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Disillusion: Fresh and Pure from Southern California |
Posted by
Squire-of-Gothos on Sunday, October 24, 2004 - 12:10 AM PST
I once knew a fascinating example of how wrong society can go, the way it goes about purging humanity, and leaving a husk of broken ideals and mish-mashed morals. You, and many others like you can observe or have observed people, places, and things that epitomize the failures of the human mind- the corpse left after the hellfire and storm. You and many others may posses just such qualities, irksome maladies that infect you for life, cling to your mind and body like a cancer, and seep puss and hate wherever you walk. This is a life I know and live, day by day, without tears, and without mercy. But specifically, in this instance, I observed (rather than participated) where the world went wrong, and what excrement it left behind. I viewed this person at first as just that- a human, possessing potential, life, goals, stubble, and spirit. This, and so much more, is what a person can be.
And, I suppose that is why, when experience and chance shifted my view of this individual, it was so striking. That so many things, so many qualities and possibilities, the likes of which I cannot and will not try to describe, just whispered away. The humanity, the essence of man, was blown away like a faint scent- perfume, perhaps- and replaced by the shell of man's undoing. I was consumed so much with my dislike of this walking, striking, hate filled symbol at first, that I could not see how disparaging and saddening it all made me feel. It is not until this very moment that the utter failure that this creature represents has truly made me falter in my steps, and cease being distracted by my own opinions.
Opinions it seems, are some how fundamentally different from feelings, and I know this from life itself. But I don't understand it, I don't see the schism of emotion and thought with the clarity of poets and thinkers before me. This troubles me. I want to feel something beyond the logic of my own distrust of man, to taste the hatred, and not decipher it. But my thoughts are too consuming, and I simply wilt, tired with effort and deflated of ego and breath, and quit the whole affair. I know in my heart, and mostly in my head, that giving up even in the face of atrocities such as this makes me a step closer to the loathsome beasts I see around me on city streets, and appropriately despise. But it can't be helped. I can't be helped.
This is not a message of sadness. I am not crawling into a ball and weeping. I don't seek a single touch of comfort. I don't feel tormented by my knowledge, my magnetism, to these things inside people, these hearts of darkness, to borrow a term- quite the contrary. I feel alive, more alive than ever before, and more fit to live this life. Existence is not a burden, and I am no pack animal even if it were. I am, in essence, merely myself. I possess all the failures of life's great experiment. I possess all the variables and controls that anyone else does. Perspective has merely put me in the face of a dark spotlight, a negative energy I can neither respect nor escape. And it is with no regret, and no faltering of spirit or determination, that I welcome my debut. Shine on me I cry, and I mean it. I won't cry for you, and I won't cry behind your back in fear of you- I am empowered in the least pretentious form, by all of this. We may not be perfect, we are not, and heaven is no equalizer.
We are alive because we are terrible, because we have scarred a planet and a people, and our own sisters, and flesh. That which does not kill us makes us stronger is an adage I know now, seeing hell itself manifested in flesh, is true. Because I feel alive. I don't kid myself with thinking I'm above the suffering, or that I've somehow earned the fact that I am not a sickness like they are: because I am. I really am. And it feels damned good. I fester with mirth. I infect with optimism. I cry for joy, and for conjunctive stress. I rot for you. I rot for me. Taste my sweat- I am bitter. It's the taste of fermentation. Life is not a great cavalcade of feet crushing our fresh pink bodies into newborn wine; existence already took care of that. Life is a cask, and I swell and strengthen in it's death, it's heat, it woody pain, and it's tannin scented élan vital. I rot for life.
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Fresh and Pure from Southern California | Login/Create an account | 8 Comments |
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Re: Fresh and Pure from Southern California by ash_psyche (-) on Oct 26, 2004 - 09:13 PM (User info | Send a Message) | hmmm.... i am not entirely certain that i agree with the old adage "what does not kill us makes us stronger." Come to think of it, what would you say that strength is? |
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Re: Fresh and Pure from Southern California
by ash_psyche (-)
on Oct 26, 2004 - 09:15 PM
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hmmm.... I am not entirely certain that I agree with the old adage "what does not kill you makes you stronger." Come to think of it, what would you say that strength is?
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Re: Fresh and Pure from Southern California by Squire-of-Gothos (Hedonic_Master@yahoo.com) on Oct 27, 2004 - 05:58 PM (User info | Send a Message) | 'that strength' as in "that particular type of strength that comes from tense or damaging events" or strength in general? I cannot, and will not go into a lengthy diatribe as to what my personal idea of strength are because, quite honestly, I don't know it yet. I'll get back to you on that when i'm half way to death and in my 80's. And even then, I'll probably skate aroung the subject.
"What does not kill you makes you stronger" was used in this context: me, or my character, believes it to be true. It isbecause of my character's staunch belief in this concept that he is able to realize the tranquility he feels with his own failures in life, and his part as another disguisting sheep of low moral fiber and questionable taste. Essentially it's only important that "he" believes it to be true, not you.
As for myself personally, I think I'm fantastic, without flaws, and without any of these terrible qualities that most people, my character included, posses; in fact, I'm quite perfect. This being said, running for three days from crazed murderers is a bad thing, but if you live to tell the tale, you've probably got some GREAT cadio work clocked in. Hence, a situation of terrible circumstances drives your mind and or body to new heights, and thusly you have reached a new plateu in your development.
Conversely, it's a statement often said to people in miserable straights, and is most likely a bullshit sympathy line, blurted out in the inane attempt at making you see a silver lining. None the less, I find it to be true, because unlike many of todays psychologists, I think most human being's are born with all the faculties necessary for self improvement. Schizophrenics and Down syndrome sufferers aside, I think our minds really have all the equipment already, and to hell with medication and such and things. This is me personally, mind you, and I have never, and considering my friends, will never come down on a person because a perscription makes their life livable.
Do with it, that which you like. |
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Re: Fresh and Pure from Southern California by Schizo (Aranea@Spidersdance.com) on Oct 28, 2004 - 02:19 AM (User info | Send a Message) http:// | Personally, I think the platitude would be more accurate (though less comforting) if it read "That which does not kill you, HAS THE POTENTIAL to make you stronger."
It is often true that adversity breeds strength. But not always. We may have the faculties for self-improvement, but we do not always use them. I have seen scores of instances where people have rejected the path of growth and learning, and instead decided to simply be a victim of circumstance or their own poor choices, and became less and weaker as a result.
But, then again, all is not lost, because, if one chooses, even living as a victim has the potential to make you stronger (if it doesn't kill you.) You can always choose to no longer live as a victim, and gain the strength that fighting that mindset would bring. |
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Re: Fresh and Pure from Southern California by ash_psyche (-) on Nov 01, 2004 - 05:56 AM (User info | Send a Message) | Now that's a lot more what I was thinking, but I couldn't really articulate it at the time. It also wasn't too big of a deal since it was just a character, but I can't help but think that when a writer writes, his/her characters tend to share many qualities with their creator. Much like when an actor acts and enlivens his script with a piece of his personality. Not to say it always happens, or that the better writers and actors can't overcome that if and when they need to, but I think the majority of the time, you can tell some things about a person by their writing (/acting). |
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Re: Fresh and Pure from Southern California by Squire-of-Gothos (Hedonic_Master@yahoo.com) on Nov 01, 2004 - 11:00 AM (User info | Send a Message) | Well that's given, but I've worked for a while now to stop writing Mary Sue's (stories with the main or supporting character essentially being a mirror of the writer) But yes, this is true. King is a good example of a guy who uses himself a lot, and after all, he's never written a book without a writer in it, and many times the writer is the lead. Either way, surely, I do have a good deal of faith in the addage in question, but no wheres near to the extent, and literal obsession, that the narator in this story does. |
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