Just a theory on Life

Life... just an enormous topic to tackle especially when I don't necessarily feel adequate enough to write accurately on such a mysterious and vast topic. But if I don't, I am completely devaluing my two cents-- and aren't all two cents equal?

Does Age, education, economics, nationality, gender detract from the true perspective on life or does it enhance the different aspects of it like facets in a beautiful jewel. Some times I wonder how skewed my perspective is from the truth. How much my lens is fogged up with my own bias's and presumptions.

Lately I have been exhausting my literary analysis techniques in my english classes and there are now sure signs that it is beginning to seep into the crevasses of how I perceive life. Before I saw no symbolism, metaphor, didactic meanings, or dark humor in my life... I was simply living as a narrator and accepting the mysteries as some sort of force that God plans to use later. Now while this holds true and I do believe that some mysteries we will never understand or are even meant to understand, I have began to look at life through a literary lens.

The Bible is riddled with symbolism, metaphor, hidden themes, teachings and parables about life. If God wrote the bible (whether through divine intervention or inspiration) and God, theoretically, wrote my life as well-- shouldn't my life be riddled with symbolism, metaphor etc etc etc also? I feel that if we look at it completely rationally it makes sense, A=B and A=C then B=C (now, please be merciful if there any blatant philosophical errors or theological heresies)

I only first came to this realization this morning while I was going for my walk with Kachina. I love animals. Let me indulge in a minor tangent, while growing up I had this fascination with animals. Jake, my first dog, had become my best friend, literally, I viewed him as a real friend. Now think about this cliche.... it's straight up absurd. Who says that an animal can be a friend? Do they even have any concept on friendship? Maybe so, but that's a whole different topic to confront. Ultimately, this love for animals has yet to fizzle out.

Anyways, as I was walking Kachina, I was overwhelmed with symbolism by the strangest instance, she did what most dogs did-- pooped. Now, I'm usually not a light weight for gross things, I get a little squirmish but for the most part I can step up and handle the situation. With one exception... picking up a dog's poop. It disgusts me. I don't know what it is... but it grosses me out the point of where survival mode kicks in-- fight or flight.

I know, it's dramatic but let me have my moment. We all have irrational fears, right? Well, we all have irrational vomiting catalyzers as well.

So the dog poops. The scene: it's morning, we are on a residential block in front of an abandoned house, there are no cars, no bystanders-- just me and Kachina and the poop.

My conscious began to feud, the devil on my left said, "You're in luck, you can leave it and no one will ever know".

I listened for the Angel, but there was silence. I was surprised. Really, not a word? Don't you want to argue your side? But I knew why there was silence. The Angel already knew that I knew the right thing to do. She didn't need to convince me because the right choice never needs to be convinced.

Now back to this poop, it is literally stinking with symbolism. I'll let you associate what meaning you want to it, but overall it was my responsibility to clean up. Kachina is my responsibility and I in turn am responsible for her actions. To get even more abstract and even closer to absurdity, we could even say Kachina is a part of me: I take care of her, I direct her, I teach her, I walk, feed, clean etc etc etc hence, although she is a separate being, we are connected on a level where her messes are my messes. This poop is mine.

Last year, or maybe even yesterday, I would have left it. I would have not acknowledged it, I would have buried it, ignored it, ran from it. I would have deferred the fault and responsibility as not my own.. It's simply embarrassing how juvenile I can be.

I love making rational loopholes, but it has become almost detrimental. I was born ambidextrous (I broke my left arm which then stripped majority of its usefulness), but my parents always told me that I'm not only ambidextrous dexterity wise, but mentally as well. Meaning I use my logical and creative side equally (whether this has any merit or not, I am ignorant).

As I am getting older its, at the risk of sounding pompous, becoming a burden. My creative ways are being rationalized logically, making my own perspective completely unreliable. I can rationalize anything. (this being the ultimate downfall of Enlightenment philosophies). And I have to be cautious about this. It is scary to think that if I don't monitor this fact about myself that I have the power to obscure the truth to a degree where I can rationalize my temptations.

Ok back to the point, my rambling is basically supposed to explain that I am very well practiced at making strong excuses. It's immature to lowest degree.

So even before Kachina pooped, I was predetermined to run away, simply because I could rationalize it.

But the silence of the hypothetical Angel stopped me.

Maybe I grew up that instant or maybe I finally came to the realization how rude it is to leave poop for some one else to clean up. Whatever it was, it was strong enough for me to roll up my sleeves, hold my breath and pick up that stinking, warm pile of digested waste. It was no less disgusting than it would have been; I still gagged, frowned and wanted to run away. But I did it-- I picked it up.

It was my mess and I had to clean it up.

There will be more messes in the future and more times where I rather runaway than roll up my sleeves. But that isn't the right path. We as humanity face this choice. It is a universal struggle to own up to your mistakes, pay the consequences, clean up, and move forward changed. It's not easy and its definitely not pretty. But it's right. And even though I feel that sometimes my lens on life is clouded and there are times I can't even see my feet, my (or maybe it is God's) moral compass always seems to point me in the right direction regardless of my inclination towards folly. The ultimate question now is if I will have the strength to follow the direction the compass points and have faith.

Wow, can't believe poop catalyzed such a notion of thought that ran beyond the physical and spurred a moment of self-realization. God moves in mysterious ways.

Who says symbolism is limited to books?

May 18th- transfer post

There’s ups, downs, and all arounds.
Parents, I love mine. A voice of reason to my often irrational thinking. Thank you God for blessing me with good parents.

Realism blossomed after the era of Romance—it was immediate response to the flowery visage, didactic fiction, organic emotionalism and imaginative interpretations. Writers like Hawthorne, Emerson, Melville, Stowe, Douglass, Thoreau, Dickinson and a personal favorite Whitman were the lead hitters for this literary genre. They were the spiritualists, writers, artists and imaginations that suspected logic and reason were not the only way to uncover spiritual truths and emphasized subjectivity, intuition, individualism, and ambiguity that delved deeper into the mysteries of human kind.

I am more inclined to relate to this era— I am attracted to the sheer romantic notion that you can view life throw your own personal rose-colored classes. I love the novelty that nature is a state of innocence, attempting to rely more on intuition than institutions and be suspicious of societal codes and tradition. I love what was born into the Romantic Era specifically Gothicism, which before now, I always associated with black eyeliner, leather boots, and wallet chains. Now it is so much more. Gothicism was born out of northern Germanic Tribes often set in ruined castles, abbeys and dungeons evoking chilling terror exploiting supernatural irrationality and fear of the unknown. I’m a natural optimist so to discover my love for this writing was surprising. But I love the idea of this sensationalist writing that tapped into the human psyche that express subconscious fears and anxieties.

Characters like the Roderick in The Fall of the House of Usher, who’s own sanity is at stake by the end or the deranged narrator in Tell Tale Heart. The fact that evil is just as close as good. It’s absolutely fascinating. I’ve always been fascinated by extremes.

I could go about the unrealistic love I have for the Romantic Era— it being unrealistic because we are well into the age of Realism. Subjectivity was axed with the attempt to represent reality as best as we could. Which is probably for the best, because as much as I love the Romantic era it has numerable flaws that will do more harm than the highlights can do good.

Realism has been the dominant mode through out the 20th – 21st century. However the peak of this thought started after the Civil war up until 1914, before WWI. Realism can be seen as generally the rebuttle to the previous movements (Romaticism, Enlightenment, Puritanism). Instead of exaggerating their fiction, Realists attempted to represent common and ordinary life and instead of illustrating abstract truths they try to achieve practical solutions to solve problems. Realism strives to be objective and factual. I respect it. I can acknowledge its purpose and the good it can do but It’s cut and dry, common, boring, just purely… plausible.

And where is the fun in that?

But here’s where my introduction ties in… My parents are the Realists to my Romanticism.

My abstract thinking creates fanciful notions to which my imagination blinds me to the fact that they are impossible to succeed in reality. As much as I hate the fact that realism shatters my glittery paradigm, ego, and innate nature I can’t live in the Romantic era forever.

You can’t succeed in your bubble of non-reality. Or can you? I always have thought it is more detrimental to yourself and your community to lead a self-centered life. Living in a self-created reality rather than acknowledging the facts at hand—acknowledging the pain, the hurt, the problems around is ignorant. Ignoring reality is selfish and eventually your selfishness will become a burden to you and those around you. You will become a stagnant block that impedes progress, forgiveness, truth, peace and love. You might not be doing any harm but you’re not doing any good either and that could be considered just as bad.

Anyways, the purpose of this rambling is that I am finally acknowledging (or at least beginning to) that I have outgrown, for lack of better words, my bubble. I am no longer comfortable living in my skewed view of reality. I feel that the lies of my bubble is stifling my growth, constricting my opportunities. And although my bubble is fun n games, comfortable, fanciful and safe where is the fun in that? Where is the challenge? Where is the adversity?

More to come sure on this topic, until then, Thanks Mom and Dad (roommate and friends) for teaching me how to intertwine realists practicalities in my innate romantic tendencies.

Finicky

I tried and failed at tumblr. I feel at home here.

Here are some rambles from my time at tumblr


Cricket, known as Elvis Presley (the 1970’s version) during his stay in 204, was returned to his rightful owners last Sunday.

The pup stumbled upon our door sunday morning in utter shambles after what could be assumed a drunken night of dog debauchery. Having muddy fur and a slurred bark, the mutt eagerly begged for our warm hospitality. He greedily inhaled all the food and water he could until passing out on our porch.

While he was snoozing, I did a little research on the pup.

Presley had seen better days; the dirty drain water clearly got the best of him. He had his first lick full six months ago and soon after became addicted. From then on he lost interest in all that mattered most to him. Loved ones claim that the drain water is to blame for his bad behavior and the ultimate catalyst for his first doggie divorce with Lucille Ball.

He overdosed twice from drain water before moving on to chewing a heavier substance—diseased rats. His junkie ways have become increasingly worrisome to those around him. “I watched him in his dog house, just sprawled on his blanket, day after day, unable to move. The only signs of life being his panting tongue,” states Cricket’s first owner, Joe.

Presley’s drain water and rat dependency has caused him to spend more than just one over night stay in the dog shelter. Many have lost hope that he will ever return to the Cricket they once knew and loved. He is just one example of the one of many dogs who have fell victim to the affects of dirty drain water.

Please let this be a lesson and stop all dumping of toxins in gutters, you can make the difference in one pup’s life.

Upon waking up in our apartment, Presley was relunctant to leave and he was disposed of by force. Presley’s stated no intention to enrolling in Doggy intervention and that he rather laugh with sinners than cry with saints.