Monday, May 3, 2004

Feel?

I've been putting up a barrier at places, and this is just another one of them.

This is how I feel: I feel I've said everything that needs to be said in here. I think by now I know what things point to. I think you, as a reader of this, know, too. All--everything--that is contained herein in this blog could be made into a paragraph, maybe; maybe even a few sentences (which would maybe still be paragraphs). I don't think I need to articulate what those sentences would be. I think you, reader, know. Whoever you are.

Many things are dying for me lately; these deaths are for other things to grow--augment--mold--spring forth--be born--mature. And I really have no use for what is being born. I like what I was. Now what I am.

It's the truest thing that can be said: the past, as you look at it, always seems greater.

In the past, the sixties, there was the counterculture, the hippies, the blacks fighting for their rights. There was JFK. There was Martin Luther King, Jr. Caesar Chavez. There was Jimi Hendrix. What we have in the sixties is a time of immense change, and although this change did much, in the long run--if you look at now--it's done mostly nothing. The main thing is blacks got their rights. . .but that doesn't mean blacks have their rights. Blacks still are the highest makers of crime (or near there); blacks still are less educated than the caucasian; blacks are still prejudiced against, still seen as weaker in some eyes. But for what the sixties could have been, was, and did, and had, it seems like a much better time period than what we have now.

Now, there is seemingly nothing going on. We're fighting in another war that's like Vietnam in some aspects--and not, in others. Is the war validated? Is it even worth fighting? Who cares, because all that matters is what Bush thinks.

War is a constant throughout humanity's history. What does this mean? Does it mean we like death? We like killing? We like suffering? Does it mean we are stupid? We are smart? We know what we're doing? What does it mean?

It's funny how that, in the Vietnam War, the poor, and the ethnic minorities were the ones most often sent over. This was because the caucasians, or the middle class people, or the rich, would go to college, which made it so they didn't have to go. Go away to Nam. Or they'd act sick. Or make it so they didn't pass their physical examination.

I remember a quote from my history book. It went something along these lines: the blacks were being sent to war, right? In Vietnam. Now, the Vietnam War was the US trying to stop the indoctrination of Communisum. It was the US trying to spread its democracy. And the blacks, there were quite a many who went to Vietnam--for reasons digressed above. The question is, why would blacks fight for freedom, the US, in another country when in their country they don't even have their rights, as the constitution says (for it does say, in its first few lines, "All men are created equal)? Why would they?

I don't fully have a grasp on many things in this world, but as it's evidenced, much is not fair. I don't even know why I brought up Vietnam, and digressed as I did. I think I'm making a point. The point is, the Vietnam War isn't even considered a war by some; rather, to some, it's considered a "military conflict." And what were the results of this "military conflict"? It was about 40,000 + Americans dead, 100,000 + wounded, and on the Vietnamese side, it was worse fourfold, or even more.

And all those deaths, and lives, all of it, did nothing. The US decided to pull out of there, and soon thereafter, Vietnam was reunified as a Communist state. It was all for nothing, on the US side. We merely threw some lives away and accomplished nothing. The people in Vietnam--most, anyway--didn't even want us there.

So much history mirrors what we have today: there is the Iraq War, there is the matter of fact that homosexuals are treated as if their sexual preferences are as bad as being black. It's a wonder as to what made the world so fucked up.

The sixties--Vietnam--World War I--World War II--the Korean War--all these wars. And you realize, in most cases, they did nothing. World War I actually led to World War II. Germany was left in ruins, and it was because of this that Hitler and his Nazi party eventually came to rise. Then Hitler of course did the holocaust, as well as began invading neighboring countries. And there you have it--World War I leading off to World War II.

There were things accomplished from War, but in the end, the losses do not begin to fathom nor even touch upon how little the good things that happened did.

There is wars in my head every day. I act as if I'm fine on the exterior, but in the interior, I'm about fed up with many, many things. And thus you have the walls I put here.

I don't know why I'm going to post this. There's not much here I haven't said before. . .and what's new is just the old contorted to new.

I'll end it like this: in the words of my immortal hero, Agent Smith (and what's funny, my last name's Smith), who's a creation off of Ahab, as Mr. Esten has pointed out: "Why do you get up? Why get up? What for? Why not stay on the ground?"

Neo, rain streaming down his face, "Because I can." Neo, "Because I can"? Still doesn't answer it. That's more like an excuse.

Smith, "Only humans could create something as insipid as love."

Smith, "It is inevtiable."

What is inevitable, I hear you asking?

Everything. The small deaths--the death of me as a child, and other things--only are the moot motions of what's to come, someday. But until then, I'll enjoy it while I can. I'll be like a flipping coin: sometimes heads, sometimes tails. Two-face, I believe that Batman villian is named that: he gives an image well. One side of the face is ugly, the other beautiful. It's a sort of yin and yang--the good cannot exist without the bad. But, taking it even farther, "I have not seen a day as foul or as fair as this one," meaning, what's good is bad; meaning, what's foul is fair.

The coin's going to land. It seems to land on its head more than its tail. Seems to break open its skull and let out it.

(By the way, I'm not going to be posting day after day as before. Just writing stuff, as I said, and maybe some posts like this sparsely populated when I see it's time to do it.)

WANTED TO ADD THIS: Writing's been hard lately. The poem you see below this--I feel it's one of the best things I've wrote in a while. Everything else has felt rather lacking, missing the magic. That poem below was actually written last night. I don't know where it came from, but that's imagination for you.

I just sat down at my computer, opened my poem document (which is about 1 meg), and faltered on a first poem, erased it, started over, and you have the poem below.

I don't know about a lot of things anymore, and writing's one of them. I wonder if it's just going to fade away from me, like everything else. I'm just not interested in much anymore.

I was reading Colin Cahill's column this issue, and I realize it's a lot like mine in this month's paper, too. He was talking about how he can't look at things anymore and see they're beautiful. How it feels useless ot pick up his guitar and strum it. How he realizes that what he's going to be for sixty-five more years is a lost teenager (I'm iffy on that part, we'll see). And he's right, down to the dot (or close). I'm not sure how many realize, in their teen years, how much things change. Of course they must, but you never know. You at your teen years is you at your most honest, and as much of yourself as you'll ever be. In my provincial opinion, anyway.

Just like Cahill's sick of strumming his guitar--it seems pointless--so is it with me and writing, me and reading, me and anything I've ever enjoyed. The reality of it makes me realize the reality I've had since forever isn't the reality I'm going to have to have.

I just wanted to add that, since it's something on my mind I wanted to say in here, too.

At least Cahill's got a job. I sitll need to get one of those. . .

What's crazy is near this time next year, I'm going to be graduating. We'll see how the hell that goes. I can't even imagine.

But, in the words of the eternal Bob Dylan, from his song "Tangled Up in Blue," "All I knew to do was to keep on keepin on." Paraphrased, of course. But it's close enough.
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