8/12/09
7/6/09
Uncle Sam in Wonderland
Who creates freedom? What is freedom? Starting with the word:
1: the quality or state of being free: as a: the absence of necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action b: liberation from slavery or restraint or from the power of another : independence c: the quality or state of being exempt or released usually from something onerous d: ease, facility e: the quality of being frank, open, or outspoken f: improper familiarity g: boldness of conception or execution h: unrestricted use (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/freedom).
This is Merriam-Webster's definition of freedom. I have to ask myself, where is Merriam-Webster's dictionary published? The dictionary is American... So I then have to ask myself, does an American concept of freedom differ from, say, the concept of freedom that may exist in China? I then think: Freedom doesn't exist. The idea of freedom is derived from the society that presents its own ideology of what it means to be free. Here the definition (American) of freedom starts popping out at me:
"the absence of necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action"
These words churn until they awaken self-discovery.
There is no absence of necessity, no absence of coercion, no constraint in choice or action anywhere on the planet. Especially in America. Media, consumerism, and gossip permeate the culture. Pop idols become more important than religious figures, or like religious figures unto themselves. We're coerced to love our country through holidays that bind childhood memories of toys, candies, games, cards, confetti, sparklers, reindeer with red noses, fat men with red cheeks, bunnies that eat chocolate, and witches that stir potions to the actual application of being able to spend time with those we love because we're let off work for holiday, or we take off work just for those occasions. In this, we are forever psychologically bound to the cycle of consumerism because we actually do LOVE the holidays. Surrounded by the ones we love, with gifts and food in hand, we feel like we have everything we could ever possibly need or want. Only... We're slaves.
On July 4th we celebrate "Independence Day" which brainwashes us to love America through sparklers, fireworks, hot dogs, hamburgers, good times, and great drinks. We're so young when this indoctrination occurs that we don't actually know that we have been psychologically hijacked. It is only until we are much older, and not always so, that we begin to question the necessity of celebrating the birth of our nation. Most people wouldn't need to question the necessity because they, like millions of other patriotic Americans, would simply assert that to love one's nation is to love one's self... And then they would go on a long diatribe about the liberties and freedoms that our country possesses, and how the Founding Fathers helped to ensure those liberties.
Some people would say that the Founding Fathers got some things right, and some things very wrong. In granting freedoms, in making a Bill of Rights, a Constitution, and the Declaration of Independence, the Founding Fathers DID help to create a nation that engaged the population through a more democratic system that promoted self-determination, or free will.
The problem is that NO ONE can tell you what freedom is, because when someone tells you what freedom is, they're telling you how to BEHAVE. They're telling you, dictating to you, what an intangible concept means. They're judging this concept by their own society's standards. They're CREATING an idea for you. If you buy into this idea, you start to believe that anything the Creator is telling you is true, or directly related to this freedom, or, on some small level, at least associated with the concept of liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
This pursuit of liberty and happiness is based on a notion of freedom that was GIVEN to a population. Not every man, woman, child, or animal had a part in making this FREEDOM. A small room of white men decided what freedom meant. Yes, that small room of white men made some great decisions that have allowed America to become culturally welcoming (not always, as in, "Get them damn ARABS out 'ma country!" Or, "they took ouuurr jobs!"). Yes, it is because of this country that I can say these things, think these things, have these ideas...
...BUT.
Freedom doesn't exist here. Freedom isn't buying soap, or making rent. Freedom isn't going to the movies, or shopping until dark. Freedom isn't playing video games, typing on the computer, or sitting in a classroom. These concepts were given to us, but we ourselves never made the decisions to buy into them. From an early age, we were taught these norms of our society, and taught to appreciate them, each and every one, because we were free.
No one knows what freedom is because no one has ever actually been free. We've grasped at straws from the "freedom bag", gotten our lot, sometimes complained about it, sometimes marveled at our progress, but still: We've been playing into a system that has perpetually reinforced that we are free when we aren't free.
We buy, buy, buy. Like slaves, cattle even, we purchase more and more to feed our insatiable appetites. We splurg on dumb cars, even more ridiculous outfits, or lavish trips that never make us free. So we buy, buy, buy, always trying to reach that unattainable freedom that lies just over the horizon. We never find it. We're left to our own devices and sometimes meddle in the affairs of others.
A corporate downsizing would do us good, but even then, we'll never know what TRUE FREEDOM is because FREEDOM has NEVER existed.
From the time that human society started to form into Chiefdoms, we have felt the sometimes-oppressive hand of the Power Elite. Oppressive or not, that hand has still been there on our shoulder. Now is not the time to thank those that "gave" us our independence. Now is not the time to remember the soldiers that died on battlefields years ago. Mourn ourselves. Mourn our present era. Know that freedom will never come in a nicely wrapped gift, or a sparkler, or a cookie, or a basket. Freedom isn't something you can buy (unless you're OJ Simpson). Freedom isn't something you can buy because freedom doesn't exist. It is a concept that keeps you ever-chasing the rabbit down its hole... You'll never catch it, and you'll only fall deeper, deeper, deeper... But never reach Wonderland.
1: the quality or state of being free: as a: the absence of necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action b: liberation from slavery or restraint or from the power of another : independence c: the quality or state of being exempt or released usually from something onerous
This is Merriam-Webster's definition of freedom. I have to ask myself, where is Merriam-Webster's dictionary published? The dictionary is American... So I then have to ask myself, does an American concept of freedom differ from, say, the concept of freedom that may exist in China? I then think: Freedom doesn't exist. The idea of freedom is derived from the society that presents its own ideology of what it means to be free. Here the definition (American) of freedom starts popping out at me:
"the absence of necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action"
These words churn until they awaken self-discovery.
There is no absence of necessity, no absence of coercion, no constraint in choice or action anywhere on the planet. Especially in America. Media, consumerism, and gossip permeate the culture. Pop idols become more important than religious figures, or like religious figures unto themselves. We're coerced to love our country through holidays that bind childhood memories of toys, candies, games, cards, confetti, sparklers, reindeer with red noses, fat men with red cheeks, bunnies that eat chocolate, and witches that stir potions to the actual application of being able to spend time with those we love because we're let off work for holiday, or we take off work just for those occasions. In this, we are forever psychologically bound to the cycle of consumerism because we actually do LOVE the holidays. Surrounded by the ones we love, with gifts and food in hand, we feel like we have everything we could ever possibly need or want. Only... We're slaves.
On July 4th we celebrate "Independence Day" which brainwashes us to love America through sparklers, fireworks, hot dogs, hamburgers, good times, and great drinks. We're so young when this indoctrination occurs that we don't actually know that we have been psychologically hijacked. It is only until we are much older, and not always so, that we begin to question the necessity of celebrating the birth of our nation. Most people wouldn't need to question the necessity because they, like millions of other patriotic Americans, would simply assert that to love one's nation is to love one's self... And then they would go on a long diatribe about the liberties and freedoms that our country possesses, and how the Founding Fathers helped to ensure those liberties.
Some people would say that the Founding Fathers got some things right, and some things very wrong. In granting freedoms, in making a Bill of Rights, a Constitution, and the Declaration of Independence, the Founding Fathers DID help to create a nation that engaged the population through a more democratic system that promoted self-determination, or free will.
The problem is that NO ONE can tell you what freedom is, because when someone tells you what freedom is, they're telling you how to BEHAVE. They're telling you, dictating to you, what an intangible concept means. They're judging this concept by their own society's standards. They're CREATING an idea for you. If you buy into this idea, you start to believe that anything the Creator is telling you is true, or directly related to this freedom, or, on some small level, at least associated with the concept of liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
This pursuit of liberty and happiness is based on a notion of freedom that was GIVEN to a population. Not every man, woman, child, or animal had a part in making this FREEDOM. A small room of white men decided what freedom meant. Yes, that small room of white men made some great decisions that have allowed America to become culturally welcoming (not always, as in, "Get them damn ARABS out 'ma country!" Or, "they took ouuurr jobs!"). Yes, it is because of this country that I can say these things, think these things, have these ideas...
...BUT.
Freedom doesn't exist here. Freedom isn't buying soap, or making rent. Freedom isn't going to the movies, or shopping until dark. Freedom isn't playing video games, typing on the computer, or sitting in a classroom. These concepts were given to us, but we ourselves never made the decisions to buy into them. From an early age, we were taught these norms of our society, and taught to appreciate them, each and every one, because we were free.
No one knows what freedom is because no one has ever actually been free. We've grasped at straws from the "freedom bag", gotten our lot, sometimes complained about it, sometimes marveled at our progress, but still: We've been playing into a system that has perpetually reinforced that we are free when we aren't free.
We buy, buy, buy. Like slaves, cattle even, we purchase more and more to feed our insatiable appetites. We splurg on dumb cars, even more ridiculous outfits, or lavish trips that never make us free. So we buy, buy, buy, always trying to reach that unattainable freedom that lies just over the horizon. We never find it. We're left to our own devices and sometimes meddle in the affairs of others.
A corporate downsizing would do us good, but even then, we'll never know what TRUE FREEDOM is because FREEDOM has NEVER existed.
From the time that human society started to form into Chiefdoms, we have felt the sometimes-oppressive hand of the Power Elite. Oppressive or not, that hand has still been there on our shoulder. Now is not the time to thank those that "gave" us our independence. Now is not the time to remember the soldiers that died on battlefields years ago. Mourn ourselves. Mourn our present era. Know that freedom will never come in a nicely wrapped gift, or a sparkler, or a cookie, or a basket. Freedom isn't something you can buy (unless you're OJ Simpson). Freedom isn't something you can buy because freedom doesn't exist. It is a concept that keeps you ever-chasing the rabbit down its hole... You'll never catch it, and you'll only fall deeper, deeper, deeper... But never reach Wonderland.
6/27/09
Earth Spinning on its Axis
What's happening? Hungry vultures circle the planet. Change is now the norm. Global recession, global chaos, global depression... and now Michael Jackson's dead. Yet his death is a sign of the times. I don't shrug, but rather, with each passing day, a new gasp makes me miss the sigh. Sunshine in fields, stars in the sky, the Earth in its place, but only in my childhood. No new dawn, no fresh perspective looms on the horizon. The wind is hot and unbearable... I bide my time indoors, waiting for the dark to wake me up. And I think: How has it come to this?
Perpetuation. The cycle must repeat to be reborn. Fascination. Cultivation. Implementation. Chaos. Only it's all different... too fast, or not fast enough--- there's a sunspot in my vision all the time. The only time it isn't there is when I close my eyes.
Sleeping to dream is dreaming to escape, but now even paradise has limits. It's all in your head, the choreography isn't physically possible, and even if it were, there wouldn't be any way to pay for it. A crash-course in economics won't suffice because the system has malfunctioned. The parts are trying to refuse, but the results look more mangled than beautiful.
I keep thinking of the poem I wrote when I first learned how to correctly type in grade school:
There is no point in the point, there is no point,
there is no equal solution to anything
that you have tried to solve.
For years I typed it over and over again because I liked the way it felt on my fingers. I didn't pay attention to it until a year ago when I realized that there is no equal solution to anything I've ever tried to solve. The solutions have been disheartening, or capitulating, but never final. Never mirrored to fit the problem with concise, equal application.
And now, wow, the solutions are running with wild abandonment to find safe refuge.
The laws have betrayed me and only the resolve is left. The quiet, tumultuous, contradictory conclusion:
I'm still very much unsure.
Perpetuation. The cycle must repeat to be reborn. Fascination. Cultivation. Implementation. Chaos. Only it's all different... too fast, or not fast enough--- there's a sunspot in my vision all the time. The only time it isn't there is when I close my eyes.
Sleeping to dream is dreaming to escape, but now even paradise has limits. It's all in your head, the choreography isn't physically possible, and even if it were, there wouldn't be any way to pay for it. A crash-course in economics won't suffice because the system has malfunctioned. The parts are trying to refuse, but the results look more mangled than beautiful.
I keep thinking of the poem I wrote when I first learned how to correctly type in grade school:
There is no point in the point, there is no point,
there is no equal solution to anything
that you have tried to solve.
For years I typed it over and over again because I liked the way it felt on my fingers. I didn't pay attention to it until a year ago when I realized that there is no equal solution to anything I've ever tried to solve. The solutions have been disheartening, or capitulating, but never final. Never mirrored to fit the problem with concise, equal application.
And now, wow, the solutions are running with wild abandonment to find safe refuge.
The laws have betrayed me and only the resolve is left. The quiet, tumultuous, contradictory conclusion:
I'm still very much unsure.
6/13/09
"You Gotta a Hit?? I'm Jonesin BAADD"
I used to write a blog. Every day. I used to get wound up in the anticipation of finding something... er... anything, to write about. I posted pictures, posted stories, posted poems, posted love, posted life. I put it all in a package I called "New World, Same Story", then "New World Story", then finally "Nu World Story". I felt so poetic, intelligent even. I looked up other blog users, commented on their pages, not really caring what I left them, only hoping that they would recomment me. I put on my myspace: "New BLOG!!!" every 30 seconds and squealed to my computer like I was a 15-year old girl who might, just maybe (oh pleaaaasseee let it be HIMMM) be getting a phone call... er... IM from the star quarterback of some nondescript, winning-season football team. Most times there would be nothing, so I would slink back to my bed, dejected, feeling more morose than actually depressed, and conceive my next "trick" to lure in an audience. Skulking around the Blogosphere eventually led me to install a Statcounter device that I would diligently, feverishly, paranoiaclly check to see who had been visiting my site. I was, as many people say, hopelessly devoted... to you.
Sigh. How the times have changed. A year ago I made most of my 300 posts private, only leaving up certain "gems" that, upon further inspection, revealed themselves as mishapen pieces of gravel spun up in my psychologically malnourished psyche that trudged along its ill-possessed way through the back-country roads of perversion and boredom.
Sentences fuming with isolation became transposed with prose foaming at the proverbial mouth of, "Really, it's that important? Really?? And how did these conclusions find you? Under a tree... picking your navel?"
The photographs began to drive me a little insane. I couldn't ever get "The Look", only slight deceptions of the Golden Prize I was so desperately trying to emulate.
For a while I worked with a word processor, fornicating with the keys, but only producing retarded offspring that couldn't quite articulate anything good enough to send to a publisher.
My poor babies were simply not intelligent enough to understand the complexities of modern life, so I erased them, forever banishing them to Hell where they were willingly cradled in the bosoms of unwed mothers.
This post means nothing. It's a little bit of a release, but honestly, you're still more likely to find me at that old word processor, banging the keys so hard that my fingers finally lock up in arthritic protestation.
If I were to return, what road would this insidious BlogMonster try to lead me down... Where would it take me, where would my mind find itself in a week or two--- shuffling around in the back alleys of Blog City, looking for another hit? A Bloghead, I would have retaken the pipe and smile through my grimy, rotten mouth for all to see: "Look people, I have something to say too, dammit!"
Questions, questions, questions... And still, it all seems like pixels penetrating my frontal lobe.
Sigh. How the times have changed. A year ago I made most of my 300 posts private, only leaving up certain "gems" that, upon further inspection, revealed themselves as mishapen pieces of gravel spun up in my psychologically malnourished psyche that trudged along its ill-possessed way through the back-country roads of perversion and boredom.
Sentences fuming with isolation became transposed with prose foaming at the proverbial mouth of, "Really, it's that important? Really?? And how did these conclusions find you? Under a tree... picking your navel?"
The photographs began to drive me a little insane. I couldn't ever get "The Look", only slight deceptions of the Golden Prize I was so desperately trying to emulate.
For a while I worked with a word processor, fornicating with the keys, but only producing retarded offspring that couldn't quite articulate anything good enough to send to a publisher.
My poor babies were simply not intelligent enough to understand the complexities of modern life, so I erased them, forever banishing them to Hell where they were willingly cradled in the bosoms of unwed mothers.
This post means nothing. It's a little bit of a release, but honestly, you're still more likely to find me at that old word processor, banging the keys so hard that my fingers finally lock up in arthritic protestation.
If I were to return, what road would this insidious BlogMonster try to lead me down... Where would it take me, where would my mind find itself in a week or two--- shuffling around in the back alleys of Blog City, looking for another hit? A Bloghead, I would have retaken the pipe and smile through my grimy, rotten mouth for all to see: "Look people, I have something to say too, dammit!"
Questions, questions, questions... And still, it all seems like pixels penetrating my frontal lobe.
10/15/08
The detachment. A lack of knowledge. The downfall. Humanity and all of its crossroads; myriad failures and successes gauging their marks. Brains becoming minds becoming souls. The human footprint, in each and every size, unabashedly barreling forward.
Barbary fused with science. Bubbling, festering, spewing its filth forth from cauldrons contaminated with evil sorcery. Decrying blasphemy from mountaintops and soiling the gold, corrupting the youth, drenching the illiterate in sweat. Not meant for pagan rituals.
Burning houses to the ground. Some were straw. Some were brick. Some were brick and wood. Some were just wood. POOF! the products of succession: thorns and scrub brush paint the landscapes into brown-stroked lazy passes. Nature didn't intend for this. Maybe it was divine.
Barbary fused with science. Bubbling, festering, spewing its filth forth from cauldrons contaminated with evil sorcery. Decrying blasphemy from mountaintops and soiling the gold, corrupting the youth, drenching the illiterate in sweat. Not meant for pagan rituals.
Burning houses to the ground. Some were straw. Some were brick. Some were brick and wood. Some were just wood. POOF! the products of succession: thorns and scrub brush paint the landscapes into brown-stroked lazy passes. Nature didn't intend for this. Maybe it was divine.
10/11/08
4/26/08
Sweating is Fun, But it's kinda Painful
Today was exhausting!!
If you've read my blog this last year, you know I've been working on a sweat lodge... Or, at least, I had been.
The idea never died, but it was cold and I wanted to wait for it to get warm again before I really started trying to finish it.
For the last two days I've been working like crazy to reclaim the spot where the structure (made from river cane) stands.
The weeds had grown like mad, and after my dad had mentioned that there may be poison ivy within the sweat lodge itself, mowing the weeds wasn't going to suffice...
So I've been literally extracting the weeds... which means roots and all, for like--- ever. It's not so easy.
Some of the honeysuckle comes up easy enough, but there's a ginormous root structure underneath it all that has only begun to show its true self to me.
Today I thought I had gotten all the weeds out, and I was thinking about what type of ground floor I was going to use. I went out into the Coosawattee, about up to my knees, with shovel and bucket... and I hit the shovel into the water to see how hard the riverbed would be... Man, I couldn't even get the shovel an inch in.
So I had to renegotiate the situation. I decided to use the sandy soil that's along the river bank... And that decision being made, I started to haul up load after load of sand to deposit into the lodge.
I had no shoes or shirt on, and I was hoisting the bucket over my shoulder... And this was no ordinary bucket: It was a large, bulky bucket with holes in it and a rusty old handle that scraped my back innumerable times.
And the walk up the river bank wasn't necessarily easy. I was tiptoeing up the bank and digging my toes into the earth to get my footing, then walking through the tall grass to the spot of the sweat lodge... And then, like an arthritic old man, lowering the bucket and tipping (crashing) it into the ground to get the sand out.
I'm now ten loads in, and the sweat lodge still has no floor... Because...
As I began stomping the sandmud into the ground to make the floor (with bare feet, which was a--- primordial experience), I started realizing that an earthen floor has to be smooth and, well, this meant there could be no roots. Little bits of roots sticking into your feet would not be too... calming, and any new growth would be problematic as well.
Basically naked, I knelt down and started pulling at the roots. And pulling. And pulling. And, covered from head to toe in sand, mud, sticks, and bits--- the kinds that ball up in your hair and leave you fresh and dirty at the same time--- I stayed in that little sweat lodge for at least two hours just pulling and smoothing, pulling and smoothing.
Yes.
I learned two things today.
First:
Building a sweat lodge IS NOT EASY. HA.
Second:
Earthen floors are actually QUITE clean because you have to immaculately groom the entire space to accommodate bare feet. Or at least I do.
And, for the first time, I actually broke a sweat. It was when I was removing the last bit of green life from the lodge, and I just started sweating so much... I felt like it was fitting.
This whole thing has taken on a life of its own.
A grueling, mentally exhausting process that's designed for mental and physical purification. Perhaps the really hard stuff starts first in the physical.
It's feeling very "GOD TALKY, SPIRIT ANIMALY" out here.
Like, take this:
The other day I was riding my bike down the lane and I saw this huge rabbit jump across the little path. I slammed on my brakes, but the rabbit just held its cool. Sitting, we studied each other for a good ten minutes before I grew bored with it all and started slowly peddling my way towards his... He only hopped away after I had cycled past him, a true sign that he really was trying to communicate. And then, there was so much life in the underbrush along the lane. It was like SCRUNCHES-IN-LEAVES this, and DIVES-FOR-INSECTS that. Birds were chirping their brilliant math-speak, and I looked up and saw a hawk swooping down into a field. The wind picked up, and I knew: My woods were telling me hello. They were speaking to me and they were just happy I was there. They know me more than I know them.
It was strange. Seriously.
And this whole sweat lodge. I need some friends up here, stat! I wanna put them to work!!!
If you've read my blog this last year, you know I've been working on a sweat lodge... Or, at least, I had been.
The idea never died, but it was cold and I wanted to wait for it to get warm again before I really started trying to finish it.
For the last two days I've been working like crazy to reclaim the spot where the structure (made from river cane) stands.
The weeds had grown like mad, and after my dad had mentioned that there may be poison ivy within the sweat lodge itself, mowing the weeds wasn't going to suffice...
So I've been literally extracting the weeds... which means roots and all, for like--- ever. It's not so easy.
Some of the honeysuckle comes up easy enough, but there's a ginormous root structure underneath it all that has only begun to show its true self to me.
Today I thought I had gotten all the weeds out, and I was thinking about what type of ground floor I was going to use. I went out into the Coosawattee, about up to my knees, with shovel and bucket... and I hit the shovel into the water to see how hard the riverbed would be... Man, I couldn't even get the shovel an inch in.
So I had to renegotiate the situation. I decided to use the sandy soil that's along the river bank... And that decision being made, I started to haul up load after load of sand to deposit into the lodge.
I had no shoes or shirt on, and I was hoisting the bucket over my shoulder... And this was no ordinary bucket: It was a large, bulky bucket with holes in it and a rusty old handle that scraped my back innumerable times.
And the walk up the river bank wasn't necessarily easy. I was tiptoeing up the bank and digging my toes into the earth to get my footing, then walking through the tall grass to the spot of the sweat lodge... And then, like an arthritic old man, lowering the bucket and tipping (crashing) it into the ground to get the sand out.
I'm now ten loads in, and the sweat lodge still has no floor... Because...
As I began stomping the sandmud into the ground to make the floor (with bare feet, which was a--- primordial experience), I started realizing that an earthen floor has to be smooth and, well, this meant there could be no roots. Little bits of roots sticking into your feet would not be too... calming, and any new growth would be problematic as well.
Basically naked, I knelt down and started pulling at the roots. And pulling. And pulling. And, covered from head to toe in sand, mud, sticks, and bits--- the kinds that ball up in your hair and leave you fresh and dirty at the same time--- I stayed in that little sweat lodge for at least two hours just pulling and smoothing, pulling and smoothing.
Yes.
I learned two things today.
First:
Building a sweat lodge IS NOT EASY. HA.
Second:
Earthen floors are actually QUITE clean because you have to immaculately groom the entire space to accommodate bare feet. Or at least I do.
And, for the first time, I actually broke a sweat. It was when I was removing the last bit of green life from the lodge, and I just started sweating so much... I felt like it was fitting.
This whole thing has taken on a life of its own.
A grueling, mentally exhausting process that's designed for mental and physical purification. Perhaps the really hard stuff starts first in the physical.
It's feeling very "GOD TALKY, SPIRIT ANIMALY" out here.
Like, take this:
The other day I was riding my bike down the lane and I saw this huge rabbit jump across the little path. I slammed on my brakes, but the rabbit just held its cool. Sitting, we studied each other for a good ten minutes before I grew bored with it all and started slowly peddling my way towards his... He only hopped away after I had cycled past him, a true sign that he really was trying to communicate. And then, there was so much life in the underbrush along the lane. It was like SCRUNCHES-IN-LEAVES this, and DIVES-FOR-INSECTS that. Birds were chirping their brilliant math-speak, and I looked up and saw a hawk swooping down into a field. The wind picked up, and I knew: My woods were telling me hello. They were speaking to me and they were just happy I was there. They know me more than I know them.
It was strange. Seriously.
And this whole sweat lodge. I need some friends up here, stat! I wanna put them to work!!!
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