The Appetite of Will

"God provides the will, Kim.  Most treasure, or the people achieving it, almost die."

A woman's voice

It is easy to get bogged down by what we want and, for whatever reason, cannot acquire.  We convince ourselves that our despair and disabilities are somehow definitive.  We identify our aspirations, start on paths towards them and, when darkness looms and obstacles cause us to fumble, we are stricken with the thought that these aspirations may not have been ours to have.  We may be struck by anything from the ghoul of inadequacy to the artillery of harsh incidentals, and our capacity to respond is inherent.  However, the purest diamonds are forged under the greatest pressure.

Every now and then I succumb to my ever present mental incontinence.  I may or may not be the only one to witness the deterioration, but it happens and eventually passes.  What I have learnt is that it is what is gained from such an episode that is important and not one's appearance as it occurs.  I have always and continue to be very strongly offended by the idea of being considered weak.  I once thought breaking down was a sign of such a character flaw.  Now I know otherwise.  Now I understand that breaking down can be part of the process of discovery, construction and breakthrough.

The greatest minds and personalities of the world have all been driven to the brink in one way or another.  Scientists have endured ridicule, disease and countless hours of nothing but intense study to uncover a subset of the universe's many secrets.  Political activists have intentionally withstood starvation, incarceration and torture to shatter the domes of oppression that have trapped their people.  Religious leaders have faced not only physical persecution, but metaphysical warfare with every soul they have tried to enlighten.  Then there are others whose names are not known to the world, whose lives have plunged into ruination like a flash of light before their eyes, and who daily scrape grime from their hearts so their veins will not be clogged with crud.  Whether Curie, Ghandi, Christ or my friend Laura, anyone of note who has ever moved the world or just one life has done it despite pressure.

The quote at the top of this page has stayed with me for a while now.  The source is stated as it is because it was told to me by a woman's voice a few nights ago as I lingered at the juncture between the dream and waking worlds.  She was clear. "God provides the will, Kim.  Most treasure, or the people achieving it, almost die."  It showed me that our will, our capacity to endure and pursue our goals, is inherent.  How much of that will we choose to harness in times of trial is dependent on us.  It also showed me that we often fail to look beyond our own endurance and what we face in pursuing our desires.  What of the desires themselves? The object of one's longing can be just as fragile as one's will.  Hence, for the sake of both will and desire, the pursuit cannot be halfhearted.  One or both may not survive.

My Body

My heart
My heart is anxious for things of which it dare not speak
My breath greets my chest with short hellos and takes leave with abrupt goodbyes
A spear strikes through this heart, entry and exit marked by small yet gaping wounds
A tremor overcomes this heart, once struck, for it is weak and blood is such simple armour
Still, it beats, it pounds this chest, this refuge that failed to protect it from the spear

My bones
My bones corrode and crumble where they kiss
Between them,  there is no flow of love, no fluid of ease
The cold bores through this calcified scaffolding and stiffens it with the breath of anguish
In demand of warmth, they clench their jaws and gnash their teeth for all to hear
They plant their claws into the mountain of distress that they have constructed

My mind
My mind is a raging tempest
The spear that strikes my heart has brothers, and they attack my head in droves
To fix these ills my demons are shunned, and for this my anxious heart sheds a tear
There is an abiding fog, through which only scattered fragments are seen
Still, the spear has brothers, and they will never die

My body
My body is persistent, but it is slowing
My body is persistent, but it is withering
My body is persistent, but it is unsteady
It is frustrating to each part of itself and of this it is aware
It is withering slowly in its unsteadiness, but it must persist.

Not That I Speak In Respect of Want

Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.     Philippians 4:11

Every now and then I end the day feeling content.  Truly content, not "I faked a smile for two dozen people so now it's stuck" content.  On those days I recall little things that made me chuckle, like men tripping over themselves to help me because my dress was a bit more figure hugging than usual.  In those evenings I look forward to the shows I have marked, like Da Vinci's Demons on Starz on a Friday night.  The thing that often baffles me is how such contentment is able to manifest itself at the hind end of a day fraught with grumbles and disgust.  How is it that, when despair is everted, it is peace that lines it?

I am quite a fan of French storytelling and its unique mixture of quirks, tragedy, comedy and twisted sexuality.  It is a mixture that will leave you all at once reeling with laughter and wondering what sort of creature you must be to identify with any part of it.  There is a common thread that runs through these stories, whether they be the odd characters played by Audrey Tautou or the tragedies written by Jean Racine.  In the midst of a tattered, twisted and tempestuous world, somewhere there is a flicker of contentment.  It may not be the contentment of a sane or moral man, but it is contentment nonetheless.  It may not be the all encompassing happiness of fairytales, but it is peaceful happiness.

I have many questions about contentment and peace.  I believe happiness is a wondrous, spectacular goal to aim for.  I do not believe it is easy to achieve or that everyone truly achieves it.  The "happiness" most humans search for is the bubbly version that princesses feel when kissed by the most epic philanderer ever to be revered, Prince Charming.  At some point in our youth, we hear from a masked source that the possibility exists for permanence of this happiness.  For a moment one may be happy.  For a day one may be happy.  If one is lucky, there may be an extended period of happiness.  If there is a way to be truly happy for all time, I believe it requires a heavy dose of denial and "laa laa la laa laa I'm not listening".  Overflowing happiness is sweet, I am sure, but it must be fragile.  Can you imagine the sorrow and brokenness that must ensue if such a fountain were ever to run dry?

Contentment and peace are different concepts.  They do allow for permanence because they do not require ignorance of tribulation.  The smile they conjure may be narrower and dimmer, but it is no less a smile.  Their similitude and entanglement allows them to be allies in a war for stability.  They are the building blocks of true happiness, and is the foundation not more critical than the facade? If the heavens, whether Valhalla or the Elysian Fields, are built on peace and contentment of one sort or another, is that not validation enough of their adequacy in the grand scheme of the soul's existence?

My hunt is not necessarily for turbulent happiness, but rather for laminar tranquility.  Like Amélie, I want to find an outlet that lets me overcome loneliness and the stagnation of this life while touching the lives of others.  It can be difficult to strike a balance between the side of me that wants to brighten people's lives and the side that sings "I'm staying away from people today" when I wake up in the morning.  In any case, for contentment to take root one must evaluate the state of life and accept it, also accepting the need for upheaval as a part of that process.  My upheaval has been slow, but the process has begun.

Honestly, the series could turn out to be rubbish, but they had me at "da Vinci"
 

"Feud"? Really?

I had a discussion with a friend today about the not-so-recent Twitter spat between Justin Bieber and The Black Keys drummer Patrick Carney.  Admittedly, the "discussion" was largely one-sided and occurred quite soon after my remark "I've been listening to The Black Keys a lot lately" was met with absolutely zero recognition of band name or song sample.  This feud, as it has been called, occurred almost entirely over social media and was even mentioned on serious news channels.  Naturally, I have a gripe with the very principle of all this.

Firstly, the word "feud" has been degraded into a decrepit excuse for a playground tiff between childish twits who have nothing better to do with their lives than spur petty arguments.  As with many formerly formal elements of our language, it has been taken to the gallows, stripped of all glory and basic decency, and hung until it has been deafened by the snap of it's own neck and has choked on it's own blood.

That said, some background is in order.  For those of you who do not know the band I am referring to, The Black Keys formed in 2001 and gradually built underground fame until finally gaining mainstream popularity around three years ago, which was when the awards began to roll in.  Their sound is modern day Beatles spiked with blues, but have a listen for yourself ("Little Black Submarines", another of my favourites, is also linked below).  You all know the other guy, "baby, baby, baby" and all that.  In any case, information about the "feud" can be found here or in any simple Google search.  I apologise for what I just made you read...

My issue with this all comes in two forms.  The first is the utter buffoonery that is today's entertainment-social media-journalism environment.  That whole argument should never have even gone past the initial statement and it is a shame that adults, who should know better and set an example for those younger than themselves, can be such morons.  Social media platforms have put publicity in the hands of those whose mouths should be forever encased in duct tape and have allowed them to vomit across the Twitterverse until there is nothing of substance left in sight.  The media reeks of putrid, regurgitated nonsense and we cannot escape it.  That is, unless we decide to live in trees or caves and away from mass media for the rest of our lives.  Unfortunately, that's how you get declared clinically insane and dragged kicking and screaming back to this madhouse they call "culture".

My second issue is that respect is what matters.  It doesn't matter that you got a Grammy the minute you were tossed into the limelight because you made teenage girls wet their pants when you flicked your hair.  It also doesn't matter that this little upstart has offended you.  Have some respect for people who have worked long and hard and it never gets old fashioned to have a little extra respect for people who are very clearly your seniors.  This is not an isolated incident.  It seems that the more modern we get, the less we need to have basic decency.  It does not go out of style to treat people as if they are intelligent human beings until you discover otherwise.  If it is that you do discover otherwise, have some pride in yourself and try to maintain some decorum.

All in all, what it boils down to is that we cannot escape mass media, no matter what sort of circus it becomes.  People want drama, show business and people's business (preferably in combination).  We may hear full details about the scarf a rock star wore after her terrible break-up following a story on the rift between Israel and Palestine, but that is how the cookie crumbles.  The masses get what the masses want.

"Little Black Submarines"- The Black Keys

Pray the Demons Out

It may come as no surprise that neurological conditions fascinate me.  While it is completely understandable that they are burdens to their bearers, the madness that spills from a broken mind is a creation wholly unmarred by the incarceration of the waking world.  There is no leash holding the bits of the bearer of that condition to what is known or what can be realistically conceived.  The mind is shattered, and each shard is cast into an unknown, unheard of, fantastic realm that no one else can see.

What is most captivating of all is the courting of the threshold of normalcy that is undertaken by the bearer of such a condition.  She flits over it with uncertain feet, uncertain fingers calming uncertain lips, wondering whether to chase the music to which she now dances.  He speaks to it because it demands his words, pulls them from him beyond the reach of his will, and he wonders whether to wander where the wind instructs him.  In the end, she may choose to continue her dance and he may choose to continue his conversation, and once they have crossed that threshold and stepped into the sunlight of their waking dream they will be slapped with the label of 'epileptic' or 'schizophrenic' and yanked back into the prison of normalcy by well meaning peers.

I mention epilepsy because it is very closely related to migraines, particularly those with aura.  They are so closely linked that having one increases the likelihood of having the other, and the border between them is not always distinguishable.  The epilepsy most know is the demonic possession of old.  The epileptic is the contortionist, the linguist, the grotesque performer whose erraticism makes the blood curdle and the skin bubble.  However, as it turns out, it is not simply bumbling and barbaric, but also silent and precise.

In last night's episode of Monday Mornings (TNT's answer for a mob of House addicts going cold turkey), a young man was brought into Chelsea General Hospital by his mother because he was a compulsive writer who was also epileptic.  She had been concerned that writing had become an addiction for him, and so had stripped him of his laptop, paper, and writing implements for one weekend to try to make him "normal".  During his resulting epileptic seizure, he had found a pen and written all his thoughts on every inch of his exposed skin.  Ultimately, he chose not to remove the potentially fatal lesion the doctors found in his brain because that would rob him of his creativity and, hence, his identity.  One of his doctors agreed, and it was then that I learnt of all the great writers who have had epilepsy.  Dante, Poe, Dickens, Moliere were all at least suspected to have had epileptic seizures.  Of course, this does not even begin to take into account all the composers, artists, actors and generally creative members of society for whom this was reality.

Very often, creativity is the reflection from the scattered shards of a broken, degenerate, fragile or hurt mind.  When beauty erupts from the depths of all that brooding volatility, what is treatment, really? What is normal? Almost all the artists I have ever admired were at least mildly mad.  Would their paintings, stories or music be as enthralling had they not been? I have always been told that my dreams and imaginings were strange, that my stories must come from a twisted place.  When I speak of my voices and shadows, the primary reaction is usually the facial distortion of one who is unsure of whether my tales are fiction or fact.  The secondary reaction is more varied and much more amusing, from "you need to get help" to "we need to call a priest/preacher to pray the demons out of you".

I sometimes wonder what 'fixing' my twists and demons will truly fix.  As in the case of the young writer, what does one's identity become if the flaw that once was daily life becomes a faded memory? Is identity truly the same? Can one who is accustomed to weaving worlds from untraceable mist resign oneself to this grounded life of horizon-less asphalt? Can a fluffy, new, fulfilling personality be plucked from a hat without scorching the hand of the one who will never again see the full extent of his gift and solace?

My favourite stories have always been those that dwelt on madness.  They have always been populated by characters who saw people who were not truly there and were troubled by great oppression that did not truly exist.  Whether Alice in Wonderland or Hamlet, whether irreconcilably insane or in paced descent, madness cannot be controlled.  But is there such a thing as 'mild madness'? If it does exist, can it be fixed? And, if it can, if the creative product it spits forth is the only shred of comfort keeping the scattered shards of a mind in sight of each other, should it be fixed?

...

The spirit that I have seen
May be a devil; and the devil hath power
T' assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps
Out of my weakness and my melancholy,
As he is very potent with such spirits,
Abuses me to damn me...

 William Shakespeare, Hamlet