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.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
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.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Friday, January 18, 2013
Damnatio Memoriae
Damnatio memoriae-
The phrase itself widely forgotten
Or unknown, it's meaning not so much,
That frightful spark that leaps from the bonfire of history,
To catch those who shine too bright
Too strange in their bleak setting,
The names condemned -
Damnatio memoriae.
Black ink on pages obscure more than words,
More than the sum of lost letters,
A cartouche chiseled away,
A wall wiped clean of thoughts in blood.
Heresies breed fear and fervor -
The strangeness of a fellow might decide his fate,
The ban of his words might shape the world.
Names ripped from lips and public record
Lay buried in the ash heap of history,
Gods and man have suffered the same fate,
Some known only by their absence -
Defaced statues, faces, names,
Painted out of memory or thought.
Some blanks stare back more conspicuous than others,
Other times the condemnation worked.
Damnatio Memoriae -
Even kings could be struck -
Cults of a god that offends,
Men of plots that failed,
Friends or generals who said the wrong thing -
Who knows what we were made to forget
By people history itself may not remember.
Enough is lost without the purposeful censure of knowledge,
Enough is written freely that cannot be read.
Man has enough to decipher from the ancient
Without worrying what may be covered up.
I can think of no greater crime or waste,
Nothing more wicked dreamt of by man
Than the eradication of record and fact.
We were lost when Alexandria burned,
There has never been a greater degradation
Of man by man himself.
No loss of life can compare to the loss of reason,
The effacement of such hard-bought knowledge.
There is not a crueler thing we could have done
Than this, the reprehension of history -
Damnatio memoriae -
May such practices be forgotten.
The phrase itself widely forgotten
Or unknown, it's meaning not so much,
That frightful spark that leaps from the bonfire of history,
To catch those who shine too bright
Too strange in their bleak setting,
The names condemned -
Damnatio memoriae.
Black ink on pages obscure more than words,
More than the sum of lost letters,
A cartouche chiseled away,
A wall wiped clean of thoughts in blood.
Heresies breed fear and fervor -
The strangeness of a fellow might decide his fate,
The ban of his words might shape the world.
Names ripped from lips and public record
Lay buried in the ash heap of history,
Gods and man have suffered the same fate,
Some known only by their absence -
Defaced statues, faces, names,
Painted out of memory or thought.
Some blanks stare back more conspicuous than others,
Other times the condemnation worked.
Damnatio Memoriae -
Even kings could be struck -
Cults of a god that offends,
Men of plots that failed,
Friends or generals who said the wrong thing -
Who knows what we were made to forget
By people history itself may not remember.
Enough is lost without the purposeful censure of knowledge,
Enough is written freely that cannot be read.
Man has enough to decipher from the ancient
Without worrying what may be covered up.
I can think of no greater crime or waste,
Nothing more wicked dreamt of by man
Than the eradication of record and fact.
We were lost when Alexandria burned,
There has never been a greater degradation
Of man by man himself.
No loss of life can compare to the loss of reason,
The effacement of such hard-bought knowledge.
There is not a crueler thing we could have done
Than this, the reprehension of history -
Damnatio memoriae -
May such practices be forgotten.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Post The Eleventh: Impetus and Trepidation
Hello again lovely readers. As some of you may have picked up from the title of this post I find myself in something of a 'good news/bad news' situation, so I'll get the bad (perhaps bad is a bit harsh...unseen and suddenly quite important would perhaps be a better of putting it) out of the way first if you don't mind. Lubbock Texas... the name conjures up images of redneck swine, thoughts of Bud-swilling, gun-toting, bible-thumping, cousin-fucking idiots, and it seems that may be where Nathan's foreseeable future - his next step on his educational path - lies, since Rice is out of the picture for the time being. This leaves me in the position of choosing whether to stay in Houston in a home I love and a well known comfort-zone, or to relocate with my husband who I also love to a place I've never been filled with 'people' I wouldn't be caught dead with. The Evangelical overtones of the place alone is enough to send a fun-loving gal like me running for the hills. I've no business with such "good, God-lovin' folk" as those, and I'm sure they'd want nothing from me. Besides I might be turned into a pillar of salt as I left dear Houston, but enough of this fun. Nothing's certain yet, and the music program there at Texas Tech is supposed to be great, especially for tenors. I've survived worse for longer, I'll survive whatever becomes of this mess.
Now that the majority of the 'trepidation' bit of this post is dealt with, as well as the outer more tangible thoughts of the post, it's time to move on to the 'impetus' leg of our little verbal jaunt. I'm sure I'm not the only one who's thought of what their motivations are, their drive and reason - I just obsess about it more than most, probably due to the fact that I have the leisure of spare time for such inward reflection and questioning. Still despite all the thought and worry and hours of silent introspective hell I've gone through, I feel as though I'm still a stranger to myself, to my heart and its goals. I feel I don't at all grasp what it is that makes me go, what end I really strive for. I feel that I'm not aimlessly wandering through life, but that I'm on my way to some important function, though what I can't remember.
I find myself often torn between experience in and of itself, and the morals I learn from said experience. I can't tell which I live for - the lesson or the teacher. I'm not sure I ever could tell, but somehow that rift has been becoming clearer and clearer to me each day, as if I were approaching some fork in my path, and I can't for the life of me say which way I should go. Is it knowledge or sensation I seek, and which would better me as a person, or better serve those around me? Both seem to have a certain selfish bent that frightens me, I already find myself fighting an conceitedly egomaniacal nature on a daily basis - what would this determined newly motivated self seek or serve? Experience for experience's sake or insight and education through occurrence, through learning? This question has long weighed on my mind, and now as this impending change seems to swell and loom just at perception's edge it weighs heavier still.
The question of motivation was more of a novel, hypothetical thought in my stagnant, unchanging lifestyle - a moot kind of 'what if' of no real consequence. With real change - real inexorable experience rearing up on the inevitable horizon my idle wondering has suddenly taken on a more serious note, something with potentially dire or at least life-altering residuum. A choice is approaching, and faster than I'd have liked, though I suppose most decisions of this nature come about quicker than we'd like - which is to say in our lifetimes. One way or another - for better, worse, or unknown eventualities - a fork in the road lays fast ahead, and I don't know which way to turn. I guess that the trepidation bit was a bit more embedded with this worry about impetus than I thought. I guess there really was no good news I had to add here, other than the possibility for hope in any uncertainty. In the unknown man lets his worst fears and greatest hopes exsist unchallenged, and until I set foot down some path or another there is only a comfortable ignorance. But Shrodinger has to open the box and see if the cat's dead, and whether I'm in it for the lesson or the journey itself, I will have to face new places, new people, new experiences - one way or the other. The sleeper shall awaken.
Now that the majority of the 'trepidation' bit of this post is dealt with, as well as the outer more tangible thoughts of the post, it's time to move on to the 'impetus' leg of our little verbal jaunt. I'm sure I'm not the only one who's thought of what their motivations are, their drive and reason - I just obsess about it more than most, probably due to the fact that I have the leisure of spare time for such inward reflection and questioning. Still despite all the thought and worry and hours of silent introspective hell I've gone through, I feel as though I'm still a stranger to myself, to my heart and its goals. I feel I don't at all grasp what it is that makes me go, what end I really strive for. I feel that I'm not aimlessly wandering through life, but that I'm on my way to some important function, though what I can't remember.
I find myself often torn between experience in and of itself, and the morals I learn from said experience. I can't tell which I live for - the lesson or the teacher. I'm not sure I ever could tell, but somehow that rift has been becoming clearer and clearer to me each day, as if I were approaching some fork in my path, and I can't for the life of me say which way I should go. Is it knowledge or sensation I seek, and which would better me as a person, or better serve those around me? Both seem to have a certain selfish bent that frightens me, I already find myself fighting an conceitedly egomaniacal nature on a daily basis - what would this determined newly motivated self seek or serve? Experience for experience's sake or insight and education through occurrence, through learning? This question has long weighed on my mind, and now as this impending change seems to swell and loom just at perception's edge it weighs heavier still.
The question of motivation was more of a novel, hypothetical thought in my stagnant, unchanging lifestyle - a moot kind of 'what if' of no real consequence. With real change - real inexorable experience rearing up on the inevitable horizon my idle wondering has suddenly taken on a more serious note, something with potentially dire or at least life-altering residuum. A choice is approaching, and faster than I'd have liked, though I suppose most decisions of this nature come about quicker than we'd like - which is to say in our lifetimes. One way or another - for better, worse, or unknown eventualities - a fork in the road lays fast ahead, and I don't know which way to turn. I guess that the trepidation bit was a bit more embedded with this worry about impetus than I thought. I guess there really was no good news I had to add here, other than the possibility for hope in any uncertainty. In the unknown man lets his worst fears and greatest hopes exsist unchallenged, and until I set foot down some path or another there is only a comfortable ignorance. But Shrodinger has to open the box and see if the cat's dead, and whether I'm in it for the lesson or the journey itself, I will have to face new places, new people, new experiences - one way or the other. The sleeper shall awaken.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Post The Tenth: Lineage and Other Musings
'I enjoy being a girl' is not a song you're ever likely to hear me sing. It's not just the physical disadvantages - though there are easily enough of those to fill a tome or two - and it's not just the way people treat me, or how I feel, or to be more precise who I feel I am at heart and the way it conflicts utterly with my what i was born. No, it's not just these things or even their grand sum - it's being the end of the line.
Well, now I've got that little disclaimer out of the way, let me go ahead and continue. As I said - it's not so much the personal disadvantages to myself (which in all honesty I've grown to almost cherish in a sort of self-love/loathe relationship due to the ways I've had to better myself or find greater strength to overcome them) that I especially despise - it's the detrimental, irreparable breach my birth caused to an old, perhaps not-too-noble but definitely note-worthy line. I suppose the same is true of every daughter - she breaks a chain that runs back to the beginning of humanity in her family - father, son, father, son, father, son and so forth. Perhaps it's my love of continuity and pattern that drives this loathing like a thorn into my side, perhaps it's some misplaced family pride. Hell, it could just be my own perverse misogynistic self-loathing trying to find some new excuse to fuel itself, some new outlet. All I know for sure is that I hate it. I hate the day of my birth, I hate the end it heralded. All I can do is pray my father sowed a few bastard sons before me - that our line might continue in blood if not in name. To be that one defective link that breaks the chain is a thought I can hardly bare.
I don't believe necessarily that being born a son would make me happier, make my parents love me more, or make my life easier - but at least our family's name and blood would live on. I sigh at how strange this must sound to most - bloodlines and pedigrees and all that nonsense does seem to have been mostly abandoned nowadays. Growing up my father's child and pupil instilled me with certain outdated mindsets and mannerisms mostly better left to some eclectic not-quite-existent past, a Zeitgeist of a time and place that probably never was, leaving me to live a life distanced from the masses, to walk my own uncertain path in a world slightly off from theirs, a reality extricated from their expectations and experiences. I t makes relating with others difficult, but gives me ways of seeing things most wouldn't think of, not to mention with the way Victorianalia and old-world-made-new fashions and thoughts seem to be coming into bloom over the last decade or so (especially these last few years), that I find myself on the cutting edge of old-fashioned-om.
I digress, though I suppose that is what one's expected to do in musings. Never the less I had a bit more I wanted to say on the topic of my non-manhood. Daddy issues that would make Freud giddy and misplaced outdated sensibilities aside, I'm still not sure how I feel being a woman. Growing up I loathed it, hated everything about it. I told my mother at 5 how much I wished I was a boy, and with her being a die-hard feminazi she was immediately horrified, blaming media and mankind for my situation, telling me to be proud of my non-dangling genitalia, going on and on and on about how men are the root of all evil and how perfect and infallible womankind was... the typical misguided American feminist spiel I've grown to loathe so. On an amusing note, she tried desperately to change her tone when I came out as a (at the time and on up till Nathan) lesbian a little less than a year later. Suddenly she was singing the praises of penises and grandchildren. Typical hypocritical bullshit, pardon my language. As was trying to say before my hideously coffee-addled brain wandered off again, I hated it. I hated being a girl, I hated being weak, physically and emotionally.
It was something that drove me with a burning passion, a desire - no NEED - to better myself, to be more of a man than the men around me, to be stronger, tougher, meaner, smarter, better in every way I could manage. This Amazonian zeal guided me through the better part of my childhood and adolescence, and still leads me to a lesser extant today. I have little doubt it will be there throughout my life, shaming me when I need it to, driving me to become better at all things I try my hand at. Were I born a boy, I don't know if I'd still have such a drive, perhaps I'd be content in my life, complacent - a thought I find truly horrifying and disgusting. Perhaps my gender-based handicap is less of a curse and more of a mixed blessing. Regardless I've slowly and begrudgingly learned a certain respect for it - or at least for the drive it instills in me. Besides, what use is there in lamenting the irreversible?
I've even grown to enjoy some female traits and interests, namely beauty and fashion, something I'd long enjoyed in my partners but never considered for me until these last few years. Speaking of said past relationships, some of you may wonder how it is I can so loathe womankind yet enjoy their company as I once did....frequently. Simple - I've held them always to a different standard. It also helps that it's their bodies and not those of men (well, not usually) that interest me. The beauty and grace of their frames, the light in their faces, the propensity for such deep kindness or cruelty - the way they know their way with words around a person's heart - these things excite in me a certain undeniable interest. The company of women is what I lust for carnally speaking, but it is the company of men I prefer where my heart and mind are concerned (though there have been and forever will be exceptions to this as there are for every other rule spoken or silently known.) Cherchez la femme they say - look for the woman, and when there's trouble for me it tends to be true - it's either my feelings for a woman or as a woman that have got me stuck in whatever mess I find myself in. This rift between me and my sex tends to kill any relationship I strike up with girls, and those that last are far from healthy. It's an abusive cycle like any other - but as I've mentioned earlier, patterns seem to hold a certain spot in my heart that I can't shake. I never claimed to be a good person, only self aware.
My relationships with men can hardly be called healthier - my ardent admiration for the ones I love seems to manifest itself in spats of envious cruelty between spells of obsessive ardor and boot-licking. To be fair it does take a certain kind of man for me to fall for, only those I could in some way call my better (which is where that envy randomly kicks in) and usually only those as damaged or strange as myself. I'll say this though - making those guys smile is the one of the few motivations that could outstrip that of my loathing or anger. It's the closest thing I have to balance in my twisted heart and mind, and I'm lucky enough to have two of those guys under the same roof as me.
Bitter ravings aside, I TURNED 21 EVERYONE!! And I promise it was one Hell of a party, in both senses of the phrase. I won't say more than that, at least not this post, other than to mention that despite my best efforts I failed to get drunk, and we had to drive someone to the hospital in the morning - the perfect end to a perfect disaster, though admittedly as far as disasters go it was a pretty fun one. Also since my last post I've been appointed as High Priestess of Slaanesh among a certain group of friends (Slaanesh is the Chaos god of excess, debauchery, decadence - The Dark Prince of pain and pleasure, patron of both terror and beauty, Herald of Indulgence, She-Who-Thirsts and knows our thirsts in kind... you know - my kind of fellow.) Other than that there's not much to say - I've gotten back into sewing, I'm on a diet, Miette's getting fixed today, and that Legion obsession I mentioned shows no signs of dying down anytime soon. Other than that, all quiet on the Endiry front.
Well, I've probably done enough damage for one day, or several really. Sorry for unloading my emotional baggage on anyone who's actually read this far, and sorry to anyone who now knows me better than they'd like, though I did try to warn you all I'm not right in the head. Anyways I hope you all have lovely (and hopefully not as twisted as mine - unless you're into that kind of thing) days, dreams, and darling things to hold onto in your lives! Auf Wiedersehen loves!
[So I should probably go ahead and warn you all in advance - MAJOR DADDY ISSUES INCOMING. There, you've been warned. Please feel free to groan in disgust and stop reading there if you like - gods know I won't blame you.]
Well, now I've got that little disclaimer out of the way, let me go ahead and continue. As I said - it's not so much the personal disadvantages to myself (which in all honesty I've grown to almost cherish in a sort of self-love/loathe relationship due to the ways I've had to better myself or find greater strength to overcome them) that I especially despise - it's the detrimental, irreparable breach my birth caused to an old, perhaps not-too-noble but definitely note-worthy line. I suppose the same is true of every daughter - she breaks a chain that runs back to the beginning of humanity in her family - father, son, father, son, father, son and so forth. Perhaps it's my love of continuity and pattern that drives this loathing like a thorn into my side, perhaps it's some misplaced family pride. Hell, it could just be my own perverse misogynistic self-loathing trying to find some new excuse to fuel itself, some new outlet. All I know for sure is that I hate it. I hate the day of my birth, I hate the end it heralded. All I can do is pray my father sowed a few bastard sons before me - that our line might continue in blood if not in name. To be that one defective link that breaks the chain is a thought I can hardly bare.
I don't believe necessarily that being born a son would make me happier, make my parents love me more, or make my life easier - but at least our family's name and blood would live on. I sigh at how strange this must sound to most - bloodlines and pedigrees and all that nonsense does seem to have been mostly abandoned nowadays. Growing up my father's child and pupil instilled me with certain outdated mindsets and mannerisms mostly better left to some eclectic not-quite-existent past, a Zeitgeist of a time and place that probably never was, leaving me to live a life distanced from the masses, to walk my own uncertain path in a world slightly off from theirs, a reality extricated from their expectations and experiences. I t makes relating with others difficult, but gives me ways of seeing things most wouldn't think of, not to mention with the way Victorianalia and old-world-made-new fashions and thoughts seem to be coming into bloom over the last decade or so (especially these last few years), that I find myself on the cutting edge of old-fashioned-om.
I digress, though I suppose that is what one's expected to do in musings. Never the less I had a bit more I wanted to say on the topic of my non-manhood. Daddy issues that would make Freud giddy and misplaced outdated sensibilities aside, I'm still not sure how I feel being a woman. Growing up I loathed it, hated everything about it. I told my mother at 5 how much I wished I was a boy, and with her being a die-hard feminazi she was immediately horrified, blaming media and mankind for my situation, telling me to be proud of my non-dangling genitalia, going on and on and on about how men are the root of all evil and how perfect and infallible womankind was... the typical misguided American feminist spiel I've grown to loathe so. On an amusing note, she tried desperately to change her tone when I came out as a (at the time and on up till Nathan) lesbian a little less than a year later. Suddenly she was singing the praises of penises and grandchildren. Typical hypocritical bullshit, pardon my language. As was trying to say before my hideously coffee-addled brain wandered off again, I hated it. I hated being a girl, I hated being weak, physically and emotionally.
It was something that drove me with a burning passion, a desire - no NEED - to better myself, to be more of a man than the men around me, to be stronger, tougher, meaner, smarter, better in every way I could manage. This Amazonian zeal guided me through the better part of my childhood and adolescence, and still leads me to a lesser extant today. I have little doubt it will be there throughout my life, shaming me when I need it to, driving me to become better at all things I try my hand at. Were I born a boy, I don't know if I'd still have such a drive, perhaps I'd be content in my life, complacent - a thought I find truly horrifying and disgusting. Perhaps my gender-based handicap is less of a curse and more of a mixed blessing. Regardless I've slowly and begrudgingly learned a certain respect for it - or at least for the drive it instills in me. Besides, what use is there in lamenting the irreversible?
I've even grown to enjoy some female traits and interests, namely beauty and fashion, something I'd long enjoyed in my partners but never considered for me until these last few years. Speaking of said past relationships, some of you may wonder how it is I can so loathe womankind yet enjoy their company as I once did....frequently. Simple - I've held them always to a different standard. It also helps that it's their bodies and not those of men (well, not usually) that interest me. The beauty and grace of their frames, the light in their faces, the propensity for such deep kindness or cruelty - the way they know their way with words around a person's heart - these things excite in me a certain undeniable interest. The company of women is what I lust for carnally speaking, but it is the company of men I prefer where my heart and mind are concerned (though there have been and forever will be exceptions to this as there are for every other rule spoken or silently known.) Cherchez la femme they say - look for the woman, and when there's trouble for me it tends to be true - it's either my feelings for a woman or as a woman that have got me stuck in whatever mess I find myself in. This rift between me and my sex tends to kill any relationship I strike up with girls, and those that last are far from healthy. It's an abusive cycle like any other - but as I've mentioned earlier, patterns seem to hold a certain spot in my heart that I can't shake. I never claimed to be a good person, only self aware.
My relationships with men can hardly be called healthier - my ardent admiration for the ones I love seems to manifest itself in spats of envious cruelty between spells of obsessive ardor and boot-licking. To be fair it does take a certain kind of man for me to fall for, only those I could in some way call my better (which is where that envy randomly kicks in) and usually only those as damaged or strange as myself. I'll say this though - making those guys smile is the one of the few motivations that could outstrip that of my loathing or anger. It's the closest thing I have to balance in my twisted heart and mind, and I'm lucky enough to have two of those guys under the same roof as me.
Bitter ravings aside, I TURNED 21 EVERYONE!! And I promise it was one Hell of a party, in both senses of the phrase. I won't say more than that, at least not this post, other than to mention that despite my best efforts I failed to get drunk, and we had to drive someone to the hospital in the morning - the perfect end to a perfect disaster, though admittedly as far as disasters go it was a pretty fun one. Also since my last post I've been appointed as High Priestess of Slaanesh among a certain group of friends (Slaanesh is the Chaos god of excess, debauchery, decadence - The Dark Prince of pain and pleasure, patron of both terror and beauty, Herald of Indulgence, She-Who-Thirsts and knows our thirsts in kind... you know - my kind of fellow.) Other than that there's not much to say - I've gotten back into sewing, I'm on a diet, Miette's getting fixed today, and that Legion obsession I mentioned shows no signs of dying down anytime soon. Other than that, all quiet on the Endiry front.
Well, I've probably done enough damage for one day, or several really. Sorry for unloading my emotional baggage on anyone who's actually read this far, and sorry to anyone who now knows me better than they'd like, though I did try to warn you all I'm not right in the head. Anyways I hope you all have lovely (and hopefully not as twisted as mine - unless you're into that kind of thing) days, dreams, and darling things to hold onto in your lives! Auf Wiedersehen loves!
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