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The root of all Evil

People can be quick to place blame, saying someone is bad because of something someone has said or done.  But what is bad, or evil?  Anyone can point to a list of actions and say one or another is evil – sometimes without much argument.  But what is Evil?  What is it that makes us choose these reprehensible actions?  What is its essence – its root – and why do we care?

In my opinion, I think the old adage is correct:  “Pride is the root of all evil.”  But why?

Because I think all evil comes from an idea – that we are special, so special in fact that the rules do not apply to us.  But why is that evil?  How does that create all the rest of what we collectively call, “Evil”?

The big examples are easy to describe.  Murder?  Whatever the motive, the murderer cares more for their motives than they do about the legality or morality of their own actions.  The same can be said for any kind of sexual crime.

But what of lessor evils?  Stealing?  There are certainly times when theft is the lessor of two evils (so to speak), but anyone who makes their living off of stealing is frequently seen as a villain who doesn’t care whom they hurt with their actions.  Lying?  The same – there are exceptions, but serial liars care more for their reasons than anything else.  Even white lies can be similarly criticized.

What about speeding?  Can we really justify driving over the speed limit, or are we just making excuses for reckless and selfish behavior?  I know we’re not saving much time – I worked out the math on how much time we save by speeding, and the results are sad.  (Short version:  it’s not worth it.)

Even bitterness and spiteful words – actions that are completely legal – still darken the world bit by bit.  And what are our justifications?  That it doesn’t matter?  That everyone does it?  It reminds me of lyrics from Radiohead’s song “Creep”:

Whatever makes you happy,
Whatever you want,
You’re so fucking special…

And that’s what Evil is, in my eyes.

Now you can be and feel special – that’s OK.  But when you start treating people like you matter more than them…  When you act like your ideas and ideologies matter more than the people who have to be sacrificed to support them…  That is Evil.  It is microscopic and titanic, widespread and pervasive.  It’s…seductive.

Because it tells you that you’re special.  It tries to make you feel good about doing things that you should question.  And, unfortunately, sometimes it succeeds.

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Cognac

She’s got a look in her eyes –
poured from the finest decanter
into glasses that shimmer and shake,
raging with the thunder of one whose
indomitable willpower leaves those around her
tipsy.

*This poem is a continuation of a project where I chose a color, and wrote a poem on the first three words that came to mind. In this case, they were eyes, a drink, and drunk*

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The story of a man

Let me tell you the story of a man.

This man was strong.
He served in World War II,
lived to see 100,
and spent the last decade and a half of his life
living on a cattle ranch in Montana.

He took a kick to the chest by a cow
in his late eighties or early nineties
and walked it off.

He survived two divorces
in which every child but one
sided with their mothers against him.

This man remembered courtesies,
and once thanked someone
for the kind words they said at his father’s funeral
some twenty years prior.

This man was kind
and did not let the circumstances of his life
make him bitter.

Let me tell you about a boy
who idolized that man,
who loved him dearly
across distance and time.

This boy grew to adulthood,
and still looked up to that man
as though he hung the sun in the sky.

That man was his hero,
is his hero,
will always be his hero.

That boy was me,
and that man
was my grandfather.

And on the 27th of August
he died.

I wrote him two letters –
two important letters –
in the past year.

In those letters
I told him in no uncertain terms
that he was my hero
that I was proud of him
that I was proud of being part of his family
that if I only lived to be half as great as him,
I will still have been a great man
and lived an exemplary life.

I’m glad I got a chance to tell him that
before it was too late.

I’ve always planned to give
my grandfather’s name to my first son
as his middle name.

He never got the chance to meet that son,
but I still want to give him that name
because the heroes who live in our hearts
never die.

Goodbye Grandpa.
I will miss you
always
in fact, I already do
with tears streaming down my face as I write this.

I love you Grandpa,
and I’ll do you proud.
Just keep watching,
I’ll do you proud.

To the first of my heroes
and the greatest of them,
Solomon K. Meyer
December 22 1914 – August 27 2015

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Revitalized

It’s important to take the time
to walk away from the pen, the paper, the rhyme,
to coax yourself out of your literary lament,
and just live in the moment.

There’s a world of people waiting for you,
beneath the lumens lazuli blue,
each with stories as complex
as those growing in your text.

And if you care to stay a while,
they’ll take you in with a charming smile
which will leave you feeling oh-so blest
that you’ll depart with brimming zest.

And now the writing you once despaired
runs with a passion which you’ve shared
with those who’ve become kith and kin,
who stand apart – yet dwell within.

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Starved for affection

Today, I’m going to give a detailed talk, which will touch upon a topic I rarely address here: sex.

Specifically, the concept of edging, which Urban Dictionary defines as:

Coming nearly close to climax or ejaculation, then purposefully stopping sexual stimulation in order to delay the same, so that the ultimate climax will be more intense.

Now, I know what you’re thinking…

“Oh God!
What is wrong with you?!
Why do you know about that?!
Why are you telling me this?!
La-la-la-la-la-la-la~”

I’ll respond to those in order.

“Oh God!”
Yes my child.

“What is wrong with you?!”
Probably a lot.

“Why do you know about that?!”
I am widely traveled, and broadly studied.

“Why are you telling me this?!”
I’m glad you asked! *cracks knuckles*

Edging is a technique I’ve heard of people using to not only intensify the sexual experience, but also as a means of permanently increasing sexual arousal.  The principal behind it is that by extending your time in that moment before climax, and stopping before you do climax, your body gets acclimated to being in that state – all the time.  And while that could be fun recreationally, excessive and addictive use of this pretty much ends like all excessive and addictive use does.

So again, why bring this up?

Because the concept is one of unfulfillment:  you almost get what you want, but then stop just before you achieve it.  As a result, you begin to crave those feelings and sensations with increasing intensity.

I have a hard time connecting with people – personally, socially, and romantically.  I make attempts, but I’m often insecure.  And that contributes to some very serious issues in my relationships with others.  I give too much, and when unnecessary.  I take things personally.  I get clingy.  These personality traits and actions have eventually destroyed some of my relationships.  And afterwards, I get back up and try again, more desperate than before.  Sound familiar, hm?

They used to say, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” but also remember the phrase, “All things in moderation.”  It’s OK to want people to like you.  It’s OK to want to be loved.  But eventually, the attempts to connect and the unfulfillment of those wants and desires start to become obsessive.  And the more desperate you become for those affections, they less you are able to nurture them in a healthy manner.

So what should you do?

Believe in yourself.  Be confident.  Stop trying to use other people to fill the holes within yourself.  The only thing that can replace the missing pieces of you is more you.  Other people will not suffice.  So nurture yourself into the kind of person you want to be.  It’s OK to focus on yourself and the things you want in and for your life.

Don’t give to the point of self-destruction.  Take care of yourself when you’re having bad days.  Find positive ways to talk to others openly about issues in your relationship with them.  Respect others, and respect yourself.

Cultivate the best in yourself, and others are sure to notice.

And finally, ” La-la-la-la~”
That’s silly. You’re silly. I like you 😉

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The story of the sun

When I was younger, I found a sun for myself.

I don’t remember exactly when or where. Perhaps it was at a local faire, or passing by on the street somewhere that I found my sun.

I’d like to think it was amber and gold, but it probably wasn’t. It could have been copper, brass, or gilded. It could have been amber, or just colored glass. But it was my sun, and my sun was amber and gold.

There was a drop of amber in the center, with six or eight teardrop-shaped ambers surrounding it, and the whole piece was set in gold. I’m not sure though. I don’t remember anymore, because I no longer have my sun.

I gave my sun to the first woman who was ever my lover – five years after we broke up.  I thought she needed strength, and I wanted to give her my best and brightest. I knew she’d have some long, hard years ahead of her, and she did. She does. But these days she seems happier, pursuing a new career path and telling me about her current relationship with such cheer that I can see the smile on her face even though we’re speaking over the telephone.

But there are those days when I need strength as well, and my world is dark in the absence of my sun. I miss its weight against my chest. I miss the strength I drew from it.

I remember the time in high school when I had an internship, and they had me clean out their basement for a month. I remember how dark it was down there, how lonesome. And how I realized that if I wanted light down there, I had to bring it with me.

So I sung, for hours every day, to bring the light with me. I stopped feeling lonesome. I let go of my fear. The light in my heart chased them away, and I shone like a beacon in the dark.

But some time after that, I lost my light. I don’t remember when or where. Now, I feel lonesome. I am afraid. My heart diminished from all the pieces I gave away to others. Most did not treat them kindly; few returned them when they were done. A few years ago I gave one of the best and brightest pieces of it to a friend who needed strength.

I hope I still have enough to get by. I hope I still have enough left to share with the people I meet who matter to me.

Because when I was younger, I found a sun. I don’t remember when or where. It was a drop of amber surrounded by six or eight teardrops set in gold. I don’t remember anymore, because it’s been years since I’ve seen my sun.

But I still remember the way it feels.

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An analysis: Rokka -Braves of the Six Flowers-

A long time ago, I used to do reviews for movies and shows on another website.  I haven’t done one in a long time, but lately I’ve been watching a show that I’m really enjoying and I wanted to talk about it.  So I’m taking today’s blog post to discuss the Japanese animated show “Rokka -Braves of the Six Flowers-“.

Now, because of the nature of this show, it will be impossible to discuss it in a spoiler-free manner.  So, I am warning you now:  if you do not want this show spoiled for you up through episode 7 (the most recent at the time of this writing), do not read any further.

Again, this is your warning.  If you don’t want spoilers, please do not continue reading, and skip this post instead.

Continue reading → An analysis: Rokka -Braves of the Six Flowers-

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Rust

With a grumble and groan,
the trembling tower
clung to its “fifteen minutes,”
for well over an hour.

Eventually the strain
of holding itself high
brought the tower to its knees,
revealing the sky.

Now the steel Samson lies exposed,
and the vultures pick it clean
until a skeleton of rust
is all that remains to be seen.

*This poem is a continuation of a project where I chose a color, and wrote a poem on the first three words that came to mind. In this case, they were metal, weaken, and decay.*

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On compromise

When people talk about compromise, I get the impression that they mean splitting things down the middle, 50/50. But I’ve been giving the idea some thought lately, and I’ve come up with my own interpretation.

I was speaking with a friend on the topic recently, and told her that I don’t like the idea of compromise meaning splitting everything 50/50.  Doesn’t that kind of thinking create a system that’s open to abuse?  Couldn’t someone take a situation and say, “I’ve given you five things today and you’ve only given me four – so you have to give me what I want now.”?  Alternatively, what if we have a bad day and need more than 50%?  This model doesn’t account for that at all.

Instead, I told her that, to me, compromise means accepting that sometimes you have to split things 70/30, or 30/70.  Some days you need to give someone your 10 out of 10, and those days you don’t get anything.  Other days, you’ll need the 10 out of 10 yourself.

I told her that I think compromise is being graceful about accepting the ebb and flow of a relationship.  Compromise is acknowledging that the word has nothing to do with fair, and everything to do with respect.  Compromise means caring for someone else, but it also means caring for yourself.

If someone only takes but never gives, that is not compromise.  Those we love sometimes have periods in their lives when they need us to give more, and that’s OK.  But make sure they reciprocate.  Do not feed someone who is always hungry for more.  Do not share with someone who never shares.

Instead, seek out those who give joyfully, and respectfully request.  Offer your best, and be mindful of what others offer you.  Don’t be too proud to ask for help, and do not destroy yourself in the process of giving aid.

That is what compromise means to me.

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Indigo

The King
was quite well loved,
and his mourning kingdom
laid him to rest in the evening.
Farewell.

*This poem is a continuation of a project where I chose a color, and wrote a poem on the first three words that came to mind. In this case, they were twilight, mourning, and an end of things (ending).*