I Would Die For You Baby, But You Won't Do The Same
Writers live in dimensions of their own; mostly what common people term "weird", "abnormal", "freaky", "psychotic"... but intriguing nonetheless. A few days ago I read about DH Lawrence, one of England's greatest and most controversial writers in the early 1900s. He was convinced that life as we knew it in the 20th century was void, empty, too shallow when it should have been more romantic than serious, more sensual than cold. In 1927, he went on a self-imposed exile from England and that was when he finally found his people - in the Etruscan Tombs. They had valued instinct over intellect, and practiced what literary critics call "Phallism". Tomb wall paintings depicted dancing figures playing the double flute and zither, reclining at banquets, chasing deer and competing at games. Surprisingly gay for a somber place. But in some tombs, the figures are making love, in drunken orgies.
Sexed death celebrations scream controversial and bizarre to us "normal" modernists. But Lawrence saw in them a different kind of understanding. He saw our race's attempt to moralize and impose; to dehumanize the instincts; and eventually saw the same rationality that built today's "civil" society, crush our own nature, sex and emotions.
Three years later he died and left among his body of work a sex-drenched tome recording his worldview after discovering his people in the Tombs. Sitting on a grassy mound above the tombs, he wrote, The curves of their limbs show pure pleasure in life. It is as if the current of some strong different life swept through them, different from our shallow current today; as if they drew vitality from different depths that we were denied.
To the west of the Tombs, the sun leaves strips of red in the indigo above the wine-dark sea. And in the night, when the wind stops for just one lingering moment, you can still make out the dancing shadows of Lawrence and his people.
``larcenciel
Music: Grenade - Christina Grimmie cover Mood: Weird
11:34 PM
Thursday, January 20, 2011
At War with Normal
January 8th, 2011. Tucson, Arizona. 22 year old Jared Loughner walks up to Representative Giffords at the "1st Congress at Your Corner" and shoots her in the head. He is pinned onto the ground by three other men, but in that 15 seconds he has wounded 12 and killed 6.
But this is not going to be a post on the mad gunman, who was disillusioned by Rep Giffords at a constituents meeting in 2007 and somehow was pushed over the edge to shoot her. The newspapers and US political parties are doing a marvelous job of sensationalizing it anyway, using this as a catalyst to rouse party tensions between the Left and Right. This is going to be about the victims; the 6 lives that once stood, tall and proud but unknowing amongst the crowd who attended the congress meeting that fateful day.
John Roll, 63 year old chief judge of the US District Court of Arizona. Phyllis Schneck, a 79 year old religious great-grandmother. Gabe Zimmerman, 30 year old director of outreach for Gifford and about to get married. Dorothy Morris, 76 year old loving wife to her husband of 55 years. Dorwan Stoddard, 76 year old who died shielding his wife from the gunfire. Christina Green, 9 year old Sep 11 baby, an aspiring major league baseball player.
Time and time again, shootings after shootings occur - each unique to the other, of course. But there are common characteristics of each shooting. Somehow, the perpetrators always fall through the cracks in the system that allows them to possess a power that their minds and rationale cannot control. Their stories are as tragic as the victims', but the real tragedy is how society has dealt with it; how influential people of society have conjured baseless accusations and stories to propagate their political agenda, while ignoring the real demons that haunt the aberrant.
``larcenciel
Music: Mayday - Oran-G Mood: Pitiful
11:22 PM
Friday, January 14, 2011
Myriad of Feelings
I'm not sure how to describe this feeling but I feel like I should pen it down so I can somehow put a finger on at least a part of the emotions and thoughts running behind it.
It's like an offense to my sense of justice and a little indignation. It's like a sort of nasty surprise and an awkward realization and futile attempt to comprehend. It's like bitter and sour, without any trace of sweetness when you had expected it to be. It's like opening a can of Coke and tasting cheap detergent in your mouth.
It's a bit of sadness, a bit of brokenness and some sort of disappointed resignation.
It's not like I don't know what is the general understanding about certain issues that plague us - it's common sense. But common sense told us that the Earth was flat and the Sun revolves around the Earth. Common sense told us that left-handed people were cultist and evil. Common sense told us that flying was impossible.
But who am I to say that now when I should have known this... Common sense told me that even if the whole world said no to me, someone would still say yes.
``larcenciel
Music: Just A Dream - Nelly Mood: Disappointed
2:12 AM
Saturday, January 08, 2011
I Wish This Could All Turn To Pixie Dust
Although I don't really like it when she gets into one of her moods, I can't stop my little heart from beating for her, my little tail from wagging for her because she means the world to me. But it hurts. And sometimes it hurts so bad that I'll wish for everything to turn to pixie dust. I shouldn't wish that, I know. She wouldn't like being turned to pixie dust. I wouldn't mind it because pixies are kind and gentle and I could forever keep the dust safely hidden and away from the cruelty and unhappiness of her world. Yes, her world must be cruel for her to be the way she is to me. As each stroke sinks into my skin I can feel her pain as much as I feel the marks dig into me - and with each low whimper from me, I am saying to her, Why are you in so much pain that you have to do this? I wish I can make it better for you somehow because you are my life. But I am not eloquent, and she doesn't even realize because she will never hear my feelings, ever. Soon it will become difficult to even breathe but that means I could be her pixie dust and be with her forever; just like how her sweet, innocent eyes promised that first day I saw her at the pet shop.