Archive for the ‘The World Beyond Reason’ Category
The Paradox Of Progress
I’m sitting out on my porch with my laptop. Or is it notebook..? Marketing…it’s so passe.
The other night while sharing drinks with a friend we stumbled upon an important topic. The conversation began as benign as any other; between gulps of pale liquors we talked about our lives as they stand a year after graduating from college, for this particular night was the anniversary of my clumsy stroll in cap and gown down the aisles of adulthood. We exchanged vagueries and platitudinal congratulations at our decency and successes, but their was an anxiety haunting our words that was apparent. We both knew something wasn’t exactly right. The only question was who would voice this disquietude first…
And it would be him.
He took a big splash of beer and wiping his mouth he uttered the words that would launch our beautiful conversation. He said that he feels like he works only to work. He works to buy gasoline, so he can drive to work. He works to buy nicer clothes, so that he can dress for the job he wants, not the job he has. He felt everything he did simply perpetuated everything that he did, an eternal circle of labor and means to labor without meaning.
I agreed, without question. Sometimes as I drive, mostly at night when the city streets are peppered in halos and neon lights, I think, “How did it come to this..?” This concrete cage that we have shackled ourselves to without thought to what it does to our basic humanity–so much hidden beneath the pavement and stone, a world in which we once belonged that resonates with the racial memory passed down by our forefathers. In this system we work and toil only to support a lifestyle in which we feel both entitled to and are desperately dependent upon. We live in a vat of consumerism and material lust, feeding intravenously upon the ease of our own lifestyle. Assuring ourselves that we are progressing, hurtling through time and space and advancing every step of the way until finally one day we reach the apotheosis of a new age.
But this dream is built upon a lie.
I remember attending a class in my senior history seminar in which we were discussing historiography, the history of history. We were discussing various topics, bouncing through the entirety of western history with little regard to linearity or causality–an exercise in postmodern deconstruction if there ever was one. And somehow we found ourselves on the topic of the American Constitution as a historical object, an undeniable truth in the amorphous blob of our own nation’s history. One student commented on how the Constitution, that beautiful undeniable object, failed to address the issue of slavery, which had a causal effect that reverberated through time and eventually caused our Civil War. During the discussion someone made an offhand comment about how narrow-minded and bigoted the authors of the Constitution were, to which I immediately responded that they were truly revolutionary. The very idea of a republican government, where the people voted for leadership and representation, was remarkable, even if their conception of who was worthy to vote was not egalitarian.
“Victims of their time,” I said, “You cannot judge them on values we hold today, society has progressed a great deal since then.”
My professor smiled, that wry quiet smile of a man without a care in the world. He walked to his chalkboard and drew a straight line. Turning back to face us, he asked me if I had to place today’s society and that which existed during the revolutionary era on this continuum where would I place them. I was baffled and asked him for a bit of clarity to aid in my answer. With that same quiet smile, which hid so many truths I cannot begin to tell you, he told me that the word “progress” infers a direction, an end result that is one day, or at one time, achieved. So if we’re progressing, to where are we headed, and where do these different places in time fit upon the great line?
I stumbled a bit. I told him that I understood the point, but things have changed. We have more things. We are more equitable, more tolerant. He simply responded, “Are we?” I fell silent as he returned to the chalkboard and took the straight line and formed a circle. He said nothing more.
It stuck with me, and that night sharing beers with a good friend, bemoaning the cyclical hustle of our lives I found the great truth he was sharing that day. We aren’t progressing, because the very idea of progress within society is a paradox. We erect new pillars of civilization and with a final sigh of the collective voice we whisper, “Progress,” having achieved little in the advancement of the human spirit.
In the end of all things progress doesn’t exist. Processed foods, cell phones, and the internet are not progressions of the human condition, but components in a system of delusion, which make slaves out of us all. Working to deliver processed foods, working to sell and run cellular connections, working to run servers and dotcoms–working for what? The maintenance of the system, a vicious cycle of fruitless labors and material needs. Had society not “progressed” so far as to require a cheap work force to labor in the cotton fields, there wouldn’t have been a slave trade. Had society not “progressed” so far as to require people to sell computers, there wouldn’t be a headset and a cubicle for me to waste away in. An eternal circle of labor and means to labor without meaning.
I often tell my friends that maybe here in the West we haven’t gotten it quite right. In 500 years New York City will be unrecognizable and may not even exist in a way that we can imagine–progress–but the same rice paddies that have existed for thousands of years in Vietnam will still be tended by small children in conical hats, the same as their fathers and their fathers before them.
There is something pure and wondrous about those rice fields in Vietnam. In some ways, I think they are more civilized and “human” than we could ever be. Just a man, his family, and the means to survive the day. Laboring with value and character.
But I should really rest, it’s getting late, and I have computers to sell… how else am I going to afford this website..?
Progress.
Down At Mephisto’s Cafe
The other night I went out to get some drinks with a couple friends. We went to our usual spot, a dirty dive off Lake Austin Boulevard. The scene is simple as these scenes typically are. Long faces and longer moods. From time to time I would think that this is a place where people come to die, drowning their sorrows in a mug or in a plume of illegal smoke and finding solace only in the companies of others’ misery. Its our place, but in so many ways we are the pulse of such a dead locale, our youth and happiness evening out the air of indignity and malaise.
Yet on this particular night, I was caught in the great sepulture. It began when I went to the bathroom, having broken the Seventh Seal I needed greatly to relieve myself. In times passed I had read the inane scribbles upon the wall, here and there picking up pieces of poetic greatness from scribes whose name will never be known. But on this day I found myself reading an august dirge dedicated to a man I will never know, a man I could never possibly know–for he was long dead. The author’s words sang out the memories of a dear friend. His elegy upon the bathroom wall was the only fitting eulogy for such a loyal fellow patron.
The whole thing saddened me. A man reduced to lavatory remembrance. A life nothing more than Sharpe upon old walls, which shield the masses from the obscene scene of our biological soliloquies. I wanted to touch the great message, but common sense forbade such a personal moment in these halls, so I departed–a bit less human.
I turned the corner and approached the bar. Only another pitcher could calm these feelings of pity and sadness. I sat on the edge staring blankly as the bartend served others. I looked down the row, long faces and longer moods. A somber cold piercing the tired men, lining up for another gulp of Mephisto’s brew. I forced myself to look away, to find anything but the mass of walking dead in front of me, and my eyes found a photograph pinned up on the wall behind the bar. A man, shirtless, enjoying a bright afternoon out to sea on a boat. His gay smile almost made me forget how exhausted his body looked. His skin hung loosely off his bones and betrayed the golden glow of a working man, for on this day he was a proletariat at play. I noticed writing above the photograph and I squinted my eyes tightly to bring them into focus…
“John Vosacote August 17th, 1947 - September 12th, 2007″
This man was dead. And possibly all that remained of him was this dank photograph, tucked sweetly above the beer taps and mugs. I thought of my dead friend in the bathroom and wondered if it was this man’s panegyric that I had read.
I noticed that there was writing below the picture and again I pulled my lids sharply together to make out the sacred glyphs…
“Gone fishin’.”
In those two words I learned so much about the man, this dead John Vosacote. Maybe he loved the sea. Maybe he loved to fish. Maybe he simply died that day out on the blue waters, under bluer skies…
I stared at his photograph and saw in him the life which evaporates from us all, radiating out from the creases of a smile that’s long ceased. I remembered the sad words from earlier, and the sad words I had read in the past in more decent settings. We all live so fiercely and with little regard for the aftermath, but in the wake of our departure there is suffering, even if it can only be expressed with Sharpe pens and frameless photos. I sat there, on a bar stool that so many had sat on before, and I realized that if you live the right way and do right by people, there will always be a place for you. The entire experience reaffirmed my belief that memory is the most eternal thing we possess.
Yes, if you live a good life, there will always be a place for you…you will always have a “home…”
I only hope mine isn’t on the bathroom wall of Deep Eddy Cabaret.
But hey, beggars can’t be choosers.
Of Heroes and Martyrs
I stand upon the stage. The red-crushed velvet curtain walls me in towards the crowd. The crowd. For I see no one, nothing but darkness beyond the amber light which illuminates me for the world to see. I shuffle papers…papers I’ve never read, but I hold them all the tighter. Walking up to the lone microphone, I clear my throat and begin…
“My name is Elliott James Griffin. And this is how I die.”
…
We’re driving. My god what a beautiful day. Windows-down doesn’t even begin to describe it. Crisp, warm air flows between us while the sun shines its wondrous rays upon the Earth, warming that in which temperature has no domain. You look so beautiful. Hair wisping across your face, picking pieces out of your laughing mouth. We were born for this.
We’re talking but I do not hear the words. I suppose I wasn’t meant to–I didn’t need to. My hand in yours; my hand upon yours. I glance over to catch your presence, which you so magnanimously have given me, and I am stricken with fear. In the corner of my eye I see a large truck collide with an oncoming car.
I slam on my brakes, but we speed towards chaos. The trucks cargo, hundreds of large metal pipes, begin peppering the ground. And we are headed right for them.
I do not think. I cannot think. I grab your head and force you to duck…and everything turns black.
But the world is not gone. Slowly it fades into view–very slowly indeed. We are stopped. Glass is everywhere. Your gorgeous face is cut. But you are ok…
Thank god you are ok.
But my comfort soon turns to fear, as you stare at me–shocked and horrified. You begin to tremble and pull away from my hand. I lean to grab you, to console you, and make you feel the thankfulness I feel. But I do not move. I simply cannot move. Looking down I see two pipes buried deep inside my chest. My clothes are soaked so deeply they appear purple.
Grabbing one of them with my two hands, I utter the first audible words of our journey…”This cannot be fixed.” You’re still trembling and sobbing…you crawl across your seat and place your hands upon mine, just like we were, and slowly peel them back. You hold my hand in yours and bury your face into them, and your sobbing turns to hysteria.
I take a deep breath and in the distance see the flashing lights of salvation, but nothing can save me on this day. So I turn to you…
Your name is Hero, the heroine of my life. The one who has saved me from hurt, from pain, from fearing that nothing in this world will ever understand me. Yes, I turn to you.
I ask for you to look at me and your cries reach out the further. I whisper it again, but indeed I am truly begging. For this is my last moment, and I want it to be within your eyes…
You look up and those amazing pools of blue, flooded with tears, have never looked more breathtaking. I take her hand and place it over my heart…and I tell my one and only heroine…
“Do you feel that? Do you feel this beating..? For as long as I can remember, this has existed for you. I have existed for you. I never told you how much you meant to me. Words could never express what I possess for you. Words can never express what I hold for you. I am going to die. But I am glad I could be with you, here, at the end of all things…Never forget the way this feels, never forget how much this heart held for you. It will stop soon, it will stop forever…but I will never stop loving you. In this world and the next. I was born for you. I was always born…for…you…”
And the beating stops. Not with a thud, but with a decrescendo…the evaporation of my life. The last thing I see is the wrinkles of her sweet hand–the ear piece which finally gave her the message I could never.
And everything fades to white…
No, everything faded to light…
And I was dead.
Somewhere In The Between
I wake up. Or maybe I was never asleep. I’m naked, covered only by crummy sheets and the darkness of my room. Watching the fan spin, seemingly without purpose, I am saturated in sweat. Maybe it was the X, or maybe the three hour fuck…
I look to the girl on my left…rolled in to the most innocent of human balls. She’s been here forever; she’s been in my life forever. A punk rock girl with big ideas and no motivation…the perfect match for a punk rock boy with no purpose. I slide out of bed and she sleepily looks up to me, pulling her blonde and blue hair back from her face. I hate her hair. I hate so much about her, but she’s been here for so long…
Pulling a pant of stained jeans on, I tell her to go back to bed. I think I’ve worn this pair for the last three days. Days. I have no concept of time; my entire life is a vortex of hard drugs and harder sex. I am the American Dream. I pull on a shirt and throw on my jacket. Popping the collar, I sort through the items on my dresser. Piece. Keys. Cigarettes. Assorted pills. Condoms.
I take only my cigarettes.
Hitting the tenement hallway, I light up…striking a match along its hard plaster wall. I do not know where I’m going, but anywhere but here sounds good. As far away from my dank existence and the girl who loves someone with so little to offer. I walk down the stairs–the elevators never work here. Nothing works here. I pass addicts and derelicts. People cut from the same dirty cloth as me. I blow my smoke in the still air and it hangs like the Fifth of November. I poke at its amorphous haze, punching holes through it like the moon blocking the sun. It is so stuffy…it is so hot.
My sweaty hands stain the walls as I circle endlessly into the pits of urban hell. Smears of slick biology, marking my descent into Dante’s world. A place that has forgotten the urbane, and replaced it, almost gleefully, with the filth of our humanity.
I hit the doors and look in both directions. The lampposts cry and the streets all conspire. Yes, the lampposts weep golden light onto the desolate concrete, blacked and browned by human waste. I go left, or was it right..? Direction is for the weak. Its so cold out here, but its nice being out of wet sheets and wetter women. Counting the cracks on the sidewalk entertains me; counting the homeless would be far too hard. They ask for change, but I’m looking for change of a different kind. I pause to strike another match on a sad lamppost and fan out the piece of hell I’ve created. The view is infinite…a spreading network of broken dreams, pavement and tenements…
I walk by women of the night who grab my cock as I pass. I shrug by them, although the X is still flowing through my veins and even their repulsive hands cause pleasure. They call me a faggot and the world keeps turning.
The neon signs burn my eyes. My arm and nose hurts. The wounds of addicted life. I am self-destruction, and self-aware. The sweat makes it so much colder.
I find myself in front of a large church, a cathedral in the fifth layer of Dante’s world. I am possessed and I want to go inside, but the doors are locked. I tug on the handle at first calmly, but soon I am pulling with all my strength, franticly beating on the gateway to my desires. I want so badly to get in, and I do not know why…
Noticing a small lock with a number pad, I stare at it for what may be an eternity and finally enter “2,8,4,6.” The door clicks open. Yes…2,8,4,6…the Sign of the Cross for the digital age…
I go inside and find a small sanctuary–candles and Christ. I strike a match and light another cigarette, inviting hell even here. I smoke slowly…my mind still a confused and defunct vessel. I look at the idol before me through the plumes of smoke, but see nothing…nothing but the life I will never know. I walk to the display of candles and bend down, lighting one with the cherry of my cigarette. I do not pray, for I do not remember how…
I sit for hours, staring blankly. I do not want to leave, as nothing awaits me on the outside. But there is nothing for me here either. I decide that I must do what must be done. I walk back to the door and cast one last stolen glance at the savior behind me. “See you soon,” he seemed to say…
I hit the streets again. It is still dark. Is it night…or early morning..?
Finding a pay phone, I dial my parents collect. We haven’t spoken in years…not since I used the money they sent for eyeglasses on meph. Not since I violated their trust for the last time.
My mother picks up and is so glad to hear my voice, but I interrupt her platitudes to tell her how sorry I am. How sorry I am for hurting her and Dad, for destroying the beautiful little boy they created. I tell her not to worry anymore. I tell her that I’m going to get better, that she will no longer have to wonder about the streets eating me alive ever again.
She’s sobbing and attempts to speak, but I tell her that I love her and hang up.
Hang up.
I look all around, and find a sad lamppost to the right. Or was it my left..? Taking my belt from my waist, I climb up the weeping wonder. With one hand holding me steady, the other prepares my salvation. Knotting it once, I slide my head through the smooth leather, and let go.
Hanged up.
Indeed, the lampposts cried, and the streets all conspired. Networks of broken dreams, and hanging children…lost forever.
The last thing my mind’s eye sees is my girl, blonded and blued.
I hate her hair. I hate so much about her.
A Trip Through the Xenoverse
The Year 4763 T.C. It has been nearly five millennium since mankind abandoned the blue sphere from which it was spawned. Yes, nearly five thousands years since humanity Transcended Christ and began to live amongst the heavens themselves.
“Earth.” A word as forgotten as the circumstances which drove them into the stars and away from their homeland. Legends have been passed down throughout the ages, and all refer fondly to this misplaced paradise now only referred to as Lost Jerusalem…
Humanity has spread itself across the cosmos, inhabiting worlds and galaxies that once seemed so very far away. Posterity will never have to fear extinction from the outside, for the human seed has proliferated so perfectly that no wayward comet or supernova star now threatens the entirety of Man. But he himself is still the great threat. He and his terrifying creations.
Enter Omega-1, the Deus Weapon System. While this creation is by no means God, man could not help but assign it such a fantastic moniker. The weapon to end all weapons. A biological behemoth with enough power to destroy an entire planet with relative ease. Yes, man has spread itself across the universe, but he has gained little wisdom yet.
The Omega-1 system was the greatest achievement of mankind. Comprised of three unique components, Deus was designed to never fail, never die, and never surrender. First, it is powered by the Zohar, a monolithic artifact excavated on Lost Jerusalem a few hundred years before man was forced to leave. Man has never understood this precious device, but over the centuries has learned how to use it as a limitless energy source, and what better to power the weapon to end all weapons. The next component of Deus is the biological computer known as Kadmony. This hyper-advanced system allows Omega-1 to constantly assess its surroundings and create adaptations to maximize efficacy and ensure survivability. A weapon that evolves and repairs; a weapon that can never be destroyed. Lastly, Omega-1 is comprised of the physical body and mind of Deus–the weapon itself.
It is perfect.
It is undeniable.
And it cannot be controlled.
Upon activation Deus went out of control, the power flowing from the mysterious Zohar causing its destructive output to far exceed even the expected results. The colony planet Michtam, and nearly all of its five billion human inhabitants, was completely annihilated. An error of genocidal proportions. Omega-1 is immediately disassembled and scheduled for destruction. The cost already too great…
The survivors from Michtam are loaded onto the large military cruiser which carried Deus to them–the Eldridge. The captain has specific orders to fly into the depths of unknown space and eradicate the greatest weapon ever created before returning with the survivors. He is solemn and so is his crew…their cargo is the most destructive force ever known, and the people left within its wake.
The Eldridge plunges into deep space. Every second pulling Omega-1 farther and farther away from the core planets. The captain secretly wonders if they’ll find Lost Jerusalem in this treacherous black void. All can only hope…
And then it happens.
Deus becomes self-aware. It understands what is happening. They are ferrying it out to die. And this simply cannot be.
A flight officer screams to the captain that Omega-1 is starting up. Words scroll across the screen in large red block letters: “And ye shall be as gods…” She grows more nervous as Deus begins to assimilate the ship’s controls and completely take over their systems. The captain barks orders as his crew desperately attempts to regain command of their ship. Nothing works and in a last ditch effort, the captain orders the crew to blow the physical connections across the ship, hopefully severing Deus’s access to the Eldridge’s mainframe.
But even that fails.
And Deus is angry.
“He” activates the ships hyperdrive and sets his coordinates for mankind’s new capital world: Fifth Jerusalem. Deus is going to eradicate humanity for its insolence. The captain orders everyone to evacuate the ship. He will stay behind and do that which only he can do: initiate the self-destruction of the Eldridge and save humanity from certain doom.
The alarms sound and the crew and their civilian survivors panic. Between the flashes of red light and the piercing sound of the siren, people attempt to find their way to the escape shuttles. Pandemonium. Fear. Chaos. Just as Deus would prefer…
As the shuttles launch, the Eldridge’s guns fire up and destroy each fleeing vessel. Deus is exacting his revenge gleefully, and no human will live this day. One after another, the people try to escape, but each are cut down by the very weapons that once protected them…
And there is a boy. Lost.
Separated from his family, the young child wanders through the ship…desperately seeking salvation and safety. He is all alone and scared. He runs and runs and finds no one, just red lights and loud noise. He soon finds himself in a small hangar, standing before the ancient Zohar. Its pale yellow glows, illuminating his tears and captivating his mind.
And then he hears a soft voice…
Abel looks in every direction, but finds no one. The voice speaks out again…asking him why he is here…why he is so afraid…
The small boy soon realizes that the voice is emanating from the Zohar itself, and he collapses before it frightened. The voice begs for him to not be afraid, but Abel weeps uncontrollably. And with tears running down his cheeks he screams out at the top of his voice, “Mother…!”
Meanwhile, the captain looks out of his deck and sees the endless slaughter of the fleeing passengers. He sits back in his chair calmly and fires up the self-destruct sequence. Opening a locket with his family’s portrait in it, he sighs. Holding it close to his chest, he closes his eyes…and presses the final button to complete the end-game order.
And the Eldridge explodes in a fantastic display of sacrifice and lights. The ship’s remains fall slowly to a barren planet below and rest across its landscape.
Everyone is dead.
Everyone except her. She rises from the ashes of genesis and looks out upon the horizon. She appears as human as anyone, but her mind is anything but. Her name is Mother, and she is a program. A contingency. And her objective is to recreate the body of Deus himself with the flesh of man…man which she will create. She is the ultimate failsafe…a creation of the biological computer Kadmony to spawn enough people to repair the damaged fleshly body of Deus himself so that he can rise again. After a brief moment of humanity, staring off into the horizon, she begins the centuries long process of repairing Omega-1. She gives birth to thirteen men, who will eagerly aid her in her endeavor, as much out of automatonic programming as a base, hungry desire for her beauty. Her first born was to be king of all men, forever, or until there was enough to replenish the flesh of Deus…his name is Cain..
Yes, everyone is dead.
Everyone except him. The small child Abel finds himself alone, again, on this derelict planet. The voice emanating from the Zohar having protected him from the explosion and guided him down to the surface. For Abel has been chosen. The Zohar itself is in actuality a prison, which has trapped a hyper-intelligent and powerful entity within it. We would call it “God.”This entity desires for nothing more than its freedom, but the Zohar must be destroyed for it to return to its home. Abel will be that destroyer. This small child will rise up with the unlimited power of the Zohar flowing through him and defeat Omega-1, freeing this God from its shackles.
The stage is set, and the pieces begin to move.
Cain and his 12 ministers of man, and their Queen–the Mother– are working “tirelessly” to create a kingdom of Man for the reconstruction of Deus, the false God which has created them. While Abel, a scared child all alone, has been chosen by a God from another dimension to free it from its shackles. But there is more…
After the Mother gives birth to her eager help, she herself is split. She gives birth to two females and dies. As what will happen for the rest of eternity, once the Mother dies, a random woman will awaken as the Mother…the programming within her brain activating and the person she was dying–only the goal remains. In this instance, however, it is not random. One of the children she begets is the creation of the entity within the Zohar…a companion for Abel, a companion for all time.
The Zohar, being connected through the Omega-1 system, influenced the Kadmony program and created its own biological servant, which would aid Abel and his future forms in his mission to free it.
Abel wanders the shoreline and sandy beaches and he is completely taken by the sight he beholds: his Mother. He runs to her and hugs her, but she does not hug him as a mother would. She holds him as a lover, for she loves this small boy so passionately that nothing in the world could separate them. Yes, she was created in his Mother’s image, based on Abel’s desire for her in his moment of weakness on the Eldridge, but she will be anything but. Her name is Elyham; it always will be…
The two make a home and the years go by. They fall in love. Abel does not know of his fated role as the liberator of the God within the Zohar, but soon…maybe in this lifetime, or in another…he will. Time has no meaning.
Cain and his followers quickly begin organizing an empire. They soon receive word that there were survivors from Eldridge, humans outside their mode and program. They must be destroyed, as nothing will stand in the way of the resurrection of “God.” Cain hunts Abel down and the two face each other–kings of men, but kings of a different kind. Brothers in power and purpose. The power of Deus’s minions is too much for Abel, as he has not yet discovered his power as the Chosen one, and soon he and Elyham are killed without mercy. Cain…pleasing his God…
But they will live again, endlessly until their mission is complete. They live many lives; many different lives throughout the ages. But they always find each other and fall in love, destined to be together, destined to one day discover their purpose and destroy the impostor of God, who has created a mankind to one day replenish his flesh.
A planet of people created from the womb of a computer. A contingency. Completely unaware of their slavery, of the shackles that bind them. And one day Abel…or Kim…or Lacan…or any of his many incarnations will not only free the God within the Zohar, but by doing so, he will free all of this humanity as well…
And she will be by his side, whenever that time comes…
No, I Am Legend
I suppose this entry won’t make much sense. Let’s just get that out there now. I’m in a mood. And if you know me well, you’d know the mood in which I am referring…
Death.
Death.
Death.
Its simply how I feel. Alive in the grave. An animated corpse and little more.
What makes me so special? What makes anything so special? I have been unhappy for quite some time…
I suffer from occupational depression. My job is the anchor which pulls me deep into the ocean’s blue. I drown every day…eight to five, or was noon to nine..? I hate what I do. People suffer and die. People lack knowledge. People are…people…
And I sit there, selling computers to Tom, Dick, and Harry.
I make no difference. I disseminate information technology. I am the most pathetic cog in the most pathetic wheel. What I do has no future, and its past is as poor as its present. I make no difference. I change no lives. I create or repel customers for a corporation which cares little for me, and even less for them.
The great discontent…
Can I be happy doing what I do..?
Can I be happy doing anything at all..?
I used to make fun of people who took their lives, and in some way I still find amusement in their cowardice. But it is dark where I dwell. I feel like my life is slipping by and I am so utterly helpless to correct my course. I am twenty-two and destitute. My possessions…meaningless. My achievements…I laugh at the thought.
Darkness is consuming me. I feel it everywhere. Its so cold. And I am so alone in this. Friends, loved ones…they could never understand. Their compassion rings hollow, and for that I am greatly sorry. I want their words to change me, but they do not. They make me feel selfish.
I suppose I am selfish.
I want everything I’ve never had. I think about it all so often…
Like the time we slept together, innocently. We were on a high school trip and you slept in my lap. I was so intoxicated with the moment that I did not dare move, fearing I would stir you from your peaceful slumber. I loved that moment. I wanted you so badly. I found you beautiful. I found you intelligent. I found you to be everything I ever wanted…
And now you are married.
I never found the moment, I never possessed the chance…to tell you…that I do believe we could love one another.
Or the time we had our first hang out at the library in college. You wore a green sweat jacket. I thought you were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. We pretended to study and between stolen glances, I wished that I did not have a girlfriend and I could take you…all of you.
And now you are considering moving into your boyfriend’s home.
Women…perhaps that is the source of my great discontent.
But that would be unfair to say. I have met the most amazing women, and they have loved me…or something akin to it. But I reject them. Selfishly. Or perhaps…sheepishly. I create dissent. I engineer reasons to be unhappy. I am imperfect, yes, but I create in them the greatest of imperfections in which no one could survive.
Even now…there is one…
And I think…why not?
Then I push my feelings deep within my humanity, finding myself here…writing about everything that never was, never would be, or simply never could be…
I have been told that I’m pretentious.
Well, yes.
How could anyone so unhappy be anything but…?
I have been told that I’m arrogant.
Now that, I do believe, is an overstatement.
I find pleasure in relatively nothing. How could an arrogant man be so displeased with himself..? I find my own mental faculties lacking. I find myself repugnant. There is relatively little to redeem.
I look in the mirror and see Adonis himself.
Yet, I am unhappy with what I see.
Because I see what lies behind: a man, scared and alone. Scared that he’ll never figure this world out, never find the Answer within the orchestra of lies….never find someone worth loving that he will allow himself to truly love.
I will make one prediction here and now…
I will change this world. I will stand tall and shakes the heavens, creating something beautiful and divine…
Or I will die a young, unhappy man. Satisfied only with the finality of his life.
I have to find value in this life. I have to discover a greater purpose. Because if I cannot…then I do not need to be here.
None of us do…
One Line to Rule Them All
V: Would you prefer a lie or the truth?
Few moments in cinematic, or for that matter literary, history have made me feel as strongly as that line does. Sometimes I watch the entire film (V For Vendetta) just for the ecstasy that the above line induces–like a small glimpse of genius fed into my mind through my eyes and ears, invariably altering everything I know and everything I believe for the most infinitesimal moment. V’s line is so much more than purely good screenplay writing, but an indictment upon the character of our being. It strikes to the core of our universe and the thin line upon which we tread that separates us from the obvious truth and the emphatic lies that govern our lives.
The scene is simple; the setting unimpressive. V and Evey are sitting within the Shadow Gallery watching a news cast which reports ominously that a distinguished man within London’s political-media conglomerate has died. They report his death as an accident, an act of God–robbing the dutifully ignorant peoples of Britannia of their prized ‘Voice.’
Yes, the Voice of London he is called. A voice so loud, so rife with misdirection and lies, that the people consume willingly and with little discussion. Yes, he is the voice, and the masses are his ears, absorbing the cacophony of mistruth gleefully. And that voice was permanently silenced by V.
Evey begins to understand the situation and asks V a direct question: Did you kill him?
And he responds coolly, “Would you prefer a lie or the truth?”
The line is perfect for so many reasons. It cuts to the heart of our postmodern dilemma. Would you prefer a lie or the truth? The lie could be anything–it is infinite and ambiguous, boundless and free. Yet the truth is concrete. Rooted in fact and embellished only by perspective and interpretation. Many versus one. The infinite versus the finite. The ambiguous versus the defined. The line resonates with the pulse of our current society. Would you prefer the truth or a lie? Do you want to remain willfully ignorant or do you demand the Answer? Are you satisfied with what you hear…or does the Voice quench your thirst for knowledge?
V isn’t asking her if she wants an answer; he is asking her to allow him to satisfy her in whatever means she desires. Giving her a choice–to which world will she enter. It is so relevant to our condition as a society at large. As people, do we demand the truth and accept it willingly or do we cling to things as petty as our own sense of right and wrong, our own baseless opinions, our own mythological history which compels us to reject contradictory fact in the name of national and social pride? V wants to satisfy her, not crush her under the weight of his own decision. It is a caring and overtly sensitive line.
And Evey, being the strong girl that she is, demands the truth. To which V succinctly responds, “I killed him.”
Evey is shocked, appalled…although she knows the Voice is evil, she is overcome with emotion and blurts out, “Are you going to kill more people!?”
“Yes.”
Perfection.
You see there are many lies…our lives are nothing more than a web of contradictions and misdirections. The very glue of our society is the white lie. We are bound to one another by a veil of secrecy that is both obvious and covert. We, the janus-faced, are actors in the grand play. The stage of our lives. Dancing around the cold truth to stay warm.
Oh yes, there is but one truth. In any number of possible phenomena there is but one truth. Every complex and seemingly impossible situation has but one ultimate underlying truth in which we must face. Why are we here? What is the purpose of this world? Is there a God? Am I God himself? Am I alone? What is love?
Well…would you prefer a lie or the truth?
You must ask yourself how many times you could demand the truth, at possible cost of your own universe–the web of lies and mythologies you have surrounded yourself with and immersed your soul in so that you could survive the day.
I have made a life out of seeking objective truth and what I have found more than anything is my own incompatibility with it. The old adage ‘truth hurts’ was penned for a reason. Truth shatters our world. It reveals friends as murderers. Lovers as cheaters. And even worse…it may reveal the pointlessness of our existence.
So I ask you again, if you could face any question of any relevance, would you prefer a lie or the truth?
I will always take the truth. I will always demand the truth. My resolution, the annual promise of a new and nonexist year, will be to find truth in everything. To be truth. To disseminate it. To believe in it.
The Makers of Men and Myth
This recent Christmas was extremely special to me. In so many ways, it was like the first one that I have ever had. Sure, there were young sleepless nights, spent tossing and turning while St. Nicholas flew from home to home. But this one was my first Christmas as a true, unwavering, and comfortable Christian. The joy is unequal…the pleasure overflowing.
For so long Christmas had a strict commercial meaning to me, and I’m sure many of you experience it all the same. I was constantly caught up in the giving and receiving, paying little attention to the ultimate act of giving that we celebrate on that day. This year was the perfect storm. I was so completely busy with life and work that I never had any chance to focus on the material and I was in desperate need of replenishment, as my soul was so dry and devoid of love or hope.
On Christmas Eve I sat in mass with my mother, discussing my life–failures and accomplishments, goals and aspirations. We sat, in the most beautiful of sanctuaries, as the people flowed in. We were early; we’re always early. I felt so incredibly thankful and at peace, a true calm I have not experienced in so long that I cannot recall. Half way through our discussion I fell silent, inadvertedly ignoring my mother. But I was captivated. I realized that this was the first Vigil Mass that I had sat as a true believer, without doubt and fear. But as a simple citizen. Yes, my flaws as a practicing Christian are blatant, as are the flagrant fouls I commit at work and in my personal life, but that is what I love: redemption, replenishment, and a chance to begin anew.
I felt as though I were the only person on Earth. I looked up at the man collapsed, yet nailed, to a wooden cross and I thought…thank you, thank you for every pebble you laid before me to form the path.
I am constantly stricken with the burden of logic and the desire for faith. I used to find the two incompatible on so many levels, but I believe now that logic itself is based largely upon faith. Faith that what you know will always hold true; faith that what you have been told about the world and its systems will not change or alter; faith that there is no reason to hold onto faith… My world paradigms no longer conflict, but form a tranquil and expansive wave that crashes over the oceans of my mind. Where I find no solid answer, I find solace in the faith of the unknown…where the faith of the unknown scares me, I cling to that which I believe to know and let it carry me through the day.
A harmony. A conscious synergy.
I am not perfect. Sitting with my mother I knew too well of my failures, as she was clear to elucidate them. But I am in no need for perfection–merely the perfect understanding that I am a whim, a will, a body, and a soul…and one day I will transcend this world, never shall I die, and I will meet the Myth Maker himself.
And we will smile, or something akin to that. Together, forever, or maybe simply for a moment…I do not think I will care…and certainly neither will He. For the oceans of my mind will become all that I am, where faith and logic meet and all that is left is the raw humanity from which I began, a primordial soup of love and hate, of yin and yang, of everything and nothing at all…
Truth Or Dare
Three friends sit outside. It’s cold. The scene is a small bar tucked neatly west of the highway, but its patronage is plentiful. Upon the somehow sheik picnic benches, they sit and shiver, sharing pitchers of colder brew and memories of warmer times. It’s simple, as all true friendships are.
Three universes loosely sharing a moment, all alone in thought but together in the most random of conversations. They have plans for the rest of night, and none are too terribly enthused. It is something to do, something to break the mold of the mundane life they are sharing: work, sleep, rinse, repeat.
And then their multiverse collides with the force of the unknown. A girl plops down in the open seat, sitting next to the man least interested in her–based solely upon definition and things as predetermined as chromosomes. She’s cute…the only word to describe her. Short and well-dressed…her makeup betrays the existence of a regular nightlife–dark and dramatic, sexy and sassy.
The friend who sits directly across from her pulls a long drag from his cigarette and exhales above her head. Welcome to his world–yellow teeth and dried curses. She tells them that she is fulfilling a dare, and in this particular case the most unfortunate of dares. Her friends, a montage of twenty-somethings who look as interesting as cardboard, have put her up to the most risky of tasks: sit and talk with a table of complete strangers. Yeah…
The one who sits across from her isn’t entertained, but annoyed. He thinks that this will indeed be fun. The invader upon a good night; the sex and sass they did not need. The men break their silence. The one who sits across says dryly…
“Hello…my name is Elijah.”
Oh yes, the name is contrived, and so is his story. He tells her that they are in a band, having a drink before their show downtown. Club Emo’s. 1 o’clock. Her dark smoky eyes light up. A piqued interest, indeed. Yes, they are playing tonight…sharing a drink before dimmer lights and looser women–looser only perhaps. The leader of this most expansive of lies is in total character, yet his friends smirk and cover muffled laughs. Rookies.
Their band is called Xander & The Screaming Queens, he goes on. In between drags of a cigarette, which one can assume is nothing but a Virginia Slim as the shoe would certainly fit, she asks leading questions…
“What kind of music do you play?”
“We’re a cover band.”
This Elijah goes on to list their best songs, which they are of course playing tonight: Tom Sawyer by Rush, Dani California by Red Hot Chili Peppers, Say it Ain’t So by Weezer… drawing a blank he turns to his cohorts asking what else they’re playing tonight. He finds no aid, just smiles. Big friendly smiles.
She loves Rush. Who’d have thunk it.
Putting out his cigarette, Elijah pulls another from his pack…”Ever seen a bumper stick that simply reads ‘XSQ.’ in Times New Roman font?–” He lights it. “–That’s us.”
“Oh my god, no!” She seemed to say half expecting to have seen one…
The lie grew without control. In little time, they were opening for Cobra Starship and Metro Station on February 3rd. Elijah had given up teaching high school, her very profession, to live the rock and roll dream. Xander…well that came from the middle name of the disinterested male to her right. It was his middle name. His aid would be nearly all the help Elijah would have in his most contrived life from his friends…
She asked how many people were in their group. Holding up four fingers, Elijah says five. The only slip. Quickly recovering, he blames the alcohol. “Xander’s our lead singer…” Pointing to their most silent of compatriots, “He’s on guitar.”
“And you?” she asked leadingly.
“Drums.” Exhaling another hot drag. “We have a bassist and a keytarist, but they’re downtown setting up.”
And then the silent friend speaks, “Keytarist?! Please!”
Elijah quickly defends their imaginary bandmate: “Hey, you leave her alone! She tries very hard!” The defense of those who do not exist only adding ethos to their tale.
They sit there, members of the perfect lie. An invader given a story. Not a friend made, but an enemy kept out of the city walls, for these times are for the innocent moments of brothers. And her…the willful consumer of all that was never true…
Oh, but there was truth. Elijah in faux jealousy stamps out a cigarette, the physical manifestation of his anger, and tells her that Xander is in fact gay and the main attraction of their female fans. Xander’s disinterest throughout the twenty minute conversation rooted in a taste her dramatic makeup and highlighted hair could not satisfy. She is instantly taken aback, proclaiming, “No! No way!” He looks good, fit for the lead singer of a hot band of rockers and sex addicts. Xander defends the only truth they’ve shared throughout the night with little success, while Elijah drones on about how tiring it is to pull the groupies off of Xander in order to satisfy that which does turn him on, dramatic makeup and highlighted hair.
She refuses to believe it–the only true thing they’ve said. Maybe she was attracted to him, maybe her brain was simply incapable of truth after the copious amounts of bullshit they had fed her…
Killing his glass of beer, Elijah stands. He tells his XSQ brethren that they need to leave and get ready for the gig. Without batting an eye in her general direction, he walks by leaving her with one piece of love, “1 o’clock…Emo’s…downtown…be there or be square.”
And they all walk off. Members of the perfect lie. Members of the perfect band, they who never miss a note or never struggle for the love of the crowd–but rock and roll all night long.
Why did I lie to this girl?
Why…I lie to every girl, especially those who came to know me based solely upon a dare. Truth or Dare never seemed so perfect. And maybe she showed up…looking for the band she’ll never hear, that no one will ever hear…
And then she’ll remember us forever. Living on in infamy within her mind, forever. The guys who lied. The girl who believed. And it goes on and on and on…
A True Vagrant’s Story
Within the walls of this city there is a great secret. A transient and hungry secret. It is everywhere–street corners and corner stores. While the city sleeps, within warm homes and warmer arms…it sleeps alone. They sleep alone.
This secret is a true vagrant’s story.
The homeless in Austin are plentiful. Bountiful in their gimmicks, sparse in their commodities…they roam the streets while the city sleeps. I have never experienced this before moving here. I have never really known the homeless. It brings perspective to this ill-defined life right now.
Each night I leave my apartment, the coward’s journey to friends’ houses, and I stop at the same red light. It doesn’t matter the time, nor the weather, they are always there. Sometimes they have roses in hand, sometimes a simple sign…
“I don’t bite. I just want a bite.”
I drive with my window down. Always. An open invitation into my world, they must presume. I cannot look at them. My eyes look passed them, above them, anywhere but at them. I cannot look into their eyes, for I fear that their great secret will be shared with me–pain, loneliness, destitution. And I tell myself that I don’t care. A life of bad decisions. A youth gone wrong. Not my problem.
But their eyes haunt me.
I know that their eyes will tell me something different. Their eyes will beg me to pay them mind, and pay them in kind. Their eyes expose not only their pathetic weakness, but my own. I cannot look at them. I have tried. I have tried so hard, but my body will not follow my will. I find things to play with. I rearrange my music, I shuffle trash, I avoid them at all costs.
In the most pure sense, I do not feel bad for them. I am the product of a typical American blue collar family. A work ethic was instilled in me…a sense of duty to God, country, and family. A sense of responsibility. These damned “gifts” are the only reason I am still here. I had a handful of cash and a hankering to move overseas after graduation, but my family and their sense of tradition kept me here. I could not leave them or their ideal life for me.
Cursed as it may be…I was given these gifts in goodwill. These derelicts…vagabonds with wayward souls…were obviously not so fortunate, or worse yet…they cast aside similar gifts in the name of drugs, alcohol, and circumstance. How cold am I…a humanist debasing the most base of my brothers…? But I cannot help it. I hate their eyes, windows into a soul of need. Windows that expose the true nature of myself–a loving person who wants only to help, but is equally selfish and judgmental.
I offer them cigarettes often…a consolation prize. Oh no, you will not eat on my dime, but smoke up and die. It is the smokers’ creed–the communion of our disease, partake and be happy. For your belly is empty, but your lungs are full–full of hot death rolled just for you.
Their secret is no secret at all. My mind constantly fights my heart. It tells me that these zombies are not people, but a life of bad decisions–a story penned by one mistake after another. My mind doesn’t ask if they are hungry, but how in the hell they got that bouquet of flowers? I puzzle myself with anything but their plight. I know they are cold right now…outside the walls and arms of warmth that I enjoy.
I feel so fortunate to simply not be them. To drive. To own anything. The city’s great secret–peddle pushers and gypsies who want and want and give nothing back. Maybe one day I’ll be able to take them in, from head to toe, and our eyes will meet. I do not know what I’ll see in them, but I am sure I know what they will see in me…
Thankfulness. Fear. Pity. And hate.
And tonight, I will lay and wonder about where they are…what they’re doing…how they got through the day…then I will sleep and surrender the streets to them. Yes, while the city sleeps, they roam the streets…
Good night and good luck–you will get little more than that from me.