Dan stared, oblivious to the misty pellets being whipped across his face. Looking ahead but at nothing simultaneously. He thought about how utterly alone he had suddenly become. One moment he went to sleep with a partner, a companion with whom to brave the roughest seas together, the next he was awake and desolate. Dan felt filled with spacers, an empty body waiting for human parts to be put in later.
His mind bombarded him. "You're a useless piece of garbage who only spreads pain. Sarah would have been happier if she had never met you. In fact, I bet someone else would have noticed sooner, helped her sooner, she would be alive if you didn't exist. You were born into pain, you carry pain everywhere you go, and your pain becomes infectious, spreading to everyone, eroding the joy from those you love. It would be better for everyone if your existence ended. In one well swoop you can end your pain, and the all the pain you put onto others. The only reason you live is for selfishness. Your own joy. Your own satisfaction. Your own happiness. Everyone else is just an afterthought. Hurry up and die you worthless piece of shit."
The torrents of self-hate beat Dan into the ground. Falling to his knees, he surrendered to whatever further abuse his mind had in store for him.
But the angry voice had quieted and, instead, premonitions of lost futures invaded his mind. He saw Sarah, engrossed in a book, lounging around a sunny room. Dan felt the burning urge to call out to her, but hesitated, he never could bring himself to interrupt her when she was focused. He noticed her pause and look up toward him. The room blinked and Sarah was gone. Her book lay face down, spread open, the spine damaged, as if someone had intended to continue it, but never came back for it.
Then Sarah was bending over a toddler, buttoning the last button on a rain jacket. In a second she finished, and the child bolted out the door in a flash of excitement, Sarah's worn face turns back to look at him, a glowing smile growing. But her eyes, something is wrong with her eyes. Dan gasped, he was staring into the same eyes he had awoken to earlier: hollow, milky, orbs. He clutched his knees. "everything of Sarah is gone, every shred of hope for happiness has disappeared. Even the memories have been corrupted. This torment will follow me forever." But only a small whimper left his mouth.
Transfixed by her lifeless eyes, Dan rose slowly. He stared over the railing. Enthralled at the churning water. As Dan gazed the rest of his body stood at strict attention. He heard grinding, but never realized the sound came from his own teeth. Every muscle was taut. Knuckles white against the unfeeling rail. A gust of wind splashed across his face. Jolted, a voice inside Dan countered, "Is this how you honor Sarah? Through self-serving sacrifice? You may not have been perfect, but you gave her something to fight for, and hope. Continue to spread those things in her name".
Dan collapsed onto the railing, exhausted, torn between the future and the past. He cursed the water for its apathy, and wished he could feel the same. "Why can't I just let me die?" The idea of Sarah burned inside him. "Because it isn't really about you. Sarah's success now depends on how far you can carry it." With that thought Dan slumped down onto the concrete. He scrutinized the small piece of scrap paper still clutched in his fingers. His confession made in the dark.
Dan began slowly tearing those words which had held power over him for so long into meaningless pulp. As each tiny piece fluttered away tears began to stream down, falling into the rushing river, joining the deluge that flowed unending.
fin
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
Tall Tall Shadow
"Hellllooo. You've reached Sarah's voicemail. Which means I'm not here. Leave a message please. Tthhhaaannkkksss!" SLAM. rattle-rattle. Chunk.
The coin nested in its slot. Waiting to once again travel its cycle.
Dan stared ahead, listless. He pressed the receiver hard against his temple and felt his pulse throbbing. He ached with each pounding beat. A drilling reminder of the other heart that lay still. His blood pumped furiously through his system and every fiber of his being wanted to tear itself apart.
But instead he stood, visibly shaking, but nearly frozen.
Clink.
"Hellllooo. You've reached Sarah's voicemail. Which means I'm not here. Leave a message please. Tthhhaaannkkksss!" Click. rattle-rattle. Chunk.
The normally cheerful melody of Sarah's voice seemed strained. Somehow, different and unlike the thousands of times he had heard it before.
Clink.
"Hell1l0oo. You've reached Sarah's voicemail. Which means I'm not here. Leave a message....PLEASE....please...." Click. rattle-rattle. Chunk.
Her voice continued to change. Dan swore he heard her pleading and it shook him to his core. He hesitated, but relented. Clink.
"Hel1l10o0. You've reached Sarah's voicemail. Which means I'm not here... LEAVE!" Click. rattle-rattle. Chunk.
Dan jerked. What?!?
Clink.
"Hellll0oo. You've reached Sarah's voice-,,,,," Click.
rattle-rattle. Chunk. Clink.
"H31111000.... Y0U!!!!!."
Dan dropped the receiver and stared at the mouthpiece from where the mechanical snarling had screamed at him. His mind raced. How many of her heart beats had he wasted? How much time had he insisted she spend tirelessly fighting for the miraculous? the improbable? the inevitable? And now she had quietly slipped away while he slept. The final nail in a coffin of guilt, regret, shame, and ultimately self-loathing.
All those years of fighting had ultimately accomplished what exactly? at best they had given her an extra couple months, months which were also spent fighting. Dan shuddered.
Is this all life is? Delaying death?
Dan had pondered that question frequently. Without fulling realizing it, he had lightly rested his hand against his wallet. Where a small note was kept. Dan's ultimate secret. Secret even from Sarah. It read simply: "I'm sorry. The darkness has won."
Almost in a trance, Dan walked from the booth. Completely lost, but knowing exactly where he was going.
Friday, August 29, 2014
Shackles
Dan's automatic feet continued to trudge onward. The rhythmic consistency of friction lulled him into a state of reminiscence. He recalled stumbling out of the hospital, listlessly dragging his feet across the parking lot to access the phone booth that would save him.
Upon opening the booth door, Dan caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass. The puffy red eyes, pale face, and empty stare looked more dead than Sarah's had minutes ago. He continued to gaze into the face as the realization began. She had died, while he slept. After a year of struggle she had slipped away, quietly. There had been no last goodbye, no grand gesture of love or sorrow.
He had brought her into the hospital the day before when her breathing became unbearable to hear. The usual wheezing had never bothered him, but an audible bubbling sound had settled into her chest, and it terrified Dan to the core of his being. Even worse: she could see it in his eyes. His stoic expression could not hide the abject panic that flashed through his mind with every gurgle. And his eyes betrayed it to her. Dan couldn't bear to be helpless and despite her strained plea that, "It's not worth it. Just stay", he had carried her to the car and left.
On arrival to the hospital they were given a room. They had passed a mother wailing for her son who had recently died in a car accident. Despite the woman's justified sorrow, Dan found himself hating her. Hating that there was someone tangible to blame, the other driver, or maybe the kid had been drunk and rolled on the freeway coming home. He didn't know what, but he knew a person's choice shouldered the responsibility. But who could Dan blame?
While the night doctors tended to the acute injuries that had stumbled into the ER, Sarah told the nurse about the pain in her abdomen, and they scheduled more tests for the following morning. Sarah was predictably exhausted and Dan wanted her to sleep. He still subconsciously held the belief that you will wake up feeling better after a proper rest, even if it was only by a matter of degrees. He willed himself awake while she slept; with every breath of Sarah's the sound of the low guggle shot through Dan, but eventually his determination faded into darkness.
Dan woke suddenly, and was overwhelmed by a gut-twisting realization. His sleep had come during the shallowing of her breath. He pressed the button to call the nurse, but as he looked at Sarah's slumped head reality set in. He was paralyzed, a sliver of doubt remained and he hesitated to check her vitals, as he had done innumerable times during the night after waking from nightmares of her death. Dan's thoughts raced. He pleaded to see maggots, something abominable that would signify fantasy. But there was no horror to be found, only death.
His feet started walking before he decided what to do next. He ducked around a corner outside the hospital and began to retch. As Dan slumped against the stone building he spotted the phone booth, and became aware of being drawn toward it. He shuffled over to the enclosed case. A beacon of safety and the promise of social connection. But it provided neither of these.
Dan lifted the receiver and pushed the coin into its home. He dialed his area code instinctively but then froze. Who was he going to call? Michael? He will just awkwardly say how sorry he is while I blabber, humiliation is not comforting. Dan slammed the receiver and the coin clanked out. He repeated this ritual for everyone he had once known, and felt distant and detached. The extended time with Sarah and her illness had isolated both of them. He could not fathom anyone he knew who could understand his pain. He screamed in loneliness. Gasped for breath in desolation.
Dan grabbed at the receiver and dialed Sarah's cell. He waited for the voice mail and wept when he heard her sweet voice. Knowing that he will never hear it naturally again. He emptied his pockets and remained hunched over the device. Putting coin after coin into the machine as if to stop the hands of time themselves.
Upon opening the booth door, Dan caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass. The puffy red eyes, pale face, and empty stare looked more dead than Sarah's had minutes ago. He continued to gaze into the face as the realization began. She had died, while he slept. After a year of struggle she had slipped away, quietly. There had been no last goodbye, no grand gesture of love or sorrow.
He had brought her into the hospital the day before when her breathing became unbearable to hear. The usual wheezing had never bothered him, but an audible bubbling sound had settled into her chest, and it terrified Dan to the core of his being. Even worse: she could see it in his eyes. His stoic expression could not hide the abject panic that flashed through his mind with every gurgle. And his eyes betrayed it to her. Dan couldn't bear to be helpless and despite her strained plea that, "It's not worth it. Just stay", he had carried her to the car and left.
On arrival to the hospital they were given a room. They had passed a mother wailing for her son who had recently died in a car accident. Despite the woman's justified sorrow, Dan found himself hating her. Hating that there was someone tangible to blame, the other driver, or maybe the kid had been drunk and rolled on the freeway coming home. He didn't know what, but he knew a person's choice shouldered the responsibility. But who could Dan blame?
While the night doctors tended to the acute injuries that had stumbled into the ER, Sarah told the nurse about the pain in her abdomen, and they scheduled more tests for the following morning. Sarah was predictably exhausted and Dan wanted her to sleep. He still subconsciously held the belief that you will wake up feeling better after a proper rest, even if it was only by a matter of degrees. He willed himself awake while she slept; with every breath of Sarah's the sound of the low guggle shot through Dan, but eventually his determination faded into darkness.
Dan woke suddenly, and was overwhelmed by a gut-twisting realization. His sleep had come during the shallowing of her breath. He pressed the button to call the nurse, but as he looked at Sarah's slumped head reality set in. He was paralyzed, a sliver of doubt remained and he hesitated to check her vitals, as he had done innumerable times during the night after waking from nightmares of her death. Dan's thoughts raced. He pleaded to see maggots, something abominable that would signify fantasy. But there was no horror to be found, only death.
His feet started walking before he decided what to do next. He ducked around a corner outside the hospital and began to retch. As Dan slumped against the stone building he spotted the phone booth, and became aware of being drawn toward it. He shuffled over to the enclosed case. A beacon of safety and the promise of social connection. But it provided neither of these.
Dan lifted the receiver and pushed the coin into its home. He dialed his area code instinctively but then froze. Who was he going to call? Michael? He will just awkwardly say how sorry he is while I blabber, humiliation is not comforting. Dan slammed the receiver and the coin clanked out. He repeated this ritual for everyone he had once known, and felt distant and detached. The extended time with Sarah and her illness had isolated both of them. He could not fathom anyone he knew who could understand his pain. He screamed in loneliness. Gasped for breath in desolation.
Dan grabbed at the receiver and dialed Sarah's cell. He waited for the voice mail and wept when he heard her sweet voice. Knowing that he will never hear it naturally again. He emptied his pockets and remained hunched over the device. Putting coin after coin into the machine as if to stop the hands of time themselves.
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
So Dawn Goes Down To Day
A very intelligent poet, Robert Frost, wrote a succinct but poignant poem called "Nothing Gold Can Stay". In 8 short lines he summed up the essence of being human.
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to lead,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.
I've been dwelling on all the contradictions of life, the necessities that "life" (within the Canadian middle class) has thrust upon me. The cliche garbage about social status, life accomplishments, the unspoken metrics of "satisfaction". How they require me to abandon questions in lieu of heuristical answers, soundbites. Classification overtakes exploration. But what is worth it? What is value? I don't know. Maybe nothing is. Maybe I don't want there to be answers. Perhaps I prefer the freedom to be nihilistic. That the ability to shoot down ideology safeguards my narcissistic individualism.
But maybe I find that any answer inherently and unfairly excludes groups of people in favour of personal self-justification. I have a suspicion that every answer, including the rejection of an answer, is merely a rationalization of a worldview synthesized through self-preservation. There is so much grief in this world that even the thought of focusing on my own life feels like pure, unbridled, insanity. While psychology pushes people back into cultural conformity, into a hierarchical worldview that exists to justify the greed of the few. The greed of us.
Maybe the fact that nothing gold can stay is a savior. Saving us from having to stare unblinkingly at what we really are.
Regardless, there is a fantastic song inspired by Robert Frost that fleshes out some of his themes.
Stay Gold- First Aid Kit It's worth listening to.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Shuffle
Dan gazed into the abyss of missed opportunities. He
stared at the vast collection of moments he had let
slip by, the person she could have been, the person he could have been to her. But they could never be
reclaimed. So he took all the mistakes, his shame, and cowered with them
in the hovel of regret. Holding his shroud tighter than his own skin held him.
For years his nights were an abomination to rest. Over and over he would find himself reliving the years clutched tightly by his mind. In his dreams the trips to new doctors and hospitals were rewritten. Instead of looking to find better treatment for Sarah, they were constantly fleeing from the engulfing darkness. Every road trip was delaying the moment of capture and destruction he knew would follow. But to no avail. Eventually, he would always be caught, and his nightmares never spared him the despair that resulted. He'd awake in a panic, sometimes crying, other times screaming, and occasionally defeated. But the clock on his bedside would always calm him, the bright, digital numbers, yelling at his eyes. The hour, separated on the left of the colon, stood attentively for 60 minutes, only conceding when the next hour was to take its turn on the clock's face. The minutes stood at attention to the all-seeing eyes that sat in the middle, always keeping both sets of numbers in their place.
A voice cut through the darkness that Dan clutched around himself, "Is hell itself experiencing a blizzard?" Dan looked at its owner, his face remained loyal to his true thoughts.
The stranger's expression of bewilderment was apparent, he continued to look at Dan.
"You know, I haven't seen you on our server in... where did you go..." This bizarre world snapped back to Dan. It was Michael, an acquaintance who he played online with frequently in the past, but they never had been close.
"Sorry, I can't be of much help," to anyone, his mind whispered to no one. "I'm a little tired" and wish I could just give up.
"You ok Dan?" Michael asked, concern showing in his tone.
"It's fine" -ally too much.
"Well if you ever need to talk."
"Of course, I wouldn't hesitate" to throw myself off a bridge. "Now it gets" so that every night is torture.... "better. You" don't know anything. "have known me a long time. But" I barely know what's going on. "it'll be over soon".
"Glad to hear it, I'll see you online later? You've been missing out on some great times." Dan's slow and awkward sentence had apparently satisfied Michael's need to feel that he had extended compassion.
"When I get some time. Good to see you again." Michael continued walking in the original direction, his car, before his senses had detected Dan. Dan could no longer relate to his friend, or coworkers, or anything that people busied themselves with during their daily existence. How could he care about a game when he had watched her slowly deteriorate? He saw the life drain from her sincere eyes and turn into grey, empty, orbs. Listened to the lively giggle disfigure into a strenuous wheeze, until nothing came out of her motionless lungs.
As Dan slipped back into memory, his feet shuffled him through downtown in the city of bridges. The light faded away. Reality was no longer being processed by Dan's attention, he fixated once more on that derelict phone booth.
"Once you get the feeling
it wants you back for more.
Now it gets ethereal,
Feet ain't on the floor.
One step back you're leaving it,
Jumping at the wall.
Why won't you believe in it
'Till it's gone?"
Bombay Bicycle Club played through the open window of a truck rolling to a nearby stop sign.
For years his nights were an abomination to rest. Over and over he would find himself reliving the years clutched tightly by his mind. In his dreams the trips to new doctors and hospitals were rewritten. Instead of looking to find better treatment for Sarah, they were constantly fleeing from the engulfing darkness. Every road trip was delaying the moment of capture and destruction he knew would follow. But to no avail. Eventually, he would always be caught, and his nightmares never spared him the despair that resulted. He'd awake in a panic, sometimes crying, other times screaming, and occasionally defeated. But the clock on his bedside would always calm him, the bright, digital numbers, yelling at his eyes. The hour, separated on the left of the colon, stood attentively for 60 minutes, only conceding when the next hour was to take its turn on the clock's face. The minutes stood at attention to the all-seeing eyes that sat in the middle, always keeping both sets of numbers in their place.
A voice cut through the darkness that Dan clutched around himself, "Is hell itself experiencing a blizzard?" Dan looked at its owner, his face remained loyal to his true thoughts.
The stranger's expression of bewilderment was apparent, he continued to look at Dan.
"You know, I haven't seen you on our server in... where did you go..." This bizarre world snapped back to Dan. It was Michael, an acquaintance who he played online with frequently in the past, but they never had been close.
"Sorry, I can't be of much help," to anyone, his mind whispered to no one. "I'm a little tired" and wish I could just give up.
"You ok Dan?" Michael asked, concern showing in his tone.
"It's fine" -ally too much.
"Well if you ever need to talk."
"Of course, I wouldn't hesitate" to throw myself off a bridge. "Now it gets" so that every night is torture.... "better. You" don't know anything. "have known me a long time. But" I barely know what's going on. "it'll be over soon".
"Glad to hear it, I'll see you online later? You've been missing out on some great times." Dan's slow and awkward sentence had apparently satisfied Michael's need to feel that he had extended compassion.
"When I get some time. Good to see you again." Michael continued walking in the original direction, his car, before his senses had detected Dan. Dan could no longer relate to his friend, or coworkers, or anything that people busied themselves with during their daily existence. How could he care about a game when he had watched her slowly deteriorate? He saw the life drain from her sincere eyes and turn into grey, empty, orbs. Listened to the lively giggle disfigure into a strenuous wheeze, until nothing came out of her motionless lungs.
As Dan slipped back into memory, his feet shuffled him through downtown in the city of bridges. The light faded away. Reality was no longer being processed by Dan's attention, he fixated once more on that derelict phone booth.
"Once you get the feeling
it wants you back for more.
Now it gets ethereal,
Feet ain't on the floor.
One step back you're leaving it,
Jumping at the wall.
Why won't you believe in it
'Till it's gone?"
Bombay Bicycle Club played through the open window of a truck rolling to a nearby stop sign.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
John and Tom
I stumbled across a speech given by one of my favourite authors/artists, Bill Watterson. His authentic pondering of happiness, politics, philosophy and so much more in Calvin & Hobbes has forever instilled in me a desire to understand what makes a satisfied life.
Bill taught me to focus on the present, to savour the personal moments between best friends, to enjoy the places our minds wander to throughout the day, to take satisfaction in learning, and to create something for ourselves for no other reason than to create. I learned to not look for fulfillment in prestige or in the eyes of others. And that contentment is in the process, not the product.
My favourite part of the speech:
You will find your own ethical dilemmas in all parts of your lives, both personal and professional. We all have different desires and needs, but if we don't discover what we want from ourselves and what we stand for, we will live passively and unfulfilled. Sooner or later, we are all asked to compromise ourselves and the things we care about. We define ourselves by our actions. With each decision, we tell ourselves and the world who we are. Think about what you want out of this life, and recognize that there are many kinds of success.
Many of you will be going on to law school, business school, medical school, or other graduate work, and you can expect the kind of starting salary that, with luck, will allow you to pay off your own tuition debts within your own lifetime.
But having an enviable career is one thing, and being a happy person is another.
Creating a life that reflects your values and satisfies your soul is a rare achievement. In a culture that relentlessly promotes avarice and excess as the good life, a person happy doing his own work is usually considered an eccentric, if not a subversive. Ambition is only understood if it's to rise to the top of some imaginary ladder of success. Someone who takes an undemanding job because it affords him the time to pursue other interests and activities is considered a flake. A person who abandons a career in order to stay home and raise children is considered not to be living up to his potential-as if a job title and salary are the sole measure of human worth.
You'll be told in a hundred ways, some subtle and some not, to keep climbing, and never be satisfied with where you are, who you are, and what you're doing. There are a million ways to sell yourself out, and I guarantee you'll hear about them.
To invent your own life's meaning is not easy, but it's still allowed, and I think you'll be happier for the trouble.
Reading those turgid philosophers here in these remote stone buildings may not get you a job, but if those books have forced you to ask yourself questions about what makes life truthful, purposeful, meaningful, and redeeming, you have the Swiss Army Knife of mental tools, and it's going to come in handy all the time.
SOME THOUGHTS ON THE REAL WORLD BY ONE WHO GLIMPSED IT AND FLED
Bill Watterson
Kenyon College Commencement
May 20, 1990
http://web.mit.edu/jmorzins/www/C-H-speech.html
Bill taught me to focus on the present, to savour the personal moments between best friends, to enjoy the places our minds wander to throughout the day, to take satisfaction in learning, and to create something for ourselves for no other reason than to create. I learned to not look for fulfillment in prestige or in the eyes of others. And that contentment is in the process, not the product.
My favourite part of the speech:
You will find your own ethical dilemmas in all parts of your lives, both personal and professional. We all have different desires and needs, but if we don't discover what we want from ourselves and what we stand for, we will live passively and unfulfilled. Sooner or later, we are all asked to compromise ourselves and the things we care about. We define ourselves by our actions. With each decision, we tell ourselves and the world who we are. Think about what you want out of this life, and recognize that there are many kinds of success.
Many of you will be going on to law school, business school, medical school, or other graduate work, and you can expect the kind of starting salary that, with luck, will allow you to pay off your own tuition debts within your own lifetime.
But having an enviable career is one thing, and being a happy person is another.
Creating a life that reflects your values and satisfies your soul is a rare achievement. In a culture that relentlessly promotes avarice and excess as the good life, a person happy doing his own work is usually considered an eccentric, if not a subversive. Ambition is only understood if it's to rise to the top of some imaginary ladder of success. Someone who takes an undemanding job because it affords him the time to pursue other interests and activities is considered a flake. A person who abandons a career in order to stay home and raise children is considered not to be living up to his potential-as if a job title and salary are the sole measure of human worth.
You'll be told in a hundred ways, some subtle and some not, to keep climbing, and never be satisfied with where you are, who you are, and what you're doing. There are a million ways to sell yourself out, and I guarantee you'll hear about them.
To invent your own life's meaning is not easy, but it's still allowed, and I think you'll be happier for the trouble.
Reading those turgid philosophers here in these remote stone buildings may not get you a job, but if those books have forced you to ask yourself questions about what makes life truthful, purposeful, meaningful, and redeeming, you have the Swiss Army Knife of mental tools, and it's going to come in handy all the time.
Bill Watterson
Kenyon College Commencement
May 20, 1990
http://web.mit.edu/jmorzins/www/C-H-speech.html
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
In Shallow Seas We Sail
I've been confronted by important notions about forgetting recently, which connects to ideas in the novel I read over Christmas that discusses the necessity to forget in order to heal. But it places one in a peculiar situation when you are the one that needs to be forgotten. Or rather, you are the one that has been forgotten.
Our memories are the crux of who we are, how we remember (read: interpret) the past controls who we are in the present. We build upon the structural foundation of the identity we've decided upon (though our options are more like multiple choice questions to the situations we encounter, with the options being the different cultural maps [perspectives] we've been handed, with no real limit to our decisions but the limits we accept). But what happens when the crux of me (of all of us) is meant to be temporary, meant to be malleable for the future (read: present) in order for us to adapt, to cope; destroying, rebuilding, and re-destroying ourselves perpetually.
Why hold onto any past? Because without it we become apathetic and callous to the people around us, to the people who hold onto some piece of us in the vain belief they know the reality of our perceptions and past. We hold onto the past that taught us how to be safe when trouble comes, using our personal maps. Maps that are filled with landmarks and metropolises in a land of fantasy, personal fantasy. None of these places exist, but they tells us what "truth" is. But there's a difference between being able to discuss the civilizations of our past when there are others to confirm the old architecture and the disasters that shattered them in the first place then when confronted with wandering through the wreckage in solitude; a fertile land, turned into a wasteland. Or was it always a wasteland? The present too will become a wasteland. And once we forget it, it will be nothing.
Like us, individuals in a system that specifically needs the individuals it created. But tightly clutching our maps, needing them to feel, but binding us to the ever shifting images on the page. Finding meaning in the forgotten ruins; the ruins that don't exist, which cannot be visited by anyone who wasn't there to see them with us (or who have a completely different picture of the same places). But they need to forget seeing them, they need to look to their own map, while I look at the crumbling piece of paper in front of me.
We will be forgotten, eventually by everyone; until we are the only ones who hold onto a meaningless map, full of directions to treasures that don't exist to anyone else. And only the lucky ones even make it to this stage, when we can see the futility of our maps, the rest die before getting to that point, and are forgotten even sooner. But being remembered has no value. The value is in the temporary landmarks, on the constantly changing landscape. Just because the strings become visible does not change the power they have over us.
This may be incomprehensible garbage, but it too will be forgotten.
I know I've posted this before, but it's relevant.
Our memories are the crux of who we are, how we remember (read: interpret) the past controls who we are in the present. We build upon the structural foundation of the identity we've decided upon (though our options are more like multiple choice questions to the situations we encounter, with the options being the different cultural maps [perspectives] we've been handed, with no real limit to our decisions but the limits we accept). But what happens when the crux of me (of all of us) is meant to be temporary, meant to be malleable for the future (read: present) in order for us to adapt, to cope; destroying, rebuilding, and re-destroying ourselves perpetually.
Why hold onto any past? Because without it we become apathetic and callous to the people around us, to the people who hold onto some piece of us in the vain belief they know the reality of our perceptions and past. We hold onto the past that taught us how to be safe when trouble comes, using our personal maps. Maps that are filled with landmarks and metropolises in a land of fantasy, personal fantasy. None of these places exist, but they tells us what "truth" is. But there's a difference between being able to discuss the civilizations of our past when there are others to confirm the old architecture and the disasters that shattered them in the first place then when confronted with wandering through the wreckage in solitude; a fertile land, turned into a wasteland. Or was it always a wasteland? The present too will become a wasteland. And once we forget it, it will be nothing.
Like us, individuals in a system that specifically needs the individuals it created. But tightly clutching our maps, needing them to feel, but binding us to the ever shifting images on the page. Finding meaning in the forgotten ruins; the ruins that don't exist, which cannot be visited by anyone who wasn't there to see them with us (or who have a completely different picture of the same places). But they need to forget seeing them, they need to look to their own map, while I look at the crumbling piece of paper in front of me.
We will be forgotten, eventually by everyone; until we are the only ones who hold onto a meaningless map, full of directions to treasures that don't exist to anyone else. And only the lucky ones even make it to this stage, when we can see the futility of our maps, the rest die before getting to that point, and are forgotten even sooner. But being remembered has no value. The value is in the temporary landmarks, on the constantly changing landscape. Just because the strings become visible does not change the power they have over us.
This may be incomprehensible garbage, but it too will be forgotten.
I know I've posted this before, but it's relevant.
The
most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you
get ashamed of, because words diminish them-- words shrink things that
seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size
when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most
important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried,
like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And
you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look
at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why
you thought it was so important that you almost cried when you were
saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked
within not for the want of a teller but for the want of an understanding
ear.
-Stephen king
-Stephen king
Sunday, January 20, 2013
The Shroud of Shame
As Dan curled himself in fear, the helplessness brought him back to a time, long before, when he had first found out about her illness. All he knew how to do then to was curl up like a helpless child, and this instinct remained. A flood of events rushed through his memory, which, under normal circumstances would have been easily held at bay by pure will.
At first, insignificant moments flashed in his mind, soothing him. Dan remembered how it felt to lie on the couch next to her while she lightly snoozed. A reassuring serenity would cover his anxiety, there were always problems, but they could wait during these moments. Then, when Sarah was ready to reawaken and continue the day she would nuzzle close to his neck and sigh with intense satisfaction. It was his favorite memory. But it was tainted, for it always lead to the next chapter of their story.
Dan had watched her slowly waste away during what others always called "the best years". Her frequent indigestion and stomach related issues were just one of her idiosyncrasies when they had gotten to know each other. She carefully chose what food to cook or which dish to order at restaurants in order to lessen the pains that occurred after. But when her pain worsened he had taken her to a clinic, even against her complaints. An arduous process began involving a plethora of tests and treatments, opinions, second opinions, even third opinions. The diagnosis came back all the same: advanced stomach cancer. Dan had thought of little black submarines deep in her body, destroying it piece by piece. Doctors tried to comfort them, explaining that symptoms don't appear until well after the disease has taken its hold. It had long been too late.
During their last few months together she had begged him to stop looking for new doctors or clinics to see. Dan could not give her up without fighting, every avenue must be explored, hope must never be lost. But his unwavering fervor only caused more damage. Sarah did not want to fight until the last day, she had realized long before that she had to count her life in months left to live. She asked for trips to the coast, or drives to childhood locations. But most of these requests were overridden by Dan's assertion that she was too weak, that she needed to rest for their drive to a clinic in the next province rather than waste her energy. Sarah hated every second of the hospitals and treatment centers, she resented how everyone treated her as a sack of meat with a defect. Dan had never counted it Sarah's way, he had seen it as years left to lose, and his stubbornness had squandered what little was left. But she had clung to him, for if there was one thing she couldn't manage it was to die with them fighting.
A few weeks before she passed they had been in Ontario to see another doctor when their appointment was abruptly cancelled. This time, when Sarah asked for Dan to take her somewhere beautiful, he had no excuses. Sarah had meticulously mapped out a driving route long before, but her plans had been postponed every other trip to Ontario for clinic visits that often left her consciously impaired for subsequent days. But this time they were able to drive through the Catskills mountains south of the US border. It was summer and the scenery was at its greenest, proudly displaying the spring growth. Although Sarah was weak, she had never been happier, finally away from the sterile faces of hospital staff. Their last weeks were dedicated to going where she wanted, old houses, parks she had played on as a child, even her old elementary school. Saying her goodbyes to brick and stone.
Dan's extended fighting had stolen away her opportunity to see what she wanted, replacing it only with denial. And then she had died. One more unrecognized face in the obituary. The grief over whelmed him, and he barely left his rented duplex for weeks. Being absent from work, Dan lost his job. He never told anyone at work about Sarah, always kept to himself, and a few people were glad to see the "short-tempered introvert" go. But to Dan, her memory brought back flashes of the past. He was powerless to fight the flood of emotions that had resurrected, violently displacing the dirt he had buried them with. So he sat, clinging to his shroud of shame.
At first, insignificant moments flashed in his mind, soothing him. Dan remembered how it felt to lie on the couch next to her while she lightly snoozed. A reassuring serenity would cover his anxiety, there were always problems, but they could wait during these moments. Then, when Sarah was ready to reawaken and continue the day she would nuzzle close to his neck and sigh with intense satisfaction. It was his favorite memory. But it was tainted, for it always lead to the next chapter of their story.
Dan had watched her slowly waste away during what others always called "the best years". Her frequent indigestion and stomach related issues were just one of her idiosyncrasies when they had gotten to know each other. She carefully chose what food to cook or which dish to order at restaurants in order to lessen the pains that occurred after. But when her pain worsened he had taken her to a clinic, even against her complaints. An arduous process began involving a plethora of tests and treatments, opinions, second opinions, even third opinions. The diagnosis came back all the same: advanced stomach cancer. Dan had thought of little black submarines deep in her body, destroying it piece by piece. Doctors tried to comfort them, explaining that symptoms don't appear until well after the disease has taken its hold. It had long been too late.
During their last few months together she had begged him to stop looking for new doctors or clinics to see. Dan could not give her up without fighting, every avenue must be explored, hope must never be lost. But his unwavering fervor only caused more damage. Sarah did not want to fight until the last day, she had realized long before that she had to count her life in months left to live. She asked for trips to the coast, or drives to childhood locations. But most of these requests were overridden by Dan's assertion that she was too weak, that she needed to rest for their drive to a clinic in the next province rather than waste her energy. Sarah hated every second of the hospitals and treatment centers, she resented how everyone treated her as a sack of meat with a defect. Dan had never counted it Sarah's way, he had seen it as years left to lose, and his stubbornness had squandered what little was left. But she had clung to him, for if there was one thing she couldn't manage it was to die with them fighting.
A few weeks before she passed they had been in Ontario to see another doctor when their appointment was abruptly cancelled. This time, when Sarah asked for Dan to take her somewhere beautiful, he had no excuses. Sarah had meticulously mapped out a driving route long before, but her plans had been postponed every other trip to Ontario for clinic visits that often left her consciously impaired for subsequent days. But this time they were able to drive through the Catskills mountains south of the US border. It was summer and the scenery was at its greenest, proudly displaying the spring growth. Although Sarah was weak, she had never been happier, finally away from the sterile faces of hospital staff. Their last weeks were dedicated to going where she wanted, old houses, parks she had played on as a child, even her old elementary school. Saying her goodbyes to brick and stone.
Dan's extended fighting had stolen away her opportunity to see what she wanted, replacing it only with denial. And then she had died. One more unrecognized face in the obituary. The grief over whelmed him, and he barely left his rented duplex for weeks. Being absent from work, Dan lost his job. He never told anyone at work about Sarah, always kept to himself, and a few people were glad to see the "short-tempered introvert" go. But to Dan, her memory brought back flashes of the past. He was powerless to fight the flood of emotions that had resurrected, violently displacing the dirt he had buried them with. So he sat, clinging to his shroud of shame.
Monday, January 14, 2013
The Engulfing Darkness
Dan slumps to the back of the glass. The ringing of the quarter clanking into its cradle lingers in the stale telephone booth. Dan slides down, defeated by the pointless repetition that had maintained his focus for an unknown amount of time. Each try a new glimmer of hope, but over time even that had waned. Some times he had listened for the dial tone, patiently expecting some inhuman frequency to help him communicate his desires, his fears, his hope. Other times he screamed, begged, even pleaded with the nothingness on the other end of the line.
But now he has been conquered. His mental capacity to will happiness into existence lays as a rotting corpse, fouling the boxed air. The Machine above him, a gladiatorial champion. He glares up at his foe, seething with contempt for the silent victor. But the phone only stares apathetically back. Dan's hatred brings him to a stand. His gaze begins to shift around the booth in a clockwise turn. Shapeless black forms taunt Dan from the corner of his darting eyes. He scans the darkness, lit only by a single, dim, light bulb. The growing fear clutches his insides.
The darkness attacks his anxiety. For every degree of vision Dan's eyes could perceive there were hundreds of others he could not, and they tore into his state of mind. At last he buckles and offers himself to the figures he cannot manage to track, but which he is sure will get him. He clutches his knees, rocking in a corner of the desolate booth, waiting upon the inevitable. Each passing second devoured by subsequent ones. But his fears lead nothing but to more wasted time.
End part 3
But now he has been conquered. His mental capacity to will happiness into existence lays as a rotting corpse, fouling the boxed air. The Machine above him, a gladiatorial champion. He glares up at his foe, seething with contempt for the silent victor. But the phone only stares apathetically back. Dan's hatred brings him to a stand. His gaze begins to shift around the booth in a clockwise turn. Shapeless black forms taunt Dan from the corner of his darting eyes. He scans the darkness, lit only by a single, dim, light bulb. The growing fear clutches his insides.
The darkness attacks his anxiety. For every degree of vision Dan's eyes could perceive there were hundreds of others he could not, and they tore into his state of mind. At last he buckles and offers himself to the figures he cannot manage to track, but which he is sure will get him. He clutches his knees, rocking in a corner of the desolate booth, waiting upon the inevitable. Each passing second devoured by subsequent ones. But his fears lead nothing but to more wasted time.
End part 3
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Comfort in Distraction
Dan continued his asinine ritual for countless cycles. Phone off the hook, quarter in the slot, wait for the metallic ring of the coin to finish, press '0', nothingness, replace receiver, collect coin. The weight of the receiver provided him with comfort, as did the ring of the coin entering and exiting the apparatus.
His thoughts were focused on the concrete at first, the shape and smoothness of the receiver, the clanking change container. But the longer he completed the cycle the less he was able to concentrate merely on the physical actions. The abstract questions threatened to flood his systems, and the ritual had held them at bay, briefly.
For the first time Dan gazed beyond the glass walls encasing the phone booth. On all sides fog hid the landscape behind it. Dan rotated inside box. He could not remember when he arrived at the box or how come he needed to be there.
He stood frozen, with the receiver dangling from his hand. Dan placed the black piece back onto its cradle. The machine trembled as the coin once more appeared in the jutting, curved, slot. He stood as if gazing into headlights, mesmerized by the dull, used quarter. The coin resting in its tiny home prompted him to recall how he had stumbled upon this box.
He remembered opening the door to the phone booth with excitement. He had peered through the glass before, and, despite having nothing on his person, had spied the quarter lying in the change return cradle. What a blessing he had thought, what good luck he had come across!
But as time marched on in its relentless manner, his perspective had changed. The coin, once his savior, now encased him in a loop. Passing seconds grew into minutes, minutes matured into hours.
The cold, apathetic box had become Dan's home. Not out of necessity or benefit, but out of comfort. His aching insides did not want to forge on, but preferred relief. For as long as this ritual helped momentarily sustain the crumbling dam of consciousness, it was enough.
End of part 2
Another continuation of the story, no lyrical references in this one, though I do hope to tie it all together someday, somehow. I wrote the majority of it on my blackberry during the flight to see my brother and father. I also read "The Light Between Oceans", a phenomenal fiction novel by M. L. Stedman during the break. I recommend it to everyone.
His thoughts were focused on the concrete at first, the shape and smoothness of the receiver, the clanking change container. But the longer he completed the cycle the less he was able to concentrate merely on the physical actions. The abstract questions threatened to flood his systems, and the ritual had held them at bay, briefly.
For the first time Dan gazed beyond the glass walls encasing the phone booth. On all sides fog hid the landscape behind it. Dan rotated inside box. He could not remember when he arrived at the box or how come he needed to be there.
He stood frozen, with the receiver dangling from his hand. Dan placed the black piece back onto its cradle. The machine trembled as the coin once more appeared in the jutting, curved, slot. He stood as if gazing into headlights, mesmerized by the dull, used quarter. The coin resting in its tiny home prompted him to recall how he had stumbled upon this box.
He remembered opening the door to the phone booth with excitement. He had peered through the glass before, and, despite having nothing on his person, had spied the quarter lying in the change return cradle. What a blessing he had thought, what good luck he had come across!
But as time marched on in its relentless manner, his perspective had changed. The coin, once his savior, now encased him in a loop. Passing seconds grew into minutes, minutes matured into hours.
The cold, apathetic box had become Dan's home. Not out of necessity or benefit, but out of comfort. His aching insides did not want to forge on, but preferred relief. For as long as this ritual helped momentarily sustain the crumbling dam of consciousness, it was enough.
End of part 2
Another continuation of the story, no lyrical references in this one, though I do hope to tie it all together someday, somehow. I wrote the majority of it on my blackberry during the flight to see my brother and father. I also read "The Light Between Oceans", a phenomenal fiction novel by M. L. Stedman during the break. I recommend it to everyone.
Friday, December 21, 2012
no cheeses for us meeses
I've never been a huge Christmas fan, every year as a child I was rushed around different households to have a quick celebration before it was off to an airplane to fly to the states for more Christmas and it all seemed to be a forced expression that spent more time caring about an ideal than about the real people involved.
Though these visits were pleasant and (mostly) not spent arguing and fighting with anyone. Anyhow, so despite my lack of enthusiasm I still have a favourite Christmas movie: The Muppet's Christmas Carol. Classic literature (even though I've never actually read any Charles Dickens yet) and puppets. I've seen it dozens of times and it's great. But I particularly enjoy the introduction of Scrooge (Michael Caine).
Merry Christmas
Monday, December 17, 2012
Tighten Up
"....little black submarines. Operator, please, put me back on the line.... told my girl I'd be back. Operator... Please, this is wrecking my mind."
Dan gripped the receiver tighter, but all the desire in his head couldn't will a sound to emit from the other end of the line. Silence, no proof if his message had been heard, but the words needed to be cried out regardless of whether anyone listened or cared.
"Oh can it be? The voices calling me get lost and out of time. Operator please."
But only the echoes of his desperation existed to provide solace in the unfamiliar phone booth.
"Call me back, when it's time. Stolen friends! And disease! Operator, please... Patch me back to my mind."
The strangeness in his own voice made him pause, his thoughts were fuzzy. Dan leaned back on the glass, sliding down to a crouched position. In one hand, a pure black phone receiver, in the other, his sweating brow. He struggled to remember how he had gotten there and who he was crying out to on the other line. All he knew was the urgency.
"Treasure maps! Fallen trees! Operator please. Call me back when it's time."
The silence overcame him, and his limbs went limp as the receiver fell from his hand. The device clattered as it swung into the glass, providing the only answer to the multitude of questions. Dan arose and replaced the receiver in its cradle, a quarter clinked into the change return slot. The metallic sound lingered in the stillness.
He picked up the phone once again, placed the quarter in its home, and pressed 0. The machine clinked, but nothing altered the black, dead, receiver. He spoke anyway, bargaining with nothing.
"You know me. I had plans... but... they just disappeared to the back of my mind. Operator... please... The voices calling me, I...." He paused. "They get lost and out... I, I... can't remember."
Dan's concern escalated as he listened to what he was saying. Although it had always been this way, verbalizing it brought him panic. He had no reason to believe that someone, if not something, could hear him. But Dan did believe, because the only other option was too difficult to imagine, so he pushed it from his mind.
End of part 1.
I'm procrastinating on campus as per usual and I decided to write a short story (it's not over) because of a song. One of my favourite part of lyrics is the lack of punctuation, merely putting in commas and periods can completely alter the meaning of the words. So I decided to mess around with lyrics but in a narrative structure. I'm not sure where this will go or when I decide to continue it. But I hope it caught your attention and was intriguing. Here's the song by the way.
Little Black Submarines- The Black Keys
Dan gripped the receiver tighter, but all the desire in his head couldn't will a sound to emit from the other end of the line. Silence, no proof if his message had been heard, but the words needed to be cried out regardless of whether anyone listened or cared.
"Oh can it be? The voices calling me get lost and out of time. Operator please."
But only the echoes of his desperation existed to provide solace in the unfamiliar phone booth.
"Call me back, when it's time. Stolen friends! And disease! Operator, please... Patch me back to my mind."
The strangeness in his own voice made him pause, his thoughts were fuzzy. Dan leaned back on the glass, sliding down to a crouched position. In one hand, a pure black phone receiver, in the other, his sweating brow. He struggled to remember how he had gotten there and who he was crying out to on the other line. All he knew was the urgency.
"Treasure maps! Fallen trees! Operator please. Call me back when it's time."
The silence overcame him, and his limbs went limp as the receiver fell from his hand. The device clattered as it swung into the glass, providing the only answer to the multitude of questions. Dan arose and replaced the receiver in its cradle, a quarter clinked into the change return slot. The metallic sound lingered in the stillness.
He picked up the phone once again, placed the quarter in its home, and pressed 0. The machine clinked, but nothing altered the black, dead, receiver. He spoke anyway, bargaining with nothing.
"You know me. I had plans... but... they just disappeared to the back of my mind. Operator... please... The voices calling me, I...." He paused. "They get lost and out... I, I... can't remember."
Dan's concern escalated as he listened to what he was saying. Although it had always been this way, verbalizing it brought him panic. He had no reason to believe that someone, if not something, could hear him. But Dan did believe, because the only other option was too difficult to imagine, so he pushed it from his mind.
End of part 1.
I'm procrastinating on campus as per usual and I decided to write a short story (it's not over) because of a song. One of my favourite part of lyrics is the lack of punctuation, merely putting in commas and periods can completely alter the meaning of the words. So I decided to mess around with lyrics but in a narrative structure. I'm not sure where this will go or when I decide to continue it. But I hope it caught your attention and was intriguing. Here's the song by the way.
Little Black Submarines- The Black Keys
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Plans & Reveries
I spend a lot of time on campus these days starting and finishing term papers in the solitude (hopefully) of the arts computer lab. And again, here I am, another day looking over research to play the games of university, grades over intelligence, repetition over analysis, regurgitation over creation. Though it does push me to adapt and play by others' rules, and "everyone" knows how much I hate doing that.
Anyways, I'm writing a paper on the negativity bias (the tendency for adults to be more affected by negative information than positive) and there are a lot of interesting things regarding behavior that I hadn't thought about in this manner. For example, one of the findings is that negative memories are told with regard to introspection and a focus on emotion while positive memories are told with more attention to events. It's obvious, it's common sense, and yet I hadn't fully considered the fluid role of memory in regard to our emotions.
Building upon the notions of memory, young children have great memories, 3 year olds will remember with vivid detail the events of vacations and pain for occurrences for months and years. Yet, other than a few distinct instances (some of which are false memories constructed to fit our present 'self', for further reading start with Adler) these memories fade and blur. It's almost like our conscious lives as children is completely foreign to our current conscious state. Like that time spent as kids was an entirely different life, a life that left a great deal of residue in the present, but that is separate, untouchable, nearly alien.
Each brick becomes a permanent part of that structure we call our 'self', but how much of reality of the brick matters? is the core of the event what matters, the "material" of the brick. Or does the sloppy paint job we've thrown over it matter more? Does the metaphorical brick become cement if painted that way?
On an unrelated note, go watch Jacob's Ladder immediately, it's a psychological horror film made in the early 90s, it uses zero post production effects, once you have, come talk to me about it.
Anyways, I'm writing a paper on the negativity bias (the tendency for adults to be more affected by negative information than positive) and there are a lot of interesting things regarding behavior that I hadn't thought about in this manner. For example, one of the findings is that negative memories are told with regard to introspection and a focus on emotion while positive memories are told with more attention to events. It's obvious, it's common sense, and yet I hadn't fully considered the fluid role of memory in regard to our emotions.
Building upon the notions of memory, young children have great memories, 3 year olds will remember with vivid detail the events of vacations and pain for occurrences for months and years. Yet, other than a few distinct instances (some of which are false memories constructed to fit our present 'self', for further reading start with Adler) these memories fade and blur. It's almost like our conscious lives as children is completely foreign to our current conscious state. Like that time spent as kids was an entirely different life, a life that left a great deal of residue in the present, but that is separate, untouchable, nearly alien.
Each brick becomes a permanent part of that structure we call our 'self', but how much of reality of the brick matters? is the core of the event what matters, the "material" of the brick. Or does the sloppy paint job we've thrown over it matter more? Does the metaphorical brick become cement if painted that way?
On an unrelated note, go watch Jacob's Ladder immediately, it's a psychological horror film made in the early 90s, it uses zero post production effects, once you have, come talk to me about it.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Chasing Kaleidoscope Dreams
So I was driving back from Banff starting at 4:30am after a number of sleep deprived nights and I was listening to a high school CD and I came across a band that I had forgotten about a couple years ago: Motion City Soundtrack.
What a beautiful emo band- 2 songs stick out as my favourites from the time
L.G. Fuad- I was always attracted to this song, (who wasn't as a teen?). But I think in hindsight it is even more relevant than I first thought. Especially during my 18th year of living.
When You're Around- (acoustic version) This song went hand in hand with LG Fuad (in discovery), though it isn't as recklessly self-destructive as the last. In retrospect I think it marks my 19th year pretty well. I'm not really a fan of the original version though.
B-B-B-BONUS TRACK
The Future Freaks Me Out
Because this song is way too damn classic from my neck of the woods
Shout-out to Ross for introducing me to this band an odd 10 years ago (though he doesn't know this blog exist)
According to Wikipedia this marks the Tin/Aluminum anniversary (That is, if I had married the band on the first date)
What a beautiful emo band- 2 songs stick out as my favourites from the time
L.G. Fuad- I was always attracted to this song, (who wasn't as a teen?). But I think in hindsight it is even more relevant than I first thought. Especially during my 18th year of living.
When You're Around- (acoustic version) This song went hand in hand with LG Fuad (in discovery), though it isn't as recklessly self-destructive as the last. In retrospect I think it marks my 19th year pretty well. I'm not really a fan of the original version though.
B-B-B-BONUS TRACK
The Future Freaks Me Out
Because this song is way too damn classic from my neck of the woods
Shout-out to Ross for introducing me to this band an odd 10 years ago (though he doesn't know this blog exist)
According to Wikipedia this marks the Tin/Aluminum anniversary (That is, if I had married the band on the first date)
Friday, June 8, 2012
Gotta Knock A Little Harder
"Words are always and forever beautiful lies, the enemies of logic, when you hear them you should run away, seal your ears with wax or drown them out with a lyre's song, lest you be seduced to your death; they don't tempt your body, they tempt your spirit, and no one can resist them." -TLP
There are two sides to why I love this quote so much, first is because of the poetry, not necessarily flow, but it expresses this over-the-top romantic idealism of Shakespeare. Referencing things like "lyres", using words like "lest, seal, wax" or metaphors "enemies of logic". But it is the culmination of all these elements which is perfected by the exaggeration: "forever beautiful lies". It's so meaningless. It's the type of line I'd find in a grade 9 kid's bad poetry book. I love "meaningful" things, but I can still laugh at them even if I completely understand them, I'm not insulting doing dramatic emotional expression, hell, I did that. But in retrospect I still can laugh at my, sometimes, overly-dramatic teenage emotions.
And yet, it also conveys a philosophical truth about communication. Words are symbols used to express concrete objects or abstract ideas. But because everyone person has a slightly different connotation to every word, especially for abstract ideas like emotions that require introspection. But, I think everyone knows that feeling of ambiguity about our own feelings or opinions. Our understanding of our self is flawed, and then we try to put that flawed understanding into words, and these words are interpreted by another person who has different heuristics. And then bang, not a single word is true, it's just impossible. But we believe we have the truth, and yet we are ignorant of our ignorance: the worst blockage to growth. For the person cannot grow if they do not recognize a weakness. They are all forever lies. Beautiful if we let them bring us joy, which they do.
It's both a ridiculous exaggeration while remaining a fundamental 'truth' about communication. Efficient and intelligent. Perfect.
edit: 100th post.
edit: 100th post.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
No Dawn, No Day, I'm Always In This Twilight
Florence + The Machine - Cosmic Love
A falling star fell from you heart and landed in my eyes
I screamed aloud, as it tore though them and now it's left me blind
The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart
And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat
I tried to find the sound
But then it stopped and I was in the darkness
So darkness I became
The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart
I took the stars from my eyes, and then I made a map
And knew that somehow I could find my way back
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you
The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart.
I screamed aloud, as it tore though them and now it's left me blind
The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart
And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat
I tried to find the sound
But then it stopped and I was in the darkness
So darkness I became
The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart
I took the stars from my eyes, and then I made a map
And knew that somehow I could find my way back
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you
The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart.
I don't even know where to start right now. Obviously there is a song posted right above, it's not brand new but it is quality, and charged with so much emotion. The pounding drums simulating the pounding heart communicate the perfect desperation for how I feel now. There is so much I want to say about this song, so I'll start with the beginning.
The introduction is perfect, it starts off sounding so romantic "a falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes". Oh, I get it, the singer is in love. wait, what's that? "I screamed aloud, as it tore through them and now it's left me blind". I love the extended metaphor about vision. The eyes have always been associated with knowledge, fore sight. The classic example is Prometheus from Greek mythology (no, not the alien prequel). So not only does this song play on the classic cliche that "love is blind" but it connects the two symbols together by bringing up the stars and moon.
At first it seems like an extension of the blindness, but these cosmic bodies symbolize the singer's future dreams. It's brilliant, the singer loses their sight (aka fore-sight) and thus can no longer see what her future will be. All expressed in 4 lines. Brilliant.
Continuing with the chorus, the reference to times of day is hopefully pretty obvious (a "new day" never comes, aka she is stuck in the "twilight": sadness, ambiguity). Although I believe in the individual responsibility of each person, I love how the singer says "left me in the dark" rather than a more accusing or angry response, it seems factual, not angry, or resentful, but the simple truth: I am in the darkness now, and you left me there to suffer. It's not your duty to help me out, but your heart casts a shadow over my existence.
I don't know about anyone else, but I've always felt that one specific period of my life has always cast a shadow over everything that has come after it.
Moving on, again, this song loves to continue with it's metaphors by referencing sound because the singer has lost their vision. beating heart: not just another person, but the love of another person. The singer is wandering helplessly looking for the sound leading them to the one person. But they cannot, so they become the darkness they feel they cannot escape.
The 2nd verse is filled with hope as the singer finds her own way back to where she belongs, perhaps she's in the darkness, perhaps forever, but she is no longer lost. it's appropriate for the song, and it fits well with the metaphors. However, as a personal opinion, I find it too idealistic, I don't know how many times I tried to find my way out of the darkness, how many maps I've drawn. In fact, every time I look at a map of myself I realize how lost I am. It reminds me of the forest dream I wrote about months ago. Not only that, but who is kidding themselves into thinking the people who hurt us the most are ever coming back to help us out of the darkness. Trust me, it doesn't happen.
Sorry, this post is getting a little cynical, gotta build some walls sometimes. Hope is important, hope is the only thing keeping everyone functioning. Once upon time I lost my hope. It never came back. I made more, but it was never the same.
There is this one past life I once had, sometimes I think about who I would have became, how I'd feel now if that life hadn't died. The problem is that starting new is impossible, and I carry that death inside of me where ever I go. Maybe carrying death makes me stronger, maybe it constantly sabotages my present, I'm not really sure but this quote from Spike Spiegel (from Cowboy Bebop) seems appropriate: "I've been seeing the past in one eye and the present in the other. So, I thought I could only see patches of reality, never the whole picture. I feel like I am watching dream that I can never wake up from."
I say all these things because I was reminded of something that can never be put into words. No matter how many times I've tried to communicate these ideas and emotions it always comes out wrong. I cant shake this feeling of being so close to where I've always wanted to be, but never could belong.
belong
that concept has always evaded me
But I will keep on going, that's what life is right? Even if I never fully belong I will always find a temporarily relief, just enough to keep improving.
Friday, June 1, 2012
The Words Have Gone, But The Meaning Will Never Disappear
So I haven't been writing frequently, which is good. I'm back because of a song, well, poem really. I want to remember this poem in the future when I look back here. The song is called Lovers' Carvings and I love how the lack of punctuation allows for different readings ever so slightly, and I love how the poem manages to communicate such universal feelings of love and loss without overwhelming one side (aka it was neither depressing nor cheesy).
Lovers' Carvings
Lovers' names, carved in walls
Overlap, start to merge
Some of them underneath
Maybe they appear
In graveyards
Maybe they fade away
Weathered and overgrown
Time has told
Meaningful hidden words
Suddenly appear from the murk
Maybe they're telling us
That the end
Never was
Never will
The words have gone
But the meaning will never disappear
From the wall
It's a good chill song too - Lovers' Carvings- Bibio
But I prefer this remix, it's similar - Lovers' Carvings - Bibio (Bruno Be & Eddie M Remix)
I absolutely love the lines "The words have gone / But the meaning will never disappear". I have been reading a lot about psychology, psychiatry, and applicable medicine (SSRIs, anti-psychotics, mood stabilizers etc.), and the one thing that constantly trumps medication is choice, not just an immediate choice, but habits, thought patterns. What we think about, how we think, what media we consume, who we interact with, our "identity" comes down to what we do. Research has shown that even the briefest glance at a picture will prime for a future association (about 93% in one study). This means that if we constantly occupy our time with thoughts and media of anger, resentment, fear, then these will prime our future interpretations of events which effects our behavior, what we consume and think change how we act. and you get to to choose what you dwell on.
This applies to the line because the majority of our thoughts, our actions, who we spend time with, who we've loved, who has hurt us, nearly everything, ever, becomes a part of our identity, but we get to choose how. Do you dwell on the pain? do you focus on growth and trust or harbor doubt and fear?
what it should say is:
The words have gone, but their meaning to us will never disappear
(it shouldn't actually say this, it would ruin the poetry, but for the point I'm trying to make it should)
Lovers' Carvings
Lovers' names, carved in walls
Overlap, start to merge
Some of them underneath
Maybe they appear
In graveyards
Maybe they fade away
Weathered and overgrown
Time has told
Meaningful hidden words
Suddenly appear from the murk
Maybe they're telling us
That the end
Never was
Never will
The words have gone
But the meaning will never disappear
From the wall
It's a good chill song too - Lovers' Carvings- Bibio
But I prefer this remix, it's similar - Lovers' Carvings - Bibio (Bruno Be & Eddie M Remix)
I absolutely love the lines "The words have gone / But the meaning will never disappear". I have been reading a lot about psychology, psychiatry, and applicable medicine (SSRIs, anti-psychotics, mood stabilizers etc.), and the one thing that constantly trumps medication is choice, not just an immediate choice, but habits, thought patterns. What we think about, how we think, what media we consume, who we interact with, our "identity" comes down to what we do. Research has shown that even the briefest glance at a picture will prime for a future association (about 93% in one study). This means that if we constantly occupy our time with thoughts and media of anger, resentment, fear, then these will prime our future interpretations of events which effects our behavior, what we consume and think change how we act. and you get to to choose what you dwell on.
This applies to the line because the majority of our thoughts, our actions, who we spend time with, who we've loved, who has hurt us, nearly everything, ever, becomes a part of our identity, but we get to choose how. Do you dwell on the pain? do you focus on growth and trust or harbor doubt and fear?
what it should say is:
The words have gone, but their meaning to us will never disappear
(it shouldn't actually say this, it would ruin the poetry, but for the point I'm trying to make it should)
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Curbside Goodbye
I suppose it's time to once again blow the dust off this blog and use it to immortalize how shitty I feel. I understand that I've already filled pages upon pages with rants and frustrations. I know how futile this, but for some reason I am compelled to write more. I woke up this morning with an overarching feeling of uselessness. As if everything I strive for and everything that is important to me is merely the ravings of a lunatic.
Obviously, I wouldn't be writing unless I felt depressed, that's the purpose of this ol' blog. However, this time, I have nothing to reflect upon, nothing to improve. Spoiler alert: I got dumped. Summary: my personality is so shitty that anything short of a complete overhaul of my identity would have been futile. I didn't make any giant mistake, I JUST AM NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR HER. Everything she liked about me in the beginning are the reasons she didn't want to be with me anymore. And if there is a way to insult a person more than by saying you hate everything about their personality, someone post it in the comments. HAHA, the joke's on me, no one reads this or comments.
"Good", as I understand, is subjective and it's equally useless to try and live up to some criteria where all of a sudden your life magically changes. And, I understand that qualities in people are not polarized nor are they "correct". People have preferences about what they want in another person. Of course there are commonalities that are cited often (funny, smart, honest, blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah). But once again, even though people use the same word, everyone has a unique definition for what they mean when it's used.
For me, this is extremely frustrating because apparently I just fucking suck. And this isn't the first person to not want to date me because apparently my personality is garbage, and they both explicitly said it. I'm not sure why so much of my happiness and stability relies on woman. I've mentioned this before, but not that they do anything for me, just being in a relationship makes me more confident and happier about everything, always. Even when I purposefully was single I just felt like garbage all the time.
My relationships constantly end in disaster and it's my fault because I choose them and because I bring my own problems too. I don't hate myself, but when I date people different from me they hate me, and if I met someone who was like myself, I'd probably hate them.
I don't know if that last part is true. Actually, I don't know if any of this is true.
Fuck, this year turned around so quickly, such a happy start, looked promising. Goddamn I'm a miserable bastard.
Obviously, I wouldn't be writing unless I felt depressed, that's the purpose of this ol' blog. However, this time, I have nothing to reflect upon, nothing to improve. Spoiler alert: I got dumped. Summary: my personality is so shitty that anything short of a complete overhaul of my identity would have been futile. I didn't make any giant mistake, I JUST AM NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR HER. Everything she liked about me in the beginning are the reasons she didn't want to be with me anymore. And if there is a way to insult a person more than by saying you hate everything about their personality, someone post it in the comments. HAHA, the joke's on me, no one reads this or comments.
"Good", as I understand, is subjective and it's equally useless to try and live up to some criteria where all of a sudden your life magically changes. And, I understand that qualities in people are not polarized nor are they "correct". People have preferences about what they want in another person. Of course there are commonalities that are cited often (funny, smart, honest, blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah). But once again, even though people use the same word, everyone has a unique definition for what they mean when it's used.
For me, this is extremely frustrating because apparently I just fucking suck. And this isn't the first person to not want to date me because apparently my personality is garbage, and they both explicitly said it. I'm not sure why so much of my happiness and stability relies on woman. I've mentioned this before, but not that they do anything for me, just being in a relationship makes me more confident and happier about everything, always. Even when I purposefully was single I just felt like garbage all the time.
My relationships constantly end in disaster and it's my fault because I choose them and because I bring my own problems too. I don't hate myself, but when I date people different from me they hate me, and if I met someone who was like myself, I'd probably hate them.
I don't know if that last part is true. Actually, I don't know if any of this is true.
Fuck, this year turned around so quickly, such a happy start, looked promising. Goddamn I'm a miserable bastard.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Smoke and Mirrors
I don't like the fact that people refuse to understand themselves. They listen to whatever nonconscious influences they have developed without knowing where they came from or what function they have.
Some people get distant when confronted with conflict, others get emotional, or fearful, or abusive. All these behaviors are adaptive and do not represent reality, but merely the defense mechanisms they learned to use. Yet, people treat them as truth. This becomes particularly frustrating when people tell you what they think is truth, and they're not lying per se. But, because they don't understand themselves, they don't know that they have been lying until someone has already been devastated, be it someone who cares for them or themselves.
I am guilty of this before and I am dearly sorry for any and all pain that I have caused others. I have always worked diligently to know myself, I may not have been successful, but I did the best I can.
I have this sinking feeling that this concept is going to end up hurting me very much soon. I want to believe people, and I do, so when the truth surprises both parties I take the fall harder because I trust completely, essentially gambling. The worst part is that I'm probably creating problems that never used to exist. My insecurities are my self-destruction.
I may not be that different from other people, but I think I know what I don't know, which is a lot more than most people can say. Hopefully, it brings me closer to the truth (whatever that means). I'm just a chauffeur and a tag-along, and I guess that would be okay if other people acknowledged it. But they tell me lies of grandeur, and I don't appreciate my hopes being crushed, because I believe their siren songs, at least for a little while.
I might not understand all that I say, but I know that I mean it.
Some people get distant when confronted with conflict, others get emotional, or fearful, or abusive. All these behaviors are adaptive and do not represent reality, but merely the defense mechanisms they learned to use. Yet, people treat them as truth. This becomes particularly frustrating when people tell you what they think is truth, and they're not lying per se. But, because they don't understand themselves, they don't know that they have been lying until someone has already been devastated, be it someone who cares for them or themselves.
I am guilty of this before and I am dearly sorry for any and all pain that I have caused others. I have always worked diligently to know myself, I may not have been successful, but I did the best I can.
I have this sinking feeling that this concept is going to end up hurting me very much soon. I want to believe people, and I do, so when the truth surprises both parties I take the fall harder because I trust completely, essentially gambling. The worst part is that I'm probably creating problems that never used to exist. My insecurities are my self-destruction.
I may not be that different from other people, but I think I know what I don't know, which is a lot more than most people can say. Hopefully, it brings me closer to the truth (whatever that means). I'm just a chauffeur and a tag-along, and I guess that would be okay if other people acknowledged it. But they tell me lies of grandeur, and I don't appreciate my hopes being crushed, because I believe their siren songs, at least for a little while.
I might not understand all that I say, but I know that I mean it.
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