is so big, that it overshadows everything Sigmund does, it enforces a bias, possibly denying a new, exciting and, most importantly - objective truth being born (if such truth had seen light, it definitely would have been born Freud being alone (or, pardon me - whilst two gentle men beat the shit out of poor Sigmund, because of his inability to do anything else than manifest ones ego, overshadowing literally everything but itself and it's witty appeal). Unconsciously the greatness of him always is on top of his priority list. If there would be a partner to Freud's thinking (it should be "a think-buddy with whom he could loose oneself in the joy of happening together in a thought, in a feeling"), if Freud had accepted a partner in his thinking process, if he had respect for another human being, if he had given a slightest fuck about truth and psychoanalysis – we might be living in a different world.
Sadly Freuds pathological behaviour makes the thinking process a dead end, his books – a pile of pathologically ill egomaniacs notes – but still – of great value, I won't deny. Like diamonds in shit.
Truth is secondary to Freud. Simply put - Freud's dick is primary and nothing get's past Freud's dick. It matters more than truth, because little Sigmund is concerned if there is any shine and glory left for his dick after facing even a glimpse of truth. A dust of absolution. Is there life after death? The relationship between his dick shining in glory and truth putting an end to this comfort bothers him as much as life after death bothered the earliest of thinkers. Little Sigmund is scared. And burries this question deep somwhere next to - do I really want to fuck my mother and why the hell have I spent so much time thinking about it.
This truth to which one believes will never get, because one subconsciously hates oneself and has very low self-esteem. The possibility to propose a journey towards discovering something excitingly absolute, real and true together with a partner with whom one has the opportunity to happen (no such aspirations seem to radiate from Freuds personality – if something happens, it's Sigmunds dick and surrounding praise of it.
If I'd be able to travel back in time, I'd interrupt his and his partners mental masturbation session and make them dance – starting with tango, then shattering their world with rocknroll like Marty McFly does in Back To The Future. We'd be living in a different world.
The truth about Freud and his dick is – the man is so fucked up in owns issues and possibly even not aware of them or having only had a glimpse of the surface of this so scary truth. Like struck with thunder, he bounces like a ball back in his carefully designed wonderland of false purpose and self-praise and after supressing a little bit of shameful feelings turns back to delight provided by no moral obligation to restrain oneself from appearing a smartass motherfucker – embracing random nightmares with convenient, handy constructions and myths. To this purpose his scientific background serves as an unquestionable and infinite source of energy. A little nightmarish playworld of his own.
It's a matter of having the balls to face yourself. And publicly humiliate [unable to face fear and rejection?] oneself and coming to new terms with his regular environment. One requires to accredit the new-found truth in society. Needs to be able to learn to swim in it. Needs the qualities that will save him from drowning in newborn obstacles. One needs to be a decent human being. I doubt he would have made it. I think he knew it. And that's why we eat his shit today. The question is why? Mother of God, why?
This miserable necessity to justify being an asshole as a human condition, it being fine, as long as you talk about it in fancy enough terms (formula of what makes pornography pornography crosses my mind) - one has employed his drama skills to wrap this so nicely up. Irresistable. Delight. In an ill mans wonderland. That feeds you with a proposition (both conscious and open, both subconscious) that you're an intellectual human being, and your penis or vagina is most definitely if not as noteworthy as Frueds, it's still something, you know.
The tragedy here is - there is no vector here - towards healing, evolution or whatever, no vector - just the a blab about this and that - an OK to publicly manifest and masturbate ones ego in varying intensities. But it never get's anywhere. Anywhere new. Or anywhere productive - narrative-enriching exciting. You never feel that evolutionary stream touching your feet. Just an eventual numbness in the center of ones head.
Being an unquestionable person as-is of himself, cocaine must have been the thing that re-affirmed his high confidence, eventually turning it in a delusion. If you think you're the smartest asshole in the room - you're in bad company.
I die a little, having contemplated on how this man, having taken this big shit where we all eat, got away with it. Come on! We're still eating it. Is that alright? No.
Whilst writing this I inevitably noticed some shreds of parallels with my own personal development struggles. Mostly past. And inspiration to reflect on a new angle here and there. But it's not me who this is about.