History

"Who controls our past?"
-Calder

Answer: those who tell the version most aligned with the ideals of whoever pays them. Or doesn't kill them, depending on the time and place. Basically: those in power control the past (control the present, control the future, etc.). This shouldn't be news to any of you, even before Calder's presentation. The question then becomes: how do we reclaim our past? I won't describe a comprehensive plan here as I believe Jonah addresses that quite well in his most recent blog, but I do have a place to start.

We must first learn to accept our ugliness.

A few weeks ago I sat patiently through some previews before watching a movie at the theater. One was for a television show on the Kennedy assassination. As the preview ended, I heard a woman behind me say, "How can they do that?", implying deep disrespect of the man's ghost. The thought I had then was the same when Calder told us of the Enola Gay exhibit: "How can you not do that?"

Every psychologist knows the dangers of repression for the individual. Running from one's problems does not solve them, it only gives them time to fester and in the process consume the mind. Cultural repression is far more sinister in that it consumes the past. By refusing to look ourselves in the mirror and face the ugliness of our previous actions as a species, we are only running. That reflection is an uncomfortable one to face. No one is pleased to see their own flaws or consider they may be less than worthwhile. It is that reflection that people are only too relieved to abandon to authorities who twist it into something that looks fairer, but feels much fouler. They turn war into justification, betrayal into initiative, slaughter into sacrifice.

I don't presume we could ever come close to an unbiased reporting on any of the great atrocities of the past. Even calling something an "atrocity" is subjective. But these events, these Berlin Bombings, these Hiroshimas, these Libraries of Alexandria, clearly affected us. I don't ask for an interpretation. I ask for an observance, an awareness. I wish to force people to look away from the aeroplanes and laser surgery and towers reaching to Heaven and say, "We are this too."

If we are to reclaim our past, we must reclaim all of it.

Consumption

Your breath clings to the cold air, so tight you'd think it was scared
The sign of life
The spirit easing into death, letting a piece of itself go with every exhalation
Puff, nothing, puff, nothing
Marking time until...
You have no time left

I wish we were closer
I'd look into your eyes and smile
Not mocking, but thanking
Congratulating
"Your life is not your own."
Maybe if that was the last thing you saw, you wouldn't be afraid. You wouldn't feel pain. Maybe if, even for one tiny moment, for just one breath, we connected there would be no "you". Or "me". We would see the contradiction, the whole.
We would be free.
Or maybe not. You have to remember I'm human. We have silly thoughts sometimes. Your eyes are on the sides of your head while mine are on the front. You are prey. I am predator.

One tactless gunshot is all it takes to end you
It feels like cheating
There's no intimacy to it, no challenge
You deserve better
But instead you have a bullet in your heart
Anyway, thanks. I'm sorry, it's nothing personal.

Your spirit greets me, eager to escape your body
Pee-yoo!
Smells like sage and shit and death
Did you know your brain is just big enough to tan your hide?
I doubt it
Maybe that's why it's me gutting you and not the other way around
You grow your clothes, I have to steal them

"Eating is the only way of truly possessing," a spider told me in a dream.
I think what she meant was:
Fuck all that other bullshit, to live is to consume
I consume you, you consume the grass, the grass consumes the sun, and the sun consumes itself
(By the way, has anyone ever made an ouroboros of the sun? Because that would be awesome)
While I am alive, I can lose my tools, my home, my clothes (very willingly), but I cannot lose that which is closest to me: my body
And my body is made of you
Well, not just you, but you're sure as hell gonna help
I think that's what the spider meant when she spoke of possession

The key phrase there was "while I am alive"
I'm part of the cycle too
I eat you today, but you will eat me tomorrow
We eat each other (not at the same time though; that would be weird)
We are the prey and the predator
The water and the wave
The connection and detachment
The murderer and the mystery

(After) Love

"...she loved me more than I loved her, and that consequently I had in some indefinable way won."
-Magus, Chapter 6

Or, as it was put in class: the one who loves the least has the most power in a relationship. To love is to a selfless act, inherently exposing. To be loved is a selfish act, inherently isolating. For any relationship work, especially a romantic one, both are needed. A give and take of love is required to forge the bond.

At first, there is the honeymoon phase. The love is new. It is exciting. One or both people have longed for the touch of another and find validation in sex. The bond is formed of mutual desire and the release of sexual tension. It resonates with the crash of broken barriers and the whispered words, "I love you." The lovers bare themselves and drink deep the heady wine of affection. This is the easy part. Being in love may be stressful at first, but the worries soon fade as the two begin to see themselves as one.

Then, there is a crisis. A turning point. A moment of clarity in which each individual sobers and is distinct once more. Either there is one who loves and one who is loved, or the two share love equally. The former leads to a break or an unhappy couple. The latter I'll term "true love" in that it is reciprocated. To love is to give selflessly, to fill the other's cup expecting nothing in return. If both halves of a couple love, neither goes thirsty. If one drinks without filling, his partner will surely die for lack of substance.

Some of our discussion this week and what I've read in the Magus thus far has touched on the last romantic relationship I was in. Unfortunately, it was the post-crisis case of me loving and her receiving love. I'm not terribly sad that the bond was severed -- these things happen, especially in youth. What broke my heart was how well I thought it was going right before it wasn't.

As Brooke spoke of on Thursday, love is one situation in which one may feel very vulnerable. While we fell in love, we both felt this vulnerability. We admitted our growing attachment to each other. We sighed the promises of love into the hot night air. It wasn't scary. It was exhilarating.

Something changed. The balance tipped, and suddenly I found myself despairing my unrequited love. I was hurt, but I will never regret. To see the fullness in others, this is my love. To slip from control, to feel "the otherness of the other disappear", this is my my love (Magus, Chapter 7). There is strength in surrender. There is growth and pain and joy and freedom and fulfillment. The key is to pick up the pieces of the broken heart that shine and put them back together into a stronger form than it was before. I was hurt, but now I heal.

A song I wrote shortly after the break up:

After Love

Been a long time comin'
The bed was already cold
Rain outside drummin'
Out the breakin' of my soul

Heart still beatin' on
But the rhythm has changed
And what song does it play
after love?

What comes after love?
It'll never be the same
After you marked me, baby
After you took away my pain
After we came together
After we fell apart
After you'd had enough
After love

Will the rivers run dry?
Will you forget my name?
Will the seas turn to sand?
Or will I live another day?

Will the earth quake below?
Will the sun still shine above?
Or will all still remain
after love?

What comes after love?
What of me will remain?
After you marked me, baby
After you took away my pain
After we came together
After we fell apart
After you and me, my dear
After love

The Dance

Septimus: When we have found all the mysteries and lost all the meaning, we will be alone, on an empty shore.
Thomasina: Then we will dance.

The other thing about time is that even if one spends it appropriately, there will always be an end to it. At the end of our lives, Death waits patiently to hang our coats and welcome us to the ballroom. Whether it is the death of the intellect, as Septimus alludes to above, or the death of the body, there is but one thing left at the end: the dance. And really, what the hell else are you going to do? After one knows all the answers, after one dies, there's no point to it anymore, is there? This whole human condition business becomes junk floating under the bridge, the flotsam of some strange dream. All that remains is the dance. The cosmic dance. The one in which all the particles of the universe vibrate together, colliding and spinning off each other until there are no more collisions or spinnings. Until there is unity, or as we call it, heat death.

Our science can't say what lies beyond heat death. Religions make a good go at it, but it's really just a guess. What we do know is that, in the mean time, the universe dances. One day it will dance itself to sleep, but should that depress you? I don't think so. As Brook understands: dance for the sake of dancing. It's all we know how to do, anyway.

Time

"Oh, we have time, I think.
--till there's no time left."

I don't believe we are the only species aware of our mortality. We're just the ones who make the biggest fuss about it. Living, not dying; awake, not sleeping; active, never inactive: there is an obsession these days to maximize our time doing and cut everything else out. The march moves faster now than it ever has in the past. Are we better for it?

When I was younger my mother chide me for eating slowly, walking slowly, getting in the car slowly. She said I was on "Connor time". I feel just fine about this. Connor time is the only time I have worth spending. Everyone has his own time, his own frequency. It's what we call metabolism. And I know damn well that I'm not going to force myself into anyone else's time. Especially not "corporate time" or "yolo time".

We've talked a few times now about not wasting time and despising those who do. I agree with this on a certain level. Yes, I strive to make something of my day, my week, my year, my life. The days I find myself cramming my hours and minutes full of intent, though, are the worst I've ever spent. They leave me feeling burnt out, and I fear this much more than idleness.

The human brain isn't meant to work sixteen hours without rest, despite what the modern workforce would have one believe. As a nation, we're more productive than ever before. But are we happier for it? Even those of us who ask the "big questions" feel the strain of wondering too much and resting too little. As Frye puts it in the last chapter of The Secular Scripture: God's greatest act is that of the Sabboth. It is the sitting back and admiring one's work. It is rest and recuperation.

Appropriate song lyrics:

"Slow down Jo
Anybody ever tell you that you move too fast?
Anybody ever tell you how to make a good thing last?
'Cause it ain’t like that

First you gotta slow down Jo.
Last night I was talking to some friends of mine.
A.J.’s afraid you’re gonna kill your time or lose your mind.

If you don’t slow down Jo.
Anybody ever tell you if you lose the knack.
Anybody ever tell you that it’s true
You can get it back?
But not like that

It ain’t by kicking down the walls or pissing off your friends.
Every time the cards don’t fall your way.
It ain’t by poking out your eyes when you see something you don’t like.
Even your mama said she don’t want to see you spent at twenty-five,
So come on Jo stay alive"

"Slow Down Jo" by Monsters of Folk

Snakes

http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2013/10/131028162928.htm

No wonder these guys are so archetypal.

Reading/Recreating

I finished reading Frye's Secular Scripture today. Although I lack most of the literary knowledge required to fully appreciate his arguments, I did pull some bits from each chapter that provoke some thoughts. The final chapter in particular has some good quotes:

"The past is not returned to; it is recreated..."
"...imagination brings to life the specters of the dead who inhabit memory, creation thus being to memory what resurrection is to death."
"One's reading thus becomes an essential part of a process of self-creation and self-identity that passes beyond all the attached identifications, with society or belief or nature, that we have been tracing."

We touched on these ideas a few gatherings ago. When one remembers, it's not like pulling a file from a cabinet. Instead, its more like painting a familiar picture on a blank canvas. Every act of remembering is an act of recreation which changes the memory. By remembering, we are constantly updating and revising our view of the past and, therefore, of the present.

What is interesting to me is this idea of "specters of the dead". I've had a similar thought before. I was confronting my own mortality, trying to come to terms with the fact that this life will come to an end. It frightened me, and still does to some extent. Death itself is not what worries me because it is that which takes away all worries. No, what I struggle with is the question of whether anything I do will really matter, if any of my labors will mean anything.

As I chewed on this thought, I came to a realization: the dead speak through us. Not in a black magic, seance, talking in tongues way, but in a very real way based on our interconnectedness. This is because everything about us, from the way to we dress to the foods we like to the words we use, has been informed by all who have come before us. As long as one touches another, who touches another, etc., the continuity is never broken. There is a thread running through all of humanity: woven by the dead, carried by the living, and passed on to the unborn.