Sixteen pieces of non-fiction written between 1996 and 2003, in the order they were written — from a manifesto composed at seventeen to an essay written through one night at twenty-four.
They are printed as they were written. I have not corrected the arguments I no longer hold, and there are several.
A note before you begin. Some of this was written from inside a bad time, and the last piece in particular was written very close to the edge of one. Two of them name real people whose names I have changed, and say so where they do.
Part I · 1996–1999
What’s Next?
10 August 1996 · Manifesto — written just after leaving high school.
I am a prime mover. I am driven by the need to promote progress and to advocate autonomy for every individual person. I left high school in order to escape altruistic influences. I am now in good order to begin executing the designs of my goals. This composition is to lay out in print what my goals are and how they will help shape the world that ought to be.
It is my profound opinion that science liberates man. I will establish an independent industry that will research and develop cybernetic technology in order to enhance the abilities of mankind. Note: my technology improves individuals–it gives power to a single person, power that a group cannot control. This establishment shall be mine under the name Prime Cybernetics, a division of Prime Industries Inc. My ultimate goal: immortality.
Simultaneously, I will incorporate an enterprise that will fund my research lab and itself. This division, also part of Prime Industries Inc., will be called Prime Interstellar Mining. Taken from an idea presented in Stephen R. Donaldson’s Gap Saga, PIM will establish mining colonies on Mars and the Moon. The abundance of minerals rare to earth will make such a venture lucrative, as well as situate my hand in space affairs.
Of course, these will take time to build. My empire will begin with smaller, less complicated concerns. These, in their multitude, will provide the leverage, experience, and funds to execute my more grandiose plans. In time–and if all goes well, I shall have an unlimited supply of it–I will have the knowledge and power to change things for the better.
On a political level, I will found the Individuals for Autonomy (IFA) party. The IFAP will do what it can to defend the rights of the solitary man, while reducing power held by altruistic organizations. In reference to “Something for Nothing,” an early Rush song, I’ll state that you can’t have freedom for free. Government should be funded by the people it serves. This means that people wanting the protection of a secure government will have to pay for it, with money, work, whatever. Those who don’t won’t. Taxes can be defined as “acquisitions of valuables using force.” I can make it work. Finally, legislation will be kept to it’s minimal essential level: protecting individual’s rights. And that’s it.
That’s it.
One’s Last Breath
c. 1997 · Positional essay — on machines that breathe for the dying.
The white walls of the room exude a peroxide smell. Every surface has been sprayed with an antiseptic. Spartan and sterile, this is what Jeremy Holmstadt calls home. Jeremy has been diagnosed with a terminal illness, one that is incurable, but will take years to finally kill him. Jeremy is dependant upon an apparatus not unlike a nightmarish vision of Robbie the Robot. Various electrodes on Jeremy’s body monitor his vital signs, and snake-like tubes penetrate his airways. His family hopes for a cure, but physicians have already expressed to them that even if Jeremy is brought from his incapacitated state he will remain a vegetable. Is it ethical and even worthwhile to perpetuate a life that will never again be cognizant of its own existence?
Let’s take for example the situation of the late Bryan Mendelssohn. He had been diagnosed with a brain tumor that had put him in a comatose condition that left his autonomic functions impaired. His family had brought him to the medical authorities for treatment, but the doctors, having exhausted all means available to them to restore him, relegated him to a machine that would facilitate respiratory functions. For the next ten years, Bryan was kept alive via the machine and finally died one morning. The costs the family incurred to keep Bryan alive surpassed four hundred thousand dollars. They paid far more in mental and emotional distress. When his wife was asked whether or not she had been hoping for that day to arrive, she answered: “I have been waiting for today to happen for ten years. I knew Bryan would not have wanted us to suffer this way.” (Oxford Journal of Medicine, 1996, Vol 3, pg 123.)
On March 10, 1989, Shannon Rhodes was hit by a drunken driver on a busy freeway. She was left in a comatose state as a result of the incident, whereafter she was revived and had an opportunity to talk with her doctors and family. She made it clear after being told that she was likely to relapse into a permanent coma that she would rather leave her life in the hands of god than be put on a life-sustaining machine. When she did relapse and doctors were going to honor her wishes, media intervened and the question of whether or not to allow someone to die was submitted for arbitration. She was put onto artificial preservation during that time period, and when the courts decided that medical authorities were to at any expense or situation preserve a person’s life the family was devastated. Shannon Rhodes remained on the machine until her death on April 5, 1991. (Seliquini, pg 91.)
When the wife of Patrick McNeely was asked how she felt about sustaining the life of her husband, who was suffering the last stages of a mind-delibitating disease, she asked that her husband be allowed to die in a respectful manner, rather than to leave him attached to a machine that would breathe for him, pump his blood, and maintain his bowel movements. The doctors consented to her wishes, and Patrick died that night.
One asks himself whether the choice of allowing someone to die should ever be asked, that perhaps one should always do his best and utmost to prevent death. The question becomes more complicated when one faces the fact that although alive, a person may be completely detached from the world, without thought, without feeling. What constitutes death?
Images and Ideas — The Dream
c. 1997 · Essay — a recurring dream, and what it was about.
The images that make up our lives often live only an instant. Even so, we associate ideas with these images. We are compelled to pay close attention to those which we see again and again. And so it is with dreams. I have dreamt of a particular scene many times, and because I have seen it often, it carries special significance.
Imagine a wide grassy valley. You are running free through waist-high sedge toward the bank of a wide river. The first drops of rain fall upon your lips, leaving a salty taste that somehow instills a sense of dismay. You run faster. The clouds darken behind you and trees at the end of the meadow rustle against the wind. Now the rain begins in earnest. Heavy droplets pound against your head, the sound reverberating inside your skull. The river looms near, ominous and forbidding. The wind howls, plastering your wet hair against your face. You achieve the river and start to cross the bridge. The wood is slippery and you fall. The current below is deafening; the water level rises before your eyes. You scramble up and keep running.
The valley slopes sharply downward hereon, and the river has flooded so that water begins pouring down the hill. In the distance you hear gunfire. No longer grassy plains, the land is now overgrown with brush and vines. The water overtakes you and flushes you on and downward. The vegetation scrapes your body as you are forced through and underneath this jungle. You get the impression you are being watched. After ten minutes of this torture, you finally grab hold of a branch. The current threatens your grip, but you pull your exhausted body upward into a clearing. The noise of the raging waters is muted to a whisper. Inside this inverse copse the temperature is very warm and humid. Vapor is visible as you survey your sanctuary. Vines and branches create a low ceiling, low enough to prevent you from standing. Strange and exotic plants grow around a small pond at the center. The water is warm to the touch and slightly effervescent. The soil is dark, and gives an extremely potent earthy smell. You decide to rest your tired body here for a while when suddenly a hand reaches through a section of thicket seeking your own. You grasp the hand, to pull it into your shelter, but instead the hand pulls you from your refuge, and the world outside is like nothing you have ever seen.
The sky is pitch, and yet an argentine sun illuminates the desolate scene before you. The hand that grasps your own belongs to a skeletal creature with bloody eyes that sees through your body into your soul. You can feel its thoughts as it stares into your eyes and smiles grimly. Its evil intentions permeate your being and you lose consciousness. The gray and diseased land around you fades to black.
I relate the previous scene with themes of freedom threatened, and of sanctuary under siege. Certainly “running free through waist-high sedge” implies a sense of liberty. It is an analogy of the power to move through life without being held back. The darkening clouds and the beginning of a tremendous storm are obviously signs of approaching danger. One could associate the “feeling of being watched” with growing paranoia. Obviously, the “clearing in the woods” is a form of sanctuary, short-lived as it turned out to be. Overall, the dream is an image of the concept of paranoia.
The relationships between ideas and images become evident when one analyzes them thoroughly. When certain circumstances–images–repeat themselves, we associate a concept or abstraction to them.
My Life in South Korea
1 October 1999 · Essay contest entry — three years on the peninsula.
One friend is real. His name has been changed.
I find it very interesting that an essay contest with its subject concerning one’s life in South Korea has been declared. I have, for one, have had many interesting experiences while in South Korea: some good, some bad. I arrived on June 20th, 1997. Exactly fifteen days after I graduated from basic training, and about nine months since I joined the Army, I found myself riding a plane to St. Louis, then to Japan, and then finally to Kimpo Airport, in Seoul. I was 19 years old when I first arrived. Little did I know that I would remain on the peninsula for nearly three years…
I was asked what company would I like to be a member of. I said it wouldn’t matter to me, since I knew nothing about the five companies of 2nd battalion, 72d armor regiment. Eventually they sent me to Alpha Company, and it is there that I have remained to this day. Although a large part of my experiences in South Korea are closely involved with my life on post, I feel that it is closer to the scope of this essay’s requirements to discuss those which occurred to me while off-post.
I’ll begin by describing the typical nightlife of soldiers who leave post to search for their pleasures. This involves congregating with a bunch of friends and preparing for an evening full of heavy drinking. And so they begin the night with a case of beer to be drunk before heading off-post (or as the colorful soldier’s vocabulary would put it: “downrange.”) The typical nightlife would then proceed to more drinking in one of the many clubs to be found “downrange.” With shamefully large amounts of money being spent (wasted, actually) on drink and women (of very insidious character, for which I can testify), these people spend the rest of their nights in an alcohol-induced daze from which they recover only to find themselves without money, and with a hang-over. And that, my friend, is the typical nightlife for a typical soldier. I, however, have experienced the nightlife in a very different manner…
I have always been somewhat of a recluse…at least more so than most people have. It’s not that I have a dislike for people, only that I feel somewhat freer amongst small groups. And so I didn’t hang out with too many people at a time. Mostly it was just my close friend Gary and I. We’d oftentimes drink a little in the barracks and then go downtown to explore the streets of Korea at night.
I remember walking along roads late at night, with the bitingly frigid Korean winter wind whipping against my face, while watching fellow night owls stroll the streets with similar apathy to their surroundings. Gary and I would discuss the interesting phenomenon that was a total lack of concern for anything but the need to move about, to carry on. And so I learned a little about myself that day. I learned that no matter how much we have planned for the future, no matter how pressing are the demands of the present, there is always the imperious necessity of simply being, of doing.
Gary and I shared many experiences in South Korea. I fondly recall taking a train to Uijambou and going downtown for some shopping. I can still see the expectant faces of women in aprons enthusiastically awaiting a good sale. And only moments away was a black-market district with everything from Old Granddad to Old Spice for sale. Later that evening Gary and I went to a Korean movie theater to watch a foreign film.
Spending time in coffeehouses was another favorite pastime of mine. My friends and I would hang out and watch the regulars move in and out, making small talk between sips of coffee and bites of rice cake. I still remember listening to songs that had long since died out in the States playing boldly as if they’d just made the charts. Why, a few of them triggered memories of other countries I’ve lived, including Thailand, especially when listening to a song I’d not heard in years: “One Night in Bangkok.”
Associating with the locals is an adventure in itself. In order to remain courteous it is imperative that one keeps in mind the culture of the nation they are visiting. I’ve learned a lot from the many people I’ve had the good fortune of meeting in South Korea. Among the virtues of South Koreans, generosity and hospitality are among the most common. There are many citizens who will offer their assistance if they see someone in difficulty, and working closely with the KATUSA–Korean nationals who train hand-in-hand with the U.S. Army–I’ve had the opportunity to visit their homes and meet their families.
“Voice” Article
11 November 1999 · Review — on Rand and Peikoff.
Who created the universe? Why are we here? And, what is reality? These ambiguous existential questions are answered in Leonard Peikoff’s book, The Philosophy of Objectivism. Mr. Peikoff has finally created a written treatise of Ayn Rand’s own philosophy, aptly named Objectivism.
After reading the first chapter, which deals with reality, some of my most unclear conceptions were set straight: who created the universe?, why are we here?, and what is reality?
Well, everything depends on axioms. Defined by Rand as “irreducible principles of cognition” (page 4) these are the postulates of philosophy. Knowledge of axioms is implicit. The three axioms that are relevant to these primary existential questions are those of consciousness and existence itself.
Consciousness is pertinent in the equation for it is the part of us that can form concepts: it allows us to understand what we observe. The difference between animals and humans, states Rand, is that animals are perception-based while we on the other hand–through perception–are concept-based.
Existence itself utterly exists. As Ayn Rand bluntly puts it, “Existence exists.” Because we are conscious, and because we can observe everything around us, when we see a table, we know it exists. We know it exists. It, the table. The table exists. The table is.
What bothers me is that so many people, while relying on these facts (be it for survival, or whatever), deny the primacy of existence, and instead of accepting the fact that the table they eat at is real, prefer to believe that existence is relative to what they perceive.
This is known as the primacy of consciousness, or, in the vernacular, the “power of belief.”
Miss Rand decorously compared it to a man facing the dilemma of an exploding volcano. The man of the primacy of consciousness, instead of being rational and running for his life or finding another sensible way to escape, sat on the ground before the burning mountain with his eyes closed, thinking “If I concentrate hard enough, I will be safe.” Well, life’s a bitch.
Those who understand and utilize the self-evidence that existence exists realize that there need not be any cosmic consciousness, i.e. God. If existence has primacy over consciousness, God cannot exist. The very essence of anything supernatural means something “above nature.” Etymologically: super = above; natural = existence viewed from a specific perspective. “Supernatural”, as stated in Peikoff’s text, is “an assault on everything man knows about reality. It is a contradiction of every essential of a rational metaphysics.”
Before people decide to persuade others to believe their contemplations, they should be able to prove it; Ayn Rand and Leonard Peikoff together have done exactly this.
The New Intellectual
11 November 1999 · Essay — written a minute after the one above.
People tend to agree that the way to solve a problem is to find out what’s wrong with it. Well, that’s quite right…to an extent.
What I mean, is that, in order to correct an error, you have to find the mistake’s origin. Everything begins with philosophy–metaphysics and epistemology–and that’s where most people find themselves lost. They choose to go against the things that make sense and hopelessly wander about, further losing themselves in the maze of their irrational falsesophy.
First of all, at the bottom of things are the axioms: “irreducible principles of cognition” as Ayn Rand once put it. These are the truths we accept to be absolute, and so build our concepts upon them. Axioms are the foundations of everything we perceive: technology, life, communication, physics…everything. When our foundations are weak, they collapse, taking along everything above them. Some axioms work for some things, others for other things, but the result is the same: when the wrong thing is put on the table, the legs break. Sensible people would discard the worthless table, but, it seems, sensible people are hard to come by.
I have lived by many fundamental principles, but discarded them when they proved false. Christianity was one such principle, and when Objectivism entered my life, I discovered a table that sustained the weight of the world and disproved every theory I had ever heard of.
Existence. Consciousness. Identity.
These three axioms alone are the legs of the Objectivist table. Unlike other philosophies, whose tables might use ten to twenty to ten thousand legs, Objectevism needs only three. And because each leg can carry the weight of the world alone, the table will not fall to one side.
I encourage people to reject the senseless lies they live by. I advocate the rational views Objectivism is based on, and further encourage you, my readers, to discover the truth. With the foundations of our concepts indestructible, the road is clear.
Part II · 2001–2003
The Spaghetti Works Story
1 January 2001 · Manifesto — printed and left under windshield wipers.
Everyone here was real. Every name has been changed.
Today is January 1, 2001—New Year’s Day. The snow is piled high on both sides of every street, and the ice and snow that has melted from those wintry walls painfully reflects the light of the sun into my eyes. I am a determined person this year. It is my new year’s resolution. In fact, it is my new year’s revolution. You see, I am revolting. Actually, I am revolted. I am revolted by the things I’ve seen in the past six months: things that have happened, been allowed to happen, and even purposefully done. While the knowledge I bear will never be lifted from me, perhaps the stain of keeping it secret will be cleansed, now that I have decided to impart this with the public. What I am about to share with you all will shed light on this subject that is more painful than the light glaring into my eyes as I now walk away from possibly the filthiest place I can ever remember visiting, much less working at.
I realize that the facts I am about to divulge may seem the act of a vengeful person seeking to slander her enemies, but no, this is not so. I seek no retribution against the people I am to mention hereon, but I cannot bear the shame of keeping what I’ve witnessed private. You, my friends, are my audience, and at center stage of this play is the Spaghetti Works. But what I really want to show you is what goes on behind the curtains…
Upstairs in the office, one man smokes his cigarette leisurely. His name is Stan, and he is one of the managers of our restaurant, The Spaghetti Works. He smiles smugly as his fingers glide over the ten-key surface of his calculator. He’s already drunk, but nothing unusual for this die-hard alcoholic. He’s saved himself fifty dollars today already, since he’s been drinking from the restaurant’s liquor inventory, and that’s fifty dollars less he’ll have to spend tonight at Johnny’s Hall of Fame, which is where he’ll go as soon as he’s finished closing the restaurant. As if the fifty dollars wasn’t good enough for him, he laughs to himself after reading the results displayed on his calculator. Someone’s made a mistake, and Stan is going to take advantage of that mistake. He always takes advantage of others’ mistakes. One of the waiters has accidentally paid twenty dollars more than they ought to have when clearing their account—twenty dollars of hard-earned tips that is now going to end up in some cabby’s pocket. And that whole twenty dollars, too, since it’s Stan’s belief that one of these days his generous tips is going to get him a chance to spend some time with those taxi-drivers that Stan finds irresistible. Stan has no car, and unless he wants to walk the six miles to his home, he has to call a cab. Most of the time someone else has to call the cab, since by the time Stan’s ready to go home, he’s too drunk to read the keys on the phone. But Stan wasn’t the only one stealing alcohol. The bartenders would charge people for their drinks without ringing them up, putting the restaurant’s profits into their own pockets. One of the waiters, a man named Tony, used to get drunk while working the comedy show in the back. He would ring up drinks and bring them back, and enjoy the drink as well as the show. And when he didn’t feel like paying for the drink itself, he would simply fool the bartender by grabbing an old drink receipt from the garbage and placing it where the bartender would think it was new, and needed to be prepared.
One of the waiters runs up into the office with a flustered look. He’s the last one on duty, and the store has been closed for five minutes. One table remains occupied on the floor by two unkempt men who live in and out of the YMCA. “Hey Kyle! My table’s about to leave, but one of the guys found a roach on his napkin, and wants me to pay for his meal.” The waiter, 20 years old—old enough to serve alcohol but not drink it—is a kid named Larry, and he’s only been working here for a little while. Most people refer to Stan by his nickname, which is Kyle. Stan likes to remind us all that not everyone is allowed to call him that, and I always wondered why in hell anyone would ever want to. I once asked him why he likes to be called that, and he said that he loved all his employees like a mother, and that we all acted like a bunch of kids anyway. I agreed, he did love all his employees, but with one exception: the women. Stan turned to Larry and threw his card at him. The card would let Larry “comp” off the man’s meal. It was a function the computer referred to as “food alien,” and was a function used quite often. The Spaghetti Works was literally a roach hotel. I remember watching in utter horror and disgust as one of the dessert coolers was moved to the side, and there were what seemed like millions of roaches crawling amongst each other in a big pile. I would never have expected a rotting body to attract so many bugs! But lo and behold, they swept those bugs up and tossed them out back, and it was forgotten…by everyone except me. I’m not afraid of roaches, but if I’m minding my own business, getting myself a glass of coca-cola, I’m going to freak out when a roach falls on my head from the damned ceiling! This happened twice: once to me, and once to my fellow server Jen. Even the roaches seemed to have something against us girls.
As Larry turned to leave, Stan snapped at him, “And when you bring back my card, bring me a beer and a shot of Rumpleminz as well, understand?” Larry smiled and said, “Only if I can have a beer too.” Kyle sighed and said, “You kids are going to kill me. Fine!”
For four months or so, the sign out front with the Spaghetti Works emblem on it was out of order. Or so we thought. The neon lights that, when turned on, spelt Food, Wine, Cocktails, now spelt Food, Wine, Cock. Most of us all thought that was nothing more than a crazy coincidence—coincidence considering that the greater part of the Spaghetti Works staff was gay, and the ones who weren’t, were usually female. But I overheard one of the restaurant’s gay servers, a man named Jim, proudly exclaim that it had been done deliberately.
Cars that were parked alongside the restaurant had a tendency to end up without windows, radios, and even backpacks. Jen’s car had been broken into, and the perpetrator had broken the window on one door only to find out that the door on that side wouldn’t open, and then broke the window on the other door. And when the perp finally did gain entrance to the car, he/she tore out the radio right from the console. One of the other servers, this one named Ruth, returned to her car to find out that someone had broken in by ripping through the fabric top of her convertible and had stolen her backpack. Two months later, Larry’s car would be broken into and his radio stolen. Had Larry’s car not been vandalized as well, I would have sworn it was just a part of the anti-female conspiracy.
Waiters and management both stole from each other and the company. Tony had a brand-new coat stolen the same day he’d purchased it. The management would hold on to excess cash—cash that wasn’t detailed on the paperwork—and pocket it. And after Tony showed the other servers how to make sure they always ended up making 20% on every table, then the shit really hit the fan. You see, we were shown the obvious. We were required to bring a bill of sale to each table. The customers would pay for what was on the receipt. And since we held on to all the cash until the end of the day, we would pay back to the restaurant what amount was the total amount rung up. But we could keep that amount lower than it ought to be by transferring certain items to new tables. The kitchen crew would only prepare what foods were rung up, they responded to printouts. But the waiters themselves prepared certain things: desserts and drinks. Salads were self-serve, so that would work. And kids’ meals were no different than pasta refills, which were free. So by ringing up one item of each, we would simply never close those items off—we would transfer them from table to table. Even tables where we received a lousy tip would suddenly make us an additional $1.50 per drink, $2.99 per kid’s meal, and $3.99 per solo salad! That was like $3.00 to $6.00 extra for every table! We never felt so eager to up-sell and push soft drinks. Nor did we ever feel the slightest bit angry when someone ordered a kid’s meal (which is for 8 years and younger) for his obviously sixth-grade kid.
The restrooms were always filthy. It wasn’t really our fault. The customers at Spaghetti Works are for the most part disgusting pigs. Considering that the homeless like to borrow our toilet paper for unthinkable purposes, and women toss their spent sanitary napkins in the toilets, never stopping to pick it up when they miss, there really is only so much we can do. Two employees, Ray and “dishwasher Oscar,” really tried hard to keep them clean. I remember once Ray asked Jim if he wanted to see something really huge, and Jim followed him into the bathroom. I was mortified until they came out looking absolutely disgusted and I went to go see what it was that they saw. When I went into the men’s bathroom (it was vacant at the time), water was spilling onto the floor from one of the toilets, and I could see that the toilet was clogged by a massive terd that filled the entire hole and more! Considering the terd’s diameter, I felt somewhat confident that it was probably excrement from one of our employees…
One of our managers, George, is sleeping with one of the waiters, Ted. Ted wears a hairpiece because he’s shaved his head (and everything else as well) so he can wear wigs when he performs at the drag queen events at The Garden. Kyle has confessed his undying love to three of the waiters: Oscar, Tony, and Stan W. Tony is trying to win Ruth’s love; while Ruth’s been pitching to Kyle that Ed’s been sexually harassing her. Meanwhile, George and Kyle constantly address their employees as “honey,” “sweetheart,” and “big-daddy.” As if this isn’t enough, Kyle offered Oscar $50 if Oscar would only join him in the bathroom, so that Oscar could butt-rape him. One of the Mexican cooks, Norm, attacked Oscar out of jealousy for Oscar’s closeness to Jen, whom Norm stalks. And Jen is soon fired for being late, while Tony, who’s been late numerous times, is given a beer for at least showing up. Sexism, Racism, and other prejudices run wild here. Whether you get a job or not depends whether or not Vic is short for Samuel or Samantha. White-trash redneck servers have short tempers for the illegal immigrant Mexican line cooks, and vice-versa.
The basement is filled with pot-smoke, piss from the leaky urinals upstairs, and moldy bread. The fire and smoke sensors are out of order, and if the health inspectors weren’t paid off then Spaghetti Works would be Spaghetti Broken. Kids choke on pieces of brillo-pad that somehow ended up in the spaghetti sauce, roaches season the burgers, servers roll silverware while smoking and picking their noses. When a customer complains that their silverware is dirty, the waiter usually takes it to where he won’t be seen, wipes it with his shirt, and brings it back. It’s not a comforting or appetizing thought that there are dozens of dead birds lying about in the vacant and condemned rooms in the levels above, or that zillion tiny shards of termites plague the floors and walls, or that roaches do as they please under the management’s watchful, but not mindful, eyes. Broken glass fell in the ice-bin? No big deal, stir the ice up and it’ll end up on the bottom. Uh oh, can’t remember which drink is the coke? No big deal, taste them all until you get the right one. The tongs for the bread are missing? No big deal, you have hands, don’t you? Those fried clams looking awfully good? No big deal, grab some; your customer will never know they’re missing. Customer asked for a jack and coke, but you used well rum? No big deal, have Kyle comp the drink, but give it to the customer anyway. (More money for you!)
You know, I always wondered if this Spaghetti Works was the only one that could be this fucked up (there are three of them!), but I couldn’t believe there could be more than one restaurant within two states distance that could be as nasty as ours. But one day I found myself waiting on some people who told me they waited tables at the Omaha Spaghetti Works. After some conversation I discovered that theirs was just as bad, if not worse, than mine.
I am telling you all these things because I too, am guilty of it, and I would confess to you all my sins. No one is innocent there, especially the management. But no one is perfect, I understand that much. What I don’t understand is how so many people can be so far from perfect. I could go on and on, about how wretched people bring their lives with them to work. Bitching about how his boyfriend hasn’t been giving it up, and how her husband is cheating on her, and how all of it is your fault. People selling each other marijuana, and trading customers’ credit card numbers like they’re playing cards. Everyone is conspiring against each other, words are spoken behind people’s backs, and no one will admit it. Well here it is, folks, this is it. Admittance. There are no secrets anymore. Not for the Spaghetti Works, anyway. And should you ever decide to patronize its hollowed halls (for the termites have been at work for a long time now) you may want to wipe your silverware on your own shirt, and figure your waiter’s gratuity after subtracting the costs of your soft-drink, salad, and your son’s meal. You might refuse the free bread, and buy your jack and coke somewhere else. And if you think you saw a roach scurry under the table, you probably did. You see, Spaghetti Works is broken. And I don’t believe that everyone there is damned to hell. Some people actually did impress me as hard workers, ones who did try to do their job well and honestly. Those people are Ray, Susan (even though she brought home to work), Randy, Oscar the dishwasher (even though he is psycho), George (who actually is a professional most of the time) and Roberto in the kitchen. And there were those people who made it worth working at, because their attitudes were a breath of fresh air. I want to mention those people too. They are Tony (who got fired for standing up against the nonsense), Stan W. (who quit to move to Wales), Cal (who is always late), Oscar K. (who refused the $50.00), Sara, Ed (who stands up for his values), Vic, Frank K. (who quit to pursue a career in massage), and Jane K.
Well, thank you all for having the patience to listen to me. Hopefully with this knowledge you will see to it that these atrocities are not allowed to continue. Please pass this information on to your friends. They ought to know too.
A Little Bit of Nothing at All
12 June 2001 · The Day’s Say — an alphabet sentence, and what I want in a woman.
Well, it’s Tuesday again… June 12, which means that in 19 days the year 2001 is halfway over. Time sure does fly. But anyway, I don’t want this edition of The Day’s Say to be a pond full of clichés (sorry), and the following ought to ensure that doesn’t happen: The alphabetical word sentence. A Blue Cat Dove Eagerly From Golden Hospitality Inn, Jacksonville, Kansas, Landing Miles North Of Preston Quinn’s Radiological Studies Team University Violently While X-Rays Yielded Zip.
Interesting ramblings and thoughts. If madness attracts and yet repulses, one might say that madness is appealing. Art is subjective. Is this art? If art is subjective, then this must have a subject to be classified as art. Hypothesis: Because I do not know what in hell this is about it isn’t art. Art is just fart without an “F.” You’ve got some that really stink, and the others you don’t notice. Too bad it’s the ones you notice that are the ones that stink. (Actually, the piece at right is quite good, in my opinion!) Soldier? Soldier what? Sold yer soul, that’s what!
Quote of the day. “Speak of things lofty and secret only to the loftiest and most private of your friends. Hay to an ox, and sugar to a parrot. Rightly interpret this, lest ye, as others have been, be trampled down by oxen.” – Trithemius.
An excerpt from some writings of mine. 24 November 1998 – “What Do I Look For In A Woman?” A question like this deserves a well thought-out answer. Beginning with the obvious points, I could easily say that I want a woman who is attractive, both aesthetically and sexually. I want a woman who stimulates me intellectually–this doesn’t mean she must be as smart as I am, but that she makes me think of things I would ordinarily not. I want a woman who appreciates luxury. A lady who values herself and realizes that catering to what she values makes her valuable to others. I want a woman that has profound goals and desires. She has lofty dreams and knows that anything is attainable because we live in a benevolent universe, one that allows us to play our own hands. She should have an optimistic outlook on the future and have great self-esteem and integrity. She is honest and proud of life. She is a woman that could love me for the same reasons she loves herself–for what we value: the faculty and facility of thought.
Perfect Woman by William Wordsworth
SHE was a phantom of delight When first she gleam’d upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment’s ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature’s daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveler between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly plann’d, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.
Happy New Year 2002
1 January 2002 · A thank-you, by name, to everyone who mattered.
Today, at least in my hemisphere of this planet, it is 1 January, 2002. The first day of a new year! I want to wish everyone success, love, and happiness. New Year’s Resolutions are a way for people to acknowledge the past while looking forward to the promise of tomorrow. 2001 was a difficult year for many of us, and many of our family and friends lost their lives. My grandfather’s mother passed away yesterday, as did my mom’s cousin Eleanor. May their memory reside long within our hearts and our minds.
My thanks and wishes go out to you all of you. My thanks and love goes out to my family and friends. My family: Dad & Kathleen, Mom & Dave, Lauren, Kristen, Michael, all of my uncles, aunts, and cousins, GiGi, Great Grandma Cesira, Nanny, Granddad, and Diana (She’s an adopted sister!), I love you all! My friends: Sarah Erpelding and family (Carolyn, Emy, Tom, Jim), Jay Schweig (The Pillars, man!), Dustin Mick, Oscar, Gary (Wherever you are), Damelza Nuku, David Steinfeld (Thanks again!), Lindsay Meyer, David Hodgson (aka Davey Bell the Teen Idol), Michael Hayes, Pat Callison, Stephanie Leeper, Patricia Neal, and Matt Staley. There are so many of you out there. I’m not including every name that comes to mind! “May you all live as long as you want to, and want to as long as you live.”
I hope for 2002 to be a year of production! I’m going to earnestly work with this website, my writing, and several other projects as well. Another goal of mine is to return to my collegiate studies. In conclusion, I’d like to remind everyone (and myself!) that dreams are not enough! As Calvin Coolidge said, “Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not: nothing is more commonplace than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education alone will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and Determination alone are omnipotent.” While I was not as direct as President Coolidge, my poem Aquae Aeternarum strives to teach the same lesson.
Live and let live! Be happy and share your pleasure! Love and win the respect of others. Succeed and encourage others toward their own victories. Peace be with you all!
High School Speech
c. June 2002 · The speech I would have given.
This was written because I was very disappointed by the speeches given at Winterset High School for the class of 2002. I decided to write what I would say at a High School Graduation were I to give a speech.
Yes, we are now finished with High School. We have graduated. Let’s not lose focus on what it means to graduate, folks. To graduate is to meet the standards set for a certain level and to enter a new one with different conditions. We have completed this stage of our education, and although the walls that surround us will change, we’ll still be in a very similar place. Graduation is something to be proud of, for sure, but a goldfish is no whale, and high school is just one chapter of the novels of our lives.
Up to this point we’ve been building the foundation of our values, today we pour the cement. Every day hereafter that cement hardens more and more; our experiences will reinforce and build upon the groundwork we’ve spent constructing for the past 17 years or so.
It’s now more important than ever to look the world in the eye and work toward achieving our goals. We are much more independent now than we have ever been before and are no longer expected to rely on the support of our families and friends. We must advance with stalwart grace. Leaving grade school is going to be an eye-opener; and those who aren’t paying attention are going to stumble along the way. We are but the sum of our experiences, so experience to extremes! Thank you.
Summertime Reflections
c. 2002 · The Day’s Say — on priorities, and people who say they have no time.
It’s been a while since I’ve posted something for the Day’s Say. I would like to say thank you to those of you who have been faithfully subscribing to the Day’s Say. I will try to emulate your resolution and maintain these articles of deference.
So, what have you been up to? The last month hadn’t been too interesting, but I stopped procrastinating and tackled some tasks I’d been meaning to complete months ago. I don’t know if it is just me-let me know if you all feel the same way-but around this time of year, when the days are longest and the sun seems to effortlessly obliterate any clouds, I feel especially vigorous. And although I seem to work longer and harder, it seems that I keep adding more assignments to my list, and I never seem to be able to complete them as fast as I can find more of them to do. I suppose what I need to do is take a mental picture of how I am now, of how great I feel, and how wonderful the world is, and remember it, so that when the days get shorter and I forget that I once saw the sun in a blue a sky, not veiled as it will be in the shrouds of wintry gray, I will hold on to the liveliness of summertime and catch up on those tasks I was unable to finish the prior season.
“Time…enough.” These are the words of Roy Baty minutes before his timely death as filmed in “Blade Runner.” The truth is that it never seems like we have enough time. Even now as I type these words, I know I could be reading a good book, or exercising, or picking up some groceries. As I stated in my poem “My Mind:” An object is one thing and one thing only at any particular point of time and motion is merely a measure of momentum of the perceptions processed by my mind. When it comes to the application of action within a time frame, it all boils down to priorities. Anyone who claims they don’t have enough time is a fool who has fallen victim to his or her own inept time management. Right now, if I was so concerned that I am working on this entry at the expense of being unable to simultaneously finish Our Winter of Discontent, then I would stop typing and start reading. The fact that I choose otherwise shows that writing this piece is more important to me right now than finishing that particular novel. If I felt that it was unfair that I couldn’t finish that novel, type this edition of the Day’s Say, get some exercise, and have a good night’s rest, then I can go screw myself because it’s tough shit. I’m tired of hearing “Oh, but I don’t have enough time! It’s not fair– Oh, there’s never enough time! I sure wish I had more time.” Here’s what you can do with that wish: put it in one hand, and then shit in the other. Put your hands together and shake them. When you open them up, what do you have? Think on that. Have a better one!
Why Do We Do What We Do?
c. 2002 · Short essay — on motive.
What motivates me? Why do I do the things I do? I’ve always thought that it centered around one basic truth: that our lives are lived in pursuit of happiness. With that in mind, I suppose that ultimately I’m motivated by pleasure. For example, right now, I am typing these words because I delight in them.
A likely argument against this might question why we do things-even routinely-that we don’t enjoy doing. But I feel that if we chose to do them, then they are basically guided by our quest for joy. For example, most people spend a large portion of their lives toiling at their respective workplaces. Ask them if they like spending their time there, and most will say they don’t. All the same, they do it because it serves as a means to get that which does bring them happiness. We work, we get paid, we use our money to survive, and, if we’re fortunate, we purchase luxuries.
Even love, often considered the virtue of selflessness is just as much the virtue of selfishness. True love is the bond that gives the lover the ability to work toward another person’s happiness while bringing him or her an even greater amount of joy. Two people who truly love one another are two people who are ultimately happy, because so long as they are able, they serve one another’s needs for happiness. I will go on to say this is a fine example of how love is self-sustaining.
I’ll likely add more to this subject. Goodbye for now, and be happy!
Writers Are The Shit
c. 2002 · A dialogue with myself, arguing for the writer.
This one quotes my own work. The poems are on the poems page and the prose on the stories page — the wording differs in places.
So you think you are the shit, huh? Well, what makes you so good? Why not show me, then?
Good at what? Tell me and I will show you.
You call yourself a writer. You claim to be superior to those who aren’t writers. What’s the deal?
What an appropriate way to ask that question, you see, because it’s all about the deal. We live our lives, and our experiences come in two ways: natural circumstance and influence. Our lives are full of these experiences-card games really-and influence is governed by writers. So the dealers in our lives are fate and writers. The cards you play are provided by circumstance or by people like me. Without me your life has that much less potential.
And what exactly do people like you offer?
We offer scope. We supply the opportunity to experience the things that you would ordinarily be unable to experience. Writers, no matter how skilled they are at writing, are limited by their own experiences, however, as well as the experiences they are able to garnish from other writers. Writers tend to live radical lives; they pursue experience for the sake of experience. It’s known as experiencing to extremes and I can confidently claim that as the code of my life.
I’m still not convinced. I want to see an example of what you are talking about. Show me a positive before I accept a negative.
Very well. I’ll quote one of my poems for you, and then I’ll prove what my poem alleges.
ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE By Anthony J. Seliquini
With this pencil, anything is possible. There are tales I could weave you Would never believe. Stories I could write where the blind Would find sight, And legends of men who could move Oceans.
And I can move your emotions! I can lighten your day, gloomy and gray, Or put you under duress- Or summon sympathy from someone Merciless! I can make you laugh, force a sigh. Or make you cry, and you wonder why?
Because all this can be done Thanks to one thing, just one. With this pencil, anything is possible
…The old man’s voice was solemn and grave. She walked closer to him. The candlelight did little to illuminate the room, and the shadows of the two people flickered ominously across the barren stone. She was more afraid than she had ever been before. He took another drink from the bottle of scotch. “Don’t be afraid unless it’s own my death you fear. If that’s so, then your fears have merit, for I shall die very soon.” He set the bottle down on the floor carefully, almost lovingly, as if he had found nothing else with which to place his affectations. Her mouth opened in a wide rictus of horror as he lifted the pistol from the floor and pressed the barrel firmly against his left temple. “Such is life. As the samurai once said, ‘A man is born crying. When he’s cried enough, he dies.’” He blinked the last of his tears from his eyes and wiped them tenderly with his free hand while he pulled the trigger so slowly it seemed an eternity to the young lady. The blast from the pistol echoed for an even longer amount of time in her ears, and the blood that sprayed from his shattered skull onto the wall spilled wetly to the floor and angrily flowed toward her…
How does that make you feel? Nothing? Then read on:
…Love and life… Will and wit… The pen is mightier than the sword, and to follow your heart is to find true happiness. Well, someone took that pen and shoved it through my heart, damn it… It’d been this way since the beginning! Why had he had to endure a life that beset him with such terrible obstacles and events, to overcome one only to be plagued by another, and to maintain a life with such a pattern until his death? He recalled the poem Eldorado, written by Edgar Allen Poe, whom the dying man had always admired. Ride, boldly ride indeed!
Or how about something different:
…Charlie Gallagher was a notorious pimp, drug dealer, and all-around piece of shit. Fred and his partner Ned (who had been in the force for fifteen years) were supposed to get a little concrete evidence of some of the more heinous activities Charlie was involved in so as to ensure a long sentence when the punk was finally brought in. It was a big assignment, and Fred’s glands were pumping out adrenaline at a feverish rate. Nervous energy carrying him on, he half-listened to Ned’s instructions: I want you to go up to the bitch that runs the desk, ok? Stay cool and tell her you’re interested in a little action. You know, you’re lookin’ for a dirty woman-someone who can satisfy your primal needs. Tell her that you’ve got some cash, but that you ain’t spending any money on some trashy crack-whore. Tell her you’ve got standards, and that a friend said this is the place to have ’em fulfilled. Hey, Freddie, you listenin’ to me? He was listening, oh yeah… But he knew what to do already, and besides, who the fuck was going to get hurt if he screwed it all up anyway? The way he looked at it, this was his show, and he was going to be sure it ended with a big bang. Hopefully he’d end up with a nice piece of ass to boot…
And poetry is a very powerful device. Take this for example:
THE WORLD AROUND ME By Anthony J. Seliquini
For some people there is nothing so magnificent Than blood, sweat, and the cries of the innocent. But I, I strive to suppress the violence, The cacophony of slaughter and monotony of silence, To shelter the unhomed and guide the lost, And rescue the cold from the killing frost. But my efforts, they never seemed so hopeless As I now look at the world around me.
Call me a shepherd caring for his sheep, Or a singer of lullabies putting the young to sleep. Or see me as the sage who speaks words of wisdom To ensure the prosperity of his clan and kingdom. Praise me as your savior who brings salvation Or denote me a demon, for I’m deep in despair As I listen to the world around me.
Where are those feel as I do, who know their hearts will lead them true? Am I alone in the quest for good, To ensure things are as they ought and should? Because when I’m chastised for failing to succeed I can’t help but turn my back On the world dying all around me.
Okay, I’m convinced. Thank you, and good night.
What Is Love?
28 April 2003 · Essay — an attempt at a definition, which fails and says so.
What is love? I think there are various degrees of love, and that its definition is determined by its measure. All too often a person dismisses another’s love as being false because either they believe that the person doesn’t love them at all, or because it is mistaken for infatuation. I believe that what most people classify as infatuation is a very intense, commitment related degree of love, and that those who identify it as infatuation are repulsed by intense commitment because they cannot accept its terms.
I am being as objective and unbiased as possible, but I have to admit that I have been accused of mistaking infatuation for love. So, although I am someone who carefully considers every idea in as impartial a fashion as capable, my viewpoint is of a person who may fundamentally misunderstand what love is. The actual definition of infatuation is: “the condition or state of being inspired with a foolish or extravagant love or admiration.” Okay, if the person who accused me of infatuation really considered my feelings to be foolish or extravagant, then… Allow me to start again, because while coming to this conclusion I have (and this is why I try to be objective) seen beyond the paradigm of my feelings. Maybe I have been infatuated at times—many times! Maybe my feelings are foolish, intense, exaggerated, and totally unwarranted; there is a fine line between genuinely intense love and infatuation.
Now it all comes down to this: how does what starts out as love become infatuation? Just as it might change from love to infatuation, might it not just as easily change from infatuation to love? What if I’ve never felt love for anyone at all? What if all these times I have been inspired by nothing but foolish, extravagant love or admiration for the women I have “loved?” This essay is circular, because I ask again what I asked at the very beginning: what is love? I don’t know!
Here is another closely related question: in a relationship, what exactly is cheating? If you are committed to someone, then you are committed to them both in body and in mind. I find it interesting that I share intellectual intimacy all the time, thus betraying my lover. It is what a writer does; what a writer values most in his spouse is that she withholds it from others. I desire a woman who craves me intellectually (physically too, of course) but who is private enough to be intellectually faithful to me. It seems rather hypocritical, but it is true.
I think that I have truly loved many times. I think that was pushes my love beyond sensibility and into extravagance is when I become jealous of my lover’s intellectual intimacy with others, at which point I exaggerate my feelings for her to become so adequate that she has no need or desire to share intellectual intimacy with anyone else. I have discovered that it isn’t worth it. If only I could change and be satisfied! But while I might hide my feelings from my lover in order to maintain the relationship, I would only be sustaining my suffering. Such is life—and love! One thing is true: the only thing about love that remains the same is that it always changes. By the time people are adults, they have set from the mould they were cast from. It is rare for a person to significantly change their ethos once it has been established. While a person might love someone, the measure of that love will either escalate to a degree beyond “genuine” love—as in my case—and proceed to infatuation, or it will degrade into apathy.
Love is the mutual satisfaction of requirements between two people. It is meeting each other’s intimate needs. The only time love can remain sincere and endure is if the lovers are able to continue to meet each other’s intimate needs, or when at least one of them is able to change to satisfy the deficit. The degree of their love is related to their capacity to fulfill one another; when the measure of one person’s fulfillment of intimacy is too different from his lover’s, the relationship ends.
Half the World: Ignorance of Nothing
28 April 2003 · Essay — motion, zero, infinity, and paradox.
Motion is God. I have been thinking about this heavily. Zero and Infinity: each unique, and yet the same. The world is a paradox. Both are concepts. You can continue to divide something, but will you ever get to a point where you can no longer cut it in half? You can continue to multiply something, but will you ever get to a point where you can no longer double it? Take the concept of absolute zero. The temperature of an object depends on the movement of its substructures. If you were to lower the temperature of an object to the point where heat no longer existed, then that object would cease to exist. This is an effect of time.
I said once in one of my poems: “Motion is merely a measure of momentum of the thoughts processed by my mind.” Pondering the nature of that statement will make clearer the portal through which one perceives the world. It’s about determining whether the following statement is true or false, both true and false, neither at all, or that it’s validity cannot be determined at all: The limits of my language are the limits of my world.
It is said that knowledge is power. If the limits of my language are the limits of my world, then existence is determined by my consciousness–my ability to perceive the world I inhabit–and it would follow that motion is the fundamental measurement of existence. We know that power is relative to friction and that friction requires motion. If knowledge is power, and power is determined by motion, then knowledge is basically relatively to motion and therefore established the validity of the adage: “I think, therefore I am.” The data above suggests that existence is dependent on thought.
Only “God” may know all things. Motion is fundamental to knowledge–it is the measure of momentum of the thoughts processed by our minds–and therefore motion determined godliness.
I recently overheard someone say: “Here I go again at the beginning.” I immediately began to speculate. How can one start again at the beginning if the beginning is a particular moment of time that is characteristic of a particular event and cannot be repeated or revisited? What if all things are cyclic? Any cycle is representative of infinity!
Is it possible to know of things that do not exist? In an infinite universe all things can never be known because if all things were known then the universe must be finite. Perhaps the universe, being dependent upon thought, and therefore upon motion (the measure of momentum of the thoughts processed by our minds), is only finite while a person is aware of only what is ocurring now. How that could be otherwise is beyond me, but an argument might be made to advocate its plausibility. The very definition of “God” states that which is godly possesses an infinite amount of knowledge, and it follows that “God” cannot exist within a finite universe. Therefore all things cannot be known within a finite universe. The limits of my language are the limits of my world, and yet, they are not. Paradox. If motion is godliness and it is our thoughts that determine existence, then we must solve the paradox of motion–the paradox of our own thoughts. Solipsism. The problem of other minds. Perhaps I am “God.” Perhaps you are. Perhaps we all are.
Consider an entity that continues past the limit of a finite field. One such way to consider this is with natural integers, as they measure that which trespasses beyond the finite integers, such as negative one. Once that entity passes the final point of a finite field does it then become zero, which indicates the absence of existence, or to a value that cannot logically exist in a finite universe? If the latter is true, then that cycle establishes the existence of infinity, and that both a finite universe and an infinite one dependen upon the other. How can two concepts that represent absolute opposites of one another in such a way as to negate the others’ validity exist simultaneously in the world? I believe that continued research into this pheneomenon will lead to new and exciting discovering about the physics of time and will introduce new dimensions of existence.
Can the absence of existence, i.e. nonexistence, exist?
Nonexistence and existence are just as paradoxical as yesterday and tomorrow. I suppose one must first state all possible premises before finding a solution, and at this point it is beyond my ability to do so. It seems that it would be possible to prove anything and everything relating to the legitimacy of both infinity and its finite opposite. Where one thing exists, its opposite must exist as well. Where science attempts to make sense of the universe, it must also prove that that which makes sense must have its antithesis, its nonsensical twin. Once identifying the values in an equation, it becomes possible to establish the “absolute value” of the answer, and therein lies godliness.
The Ride to Eldorado
24 June 2003 · Personal essay — written through one night, published as written.
So here I am, very drunk, very confused, sitting with my headphones on, and stealing power from the apartment by way of an extension cord plugged into an outlet in the main corridor. I’m blasting Marillion through these babies and it sounds great. I’ve got my last bottle of Killian’s Irish Red at my right and to my left I have my pack of Parliament Lights. As soon as this beer is gone I’ll brew a pot of double-strength coffee and start obsessing over the things I’ve experienced in the past.
Why is it always the past? Why am I so preoccupied with my past? Is it because I’ve done so many great and wonderful things and it seems to have come to an end? Is it because I fear that my life has sunk into a rut that I will never find my way from? Or is it maybe that I have simply lost the capability to believe that there is more out there—that the only thing in my future is work that will bear no fruit?
Damn it. Maybe that’s why I drink the way I do. Drink alcohol, and then drink an even larger amount of coffee. Mixing depressants with stimulants, and smoking cigarettes to even out the transition… Better to simply immolate myself in a fiery blaze and run out into the street to symbolize the only truth I’ve come to realize! And who is my audience? Who is this letter addressed to? Not you! Hell no. Don’t even try to believe that I’m writing this for you; because you’re the last person I can expect to understand anything I’m saying. Don’t pout or whine about it. You shouldn’t even feel sad about it, because I doubt I’d be able to understand a fraction of the shit you might write about, if you ever decided to write it. I might believe I understand what you’re trying to express, just as you might believe you understand what I’m saying—and this isn’t a reflection of our abilities to get a point across. Not at all. It’s just that an experience lived first-hand is very different from an experience lived otherwise, and is one that cannot be fully understood without experiencing it so.
Have you ever had the notion that there was a person out there who understood you so well they might see the world through similar lenses? Someone who so eloquently expresses the feelings you want so hard to express yourself, but that no one seems able to understand? I have, and that person is Derek Dick. Fuck! I know I’m always writing about Marillion and how much this band has affected me; but seriously folks, this is it. Hahahahaha—what the hell am I writing? If only I could share with you my mind, allow you to join in on my thoughts, feel what I feel, see what I see, hear what I hear, interpret things as I do, remember my experiences, and measure the distance between the highs and lows of my life. I’m not comparing myself with anyone else, and I’m humbled at the thought of those who lived similar or even more intense lives, and all I can do is smile ruefully and offer a beer, a cigarette, and a cup of coffee.
I can smell the leaves of my grandmother’s backyard… Autumn, sometimes around 1989. Raking leaves for quarters and a cup of hot chocolate and the smell of rain and decaying vegetation, laughter from within the house. The sounds of dogs barking, and I standing there, wondering why they are barking. Is it for want of food, or of companionship, or simply an activity they’re unable to control? And then, here I am now, and I would just as soon pull the trigger to a gun pressed against the side of my head as go to sleep to begin another day in this hopeless existence. So I wonder: is it simply the lack of that gun that keeps me from ending it all now? Probably not, because I could just as easily end my life with one of my many knives, or jump from the roof of the building I occupy. And so I now wonder, how different am I from those dogs? Do I do what I do for want of food, or of companionship, or do I do what I do out of an inability to do otherwise?
I think that I matter, and that I matter more than most. I think that others think they matter, and that they think they matter more than most. When I die, I would like the world to know how much I appreciated it, how happy I have been at times. I would like the amazing people I have known to know that I love them dearly, and that I hope they somehow achieve their desires. I only wish that when I die I could listen to music for all of eternity, and that if I were limited to a single band, it would be Marillion. And if I were limited to a single album, that album would be Fugazi, because through that album the majority of my life would be replayed to me so absolutely that I would have no need to dream or to remember… But I realize that death is the end-all of consciousness. Therefore I find myself choosing between an irremediable end of being or of continued turmoil, albeit with my memories of better times, and the possibility of more to come…
An hour has passed, and I’m well into my coffee phase. I spent the majority of this time talking to my sister Lauren. Our conversation was very rewarding as a lot of my questions were answered. As anyone knows, it is difficult to play devil’s advocate over a matter you feel so strongly about. During our conversation some of my favorite poetry was brought up, in particular Eldorado by Edgar Allen Poe. This poem so accurately describes the stage I am in.
ELDORADO By Edgar Allen Poe, 1849
Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado.
But he grew old— This knight so bold— And o’er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado.
And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow— “Shadow,” said he, “Where can it be— This land of Eldorado?”
“Over the mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, Boldly Ride,” The shade replied— “If you seek for Eldorado!”
My interpretation of this poem is as such: A young man, full of promise and the virtues so often attributed to knights (honor, valor, hope, faith, honesty, compassion, etc.) lives his life in pursuit of his dreams. Through good times and bad, this man has yet to achieve his dreams, and ultimately he perishes. But at the moment of his death, he asks himself what he did wrong; how was it that he failed to realize his objective? Suddenly he understands that the meaning of life isn’t to achieve the object of one’s dreams but to make the journey toward it—that the meaning of life lies in the journey and not the arrival.
And so here I am, at that very point, so close to death, where I ask myself, “Where can it be—this land of Eldorado?” And I am comforted by the fact that Eldorado doesn’t exist in any manner but a concept, and that I must simply continue my journey until at last I do die. Now is not my time. Slainte Mhathe my friends! May your ride be free of obstacles and be filled with joy and merriment. Goodnight.