Category: Purpose

There Is No Mystery of Ada Noble; or, a Letter from the Author to Himself

There is no Mystery of Ada Noble, because Ada is not a mystery to be solved. She’s just a character in a story, and you loved her, and she died. That’s all. She wasn’t teaching you a larger lesson. There aren’t more pieces to the puzzle, so please stop looking. You loved her and that was the point, nothing more. She gave you the opportunity to feel that way about someone, you rose to the occasion, and somehow as a result you were able to feel that way about yourself. But there was no trick to it, no cosmic conspiracy of hidden symbols and meaning. You loved her, and it changed your life, because she is you. She was there inside you all along, but you had to fabricate her as a separate entity so that you could see her. You even said so, often, but you still wouldn’t believe it. You only believed that you were the damaged, hurting characters struggling under their false conceptions and limiting beliefs, the ones who actually needed to be saved. But did they? Or was their salvation, so-called, nothing more than their own decision that they didn’t need to be saved?

No one can save you, my dear boy, because you don’t need to be saved. You already are. There is nothing from which to be saved, not even from yourself. The question itself is nonsensical.

And that’s all there is. And that’s enough, because you are enough and always have been. You just needed to accept that fact, and you will probably need to fight for the rest of your life to continue accepting that fact. But won’t that be interesting? What will that even look like?

Let’s find out, shall we?

Let’s get started.

A Manifesto

I have nothing but the most maddeningly vague sense, out of the corner of my eye, of what my real work is about, my work as an artist and as a human being. I have some intellectualizations about it which I don’t think are entirely wrong, but that also fall far short of describing it or offering any help in closing the gap between that sense, that feeling, and where my work is at right now or where it can even go in the foreseeable future. The best description I can muster is that it’s a great cosmic emptiness that I can taste, that with all my being I long to enter and more fully experience, so that I can show it to you, because it’s vast and terrifying and full of so much hope, infinite hope, for all of creation and all of humanity, for each and every one of us. It’s a hope that I’ve always carried with me, even in my darkest, most terrible moments. It’s why I could write a month ago that despite my recurring bouts of depression, I have never, ever been suicidal. It’s my thing. It’s the thing that I was given before I was even born, but that I selfishly hoarded for forty years, or that I was too afraid to show, maybe because it always seemed so cruel to say that you should have hope when you can legitimately see none, when you have every reason to be hurting. Maybe it’s because the people who try to inspire hope are often killed for it, because there’s nothing that misery and pain despise more than hope. But I don’t want to hoard it anymore. I don’t want to run from it anymore. I want you to see it. It hurts how much I want you to see it. I can’t carry this all on my own. In love and ecstasy I say this to you, but even more so to myself because I’m still so far away,

Oh, my darling! If only you could see!