Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun......
I want to write something creative. Slit my aching heart and let it bleed all over the page. I want it splattered and stained with all my teenage angst. I want the edges burned and charred black with my fury. I want it to lie in a dark corner of a candle lit room, crumbled and discarded. Left to sit, a monument to failure, to love, to complete and uttery misery. Twilight reveals raw emotion but the world will never know. The ace of spades is only beaten by the queen of hearts........but she can't read my poker face.
Can't read my poker face.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Pick your Poison
I brought along all my Comparative Politics essentials today in an effort to try to cram some studying into the hour break I have between classes today. This was done with the hope that I would get some studying done before my test tomorrow. However, I developed an itch during my first class of the day to write, or at least vomit my thoughts on to a page in some coherent manner.
Hemlock. Recently, in one of my classes we have been talking about the nuances of the Greek word "Pharmakon." Pharmakon is one of those nasty foregin words that can be translated to many different English words. Ironically, it contains two conflicting words within it's translation making it all the more tricky to decipher. It can be translated as a remedy or a medicine, but it also can just be equally right if translated as poison. Humorous, but it makes alot of sense.
Alot of medicines in the wrong doses can become deadly. Alot of poisons they are now finding, if used right can actually be used to cure many illnesses. Don't believe me, watch the documentaries they have on Animal Planet about the uses of Venom. It's amazing. (This has nothing to do with my post but it's things like this make the exitence of a God just seem to hard to deny. The world is amazing, the human body, the universe, it's just too amazing and well crafted to possibly have come about because of some random ass big bang. You don't have to agree, but I for one, think it impossible to deny some sort of Supreme Creator.)
Back to the hemlock. Everyone knows of hemlock, probably because of it's famous use to kill Socrates. A tribunal was brought up in Greece, Socrates was sentenced to death by hemlock for corrupting the youth and preeching against the Gods. Whether that is true or not is up to Historical debates. I tend to lean on the Platonic side, Socrates to me, will always be a superhuman individual who changed the landscape of rational thinking. If greatness is determined by an individuals affect on history....there are few individuals who even come close to rivaling Socrates' impact. I digress though...
Socrates had the opportunity to flee prison and save himself. He could have lived in exile. Rather, he chose to drink the hemlock (a very very large portion in fact). His reasoning is unknown, whether or not it was to be a martyr is debatable. Years later, another famous thinker by the name of Aristotle was also charged with trumped charges. Rather than accepting death, Aristotle chose exile.
The point I'm trying to make from this drivaling nonesense is that maybe the hemlock was a remedy for Socrates. A justified suicide. Isn't accepting death over taking extreme actions just a justified suicide? I suppose the ethical arguments of such a statement would be another blog all together. The point is, Socrates was an old man, his capacities of knowledge far exceed anything I could ever hope to accomplish, the dialogues written about him often express his thoughts on the afterlife being the only way to truly acquire knowledge of the "forms," he even thought the soul was eternal. With beliefs like that, who wouldn't take the hemlock? If anything it became a remedy for Socrates. He escaped the increasing social anger directed towards his teaching, he escaped the decline of the Greek dominance, and most importantly he was released from mortality which hinders true knowledge.
So my question for all becomes.....what is your hemlock? What is your pharmakon? Pick your poison.....
Hemlock. Recently, in one of my classes we have been talking about the nuances of the Greek word "Pharmakon." Pharmakon is one of those nasty foregin words that can be translated to many different English words. Ironically, it contains two conflicting words within it's translation making it all the more tricky to decipher. It can be translated as a remedy or a medicine, but it also can just be equally right if translated as poison. Humorous, but it makes alot of sense.
Alot of medicines in the wrong doses can become deadly. Alot of poisons they are now finding, if used right can actually be used to cure many illnesses. Don't believe me, watch the documentaries they have on Animal Planet about the uses of Venom. It's amazing. (This has nothing to do with my post but it's things like this make the exitence of a God just seem to hard to deny. The world is amazing, the human body, the universe, it's just too amazing and well crafted to possibly have come about because of some random ass big bang. You don't have to agree, but I for one, think it impossible to deny some sort of Supreme Creator.)
Back to the hemlock. Everyone knows of hemlock, probably because of it's famous use to kill Socrates. A tribunal was brought up in Greece, Socrates was sentenced to death by hemlock for corrupting the youth and preeching against the Gods. Whether that is true or not is up to Historical debates. I tend to lean on the Platonic side, Socrates to me, will always be a superhuman individual who changed the landscape of rational thinking. If greatness is determined by an individuals affect on history....there are few individuals who even come close to rivaling Socrates' impact. I digress though...
Socrates had the opportunity to flee prison and save himself. He could have lived in exile. Rather, he chose to drink the hemlock (a very very large portion in fact). His reasoning is unknown, whether or not it was to be a martyr is debatable. Years later, another famous thinker by the name of Aristotle was also charged with trumped charges. Rather than accepting death, Aristotle chose exile.
The point I'm trying to make from this drivaling nonesense is that maybe the hemlock was a remedy for Socrates. A justified suicide. Isn't accepting death over taking extreme actions just a justified suicide? I suppose the ethical arguments of such a statement would be another blog all together. The point is, Socrates was an old man, his capacities of knowledge far exceed anything I could ever hope to accomplish, the dialogues written about him often express his thoughts on the afterlife being the only way to truly acquire knowledge of the "forms," he even thought the soul was eternal. With beliefs like that, who wouldn't take the hemlock? If anything it became a remedy for Socrates. He escaped the increasing social anger directed towards his teaching, he escaped the decline of the Greek dominance, and most importantly he was released from mortality which hinders true knowledge.
So my question for all becomes.....what is your hemlock? What is your pharmakon? Pick your poison.....
Monday, September 21, 2009
Autumn
There have been a few times since my last post where I have attempted to write something. I would start but quickly lose interest. For some reason I haven't been in the writing mood. Either that or I feel superiorly infererior to my friends who seem to write blogs with such passion and eloquence that I don't even bother trying to compete.
Today though, I shall write. I woke up to a cool blast of air around 6:30 this morning. I always sleep with my window open but the sudden chill in my room forced me awake to shut the window. I quickly snuggled back into my blankets and drifted asleep till my alarm woke me. It wasn't till later, as I was driving to school with my window down, that it dawned on me. That was the gentle kiss of Autumn. The cool lips of Fall had fallen on my sleeping cheek and I was too involved with my blankets and sleep to notice. I apologize.
Fall may still officially be weeks away but there always seems to be a moment when the seasons clash for a brief second, signaling the beginning change from one to the next. I love Autumn. For all the same reasons most people do but because they reflect something different about the world. To most it's about the beautiful leave colors and the cool nights. I love that too. Not simply for the beauty but what the beauty represents. DEATH. Simple, sweet, dreary, magnificent Death. Maybe that makes me morbid, in fact I'm sure it does. Frankly though, I don't really care. Autumn is a testament to the fact that dying can be beautiful. It is beautiful. Perhaps even more than birth. Don't get me wrong, spring is pretty, but it's so.......predictable. Life is bright, beautiful, and full of hope for the future. Possibilities are endless. Death on the other hand is dark, beautiful, and nostalgic.
It is the last few pages of a good book. The plot and conflict have been resolved, the characters are to go on their way. The dwindling pages cause a mixture of feelings, relief, gratitude, misery, reluctance, and reflection. You don't want the story to end but at the same time, it seems appropriate, there is nothing left to do. It is the last dying embers of a brillant fire, the flickering of a dying candel, the lengthening shadows, and the sunset. Death is beautiful.
The most disappointing thing about Death though, is that it's only the end for one individual, one living thing. The rest of the world moves on. No matter how painful, attached, or loved the thing. Time plots on and that is the tragedy. The pain, the memory, the scars, they all fade as life moves along. Each birth, in reality is a tragedy because it masks the beautiful agony of death. Thank God for Autumn. It shows us every year the amazing capacity of one life and for a brief few months we recognize it. Only to forget......with spring. The rise and fall of seasons........like generations is just a brief moment in the pool of eternity and in the end......Does it ever really mean anything once the memory fades?
Today though, I shall write. I woke up to a cool blast of air around 6:30 this morning. I always sleep with my window open but the sudden chill in my room forced me awake to shut the window. I quickly snuggled back into my blankets and drifted asleep till my alarm woke me. It wasn't till later, as I was driving to school with my window down, that it dawned on me. That was the gentle kiss of Autumn. The cool lips of Fall had fallen on my sleeping cheek and I was too involved with my blankets and sleep to notice. I apologize.
Fall may still officially be weeks away but there always seems to be a moment when the seasons clash for a brief second, signaling the beginning change from one to the next. I love Autumn. For all the same reasons most people do but because they reflect something different about the world. To most it's about the beautiful leave colors and the cool nights. I love that too. Not simply for the beauty but what the beauty represents. DEATH. Simple, sweet, dreary, magnificent Death. Maybe that makes me morbid, in fact I'm sure it does. Frankly though, I don't really care. Autumn is a testament to the fact that dying can be beautiful. It is beautiful. Perhaps even more than birth. Don't get me wrong, spring is pretty, but it's so.......predictable. Life is bright, beautiful, and full of hope for the future. Possibilities are endless. Death on the other hand is dark, beautiful, and nostalgic.
It is the last few pages of a good book. The plot and conflict have been resolved, the characters are to go on their way. The dwindling pages cause a mixture of feelings, relief, gratitude, misery, reluctance, and reflection. You don't want the story to end but at the same time, it seems appropriate, there is nothing left to do. It is the last dying embers of a brillant fire, the flickering of a dying candel, the lengthening shadows, and the sunset. Death is beautiful.
The most disappointing thing about Death though, is that it's only the end for one individual, one living thing. The rest of the world moves on. No matter how painful, attached, or loved the thing. Time plots on and that is the tragedy. The pain, the memory, the scars, they all fade as life moves along. Each birth, in reality is a tragedy because it masks the beautiful agony of death. Thank God for Autumn. It shows us every year the amazing capacity of one life and for a brief few months we recognize it. Only to forget......with spring. The rise and fall of seasons........like generations is just a brief moment in the pool of eternity and in the end......Does it ever really mean anything once the memory fades?
Thursday, March 26, 2009
My Library
Sometimes I lose myself in the smell. It's a warm rich scent that curls and hangs lazily on the nostrils while filling the lungs. It's made of hot fresh ground coffee, cigar smoke, the moldly smell of binding glue on a worn book, and a dash of strong old spice cologne. Nostalgia at its finest. This smell is one I've never experienced in the world but it tangles the crevices of my mind like a warm syrup, sticky and thick. This smell is the metaphor of intellectual adventerousness. It explores the limits of the mind, existence, the metaphysical, and the not so metaphysical. It is where nations rise, where heroes are born, and where martyrs die. It is unbiased and uncaring in it's existence which only allows for greater triumphs or disapointments.
Often times in the late night hours I can see myself in a musty old velvet chair, surrounded by a bookcases stacked full of wonderous literature. There is a comfortable fire in a cozy little fireplace going. A soft rug at the foot of the chair and a small table to the side with worn rings where numerous glasses of warm brandy and wine have rested. I see an aged verision of myself, wrinkled and tired from the passing of time. Wisdom is etched into every sagging curve and grey hair. This is my happy place. The world and all its freedom are layed open before my fingertips. No world, no idea, no sorrow, no joy, and no experience escapes me. I will have my library. I will have my peace. I will.
For now though, perhaps not as zealous as I should; I embark in the struggle. There is beauty in struggle. Something completely fascinating and satisfying of dealing with a difficult task and enduring it. All to often I lose sight of this within the moment of tension. When things feel too hard, too difficult, too frustrating, I often falter. Never long enough to fail completely, but enough to make it more difficult than it ever needed to be. I spent many hours in a cold living room in Iowa circling, pacing, avoiding, and even hiding from the struggle. To the point where it found and crushed me. Perhaps......perhaps if I, like I so often have done, threw myself head first, carelessly, indifferent to the pain, into the struggle.....the work; I could have succeeded. Rather, I failed, maybe not completely, or to anyone else, but to myself it will always be.
I now try to embrace that struggle, so at the end of the day, I can wipe away the sweat, the blood, the tears, and the memories; and look at what I have done with my own two hands with satisfaction. This is my joy. That despite the suffering, despite the hardships, that I like God, can create and destroy. It may not be worlds or universes, but with a pen or a hammer and armed with an idea, I too am God. I too, become a force to be reckoned with.
If this makes me an intellectual snob, an elitest, or an idealist than so be it. If I am the jackass on the rowboat of life that must rock back and forth to draw a smile across my cracked lips.....well than so be it. I will be that jackass. Don't pity me though, condemn me, damn me, praise me, love me, hate me, fear me, torment me, ignore me, but please don't pity. For I am who I am. No more, no less, and all that other stuff that you say is shit. I find my joy, I fight my sorrows, and I put my pants on one leg at a time like everyone else. God knows the intentions of my heart (for I do believe in a Creator and that he is my literal Father in Heaven) and I will only answer to him.
So for now, today, tomorrow, next month, and 10 years from now; I will pull myself by my bootstraps. I will walk out into the world and say to hell with it. I will flip off the sun and curse the night. I will pursue knowledge and chase the unknowable. I will be burned by the light of reason and be healed by the aloe of faith. I will trip on the clumsy nature of man and soar with the dreams of Icarus. I will argue with fate and fight anarchy. I will be damned and I will be saved. Most of all I will be Jason and I will live for my quiet library.
As I put out my cigar and throw away the ashes. As I gulp the last of my luke warm brandy and dose the dying embers of the fire. As I close the cover on this book and reverently shut the door to my green pastures....I urge you to find your own. bid you goodluck, and bid you adieu with a friendly wave.
Jason Clark
Often times in the late night hours I can see myself in a musty old velvet chair, surrounded by a bookcases stacked full of wonderous literature. There is a comfortable fire in a cozy little fireplace going. A soft rug at the foot of the chair and a small table to the side with worn rings where numerous glasses of warm brandy and wine have rested. I see an aged verision of myself, wrinkled and tired from the passing of time. Wisdom is etched into every sagging curve and grey hair. This is my happy place. The world and all its freedom are layed open before my fingertips. No world, no idea, no sorrow, no joy, and no experience escapes me. I will have my library. I will have my peace. I will.
For now though, perhaps not as zealous as I should; I embark in the struggle. There is beauty in struggle. Something completely fascinating and satisfying of dealing with a difficult task and enduring it. All to often I lose sight of this within the moment of tension. When things feel too hard, too difficult, too frustrating, I often falter. Never long enough to fail completely, but enough to make it more difficult than it ever needed to be. I spent many hours in a cold living room in Iowa circling, pacing, avoiding, and even hiding from the struggle. To the point where it found and crushed me. Perhaps......perhaps if I, like I so often have done, threw myself head first, carelessly, indifferent to the pain, into the struggle.....the work; I could have succeeded. Rather, I failed, maybe not completely, or to anyone else, but to myself it will always be.
I now try to embrace that struggle, so at the end of the day, I can wipe away the sweat, the blood, the tears, and the memories; and look at what I have done with my own two hands with satisfaction. This is my joy. That despite the suffering, despite the hardships, that I like God, can create and destroy. It may not be worlds or universes, but with a pen or a hammer and armed with an idea, I too am God. I too, become a force to be reckoned with.
If this makes me an intellectual snob, an elitest, or an idealist than so be it. If I am the jackass on the rowboat of life that must rock back and forth to draw a smile across my cracked lips.....well than so be it. I will be that jackass. Don't pity me though, condemn me, damn me, praise me, love me, hate me, fear me, torment me, ignore me, but please don't pity. For I am who I am. No more, no less, and all that other stuff that you say is shit. I find my joy, I fight my sorrows, and I put my pants on one leg at a time like everyone else. God knows the intentions of my heart (for I do believe in a Creator and that he is my literal Father in Heaven) and I will only answer to him.
So for now, today, tomorrow, next month, and 10 years from now; I will pull myself by my bootstraps. I will walk out into the world and say to hell with it. I will flip off the sun and curse the night. I will pursue knowledge and chase the unknowable. I will be burned by the light of reason and be healed by the aloe of faith. I will trip on the clumsy nature of man and soar with the dreams of Icarus. I will argue with fate and fight anarchy. I will be damned and I will be saved. Most of all I will be Jason and I will live for my quiet library.
As I put out my cigar and throw away the ashes. As I gulp the last of my luke warm brandy and dose the dying embers of the fire. As I close the cover on this book and reverently shut the door to my green pastures....I urge you to find your own. bid you goodluck, and bid you adieu with a friendly wave.
Jason Clark
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Is God Dead?
The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. "Whither is God?" he cried; "I will tell you. We have killed him--you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there still any up or down? Are we not straying as htrough an infinite nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning? Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the grave diggers who are burying God? Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Gods, too, decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.
"How shall we comfort ourselves, the murders of all murderers? What was th eholiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whoever is born after us--for the sake of this deed he will belong to a higher history than all history hitherto."
Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners; and they, too, were silent and stared at him in astonishment. At last he threw his lantern on the ground, an dit broke into pieces and went out. "I have come too early," he said then; "my time is not yet. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering; it has not yet reached the ears of men. Lightning and thunder require time; the light of the stars requires time; deeds, though done, still require time to be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than the most distant stars--and yet they have done it themselves."
It has been related further that on the same day the madman forced his way into several churches and there struck up his requiem aeternam deo. Led out and called to account, he is said always to have replied nothing but: "What after all are these churches now if they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God?" (Nietzsche, The Gay Science, pg 181-182)
Is God dead as the madman would cry? Have we murdered him with our neglegence and insolence? Perhaps there is some truth to his words. We as a society have become to caught up in the logic and rhetoric of existence. Once where magic and faith blossomed mankinds existence, science has grounded and broken it's wings. This was never more immanent then in the stories of Christ and the Pharisees. The Pharisees would question what faith had manifested to them based on the rules of the Mosiac law. Choosing not to see Christ as it's fulfilment but rather a radical who broke the rules. What else could the Roman's use to justify the crucifixition if not for his social presence. The "uprising" against the order that had been established. We all know how the story ends, whether or not you believe it, is not really the question. The result could speak loads as a metaphorical answer to the madman's decleration. Christ rose 3 days a later and left. No longer manifesting miracles for all to see was God's will, still, if one looked with faith, little evidences of his existence could be found scattered across the dark ages.
Perhaps now the metaphor has been completed. Rather than having killed God, we have shut our eyes and our hearts to what is plainly laid to see. Faith is such a simple act and science has killed it. As Kierkegaard declares: Faith begins where thought ends.
"How shall we comfort ourselves, the murders of all murderers? What was th eholiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whoever is born after us--for the sake of this deed he will belong to a higher history than all history hitherto."
Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners; and they, too, were silent and stared at him in astonishment. At last he threw his lantern on the ground, an dit broke into pieces and went out. "I have come too early," he said then; "my time is not yet. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering; it has not yet reached the ears of men. Lightning and thunder require time; the light of the stars requires time; deeds, though done, still require time to be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than the most distant stars--and yet they have done it themselves."
It has been related further that on the same day the madman forced his way into several churches and there struck up his requiem aeternam deo. Led out and called to account, he is said always to have replied nothing but: "What after all are these churches now if they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God?" (Nietzsche, The Gay Science, pg 181-182)
Is God dead as the madman would cry? Have we murdered him with our neglegence and insolence? Perhaps there is some truth to his words. We as a society have become to caught up in the logic and rhetoric of existence. Once where magic and faith blossomed mankinds existence, science has grounded and broken it's wings. This was never more immanent then in the stories of Christ and the Pharisees. The Pharisees would question what faith had manifested to them based on the rules of the Mosiac law. Choosing not to see Christ as it's fulfilment but rather a radical who broke the rules. What else could the Roman's use to justify the crucifixition if not for his social presence. The "uprising" against the order that had been established. We all know how the story ends, whether or not you believe it, is not really the question. The result could speak loads as a metaphorical answer to the madman's decleration. Christ rose 3 days a later and left. No longer manifesting miracles for all to see was God's will, still, if one looked with faith, little evidences of his existence could be found scattered across the dark ages.
Perhaps now the metaphor has been completed. Rather than having killed God, we have shut our eyes and our hearts to what is plainly laid to see. Faith is such a simple act and science has killed it. As Kierkegaard declares: Faith begins where thought ends.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Let the record spin
Do you think you could understand? Do you have that one song, that song that no matter how many times you run the lyrics through your mind, or hum quietly to yourself while trudging to your car, the one that you scream the lyrics to in the dark parking lot over looking the lake, how even when your heart is breaking from pain mends it back together, or when your heart is bursting with joy only adds to it. I found that song. It is in the soundtrack of my life. I'm just that lucky.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Icarus
I've always wanted to get a tattoo. It's a guilty obsession of mine but I know it wouldn't look very good, being mormon and all. I've always dreamed of getting one that covers my whole back. It would have the brilliant illustration of the first moments of Icarus' flight. The wings spread open towards the vast blue sky. The sinewy muscles of the sun bleached body from a life of hard labor. The ruffled feathers of wings as they stretch themselves for the first time testing the breeze. The radiating sun showing a silhoutte....... Icarus.... What a story, what a boy, what an ending.
I don't think I could ever adaquetly explain my fascination and love for Icarus. I don't think any story or myth has ever captured my attention and my heart with such intensity. A boy who's only folly was dreaming too hard. Truely, I feel like I have the heart of a boy with his head in the clouds. I wear my heart on my sleeve for all to see, if you're willing to look past the Cynicism and Caution.
My dreams are big, my heart is full, my love is loyal. I'm the modern day Icarus.... If fate takes steady aim and shoots me down.....Well at least I'll die on impact from these great heights.
I don't think I could ever adaquetly explain my fascination and love for Icarus. I don't think any story or myth has ever captured my attention and my heart with such intensity. A boy who's only folly was dreaming too hard. Truely, I feel like I have the heart of a boy with his head in the clouds. I wear my heart on my sleeve for all to see, if you're willing to look past the Cynicism and Caution.
My dreams are big, my heart is full, my love is loyal. I'm the modern day Icarus.... If fate takes steady aim and shoots me down.....Well at least I'll die on impact from these great heights.
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