The weather was crisp and comfortable as I drove on Highway 71 toward Liberty Memorial. The trees smiled in green and yellow and red and the cars traveled as if admiring each leaf and blossom, seemingly ignoring the momentous event about to take place. Each red light made me feel as if I would miss something although I had at least two hours to go before anything important would happen. Finally, I arrived at 31st Street and zoomed off the highway and turned on my left-turn signal. The light turned green and I gave my car more gas, shifted gears and began inching closer and closer to the destination.
I began to suspect that something had been cancelled since the traffic was mediocre at best. But that was a fleeting thought and my mind focused once more on road and the surroundings. I was now in an area that no one wanted to be during the night. Rundown once beautiful and now intriguing old buildings crumble into the streets as ragged souls linger on each corner eyeing each car that passes as if searching for the weakest in the herd.
Liberty Memorial
2 Miles
I was getting near the ubiquitous destination and I could smell the proximity and could feel the excitement slightly tingle across my skin. It arrived with such spontaneity I struggled to make a quick decision, Do I turn right or left on Main or go straight onto 31st Street toward the blocked off street that has a sign saying "EVENT PARKING HERE" pointing at both a parking garage on the right and a parking lot on the left? Consequently, I opted to go straight and park in the parking lot for fear of some sort of toll of the parking garage. The lot was primarily full, except for a couple spots behind the Wendy’s. I pulled in and sat for a couple minutes attempting to come to some moral conclusion regarding my choice to park in a busy establishment’s parking lot but came to the realistic conclusion that if I didn’t park here someone else would and it wouldn’t matter much at all.
I got out of my car, made appropriately sure that it was indeed locked and secured then briskly walked the two blocks to Liberty Memorial. There were many types of people marching to this shared destination, hippie-types, punks, elderly, normal-looking, just about every group you could think of except Goths. I don’t remember seeing any Goths, maybe they don’t attend such gatherings. We all walked to our common goal with reverence for each other, yet in the air there was the odd feeling of obscurity as each person knew they wanted to get there before the person in front of or behind them.
Upon viewing the spectacle of the venue and the mass of people I stopped, admiring the fortitude of these fellow men and women. There were lines of humanity everywhere, chaos. There was no real direction of which way to go, except the woman in official garb directing everyone to the line going downhill, "They’re tellin’ me that’s the shortest way to get in." So everyone got in line. The fastest and shortest line is always the best, right? I followed suit, like a duped child following his friends advice to go ahead and eat the worm.
A lady soon stopped me by calling out, "Sir!! Sir!!" I turned around, unsure whether it was me or another sir that was being summoned. "Is this the way we are supposed to go?" she asked politely.
"Well...yeah...at least that’s what that lady said up there. Who knows really though." I replied almost quizzically. And so, it seemed I had found a friend to relieve me of my self-pity. Damn.
We spoke of politics, life, jobs, writing (she was a journalism major, strange huh?) and religion. The conversations grew sometimes used up and others seemed as though they would never end. It went on this way as we crept slowly toward the bottom of the hill for about an hour.
Suddenly, we neared the bottom and the mounted police directed us back up the hill. For a moment I thought maybe there would be a riot, since there were many son of a bitches and motherfuckers and what the fucks. But ultimately each persons vision centered on the real goal at hand, nearly sprinting up the hill toward the field of green that lie at the foot of the memorial.
And so everyone went, some akimbo up the grassy hill, others conforming to the stairs and some a combination of both, all in a hurry to get a decent spot. Upon arriving at the crest of the hill thine eyes were greeted with a glorious sight of people of different races and cultures. But there was only the quick moment of observation until I was nearly shoved down the stairs as the stampede of people seemed endless and unmerciful. Down the stairs now we went, descending as if the waters had parted and it now our chance to journey between the waves.
Upon arriving on the final plane of the trek, we were greeted with wrestling through the crowd to find a decent standing place. It presented us with a task not as daunting as originally thought and we found a place near one of the stacks of speakers. Finally we were settled in place and I began to look around since all around me I could hear, "There’re snipers everywhere!" and "Obama’s in the second floor from the top over there!"
I failed to see Obama but did spy snipers and police in urban uniform. There were three above the grand American flag which I found strangely poetic, but mostly disturbing. There were children and youth and middle-aged and quarter-agers. A little of everything and everyone. There were even some Muslims for Obama there.
We had been on the premises for nearly two hours and then at around five o’ clock they announced we would be saying the Pledge of Allegiance and listening to the Star-Spangled Banner. The Pledge was spoken and then a girl who tried too hard sang the Banner. And everyone cheered jubilantly of course.
Afterward, Emmanuel Cleever spoke and told a story about his father and how it "‘Taint Enough". I did not find the story to be very engaging personally, rather strained and forced. Susan Montee approached the mike and said nothing I recognized as significant until she said, "Since they took away straight ticket voting we need to go down the list and mark each Democratic candidate, that way we can be sure we get the change we want." Ok, whatever but what about making the right choices?
Then Kathleen Sebelius spoke amidst cheers after her introduction. Her words seemed muffled in my mind as I was still processing Montee’s statement. After she spoke and the cheers for Obama died down, the crowd was treated to more music, well the five songs they had on repeat anyway. Boredom began to sit in as everyone silently stood wondering what no one was coming right out with saying, "When in the world is Obama gonna speak and when is this music going to stop. The same five songs. Come on, throw some variety in there!"
But we all stood live perfect statues, except for the few attempting to get the impossible ‘great view’. The crowd was far too thick at this point. Men sat with their children on the grass behind us, playing cards. Women gabbed and talked about their church, their families and their hair to the left. A short, young man and his wife stood to my right, he was reading Catcher in the Rye and she was reading a novel whose title was nondiscernable to me. Most of the crowd was fidgeting their necks here, there and everywhere, their eyes searching for the man whose popularity swayed republicans to democrats and right to left.
Suddenly as if a sign from God Himself, a preacher rose up on the stand to give the eulogy of the Obama’s speech on that day. The prayer was eloquent and grotesque as I began to wonder when it would end and why all the vibrancy and poetic charm when God knows man’s hearts more than man knows his own. The prayer seemed to last an eternity, people cheered during all the correct cues (which is wrong too, I think, but who am I to judge?). The closing arrived and the blessing commanded a residence on Obama’s lips, for him to speak truth and wisdom and (without saying it, not to screw up) freedom to all the people waiting and watching. Cheers.
Obama approached the stand with the grace and command of a leader, but my heart did not jump as I watched this man whom I had admired for nearly two years. A man who I had been rooting for from the beginning, and I had only recently been swayed to vote otherwise due to his vote cast in favor of the $85 Billion bail out. Perhaps that is why I was not overwhelmed with excitement. Nevertheless, his words rang with his mix of assurance, intelligence, humanness, decency, honor and humor.
He told stories, spoke of plans and it felt as if he were speaking to you amidst the crowd of seventy-five thousand. His voice arose from the little stand with clarity and generosity as people filled the air with their voices and faith. It was almost as if they worshiped him as they cheered and uniformly screamed his name. I found myself clapping, but as is my nature, I did not let out any guttural shout or yelp of ‘OBAMA!’. I listened and continued to scan the crowd and admire the diversity, yet also in wonder at some of the blatant rudeness that emitted from eyes and sometimes mouths of people who shared a common motive on this evening.
Women stared commandingly vicious at those attempting to wedge their way somehow closer to the front while men uttered blatant hyphenated profanities directed at those same that were murdered by the eyes of en-angered women. The absurdity of human behavior in this situation drew towards the forefront of this experience. No wonder I preferred solitude.
The speech drew to a close with Obama’s booming voice transforming the crowd (as he had done for the last forty-five minutes) into a raving band of banshees and Vikings who cheered at the spoils of war and the ecstasy of words. Obama waved, raising his angelic rolled-up shirt-sleeve upward. Atop it sat his ebony hand and fingertips, designed by a God who painted each one of us, all in the different colors of His palette.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Take Responsibility (Originally written 10/5/2007)
Those of you know me know that I am a compassionate and considerate person; always seeking to help out someone in need. I wasn’t always that way. I realized long ago that people will unfortunately take advantage of you if you care about their predicament. They use you and leave you when they are done. So I closed up and became extremely guarded. The past couple years have rekindled a love for my fellow man. Still a guarded love, but one not lacking in compassion for those I see truly need help and will appreciate it. I’m careful who I help and really expect nothing more than a thank you. I don’t need to be paid back if I loan money, I don’t need the favor reciprocated. If I can help ease someone’s troubles (whether it be by listening, giving advice, or loaning money) my mission is accomplished. It makes me feel good to help people.
But I wonder why are so many people apprehensive to show thanks? Pride could be one answer. Pride is our personal arrogance but also a healthy dose of self esteem. It’s a truly interesting contradictory animal (one that warrants a future note?). It’s intriguing that people ask for help, but are often embarrassed by the mere thought of asking. There have only been a few times when I have been too prideful to ask. If you don’t ask, you don’t learn and learning is a life long lesson. But when someone asks for help and help is received, they should appreciate it and offer up their thanks. If no thanks is received or if no perception that the helper’s actions are appreciated, the helper may feel used. Sometimes just a twinkle in an eye or a simple showing of trust (i.e. sharing something not many people know) may be enough to show appreciation. It doesn’t need to be verbal communication.
Another form of appreciation is showing that although those in need are going through a hardship, they strive to better themself if possible. While not always a possibility especially in poverty-stricken areas and among the uneducated, if those in a position to improve should attempt to improve. With some support they can achieve this even though it may be difficult. While some people appreciate support, others just seem apathetic. I think it’s so sad that there are people who just seemingly don’t care about those who rely on them. They don’t care that their wife and children may leave them to find “bigger and better” things. They don’t care about their job, and don’t realize how lucky they are to actually have one. They laugh and scoff at the thought of being fired as they simultaneously complain that their children and wife don’t have enough to eat and they can’t afford gas for their vehicle. What the hell is wrong with this picture? Do some people expect someone to be their maternal figure their whole lives; someone to hold their hand and feed them when they don’t feel like going on? Lack of responsibility.
Responsibility for actions. Don’t get me wrong I feel bad that people face these situations on a daily basis and I will continue to help, but if I perceive that my help is being used as a means to simply lessen their responsibility, my help will be discontinued. I will continue to pray for them, but physically and maybe even mentally helping them may cease. If someone cannot be responsible for things they have done/are doing in their life, why should I accept responsibility for them? There are those with mental disabilities that are incapable of being fully responsible and yes they should be helped in anyway they can, without denying them their individuality.
It’s a precarious situation; that of helping people out. I will continue to help out my fellow man, but I find it hard to help those who cannot and do not accept responsibility for their own actions.
But I wonder why are so many people apprehensive to show thanks? Pride could be one answer. Pride is our personal arrogance but also a healthy dose of self esteem. It’s a truly interesting contradictory animal (one that warrants a future note?). It’s intriguing that people ask for help, but are often embarrassed by the mere thought of asking. There have only been a few times when I have been too prideful to ask. If you don’t ask, you don’t learn and learning is a life long lesson. But when someone asks for help and help is received, they should appreciate it and offer up their thanks. If no thanks is received or if no perception that the helper’s actions are appreciated, the helper may feel used. Sometimes just a twinkle in an eye or a simple showing of trust (i.e. sharing something not many people know) may be enough to show appreciation. It doesn’t need to be verbal communication.
Another form of appreciation is showing that although those in need are going through a hardship, they strive to better themself if possible. While not always a possibility especially in poverty-stricken areas and among the uneducated, if those in a position to improve should attempt to improve. With some support they can achieve this even though it may be difficult. While some people appreciate support, others just seem apathetic. I think it’s so sad that there are people who just seemingly don’t care about those who rely on them. They don’t care that their wife and children may leave them to find “bigger and better” things. They don’t care about their job, and don’t realize how lucky they are to actually have one. They laugh and scoff at the thought of being fired as they simultaneously complain that their children and wife don’t have enough to eat and they can’t afford gas for their vehicle. What the hell is wrong with this picture? Do some people expect someone to be their maternal figure their whole lives; someone to hold their hand and feed them when they don’t feel like going on? Lack of responsibility.
Responsibility for actions. Don’t get me wrong I feel bad that people face these situations on a daily basis and I will continue to help, but if I perceive that my help is being used as a means to simply lessen their responsibility, my help will be discontinued. I will continue to pray for them, but physically and maybe even mentally helping them may cease. If someone cannot be responsible for things they have done/are doing in their life, why should I accept responsibility for them? There are those with mental disabilities that are incapable of being fully responsible and yes they should be helped in anyway they can, without denying them their individuality.
It’s a precarious situation; that of helping people out. I will continue to help out my fellow man, but I find it hard to help those who cannot and do not accept responsibility for their own actions.
Solitary (Originally written 8/18/2007)
Solitary. Introvert. Aloof. Withdrawn. Loner. How do these words make you feel? What is your perception of someone who is bears these characteristics? Afraid? Apprehensive? What about John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Humphrey Bogart, Johnny Depp, Harrison Ford or Robert DeNiro? They all specialized in playing loner personalities in many, many movies. They played heroes and the quiet (but tough) man that always won the girl’s hearts. What about Superman, Spider-Man, Wolverine and Forrest Gump? They were all loners and heroes(Gump was more of friendly type). What about Michelangelo, Isaac Newton, Emily Dickinson and Franz Kafka? All loners, with brilliant minds and creative ideas. It’s sad that a personality trait has been labeled as a curse.
Our society has made it a sin to be considered any one of the monikers I mentioned at the beginning. Why is this? Much of it is probably left over Sigmund Freud philosophy. He mentioned that people that like to be alone have something mentally wrong them. I think someone took it further by thinking, “Hmmm. One man just shot a bunch of people, he didn’t have many friends, so why not call him a loner?” A misjudgement. Maybe it is an easy word to use to describe someone in this situation. But a real loner could care less about what society thinks. They yearn to be different. They enjoy the company of themselves. Pseudoloners (as Anneli Rufus calls them) search for ways to become accepted, and if they don’t succeed they mentally break and decide that they need revenge on the society that shunned them. They are conditioned by society to be afraid and believe they are noone’s friend and are worthless.
If you research serial killers, mass murderers, etc. they are almost always described as a loner, or a solitary gunman/bomber/terrorist. Many times these pseudoloners are outcasts in society. They are either brilliant and not recognized as such (the case of Kaczinski), made fun of excessively, and/or degraded by someone. They take these comments personally and try to connect with society and be a part of society but they could never “make” themselves socially acceptable. Their attitudes have been created by society, not by God. A true introvert (which only constitute about 25% of the population) or loner enjoys and treasures time alone. They often use this time to recharge or create new ideas or works of art. They enjoy this quiet time alone, but they may also treasure time with others, depending on their personality. They do not find awkward silences awkward at all, they are merely a time to refresh. There doesn’t need to be conversation each and every minute of consciousness.
The introvert has also been the subject of social conditioning. Since our extroverted society glorifies any fast-paced individual who can engage in small talk and be the life of the party, we are all lead to believe that this is the way we should all live. I like this Anneli Rufus quote:
“For fear of raising little killers, parents persuade little loners to play volleyball.” (Party of One, pg. 254)
We believe that because a child is somewhat withdrawn, or quiet at a young age he will become our worst fear. While some attention should be given to children, forcing them into highly sociable activities may not be good for each child. We are all created a certain way for a reason. Some children prefer to play in groups, others prefer one-on-one playtime or even alone play time. These were always my favorite experiences, wandering into the woods or backyard and creating my own world. Many times my world was an ideal world, one where I could get away and let my imagination run free without interruption or commentary from others who sought to change my world view. A loner in my own world.
Why do we find it necessary to change a child’s personality? Why do we find it necessary to negatively stereotype loners, introverts, and solitary persona’s, yet glorify them on-screen and in books? Probably because imaginary figures are intangible. We stereotype those around us out of fear. We have created the profile of a loner and an introvert as someone who has no friends, kills without remorse, and is mentally disturbed. While this may sometimes be the case, more often it is the result of social rejection and/or social unacceptance. I am not saying that all of society is this way, but it does go on all the time. We should all embrace each other for who we are, try not to demean each other for who they are. Even if some people seem lost in their own little introspective world.
Note: I am not glorifying serial killers, mass murderers, bombers or what they did or who they became, but to shed light on true loners. True introverts/loners are nothing to be afraid of, but actually to be celebrated. Many works of art can be attributed to them. Thanks for reading.
Our society has made it a sin to be considered any one of the monikers I mentioned at the beginning. Why is this? Much of it is probably left over Sigmund Freud philosophy. He mentioned that people that like to be alone have something mentally wrong them. I think someone took it further by thinking, “Hmmm. One man just shot a bunch of people, he didn’t have many friends, so why not call him a loner?” A misjudgement. Maybe it is an easy word to use to describe someone in this situation. But a real loner could care less about what society thinks. They yearn to be different. They enjoy the company of themselves. Pseudoloners (as Anneli Rufus calls them) search for ways to become accepted, and if they don’t succeed they mentally break and decide that they need revenge on the society that shunned them. They are conditioned by society to be afraid and believe they are noone’s friend and are worthless.
If you research serial killers, mass murderers, etc. they are almost always described as a loner, or a solitary gunman/bomber/terrorist. Many times these pseudoloners are outcasts in society. They are either brilliant and not recognized as such (the case of Kaczinski), made fun of excessively, and/or degraded by someone. They take these comments personally and try to connect with society and be a part of society but they could never “make” themselves socially acceptable. Their attitudes have been created by society, not by God. A true introvert (which only constitute about 25% of the population) or loner enjoys and treasures time alone. They often use this time to recharge or create new ideas or works of art. They enjoy this quiet time alone, but they may also treasure time with others, depending on their personality. They do not find awkward silences awkward at all, they are merely a time to refresh. There doesn’t need to be conversation each and every minute of consciousness.
The introvert has also been the subject of social conditioning. Since our extroverted society glorifies any fast-paced individual who can engage in small talk and be the life of the party, we are all lead to believe that this is the way we should all live. I like this Anneli Rufus quote:
“For fear of raising little killers, parents persuade little loners to play volleyball.” (Party of One, pg. 254)
We believe that because a child is somewhat withdrawn, or quiet at a young age he will become our worst fear. While some attention should be given to children, forcing them into highly sociable activities may not be good for each child. We are all created a certain way for a reason. Some children prefer to play in groups, others prefer one-on-one playtime or even alone play time. These were always my favorite experiences, wandering into the woods or backyard and creating my own world. Many times my world was an ideal world, one where I could get away and let my imagination run free without interruption or commentary from others who sought to change my world view. A loner in my own world.
Why do we find it necessary to change a child’s personality? Why do we find it necessary to negatively stereotype loners, introverts, and solitary persona’s, yet glorify them on-screen and in books? Probably because imaginary figures are intangible. We stereotype those around us out of fear. We have created the profile of a loner and an introvert as someone who has no friends, kills without remorse, and is mentally disturbed. While this may sometimes be the case, more often it is the result of social rejection and/or social unacceptance. I am not saying that all of society is this way, but it does go on all the time. We should all embrace each other for who we are, try not to demean each other for who they are. Even if some people seem lost in their own little introspective world.
Note: I am not glorifying serial killers, mass murderers, bombers or what they did or who they became, but to shed light on true loners. True introverts/loners are nothing to be afraid of, but actually to be celebrated. Many works of art can be attributed to them. Thanks for reading.
Response to Rebel by Albert Camus (Originally Written 9/23/07)
“What is a rebel? A man who says no, but whose refusal does not imply a renunciation. He is also a man who says yes, from the moment he makes his first gesture of rebellion. . .With rebellion awareness is born (Camus 13 - 15).”
These are the words of Albert Camus. His idea of the rebel embraced a metaphysical rebellion, that is, a movement by man that protests his very condition and creation. Camus claims that a rebel is essentially striving to become God, to create their own laws and in so doing become completely free. While I agree with his definition of a rebel, I do not agree that a rebel wants to play God.
A man/woman truly becomes aware when there is something not right with the world in their view, some injustice, unfair treatment, segregation. Rebellion is awareness. Awareness of a need to be free, a need to prevail over evil. History has provided us with a who’s who of rebels throughout history, every culture has an example. Rebellion is a human condition. A human reaction. A rebel will question why, act on his proposed ideas, die for them if need be, and finally if his ideas can be related to others, a rebellion or even revolution may occur. Men would die for his cause and they too would become rebels, by their action. Their death signifies the rebel’s death, a martyr for a cause that will better society in their eyes. So how is this a metaphysical rebellion?
It is true that a rebel will rebel against his condition. It is true that not every man will be satisfied with his place in the world, there will always be something that’s worth rebelling against in someone’s eyes. A rebel’s goals will be to change the condition and nature of whatever injustice he sees happening; to defeat oppression, to overthrow tyranny. But the rebel’s goals may be relatively insignificant in the big picture (rebellion against a small institution) or it may have large implications and go from a rebellion to a revolution (the American Revolution). The goals achieved may not be the goals intended, for once the rebel steps out there with his ideas, someone else may grasp them and call them their own (The Crusades, perhaps? Is killing for religion something Jesus [the greatest rebel of all time] would have condoned?). When this happens the rebel may find it necessary to rebel against the very cause he was rebelling for. And the cycle continues.
A rebel does not always find it necessary to create their own laws or government, at least not in every case. They seek a change of ways. I think Camus is taking some liberties here and trying to work in his belief in atheism. To play God would mean that the rebel wanted complete control and domination of others, and is that always the case? Of course not. Often a rebel simply wants more freedom to do as he pleases, not instituting his own laws against others. For if he did that, he should expect a rebellion rise against him and should realize that. A rebel believes his cause will benefit himself and others, not restrict.
A rebellion is not always a revolution, but a revolution almost always starts out as a rebellion. And this begs the question, what is the difference between a rebellion and a revolution? A rebellion is defined by Webster’s Dictionary as “resistance to authority; esp: defiance against a government through an uprising or revolt.” A revolution is defined as “a sudden, radical, or complete change: the overthrow or renunciation of one ruler or government and substitution or another by the governed.” Therefore, a rebellion is a simple act of defiance boycotting, protesting, and in situations that warrant it, revolt. And this revolt, if effective, leads to a revolution.
“In order to exist, man must rebel, but rebellion must respect the limit it discovers in itself – a limit where minds meet and, in meeting, begin to exist (Camus 22).” A rebellion must not forget its true cause. Maybe Camus is trying to say that rebellion has the potential to go awry and lead to tyranny. But that is only if, the rebellion does not respect its limits. Once those limits are breached the rebel will in essence be playing God. But a rebel does not seek this, he seeks justice and reform, existence and freedom, not tyranny and chaos.
Camus, Albert. The Rebel: An Essay on Man in Revolt, Vintage International, 1991. Pages 13-15, 22.
These are the words of Albert Camus. His idea of the rebel embraced a metaphysical rebellion, that is, a movement by man that protests his very condition and creation. Camus claims that a rebel is essentially striving to become God, to create their own laws and in so doing become completely free. While I agree with his definition of a rebel, I do not agree that a rebel wants to play God.
A man/woman truly becomes aware when there is something not right with the world in their view, some injustice, unfair treatment, segregation. Rebellion is awareness. Awareness of a need to be free, a need to prevail over evil. History has provided us with a who’s who of rebels throughout history, every culture has an example. Rebellion is a human condition. A human reaction. A rebel will question why, act on his proposed ideas, die for them if need be, and finally if his ideas can be related to others, a rebellion or even revolution may occur. Men would die for his cause and they too would become rebels, by their action. Their death signifies the rebel’s death, a martyr for a cause that will better society in their eyes. So how is this a metaphysical rebellion?
It is true that a rebel will rebel against his condition. It is true that not every man will be satisfied with his place in the world, there will always be something that’s worth rebelling against in someone’s eyes. A rebel’s goals will be to change the condition and nature of whatever injustice he sees happening; to defeat oppression, to overthrow tyranny. But the rebel’s goals may be relatively insignificant in the big picture (rebellion against a small institution) or it may have large implications and go from a rebellion to a revolution (the American Revolution). The goals achieved may not be the goals intended, for once the rebel steps out there with his ideas, someone else may grasp them and call them their own (The Crusades, perhaps? Is killing for religion something Jesus [the greatest rebel of all time] would have condoned?). When this happens the rebel may find it necessary to rebel against the very cause he was rebelling for. And the cycle continues.
A rebel does not always find it necessary to create their own laws or government, at least not in every case. They seek a change of ways. I think Camus is taking some liberties here and trying to work in his belief in atheism. To play God would mean that the rebel wanted complete control and domination of others, and is that always the case? Of course not. Often a rebel simply wants more freedom to do as he pleases, not instituting his own laws against others. For if he did that, he should expect a rebellion rise against him and should realize that. A rebel believes his cause will benefit himself and others, not restrict.
A rebellion is not always a revolution, but a revolution almost always starts out as a rebellion. And this begs the question, what is the difference between a rebellion and a revolution? A rebellion is defined by Webster’s Dictionary as “resistance to authority; esp: defiance against a government through an uprising or revolt.” A revolution is defined as “a sudden, radical, or complete change: the overthrow or renunciation of one ruler or government and substitution or another by the governed.” Therefore, a rebellion is a simple act of defiance boycotting, protesting, and in situations that warrant it, revolt. And this revolt, if effective, leads to a revolution.
“In order to exist, man must rebel, but rebellion must respect the limit it discovers in itself – a limit where minds meet and, in meeting, begin to exist (Camus 22).” A rebellion must not forget its true cause. Maybe Camus is trying to say that rebellion has the potential to go awry and lead to tyranny. But that is only if, the rebellion does not respect its limits. Once those limits are breached the rebel will in essence be playing God. But a rebel does not seek this, he seeks justice and reform, existence and freedom, not tyranny and chaos.
Camus, Albert. The Rebel: An Essay on Man in Revolt, Vintage International, 1991. Pages 13-15, 22.
Ghetto of Unknown Dreams (Originally Written 9/9/07)
I’m not sure what this is; some kind of personal poetic story about the struggle within I suppose. I was thinking rather deeply tonight. I went to an Irish folk concert by myself, which I mind not at all, yet at the same time it bothers me. It bothers me because it is ingrained within us at an early age that you must always have someone there. If you are alone you are loner, and loners kill people. It is the same inner voice that tells us that we must fill in silence with words. Silence is uncomfortable. I thought all this as I sat down on the grass. I noticed the perfume of insect repellent. I began wondering what our ancestors would think about us spraying chemicals on our body. I’m sure they would think we were crazy. It just seems a bit odd doesn’t it?
In a soft act of defiance, that no one else probably noticed (but others emulated), I sat down on the ground no blanket or chair. I just sat on the grass and spent the next two hours in intimate contact with the grass and chiggers. As I waited for the concert to begin I looked at the Capitol. It was an image all to familiar to me, perhaps one I take for granted. I noticed Ceres standing atop the dome, her head touching heavens. I noticed the intricate designs, the instructive and judgmental ghost white Greek figures carved into the stone, the large unending columns, the huge condescending statue of Thomas Jefferson, and the eternal staircase that seems as much a part of the landscape as the gruff grass upon which I was sitting. I wondered how proud the ancient Greeks would be that we still worshiped them and their architecture and their politics. I wondered about how we still embrace democracy after the Greek’s popularized it over 2500 years ago. An ideology that is believed to be the greatest form of government in the history of mankind. Everything is put high upon a pedestal much like Ceres in her peplos with her basket of produce.
As the concert started I was enjoying the music, but about halfway through my mind started wondering which always happens if there are distractions. I was distracted by a bat that flew in front of me. I followed him as he flew to the top of the Capitol, watching the dim light accenting its wings with a yellowish glow. It fluttered across the sky in an eccentric zig-zag pattern capturing mosquitos, a savior to many people there (but how many even noticed his presence among us?). I wondered how wonderful it must be to fly. Feel the wind in your face catch some food, and fly just to fly only returning to your home to sleep and perhaps talk to a couple friends. How wonderful it must be to experience nature’s freedom with very small worry of predation. To be able to fly, to explore the world from above, diving down briefly to inspect the finer details. How spectacular it must be.
My attention flickered like a dying bulb between these thoughts and the wonderful music being played. The last song was played, the band left the stage, the announcer thanked the sponsors, and I stood there frozen on the grass. People were walking around me, walking in front of me, and I didn’t move. My eyes were fixed on the outer limits of our world, the stars spoke to me in a silent language I did not understand, the pale illumination against the Capitol made it even more surreal. My eyes came back down to my horizon and my feet began walking towards my car. I noticed couple upon couple walking hand in hand, arm in arm. They went their separate ways and I was left alone walking toward my car. My footsteps echoed in my head, the solitude of the street lamps my only companion. Shadows engulfed me and I felt as if I were marching to my death. At the same time I felt a strange comfort that I cannot really explain, the comfort of being alone. The independence I suppose of my own shadow stalking my every step. I felt as if the echoes of my footsteps were my own shadows steps. The solitude I found assuring yet haunting. I approached my car, who was itself encroached in darkness and solitude. It sat alone under a burnt out street lamp. A sign of my own impending loneliness perhaps. I wondered if it was some kind of sign. A sign that my life was empty and unfulfilled.
How can it be that once I have figure out who I was that I don’t feel as if I belong anywhere? An odd irony that follows my shadow with footsteps of silence into the ghetto of unknown dreams.
In a soft act of defiance, that no one else probably noticed (but others emulated), I sat down on the ground no blanket or chair. I just sat on the grass and spent the next two hours in intimate contact with the grass and chiggers. As I waited for the concert to begin I looked at the Capitol. It was an image all to familiar to me, perhaps one I take for granted. I noticed Ceres standing atop the dome, her head touching heavens. I noticed the intricate designs, the instructive and judgmental ghost white Greek figures carved into the stone, the large unending columns, the huge condescending statue of Thomas Jefferson, and the eternal staircase that seems as much a part of the landscape as the gruff grass upon which I was sitting. I wondered how proud the ancient Greeks would be that we still worshiped them and their architecture and their politics. I wondered about how we still embrace democracy after the Greek’s popularized it over 2500 years ago. An ideology that is believed to be the greatest form of government in the history of mankind. Everything is put high upon a pedestal much like Ceres in her peplos with her basket of produce.
As the concert started I was enjoying the music, but about halfway through my mind started wondering which always happens if there are distractions. I was distracted by a bat that flew in front of me. I followed him as he flew to the top of the Capitol, watching the dim light accenting its wings with a yellowish glow. It fluttered across the sky in an eccentric zig-zag pattern capturing mosquitos, a savior to many people there (but how many even noticed his presence among us?). I wondered how wonderful it must be to fly. Feel the wind in your face catch some food, and fly just to fly only returning to your home to sleep and perhaps talk to a couple friends. How wonderful it must be to experience nature’s freedom with very small worry of predation. To be able to fly, to explore the world from above, diving down briefly to inspect the finer details. How spectacular it must be.
My attention flickered like a dying bulb between these thoughts and the wonderful music being played. The last song was played, the band left the stage, the announcer thanked the sponsors, and I stood there frozen on the grass. People were walking around me, walking in front of me, and I didn’t move. My eyes were fixed on the outer limits of our world, the stars spoke to me in a silent language I did not understand, the pale illumination against the Capitol made it even more surreal. My eyes came back down to my horizon and my feet began walking towards my car. I noticed couple upon couple walking hand in hand, arm in arm. They went their separate ways and I was left alone walking toward my car. My footsteps echoed in my head, the solitude of the street lamps my only companion. Shadows engulfed me and I felt as if I were marching to my death. At the same time I felt a strange comfort that I cannot really explain, the comfort of being alone. The independence I suppose of my own shadow stalking my every step. I felt as if the echoes of my footsteps were my own shadows steps. The solitude I found assuring yet haunting. I approached my car, who was itself encroached in darkness and solitude. It sat alone under a burnt out street lamp. A sign of my own impending loneliness perhaps. I wondered if it was some kind of sign. A sign that my life was empty and unfulfilled.
How can it be that once I have figure out who I was that I don’t feel as if I belong anywhere? An odd irony that follows my shadow with footsteps of silence into the ghetto of unknown dreams.
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