as the fire crept closer
I watched you
in the fire, flickering
in an ember as it spun through turgid air
on the hunched grass, white with age
I waited for the heat, the fervor
to whisper my song
beneath your dew-dropped eyelids
I wandered, lonely
along the spine of a tear
written by starlight, trembling
as the reply of the smoke
unraveled the flames
I willed you to see me
in the frigid howl of the moon
in a wisp that traced, softly
over indelible signs in the glint of your fire-lit hair
I wove my ode
as the fire crept closer
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
So there I was, just planning to storm through another endless AP Euro packet when I got to a few pages taken from Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil. In the excerpt, he brutally criticizes practically all of Western philosophy for assuming that which is ineffable must necessarily result from some higher order above man and that that order is generally good. He goes on to point out that in a different situation, a prophet could interpret such an order precisely the opposite way and glorify to the utmost what we generally know as evil. As per the title of the book, Nietzsche proclaims that the Ubermensch is "beyond good and evil," which succinctly means that he is unencumbered by the blinkers of such artificial constructs and instead understands the true essence of life, the universe and everything. (I couldn't resist throwing that in there.)
The people who compiled the packet (of historical primary sources) included this excerpt because they wanted the student reader to understand Nietzsche's role in criticizing his society and its excesses, both material and intellectual. But what jarred me the most was an idea that seemed to have been included in the packet only because it was in the midst of Nietszche's rant. He makes the scathing claim that philosophers (I get the sense he focuses on his contemporaries, but many of the bastions of the West are no doubt included) write, think, and pose "Perhapses" based on their personal biases. I see one facet of his argument as the idea that because Western thinkers as a whole begin with the assumption of concepts like self-consciousness and free will, their results are never truly legitimate; this is relatively easy to swallow. A little bit more startling is the consequent implication that those who develop philosophies based on morality are essentially developing their own personal biases based on a belief in a system of values that has no basis in the real nature of the world. I could write for several more paragraphs about the kind of fear and dread caused by seriously contemplating whether Nietzsche is right, whether we have completely wasted our lives tied to a foolish ideal that ultimately will not make a difference either way or that has no worth in and of itself.
But I set out to write about something a little bit different. Nietzsche's particular criticism--about (bad, though predominant) philosophy consisting of little more than a series of "Perhaps" conjectures backed by little more than a personal bias--struck me especially strongly at the moment because I realized I had always known this and recognized this but had managed to simultaneously ignore it. The most thinking I have ever done in the area of philosophy is for my English research paper about fear, and I have been aware, at least at some level, that I pretty much started with some basic principles of Eastern thought (e.g., reincarnation, oneness of the universe) and then directed my thought process along the lines of what sounded interesting, appropriate, or fitting to me. Sure, I recognize that Nietzsche's belief in the non-existence or, more properly, irrelevance of higher order is also a bias, though one rooted in scientific examination of humans and the universe. But I got to thinking about all of the ramifications of his criticisms, and I realized how much of our so-called critical thinking, especially that which we undertake in school, is based on what feels right to us or what aligns with our experience or what fits us as individuals. We are, in fact, encouraged along this path, to revel in our melting pot (I guess chef's salad is now the term more in vogue) of intellectual subjectivities. We may be thinking outside of the box, but can thought ever be both free and meaningful if it is just a collection of "Perhapses," even if it magnificently shows off our uniqueness and specialness and wonderfulness?
I'm starting to see some of the contradictions inherent in Nietzsche's position, though that's probably because I read so little of his work and understand, I'm sure, less. It seems like he might be just as dogmatic or narrow or biased in his iconoclasm. But rather than trying to tackle that right now, I want to explore a little bit more about the fact that we--as a society and even a system of education--comfortably ignore the extremely critical question of absolute meaning or truth. It's not that we've chosen the wrong answer; it's that we are discouraged from seeking to find an answer in the first place. We operate under the assumption that whatever ideas we come up with have enough significance for our purposes, and we leave it at that. I'm not claiming that all people should stop conjecture or anything extreme like that. But isn't it at least a little bit unhealthy to engage in a self-deception of such magnitude and to such a degree that we fail to acknowledge the existence of a conflict at all? Why the fuck don't we care anymore about truth or whether it even exists? That's important, isn't it? Right?
The people who compiled the packet (of historical primary sources) included this excerpt because they wanted the student reader to understand Nietzsche's role in criticizing his society and its excesses, both material and intellectual. But what jarred me the most was an idea that seemed to have been included in the packet only because it was in the midst of Nietszche's rant. He makes the scathing claim that philosophers (I get the sense he focuses on his contemporaries, but many of the bastions of the West are no doubt included) write, think, and pose "Perhapses" based on their personal biases. I see one facet of his argument as the idea that because Western thinkers as a whole begin with the assumption of concepts like self-consciousness and free will, their results are never truly legitimate; this is relatively easy to swallow. A little bit more startling is the consequent implication that those who develop philosophies based on morality are essentially developing their own personal biases based on a belief in a system of values that has no basis in the real nature of the world. I could write for several more paragraphs about the kind of fear and dread caused by seriously contemplating whether Nietzsche is right, whether we have completely wasted our lives tied to a foolish ideal that ultimately will not make a difference either way or that has no worth in and of itself.
But I set out to write about something a little bit different. Nietzsche's particular criticism--about (bad, though predominant) philosophy consisting of little more than a series of "Perhaps" conjectures backed by little more than a personal bias--struck me especially strongly at the moment because I realized I had always known this and recognized this but had managed to simultaneously ignore it. The most thinking I have ever done in the area of philosophy is for my English research paper about fear, and I have been aware, at least at some level, that I pretty much started with some basic principles of Eastern thought (e.g., reincarnation, oneness of the universe) and then directed my thought process along the lines of what sounded interesting, appropriate, or fitting to me. Sure, I recognize that Nietzsche's belief in the non-existence or, more properly, irrelevance of higher order is also a bias, though one rooted in scientific examination of humans and the universe. But I got to thinking about all of the ramifications of his criticisms, and I realized how much of our so-called critical thinking, especially that which we undertake in school, is based on what feels right to us or what aligns with our experience or what fits us as individuals. We are, in fact, encouraged along this path, to revel in our melting pot (I guess chef's salad is now the term more in vogue) of intellectual subjectivities. We may be thinking outside of the box, but can thought ever be both free and meaningful if it is just a collection of "Perhapses," even if it magnificently shows off our uniqueness and specialness and wonderfulness?
I'm starting to see some of the contradictions inherent in Nietzsche's position, though that's probably because I read so little of his work and understand, I'm sure, less. It seems like he might be just as dogmatic or narrow or biased in his iconoclasm. But rather than trying to tackle that right now, I want to explore a little bit more about the fact that we--as a society and even a system of education--comfortably ignore the extremely critical question of absolute meaning or truth. It's not that we've chosen the wrong answer; it's that we are discouraged from seeking to find an answer in the first place. We operate under the assumption that whatever ideas we come up with have enough significance for our purposes, and we leave it at that. I'm not claiming that all people should stop conjecture or anything extreme like that. But isn't it at least a little bit unhealthy to engage in a self-deception of such magnitude and to such a degree that we fail to acknowledge the existence of a conflict at all? Why the fuck don't we care anymore about truth or whether it even exists? That's important, isn't it? Right?
Monday, December 31, 2007
The Real, Actual, Incredible, Ultimate, Last, Final Post of the Year
I've been back home for a few days now, and I still face a tower of homework for the next two days before I return to school again. As odd and ill-fitting as it seems, I feel as if I'm doing good, hard labor, like clearing out trees or grinding concrete. It's primarily a clean feeling, because I know that doing my homework well and relatively early is a Good thing to do, much like brushing twice a day or holding the door for someone. Still, I can't say I'm exactly looking forward to the homework ahead of me that requires a lot of thinking. I am, however looking backward.
It starts, I suppose, with how swimmingly the first half of my break went. I have rarely enjoyed spending family time this much, but that probably had as much to do with family as with ample alone time with things of interest to do. The weekend at my (grown) cousin's house gave me a hint of what extended family living might be like, and it was great--to a point. I took advantage of hours of play time with the most adorable three year old I know, but living with so many people gets uncomfortable after a while, mentally. I started to get more and more irritable, so it was welcome when we packed up and headed to my brother's apartment. Of course, I failed to foresee the fact that we'd be bringing my mom's sister and her husband with us; I, the ever-irritated one, began to resent their presence a little. However, coming perhaps out of that specifically, I felt much closer to my mom and my brother, most of all my brother. This past week and a half, I have been forced to realize how much I really do miss my brother. And once I came to this realization, the train backwards didn't stop.
One of the greatest pleasures I get from music is somehow finding a song, especially from the '90s or early 2000s, that I recognize by ear but know nothing else about. This happened several times while I listened to Third Eye Blind's albums for the first time. I'm not sure what exactly it is that affects me so strongly about reminders from my adolescence and childhood. I think that it has something to do with the fact that I spent much of my sentient '90s focused on what I missed because of my relatively strict, somewhat oppressive parents. Then, as now, I yearned for some sort of freedom from their rules, most of all, as always, in relation to girls. You see, when I was younger, I constantly fell madly in love. It was somewhat of a cruel affair, especially given the aforementioned parental situation. In retrospect, however, I suppose that my powerful passions might have been in some way a result of the rules of my parents. Fearing the wrath of my parents at relationships with girls gave me a wonderful wall to hide behind. I justified my shyness with necessity and spun mental tales of love with abandon. Every time I hear a song from that era that I knew, I am transported back to the pleather seats of an obtuse yellow school bus, head against the window, feeling the pain of the metal fasteners at every bump, daydreaming--not idly, but with utmost intensity--about not necessarily a girl, but the new me that would necessarily emerge from such an open personality. I constantly rewrote plotlines of books and movies to include me. I was always the patient, thoughtful friend of the female lead, who was generally a very pretty tomboy. We were always best friends until somehow we knew we were in love. I see now that I probably didn't really understand any of this complex dynamic. I had figured that it would happen of its own, and that it didn't really matter because I couldn't participate in anything like that now. Still, years later, every single time I hear "Inside Out" by Eve 6 or "Jumper" by Third Eye Blind or especially "Kiss Me" by Sixpence None the Richer, I go back and I rewrite, I revise my childhood as I think it should have, could have been. To me, the '90s should have been lived in exactly as Third Eye Blind sounds, if that makes any sense, with a particular mix of carefree-ness and import, a sense of destiny but the time and opportunity to while away hours laughing, joking, Hanging Out with my friends, male and female.
I think the '90s and their music mean so much to me especially because I didn't really live them in the sense I'm living these years now. I surprise myself by finding so much meaning in the past, especially in such a decade. I find myself wishing that the songs that evoke nostalgia for me now actually came out around when I graduate from high school (tricky tense problems there), because I feel a much stronger attachment to them as pop music that was popular and musically good. It seems right that my most nostalgic years should be my high school ones, right? And maybe that will be so down the road, but right now, those glorious, sunny, completely self-fabricated '90s have my number.
So what am I doing reminiscing about the '90s on the eve of 2008? It all comes down to this. I needed to look backward ten years so that I could see back just one year. Disregard the stilting, contrived pabulum I wrote below. Here is the truth: I don't know exactly what being mature or what being an adult means, but I know that I moved closer to it in 2007 than in any other year. I underwent trials by fire, pushing through situations I had no business being in, somehow managing to emerge more or less okay. And yes, I am grateful that I am more mature, that I am more equipped to deal with life, that I might be a tiny bit wiser. But goddamnit, I don't know if I want to grow up. I strongly suspect that what I really want is to revisit the '90s as I am now and taste the sweet fruit of an idyllic teenage life. That's a little bit dangerous, isn't it?
Happy New Year
It starts, I suppose, with how swimmingly the first half of my break went. I have rarely enjoyed spending family time this much, but that probably had as much to do with family as with ample alone time with things of interest to do. The weekend at my (grown) cousin's house gave me a hint of what extended family living might be like, and it was great--to a point. I took advantage of hours of play time with the most adorable three year old I know, but living with so many people gets uncomfortable after a while, mentally. I started to get more and more irritable, so it was welcome when we packed up and headed to my brother's apartment. Of course, I failed to foresee the fact that we'd be bringing my mom's sister and her husband with us; I, the ever-irritated one, began to resent their presence a little. However, coming perhaps out of that specifically, I felt much closer to my mom and my brother, most of all my brother. This past week and a half, I have been forced to realize how much I really do miss my brother. And once I came to this realization, the train backwards didn't stop.
One of the greatest pleasures I get from music is somehow finding a song, especially from the '90s or early 2000s, that I recognize by ear but know nothing else about. This happened several times while I listened to Third Eye Blind's albums for the first time. I'm not sure what exactly it is that affects me so strongly about reminders from my adolescence and childhood. I think that it has something to do with the fact that I spent much of my sentient '90s focused on what I missed because of my relatively strict, somewhat oppressive parents. Then, as now, I yearned for some sort of freedom from their rules, most of all, as always, in relation to girls. You see, when I was younger, I constantly fell madly in love. It was somewhat of a cruel affair, especially given the aforementioned parental situation. In retrospect, however, I suppose that my powerful passions might have been in some way a result of the rules of my parents. Fearing the wrath of my parents at relationships with girls gave me a wonderful wall to hide behind. I justified my shyness with necessity and spun mental tales of love with abandon. Every time I hear a song from that era that I knew, I am transported back to the pleather seats of an obtuse yellow school bus, head against the window, feeling the pain of the metal fasteners at every bump, daydreaming--not idly, but with utmost intensity--about not necessarily a girl, but the new me that would necessarily emerge from such an open personality. I constantly rewrote plotlines of books and movies to include me. I was always the patient, thoughtful friend of the female lead, who was generally a very pretty tomboy. We were always best friends until somehow we knew we were in love. I see now that I probably didn't really understand any of this complex dynamic. I had figured that it would happen of its own, and that it didn't really matter because I couldn't participate in anything like that now. Still, years later, every single time I hear "Inside Out" by Eve 6 or "Jumper" by Third Eye Blind or especially "Kiss Me" by Sixpence None the Richer, I go back and I rewrite, I revise my childhood as I think it should have, could have been. To me, the '90s should have been lived in exactly as Third Eye Blind sounds, if that makes any sense, with a particular mix of carefree-ness and import, a sense of destiny but the time and opportunity to while away hours laughing, joking, Hanging Out with my friends, male and female.
I think the '90s and their music mean so much to me especially because I didn't really live them in the sense I'm living these years now. I surprise myself by finding so much meaning in the past, especially in such a decade. I find myself wishing that the songs that evoke nostalgia for me now actually came out around when I graduate from high school (tricky tense problems there), because I feel a much stronger attachment to them as pop music that was popular and musically good. It seems right that my most nostalgic years should be my high school ones, right? And maybe that will be so down the road, but right now, those glorious, sunny, completely self-fabricated '90s have my number.
So what am I doing reminiscing about the '90s on the eve of 2008? It all comes down to this. I needed to look backward ten years so that I could see back just one year. Disregard the stilting, contrived pabulum I wrote below. Here is the truth: I don't know exactly what being mature or what being an adult means, but I know that I moved closer to it in 2007 than in any other year. I underwent trials by fire, pushing through situations I had no business being in, somehow managing to emerge more or less okay. And yes, I am grateful that I am more mature, that I am more equipped to deal with life, that I might be a tiny bit wiser. But goddamnit, I don't know if I want to grow up. I strongly suspect that what I really want is to revisit the '90s as I am now and taste the sweet fruit of an idyllic teenage life. That's a little bit dangerous, isn't it?
Happy New Year
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
The Year in Review
As I type, on the 38th floor of an apartment building on the northwest corner of Millennium Park in Chicago, I glance out the window and see, to my great surprise, a strangely affecting skyline. Only at this moment do I realize, overwhelmed by unexpected beauty, that life is indeed good and that the year is approaching its end. January seems now like an incredibly artificial time for the new year to begin, hastily thrown in among the snow-burdened trees and ice-crusted grass. Perhaps this is done to encourage the new season of life to come earlier. At any rate, now is as good a time as any to digest the past year, which I hope to do over the next couple of days, while I should be working on my gigantic mass of homework. The easiest thing, however trite, to do would be to make lists of good things and bad things.
Good Things:
I fell in love with Stasia
I met Kristen at camp
I made 1st Team All-State for Scholastic Bowl as a sophomore
I aced the PSAT again
I got my license and experienced the relative freedom of driving myself
I played almost every minute of quite a few of our soccer games
I achieved my greatest ever level of endurance and fitness
I ran in my first track meet and actually beat people
I had a fantastic trip to India
I won $1500 in scholarships for winning a vocab bee and getting second place in an essay contest
I learned more about people I had technically known for a long time, but never took the opportunity to really talk to
I was forced to realize how much what I have chosen to spend my time on really means
I'm one year closer to college and, hopefully, concomitant freedom
I think I'm beginning to find a voice in writing
I had my most technically prolific year (literarily-speaking, if that is a legitimate phrase)
I finally have a class with Mr. Longhenry
Bad Things:
I helped screw things up with Stasia
Stasia moved away
Some of my best friendships are with people in three different states other than Illinois
My car got totaled
I have become relatively close, or friendly, with so many people that I cannot divide my time well enough between all of them and my other commitments
I was forced to admit that I could not fit in everything I wanted into my life's schedule
I'm one year farther from childhood
I have such little time to exercise my creative voice
I don't have a class with Mrs. Longhenry
I was terribly irritable with my parents
Good Things:
I fell in love with Stasia
I met Kristen at camp
I made 1st Team All-State for Scholastic Bowl as a sophomore
I aced the PSAT again
I got my license and experienced the relative freedom of driving myself
I played almost every minute of quite a few of our soccer games
I achieved my greatest ever level of endurance and fitness
I ran in my first track meet and actually beat people
I had a fantastic trip to India
I won $1500 in scholarships for winning a vocab bee and getting second place in an essay contest
I learned more about people I had technically known for a long time, but never took the opportunity to really talk to
I was forced to realize how much what I have chosen to spend my time on really means
I'm one year closer to college and, hopefully, concomitant freedom
I think I'm beginning to find a voice in writing
I had my most technically prolific year (literarily-speaking, if that is a legitimate phrase)
I finally have a class with Mr. Longhenry
Bad Things:
I helped screw things up with Stasia
Stasia moved away
Some of my best friendships are with people in three different states other than Illinois
My car got totaled
I have become relatively close, or friendly, with so many people that I cannot divide my time well enough between all of them and my other commitments
I was forced to admit that I could not fit in everything I wanted into my life's schedule
I'm one year farther from childhood
I have such little time to exercise my creative voice
I don't have a class with Mrs. Longhenry
I was terribly irritable with my parents
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Driven by no raging, fireborn stallions 'cross the barren heath
Vaunted chariots mire beneath the death throes of the moon.
Beleaguered figures strain against the ponderous fog,
Forgotten wings strapped tight with vengeful chains,
Tempered strength betrayed by mental bondage,
Depraved devotion to righteous, selfless evil.
Welded to baseness by desperate fear,
Ravaged shadows scour the gelid soil
Pursued by relentless ghosts,
Tattered remains of dignity.
Condemned travesties
Surrendered souls
Fallen angels
Broken men.
Vaunted chariots mire beneath the death throes of the moon.
Beleaguered figures strain against the ponderous fog,
Forgotten wings strapped tight with vengeful chains,
Tempered strength betrayed by mental bondage,
Depraved devotion to righteous, selfless evil.
Welded to baseness by desperate fear,
Ravaged shadows scour the gelid soil
Pursued by relentless ghosts,
Tattered remains of dignity.
Condemned travesties
Surrendered souls
Fallen angels
Broken men.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
High above the mucky-muck, castle made of clouds,
There sits Wonderboy, sitting oh so proudly.
Not much to say, when you're high above the mucky muck.
Wonderboy, what is the secret of your power?
Wonderboy, won't you take me far away from the mucky-muck?
-- Tenacious D, "Wonderboy"
I can't explain it, but I am so incredibly happy right now. I completely dominated my calculus test today, finishing in half the time. Then I remembered that I had to walk home today, because my dad is out of town. I walked out of the doors of the RVC building, and the wind hit me square in the face. And then I laughed. I started laughing almost hysterically, uncontrollably, as I walked, or rather flew across the campus. It took nearly 40 minutes for me to walk home, but I enjoyed every second of it.
While I was cruising through the wide open spaces on the outside of the RVC campus, the wind was my traveling companion, shaping my hair into crazy contortions and washing over my face. At that moment, I felt that the wind was love.
Every step of mine had an extra bounce, every stride a bar of music. I could hear beauty in the silence, save for the caressing roar of the wind. I rejoiced in the incredible exquisiteness and synergy of the sun, the trees, the road, my feet, the wind...
I cannot remember the last time I laughed for the pure joy of life. I meet with much difficulty in trying to describe exactly how I felt. I was there. I existed. The world existed. And then it wasn't quite me any more. I felt simultaneously empty and filled, about to burst. When I laughed, sunlight came out. I was merely an empty doorway between the world and itself, a temporary container.
As I reached my neighborhood, my steps had almost started to turn into skips and jumps, but as soon as my feet touched the off-white sidewalk, I slowed down. And I began to whistle. I hit every high note in every song that I could never do before, and I never stopped whistling until I got home. I whistled several songs I knew and even a few that never existed before I brought them into being. Can there be a greater sense of thrill than at the moment of creation? I didn't just hear the music, I felt it. Even more: I was the music, and my body was an instrument, the most perfect musical instrument in the universe, and the trees stopped swaying to listen. The music arced above and around the houses, twirled around the mailboxes, and planted itself in the lawns.
When I got back to my house, I suddenly realized I had forgotten my key, which would have put me in a rather sticky situation. But, as if to prove to me that today is a perfect day, the patio door was open when it should not have been. I entered, and I shouted the language of delight to the ghosts of all the footsteps, tears, laughs, and stories my house holds. I walked up to the computer, and pumped up the volume on the sweet set of speakers my brother left behind for us as a gift. I put on "What's My Age Again?" and I danced. I jumped. I twirled. I pumped my fist. I felt fluid, unfettered, buoyant. And then I sat down and started writing.
There sits Wonderboy, sitting oh so proudly.
Not much to say, when you're high above the mucky muck.
Wonderboy, what is the secret of your power?
Wonderboy, won't you take me far away from the mucky-muck?
-- Tenacious D, "Wonderboy"
I can't explain it, but I am so incredibly happy right now. I completely dominated my calculus test today, finishing in half the time. Then I remembered that I had to walk home today, because my dad is out of town. I walked out of the doors of the RVC building, and the wind hit me square in the face. And then I laughed. I started laughing almost hysterically, uncontrollably, as I walked, or rather flew across the campus. It took nearly 40 minutes for me to walk home, but I enjoyed every second of it.
While I was cruising through the wide open spaces on the outside of the RVC campus, the wind was my traveling companion, shaping my hair into crazy contortions and washing over my face. At that moment, I felt that the wind was love.
Every step of mine had an extra bounce, every stride a bar of music. I could hear beauty in the silence, save for the caressing roar of the wind. I rejoiced in the incredible exquisiteness and synergy of the sun, the trees, the road, my feet, the wind...
I cannot remember the last time I laughed for the pure joy of life. I meet with much difficulty in trying to describe exactly how I felt. I was there. I existed. The world existed. And then it wasn't quite me any more. I felt simultaneously empty and filled, about to burst. When I laughed, sunlight came out. I was merely an empty doorway between the world and itself, a temporary container.
As I reached my neighborhood, my steps had almost started to turn into skips and jumps, but as soon as my feet touched the off-white sidewalk, I slowed down. And I began to whistle. I hit every high note in every song that I could never do before, and I never stopped whistling until I got home. I whistled several songs I knew and even a few that never existed before I brought them into being. Can there be a greater sense of thrill than at the moment of creation? I didn't just hear the music, I felt it. Even more: I was the music, and my body was an instrument, the most perfect musical instrument in the universe, and the trees stopped swaying to listen. The music arced above and around the houses, twirled around the mailboxes, and planted itself in the lawns.
When I got back to my house, I suddenly realized I had forgotten my key, which would have put me in a rather sticky situation. But, as if to prove to me that today is a perfect day, the patio door was open when it should not have been. I entered, and I shouted the language of delight to the ghosts of all the footsteps, tears, laughs, and stories my house holds. I walked up to the computer, and pumped up the volume on the sweet set of speakers my brother left behind for us as a gift. I put on "What's My Age Again?" and I danced. I jumped. I twirled. I pumped my fist. I felt fluid, unfettered, buoyant. And then I sat down and started writing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
