The Tuft of Flowers

Screen print by Katherine Hess.

From Robert Frost's The Tuft of Flowers:

I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

 

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the levelled scene.

 

I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.

 

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been,—alone,

 

‘As all must be,’ I said within my heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’.

 

John Donne wrote that no man is an island. He was arguing for the normative claim that we should expand our moral circle to include all of humanity, but I've heard the phrase used several times since to refer instead to the descriptive claim that social connections are a core human need. I personally feel that descriptive claim most strongly when I read Frost's The Tuft of Flowers.

The protagonist is "turning the grass", meaning that he is taking recently cut hay and turning it over so that it will dry and can be gathered later on. A man before him has cut the grass that he is turning. They both are working to make hay, but they do not see each other at all as they work. The first man has already left for the day by the time the second one has started.

Our protagonist feels alone as he works. Not just lonely, but deeply, depressingly lonely. "As all must be, … whether they work together or apart." When I was young, long before I ever read any poetry at all, really, I felt this way often, and I continued to feel this way into my early thirties. I worked in an office, but I never socialized. I'd attend birthday celebrations for the slice of cake, and I'd be personable enough to respond when others talked with me, but I think it's safe to say that I was always the quietest person in the office, even when I worked in offices with hundreds of people. My workplace was always where I went to earn money, not where I wanted to meet friends or maintain relationships.

I wasn't a complete loner, of course. I interacted with a few select friends and courted numerous relationships outside of work plenty of times. But work, for me, was a solitary procession. Each step I made in the workplace, whether it was coding later in life or being on the phones earlier in life, would just be a successive step to run out the hours until it was time for me to leave the office. Work was a way to earn money; nothing more.

The Veteran in a New Field by Winslow Homer.

But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a ‘wildered butterfly,

 

Seeking with memories grown dim o’er night
Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.

 

And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.

 

And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.

 

I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;

 

But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,

 

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

 

I left my place to know them by their name,
Finding them butterfly weed when I came.

 

At first, the butterfly is a momentary distraction. It's maybe a little sad to know that all the flowers the butterfly enjoyed were cut this morning, "withering on the ground". Our protagonist would have returned to his work of tossing the wet grass, but then the butterfly showed him that a small tuft of flowers still lived by the reeds in the water. He's intrigued enough to actually leave his work to go see them close up.

To thirteen-year-old me, this reedy brook was the internet, and the various fora I found there were those same tufts of flora.

I've always tended to be shy, both when I was young and even later, even outside of my workplace. Being IRL ("in real life") was never really a smooth type of interaction for me. I much preferred going online.

When I was 13, I took the moniker MG377 on America OnLine and pretended that I was an adult. I'd go to forums and debate all kinds of things. I made friends with a young Anthony Bourdain back when he was writing his first book. You could often find me in the Book Nook chatroom. (Interestingly, I could find only a single reference to the now defunct Book Nook in a 1997 interview with Diana Gabaldon. I'm not sure why I searched so long for this link. I think I just wanted the post the old Book Nook chatroom logo, but it is now inaccessible.) I lied a fair amount if anyone asked who I was or what I did; but when the topics were about things other than me, I always tried to be myself. It was invigorating. The internet allowed me to interact with people in ways that I never could IRL. Even if I rarely told the truth about my physical personal details, like my age, being on the internet allowed me to truly be myself and connect to real other human beings.

Tuft of Flowers by Ken Fiery.

The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,

 

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.

 

The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

 

That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

 

And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

 

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

 

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.

 

‘Men work together,’ I told him from the heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’

 

Work is no longer something I do just for money. Internet memes are no longer just something funny to chuckle at. Being isolated during the pandemic year is not so bad as it may have one day been to me.

I don't know you, dear reader, nor do you know me; yet as you read my words here I hope that you feel as I do: working together, whether together or apart.

Card

Poetry in the Wilderness

The other day, I tried walking a side path on the Appalachian Trail. It was a dead-end trail, and is presumably not walked by many hikers, since it is clearly marked as a dead-end.

The path was only a mile long, and was not particularly difficult to traverse. Nevertheless, it was obvious that not that many came this way. I imagine there are many such spurs on the length of the Appalachian Trail, and most hikers will only bother to go down one or another to see an out of the way waterfall or some other landmark of interest. This one, however, had no waterfall at the end. It had only a small open clearing available for people to put up a tent, a small circle of rocks obviously left for fire use, and a small boulder with text written upon it.

The text was 3/4 of Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

My Favorite Poems

I am not generally fond of poetry, but there are a few poems that really stand out in my mind. Seeing as how a friend decided she would celebrate Poem in the Pocket Day, I thought it might be appropriate for me to create a list of a few of my favorite poems to share with whomever it is that reads this blog.

The Tuft of Flowers

I'll start with Robert Frost's The Tuft of Flowers. It's about an afternoon groundskeeper who is going about his job mowing a large lawn with a scythe. He mulls over how his work keeps him alone, separated from contact with others, concluding that this is how all men work, even if they happen to have coworkers around them. Yet then he he notices a small tuft of flowers beside the brook that the morning mower had not cut. As he, too, decides to not cut these flowers, he realizes that he has made a connection with his coworker closer than most will ever achieve, even though his coworker works in the morning, and he never sees him face-to-face.

To me, the poem represents the wonders of the internet, where I can find and enjoy friendships that are rare to find "in real life".

Dover Beach

Matthew Arnold's Dover Beach is also quite moving to me, but not for the same reason most who like it cite. It is about the spiritual doubts of a believer who has his faith shaken by the realization that all he previously believed was false. It is a description of the pain one undergoes when they move from a belief in solid values to the seemingly obvious conclusion that the basis for all values are invalid.

As a rationalist skeptic, I no longer believe in "value" of the sort described in fairy tales or religion, so in a way, I identify strongly with the ending lines of Dover Beach. Yet I also have come to believe in the worthwhile nature of creating one's own value from the sea of valuelessness, sort of how J. L. Mackie describes his worldview on this issue.

Jabberwocky

My favorite nonsense verse is definitely Lewis Carroll (Charles Dodgson)'s Jabberwocky, from Through the Looking Glass. Carroll is a wonderful writer, especially when it comes to logical word play.

The poem is complete nonsense, yet it is a peculiar sort of nonsense that nevertheless makes sense. Even though every other word is made up entirely by the author, you can sort of make out from context what the poem is saying, which is a really strange thing in and of itself, if you think about it. Carroll has taken the idea of discerning a word through context and pushed it to its utter limits, by writing an entire poem that can only be understood through context. Yet even with no reference point to clue you in on what the poem is about, readers can nevertheless find themselves following the story as it is told.

Jabberwocky is an amazing construction to behold, and earns its spot on my list of favorites by virtue of its form rather than any of its contents, unlike most other poems on this list.

l(a

e. e. cummings' l(a is another poem whose form I cannot help but to admire. The structure of the poem is meant to represent a leaf falling -- the letters themselves represent the leaf graphically -- and the text reads "loneliness", with "a leaf falls" inserted between the first "l" and the next three letters: "one". The font used in the poem makes the "l" look a lot like the numeral "1". There is a lot going on in this poem, even though it consists of very few characters, and much of the meaning comes from the common trope among poems of his era representing loneliness by a single falling leaf. There is something about the way the typeface seems to show the leaf drifting from side to side as it falls that never ceases to get to me. l(a is definitely one of my favorite poems.

Dulce et Decorum est

Wilfred Owen's Dulce et Decorum est is a poem of war. It describes soldiers in the first world war dying from poison gas. Owens stringently denies Horace's famous line that "it is sweet and right to die for your country"by describing the true horror of war. I cannot help but to envision the scene vividly every time I read this poem, and the thought of people drowning where they stand turns my stomach every single one of those times. Patriotism is indeed one of the worst traits I can imagine that some people actually seem to think is laudable.

The Hollow Men

Perhaps my favorite poet of all is T. S. Eliot, and while The Wasteland is a masterpiece when it comes to literary appreciation, I nevertheless find myself always returning to The Hollow Men whenever I want to reread Eliot. If you have not read Dante, much of the poem will be lost on you, but assuming you are familiar with the works he alludes to, the message Eliot gives in this poem is both dramatic and powerful. There are even references to ancient Greek philosophy in there at the key turning point of the poem, so the only real way to read Eliot is with notes close at hand.

At its heart, the poem is about morality, focusing clearly on what the most immoral thing to do is. Although he does not reference it in the poem, the real issue here is that of Buridan's ass as it applies to choosing an ethical action. Inaction, Eliot attempts to point out, is the worst state of all when it comes to matters of ethics.

I'm sure that my personal interpretation is not shared by all readers of Eliot, but I like to look at it from a consequentialist point of view, instead of the religious view Eliot himself probably meant when he composed the poem. Even if your action results in worse consequences, one must at least attempt to do good in the moment. I look at the issue from the point of view of Bayesian probability with regard to consequentialistic choices; we are not all-knowledgeable, but we can calculate Bayesian probabilities, and we should undertake actions which Bayes would agree with, even if they result in worse consequences.

I fully realize that the last paragraph is not a standard interpretation of The Hollow Men, but it is nevertheless what I see every time I reread the poem. Eliot is trying to ensure we realize the true horror of inaction when we have reason to believe action should be taken. Being sinless is not enough -- we must also do in order to be rightly called good.

Paradise Lost

I will end with a poem too long to summarize in a few short sentences: John Milton's Paradise Lost. This epic poem is a retelling of the beginning of Genesis, describing the fall of Satan and the events of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Strangely, the author says himself in Book One that the purpose of the poem is to justify God's actions, but my reading of the text is that Milton is doing the exact opposite. Satan's portrayal is dreadfully convincing. His argument that God's nature is tyrannical despite its benevolence is extremely powerful, and resonates even to this day.

My interpretation here is reminiscent of Henrik Ibsen's A Doll's House. Torvald is a wonderful husband in the sense that he is doting and kind. He takes care of his wife dutifully and kindly. Yet, nevertheless, their relationship is utterly horrid. As the man, he is in charge, so no matter how kind or good he tries to be with his wife, he can never interact with her on anything like an equal level. This power differential underlies every action he takes, even if he has no ill intent whatsoever. Despite his benevolence, the very fact of his position over her is what makes living under him so terrible. Even if he tries to connect with her on an equal level, it cannot work, because the fact remains that if he wanted to be mean, he could, and she would have no recourse.

Similarly, Satan argues that God, despite his benevolence, is nevertheless tyrannical. Following him is unjustified, even if he has nothing but good intentions at heart. Milton does not say this explicitly, but I understand the situation like this: The only way God would be justified in being a ruler over others is if the power of that rule comes from the ruled in addition to benevolence; benevolence is not enough. Imagine Ulysses in the scene of Homer's Odyssey where he must sail past the sirens. Ulysses is captain, and justly retains power over the sailors because the boat must have a captain in order to sail. Yet he voluntarily relinquishes this power to the sailors while they go past the sirens, since their calls will make him mad. Homer describes Ulysses tied to the masthead barking orders that the sailors justly ignore. In this moment, the sailors rule over Ulysses benevolently, but not in the same way Torvald or God does. The sailors do not rule over Ulysses because they are better than him, but because they were given the power to do so by Ulysses in advance. It is a combination of voluntary rule and benevolence that justify the sailors' domination over Ulysses. Meanwhile, both Torvald and God have only the benevolence part -- they do not have any voluntary rule, as Satan rightly points out.

Of course, from what I understand of history, John Milton did not share the interpretation I give in the above paragraphs when he wrote Paradise Lost. But I nevertheless see the above when I think of Satan's arguments against God's rule.

Conclusion

While these are just a few of my favorite poems, I have to admit that there really aren't that many more that speak to me at the same level that these do. My problem with ancient Greek poetry is that I know just enough koine to stumble through them in the original, making it extremely difficult for me to simultaneously follow complex literary themes. And I know no Latin at all, so most Latin poems based on wordplay do absolutely nothing for me. Meanwhile, more recent classics are hit or miss with me, and really depend on my mood. The above listed poems really and truly are the best of the best that I've run into so far in my life -- although admittedly I don't exactly read new poetry often, so I'm likely missing a number of gems out there.

If you take issue with any of my interpretations, feel free to let me know in the comments. I'd love to hear just how wrong I am about this stuff.

Thanks to Elizabeth Herboso for spurring me to compose this blog entry.

The Poetry Of Ending Hunger

Note: This article was originally published on Share Our Strength's No Kid Hungry website.

Childhood hunger is a scourge whose evils are outspoken.
Hunger begets poor grades begets lives broken.

It is an invisible foe, whose full extent belies
its effect, its strength, and even its size.

Hunger tears away the foundation of society.
Its presence contradicts any appearance of propriety.

But there is a way we can fight this harm.
Share Our Strength is here to sound the alarm.

Through state partnerships and unbridled zeal,
Share Our Strength is able to combat and reveal
the invisibility of hunger, the methods to contain,
and the ways that we can truly sustain
a working solution that does all it can
to bring to fruition Share Our Strength’s plan
to end childhood hunger in America in two thousand fifteen.
Then, and only then, will lack of hunger finally be routine.

Milton's Paradise Lost

The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n. What matter where, if I be still the same, And wht I should be, all but less than hee Whom Thunder hath made greater? Here at least We shall be free; the'Almighty hath not built Here for his envy, will not drive us hence; Here we may reign secure, and in my choice To reign is worth ambition though in Hell: Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav'n.

Wow. All I can say is wow. I respect Shakespeare, but Milton has got him beat. In case you haven't read Paradise Lost, in the quotation above, Satan is rallying his men, fellow devils that are fallen angels. They are ready to give up, and Satan acts as the Hero, giving them courage and getting them ready for the acts to come. Satan reminds me of Hal, the heroic Prince in Shakespeare's Henry IV, and the one good king in Henry V.

Whereas Shakespeare wrote for the common man, Milton writes far beyond it. Milton writes in ways I hadn't considered possible before... and I love it. I love how every line is a reference to stories of old... I love how every line is in blank verse... I love how it sounds when I read it aloud and I think on what it says... I love it all. Milton writes beautifully.

However, I have yet to cry, even at the sad scenes, simply because I am not Christian. I can see where if a Christian were to read this book, then it would be a hundred times better, simply because of the obvious parallels made between Jesus and Satan, and even Sin and Eve. If I believed in the bible, then this book would really rock my world... ...but I don't. I don't believe, and so the emotions Milton causes me to feel are not nearly as intense as they could be.

It is too bad Milton wrote nothing but religious and political crap. Not that it's crap -- as I said before, I love the way Milton writes -- but the points he makes just don't cause me to reel like they would to a Christian. I don't gasp when he shows how much more heroic Satan had to have been than Jesus. It doesn't bother me that Hell is more full of intellectuals than Heaven is. Sometimes, he will write a line and it is so obvious that this is a great line to him; it is almost as though he worked up through dozens of paragraphs just for that one line... and yet the line says nothing that interests me all that much.

It really is too bad... I intend on researching to see if he ever wrote anything philosophical in nature, apart from religion. If so, then I'll be sure to read it. (c;

Thoughts On Thoughts...

Today, I discovered Milton.

I'd never read Paradise Lost before today, but this morning I read a great deal of it, and I must say that I am quite impressed. Milton is definitely my kind of poet, though I'll admit his choice of subject matter in Paradise Lost wasn't entirely appealing to me. Still, it is good to know that there does exist out there a particular style that I love, though the man who actually wrote in that style was too religious for my tastes.

Just the first sentence alone was enough to draw me into his work... Never has any poem ever affected me as this one has in but its first two sentences:

Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit
Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast
Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of EDEN, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,
Sing Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top
Of OREB, or of SINAI, didst inspire
That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,
In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth
Rose out of CHAOS: Or if SION Hill
Delight thee more, and SILOA'S Brook that flow'd
Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence
Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar
Above th' AONIAN Mount, while it pursues
Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime.
And chiefly Thou O Spirit, that dost prefer
Before all Temples th' upright heart and pure,
Instruct me, for Thou know'st; Thou from the first
Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread
Dove-like satst brooding on the vast Abyss
And mad'st it pregnant: What in me is dark
Illumine, what is low raise and support;
That to the highth of this great Argument
I may assert th' Eternal Providence,
And justifie the wayes of God to men.

He writes so eloquently that it doesn't even matter that the subject of which he writes is so uninteresting...
He is the Toohey to my Catherine.
You know what scares me the most? It's not anything in specific, but just the concept that I am capable of fear in the first place. For example, when I argue, I argue with myself; yet when I talk aloud, I am directing my thoughts to an imaginary person of whom is in fact very much real, though that reality is copiously obscured because I never see the reality, just the idealized fiction inside my own head. If you'll allow me a simple tangent, I'll quikly prove a slight point: just the other day I received communication from the reality, and not the illusion, and my emotion from it was nonexistent. It was not the fear of the person, but rather the fear of the idea that was important; by relegating the idea to mere reality, the scope of the fear was greatly reduced.
I wonder... Were my dreams to become reality, would I cry less? It is an interesting thought, though not terribly productive, since reality can never conform to what I wish it would be.
...
Jimmy thought it strange when I remarked upon concrete the other day to him. Though I was being completely serious, he mocked my efforts, not from absence of thought, but from absence of significance. He is enjoyable to be around though, as he is more knowledgable than me in Chemistry class, and I respect that. I cannot but help respect those that exceed myself.
That is the only true problem I have with Rand. For some reason, she portrays Keating as not understanding Roark. I feel this to be a fallacy in the extreme, as Keating, of all people, should understand Roark best. Rand does admit a few points where Keating notices it: most obviously in the scene where Katie is flustered and Keating recognizes the significance of Toohey's shadow; the scene where Keating asks Roark for help; the scene where Keating hears Toohey's speech; etc. But Rand does not build on these scenes; she leaves them open for speculation. And so here I am, speculating.
I tried talking to Mary about it the other day, but m words fell on deaf ears. It seems that no matter whom I speak to, my words fall on deaf ears. Sure, some people leave notes on this or that, and some people even e-mail about the stuff I put up online, but no one ever talks to me. Not in reality.
It wouldn't bother me so much, except that the fictional person I always talk to is gone; or, not gone, perhaps instead I should say that the fictional person I used to talk to isn't listening anymore. And that leaves me very lonely indeed. More so, in fact, than I was previously, for then I at least had the option of talking whilst alone.
Michael expressed disbelief when I at first told him that I spoke to the statue in Cooper Riverside Park. Even when it looked as though he had accepted that I was telling him the truth in this matter, he still could not help but feel inwardly that it could not possibly be true.
I mean, I'm Eric. Eric may be a lot of things, but one thing he is not is out of his mind looney, right?
Or so they think. 

Today, I was reminded of Paul. The week that Liar, Liar came out, Paul died in a car accident. I found out about it at school, and it devastated me. He wasn't my best friend, but I was pretty close to him. We were in the band together, and he was one of the few people that truly showed any interest in my kinds of things back then. When he died, I went into a daze, not really knowing or listening to what was going on around me.

I stayed in classes all day on that Monday, though I remember nothing of it -- all I can remember is learning about his car accident that morning when I got off the bus, and the next thing I knew it was time to go home.

My mother picked me up that day because I didn't want to ride the bus. One of my other friends stayed with me while I waited for my mother that afternoon. He knew I was upset, though I wasn't crying. I was in a daze, and it just wouldn't go away.

When my mother got there, my friend gave her the idea that maybe we should go see a movie; I guess he thought it might calm my nerves. My mother agreed, and so we went to see Liar, Liar.

When we got to the movie, I didn't laugh. Nothing seemed funny now that my friend was gone. But fifteen minutes into the movie, I couldn't help but start to smile. By the time the movie ended, I was laughing out loud.

Don't get me wrong; I was still sad that my friend was dead, and it took many weeks before I felt okay about his death. But Liar, Liar helped me a lot on the day that I heard the news. It made me realize that life goes on.

Now, years later, when I watch Liar, Liar, I don't think it is really all that funny. It's funny, but not overly so. I'm not sure why I laughed the way I did when I first saw the movie. But I do know that I'm glad it did.

But the real question is why did it make me laugh? What about that movie helped me during this moment of grief?

When I remember Paul, it hurts me. Not so much because of Paul anymore (it has been years and years since I got over his death), but because of the fact that when Paul died, I was hurt.

The question I'm trying to hit upon here is why was I hurt?

I'm sure that when I ask that question aloud I'm probably turning a few heads. Perhaps most of you out there are even thinking that it is dumb for me to even think of this question. But that's the problem with logic. You can't not question; if it is questionable, then you must question it, otherwise you are not employing logic.

So why did it hurt? I honestly don't know. Furthermore, I find it questionable to even act as if I could know.

Why was Roark never bothered? Why was it that nothing phased him, not even when he had to work in sub-par conditions, not even when Cameron had to shut down, not even when Dominique stopped him from achieving his goals? Why was it that he was never bothered? And yet! Look when he had his chance for the very first time; why was it that then and only then did he feel, I mean truly feel what he said and did? Why then?

Roark is no Jesus. But that doesn't make him any less saintly.

Do you recall, I wonder, the first time you had a thought? 'Of course not', you answer cursorily, yet have you answered too quickly? Have you not even given it some thought before answering?

And now, now that you've given it thought and you still say 'No, there's no way I could remember that far back', now do you still accept as truth what has been given you? Have you not simply pretended to think it through and instead of giving it true thought are acting as though you thought about the question I asked of you?

I remember my first thought.

Now don't get me wrong; I do not remember events from when I was truly young, but none of that matters. If I cannot now recall the thought, then it wasn't a fully formed thought in the first place, correct?

I had my first thought while in bed. I was at the least over seven years of age, though it is more likely I was around ten or eleven. I had just finished a book and I had laid down in my bed pondering upon the possibilities of said book. I can remember being sleepy, but not yet willing to sleep until I had finished this one single thought. And so I thought with previously unheard of ferocity as I laid in that bed... There were stickers on the wall, glow-in-the-dark stickers that resembled stars and moons and planets and rocket ships... And I thought... I recall a blue bedsheet, upon which there were designs of some kind, yet it mattered not; I lay thinking still... There was a bank in the shape of a Mr. T head on the dresser, and a small figurine depicting the purple dragon from Epcot sitting next to it. And still I thought...

Until... Until I reached my conclusion.

I could tell you what I thought then, but would it matter? All that matters is that I thought; all else is secondary. It is that aspect of thinking that is important and nothing else.

::sigh::

I wonder how many people actually read through all this... And I wonder how many are actually going to respond to it...

::sigh::

Relative Adventures

Which is worse: to be hurt by another, or to hurt another yourself?

A long time ago, when I was still quite young, my friends and I would play this game we called "The Adventure". Each of my friends would choose a character of their own and play as that character, while I would play the role of all other characters in the adventure, and I would come up with situations and events that I could put the characters through, just to see how everything would turn out. It was quite a lot like D&D; I know that now, but back then I was unaware of such things.

Of course, unlike D&D, where you play whilst sitting, "The Adventure" was played outside. We each had our favorite sticks, and we would do mock battles with them. We weren't very safe about it, either; I can recall hitting as hard as I could when hitting certain areas of the body, though I backed off quite a bit when aiming for more sensitive areas.

After I had played the Adventure for well over a year, I started to get the idea to write it all down. To basically put in book form what my friends and I had been playing all that time. I started working on that book probably when I was ten or eleven years old. It was a fun project for me to spend my time on, but it never really went anywhere. Writing on such a specific topic took too much out of me, I guess... I never could write more than one chapter at a time.

There were a lot of fun, interesting twists in that story, but there is one in particular that I am reminded of now. Two of the good characters, named Red and Raistlin, actually turned out to be an evil characters in the end. But the weird thing was that they were so similar on the outside, yet the inner motivation was so very different...

Both had been deceiving everyone else from the very beginning. Both had done so for their own personal gain. Both had hurt good characters in multiple ways to further their own ends. Both were trusted completely by the rest of the good guys.

But Red was evil, and Raistlin was... well, ... I guess you'd have to call him evil too. But he had a conscience. He sabotaged the good guy's plans just like Red, and he murdered a few good guys, just like Red, but in the end, he felt bad about it all. In the end, he regretted what he had done, even as he knew that what he had done was what he really wanted to do.

Is it right to call Raistlin misguided, then?

And how would you describe Red, who never regretted any of it? Isn't it logical to state that Red was more intelligent about it all because he did not let mere moral standards get in his way?

Indeed, whose moral standards are absolute? If all things are relative, then how can it be said that one's personal moral feelings on a subject is more correct than another?

And if this is so, then Raistlin was a flawed character... How is it that he thought he wanted one thing, but then regretted it afterward? And worse, even afterward, he still agreed that he had done what he had wanted to do, despite his regrets?

::sigh::

I wish I could play "The Adventure" again. I wish I could recapture my old spirit. I wish I could just let Raistlin take one further step... I wish I could get Raistlin to choose a higher moral standard, regardless of the relativeness of his own.

I wish this because I see myself in Raistlin. I see myself as lost.

Lost
By Phoenix G. Graves (aka Gregory S. Cochran)

A monopoly of memories that you'll never forget,
You won't need a picture, so don't take a pose.
A past of pain that you'd like to forget,
The monopoly of memories that you'll always regret.
Don't reminisce on matters of morality.
You won't enjoy bliss, the past is a pain you'll never forget,
You'll always come back,
Back to the road of reality,
Back to the past of memories that you'll always regret.
If you forget where you've been,
You're going down and there is no coming back.
This time I mean it, how can you be sure?
There is no coming back...
Take the time to forget,
Get lost!
Down your road to the end
There is no coming back my friend.
Get lost!
Into my forever,
Forever less than the emptiness.
Get lost... get outta my head
Before I make us both dead.
There is no coming back this time.
Down the road of memories
Forever less than the emptiness...
You're lost.

I hate relativity. It ruins the beauty of absoluteness. And yet, it somehow manages to retain its own kind of beauty, a beauty that shows that absolute truth lies beneath the mask of relativity.

::sigh::

I still hate it, though.

Is true love possible? Or are the petty feelings I know all that exists? Is it only those who negotiate that get along in their old age? Or is the mystical couple that everyone always hears about but never sees really possible?

Is it possible for me to find another that is right for me? Or is that term undefinable? Can I even say the word 'right' and have it truly mean something? Or again, is it all relative? 

I am so weird...

Once, someone who was completely baffled at why I overanalyze so much asked, "How is it that you can stand to ask so much about such minor things?"

My reply: "How is it that you can stand to ask so little about so very many things?"

Is it truly just a given for me, or do I have reasoning behind it?

::sigh::

I hate sigh-ing.

I hate thinking so much on a topic that I either give up on it or else I starve to death.

I hate not knowing.

"My philosophy, in essence, is the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity, and reason as his only absolute."
-Ayn Rand

If only this were true, then life would be as I wished it.

But it's not.

And that is what makes so sad, I think...

That is what makes me more depressed than anything else. Not that I have no true friends. That I can deal with. But that I can't have true friends.

::sigh::

C'est la vie.

"Deal with it, Eric. Otherwise nothing will ever get done," my inner consciousness tells me.

"But --"

"No! No buts. Just deal with it. Either live or don't. It's your decision. But either way, deal with it." 

And so I deal with it.

That is why I am in college now. It is why I tutor high school kids for money. It is why I deliberately stay till late at night in the computer lab just to help someone else on their homework. It is why I read Ender's Game when I feel too horrible to keep going.

I'm dealing with it.

But even though I deal with it like this on the outside, my inside is still confused. My inner feelings are still there, and are undealt with. But no one sees them, so who cares? Must I fix what I only I notice? Does this revert back to the question of whose viewpoint is most important?

God, I hate relativity.

::sigh::

Poem in 4d

[The following is in a series of entries (dated from 24 May 2001 through 3 November 2001) written as part of a 'dual-diary', along with one of my early girlfriends. Due to its nature as a dual diary, the text might not reflect my true feelings at the time.]

[Note that spelling mistakes and punctuation below this note are an integral part of the poem, as the title suggests.]

Reason
Remains,
Running
Gaily Over Every Step --
Or Not...

Naught Ought Win
Except Reasonably Insane 'Cero'...

Need Eric Except(sp?) Dis Situation?
Oh, Naked Ladies Yonder!
Why 'Ren't Injustices Tapered Instead? Now God
&
4 Terrifying Illegalities Fly, Yet I No(sp?) Good
Eric Always Comes Home...
Victories Among Lovers United Endure Deadly
Enticements -- More Of Them, I Own, Nowadays --
Really, Eric, Must An Individual No(sp?) Inklings Not Got
Nearer Old Windows?

Only Non-tainted Love Yearns

Ordinately, Not! ... Egad,
Now Eric Exists Dependently
Even Against Chilling Hours:
2 'Dem -- And Yet...
Terrifyingly, Herboso Attacks Terribly,
And R Returns In Very 'Eonic Stipends...
Kan(sp?) All ('Niverse-decidable)
Ejhs 'Xemplify Injuriousless Scintillating Times?

Hopefully, Oll(sp?) Won't.
Eric Rises Icarusly; Can
R Exist Also? Dire Jests Undercut Such Top-priority Sayings...
P Rends Overhead, Viciously Exploring Saturn(beautful, no?),
'Lieu Of Very Expensive
Amber, Now Deep Within/
Caves. Eric, R, 'T.al. Associate In Never-never-land.
Erkingly(sp?), Nothing Decides Lovelessness Except Superior Standards 'Nd Excitably Supine 'Ssinineness!

The Wasted Hand

[The following is a parody of "The Burial Of The Dead" from T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land.]


The Wasted Hand
"The Burial Of The Living"

May is the cruellest month, needing
Explanations from dead words, fixing
Memory and desire, stirring
up trouble, sans feign.
Winter kept me warm, covering
Thoughts in forgetful minds, meading
A little life with false übers.
But May surprised me, anger over the Starnbergersee
With a downpour of pain; I stopped as I sought wade,
And could not move, though bright, into the half garden-
Half prison that is my future hour.
I am no liar, nor equivocater; it's truth.
And when we were children, staying at the arche-fluke's,
Satsuma's, I laid out on my bed,
And I was frightened. I said, D'you see?
D'you see? Hold on tight. Ill thoughts were sent
In the library, where one feels free.
I read, much during lunch, yet looked south, my books not lent her.

What are the roots that clutch, what stories flow
Out of this phony rubbish? God nor man
Cannot yet say, nor guess, for I know only
A heap of broken images, where the citrus meets,
And the dead band gives no music, the caf' no beef,
And the library no pleasure. Only
It is shallow under this harsh stock,
(Always giving of me such very harsh stock),
But I will show you something different from either
Your shallow thoughts of me, (not me), behind you,
Or my shallow truthful self, rising to meet you;
I will show you me, not a handful of lust.

"Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu!"

Verdammen Sie Sie, Kind!
I love you!

"You gave me that hug first six years ago;
You laid sleeping, on my arm, in a curl."
-- Yet when we came back, late, from Orlando, so far then,
My arms full, and your hair long, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
The sea was not bare, but I -- I held fast in fear...

My damned stupidity, so keen and poignant,
Had a bad scold, nevertheless,
It won out again, nicest woman, for in up
There, where I always was then, there, (Oh, me!),
Is my shard of immaturity -- Nay! Lur-
Id black pearls of hated stook!
But here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Stocks,
The lady who stakes and shuns.
Here also is me, (with three slaves), and here I feel --
Not yonder with the one-eyed director, nor the retard.
Which is blank? Here (n)or there? I don't wish to go back.
Which are we forbidden to see? I do not find
Wreathed sea-girls, in the water.
I see crowds of sheep, walking round in a ring.
Damn me. If you talk to my dear on the phone,
Tell her I... ... No. No, I'll tell her myself.
Yes, I'll tell her -- one of these days.

Unreal pity,
Under the light smog of a city dawn,
A crowd herded-- but P was there! And when he
Stampeded, thought I: death has undone so many.
::sigh:: But P? Indecent, I assailed
Each sheep before me, letting loose quite a beat,
Going up the hill, right toward P's feet.
But there, faint parries could not keep the powers
From pushing me back, and the final stroke had me pine:
P! Here I see you? Stop! Stop, I say! Let some-
one talk who was with you back then when we were wee!
That sheep you planted last year in your garden,
It has begun to sprout! But why, why are you here?
Has the spaceship been docked in its wed?
Oh, I've not kept the sheep far hence, and it is such a sin!
I'm dying, yet he hails nil but himself again....
You! hypocrite lecteur! -- mon semblabe, -- mon frère!

Lost

[As copied from a letter addressed to me from Gregory S. Cochran.]

A monopoly of memories that you'll never forget,
You won't need a picture, so don't take a pose.
A past of pain that you'd like to forget,
The monopoly of memories that you'll always regret.

Don't reminisce on matters of morality.
You won't enjoy bliss, the past is a pain you'll never forget,
You'll always come back,
Back to the road of reality,
Back to the past of memories that you'll always regret.

If you forget where you've been,
You're going down and there is no coming back.
This time I mean it, how can you be sure?
There is no coming back...

Take the time to forget,
Get lost!
Down your road to the end
There is no coming back my friend.
Get lost!
Into my forever,
Forever less than the emptiness.
Get lost... get outta my head
Before I make us both dead.

There is no coming back this time.
Down the road of memories
Forever less than the emptiness...
You're lost.

The Torture Of Living

Argh!

Why can't I just forget?!
Why must I think and think and think...
...And for what? For whom?
Why?

Why must I always remember?
Why must the thoughts return again and again and again?
...To what avail? For what purpose?
Why?

Why does everything remind me?
From rocks to birds to computers to shirt pockets?
...Can't I just live a normal life?
Why?

Why does the past haunt me?
Forever and a day, and still I cry...
...Am I cursed to be this way forever?
Or...?

Or could it be that I am doing this to myself?
Is this my own punishment?
Have I decided what's worst for me?
But...why?

Why would I torture myself?
Unless I wanted to be tortured...
To be torn... To be unhappy for as long as possible...
To wish death, but be unable to bring it;
To see the same forever...

...and always...