What Labels Mean in our World.

We are introduced to our world through sound in the beginning. Our mother's womb allows vibrations to penetrate the protective sack like nothing else can, save the nutrients she provides. From these vibrations we become acquainted with the outside; and when we're born sound is the first thing we experience clearly. Eventually our brains can grasp what is going on and the chaotic rhythm of life forms into manageable compartmentalized associations that help us cope with the myriad of options before us. Words enter our schematic of the universe and these words become labels for the intrinsic, mundane, specific, beloved, and desired. In fact, we would not be able to succeed, prosper, and potentially enjoy the societies in which we live without the basis of labeling quite literally everything; though a few intellectuals might enjoy discovering the unlabeled... so they can label it. As we grow and learn, experiencing the various modes of life on this precious planet we call Earth, certain connotations creep into language further coloring our Verse with little judgments that express our ideology, morals, and, most importantly, our Self.

The given designation we call a Name is the simplest, a priori transition into labels humans come across. It's usually the first thing to which a baby responds after many days/weeks of repetition and engagement. This name, however, does not give us our identity, but rather creates an Identity Space empty of the person. Because my name is Josh does not mean I josh people or am a josher by nature, though jovial and jocular utterances do engage my communities in laughter frequently enough; my identity is larger than one word or phrase or label. Life introduces us to many labels that we cannot choose: our gender, race, sexual orientation, age, etc. Over time humans discover what factors in life associate them with defining words: a job, a social group, fields of studies, and even relationships; and even these descriptions of the self are not guaranteed depending on region/state/country in which one might reside. Then there are the self-chosen labels that we identify with: religion, politics, and regional affiliations. We call ourselves Democrats or Republicans, invoking all the denoted and connoted meanings to these qualifiers. We set ourselves as this sect or another of Christianity and set boundaries that group others within that specific label. We believe region sets us apart from other humans because cultures differ between mountain, swamp, or island inhabitants. But these are all words created by humans to help us understand what we see, feel, taste, hear, and comprehend. What if it's all really just meaningless babble?

It can't be meaningless because you would not be building greater concepts through my words if meaning were absent. The image of a cup -- yep, that one that just popped into your head -- is brought forth because the word "Cup" has an undeniable meaning attached to it. Perhaps this is why we label ourselves like processed food. One serving of Josh comes with a healthy view of Pagan ideologies, a small dosage of fiscal conservatism, heavy portions of social progress, a coating of Green Party propaganda; injected with college education in Literature and Astro-Physics, music appreciation, culinary ingenuity, artistic ambitions; less than 2% moody, judgmental, irrational, conspiracy theorist, etc. Do not take if Close-Minded, Judgmental, Homophobic, Racist, etc. Would this mentality disrupt the abhorrence for the other in society, by putting forward all our identity ingredients for those to choose whether or not to engage? I think not, merely because this would give the judger an automatic right to judge based on the facts of your existence. Remember my warning: Do not take if [fill in the blank]. We already judge people based off labels. Doctors are seen as intelligent to some because the title Doctor comes with years of education. But we also question whether Doctors are educated thoroughly (they study pharmaceuticals and their effect on health, not a full degree in bodily health). We judge people based off age (too young, must be wet behind the ears), gender (women aren't as strong as men), "race," and ethnicity. This is so second nature by this point we can barely notice the difference between a simple label (i.e. cup) apart from the more intricately laced labels (i.e. gay).

In order to label something we have to distinguish its difference from other objects. Human nature till this point has been to analyze for "goodness," a property of inherent wealth corresponding with desire, necessity, or social status, and thus judge separate it from others by this designation. Our daily practice is to analyze driving patterns, nutritional information, and social morals, amongst other things. America is currently in the heat of a label war within its own borders: Republicans and Democrats vying for justice against a backlash against liberal ideology present under a conservative Democratic presidency. The labels have interfered with relationships, at least in my world. My conservative extended family through my partner voted for President-Elect Trump (a label that sours my mind, squelches my heart, and demeans some respect I might have assigned that role in our nation) and has repeatedly approached us with words of wisdom, consolation, and misunderstanding. They've labeled us as "inexperienced" politically (overlooking academic studies in Political Science and sitting on a Congressional Advisory Committee), as "whiny liberals," as "misinformed." Rather than looking beyond their own label as Republicans to see what comes with the package of a Trump presidency (support from terrorists groups like the KKK, Neo-Nazis, Extremist Christians) and correlating that with our reactions to such an election turn out. But even here I have labeled entire groups of people with the same mindset, which is absurd. These are, however, the regular thought patterns which stem from the simplest of labels which assigns us a sense of pride, segregating us in our own prejudices, unable to grow from the lack of connection.

Pride is what helps us feel comfortable in our own labels, and I don't mean to say we shouldn't be proud of who we are. We must be careful with our labels, with the words we choose to associate with our being. Words are power: they create feeling, memory, experience. When we start piling on meanings to words, expanding them to encompass a large survey rather than the individual, we lose the Truth. As Eckhart Tolle so elegantly states:

The word God has become empty of meaning through thousands of years of misuse. By misuse, I mean that people who have never glimpsed the realm of the sacred, the vastness behind that word, use it with great conviction, as if they knew what they are talking about. Or they argue against it, as if they knew what it is they are denying. This misuse gives rise to absurd beliefs, assertions, and egoic delusions, such as "My or our God is the only true God, and your God is false," or Nietzche's famous statement, "God is dead."

Before you label yourself, ensure you know what your labels really mean. And before you confront the ideology behind another label, make sure you know what it means for the labeled. This will help banish the confusion and misinterpretation of actions by individuals because our expectations of them won't be misguided by our own prejudice.

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Know your Labels. Know your Words. Know your Verse.

A Re-Introduction

This feels rather rusty, like old cogs turning with a squeal in the dark; for I am in the dark. I've brewed ginger-garlic tea, not because I am ill but for the enjoyment of comfort in a time of unknown and the possibility such a tonic will permit me health without the aid of others. So recently have I been in that sterile environment, closed in with white walls, women, and wherewithal. What else could I do but assess the values of my life when such a clean slate presents itself? Once value I treasure: I am able in my functions within this society. A value I humbly embrace: I live a blessed life. Then there are the ones I instill as ably as I can: to learn, to see, to hear; be kind, love, appreciate; seek beauty, wisdom, and the future (whiles knowing the present is all). I fail occasionally, but my effort remains on this path. Four years ago I would never consider making myself a tea strictly of ginger root and fresh chopped garlic, to which I would add apple cider vinegar and an organic juice; tonight is different: fresh pressed ginger-garlic tea with rosemary for memory and beauty and honey to help sweeten those synapses.

Something within me called for a healing medicine. I know a few methods to heal wounds, but not all. I went to the emergency room a few days ago due to a laceration of my left forefinger, an injury incurred while fighting jalapeños, a primary ingredient in green chili, at work. Normally preparations would have been made by me, continued on course by myself, and done away with a precision only I could hope to muster. The cut is fairly deep, and to this day it looks a little scary with five stitches holding it together; my remedy calls for a traditional American remedy: superglue. The doctor's prognosis was to keep my forefinger erect, allaying the possibility of a snapped tendon (one such nicked by a stainless steal blade). My naivety would have caused me further injury, and this band-aid for which I think to remove for the first full night since the incident would have remained red and I could have lost far more than blood and dignity -- jalapeños should never conquer an hispanic, right? Regardless, the issue remains that my own perception of healing fell short of the necessities for such an injury, and after even a few days I feel rusty at the modes to which I need to heal myself.

An age ago, though that sounds melodramatic, my life changed. I realize now that change took more away from me than I thought I would garner. Perhaps that isn't entirely true. The world into which I stepped gave me a whole mess to deal with; and after four and a half years I've realized that mess is still around. To be frank, nearly half a decade prior to this moment I broke away from a past which seemed to be hindering me from actively engaging with the world as myself. My desire to please love was causing a blockade to hold barren the passions of my personality, to store away a freedom of expression. Though love was my witness in these atrocities, I couldn't justify true love when my self was hindered from being by me. A life, or two, then ended.

Possibility reigned for a short while until I realized I was far broken and aiming wildly into a future I couldn't imagine. My memories of this period are as dark as the room I sit: light filters in from the kitchen and radiates in soft glows from the television before me and the golden-red lightbulb barely energized above. It seems I lived life at night, hidden from the light of day, the truth of moments. This is not to say I could not remember the time spent between January and August of 2011 -- but I feel remembering this summer of nightfall is to question my life now.

My band-aid is not ready to remove.

I've pulled off the band-aid upon my finger between delicate sips of hot tea. The itch demanded liberation from the suffocating permanence of safety. My heart thrumbs in a chasm deep between two lungs. Soft clicks tell me my mobility is not hampered by the cross stitched curve atop my index. My mind slows the progress of the flashing vertical line dancing before me. Such action feels rusty, unpracticed, and forced, when it once flowed as freely as the visions of other worlds flickered in the darkness of my eyelids. There is a bandage here, something blocking me from myself again. Writing is its sky. Words will fall upon the leafs blown in autumn winds.

Summer is present again and questions brought by the gentle night press against my brain. Bubbling persists, words dance in colorful attitudes pressing me to find answers without thought, and fear wafts from behind veiled clearings bathing in the sunlight -- or the moonlight. As days progress, words will come; and the pages of this artifice will expand.

Private Sunrise

The sunshine bellows in the face of bitterness. Something about its smile chases away delicate strands of imperceptible decay registering in the deepest recesses of the heart. Sunshine: a beacon of understanding, of life, of joy, of infinite possibility confronted by jealous darkness. The clash is almost always won by the daemon of day, even when blankets smother the skies with sodden moods. There is and always shall be the complicated balance of shadows and wakening, of which waking even in dim solitude persists just as the sun rises permanently in the east; and with mourning morning’s arrival, the dread of moments past must diminish in the west like violet tendrils spotted with glitter.

Isn’t that the truth: a sparkling warmth of torture. It is easier to remain in darkness, easier to chide the day-lit faces of others, easier to lay your body down, easier than pulling back the suffocating curtains and adjusting your eyes. The night appears infinitely more beautiful in its anxious moments spliced with worried faces and tender words juxtaposed to the brightness and clarity of our waking hours. Ultimately, we mistake the comfort of cold for the cozy warmth necessary for life to proceed.

Days go by, the stars shine in their attributed luminosities, weather changes regardless; but until the crest of smiling breaks the visage of our essences stagnation will prevent the morning glories from greeting the Eastern shores. Benevolence exists within ourselves for ourselves without the sun, truly. Day crests with or without the fiery intensity of our own happiness; but the night will remain unless something is changed.

Today is one of those moments when it feels impossible to redress the overwhelming possibilities of failure. Sub-zero biting chills swoop like bitterns with piercing eyes. Even the sun can’t warm the skies, can’t melt the slick Road before our doors, can’t awaken the mist-filled forest before our hearts. Herein lies the challenge: What to wear in the face of such harshness?

The answer circles around, circles around, and circles to one point, just like the sun’s warming rays: a smile.

On "Jennifer K. Dick and Laura Mullen in Conversation"

What is this?

You tell me that influence is a disease that strengthens the very ground of poetry and writing; that teaches us to believe in the words, if stollen or borrowed or used in conjunction with influenza? And here I worry that words are lost because they've been stollen away from me!

Such a strange thought...

But your wisdoms and influence are so boundless in such short conversation, so profound in deep introspection, so continuous in jealous understanding. How can I dare to reiterate what you have just delivered with clarity and profundity? The harshest and most truthful is the influence, the disease, of teachers inspiring and molding and manipulating youthful, ambitious, creative writers to relinquish individuality in favor of understanding the 'Greats' of any era!

I shall say 'NO!' as you tell me. I will not change my letters to better help your comprehension of something I don't even understand properly (BECAUSE IT CAME IN FREE, doubtless as my fingers fly across the keyboard creating something my mind wants to reveal for myself). And then the critic appears jealously, attempting to find some semblance of flow in the very digital codes so clearly distinguished on the screen (YOU'RE READING THEM!) and tells us of what he doesn't understand. That's the danger, allowing him to sneer down his fingers at the texts of our minds.

But then the influence comes full circle. Can we ever escape it? And should we ever try? Influence is a barrage of symbols piercing the veil we hold over our minds like an iron chest-plate. It doesn't fit, and the holes show more brightly when continuously jilted by critics saying "Tolkien was his only influence, and he falls short of that brilliance."

And thus we let the influence in, because we can't avoid it. It is truth, and should be treated as treasures, however used!

The Idea of Immortality

I've always thought I'd like to live forever. Immortality, I was informed in a textbook years ago, is one of the irrational desires of being human. Recently, however, my mother told me of a short story wherein a guy was truly immortal. He lived past the implosion of the Universe and continued existing (in thought or spirit) in a vacuum of nothingness. He hated his life.

Initially I thought: "Well that's not very Buddhist of him," using my mother's practices as a filter to her story. However, it made me think.

What would I feel if I lived through the violent gravitational fluctuations of a collapsing universe?

What would I think if I were the only thing in known existence? Without any physical means of verification?

Would my very consciousness or spirit be able to create my own Universe in thought, thus introducing a new reality from fantasy and creating a Big Bang.

Could we not be doing this very thing now, given enough thought, focus, and belief? And then we wouldn't be alone, ever; even after the end of known existence. Which brings me to my writing. Logic dictates (ha!) that my imagination is not reality and therefore does not exist in the Universe beyond the impulses in my brain and the words written on paper. I accept that the laws of this Universe are finite given the expectations of existence within the sphere of acceptable standards; but I believe my characters are real whether in my head or the imagination of my readers, or in an alternate Universe spawned simply because I thought it.

This is my first step toward enlightenment, which the character in the aforementioned short story couldn't see: vacuums are defined only by our universe. He couldn't know about everything, lest he be God, and should not doubt his future. Change is a constant. A change would undoubtedly appear for him, and he'll be all the wiser for it.

As for immortality, I now have conditions:
     ~If I could choose to die at anytime,
     ~And if I could stay beautiful and fit!

Plain vs. Plane

It seems that most people have issues with "its" or "it's" or "there", "their", and "they're"; but my problem, as I'm sure many have noticed, is in the difference between "plain" and "plane." Thus, I shall discuss in detail in order to change my understanding and finally grasp the proper uses of those words. I want to make it clear, as well, that my issue isn't with the definitions plain = ordinary and plane = airplane, because I totally understand those. My issue is more more complex.

Plain: flat land, typically a field; also: the Great Plains

Plane: flat surface, typically a level board or table; also: "the cliff stood next to a plane of land."

Can you see my initial confusion? In essence, Plain is specific to land formations while Plane is general to all. So are they truly interchangeable or not? Further confusion. Obviously, when speaking it doesn't matter which one you're using because the meaning is implicit with the subject matter. My issue is substantial because I write science-fiction and fantasy. Let me further illuminate my dilemma:

Plain: Specific to land
Plane: a level of existence, a certain realm, a two dimensional coordinate system.

THUS

Plainswalker: derived to mean a Native American/Indian who walks across the Great Plains on a spiritual quest/journey of enlightenment and/or to commune with other planes.

Planeswalker: An inter-dimensional being who transcends other levels of existence or realms of existence. 

FURTHERMORE

A Planeswalker can walk from one plane to another; or from one plain to another. Visa-verca: A Plainswalker walks across the plains to connect with other planes; or transcends (mentally or spiritually) from this plane to communicate with other plains (speaking in terms of land).

Seeing this difference spelled out so definitively before me makes it seem entirely too simple, but my mind spins too quickly when writing or creating to care about the seemingly subtle difference. If I see (in my mind) a character sitting on a level surface (land or board) and he meditates to dissolve his energy/mind into an energy signal to translocate himself to a different place in order to communicate with someone standing, sitting, or working on a separate level surface (again, land or board), I don't decipher between plain and plane; though I'm sure there is a "more correct" use of the terms. This is something I am paying more attention to because I don't want you, my reader and critic, to be distracted by my diction. I just want you to see and feel what I'm writing about!

So here I stand, on a plane of concrete looking out over the small plain bordered by homes, wondering if i understand on which plane my mind plays as I wander to the final plane of existence. Will it be plains before my third eye, or mountains to traverse to freedom?

Lessons after 200 Blogs.

What Have I Learned Since Starting this Blog?

It has certainly been an adventure since I started turning ink into digital code, and the adventure hasn't simply been in the transition but in my mind as well. Surprisingly, I've had to shift my thought patterns to address motivation on a different level than school or work has ever done for me. This style of motivation is for myself, which I've always deterred as something I can do later when I have time or when it's convenient. When the imperative circumstance affects an outcome to my immediate goals, such as school grades or getting paid, my motivation kicks in and I force myself to do the work. My attitude has always been different toward the things I do for enjoyment, like writing and playing video games. The most important thing I've learned over the past 200 blog postings is how to motivate myself. If I don't have that motivation, I fail to accomplish my commitments that I've established for myself (above all).

In regards to commitments I've learned quite a bit as well. Holding true to the promises I deem important has been a struggle with my blog. In the beginning I was able to promise one blog per day. I kept to this goal as much as I could; but circumstances over the past two months has slowed down my ability to write, much less post a blog. Part of me thinks I have failed you (my readers/fans) and failed myself. Another part of me knows there is disappointment floating around somewhere. I care not to grab it so I associate it with your intentions, and I know this is a selfish thing to do because I can be the only one truly disappointed in my own work (although... I guess you could be disappointed as well... but how would I know?). Ultimately, I don't entirely feel bad about not sticking to this goal of "one blog a day" because I have simply shifted my focus to other areas in my life: 19 credit hours in school and (for a time, two jobs) a full time managerial job. Thus, I've learned to not punish myself for not holding to a commitment like this. Yes it's a promise to myself first, and a promise to you second, but the intention is to motivate me to write more, write better, and find a strength and uniqueness in my voice.

Another huge thing I've learned is how much of a poet I am. Poetry is fun, beautiful, and intriguing to me. I realized how intense I see my own poetry, even knowing a lot of it is first drafts they hold an intrinsic depth akin to my mood, heart, beliefs, and personality. Looking back through all of them makes me wonder if others understand what I'm saying and the meaning behind my words. (And if you don't, I URGE you to please please PLEASE leave a comment and I'll explain, dig, and illuminate what I've done!)

What do I See Coming Down the Road?

My heart tells me this blog will be around for a long time. I hope that many of the postings that I've built will inspire me to write books of poetry or collections of short stories; and possibly even expand into novels, trilogies, or series revolving the circumstances or events constructed here. I see a lot more critiques forthcoming as well. I'm reading new books that I've desired to read for a long time and my new academic, analytical, and critical eye is pushing my comprehension to even deeper levels. Literature is one facet of my life I will forever be swimming in. It's much like my room, actually... I have hundreds of books stashed away anywhere I can fit them. Most of them are creative works: fantasy, science fiction, and fiction; but I'm slowly massing a nice collection of physics, astronomical, and mathematical books that I'm fully enjoying! I know... I'm odd.

What do I Wish For?

I hope that more of my readers/fans/critics will participate more. I know my absences stretch on for a while as stressful events unfold and time slips away into the abyss of school and work; but I hope that loyalties continue to read what I've disseminated and will chime in with questions or suggestions or advise. Ultimately, I want more requests! If you want to see me write something in particular (new/different/ a continuation), let me know! It'll move those thoughts, those inspirations, to the forefront of my thoughts (even in class while I struggle through Physics) and I'll pop something out much faster.

Lasting Words:

As I believe I've written several times before:

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

~Bilbo Baggins

JRR Tolkien

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring

My Issue with a Song

At first, "Missing" by Everything But the Girl was a beautiful, romantic, and heartfelt song of a romance that disappeared or a love that got lost. Here are the lyrics so you can start to understand my issue:

I step off the train

I'm walking down your street again

Past your door, but you don't live there anymore

It's years since you've been there

Now you've disappeared somewhere, like outer space

You've found some better place

And I miss you, like the deserts miss the rain

And I miss you, like the deserts miss the rain

Could you be dead?

You always were two steps ahead, of everyone

We'd walk behind while you would run

I look up at your house

And I can almost here you shout down to me

Where I always use to be

And I miss you, like the deserts miss the rain

And I miss you, like the deserts miss the rain

Back on the train, I ask "Why did I come again?

"Can I confess, I've been hanging round your old address?"

And years have proved

to offer, nothing since you've moved

You're long gone, but I can't move on

And I miss you, like the deserts miss the rain

And I miss you, like the deserts miss the rain

I step off the train

I'm walking down your street again

Past your door, but you don't live there anymore

It's years since you've been there

Now you've disappeared somewhere, like outer space

You've found some better place

And I miss you, like the deserts miss the rain

And I miss you, like the deserts miss the rain

(repeat last two stanzas)

(c) EMI Music Publishing, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Now, the woman in the song (yes it's a woman singing it, thus I assume it's a woman actually speaking to the audience) obviously has some stalker tendencies. She's going back to the old house in which either her ex-lover, ex-boyfriend, ex-husband, or whomever use to live. Looking up to a specific point where he probably slept and would speak to her out the window (or even yelled at her to leave), she's seemingly brought back to her senses and leaves back for the train... but she returns to the house again. It's a cycle she can't resist... She's obsessed with him or still loves him or something.

Now for the chorus: "And I miss you, like the deserts miss the rain." Ok... sure... the woman misses her ex-whatever. It's obvious because she's still returning to his old house and reliving her emotions or memories. But the allusion of a desert missing rain doesn't compute with these feelings she's presenting to us. Assuming deserts have mental capacities and therefore hold memories... The desert itself wouldn't miss rain. It might fear rain for how infrequently it falls. Think about it... a dry, desolate place, use to the day to day life of not having moisture except in the form of ever so slight humidity, would see rain as a suffocating experience overwhelming the landscape and covering every fiber of the desert with water. Not necessarily an experience most anyone would miss. I wouldn't miss that experience, especially if it made me change drastically into something green when I wanted to remain golden.

On the other hand, perhaps the desert refers to the people of the desert, or the animals of the desert, or life in general living in the desert. Even so... These lifeforms may only want a slight rain, not enough to drench the landscape and destroy houses or reshape the terrain by mudflows, flooding, etc. And the people and creatures of the desert don't miss the rain... they know where to find water, what to search for for nutrients, how to survive without rain. Yeah, it may be a nice reprieve... but not a missing notion.

This is why I have an issue with the aforementioned song. The woman doesn't miss her ex like the desert misses the rain. The desert doesn't miss the rain. Therefore she shouldn't miss him. And maybe that's the point the woman is going for, that the song is ironic in its intrinsic meaning. If that's the case, then I LOVE the song for what it represents. Perhaps moving on? Perhaps coming to terms with the loss of love and the association of needlessness that comes with forgetting him (but she hasn't forgotten him...). Bah, and I'm back to my issue. Bad song... Beautiful lyrics on the surface and a wonderful melody to accompany it.

Hey, if you have any other insight to "Missing," let me know! I'd love to have my emotions about the song resolved.

"The Zahir" by Paulo Coelho

Profound! Perhaps strangely so because this isn't the kind of novel I usually pick up and I struggled through the book until I read the last quarter. Honestly though, The Zahir touched on so many levels of life which certainly allowed individuals of many different paths to relate this this book. The first three quarters presented so many things easily equated with my life, which is why I struggled so much. However, in the end I felt as rewarded as when I read The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho.

The aspect of a zahir took half the novel to understand. The additive portion of the title ("A Novel of Obsession") helps comprehend what a zahir is: obsession; but the mere acceptance of a zahir as obsession isn't nearly accurate enough. For instance, I am obsessed with beauty (it's true): the beauty of people physically, mentally and spiritually, the beauty of art, the beauty of emotion, the beauty of nature both sublime and serene, etc. Obsessed is certainly the proper word to describe this aspect, but i would never call it my zahir. A zahir is an overwhelming obsession that controlls every aspect of one's life: thought, actions, reasons, etc. According to Coelho in his talk about The Zahir he cites Jorge Luis Borges on the aspect of what a zahir is and says "the idea of the Zahir comes from the Islamic tradition and probably arose in the eighteenth century. In Arabic zahir means 'visible; present; incapable of going unnoticed.'"

In The Zahir the narrator, who is left unnamed until the very end and then only takes the name Nobody, discovers that his wife has left him without reason. His wife was his rock, his strength, his everything it seems because she helped get him into writing and forced him to overcome himself in the writing process. In a sense, the narrator depended on her as much as he depended on his own inspiration. When he lost her, he lost himself and became obsessed with finding her, knowing why she left, who she left with, what she's doing, etc. But the more thought about her and the more he continued on his own journey the more the narrator realizes he is truly obsessed with his history. Thus, one of the central lessons is revealed.

One characteristic of this novel that I LOVED is the allusions to Coelho's own works! He references The Alchemist, Brida, By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept, and Warrior of the Light, if not others amongst those. I haven't read his entire work yet, but this book seems to have used all the lessons of his others to put together a wondrous novel about obsession. About the zahirs in life.

As I read through this book, I realized several things about myself. One of which is my obsession with writing and reading and experiencing life in the various different ways reading and writing provide. I also realize that I'm not obsessed with my history. One of the things this book tells the reader is to let go of the past because we can't let it determine who we will become. It may have made who we are, but we can't let that destroy our aspirations, intentions, etc. However, it also helped me understand where my zahirs exist, and which one has most recently destroyed myself: work. My previous job, the one I just got out of, was overwhelmingly overtaking my life in every aspect and I couldn't shake it (except for getting away, I had no other release from this zahir). Finishing this book now helped me release this history, this experience, and those troubles so I can move forward. All in all, this may have been the reason I haven't been writing as much recently.

To wrap things up, I would say everyone should read The Zahir at some point in life, especially if you happen to be going through a time in life you feel is overwhelming and controlling. This novel of obsession will certainly help reawaken yourself. However, I recommend reading Coelho's other novels before picking this one up. It will help understand to a larger degree the allusions and meanings of The Zahir. It's a wonderful book!

Sarah McLachlan has done it again.

One voice saved me through my time of woe in high school. It kept me sane, saved my emotions, and preserved my life. Since then I've always loved her music to the point of fanaticism, but I don't allow myself to become crazed at the very thought of her... although sometimes I fail miserably and am overjoyed to hear any news about Sarah McLachlan. It wasn't any different with her new CD release: Laws of Illusion. Furthermore, I wasn't disappointed by what Sarah gave to the world! Here is an example of the beauty Sarah has given us:

"Awakenings"

When we first met the well was dry
A long dark winter passed us by
With shooting stars and hopeful hearts our worlds collide
And so we rushed to fill each other in
Quick to lead our hungry hopes
A feast of our affections we were born anew

With open eyes we tried to make it work
And for a while the magic took
But cracks began to show as soon as things got hard
Like paper walls our feelings tore
We threw our backs against the door
Unwilling to bear witness to the other side

Oh, the games we play to hide the tangled dread inside
The fear that we are going nowhere fast
So we point the finger out, the anger gets so loud
It drowns out all the sorrow, at least until tomorrow... what then?

I took a good hard look at how I loved
Years I squandered falling fast
For any boy who'd have me was so insecure
I'd lie awake alone at night
Full of loathing, compromised
And wondering how the hell did I end up like this

Oh, the tears of rage I cried, when nowhere could I find
An answer that made any kind of sense to me
I point the finger out, the anger gets so loud
It drowns out all the sorrow, at least until tomorrow... what then?

Oh I wanna learn, I wanna know
Will our history crush us or can we let it go?
I'm not the girl I was but what have I become?
I'm not so willing anymore to bend
Still pleasing and conceding
but I'm not gonna lose myself again

(c)2010; Laws of Illusion

This song, in so many ways, speaks to me just like her first album with "Possession" and "Hold On" did on her album Fumbling Towards Ecstasy. Suddenly I feel a passion and connection with events in my life, and each time I hear or read the lyrics to "Awakenings," I see something new and interesting and deeper than what I saw before.

At first I felt the love concerned by the song: how quick and easy it is to fall into infatuation after so long, how tortured and dangerous love is, how beautiful and fulfilling it can be, and how it matures us. Other circumstances in my life took me on a different thought path about the loss of love rather than discovering love. The song transformed instantly to an awakening of new emotions still fueled by love. It was magical. After many times listening to it, I know feel another motif of "Awakenings" is about a love that grows for the self and the strength it takes to find one love.

Even with this all said, I'm sure it will change for me again and again. As most of Sarah McLachlan's music, it's pure poetry written by a beautiful mind whose wisdom is shared through music. I've learned so much about myself through listening to Sarah's music over the years, and I can't wait to learn even more from Laws of Illusion that I need to figure out in one way or another.

Essentially:

Thank You Sarah McLachlan for your brilliance! I love you!

"I, Robot" by Isaac Asimov: AMAZING!

It has taken me a while to grip the wondrous novel I, Robot by Isaac Asimov. Usually I know how I feel as soon as I finish a novel, whether I'll read it again, and how prominent it will be on my bookshelf. This wasn't entirely simple with I, Robot. I knew by the third chapter this book would be one of my favorites. Asimov completely blew my mind on a level that's only happened a handful of times. I, Robot put me in a trance when I read it and wouldn't let go. That's why I couldn't easily judge the book; I was so enthralled I couldn't look at it objectively. I feel I have a better grasp of the situation now, though.

One of the main features of this novel is the structure. The story which links the chapters together is based on a reporter interviewing the revered robopsychologist, Dr. Susan Calvin, who witnessed the birth of the contemporary robots. Each chapter, until the final three or four, is a short story revealing the birth of the robotic sentience which mirrors, in many ways, the evolution of society in a very symbolic manner. My favorite of these chapters was the one entitled "Liar" which follows the story of a mind reading robot who finds conflict with the "Three Laws of Robotics." I started reading this chapter on the airplane on the way home and disappeared from the world. That action in itself hasn't happened in such a long time.

The overall theme or message of the novel blew my mind, and by telling you the message I spoil the ending, so I will refrain and hope you read it. Once I finished reading I, Robot, I couldn't move. Thinking was the only option; considering humanity's future along this path inspired, threatened, and convinced me of Asimov's predictions. Even without the existence of robots, Asimov makes intelligent predictions, some of which are obviously coming true as we live. European Union anyone?

My favorite passage starts in chapter 7, on page 179 and follows:

When Susan Calvin entered the fantastically guarded vault that held The Brain, one of the current shift of technicians had just asked it: "If one and a half chickens lay one and a half eggs in one and a half days, how many eggs will nine chickens lay in nine days?"

The Brain had just answered, "Fifty-four."

And the technician had just said to another, "See, you dope!"

Dr. Calvin coughed and there was a sudden impossible flurry of directionless energy. The psychologist motioned briefly, and she was alone with The Brain.

I simply LOVE the description of the "directionless energy." I couldn't help but laugh.

All in all, this is truly, ultimately, and unavoidably a must read. Socially, I, Robot makes important statements. Artistically, it is a bold, innovative, beautiful, and well written piece of literature! Personally, it's one of my all time favorite books. I look forward to reading more of Isaac Asimov, and I hope you make the time to read this quick book: I, Robot!

Fantasy vs. Reality

When does fantasy cease to what we call reality? And the even more poignant question would be: is reality any different than fantasy? My reality, at present, is an airport check-in waiting area sitting in a plastic chair made to resemble leather attempting comfort; while I watch strangers converse amicably for their overpriced tickets which don't include a checked bag. The walls are all a muted white. Pillars are covered in aluminum. Airline logos are mounted across from me: Spirit, Frontier, Airtram... This place is not real.

And it's not real because people invest nothing of their soul's emotions into this transitional terminal. Paint falls disregarded from the posts which usher travelers to their immediate destination, even before they ascend to the sky. Their eyes notice a disingenuous smile lying on the attendant's visage. Before a green, silver and blue, backdrop she'll counter your thoughts with niceties for efficient procedures. No one notices the lack of judgment the attendant offers with her eyes who have certainly seen enough of this terminal and its ten minute inhabitants to know something deeper of the world. Light pours in from the wall of glass behind me, beyond which remains a thoroughfare for traffic detaching the travelers with their baggage.

This is when most believe their fantasy has ended; where they believe their reality awaits them just beyond sliding glass doors. No amount of hugs, kisses, and good-byes prevents this general stigma for which individuals degrade themselves emotionally. Still, the soul invests little to nothing here.

My fantasy is here. Now. In this seat watching people saunter by with children asleep upon their mother's shoulder while the father's carry Woody, Tigger, Mickey, and his ears. This terminal which builds a space with fake orchids, caged trees, and stunted bushes. Where the linoleum floor is scuffed by leather, rubber, plastic, and the like. In an over protected environment where my depression affects no-one, not even the two with whom I travel.

Reality remains in the last nine days of my vacation, oddly... Counter-intuitively. Still I don't believe that was my reality, but consciously I know it to be true. Four days with my guiding light and five in Disneyland together presented an universe more real and connected than my job, my home, and my daily necessities. My imagination was placed aside as I stepped into my dreams; and it was real. Wishes from my heart were created, and new aspirations embedded themselves along with my childhood ambitions. New inspirations blossomed and bled into a colorful world painted by my pen, my mind, and my hand. I was genuinely happy, enthusiastically encouraged by myself to live, and joyfully realizing the steps I need to achieve to be that happy again.

This fantasy at present pulls me through a black vortex bombarded with multi-directional currents, eddies and gravitational fluxes which depress my emotions. I'm ready to move forward into this chapter, but I despise the conflicts boiling before me. Excitement fills my chest just thinking about the new inspirations, however I regret the turmoil I left behind and to which I return. Perhaps this new-found motivation to achieve my fantastic dreams in reality will give the nightmare to inspiration rather than emptiness. In which case the fantasy to which I go will mirror, in ways, the reality from which I leave unwillingly.

My fantasy will not bend to what is known collectively as 'reality.' My soul will embed itself in a realm so magical that I will not be able to determine one from the other, and the ink that will flow will certainly encompass the beautiful world I know. I will reveal to these blind travelers what is missed in theirs stay. I will not be terminal in my life, even when my own emotions discourage. The truth of reality is the bird fluttering inside the concourse, searching for the crumbs of fresh baked cookies. The truth of fantasy is the child asleep with his Mickey ears as a frantic mother searches for her gate, her eyes doubtful they'll arrive promptly for boarding. The truth of both is the view from the window: rays of dieing light piercing white and gray clouds in a symphony of rainbows permeating in an air tight cabin miles above our home. Does it end with a footfall?

The Nameless Stranger

“Say Yes” by Tobias Wolff is a short story about a couple who encounter a discussion concerning interracial marriages. This discussion happens primarily in the kitchen as the husband and wife are cleaning up after dinner. Wolff writes this story in a limited omniscience narrative from the husband’s perspective about the topic at hand. It is very apparent that the husband loves and respects his wife, but very strongly disagrees with her stance. Eventually the discussion stops and Ann, the wife, sends her husband to bed after he apologizes. She has him turn off the lights and enters the room in the dark, and the husband is suddenly struck by an odd emotion. The husband feels there is “a stranger” in the house. One of the most peculiar things about “Say Yes” is that Wolff left the husband nameless, whereby instigating the audience’s notion of him as a stranger even though he is the main character.

The audience is first introduced to the husband in “Say Yes” very early in the story. He is portrayed as a “considerate husband” by his wife’s friends since he helps out with a lot of the house work. The evidence from the short story coincide with this analysis of his love for his wife, especially when he hurries off to find “alcohol, cotton, and a Band-Aid” to help Ann after she pricked her finger on something. Considering his verbal tone during the argument, the husband tries to stay calm and level headed, only losing his temper once when he says, “These are dirty,” and “[dumps] all the silverware back into the sink.” This incident is the first indicator of the husband’s change in the story.

The choice to leave the husband nameless leaves several interpretations to be had. The first of which is that the audience is suppose to remain distant from the husband even though the narrative is from his perspective. The audience sees Ann’s reactions to what her husband is saying, but they are never more than the interpretation the husband sees. This is made evident several times throughout the text, one of which is when the husband notices that Ann “was piling dishes on the drainboard [sic] at a terrific rate, just wiping at them with the cloth.” Instances like this don’t give the audience insight to what Ann is thinking or feeling; it’s just a visual queue for the husband to understand her reaction. Also, when the audience is given a glimpse of what the husband is thinking, the glimpse seems a little arrogant. Taken from the first paragraph, when the husband is talking about when his wife’s friends think of him as “a considerate husband,” he thinks, “I try.” When he comes back with the Band-Aid, the husband also thinks, “that [Ann should appreciate] how quickly he had come to her aid.” Both instances, though they are complimentary to the husband, are still self centered thoughts which make the audience distance themselves from him when reading closer.

Another reason for distancing the audience from the husband is to help demoralize his case against interracial marriages. The husband thinks too logically, hoping to keep emotions out of the discussion. However, Ann, brings the emotional side of love and circumstances and force the husband to reconsider. The husband pulls arguments like “they don’t come from the same culture,” “they even have their own language,” and “most of [the interracial] marriages break up.” Wolff is trying to have the audience dislike his arguments and possibly distrust the husband. By having the audience distance themselves from the husband Ann becomes the next character to sympathize with. Her argument in the discussion is of emotion, and she attempts to bring her husband into that mindset by saying, “But if we had met, and I’d been black?” This sort of hypothetical question is ambiguous and the husband falls into the trap his wife set for him. The husband knows that he is “cornered” because he admits he wouldn’t marry Ann if she were black because “[she] wouldn’t be [herself].” Throughout the discussion, the lack of the husband having a name depicts his groundless argument between husband and wife.

The major reason the husband remains nameless is to associate him with the “stranger” who appears at the end of the story. In a way, having the husband without a name allows the audience to step into his shoes more easily as well as distance themselves from him. This allows the audience to feel the shift he goes through while he cleans the kitchen. When his wife leaves the kitchen in anger, the husband continues to clean the kitchen until “the kitchen looked new, the way it looked when they were first shown the house” which reflects his won mind. This is a pivotal moment for the husband. It is safe to assume that this couple moved into the house right after they got married and have lived there ever since. When the husband thinks “In another thirty years or so they would both be dead,” this gives the audience a sense of how old this couple is. Assuming the life expectancy to be 85 or so, the couple would be in their 50’s and probably would have been married in their early 20’s. A 30 year relationship certainly would have changed their relationship quite a bit, dispelling a lot of the newness they felt for each other when they got married. The kitchen changed with them, and formed into a representation of their relationship because the husband noticed the sudden cleanliness that hadn’t existed since “they were first shown the house.”

Therefore, by having it so clean, he notices his own relationship has changed and become new because of the discussion they are having. It’s also strange because they aren’t agreeing on something he sees so logically, assuming its infallibility in the logic he brings. However, logic doesn’t hold up to emotion and the husband is forced to assess his own standing on the subject while he cleaned the kitchen by himself; while he cleaned his relationship by himself. The very next scene, when the husband steps outside, he feels “his throat [tighten] so that eh could hardly breath” and two things happen. He feels remorse for the loss and disappearance of the relationship he had with his wife to this point. However, he also feels the love he knows is there for his wife because “His face and neck began to tingle [and] warmth flooded his chest.”

This new love he experiences from the birth of a new chapter in their relationship is the stranger that exists in the house. The last few sentences describe this feeling for the audience very clearly:
“The room was silent. His heart pounded the way it had on their first night together, the way it still did when he woke at a noise in the darkness and waited to hear it again – the sound of someone moving through the house, a stranger.”
The husband is excited about this new love he feels, and this is the same excitement he felt when he first fell in love with Ann at least 30 years ago. However, he also fears this new love; fears where it will take them and if it will survive. This doubt is evident when he equates his feeling to the “noise in the darkness.” By the husband saying “The room was silent,” he’s saying two things. The first is that he doesn’t know where his new love is going while the second represents his wife’s silence in the matter. She hasn’t given any indication whether she feels this turn in their relationship.

Ultimately, the husband is the “stranger” because his feelings on interracial marriage are strange and different to what Ann believed her husband would think. Also, his sudden creation of a new chapter in the marriage and new love for his wife has befitted him with strangeness in a long marriage. The most obvious indicator of the stranger is the lack of a name for the husband in such an intimate setting and conversation.

Delivering Oblivion

“We can no longer afford to take that which was good in the past and simply call it our heritage, to discard the bad and simply think of it as a dead load which by itself time will bury in oblivion. The subterranean stream of Western history has finally come to the surface and usurped the dignity of our tradition. This is the reality in which we live. And this is why all efforts to escape from the grimness of the present into nostalgia for a still intact past, or into the anticipated oblivion of a better future, are vain.” (ix)
The Origins of Totalitarianism by Hannah Arendt, 1951

The above passage from Hannah Arendt’s preface to her book The Origins of Totalitarianism, points out the growing idealism of civilization to always present humanity as being always good as “vain.” Arendt claims it’s not enough to declare the “good in the past” as the roots to civilization and neglect the “bad” history and that by doing so the Western world found itself in two tragic world wars which decidedly transformed world mentality. One of the people whose writing was certainly influenced by the events that inspired Arendt was Samuel Beckett. His play Endgame is certainly seen to mirror this mentality in a very different fashion. This one act play revolving around a relationship between the two main characters, Hamm and Clov, goes nowhere more than back to the beginning. The way Endgame deals with the relationship of Hamm and Clov, and furthermore how they react and relate to their circumstances, mirrors Arendt’s message of ignorance of the past.

In the beginning of the play, Hamm and Clov discuss the time. Hamm begins by asking, “What time is it?” to which Clov responds very plainly, “The same as usual.” With a short intercourse regarding the view outside, which must appear quite bleak given the conversation, Hamm suddenly asks “Apart from that, how do you feel?” Clov, in a very poignant manner, responds with “I don’t complain.” This last statement by Clov relates to his reactions to the outside world which, in several interpretations, is either post-apocalyptic and barren or pre-civilization. Relating Endgame to Arendt’s passage possibly negates the pre-civilization interpretations, whereby focusing a relation to post-apocalyptic trends in theme. Having the time be “The same as usual,” as Clov describes, has both Hamm and Clov represent the people in society who disregard all of history and all possibilities for the future. Mirrored also in the statement “I don’t complain,” Clov is expressing a forced disinterest in the events that led to the post-apocalyptic world the pair find themselves in.

This world in Endgame is a culmination of events Arendt seems to predict in her passage. When she declares “or into the anticipated oblivion of a better future, are vain” Arendt must mean the dream of a post-apocalyptic world that humanity will survive and thrive from no matter what is ineffectual. Certainly such an aspiration, if groups in society indeed hoped for such an outcome in order to better humanity, would result in a collective mentality much like Hamm and Clov’s. Surface thoughts of the past buried beneath a lack of feelings about the circumstances that led to Endgame’s world result in a stagnation of progression; thus the cyclical nature of Endgame: the play of one act, never moving on and closing without resolution. Arendt should certainly have feared this outcome.

The audience of Endgame is introduced to Nagg with a sudden outcry for “Me pap!” repeated until the proper acknowledgment of the need and a donation to its source. “Me pap” is symbolic of several things in Endgame, the first of which is food. Nagg, who lives in a trashcan and who represents discarded waste in humanity, is calling for some source of nutrition that is easily consumed by the elderly. With Arendt’s influence on the interpretation, Nagg’s status as waste becomes symbolic of the disregarded past which society deems as “bad.” Therefore, the call for nutrition is suddenly a request for more history, more understanding, and an accurate retelling of events; but the placement of this need in a trashcan within the play indicates the detrimental course society is on. “Me pap” also indicates Nagg’s age. This is indicated with great force when Clov declares “If age but knew” upon Nagg’s exit from the scene. Clov is showing his greater comprehension for the events that transpired and his unwillingness to explain to the audience. This statement also shows how “age” in the symbolism of Nagg is the past being interpreted by the present, and Clov means that the present is being ignorant of the past by putting such a person in the trashcan. Nagg is obviously old because of his request for a pap, and if he is old he must know something of the past.

Nagg and Nell, the two elderly characters who live in the trashcans, represent the ability to see into the past. They reminisce several times in their short scene in the play. One of these times is about a lost tooth which Nagg claims “I had it yesterday” to which Nell mournfully laments “Ah yesterday!” These two are able to remember the past and freely discuss it like in the conversation about the wreck on their bicycle for two “in the Ardennes.” However important this ability is, Nagg and Nell are placed in the trashcans by society created by Hamm in his master role in the house. Hamm also attempts to ignore the two completely; and only engaging with Nagg later in the play out of necessity to quiet him. This interaction reflects Arendt’s second sentence: “The subterranean stream of Western history has finally come to the surface and usurped the dignity of our tradition.” Hamm’s act of ignoring and disregarding Nagg and Nell’s intercourse about the past indicates the “subterranean stream” surfacing as a negligent feat in society. It also represents the younger generations and new politicians ignoring historians, and this deed is itself the downturn of dignity in “our tradition.”

Clov in Endgame seems to have the memories available from the past, but disregards them all the same out of a respect for his master. He is able to see how Hamm treats his parents in the trashcans, and is himself treated like a slave even with the predicament the four find themselves in. Clov’s very first statement is a short monologue where he says “Grain upon grain, one by one, and one day, suddenly, there’s a heap, a little heap, the impossible heap.” The obvious trope of sand in an hourglass forming the nonstop sequence of time until it overwhelms is the first impression this statement brings to mind. With Arendt’s affect on Clov’s line, the “Grain upon grain” which leads to “the impossible heap” represents the relentless course of civilization to the vain betterment of the past. Clov even expands on this premise when he says “All life long the same questions, the same answers”; whereby he’s clearly saying that humanity’s desire to answer the questions of the past with only the positive outlooks of events have brought about the same end. This line also hints at the cyclical nature of the play, and the relationships therein.

Furthermore, the post-apocalyptic interpretation of this text, paired with Arendt’s statement reveal a small society completely void of reflection of the past. This is the most atrocious outcome of what Arendt certainly must fear in the “anticipated oblivion.” Clov, whose power is undeniable since he serves a crippled, bleeding, and blind Hamm, must also know the unbelievable account by which they arrive in the house because he says, sadly, “No one that ever lived ever thought so crooked as we.” He knows that Hamm does not allow much memory to influence his daily life and thoughts. Hamm’s cares are about the world at present, whether something has changed from the immediate past to the present and how that will affect the immediate future. The only time Hamm allows a thought from the past to surface with any power is if the circumstance is consequently necessary. An instance of this is when Hamm demands that Clov “Go and get two bicycle-wheels.” Clov explains there are no more bicycles in the world, so therefore no bicycle wheels exist anymore. Hamm indulges in the memory of bicycles for mere moments until his thoughts move on a mere two lines later. Since Hamm is the authority figure in the house, and therefore the only society on Earth in a post-apocalyptic read of Endgame, his influence is what holds their society in stagnation. The fear of looking back into the past and seeing what might have created Hamm’s absolute authority is what Arendt’s preface is all about. Hamm is vain for neglecting all the realities of the past.

The final monologue given by Hamm at the end of the play contains the most relevant line to Arendt’s point. Hamm states, “Moments for nothing, now as always, time was never and time is over, reckoning closed and story ended.” Dissecting this immensely important line ties Endgame to Arendt’s preface. “Moments for nothing” carries the weight of history culminating in an apocalyptic world wrought with nothingness; and Hamm’s complete disregard for any historical significance in moments as representatives of memories is the action which instigates the nothingness they cannot leave. As Hamm progresses to “now as always,” he is clearly saying that since the actions of ignorance to the past are solid, which Arendt clearly says is “[usurping] the dignity of our tradition,” the present state of endlessness in nothingness will proceed until the end. He declares his own endgame; the point where the end is clear and the winner is known, but the steps must still be taken to that end regardless. The only end in sight for Hamm and the others is death without survival of humanity. Hamm continues this idea with “time is never and time is over,” but he also presents the idea that humanity is lost because he refuses to see history for its necessity. It may also be a hope for the renewal of possibility by negating the sense of time and declaring it over. The final portion of the phrase states “reckoning closed and story ended,” and this may also be Hamm’s vain attempt at overlooking the events that led to his circumstances. The reckoning brought the post-apocalyptic world to fruition, and that is over, as Hamm thinks it, and therefore that story is over as well. Previous civilization’s influence on his life cannot be since they do not exist anymore. Arendt explains this careless attitude and it’s folly in her opening sentence: “We can no longer afford to take that which was good in the past and simply call it our heritage, to discard the bad and simply think of it as a dead load which by itself time will bury in oblivion.”

The heavily influential political climate in the early 1900’s shifted the collective mentality drastically. Arendt saw a need to accept the events of the past, both good and bad, and feed it into knowledge and education so humanity would not turn out like Beckett’s Endgame. We cannot submit to a need for happy thoughts and distinct morals that arrive from the ‘good’ historical interpretations. As many contemporary minds know, we learn from the past and strive to overcome the cyclical nature of certain circumstances by looking at the ‘bad’ in history. Hamm has forgotten this fact and believes simply that “Something is taking its course” and everything will be as it should. This fallacy is regrettable, and Arendt is pointing that out.

My New Affinity

Well, as one of my dearest friends would despise me for saying, I have acquired a new appreciation for a wondrous poet: Emily Dickinson. As I'm reading through her complete collection of poems (Yes, all 1775 of them... That's a lot) I am finding something within me that is growing even stronger.

My love of Language!

It's so delicate, so simple, and vastly indifferent until we place the tongue into a context that is created of ourselves with the filter of society. Blasted society, with its ever expansive rules and morals... it harms our view. But this is something Emily Dickinson seems to have understood much better than most people give her credit for. My favorite poem of her collection so far (and I must admit I've only read maybe 9 of her poems... but this one hit me to the core for some reason... subconsciously it appears):

4
(c. 1853)

On this wondrous sea
Sailing silently,
Ho! Pilot, ho!
Knowest thou the shore
Where no breakers roar -
Where the storm is o'er?

In the peaceful west
Many the sails at rest -
The anchors fast -
Thither I pilot thee -
Land Ho! Eternity!
Ashore at last!

I'm not going to pretend I have any inclination of what this poem means beneath the surface yet. The choices and intricacies are far beyond my newly acquired (or rather: budding and growing) literary skills; but my initial reaction is of some sense of happiness. A starting anew after being lost perhaps. Lost from what? I can't say? And why the illusion of sea and ships? Can't quite say yet.

But that's the point! It's so much more profound to me that I know there is something beneath this that I cannot grasp, though I understand the words and their meanings, that makes me LOVE this poem and Emily Dickinson all the more! I can only hope to write with some semblance of depth like hers.

I'm positive you all will be seeing more of her poetry and my reactions to it on my blog as we progress through time, for certainly her influences will appear in subtle allusions in many of my writings. As any writer must undoubtedly do at some point: make allusions to great writers of the past in hopes their power will flow forth from the new words.

Critique on "Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah"

Want a novel that will make you think? Than Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah by Richard Bach, (C) 1977, is the one to pick up. It's basically already summarized for you in the title: this story is about the adventures of a reluctant messiah.

However, this doesn't explain the wondrous implications of the intriguing thought processes this novel will inspire. Questioning reality as fact is a central theme; but not in a negative or evil way. Illusions hopes you'll allow yourself to affect the way you view reality and therefore how its effect is permitted to interact with your perception and emotions about life. It's inspiring, to say the least.

Having an open mind is critical while reading this book. If you have strong religious beliefs (especially about the Messiah), Illusions probably isn't the book for you. In this story, there are two men who come across each other in a field. They fly airplanes for a living. What we discover (on the first page actually) is that one of them is a knowing Messiah who is reluctant to leave this world (or rather plain of existence) until he has learned what he came to learn. However, the man he comes across is also a Messiah, one who has forgotten the way to ascension, as it were. He is even more reluctant to understand that he is a Messiah, whereby creating a larger theme that everyman is the Messiah.

I feel there are larger social implications written in the subtext of Illusions that speak to our materialistic desires of mankind. There is also a very prominent homosexual theme which doesn't take too much digging to understand. Near the conclusion of the book, we are permitted to witness the message without any covering or protection. It is blatantly explained to us about our reality and our beliefs being a matter of choice, which is the central theme. The book explains how choice has truly affected our world, and that we have lost the ability to see this.

The writing style is wonderful as well. Little poems appear through the book, teaching the main character (and ourselves) important life lessons about how to become the Messiah. It's final lesson is truly inspirational (and I'm sorry, but I won't ruin that lesson for you...). I do recommend this book for everyone. It's an easy read, short and simple without complex sentences and ideas (unless you feel your faith is being questioned of course).

'Paris', a film by Cedric Klapisch: a Very French Movie!

To start, this is a wonderful movie. Very French indeed, which I believe needs a little explanation. First, I shall give you the brief synopsis of Paris, a film by Cedric Klapisch (who is now considered a very good director in my eyes).

Paris is the story about a dancer (Pierre) who is struggling with some sort of heart disease, killing him slowly (it appears). Pierre's sudden appreciation for life, since his is being cut tragically short, is the foundation for the movie. He is able to see the Parisian outlook on life and we are then taken on sub-plots which exaggerate this point without being completely up-front and in your face about it. We are able to draw the conclusion that Pierre has seen by viewing these side stories of the people who live around him. What we see is a Paris which most might suspect already exists: the seemingly standard experience of metropolitan dwellers and their blindness to how good their life might be because of the little dramas that play out so well.

Now, what I mean by saying "Very French" is the movie itself. Like most French films, the plot is sometimes confusing until the very end when the audience is allowed to see the meaning of the work as a whole. Pierre is dieing and the movie is based between the appointment where he discovers he is dieing and the appointment where he's going into surgery (which we never see, but assume is going to happen). The sub-plots have no direct relationship to this main plot which drives the story. The only one which really has any consequence is the story of Elise, Pierre's sister. Elise visits the market once a day, and at the market interacts with the sales people therein. The audience then follows these people on their journeys, interspersed with Pierre's plight every so often. Then there's the completely out of the blue interaction with a Professor who has no relation to Pierre other than the fact that he's having sex with a 'neighbor' of Pierre's. Add on top of this the sub-plot of a North African man who is attempting to illegally enter France and make his way to Paris. Lots of sub-plots which help put into perspective the message of Pierre's sudden realization about life in Paris. Another aspect of this movie being "Very French" is that the ending is left open to interpretation; much like how our world never ends, Paris concludes with the next action in life taking its course. We don't know the outcome of Pierre's surgery; but that's not the point.

Overall, this is a beautifully done movie. It's comedy is tangible in the drama for which it is set. The emotions are easily related to our lives even through the translations in the subtitles. Paris presents many social issues striking France during this world wide economic downturn and almost portrays a deeper understanding of the 'single life' in Paris. It's not a glamorous portrayal of the city of romance and love. It is, however, a realistic view stripped of fantasy. It is a wonderful movie.

If you don't have any issues reading while you're watching a movie, go rent Paris. It is a wonderful story about appreciating the life you're able to live!

My First Favorite Poem

Many workmen
Built a huge ball of masonry
Upon a mountain-top.
Then they went to the valley below,
And turned to behold their work.
"It is grand," they said;
They loved the thing.

Of a sudden, it moved:
It came upon them swiftly;
It crushed them all to blood.
But some had opportunity to squeal.

By Stephen Crane (I don't know when it was published)

It's kinda funny, isn't it. Kinda sad too, but so relevant to many periods in life. I'm just going to ramble on here about what I think this poem means, how it is significant, so stay with my while my mind works. I'm free-writing...so it may sound unrefined, and that's how I want it today. It's sort of how I need it today, no structure, no rules, just my thoughts pouring freely.

Being introduced to "Many workmen" is obviously very important. Who are these workmen? Are they a representation of the human condition, where we are working forever to sustain our way of life, to find a happiness, a joy, a sense of security in troubled times? Reading through many of Crane's other poetry, he seems to delve a lot on religion; God most specifically (though referencing this deity as 'god' as apposed to 'God', which is an interesting turn for someone who may or may not have been religious. If this poem is then about religion, the workmen are either the clergy or the worshipers. Clergymen build faith for their congregations, and sometimes hold their positions as sacred, as being closer (possibly) to god, thus the "mountain-top". If this is then a critique on faith, religion and religious institutions, then the "valley below" is where we are, where we must live apart from the divine. The clergy and the church then have built up something so heavy, so devastating, that when it comes down upon them there's nothing to protect their own skins. People will criticize and diminish what the clergy have created, and perhaps spin there own interpretation of the church they so clung to. Revolts, death, massacre, martyrdom, etc.; all rising from a belief system created by workmen, by the church and its immediate peoples.

However, if the "workmen" aren't a manifestation of the church's representatives, then who are they? Could they simply be man, humankind? What have we, as humankind built then? Surely buildings and institutions and wealth, etc. etc. etc.; but it all amounts to the Earth, the world. And we've built it up so much, done so many things to it that we're proud of. Yes, we are proud that we have cars that get us from point A to point B in X amount of time, regardless of the true cost of manufacturing the parts to the cars and shipping them so we can build the cars and ship them somewhere else so they can consume a seemingly (though not really) endless amount of petroleum to kill the atmosphere. And what will happen when the earth comes down "upon [us] swiftly"? Well, we'll all die because we didn't truly see what we had done by building a "ball... Upon a mountain-top." And yes, there are those individuals who are squealing now, trying to stop us from damaging our Earth beyond repair. And what about them? Well...they die too.

Ultimately, I think this poem is hilarious. Its humor is well disguised as tragedy, for that is what it will be.

What do you think about it? I want to know your opinions.

Favorite Dido Song: Sand In My Shoes

Two weeks away feels like the whole world should've changed
But I'm home now, and things still look the same.
I think I'll leave it till tomorrow to unpack
Try to forget for one more night that I'm back in my flat
On the road where cars never stop going through the night
To a life where I can't watch the sunset,
I don't have time.
I don't have time.

I've still got sand in my shoes
And I can't shake the thought of you
I should get on, forget you, but why would I want to
I know we said goodbye
Anything else would've been confused but
I want to see you again.
I want to see you again.

Tomorrow's back to work and down to sanity
Should run a bath and then clean up the mess I left before I left here
Try to remind myself that I was happy here
Before I knew that I could get on a plane and fly away
From the road where the cars never stop going through the night
To a life where I can watch the sunset
And take my time,
Take all our time.

I've still got sand in my shoes
And I can't shake the thought of you
I should get on, forget you, but why would I want to
I know we said goodbye,
Anything else would've been confused but
I want to see you again.
I want to see you again.

Two weeks away, all it takes
To change and turn me around
I've fallen
I walked away, and never said
That I wanted to see you
Again

I've still got sand in my shoes
And I can't shake the thought of you
I should get on, forget you, but why would I want to
I know we said goodbye,
Anything else would've been confused but
I want to see you again.
I want to see you again.

I LOVE LOVE LOVE this song! For a long time, this was my theme song. Life was so stressful, so full, so changing that I clung to this song like a rock in a sea of rough waters. Thus I share with the rest of you! It's wonderfully melodic and peaceful, yet longing for a life that seems lost and for someone or something that can't be had. Shouldn't be had, but always wanted regardless. Sand is significant for representing time and being an irritant that reminds one constantly of the past. Wonderful!

Check out the video at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y6iUd3WNwAI
or go to www.didomusic.com

A Quick Glance of a Sign.

"Truth Is! Lies Have to be Made Up."

An interesting sign, to say the least. It drives home a point which people feel universal and meaningful, on a deeper sense. We, as humanity, strive for truth. We want to know that what we know is the absolute, the right, the incontestable. But I have to laugh, slightly, at the location of this delicious sign. A church of a faith that possibly surfaced a mere six hundred years ago. This is the truth they wish to convey. A truth, I'm sure, they will use to define the lies of other faiths; by which they will then justify their interpretation of a book created by man.

Now there's a sticky subject, and forgive me for saying these things which may incur a sense of offense. I am merely bringing up facts. This book was written in ages past. Written by Man. Not just one man from one point of view where a higher powered being supplemented its thoughts into this one man, but written through the voices of many men throughout a vast period of time. Each time they wrote, they invoked the opinion of what this high power bestowed upon them: Stories, Myths, Abstract Laws, etc. So then...was this book then not "Made Up"? Therefore the very premise that this "Truth" is the one and only through the "Made Up" interpretations of dead-guys we can't communicate with is somewhat contradictory. Ah, how language has betrayed us.

And another point: Language. Is language not "made up", and do we not use language to define the very world around us through definitions and interpretations constructed by the very words which were created by man? Therefore, language must be a lie; and so must everything else that man has built: music, culture, politics, buildings, breeding, standards, clothing... the list goes on. I feel this also proves the fallibility of this book many hold so dear. It is constructed of everything man has made, and there isn't physical proof of its existence beyond our plain of existence. "Truth Is! Lies Have to be Made Up."

And perhaps I'm over analyzing a sign meant to inspire people; but isn't the job of marketing people to think of these aspects as thoroughly as a person who drives by and sees the sign twice a day for 20 seconds total, in the hopes of attracting new worshipers to their religion. I digress. I shall leave the rest of the thought process to your discretion...