First of all, let me preface whatever I’m about to say with a deep-felt respect for those who truly get into the Spirit of Thanksgiving. Having the spirit of gratitude is rarely a bad thing.
For many of us, Thanksgiving means time with family and friends, and much food. Perhaps less of us take time to reflect on why we get together and share a meal. Some write gratitude lists, while others simply sit in the pervasive feeling of peace and thanks. Yet others of us participate in what seems like a spirit of mockery, calling Thanksgiving “Turkey Day”. Some of us appreciate the humour, some of us shrug, and some of us don’t care for the term.
Those of us who “mock” have our various reasons. Perhaps some feel that holidays – all of them – have become so commercialized that there is no real meaning in them. Perhaps some are jaded about having no place to go. Perhaps some, however, do it for other reasons.
Like Christmas, Thanksgiving comes once a year. There’s nothing wrong with this. In fact, its rarity often leads to truly appreciating it. What is problematic, though, is that it’s too easy to limit the spirit of these holidays to their calendar correspondences.
Oh I’m sure many of us are tired of hearing “why can’t the spirit of Christmas/Thanksgiving last all year round?” – and certainly I would be included in that group, which is what makes writing this somewhat hypocritical. However, that really is the gist of this paper. Why do I need one day out of the year to be thankful?
Originally Thanksgiving was intended to celebrate a particular event in history – and I’d be damned surprised if any Canadian knows the history of Thanksgiving in their own country. So, if we’ve lost the original context of this holiday, what is left? Taking one day out of the year to appreciate what we have? Seems like a rather vacuous activity.
So, what of those who make it a daily thing to be grateful? What of those who actively develop the over-used cliché “attitude of gratitude”? What does Thanksgiving mean to they who already give thanks every day? Oh, it probably means a day to eat turkey.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Life isn’t a test, life is life
One of the biggest mistakes that people often make in life is believing that the burdens they carry or the obstacles they face are somehow a test – that somehow the grand events of the universe have coalesced into a unique set of circumstances for only them. Let me just say that you are not that special.
Life is what it is. After your remarks of gratitude towards this captain who sails the ship Obvious, that statement is still true and relevant. Life goes on with or without us, and though life’s events are often shaped by us, they are rarely shaped for us.
When we accept life for what it is, that life happens on its own, we shift our conscious awareness of life into an resigning acceptance. Life on life’s terms, as the cliché is known by some. Once we understand and accept this acceptance, life simply becomes about how to work our way through or around the barriers in our lives. If I have to get to school from home, I simply plan my mode of transportation. What I don’t do is believe that I’m somehow being tested because school is so far away from home. I simply accept this and make accommodations.
If believing that “life is a series of tests” was simply a benign paradigm, there would be no need for this current rant. But it isn’t, and there is. Let me repeat myself: you are not that special. Believing that you are being tested when life gets difficult develops a mentality of victimization, that somehow life is out to get you, and that these things make you somehow more unique than everyone else. The inevitable result is the belief that you are “worthy” of a special set of burdens set aside for either the lowlife or saint.
Hubris shows itself when we believe we are above our station in life. What often goes unrecognized is that believing we are burdened more than the average person is just another form of hubris. You are not that special. It is impossible to develop an attitude of humility when the desire for such humility is born from a foundation of arrogance. There is nothing humble or burdensome about deciding the method and route to take to a destination; likewise, there is nothing humble or burdensome about trying to figure out a way past life’s difficulties.
Granted, there are some things in life that are unique obstacles. This is either because there aren’t too many other people who share them, or because something really is difficult. However rare or difficult something is does not remove it from the necessary paradigm of overcoming it. This is the fundamental difference between victims and survivors. Victims are burdened and stay burdened; survivors are burdened and overcome.
Whatever the case, the burdens and obstacles in life just are. They were not designed for you, nor do they make you special. While participation in life may not have been your choice, how you participate is. Believing that life is a series of tests impairs one’s ability to cope with problems, and is an intoxicating viewpoint that prevents solution-oriented thinking.
Now pardon me while I hop on the bus so I can get to school.
Life is what it is. After your remarks of gratitude towards this captain who sails the ship Obvious, that statement is still true and relevant. Life goes on with or without us, and though life’s events are often shaped by us, they are rarely shaped for us.
When we accept life for what it is, that life happens on its own, we shift our conscious awareness of life into an resigning acceptance. Life on life’s terms, as the cliché is known by some. Once we understand and accept this acceptance, life simply becomes about how to work our way through or around the barriers in our lives. If I have to get to school from home, I simply plan my mode of transportation. What I don’t do is believe that I’m somehow being tested because school is so far away from home. I simply accept this and make accommodations.
If believing that “life is a series of tests” was simply a benign paradigm, there would be no need for this current rant. But it isn’t, and there is. Let me repeat myself: you are not that special. Believing that you are being tested when life gets difficult develops a mentality of victimization, that somehow life is out to get you, and that these things make you somehow more unique than everyone else. The inevitable result is the belief that you are “worthy” of a special set of burdens set aside for either the lowlife or saint.
Hubris shows itself when we believe we are above our station in life. What often goes unrecognized is that believing we are burdened more than the average person is just another form of hubris. You are not that special. It is impossible to develop an attitude of humility when the desire for such humility is born from a foundation of arrogance. There is nothing humble or burdensome about deciding the method and route to take to a destination; likewise, there is nothing humble or burdensome about trying to figure out a way past life’s difficulties.
Granted, there are some things in life that are unique obstacles. This is either because there aren’t too many other people who share them, or because something really is difficult. However rare or difficult something is does not remove it from the necessary paradigm of overcoming it. This is the fundamental difference between victims and survivors. Victims are burdened and stay burdened; survivors are burdened and overcome.
Whatever the case, the burdens and obstacles in life just are. They were not designed for you, nor do they make you special. While participation in life may not have been your choice, how you participate is. Believing that life is a series of tests impairs one’s ability to cope with problems, and is an intoxicating viewpoint that prevents solution-oriented thinking.
Now pardon me while I hop on the bus so I can get to school.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Saw a counsellor at UVic the other day. The tranfer from Camosun to UVic is starting to become areality, thought I don't think it will fully hit until the first or second week of classes.
I really liked the counsellor I was seeing at Camosun. He was a great guy. But, I felt too much like he was more of a colleague rather than a counsellor. He was great to talk to, but I didn't really get any special insight or work the way that counsellors are supposed to do.
It was incredibly refreshing that the counsellor at UVic was able to make a small breakthrough on only our second visit. She gave me a bit of insight that I can use as a tool for future self-analysis, to examine my habit of projecting conflict into the future thus creating anxiety. I feel much better knowing that this counsellor has the capacity to challenge me and get me working on the things I need to work on.
I recognize in her a lot of technique that Maslow developed, but she is able to interject and offer an analysis when needed, which is something that Maslow's technique sorely lacked. She also inadvertantly reminded me that being a counsellor at a university setting makes it so that she is used to having incredibly intelligent persons come in for help. This loses the aspect of uniqueness that I am used to dealing with, and I probably won't get any special recognition for me intellect and personal insights into myself because of it. That's not really a bad thing, just something to help me to remember my place. We'll see how things go from here, but I'm hopeful, but a bit wary knowing that it's unlikely that I can continue to be complacent in my personal growth.
I really liked the counsellor I was seeing at Camosun. He was a great guy. But, I felt too much like he was more of a colleague rather than a counsellor. He was great to talk to, but I didn't really get any special insight or work the way that counsellors are supposed to do.
It was incredibly refreshing that the counsellor at UVic was able to make a small breakthrough on only our second visit. She gave me a bit of insight that I can use as a tool for future self-analysis, to examine my habit of projecting conflict into the future thus creating anxiety. I feel much better knowing that this counsellor has the capacity to challenge me and get me working on the things I need to work on.
I recognize in her a lot of technique that Maslow developed, but she is able to interject and offer an analysis when needed, which is something that Maslow's technique sorely lacked. She also inadvertantly reminded me that being a counsellor at a university setting makes it so that she is used to having incredibly intelligent persons come in for help. This loses the aspect of uniqueness that I am used to dealing with, and I probably won't get any special recognition for me intellect and personal insights into myself because of it. That's not really a bad thing, just something to help me to remember my place. We'll see how things go from here, but I'm hopeful, but a bit wary knowing that it's unlikely that I can continue to be complacent in my personal growth.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
So, I'm no longer an atheist. If my descent out of Mormonism and into atheism was a giant blur, this recent ascent from atheism into theism (for lack of better terms) is a condensed version, condensed to a week or two.
Mostly it's Hermetic thought that I find appealing. It has the ability to explain the existence of God in a rational manner, something that doesn't require such a leap of faith as most religions do. I suppose some coherent system would be necessary for me to buy into it. Yes, God exists. That's about as far as I've gotten. No possessed qualities or intrinsic characteristics other than it has/is a mind, and existence is a product of that consciousness. At this point that's about all my belief is. Who knows where this will take me, but it's enough for me to abandon the atheism paradigm as an encompassing one. I'm still critical of religion and dogma, but only when they present themselves as an objective, absolute truth, and not a relative manifestation of individuality.
By and large my desire to study and learn about debating theists is mostly gone now. I'm going to have to rethink a lot of things, but I guess I'm getting used to abandoning old paradigms and trying on new ones. One of the side effects of this is an inability/unwillingness to form identities that are attached with these paradigms. In fact, it might be fair to say that I'm abandoning the identity thing altogether, and that I'm just accepting me for who or what I am, and that I don't have to attach myself to anything to find meaning. I am me. Now, if only the ego were so easy to shed.
Mostly it's Hermetic thought that I find appealing. It has the ability to explain the existence of God in a rational manner, something that doesn't require such a leap of faith as most religions do. I suppose some coherent system would be necessary for me to buy into it. Yes, God exists. That's about as far as I've gotten. No possessed qualities or intrinsic characteristics other than it has/is a mind, and existence is a product of that consciousness. At this point that's about all my belief is. Who knows where this will take me, but it's enough for me to abandon the atheism paradigm as an encompassing one. I'm still critical of religion and dogma, but only when they present themselves as an objective, absolute truth, and not a relative manifestation of individuality.
By and large my desire to study and learn about debating theists is mostly gone now. I'm going to have to rethink a lot of things, but I guess I'm getting used to abandoning old paradigms and trying on new ones. One of the side effects of this is an inability/unwillingness to form identities that are attached with these paradigms. In fact, it might be fair to say that I'm abandoning the identity thing altogether, and that I'm just accepting me for who or what I am, and that I don't have to attach myself to anything to find meaning. I am me. Now, if only the ego were so easy to shed.
Friday, July 10, 2009
There are no words to describe how depression feels.
You want to say you’re sad, but really you're too numb to cry.
You’re empty, hollow – a shell with nothing inside.
Your food tasted better when you used to smoke than it does now; bland and flavourless – besides, you don’t eat because you’re hungry, you eat because you’re trying to fill that eternal vacancy that is never sated.
How can I be dead already? That’s what I am: the walking dead.
There is no desire, no hope.
Life cannot be defined by our physiological health.
Even a person in a coma has a heartbeat.
The eternal state of anhedonia knows no equal.
There is no anguish, no torment, no hellfire quite equal to that kind of emptiness.
Don’t forget to smile so no one thinks anything is wrong.
Don’t forget to fulfill your obligations so other people can enjoy what you’ve never known.
Wanting to die is necessary and sufficient to be declared insane.
Yet I can form sentences coherently, even eloquently if I desire; I know where I am, what day and year it is, who our prime minister and premier is; solve a simple quadratic equation if I had to, or even discuss the finer points of ontological epistemology or whether identity is intrinsic to existence or merely a construct of the social world, yet the simple desire to end this incessant madness, this descent into insanity is enough to get me locked up.
Why is the right to choose to live or die not considered the most basic, fundamental right for anyone?
Should not all freedoms start with this basic liberty?
Is it not the most arrogant, condescending position to look at another, fail to understand their torment yet refuse them absolution?
Are you really that cruel?
You would fly to my side, call an ambulance, or go to whatever lengths were necessary to ensure that I am protected from myself, and you would feel like you’ve done your part, but why do you not seek me out in my bedroom, when I’m hugging my pillow with shame and guilt?
Why do you not visit the lonely, the sick, the afflicted?
Why do your efforts come at that end rather than at the beginning or middle, when they might have made a real difference?
You call suicide a tragedy, yet you do nothing to interfere with the steps that lead to it.
You who look upon death as a tragedy could never understand those of us who look upon it as a reprieve, as a form of mercy.
Would you really deny me my final solution if there were no cure for this?
If I were condemned to the life of madness and anhedonia, would you force me to live it to the end?
How dare you.
How fucking dare you.
You sadistic piece of shit, you fucking bastard how dare you.
I don’t want to die, I just want the pain to end.
The throbbing, aching pain that never goes away.
Go ahead, put on a hundred-pound backpack and go on with your daily activities.
How far do you get?
That’s a good day.
Tape toilet paper tubes to your eyes so it’s all you can see out of, duct tape your fingers and hands, and tie your feet together so they can never be more than half a foot apart, and then try to function.
Don’t forget about the backpack.
The heavy backpack.
And then, when you’ve done all this, you still won’t understand, because you still care that these things, these burdens are upon you.
When you stop caring about your backpack, your toilet-paper-tube eyes, your duct-tape hands, and chained feet, then you will know.
You will truly know.
And not until then.
Oh God, please end this now.
You want to say you’re sad, but really you're too numb to cry.
You’re empty, hollow – a shell with nothing inside.
Your food tasted better when you used to smoke than it does now; bland and flavourless – besides, you don’t eat because you’re hungry, you eat because you’re trying to fill that eternal vacancy that is never sated.
How can I be dead already? That’s what I am: the walking dead.
There is no desire, no hope.
Life cannot be defined by our physiological health.
Even a person in a coma has a heartbeat.
The eternal state of anhedonia knows no equal.
There is no anguish, no torment, no hellfire quite equal to that kind of emptiness.
Don’t forget to smile so no one thinks anything is wrong.
Don’t forget to fulfill your obligations so other people can enjoy what you’ve never known.
Wanting to die is necessary and sufficient to be declared insane.
Yet I can form sentences coherently, even eloquently if I desire; I know where I am, what day and year it is, who our prime minister and premier is; solve a simple quadratic equation if I had to, or even discuss the finer points of ontological epistemology or whether identity is intrinsic to existence or merely a construct of the social world, yet the simple desire to end this incessant madness, this descent into insanity is enough to get me locked up.
Why is the right to choose to live or die not considered the most basic, fundamental right for anyone?
Should not all freedoms start with this basic liberty?
Is it not the most arrogant, condescending position to look at another, fail to understand their torment yet refuse them absolution?
Are you really that cruel?
You would fly to my side, call an ambulance, or go to whatever lengths were necessary to ensure that I am protected from myself, and you would feel like you’ve done your part, but why do you not seek me out in my bedroom, when I’m hugging my pillow with shame and guilt?
Why do you not visit the lonely, the sick, the afflicted?
Why do your efforts come at that end rather than at the beginning or middle, when they might have made a real difference?
You call suicide a tragedy, yet you do nothing to interfere with the steps that lead to it.
You who look upon death as a tragedy could never understand those of us who look upon it as a reprieve, as a form of mercy.
Would you really deny me my final solution if there were no cure for this?
If I were condemned to the life of madness and anhedonia, would you force me to live it to the end?
How dare you.
How fucking dare you.
You sadistic piece of shit, you fucking bastard how dare you.
I don’t want to die, I just want the pain to end.
The throbbing, aching pain that never goes away.
Go ahead, put on a hundred-pound backpack and go on with your daily activities.
How far do you get?
That’s a good day.
Tape toilet paper tubes to your eyes so it’s all you can see out of, duct tape your fingers and hands, and tie your feet together so they can never be more than half a foot apart, and then try to function.
Don’t forget about the backpack.
The heavy backpack.
And then, when you’ve done all this, you still won’t understand, because you still care that these things, these burdens are upon you.
When you stop caring about your backpack, your toilet-paper-tube eyes, your duct-tape hands, and chained feet, then you will know.
You will truly know.
And not until then.
Oh God, please end this now.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Not too long ago I committed myself to writing 1,000 words each day. Tonight's project turned out a bit differently, a kind of conscious flow rather than an edit-as-you-go process. Though much of it could be refined and edited, I am pleased with the raw essence that it is now. Here it is:
Drama 101. Right next door to Deposing a Tyrant 254. Such is the banality of my writing tonight. Torn between forfeiting a day of writ, and actually beginning to feel the compulsion of habit forming. My thousand words, elusive sycophantic pomp, expressing themselves in whatever loinal flame intuits. Sometimes it’s pure nonsense; others suggestive of mastercraft. Today, though, I simply write: unadorned, unfettered, and unafraid. I write. Thoughts and words in Word inseparable and insidious. This is not one of those times that makes sense. Even the very sentences that craft this daily obligation do not in themselves organize coherently. Leaps in logic and language, bounds in babble and bidding, gaps in gregarious garbage. I want it all and want to want for nothing – alas, such a pitiful fate, a manqué destiny already realized. Lyrical theft and disorder characterize and trivialize what I call work and others call fluff. Platitudes passed as pure predilection: none of it makes sense; pedant penchants, precarious proclivities. How many other words that begin with P can I include in this drivel? This soppy foddersotch. Go ahead, make up words. No one can care if no one reads, n’est ce pas? Such trivial ideas and ideals, inclinations and insights – to pass the petty as grandeur, and dismiss the grand as unintelligent. Might as well dismiss the entire universe, if truly grandeur is forsaken. You and you and you and you – all gone, and no one cares for even the poet has vanished – is that why I’ve been left behind? To stay and stink and stain the page with my foddersotch words, my sorry, pitiful expressions, written in dichotomous delight and despair, only to be dispatched in the face of true talent – of pretty much anyone else who puts pen to paper, or fingertip to protruding letters in this case.
My thousand words; my spellings and misspellings and typos and mistypes. How dare Word try to correct me on my grammar! Has the vile paper clip ever considered the human equation? The human desire to put it to death in visions of glorified and satisfying hell, where piece by piece it’s suggestive agony suffers for each time it tells me it looks like I’m writing a letter or that I have some form of unidentified fragment yet cannot offer even a single suggestion. Die, motherfucking paperclip, die you rat bastard! Oh forsooth and forlorn! My thousand words might as well be a daily million, as I type and type and it just becomes more nonsense piled on more nonsense. These are the words of neither the poet nor the craftsman. They are fluff; empty, shallow, surface words, designed to appear important but really included only because they sound intelligent. If only the writer possessed even a grasp of lingual comprehension, perhaps he might be more...
Oh thousands words, elusive thousand, perpetual chase, a fair maiden dressed in dreamy white, glancing behind as she runs away in playful games; I never get closer, though I run with more vigour. Were I to catch up she would simply disappear. If particularly feisty this evening she would appear behind me with a sudden tap tap so that I might reverse my chase and repeat the same foolish game on a path already trodden. And if I get tired and lay my head to rest, she comes and kisses me so tenderly that I dare not wake, lest the tear I just shed proves imagined. And if I lie perfectly still, she will rest her head on my chest, listening to the pounding of my heart. She knows it beats for only her, and she loves me for it, loves me, loves me, loves me for it. And never, though my wildest and fondest dreams but reach, never does she fall asleep before I. I awake, and she is gone, and a different tear falls this time. She is gone. She is gone. My mistress is gone. Oh sorrow-filled heartbeat.
My thousand words has died tonight, before it was ever born. It leaves behind its cousins: sensible sentences under fifty words and stories told in tandem – both more lazy and inferior products. Where is the emotion? Where is the drive? Where is the human spirit in such order and laziness? Where is the arcane pining? The capricious whim? These are not found here! Nor should they be. This wordy garbage should die before associating with that filth! Oh lexical villain, phonetic antagonist, go back to your infernal pit and entreat us no more with your sordid business. Deprive someone else of their joy, for I have already paid you too much. Indeed, what more can you ask for than ruin? Where is my maiden? Where are my words that stir the human soul? Such insipid, banal claims, these should be abhorred like the whore they are. Oh Babylonian canvas. I long to exist as a pillar of Sodom salt, better dismantled tiny piece by tiny piece than turn in this drivel for marks. And all this but an act, some pseudo-feeling, feigned for the duration of my maiden search. But she is on the road ahead – I can see her! Why does she not move? Is this my fixed mark? Hath summer’s lease shortened its day? Why can I not run to her? Such terror, such loathing! What have you done with her, insidious paper clip? You mock my pain. No, I do not want to write an obituary! Fuck off!
Yes, that is the difference: we bury our dead. My mistress, cold and etiolated – good for one last lay when you get right down to it. Oh dear mistress, fair white lady: thou art slain. Thou art passed beyond this world, and I must bid farewell to my Annabel, though no sea can be seen. My thousand words, elusive sycophantic pomp, expressing themselves in whatever loinal flame intuits. Torn between forfeiting a day of writ, and actually beginning to feel the compulsion of habit forming. Such is the banality of my writing tonight. Right next door to Deposing a Tyrant 254: Drama 101.
Drama 101. Right next door to Deposing a Tyrant 254. Such is the banality of my writing tonight. Torn between forfeiting a day of writ, and actually beginning to feel the compulsion of habit forming. My thousand words, elusive sycophantic pomp, expressing themselves in whatever loinal flame intuits. Sometimes it’s pure nonsense; others suggestive of mastercraft. Today, though, I simply write: unadorned, unfettered, and unafraid. I write. Thoughts and words in Word inseparable and insidious. This is not one of those times that makes sense. Even the very sentences that craft this daily obligation do not in themselves organize coherently. Leaps in logic and language, bounds in babble and bidding, gaps in gregarious garbage. I want it all and want to want for nothing – alas, such a pitiful fate, a manqué destiny already realized. Lyrical theft and disorder characterize and trivialize what I call work and others call fluff. Platitudes passed as pure predilection: none of it makes sense; pedant penchants, precarious proclivities. How many other words that begin with P can I include in this drivel? This soppy foddersotch. Go ahead, make up words. No one can care if no one reads, n’est ce pas? Such trivial ideas and ideals, inclinations and insights – to pass the petty as grandeur, and dismiss the grand as unintelligent. Might as well dismiss the entire universe, if truly grandeur is forsaken. You and you and you and you – all gone, and no one cares for even the poet has vanished – is that why I’ve been left behind? To stay and stink and stain the page with my foddersotch words, my sorry, pitiful expressions, written in dichotomous delight and despair, only to be dispatched in the face of true talent – of pretty much anyone else who puts pen to paper, or fingertip to protruding letters in this case.
My thousand words; my spellings and misspellings and typos and mistypes. How dare Word try to correct me on my grammar! Has the vile paper clip ever considered the human equation? The human desire to put it to death in visions of glorified and satisfying hell, where piece by piece it’s suggestive agony suffers for each time it tells me it looks like I’m writing a letter or that I have some form of unidentified fragment yet cannot offer even a single suggestion. Die, motherfucking paperclip, die you rat bastard! Oh forsooth and forlorn! My thousand words might as well be a daily million, as I type and type and it just becomes more nonsense piled on more nonsense. These are the words of neither the poet nor the craftsman. They are fluff; empty, shallow, surface words, designed to appear important but really included only because they sound intelligent. If only the writer possessed even a grasp of lingual comprehension, perhaps he might be more...
Oh thousands words, elusive thousand, perpetual chase, a fair maiden dressed in dreamy white, glancing behind as she runs away in playful games; I never get closer, though I run with more vigour. Were I to catch up she would simply disappear. If particularly feisty this evening she would appear behind me with a sudden tap tap so that I might reverse my chase and repeat the same foolish game on a path already trodden. And if I get tired and lay my head to rest, she comes and kisses me so tenderly that I dare not wake, lest the tear I just shed proves imagined. And if I lie perfectly still, she will rest her head on my chest, listening to the pounding of my heart. She knows it beats for only her, and she loves me for it, loves me, loves me, loves me for it. And never, though my wildest and fondest dreams but reach, never does she fall asleep before I. I awake, and she is gone, and a different tear falls this time. She is gone. She is gone. My mistress is gone. Oh sorrow-filled heartbeat.
My thousand words has died tonight, before it was ever born. It leaves behind its cousins: sensible sentences under fifty words and stories told in tandem – both more lazy and inferior products. Where is the emotion? Where is the drive? Where is the human spirit in such order and laziness? Where is the arcane pining? The capricious whim? These are not found here! Nor should they be. This wordy garbage should die before associating with that filth! Oh lexical villain, phonetic antagonist, go back to your infernal pit and entreat us no more with your sordid business. Deprive someone else of their joy, for I have already paid you too much. Indeed, what more can you ask for than ruin? Where is my maiden? Where are my words that stir the human soul? Such insipid, banal claims, these should be abhorred like the whore they are. Oh Babylonian canvas. I long to exist as a pillar of Sodom salt, better dismantled tiny piece by tiny piece than turn in this drivel for marks. And all this but an act, some pseudo-feeling, feigned for the duration of my maiden search. But she is on the road ahead – I can see her! Why does she not move? Is this my fixed mark? Hath summer’s lease shortened its day? Why can I not run to her? Such terror, such loathing! What have you done with her, insidious paper clip? You mock my pain. No, I do not want to write an obituary! Fuck off!
Yes, that is the difference: we bury our dead. My mistress, cold and etiolated – good for one last lay when you get right down to it. Oh dear mistress, fair white lady: thou art slain. Thou art passed beyond this world, and I must bid farewell to my Annabel, though no sea can be seen. My thousand words, elusive sycophantic pomp, expressing themselves in whatever loinal flame intuits. Torn between forfeiting a day of writ, and actually beginning to feel the compulsion of habit forming. Such is the banality of my writing tonight. Right next door to Deposing a Tyrant 254: Drama 101.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
What Does It Mean to Be Canadian?
A few years ago this question would have been quickly answered with “not American!” accompanied by a smug look of superiority; nowadays, not so much. One of the reasons revolves around being educated about the nature of identity and how I consider an identity to be something, not a lack of something. Another reason revolves around being educated about Canada and the subsequent disillusion with blind patriotism – which is, ironically, why so many Canadians are so quick to reject the identity of their southern neighbours and is, ultimately, simple hypocrisy. Show me a Canadian who doesn’t belt out this quick retort who isn’t also guilty of the very thing they reject (blind patriotism). The Americans simply get away with it better, and though many a Canadian would suffer the pains of death before admitting it, it is that jealousy of getting away with this blind patriotism (and perhaps having to be educated about the US without an educational reciprocation on their end) that leads Canadians to reject Americanism without a second thought.
Oh the picture of Joe Canadian with his beer mantra rejecting what many Canadians believe that Americans are ignorant of; you know, the igloos and dogsleds and “aboot” and mapleleafs. The funny thing is these same Canadians have relatives that they often visit – relatives who are generally in the know about their Canadian cousins. So where, exactly, does this perceived ignorance come from? Perhaps Canadians are as guilty as the people they point the fingers at?
Barring my cynicism about Canadian hypocrisy, blind patriotism, and desperately clinging to an ephemeral identity, I think one of the things that makes a Canadian truly that is what motivates him or her to separate himself or herself from being labelled an American: the innate and driving need to be unique. I mean really, is being labelled such so bad? Apart from the last eight years of Bush doctrine, what is it about Americans that we find so repulsive when in practice we find no two countries as friendly and open with each other (maybe not so much in recent and developing years)? I think that what Canadians abhor so much is the idea that they enjoy living in a first-class, developed country with all its privileges and freedoms, but not having a readily available identity to attach it to. Why would we, if we are not American, attach ourselves to something as superficial as beer, or a leaf rather than our superior public education system when compared to its dismally-dwindling southern counterpart? Maybe we already to some extent attach ourselves to our universal health care, but is not this universal health care something they already do in Europe, and doesn’t Europe do it much better than we? Sure, according to Michael Moore, we don’t have to pick which finger gets reattached because we don’t have insurance, but the same source also points out that Brits get cab fare to go home. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’ve always had to make arrangements for a ride home when I’m done (done the half-hour seeing the doctor after waiting several hours to see him/her). So, is this attachment to our oh-so-efficient medical system worth its praise? Something tells me it’s not the golden child we make it out to be.
So what other things do we Canadians pride ourselves in that fares better in the north? Peacekeeping? Treatment of blacks? A non bipartisan political system? Hockey? Let’s face it, gone are the days of Pearson when Canada stepped in as a mediator. Instead we act as but a cog in the wheel of United Nations Peacekeeping. Not really something we can call ours, now is it? Treatment of blacks? Perhaps we do treat out black people better, but ask any aboriginal person if they feel their people have been treated any differently than the Americans treat black people and I doubt you’d see a difference. Maybe there is something to be said about having more choice on a ballot and more diversity with political opinion, but what exactly can be accomplished when the more choice we have the less effective any party can govern? Division in votes – votes, I might add, representing less than two-thirds of Canadians in this latest federal election – means more chance for perpetual and inefficient minority governments. So what about hockey? Well, when was the last time we brought home the cup? I think one time in the 90s was the most recent. And sure we had half a decade of wins in the 80s with a subsequent increase before then, but what do you expect when the earlier back in time you go you start to approach a 90% supply of players for the entire NHL? Seems like Canada is resting on the laurels of a single 1976 game versus another country who favours red on their jerseys. How many current Canadians were even alive for that?
Canada is the spoiled rich kid of parents with a deep history, and needs to establish a separate list of accomplishments. Failure to do so only makes it the boss’s son which none of the other employees like. Oh sure, right now we still have our charm, but Canada is slowly fading from the minds of other nations, nations who once held us in the highest esteem. And why is that? Because we really haven’t done anything worth noting in the last few decades.
So, after tearing down all that might stand a chance to represent us, what does it really mean to be Canadian? It means that being next to a cultural giant I have to go above and beyond the normal effort to search for an identity. It means that I don’t have to attribute my identity with my nation of birth. It means that I enjoy the privileges and freedoms of a developed western nation without necessarily having the years of turmoil, conflict, and struggle to mete out some unifying idea with my fellow Canadians (how many of us identify ourselves by province or region anyway? How many people you know living on Vancouver Island refer to themselves as “Islanders” rather than British Columbians or Canadians?). It means I have the opportunity to be a pioneer in forging a global identity, to be a leader and example in forsaking nationalism and zealous imperialism. It means unpractised ideologies such as bilingualism (which is really more divisive than unifying), exportation of natural resources, kowtowing (or ankle-grabbing as some see it) to economic and military superiors even when they are clearly proven wrong over issues such as soft lumber, and ultimately walking a fine line of compromise throughout our entire history. It means being surrounded by fellow Canadians who barely have a grasp on their own history and politics, and can cite more facts and understanding about those they readily claim to not be. Yet after all of this criticism and seemingly harsh statements it’s what I call home. Home of the free, home of the polite, friendly, and generally liberal people, home of the tolerant and understanding, home of the best and the worst of the British and American systems without the extremes that either face. It is only because I am Canadian that I know enough to criticize to the extent that I do, and it is only because I am Canadian that I would not live anywhere else in spite of them.
Oh the picture of Joe Canadian with his beer mantra rejecting what many Canadians believe that Americans are ignorant of; you know, the igloos and dogsleds and “aboot” and mapleleafs. The funny thing is these same Canadians have relatives that they often visit – relatives who are generally in the know about their Canadian cousins. So where, exactly, does this perceived ignorance come from? Perhaps Canadians are as guilty as the people they point the fingers at?
Barring my cynicism about Canadian hypocrisy, blind patriotism, and desperately clinging to an ephemeral identity, I think one of the things that makes a Canadian truly that is what motivates him or her to separate himself or herself from being labelled an American: the innate and driving need to be unique. I mean really, is being labelled such so bad? Apart from the last eight years of Bush doctrine, what is it about Americans that we find so repulsive when in practice we find no two countries as friendly and open with each other (maybe not so much in recent and developing years)? I think that what Canadians abhor so much is the idea that they enjoy living in a first-class, developed country with all its privileges and freedoms, but not having a readily available identity to attach it to. Why would we, if we are not American, attach ourselves to something as superficial as beer, or a leaf rather than our superior public education system when compared to its dismally-dwindling southern counterpart? Maybe we already to some extent attach ourselves to our universal health care, but is not this universal health care something they already do in Europe, and doesn’t Europe do it much better than we? Sure, according to Michael Moore, we don’t have to pick which finger gets reattached because we don’t have insurance, but the same source also points out that Brits get cab fare to go home. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’ve always had to make arrangements for a ride home when I’m done (done the half-hour seeing the doctor after waiting several hours to see him/her). So, is this attachment to our oh-so-efficient medical system worth its praise? Something tells me it’s not the golden child we make it out to be.
So what other things do we Canadians pride ourselves in that fares better in the north? Peacekeeping? Treatment of blacks? A non bipartisan political system? Hockey? Let’s face it, gone are the days of Pearson when Canada stepped in as a mediator. Instead we act as but a cog in the wheel of United Nations Peacekeeping. Not really something we can call ours, now is it? Treatment of blacks? Perhaps we do treat out black people better, but ask any aboriginal person if they feel their people have been treated any differently than the Americans treat black people and I doubt you’d see a difference. Maybe there is something to be said about having more choice on a ballot and more diversity with political opinion, but what exactly can be accomplished when the more choice we have the less effective any party can govern? Division in votes – votes, I might add, representing less than two-thirds of Canadians in this latest federal election – means more chance for perpetual and inefficient minority governments. So what about hockey? Well, when was the last time we brought home the cup? I think one time in the 90s was the most recent. And sure we had half a decade of wins in the 80s with a subsequent increase before then, but what do you expect when the earlier back in time you go you start to approach a 90% supply of players for the entire NHL? Seems like Canada is resting on the laurels of a single 1976 game versus another country who favours red on their jerseys. How many current Canadians were even alive for that?
Canada is the spoiled rich kid of parents with a deep history, and needs to establish a separate list of accomplishments. Failure to do so only makes it the boss’s son which none of the other employees like. Oh sure, right now we still have our charm, but Canada is slowly fading from the minds of other nations, nations who once held us in the highest esteem. And why is that? Because we really haven’t done anything worth noting in the last few decades.
So, after tearing down all that might stand a chance to represent us, what does it really mean to be Canadian? It means that being next to a cultural giant I have to go above and beyond the normal effort to search for an identity. It means that I don’t have to attribute my identity with my nation of birth. It means that I enjoy the privileges and freedoms of a developed western nation without necessarily having the years of turmoil, conflict, and struggle to mete out some unifying idea with my fellow Canadians (how many of us identify ourselves by province or region anyway? How many people you know living on Vancouver Island refer to themselves as “Islanders” rather than British Columbians or Canadians?). It means I have the opportunity to be a pioneer in forging a global identity, to be a leader and example in forsaking nationalism and zealous imperialism. It means unpractised ideologies such as bilingualism (which is really more divisive than unifying), exportation of natural resources, kowtowing (or ankle-grabbing as some see it) to economic and military superiors even when they are clearly proven wrong over issues such as soft lumber, and ultimately walking a fine line of compromise throughout our entire history. It means being surrounded by fellow Canadians who barely have a grasp on their own history and politics, and can cite more facts and understanding about those they readily claim to not be. Yet after all of this criticism and seemingly harsh statements it’s what I call home. Home of the free, home of the polite, friendly, and generally liberal people, home of the tolerant and understanding, home of the best and the worst of the British and American systems without the extremes that either face. It is only because I am Canadian that I know enough to criticize to the extent that I do, and it is only because I am Canadian that I would not live anywhere else in spite of them.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Writing
Words are the writer's weapon, and I am equipped with a simple knife and simple training from boot camp - and I think they gave me the knife so I can peel potatoes.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Lolita
It's fair to say I've fallen in love with Nabokov's literary style. I wonder how he would express such a concept...
His expressive tone and underlying, subtle hints of ephemeral notions supplanted an impassioned and permanent love affair with his supernal writ. Page by page, perhaps even line by line I uncover layer upon layer of masterful diction, unearthing celestial treasure with each passing word. Oh that I may one day express myself as poetically, as soulfully, as beautifully succinct as Nabokov.
His expressive tone and underlying, subtle hints of ephemeral notions supplanted an impassioned and permanent love affair with his supernal writ. Page by page, perhaps even line by line I uncover layer upon layer of masterful diction, unearthing celestial treasure with each passing word. Oh that I may one day express myself as poetically, as soulfully, as beautifully succinct as Nabokov.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
55 Fiction
So I've been exploring some alternative literary styles, and I came across something called "55 Fiction". It essentially means writing a story in exactly 55 words (some say less is acceptable) - title doesn't count towards word count (which can be very useful). It's an interesting technique, particularly because it demands all of the same elements that a traditional story demands: plot, characters, conflict, and resolution. Trying to pack all of that in 55 words is challenging, but I'm enjoying it. So far I've got three, but I think I'll keep one of them private (it's kind of disturbing, and I'm thinking about deleting it actually). Anyways, here are my two 55 Fictions that I wish to show off.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Some days I feel like I'm losing my mind, like in some unidentifiable way I am slipping into the abyss of insanity and that I have no way to gauge reality from fantasy or delusion. But really, isn't this the human condition? To filter truth from fictions, and to understand what we perceive and how we perceive it?
I guess what I'm struggling with the most is a daily existential dilemma, things that my old religion used to answer with such arrogant certainty. And you know, such struggles wouldn't be so bad if they weren't coupled with that oh so pervasive and ever ready depression. I really try to treat it as a separate condition - because really it is - but it makes searching for answers that much more difficult.
As a functional nihilist it's hard to find even a single reason to get up every day if that day is just a dull repeat of the empty yesterday. Really, it boils down to finding simple pleasaures in life, but hedonism is a whole other ball game in the field of lethargy and anhedonia. And it doesn't help that I have so much pressure from myself and other things: pressure to do something with my life contrasted with an inability to function at even the most basic level, pressure to deal with my education and finances contrasted with needing to slow down on school and facing being cut off of student loans as a result.
And what does the latter pressure result in? Further withdrawal and depression, more pointless escape/survival mechanisms, all with a sense of doom in the nearing future. I want to see my doctor about things, but he's practically impossible to get in to see, especially now that my days and nights are mixed up. And I loathe trying to find another doctor. The forms I need to have filled out require at least a year-long relationship, and my personal needs require a very compassionate and understanding doctor, and far too many of them judge or are cold. On top of that, not many doctors in Victoria are taking new patients. It's rather rough to be non-functional at this time.
But, for some reason or another I've inherited this stubborn quality. I refuse to give in and hang on out of sheer tenacity. Sometimes I have no idea why I hang on. It really makes no sense: if pain outweighs pleasure, then there's a strong argument for the end of a life - and I for one am a proponent of euthanasia if the right conditions are met. It is a philosophical position that I have that the most basic liberal freedom is the right to choose whether one lives or not. All other freedoms should spring from this single one. But in spite of this, I hang on. Perhaps the delusion of hope has evolved in us because it is essential for our survival. I suppose, though, that one can be disappointed only so many times before all hope is lost. I'm not there yet, but the outlook isn't too great.
I guess what I'm struggling with the most is a daily existential dilemma, things that my old religion used to answer with such arrogant certainty. And you know, such struggles wouldn't be so bad if they weren't coupled with that oh so pervasive and ever ready depression. I really try to treat it as a separate condition - because really it is - but it makes searching for answers that much more difficult.
As a functional nihilist it's hard to find even a single reason to get up every day if that day is just a dull repeat of the empty yesterday. Really, it boils down to finding simple pleasaures in life, but hedonism is a whole other ball game in the field of lethargy and anhedonia. And it doesn't help that I have so much pressure from myself and other things: pressure to do something with my life contrasted with an inability to function at even the most basic level, pressure to deal with my education and finances contrasted with needing to slow down on school and facing being cut off of student loans as a result.
And what does the latter pressure result in? Further withdrawal and depression, more pointless escape/survival mechanisms, all with a sense of doom in the nearing future. I want to see my doctor about things, but he's practically impossible to get in to see, especially now that my days and nights are mixed up. And I loathe trying to find another doctor. The forms I need to have filled out require at least a year-long relationship, and my personal needs require a very compassionate and understanding doctor, and far too many of them judge or are cold. On top of that, not many doctors in Victoria are taking new patients. It's rather rough to be non-functional at this time.
But, for some reason or another I've inherited this stubborn quality. I refuse to give in and hang on out of sheer tenacity. Sometimes I have no idea why I hang on. It really makes no sense: if pain outweighs pleasure, then there's a strong argument for the end of a life - and I for one am a proponent of euthanasia if the right conditions are met. It is a philosophical position that I have that the most basic liberal freedom is the right to choose whether one lives or not. All other freedoms should spring from this single one. But in spite of this, I hang on. Perhaps the delusion of hope has evolved in us because it is essential for our survival. I suppose, though, that one can be disappointed only so many times before all hope is lost. I'm not there yet, but the outlook isn't too great.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Yes I Voted - This Time
To the elected leaders, be it federal, provincial, or municipal,
Today is Election Day, and it is my patriotic duty to go out and vote. It is my responsibility – nay, my privilege as a citizen of this country, as a resident of this province to participate in the democratic process. I get to choose who my leaders are and how my country and province are run by my vote. I think of many other nations that do not have this same privilege and it makes me grateful that I do. My only wish is that it was not a mockery of real democracy.
Democracy should intrinsically have an element of real choice. I understand all too well that I cannot hope to have all of my political views represented in my leaders. It would be absurd to expect this. Part of the social contract I make with my fellow citizens is a compromise in my leaders, that at least some – but not all – of my views, wishes, and desires are represented, with the expectation that my fellow citizens allow the same. The most unfortunate aspect about the democracy I see in front of me – both represented on the ballot I will mark and in the parliamentary process I observe – is that this real choice is sorely lacking.
How can we tell our children to behave with common courtesy and to exercise manners if you politicians yell at one another in a way that is indicative of a three-year-old throwing a tantrum at the grocery store because he or she cannot have a bon-bon? How can I ever have enough confidence in you, the elected, that you will do the job you are mandated to do if you care more about power than about the policies and principles that are to govern us? Finally, how can I in good conscience approve a system wherein should any individual recognize the need to rise above the pettiness and immature games that are so pervasive in politics, that he or she is made ineffective?
Is it not my duty as a citizen that rather than give tacit approval for power-hungry individuals to dictate law, I ought to protect myself and my fellow citizens from these same individuals? Should I not do everything in my power to ensure that those elected few view their mandate as a responsibility to serve the public, and not as a ticket to do what they want? And if I am powerless to effect any of this, can my apathy for anything political really be condemned?
It is not my intent to be cynical or jaded, though admittedly I am. Perhaps this is because somewhere inside me I believe that we CAN have a better system, if only those participating in it will choose to do so. Perhaps this is because I believe that our elected should be role models, examples of moral pillars and individuals who maintain the highest standards of integrity. And perhaps, most of all, that rather than seeing these ideals, I am utterly disappointed with their polar opposites that now exist and have existed for far too long.
My dear elected leaders, if you want my confidence and approval, not only for you as individuals and supporters of political ideologies but also as participants in a system that you help shape and guide, you must demonstrate that you can handle your mantle with responsibility and care. Anything less than this is a system that is broken, and a system that I cannot approve. And, most unfortunate of all, should I decide that the only way to voice my disapproval is to not vote, I am simply lumped together with the apathetic majority whom you deem as a problem. You say vote if we want to see change; I say change the system so that I can have confidence enough to vote in it. You say apathy is the problem; I say apathy is a response to the problem. Treat each other as decent human beings and display common courtesy to one another. This would be but the first step in a mile-long journey towards a political system worthy of participation and approval. Political differences aside, how can you ask me to participate in an electoral process when all I am doing is choosing who gets to throw the sand in the playground conflicts?
Signed,
A voter with a voice
Today is Election Day, and it is my patriotic duty to go out and vote. It is my responsibility – nay, my privilege as a citizen of this country, as a resident of this province to participate in the democratic process. I get to choose who my leaders are and how my country and province are run by my vote. I think of many other nations that do not have this same privilege and it makes me grateful that I do. My only wish is that it was not a mockery of real democracy.
Democracy should intrinsically have an element of real choice. I understand all too well that I cannot hope to have all of my political views represented in my leaders. It would be absurd to expect this. Part of the social contract I make with my fellow citizens is a compromise in my leaders, that at least some – but not all – of my views, wishes, and desires are represented, with the expectation that my fellow citizens allow the same. The most unfortunate aspect about the democracy I see in front of me – both represented on the ballot I will mark and in the parliamentary process I observe – is that this real choice is sorely lacking.
How can we tell our children to behave with common courtesy and to exercise manners if you politicians yell at one another in a way that is indicative of a three-year-old throwing a tantrum at the grocery store because he or she cannot have a bon-bon? How can I ever have enough confidence in you, the elected, that you will do the job you are mandated to do if you care more about power than about the policies and principles that are to govern us? Finally, how can I in good conscience approve a system wherein should any individual recognize the need to rise above the pettiness and immature games that are so pervasive in politics, that he or she is made ineffective?
Is it not my duty as a citizen that rather than give tacit approval for power-hungry individuals to dictate law, I ought to protect myself and my fellow citizens from these same individuals? Should I not do everything in my power to ensure that those elected few view their mandate as a responsibility to serve the public, and not as a ticket to do what they want? And if I am powerless to effect any of this, can my apathy for anything political really be condemned?
It is not my intent to be cynical or jaded, though admittedly I am. Perhaps this is because somewhere inside me I believe that we CAN have a better system, if only those participating in it will choose to do so. Perhaps this is because I believe that our elected should be role models, examples of moral pillars and individuals who maintain the highest standards of integrity. And perhaps, most of all, that rather than seeing these ideals, I am utterly disappointed with their polar opposites that now exist and have existed for far too long.
My dear elected leaders, if you want my confidence and approval, not only for you as individuals and supporters of political ideologies but also as participants in a system that you help shape and guide, you must demonstrate that you can handle your mantle with responsibility and care. Anything less than this is a system that is broken, and a system that I cannot approve. And, most unfortunate of all, should I decide that the only way to voice my disapproval is to not vote, I am simply lumped together with the apathetic majority whom you deem as a problem. You say vote if we want to see change; I say change the system so that I can have confidence enough to vote in it. You say apathy is the problem; I say apathy is a response to the problem. Treat each other as decent human beings and display common courtesy to one another. This would be but the first step in a mile-long journey towards a political system worthy of participation and approval. Political differences aside, how can you ask me to participate in an electoral process when all I am doing is choosing who gets to throw the sand in the playground conflicts?
Signed,
A voter with a voice
Monday, April 13, 2009
April 12, 2009
Another birthday came and went. This one was fairly enjoyable - unlike last year's. Last year I turned 30. I had to say hello to another decade, and despite my best efforts, reflected on that age with an overwhelming sense of how single I am. But these become trivialized when compared to the crisis of faith that I experienced at that time.
There really was no distinct moment when I became an atheist. No event ushered in the change in perspective; no trump announced the paradigm shift. No, it was a process, a dilution of disillusion. As Julia Sweeney (Letting Go of God) so succinctly addresses God "sitting on his suitcases near the front door of [the] door", "sit here for a while if you want to; you can stay a little while if you need to. There's no big hurry".
This is not too different from my own experience. Perhaps the only thing that got me through it all was the amount of patience and love I allowed myself. There was no judgement for hanging on to old beliefs, only the allowing them to sit on their own suitcases by the door.
Looking back it's impossible to pinpoint the moment I lost my faith. I guess that's the nature of spectrums. Instead I chose to look back and assign an arbitrary date when I knew that I had lost my faith and was, for all intents and purposes, an atheist. This day was my 30th birthday.
So, my journey into the decade of 30 is paralleled with my journey into Cartesian doubt. If I would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in my life I doubt, as far as possible, all things (Descartes).
Having doubted the very core of my belief system and emerging on the other side has been an interesting experience. There is no way of expressing the joys and sorrows that are unique to this journey. Those who are not forced to walk it will forever be blissfully ignorant of it, and those who are join the club where members conceal their silent scars, and walk with a noble understanding that only their initiated fellows share.
It is this day, on my 31st birthday that I celebrate a year of freedom from dogmatic chains and rigid socialization. And while I would never want to experience another year such as the most recent one, I look forward to partaking of the wealth of information that was once forbidden or considered taboo.
There really was no distinct moment when I became an atheist. No event ushered in the change in perspective; no trump announced the paradigm shift. No, it was a process, a dilution of disillusion. As Julia Sweeney (Letting Go of God) so succinctly addresses God "sitting on his suitcases near the front door of [the] door", "sit here for a while if you want to; you can stay a little while if you need to. There's no big hurry".
This is not too different from my own experience. Perhaps the only thing that got me through it all was the amount of patience and love I allowed myself. There was no judgement for hanging on to old beliefs, only the allowing them to sit on their own suitcases by the door.
Looking back it's impossible to pinpoint the moment I lost my faith. I guess that's the nature of spectrums. Instead I chose to look back and assign an arbitrary date when I knew that I had lost my faith and was, for all intents and purposes, an atheist. This day was my 30th birthday.
So, my journey into the decade of 30 is paralleled with my journey into Cartesian doubt. If I would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in my life I doubt, as far as possible, all things (Descartes).
Having doubted the very core of my belief system and emerging on the other side has been an interesting experience. There is no way of expressing the joys and sorrows that are unique to this journey. Those who are not forced to walk it will forever be blissfully ignorant of it, and those who are join the club where members conceal their silent scars, and walk with a noble understanding that only their initiated fellows share.
It is this day, on my 31st birthday that I celebrate a year of freedom from dogmatic chains and rigid socialization. And while I would never want to experience another year such as the most recent one, I look forward to partaking of the wealth of information that was once forbidden or considered taboo.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
The Door
The Door
I wait
I feel the grain of the wood, touch the faded stain of years past
I lean against the smooth surface
And press my cheek against its edge
I wait
Emptiness, the sound of silence far too loud
Nothing stirs, no echoes of life
My cheek still rests against the smooth wood
I wait
Still no sound, still no life, still I wait
I begin to dance, a dance known to countless generations before me
A dance designed to appease nature
I wait
I no longer care for little details
My dance begins to grow, the urgency to complete it rises
Fiery impulses fill my body; I close my eyes and dance with more fervor
I wait
Hungry I am now to complete my dance
This fever inside me spreads until I can barely contain it
I shout, “Are you almost done in there? I really have to pee!”
I wait
I feel the grain of the wood, touch the faded stain of years past
I lean against the smooth surface
And press my cheek against its edge
I wait
Emptiness, the sound of silence far too loud
Nothing stirs, no echoes of life
My cheek still rests against the smooth wood
I wait
Still no sound, still no life, still I wait
I begin to dance, a dance known to countless generations before me
A dance designed to appease nature
I wait
I no longer care for little details
My dance begins to grow, the urgency to complete it rises
Fiery impulses fill my body; I close my eyes and dance with more fervor
I wait
Hungry I am now to complete my dance
This fever inside me spreads until I can barely contain it
I shout, “Are you almost done in there? I really have to pee!”
My Pretty Fox
My Pretty Fox
She baits and taunts me while she walks.
This temptress muse, she laughs and mocks.
I watch her dance under marquee.
She flaunts her lust and lechery,
And I prepare to hunt my fox.
She tries to run, but like a cox,
I steer my prey, my pretty fox.
Her screams and cries fill me with glee.
She baits and taunts.
And when it's done, my pretty talks,
And seals my fate with iron locks.
With all her lust and lechery,
Fate cursed her with impurity.
Now know her I and know death stalks
She baits and taunts.
She baits and taunts me while she walks.
This temptress muse, she laughs and mocks.
I watch her dance under marquee.
She flaunts her lust and lechery,
And I prepare to hunt my fox.
She tries to run, but like a cox,
I steer my prey, my pretty fox.
Her screams and cries fill me with glee.
She baits and taunts.
And when it's done, my pretty talks,
And seals my fate with iron locks.
With all her lust and lechery,
Fate cursed her with impurity.
Now know her I and know death stalks
She baits and taunts.
Bated Wit or Dillusioned Banter
Bated Wit or Dillusioned Banter
How much I mean it when I rue regret!
Too late, my conjured comments of such wit.
To be admired by my peers, but yet
I turn around, alone the stairs I sit.
If only I could rewind time for naught,
I would not be alone on empty stair.
The perfect riposte that my tongue hath caught,
Hath passed my lips too late for friendly care.
“Your mother is a hamster,” yes it's true!
“Your father smelt of elderberries,” ha!
But none of these shall know my peers' review,
Nor shall they look at me with wondered awe.
But yet a smile doth creep across my face;
I know next time these words shall be my mace.
How much I mean it when I rue regret!
Too late, my conjured comments of such wit.
To be admired by my peers, but yet
I turn around, alone the stairs I sit.
If only I could rewind time for naught,
I would not be alone on empty stair.
The perfect riposte that my tongue hath caught,
Hath passed my lips too late for friendly care.
“Your mother is a hamster,” yes it's true!
“Your father smelt of elderberries,” ha!
But none of these shall know my peers' review,
Nor shall they look at me with wondered awe.
But yet a smile doth creep across my face;
I know next time these words shall be my mace.
To Those Who Fought on St. Crispian’s Day
To Those Who Fought on St. Crispian’s Day
To those who fought on St. Crispian’s Day
Shew me thy scars that I may praise and laud.
Strip off thy sleeves that I may curse the day
I held my manhood cheap for but a-bed.
That day, that fair day, that glorious day
Found brother’s blood, shed for an honour’s share.
Their names, o’erflowing cups, in mem’ry stay,
And name that day with those who tip-toed there.
The gentled vile do show their wounds and laugh
That they were numbered at Crispian’s feast.
And crown-filled purses convoy far the chaff
Who have their passports made for vigils ceased.
But though I own no feats on Crispin’s Day,
My son shall ne’er forget their memory.
To those who fought on St. Crispian’s Day
Shew me thy scars that I may praise and laud.
Strip off thy sleeves that I may curse the day
I held my manhood cheap for but a-bed.
That day, that fair day, that glorious day
Found brother’s blood, shed for an honour’s share.
Their names, o’erflowing cups, in mem’ry stay,
And name that day with those who tip-toed there.
The gentled vile do show their wounds and laugh
That they were numbered at Crispian’s feast.
And crown-filled purses convoy far the chaff
Who have their passports made for vigils ceased.
But though I own no feats on Crispin’s Day,
My son shall ne’er forget their memory.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The Circle Round
When my niece was little, she used to call the spinning chimney caps “circle rounds”. We all got a kick out of it and thought it was really cute. I use the term today to iterate a concept Bruce Lee talked about when he said, “Before I learned martial arts, a punch was just a punch and a kick was just a kick. When I studied martial arts, a punch was no longer just a punch and a kick was no longer just a kick. Now I understand martial arts, and a punch is just a punch and a kick is just a kick.”
I had a very interesting conversation with a catholic priest today. It was at school, and I had just gotten out of class, thinking very deeply on this whole God thing. I don’t know, something inside of me sometimes feels like its starving for a spiritual fulfillment. I look at things like consciousness, and I just don’t understand how it can possibly exist without being a manifestation of something greater. Whatever we think we understand about it, and however flawed it may be, it still is. And what IT is, is still a topic of endless debate. Many call consciousness an emergent quality of a complex system; but, is not the universe incredibly more complex and vast? Would not a vaster and more complex system manifest a higher emergent consciousness? Granted, this would not be immediately observable, and would still call into question if this consciousness could or would still be aware of itself or its parts. A lot of unknown variables to say the least, but it is something to consider or at least work with.
Is this drive inside me for some kind of spiritual connection a human condition, or was I moulded for such based upon my upbringing? If the former, why do some not have such a drive? If the latter, how can I be rid of such pervasive conditioning? In any case, something the catholic priest said was very interesting. He mentioned something called “mysteries” and explained these mysteries as the things above and beyond what we can know through our reason but can still be accessible by other means. It is perfectly reasonable to know that there are things beyond our senses; it is interesting to understand what modalities might be involved with their discovery. All I know is that while there are still a great many things that I consider absurd with Catholicism, this priest has given me something to ponder.
It seems as if I may be participating in a circle round. When I was Mormon, a spiritual experience was just a spiritual experience, and a spiritual connection was just a spiritual connection. Now that I am an atheist, a spiritual experience is no longer just a spiritual experience, and a spiritual connection is no longer just a spiritual connection. Who knows, maybe I might one day understand “martial arts” to complete the circle. All I know is that I’m not anywhere near done my journey.
I had a very interesting conversation with a catholic priest today. It was at school, and I had just gotten out of class, thinking very deeply on this whole God thing. I don’t know, something inside of me sometimes feels like its starving for a spiritual fulfillment. I look at things like consciousness, and I just don’t understand how it can possibly exist without being a manifestation of something greater. Whatever we think we understand about it, and however flawed it may be, it still is. And what IT is, is still a topic of endless debate. Many call consciousness an emergent quality of a complex system; but, is not the universe incredibly more complex and vast? Would not a vaster and more complex system manifest a higher emergent consciousness? Granted, this would not be immediately observable, and would still call into question if this consciousness could or would still be aware of itself or its parts. A lot of unknown variables to say the least, but it is something to consider or at least work with.
Is this drive inside me for some kind of spiritual connection a human condition, or was I moulded for such based upon my upbringing? If the former, why do some not have such a drive? If the latter, how can I be rid of such pervasive conditioning? In any case, something the catholic priest said was very interesting. He mentioned something called “mysteries” and explained these mysteries as the things above and beyond what we can know through our reason but can still be accessible by other means. It is perfectly reasonable to know that there are things beyond our senses; it is interesting to understand what modalities might be involved with their discovery. All I know is that while there are still a great many things that I consider absurd with Catholicism, this priest has given me something to ponder.
It seems as if I may be participating in a circle round. When I was Mormon, a spiritual experience was just a spiritual experience, and a spiritual connection was just a spiritual connection. Now that I am an atheist, a spiritual experience is no longer just a spiritual experience, and a spiritual connection is no longer just a spiritual connection. Who knows, maybe I might one day understand “martial arts” to complete the circle. All I know is that I’m not anywhere near done my journey.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
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