I can’t seem to wipe the blood from my face quickly enough before it is replaced by more. My head aches, my ears ring, and my blurry vision distorts the contours of the Hall.
But I can’t help myself. I yell out into the nothingness: Come back! We are not done yet!
The double doors begin to rumble just as I get into my best Bruce-Lee-from-Enter-the-Dragon pose. I stare anxiously at the doors. The stage begins to shake.
Then with the speed and sound of a locomotive It comes barreling into the room. I am so captivated by Its crimson eyes and pale teeth that I hardly realize that It is twice as large as before. It now looks like a wraith.
My knuckles turn white as I stare into that menacing face. My voice cracks as I say: This is the last time you will enter here!
It makes a shrieking sound. A baleful laugh.
And how exactly do you intend on stopping me?
More softly this time, I say: Simple. I will choose not to let you in.
For a split-second Its red eyes twinge; the movement is over as quickly as it began. It lets out another shriek; the sound reverberates through my body. Then it charges.
There is an explosion in front of me. I close my eyes and think:
My mind is a Monastery, and I am its Monk.
- Keats
I open them. It is still there, but just as far away. Its shrill voice is even louder than before.
But you were lied to. Surely that makes you angry.
The words sting me like poison, their meaning contaminating my veins. But I apply the remedy.
I say: We all lie. It’s what we do. Human beings are imperfect, and imperfection is the essence of a lie. I have no right to be angry at anyone for the universality of this vice.
You may not be angry… but you are afraid.
I say:
I can’t be afraid of something I no longer value. That devaluation is my choice, isn’t it?
I was at home, but then I was made a stranger. I was alive, but then I died twice in one lifetime. No more. I choose not to play this game. I choose not to invite the predilections that it brings.
This life is better served by not doing so. Be entertaining and be entertained. Nothing more. Let my last thought on this matter dissipate from my mind, like the final nebulas of a burnt-out star.
So no, phantom, I am not afraid. Now leave this place, there is nothing more for you here!
--
My eyelids close just as It reaches me. There is another explosion, this time under my feet. I am lifted up and thrown across the stage.
With the last ounce of my energy I get up from the debris. I open my eyes, and see It in front of me.
Only It is an older, more tired version of myself. The same jet black hair. The same dark brown eyes. The same chiseled features. The same self-delusion.
It looks rather curiously at me.
So I suppose we won’t be seeing each other again.
It turns around and begins to walk away.
Realization sets in. I say: If I do this, I will be never truly happy, will I?
It stops dead in its tracks, and slowly tilts Its head. For a moment I see a red tinge from Its eyes.
As you said: That's the risk you take. That's the price you pay.
And with that, It walks out the room, the doors closing behind it. Once again alone, I recite the familiar words aloud:
Underneath the spreading chestnut tree, I sold you and you sold me.
- 1984
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
What is the reason that you use me thus?
So I got to thinking about Hamlet… as one often does on inauspiciously auspicious days, and I realized that we all have moments in our lives that are like the “play within the play.” Suddenly we and everyone we know become actors, nothing is real, and we find ourselves doing crazy things to discover the truth.
God’s bodkin, man, we can do much better! I think the key is to avoid what Hamlet never could: inaction. Of course, this is easier said than done. And even if one is successful, who knows what dreams may come.
Take, for example, any time we “follow our heart.” Assuming I know what that concept means (and that’s a big assumption), I have always been one of its proponents. But it is such a demanding doctrine: it expects everything from us and guarantees nothing in return.
So why adhere to it? Ultimately, I would say it’s because we hope that no matter what challenges we face as a result of our allegiance to this doctrine, the strength it gives to our convictions will carry the day and bring us true happiness. And even if it doesn’t, we would rather go down swinging than never throw a punch.
Still, one cannot help but wonder if “following your heart” makes cowards of us all by, as Hamlet would say, sullying the native hue of resolution with the pale cast of thought. In any event, it certainly gives one a growing appreciation for the fallibility of human decision making, particularly on the biggest of stages.
I lov'd you ever: but it is no matter.
Let Hercules himself do what he may,
The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.
- Hamlet, Act V, Scene I
If she was meant for the stage, then I must have been meant to be a stage-lighter.
God’s bodkin, man, we can do much better! I think the key is to avoid what Hamlet never could: inaction. Of course, this is easier said than done. And even if one is successful, who knows what dreams may come.
Take, for example, any time we “follow our heart.” Assuming I know what that concept means (and that’s a big assumption), I have always been one of its proponents. But it is such a demanding doctrine: it expects everything from us and guarantees nothing in return.
So why adhere to it? Ultimately, I would say it’s because we hope that no matter what challenges we face as a result of our allegiance to this doctrine, the strength it gives to our convictions will carry the day and bring us true happiness. And even if it doesn’t, we would rather go down swinging than never throw a punch.
Still, one cannot help but wonder if “following your heart” makes cowards of us all by, as Hamlet would say, sullying the native hue of resolution with the pale cast of thought. In any event, it certainly gives one a growing appreciation for the fallibility of human decision making, particularly on the biggest of stages.
I lov'd you ever: but it is no matter.
Let Hercules himself do what he may,
The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.
- Hamlet, Act V, Scene I
If she was meant for the stage, then I must have been meant to be a stage-lighter.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Exorcizing Demons I
Expletive. Expletive. Expletive.
I cock my hand back, think the worst thought, and swing. My fist lands hard against the plaster. Barely a dent, despite the deafening echo that reverberates through the empty Hall. What’s the point of working out every day if one can’t punch through a wall?
Then suddenly the double doors at the front of the Hall burst open, and I see a silhouette standing at the entrance. I ask: Who goes there? (Note: Even as the adrenaline rushes through my body I can’t help but smile, because how often does one get to say “Who goes there?” Honestly, it’s one of the most antiquated sayings of our time)
But my smile fades as the silhouette gives way to the outgoing light from the Hall. The light lands on something that looks like more of a beast than a man. I see all of It’s features at once. Hair dark and long. Eyes narrow and red. Teeth yellow, crooked and sharp.
I stare into It’s piercing eyes and find myself gazing into all the fear, anger, and loathing I had ever felt in my entire life. The eyes give off an invisible radiation that permeates my entire body. I suddenly remember the first time I became embarrassed. The first time I became jealous. The first time I become angry.
Almost reflexively, my mind strikes a current to deflect these memories. Synapses flare, gears move, and my hands begin to clench. But before I can even form a fist, It is somehow right in front of me, inches from my face.
Why am I here?
It speaks in my voice, only distorted, and It’s question is more of a statement.
Almost reflexively, my arms leave my side. Muscles contract and then expand. But my strike is effortlessly deflected away before reaching its destination. Right about now I realize I’m in trouble.
It responds in kind, and It’s target is true. I fly across the stage and crash into the wall I had unsuccessfully assaulted a moment ago. This time I leave a much bigger impression. The blood dripping from my mouth warms my chin. I begin to get up but It is already towering over me. A rough hand grabs my collar and I feel my feet leave the ground.
Why am I here?
This time I say: Because you can be here. I think I see It grin.
Clever, but you still leave the question begging. Why am I here?
It throws me against the opposite wall. My eyes take longer to refocus this time. I look into that menacing face. Expecting clemency, I say: Because my heart is broken.
Wrong! That is the coward’s answer.
I feel It’s leg land hard across my chest. Ribs crack.
There was a time when I could not even get past those doors. So why am I here now?
Resignation begins to set in. Almost reflexively, I say: Because I am no longer the man I wish to be. But… but that’s the price we pay. That’s the chance we take anytime we allow ourselves to become vulnerable.
Unmoved, It grabs my neck and picks me up again.
Was it worth it?
It’s the one question I don’t want to answer. All I can think at that moment is that personification is a bitch. And then I am slightly comforted that at least I will go out on a joke. I close my eyes, and wait for the final blow.
Nothing. I find myself face first on the stage. It is gone. The doors are closed. I get up on my feet and wipe the drying blood from my face.
Alright, let’s call that round a draw.
I cock my hand back, think the worst thought, and swing. My fist lands hard against the plaster. Barely a dent, despite the deafening echo that reverberates through the empty Hall. What’s the point of working out every day if one can’t punch through a wall?
Then suddenly the double doors at the front of the Hall burst open, and I see a silhouette standing at the entrance. I ask: Who goes there? (Note: Even as the adrenaline rushes through my body I can’t help but smile, because how often does one get to say “Who goes there?” Honestly, it’s one of the most antiquated sayings of our time)
But my smile fades as the silhouette gives way to the outgoing light from the Hall. The light lands on something that looks like more of a beast than a man. I see all of It’s features at once. Hair dark and long. Eyes narrow and red. Teeth yellow, crooked and sharp.
I stare into It’s piercing eyes and find myself gazing into all the fear, anger, and loathing I had ever felt in my entire life. The eyes give off an invisible radiation that permeates my entire body. I suddenly remember the first time I became embarrassed. The first time I became jealous. The first time I become angry.
Almost reflexively, my mind strikes a current to deflect these memories. Synapses flare, gears move, and my hands begin to clench. But before I can even form a fist, It is somehow right in front of me, inches from my face.
Why am I here?
It speaks in my voice, only distorted, and It’s question is more of a statement.
Almost reflexively, my arms leave my side. Muscles contract and then expand. But my strike is effortlessly deflected away before reaching its destination. Right about now I realize I’m in trouble.
It responds in kind, and It’s target is true. I fly across the stage and crash into the wall I had unsuccessfully assaulted a moment ago. This time I leave a much bigger impression. The blood dripping from my mouth warms my chin. I begin to get up but It is already towering over me. A rough hand grabs my collar and I feel my feet leave the ground.
Why am I here?
This time I say: Because you can be here. I think I see It grin.
Clever, but you still leave the question begging. Why am I here?
It throws me against the opposite wall. My eyes take longer to refocus this time. I look into that menacing face. Expecting clemency, I say: Because my heart is broken.
Wrong! That is the coward’s answer.
I feel It’s leg land hard across my chest. Ribs crack.
There was a time when I could not even get past those doors. So why am I here now?
Resignation begins to set in. Almost reflexively, I say: Because I am no longer the man I wish to be. But… but that’s the price we pay. That’s the chance we take anytime we allow ourselves to become vulnerable.
Unmoved, It grabs my neck and picks me up again.
Was it worth it?
It’s the one question I don’t want to answer. All I can think at that moment is that personification is a bitch. And then I am slightly comforted that at least I will go out on a joke. I close my eyes, and wait for the final blow.
Nothing. I find myself face first on the stage. It is gone. The doors are closed. I get up on my feet and wipe the drying blood from my face.
Alright, let’s call that round a draw.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Re: 11/18/07 Poem
I’m no poet – just a man. Wait, that was pretty poetic. Maybe I am a poet?
As a poet, I see the world a little differently. Actually, that’s not true. Like most people, I see what I want to see. But there are those select few who do see the world through an uncommon lens. What I mean is that there are people who have the innate ability to find the beauty and meaning in everything they see. In everything they touch. They are the true poets.
Now I’m not going to pretend that I have the understanding or even general wherewithal to define “poetry,” but I will venture to say that poetry is predicated on taking our everyday language and making it special. In short, taking the ordinary and making it extraordinary. This is but an extension of finding the beauty and the meaning in things.
Sure, Poe’s The Raven or Blake’s Mad Song is not about beauty per se. I don’t assert that all poetry is about the lighter side of life. The darkness has inspired man to an equal degree. But even in the saddest lines of the darkest poem, one can find a quest for meaning, and that is the key.
She is a poet. She finds my meaning.
My feelings for her resonate like the stars at dawn,
Even absent clear sight, they are never truly gone.
- Me
I hear my voice echo through this empty Hall. My ears pierce through the sound, waiting for a reply.
As a poet, I see the world a little differently. Actually, that’s not true. Like most people, I see what I want to see. But there are those select few who do see the world through an uncommon lens. What I mean is that there are people who have the innate ability to find the beauty and meaning in everything they see. In everything they touch. They are the true poets.
Now I’m not going to pretend that I have the understanding or even general wherewithal to define “poetry,” but I will venture to say that poetry is predicated on taking our everyday language and making it special. In short, taking the ordinary and making it extraordinary. This is but an extension of finding the beauty and the meaning in things.
Sure, Poe’s The Raven or Blake’s Mad Song is not about beauty per se. I don’t assert that all poetry is about the lighter side of life. The darkness has inspired man to an equal degree. But even in the saddest lines of the darkest poem, one can find a quest for meaning, and that is the key.
She is a poet. She finds my meaning.
My feelings for her resonate like the stars at dawn,
Even absent clear sight, they are never truly gone.
- Me
I hear my voice echo through this empty Hall. My ears pierce through the sound, waiting for a reply.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
The G-String is My Favorite
I used to think that math was the universal language. Then I picked up a guitar. No, it’s definitely music. Pythagoras had nothing on Jimmy Hendrix. Centripetal-force may explain why the world goes ‘round, but music actually does the work. (Note: I don’t actually know what centripetal-force is or what it does) Anyway, as I was saying, music transcends all boundaries, between young and old, rich and poor, sophisticated and unsophisticated. I can put on Miles Davis’ Birth of the Cool on the phonograph and instantly watch people from all walks of life hit the dance floor. I suspect senior couples in their 60-somethings would be out in particular force. If there is something else that can move an octogenarian so quickly, I haven’t heard of it.
One day I hope to be able to play music myself. One of the advantages of being in this empty Hall is that no one is subjected to hearing me sing. I am horrible. But I am making progress on the guitar. I have been learning to play Till Kingdom Come for two weeks now.
“For you I’d wait, till kingdom come
Until my days, my days are done
And say you’ll come and set me free
Just say you’ll wait, you’ll wait for me.”
- Till Kingdom Come, Coldplay
Music, unlike math, is always inspired by someone else. One can make the argument that The Blues are an exception. Perhaps that is the case. But I would say that even there the lyrics, introspective though they may be, are constructed for an audience. The Blues are not The Blues unless someone is listening; unless someone hears your pain.
I play music for someone else as well. Again, I am not very good. But my inspiration is without equal. I close my eyes and let her invisible hand pluck my heart-strings.
One day I hope to be able to play music myself. One of the advantages of being in this empty Hall is that no one is subjected to hearing me sing. I am horrible. But I am making progress on the guitar. I have been learning to play Till Kingdom Come for two weeks now.
“For you I’d wait, till kingdom come
Until my days, my days are done
And say you’ll come and set me free
Just say you’ll wait, you’ll wait for me.”
- Till Kingdom Come, Coldplay
Music, unlike math, is always inspired by someone else. One can make the argument that The Blues are an exception. Perhaps that is the case. But I would say that even there the lyrics, introspective though they may be, are constructed for an audience. The Blues are not The Blues unless someone is listening; unless someone hears your pain.
I play music for someone else as well. Again, I am not very good. But my inspiration is without equal. I close my eyes and let her invisible hand pluck my heart-strings.
My Mind's Computer Just Became Self-Aware
:: Tap Tap ::
I stand at the podium on the stage of an empty room. 140 Dodd Hall. Its a cavernous place, with endless rows of seats that arch up and away from me. I can't remember if I came in the front or back. Regardless, I am here now. I am wearing my best pin-stripped suit, my favorite shirt (blue, of course), and my power tie. I also have on a silver watch - its broken, but I don't care. She gave it to me.
Whether I like it or not, this room and I are inextricably linked. So many things have started here. So many things have ended here. I guess this is as good a platform for my mind to ruminate as any. I only hope I have the time to say something meaningful.
"Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper; fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars. I cannot count one."
- Thoreau
Ya, but what did that Transcendentalist bastard know? He spent most of his time wondering through the woods. Life is about the people you spend it with. Isn't it?
If an intelligent man says something in the woods, and no one is around, does he make a sound? Yes, but I think his words only exist for as long as the wind carries them. But what if an idiot says something in the woods? I would not be surprised if his words echoed in eternity. So should I say something intelligible but forgettable, or should I use the lesser regions of my mind to carve out a permanent fixture on this landscape? It’s a tough call. Either way, I do share Thoreau's fear that I am not as wise as the day I was born.
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