"Talking Existence"

Portrait of Marco Polo. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We exist through the conversations we share. A man is a memory, existing in his sphere of influence. In this sense, being forgotten or ignored... equates to death. This is the essence of a philosophical concept bouncing about in my head. I call it "Talking Existence." The idea occurred to me recently, finding life much too intricate to be measured solely by means of a pulse. Talking Existence is not reverse-solipsism, nor is it a delusion of vanity. To best understand this, you must take into consideration that I see life as art-in-progress, defined by the relationship between the artist and those who visit his gallery. The only thing personal about a masterpiece is its creation. Unless it is regarded by a decent portion of society, a painting might as well never been painted at all. Of course this is a metaphor. (Nothing wrong with recreational painting.) Talking Existence is us sketching a portrait of ourselves each day with our words. Actions are but the manifestations of verbs, physical words. As such, what we do is also what we say. How we speak--both physically and verbally--unto others shapes our existence. That is "Talking Existence."




I can seem simple, deceptively. "Be good. Be proactive. Be remembered." Humanity often turns to established morality and terms for success to define its life. It's because, as concrete-minded humans, we assume length is the end all be all. I'd argue against that. Longevity is a cheap way to be remembered. It's not about quantity or quality-- it's about quandary. When we feel it seems as we are most alive, does it not? The more failure you face, the the more life you have. Only in the ashes of a blaze can we touch a fire. Loss is but a baby born to be a win. (Unless aborted by its parent.) By this, it would seem the content of our lives determines our existence, not our conversations as I proposed. Not so. This is a part of Talking Existence. What we feel and what we experience are merely ingredients to our existence. Our hardships and triumphs are reflected in our tone, humor and choices. Daily interactions are the basis for psychological understanding-- the blood of human interaction. You live by means of your tongue, but a tongue will only taste that which it finds sweet. Scars are inputted into the complex formulae through which we operate. Whether you wave meekly or embrace in a hug is determined by elements of our experience. This is why I say we exist through conversations. Man hasn't invented a time machine, and we all know how fuzzy memories can be, right? You can only follow a foot that leaves prints. If we leave no trail, we are lost.



Beyond being a measure of life, Talking Existence has a much deeper role in the whole of existentialism. It's interwoven into religion and relies heavily of the fallacy of "truth"-- the rusty hinge of morality. Lying is born of a desire to artificially enhance our existence. During my more cynical moments, I tend to regard truth as a great fallacy perpetuated by the naive. Thinking reality can ever be understood is arrogance/ignorance in its most sublime. Perception is 9/10ths of human understanding--a belief the very concept of Talking Existance is built upon. The remaining tenth is the established overlap of the collective beliefs of society and the closest we wee homo sapiens will ever come to an actual "truth." Liars play in this large pool of perception, persuading others to come swim in their version of the murky water. (Note: Read liars as everyone.) Opinions are glorified emotional guesses, but they're the only tools we have to grasp the world around us. Likewise, feelings are fleeting, abstract and non-existent-- excuses to act against logic. The relationship between opinions and feelings is our bias, the nature of our need for personal validation. It compels us to argue and teach, battling others for the right to shape existence. A lie, if not believed by its creator, is merely an acceptance of the ugliness of the so-called truth as we remember it, and an attempt to alter history to our whim. Through lies we are closest to "God," a figure whom I personally deem as the ultimate lie and manipulative tool. If a lie is believed, just like a person, it exists. We are taught about the exploits of Marco Polo as children, but it's questionable if the man ever set foot in China. Just as the ambiguous epic poet Homer is remembered, so too does God exist. In this way, God exists more than we do. True reality can't by perceived by our feeble minds, so what is a lie? It's the basis for perception, cloaked by our innate earnestness. What is remembered lives on.




Once our death is hence three generations removed, apart from being a chink in various strands of DNA, we die out of existence. Name one baker from 17th century Germany off the top of your head. These men are dead-- their ghosts haunting unread censuses and dust-covered family records. Our comparatively simple human experience is ultimately a blip in a doomed cycle of cosmic explosions that cannot ever exist to us as we will never obtain the means to grasp it. Grasping this, we must live within the criteria of a Talking Existence. By believing ourselves to be important and considering life a lasting concept, we die prematurely. The self is a pursuit of egotists and simpletons. Live vicariously through your words and ebb out a satisfying existence for your name.




This, however, only applies to those who deem society as a positive construct. This, quite possibly, is yet another human fallacy... but that discussion is best left for another time.

- B

"Musings of an April Morning"

Only a handful of people have the right to say they've done something truly fantastic with their lives. The rest of us mull it, though the more honest ones own up to achieving minor greatness within their narrow spheres of existence. I'd say artists have the closest shot at understanding the meaning of life. Their perspectives split into a stark fork. Half believe life to be brimming with purpose, appreciating the simplest of things-- harnessing the collective beauty of their seemingly irrelevant surroundings. The other half, the faction to which I belong, find existence without meaning at all. Not nihilisticly so, but rather... viewing the world as a blank canvas... bookended by tools for painting-- both physical and inspirational.

That's all I have to say on this at the moment. I'll reflect on this duality in mindsets and perhaps post the result later on.

IQ

English: Albert Einstein Français : portrait d'Albert Einstein (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

By the time you see yourself as an adult, there's not much more the world can teach you. We make mistakes because we lose track of what we already know. If you're smart, you won't get Deja Vu. What I'm trying to say here... is that I am incredibly dumb. I take solace in the fact that stupidity is in my DNA, and I take even more comfort knowing it's in everyone's DNA, too. Mistake-making is the hallmark of of humanity, the way perfection defines a robot. In spite of my self defamatory-thinking, those around me still seem to think me sharp-- an opinion I've striven for years to quell.

You see, I've pondered an awful lot about the nature of intellect; how we measure it, regard it, et cetera. It's my belief that we will never have a clear picture of someone's ultimate potential. Even tests fall short-- unable to measure the millions of facets that comprise the complexity of ascertaining true genius. Don't you love how fleeting getting your IQ score is? Regardless if the quotient demoralizes or reassures us, we're disinclined to share it with anyone. For fear of what, though? Seeming arrogant?

My IQ is 162.

What do you feel when you hear that? Resentment? Disbelief? Are you impressed? Chances are the latter two are the more likely reactions. Mankind does not like feeling inferior, and as such it is difficult for us to stomach someone advertising their abilities. You can say it lacks humility, but why does that word even exist in the first place? It places the burden of guilt on the ill-performing party, the unfit. It's anti-Darwinist and seemingly illogical.  If you were advertising a product, certainly you wouldn't leave out details of its best attributes, would you?

The stipulations for someone buying your personality, liking you, are different. Majority rules. The accepted norm is not defined by the greatest, the outliers, but rather the mean-- the status quo, as it were. We are drawn to those who are slightly above average, but bitter to those too far above the line. That's because, unable to grasp and determine potential with any real accuracy, we give ourselves either an overly positive or negative evaluation. Humility is the outward expression, genuine or otherwise, of devaluation. It's a negative that attracts positive attention, encouraging others to compliment us and bring us up to speed. Arrogance is the opposite end of the spectrum, inflating one's ego to the annoyance of others.


This is where the misconception occurs.


Everyone likes to think of themselves as just above average. A perceptional fallacy, as a basic understanding of statistics tells us the majority IS average. True genius is a rarity and I believe that is because it goes unreported. Not even considering the expectations thrust upon those of high IQ, it is much easier to be accepted if one chooses to conform. As tolerated and revered as the eccentric is in works of fiction, in reality such individuals are outcasts; weird. 

Society celebrates an outstanding ability when it's acquired through hard work and practice, but there is something unnerving about the prodigy. They'd rather believe genius is the result of a trick, rather than trust it as the genuine article. The chance of being outsmarted is cause to raise any guard. Ever competitive, man feels the need to level the playing field by devaluing others and bolstering its own image.

"He may be able to _______, but I bet he can't get a girlfriend."

"Who cares if she can ______? She looks like a horse."


The price of one's excellence is the magnification of his/her flaws, to hammer down the fact that the individual is still human, like the rest of us. We need that reassurance, but in getting it... we demoralize the genius and isolate them.

Life goes on, apathetic to one's intellect. Respect is a sweet spot, and it's easier to exist as a lesser form of yourself. Or so I think. I can only speak of my personal experience. I know, having read this, you will think less of me. A rambling egotist. Genius is respected when it's the real deal. Just look at how history remembers Albert Einstein. I suppose that's why I think I'm so dumb, because he's quoted as having roughly the same IQ as me. Unlike him, I'm a man of grossly unproven talent-- a high score without matching achievements.

They say any IQ above 140+ cannot be accurately measured, but I say no IQ can. Stephan Hawking, IQ 209, says only losers brag, which is why before this blog entry I never divulged my official number. All that matters is what you achieve, so that's what I am working on doing. You don't need an arbitrary number to tell others you are smart, only action. But telling others you are smart... that's what causes the resentment... isn't it?

There's no need to prove anything to anyone, unless it's a scientific theory. That's my theory on IQ and the nature of why advertising genius is perceived negatively.


- B

The Best Writers are Sadists

Yeah, you heard me right. And no, I don't mean this in some kind of sexual-masochistic 50 Shades of Grey kind of way. Pain is the most important part of your story-- fictional or otherwise.

Though I've always pretty considered hardship to be the most vital ingredient in a successful story, it was only recently that I pondered the extent of it and that truly meant on existential level. With my book nearing the completion of its final draft, my thoughts turned reflective and philosophical. I thought to myself, "Why am I such a jerk to my characters?" Not to spoil anything, but I hurt them-- brutally so-- time and time again. Why did I do this? If am the God of my story and I love my characters deeply, why do I torment them so?  

Simple. I had no choice. They were born to amuse a reader... and the other way to do that is make them writhe in agony. I know it's cliche, but there really is no gain without pain. My story would be blank without adversity. The protagonist wouldn't be the man he is without loss, nor would any of the other characters. I mean, the villains wouldn't be villains at all if they had no one to hurt. The characters would have nothing to even do or say if they didn't have to overcome and endure pain-- or prevent it from befalling others. That's what you, the reader, comes to see, don't you?  A story about a gladiator would be dull without a lion, and it would be just as pointless if that lion didn't manage to sink his teeth into the guy once or twice. Book readers truly are no different from the spectators of the Roman Colosseum, cheering for feats of glory and crying out for blood. Red is color of entertainment. There's no denying it.That's why utopia will always be a dystopia. Heaven will always be Hell. In peace we are bored... discontented. Humanity needs pain to feel alive. 

I'm not ashamed to know and embrace that seemingly cynical facet of human nature. Life is not a full, satisfying experience without failure and depression as we will have nothing to measure our success and happiness against. If you think about it, it's not really cynical statement on our nature at all. If anything, I'd say it's a positive one. It's proof our need culture, and our yearning for purpose. The echo of our collective calls to greatness. We want to feel real emotions. We want to be immersed in compelling dramas. See a good fight. Fight a good fight. Win a fulfilling win, and see others attempt the same. That means blood and bruises-- the shit being kicked out of both sides. Surprises. Thrills and chills. The beaten down dog rising from the ashes to take a bite out of the bigger dog. 

The best stories are the roughest rides, no matter where they end up or what happens along the way. Revisiting the dog metaphor, sometimes the dog loses in the end yet wins in a small way. Perhaps he fails miserably in all aspects-- maybe even DIES-- but in doing so he manages to achieve a meaningful emotional reaction in another character. That's tragedy at its finest-- something Shakespeare, arguably one of the greatest storytellers of all time, harnessed and perfected.  

Why do we like seeing that though? Why do we crave grittiness; depression? Those are deep questions, but they don't even begin to dive deep enough. Humanity doesn't want to be depressed, but the reality of it is that we are depressed. That's because as adults, we are in a constant state of decline. Growing worse and worse, until we finally lose the inevitable battle against our own mortality. So that's why we like it. We relate to it. We know it and understand it. But the tragedy is only one part. Half of the equation.

Pain is important, I believe, because of the fact that we expect it to end. We see a resolution. The conflict is brought to an end, and the hero escapes his conflict by his own two hands. This is something we all wish to do ourselves. Feel accomplished. Overcome our problems. Achieve great things. Even if the hero isn't even a hero at all-- morally speaking-- he or she still does something to their end. When you break any aspect of storytelling and life itself to its most basic form, you'll find pain. Don't believe me?

Here's a list of what most writers tend to accept as the most important elements to a successful story:

1. Likable Characters

2. Anticipation 

3. Immersion

4. Conflict 

5. Satisfying Resolution

1. You like characters you can relate to-- ones that seem real. The best characters? Ones that feel real emotions. Humans not robots. Ones that deal with baggage... and PAIN. How we react to pain defines who we are.

2. What creates excitement? Danger. What is danger? The possibility of experiencing PAIN. Pain is the ancestor literally to every phobia.

3. Life means constant struggle and growth. The most realistic thing is for a character to overcome PAIN and remove it-- either emotionally or physically. To wake up from a dream you pinch yourself. Pain tells us that things are real.

4. For you to want to fight against something, that thing must have caused you PAIN in some way.  Without pain as a motivator, your fight lacks all meaning. 

5. The best endings are the ones that leave no loose ends and make the PAIN we felt to get there worth it. Pain is either the result, or the force we managed to stop.

Alright, that's enough. I'm sure by now you're sick of the word pain, (Oh no, there it is again!) but I needed to hammer its importance into your head. What you should take from this beyond any applications to storytelling is that you shouldn't run away from the pain in your life-- nor lament its constant presence. Rather, as you should with writing fiction, embrace the hardship and use it as a source of strength. Turn yourself into a compelling character. Use it for the benefit of your own biography. There's no way to escape life's upsets, so allow yourself to cry every now and then. Let the sting be the back-story to your future greatness.  

We humans are creatures that are constantly feeling. Evolution and advancement always begins with a problem to overcome. Pain makes up a huge chunk our of lives. If you can't see it as a positive tool for personal growth, then you are wasting most of your life. The same thing applies to your story. You are the God of your world, responsible for everything that happens. If reality doesn't spare us from hardship, why should your fiction.

So be a sadist. Give your readers the blood they secretly pine for.  

- B

Edward Snowden: Public Enemy or People's Hero?

I'm aware that due to PRISM, I will be flagged by the United States government for merely mentioning Edward Snowden's name. What will look even worse, is that I'm posting an article about him and sharing it to various forms of social media. I know this because of his crime. His "leak." Julian Assange. Bradley Manning. Names of a similar sort. Purported to be the public enemy, just as Snowden is now. We are told to be afraid of people with such innocuous looks, but such is the era of our existance. The internet age- an age of mass sharing, and instant information... where the greatest crime is the leaking of a few choice words. In Snowden's case... there were a lot more than a few. 

Traditionally, the men who disclosed sensitive material were called spies, and had been rightfully punished for their espionage. Committing treason out of greed. In these cases however, a monetary transaction had always been involved. Interestingly enough., Snowden  did NOT receive a reward for his actions. All he did was air the United State's dirty laundry to dry in front of the public eye. Seemingly.

Hmm... that doesn't seem like the an act of a villain-- knowingly destroy one's own life with virtually no gain. Is it truly wrong to share with the public just how far their government has gone to infringe on their privacy? It certainly seems selfless-- suicidally so. Is it treason? To the government, yes, yes it is. They see his actions as kicking a hornet's nest, causing internal and external unrest. The US government loses a tremendous amount of translucence and face. Worst of all, the leak compromises the programs and secrets that the government would argue were kept under wraps for the good of the country. To truth seekers, however, this is an act of heroism. The freedom of speech is a right Americans grow up learning to be an innate value. Why should our government be allowed to act in secret? What gives them the right to spy on our internet actions? Or listen to our phone calls? Why should we be caught in a net cast to catch terrorists? How the government guarantee that the "accidental" collection of our personal information will be discarded and not be used in a malicious and manipulative way?   

The answer is complicated.

How you perceive the integrity of Snowden's character really pivots on what you define to be right or wrong, where your values lie and your opinion on how strong government's arm should be.  On one hand, his leak could cripples the government's ability to collect data to prevent terrorist activity. On the other, it could also hamper the government's ability to infringe on the rights of the innocent. (Aka, you and I.) Is it even necessary? While it is true that terrorist attacks on our home soil post-911 are few and far in between, but it is also true that we have the government to thank for that. But was it their invasive policies that brought that about? Or was it just the wake-up call, 9-11 itself?The Patriot Act was easily passed around the time the Towers fell. The danger was real. Fear was fresh. But now, the danger is relatively lessened, yet the stiff policies remain. But that's just part of it. A small part of the uncertainty that contributes to the complexity of the situation and make the judgement of Snowden's actions such a hard call. 

So how can we ever find an answer to all the questions, add them up and make that call? Honestly, we can't accurately given the convulsed mess of lies, misinformation and what not. But I was taught to never accept defeat, so we shall press on. When you are faced with that which you cannot, you find that which you can. To put it less theatrically, do the best thing you can manage to do. So, in this instance, we tackle the jackpot question. If we can't answer them all, we answer the biggest and best one of them all. And that's whether or not Snowden committed a crime, or is simply expressing his freedom of speech.  

Wikileaks is an organization founded on the principal that all information should be free. This puts them at odds with pretty much every government on the face of the world.Why? Because secrets are the lubricant that allow each nation's higher ups to squeeze by smoothly. It's the grease that gets those questionable policies through, and the duct tape that plugs the holes of the government's blunders-- ethical or otherwise. While it's all well and good to say, "I think there should be no secrets!" it's extremely naive. Honesty is not the best policy, especially when you have to walk the world's thinnest tight rope when it comes to foreign relations. Other countries are sensitive lot, and the most minor upset could be the difference between an enemy and an ally. 

From an individual's perspective, most of our government's decisions don't make sense. Why should we ship out billions of dollars to other countries, especially when we are in debt? Why do we have to raise taxes and cut social programs? Why does the military need so much money? So many questions. The government faces a trillion daily. Governments are expected to answer all of them, otherwise they are accused of failing at their job. It's easy for us to question the government's actions-- challenge the faceless foe. Rise up against the man. (Well, easy in talk I mean.) But we don't have those responsibilities on our lap, do we? 

I'm not saying the government is always doing the right things. Nor am I not accusing them of being forever in the wrong. The same goes for Snowden. He's a human. Not a demon. Not an angel. Is it wrong to rebel and question? No, it's healthy. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it's... necessary. Is it right to meddle in matters greater than you? Probably not. So what am I saying? Which side am I taking? What's my point? What is the answer to the big question? Was he right or wrong!? Both. Or neither? Bah! How the hell should I know? My gut tells me to cheer for the guy because I don't like being watched without my consent, yet my head tells me to let the government to do their thing since I can't even fathom the gravity of the situation. 

I guess you could say I'm on the fence, but I'm by no means neutral-- make no mistake. Regardless of whether or not Edward Snowden's actions are right or wrong... he is not an evil man. He not an Osama Bin Laden. He's a a man with opinions and a genuine desire to do what he thinks is right. He is an American, just like me. Hell, he even looks a little like me!

 Beyond my gut and my head, there's a third party that helps me do my thinking-- and it settles the deadlocks between my head and gut. That breaker of ties is my heart, and it's been telling me Edward Snowden is a hero. Yes, government does need to maintain quite a few secrets to keep it going-- but there is a limit. There's a line they cannot cross, and they cannot cross it because of who they--no, WE-- are. The United States of America, a land birthed from the union of liberty and justice-- delivered by a revolution from tyranny. We can never become that which we defied, nor should we ever deny ourselves of the freedoms that constitute for our very existence. 

The USA prides itself as the land of the brave, and Edward Snow is being just that. He's not affiliated with terrorist groups. This won't destroy our country. Have the floodgates opened? Has anarchy broke loose? Have any of the American people, civilians, been harmed by this leak? No, no it hasn't, and no, they haven't. The government's shield of secrecy has been shattered, and we the people are BETTER for it. They can still force these online companies to fork over our information, but now we know about it. We know there's an eye on our shoulder. Who cares if the enemy knows? If anything, it might just ward them off. 

Of course, it's never good to listen to your heart is it, so I guess the real answer to the question will never be found-- at least not by me. Hero or villain, Snowden's integrity weighs on your perspective on a great many factors. So many, that it might just be impossible to tell. 

As for me, I will applaud Mr. Snowden for the size of his balls-- for their massive size is the only thing I can be certain of. I wish him luck in his quest to elude the US government. He'll need all of it... and then some.   

- B

The Final Stage of Human Evolution

You can learn far more from the internet than you could from any school. Then again, the internet stores that information for us... infinitely and indefinitely, so what purpose do we have for learning? I suppose in the future, when the human mind is officially linked up with its ever-growing digital cloud of information (i.e. the world wide web) there will be none. Only the application.




It's my understanding that intellect has often been measured in one's retention and memorization at entry level education, with critical and creative problem solving pushed to the advanced classes-- ones which a large chunk of the population are denied participation in. If the future indeed features an all-knowing humanity, eliminated of the need to actively retain or seek out data... then we truly are standing at the precipice of our race's ultimate, and perhaps final stage in evolution.

With all the truths reaped from mankind's existence readily available at our fingertips, we have become our own gods-- omniscient. The efficiency and innovation will increase at an exponential rate. Hypergrowth, a technological leap of currently unfathomable heights.

We will become immortal within this very century, mark my words. Evolution is all but certain, but the cost is still beyond my scope. Can a world of gods thrive? Or will we be consumed by our own ingenuity? As humanity's darkness, its evil... a force not to be underestimated, especially when amplified by this forthcoming evolution.

Needless to say, these are the kinds of things that concern me, and lately I've been left wondering if others ponder such things as well. What say you, my readers?

What is your vision of the future, and where shall you fall in it?

The Instagram Complex

I caved. I joined the one social network that I said I'd always avoid. The e-mecca of superficiality-- the watering hole for the vainest inhabitants of the internet. As many of you may have guessed, I speak of Instagram. This is my analysis of that experience.

For those of you who are out of the loop (or have priorities) Instagram is the hot, erm, new-ish social networking site that encourages you to share your photographs with random strangers in a quest to gain likes that matter about as much as the points on Who's Line is it Anyway. You use hashtags with one word descriptions of what the image is in order to get your profile and picture noticed-- ultimately to gain followers. Essentially, it's an amalgam of Facebook's liking, Twitter's conciseness and Flikr's pictures. Kinda shallow, really... at least first glace.

The Secret to Life

Of all the things we seek in our lives-- success, love, acceptance, car keys-- one particular item ranks the highest on our most wanted list. No, want is not even close to being the right word... I'm grossly underselling the value of the object in question. This particular aspect of our existence is so unequivocally vital that no phrasing in any method of human expression could ever adequately capture the-

Oh, enough hype already! This blog entry is about one's purpose. It's about your, mine and everyone's role in the grand scheme of things. I speak of course of the ever-sought after cosmic answer: the secret to life.

I'm aware of how bold of a claim this is. I'm sure you're thinking to yourself--and quite logically, might I add-- how could one lowly blogger with little acclaim and no name for himself possibly think he's got the answers? I'm on even terms with you, I'd say... for what difference is there in a man but surroundings he keeps? I bid you only the benefit of my words, so listen and allow my words to serve as their own resume. You see, life's secret is not well kept-- anyone and everyone can figure it out and understand it.

The most common answer a man will give when questioned about life's meaning is that it is dependent on success or happiness (often the two are regarded as synonymous),  but I'd say both are only partially true-- far too broad to be accurate answers. What qualifies as happiness and success can mean any manner of things due to the wildly divergent perceptions of the human population. So then, what's my take? What do I find to be the meaning of life? One word: experience.    

Let the Force [Not] Be With You

This entry is both a change of pace and a return to form. I recently committed to a month-long poetry spree, tasking myself with the daily creation of a poem. It is with a heavy heart and an enlightened mind that I must now break that promise. It is not for lack of energy, effort or ability; rather, I learned something profound during my venture into the realm of spoken word. Something vital. A sagacity that has truly altered my general perspective for the better. In my hand, I grasp the key to writing and its various incarnations: natural flow. More specifically, the lesson I learned is that you cannot force a creative reaction. Ideas must be born naturally, and out of a genuine desire and passion to do so.

The epiphany came through the course of my poetry spree, as I found that the further along I pushed into the endeavor, the more diminished the quality of my work became. When I'd first started, I was firing on all cylinders-- I had a rhythmic frame of mind. The first few poems I wrote exploded on paper, filling me with pride with each read back. The poems conveyed messages, brimming with true power and emotion-- their symbols effective. Alas, by the time the second week's batch arrived, the dough had soured. What happened? How could this be? Doesn't practice make perfect? Honing one's craft is indeed a boon, yet forcing oneself to churn out shoddy creations like some kind of a soulless factory is a bane. Nobody wants to see acting that feels forced, nor does anyone want to read forced writing.

Force and art good bedfellows do not make, and I'd go so far as to say it force can ruin every action one can take in life. Brute force is one of the most garish and unappealing means to an end I can fathom. It's Plan Z, the last of all resorts. An arranged wedding never fairs well, and forced love fairs equally foully. Life doesn't exist within the screen of a calculator. You can't tap a few buttons and expect a clean, clear result.  A conclusion must be arrived to naturally and in the most practical and beneficial way possible, regardless of the time and effort one must spend to get there. When coaxing a skittish cat to eat food out of your hand, you don't chase it down rapidly and violently shove food down its throat as it desperately claws for freedom. No, you hunker down submissively, whisper gently, let it come to you and eat the food cutely off palm.

Trying to write through writer's block--something I see as just not being in the mood--is equally futile. If you force a girl to have sex with you when she doesn't want it, that's a legitimate rape. Why would you rape your mind? Don't force yourself to do anything you don't want to do. Let your creative juices flow when they ready to do so. If you try drinking your creative spring before the spring of inspiration bubbles forth from your brain, all you'll be doing is churning out futility. You'll suck, like that annoying sucking noise made by children when they refuse to come to terms with the end of their milkshake.

So don't force anything. It's good to give yourself the kick in the pants you need to get up and go every once in a while, but let art make itself. Be a participant and a team player in your creative process-- not a desperate agitator and bully. Instead of blowing a whistle and demanding results, command a smile and create and guide a success like a thoughtful and caring therapist-- willing to offer as many sessions as needed until what needs to be done gets done.

Remember, you cannot force love... and love is the most important ingredient in anything worth doing. Especially writing.


- B

That Dirty Word (A Killer's Monologue)

"I used to be a man. A man with a mind geared for the petty and mundane… just like you.  I cared about things, some of which had eyeballs and hearts. Things like jobs, kittens, babies and clothes. Things I know now are all equally irrelevant. All cosmically insignificant and oh so squishable. What am I now, you ask? What can I be, if not a man? What creature looks and lives like a man, but is not a man at all? The hell if I know, still making sense of that myself. Other people call me names— people like the police or my relatives, but who are they to me? What gives them the right? Demon, madman, psychopath… all those labels make me sick, but of all the insults I’ve been called… I’d say being called human stings the absolute worst.

Humankind. What a miserable bunch. At the very least, I’m an honest being— open with my odium. Hypocritical cowards, every last one of them. They’re revolting. They lie to everyone they meet about everything, trying to hype their accomplishments or downplay their failures. They want praise, pity or any form of goddamn attention in between. I just got promoted! My wife died! I have cancer! Why the HELL should I care!? Do you shed a tear when you step on an ant? Cheer when you see a bee pollenate a flower? A human being is nothing but meat with self-awareness, riding high on their horse of moral resolution. The containment of thoughts within the brain is the only thing stopping humanity from killing each other. In that sense, I guess you could say it was my outward thinking and openness that caused me to do what I did. Honesty is my only sin. I’m far too genuine to be a human.  I don’t fit in their fake system… their crappy circles… their grubby little ‘families.’

Nauseating. Utterly nauseating. FAMILY. The very word induces vomit. The concept of family is nothing more than a pathetic excuse to exclude others from receiving your kindness. Another selfish ploy to horde love and supplies— a shameless extension of man’s obsession with immortality. You live for your family? You mean your only purpose in life is to ensure the perpetuation your meaningless genetic code. How fucking noble. Of course I hate family because it’s basically just a fatter selection of humanity, a crappy clump of man meat innately huddling for an inane desire for ‘evolution.’ Of course they arrogantly assume the continuation of mankind is considered beneficial. For whom? Not animals. Not the planet. NOT ME.

Society is the longest running joke there is. Every day is progress? Yeah, progressively worse. What does society create? What does it accomplish? More human beings and less human beings, yet sadly fate favors the former. The only reason mankind isn’t already extinct is because fucking is more socially acceptable than killing. Both are forms of pleasure. Don’t think so, eh? Don’t knock what you haven’t tried.

C’mon, now… Haven’t you ever hated someone? Not annoyed… irked… bothered… hated. ABSOLUTELY DESPISED. This person—a lightly used term—has face on which the slightest smirk can set your soul on fire. Boil your blood! RUE YOUR VERY EXISTENCE. You can think of someone… I’m sure you can. That asshole boss or backstabbing co-worker? Fake friend or a real enemy? Maybe Mom, sis, bro… or is it dear old dad? A cheating spouse perhaps? The politician ruining a country? A group you hate? That sick animal abuser you saw on the news. Rapist...? A terrorist group…? The whole country from which they hail? A serial-killer? Everyone who has ever murdered?

You see it don’t you… the color grey. It paints over that bullshit code of morality and ethics that you and the rest of your kind clutch so dearly to. You can call a grizzly bear invisible, but it will still bite your head off. You can call a lie the truth… but it will still live inside you and tear away at your mushy little human parts. When given the acceptance of society, mankind will willingly commit to committing genocide. You think you’re so different than Nazi Germany? The Pope commanded the Crusades, an absolute bloodbath. Why is a Muslim’s death more acceptable than a Jew’s? America, land of the free. Home of the brave. Site of the massive slaughter of an entire culture. God bless our troops— government sanctioned serial-killers.

              

There’s that word again… serial-killer. That magic word that makes everyone simultaneously defecate themselves and turn their noses in a conditioned response of disgust. I suppose you’ll tune me out now. Go ahead… go on your way and go about your day, thinking you’re morally superior. I don’t care what you think, and nor does history or the greater cosmos. I’m the happiest man alive— doing what I love."

How To Never Read Past How To

I question Mark.

I've never read anything past the words, "How to." Goals, like band-aids, are just something I bleed through. Dreams, a read-through, the before the after. Happily ever after seems a bit like lazy falling action. Why does the action have to fall anyway? "You're a writer, why are you bothering with gravity?" I guess I just try to stay grounded-- I'm too old to have my mother do it. I don't like thinking about my mother doing it. That's why I'm doing it my way. Technically that's Sinatra's way, but hey, life can't always take place at Burger King.

Life is like a passing thought. It's like an unfinished metaphor in that. Does the thought ever occur to you? No, I occur to it. My thoughts are sporadic and Socratic. They're dispersed questions, like a series of mosquitoes protesting malaria injections. They suck, they're full of blood, and they don't always make sense. But how do you make sense anyway? What's a rhetorical question with an answer? A paradox.

The point of prose is to substantiate poetic critique. It rhymes perfectly with morose, flows and even rose(poet's love that one.) What is a rose anyway, by any other name? Doth it not smell as sweet? Sure, unless you call it shit. What is the word shit, if not but a symbol for language itself? Poop, excrement, feces, defecate-- all sound far to delicate, silly and sophisticated for the crap they describe. Shit is curse, but it has the same amount of letters as poop. What makes one silly? What makes one inappropriate? I'd argue that shit is the most appropriate tag for a turd, yet such is its curse.

Google Glass: Futuristic... and Freaky

Say, "cheese"... Clarice

Recently, I wrote a blog entry regarding the false need for smartphones and my unwillingness to upgrade with the rest of the world. At the end of the piece, I jokingly said I'd break down and upgrade when Google Glass hit the market due to my glasses fetish. Since then, however, I've had time to consider a world viewed through the futuristic lens of Google's all-seeing eye. Despite my childhood-seeded desire for living in a Blade Runner-esque cyberpunk society, I've become reluctant to see the dreams of Google Glass fully realized. In our age of ultra advanced technology, each new tech faces a fine line between a being helpful... and eerie. In this case, I find Google's attempt in making the next jump in modern communication a leap that lands on the creepy side.


Before any further discussion in regards to its ethics, I'd like to give a run down on what exactly Google Glass is and does for those of you who are unfamiliar. I think Google's marketing has done a splendid job of this already, so I will provide their advertisement before I make my own rundown:

Pretty neat, huh?

Making Peace with Lost Creations

An all too familiar ill befell me today-- a cruel twist of fate that has plagued me frequently in the past, and shall surely continue to antagonize me in the days to come. My lament is one that is echoed throughout human existence-- a spurned yet inevitable part of any artist's life.

The loss of one's work.

Pardon the sudden transition in font, boldness, italics and size, but the severity of the predicament demands that I pull out all the stops. Today, like many other days, luck--or lack of it--hath beckoned back my woes. Microsoft Word 2013 is still quite in BETA, so I cope with bugs abound... and the mal-est of malfunctions reared its ugly head... save corruption. A computer crash has lost me a substantial amount of work-- two whole days worth, to be exact. For non-writers perhaps that may not seem like much, but due to the fleeting nature of my brain's creative bursts that flare spontaneously as I write, this means I lost ideas, descriptions and dialogues that I will never again be able to retrieve.

Non-writing folk will frustratingly tell me and the countless others who've shared my misery:

"You did it once, you can do it again."

I can do it again, yes, but never ever in the same way and therein lies the tragedy. Forever lost... the original work shall never see the eyes of a reader. In all works of art, the creator knows that producing the same outcome twice is exceedingly difficult, if not impossible.


Why? Because there is a certain relationship between an artist and its medium that cannot be feigned. Writing something you've already written but lost--not to be confused with a rewrite-- is like trying to pick out someone the same exact birthday card two years in a row:  It feels forced, it's hard to do, and even if you get it right it's not nearly as effective as the first time. It's the sad truth. The unprovoked and unexpected snippets of inspiration that arise amiss earnest writing sessions are irreplaceable  You cannot control the weather, nor can you predict--or truly understand--a brainstorm. The tempest that is creative energy is like a fossil fuel-- once you mine it, it's gone. Kaput. Picture the tragedy that is an oil spill... the tremendous loss of life and wealth. My creations are alive in my mind, and when events of their lives disappear it is as tragic as an Alzheimer's patient's loss of memories. Never again will I see those precious moments.


And yet, I must carry on.