Have I lived a life that makes me worthy?
As I set out to make a case for myself on this key question of Mickey’s very existence, I have to admit first that several important terms need to be defined.
The definitions I am going to rely on owe a lot of their cow-poop qualities to this foofy guy. His name is Søren Kierkegaard , the frakked-up father of existentialism. You may have noticed from the picture Mickey stole from Wikipedia that he doesn’t smile much. There’s a good reason for that. Although he was a nominal Christian with a sort of faith in that religion, he was beginning to despair about juggling so many atheistic philosophy knives inherited from the philosophy-mountebanks known as Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel and Immanuel Kant, Those extra-foofy guys kept coming up with foofy arguments that made the ridiculous things that church-type people rely on to keep them comfortable in the face of the fact that, if you are alive, then one day you will die, less and less believable in view of… you know, logic. So, since those philosophy knives kept falling and cutting into things with foofy precision, the rules of juggling had to be compromised.
Here are the terms that need to be defined;
Objectivity – means it has the quality of being firmly rooted in facts only.
Subjectivity – means, forget the facts, do what makes you happy
Foofy – means goofed up by an inexplicable addiction to philosophical ideas.
Kierkegaard decided, being the morose monkey-flinger he was, that foofy questions should rely more on subjectivity than objectivity. When it comes to the Meaning Of Life, there is no objective answer to the question. So, Søren decided that to get an answer, he could just make something up. This is why Existentialism basically argues that to find a purpose in life, you have to define that purpose yourself. Meaning is what you say it means. You get to have your own way, or you can throw a foofy fit.
Have I lived a life that makes me worthy?
Well, everybody gets to subjectively state what it means to be worthy. So, most people will say they are worthy and their friends are worthy, and mostly everybody else is worth only cow poop. And existentially they are not wrong.
But I am also allowed to say that I am worthy. In fact, I can legally declare that everyone is born worthy. And only a minority of people live lives filled with so much bile and hatred, thievery and knavery in their daily deeds that they deserve to burn in a Hell that I firmly believe cannot exist.
My conclusion has to be, even though it is only subjective and not provable by science, that Mickey has lived a life that makes him worthy.
That’s in spite of the fact that Mickey has said some incredibly stupid things in this blog. And he has been a nudist, a Jehovah’s Witness, and a middle-school English teacher, all things that Catholics, Republicans, and certain middle-school students believe sincerely belong in the hottest regions of Satan’s kingdom having to be lectured by Rush Limbaugh about free-thinking and fiscal responsibility while cockroaches and Banko Merricka lawyers chew off his fingernails and toenails.
But he has taught kids to read and write for 31 years and is proud of that fact. So, his worthiness is not wrong… at least according to Søren..
Catch a Falling Star 
The Sedentary Stradivarius
The greatest tragedy known to man is the finely-tuned instrument that is merely sitting, barely active, when instead it should be soaring to heights never seen before.
It is a real shame that so much of human endeavor is bent towards the accumulation of wealth… And when the lucky few reach the pinnacle of that wealth-acquisition, measured in billions, they choose to hoard it and salt it away for their own exclusive use rather than solve problems like poverty, hunger, ignorance, pollution, violence, and want. The act of creation, being musical, artistic, literary, or profound, is given so little value that the idea of the starving artist is an idea that exists in every head.
I fear that far too many people don’t t truly understand what value means. For life to be worth living, you have to have priorities that justify mankind’s very existence. Surely we were not created… by either God or an indifferent random universe… to merely exist like the blue-green lichen that graces the bark of a rotting stump, or to elect Donald Trump as President just so we can see smarty-pants liberal elitists chopped down by a corrupt plague of racist frogs. The tragedy lies in the knowing… or the not knowing.
Perhaps you recognize Beethoven’s 9th Symphony when you hear the Dah-Dah-Dah-Dummm! of death knocking in that familiar musical phrase. But do you recognize the pastoral beauty of the sunshine-and-rain-filled 5th Symphony? Or have you heard the sorrow and the striving of daily life in the city streets depicted in the 7th Symphony (offered above)? If not, why not? How can you listen to any of it and not hear the many underlined reasons that it is considered among the greatest music ever created? And that by a man who was mildly insane and eventually stone deaf, unable to hear his own music anywhere but in his imagination?
I have reached a point in my life that I cannot do much beyond sit and think such thoughts. I am limited in how I can move and what work I can do by my ever-more-painful arthritis, stinging me in every joint. I am also limited by lack of money in where I can go and what I can afford to do. But I refuse to be that finely-tuned instrument that does not make much in the way of music. Hence, an essay like this one today. It is me, using my words to the best of my ability, to fill the sky with hopelessly beautiful attempts at making the stars twinkle.
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Filed under artwork, classical music, commentary, feeling sorry for myself, insight, Paffooney, philosophy, review of music
Tagged as artistry, Beethoven