"What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal."
Albert Pike
Talking about death to any living human being is a certain way to end any conversation. It's like the Police showing up at your house when you're having an awesome party, unless no one showed up, then you're grateful for any social interaction. I'm not saying the Police are the physical equivalent of death, it just so happens that there are negative connotations attached to that particular career choice. I didn't start it, society has spoken.
What has always confused me, ever since I could properly comprehend what death actually is, was why people didn't ever want to talk about it. Whenever I try and approach the topic with other people, they call me morbid or depressive. That bugs me. I'm not purposely being morbid, I don't consider it a depressing subject at all. Just because the majority of people are so determined to ignore death until they can't any longer, is not my problem. Ignorance may be bliss, but in this case ignorance is more like religion and bliss is only a self-sustained faith that eventually dies because that is what people and ideas do, they die. There, I've said it. We are all going to die.
And if we are all going to die anyway, shouldn't we all just enjoy ourselves? People tell me to stop smoking, it's going to give me cancer. To them I say everyone has their vices, it's how we know we're still alive. The problem is that people don't want to die, well, more specifically they want to prolong the inevitable. I can understand that, I won't jump on the bandwagon of trying to live for a century, but I can understand the logic of it. Who wouldn't want to live until they're at the age when they can't do most things for themselves and their independence and self respect are almost completely gone? It sounds amazing.
Just because some people have realised that if they live healthy and respectable lives they can live longer, doesn't mean that we all have to live that way or die that way. Actually, does it really matter how a person dies at all? If someone lives a happy and healthy life and then dies in a tragic way, is that worse than an alcoholic who has drank themselves to death? I don't think people should even try and measure how much someone deserves to live, because I don't really believe anyone deserves to die, nature will cut us off when it is our time. Even the worst criminals, the lowest of the low, shouldn't be put to death for their crimes. I don't believe in Capital Punishment because that's just an eye for an eye isn't it? It doesn't even undo what the person has done, it just degrades the living into taking another unnecessary life.
Apart from my semi-political ramblings, what I really wanted to say is that we really shouldn't fear death. We shouldn't avoid talking about it because everyone thinks it's a tad depressing. That's just a person's perspective and for me it isn't so bad. I hope I last for however long it takes me to make some sort of impact on people's lives or to make sure that the people I love are truly happy. Following Pike's argument, if we make a difference to someone else's life, if we make someone laugh, if we help a stranger or just do what everyone is capable of doing, then will death be so depressing? You can die completely unburdened and safe with the knowledge that you actually made some small difference and you won't be forgotten. I think that is what people fear the most perhaps, being forgotten in a world with millions of people. Maybe that is why people choose to breed, I don't actually know, I'm not currently a breeder. What I do know is that I've never forgotten the old lady who used to give me lollies and hugs when I was very small. She lived alone, down the street from me. I've never forgotten her small acts of kindness every time we met and walking past her old house now, as a twenty year old adult, I still have fond memories. Those memories prove that kindness and the impact you have on other people will always keep you alive in a way. People will never have to worry about being forgotten so long as they can touch someone else while they're alive. That is the purpose of our lives I think.
Saturday 27 October 2012
Friday 26 October 2012
Sex: It belongs in the bedroom, not on the street.
I'm sick to death of hearing about people's sexual exploits. I'm sick to death of hearing about people's partners or one night stands. Most of all, I'm sick to death about some of the slack single people get when they're not talking about sex or actively pursuing it.
Bit harsh, I know. The problem is that I'm 20, so most of my friends are around my age and go on and on about this sort of nonsense. What happened to the days when what went on in the bedroom, stayed in the bedroom? I blame Salt-n-Pepa, with that ridiculously catchy song 'let's talk about sex.' I'm all for discussing it when it's to do with our health or promoting awareness of particular infections and diseases. I'm not all for it when it's just for shameless self-promotion or boasting. Honestly, am I supposed to be impressed that someone has slept with so many people? I'm also not impressed that they can perform particular acts, especially when it is brought up in conversation over dinner.
I'm sure everyone encounters this problem at some point in their lives, the friends that constantly fall in and out of love. I think they're just in love with being in love, honestly, it gets tiring after a while. Or when you go out with your friends and they bring their partners. That doesn't bother me at all, until they spend all evening just chatting amongst themselves instead of partaking in conversation as an individual. That seriously bugs me for two reasons. 1. It's downright rude to ignore people when you have invited them out. 2. Being in a relationship does not mean you have to merge into one entity, it's just weird when you can't be yourself.
The most aggravating thing for me though, with this constant sex craze going on, is people's correlation between being single and being lonely. It's completely unfounded and not very well thought out. For instance, a lot of my female friends always joke when we go out, that I should chat up the bartender or some other guy there. It's funny to start with. It's not at all funny if it occurs every single time you go out. Being single does not mean I'm lonely, just like being alone does not mean you're lonely and I spend a lot of time alone. When I do get lonely or depression gets the better of me, I text friends, call someone or message friends on Facebook. That's when I'm lonely and I'm actually starting to cease doing that, because I think I downright annoy people most of the time. Anyway, I'm not looking for some one night stand, in fact, I'm being incredibly patient. I'd rather wait for the right person and have something meaningful, even if it is short-lived, rather than something based on just physical attraction. That's just shallow and to be frank, I don't particularly find physical attributes to be attractive. I'm much more inclined to fall in love with someone's mind, which I have on a few occasions, one such case still lasting until this very day, than I am to fall in love with someone's physique. I do love glasses though. Bit of a kink.
So can we please stop with all the raging hormones and sex talk? I honestly don't care for it and I doubt most people do. I'm not saying let's all be really repressed and 'do it for England,' but at least a century ago we maintained the facade that these sorts of things were private. What people get up to really shouldn't be broadcasted as much as it is now and it makes for terribly dull conversation if someone (me) isn't interested in the topic. Let's all just keep a lid on it.
Monday 22 October 2012
In all disorder, a secret order.
Maybe it's the sheer amount of numbers that has you thinking about it.
You think about things you shouldn't be thinking about anymore. Like the metal held between your fingers. It's so heavy, even without any additions. You don't think you could bear the weight of it a second longer or the taste of metal in your mouth.
You get a tired look in response to your fiddling and you think for a moment, why bother with the instrument. How many numbers did they fit inside your blood?
*
You go through days of bitter cold and hazy recollections. Days meld. You wake up with numbers in your head and the weight in your chest and the cold adds to the mass. It's always long hours which could be added and subtracted. Add a blanket and another and another. Layering yourself with more clothes, when the ice in your veins seems too blue, the skin above it too thin to shield you.
And the weight and the numbers swirl inside your head, until it aches and you have no where to go and no way to make it stop. You can't keep out the cold and you can't block out the numbers, but the sharpness of hipbones and the reassuring presence of your rib cage are comforts. Their weight is measurable and true.
*
You were at first just a glutton. You would buy food, resting it between your palms, feeling the weight of it. The smell, the taste only imagined, but the weight of it was too heavy. It became too daunting, so you threw it away before it had the chance to get stuck inside your head. There isn't enough room for that weight and you know, there isn't enough sanity left to add it up.
You baked cupcakes. Adding each ingredient carefully and only after it was weighed. You waited patiently, but fiddled with the boxes on the counter. Then they were done and you decorated them, lined them up and then put them on plates at the vacant table. It wasn't long before they were crushed, thrown out windows, into garbage bags or even ripped apart into something that just would not go down the drain. The bulk of it was only a stopper which blocked it up.
But sometimes you didn't seek to destroy, you just left them. Waiting until they were disgusting, untouchable and completely unrecognisable. You imagined them broken down, adding to the weight and the numbers, until you felt you couldn't breathe. They were gone the next time you looked.
*
When you went so long without any food, it made you ache and plead, but the numbers went away.
"Why don't you eat?" That wouldn't have been asked years ago.
You thought about it for a while and you thought about the numbers.
"It's an addiction," you said, "it turns into something you do over and over again, until you have to keep having it, because if you don't you could lose it all."
But you had already lost it all, apart from your constant companions.
*
You used to love sweets. Sweets and chocolate and whatever Nan made you. Whenever you went to her house, there would be choices and more choices, weight and more numbers, but they had never bothered you then. No one ever bothered you then. The numbers just slid down your throat without resistance and you barely recognised the heaviness that settled inside. Now the thought of it is terrifying. How can people carry so much? It's almost enough to drown you now.
You didn't go and see Nan much anymore, nor did you spend your time picking up sweets.
You knew at some point, you had to have eaten before. That this weight was not always present. You can't remember it clearly though. Somewhere along the line you lost whatever it was that anchored you down and kept the heaviness at bay.
Now it was just too much.
*
"You have to get up, you can't just stay in bed."
"But it's so cold out there. Why can't I just stay here?" The buzzing in your head and the pain in your stomach made the thought of leaving unbearable.
Even as she sat at the end of your bed and just stared, it did little to comfort you from the overwhelming cold and the shivers that could only be kept inside and not shared.
"Why do I ever have to get up at all?" Everything was just numbers and cold and pain. Coming and going never changed that. There was no distraction to push that away.
"You know why."
You closed your eyes. The dotted lights amongst the black underneath were comforting. You wish you didn't know why.
*
Some days everything was okay again.
You looked in the mirror, you dressed yourself up, but with no intention to go out. The sharp angles that had replaced the softness, with your ribs and your hipbones proudly on display. You still had that fat that reminded you of the presence of numbers and of those people with less numbers. There was always someone with less. Some days when you went out you looked at those people and wondered how they managed that. How did they ignore the heaviness of the metal in their hands? Why were they so blessed? At least they gave you something to strive towards.
And when the first feelings of fullness hit you, it was a buzzing in your head and a quickened beat of your heart that reminded you, you hadn't died. But everything was too fast and suddenly your make up was no longer so bright or attractive.
How many calories does your blood have? The metal in your hands much lighter than anything that was hidden in the kitchen. When you spent the night lying on the floor you thought of the loss of calories down your leg and started recounting your numbers.
*
You sat on the bus and thought about metal and about weight. The heavy metal in your mouth and the cold glass against your cheek. Your skin was frozen and marred with blue which clearly ran up your arms. You imagined scrubbing the blue away, over and over, until it came off. It never did come off but the added red was so warm and you were so cold.
*
"It's going to be okay." You spoke to yourself, long after everyone had left or cared anymore.
You listened to your own breathing, you could feel the frost settle in your chest once more. You waited to hear any sounds or breathing from the other rooms. There was no sound. There was no response. There was only the insomniac's ritual of counting over and over, including those little, white pills by your side. You counted 22.
Not long later there would be hospital beds, made up of stark white sheets, that did little to bring you warmth. The blue had to stay and the red locked away, feeling ever more heavy without any release. There were lights that were too bright and voices that seemed too far away. While you knew it had something to do with you, the cold drip in your arm reminded you that it would never be so easy to live with the numbers again.
You stayed on the floor some days later. You thought of numbers and the metallic taste in your mouth and wondered if you would ever find out how many numbers they poisoned you with. But for now you were content with the red and the weight in your hands had never been so light before.
You think about things you shouldn't be thinking about anymore. Like the metal held between your fingers. It's so heavy, even without any additions. You don't think you could bear the weight of it a second longer or the taste of metal in your mouth.
You get a tired look in response to your fiddling and you think for a moment, why bother with the instrument. How many numbers did they fit inside your blood?
*
You go through days of bitter cold and hazy recollections. Days meld. You wake up with numbers in your head and the weight in your chest and the cold adds to the mass. It's always long hours which could be added and subtracted. Add a blanket and another and another. Layering yourself with more clothes, when the ice in your veins seems too blue, the skin above it too thin to shield you.
And the weight and the numbers swirl inside your head, until it aches and you have no where to go and no way to make it stop. You can't keep out the cold and you can't block out the numbers, but the sharpness of hipbones and the reassuring presence of your rib cage are comforts. Their weight is measurable and true.
*
You were at first just a glutton. You would buy food, resting it between your palms, feeling the weight of it. The smell, the taste only imagined, but the weight of it was too heavy. It became too daunting, so you threw it away before it had the chance to get stuck inside your head. There isn't enough room for that weight and you know, there isn't enough sanity left to add it up.
You baked cupcakes. Adding each ingredient carefully and only after it was weighed. You waited patiently, but fiddled with the boxes on the counter. Then they were done and you decorated them, lined them up and then put them on plates at the vacant table. It wasn't long before they were crushed, thrown out windows, into garbage bags or even ripped apart into something that just would not go down the drain. The bulk of it was only a stopper which blocked it up.
But sometimes you didn't seek to destroy, you just left them. Waiting until they were disgusting, untouchable and completely unrecognisable. You imagined them broken down, adding to the weight and the numbers, until you felt you couldn't breathe. They were gone the next time you looked.
*
When you went so long without any food, it made you ache and plead, but the numbers went away.
"Why don't you eat?" That wouldn't have been asked years ago.
You thought about it for a while and you thought about the numbers.
"It's an addiction," you said, "it turns into something you do over and over again, until you have to keep having it, because if you don't you could lose it all."
But you had already lost it all, apart from your constant companions.
*
You used to love sweets. Sweets and chocolate and whatever Nan made you. Whenever you went to her house, there would be choices and more choices, weight and more numbers, but they had never bothered you then. No one ever bothered you then. The numbers just slid down your throat without resistance and you barely recognised the heaviness that settled inside. Now the thought of it is terrifying. How can people carry so much? It's almost enough to drown you now.
You didn't go and see Nan much anymore, nor did you spend your time picking up sweets.
You knew at some point, you had to have eaten before. That this weight was not always present. You can't remember it clearly though. Somewhere along the line you lost whatever it was that anchored you down and kept the heaviness at bay.
Now it was just too much.
*
"You have to get up, you can't just stay in bed."
"But it's so cold out there. Why can't I just stay here?" The buzzing in your head and the pain in your stomach made the thought of leaving unbearable.
Even as she sat at the end of your bed and just stared, it did little to comfort you from the overwhelming cold and the shivers that could only be kept inside and not shared.
"Why do I ever have to get up at all?" Everything was just numbers and cold and pain. Coming and going never changed that. There was no distraction to push that away.
"You know why."
You closed your eyes. The dotted lights amongst the black underneath were comforting. You wish you didn't know why.
*
Some days everything was okay again.
You looked in the mirror, you dressed yourself up, but with no intention to go out. The sharp angles that had replaced the softness, with your ribs and your hipbones proudly on display. You still had that fat that reminded you of the presence of numbers and of those people with less numbers. There was always someone with less. Some days when you went out you looked at those people and wondered how they managed that. How did they ignore the heaviness of the metal in their hands? Why were they so blessed? At least they gave you something to strive towards.
And when the first feelings of fullness hit you, it was a buzzing in your head and a quickened beat of your heart that reminded you, you hadn't died. But everything was too fast and suddenly your make up was no longer so bright or attractive.
How many calories does your blood have? The metal in your hands much lighter than anything that was hidden in the kitchen. When you spent the night lying on the floor you thought of the loss of calories down your leg and started recounting your numbers.
*
You sat on the bus and thought about metal and about weight. The heavy metal in your mouth and the cold glass against your cheek. Your skin was frozen and marred with blue which clearly ran up your arms. You imagined scrubbing the blue away, over and over, until it came off. It never did come off but the added red was so warm and you were so cold.
*
"It's going to be okay." You spoke to yourself, long after everyone had left or cared anymore.
You listened to your own breathing, you could feel the frost settle in your chest once more. You waited to hear any sounds or breathing from the other rooms. There was no sound. There was no response. There was only the insomniac's ritual of counting over and over, including those little, white pills by your side. You counted 22.
Not long later there would be hospital beds, made up of stark white sheets, that did little to bring you warmth. The blue had to stay and the red locked away, feeling ever more heavy without any release. There were lights that were too bright and voices that seemed too far away. While you knew it had something to do with you, the cold drip in your arm reminded you that it would never be so easy to live with the numbers again.
You stayed on the floor some days later. You thought of numbers and the metallic taste in your mouth and wondered if you would ever find out how many numbers they poisoned you with. But for now you were content with the red and the weight in your hands had never been so light before.
Wednesday 17 October 2012
The Two Tragedies in Life: Broken Dreams and Lawyers.
I think one of the problems with society today is our focus on creating unachievable goals for ourselves. I'm not saying goals are a bad thing, they can give direction and encourage certain types of people, but making unrealistic goals is a problem.
We're all basically told that success is definable by measuring our wealth or the status of our careers. For example, in my family it was always suggested marrying someone who was a Doctor or a Lawyer (shudder) was considered beneficial and it was encouraged to seek these types of people out. As a history student, I do find it amusing to see how little things have changed over the centuries. Despite modern claims that we are increasingly progressive socially, we still consider these types of careers as belonging to a certain section of our societies. To belong to the medical field you must be talented and knowledgable (apparently), but people who are artists or work in "ordinary" jobs like retail, are considered either talentless or lazy. Now I will admit, you do sometimes look at older people working in stores and wonder if that was actually what they wanted to do, or if they just never left because they had no other career prospects. At least I used to think that way, until I actually began working in the retail sector and met so many individuals who were extremely talented and intelligent and loved their jobs. So my assumptions were completely unfounded it seems, at least in those cases.
I've deviated from my original point though (and my Professor thinks I lack focus, ha!), that is of our unrealistic expectations and goals for our lives. I'm writing about this because it is highly important in my life at the moment. Today I got a rather scathing email for the aforementioned Professor, saying that my essay was basically dreadful and that I shouldn't even attempt to do Honours. Okay, fair point sir, but not very polite. Honours seem to be just what the name implies, honoured or favoured, basically it looks good to have Honours attached to your basic Bachelor of Arts degree. I've realised though, although it may look very good to potential employers, it's completely unrealistic to think everyone is capable of undertaking Honours and writing a thesis. For me, I know my strengths do not lie in the sort of research and essay writing that a thesis requires. I always need at least some hint of direction, like these blogs, I always go off some initial idea already formed in my head. I don't need to research or ultimately come to a completely formed conclusion in my blog, I just write what I think or what I feel. That's the kind of writing I love.
So maybe I have fallen into the trap of setting goals for myself that are not suitable or right for me. I wanted to do Honours because I thought that other people would think it looked good, I didn't want to do it for me or because I was legitimately passionate about undertaking another year of study. I've always despaired over the fact that some of my friends are only undertaking certain degrees, like medicine, because their parents told them to do it or because they think they will ultimately make a lot of money out of it and be financially secure. Even thinking that, I've still almost attempted to do the same thing. I deliberately chose to study history because I was passionate about it, at least when I started University I was, but now it seems I'm making so many decisions based on assumptions or other people's wants. That just goes to show that parents do not always know best and that really, you know what you're truly capable of. There is no point lying to yourself.
I have to practice what I preach, so I'm going to make a new goal in my life. My new goal is not to make unsuitable or unrealistic goals. I won't say I am going to quit smoking overnight, I won't say I am going to lose 6 kilos before my birthday (though I will try hard at that) and I certainly won't attempt to apply for jobs I know in my heart I would hate or be dreadful at, just because they happen to be respected in our society. I'm not talented in anyway, I can easily admit that. The only thing I have ever wanted to do since I was three years old and used to write terrible horror stories for my Nanna, was to write. I don't have a journalism degree and I certainly wouldn't want to, but it's the only thing I know with absolute certainty, that I would never grow to hate or grow bored with. It has been a love affair lasting almost 18 years, which is basically my entire life and I don't think that will ever change.
Maybe it's time we do away with goals. Most of the goals we set seem to be socially encouraged anyway, with little adaptation to our own lives. I think we could take this further and just encourage people to go for what they are passionate about, to respect all different careers, no matter if they're lower on the socio-economic scale and to just be ourselves really. I mean, if you're going to spend the rest of your life working purely for wealth, why be a lawyer or accountant? You could be a rock star! Maybe people would take you seriously then.
We're all basically told that success is definable by measuring our wealth or the status of our careers. For example, in my family it was always suggested marrying someone who was a Doctor or a Lawyer (shudder) was considered beneficial and it was encouraged to seek these types of people out. As a history student, I do find it amusing to see how little things have changed over the centuries. Despite modern claims that we are increasingly progressive socially, we still consider these types of careers as belonging to a certain section of our societies. To belong to the medical field you must be talented and knowledgable (apparently), but people who are artists or work in "ordinary" jobs like retail, are considered either talentless or lazy. Now I will admit, you do sometimes look at older people working in stores and wonder if that was actually what they wanted to do, or if they just never left because they had no other career prospects. At least I used to think that way, until I actually began working in the retail sector and met so many individuals who were extremely talented and intelligent and loved their jobs. So my assumptions were completely unfounded it seems, at least in those cases.
I've deviated from my original point though (and my Professor thinks I lack focus, ha!), that is of our unrealistic expectations and goals for our lives. I'm writing about this because it is highly important in my life at the moment. Today I got a rather scathing email for the aforementioned Professor, saying that my essay was basically dreadful and that I shouldn't even attempt to do Honours. Okay, fair point sir, but not very polite. Honours seem to be just what the name implies, honoured or favoured, basically it looks good to have Honours attached to your basic Bachelor of Arts degree. I've realised though, although it may look very good to potential employers, it's completely unrealistic to think everyone is capable of undertaking Honours and writing a thesis. For me, I know my strengths do not lie in the sort of research and essay writing that a thesis requires. I always need at least some hint of direction, like these blogs, I always go off some initial idea already formed in my head. I don't need to research or ultimately come to a completely formed conclusion in my blog, I just write what I think or what I feel. That's the kind of writing I love.
So maybe I have fallen into the trap of setting goals for myself that are not suitable or right for me. I wanted to do Honours because I thought that other people would think it looked good, I didn't want to do it for me or because I was legitimately passionate about undertaking another year of study. I've always despaired over the fact that some of my friends are only undertaking certain degrees, like medicine, because their parents told them to do it or because they think they will ultimately make a lot of money out of it and be financially secure. Even thinking that, I've still almost attempted to do the same thing. I deliberately chose to study history because I was passionate about it, at least when I started University I was, but now it seems I'm making so many decisions based on assumptions or other people's wants. That just goes to show that parents do not always know best and that really, you know what you're truly capable of. There is no point lying to yourself.
I have to practice what I preach, so I'm going to make a new goal in my life. My new goal is not to make unsuitable or unrealistic goals. I won't say I am going to quit smoking overnight, I won't say I am going to lose 6 kilos before my birthday (though I will try hard at that) and I certainly won't attempt to apply for jobs I know in my heart I would hate or be dreadful at, just because they happen to be respected in our society. I'm not talented in anyway, I can easily admit that. The only thing I have ever wanted to do since I was three years old and used to write terrible horror stories for my Nanna, was to write. I don't have a journalism degree and I certainly wouldn't want to, but it's the only thing I know with absolute certainty, that I would never grow to hate or grow bored with. It has been a love affair lasting almost 18 years, which is basically my entire life and I don't think that will ever change.
Maybe it's time we do away with goals. Most of the goals we set seem to be socially encouraged anyway, with little adaptation to our own lives. I think we could take this further and just encourage people to go for what they are passionate about, to respect all different careers, no matter if they're lower on the socio-economic scale and to just be ourselves really. I mean, if you're going to spend the rest of your life working purely for wealth, why be a lawyer or accountant? You could be a rock star! Maybe people would take you seriously then.
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