Thursday, May 20, 2010
Breadcrumbs (an excerpt)
Quiet settles in thick heaps upon the floor. Lost is all sanctuaries, hopes, dreams. The cage is left, and I'll wait in these bars forever, as silence and emptiness torture the night. The fear corrodes the bits of sanity they left behind, breadcrumbs, lies of their return.
They Say A Lot of Things
"They" (professors, parents, authority figures, etc...) tell me I have to be a realist and that idealism is a concept that does not actually occur within the "real" world. This is how I am told to view my entire existence, from a realist perspective. I must learn to understand that every human being, my own species, is iniquitous by birth. There lies the paradox of humanity; I would be lying if I said people are inevitably wicked for if it were true, those who told me were attempting to corrupt my mind with yet another lie. This is the state of the entire civilization. There is an engrained Social Darwinism that stretches beyond superior race, but rather, has inherited a concept of superior trickery and deceit. By being born, we have entered into an involuntary game of chess at which point you must decide to either be the pawn or the queen. This decision relies on the perception of your 
surroundings brought on by the political and overall cultural socialization of your upbringing. Our history, that is, where we come from as individuals, decides our definition of success. To some, and a statistic majority for that matter, success is material gain and social status based upon reputation. To others, success is to survive.
When discussed from the first perspective, success seems to be easily accessible for those who choose the path of "ambition." I see it as the way those who actually ate the spoonfuls of pre-digested baby food, without looking at their mother's lunch with apprehension, go to achieve their "dreams" which were more than likely evoked by educational propaganda. What is amition? Is it really the overwhelming desire to leave home, do hardly anything to change the world for the better, and possess excessive amounts of paper with pictures and faces on it that, for the most part, you never actually see? Success, from this point of view, is the most elegant of all masquerades requiring the cunning application of poise and charms with undertones of sly networking in which, when the king stands up to stretch, the jester steals the throne. It should be respected as an art, yet hardly a way to actually live.
I once read on a fortune cookie that, "a positive attitude is the key to success." After pondering that for quite a while, I realized the true meaning was, "a positive face is the key to universal acceptance as a person of prestige." If you stumble blindly through euphoric portrayal, surely the summit is accessible. For it is within this paradox that to mask yourself is to be in pursuit of majesty. The cleverest of these ambitious people will give up their right to live, making sacrifices within their own lives in order to attain more paper. Money does not give people actual power because, when looked at for what it is, a dirty slice of paper with a since deceased person on it, it means nothing. It is those who have been participating in this masquerade who believe that a dirty slice of paper means everything. The queen sacrifices free will in order to extend her play in the game. Giving up free will is essentially dying from a self-inflicted flesh wound, but that is the reality within the bargaining of the ambitious.
A pawn's only real goal, if he were asked in the beginning of a game, is to survive. For the pawn, there are more important things than winning the race across the board. Of course, there is honesty in the fact that if you tried to explain to the homeless man eating from the trash that you do not need to have money to be happy, he may disagree with you because the reality of the paradox is that, it sure helps. The difference then, is in it's value to the individual who attains it.
To a pawn, success may be achieved by making sacrifices that the queen would not dare make. This includes turning down opportunities which no doubt promise a "rewarding" career in order to take the time out to smell the roses. Granted, the life of a pawn becomes far more complicated than that of a queen considering the concept the the pawn can only move one space at a time and there is no going back. But these people are idealists and dreamers, putting faith in the fact that every person, even those who choose the life of a queen, can be reasoned with because everyone's intentions are to do good. As Kahlil Gibran wrote, "I prefer to be a dreamer among the humblest, with visions to be realized, than lord among those without dreams and desires."
It is important to remember in sacrificing life experiences for societal gains that when the game is over, the queen, although she has almost the entire board at her leisure, has not actually gone that far. When she moves, she moves only to avoid another. The pawn has free will, and although it seems that failure is inevitable for him, when the pain settles in, he has lived. There are restrictions to all our lives and everyone must choose between the concepts of realism and idealism. When all is over and the pawn has left the game, he will never regret the sacrifices he made nor the people he met along the road. Remember that dreams are important and other humans, no matter what their philosophy may be, are not so different from each other. The next time "they" try to feed you lies about the intentions of people and the "pathway to success," remember that everyone is born with complete free will, whether we keep it depends on our application of it. We are not bound by any laws and we are responsible for the consequences of our choices. Think about what you are sacrificing, will you lose by becoming the last man standing, chased around the board? Or will you lose with principle, free will, opening gateways for others as opposed to deceiving those aquaintances who may just be on your side?
"They" say I have to be a realist, but I think I'll try idealism, if only for the two spaces in the beginning.
"Take a straight and stronger course to the corner of your life" Your Move (I've Seen All Good People) Yes
surroundings brought on by the political and overall cultural socialization of your upbringing. Our history, that is, where we come from as individuals, decides our definition of success. To some, and a statistic majority for that matter, success is material gain and social status based upon reputation. To others, success is to survive.When discussed from the first perspective, success seems to be easily accessible for those who choose the path of "ambition." I see it as the way those who actually ate the spoonfuls of pre-digested baby food, without looking at their mother's lunch with apprehension, go to achieve their "dreams" which were more than likely evoked by educational propaganda. What is amition? Is it really the overwhelming desire to leave home, do hardly anything to change the world for the better, and possess excessive amounts of paper with pictures and faces on it that, for the most part, you never actually see? Success, from this point of view, is the most elegant of all masquerades requiring the cunning application of poise and charms with undertones of sly networking in which, when the king stands up to stretch, the jester steals the throne. It should be respected as an art, yet hardly a way to actually live.
I once read on a fortune cookie that, "a positive attitude is the key to success." After pondering that for quite a while, I realized the true meaning was, "a positive face is the key to universal acceptance as a person of prestige." If you stumble blindly through euphoric portrayal, surely the summit is accessible. For it is within this paradox that to mask yourself is to be in pursuit of majesty. The cleverest of these ambitious people will give up their right to live, making sacrifices within their own lives in order to attain more paper. Money does not give people actual power because, when looked at for what it is, a dirty slice of paper with a since deceased person on it, it means nothing. It is those who have been participating in this masquerade who believe that a dirty slice of paper means everything. The queen sacrifices free will in order to extend her play in the game. Giving up free will is essentially dying from a self-inflicted flesh wound, but that is the reality within the bargaining of the ambitious.
A pawn's only real goal, if he were asked in the beginning of a game, is to survive. For the pawn, there are more important things than winning the race across the board. Of course, there is honesty in the fact that if you tried to explain to the homeless man eating from the trash that you do not need to have money to be happy, he may disagree with you because the reality of the paradox is that, it sure helps. The difference then, is in it's value to the individual who attains it.
To a pawn, success may be achieved by making sacrifices that the queen would not dare make. This includes turning down opportunities which no doubt promise a "rewarding" career in order to take the time out to smell the roses. Granted, the life of a pawn becomes far more complicated than that of a queen considering the concept the the pawn can only move one space at a time and there is no going back. But these people are idealists and dreamers, putting faith in the fact that every person, even those who choose the life of a queen, can be reasoned with because everyone's intentions are to do good. As Kahlil Gibran wrote, "I prefer to be a dreamer among the humblest, with visions to be realized, than lord among those without dreams and desires."
It is important to remember in sacrificing life experiences for societal gains that when the game is over, the queen, although she has almost the entire board at her leisure, has not actually gone that far. When she moves, she moves only to avoid another. The pawn has free will, and although it seems that failure is inevitable for him, when the pain settles in, he has lived. There are restrictions to all our lives and everyone must choose between the concepts of realism and idealism. When all is over and the pawn has left the game, he will never regret the sacrifices he made nor the people he met along the road. Remember that dreams are important and other humans, no matter what their philosophy may be, are not so different from each other. The next time "they" try to feed you lies about the intentions of people and the "pathway to success," remember that everyone is born with complete free will, whether we keep it depends on our application of it. We are not bound by any laws and we are responsible for the consequences of our choices. Think about what you are sacrificing, will you lose by becoming the last man standing, chased around the board? Or will you lose with principle, free will, opening gateways for others as opposed to deceiving those aquaintances who may just be on your side?
"They" say I have to be a realist, but I think I'll try idealism, if only for the two spaces in the beginning.
"Take a straight and stronger course to the corner of your life" Your Move (I've Seen All Good People) Yes
Dancers, Painters, Poets, and Philosophers
Looked at as a metaphor for death and impending doom, crows generally have a poor reputation in our society. For me, they are fascinating creatures, and one of the few animals I would choose to be if Hindu beliefs were truly fundamental, second only to the elephant, after I depart this lifetime. I sat on a bench and watched a crow pacing in the air from one perch to the other for about an hour, never tiring of its overwhelming nobility in this kingdom of animals.
Crows are highly intellectual birds and although they speak very little and do not have a harmonious melody to chirp for spring, when they have something to say, it is heard with emphatic clarity. They have the freedom to live in any climate at any season during the year simply because they can solve basic survival conundrums easier than a robin or a blue jay. There was a story I heard once that a group of crows living by a walnut tree would wait until a traffic light turned red, place the walnuts under the wheels of the cars, then picked them up, fully cracked and ready to eat, safely, after all of the cars had left the intersection. Now, as a creature of "superior" intelligence, frankly, I'm impressed. That may have never occurred to me if placed in a dire walnut cracking situation. Although I have seen flocks of crows, mostly in my youth spent in New England where many of the myths surrounding these intellectuals originate, they are perfectly capable of being individuals. It could be that crows are not unlike humans in that they desire the comfort, security, and joy of having company, or maybe they really do need each other.
After a while I noticed that I wasn't just observing the crow, it was watching me equally as much. Perhaps this was a survival instinct, or maybe, I like to think, it was a healthy curiosity. Every time it landed it would turn and catch my gaze for a minute, focused and sincere, then fly to the next perch. I began to dream that there could be a chance that this bird was just as fascinated with me as I was with it. It may have been organizing the same thoughts that I am arduously pouring out on this page, only in reverse, of course.
This lucky animal not gets to fly wherever he or she wishes, do whatever it would like, think of bold new ways of living its daily life, but also has the profound privilege of being beautiful. Look at a crow, really look at a crow, notice the way the feathers can reflect sunlight in rainbows, the same way an oil slick can be mesmerizing on a hot summer day. Study their eyes, always moving, truthful and adventurous. The way they move, the art in their flight, leaps of faith to the ground that are ironically calculable. They are dancers, painters, poets, and philosophers. They speak when they need to be heard, when it is important. It may not be musically perfect, but it is said with passion and enthusiasm. It was then that I wanted to be a crow, or maybe, just for a day.
Crows are highly intellectual birds and although they speak very little and do not have a harmonious melody to chirp for spring, when they have something to say, it is heard with emphatic clarity. They have the freedom to live in any climate at any season during the year simply because they can solve basic survival conundrums easier than a robin or a blue jay. There was a story I heard once that a group of crows living by a walnut tree would wait until a traffic light turned red, place the walnuts under the wheels of the cars, then picked them up, fully cracked and ready to eat, safely, after all of the cars had left the intersection. Now, as a creature of "superior" intelligence, frankly, I'm impressed. That may have never occurred to me if placed in a dire walnut cracking situation. Although I have seen flocks of crows, mostly in my youth spent in New England where many of the myths surrounding these intellectuals originate, they are perfectly capable of being individuals. It could be that crows are not unlike humans in that they desire the comfort, security, and joy of having company, or maybe they really do need each other.
After a while I noticed that I wasn't just observing the crow, it was watching me equally as much. Perhaps this was a survival instinct, or maybe, I like to think, it was a healthy curiosity. Every time it landed it would turn and catch my gaze for a minute, focused and sincere, then fly to the next perch. I began to dream that there could be a chance that this bird was just as fascinated with me as I was with it. It may have been organizing the same thoughts that I am arduously pouring out on this page, only in reverse, of course.
This lucky animal not gets to fly wherever he or she wishes, do whatever it would like, think of bold new ways of living its daily life, but also has the profound privilege of being beautiful. Look at a crow, really look at a crow, notice the way the feathers can reflect sunlight in rainbows, the same way an oil slick can be mesmerizing on a hot summer day. Study their eyes, always moving, truthful and adventurous. The way they move, the art in their flight, leaps of faith to the ground that are ironically calculable. They are dancers, painters, poets, and philosophers. They speak when they need to be heard, when it is important. It may not be musically perfect, but it is said with passion and enthusiasm. It was then that I wanted to be a crow, or maybe, just for a day.
~"There are women and women and some hold you tight while some leave you counting the stars in the night."~
"Come Down in Time," Elton John
Beauty Lies in the Shop Window
Beauty lies in the shop window. Not within the displays of useless and meaningless possessions but in the person staring back. She can observe the shape of her face, chiseled by a true master of fine art. Her lips, often delicately pressed by the dear laborer of her heart, speak without moving through the color of a rose so painstakingly sought after. The eyes of a night walker gleam back in a simple elegance too heavenly to bear for any length of time. Every curve of her body is perfectly thought out to where her dress is merely a cover for her endless youthful treasures. She can admire the hair that curls gently down over her neck to ever so delicately tint her skin.
Behind her plays the short book of memories collected in her few years. They twirl through the glass. Echoes of conversation and laughter break the city sounds and dance along the sidewalk where she stands, transfixed. Vanity drips from the awning and falls like raindrops on passersby. Frozen on her cloud of ecstasy and obsession, she is isolated from the world, an exhibit they cannot touch. Consumed in the gaze of her gleaming glass reflection, she has not noticed the seasons beginning to change.
The separation of her patch of sidewalk and the rest of the street grow more and more distant, and the flower begins to whither. She has no conscience of such changing, for her eyes never leave the glass apparition staring back. Voices break her meditation. They are not from the glass but from behind her, whispers filled with disgust and anger approach her ears and sail down her spine. As the time passes they grow louder and far more pronounced until the girl decides finally to break her stare with the glass and confront those demons behind her. She turns with her eyes still on the glass, and then lets go just as someone collides into her and continues on his way.
She falls on the concrete, the harshness of winter evident in her bloodshot eyes. She cries, not for the man but for men as a whole. Her heart can be seen through the seams of what once was a lavish evening gown custom fit to compliment her since passed, youthful, womanly physique. It beats a melancholic melody of yesterday's dreams. Her face is a buried masterpiece, worn down by saltwater and dust. The tangles of her delicate curls can still be found somewhere, deep inside the gnarls of grease and frizz. Slowly, she picks herself up, as her hands burn from scrapes now lingering on her palms. She lifts her head to face the glass, only to find that she is gone. Desperately she will stand, staring, waiting for a sign from a forgotten memory. She, is beautiful.
Behind her plays the short book of memories collected in her few years. They twirl through the glass. Echoes of conversation and laughter break the city sounds and dance along the sidewalk where she stands, transfixed. Vanity drips from the awning and falls like raindrops on passersby. Frozen on her cloud of ecstasy and obsession, she is isolated from the world, an exhibit they cannot touch. Consumed in the gaze of her gleaming glass reflection, she has not noticed the seasons beginning to change.
The separation of her patch of sidewalk and the rest of the street grow more and more distant, and the flower begins to whither. She has no conscience of such changing, for her eyes never leave the glass apparition staring back. Voices break her meditation. They are not from the glass but from behind her, whispers filled with disgust and anger approach her ears and sail down her spine. As the time passes they grow louder and far more pronounced until the girl decides finally to break her stare with the glass and confront those demons behind her. She turns with her eyes still on the glass, and then lets go just as someone collides into her and continues on his way.
She falls on the concrete, the harshness of winter evident in her bloodshot eyes. She cries, not for the man but for men as a whole. Her heart can be seen through the seams of what once was a lavish evening gown custom fit to compliment her since passed, youthful, womanly physique. It beats a melancholic melody of yesterday's dreams. Her face is a buried masterpiece, worn down by saltwater and dust. The tangles of her delicate curls can still be found somewhere, deep inside the gnarls of grease and frizz. Slowly, she picks herself up, as her hands burn from scrapes now lingering on her palms. She lifts her head to face the glass, only to find that she is gone. Desperately she will stand, staring, waiting for a sign from a forgotten memory. She, is beautiful.
The Envy of the Dancer
Dancing offers the opportunity to leave one's self behind and become stronger, more beautiful and less alone. So the dancer flies high above the wickedness that makes humanity and can only be reached by the admiration of her pointed toes by he who must resist the urge to pull her closer. Instead, he is forced to look away, with a fever rising in his soul. This flame can manipulate into a burning hatred of beauty's horrifying definition. He possesses the freedom which she seeks to find in the elegant balance of her spins.
A SIDE NOTE:
I apologize humbly if you were following me from my last blog beginning in December. I wanted to make it so that certain people could read my real blog now instead of my alias, but I didn't want to completely erase the fantastic thing I had going with you lovely people of cyberspace. So, as a reminder, which you probably realized if you went to the old site, Ophelia is not my real name, for the future I will keep my real name withheld. For the fortunate few of you who were not hyperlinked in time because you read this rather religiously, now you know who I really am and have seen a much clearer picture. I still love you all, I know a lot of my work is gone, I have it on my harddrive and since I can't just copy and paste....well....it will be a while to say the least. Until then, I'm going to keep producing my normal inspirations to feed your hungry minds. I love you.
A SIDE NOTE:
I apologize humbly if you were following me from my last blog beginning in December. I wanted to make it so that certain people could read my real blog now instead of my alias, but I didn't want to completely erase the fantastic thing I had going with you lovely people of cyberspace. So, as a reminder, which you probably realized if you went to the old site, Ophelia is not my real name, for the future I will keep my real name withheld. For the fortunate few of you who were not hyperlinked in time because you read this rather religiously, now you know who I really am and have seen a much clearer picture. I still love you all, I know a lot of my work is gone, I have it on my harddrive and since I can't just copy and paste....well....it will be a while to say the least. Until then, I'm going to keep producing my normal inspirations to feed your hungry minds. I love you.
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