It's funny, at the beginning when we see Allen & his actual daughter (playing his niece), I thought it was going to be a pedophilia film.
Little did I know.
----------------------
Crimes and Misdemeanors bleakly studies how “we are the sum of our choices” (a concept originally credited to Sartre), what it means to be this sum, and the Utilitarian ideals that result ipso facto. Though there certainly are arguments against this posit concerning its applicability (or “fairness” when it comes to Utilitarianism), it is a theme that is stressed throughout the movie, as well as the ‘real world’. A and B (Alejandro and Beatrice) discuss, pontificate, and generally bicker over this conclusion- with a flailing attempt at humor.
YOU ARE WHAT YOU THINK
A: [end movie] Well. As I am ‘the sum of my choices’, my sum is now going to consist of being a pig. Thinly veiled attempts at philosophy make me hungry.
B: Oh dude, you are joking?
A: No, not really. The concept of ‘brain food’ is one I wholeheartedly embrace.
B: …I meant about what that guy said. “We are the sum of our choices” thing. The guy who threw himself out the window.
A: Yeah, Levy. What about him?
B: That entire idea is absurd. Out actions don’t entirely make up who we are, not by a long shot. In fact, it’s only a small part of the ‘self’; we are mostly products of circumstance and environment. For example: my overall character has much more to do with the fact that I’m a 17-year-old Australian student than what brand cereal I enjoy.
A: First, you’re trivializing the matter. Second, almost every aspect of our lives affects out character to different degrees, so don’t bother arguing that. Third, Levy was making the point that our actions reflect our character—or at least they should—so one can only truly be judged by what one does. Plus the movie has three great exemplars of this: Rabbi Ben, Cliff, and obviously Judah.
B: As if. But explain, oh wise one.
A: Cheeky. Right, so let’s start with Judah Rosenthal. He’s the privileged, respected, successful, Grade-A, born-and-bred fodder to the ‘American Dream’. He’s also an adulterer, a murderer, and shamelessly avaricious. And if the previous didn’t lead you to it: he’s also an atheist. Right away we see a connection to Levy’s statement: the religious aspect behind it reflects Judah’s godlessness.
B: What? How?
A: “We are the sum of our choices” infers that man is self-derived. He creates himself. This in itself defies faith-bound logic; that we are created by God, in his image. Repeated instances of Judah’s godlessness—“God is a luxury I can’t afford”—underline this aspect.
B: Levy didn’t seem to mean it in an entirely atheistic way, but go on.
A: Next point- the recurring theme of Utilitarianism. Judah made the choice of killing one to save many—his business, his family, his reputation. It’s a typical—though morbid—Utilitarianistic situation.
B: But I thought you said he was a selfish person? Doesn’t this choice—the choice to preserve the happiness of others—negate that aspect of his character?
A: Utilitarians believe in the happiness of the majority. Judah happened to be part of that majority, justifying his selfishness. Furthermore, at the end of the movie, Judah says himself; “We define ourselves by the choices we make”. All of his choices benefited himself, from deciding to indulge in adultery, to committing murder to cover up that same indulgence. He even flaunts his guilt in front of Cliff in that ‘movie idea’.
B: But Judah doesn’t feel guilty. Even if he does have a small relapse at first, it’s obvious his conscience is unaffected. Again, isn’t this contradictory of his character? The choices he made should lead him to feel guilty, but he doesn’t.
A: Well, then I’d have to refer to what Cliff said about Judah’s movie: that in the absence of god, the murderer is then “forced to take on that responsibility”, the guilt, and therefore confess. Judah replies, “That only happens in Hollywood”. And it does. Judah consciously chooses to ‘get over’ Dolores’ murder, Essentially he continues to be a selfish man.
B: A selfish choice dictates a selfish character.
A: Yes.
B: Alright, fine. That’s one. What about the Rabbi?
A: Ah, Rabbi Ben. The almost hatable moral compass. His choice was to be idealistic. He’s probistic, unerring in faith, complete with unreachable moral standards. His unrealistic view of the world—his blindness to the world—metastasizes in the literal sense.
B: Oh, don’t be so cynical. You know Gandhi said “You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.”
A: … Hippie. Anyway, the point is that as a result of his choice and figuratively ‘blind’ view of humanity and its morals, he literally became blind.
B: I suppose this leaves Cliff, then.
A: In a word: schlemiel. His character is a continual failure. When offered a well-paying job he stuffs it up purposely; he is unsuccessful at filing documentaries (his only source of income); and is unsatisfying to his wife. Instead of trying to improve his situation and those around him, he does the opposite. A pathetic attempt at adultery with Halley is made instead of trying to save his own marriage. He is both unhappy and does not create happiness around him. By Utilitarian standards, this makes his immoral. Actually, the most moral person in the film is Judah, as his actions created the most amount of happiness for the most amount of people.
B: That’s just not right. All Cliff did was be cheeky and a bit ambitious. Judah murdered someone.
A: These kinds of situations are used as arguments against Utilitarianism. But the premise of your objection is mostly “It doesn’t feel right” rather than “It’s illogical”, no?
B: Human morality can’t suddenly be dropped.
A: Perhaps not. Back to the original argument.
B: You are dragging on, aren’t you?
A: Shut up. Sartre once said, “Man first of all exists, encounters himself, surges up in the world—and defines himself afterward.” If this is true, there is no ‘essence’ to our being. Others can only judge us by our actions. So theoretically what humanity needs to strive for is for our actions to mirror who we want to be, not who we are. Like in Sartre’s play, No Exit. It’s about three people stuck in a room together, who all come to realize their own downfalls and realize responsibility for their mistakes. One character, Garcin, views himself as a hero, but all his actions lead him to be a coward. By Sartre’s philosophy, he is a coward, no matter what he may think.
B: So then Judah must be a murderer. But he doesn’t act like one!
A: Like you said earlier, he doesn’t feel guilty. He accepts his place as a murderer without conscience. Aunt May agrees with this; “If he can do it and get away with it, and he chooses not to be bothered by the ethics, then he’s home free.”
B: Ugh. This entire conversation feels like one big contradiction.
A: Levy noted that as well. He himself can be labeled as a contradiction, concerning his suicide. He also basically said that “all we need is love”.
B: Who’s the hippie now?
A: Dude, you quoted Gandhi.
B: Alright, so really, “no matter how elaborate a philosophical system you work out, in the end it’s gotta be incomplete”?
A: Precisely. Now go pop Mean Girls in; I haven’t had my daily allowance of small dogs and large breasts today yet.
THEND
---------------------
You know I ace.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Sunday, July 1, 2007
I'm not clever enough
to think of an effective title. So there.
-----
His smile looked like it had been scraped up from an old well of sadness.
“First, she’ll open the freezer to get her morning coffee. Flat White at eight-thirty sharp, as always. Then she’ll open the fridge to have a little poke around, see if she wants anything that’s there. Usually she doesn’t, or there’s nothing to eat, so she closes—no, more like... ‘carelessly prods’ the door closed. She never really had an indistinctive way of doing anything—really.”
His smile sunk deeper, and as he spoke the exact images of what he described came to life behind him; his memories projected from the back of his head onto a screen.
“Then she’d get one of those old-fashioned coffee makers out: you know, the ones where you put the grounds in first and then the water and you push down to strain it? It—it was sort of uh… a family heirloom. Sort of.”
The wrinkles in his hands stretched and caved under his fingers as he wrung them slowly. His body was too far-gone to assume anything but that he was old and tired. Nothing more.
“And after she’d done that she would set down the coffee pot onto the counter opposite the sink and uh—“ a sad muffle of laughter “—twirl a bit to look in the cupboards for mugs. She always did like to wear skirts; she enjoyed the feel of them, how they fell around her, in waves.”
The memories went on behind him. She was a puppet to his strings, dancing in synch to his clenching hands.
“After she found the blue cup Danny gave her for her birthday, she would spin back around, make the coffee, and plop herself right on the counter-”
He brought his hands down on the table.
“-to drink it.”
He reeled his arms back to his sides, letting them settle.
The images stopped and flickered and began to loop the last few seconds of her contented smile as she sipped from the dark blue cup. The kitchen was lit from a white lamp somewhere off to the left, presumably with proper seats and a table. The counter was two or three feet from the row of cabinets and sink and fridge, all pushed together hurriedly. The fridge was smooth off-white, the cabinets wood, the counter some sort of stone. It was all located somewhere central to the house, as he explained before they had a chance to start recording.
All was set except for a few small details.
“What shirt is she wearing? What color? Did she have tan lines? There are patches of pale and dark skin on her arms.”
The old man turned around, and the projection vanished; paradoxes weren’t allowed until after the sale.
“You can’t see it, remember sir? Now, what about her shirt?”
He turned back around with raised eyebrows and hands clutching the stainless steel table. The image came back on.
“Well, uh, I’d say, some sort of uh, bright t-shirt. Sometimes with a collar.”
The haze that had engulfed her torso changed into the picture the man was describing, along with a color- teal.
“And her skin?”
“Well, usually pale, but during the later days she started to go to tanning booths once in a while. Came back one day positively brown- sticks out pretty well in my memory.”
He pointed to his head, and chunks of her arms flashed from pale to tan frustratingly.
“Which do you remember more clearly?”
“Well… I liked her better pale, but the tan is more vivid.”
“Whichever is a stronger memory.”
“The tan, then.”
Her skin settled; the image became more sensual.
“And the color of the skirt is… white?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Good. Well, then, there doesn’t seem to be any more problems. Except…”
“Except what?”
He’d started to pull out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, and held it mid-thought.
“Earlier, before we started the tape, you mentioned your house was ‘full of windows’. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is. Margaret and I both loved the light.”
“And, you also said, on the tape, that this all occurred in the morning: 8:30?”
“Yes, yes, what are you getting at?”
“Please don’t get worked up sir, it’ll disturb the Work.”
The old man sunk back into his chair.
“Now, if you’re settled?”
“I am.”
“We will take this time to remind you that although the process is very modern, utilizing the most advance technology available, because of our metropolitan location, we encourage extra insurance. Down payment does not cover burglary.”
“Are Works that desirable?”
“You’d be surprised, sir, especially with clients like yourself, whose reputations precede them.”
He was not impressed.
“People view these records as a form of entertainment. ‘Reality television’ in the extreme. Precious memories for the client, Saturday night for the customer.”
“Their trash, my treasure.”
“Precisely. In any case, we recommend investing in extra protection. Especially as celebrity memories are a highly sought-after commodity.”
There were no windows in the small room, but the man imagined himself looking out into the dark city. He’d looked at it every morning since he was twenty. Nothing had changed, except now he needed glasses to see into the apartment across the street.
“Do you have any coffee?”
“No sir, caffeine tends to skew the projection: activates a trivial part of the brain. Please try and focus.”
“I focus better with coffee.”
The man mumbled. His addiction did not curb after her death. Habit unaffected by heartbeat.
“Would you like some water?”
“No.”
“Then we’ll continue. Our problem is, sir, you’ve told us there were windows all over your house—presumably in the kitchen as well—and that this all occurred in the earlier morning. Therefore, it would make sense that the light source would be coming from one of these windows. However-“
The man’s eyes changed and the image on the wall curdled and shifted for a moment.
“-the Work shows that the only light is artificial, off to the side.”
The image shuddered some more.
“Now, sir, is there something else you might be thinking of, some other, stronger, memory of her than the one you described?”
He was still. His eyes did not blink, his mouth did not twitch, and his hands were folded in front of him. Behind him there was chaos.
The woman changed from sitting peacefully on the counter to running off screen, pulling a man back in with her. The image went fuzzy and blocky, the two figures looping back and disappearing. It skipped ahead, showing the two intertwining wine glasses and arms before hauling the liquid down their throats.
Back to them running in: their faces were clearer now, hers grinning and rouged, the man’s slightly pink and smirking. Then forward to the drinks and suddenly she was pinned to the counter, her face redder than ever as the man pushed himself against her, her eyes dropping closed. Her face remained clear, while the man and his hands darted over her body, getting lost in a blur of gropings and skin.
The entire picture blurred, then went blank and blurred again. It looped the moment her jaw first dropped open and the glasses fell to the floor.
In the next few moments the old man was able to compose his head and backtrack to the original memory, slowly but without reaction. The image shook and flickered, but it was back.
He still hadn’t moved.
“Mr. Jeffreys, Mr. Cornwell: are we done now?”
The two good-looking men seated across the table returned their eyes from behind the old man to his weathered face—older than they had remembered a minute ago. The peach-red tint to his cheeks had bled to his neck, the weak smile bent into a thin straight line across his jaw. The bags under his eyes looked heavier.
“…Yes, I think this will be enough.”
Jeffreys straightened the pages he’d been scribbling notes on and nudged his partner to turn the lights on. Cornwell did so.
“Thank you very much for your patience, sir.
Jeffreys continued.
“We’ll make sure this has been worth your while.”
The old man stared at him as if to say that he very much doubted that now.
“Your Work should be put together by next Thursday and it’ll be in the markets the following Monday.”
Cornwell avoided eye contact with the man, shuffling his own papers as well as Jeffreys’, piling them together nervously.
“Your being the well-known man you are, I’m sure it’ll be within asking price in mere days. Hours, more likely. Your future is in safe hands, Mr—“
“I didn’t come here about my future.”
He snapped. Cornwell stopped shuffling and Jeffreys stopped fiddling with his pen.
“I came here about my goddamn past.”
He hadn’t shouted, but the two younger men’s ears hurt from the intensity. They both discreetly, automatically, switched off the recording system built into the underside of the table.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some affairs to get in order. The doctor says I only have a few weeks left and I want my grandchildren prepared before you go pushing around my brain and I start forgetting what I had for breakfast.”
The man stood, gathering his coat in one arm and pushing his chair under the table. The two boys followed suit, Cornwell hurrying to open the door. Jeffreys extended his hand over the table.
“It’s been a pleasure, sir. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of this.”
The man looked at the hand, but did not make a move to extend his.
“Make sure half the proceedings go equally to my children, the other half to my standing account.”
He walked to the door in three strides exactly.
“That money is for the house… We’re getting more windows.”
And with that he was gone, the two men left with the distinct feeling they were going to hell.
-----
Was going to enter into contest, but twas too long. Ohw.
-----
His smile looked like it had been scraped up from an old well of sadness.
“First, she’ll open the freezer to get her morning coffee. Flat White at eight-thirty sharp, as always. Then she’ll open the fridge to have a little poke around, see if she wants anything that’s there. Usually she doesn’t, or there’s nothing to eat, so she closes—no, more like... ‘carelessly prods’ the door closed. She never really had an indistinctive way of doing anything—really.”
His smile sunk deeper, and as he spoke the exact images of what he described came to life behind him; his memories projected from the back of his head onto a screen.
“Then she’d get one of those old-fashioned coffee makers out: you know, the ones where you put the grounds in first and then the water and you push down to strain it? It—it was sort of uh… a family heirloom. Sort of.”
The wrinkles in his hands stretched and caved under his fingers as he wrung them slowly. His body was too far-gone to assume anything but that he was old and tired. Nothing more.
“And after she’d done that she would set down the coffee pot onto the counter opposite the sink and uh—“ a sad muffle of laughter “—twirl a bit to look in the cupboards for mugs. She always did like to wear skirts; she enjoyed the feel of them, how they fell around her, in waves.”
The memories went on behind him. She was a puppet to his strings, dancing in synch to his clenching hands.
“After she found the blue cup Danny gave her for her birthday, she would spin back around, make the coffee, and plop herself right on the counter-”
He brought his hands down on the table.
“-to drink it.”
He reeled his arms back to his sides, letting them settle.
The images stopped and flickered and began to loop the last few seconds of her contented smile as she sipped from the dark blue cup. The kitchen was lit from a white lamp somewhere off to the left, presumably with proper seats and a table. The counter was two or three feet from the row of cabinets and sink and fridge, all pushed together hurriedly. The fridge was smooth off-white, the cabinets wood, the counter some sort of stone. It was all located somewhere central to the house, as he explained before they had a chance to start recording.
All was set except for a few small details.
“What shirt is she wearing? What color? Did she have tan lines? There are patches of pale and dark skin on her arms.”
The old man turned around, and the projection vanished; paradoxes weren’t allowed until after the sale.
“You can’t see it, remember sir? Now, what about her shirt?”
He turned back around with raised eyebrows and hands clutching the stainless steel table. The image came back on.
“Well, uh, I’d say, some sort of uh, bright t-shirt. Sometimes with a collar.”
The haze that had engulfed her torso changed into the picture the man was describing, along with a color- teal.
“And her skin?”
“Well, usually pale, but during the later days she started to go to tanning booths once in a while. Came back one day positively brown- sticks out pretty well in my memory.”
He pointed to his head, and chunks of her arms flashed from pale to tan frustratingly.
“Which do you remember more clearly?”
“Well… I liked her better pale, but the tan is more vivid.”
“Whichever is a stronger memory.”
“The tan, then.”
Her skin settled; the image became more sensual.
“And the color of the skirt is… white?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Good. Well, then, there doesn’t seem to be any more problems. Except…”
“Except what?”
He’d started to pull out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, and held it mid-thought.
“Earlier, before we started the tape, you mentioned your house was ‘full of windows’. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is. Margaret and I both loved the light.”
“And, you also said, on the tape, that this all occurred in the morning: 8:30?”
“Yes, yes, what are you getting at?”
“Please don’t get worked up sir, it’ll disturb the Work.”
The old man sunk back into his chair.
“Now, if you’re settled?”
“I am.”
“We will take this time to remind you that although the process is very modern, utilizing the most advance technology available, because of our metropolitan location, we encourage extra insurance. Down payment does not cover burglary.”
“Are Works that desirable?”
“You’d be surprised, sir, especially with clients like yourself, whose reputations precede them.”
He was not impressed.
“People view these records as a form of entertainment. ‘Reality television’ in the extreme. Precious memories for the client, Saturday night for the customer.”
“Their trash, my treasure.”
“Precisely. In any case, we recommend investing in extra protection. Especially as celebrity memories are a highly sought-after commodity.”
There were no windows in the small room, but the man imagined himself looking out into the dark city. He’d looked at it every morning since he was twenty. Nothing had changed, except now he needed glasses to see into the apartment across the street.
“Do you have any coffee?”
“No sir, caffeine tends to skew the projection: activates a trivial part of the brain. Please try and focus.”
“I focus better with coffee.”
The man mumbled. His addiction did not curb after her death. Habit unaffected by heartbeat.
“Would you like some water?”
“No.”
“Then we’ll continue. Our problem is, sir, you’ve told us there were windows all over your house—presumably in the kitchen as well—and that this all occurred in the earlier morning. Therefore, it would make sense that the light source would be coming from one of these windows. However-“
The man’s eyes changed and the image on the wall curdled and shifted for a moment.
“-the Work shows that the only light is artificial, off to the side.”
The image shuddered some more.
“Now, sir, is there something else you might be thinking of, some other, stronger, memory of her than the one you described?”
He was still. His eyes did not blink, his mouth did not twitch, and his hands were folded in front of him. Behind him there was chaos.
The woman changed from sitting peacefully on the counter to running off screen, pulling a man back in with her. The image went fuzzy and blocky, the two figures looping back and disappearing. It skipped ahead, showing the two intertwining wine glasses and arms before hauling the liquid down their throats.
Back to them running in: their faces were clearer now, hers grinning and rouged, the man’s slightly pink and smirking. Then forward to the drinks and suddenly she was pinned to the counter, her face redder than ever as the man pushed himself against her, her eyes dropping closed. Her face remained clear, while the man and his hands darted over her body, getting lost in a blur of gropings and skin.
The entire picture blurred, then went blank and blurred again. It looped the moment her jaw first dropped open and the glasses fell to the floor.
In the next few moments the old man was able to compose his head and backtrack to the original memory, slowly but without reaction. The image shook and flickered, but it was back.
He still hadn’t moved.
“Mr. Jeffreys, Mr. Cornwell: are we done now?”
The two good-looking men seated across the table returned their eyes from behind the old man to his weathered face—older than they had remembered a minute ago. The peach-red tint to his cheeks had bled to his neck, the weak smile bent into a thin straight line across his jaw. The bags under his eyes looked heavier.
“…Yes, I think this will be enough.”
Jeffreys straightened the pages he’d been scribbling notes on and nudged his partner to turn the lights on. Cornwell did so.
“Thank you very much for your patience, sir.
Jeffreys continued.
“We’ll make sure this has been worth your while.”
The old man stared at him as if to say that he very much doubted that now.
“Your Work should be put together by next Thursday and it’ll be in the markets the following Monday.”
Cornwell avoided eye contact with the man, shuffling his own papers as well as Jeffreys’, piling them together nervously.
“Your being the well-known man you are, I’m sure it’ll be within asking price in mere days. Hours, more likely. Your future is in safe hands, Mr—“
“I didn’t come here about my future.”
He snapped. Cornwell stopped shuffling and Jeffreys stopped fiddling with his pen.
“I came here about my goddamn past.”
He hadn’t shouted, but the two younger men’s ears hurt from the intensity. They both discreetly, automatically, switched off the recording system built into the underside of the table.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some affairs to get in order. The doctor says I only have a few weeks left and I want my grandchildren prepared before you go pushing around my brain and I start forgetting what I had for breakfast.”
The man stood, gathering his coat in one arm and pushing his chair under the table. The two boys followed suit, Cornwell hurrying to open the door. Jeffreys extended his hand over the table.
“It’s been a pleasure, sir. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of this.”
The man looked at the hand, but did not make a move to extend his.
“Make sure half the proceedings go equally to my children, the other half to my standing account.”
He walked to the door in three strides exactly.
“That money is for the house… We’re getting more windows.”
And with that he was gone, the two men left with the distinct feeling they were going to hell.
-----
Was going to enter into contest, but twas too long. Ohw.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Ambrosia Organica
Another essay, because I just love to bore you whilst wallowing in my own genius. [A+ foh sho]
-----
“Apes with ego trips” : while an unnervingly accurate description of the human condition, it doesn’t even begin to explain the depths of modern self-absorption. The ego has become so inflated as to strive to prolong natural lifespan; an undertaking bringing man scathingly close to developing a God complex. Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go portrays this quest in a horrifying and surprisingly realistic light, exploring humanity’s tendency to destroy its own innocence through an increasing obsession with mortality.
In Hailsham, triviality was everything. Pencil cases became social weapons, and deliverymen transformed into spy agents of the most sinister kind. Naïve and immature it might seem, but for the resident ‘students’ it was all they had. The carefully controlled containment of the clones from the outside world forced them to seek entertainment and value within their four walls; with no family to tie themselves to, they instead invested in each other. Relationships, from friends to lovers to one-offs, became a central part of their innocent lives, companionship a necessity of survival. During their time at Hailsham this interdependency flourished in their enclosed environment. Then they left to the Cottages, the next transition before eventual ‘donation’. The three protagonists-Kathy, Ruth and Tommy-were lucky enough to stay together, but Ishiguro makes it clear that it is here they begin to realize the finite nature of their friendship; and, similarly, their lives. Ruth points it out first; brusquely informing Kathy she has “still got this idea. Us Hailsham lot, we have to stay together, a tight little bunch, must never make any new friends.” Her brash words are a crude reminder of their ‘circumstances’: the end of their lives is fast approaching, and all they have ever clung to, their very childhood, is ending as well. It’s a loss that leaves them with an emptiness hollower than that of a missing lung.
Death is a tragedy. Every death is mourned, no matter its victim. We have sayings about it, sections in the newspaper dedicated to it. We’ve been singing, painting, and writing about it for hundreds of thousands of years. We are a death-oriented culture, every breath seen as one less before you die. It is not, then, surprising, that the idea of a ‘normal’ death unsettles us so. Created by Ishiguro is a world where to die is to ‘complete’. Blasé at best, the euphemism conjures up a horror within us that makes our survival instincts curdle. The positive outlook on death the clones possess effectively desensitizes the issue, turning harsh reality into an acceptable inevitability. Like the gore splashed on screen to any modern 13-year-old with a penchant for video games. The disturbing concept of an early, controlled death is numbed to the mind, its initial horror dissipated by a perpetuated sense of normalcy. Kathy’s intimate account of her life as a clone enforces this sense, the cool ‘matter-of-fact’ style almost convincing the audience themselves into this ‘normalcy’. The extent to which this is maintained is disturbing, Kathy herself looking forward to “finishing at last come the end of the year.” (4) To epitomize lost innocence is to witness life lost. Is this not the very purpose of clones? We shorten their lives to lengthen ours, all in the name of immortality.
Morals are considered secondary when confronted with longevity. Indeed Ishiguro explores the matter blatantly, speaking through the distant characters of Miss Emily and Madame, whose soliloquies are almost patronizingly explanatory and morally enthused. Plot-wise this serves Ishiguro well, filling in gaps and unanswered questions unavoidably raised whilst reading. However, his usage of them as vehicles is limited, their elucidations only scratching the surface of the true lack of ethic portrayed through this fictional world. Miss Emily explains, “However uncomfortable people were about your existence, their overwhelming concern was that their children, their spouses, their parents, their friends did not die…” (258) This brings to point the conflict of valuing one human life over another; for are clones not made of exactly the same things as humans are? Do they not think and feel and breathe much the same? Decidedly not, as the populace preferred to think of them rather as “shadowy objects in test tubes” existing “only to supply medical science.” (256) Ishiguro conceives a mass swell of ethical indifference, predicting the future of morality, or rather, lack of it.
Unsurprisingly, money plays a large role in the redistribution of ethical boundaries explored in the novel. The discovery of this is not until later, during Kathy and Tommy’s ‘enlightening’ visit to their former guardians, but it is apparent enough. All decisions considering clones were first and foremost based on wealth. This much is clear, as Miss Emily explains, “so long as a corporation or politician could see a benefit in supporting us, then we were able to keep afloat…And all those influential people […] vanished. We lost our sponsors, one after the other, in a matter of just over a year…in the end […] we were obliged to close.” (259, 260) Callousness in regards to humanity is brought to a new—but foreseeable—level, rising above commonplace greed to an inhumane extreme. The way in which human life is treated can be likened to a pet: ours to use, to maltreat, to ignore, to control, to own. Clones are means to an end, their journey to that end dependant on the size of corporations’ wallets. Here, Ishiguro emphasizes, is where a line must be drawn. Although as a modern reader one feels that, inexorably, all matters must lead to money (the revelation of such in the novel brings no surprise and is even considered typical on first inspection), this need not be. Slowly and almost agonizingly the audience is pulled through all levels of humanity, revealing a posteriori that clones are humans. And with humanity comes a responsibility, one that reaches decidedly further than next month’s bank statement.
In the clones we see ourselves: victims of a greater force whose unfulfilled potential screams bittersweet, and whose lost innocence we mourn as personal tragedy. However, Ishiguro urges his audience to see this tragedy on a larger scale: as a mass adulteration of life’s simplicity and value, its morals and beliefs, as it affects us all. For in our search for the Fountain of Youth we grow old, and in its waters we find naught but our own reflections.
-----
ps- this won't make sense unless you've read the book, by the way. [OWNED!]
-----
“Apes with ego trips” : while an unnervingly accurate description of the human condition, it doesn’t even begin to explain the depths of modern self-absorption. The ego has become so inflated as to strive to prolong natural lifespan; an undertaking bringing man scathingly close to developing a God complex. Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go portrays this quest in a horrifying and surprisingly realistic light, exploring humanity’s tendency to destroy its own innocence through an increasing obsession with mortality.
In Hailsham, triviality was everything. Pencil cases became social weapons, and deliverymen transformed into spy agents of the most sinister kind. Naïve and immature it might seem, but for the resident ‘students’ it was all they had. The carefully controlled containment of the clones from the outside world forced them to seek entertainment and value within their four walls; with no family to tie themselves to, they instead invested in each other. Relationships, from friends to lovers to one-offs, became a central part of their innocent lives, companionship a necessity of survival. During their time at Hailsham this interdependency flourished in their enclosed environment. Then they left to the Cottages, the next transition before eventual ‘donation’. The three protagonists-Kathy, Ruth and Tommy-were lucky enough to stay together, but Ishiguro makes it clear that it is here they begin to realize the finite nature of their friendship; and, similarly, their lives. Ruth points it out first; brusquely informing Kathy she has “still got this idea. Us Hailsham lot, we have to stay together, a tight little bunch, must never make any new friends.” Her brash words are a crude reminder of their ‘circumstances’: the end of their lives is fast approaching, and all they have ever clung to, their very childhood, is ending as well. It’s a loss that leaves them with an emptiness hollower than that of a missing lung.
Death is a tragedy. Every death is mourned, no matter its victim. We have sayings about it, sections in the newspaper dedicated to it. We’ve been singing, painting, and writing about it for hundreds of thousands of years. We are a death-oriented culture, every breath seen as one less before you die. It is not, then, surprising, that the idea of a ‘normal’ death unsettles us so. Created by Ishiguro is a world where to die is to ‘complete’. Blasé at best, the euphemism conjures up a horror within us that makes our survival instincts curdle. The positive outlook on death the clones possess effectively desensitizes the issue, turning harsh reality into an acceptable inevitability. Like the gore splashed on screen to any modern 13-year-old with a penchant for video games. The disturbing concept of an early, controlled death is numbed to the mind, its initial horror dissipated by a perpetuated sense of normalcy. Kathy’s intimate account of her life as a clone enforces this sense, the cool ‘matter-of-fact’ style almost convincing the audience themselves into this ‘normalcy’. The extent to which this is maintained is disturbing, Kathy herself looking forward to “finishing at last come the end of the year.” (4) To epitomize lost innocence is to witness life lost. Is this not the very purpose of clones? We shorten their lives to lengthen ours, all in the name of immortality.
Morals are considered secondary when confronted with longevity. Indeed Ishiguro explores the matter blatantly, speaking through the distant characters of Miss Emily and Madame, whose soliloquies are almost patronizingly explanatory and morally enthused. Plot-wise this serves Ishiguro well, filling in gaps and unanswered questions unavoidably raised whilst reading. However, his usage of them as vehicles is limited, their elucidations only scratching the surface of the true lack of ethic portrayed through this fictional world. Miss Emily explains, “However uncomfortable people were about your existence, their overwhelming concern was that their children, their spouses, their parents, their friends did not die…” (258) This brings to point the conflict of valuing one human life over another; for are clones not made of exactly the same things as humans are? Do they not think and feel and breathe much the same? Decidedly not, as the populace preferred to think of them rather as “shadowy objects in test tubes” existing “only to supply medical science.” (256) Ishiguro conceives a mass swell of ethical indifference, predicting the future of morality, or rather, lack of it.
Unsurprisingly, money plays a large role in the redistribution of ethical boundaries explored in the novel. The discovery of this is not until later, during Kathy and Tommy’s ‘enlightening’ visit to their former guardians, but it is apparent enough. All decisions considering clones were first and foremost based on wealth. This much is clear, as Miss Emily explains, “so long as a corporation or politician could see a benefit in supporting us, then we were able to keep afloat…And all those influential people […] vanished. We lost our sponsors, one after the other, in a matter of just over a year…in the end […] we were obliged to close.” (259, 260) Callousness in regards to humanity is brought to a new—but foreseeable—level, rising above commonplace greed to an inhumane extreme. The way in which human life is treated can be likened to a pet: ours to use, to maltreat, to ignore, to control, to own. Clones are means to an end, their journey to that end dependant on the size of corporations’ wallets. Here, Ishiguro emphasizes, is where a line must be drawn. Although as a modern reader one feels that, inexorably, all matters must lead to money (the revelation of such in the novel brings no surprise and is even considered typical on first inspection), this need not be. Slowly and almost agonizingly the audience is pulled through all levels of humanity, revealing a posteriori that clones are humans. And with humanity comes a responsibility, one that reaches decidedly further than next month’s bank statement.
In the clones we see ourselves: victims of a greater force whose unfulfilled potential screams bittersweet, and whose lost innocence we mourn as personal tragedy. However, Ishiguro urges his audience to see this tragedy on a larger scale: as a mass adulteration of life’s simplicity and value, its morals and beliefs, as it affects us all. For in our search for the Fountain of Youth we grow old, and in its waters we find naught but our own reflections.
-----
ps- this won't make sense unless you've read the book, by the way. [OWNED!]
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Incomplete, so I guess he's still alive
I'm in tears. Absolute tears. (it's in the bin down the street, with banana peels and apple cores)
-----
Edgar was a bothered man.
His mother loved him, his sister disliked his face, his aunt cried when he was born, and his father was dead. When he was seven, his first best friend was found strangled under her front porch. Her mother was found a few days later in an old room down the street with half her face missing. Edgar had always wondered where the other half went.
A few days before going into middle school, Edgar’s Aunt set up a meeting with a therapist for him. This was when his mother had gone away to live with Uncle Arthur for a year. She never explained why, but Edgar had gotten used to it by then. His doctor’s name was Mitch, and he liked to talk about softball, and if Edgar was any good at it. He happened to be, and Mitch ended up teaching him more about techniques than helping him forget about his best friend. Edgar didn’t mind that much though, because they got to go to the park every Thursday and sometimes Mitch would bring him to his house and let him watch old movies with him. He was Edgar’s second best friend.
Becky was the name of Edgar’s first kiss. He liked her because she chewed bubble gum and wore skirts and bangles and knew how to dance. She liked him because he was pretty okay looking, and not a nerd, and she got bored a lot. When they kissed it was all right—not great, but not unpleasant either. Their relationship was an excuse to go out on Friday nights and catch the adrenaline of hiding under the bleachers with a hundred people standing above them. Just when Edgar was getting used to the wetness of her tongue, her father was transferred and she moved almost without saying goodbye. He felt surprisingly empty.
The year before graduating, Edgar discovered archery. He found that when concentrating, he could focus on a certain point and let everything else go dark. His trainer, Jack, praised him for this apparent gift he had, and rewarded him with free lessons on weekends. Sometimes Jack would have to fix Edgar’s stance or the way he was holding his bow, and when he guided his body Edgar could feel the callouses on his hands. They never said it, but he knew Jack was his third best friend.
-----
-----
Edgar was a bothered man.
His mother loved him, his sister disliked his face, his aunt cried when he was born, and his father was dead. When he was seven, his first best friend was found strangled under her front porch. Her mother was found a few days later in an old room down the street with half her face missing. Edgar had always wondered where the other half went.
A few days before going into middle school, Edgar’s Aunt set up a meeting with a therapist for him. This was when his mother had gone away to live with Uncle Arthur for a year. She never explained why, but Edgar had gotten used to it by then. His doctor’s name was Mitch, and he liked to talk about softball, and if Edgar was any good at it. He happened to be, and Mitch ended up teaching him more about techniques than helping him forget about his best friend. Edgar didn’t mind that much though, because they got to go to the park every Thursday and sometimes Mitch would bring him to his house and let him watch old movies with him. He was Edgar’s second best friend.
Becky was the name of Edgar’s first kiss. He liked her because she chewed bubble gum and wore skirts and bangles and knew how to dance. She liked him because he was pretty okay looking, and not a nerd, and she got bored a lot. When they kissed it was all right—not great, but not unpleasant either. Their relationship was an excuse to go out on Friday nights and catch the adrenaline of hiding under the bleachers with a hundred people standing above them. Just when Edgar was getting used to the wetness of her tongue, her father was transferred and she moved almost without saying goodbye. He felt surprisingly empty.
The year before graduating, Edgar discovered archery. He found that when concentrating, he could focus on a certain point and let everything else go dark. His trainer, Jack, praised him for this apparent gift he had, and rewarded him with free lessons on weekends. Sometimes Jack would have to fix Edgar’s stance or the way he was holding his bow, and when he guided his body Edgar could feel the callouses on his hands. They never said it, but he knew Jack was his third best friend.
-----
Poor pathetic thing
Aww.
-----
“God, I’m so tired.” He ran his fingers through his hair, hunching over his desk and resting his hands on the back of his head. White sleeves rolled up to his elbows and Rolex tightly fastened, he played the part of the businessman flawlessly. He even ordered cognac at the bar.
“C’mon, don’t be such an old lady. Drink up!” His ears stretched and his neck muscles tightened when he smiled like that. It was the tipsy, ‘I mostly know what’s going on but could you drive me home just in case, please?’ smile, so declining was probably the best way to go. Orange juice wasn’t so bad when the barman winked like an old friend, and Mr. Cognac wasn’t too heavy or giggling too much when being guided over to the car.
“Where’d you get such a funny hat? Can I have one, please?” Goading drunks on always ended up in mutual headaches, so he stayed safely locked under his seatbelt and sobered up by the time his front steps were in sight. Haze still clouded his pupils, but he had at least remembered what a cup of coffee was. Even if he hadn’t wanted one.
“Look, that’s… really nice of you, but… I’m, I’m really tired. Maybe another time?” Clambering for the reverse gear mixed with ‘His wife must be home…’ made for uneasy rest, but the smell of his hair gel on the headrest of the passenger seat kept the mitochondria going until Monday morning when black coffee colored the cubicles awake.
-----
-----
“God, I’m so tired.” He ran his fingers through his hair, hunching over his desk and resting his hands on the back of his head. White sleeves rolled up to his elbows and Rolex tightly fastened, he played the part of the businessman flawlessly. He even ordered cognac at the bar.
“C’mon, don’t be such an old lady. Drink up!” His ears stretched and his neck muscles tightened when he smiled like that. It was the tipsy, ‘I mostly know what’s going on but could you drive me home just in case, please?’ smile, so declining was probably the best way to go. Orange juice wasn’t so bad when the barman winked like an old friend, and Mr. Cognac wasn’t too heavy or giggling too much when being guided over to the car.
“Where’d you get such a funny hat? Can I have one, please?” Goading drunks on always ended up in mutual headaches, so he stayed safely locked under his seatbelt and sobered up by the time his front steps were in sight. Haze still clouded his pupils, but he had at least remembered what a cup of coffee was. Even if he hadn’t wanted one.
“Look, that’s… really nice of you, but… I’m, I’m really tired. Maybe another time?” Clambering for the reverse gear mixed with ‘His wife must be home…’ made for uneasy rest, but the smell of his hair gel on the headrest of the passenger seat kept the mitochondria going until Monday morning when black coffee colored the cubicles awake.
-----
Abortion Distortion (hey! i rhymed!)
It doesn't make sense (as per usual), but I enjoy the descriptions.
Coherence is lost around the 3rd line. Oh well, I understand it.
-------
Her hands, which were normally sweaty, felt disconcertingly dry.
The hairs on her arms felt like bristles, and the nurse wouldn’t stop asking her if she was sure she hasn’t had any history of cancer in the family.
Mother—Martha—sat with a comatose man in room 132, smoking and writing an essay on his arm.
The low, rolling AC suddenly dipped and halted, leaving eerie silence that made the nurses realize how loudly they had been speaking.
A janitor, his heart on his sleeve, walked by the mob of reporters crowding the lobby, and only hoped he hadn’t mopped there yet.
Feeling ignored, but only just smart enough to realize, the father twisted his fingers behind his back and wished his daughter were him.
A collage of prescriptions fluttered to the floor as the man in the white lab coat slipped on his own Viagra.
Helplessly, she wished the cold feeling on the back of her neck were his hand.
Two hallways over, a woman did, indeed, have all her affairs in order, and would they please call her brother in law so she could hold his hand?
Martha, cynical and useless, fell asleep next to the dying man, but not before putting out her cigarette on his arm.
A teenage boy six chairs away from X admired the dip of her breasts as she hunched over, and didn’t even consider the photographers were for her.
Young women, too scared to smile, waited nervously for their boyfriends outside, thinking about their fathers instead.
X breathed until the door slid open, eyeing the doctor, and knowing the answer from his swagger.
Father cringed when she asked if she could throw herself down the stairs, and Martha would have laughed.
------
Coherence is lost around the 3rd line. Oh well, I understand it.
-------
Her hands, which were normally sweaty, felt disconcertingly dry.
The hairs on her arms felt like bristles, and the nurse wouldn’t stop asking her if she was sure she hasn’t had any history of cancer in the family.
Mother—Martha—sat with a comatose man in room 132, smoking and writing an essay on his arm.
The low, rolling AC suddenly dipped and halted, leaving eerie silence that made the nurses realize how loudly they had been speaking.
A janitor, his heart on his sleeve, walked by the mob of reporters crowding the lobby, and only hoped he hadn’t mopped there yet.
Feeling ignored, but only just smart enough to realize, the father twisted his fingers behind his back and wished his daughter were him.
A collage of prescriptions fluttered to the floor as the man in the white lab coat slipped on his own Viagra.
Helplessly, she wished the cold feeling on the back of her neck were his hand.
Two hallways over, a woman did, indeed, have all her affairs in order, and would they please call her brother in law so she could hold his hand?
Martha, cynical and useless, fell asleep next to the dying man, but not before putting out her cigarette on his arm.
A teenage boy six chairs away from X admired the dip of her breasts as she hunched over, and didn’t even consider the photographers were for her.
Young women, too scared to smile, waited nervously for their boyfriends outside, thinking about their fathers instead.
X breathed until the door slid open, eyeing the doctor, and knowing the answer from his swagger.
Father cringed when she asked if she could throw herself down the stairs, and Martha would have laughed.
------
Saturday, May 26, 2007
WILL DIES. (spoilers, btw)
My review on Pirates of the Caribbean 3:
Elisabeth's a whore.
Also:
-The centrality around Keira Knightly was disgusting and eye-twitching.
-So was how skinny she looked with that belt on.
-PotC 3 felt like a recycled version of 1. The same devices used over and over again (just in case we didn't laugh the first time).
-The continued "just in the nick of time" action sequences killed any hopes of suspense. (except for the part where will died. that was pretty rad)
-The digital animation was awesome as always.
-Sequels/Threequels have a tendency to introduce a cacophony of plot lines that either a)never meet their end or b)get lost in the swell of all the other tangents. eg. the introduction of Jack's father.
-On that note, Keith Richards, Johnny Depp, and Geoffrey Rush were the only saving graces. (considering we see Richards in about 2 scenes, that's saying a lot)
-Not to say it's a flop. There are moments of joy, sadness, anger, and even hallucinogenic references. (what movie would be complete without them?) Comparatively, it just simply doesn't cut it.
-For any cinematic series to be successful, each separate movie must be able to stand on its own. (eg. Lord of The Rings) World's End would have floundered if not for dedicated Johnny Depp (let's face it: that's what we're all there for) fans who didn't mind the boring sexual tensions and overdone fight scenes; just so they could catch a glimpse of his delightfully smudged eyeliner, and choir: "But where has the rum gone?"
ps: I realized the reason I despise Swan's character so much is because nothing she does has consequences. Not bad ones, at least. And they let her get away with being both insanely feminine (pretty/anorexic) & masculine (generally being badass) at the same time. They created a Mary-Sue out of a rich, disobedient wench.
pps: And there's no way in hell her teeth could have been that nice in THE 1600s.
ppps: Of course I'm jealous. I'm a girl.
Elisabeth's a whore.
Also:
-The centrality around Keira Knightly was disgusting and eye-twitching.
-So was how skinny she looked with that belt on.
-PotC 3 felt like a recycled version of 1. The same devices used over and over again (just in case we didn't laugh the first time).
-The continued "just in the nick of time" action sequences killed any hopes of suspense. (except for the part where will died. that was pretty rad)
-The digital animation was awesome as always.
-Sequels/Threequels have a tendency to introduce a cacophony of plot lines that either a)never meet their end or b)get lost in the swell of all the other tangents. eg. the introduction of Jack's father.
-On that note, Keith Richards, Johnny Depp, and Geoffrey Rush were the only saving graces. (considering we see Richards in about 2 scenes, that's saying a lot)
-Not to say it's a flop. There are moments of joy, sadness, anger, and even hallucinogenic references. (what movie would be complete without them?) Comparatively, it just simply doesn't cut it.
-For any cinematic series to be successful, each separate movie must be able to stand on its own. (eg. Lord of The Rings) World's End would have floundered if not for dedicated Johnny Depp (let's face it: that's what we're all there for) fans who didn't mind the boring sexual tensions and overdone fight scenes; just so they could catch a glimpse of his delightfully smudged eyeliner, and choir: "But where has the rum gone?"
ps: I realized the reason I despise Swan's character so much is because nothing she does has consequences. Not bad ones, at least. And they let her get away with being both insanely feminine (pretty/anorexic) & masculine (generally being badass) at the same time. They created a Mary-Sue out of a rich, disobedient wench.
pps: And there's no way in hell her teeth could have been that nice in THE 1600s.
ppps: Of course I'm jealous. I'm a girl.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Dying is against my religion.
Practice essay, teacher liked it. I make In-Classes shake in their silly little boots.
----------
Death Condoms: I’m Legal (To Die)
Terri Schiavo, a middle-aged American woman, was cut off from life support after 15 years in a ‘persistent vegetative state’. Her husband’s decision to put her sad excuse of a life to an end was a selfless one, however controversial. Not even able to breathe on her own, it is hard for one to think she had a life worth living. Is it not then reasonable to allow the ending of such perpetual discomfort? Those against euthanasia might as well be against painkillers. The right to die lies in the hands of the individual, not those of the government.
It is expensive to be alive, especially—ironically—when on the brink of death. The decision to admit oneself to a hospital, even when in critical condition, is a financially important one. Medical resources and physical space is treasured in hospitals worldwide. So when a patient is admitted ‘indefinitely’, the groans from the economic strain can be heard from many a taxpayer’s pockets. Not to say all critically conditioned people should be given up on for the sake of wealth. Only those who show no clear sign of recovery or have lived in a prolonged state of pain should consider the option of ‘chosen death’. Otherwise, is it worth devoting the majority of one’s cash flow to a cause that will most likely not meet a satisfactory end?
Selfishness seems to be the determining factor when death is a decision to be made. For example: would one deny his long-suffering cancerous mother a pain-free death if offered? The only thing that would make one say no is that one would want to keep his mother alive, just to be alive. Even with more ambiguous cases: a sister who’s been in a coma for years; and uncle who’s suffered severe, irreversible brain damage; selfishness still exists. The margin for recovery is present, but at a certain point one needs to look past his innate want to continue to hold on, and realize its not about him. It’s not him that’s hooked up to those feeding tubes, it’s not him that relies on constant medical attention and nurses to change his bedpans. Fighting to keep a dead person alive isn’t worth the battle.
If someone can decide the fate of an unborn child, one can certainly take responsibility for a lifeless shell of a person. The choices surrounding the completion of a life, while daunting, are those reliably taken on by man. In cases like abortion, the mother is put in charge of the human growing inside her; and rightfully so. Similarly, euthanasia is decided either by a close relative or loved one if the patient is incapable of making the decision—or by the patient themselves, ordering it if their condition progresses to a certain state. The certainty and knowledge of one’s own condition is indisputable. For the same reason we cannot determine when life truly begins, we cannot tell when it truly ends. Because of this, we are forced to rely on someone’s self-knowledge or their loved ones to take responsibility for their life. There is no alternative—human nature must be trusted.
Currently, one requires the approval of a panel of medical professionals to consider the option of euthanasia as an alternative to a patient’s critical, and probably terminal state. Is this what human life has been reduced to? Judged by a handful of doctors who know nothing but a list of symptoms and blood tests? Life is not so easily measured as pulse rate.
How much faith we put in scientific notion, and how little we put in human nature.
Death is considered a tragedy. But it need not be so. Life is something to be celebrated, even the end of it. After a spectacularly amazing play, one doesn’t mourn its finish; one stands up and applauds its splendors. The same should be with the passing of loved ones. Perhaps, with the acceptance of euthanasia into society, this ‘celebration’ might be more commonplace—and let Terri’s death become one of mercy, not murder.
----------
Legal age = 16 (for heterosexuals; for gay males, it's 18)
You were all wondering, admit it.
----------
Death Condoms: I’m Legal (To Die)
Terri Schiavo, a middle-aged American woman, was cut off from life support after 15 years in a ‘persistent vegetative state’. Her husband’s decision to put her sad excuse of a life to an end was a selfless one, however controversial. Not even able to breathe on her own, it is hard for one to think she had a life worth living. Is it not then reasonable to allow the ending of such perpetual discomfort? Those against euthanasia might as well be against painkillers. The right to die lies in the hands of the individual, not those of the government.
It is expensive to be alive, especially—ironically—when on the brink of death. The decision to admit oneself to a hospital, even when in critical condition, is a financially important one. Medical resources and physical space is treasured in hospitals worldwide. So when a patient is admitted ‘indefinitely’, the groans from the economic strain can be heard from many a taxpayer’s pockets. Not to say all critically conditioned people should be given up on for the sake of wealth. Only those who show no clear sign of recovery or have lived in a prolonged state of pain should consider the option of ‘chosen death’. Otherwise, is it worth devoting the majority of one’s cash flow to a cause that will most likely not meet a satisfactory end?
Selfishness seems to be the determining factor when death is a decision to be made. For example: would one deny his long-suffering cancerous mother a pain-free death if offered? The only thing that would make one say no is that one would want to keep his mother alive, just to be alive. Even with more ambiguous cases: a sister who’s been in a coma for years; and uncle who’s suffered severe, irreversible brain damage; selfishness still exists. The margin for recovery is present, but at a certain point one needs to look past his innate want to continue to hold on, and realize its not about him. It’s not him that’s hooked up to those feeding tubes, it’s not him that relies on constant medical attention and nurses to change his bedpans. Fighting to keep a dead person alive isn’t worth the battle.
If someone can decide the fate of an unborn child, one can certainly take responsibility for a lifeless shell of a person. The choices surrounding the completion of a life, while daunting, are those reliably taken on by man. In cases like abortion, the mother is put in charge of the human growing inside her; and rightfully so. Similarly, euthanasia is decided either by a close relative or loved one if the patient is incapable of making the decision—or by the patient themselves, ordering it if their condition progresses to a certain state. The certainty and knowledge of one’s own condition is indisputable. For the same reason we cannot determine when life truly begins, we cannot tell when it truly ends. Because of this, we are forced to rely on someone’s self-knowledge or their loved ones to take responsibility for their life. There is no alternative—human nature must be trusted.
Currently, one requires the approval of a panel of medical professionals to consider the option of euthanasia as an alternative to a patient’s critical, and probably terminal state. Is this what human life has been reduced to? Judged by a handful of doctors who know nothing but a list of symptoms and blood tests? Life is not so easily measured as pulse rate.
How much faith we put in scientific notion, and how little we put in human nature.
Death is considered a tragedy. But it need not be so. Life is something to be celebrated, even the end of it. After a spectacularly amazing play, one doesn’t mourn its finish; one stands up and applauds its splendors. The same should be with the passing of loved ones. Perhaps, with the acceptance of euthanasia into society, this ‘celebration’ might be more commonplace—and let Terri’s death become one of mercy, not murder.
----------
Legal age = 16 (for heterosexuals; for gay males, it's 18)
You were all wondering, admit it.
Secondo Il Dio-Mediocrity
It doesn't make a lot of sense unless you've read the play/seen the movie, but what the hell. If you're on here in the first place, you probably have nothing better to do with your time anyway.
----------
It was exhibition night again, but this time, it wasn’t his.
Under a lamppost stood two fragile men. Daniel, the adored and revered mediocrity, and Mozart, the loathed genius. The way Zebedeo’s spirit broke, and the diminishing sand that Daniel built his castle of ego on connected them both in frailty more than they’d ever been in talent.
“You never beat me, you know.”
“I know, Zeus.”
Leaned drunkenly against the outside wall of the Gallery, shirt and pants zipper undone, beer in hand, Zee almost shrunk into an ordinary man. If it weren’t for the God sparkling in his eyes amongst his mess of hair, he might have even been mistaken as common. Unable to shake off his own mortal coils, Daniel was, to the trained eye, nothing more than the exemplar of fetid traditionalism and stagnant security.
In his squalid state, Mozart did not notice himself falling, only Daniel rising high above him. It unsettled them both, so Daniel slid down next to him on the ground; prostrate only because he felt God should know he is not a guiltless man.
“Mediocre.”
“The Patron Saint of Mediocrity, please.”
An insane giggle.
“I’m the best.”
----------
Y Fin!
----------
It was exhibition night again, but this time, it wasn’t his.
Under a lamppost stood two fragile men. Daniel, the adored and revered mediocrity, and Mozart, the loathed genius. The way Zebedeo’s spirit broke, and the diminishing sand that Daniel built his castle of ego on connected them both in frailty more than they’d ever been in talent.
“You never beat me, you know.”
“I know, Zeus.”
Leaned drunkenly against the outside wall of the Gallery, shirt and pants zipper undone, beer in hand, Zee almost shrunk into an ordinary man. If it weren’t for the God sparkling in his eyes amongst his mess of hair, he might have even been mistaken as common. Unable to shake off his own mortal coils, Daniel was, to the trained eye, nothing more than the exemplar of fetid traditionalism and stagnant security.
In his squalid state, Mozart did not notice himself falling, only Daniel rising high above him. It unsettled them both, so Daniel slid down next to him on the ground; prostrate only because he felt God should know he is not a guiltless man.
“Mediocre.”
“The Patron Saint of Mediocrity, please.”
An insane giggle.
“I’m the best.”
----------
Y Fin!
Secondo Il Dio-Rivalry
Oh, Australia and it's pedophiles.
(just kidding, we're all vanilla over here, even the convicts! [as if there's anything but])
----------
“So, how are we going to handle this?” Ron Radford, a scruffy man in his mid forties hunched over a large mahogany desk. He held his reddish face groggily, fingers sinking into the extra fat around his eyes. Director of the Australian National Gallery, 5 years running. Impressive if not for the fact it was his mother’s generous ‘contribution’ that got him that position. Generally the job wasn’t too hard for the unmotivated man, but also sub-heading Customer Services became, as of late, more tedious than his stuffed head could deal with. Running on four hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, two donuts and one aspirin, the only thing he wanted to do was solve the problem, and fast.
Today was not a day for art.
“Well…we could just eliminate the problem.” Second chairman David Hennings, mid thirties, relatively handsome and dangerous old-fashioned. His great grandfather had been a previous Director, and he was not going to see his family’s established values go down the drain without a fight.
“No, no. It would cause too much upset. This must be treated reasonably.” Co-Head of Customer Services, Andrew Bailey. Served for 15 years, it showing heavily in the wrinkles around his mouth. He would have looked Santa-like if not for these frown lines- they took away any jolliness anyone might have perceived from the pleasantly plump 53 year old.
“Cause too much upset?! Are you mad? It’s because of all these upset people that we’re even here right now! We have no choice but to take down the exhibit.”
“Oh, do try to be sensible, David. It’s only your ‘high-class’ clientele that have been making a fuss; everyone else loves him.”
“And it’s those ‘clientele’, Andrew, that keeps this business running. Do you know how much we received in donations from this ‘high class’? Do you?”
“This isn’t a business, it’s a museum…”
“Fifty thousand, Andrew. Now if five hundred grand doesn’t qualify a little catering to their needs, I don’t know what does.”
“Now look here, I—“
“Gentlemen, please.” Daniel held out his hands, silencing the bickering men. As Ron’s official assistant, he took the role as mediator in these types of discussions. He being the perceivably wise person he is, he could usually bend the situation to an outcome most profitable to him. An opportunity he would not miss out on now.
“Thank you Daniel. This meeting is giving me a migraine.” The Director rubbed his grubby fingers all over his face. “You three come to a decision and call me about it this afternoon. I’m going back home to sleep.” The businessmen sat quietly as their superior stood groggily and left the room, then came back again to retrieve his forgotten briefcase. As soon as the door clicked shut, the bickering continued.
“Gentlemen, please! We have much more important things to do than have a hissy fit over such a trivial matter.” Daniel stood from one of the chairs facing the expensive desk and began to pace, holding the attention of the other two closely.
“You heard Mr. Radford. We have to have this resolved by the afternoon.”
“How can we come to a decision by then?”
“Well, it’s true we can’t just pull the exhibit; we have no reasonable grounds to. As much as the public may hate it, unless one of them threatens harm on the establishment or anyone else, it stays.” He covered his mouth to hide the grin that was rapidly growing. “However…”
“However what?” David furrowed his eyebrows and tried to see the idea behind his colleague’s contemplative face.
Daniel continued. “Do you remember the last modern exhibit we had—the one by the twitchy Canadian?” The two nodded.
“Yes, he was banned from the Gallery because they found evidence of subliminal sexual messages in his work—mostly pedophilic—but what does that have to do…”
The lights went off in their heads simultaneously, looking at each other then back at Daniel.
“Let’s get that evaluator back in to ‘analyze’ Zee’s work. I think, if presented with the right…considerations, he might read into it just the way we want him to.” The grin was full-blown now. He couldn’t help it.
Maybe God was looking out for him after all.
----------
(just kidding, we're all vanilla over here, even the convicts! [as if there's anything but])
----------
“So, how are we going to handle this?” Ron Radford, a scruffy man in his mid forties hunched over a large mahogany desk. He held his reddish face groggily, fingers sinking into the extra fat around his eyes. Director of the Australian National Gallery, 5 years running. Impressive if not for the fact it was his mother’s generous ‘contribution’ that got him that position. Generally the job wasn’t too hard for the unmotivated man, but also sub-heading Customer Services became, as of late, more tedious than his stuffed head could deal with. Running on four hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, two donuts and one aspirin, the only thing he wanted to do was solve the problem, and fast.
Today was not a day for art.
“Well…we could just eliminate the problem.” Second chairman David Hennings, mid thirties, relatively handsome and dangerous old-fashioned. His great grandfather had been a previous Director, and he was not going to see his family’s established values go down the drain without a fight.
“No, no. It would cause too much upset. This must be treated reasonably.” Co-Head of Customer Services, Andrew Bailey. Served for 15 years, it showing heavily in the wrinkles around his mouth. He would have looked Santa-like if not for these frown lines- they took away any jolliness anyone might have perceived from the pleasantly plump 53 year old.
“Cause too much upset?! Are you mad? It’s because of all these upset people that we’re even here right now! We have no choice but to take down the exhibit.”
“Oh, do try to be sensible, David. It’s only your ‘high-class’ clientele that have been making a fuss; everyone else loves him.”
“And it’s those ‘clientele’, Andrew, that keeps this business running. Do you know how much we received in donations from this ‘high class’? Do you?”
“This isn’t a business, it’s a museum…”
“Fifty thousand, Andrew. Now if five hundred grand doesn’t qualify a little catering to their needs, I don’t know what does.”
“Now look here, I—“
“Gentlemen, please.” Daniel held out his hands, silencing the bickering men. As Ron’s official assistant, he took the role as mediator in these types of discussions. He being the perceivably wise person he is, he could usually bend the situation to an outcome most profitable to him. An opportunity he would not miss out on now.
“Thank you Daniel. This meeting is giving me a migraine.” The Director rubbed his grubby fingers all over his face. “You three come to a decision and call me about it this afternoon. I’m going back home to sleep.” The businessmen sat quietly as their superior stood groggily and left the room, then came back again to retrieve his forgotten briefcase. As soon as the door clicked shut, the bickering continued.
“Gentlemen, please! We have much more important things to do than have a hissy fit over such a trivial matter.” Daniel stood from one of the chairs facing the expensive desk and began to pace, holding the attention of the other two closely.
“You heard Mr. Radford. We have to have this resolved by the afternoon.”
“How can we come to a decision by then?”
“Well, it’s true we can’t just pull the exhibit; we have no reasonable grounds to. As much as the public may hate it, unless one of them threatens harm on the establishment or anyone else, it stays.” He covered his mouth to hide the grin that was rapidly growing. “However…”
“However what?” David furrowed his eyebrows and tried to see the idea behind his colleague’s contemplative face.
Daniel continued. “Do you remember the last modern exhibit we had—the one by the twitchy Canadian?” The two nodded.
“Yes, he was banned from the Gallery because they found evidence of subliminal sexual messages in his work—mostly pedophilic—but what does that have to do…”
The lights went off in their heads simultaneously, looking at each other then back at Daniel.
“Let’s get that evaluator back in to ‘analyze’ Zee’s work. I think, if presented with the right…considerations, he might read into it just the way we want him to.” The grin was full-blown now. He couldn’t help it.
Maybe God was looking out for him after all.
----------
Secondo Il Dio-Religion
Salieri was kind of crazy. And deluded. And sad.
Ah well. No one's perfect (so stop trying).
----------
“Your favor has shifted, God. I can feel it inside me. In my bones the change has made me stiffer. I am less free, less able to produce my—our—work. I have been stuck for weeks; nothing inspires me anymore. No age-ripened grandmother or peach-soft girl stir up images that give me a Revelation feeling. It’s all empty. Why won’t you make me feel whole, God? Let yourself into me. Let yourself shine through me and onto a canvas for everyone to see. To love and to worship like I worship you. Your absence hurts me more than any woman’s has. As few as of them as there have been…
“Oh God, why are you doing this to me? You know how much I love you, how much I adore you. You know it’s Your image I paint under. You know it’s You I’m trying to see in all of my portraits; you know You are in my thoughts with every stroke. You know I cannot paint without You with me.
“So why have your given yourself to him? Why are you letting yourself be prostituted by his ugly hands, his heavy, uneven strokes that somehow speak only of You?
“I just don’t understand.
“Why him and not me?”
In the dimness of candles burning, no one answered.
----------
Ah well. No one's perfect (so stop trying).
----------
“Your favor has shifted, God. I can feel it inside me. In my bones the change has made me stiffer. I am less free, less able to produce my—our—work. I have been stuck for weeks; nothing inspires me anymore. No age-ripened grandmother or peach-soft girl stir up images that give me a Revelation feeling. It’s all empty. Why won’t you make me feel whole, God? Let yourself into me. Let yourself shine through me and onto a canvas for everyone to see. To love and to worship like I worship you. Your absence hurts me more than any woman’s has. As few as of them as there have been…
“Oh God, why are you doing this to me? You know how much I love you, how much I adore you. You know it’s Your image I paint under. You know it’s You I’m trying to see in all of my portraits; you know You are in my thoughts with every stroke. You know I cannot paint without You with me.
“So why have your given yourself to him? Why are you letting yourself be prostituted by his ugly hands, his heavy, uneven strokes that somehow speak only of You?
“I just don’t understand.
“Why him and not me?”
In the dimness of candles burning, no one answered.
----------
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Secondo Il Dio - Genius
Again, awful names. Hatehatehate.
------
Too curious for his own good Daniel might have been, but voyeuristic he was not.
Receiving word that Zee (it was a rare occasion he could actually remember his full name) was working on a new series for his next exhibit, Daniel took the liberty of traveling to his colleague’s home to see it for himself—under the pretense of discussing reviews for his last show. He went unannounced, hoping to catch the artist by surprise and maybe see a little more than he wanted him to. In this respect, he got exactly what he wanted, but in a different way entirely.
No one greeted him at the door after several loud knocks, so he peered around the side of the house and saw a small shack in the backyard. He strolled over to it, Art Magazine in hand, and saw through the slightly open door more of
Zebedeo than he had ever wanted to see.
The giggles and grunts that trickles through the crack suddenly stopped, and as Daniel stood flat against the outside wall, too afraid to move, he heard a confused gasp and the sound of something heavy falling to the floor, followed by an “oomph!”
“Ow! Zebby, what was that for?”
“I’ve had an idea, hold on.”
“Humph, every time…”
“Be flattered, Connie dear. You’re one of my main sources of inspiration these days. My little… passionate muse.” Zee spoke in a slightly far-off voice, and Daniel could tell by the scratching noises that he was sketching on canvas. ‘This must be his studio.’
“So you use me for sex, then?”
“Don’t be silly. I use you for other things too. The cooking, the cleaning…”
“Uh! Chauvinistic pig!
“Oink oink! Now stay still, I need to see the shading on your leg.”
Only beginning to wrap his head around things, Daniel barely noticed the silence that took over the shanty-looking hovel. ‘I must have the wrong house. This can’t be him. It simply can’t be…’
Disgusted but determined, he carefully peeked his head around the doorframe. What he saw made his heart lighten and his head grow heavy.
It was only a sketch, but that didn’t matter. Daniel could already see it for what it was: a masterpiece.
It was the woman—Connie, who he could see sitting to the left, tapping her fingers against the chair she sat naked in—but far more intricate and…beautifully twisted than the reality. The shapes and textures were all different, but somehow they just worked, bringing to his work the life Daniel had strived for, but never achieved. It was enchanting. It was stunning. And it was only a sketch, but already so flawless.
‘How does he do it?’
Usually one can tell a lot about someone from their appearance, but looking at Zee—an interestingly featured, frizzy red headed (Daniel shuddered) sprig—made him want to pinch himself. No one this obnoxiously eccentric could create such beauty. It just wasn’t how the world worked.
“Don’t move, I’ve almost got it.” Connie sighed, and a few pencil strokes later Zee was contented. “There. Done for now.” He stretched and yawned loudly, scratching himself. The pretty young woman jumped up from her seat, wasting no time crawling back on top of the acclaimed genius.
“So, where were we?” She bit his head playfully.
“Actually, sweet meat, I’m kind of hungry. Won’t you go whip up something scrumptious for us? It’s nearly lunch time.”
“You beast!” At first her face was wrought with indignation, but as soon as Zee took the opportunity to attack her exposed waist, the room was once again filled with the giggles of a man and a woman too young for their skin.
Daniel took his eyes away from the lighthearted scene and pushed himself back against the wall. He wasn’t sure he’d be standing otherwise.
‘What is this? What is this pain? What is this need in his art? Forever unfulfillable, yet fulfilling him who sees it, utterly. Is it God’s need? Could it be His…?’
The burning ate away at his insides. This was as close as he could get to Greatness: through the crack of a shanty door.
‘And from the hand of no one more than an obscene child!’
He knew, without a doubt, he must destroy this ‘Zeus’.
But how to kill a God…
-------
------
Too curious for his own good Daniel might have been, but voyeuristic he was not.
Receiving word that Zee (it was a rare occasion he could actually remember his full name) was working on a new series for his next exhibit, Daniel took the liberty of traveling to his colleague’s home to see it for himself—under the pretense of discussing reviews for his last show. He went unannounced, hoping to catch the artist by surprise and maybe see a little more than he wanted him to. In this respect, he got exactly what he wanted, but in a different way entirely.
No one greeted him at the door after several loud knocks, so he peered around the side of the house and saw a small shack in the backyard. He strolled over to it, Art Magazine in hand, and saw through the slightly open door more of
Zebedeo than he had ever wanted to see.
The giggles and grunts that trickles through the crack suddenly stopped, and as Daniel stood flat against the outside wall, too afraid to move, he heard a confused gasp and the sound of something heavy falling to the floor, followed by an “oomph!”
“Ow! Zebby, what was that for?”
“I’ve had an idea, hold on.”
“Humph, every time…”
“Be flattered, Connie dear. You’re one of my main sources of inspiration these days. My little… passionate muse.” Zee spoke in a slightly far-off voice, and Daniel could tell by the scratching noises that he was sketching on canvas. ‘This must be his studio.’
“So you use me for sex, then?”
“Don’t be silly. I use you for other things too. The cooking, the cleaning…”
“Uh! Chauvinistic pig!
“Oink oink! Now stay still, I need to see the shading on your leg.”
Only beginning to wrap his head around things, Daniel barely noticed the silence that took over the shanty-looking hovel. ‘I must have the wrong house. This can’t be him. It simply can’t be…’
Disgusted but determined, he carefully peeked his head around the doorframe. What he saw made his heart lighten and his head grow heavy.
It was only a sketch, but that didn’t matter. Daniel could already see it for what it was: a masterpiece.
It was the woman—Connie, who he could see sitting to the left, tapping her fingers against the chair she sat naked in—but far more intricate and…beautifully twisted than the reality. The shapes and textures were all different, but somehow they just worked, bringing to his work the life Daniel had strived for, but never achieved. It was enchanting. It was stunning. And it was only a sketch, but already so flawless.
‘How does he do it?’
Usually one can tell a lot about someone from their appearance, but looking at Zee—an interestingly featured, frizzy red headed (Daniel shuddered) sprig—made him want to pinch himself. No one this obnoxiously eccentric could create such beauty. It just wasn’t how the world worked.
“Don’t move, I’ve almost got it.” Connie sighed, and a few pencil strokes later Zee was contented. “There. Done for now.” He stretched and yawned loudly, scratching himself. The pretty young woman jumped up from her seat, wasting no time crawling back on top of the acclaimed genius.
“So, where were we?” She bit his head playfully.
“Actually, sweet meat, I’m kind of hungry. Won’t you go whip up something scrumptious for us? It’s nearly lunch time.”
“You beast!” At first her face was wrought with indignation, but as soon as Zee took the opportunity to attack her exposed waist, the room was once again filled with the giggles of a man and a woman too young for their skin.
Daniel took his eyes away from the lighthearted scene and pushed himself back against the wall. He wasn’t sure he’d be standing otherwise.
‘What is this? What is this pain? What is this need in his art? Forever unfulfillable, yet fulfilling him who sees it, utterly. Is it God’s need? Could it be His…?’
The burning ate away at his insides. This was as close as he could get to Greatness: through the crack of a shanty door.
‘And from the hand of no one more than an obscene child!’
He knew, without a doubt, he must destroy this ‘Zeus’.
But how to kill a God…
-------
Monday, March 12, 2007
Secondo Il Dio - Jealousy
In response to Amadeus.
Daniel Dane is such an awful name, but it has it's purposes, I promise.
So is Zebedeo. Again, purpose.
-----
Exhibition night. Daniel Dane’s favorite night of the month. Ever since his permanent placement in the National Gallery, Daniel has rewarded himself once a month to viewing his own masterpieces. It gives him such satisfaction, wandering down the pristine white halls where the artwork of infamy rested quietly. And then, hanging just to the right, the canvas touched by his very own brushes, sat on his easel for months, adorned the colors he himself mixed. A piece of his soul, preserved forever on a museum wall. He couldn’t have been happier.
Besides admiring himself, Daniel also liked to play a spy on the public. Instead of strutting into the gallery, dressed to a T, hair combed sleekly down and glasses placed just so, he became the role of—if you will—the commoner. A loose work shirt, un-pressed slacks and scuffed leather shoes made up his casual attire—though his hair was still combed back. He simply could not stand unkempt hair. He arrived n the front, paid the $12.50 (discount membership), picked up one of the business card he designed and supplied, and strolled casually in, making sure to view all other pieces as well as his own to not tip off his secret identity. The thrill of his own little masquerade mixed with the enormous swell of pride in his chest made it worth losing sleep the night previous.
Later in the evening, he eventually made his way to the free refreshments, heading straight to the desserts. His ears perked to a conversation next to him as he surveyed the assorted tarts.
“—really quite good. His brush stroke techniques are impeccable, and it’s obvious he knows what he’s doing. He’s a great artist.” A boisterous woman commented to a rather small man next to her.
“Yes, you’re right; his technique is essentially flawless. Dane—“ Daniel smiled around a forkful of pavlova “—is undoubtedly one of the most well trained painters of today. It’s simple fact.”
This was the perk of appearing as the proletariat. He was able to hear what the people really thought of him. Only twice had he ran into a disapproving remark; they’d stung, as all criticism does, but what are two in comparison to the hundreds that stopped to smile at his work everyday? He was still loved, and that was all that mattered. Moving onto the cream-filled pastries, he was not expecting the next remark, and almost fell over from the surprise of it.
“But, have you heard of that new modern painter—what’s his name—Zebedeo? Signs all his pieces with ‘Zeus’? Apparently he’s got a lot of spark and life to his paintings—something this Daniel sorely lacks.”
Unfamiliar pain in Daniel’s stomach and back of his throat made the painter twitch and turn his eyes sharply to the couple; but he continued to shovel small chocolates into his mouth.
“Yes, one never does truly feel as though he is a part of the scene in front of him. That is the point of art, after all, isn’t it?” Daniel’s hands tightened around a éclair, the thick icing oozing out the ends. “We should have a look at this…what did you say his name was? Zeb-something? What strange parents he must have had… He does have an exhibition going, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. Down in the local arts center. Not too reputable, but I hear the director of the National Gallery has asked him to put together a showing in the new Modern wing. And to think, he’s only in his mid twenties!”
“Incredible, really. Well, we’ll have to keep our schedules free for the opening then, won’t we? Now let’s go, dear. I’m suffocating from the pretentiousness in the air.”
The two art-goers walked airily away; unaware the clenching of the artist’s fist mirrored that of his stomach.
-----
1/5
Daniel Dane is such an awful name, but it has it's purposes, I promise.
So is Zebedeo. Again, purpose.
-----
Exhibition night. Daniel Dane’s favorite night of the month. Ever since his permanent placement in the National Gallery, Daniel has rewarded himself once a month to viewing his own masterpieces. It gives him such satisfaction, wandering down the pristine white halls where the artwork of infamy rested quietly. And then, hanging just to the right, the canvas touched by his very own brushes, sat on his easel for months, adorned the colors he himself mixed. A piece of his soul, preserved forever on a museum wall. He couldn’t have been happier.
Besides admiring himself, Daniel also liked to play a spy on the public. Instead of strutting into the gallery, dressed to a T, hair combed sleekly down and glasses placed just so, he became the role of—if you will—the commoner. A loose work shirt, un-pressed slacks and scuffed leather shoes made up his casual attire—though his hair was still combed back. He simply could not stand unkempt hair. He arrived n the front, paid the $12.50 (discount membership), picked up one of the business card he designed and supplied, and strolled casually in, making sure to view all other pieces as well as his own to not tip off his secret identity. The thrill of his own little masquerade mixed with the enormous swell of pride in his chest made it worth losing sleep the night previous.
Later in the evening, he eventually made his way to the free refreshments, heading straight to the desserts. His ears perked to a conversation next to him as he surveyed the assorted tarts.
“—really quite good. His brush stroke techniques are impeccable, and it’s obvious he knows what he’s doing. He’s a great artist.” A boisterous woman commented to a rather small man next to her.
“Yes, you’re right; his technique is essentially flawless. Dane—“ Daniel smiled around a forkful of pavlova “—is undoubtedly one of the most well trained painters of today. It’s simple fact.”
This was the perk of appearing as the proletariat. He was able to hear what the people really thought of him. Only twice had he ran into a disapproving remark; they’d stung, as all criticism does, but what are two in comparison to the hundreds that stopped to smile at his work everyday? He was still loved, and that was all that mattered. Moving onto the cream-filled pastries, he was not expecting the next remark, and almost fell over from the surprise of it.
“But, have you heard of that new modern painter—what’s his name—Zebedeo? Signs all his pieces with ‘Zeus’? Apparently he’s got a lot of spark and life to his paintings—something this Daniel sorely lacks.”
Unfamiliar pain in Daniel’s stomach and back of his throat made the painter twitch and turn his eyes sharply to the couple; but he continued to shovel small chocolates into his mouth.
“Yes, one never does truly feel as though he is a part of the scene in front of him. That is the point of art, after all, isn’t it?” Daniel’s hands tightened around a éclair, the thick icing oozing out the ends. “We should have a look at this…what did you say his name was? Zeb-something? What strange parents he must have had… He does have an exhibition going, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. Down in the local arts center. Not too reputable, but I hear the director of the National Gallery has asked him to put together a showing in the new Modern wing. And to think, he’s only in his mid twenties!”
“Incredible, really. Well, we’ll have to keep our schedules free for the opening then, won’t we? Now let’s go, dear. I’m suffocating from the pretentiousness in the air.”
The two art-goers walked airily away; unaware the clenching of the artist’s fist mirrored that of his stomach.
-----
1/5
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Monday, February 19, 2007
Fingers Like Fishsticks
Again, APJ. My mind is too quick to deal with the fluffy stuff in the middle- beginning, end.
--
"He who sees everything as nothing but the Self, and the Self in everything he sees, such a seer withdraws from nothing. For the enlightened, all that exists is nothing but the Self, so how could any suffering or delusion continue for those who know this oneness?"
Isha Upanishad; sloka 6, 7
Solipsism is considered both a philosophy and a mental illness.
For doctors, existence of this belief is extremely detrimental, and fairly insulting. To think, this detached shell of a person believes that he’s not real? He scoffs. How absurd. He exists, he is sure of it; how else would he be able to enjoy his Merlot and steak dinners every Thursday night? Or golfing lessons every Sunday morning? And what of that time three years ago when his stocks went up fifty odd points and gained him a fortune three times greater than his first inheritance? If there is anything he was ever sure of, it is most certainly that.
For the bourgeoisie of the world, it passes into their minds, and they shrug it off casually. They have no way of proving themselves right, nor the other person wrong. However, if this really was true, why isn’t life perfect? If there was just one person who created everything, then why is there pain? Why do people age and grow ugly when we could have all stayed young and beautiful? Why do diseases rampage our earth and kill more people than any war ever has? It isn’t logical; life would be perfect if someone just thought it all up one day, because… why wouldn’t they want it to be?
For philosophers who speculate and dissect, this may be one of the more annoying creeds to come across. It is indeed one full of holes; it lacks real substance, except by the sole word of the solipsist himself. It is a belief that will leave one arguing for hours if both parties are stubborn enough, and in the end come to no conclusive settlement at all. It is seen as a rather petty argument, as the solipsist can always fall back on his own mind if he’s ever really confronted, soothing himself with notions that it doesn’t matter what they think, because they don’t exist. And, of course, whatever doesn’t exist doesn’t matter, and thus he is drawn even further into his downward spiral of egoism, of which he has no reason to remove his self from. So generally, philosophers are not concerned with such self-important creatures, and turn away from the meaningless cries of ‘you’re just an illusion!’ with deaf ears.
And as for the Solipsists themselves, they smile a knowing smile, settle back into their therapist’s velvet couch, and think of only one thing.
(sources)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solipsism
http://www.qwantz.com/fanart/03-Solipsism.png
--
--
Isha Upanishad; sloka 6, 7
Solipsism is considered both a philosophy and a mental illness.
For doctors, existence of this belief is extremely detrimental, and fairly insulting. To think, this detached shell of a person believes that he’s not real? He scoffs. How absurd. He exists, he is sure of it; how else would he be able to enjoy his Merlot and steak dinners every Thursday night? Or golfing lessons every Sunday morning? And what of that time three years ago when his stocks went up fifty odd points and gained him a fortune three times greater than his first inheritance? If there is anything he was ever sure of, it is most certainly that.
For the bourgeoisie of the world, it passes into their minds, and they shrug it off casually. They have no way of proving themselves right, nor the other person wrong. However, if this really was true, why isn’t life perfect? If there was just one person who created everything, then why is there pain? Why do people age and grow ugly when we could have all stayed young and beautiful? Why do diseases rampage our earth and kill more people than any war ever has? It isn’t logical; life would be perfect if someone just thought it all up one day, because… why wouldn’t they want it to be?
For philosophers who speculate and dissect, this may be one of the more annoying creeds to come across. It is indeed one full of holes; it lacks real substance, except by the sole word of the solipsist himself. It is a belief that will leave one arguing for hours if both parties are stubborn enough, and in the end come to no conclusive settlement at all. It is seen as a rather petty argument, as the solipsist can always fall back on his own mind if he’s ever really confronted, soothing himself with notions that it doesn’t matter what they think, because they don’t exist. And, of course, whatever doesn’t exist doesn’t matter, and thus he is drawn even further into his downward spiral of egoism, of which he has no reason to remove his self from. So generally, philosophers are not concerned with such self-important creatures, and turn away from the meaningless cries of ‘you’re just an illusion!’ with deaf ears.
And as for the Solipsists themselves, they smile a knowing smile, settle back into their therapist’s velvet couch, and think of only one thing.
(sources)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solipsism
http://www.qwantz.com/fanart/03-Solipsi
--
Just Like a Man
An AP Journal Entry. Because I'm just that interesting.
--
You’re different, just like everyone else.
So, I’m walking down the road, walking my dog, and I see these two kids down the street. Actually they’re older than me, and taller too. Tall and pencil thin. Well, the guy is. The girl’s acceptably chubby; her double chin accented by all the pale make up she’s wearing. It looked normal from far away, but once I got up close it was fairly disgusting. Not that that was what crossed my mind at the time, far from it. When I spotted the sun gleaming off his thick studded belt and her gauged snakebites, I immediately craved acceptance. Smoky coffeehouses and backstage fumbles were the stuff of gods, and these two seemed closer to it all than I had ever been. I wanted to lick the ambrosia off their fingers, to savour the taste of individuality. I couldn’t get enough of their sweet defiance, and they knew it.
As it turned out, they knew too well.
Not even a glance was spared as I passed by, smiling a bit and crumpling my hand in a half-wave. And I have to tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more rejected in my whole life, not even when I walked all the way to music with a hole in the seat of my hot pink pants and suddenly no one was my friend anymore. I didn’t even know them. It shouldn’t make sense, but it does. That anonymous recognition of your worth becomes the scale that you rate all other comparisons to. If that person over there hates me just by looking at me, how am I able to look at myself in the mirror every morning?
So then you start not being able to. And it’s all downhill from there.
I couldn’t bring myself to look back at the future alcoholics and high-school dropouts, so instead I looked down. There was paint all over my shirt, and I think my pants were inside out. Painting my dad’s porch in ninety-degree weather was not my idea of summer, but, well, we’re related. I wanted to cry. My dog just wanted to keep walking. And my thighs were really starting to chafe from the sweat and denim.
So I went on, and fell into the Chuck Palahniuk view of life, where cynicism and criticism rule over hope and emotion. It isn’t comforting. It doesn’t make me feel better that there’s actually nothing out there for me, and if I die the stock market won’t even go down a point or two. If I ever get a tumor, I’m naming it Marla.
And the sickly sweet nectar is always just out of reach.
(sources)
http://www.lyricsdownload.com/say-anything-admit-it-lyrics.html
http://i60.photobucket.com/albums/h24/dusk2311/scenester.jpg
http://www.foxmovies.com/fightclub/
--
--
You’re different, just like everyone else.
So, I’m walking down the road, walking my dog, and I see these two kids down the street. Actually they’re older than me, and taller too. Tall and pencil thin. Well, the guy is. The girl’s acceptably chubby; her double chin accented by all the pale make up she’s wearing. It looked normal from far away, but once I got up close it was fairly disgusting. Not that that was what crossed my mind at the time, far from it. When I spotted the sun gleaming off his thick studded belt and her gauged snakebites, I immediately craved acceptance. Smoky coffeehouses and backstage fumbles were the stuff of gods, and these two seemed closer to it all than I had ever been. I wanted to lick the ambrosia off their fingers, to savour the taste of individuality. I couldn’t get enough of their sweet defiance, and they knew it.
As it turned out, they knew too well.
Not even a glance was spared as I passed by, smiling a bit and crumpling my hand in a half-wave. And I have to tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more rejected in my whole life, not even when I walked all the way to music with a hole in the seat of my hot pink pants and suddenly no one was my friend anymore. I didn’t even know them. It shouldn’t make sense, but it does. That anonymous recognition of your worth becomes the scale that you rate all other comparisons to. If that person over there hates me just by looking at me, how am I able to look at myself in the mirror every morning?
So then you start not being able to. And it’s all downhill from there.
I couldn’t bring myself to look back at the future alcoholics and high-school dropouts, so instead I looked down. There was paint all over my shirt, and I think my pants were inside out. Painting my dad’s porch in ninety-degree weather was not my idea of summer, but, well, we’re related. I wanted to cry. My dog just wanted to keep walking. And my thighs were really starting to chafe from the sweat and denim.
So I went on, and fell into the Chuck Palahniuk view of life, where cynicism and criticism rule over hope and emotion. It isn’t comforting. It doesn’t make me feel better that there’s actually nothing out there for me, and if I die the stock market won’t even go down a point or two. If I ever get a tumor, I’m naming it Marla.
And the sickly sweet nectar is always just out of reach.
(sources)
http://www.lyricsdownload.com/say-anyth
http://i60.photobucket.com/albums/h24/d
http://www.foxmovies.com/fightclub/
--
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Theory of Knowledge 1
I have a class, Theory of Knowledge, and our first homework assignment was to respond to the word "Why". This is my response.
(I added the rest in)
---
I hate to disassociate myself so easily so early on, but humans are explicitly known for their inherent curiosity. The almost perverse interest in the unknown propels man forward, keeping his brain ticking and boredom at bay.
But other than in things like space and microscopic particulates, which we cannot physically experience (to an extent), where does this interest come from? Shouldn’t everything else be plainly laid out for individual interpretation? Therein lies the problem. The source of “why” is in assumption.
You can continue to ask ‘why’ for an extended period of time, starting with a simple statement. “We’re going out for a drink.” “Why?” “Because we’re celebrating.” “Why?” “John won the lottery.” “Why is that worth celebrating?” “Because he got a lot of money.” “Why are we celebrating that?” "Because money is something good- it makes us happy.” “Why does money make you happy?”
You could see where I was going with that. At the point where it says, “He won the lottery,” we take up the assumption that winning money is a good thing-something worth having a drink over-we don’t explore the basis behind that. We just take it for what it is. If we went further, like in the dialogue, we’d find the root of the situation, and the unknowns/ambiguities behind it. Hence, “why” is a result of assumption.
Depending on the situation, "why" can be a form of either distraction or immersion. Distraction, in that the situation is so far gone that the concept of "why" is unimportant (eg. running over your neighbor's dog). The reason for the action is, at that particular stage, trivial. All that matters is taking care of the situation as a whole. Asking 'why' then becomes a way of avoiding repercussions: a quick escape route from reality.
"Why" can also be a way of immersing oneself in a subject. This is the more common reason behind seeking reason; to try and understand what has happened/is happening so it can be prevented or encouraged in the future. (Or perhaps that's what we all like to believe is our motive; unwilling to admit that we're voracious information-beasts who swallow and swallow but rarely tend to digest)
Ignoring the numerous tangent-like arguments over the use of "why", it's prevalence in human action in unequivocal, and the quintessence of curiosity.
--
To which my ToK teacher replied: "Are there any circumstances/conditions that stop an individual from experiencing curiosity?"
(I added the rest in)
---
I hate to disassociate myself so easily so early on, but humans are explicitly known for their inherent curiosity. The almost perverse interest in the unknown propels man forward, keeping his brain ticking and boredom at bay.
But other than in things like space and microscopic particulates, which we cannot physically experience (to an extent), where does this interest come from? Shouldn’t everything else be plainly laid out for individual interpretation? Therein lies the problem. The source of “why” is in assumption.
You can continue to ask ‘why’ for an extended period of time, starting with a simple statement. “We’re going out for a drink.” “Why?” “Because we’re celebrating.” “Why?” “John won the lottery.” “Why is that worth celebrating?” “Because he got a lot of money.” “Why are we celebrating that?” "Because money is something good- it makes us happy.” “Why does money make you happy?”
You could see where I was going with that. At the point where it says, “He won the lottery,” we take up the assumption that winning money is a good thing-something worth having a drink over-we don’t explore the basis behind that. We just take it for what it is. If we went further, like in the dialogue, we’d find the root of the situation, and the unknowns/ambiguities behind it. Hence, “why” is a result of assumption.
Depending on the situation, "why" can be a form of either distraction or immersion. Distraction, in that the situation is so far gone that the concept of "why" is unimportant (eg. running over your neighbor's dog). The reason for the action is, at that particular stage, trivial. All that matters is taking care of the situation as a whole. Asking 'why' then becomes a way of avoiding repercussions: a quick escape route from reality.
"Why" can also be a way of immersing oneself in a subject. This is the more common reason behind seeking reason; to try and understand what has happened/is happening so it can be prevented or encouraged in the future. (Or perhaps that's what we all like to believe is our motive; unwilling to admit that we're voracious information-beasts who swallow and swallow but rarely tend to digest)
Ignoring the numerous tangent-like arguments over the use of "why", it's prevalence in human action in unequivocal, and the quintessence of curiosity.
--
To which my ToK teacher replied: "Are there any circumstances/conditions that stop an individual from experiencing curiosity?"
Brevity is the soul of wit, no?
When motivation slips away:
"While hands and faces clattered in the next room, X sat on the veranda and rubbed her belly.
They almost couldn’t hear her over the rumble of the takeoff.
Suddenly realizing how ugly she was, she bent over the swell in her stomach to vomit.
Sometimes she liked to pretend she was the star of a soap opera, and how glamorous a job she was doing, and how she couldn’t wait to get out of the thick body suit they kept stuffing her in. Because really, she would like to go home sometime."
"While hands and faces clattered in the next room, X sat on the veranda and rubbed her belly.
They almost couldn’t hear her over the rumble of the takeoff.
Suddenly realizing how ugly she was, she bent over the swell in her stomach to vomit.
Sometimes she liked to pretend she was the star of a soap opera, and how glamorous a job she was doing, and how she couldn’t wait to get out of the thick body suit they kept stuffing her in. Because really, she would like to go home sometime."
Anagram? Yes please!
"That's exactly what this country needs. A cock in a frock on a rock."
-Priscilla, Queen of the Desert
How cool am I?
Extremely.
-Priscilla, Queen of the Desert
How cool am I?
Extremely.
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