What Would Nietzsche Do?
Following the fairy logic of what would Audrey do, after my last moral tract, it would be more appropriate to substitute Audrey - despite being better dressed - with Nietzsche to answer the rampant, entrenched moral dilemmas.
After a hiatus off the scene, my bisexual gentleman still showed a keen interest, it was both confusing and touching, and while I was enamored by his perfect skin and gorgeous arms, I knew there was a fundamental clash between our so-called moral principles, but what chance do moral principles have in front of exquisite eye brows and well-defined pecs?
What would Nietzsche do?
A lot! He dissed the only women he ever loved, and forever spoke ill of the entire female sex.
Here I was entangled in the magnificent arms of my bisexual gentleman, stroking the insides of his thighs, while he was pinching my nipples, and all I could think of, was "is this right?"
If I disagreed with this particular gentleman over crucial lifestyle choices, and if I knew before hand, that beyond the awkward above-the-bra-action, there is nothing really to it, is it still morally correct to engage any further?
What would Nietzsche do?
Gone were all these lofty notions about right and wrong, evil and wickedness, Mary Midgley, G.E. Moore, Kant, all flew out of the window, one by one, I watched them pick up and take flight.
And it could not be solved by some PoMo jargon, that refuses grand schemes that explain reality, in terms every incident or phenomenon is its own point of reference.
As attractive as that is, this wouldn't do either.
I was entrapped in the hell of dry spells, gorgeous arms, and bisexual men and it was not a pleasant place to be.
This was not the only moral dilemma in store for me for that week.
Despite my self-imposed exile, it was time to face the music and make an appearance in "I am not dead" statement a la Pink way.
And in the little bar, in the old colonial quarters, the one which every queen bashed me for mentioning its name publicly on my blog, I was standing there again, thinking contemplating about my moral dilemmas.
Did it make sense standing there?
Was it any different?
What would Nietzsche do?
Well he retired to the Swiss mountains, went mad and ended up under the custody of a Nazi sister.
Too much for solitude and self-imposed exile.
Syphilis might have had a hand, but STD or not, I had little desire to end mentally incapacitated under the care of an equally disturbed sister.
And before I could dwell further on the Swiss mountains, the black forests and the Nazis, I bumped into an old friend right outside the old tavern.
A friend from another world, a world of magical beings and postmodern anxiety, namely Egyptian contemporary artists.
I discovered it was another dear dear friend's birthday and I had to go say hello and wish her happy birthday, at a party not very far from the old tavern.
I dragged Kiki along, who complained as usual that she is torn between so many choices, and how she is going to leave throngs and throngs of admirers and friends behind.
Not paying much attention to everyone-loves-me routine, we were soon on the way to the postmodern party.
Well they sure know how to mix drinks in postmodern parties!
Who could have thought that Ouzo with watermelon and fresh mint would be such a refreshing drink?
And in the age of atomization and fast erosion of indigenous cultures, reflected in the party, I saw my childhood friend once more.
Standing not very far, talking with another friend, I overheared them talking.
I could not fathom what was said, I only heard out random phonemes sailing through the space in between.
And while I did not really get much of what was being said, I realized yet again how I missed the voice. The sing-song, the cadence of the speech, the way it echoed, and it hit me, and as I was processing the voice, divorced from words or verbal utterance, as pure sound Kiki dragged me whining again about all those who can't live without her at the old tavern.
We rushed through, and after a five minutes drive we were back at the old tavern.
I was back on the scene, in the scene, next to it, besides it, face-a-face with it, one person after the other slowly trickling, there was Kiki Jr with her endless legs, perfectly tanned skin and in all her social climbing glory, confronting each other, expressing dismay and reproach, battling with doubt and sincerity.
What would Nietzsche do?
Probably bomb the old tavern with everyone in it and then publicly disembowel Kiki Jr for not being ruthless enough.
But we are a far way from German Idealism, Swiss Mountains and not close enough to the moral indignation Nietzsche showed throughout his life.
Its now a contrived hodgepodge of New Age philosophy, a dash of moral pragmatism, and a little PoMo rationale.
Thats one thing Nietzsche wouldn't do.
So until we know, I would like another round of this fantastic concoction ofOuzo, New Age philosophy, mediocre friendships, fresh mint, moral dilemmas and watermelon please!
After a hiatus off the scene, my bisexual gentleman still showed a keen interest, it was both confusing and touching, and while I was enamored by his perfect skin and gorgeous arms, I knew there was a fundamental clash between our so-called moral principles, but what chance do moral principles have in front of exquisite eye brows and well-defined pecs?
What would Nietzsche do?
A lot! He dissed the only women he ever loved, and forever spoke ill of the entire female sex.
Here I was entangled in the magnificent arms of my bisexual gentleman, stroking the insides of his thighs, while he was pinching my nipples, and all I could think of, was "is this right?"
If I disagreed with this particular gentleman over crucial lifestyle choices, and if I knew before hand, that beyond the awkward above-the-bra-action, there is nothing really to it, is it still morally correct to engage any further?
What would Nietzsche do?
Gone were all these lofty notions about right and wrong, evil and wickedness, Mary Midgley, G.E. Moore, Kant, all flew out of the window, one by one, I watched them pick up and take flight.
And it could not be solved by some PoMo jargon, that refuses grand schemes that explain reality, in terms every incident or phenomenon is its own point of reference.
As attractive as that is, this wouldn't do either.
I was entrapped in the hell of dry spells, gorgeous arms, and bisexual men and it was not a pleasant place to be.
This was not the only moral dilemma in store for me for that week.
Despite my self-imposed exile, it was time to face the music and make an appearance in "I am not dead" statement a la Pink way.
And in the little bar, in the old colonial quarters, the one which every queen bashed me for mentioning its name publicly on my blog, I was standing there again, thinking contemplating about my moral dilemmas.
Did it make sense standing there?
Was it any different?
What would Nietzsche do?
Well he retired to the Swiss mountains, went mad and ended up under the custody of a Nazi sister.
Too much for solitude and self-imposed exile.
Syphilis might have had a hand, but STD or not, I had little desire to end mentally incapacitated under the care of an equally disturbed sister.
And before I could dwell further on the Swiss mountains, the black forests and the Nazis, I bumped into an old friend right outside the old tavern.
A friend from another world, a world of magical beings and postmodern anxiety, namely Egyptian contemporary artists.
I discovered it was another dear dear friend's birthday and I had to go say hello and wish her happy birthday, at a party not very far from the old tavern.
I dragged Kiki along, who complained as usual that she is torn between so many choices, and how she is going to leave throngs and throngs of admirers and friends behind.
Not paying much attention to everyone-loves-me routine, we were soon on the way to the postmodern party.
Well they sure know how to mix drinks in postmodern parties!
Who could have thought that Ouzo with watermelon and fresh mint would be such a refreshing drink?
And in the age of atomization and fast erosion of indigenous cultures, reflected in the party, I saw my childhood friend once more.
Standing not very far, talking with another friend, I overheared them talking.
I could not fathom what was said, I only heard out random phonemes sailing through the space in between.
And while I did not really get much of what was being said, I realized yet again how I missed the voice. The sing-song, the cadence of the speech, the way it echoed, and it hit me, and as I was processing the voice, divorced from words or verbal utterance, as pure sound Kiki dragged me whining again about all those who can't live without her at the old tavern.
We rushed through, and after a five minutes drive we were back at the old tavern.
I was back on the scene, in the scene, next to it, besides it, face-a-face with it, one person after the other slowly trickling, there was Kiki Jr with her endless legs, perfectly tanned skin and in all her social climbing glory, confronting each other, expressing dismay and reproach, battling with doubt and sincerity.
What would Nietzsche do?
Probably bomb the old tavern with everyone in it and then publicly disembowel Kiki Jr for not being ruthless enough.
But we are a far way from German Idealism, Swiss Mountains and not close enough to the moral indignation Nietzsche showed throughout his life.
Its now a contrived hodgepodge of New Age philosophy, a dash of moral pragmatism, and a little PoMo rationale.
Thats one thing Nietzsche wouldn't do.
So until we know, I would like another round of this fantastic concoction ofOuzo, New Age philosophy, mediocre friendships, fresh mint, moral dilemmas and watermelon please!
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