Ethics

It's not that I don't have an ethics. I'm ethical. But it's open-ended. It's ever-changing. An ethics that doesn't adapt to reality is a dead ethics. Ethics is ongoing, always under consideration, never solidified, never formalized, never believed. With this sort of ethics, this ongoing zing pow, this layercake ethics with different-flavored frostings providing the foundation for each new addition, it's an ethics that begins at an arbitrary location and adjusts from there. Where would you have me start? Is there a foundation I don't know about? Does conception meet reality at a fixed point in space? Can I set my watch to the intersection of abstraction and action? Will subject/object relations play peek-a-boo with attachment theory?

Perhaps you might start with Camus:

A taste for truth at any cost is a passion which spares nothing.

Do you run down every person you see on the street to scream, "You've been living a lie!"?

Maybe you add Sartre:

It disturbs me no more to find men base, unjust, or selfish than to see apes mischievous, wolves savage, or the vulture ravenous.

Hmmmm... Well, ethics in this context... Yeah, ethics put in context. A creation that has as its purpose ... control? An externally created conceptual framework for self-limitation... Hmmmm...

Godard, help us:

All you need for a movie is a gun and a girl.

She had legs growing roots, two trunks rising from the earth bound upward for a skirt fluffing white in the orange-blue horizon of the late afternoon sky, her shimmering pom-poms a rainbow-colored beard cradling her face, electric-blue eyes shooting sparks and shooting stars, and ruby red lips puckering and kissing with an audible "smack!" Her silhouette a curvaceous cutout in the dusk-backed doorway into to the bar. Around her ankle was tied a holster, tiny, her ankle and the gun. A derringer.

She kicked her feet out as she walked toward the bar. No, that was no walk. That was a march. Her chest was stretching toward the ceiling like it was being reeled up by wires. Her head was thrown back so far her nose was pointing directly behind her, her chin closer to the ceiling than the top of her head. How she stayed upright, I can't really say. Graceful, she looked, I have to admit.

Still, it was a strange style of elegance, like someone who only ever figured out how to be herself after several martinis. I'd say she was at four right now. About to order number five. Every eye in this hole in the wall is fixed on her right now. That thin, pillowy white skirt, just the thinnest layer of silk, maybe, is gleaming, blinding even, radiantly reflecting the sun's intesnity off of that divinely rounded ass. A bursting white apple of an ass. It's not right. That's just ... wickedly succulent.

I'm sorry, but that ass is just so fucking ... wow. Fuck the gun, man. Jean-Luc, what the fuck is up with the gun, huh? I'm going to have to edit:

All you need for a movie is a girl.

Moving on...

There are few things more fundamentally encouraging and stimulating than seeing someone else die.--Stanley Kubrick

Okay, need to get away from the filmmakers when considering ethics.

Each morning when I awake, I experience again a supreme pleasure - that of being Salvador Dali.--Salvador Dali

Honestly, there may be no better ethics than this. Tomorrow, it would be a good idea for me to walk down a twisting flight of stairs, through the front door of a mansion, and out onto a sprawling manicured lawn that sinks and sinks and sinks down a massive hill to a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. As the sun rises, the masses of people scattered sleeping under the sky, all pilgrims who have traveled the world to witness my daily waking, will hear me proclaim:

I woke up again this morning to the extreme pleasure of being my self. My God, it's so fucking incredible! You should see what it's like inside my mind. The red blood cells in my right arm at this very moment are dancing the cucaracha! My left eyeball is melting on the inside. It still looks normal to all of you, but from where I'm standing I have an eyeball that is slowly melting on the inside. White goop is draining down my sinuses and the back of my throat. Tastes like roasted campfire marshmallows. I need some graham crackers and chocolate. Does anyone else think the sun looks like a giant peach? Like maybe a giant peach that grew around the moon last night while we were sleeping? Is the moon now just a pit of a peach posing as the sun? Well, I'm going to go back upstairs to shave my balls with a cheese grater. Toodle-oo!