mnemosyne

How very fitting it turns out to be that Mnemosyne, daughter of Earth, granddaughter of Chaos, mother to the muses, lover of Zeus, and the creator of memory and reason… is nearly forgotten. Whispered in the writings of Greek legends, it is she who first gave us designation, recognition, recollection, acknowledgment and imagination. There are very few written accounts of her legends, and I think I like it that way.  "Please assume ... that there is in our souls a block of wax, in one case larger, in another smaller, in one case the wax is purer, in another more impure and harder, in some cases softer, and in some of proper quality...Let us, then, say that this is the gift of Memory, the mother of the Muses, and that whenever we wish to remember anything we see or hear or think of in our own minds, we hold this wax under the perceptions and thoughts and imprint them upon it, just as we make impressions from seal rings; and whatever is imprinted we remember and know as long as its image lasts, but whatever is rubbed out or cannot be imprinted we forget and do not know."


(Socrates to Theaetetus. Plato, Theaetetus 191d).

is ignorance bliss?

When I was a child I thought casually. I considered ideas and perceptions and all matters of my swirling mind to simply be… white noise. The background music to the movie of my life. I lived in the moment as it was happening, enthralled by my environment alone and dancing to a tune no one could hear. I could run and jump and play and swim and fall and laugh and cry, somehow immersed in it all without succumbing to empathetic fixation on the hardships I couldn’t change, or didn’t understand. I sought adventure and joy within my actions, not my thoughts. I believed going for a walk could change the world. But it can’t. As I grew up, I understood that my world, was not the only one. I tore myself from the little farmville fantasy, left the rural cabin, pigs, chickens, greenhouses and bonfires behind… to be slapped in the face with the real world. Where everything was rushed and sincerity faded into little corners that become harder to find everyday. Lines were thick and crossing them meant social exile. A deathly consequence by the scale of others. A book I loved enough to read three times describes all the negativity, all the devils on shoulders, the doubts setting simple thoughts into complicated darkness, and the author gives it a name that slithers fear into me. He called it The Other. The one provoking you to hesitate, to lash out, to judge without mercy or compassion, to hate, to distrust, and to harm others. The Other in my life, wasn’t powerful until the others around me decided to force social, habitual, irrelevant customs into my personality. Within in a few months I realized I had to give up and give in, or be forced into the previous world I loved. The world no longer considered good enough. The others fed my Other until it couldn’t eat anymore, and took over. I learned the names of all the Spice Girls, I bragged about boys that liked me, I abused other little girls who were considered “uncool” despite the inner nudge that reminded me what it felt like when that was me being ridiculed. I lied with no purpose but self gain. I decided I was too good for the company of losers. I desired trivial objects and toys so much that it consumed me completely within days. I tossed aside those same toys just as quickly, and desired new ones. I considered the activities I had once coveted, to be secrets. I hid most of who I really was, convincing myself that it was better to be who they wanted me to be. Some days I wish more then anything, that there wasn’t so much fluff in life. That we all weren’t forced into this fishbowl. Everyone looking in with importance, and us looking out with insignificance. Go away others, and take my Other with you. It's not welcome here anymore.

Culture Qualms

I drift through a seasonless world. Building up immunities to the heat wave trails, day long traffic attacks, sweat soaked road sweepers and street beggers. I laugh, but not all my laughter. I cry, but not all my tears. I smile. I nod politely. I have mastered the inherent art of avoiding eye contact. I hate avoiding eye contact. I hate polite nods. I want to laugh until I cry, and stand still for a minute. “But it’s different here.” What a twisted excuse. It’s different everywhere. What is it about “culture” that makes us swell up with pride? Some traditions are irrelevant. Only accepted because we humans are persistent animals intent on hoarding the familiar. Separating ourselves. Creating herds, packs, groups. Inventing the word ‘exclusive.’ Eye contact. Fuck. How important do you really think that tradition is? It’s not even “eye contact” at all. It’s just looking at someone’s eyes. We all have tedious customs drilled into our very natures, and I suppose a few different people decided looking at someone’s eyes must have a deeper cause behind it.. or two.. or five.. or ten. Then they categorized us. By location. Oh yes. Find true meaning in your physical point on the crust of the Earths surface. It’s not interesting, it’s meaningless and I will not concede to indifference or acceptance of these habitual conformities. I will, however, admit I am not brave enough to try and boldly look at the eyes of those who don’t think like I do. I don’t have the patience to try and explain this theory to everyone I meet or the ability to actually care about the endless stream of argument and misinterpretation that comes after. But it’s bullshit. Deep down you know the little things like that are just pure, steaming, heaped in piles of sweaty smelly dirty bullshit. Hiding in the corner under the tradition table. And most of us have been living on that table for so long, we can’t even smell the shit anymore.

selfish.

So, after reading John Greens books, I became overwhelmed with highschool lovestory ideas of my own, but try as I might, could not get started. Over and over again I wrote the first chapter, realizing every female character I tried to make into the protagonist, turned into some slightly more appealing version of myself. And so.. I've decided to do the unthinkable, and write from the perspective of a guy - very much like John Green has done - who is falling for the version of myself I choose to write. So far, it has impressed me much more then my first efforts, and while I'm only on chapter two, and the devil only knows it all still needs a lot of work, I figured Id post the first little paragraph anyways. I have no working title, so bare with me, and jump right in.

"The flick of my adolescent life’s very first domino happened in ninth grade when my historically crumbling high school decided locker partners would be the simplest way to deal with the sudden surge in student enrollment. Assigned locker partners. “Shoji…you’re with Lindsey,” my teacher called out as I summoned a rare moment of bravery and allowed myself one fleeting glance. The gorgeous creature that was Lindsey Swan swirled out of her chair and, although I had every intention of playing it cool, this particular girl had perfected the art of inherent seduction. I stared helplessly as she swung her perfect legs to one side of the desk, threw me a polite smile and in one majestic movement, swept up and plucked a lock from the cardboard box near the door. I was busy thanking God for both springtime and miniskirts when I realized she was looking at me. Oh yeah… Shoji Katō. That was me. I paused for another moment to curse my overly proud Japanese father for not giving me a normal name, stumbled awkwardly out of my chair and then out the door. In the thirteen steps it took me to reach the locker, I ripped apart my brain trying to plan the perfect thing to say."

If it helps, Lindsay Swann is NOT who he falls in love with. Stay tuned, I may just be prompted to divulge more as it comes along.