Old Writing: Jack - Part 2

The letters were not my idea, but rather that of one of my co-conspirators.  They were an inspired detail, to be sure.  Without them, those who run the newspapers would quickly lose interest in the murders, regardless of how gruesome or enigmatic.  With them, I perpetuate the scandal which seems the only real purpose of modern newsprint.  With them, I become something more than I am, and idea, a shadow of possibility that lingers in the mind long after the paper has been put aside, and that is the purpose of the letters.  If I am forgotten, then my work, our work, their sacrifice, will be for naught.

            I admit to taking a perverse pleasure in crafting the maniacal ranting of a madman.  It appeals to something dark and sinister inside me, something which, I have come to realize, reflects the world in which we dwell all too closely.  We create a stained veneer of civility, of culture, with customs and traditions that have become almost hallowed.  We do so out of fear.  We are afraid that, if we don’t hold tightly to what we believe, erroneous as it may be, the façade may slip and we may be faced with what lies beneath, squirming and writhing and rotted.  Above all, that is what, more than shifting shadow or my name spoken in hushed tones among friends safely indoors, drives the unsettling terror in our souls.

            You may ask yourself if I question all of this, if I wonder at the lengths to which we’ve gone in the name of salvation.  I do.  The burden of it weighs heavily upon my shoulders, more so each time I watch the life flee from the eyes of someone who, willingly or not, I have sent to what I hope is a better world.  It must be a better world. 

            They give their lives, true, but I have given my soul.  I have a keen empathy for the figure of Death, who must pass into lives so briefly, only to know that, within hours, sometimes less, that life will cease to be more than a collection of memories or whispers in the night.  When they sleep, their suffering ends.  I have not that luxury.  I must wait.  I must hope.  This much change.  It must be a better world.

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The Birthday Begins

Take a four day weekend for my birthday?  Why, thank you, university, I will.  It starts now... Read more!

A Thought: On Thirtysomething at Thirtysomething

Though I've been waiting two decades or more for it, I turn 32 on Saturday and I still don't get Thirtysomething. Read more!

A Clarification: On Marginalization

I was reading an article this morning addressing a study that said Protestants have lost the majority in the U.S. which brought up the increasing trend of said group to decry itself as being consistently more and more marginalized in this country.

Here's the thing...

Here in America, many, many groups are marginalized because of things outside their control, things like ethnic heritage, gender, sexual orientation and a whole host of other things.  That's wrong, because discrimination is wrong, period.  By extension, it's also wrong when someone judges you or doesn't listen to what you have to say based on some personal affiliation, like political or religious ideology, but it's not the same and you have to realize that. 

If you align yourself with a group that, by and large, is voluntarily and increasingly vocal in their exclusion of many other groups (cause that's what marginalization is, guys, it's not just when you don't get your way, every time), you have chosen to give up the right to complain when that group is, in return, marginalized by the rest of the society whom you've chosen to marginalize.

In closing, Christians (and all you other folks who are making this mistake, and you know who you are), please realize that if you start to understand that we all have to live and work in this country, and being to accept others, like that Christ guy, who was all about acceptance, you could very easily unmarginalize yourselves. Read more!

A Thought: On the Irony of YOLO

I find it incredibly ironic that YOLO is used, more often than not, as a justification for things which are, overall, a waste of time, in the grand scheme of one's life. 

Experience is everything, yes, but getting blind drunk and having another random hook-up you can't remember much of the next day, rather than going to class or work, isn't something you need to experience more than the once, because you won't remember it the second time, either. Read more!

A Thought: On the Opposition of Change

It is not only past those who seek to obstruct change directly that those who seek to enact it must pass, but also all those who refuse to believe that meaningful change is possible who stand guard before them. Read more!

Old Writing: Jack - Part One

My name is not important.  That is to say, it is irrelevant to the nature of my message.  You may call me Jack.  I am not, as they would have you believe, a monster.  I kill only out of necessity.  The brutality of my crimes is at the strict behest of my victims, those brave souls who have chosen to die that others may live.  I envy their sacrifice and see them not as victims, but rather as martyrs, choosing to end their lives for the sole purpose of aiding others.  Their names will not be remembered any more than mine, except by historians and collectors of the twisted and macabre.  They are divinity in its truest sense, no more, no less.

I do what I can to ease the suffering.  There is a long history in my native land of anesthetizing the sacrificial lamb.  The Druids before me, when they proffered to their pagan gods the burnt flesh of prisoners of war, made certain that the men felt no pain.  The images of the screaming, thrashing prisoner burning alive are nothing more than the petty remnants of the proponents of an ideology which could not tolerate those of others.

That being said, they are chosen because their lives have already been made forfeit, shallowly by the various venereal diseases which ravage their sad population, and more deeply by the rotted, disgusting inhumanity that has forced them into the life which made contraction of their plagues possible.  It is to draw attention to the darkness, the depravity of the rise and maintenance of the bitter aristocracy, that they come to me, choosing to end their lives so that the curtain may be pulled from the eyes of those who would otherwise remain blissfully unaware of their condition.

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Old Writing: My Grandfather

            My grandfather was a quiet man.  My grandmother did most of the talking, which was fine with him.  He listened and watched from his old leather chair.  Mostly, I remember him in that chair.  It’s where he went when they wouldn’t let him work anymore.  They gave him a gold ring with a ruby and told him he had worked enough, whether he liked it or not.

            He would wake up in the morning, eat breakfast, then sit in his chair until lunch, unless there was something my grandmother needed him to do.  There usually wasn’t.  So he would watch TV, getting up only when he had to.  Most days, that was all.  Sometimes, though, when I was very young, and I don’t know why, he would wake up different.

            Those mornings were my favorites.  He would wake me up early and we would have breakfast, same as always, but instead of going to his chair to watch reruns of old Westerns afterwards, we would go out into the garage, pick out walking sticks, fill our canteens, and leave.  Sometimes we would bring food, but not usually.

            We would walk and I would talk, out past the cane fields, on the old railroad tracks that didn’t carry trains anymore, a cadence of steps and the thumping of the walking sticks, rhythmic and slow.  After awhile, we had left the little town where we lived behind and I would become the quiet one as he told me stories about when he was young, about his family.  I wish I could remember those stories, but I never cared as much about the details as I did about the feeling of his telling them.

            We would go into the woods and he would tell me the names of flowers and what things were good to eat.  He always saw the rabbits and birds before I did.  I was too busy trying to take everything in at once, as children are prone to do.  We would walk alongside the old tracks, overgrown and reclaimed by the wild, and for the only times in my whole life, my grandfather was no longer quiet.

            When we eventually got back to town, I’m not sure how but I never needed to know the way, we would make our way back home, side by side, footsteps and thumps, hang up our canteens, put away our walking sticks, and he would go back to his chair, I to my room.  When I got older, we never talked about those walks, but I remember the feeling and, as I watched him dying slowly over the two years after my grandmother left us, I would see, as he looked into the backyard from his wheelchair, the man who took me walking.
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An Alternative to Gun Control...

I've decided that, as gun control is such a difficult issue, with so many valid facets on both sides, that the answer is simple.  We ban guns, melt them all down, and go back to the days of good, old-fashioned melee weapons.  We could start a guns for swords program.  It works out all the way around, really. 

Those who value weaponry for personal defense would have more than enough options, especially if they're of the type who believe that the intimidation factor alone is worth it.  I see a guy walking around with a gun tucked into the back of his pants, I think he's a douche gangsta' wanna-be.  I see a guy walking down the street with a battle axe strapped to his back, I guarantee you I'm not going to fuck with him.  It's just that simple.  Plus, there's the added bonus of being able to really look someone in the eye when you kill them that you just can't get with a long-range weapon.  It's the little things in life.

On the other end of the spectrum, for those who worry about the dangers of handguns, which statistics have more than backed up, this would remove all but the most idiotic of home accidents and, really, let's be honest, if your kid accidentally decapitates himself with your brand new bastard sword, it's probably better, from a societal standpoint, that he or she was removed from the gene pool early on.  Second, because the only way to kill someone with a melee weapon is close combat, you'd never hear about little Janey walking home from school and getting caught by a stray bullet.  So there's that.

Finally, and I think we can all get behind this one, as both sides claim to be right on their approaches regularly, it would make most crimes which currently use guns all but impossible.  Bank robbery at sword point?  Probably not.  And yes, I know, it's happened, but that's because banks weren't built to work with someone only have a few feet.  If a teller's being held up by someone with a gun, short of bulletproof glass, you got nothing.  But if the teller's being held up with, say, a broadsword, a couple of steps back and a bit of patience until the police get there and all's well.  The field of personal security would also be much easier, for much the same reason.

So, in this election season, when important issues are on your mind, I urge you to seriously think about a reasonable, practical alternative to gun control which, I believe, works for everyone involved. Read more!

Poetry: Her Eyes

The way she smiles,

  Her eyes in the shadows

  Beneath dark hair,

  Unable to meet mine,

  Though not for fear of rebuke,

  But, rather, of acceptance,

  Of perfect, imperfect faith,

  Reflected within.

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Poetry: Clarity

The clarity of winter,

  The freedom of winds

  Carried from far off places,

  Whispering secrets, calling

  For those willing to listen,

  To follow,

  To dreams long forgotten

  Left behind in childhood's brighter days.

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My Favorite Things: Xkcd

Xkcd has been one of my favorite web comics, ever since the first time I came across it many years ago.  It's often funny, usually thoughtful and, now and then, deeply moving.  These are two of my favorites.  The first epitomizes a lot of how I view the world and the second has always resonated with me.

Anyway, check it out here, if you haven't.  It's worth it. Read more!

A Thought: On Self-importance

Your self-importance is unimportant to me. Read more!

Support the Refs!

So teachers, police officers, fire fighters and EMTs have been fighting for decades to make salaries commensurate to the importance of their jobs to society and people ignore their pleas, at best, or call them self-important whiners, at worst. 

Referees go on strike and the world is outraged and can't stop talking about it.  But hey, they're doing a really important job, not something silly like educating the next generation or saving lives. Read more!

A Thought: On Being Better

Being better at something than someone else doesn't give you the right to gloat or mock or be condescending.  It gives you the responsibility to teach. Read more!