Monday, October 31, 2005

"Without courage, all virtue loses meaning" - Winston Churchill

The truth of this quote seems to strike me even more evidently than before. The lack of courage to act upon your beliefs, do the right thing, and stand up is contradictory to not "cring[ing] before power." Yet incontrovertible evidence is that the boys who are responsible as my accusers are nothing but cowards. And I am pissed off. I have discovered one of my accusers. The younger is only a snot-nosed punk of a kid who doesn't know any better. Fresh out of his momma's womb, the boy seeks guidance and acceptance more than anything else, and has a difficult, if not impossible with his surroundings, time upholding what he everyday says through his lips. His innocence is evident in his inability to look me in the eye, and his nervous glances as he quietly goes about his business hoping to be unnoticed. But his absence and lack of direct contact with me, which is unusual, directly points to him. No one but the accused, the accuser and the prosecution know the deal, so everyone else is innocent in their looks, completely bewildered by my unusual silence and change in demeanor. Moreover, it is the look. The eyes are the windows to the soul the yiddish proverb states. His eyes are guilty. Behind them is a throbbing want to express himself to me to either explain himself or apologize. But I fear it is the latter for him. For him, I believe that the matter is beyond him now. And in his immaturity, he knows not what he has done. I wont be held responsible.

It seems to me the larger forces that be within the organization has a paranoia about me. They are all waiting for me to explode in rage and anger. They are all quiet whenever I am around and I feel that the reason is myself. I acknowledge that it is my demeanor that causes this, but is it justified? Whispers by the head of the witchhunt, meetings that I have mistakenly walked into lead me to see the look of question in their eyes, "How long has he been here? What did he hear?" Ridiculous. A prisoner in my own house of daggers.

Now for the older one. I've had this thought of supposedly justified idealism that has been crumbling since the rebirth of the revolution so to speak. It's become a wailing wall of sorts, once great and reflecting the glory of what is good and positive. Now, all that remains is a poor south end wall that stands by itself, bearing witness to the lamenting and cries of a disillusioned and persecuted widow, mourning the loss of something so great and something so attainable. He is the last gust of wind that pushes the wall over. Nothing left in the modern world of politics and envy that wants to support the archaic notions of an ideal gone past. Victor Hugo said that nothing is so powerful as an idea whose time has come. What he forgot to mention is nothing is so ephemeral as an idea whose time is past.

"I believe in the brotherhood of all men, but I don't believe in wasting brotherhood on anyone who doesn't want to practice it with me. Brotherhood is a two-way street" Malcolm X

I never thought that I would be quoting from Malcolm X. Good lord. But he's got it right on this one. Why do I want to give and give when they don't give back. The personal afflictions of individuals seem to unduly influence someone who is supposedly my "brother." In fact, it almost seems as if calling someone my brother is a downgrade from friend. My friends are ones who do not let me down, who do not persecute me, and who are loyal. To me, because I have been colored by experiences that have tested my friendships in ways that most friendships will never be tested, I demand unyielding loyalty to be my friend. The polarizing forces in my history that have taken place has led me to believe that only this can prove to me friendship. To put it simply, when the going gets tough, and I mean really tough, who can you rely on? Because I reciprocate and then some. And still, not once but TWICE, by the brethren am I unjustly accused, am I unjustly targeted. And for what?

We pledged after the first accusation and subsequent review to personally handle any problems aside, man to man, face to face, and not hide behind the blanket of anonymity. My accuser stands behind the mask of committee and due process as opposed to what should be, with brothers, a reform (if necessary) through the bonds of brotherhood. This is the same actions that are being taken by those jealous of us and do they recognize this? No. The cowardice exemplified in these actions leads me to question my love and committment to something that is so essential to me, yet so lip-serviced by them. How can my brother be a coward? I have no such brother.

Monday, October 24, 2005

"An inordinate passion for pleasure is the secret of remaining young" Oscar Wilde

The man is right. It seems to me a stupid thing that we go back to the same well that seems to give us nothing but bitter water to swallow. All the warnings and words of others and none can't seem to hold us back from that which we have a desire for. In modern terms the chase.

Take our friend Doyle F. Sew. He is always in a bind from one to the next. Out of a five hour car ride into 2 second rollercoasters. He straps himself in, holding on until the ride inevitably flings him off effortlessly, as if he hadn't had a chance to begin with. All he ends up with is no prize, no cigar, and noone but a bruised ego. It's not like he's a bad driver, he's taken lessons from the best. Still the crash is inevitable, because it isn't that the driver is bad, it's that the car wasn't ready. The blustering ball of a boat ride seemed nothing but a good time in theory, but in practice proved to be bruise battering 8 rounds of boxing. He comes out golden, holding on to his seat belt only when he can but this is rare to even have a chance. A glimmer of light from tilted windows only under the brightest chances doesn't mean that there's air there.

And next old man Matthew B. Krumb. This poor guy's got no idea. He's blind as a bat under a heat lamp. Still his drive tells him that he's gotta keep walking as if something is chasing him down. Unfortunate. Driven blind by a freak accident involving his own chivalrous actions to save a sinking boat of friends on a stormy trip through the Bermuda, his own life did he almost forsake. Yet he survived, but as cruel fate would have it, now knows no other than the other. He can't see himself nor the walls and bricks in his way. He stumbles and he falls, walks up when he should be walking down, and turns left when the road goes right. He has no cane, no dog, no friend to help him because noone is left to help. The realities of life have hit him hard and he is just now learning to cope. But the obstacles don't keep him down, he keeps trucking. He doesn't know anyother way.

And then there's Kevin C. Shithead. Why Shithead as a moniker? because he is. What else do you call a doucherocket who keeps sticking his hand over the stove? He can feel, he can see, he can hear, he can learn. Still, shithead thinks that maybe this time he wont get burned. So douchebag, like a skipping CD decides to try it over and over again, mystified as to what the sensation is. Is he doing it wrong? Is there a certain way to hold your hand over the fire? How fast, how slow? No, he ALREADY knows how, he just doesn't see why it happens. But he does know why he does it. It's so that he'll stay warm. Shithead keeps burning himself because the room he stands in is cold as hell, and he wants to stay warm. And that is the pleasure that he pursues. That is the unending struggle for gratification, an almost obscene and incontinent drive for warmth.

OK, I'm done now. You probably don't know what any of that meant, but stream of consciousness, character projection, and blah was necessary for me to work a problem out in my head. Really, it's actually pretty thinly veiled if you know me.