A Conversation (part 4)

“Am I worth it?” As with any question tinged with desperation a vague sense of sadness envelopes the listener.
  
“Do you want to be worth it?”
  
“That feels like a trick question.”
  
“I think it is a fair question. Do you want to be worth it?”
  
“Are you asking me if I want to be or does my answer speak to what I actually believe? So if I say I want to be worth it than clearly I think I am worth it and vis versa.”
  
“I think you are over thinking. Do you want to be worth it?”
  
“Yeah, I want to be worth it, or at least worth something.”
  
“those are two different things, to be worth it and to be worth something.”
  
“Yeah but they are dependent you know? I gotta be worth something to be worth it you know? Everyone has a different level of what they think is worth it, what one person values isn’t valued the same by a different person but both people will agree it has value of some sort. It than becomes a numbers game, if I am of value than I will be worth it to someone.”
  
“Well I think it’s obvious you are of some value.”
  
“You say that with such conviction. I don’t have such conviction”
  
“You are a human being, you have value.”
  
“Don’t you think that is a little arrogant”
  
“What is?”
  
“That assumption.”
  
“What assumption?”
  
“That by being human I have value. Why do you assume that if something is human, or better yet alive, that it has value. That to me is absurd. Why can’t something that is either human or alive be valueless?”
 
 “Because that is what I choose to believe.”
  
“I’m glad you are honest about it.” There was a long pause of silence. “Do you think you are worth something?”
  
“Why do you feel like asking me that?”
  
“I’m curious on your thoughts, I'm sorta tired of hearing my own.”  

“Well we already discussed my assumptions, so yes, I am worth something.”
 
 “Do you think you are worth it”
  
“I thinks so, people have decided I am, and by your explanation that would mean I am.”
  
“I suppose so eh.”
  
“Do you think you are worth something?”
  
“Yeah I think I am.”
  
“Why the change of thought?”
  
“Honestly?”
  
“I would very much enjoy you being honest with me. I think it makes our lives easier if we are honest with each other.”
  
“I’m scared of what it would mean if I wasn’t.”
   

Empathy (Thoughts)

Has empathy become quaint and idealized? As a constant consumer of media, in full disclosure liberal media, I have perceived an important and amazing trend towards the philosophy of inclusion. I will preface by saying that I doubt the rhetoric parallels the reality, but I do believe the rise of the currently inclusionary rhetoric does speak to a possible shift in societal opinion, if not in action. On every podcast, interview, and newscast the issue of societal inclusion has become a vital focal point of discussion, especially noteworthy within the arts, a field in which expression and, most importantly, connection reigns supreme. With that we feel the need that character roles in film, television, and stage productions (to name a few)  are to be played by the adjacent demographic. Example: that disabled characters should be played by disabled actors (under reasonable situations of course), that LGBT characters should be played by LGBT actors, and that all ethnic characters should be played by similarly (if not exact) ethnic actors [I give only a few examples out of the necessity of both space and time for the reader and I]. Do I agree with the above ideal? Absolutely, who better to understand the plight of an LGBT character than an LGBT actor? Who better to understand the difficulties of living with a disability than an actor who has a disability? Who better to understand ethnic nuances than an actor immersed in said environment? Yet, despite the beauty of such an ideal, of such an exclusionary philosophy, perhaps we are losing on another beautiful, if foolishly (?) angelic ideal. Empathy.
   
Empathy is defined as “the ability to understand and share the feelings of another” and comes from the greek prefix “em” - in, and the greek word “pathos” - feeling, to create the concept of being “in-feeling,” able to share feeling, and perhaps beyond. So how does our exclusionary philosophy, as found within the rhetorical underpinnings of our society, negatively impact our beliefs in empathy?
   
It is important to note that empathy is a nuanced word that can be construed differently depending on individuals experiences and definitional outlook and so I may very well be arguing a definition you will disagree with, if that is the case it may very well be possible that our currently inclusionary path does not negatively impact our angelic ideal of empathy, but I ask that you hear me out anyways.
   
Our exclusionary philosophy appears to assume a limit to our ability to empathize with our fellow human being. It assumes a man can’t possibly understand what it means to be a woman. I will always take the stance that I cannot understand a woman, someone within the LGBT community, or someone from a different ethnic and cultural background in their totality. Yet I still wish to believe that my imagination and my own shared human experiences, grounded in both practical and emotional knowledge, is enough to allow me to walk in the shoes of that person on an emotional level. Why can’t I, as both a song writer and a dabbler in short fiction, write a well rounded character from a different economic, social, ethnic, cultural, and sexual background? As an artist I crave to connect, to understand and to grasp the lives of others. The moment society unveils me a ceiling, a level of empathy deemed a philosophical impossibility, my fear is that the ceiling does not exist as a reflection of reality but a self imposing restriction, a height we can attain if we only allowed ourselves to attain it. Or perhaps, as I mentioned before, I am but a believer in a foolish and angelic ideal long past its usefulness.

Yesterday (Thoughts)

Yesterday. Yesterday I was feeling somber. Today, today I am also feeling somber. Someone I knew, you could call a long-past friend, was facing a great pain and I was torn. They would feel that great pain tomorrow, today, I don’t know for how long. Yesterday I said hello to an old friend -current acquaintance- funny how things turn out. She was doing so well, happy with her life and how it was moving. Hearing of her life, though it was condensed in just a handful of words, wrought me a moment of joy.  The previously mentioned person, my long-past friend, had caused her great pain not to long ago. It feels as if it was a long time but it wasn’t. What is a long time?
   
On the surface yesterday could be perceived as a textbook example of our westernized and bastardized ideal of “Karma.” Things come back to you, it is only fair. The ones who cause pain should be forced to feel pain, isn’t that how it should be? Yet I felt hollow inside. Yesterday wasn’t a victory against human evil, it was a victory for human pain. On some level I know the pain he is going through, and on another level I don’t. Sure, the similarities are there, but the context is different, the people are different, the histories are different. All I know is that pain is the universal equalizer. What he is feeling yesterday, today, tomorrow, isn’t fair, it isn’t fucking retribution, it is the antithesis of retribution. We often forget, when living in out social microcosms, that pain permeates throughout social connections. To find cosmic justification within a painful event through the past actions of one person, the only one you know to be directly affected, is monstrous, dimwitted and self serving. As such, to a long-past friend, I am sorry for your loss. I wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone, not a soul. Pain, it nullifies us all, if for one heart wrenching moment; that body laying in the ICU.
   
So how do we find retribution? Remember that old friend, current acquaintance? She is happy now, enjoying her life and the path she has taken. Her happiness, not her ill will, is the proper retribution. I doubt she has forgotten the pain she felt under his influence, my long-past friend, nor do I know or care if she has forgiven him, but she has let the pain slip from her life, it no longer controls her as it once did. It may not taste as sweet as the revenge we often see in movies, and it very much doesn’t feel “fair” as when pain begets pain, but the world isn’t fair, it isn’t ruled by cosmic balances and cyclical patterns. The only balance we can create (find?) is within ourselves, to search for such balance within the external world would be foolhardy, to ask for comfort in something beyond our control. As a side note let me ask, which one of us truly want such control? To mould the world around us to fit our preconceived notions of balance? I for one believe that to have such control would pollute and corrupt not only my mind and soul but the black beauty which makes the world so appealing (appalling?).

So, to my old friend -current acquaintance - thank you for showing me in a short period of time, the balance found within yourself. I am sure you have shown it before, but I failed to see, and for that I am sorry. I am proud of you, what you have accomplished, and what you will accomplish. To my long-past friend thank you for showing me the humanity that exists within us all. Perhaps because I didn’t give you the chance -perhaps you didn’t deserve that chance- I didn’t get to witness such humanity under more ideal circumstances and for that I am sorry, but know that your pain, as harsh and un-wielding it is, will not beget pleasure from me, nor pain. It begets sympathy, and has taught me a little a-bit about myself.

A Conversation (Part 3)

You’re a little faggot sometimes you know that” he said with a smirk, “You even smile like a faggot too! Stop smiling faggot!!” A knowing twinkle reflected in his eyes.
    “Shut the fuck up you Oedipus!”
    “Oh hi-yo smart - educated fucker, using mighty big words and really old references. What does that remind me of … ? Oh yeah! That you are a little faggot!” the smile widened, the master teaser knows when he is playing the game right, laying down the foundation.
    “I’m a proud faggot. The most wonderfully faggoty faggot you will ever meet, the queen of faggots you could say!”
    “A natural rebuttal my dear queen faggot, a natural rebuttal.” He was letting my off easy today, how sweet. “Anyways ma-, opps, I mean queen faggot, how is life treating you? Gotten laid recently? Get the wick wet?! Feed some ducks?”
    “Oh of course not my Oedipus-like friend, I’ve been busy with this and that. You know how it goes.”
    “I do, I do. Sucking a lot of cock eh?”
    “You could say that” I responded with a chuckle, “You could say that.”
    “I’m not surprised, not one bit.”
    “I know you’re not. So how is the miss’s?”
    “The miss’s is missed but that is to be expected. When they leave the kitchen the natural habitat of the home is thrown into disarray as could be expected” We both chucked yet only one of us laughed.
    “I hear you man, a huge void is felt . So what brought you to my part of the world? It is a long ways away from your quiet life back home.”
    “I needed some help I guess man, queen faggot, and I need some advice.”
    “Advice from me!? Now that is something to behold, you, the great dragon slayer is asking for MY advice, why, I must put this down on tape or no soul will believe me!”
    “hohahahaha” he laughed without mirth “Oh how funny. You know why, I think you’re smart, you give good advice, it ain’t your fault people are so bad at taking or following advice. be forgiving you faggot.” He loved the word, he spit it out with a venom so grotesque it felt endearing. Perhaps it was.
    “Okay, so what do you need advice on?” He kept smiling.
    “Well let me at least wine and dine you before I take part in your services.”
    “Fine fine, where do you want to go eat?”
    “I thought you would make me something to eat, you where already cooking from what I can see.” The smile creeped deep into his eyes, his very soul.
    “Very well my dear friend.”
    “So what are you making by the way?”
    “I am making a mediterranean salad with orzo, and I believe I will also be making risotto, so a lot of carbs, you’ll like it.”
    “Sounds kinda faggoty to me, but it also sounds really good. How long till it is done?”
    “However long it’ll take for you to bring me up to speed and to dispense my advice.”
    “Perfect.” 

A Good Joke (A Poem)

A Good Joke

It didn’t take long to get the card
It had Santa giving head to his reindeer
I laughed, it was so meaningless

I didn’t know the name on the front
You always like to live as someone else
The mail only cares that I am here

Sure there is a sad story to be told
We’ve been through pain, we’ve broke
Yet today I am happy to enjoy a good joke

A good joke, that was what I am today
I am everything, a good joke to you
And laugh we will, laugh till tomorrow

It didn’t take long to get the card
The letter inside was sweet and sad
We don’t need to talk about that though

We just need a good joke.

Girl With Two Syllable Name (A Poem)

Girl With Two Syllable Name

I smoke when I'm sad

Fall into a nicotine sleep

My mouth so dry

Laying down, I'm dizzy

Life, it won't always find a way

A way free from the path 

I think I may love you

But I won't know till you let me in

Fighting for a path inside

You will always be sad

L3ogical double bind, can't crack

Don't change how I feel

Your two syllable name

Kind eyes behind sad design

I can't always save

I can't always save

Two syllables to her name

I won't always save

Two Syllables to her name

I want to save 

Two syllables to her name 

I try to save 

Two syllables to her name

Girl With Two Syllable Name

A Conversation (Part 2)

He sat quietly as he sipped on his cup of coffee staring past the figure in the booth across from him. "ever listened to Simple Twist of Fate?" The way he spoke was a tad harsh but he said fate with a gentleness, the "F" being but hinted at. 

"By who?"

"Bob Dylan"

"No, I can't say I have." 

"People tell me it's a sin…" He paused for a moment " … to know and feel too much within." 

"What's that?" 

"It's a lyric to the song."

"What Song?" 

"Simple Twist of Fate." he didn't mind repeating himself. 

"Oh, yeah. That song you just talked about. I feel stupid."

"Don't. My my mind is meandering. Just focused on that."

"Why?"

"I can't say."

"Okay."

He raised the coffee once again, it was a little cooler, easier to drink. The harsh sips which often annoyed his company had become more gentle, very much like his "F" in his rendition of "fate." 

"Do you believe in fate?"

"Well that is a tough question."

"No it's not, you either believe in fate or you don't. I'm not asking on your opinion of it, just wether or not it exists." 

"I don't know." 

"How can you not know what you believe in? You either do or you don't. Which is it?"

"I guess I don't." 

"Why?" 

"Can I say that that is a tough question?"

"Yeah, you can. Will you still try to answer?" 

"I think I will." 

Okay. so?"

"I just don't think we are important enough for a concept like fate. That something is controlling all of us."

"I see. Do you want it to exist?"

"Want what to exist?"

"Fate."

"Oh. I don't know. Probably not."

"Why not?"

"I guess I just don't think we are important enough for a concept like fate." 

"I like fate, it makes me feel a little better." 

"Why?" 

"I guess because I believe we aren't important enough for fate, but I sure like the idea that we are, I like it a lot." 

 

It Don't Mean Much (A Poem)

It Don't Mean Much

I know it don't mean much but I'm sorry

I'm sorry for the mistakes I've made 

and the words I threw

I know it don't mean, 

It don't mean much.

I know it won't mean much but I care 

I care even though I fail to show 

With my actions in lieu

I know it don't mean, 

It don't mean much 

What I'm saying is that I think I know 

I know even through I fail to say

To say what's on my mind 

I know it don't mean, 

It don't mean much 

It don't mean much when you have nothing to say

it don't mean much when you have nothing to show 

It don't mean much when you have nothing to prove 

It don't mean much, as such

A Conversation (Part 1)

"Two pints please," was followed by a two fingered tap unto the hard mahogany table, each fingertip on his left hand was calloused while the knuckles where dry, crusted and worn. . "So man, how is life?"

"I can't complain, even if I did no one would listen right?" A small chuckle followed from tight lips. The upper lip was a little tighter on the left side of his mouth. 

"I guess your right. Anyways, tell me about work, was it good?" 

"You know. It is decent enough. I don't really get to do much but that is okay. I sometimes get to do other stuff, personal stuff you know? It is pretty decent I suppose."

"I hear you man, I hear you. It is one of those things, you just gotta put in the hours, get the things they want done and just move on. I'm finding it works okay. Can't complain with the pay check right!?" light laughter followed from a hard face broken by a mirthful grin. 

"No I guess you can't. Tell me, how long have you worked at your current job?" As he spoke his well worn but expensive shoes lightly tapped the ground in a rhythmic pattern, steady as a bass drum. 

"Oh man, its been a while now. 10 months I guess? Wow almost a year. Yeah almost a year I guess. Time sure flies don't it?" 

"Yeah it sure does." Brown hair flicked from covered grey eyes. The skin just beneath his eyes where a shade darker while the wrinkles just above his eyes where deeper, losing nuance a short time ago.

"How is the new job? I heard about it on Facebook or something. Congrats by the way, you deserve the position." That mirthful smile broke free, the lines around the mouth feeling well worn and deserved, lines only created through constant repetitiveness. 

"It is the job I deserved." The lines around his mouth existed just above the surface. His leg stopped moving for a moment. It started up again but was slower, not as precious. 

"Well that is all we can ask for eh? The things we deserve. Maybe not even that I would think. It has been too long since we've seen each other last. We have so much catching up to do, so much so I don't know what to say next. How Weird is that? One day we are talking up a storm and not long after we are sitting silently unsure on what to say when there is so much to say." Brown eyes retracted slowly, eyebrows climbed down the hillside of his forehead and his shoulders lowered ever so slightly. "You know what I mean?" 

"I do. I guess it says a lot about how we've changed and not changed." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I don't know. I'm just filling in space I suppose." His grey eyes focused quickly on some object in the far off distance, closing ever so slightly to block out the excess light. 

"Always the overly honest type" words better understood with a wink, "I've always liked that about you, straight to the point." 

"I know." 

"What do you like most about me?" 

"You're a mound type person." He stopped, his grey eyes floating while his leg stopped. He nodded.   

Divergent and Plato's Republic - A Little Post-Modernism In Our Lives (Thoughts)

Last night I watched a teen melodrama entitled Divergent, I am sure you either saw the trailer, film or read/heard-of the novel that the movie is based on. To say that the movie is good would be a stretch, indeed it is very much like many of the teen movies that exist. With that in mind I would like to quickly discuss some of the interesting philosophical underpinnings that I believe exist in Divergent. Divergent is set in a small "dystopian" society, in this case set in the city (or Polis if you will allow) of chicago, which has been broken up into 5 factions. These faction, Abnegation for the selfless; Amity for the peaceful; Candor for the honest; Dauntless for the brave; Erudite for the intelligent, are created to ensure that the society will exist in harmony. 

It easy to see the parallel between Divergent and Plato's Republic, the famous Socratic Dialogue. Within Plato's republic we undergo the intellectual journey of The City [Polis] in Speech, a fictional society which Plato argues is a logically perfect-city [Kalipolis]. Within this city [Polis] we are told of the need for a "noble lie," a lie that every "person" fits within a pre-ordained faction. In Plato's dialogue there are three factions (the number three is a common theme in Plato's philosophy), these three factions are The guardians, the Auxiliaries, and the Producers, which coincide with different "metals" within their souls. The producers are Bronze and Iron, the Auxiliaries are Silver and the Guardians are Gold. One could easily fit Divergent's 5 factions within the three that Plato has outlined within the Republic. 

Within both Plato's Republic and Divergent education is a vital component on the selection and factionalization of each member of society. Education and testing is used to inform each citizen on which faction they best belong. They are told a "noble lie" in both divergent and Plato's republic, that the factions are needed to maintain society, any breaking of the faction system will be the demise of the entire society. I have not read Divergent so I do not know if the novel goes into as much detail as Plato's republic on how the education would be applied but the basic principle still remains. 

The parallel deepens. The "Divergent's" are an interesting take on both the guardians and perhaps the true "sophists" within Plato's republic. Within the Republic the guardians are chosen to defend the city [Polis] and to rule as is right. Within the film  (and I assume the film follows the novel) the only Divergent's we are shown are either with the "Dauntless" (the guardians of the city [Polis] of Chicago) or were with the "Dauntless." This is very important for the Divergent are ever so subtly hinted as haters of power, those who are unwilling to rule. Such people, those who wish not to rule, are those who are best to rule under Plato's republic. Only very specific members of Plato's Republic have the "Soul" of a philosopher, not all the guardians [Dauntless] are true leaders/rulers, only the select few ever become the proper philosophical rulers, those which are able to see and understand the Good. Those philosophical souls are very much like the "Divergent," and as outlined by the fall of The City [Polis] in Speech, the persecution and destruction of the Philosophical [Divergent] brings death and disorder to society. 

What I find most fascinating by this development is how historically vital philosophical ideals, underpinnings of our academic self understanding, can be found within every day pop culture. I will admit, out of social hierarchal necessity, that Divergent is a highly bastardized version of Plato's Republic. It lacks the cultural, intellectual and aesthetic refinement of Plato's Republic yet it does tackle many of the same surface themes. In our Post-Modern world I think it is important to accept that the moral and intellectual distinctions between low and high art are increasingly becoming blurred, though many would argue such distinctions are still important. Divergent reminded me that within seemingly insubstantial works of entertainment can be found valuable intellectual parallels and lessons. So when reading a pulp novel or watching a mindless movie look beyond the surface of its entertainment value, consider the structure of the narrative, the basis of the visual design and the characterization of society/individuals;  you may find something a little more engaging. 

Olek

Crown of Clouds (Thoughts)

There is a perplexing cloud that is much alike to a crown. It hovers above my head diffusing deep, seemingly, life changing emotions. This crown of dark clouds brings to my life a sense of disastrous sadness. Such a sadness does not impact within moments but finds itself to dwell deeply in your bones, its darkness envelopes every aspect of yourself. Your memories of yourself in the past are hazed by the darkness, a thicket of dull light which can transform a picturesque memory into one of dusty staleness. The regrets of your past no longer linger as disenchanted reminders of future lessons but as a totem of self loathing. The present undergoes a similar change, every flaw that was once hidden and seemed unimportant rise to the surface and breaks the plain of my consciousness, every mannerism deserves an apology while every success is barely worth mention; the present becomes more hideous than the past for it appears to become a replaying of all past indiscretions, the past repeating itself. Lastly the future becomes bleak, destined to be as the past and the present, void of pleasure and happiness. Such power the darkness can have, such power the crown of clouds holds over me. Such power.  

Let Us Begin (A Poem)

Let Us Begin 

Let us begin not from the start but from the end 

It was a lovely evening in late july 

As would be expected a walk was in order 

and as such Mara was readying herself 

She died that night 

Let us begin not from the start but from the end 

It was a cold morning, deep cold 

As would be expected a shovel of snow was in order 

and as such Aeron carefully pulled on his boots 

He died that morning

Let us begin not from the start but from the end 

The window was covered in a sheet of ice 

As would be expected a needle was in order

Mort didn't want her to suffer any more 

His daughter died that morning 

Let us begin not from the start but from the end 

The trees wept quietly in the wind 

As would be expected a prayer was in order 

Valdis didn't want to live any longer 

He died that afternoon 

Let us begin from the start and worry not on the end 

It was a lovely evening in late july 

she could hear the crying in her arms, the joy!

As would be expected quiet tears where in order 

Soon-to-be Aisha didn't need to wait any longer 

She was born that evening 

The Allegory of Superman (Thoughts)

Art is a subjective medium of communication which can have its messages affected as much by the life and experiences of the viewer as by the intent of the artist.    The majority of experiences I have had with comics have occurred during my early youth, between the ages of 4 to 10, and most recently while I was enrolled in a university course. I was compelled to take a course on comic books because of a curious fascination with the hybrid of literary and visual mediums found within comics. Of my early comic experiences I spent all my energy obsessed with two main figures, unsurprisingly Batman and Superman, the latter of which I outgrew after certain changes in my surroundings and life experiences. I shall put my energies in understanding my obsessive and than waning love of Superman.

To understand the point I shall be making I first need to put into context how my relationship with Superman, now understood through hindsight 20-20, has changed over time. I was raised early on in Mexico, specifically in the State of Baja California Sur, in the small city of La Paz. Mexico, at least certain parts of it, have a history of strong communal ties built around the Catholic Church. Being part of a middle class existence within Canada I was, unsurprisingly, enrolled in a Private school. The school was to be a Convent run by Nuns. Being at the age I was, between 4 and 6, I was soaking up dogmatic christian beliefs like a sponge. This coincided with my first experience of Superman, in which I found a ragged Spanish edition which was part of a series (story arc) known as "The Death and Return of Superman." I was obsessed, and undeniably hooked.

Now comes the question, where am I going with this? I myself can't help feel that the parallel between my education during my early youth and my love of Superman is no coincidence. Upon the surface it appears that a very very strong Jesus  Parallel can be found within the origin story of Superman. Looking quickly at the history of Superman it is clear that a Jesus parallel was likely not the intent of the creators of Superman, Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, both of whom where of Jewish decent. Most theorize that in reality Superman was an allegory, if loosely, on the Old Testament story of Moses. Both Moses and Superman are saved by their parents who fear the destruction of their world and lives. In the case of Moses, the pharaohs edict to kill all the male Jewish children at birth, while in the case of Superman, the destruction of his entire planet. Both are saved by cribs, though of course Superman's is sent through space to earth, where he is adopted by the Kent family who "[l]ike the pharaoh’s daughter … take a look inside the crib; like the pharaoh’s daughter they are moved to compassion by the baby’s tears; and like the pharaoh’s daughter they decide to keep mum about the incident and bring the infant up as their own. In both cases, the child’s first reported act is one of strength" (Jacobson 168). It is also found that "… Superman’s birth-name, Kal-El, has a Jewish component, El being Hebrew for ‘might, strength, power’ and ultimately for God" (Jacobson 169).

Superman, like others of his ilk, such as Batman and Spiderman, has been reinvented and re-envisioned since the character was first created and conveyed in 1938. Numerous movies and countless issues of comics have delved into the thematic possibilities that is Superman. The issue I was so Obsessed with, "The Death and Return of Superman," Dealt with, as can be divulged by the title, the death and "resurrection" of the fabled Superhero. At that time, the early 90's, 5 years after the original publication of the "Death and Return of Superman" series, I would have connected and paralleled the plot-themes to the miraculous story of Jesus Christ, both stories which I would have experiencing at the same time. The image of a distraught Louis lane would have echoed the image of Mary. At that time, being of that age, the two would have blurred. " Many simply see the story of a hero sent to Earth by his father to serve mankind as having clear enough New Testament overtones" (The Associated Press). Even the "S" on his crest could be seen to represent "saviour," not only "Superman." I remember, when seeing the death march of Superman at the tender age of 6, of being shocked, confounded, and a bit neglected. I was raised on the infallibility of Superman, of his God-like powers and his almost impeccable morals, as I saw them at that time.

It does bring up an interesting debate about not only comic books and characters, but of art as a whole. In this case, interpretation versus artistic intent. It would be hard to argue that when Siegel and Shuster created Superman they envisioned the character being reinvented as a Christ like-figure, or of even having strong biblical overtones from either the Old or New testament, but like much of art, and maybe even more so in comics, the stories and characters can grow to have a life of their own. The characters have the potential to shift and change based on the readers and the new writers and artists that take the torch and continue to expound upon the Superman narrative. I myself cannot think of many fictional characters that have been created and recreated as extensively as Superman, especially in the same medium, Comics, yet alone the cross-over the character has experienced in television and film.

Superman has been able to fit in the judeo-Christian literary mould for close to 75 years, and has been able to exist within the growing secular society we exist in today. Superman has been reinvented by myself as my own beliefs and world views have change, as seamlessly as within the culture we exist in today. If anything, Superman, like all art, has acted as a mirror of society since his inception, and to look at the history of Superman would be to look at the social history of America. Superman has been an important figure in my life for it has aided me to connect with the past by allowing me to interpret old allegoric stories though new and modern narratives, conveying the timelessness of certain themes. The image of Superman's cape, tattered and ruined upon a stick still stays with me today, reminding me that not even Superman is indestructible, if but for a short period of time.

Today -July 8th, 2014- (Thoughts)

My day began as many others do, differently. I find there is very little consistency. the one consistency that I can indulge in is that my day began as my previous day had ended, emotionally. I was unable to sleep, for numerous reasons, and as such I laid awake with the world on my mind. As Atlas and I contemplated our burdens during the night I was of course very displeased with my life and myself, wishing for things to be different. Before long the old familiar tune of "dancing shoes" blared from my phone, reminding me that it was indeed time for work. As such, at five twenty five this morning I peeled myself from my disingenuous bed and made myself the usual eggs on toast, reheating some day old tea, and sat on the couch in my living room. I was in a bitter mood. It was early, I was tired, I was emotional and felt myself vibrate. I planned my route to the stampede, took the train and was gifted with the barely conscious face of my boss, along with another young fellow I had yet to be introduced to. I was in a sour mood. 

For the first thirty minutes we sat in silence, brooding over the abject boredom which awaited us. Unable to stand the shattering silence which enveloped us all I made a more official acquaintance with the "mysterious" young man. He turned out to be a university student such as myself who was also in the same major. We broke into an old familiar rhythmic conversation, the one which two strangers of similar passions often have. I could feel a smile widen on myself. Not long after I was informed there was a mistake, that I was not supposed to work today. Good, I could sleep. 

When I made it home I went straight to bed and caught a few much needed hours, unburdened by my thoughts from the night before. When I awoke I decided to reacquaint myself with an old familiar pain. I watched a movie, Blue is the Warmest Colour, and followed the passioned journey of two lovers fulfilling their emptiness. Quickly the passionate and highly sexualized affair turned into a quiet love unhinged by a power misbalance which would soon bring about great pain and difficulty. As I watched I was both entranced with the story unfolding upon the screen and the memories which reeled within my own mind, just behind my knowing eyes. I felt the pain, I felt the tension and I mourned both the characters on the screen and the people in my life.

I soon finished the visual opus and decided to put on my ear phones and take a walk outside. Do you ever have those moments in which the audio you select perfectly epitomizes the visuals you see before you? Life becomes richer, it brightens and melds with the melodic tension that I could feel within myself and the musical landscape within my earphones. The way the sun broke through the leaves, the way the children moved along the playground and the manner in which the parents smiled heightened the beauty of the world. The wonderfully clear and blue sky melded with the bright yellow sun in such a manner that I felt safe and no longer alone. I was at ease with myself and with the world. My walk was methodical, I felt the wind on my face and the sun on arms. Each passing moment built upon the previous one, creating an energy in me, a happiness I could only enjoy in abstract loneliness. I felt better. 

It is a beautiful day and a wonderful and exciting life. I never know when such moments of absolute beauty will come, but when I am gifted I am thankful. Enjoy today my friends. I sure am. 

Love 

Olek

The Eight of Spades -Humanity In a Deck of Cards- (A Poem)

The eight of Spades

The eight of Spades 

The infinite coming in spades

Bring him back to me, revitalize

Anything I will give, I will evangelize 

I am on my knees begging "please" 

Don't be like the woman I have, the tease

I would do anything, I would earn the degrees

Let me earn your trust, I'll move the world to appease 

the judgment levelled on the Eight of Spades 

The Nine Of Clubs -Humanity In a Deck of Cards- (A Poem)

The Nine Of Clubs

The Nine Of Clubs 

Raising a small little cub

Working hard to place tabled food

bottom of the economic class, glued. 

The fuel to rise above circumstance 

Is given by the simplest of a glance

The prayer for adequate finance 

Promised by the chance of romance 

The lottery ticket of the Nine of Clubs, the nine of clubs. 

The Ace Of Hearts -Humanity In a Deck of Cards- (A Poem)

The Ace Of Hearts

The Ace Of Hearts 

The trump card to start 

Lets lay our cards on the table 

and ask which sense we wish to disable 

Would it be the eyes in which we see? 

Or the fingers in which we use to decree?

Would we revoke our ears in which we hear? 

Or our heart in which we often disappear? 

What do you choose Ace of Hearts? Who do you choose Ace of hearts?

The Six Of Diamonds -Humanity In a Deck of Cards- (A Poem)

The Six Of Diamonds

The six of Diamonds 

A mind ever so absentminded  

In constant need of visual reminding 

Eyes slowly projecting images rewinding 

a light broken by a shutter every two seconds 

Lets be honest the images in those eyes threatens 

every thing we know about the historic legends 

Which echo important ideals and forgotten impressions 

of what it means to be the Six of Diamonds, the six of Diamonds.  

The King Of Clubs -Humanity In a Deck of Cards- (A Poem)

The King Of Clubs 

The king of clubs 

the queen of backward snubs 

Anger is what happens in my court 

when it is apparent there will be no courting 

Rejection is not always readily accepted

One could think she was being simply deceptive 

It is only reasonable that she would be selective 

in order for the queen of snubs to be respective 

to the king of clubs, the king of clubs. 

The Six Of Clubs -Humanity In a Deck Of Cards- (A Poem)

The Six Of Clubs 

The six of clubs 

the sixth in the club

Sweat stained and drained 

I can't say what part of me remains 

Three windows are open

Black entrances dulled by doping 

Play a little black jack and got lucky 

I'll fight on through my eyes so bloody 

The six of Clubs Eyes so bloody, eyes so bloody … the Six of Clubs 

When I Feel Alone (Thoughts)

I have grown accustomed to being alone, feeling the emptiness of sound and space. I know there are many metaphors for loneliness but when I am lonely, and I would like to remind that it is vital not to equate loneliness with being alone, I am beneath water. My gaze is transfixed on the simmering and semi-permeance that represents that very thin line between water and non-water. At first I am calm, collective and at ease, I am in a state of being that I have enjoyed numerous times, my body completely submerged. As time moves at a stand still I come to recognize where I am and what I am doing, seeing that I am in need of breath, in need to break the thin seal which divides one reality from its mirror. I will myself to swim to the top but my body fails to move, each muscle failing to tense adequately, fluid, yet not so fluid as to force my body to sink any further. Now I am feeling uncomfortable. I know I am "free" for I am not bound to anything physically, I am caught in an eery self imposed centre, the gears have stopped rotating and the tires no longer spin. As time progresses and the discomfort I experience begins to grow I feel a small bundle of panic swell within me. It takes hold slowly. At first I simply shrug it off within my mind; "at this moment I am not moving but in the next moment I shall be swimming to the top." It isn't complicated nor is it very worrisome. Tick tock. Time appears to compel me that, perhaps, my lack of movement is somehow important. I need to break the surface. I rationalize to myself that it is not yet an issue, a few more moments and I will move my body with the apparent ease that is natural within all of us. Tick tock. Panic sets in a little deeper. Can I move? Will I move? A transparent realization dawns on me, I need help. I can't break the surface on my own. As I feel the ghostly thoughts creep into my consciousness my panic, though still highly relevant, becomes secondary to the sorrow which overtakes my being. Alone, below the surface I can feel a chilling proposition slide across my brain, no one will help me. I am here, underwater and doomed to exist as such until the moment in which I will understandably draw a lung full of chocking water and finally sink to the bottom of my watery abyss. Tick tock. Sorrow and panic knock methodically on the door behind my eyes working in a horrifying unison. I am stuck. I will be in this state forever. I shall never break free and I become envious. I know others dive with ease and escape as easily. My jealously grows with furious speed taking turns with sorrow and panic, the three becoming the essence of who I am. Moments later I open my mouth. 

That is what I see when I feel alone.     

Consideration Of a Conversation (Thoughts)

Last night I had the fortunate pleasure of randomly encountering a friend of mine, one in which I had thought of throughout the day, fittingly so. When the encounter first occurred I couldn't help but think "this will make an interesting blogpost" which may still be true. Little did I know the encounter would spawn another topic of reflection. As we discussed the occurrences of our lives which had transpired since our last visit we returned to the well worn discussion revolving our futures, and more specifically, what we wished to do and/or accomplish after we have finished Our undergrads. Her answer was deeply philosophical but availed itself as something rather mundane, she simply told me she wished to do something "meaningful." She dropped the term and moments passed without much thought on my part. Yet when she left after our engaging and fruitful visit I mulled the term over, thinking more deeply on the word she used. She didn't use "happy" nor did she diminish the power of "meaning" by using assuredly concrete examples of what fulfilling actions would give her "meaning," she simply left it open to interpretation.

My lack of reaction in which she of spoke of doing "meaningful" *things* (I use the term things out of the need for conceptual generalization) has much to do with our understanding, or lack thereof, of meaning. On some level I denoted meaningfulness with happiness, fulfilment and/or comfort, all terms that can often be used interchangeably. Yet all those terms do not exist as synonyms of meaningfulness. One could argue that they can be a by product of meaningfulness but even that can be an argumentative claim. 

Happiness is a term that can be used in two forms of time, within the moment as in "I am currently happy", and in terms of a span of time as in "I have been happy for the past ten years" or in both contexts as in "I have a happy life." Fulfillment through is something which I consider to be a goal which one strives to attain, and once attained, is easily if not inevitably maintained. to gain fulfillment is also something which takes time and effort, very different from happiness which can occur very easily to some and can exist as a by product of luck and/or circumstance. 

Yet meaningfulness doesn't truly fit within the above definitions. When I consider meaningfulness I consider something which is in the moment, such as happiness, but cannot be experienced through chance nor circumstance. As with happiness, meaningfulness can last beyond moments and can span over time, one can live a meaningful life, but unlike happiness meaningfulness is ever dependent on what we DO, not what we necessarily FEEL. We can live "meaningful" lives and not be conscious of them while happiness, fulfilment and comfort all are contingent on our consciousness. I am not arguing the objectivity of meaningfulness, on the contrary it is inevitably subjective, but I do believe that there are those who do live their subjectively meaningful lives without ever considering that they are doing so, doing *things* which they choose unconsciously in order to gain meaningfulness. 

I shall end my machinations on meaningfulness upon that abrupt end for I do not wish to express all of my thoughts on this subject matter, I wish only for those who read this post to perhaps consider the words they uses and the words they hear more carefully. As importantly I want those to read to consider what they wish to possess and experience thoughtfully. We are often programmed to live certain lives, a well packaged product which society sells us. The product is fine and it is neither nefarious nor otherwise, it is simply what it is and many who buy into the product gain happiness, sometimes fulfilment and once in a while meaningfulness. Yet I ask you to consider if that product IS for you or if another option, one less shown, might suit you better.  Lastly do not be afraid of not knowing what you wish to know and have. That you ask the question is in itself a sign that you will reach that point. So push for a happy life, a fulfilled life, a meaningful life, a comfortable life, but make a preference list, and consider, what do I consciously want? 

Relationships (Thoughts)

You know … Relationships are difficult, it don't matter wether they are romantic, platonic or acquainted. Relationships are difficult,  a quagmire of twisted and confused emotions, your stomach twists and you don't know what to do. He/she doesn't respond or asked to be alone and you don't understand. 

Was it something I said? Didn't say? Is it my fault? Is it hers? 

No! This isn't fair! I deserve better! 

No … I am being selfish, I need to think of him/her … 

No! I can't be a walking mat! I will stand-up for myself! … 

but what if I AM to blame … Maybe space IS what needed … 

But I have needs to! I deserve better! … 

Maybe he/she deserves better … maybe I'm missing something … maybe I DON'T deserve to be treated any better … poetic justice. 

confusion clouds the brain! Contradictory statements trying so desperately hard to grasp what is occurring. There is missing information, perhaps denial by you, perhaps denial by him/her. It is a mess, a bloody confounding mess that seems to have no answer in this moment. What SHOULD one do? How CAN one find their way through the maze that is human emotion and human interaction? 

You know … I honestly have no idea, and I am okay with that. Everyone, no matter how much we don't realize it, is different, unique and utterly and beautifully frustrating. That frustration can fester differently. Sometimes they go quiet and sometimes they yell. Sometimes they are too calm and sometimes they are to emotional, you name it. It is what makes them human, and it is what makes them worth while. 

I know that sometimes you want to storm out. I know sometimes you want some form of justice to be doled out for every time they made you feel bad, and I assure you they often think the same thing. Confrontation if through the absence or use of speech occurs and often tests our patience, oh good lord does it test mine! But oh lord does the contrast bring home the wonders of our cooperation! The smooth hand of lovers working in intimate unison, the shared laughs we bring forth among friends and the small little accomplishments revelled among co-workers after a successful day at work! How we love those moments and so we keep coming back enjoying, and sometimes hating, the presence and company of our fellow human beings. 

I suppose what I am saying is that if you are in conflict with someone I can't tell you how to handle it because I don't know how myself. What I CAN tell you though is that if you love him/her kiss, hug and laugh. If you respect him/her be patient and learn to be open and if you need to have someone in your life find the beauty within them and know that you can love and respect anyone …  just give it a try … for my sake (^_^)

- Olek 

Romance In a Moment (Thoughts)

One day removed from Valentines I turn my exhausted mind to romance. As I often do, my thoughts turn and revolve considering what romance really means to me. What does the word truly entail? If I was to see an act, how would I define the romantic from the unromantic. I must say, it was a difficult definitional challenge and one I can not undertake within the short span of attention I am usually able to conjure when delving into written thought. Instead of giving you a definition through vague conceptual terms I will tackle the question differently. 

I will narrate acts which when I witness them bring forth surges of romantic inclinations within. Romance cannot be defined within a single day, instead romance is grounded by the foundational simplicity of daily actions, which when are stacked upon each other build a tower of love and romance that cannot, in my humble mind, be disputed. I see youthful glances and well worn stares shared among the young and experienced lovers alike, expressing well misunderstood feelings which, despite thousands of years of well meaning contemplation are still not truly understood. A young hand brushing away chaotic strands of hair from a frustrated visage and a lovingly patient smirk reacting to stressed and angry response colour my day of cinematic moments. A gentle hand resting on a tense shoulder and the relaxed comfort of two bodies sitting side by side enjoying the light contact that only two familiar bodies can share. The carefully uttered validations passed between two people and the excited jittering that occurs when anticipating that meeting of a new and seemingly perfect interest. 

The key to all of the moments I have been appreciative of witnessing is that they are never rehearsed but are expressions of what each one of us can individually offer to another. Each romantic act I have spoken above are shaded by the personality of the individual, and though they have flaws I see the beauty of each action, the virtue which emanates and fluidly encompasses those which we wish to share our experiences with. All the above moments and the like can occur naturally, possibly hundreds of times between the same individuals, occurring without notice and if noticed rarely ever considered.

I turn now to what romance is not. Romance is not benign. On the contrary romance can be terribly dangerous. When I see the struggle of romance I hear the powerful words of Reagan telling the world to "tear down this wall!" Each act of romance when accepted structurally weakens the walls which we surround ourselves. Each brick removed is one defence that has been diverted or converted into a possible weapon. Its a baring of our soul. When that young man brushed her hair from her eyes he is telling her that he is willing to risk great pain at her hands and the same can be said when she lightly touches his shoulder. Romance is never nor should it be if it is to remain beautiful and worth while, benign. 

Most importantly I wish to end my short treatise on the question that has plaguing me most. Why? If the risk and the pain that can occur when romance expresses itself is terrifyingly palatable why do we sentimentalize romance so? At first I did not have an answer (and I may still lack one) but when I continued to turn and analyze the problem I couldn't help but come to a simple conclusion, and please excuse me if its unappetizing but … what else shall we risk all for other than for our fellow romantics? 

Untitled #3

Dry lips. That is all I could think of when we kiss. Dry, chapped lips. Every time she pressed them against my own I would sneak a peak by opening one eye which would widen as I noticed that for some utterly unknown reason she appeared to enjoy kissing me, with those dry, chapped and cracked lips. In unison her hands would run against my scarred back and I could feel her chewed fingernails sprawl against my skin, the indents caused by her nervous appetite. 

"You are SO sexy babe" she uttered through gasping breaths. Pause. Relative truths. 

I felt a hand creeping down my waist line struggling with the jean button that found a way to considerately halt the moment as she pulled away and smiled, promising to do more things that were inevitably going to occur. I smiled? back with a mischievous? look in my eye. I watched as she struggled with the jeans I wore which both accentuated my thin legs and my robust waist; I am more a walker than I am an active person. As her blurred outline finally removed my pants I noticed that she pulled an article of clothing from herself, watching as dense fabric darkness broke the less dense darkness behind her silhouette, unveiling white broken by pink in the middle of the blurred image which knelt 5 feet in front of me.

The mammal sprung, covering the 5 feet faster than I would have thought likely, impossibilities are often unlikely impossibilities so one depends less on the one but on the size of the number below the loneliest number. This time her lips mercifully kept its focus upon my skin, scraping against the base of my neck and the centre fold of my upper chest, which heaved through the driving force of my hormonal bypass system, successfully installed in the summer of 2004, no updates of yet. I felt my hand instinctively grasp at comfort, taking pleasure at squeezing and rubbing without much thought, through with dire consequences. 

Without warning I felt her hand darting to explore my anatomy, grasping with an equivocally inane and primal curiosity which I imagined paralleled my own emotionally apathetic romp through animalism. Her hand slowly transformed into a medium of slow and and fast patterns, moving away from mindless grasping. Echoing the transformation I myself decided on an idea, hoping it would create the desired intentions. Our biology reacted as intended. 

"Please" she whispered in my ear. At first the plead meant nothing to me, I didn't understand what was being asked. At first I hoped her mind was in tune with my own but when she repeated the single word I heard the elongated middle "e" and the almost silent "e" at the end of the word prophesying that my hope was not to be. I knew I was easily capable of doing what was asked but I hesitated for a moment. In that moment she took it upon herself and before I knew what was happening I was like a puppet on a string, playing the role expected of me, at the very least connected to a human being. 

Within moments I felt myself contort and I knew I had to pull away, knew that I had to remove myself from the current predicament and as I pulled away I felt myself unveil itself and watched as all my energy drained. I rolled over, making sure not to be in contact with the person next to me, and I felt shame and unworthiness wash upon myself. Inadequacies came to fruition and the very idea of my role in that moment came into pathetic focus. For a heart pounding moment I hated myself until I felt a sympathetic touch on my shoulder. 

Silence Of a Calm Winter Snow Fall

The silence of a slow winter snowfall adds to its patient nature. The beauty of snow's descent is heightened when un-availed by the force of wind, when allowed to glide without interference or inference. Upon such a sight she left her home and climbed into her poor excuse of a truck. It held greater visual and structural relation to a rust-bucket than to the truck it was meant to idolize, but it moved through the magic of combustion, and though it painfully creaked, it held together by some basic act of molecular physics. 

As she picked up speed and struggled to climb the snow covered hill beyond her home, the passenger of said rust-bucket began to feel tears sting her heavily mascaraed eyes, unleashing a stream of war paint which encompassed her pale cheeks. Her eyes shrunk as her driving become more haphazard and while her vision blurred she realized that her truck, though diligent and stubborn, could move no faster. At that moment without thought she slammed upon the brakes and felt the subtle power of momentum overcome the subtler power of friction and gravity. Rust-bucket slide upon the slick snow covering hidden ice with a wonderful fluidity and for a moment Rust-bucket appeared to be at home upon the ice. With a blink her deeply black eyes peered through the poorly swept windshield looking upon a blackness of white snow impenetrable to all. As she slide the snow carefully parted to the heaving and hole riddled Rust-bucket who glided towards an embankment growing in size before her slowly widening eyes. 

The wonders of winter remains in its silence. Movement always appears to coincide with sound, but as Rust-bucket slide painfully fast towards the embankment the silence remained. The engine, though running, did not break the spell, and she couldn't utter a word for what would be the point when utterance would invariably fail to change the coming circumstances. No, the slide and the collusion held the deep sustenance of silence for the pillowy sound enveloping frozen liquid encompassed Rust-bucket in its cold embrace while very quickly succeeding where gravity and friction failed. She heard nothing. 

The amount of time that passed between moments cannot be gaged. She sat in Rust-bucket considering her surroundings. Rust-bucket appeared to have finally lived up to her appearance for she was undeniably immovable, and as such would be fated to remain in her current position. Tears still filled her eyes, though wether they where from the previous moment or the future current moment cannot be said, only that they appeared during a moment either remembered or unremembered. 

Slowly and carefully she unveiled herself of Rust-bucket, exiting through the back window and stepping into the cab of her once faithful and trusted vehicle. Taking a deep breath she soaked in her surroundings through her blackened eyes. She felt the slightest hint of a cold breeze from the west and felt in her bones that a fierce wind existed beyond the horizon. She slowly climbed from Rust-bucket, feeling the ache in her muscles from the impact of stymied momentum and unwrapped a pair of snow shoes that lay in the cab. With gingerly patience she placed each foot in each set of straps and methodically tightened. Looking upwards she slowly struggled uphill, towards the same direction in which she was driving before. With a last moment of pause she looked back, blinked, and once again trekked forward with abandonment. 

Silence Unbroken (Poem)

Silence Unbroken 

Pen to paper between and upon lines

notes playing on repeat in your mind

dotted lines and expressive cursive 

bleed and scribe upon the empty page 

hands resting on white and black 

dense and clean to well versed tips

applying pressure to hammers inside

filling space with something not right 

pen to paper between crossed out lines

notes haunting echoed chambered mind

frustrated cursive and aggressive lines 

flood and expelled upon the busy page 

hands pounding upon black and white 

dense and pained to over used tips 

striking with unhindered hammers inside

unable to hear himself despite concentration 

When You're Gone (Poem)

When You're Gone

You would like to think you matter

that the world would be a little sadder

when you're gone

rest your eyes love and go to bed

the sheets are warm and you are cold

you imagine flowers and red bouquets 

laughter among the young and old 

when you're gone 

rest your eyes and come back to bed

the sheets are cold and you are warm 

I imagine life would be infinitely dull 

filled with greys where once was blues

when you're gone 

so close your eyes and lay with me 

the sheets are cold and so are you