Sept. 11th : Never Forget

One of the things talked about when we were reading Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close was the fact that many in the Jewish community thought that Jonathan Safran Foer had made the Holocaust an event of nostalgia, after not having experienced it first hand. When I read his first book, I noted the passion that he had written about the Holocaust, and had thought that a non-jewish author would have a difficult time trying to infuse the writing with the same passion and would lose some credibility of being an outsider writing about such an event. The fact that he didn't experience it first hand, and was at least a generation away from the events, hadn't occurred to me in relation to his sincerity of writing about the subject.
When the terrorist attacks on September eleventh happened, I honestly wasn't sure how to react. I didn't know why we were being attacked, who attacked us, I was thousands of miles away, watching it on TV, and--while I knew it affected me--I wasn't there to feel it directly. I remember one of the most poignant images I saw being that of the man falling from the building.
While I don't accuse Foer of attempting to use tragedy for literary or economic gain, after the class discussion I'm a bit less able to accept his writing as entirely sincere. I noted the fact that the two novels were almost identicle in it's use of tragedy and time shifts, and felt that the power of tragedy was being used more as a common demonitator, imposed upon a common formula to make a story. The story was still well written and moving, but I felt that being moved was more intention of writing than honestly intended emotional empathy.

Greenhouse Effect

We were asked to look out the window from our west facing room on the second floor of the CUE building and, after finding something that would function as a muse, write a short poetic description using imagery.

The corner of the glass shelter. The triangle roof that lets everything in without being able to feel even the gale force winds on the other side. Every pane rattling against the metal frame, but the leaves in here with me don't even have a breeze to blow in. Even with the world ending in ice, there is more fire on the other side.

Then, we were asked to write about the same thing, with the added emotion that would come after some horrible news. The examples given were deaths of families and friends, or being passed up for a job.

This is a time capsule that is moved by nothing but the earth it has attached itself to. In a one room time zone, time is only truly alive when...
instead, I open the door,
the capsule is polluted by its inability to be isolated & removed

That was easy enough, just remember every emo kid you went to high school with
Same concept
this time, you won the lotto, or something else equally good.

The king of all I see,
I look down on everything
that I knw and remain untouched
by its attempts to gaze upon me.
The karma police must be at the donut shop.
Because I'm up here
and I love me too much
to let something bad happen.

I enjoyed that,
because whenever I think happy
I think egomaniacle, and--better still--self-assured

Is it ethical to create and raise children to donate their organs?

I think that we can rule this as individual choice?

I have my own views on the pro-life v. pro-choice issue
I don't think I need to voice them here, but is it much of a jump to say that if we allow partial birth abortions we couldn't allow this as well? This isn't to say we should begin harvesting people for organs today, but if you're going to abort a child, why not put it up for organ use. I mean, if their only outlets are to die or to die in the long run after making someone else's life slightly longer, I would assume that the latter would be the preferable of the two.

Maybe this book is a modern day swiftian modest proposal, but as far as the question itself, I don't think I've envoked the slippery sloap, but rather the logical conclusion.
It may not be moral, but it has to be more moral to have some utilitarian worth than none at all.

oh, the humanity...

In Life After God, we're asked by Coupland what unique characteristics make humans human, the defining factor that can separate us from all other animals on the rock we inhabit. I'd like to think that there is a little more to our complexity than higher intellectual ability and an opposable thumb.
If you're religious, then the abilities of good and evil instilled on man are very important, but I've found that religious debate has the ability to turn even a wayward english blog into something very dismal and disenchanting. In my ecological ethics class, the question was posed,"without man on earth, could there be ethics?"
I think that there's a resounding no to that answer. I think that man is the only being capable of not only choosing an ethical corse of actions, but endowing a situation with an moral qualification. I don't think that humanity is necessarily in our actions or our creations, because we all think, act, interact, and live--for the most part--very differently from one another. I think that what makes us unique as a species is our ability to apply a sense of worth and value beyond the egoist or utilitarian worth that is almost scientifically defined. In essence, being human is unique because we can define what it is to be human.

the first drafts of my whirlwind love affair with contemporary literature.

It wasn't until extremely recently that I've had an opportunity to sit down with contemporary works. I spent most of my time in high school pouring over things made before even my parents were born, and--I believe--the most modern authors I ever had on a reading list were Fitzgerald and Hemingway. This summer I had some time to sit down with some different works by Palahniuk as well as Jonathan Safran Foer's first major novel Everything is Illuminated. I really enjoyed the more modern tone that I could find in those books, and of books written in the same genre, though from an earlier generation, by Charles Bukowski.
While I think that modern authors often sacrifice some of the most concrete facets of writing in order to apply their new styles, I've found the new styles intriguing for the nuances alone. I think that the new styles being used today allow for writers to be more unique with their writing styles, and--as such--they are able to be more true to the art and message they are attempting to convey.

-Howe

The streets are full and the sun is up, so we stay inside. We stay inside and hide from everyone we don’t want to be seen by, and stay around the ones that we would let see us just so we could have an opportunity to see them honestly.

It’s a five drink minimum here. Honesty isn’t natural and it’s laughable to defend the belief that that’s done more good than harm. I say it now, before I pay my entrance fee, because I can still keep a straight face, but I know it’ll probably come up again when I’m laughing so thin and so often that it will be camouflaged, and no one will understand the demeanor with which it was said.

I grab a glass and a shaker. More important than mixing a drink well is cleaning everything before I begin; the last thing I want to be reminded of while preparing to down my elixir of honesty is the last time I did.

It’s a five drink minimum, anything less and you’ve just cheated yourself out of the trip, like marching across Europe only to stop, turn around, and walk back when you’ve hit the borders of France. One down, and it tasted good enough to want a second; I’ll make this one a double. It glides across the tongue, burning, and then warming, and then down, so you will want another to chase it. It’s like smoking a cigar, the best taste is when it’s in your mouth; when it’s done, the taste is vile, and you don’t have more cigar to overpower it with. Three down, two to go. The last was great, wash out the mixer, make another double. Even with the same ingredients, you don’t want to remember what you’ve done, what you’re aiming to do, or all of the times that this has happened exactly the same way. This must have happened exactly the same way, a hundred times before.

Take five, and even the most timid man can overcome his fears enough to tell God what he thinks of the part he plays in His master plan. God gave me wings fashioned to let me fly, but never too high, and never too close. It’s easier to maintain a monopoly of the heavens when you let man believe that he is free to fly, but never to the extent that the heights can impede His rule.

Too many more than five, and I find I lose the ability to feel. I was in the middle of telling God what I thought, only to feel the pen being pulled from my hand, being pulled from my throat, as those around me pinned me against the kitchen floor and stopped me from acting on my God-given right to blaspheme. I went too high, and my wings had been tactically dismantled. This must be what it felt like to try to jump the throne, only to have found—even with two to one numbers—you failed to jump high enough.

I’m still being held down, and I say something about the view through my thin and constant laughs, but no one is laughing thin and constant with me.

What I don’t feel is being held down. I am just on the floor, spread in my own tragic, spread-armed snow angel, with a magnetic attraction that won’t allow me to move more. I’m sure that someone is trying to tell me something in all of this, but no one will listen after being interrupted, so I stay down and laugh about the ironic futility of struggle. I laugh, thin and constant, until it sounds like a mob around a crucifixion, because everyone knows it’s honest, so they leave me to write to God if I want.

The room begins to swim around me, but no matter how close I get to the floor, I can’t seem to drown myself. I can’t drown myself, so I get up. I’m on all fours with my eyes closed. Open my eyes, and pull myself the rest of the way up. I can’t think, I can’t form, I can’t be honest like this, but I can perceive. My train of thought has been derailed, and I’m searching over every inch of faux-wood counter top for a bit of track to start back on. I look out the window and I see a girl smoking hard. Smoking like drunken people kiss. The lushes: those who know they will regret, or be regretted, in the morning, but now is not the morning, and now we’re being honest. With each and every drag she takes I can feel the emotion and want being pulled into her along with the burning air, under such force, that the filter is made as obsolete as whatever the surgeon general is preaching to people who never wanted to live past their mid-life crisis in the first place.

I don’t know why. I honestly never want to, or think to ask, but she is the emotion that drove whatever chaos Nietzsche told me about to create. She is the ironic mother/artist in a universe of apathetic entropy. The chance coincidence that, when everything is torn down so quickly, doesn’t notice the trash heap it throws lives into is a creation twice as beautiful as any building the pieces come from.

I watch, and want, just as strongly as she does, to make something by chance and destruction, and to drag all the pain through, and breathe it in, with a control that it could never have in a filter.

I retreat to a cold room in the basement, where time is lost, in a space without windows, and an un-setting fluorescent sun. I go down with one hand grasping the only friend I know that can aid me in getting closer to God than my melted wings of wax and feathers would allow. I go down to my timeless dungeon, to fly.

Like waking up next to anyone after a night like that,

it was rightfully as cold and as hard as any reception I would have expected, and as cold and as hard as any reception I would have deserved. The only good thing in a morning like this is that I have nothing to stay down for, not here, not like this. It's not a matter of having reason to get up, but it's not for me to make myself a resident in an un-wanting bed. I move to push myself up, and the blood rushes to my head and all the colors drain and go inverted, forcing me to close my eyes and brace against a wall to regain my equilibrium.

I hold myself as stiff as a corpse and wait until God stops spinning the scenery in front of me, like a matador waving a muleta. Life is already streaming down my flanks, and I won’t give him the shrill and instant pleasure of driving the sword between my shoulders yet, now is my turn to make him look like a fool in front of the crowds with a beast that won’t bite and won’t bow. The plight we face: we can’t win in a fight, and we can’t be ourselves while being subservient, so we gaze in angst and infinite frustration, knowing that the blade will come down eventually, the deck was stacked against us before we knew we were even playing the game. Everything begins to still, and I make my way out of the room in the motionless tranquility that follows.

My only consolation is that I'm awake before any one else is, the only severance package that I got from months of whole-hearted labor in my "off-months" seems to be the deeply engrained reaction in my circadian rhythm that springs me to whatever degree of life I can muster so that I can dutifully drain my soul for whoever will pay me. I know that it sounds like the work of a whore, but what else can you call it when you sell your well being to do something you despise so that you can grab at something a bit wider when you go to pay a bill. I want to talk about the self-respect of walking around with enough money to hold myself up, but I don't have enough respect for what I do to talk about it when we get home at night without feeling a gag-reflex kick in, accompanied—in full—by the taste of stomach acid and whatever it took to keep the day down in the first place.

I know I have to be someplace, so leaving doesn't require any debate. I take a minute to freshen my breath to the point of managing to keep up a presentable facade and take a swig of the mouth-wash I find under the sink. I spit into the sink and catch a glimpse my hands holding me up above the porcelain, and I chuckle quietly as I remember a tête-à-tête I'd had with a friend shortly after I'd come back to enjoy some time away from school. I had been mulling over how removed I was from my former self and said, in the closest thing I could sustain to a resolute tone, "I've decided that no matter how far I fall, or how much debauchery I partake in, I have drawn a line in the sand, and I won't sell my soul." Without missing a beat, and before my mouth had even closed, my friend told me that I shouldn't draw my lines so close to the water, lest the waves wash them away.

I've had enough self-reflection to grant me a reprieve from the mirror, which I’d been avoiding since our encounter that night. I don't even question where things have gone wrong, the waves came, and the sand had resettled. It all seems to be like the lady mantis to me. Once I hit a peak, and my mind and body are caught in a heated battle where my mind appeals to my better nature to run while I still have something worth running for, and my body wants to soak in every minute, she strikes. When I hit that majestically pivotal stall point, she turns around and bites off my head, and now the debate is tragically one sided; the waves came, and the sand had resettled. With my id at the wheel all I can do is try to piece together the still frames that my mind’s shutter will snap of the plummeting night, into a Picasso of a cluster fucked memory that would mean everything if I were the artist and not the viewer.

My shirt is in a ball next to a bed in a dark room that smells like mistakes. There’s someone in there sleeping peacefully, but I don’t know who, and I’m not going to find out; I can’t remember, and I don’t want to remember, so I run my head and arms through their respective holes in the fabric and walk out on carpeting that cloaks my footsteps. They might not remember me, and if we all walk away, maybe we can pretend Berkeley was right.

I am controlled enough at this point to get in the car and get out. I wouldn’t normally be up for seeing someone on such a quick turn, but I’ll be getting an upper out of it, and if I can just stall for long enough for that to kick in, then this charade will have worked like so many before it.

I get to the café first, which gives me time to order and start taking the caffeine in large enough doses to finish a cup before my friend arrives. I dispose of the proof that I’d had a cup before she got there, and buy another round. I always buy when I go to coffee with someone else, because it’s a five dollar therapy session where I don’t have to tell myself I’m in therapy, and they know that—for the price of jumping around with me and my streaming mind for a few hours—they get a free drink. So we drink away the afternoon.

I try to keep the conversation on a level, I’d made promises about not passing out, and I knew how to not incriminate myself, but when I get talking it becomes harder and harder to temper my conversation jumps.

“You think that was bad? Well last night I…” This is where I see what I’m made of. I don’t even have time to notice I made a mistake; I just feel it, and take a route back to safety. “… I boxed until I could almost see bone.” The knuckles are proof, and it wasn’t a lie, but it sure as hell doesn’t bury me like the truth. I make some witty remark about how I’m destined to die young to disprove the belief that only the good do, and to save myself from age. She never knows what to say to those quips, and I’ve worked hard to make sure of the fact. The boy who cried wolf is an attack strategy if you use it correctly, and I am always on the offensive.

I notice that the conversations are eating each other. We don’t even spark anymore, we just argue over what was said in the past, when things were fresh and there was something to say, but now we are the burning embers in an ocean of ash. I know this feeling, but I don’t know how to outrun it. I know that it’s a stall and that a retort is coming when I can’t climb any longer. I’ve worked myself on the offensive so long I didn’t see the clouds forming behind me. I try to keep up the race, but it’s no use, and I’m locked in a trap.

The words anyone like me hates to hear: worry, concern, care. They all roll together into what I know is nothing short of an impromptu intervention. I know how to play it off, sink it in under the surface so they can’t see it running off before it gets past the layers they hoped to penetrate. I can pretend as well as I can be honest, and who’s to say which is better or more real.

It was a good run, the coffee cups are empty and we both have places to be. I promise that I’ll get better, and half mean it too. The mind has recovered, and the lady mantis is no where in sight; the tempest has subsided, and it’s time to redraw the superficial lines. So I think, and I draw, and I breathe deep. I drive slowly home, and shower until I’m red, and brush my teeth until I can’t feel the bristles anymore over the numbed surface of my mouth. I’ve made a full recovery and it’s time to leave my past and face my future. Without debauchery to keep my hands from going idle, I’m left flipping through the pages of whichever Hemmingway I left by my chair and hoping to hear about something better. Then a friend calls and tells me that his home is free that night. This time the mantis won’t get me; it never has in the past, and I won’t let it this time, I have lines in the sand that will stop me if things go to far, lines that I would wager my soul upon.