By Rand I mean Ayn Rand, and by wrong I don't mean her philosophies. I'm only starting to read into those, so I couldn't give you a distinct argument either way. I'm just reading Anthem by her, about another futuristic society whose morals and ways of thinking have blown so far off course they are now in what can only be described as another stone age. With candles. The premise is that all humans have lost any sense of self and individuality, leaving them with the great "we". It's a world where one can't be alone, think alone or even have preferences... to anything.
I just don't buy it.
There are so many stories about our future being less than our past and everyone in it being extremely ignorant. But how can this happen? So some natural disaster/man made catastrophe/unstoppable epidemic/alien attack leaves humanity with only a few survivors, say 1,000 people. They, in turn, have to create new generations, but knowing what they know then (and assuming these 1,000 people aren't ALL naiive, uneducated kids/toddlers), why would they simply forget it all? Clearly they have to know some basics of life including reproducing to survive, why is it that only supreme ignorance is passed down to their successors?? If these people survived whatever killed the other 5,999,999,000, they would still hold to their learned traits and morals.
The way I see it there is only a cycle. We were monkeys (sorry creationists), now we're humans, if we all die (assuming there are still monkeys), the monkeys will once again evolve or that will just be the end of us. If any of us survive, the monkeys won't have time to evolve before we just return to this state we're at currently. There is no complete 180 in human behavior and knowledge, just this again.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Eggs
When I was a child, I developed a loathing for eggs. Sometimes, when I was ill, my mother would stir an egg into my milk, sweeten it, and try to convince me that it was a kind of milk shake. Invariably, a quivering piece of raw egg-white -- something like a boiled booger, cooled and congealed -- would lie stranded on my tongue.
Even now, I shudder in remembered disgust.
I could be induced to try a little scrambled egg (if very dry) or a hard-boiled egg (if very cold, and with its shell dyed in the gaudiest Easter-egg colors that modern chemistry could provide), but the very idea of slurping down runny yolks -- reeking sulfuriously in their fluorescent yellow nastiness -- was the stuff of nightmares.
Just sitting at the breakfast table when my father cut into his sunnyside-ups was an unbearable ordeal. I could turn away, of course, but that eggy smell soon overcame my pitiful attempts at table manners -- and there was no way to hide the kicking-in of the gag reflex. I was certain that there was nothing worse that could happen at breakfast.
I was wrong.
One morning, I woke to find that my grandfather had spent the night at our house. He was a silent gray figure, as grizzled and uncuddly as the generations of taciturn Danes who preceded him. He sat, hunched slightly forward at the breakfast table, looking down at his glass of milk. He remained silent as I sat across from him. He lifted the glass, and slowly -- in one long draft -- drank the whole thing. It was only at the end, when the cloudy glass was nearly empty, that I saw it.
A raw egg had been lying, hidden like some foul serpent, at the bottom of his glass. Slowly, oh how horribly slowly, the slimy thing slid down the milky film and into his mouth.
Nearly sixty years later, I have become as gray and grizzled and uncuddly as my grandfather was then -- but no power on earth could make me swallow one of those milky raw eggs.
Even now, I shudder in remembered disgust.
I could be induced to try a little scrambled egg (if very dry) or a hard-boiled egg (if very cold, and with its shell dyed in the gaudiest Easter-egg colors that modern chemistry could provide), but the very idea of slurping down runny yolks -- reeking sulfuriously in their fluorescent yellow nastiness -- was the stuff of nightmares.
Just sitting at the breakfast table when my father cut into his sunnyside-ups was an unbearable ordeal. I could turn away, of course, but that eggy smell soon overcame my pitiful attempts at table manners -- and there was no way to hide the kicking-in of the gag reflex. I was certain that there was nothing worse that could happen at breakfast.
I was wrong.
One morning, I woke to find that my grandfather had spent the night at our house. He was a silent gray figure, as grizzled and uncuddly as the generations of taciturn Danes who preceded him. He sat, hunched slightly forward at the breakfast table, looking down at his glass of milk. He remained silent as I sat across from him. He lifted the glass, and slowly -- in one long draft -- drank the whole thing. It was only at the end, when the cloudy glass was nearly empty, that I saw it.
A raw egg had been lying, hidden like some foul serpent, at the bottom of his glass. Slowly, oh how horribly slowly, the slimy thing slid down the milky film and into his mouth.
Nearly sixty years later, I have become as gray and grizzled and uncuddly as my grandfather was then -- but no power on earth could make me swallow one of those milky raw eggs.
This is not about love.
I can't think of anything else I've ever been asked to contribute to, although I'm about ninety-nine percent sure Jon asked everyone he knew, so, I really shouldn't feel particularly honored. But, I'll probably be spittin some personal shit on here. I write late at night in a tiny notebook that folds open like a letter, with an ancient-looking world map on the cover in all sorts of browns and golds. No one has ever read any of my shit. I think this blog is actually a pretty cool idea, but, if I write anything, it's gonna be some personal shit. Everyone is going to have to deal with that.
That being said, I'm going to write something now. This is a poem with no literary elements, no rhythm, no stanzas, and in complete prose. Is it a poem, then? Probably not. But, I am going to call it one, and being its creator, I have the understanding that I can use full artistic interpretation as deeming it Just Poetic Enough to be a poem.
I really don't know why I ever let my body do what I want it to. "It seemed like a good idea at the time" is a phrase that I've used to justify just about every bad idea I've ever had. But most of the time, it doesn't seem like a good idea at the time, and I fully acknowledge how horrible of an idea it is. Then I think, "Oh well, it's a learning experience." And I do it. Like last night. Like two weeks ago. Like last month. Like last summer. Like last year. Like two summers ago. Like three years ago. The common denominator, ultimately, is my lack of self-respect. Which is a complete lie, because I happen to have a great deal of it. But after each time, it seems to have burrowed itself as far back in my conscience as is possible for a personified self-respect to do. I guess it could be worse. It could be ten instead of three. I could have permanent consequences. Brain damage, a hospital visit. But I don't. Instead, I have the gift of internalizing, analyzing, and just before I'm about to really figure myself out, I stop. And push all of my progress into the far back of my mind. Or, I scratch it down on paper and shove my tiny notebook that folds up like a letter back far, far under my bed.
I just realized more people might read this than I had initially figured. OK. I'm going to stop now.
That being said, I'm going to write something now. This is a poem with no literary elements, no rhythm, no stanzas, and in complete prose. Is it a poem, then? Probably not. But, I am going to call it one, and being its creator, I have the understanding that I can use full artistic interpretation as deeming it Just Poetic Enough to be a poem.
I really don't know why I ever let my body do what I want it to. "It seemed like a good idea at the time" is a phrase that I've used to justify just about every bad idea I've ever had. But most of the time, it doesn't seem like a good idea at the time, and I fully acknowledge how horrible of an idea it is. Then I think, "Oh well, it's a learning experience." And I do it. Like last night. Like two weeks ago. Like last month. Like last summer. Like last year. Like two summers ago. Like three years ago. The common denominator, ultimately, is my lack of self-respect. Which is a complete lie, because I happen to have a great deal of it. But after each time, it seems to have burrowed itself as far back in my conscience as is possible for a personified self-respect to do. I guess it could be worse. It could be ten instead of three. I could have permanent consequences. Brain damage, a hospital visit. But I don't. Instead, I have the gift of internalizing, analyzing, and just before I'm about to really figure myself out, I stop. And push all of my progress into the far back of my mind. Or, I scratch it down on paper and shove my tiny notebook that folds up like a letter back far, far under my bed.
I just realized more people might read this than I had initially figured. OK. I'm going to stop now.
Leo, a Story of Mine
Now that slithery little curmudgeon is walking over to me and Dartha, her in her satin red dress, me in my inexpensive suit jacket. I’m swishing the champagne in my glass just to keep from looking at him as he approaches and I hear Dartha sigh.
“Hey chaps! How are you two this fine evening?” he spits our way.
“Good, just good,” I shrug making then losing eye contact with the man. Instead my gaze finds his plump midsection and burst buttons, a few inches north of a rather unsightly bulge, no doubt Leo’s own creation to attract the opposite sex at the party.
There is an awkward pause as we nod and Dartha says, “So, Leo, where’s Gweneth?” referring to his most recent wife.
“Oh she’s away on business.” We nod some more. “Yeah you know how it is, one day you’re in love, the next she’s away shacking up with a long-haired romance novelist in a degraded strip club in
Finally Leo sees the conversation is going nowhere, or perhaps he sees a tray of hors d’oeuvres being served elsewhere, and he exits with a quick “Well… best of luck chaps!” We watch as he drags his fat arse between the throngs of people and disappears.
“Well that was lovely,” grumbles my beloved.
I glimpse towards the immense grandfather clock at the end of the hall. 7:29 it reads. ‘Ah yes’ I think, ‘supper’. Right on cue, as is the elitist way to begin anything, a server appears from the balcony and regards the crowd below him. From behind his back he withdraws a gold bell and rings it as the people start to notice him and quiet down. Anxious silence stands amidst the guests as the man proclaims, “Tonight we will be eating in the dining room behind these doors.” He points to two illustrious gold plated doors beneath him. “Your host will then arrive, along with your waiters, to inform you of your courses. So I ask that everyone is calm and courteous in entering…” Before he can finish the doors open as spews of people rush through them. “And enjoy!” he shouts thrusting his arms up, clearly a presentation that was supposed to precede the movement into the dining area.
We drain our glasses and place them on the nearest glass table, eager as anyone for our meal. Once in transition, it took us a few minutes before we could be seated, the rushes of people aiming for a spot near the host. The man in question was talk show host Eddie Leimbower, a very well known name around these parts; also an investor in StraightEdge computer products, my company. I, like most of the people around me, do not know Leimbower on a personal basis, but just enough to receive an invite to his first annual Christmas gala and dinner. Unlike most though, I have no urge to meet the man or enter into his private posse, so I’m perfectly content with my seat near the opposite end of the enormous rectangular table. I’m here for the food. See, the pop culture icon is known to dabble in quite an array of interesting cuisine, and prides himself on electing the courses for his guests himself. I suppose that makes both of us small connoisseurs of the art. As for his conversation? I’d prefer to indulge without that monotonous, ignorant spiel of politically corrected garbage that all TV personalities seem to carry along with them. I’m an opportunist. Right now I’m savoring the opportunity of a lifetime, not Eddie Leimbower’s squabble.
“Please stand,” announces another man dressed similarly to the one from the balcony. His voice is coincidently much deeper and has a grand gesture to it so we do as we are told. Out walks a short, lean man dressed in elegant black and white who bows to us before taking his seat at the head of the table. The rest of the party follows suit.
Above us dangles a long line of crystal chandeliers that glimmers softly in the dim lighting. High ceilings and majestic tapestries boast richness, a feature I only hope is shared by our first course. No cigar. After the long and unnecessary introductions we’re told we will be starting with a light Italian wedding style soup with a white
Plain, unappealing, watery baby vomit.
I feel as though better flavor is experienced through a Progresso can. Even the wine is uncannily sweet. Swing and a miss Leimbower. To my surprise the rest of my company appears to enjoy it, and they don’t restrain any kind words from the beaming idiot at the head of this monstrosity. I turn to Dartha next to me who merely displays a message of ‘What do you expect?’ My expectations are plummeting as the servers declare the second course; vinaigrette topped green salad with small olives, mushrooms and a stuffed clam. Excitement once again turns to horror as the unsightly, dry lettuce and dull dressing force their way down my throat. I’ve nearly given up hope as I engage the obese mollusk left on my plate whose substance is no stronger than the gooey aftermath of leftover grocery bought seafood. And yet again the crowd sings their praise to the chef and to the host who soaks it up like an old sponge under water. Astonishingly I don’t hear Leo’s crippling voice over the howling lapdogs. Perhaps there is some culture left in him after all.
By now I’m staring at my wristwatch, praying for the end of this miserable night. It says 9:00 which means the main course. The lead role in this theatrical vision of hell, the captain of the S.S. Suckfest, the straw that is without a doubt going to break my intestines. A tender loin accented with garlic and herb spices with lemon encrusted shrimp and a side of fresh broccoli. I don’t fall for the delectable descriptions, not anymore at least. All I can do is eye my wife with anticipation and feel sick.
Out comes the meat, which is undeniably well presented with a bitter Merlot. I close my eyes and place a small sliver in my mouth. Unlike the other dishes I’m not instantly met with unpleasantness, but instead a unique, warming sensation. It is no doubt juicy, and actually quite enjoyable. Its flavor is new to me, maybe some of that fine foreign cuisine I came for. It’s delicious. Even the mediocre sides seem to come alive and amaze me when blended with this delightful loin. I have to stop myself from delivering positive comments to Eddie.
Just then my teeth chomp down on something hard. A forgotten bone perhaps, but I’m unsettled nonetheless and I pull it out. Even more disturbing in its true identity, a large brass button now lay sitting in my palm. All alluring sentiments aside, I have to stop myself from gagging. I drop it on the tablecloth and turn away from it.
“Do you see this Dartha?” I ask her, motioning towards the button.
“Was that in your food?” she replies.
“Yeah, and I was just starting to enjoy this meal,” I state dissatisfied. I then take the repulsive brass circle and place it in my pocket, excusing myself from the remainder of dinner.
I wait out in the hall, passing time by looking out into the night through the great glass windows adjacent to the entrance. Finally the clock strikes 11 and I hear the voices inside settle. Next I hear the arrogant bellows of a television talk show personality and applause. Dinner is over, and the guests are pleased, all except one.
The party disassembles slowly, the last members trying to extend their last chances of greeting Eddie Leimbower, and finally being ushered out the door, except for me and Dartha who keep a low profile in the corner. I finger the button in my coat pocket and eventually the short tuxedoed man notices us. Politely but tiredly he walks over and says, “I appreciate your gratuity but I must bid all guests farewell....”
I step forward. “Oh we are here on no act of gratuity Mr. Leimbower.”
“Is there a problem? Was something wrong with the meal?” he questioned with a sincere look on his face.
My hand pulls the button out and places it in my opposite palm. My eyes catch it once again and my mouth opens to argue, but then I stop. A twinge of familiarity rises in my mind as I look at the piece of brass and a smile grows on my lips.
I suddenly know where I had seen that button before.
I suddenly know why the meat had tasted so strange.
I suddenly know why the notables always kept Leo around.
And I thought celebrities had bad taste.
Starting Something?
Hmm... kind of drafty in here. All alone on this. Well consider this a blog for inspired writers/opinionists (just made that word up!)/philosophers/poets and lyricists. Even if that just means me. It's my blog and it's free so WHATEVER. Then again if you're reading this, that could mean you. Now also consider offering your two cents, and better yet your writing. On anything. About anything. I don't know about you guys, but I think writing loves company so post what you got!
I just discovered if you want to post your writing on here you have to give me your e-mail, then I can add you as an author. I can add up to 100 people on that, therefore allowing them to post for everyone to see. That's the idea, for this to be anyone's blog. Don't worry, I don't want your e-mail for anything but this.
I just discovered if you want to post your writing on here you have to give me your e-mail, then I can add you as an author. I can add up to 100 people on that, therefore allowing them to post for everyone to see. That's the idea, for this to be anyone's blog. Don't worry, I don't want your e-mail for anything but this.
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