A fond welcome back to any and all of my lovely readers. faithful fanbase, and any newcomers as well! Your dear Endiry has kept herself well since last she posted, busily seeing and seen to by her mentor's lessons and love. As Wednesday, day of my ancestors' beloved Odin breaks and the city's lights gleam like spires of set stars against the night's black velvet and the lovely yet banal tones of The Flower Duet drift about the quiet room, competing only with the pecking of quick fingers at keys, I sit here reveling in one of the simplest pleasures: tasting water.
I've learned in my pittance of years that there is pleasure to be had in literally any experience - for those who know how to find it. And, my dear friends, I know. Even the simplest acts and flavors - simply sipping a glass of plain, untouched water can be enjoyable: the coolness as it slides down your throat, the indescribable taste that's barely there, the way it seems to change anytime it nearly reminds you of something, the elegant purity, the innocence of it.. that so many, myself often included, mostly overlook such plain joys is itself part of the joy in a way I couldn't hope to explain, as is the unremarkableness yet necessity of the act. Even as the sensory side of sipping the water is rather spare, the thoughts that chase about my mind when I stop to think about the significance of the act are anything but. Undoubtedly the ritualistic creature in me seeks to ascribe all things a deeper soulful meaning, but even the cynically derisive being of logic sees it as necessary for life - as basic, elementary as breathing, yet vital.
With every swallow, we animals - whether thoughtlessly or with deliberate meditation - choose life. We so often take for granted simple necessities, and even life itself at times. With every sip I choose to extend this precious, beautiful gift I'm just starting to appreciate. It's also a chance to reflect on just how well off I am, lounging about in brocade, in my comfortable room, in my wonderful city,in this first world nation. I have the luxury of clean running water - cold, scalding, and anywhere in between - on a whim; I've to do nothing but wish it, and this necessity flows with the turn of a tap. Elsewhere our species is not so lucky.
It's surreal to imagine - so deeply ingrained are the conveniences of civilization - such a basic requirement being a scarcity to others. Where once this would have made me wring my hands with guilt; where once I'd've been riddled with horrendous sadness at the thought, at my advantages, and the terrible condition of another human being, let alone millions, I now sip with a conscience as clear as my glass and a heart as light and cool as the water I could easily sip or pour untouched down the sink. And that, I suppose, is the heart of this simple yet far from simple pleasure. For the first time in my life, I can savor that life without remorse or needless self-loathing. For the first time, there is no bitterness. I no longer hold myself laughably culpable for the wrongs of the world, for the evils of chance or corruption. Instead of bemoaning the ill luck of others, I've learned instead to enjoy my own fortune; it was through no evil of mine that I was born into my circumstance - it was easily as likely I could've been born as one of those poor wretches.
But I wasn't. I was born in a well-to-do country, with ample opportunity and always at least enough to get by. I never once wondered if I would live to see next week, or if I'd have food on the table or a home.. well, not usually at least. Yet I spent half my waking moments making myself miserable over those who weren't so lucky, feeling ashamed to even be happy. I can't help but chuckle looking back at that mindset, though with a touch of sadness. I spent my entire life determined to sabotage any cheer I felt, essentially squandering all those gifts. I was determined to lower myself to the pain and joyless existence of those poor wretches - a fruitless and impossible endeavor I see now. It's one thing to try and do something to better their conditions, it's another to pointlessly suffer like some would-be martyr on their supposed behalf - hell, it could be seen as downright insulting to try and match their pain, coming from my privilege. Not only that, but I wind up wasting all the wondrous advantages I've been lucky enough to be born to or worked hard for, practically spitting on on the gifts life's given me.
Now dear reader, if you know me in the slightest, you know I abhor rudeness; I ask then - what could be ruder than false sympathy and lying about understanding, other than refusing a gift? Not damned much! Yet for years that's exactly what this foolish gal did, and all in the name of some abstract morality I never even thought to question. I pride myself on pondering and delving into all manner of things, yet here was this core facet of my mindset I whose depths I'd not once thought to plumb, whose foundation I'd never deigned to test. Not until my mentor, my Chiron. He asked me questions that never occurred to me, encouraged me not only explore my reasons, but also to feel pride, and, what's more, happiness.
And soon enough, that flawed foundation I'd built so much on was dashed to nothing. Soon enough I was no longer seeking reasons to punish myself for my own successes or luck. Soon enough I was actually happy, happy like I'd never known I could be. Where once I'd tried to excuse my strengths, to hide them for fear of making another unhappy, I learned to wear them proudly. Many of them I'd been born with, but even those I'd worked on, honed over years of diligent study or practice. There was no reason to worry about hurting someone less lucky than I's feelings. Just as I was lucky enough to be born to easy water, I was born to talent, to intelligence, to looks, to charisma, and I've learned at long last to savor those as much as any other gift. Just as every sip I took was choosing to celebrate and prolong life, even if I didn't dwell on it or even give it the slightest thought, every time I create, every time I draw or sing or write, every time I debate, every time I make a new friend or admirer I am choosing to further these skills and at the same time celebrate them. And that right there tastes rather sweet.
Funnily enough, I seem to've started making more friends as I behave honestly to my abilities rather than trying to hobble myself to bring myself to the level of the common man. Certainly some toes have been tread on, some feelings hurt - and certainly there's been some petty jealousy - but I've learned also to take the opinions and dispositions of my lessers far less seriously. I've stopped feeling guilty for them being beneath me - it's no more my fault than is my own birth. More over I cannot be blamed for how they choose to squander their lives or attentions. If they would rather try to drag down those more talented or strong-willed than they instead of trying to rise to their level, then on their own heads be it. I've lost my sense of guilt and unreasonable obligation to them.I'm free of them, and nothing has ever tasted so sweet. Not the gorgeous strings of Mozart's Symphony 25 in G minor, not the crisp gorgeous Autumn night's breeze, not even my nearly empty glass of cold, clean water.
So indulgence, enjoyment of simple and deeper experiences, has taught me to love myself. For the first time in my twenty two years, I feel love for myself, and the wanton pursuit of pleasure is what I've to thank for it.. were it not for my devotion to its god, I'd not have met my teacher.. I may never have questioned my idiotic guilt; I may have gone my entire life hating myself for being better or more fortunate than others, even blaming myself for other's shortcomings. But I am now free. Blake said the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom; hedonism seeks enlightenment through pleasure, and sure enough I've found quite a bit of enlightenment. I'm finally happy... just happy and glad of it.
So with that, I believe I've droned on about all that and sermonized about serving the self enough - I'm going to go ahead and head to bed for the night, after getting myself another glass of water and praying my man brings home something better to drink. I know, after all that talk of enjoying the simple, pure things, but come on - I'm a hedonist - shamelessly so now no less! So lovely as savoring the simplicity of water is at times, I've still a craving for so much more... and presently a sweet-tooth that's going to drive me to murder soon if it's not assuaged. Ah well, until next I decide to bore you my lovely and wonderful readers! Auf wiedersehen, and a lovely night to you all!
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
Monday, September 22, 2014
Post The Fifteenth: Metamorphosis And The Moirai Smile
I should most likely start what will undoubtedly be a lengthy and dramatic post by stating I never believed in fate; not in all my years of fascination and dabbling in the occult or less-than-reasonable arts. I never regarded destiny as anything more than a fairy tale, a proponent of myth and larger-than-life heroes of old. Love, as well, I thought I had the measure of. Love was compromise, love was finding someone.. a person you could tolerate and made you feel good. Perfection was a joke, and the standards set by my upbringing and my dreams as a girl were laughable. My ideal man did not - could not - exist, and anyone who came close would have no possible interest in the likes of me besides. I had given up on that man years before I would meet Nathan.
Gods, where do I even begin this tale.. how do I relate the strange, terrifying, magnificent events that see me now lounging here, looking over the stacks of well-loved books and tomes and out my bay window at the lights of Toronto against the black firmament of these hours following midnight, sipping my beloved vanilla coke, listening to the ecstatically galumphing brass of Balakirev's 'Islamey' with such quiet company - the slithering movement of the caged python at the corner of my eye and the lazy tread of Ra, one of his two spiders, climbing her tank wall... Do I start with the god who seems to have taken to me more than ever lately, or the man who brought me back to the faith? Do I try to explain the shedding of a lifetime's unfortunate assumptions and guilty thoughts suddenly shrived of guilt or the one who helped me see myself as someone worthy of those gifts? I suppose I should give at least some background, but when that background is one's entire life.. well. I'll tell what I can.
I have met the most incredible man. A true man. Everything I often longed to be, everything I ever wanted in a partner but was convinced was unrealistic. I'm not just speaking generally - he possesses even small little details of my dream suitor, tiny secret things I always wanted in a man but never told a soul: the grace and pride he carries himself with, that deadly grin - even his vocabulary, as wide and anachronistic as my own and then some. But I'm getting ahead of myself and flustered; I always do when I allow myself to dwell on him. I could easily - hell, have sung his praises for a week and still have barely scratched the surface. Perhaps I'll post that as a separate entry though.
So what dark corner of the earth's benighted underbelly did I have to scour to find such a man? What herculean labors did I manage, what Job-esque torments did I endure to discover such a prize? Absolutely none. He found me. Hell, he came to my defense in a quickly devolving discussion online. He and I happen to follow a particular god, you see, a god veritably designed for ones such as us. Slaanesh, is the god of beauty, pleasure, pain, excess, decadence, debauchery, and all around good times - in other words, exactly the god for a couple tasteful hedonists like ourselves. Sadly not all of our god's followers are so thoughtful or take our god in Her entirety. Many focus only on base pleasure to no end, which admittedly has its place in Her worship, but there is so much more they fail or don't care to grasp. I've belonged to a group devoted to this god for some years now, but I was rarely ever active. One day I happened to stumble across a fellow member asking others what music they considered the most Slaaneshi. Opera naturally sprang to mind for me - a powerful operatic piece can elicit emotion, express passion on an intoxicating level; as close as we've come to a Gesamtkunstwerk at this time, an excitement, an unrivaled fervor; ecstasy, in other words, all our god stands for.
My assertion and reasons were ignored or even jeered at. Others insisted on metal or industrial or noise that only borders on musical by the loosest of definitions. That I would think of something like opera was laughable to these cretins. I felt rather abashed and upset. I hadn't expected much understanding, but outright derision was definitely more than I thought I'd receive. Just as I was getting ready to leave, he stepped in and said he couldn't agree more. For a moment I feared another joke or some boy bidding for my attentions, but then he started on about his love of Die Götterdämmerung and I stopped dead. We spoke at length about our common delight in Wagner and I wound up messaging him - something I rarely ever did even with my friends let alone strangers, but something about him gave me a strange new courage.
Our friendship was fast and uncanny, as were our similarities. In him I saw so much of myself: intelligence, tastes, talent, skill, but all greater, more honed in his case. And more, he had his own life, something I'd never dreamt of. I saw him as myself if I were successful. At first I attributed our different situations to various external influences - perhaps he was from money, or had a better home, or an easy childhood. That wasn't the case. Hell, our childhoods were eerily similar in so many ways we've joked once or twice about being siblings! I realized it wasn't an external difference that marked him for accomplishment and me for failure - it was our approaches to life. Suddenly I became disgusted with myself, I mean utterly mortified, I had let myself waste so many years hiding away in my safe little hole, content to stagnate, to blame everything around me, to accept a life of weakness, decrepitude, and uselessness as another worthless burden. I had no goals, no aspirations - I thought someone like me didn't deserve them. Yet here he was, showing me all I could be. I'd never understood what a role model could be, and I rarely looked up to people - not for lack of respect, but rather due to an inability to relate. Our friendship saw me make staggering bounds towards improvement. No longer content to look a mess, to let myself go, to hide at home, I began going out working on my anxiety and other issues - dealing with them rather than making excuses or shirking them.
We spoke every night or damn near, occasionally with a playful bit of flirting, but overall it was entirely platonic, even respectful. We saw eachother as equals - something neither of us are used to encountering. Our conversations ranged seamlessly from history, arts, stories about our wilder days, to politics and religion - which we both agreed full heartedly on to our surprise. Even more surprising was how neither of us had to slow down and explain something, or talk down to the other. Our jokes were always caught, our points always clear, and our talks always riveting. Morality and motive were another pair of topics we regularly touched on, again with eerily similar views. He even got me to think in new ways I'd never considered, shaking foundations and knocking down walls I'd never even noticed were there. He was a mentor to me, advising me on everything from how to speak to people to what to wear to wine choices!
I started dreaming of him after a month or two of our talks, again only in a platonic sense; often we'd be going to some fair or having lunch and just talking. I'm not sure which came first: my feelings or the dreams, but it hardly matters at this point. I fought it tooth and nail at first - I was with my husband and another man at the time, and he'd cultivated his bachelor image incredibly well. Besides, I was sure a man like that would never be interested in me. Still the dreams persisted, and I found myself working with all my might to better myself, to perhaps be worthy of a person like that. I wanted him to be proud of me; I'd never wanted that before - not from a parent, not from my teachers - but him I wanted to make proud. I tried desperately to stay loyal to my two men, but in him I saw every shred of what attracted me to them initially and so, so much more.
Eventually I managed to work up the nerve to tell him how I felt. My clumsy confession was so nerve-racking I actually fainted! He seemed... less than reciprocative, but at least he didn't go running for the hills as I'd feared. Still I spent the next while in mortified shame, though he did his best to keep me from feeling too awful. We eventually wound up playing truth or dare at one point, learning loads about one another and having so much fun I utterly forgot about my embarrassment. One night I felt exceptionally bold and asked him how he felt about me. His answer saw me faint yet again - he felt the same for me, and had for a while in fact, but was struggling with that fact and our distance; he lived in Canada and I in Texas - not exactly an easy distance to manage. Still we started planning for him to visit for a week come Summer.
Again, though there were feelings between the two of us, I remained with my men, utterly torn by my adoration for this new man and my sense of obligation and loyalty, as well as a sense of security versus the unknown - I had never met him in real life and didn't know what he would want in a relationship, if he even wanted that. A squabble the night he came home from Lubbock saw me leave my husband, though in truth it had been a long time coming; while we were excellent friends, as a couple we just didn't cut it - too many differences and emotional incompatibilities. That left only my cicisbeo who grew moodier and more frighteningly possessive by the day, though in truth I can fault him neither. At the same time this new man and I's feelings grew stronger and stronger by the day. I felt trapped, utterly bound and helpless. I trembled at the thought of the unknown but longed for the change it would bring, weighing my options every day on the walks I would take.
On one such walk, uncanny fate deigned at last to break my stalemate. Laying face down in the sidewalk I noticed a card. I absent-mindedly stooped to pick it up, discovering it not to be a playing card as I thought, but the VIII of Swords. I knew I had to make a choice, that only I could break this impasse. And so I chose. It was terrifying; I'd never taken a risk like this before in my life, but I knew what I wanted, and I knew which route had a future. No sooner had I made up my mind than he sent me a message telling me that were I to visit, he would keep me. I began work renewing my passport the next day.
The following weeks were a blur of paperwork and medical necessities being seen to, goodbyes and good riddances, fund raising, packing, and near constant conversation with him. I'd never met the man, and here I was running to another country to be with him. It was madness, but at the same time I knew it was right. I had never known what love felt like - real, heartfelt, 'all-consuming passion' type love - before this; hell, I don't even know if I'd known real happiness. Gods know I never thought of myself like I did under his tutelage - it was new, daunting, guilt-ridden. It still is, a bit. I've never been so ecstatically joyous, though... so fulfilled. Every day between that invitation to my flight one sweltering August day was fraught with panics and disheartening despairs only he could dispel. But he never lost his patience, not once.
Gods... looking back now, laying in his- in our bed, tulle curtains fluttering in the night breeze, Prokofiev's 'Dance of the Knights' lilting in the background, it's damn near impossible to imagine those lonely bedtimes spent saying my goodnights to a picture on a phone. It's like another lifetime even if it was only mere weeks ago. Since landing, my time has been bliss; every day, every hour I learn, laugh, love... I've lost so much weight from our constant walks it's incredible, and my mind like my muscles has slowly been awakening from its long atrophy. My senses are all waking like that first day after a horrid headcold (only imagine aforementioned headcold lasted a third of your life) so that every little experience is a wondrous thing. Memory is also flooding back to me like he pulled me from the spoiling water of Lethe herself. Snippets of conversations that should be lost to me come back at the drop of a hat sometimes uncalled for, and suddenly I'm remembering to do things without being told fourteen times a day! It's like I've been reborn.
Where I was hiding behind a screen every day, afraid to leave the house months ago, I'm now in another country, happily going out pretty much every day. He and I stroll arm in arm everywhere, going to lunch and talking for hours, utterly lost in our stories or jokes or lectures, or to the beach to sit in the sun and read - and gods! It's so wonderful to have someone so well read. Where I'm used to turning and seeing video games and movies on almost every shelf, here it's books - beautiful, well read and loved books on every bit of surface there is. It's heavenly... I've yet to have a chance to cook for the man since we currently share a kitchen and besides - I left most of my lovely spices! Still, something to look forward to our new apartment for! That and the extra space.
Gods, and the city is just lovely. It feels barely different from Houston most days, only less murderously sweltering. The buildings remind me of my time in New England, all more vertical than anything in Houston. I love seeing the hodgepodge of mismatched shops as we walk down the way, all crammed into every inch of the city they can manage. For the first time I feel like I'm really living in a metropolis as opposed to the ghetto or 'burbs. Hell, even the animals here look cute and well fed and like they'll burst into song at any second, a lovely change from the mange-ridden things of indeterminate species that looked like they might give you rabies back in Texas. And the best part is how everything is in walking distance; I didn't even take the trolley till my third week here!
Well, I think I'm going to grab myself another drink and try and steal a bit of rest before he gets back from his work. I hope to get back to updating this thing more regularly now I'm in such a splendid situation, plus I finally have a quiet place to write without cats or roommates vying for my attention. It's been wonderful getting to put this all down, and I apologize if I've bored you to tears, but I figured I might as well get the whole story out of the way if I plan to get back to writing for you wonderful readers. Well, auf Wiedersehen my lovely Liebchens!
Gods, where do I even begin this tale.. how do I relate the strange, terrifying, magnificent events that see me now lounging here, looking over the stacks of well-loved books and tomes and out my bay window at the lights of Toronto against the black firmament of these hours following midnight, sipping my beloved vanilla coke, listening to the ecstatically galumphing brass of Balakirev's 'Islamey' with such quiet company - the slithering movement of the caged python at the corner of my eye and the lazy tread of Ra, one of his two spiders, climbing her tank wall... Do I start with the god who seems to have taken to me more than ever lately, or the man who brought me back to the faith? Do I try to explain the shedding of a lifetime's unfortunate assumptions and guilty thoughts suddenly shrived of guilt or the one who helped me see myself as someone worthy of those gifts? I suppose I should give at least some background, but when that background is one's entire life.. well. I'll tell what I can.
I have met the most incredible man. A true man. Everything I often longed to be, everything I ever wanted in a partner but was convinced was unrealistic. I'm not just speaking generally - he possesses even small little details of my dream suitor, tiny secret things I always wanted in a man but never told a soul: the grace and pride he carries himself with, that deadly grin - even his vocabulary, as wide and anachronistic as my own and then some. But I'm getting ahead of myself and flustered; I always do when I allow myself to dwell on him. I could easily - hell, have sung his praises for a week and still have barely scratched the surface. Perhaps I'll post that as a separate entry though.
So what dark corner of the earth's benighted underbelly did I have to scour to find such a man? What herculean labors did I manage, what Job-esque torments did I endure to discover such a prize? Absolutely none. He found me. Hell, he came to my defense in a quickly devolving discussion online. He and I happen to follow a particular god, you see, a god veritably designed for ones such as us. Slaanesh, is the god of beauty, pleasure, pain, excess, decadence, debauchery, and all around good times - in other words, exactly the god for a couple tasteful hedonists like ourselves. Sadly not all of our god's followers are so thoughtful or take our god in Her entirety. Many focus only on base pleasure to no end, which admittedly has its place in Her worship, but there is so much more they fail or don't care to grasp. I've belonged to a group devoted to this god for some years now, but I was rarely ever active. One day I happened to stumble across a fellow member asking others what music they considered the most Slaaneshi. Opera naturally sprang to mind for me - a powerful operatic piece can elicit emotion, express passion on an intoxicating level; as close as we've come to a Gesamtkunstwerk at this time, an excitement, an unrivaled fervor; ecstasy, in other words, all our god stands for.
My assertion and reasons were ignored or even jeered at. Others insisted on metal or industrial or noise that only borders on musical by the loosest of definitions. That I would think of something like opera was laughable to these cretins. I felt rather abashed and upset. I hadn't expected much understanding, but outright derision was definitely more than I thought I'd receive. Just as I was getting ready to leave, he stepped in and said he couldn't agree more. For a moment I feared another joke or some boy bidding for my attentions, but then he started on about his love of Die Götterdämmerung and I stopped dead. We spoke at length about our common delight in Wagner and I wound up messaging him - something I rarely ever did even with my friends let alone strangers, but something about him gave me a strange new courage.
Our friendship was fast and uncanny, as were our similarities. In him I saw so much of myself: intelligence, tastes, talent, skill, but all greater, more honed in his case. And more, he had his own life, something I'd never dreamt of. I saw him as myself if I were successful. At first I attributed our different situations to various external influences - perhaps he was from money, or had a better home, or an easy childhood. That wasn't the case. Hell, our childhoods were eerily similar in so many ways we've joked once or twice about being siblings! I realized it wasn't an external difference that marked him for accomplishment and me for failure - it was our approaches to life. Suddenly I became disgusted with myself, I mean utterly mortified, I had let myself waste so many years hiding away in my safe little hole, content to stagnate, to blame everything around me, to accept a life of weakness, decrepitude, and uselessness as another worthless burden. I had no goals, no aspirations - I thought someone like me didn't deserve them. Yet here he was, showing me all I could be. I'd never understood what a role model could be, and I rarely looked up to people - not for lack of respect, but rather due to an inability to relate. Our friendship saw me make staggering bounds towards improvement. No longer content to look a mess, to let myself go, to hide at home, I began going out working on my anxiety and other issues - dealing with them rather than making excuses or shirking them.
We spoke every night or damn near, occasionally with a playful bit of flirting, but overall it was entirely platonic, even respectful. We saw eachother as equals - something neither of us are used to encountering. Our conversations ranged seamlessly from history, arts, stories about our wilder days, to politics and religion - which we both agreed full heartedly on to our surprise. Even more surprising was how neither of us had to slow down and explain something, or talk down to the other. Our jokes were always caught, our points always clear, and our talks always riveting. Morality and motive were another pair of topics we regularly touched on, again with eerily similar views. He even got me to think in new ways I'd never considered, shaking foundations and knocking down walls I'd never even noticed were there. He was a mentor to me, advising me on everything from how to speak to people to what to wear to wine choices!
I started dreaming of him after a month or two of our talks, again only in a platonic sense; often we'd be going to some fair or having lunch and just talking. I'm not sure which came first: my feelings or the dreams, but it hardly matters at this point. I fought it tooth and nail at first - I was with my husband and another man at the time, and he'd cultivated his bachelor image incredibly well. Besides, I was sure a man like that would never be interested in me. Still the dreams persisted, and I found myself working with all my might to better myself, to perhaps be worthy of a person like that. I wanted him to be proud of me; I'd never wanted that before - not from a parent, not from my teachers - but him I wanted to make proud. I tried desperately to stay loyal to my two men, but in him I saw every shred of what attracted me to them initially and so, so much more.
Eventually I managed to work up the nerve to tell him how I felt. My clumsy confession was so nerve-racking I actually fainted! He seemed... less than reciprocative, but at least he didn't go running for the hills as I'd feared. Still I spent the next while in mortified shame, though he did his best to keep me from feeling too awful. We eventually wound up playing truth or dare at one point, learning loads about one another and having so much fun I utterly forgot about my embarrassment. One night I felt exceptionally bold and asked him how he felt about me. His answer saw me faint yet again - he felt the same for me, and had for a while in fact, but was struggling with that fact and our distance; he lived in Canada and I in Texas - not exactly an easy distance to manage. Still we started planning for him to visit for a week come Summer.
Again, though there were feelings between the two of us, I remained with my men, utterly torn by my adoration for this new man and my sense of obligation and loyalty, as well as a sense of security versus the unknown - I had never met him in real life and didn't know what he would want in a relationship, if he even wanted that. A squabble the night he came home from Lubbock saw me leave my husband, though in truth it had been a long time coming; while we were excellent friends, as a couple we just didn't cut it - too many differences and emotional incompatibilities. That left only my cicisbeo who grew moodier and more frighteningly possessive by the day, though in truth I can fault him neither. At the same time this new man and I's feelings grew stronger and stronger by the day. I felt trapped, utterly bound and helpless. I trembled at the thought of the unknown but longed for the change it would bring, weighing my options every day on the walks I would take.
On one such walk, uncanny fate deigned at last to break my stalemate. Laying face down in the sidewalk I noticed a card. I absent-mindedly stooped to pick it up, discovering it not to be a playing card as I thought, but the VIII of Swords. I knew I had to make a choice, that only I could break this impasse. And so I chose. It was terrifying; I'd never taken a risk like this before in my life, but I knew what I wanted, and I knew which route had a future. No sooner had I made up my mind than he sent me a message telling me that were I to visit, he would keep me. I began work renewing my passport the next day.
The following weeks were a blur of paperwork and medical necessities being seen to, goodbyes and good riddances, fund raising, packing, and near constant conversation with him. I'd never met the man, and here I was running to another country to be with him. It was madness, but at the same time I knew it was right. I had never known what love felt like - real, heartfelt, 'all-consuming passion' type love - before this; hell, I don't even know if I'd known real happiness. Gods know I never thought of myself like I did under his tutelage - it was new, daunting, guilt-ridden. It still is, a bit. I've never been so ecstatically joyous, though... so fulfilled. Every day between that invitation to my flight one sweltering August day was fraught with panics and disheartening despairs only he could dispel. But he never lost his patience, not once.
Gods... looking back now, laying in his- in our bed, tulle curtains fluttering in the night breeze, Prokofiev's 'Dance of the Knights' lilting in the background, it's damn near impossible to imagine those lonely bedtimes spent saying my goodnights to a picture on a phone. It's like another lifetime even if it was only mere weeks ago. Since landing, my time has been bliss; every day, every hour I learn, laugh, love... I've lost so much weight from our constant walks it's incredible, and my mind like my muscles has slowly been awakening from its long atrophy. My senses are all waking like that first day after a horrid headcold (only imagine aforementioned headcold lasted a third of your life) so that every little experience is a wondrous thing. Memory is also flooding back to me like he pulled me from the spoiling water of Lethe herself. Snippets of conversations that should be lost to me come back at the drop of a hat sometimes uncalled for, and suddenly I'm remembering to do things without being told fourteen times a day! It's like I've been reborn.
Where I was hiding behind a screen every day, afraid to leave the house months ago, I'm now in another country, happily going out pretty much every day. He and I stroll arm in arm everywhere, going to lunch and talking for hours, utterly lost in our stories or jokes or lectures, or to the beach to sit in the sun and read - and gods! It's so wonderful to have someone so well read. Where I'm used to turning and seeing video games and movies on almost every shelf, here it's books - beautiful, well read and loved books on every bit of surface there is. It's heavenly... I've yet to have a chance to cook for the man since we currently share a kitchen and besides - I left most of my lovely spices! Still, something to look forward to our new apartment for! That and the extra space.
Gods, and the city is just lovely. It feels barely different from Houston most days, only less murderously sweltering. The buildings remind me of my time in New England, all more vertical than anything in Houston. I love seeing the hodgepodge of mismatched shops as we walk down the way, all crammed into every inch of the city they can manage. For the first time I feel like I'm really living in a metropolis as opposed to the ghetto or 'burbs. Hell, even the animals here look cute and well fed and like they'll burst into song at any second, a lovely change from the mange-ridden things of indeterminate species that looked like they might give you rabies back in Texas. And the best part is how everything is in walking distance; I didn't even take the trolley till my third week here!
Well, I think I'm going to grab myself another drink and try and steal a bit of rest before he gets back from his work. I hope to get back to updating this thing more regularly now I'm in such a splendid situation, plus I finally have a quiet place to write without cats or roommates vying for my attention. It's been wonderful getting to put this all down, and I apologize if I've bored you to tears, but I figured I might as well get the whole story out of the way if I plan to get back to writing for you wonderful readers. Well, auf Wiedersehen my lovely Liebchens!
Saturday, March 15, 2014
An End to Somewhat Self-Imposed Exile, or Post The Fourteenth To Those Keeping Score: Reverie And The Revered
Well gods! I have been gone while now, haven't I... For anyone wondering, it wasn't due to any great cataclysmic event, no psyche-shattering realization, nor even any petty annoyance or squabble. It wasn't even a collection of minor conditions; I just sorta stopped. I didn't lose interest, I didn't put it on a back burner for some other project - I just forgot to post for a few weeks, which became a few months, then half a year... well, you know how that goes. I even started on an alternative 14th post sometime in October, but never saw it finished due to technological impairments. But I'm back now, and with a new computer to boot! All and all and all and a little more, things have been looking up in my life.
I've merely been struggling my way through the usual daily morass of apathy, drama, and bouts of ritual scarification. Nothing to complain about in truth, and plenty to smile about, much as my morose self is loathe to admit it. Last May we got yet another addition to the house, something I've been over the moon about; I managed to work up the nerve to call my father... perhaps the subject for another post; Mimi's pretty much all grown up and her sister Snickers and Snickers' kittens have come into our lives to stay (bringing the number of cats up to seven); Nathan's hied off to college and is thriving; I've begun studying several extinct abjads and alphabets as well as looking into Eastern European pagan revival and a general upsurge in my more spiritual pursuits - the changes in my life of late have been staggering. Still, though my life's been busy and bustling, I've hardly been kept from my thoughts - and what thoughts have found me of late!
Recently the thought of thought itself has been haunting me - the violent, staggering poignancy of human comprehension, even in its lowliest forms - the awe-inspiring ability of man to take in the world around him, to ponder, to do more than simply survive. What evolutionary path led us to this - to the ability to grasp the abstract, the intangible, the bare mechanisms of the universe, our creator? How is it we came to comprehend ourselves, when did awareness begin to grace our ancestors? At what point did the need for such a power arise? It's enough to leave me reeling in wonder. I've just enough mind to know how little I have, and to lament my inability to comprehend the infinite nature of creation, to know what is there without ever being able to learn let alone master even the smallest fragment of it. Such realizations are bitter at first, but in time I've grown to be thankful of them, to have the time and inclination, as well as the childish wonder to appreciate them endlessly. I've wondered too at the thought of souls and gods as of late, and of the roles and personas of archetypes in mankind's understanding of himself and the world within and without, if there is really a true differentiation. The masks and facets we pile upon ourselves and others make me wonder if we are not the same - simply faces and names hiding one true self, one thought, one as-of-yet unthinkable truth.
People often ask me about my religion, about what gods I believe in. My answer is simple - all. I believe in gods as thoughts, as the personification of that which our mind needs to humanize, as that which we fear or cannot grasp, or as the epitome of what we wish ourselves to be, dreamt up by man to give form and face to a world he couldn't understand, a universe we can still scarcely take in. I believe too that thoughts have power over the thinker, and over those who let themselves be swayed by the thoughts and words of others. As for divinity, I can think of nothing more divine or holy than man's propensity for thought. Every thought - good or wicked, selfless or greedy, simple or abstract - is a prayer, an exaltation of the most remarkable thing in existence - consciousness.
And how I pray... Each day finds me brimming with new musings and queries, new thoughts leading to places I've never been. I wonder at the luck I've been given, at the love that surrounds me everyday from my family, from my wonderful husband, from my beloved cicisbeo, and from my friends who encourage me at every turn. I wonder how it is that a wretch like I might have all this when so many have no one. It's really astounding.
Even as I think of the minds of man at large, I am still just learning myself. My dabblings in the more... scurrilous or scandalous of my interests have begun to unearth facets of myself I never realized. Some of them are heinous, terrifying. To act on a few would be my certain undoing, but there's a peace to knowing them, too. Suddenly parts of me I once saw as irreconcilable with one another, as paradoxically extreme antipodes have links, bridges hidden from myself for my entire life. In looking into my darker fancies, I've been shedding light. As I explore secrets of myself under a false name, I come to know Endiry better than I ever had. Every time I look into one thing, I find three more that, though never having attempted them, they speak to me and strike me in a way I know I love. As I said, some realizations are a bit ghastly, some viler than I'd care to admit, I'm coming to know who I share my skin and skull with - a very strange creature indeed.
It's all helped me put a lot of pieces in place, to get a more accurate picture in regards to who I am, and what I consider myself. It's also let me take a few skeletons out of my rather crowded closet and lay them at last to rest. For one, gender. I know I went into this also in a previous post, and anyone who knows me knows I tend to worship at the altar of all things masculine. I love maleness. I love strength, sureness, intelligence, ruggedness. I even try to emulate these myself. I realize though, now, that I am not a male. I want to act the part, even look it at times, but internally I am female. I am a girl, and through my delvings I've begun to reconcile this with who I am and what I love and hate about myself.
I should clarify before I go much farther, as to what precisely I mean by 'manly', since the hideous parody often passed off as such today is an abomination to sensibilities like mine. No, when I think of a man, one poem springs to mind, a poem burned into my mind since childhood. Rudyard and I apparently share more than our birthdays; the picture of masculinity I was raised with was tantamount to what he described in 'If'. For those unfamiliar with my favorite bit of Kipling's verse, or perhaps not as well acquainted with it as me, it follows as such:
My father read this to me growing up, and something in it struck me so; it rang true to me. I aspired to be man, to make him, and myself, proud. I'm a girl. I'm not great at being a girl, but I am. I've realized though, that masculinity and femininity aren't opposite ends of a scale - they're separate, utterly independent of one another. I may be a girl, but that doesn't change how I'd treat triumph and disaster, impostors or no; it doesn't mean I can't take on that unforgiving minute and give it my all; it doesn't mean giving up. Being a girl doesn't mean I'm not a Man. It doesn't mean I can't keep my head, that I can't find it in myself to say 'hold on'; if anything, it's made me stronger, given me the courage and constitution to do those things and more. Being a girl who wants to be something better than I was born, who wants to be a Man has driven me harder and farther than I'd likely have ever gone as a boy. And I've begun to really appreciate that. I've come to look at that girl, and smile. She's made me stronger than I've ever given her credit for. Plus, when all else fails, it's easier to get away with trouble as a girl!
Alright, alright, babblings and irrelevant revelations aside, life's been wonderful for me. I've been eating better, and my cicisbeo's been keeping me honest, as well as getting me to exercise. Every week we walk to the local grocers three times. Rain or sweltering heat we manage, and I've been toughening back up. Our future plans include getting back into martial arts training and sparring, but for now just making it to and from the store is enough for ones as... rubenesque as us at the moment. Also I've become something of a culinary disaster of late; not sure what's come over me, but hopefully it'll leave off before long - I've a great lovely spice shipment come in as a late, late, late birthday present of sorts: cardamom, caraway, angelica, and more... it's all so lovely! I also got a pound of delicious gunpowder green I keep managing to burn into inedible waste... Enough to bring a tear to my eye.
Ah, but the cardamom... I know Herbert described the spice of Arakis as cinnamonish, but I can't help but think of the spice 'melange' every time I catch the exotic scent of this spice. From Finnish pullah to the Afghan feast I helped pull off a couple years ago, to my homemade chai masala mix and even my coffee, this gorgeous spice is indispensable and unmistakable! Despite it's price (third dearest after saffron and vanilla), I couldn't consider parting with it. Its redolent warmth, its ambrosial hints.. its bright, irreplaceable presence in any dish that calls for it is delectable.
Well, my poor cicisbeo's growing impatient with my waxing on all night; he's like a puppy, and I've left the poor thing pacing long enough! Until I write again my lovelies, take care of yourselves and thanks for listening to my probably incoherent drivel once more. I hope to be writing regularly again here, so fret not - no more year long absences, not if it can be helped at least! Tschüss!
I've merely been struggling my way through the usual daily morass of apathy, drama, and bouts of ritual scarification. Nothing to complain about in truth, and plenty to smile about, much as my morose self is loathe to admit it. Last May we got yet another addition to the house, something I've been over the moon about; I managed to work up the nerve to call my father... perhaps the subject for another post; Mimi's pretty much all grown up and her sister Snickers and Snickers' kittens have come into our lives to stay (bringing the number of cats up to seven); Nathan's hied off to college and is thriving; I've begun studying several extinct abjads and alphabets as well as looking into Eastern European pagan revival and a general upsurge in my more spiritual pursuits - the changes in my life of late have been staggering. Still, though my life's been busy and bustling, I've hardly been kept from my thoughts - and what thoughts have found me of late!
Recently the thought of thought itself has been haunting me - the violent, staggering poignancy of human comprehension, even in its lowliest forms - the awe-inspiring ability of man to take in the world around him, to ponder, to do more than simply survive. What evolutionary path led us to this - to the ability to grasp the abstract, the intangible, the bare mechanisms of the universe, our creator? How is it we came to comprehend ourselves, when did awareness begin to grace our ancestors? At what point did the need for such a power arise? It's enough to leave me reeling in wonder. I've just enough mind to know how little I have, and to lament my inability to comprehend the infinite nature of creation, to know what is there without ever being able to learn let alone master even the smallest fragment of it. Such realizations are bitter at first, but in time I've grown to be thankful of them, to have the time and inclination, as well as the childish wonder to appreciate them endlessly. I've wondered too at the thought of souls and gods as of late, and of the roles and personas of archetypes in mankind's understanding of himself and the world within and without, if there is really a true differentiation. The masks and facets we pile upon ourselves and others make me wonder if we are not the same - simply faces and names hiding one true self, one thought, one as-of-yet unthinkable truth.
People often ask me about my religion, about what gods I believe in. My answer is simple - all. I believe in gods as thoughts, as the personification of that which our mind needs to humanize, as that which we fear or cannot grasp, or as the epitome of what we wish ourselves to be, dreamt up by man to give form and face to a world he couldn't understand, a universe we can still scarcely take in. I believe too that thoughts have power over the thinker, and over those who let themselves be swayed by the thoughts and words of others. As for divinity, I can think of nothing more divine or holy than man's propensity for thought. Every thought - good or wicked, selfless or greedy, simple or abstract - is a prayer, an exaltation of the most remarkable thing in existence - consciousness.
And how I pray... Each day finds me brimming with new musings and queries, new thoughts leading to places I've never been. I wonder at the luck I've been given, at the love that surrounds me everyday from my family, from my wonderful husband, from my beloved cicisbeo, and from my friends who encourage me at every turn. I wonder how it is that a wretch like I might have all this when so many have no one. It's really astounding.
Even as I think of the minds of man at large, I am still just learning myself. My dabblings in the more... scurrilous or scandalous of my interests have begun to unearth facets of myself I never realized. Some of them are heinous, terrifying. To act on a few would be my certain undoing, but there's a peace to knowing them, too. Suddenly parts of me I once saw as irreconcilable with one another, as paradoxically extreme antipodes have links, bridges hidden from myself for my entire life. In looking into my darker fancies, I've been shedding light. As I explore secrets of myself under a false name, I come to know Endiry better than I ever had. Every time I look into one thing, I find three more that, though never having attempted them, they speak to me and strike me in a way I know I love. As I said, some realizations are a bit ghastly, some viler than I'd care to admit, I'm coming to know who I share my skin and skull with - a very strange creature indeed.
It's all helped me put a lot of pieces in place, to get a more accurate picture in regards to who I am, and what I consider myself. It's also let me take a few skeletons out of my rather crowded closet and lay them at last to rest. For one, gender. I know I went into this also in a previous post, and anyone who knows me knows I tend to worship at the altar of all things masculine. I love maleness. I love strength, sureness, intelligence, ruggedness. I even try to emulate these myself. I realize though, now, that I am not a male. I want to act the part, even look it at times, but internally I am female. I am a girl, and through my delvings I've begun to reconcile this with who I am and what I love and hate about myself.
I should clarify before I go much farther, as to what precisely I mean by 'manly', since the hideous parody often passed off as such today is an abomination to sensibilities like mine. No, when I think of a man, one poem springs to mind, a poem burned into my mind since childhood. Rudyard and I apparently share more than our birthdays; the picture of masculinity I was raised with was tantamount to what he described in 'If'. For those unfamiliar with my favorite bit of Kipling's verse, or perhaps not as well acquainted with it as me, it follows as such:
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Alright, alright, babblings and irrelevant revelations aside, life's been wonderful for me. I've been eating better, and my cicisbeo's been keeping me honest, as well as getting me to exercise. Every week we walk to the local grocers three times. Rain or sweltering heat we manage, and I've been toughening back up. Our future plans include getting back into martial arts training and sparring, but for now just making it to and from the store is enough for ones as... rubenesque as us at the moment. Also I've become something of a culinary disaster of late; not sure what's come over me, but hopefully it'll leave off before long - I've a great lovely spice shipment come in as a late, late, late birthday present of sorts: cardamom, caraway, angelica, and more... it's all so lovely! I also got a pound of delicious gunpowder green I keep managing to burn into inedible waste... Enough to bring a tear to my eye.
Ah, but the cardamom... I know Herbert described the spice of Arakis as cinnamonish, but I can't help but think of the spice 'melange' every time I catch the exotic scent of this spice. From Finnish pullah to the Afghan feast I helped pull off a couple years ago, to my homemade chai masala mix and even my coffee, this gorgeous spice is indispensable and unmistakable! Despite it's price (third dearest after saffron and vanilla), I couldn't consider parting with it. Its redolent warmth, its ambrosial hints.. its bright, irreplaceable presence in any dish that calls for it is delectable.
Well, my poor cicisbeo's growing impatient with my waxing on all night; he's like a puppy, and I've left the poor thing pacing long enough! Until I write again my lovelies, take care of yourselves and thanks for listening to my probably incoherent drivel once more. I hope to be writing regularly again here, so fret not - no more year long absences, not if it can be helped at least! Tschüss!
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
A Crown of Rosemary
There god lay and bled,
There where all had walked before
But not remembered.
I saw your smile in a stranger's eye,
I laughed when you told me you'd died.
Lost things always want to be found,
Watching flies drop like friends,
The ones who don't want to be found
Crawl off like dying cats.
The ones who do,
The ones who do...
Two lay curled in a loving pose
'Let them rot' I think,
There is so much light in the noises
Of the world around my mind -
I clutch your hand and smile.
Would you want to be found,
And if so who by?
I try to wipe the tears from my mind's eye
And end up just fixing my hair.
We wind our way between parked cars,
You always rush when there's no hurry,
The softness of words I can't remember
Float by as you're nearly struck
By something no one else can see,
And I know better than to yell.
I think I found you once -
Yes you made sure of it.
Calling from a bench I saw you grinning,
Your smile cuts my silence like a knife -
How can I mope grimly when you find your way to me?
Your jacket still turns up from time to time
In piles of debris about my home,
Wherever that home is.
I remember you lent it to me for the weekend,
But I turned it into scrap
Before I knew you'd done the same
With your frame and plain brown hair.
I find myself in serpents' eyes adoring
A dangerous kind of beauty I've not known
Since callously you left this world
And took with you my words to be buried,
Clutched in your ruined wretched hands,
A love you spoke of often, cruelly,
And things you promised never come to pass,
But still I turn my head each time I pass your house.
Blood beneath the rosemary
That grows with no thought or mind,
Blood of god and child -
Branches heavy with the scent
Of remembrance and love.
Thoughtlessly I run my fingers through your branches,
And for half a moment, I hear your voice again.
Always excited, fervent,
Even in your despairs.
Lord above, if ever you adored me,
If ever you among your children listened,
This one begs of you small favor,
Not to cheat the burden of your judgement,
Nor be spared the harshness of your trials,
Into the bosom of the Moloch I'll still crawl,
But please if you've ears to hear,
Keep her. Keep them.
There where all had walked before
But not remembered.
I saw your smile in a stranger's eye,
I laughed when you told me you'd died.
Lost things always want to be found,
Watching flies drop like friends,
The ones who don't want to be found
Crawl off like dying cats.
The ones who do,
The ones who do...
Two lay curled in a loving pose
'Let them rot' I think,
There is so much light in the noises
Of the world around my mind -
I clutch your hand and smile.
Would you want to be found,
And if so who by?
I try to wipe the tears from my mind's eye
And end up just fixing my hair.
We wind our way between parked cars,
You always rush when there's no hurry,
The softness of words I can't remember
Float by as you're nearly struck
By something no one else can see,
And I know better than to yell.
I think I found you once -
Yes you made sure of it.
Calling from a bench I saw you grinning,
Your smile cuts my silence like a knife -
How can I mope grimly when you find your way to me?
Your jacket still turns up from time to time
In piles of debris about my home,
Wherever that home is.
I remember you lent it to me for the weekend,
But I turned it into scrap
Before I knew you'd done the same
With your frame and plain brown hair.
I find myself in serpents' eyes adoring
A dangerous kind of beauty I've not known
Since callously you left this world
And took with you my words to be buried,
Clutched in your ruined wretched hands,
A love you spoke of often, cruelly,
And things you promised never come to pass,
But still I turn my head each time I pass your house.
Blood beneath the rosemary
That grows with no thought or mind,
Blood of god and child -
Branches heavy with the scent
Of remembrance and love.
Thoughtlessly I run my fingers through your branches,
And for half a moment, I hear your voice again.
Always excited, fervent,
Even in your despairs.
Lord above, if ever you adored me,
If ever you among your children listened,
This one begs of you small favor,
Not to cheat the burden of your judgement,
Nor be spared the harshness of your trials,
Into the bosom of the Moloch I'll still crawl,
But please if you've ears to hear,
Keep her. Keep them.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Post The Thirteenth: Chiaroscuro And Boustrophedon
Hello lovelies. Tonight finds me not as well as most, though definitely in a better state than I was not but few short hours ago - drenched in sweat and agony, a thick blind tied round my eyes and ears as the heady smoke of myrrh wafted over my shaking, sickly form. I felt wretched enough that I thought almost to have my dear husband come in that I might dictate to him, but decided against it, due to him being busy preparing for his trip to tour the campus tomorrow, and knowing how he is loathe to spend too much time in one place, particularly if he were forced to put to print any of my verbose ramblings. For those of you who haven't heard or have forgotten - I suffer from spells of photosensitivity and photophobia, the latter leaving me with devastating, even debilitating headaches. This past week has been rather rough, with this morning - or more precisely evening when I woke up - being the worst yet. Still being housebound for a while has its undeniable advantages, the foremost of these being the time to reflect and become better acquainted with my online friends, two strangely contrasting yet complimentary pass-times; one being the realm of the self-confessed introvert and the other being the specialty of my newly re-discovered social side.
This post has a lot to do with such dualism. I know light, dark, and the space between is something I've covered before, but after reading Simone de Beauvoir's 'Must We Burn Sade?' and my last couple of days' activities (which for decency's sake I'll not delve into here), I find my self curiously contemplative not on the 'good' or 'bad' sides of human nature, but rather on that which we hold privately and that which we want others to know, and with the way we reconcile the two. Sade, I know, thought long on the subject, as did many of those who've made a study of him, and I too have thought of these things from time to time; it wasn't till the starkly contrasting, nonsensical, ludicrous context of these last few day's events and conversations that such intrinsic meaning was assigned to this notion. Chiaroscuro - the term borrowed from Italian - means 'light-dark', and is, in art, the use of stark contrast of the two. Each of us is made up of such contrasts, whether we realize or admit it. But it is not simply the contrast of light and shadow that plays across each man's soul that defines him - it is also which side of this he hides and which he wears proudly to the world.
Nothing of man is concrete - not his body which ages and withers before rotting, nor his mind or heart swayed by passions or logic, nor even his soul that defines him. That is not to say that as we change we lose ourselves, a silly notion many cling to rather than looking ahead, but that we continually grow, adding onto ourselves. What we are and have done is set, and we cannot forget it but we should never let it rule us either. Our childhood dreams we might have abandoned as was needed of us, but not one person forgets who they once were and wanted to be. Every day changes us, and how we wish to be seen or thought of, who we want to be or think we should be more like. Speaking with a very good friend, he told me he felt like a pile of masks. That thought struck me, stuck with me - even if I only now pen it - in such a way. Looking at him I could see it, too. How he's had to hide who he is from most, the tired look of eyes grown used to lying. Each of us, though, is a pile of masks. We change ourselves to fit who and where we are; we have masks we where at school, masks for our families, masks even for our loved ones and friends - though perhaps the thickness of the mask does vary from situation to situation. Most of us do this so fluidly, thoughtlessly that we don't notice, others have more to hide, more they think or know would be frowned upon by those they must deal with.
Speaking with another friend - Artemus, my roommate and nearly my soul's twin in many ways - we discussed the complexity of humans, and their changes of heart and mind. Many people have contradictory aspects, things that make little sense to someone looking at them at first glance. People want life to make sense, to move in orderly lines, always in one direction, like words on a page. But souls are not words to be penned or inscribed on stone, and not all writing flows one way. The second part of my title deals with this (and my lingual obsession). Boustrophedonically read writing does not go in one direction, but rather wraps back and forth, as the passions and minds of men are often wont. I use this phrase because I love learning about writing and written language, but also because of the idea of cycles. I find it fascinating how we humans manage to swing from one end of a spectrum to the next, with different thoughts inspiring us as circumstance drags us about her whims and machinations; we find ourselves ever spiraling like moons about planets of our wants and will, who in turn orbit the vastness of the life's condition around us and its far-reaching effects.
Though each of us is the center reference point in our universes, we're all slaves to our needs who are in turn subject to the happenstance that surrounds us, determining just what those needs might be. People often fall into the trap of viewing themselves as the only main character in their lives, that everyone around them is flat background, there to contrast them, when in fact they feel the same of each other. We've all been guilty of it - as a child one thinks only of one's self, we are (hopefully) taught over time that others have wants and feelings as well, and we learn to work with others, taking these wants and feelings into consideration. It is the basis for all successful social interaction. It's when you get to the odder circumstances, needs, and wants where things get interesting. For instance, we grow up being told to play nice, to not hurt one another, that we should not enjoy pain and suffering. However, that pain and suffering, at times degradation or humiliation, even bodily harm sometimes happens to be what someone wants, even needs. For the longest time, my life and circumstance and relations with others had driven me to a state of morbidly vanilla pleasures. There was no one with the time or will or permission or what-have-you to play with, and I accepted this fate for a time. Recently things have changed, and I find myself at the verge of a brilliant rebirth, a renaissance of excess and debauchery, and a return to older days of less restraint (unless we're speaking literally) and new fun and adventures to be had.
Still, part of me couldn't help worrying that a return to such lifestyle might signal the end of my creative bursts, that such bestial pursuits would hamper my intellectual growth or reflection. I see now that it's quite the opposite. Such outlets let me explore myself and others in ways I'd never think of normally, to see the world from even more angles and viewpoints. Though I'll admit my thoughtful and lustful sides have a while to go before a true reconciliation which perhaps may never take place considering the society I live in, and despite my still present shyness of nature and voice, I feel I am well on the way to admitting the value of both aspects of myself, and to finding common ground between the two. From the vast array of conversations I've had recently - ranging all manner of subject, tone, and company - to my rediscovery of vices and loves I'd thought lost or forgotten (including Wagner), I've recently found myself having stumbled on a windfall of good company and spirits, like-minded fellows, and new ways of thinking old thoughts, and for that I am more grateful than words could ever say.
This post has a lot to do with such dualism. I know light, dark, and the space between is something I've covered before, but after reading Simone de Beauvoir's 'Must We Burn Sade?' and my last couple of days' activities (which for decency's sake I'll not delve into here), I find my self curiously contemplative not on the 'good' or 'bad' sides of human nature, but rather on that which we hold privately and that which we want others to know, and with the way we reconcile the two. Sade, I know, thought long on the subject, as did many of those who've made a study of him, and I too have thought of these things from time to time; it wasn't till the starkly contrasting, nonsensical, ludicrous context of these last few day's events and conversations that such intrinsic meaning was assigned to this notion. Chiaroscuro - the term borrowed from Italian - means 'light-dark', and is, in art, the use of stark contrast of the two. Each of us is made up of such contrasts, whether we realize or admit it. But it is not simply the contrast of light and shadow that plays across each man's soul that defines him - it is also which side of this he hides and which he wears proudly to the world.
Nothing of man is concrete - not his body which ages and withers before rotting, nor his mind or heart swayed by passions or logic, nor even his soul that defines him. That is not to say that as we change we lose ourselves, a silly notion many cling to rather than looking ahead, but that we continually grow, adding onto ourselves. What we are and have done is set, and we cannot forget it but we should never let it rule us either. Our childhood dreams we might have abandoned as was needed of us, but not one person forgets who they once were and wanted to be. Every day changes us, and how we wish to be seen or thought of, who we want to be or think we should be more like. Speaking with a very good friend, he told me he felt like a pile of masks. That thought struck me, stuck with me - even if I only now pen it - in such a way. Looking at him I could see it, too. How he's had to hide who he is from most, the tired look of eyes grown used to lying. Each of us, though, is a pile of masks. We change ourselves to fit who and where we are; we have masks we where at school, masks for our families, masks even for our loved ones and friends - though perhaps the thickness of the mask does vary from situation to situation. Most of us do this so fluidly, thoughtlessly that we don't notice, others have more to hide, more they think or know would be frowned upon by those they must deal with.
Speaking with another friend - Artemus, my roommate and nearly my soul's twin in many ways - we discussed the complexity of humans, and their changes of heart and mind. Many people have contradictory aspects, things that make little sense to someone looking at them at first glance. People want life to make sense, to move in orderly lines, always in one direction, like words on a page. But souls are not words to be penned or inscribed on stone, and not all writing flows one way. The second part of my title deals with this (and my lingual obsession). Boustrophedonically read writing does not go in one direction, but rather wraps back and forth, as the passions and minds of men are often wont. I use this phrase because I love learning about writing and written language, but also because of the idea of cycles. I find it fascinating how we humans manage to swing from one end of a spectrum to the next, with different thoughts inspiring us as circumstance drags us about her whims and machinations; we find ourselves ever spiraling like moons about planets of our wants and will, who in turn orbit the vastness of the life's condition around us and its far-reaching effects.
Though each of us is the center reference point in our universes, we're all slaves to our needs who are in turn subject to the happenstance that surrounds us, determining just what those needs might be. People often fall into the trap of viewing themselves as the only main character in their lives, that everyone around them is flat background, there to contrast them, when in fact they feel the same of each other. We've all been guilty of it - as a child one thinks only of one's self, we are (hopefully) taught over time that others have wants and feelings as well, and we learn to work with others, taking these wants and feelings into consideration. It is the basis for all successful social interaction. It's when you get to the odder circumstances, needs, and wants where things get interesting. For instance, we grow up being told to play nice, to not hurt one another, that we should not enjoy pain and suffering. However, that pain and suffering, at times degradation or humiliation, even bodily harm sometimes happens to be what someone wants, even needs. For the longest time, my life and circumstance and relations with others had driven me to a state of morbidly vanilla pleasures. There was no one with the time or will or permission or what-have-you to play with, and I accepted this fate for a time. Recently things have changed, and I find myself at the verge of a brilliant rebirth, a renaissance of excess and debauchery, and a return to older days of less restraint (unless we're speaking literally) and new fun and adventures to be had.
Still, part of me couldn't help worrying that a return to such lifestyle might signal the end of my creative bursts, that such bestial pursuits would hamper my intellectual growth or reflection. I see now that it's quite the opposite. Such outlets let me explore myself and others in ways I'd never think of normally, to see the world from even more angles and viewpoints. Though I'll admit my thoughtful and lustful sides have a while to go before a true reconciliation which perhaps may never take place considering the society I live in, and despite my still present shyness of nature and voice, I feel I am well on the way to admitting the value of both aspects of myself, and to finding common ground between the two. From the vast array of conversations I've had recently - ranging all manner of subject, tone, and company - to my rediscovery of vices and loves I'd thought lost or forgotten (including Wagner), I've recently found myself having stumbled on a windfall of good company and spirits, like-minded fellows, and new ways of thinking old thoughts, and for that I am more grateful than words could ever say.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Post The Twelfth: More Malcontent Kvetching
As you might guess from the post's title, this is another long-winded spiel on this or that about which I don't approve, because obviously you all have nothing better to read if you're still hanging on at this point. On a slightly happier note, this blog's reached 800 page-views (okay, so most of those are from ad-sites and bots, but still!) So now that that cheeriness has been dealt with let's get to the good part where I admonish humanity as a species and bemoan so-and-so's woeful ... woes. You know, the usual. Well, I suppose I'm really only focusing this jeremiad on greed; on selfishness the more I think on it. Greed has many faces, sometimes disguising itself even to those who feel it - yet it is universal. Avarice exists in each of us and in society as a whole. I'm greedy, you're greedy, we're all greedy to some extent - and a lot of the time it's not too much of a problem. Today though I want to discuss a few examples of greed that really do bother me; one for its scale and implications for our future as a species, and a few for more personal reasons.
Let's get the big one outta the way first - godhood. So I was discussing this bit a while ago with someone, the possible future of mankind - an idyllic utopia of humans+, designed to want for nothing; a world of freedoms and true equality; a world without poverty, hunger, war... and perfection. Science is quickly approaching a point where we can start improving ourselves - physically, mentally, perhaps even emotionally. I am (as some of you may have gathered by now) a transhumanist. I believe that evolution is fine and dandy and all, but a bit slow for my taste. Between the fields of genetic engineering, nanotechnology, and cybernetics the future of homo sapiens seems very exciting - if you have the money. This is the main point many who oppose transhumanism bring up, or at least the main point worthy of mention in my opinion. The cultural divide between rich and poor is already terrifyingly vast in many places. If the rich started to gain access to these technologies and enhancements, the divide could only worsen. In some speculative scenarios mankind actually branches into two separate species, the poor who become a slave-caste under the rule of the elite - those who could afford to become H+. Admittedly this is all unsubstantiated daydreaming at the moment, but who knows.
Back to the point I was trying to make - I was discussing this with my friend, as well as his use of the word 'utopia' and its rather amusing etymology and double meaning most seem to forget. I said that we as a society, nay, species are not ready to make that jump into H+, not until we outgrow our childish selfishness and differences. Greed is a vestige of our past, a survival mechanism that has at least outgrown its use, if not overstayed its welcome. We have the means to end so much suffering in the world, but we do not. Food and shelter are considered privileges, not basic rights. People still starve or die in wars waged for god and greed, even as we look at our species' own possible apotheosis on the not-too-distant horizon. I sincerely hope that we manage to shed this avarice before we reach that horizon, because mankind deserves only the treatment we mete out to the lowest of us in my opinion. If we do not all ascend, the schism between the haves and the have-nots can only escalate to something terrible. He agreed that the reality of the situation was indeed grim, and said he was certain we'd never mature past such greed. I still feel hopeful myself - if we survive long enough, who knows where we'll stand. Not a hundred years have passed since we women won the right to vote, indeed this past century has seen all manner of social reform. Perhaps there is a bit of hope for us yet, a twinkle of light in the haze of our turbid future. We've a long way to go, but we may someday make it.
Well now that I've bored you to death or tears at the very least with that pipe-dream future talk, let's move on to some smaller stuff. Why is it that people seem to feel the need to romanticize their emotional flaws? 'Flaws' ain't a misnomer folks - they are something to be worked on mending - not trophies to be proud of. I can understand being happy with having made it through some ordeal - gods know we all have, admittedly some more than others - but there comes a time when you put those scars away. I'm not saying to forget, that they shouldn't be a part of you - far from it. Pain is a powerful teacher, and it's lessons should not be made light of. There is, however, such a thing as playing the victim, and when you start using those scars as a crutch, as a blindfold to keep you from seeing wrong in yourself, that's what you're doing. It doesn't just stunt you as a person either - it hurts the people around you. When you lash out at people who care about you, especially from some delusional high-horse, you aren't making friends, and you definitely aren't garnering sympathy. It's hard to feel sorry for someone whose made a full-time job of feeling sorry for themself, especially under the guise of long-suffering self-sacrifice. If some people were anymore 'selfless', I think I'd run plum out of patience. Honestly though, there's a very fine line between being magnanimous and being a passive-aggressive cunt (pardon my vulgarity, but I believe no other term quite befits the gravity of this rant.)
Anyways, back to what I was blathering on about. Flaws. Flaws are called flaws because they are flaws. No matter how you glamorize them, no matter how you distort them to paint some pretty picture of yourself and - gods help me - your all-important uniqueness, they are FLAWS. If you're really so insecure in your character, in who you really are that you have to hide behind your failings to feel better about yourself, I am sincerely sorry. I know there's a fear among people that without their faults they're somehow less interesting or worse off, but it isn't true in the slightest. Once you start to get over those idiotic, adolescent foibles you start to see who you really are, and I promise you you're better off for it. If you thought those scars you cling onto were something to be proud of, imagine the pride you could take in overcoming them, in knowing that nothing - not even the worst parts of your life -can stop you being someone worth being. If you think hanging on to old wounds is unique or makes you interesting, it doesn't. There's hardly a less original way to lash out at society, so please take note.
In a similar vein, staying silent instead of asking for help doesn't make you selfless - it just leaves you feeling resentful of the non-telepathic people around, and it makes them unhappy. Real selflessness is asking how to help, letting other people in when they want to help you, and communicating. The silent treatment does nothing for anyone and just makes everyone miserable - though admittedly that is the goal of those who usually employ it (namely small children and manipulative wives) to achieve a sort of Pyrrhic victory, happiness for none, because if they can't be happy why should anyone else? This kind of freudenschade is the pettiest form of envy, the lowest greed I can think of - hurting others just because you're upset and they aren't. At least most greed comes from wanting something for yourself and disregarding who it hurts - this is just going out of your way to be a malicious little brat.
Most of the folks that pull this aren't even conscious of what they're doing - it's so ingrained in their learned responses that it's become a knee-jerk reaction. And woe be unto the one who points it out or dares to challenge it... I'm sure I'll be catching hell from several folks for all of this later, but it all needs to be said. There isn't a single word I've penned-err-typed here that I won't stand behind when they come howling at me either. I've been where they've been; I've been as petty, manipulative, greedy, and I got over it. I realized how I was acting, who I was becoming and I hated it, so I changed. I've also been as patient as I could, even in the face of endless hours of listening to pretentious angst-filled pity parties, because hey - people gave me the benefit of the doubt, and I got over it. I figure everyone deserves to have someone to rant to, someone to feel sorry for them that isn't also them. It's not until this kind of greed, this harebrained self-important immaturity starts to mess with people who really don't deserve it that I start to get peeved.
I should add that those people who I've mentioned do have it in them to change, and change for the better. Who knows - maybe they'll find something to inspire them in this rant and go off to better themselves, but more likely I've just gone and alienated a few of my closer friends. I'm sorry if I've ruffled any feathers, but honesty - frank, unforgiving honesty - has always been a bitter and effective tool in shaping my life. I only hope that said friends let it cut away the failings that taint their potential, and don't take it as an attack or betrayal, because it's meant as neither. Well I've probably gone and done enough harm for one night. Arrivederci, amici.
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