The Relevancy of Irrelevancy
In Search of Valkyries
He put the gun up to his head. He put his finger on the trigger.
—
He abruptly pulled the gun away from his head. He put it on the sleek coffee table in front of the low-lying sofa he was sitting on. He needed more time to think.
He knew what was at stake. The question on his mind was not “Why?” He was more concerned with: “Why not?” A curious man, he needed to know. He need to have an answer. He needed to be right or wrong.
No family photos hung from his minimalistic apartment’s walls; the only frames present contained photos of him and eminent scholars, politicians, and executives. No wedding band adorned his finger; the only ring he knew was the very early sound of his alarm clock. No messages blinked from his answering machine; his smartphone blinked with new emails from work. No student loans bogged him down; his employer had long paid off his grad school debt. No dog bowl stood in the kitchen; he was his own best friend.
A cosmopolitan gentleman, he had seen and experienced the world. He knew that he achieved the possible, explored the viewable, and fixed the amendable. He was a conqueror, adventurer, and inventor, all before he was middle-aged. He figured out all he needed to know for his earthly life, but he wanted to know more.
He was no longer content with being a god among men. He wished to be a man among gods.
—
He realized that it is through dying that people become legends and their lives become myths.
Death was the final frontier and experiencing it was the final solution. He had a firm and thorough understanding of life’s nuances; it was the time after living that intrigued him. Death was the one thing he did not comprehend, the thing he finally needed to find out about, and the answer to the last question he had about the Earth. He could not wait for old age or an unlucky accident to experience death, it had to come quickly. He had to encounter the end of worldly existence as soon as possible.
It had to be suicide. It always had to be. If death was the ultimate answer, then suicide was the ultimate test. Killing himself would be the last “What if?” Suicide was a task worthy of Hercules, a wager worthy of Pascal, a stunt worthy of Knievel, and a strategy worthy of Alexander.
His suicidal concern went beyond heaven and hell, reincarnation and moksha, suffering and nirvana. He only wanted to know what would happen, for his own sake. In a way, he wanted to go on. He desired Valhalla. He wanted to be swept away by Valkyries and placed amongst equally worthy warriors. It was only then, through a heroic and wise death, that he would fully understand all he wondered about.
—
All his thoughts came together and he took a deep breath. His fear of uncertainty was greater than his fear of dying. He needed to make a decision.
He looked around the apartment. He saw the dim light gently bounce off his modern furniture and appliances. His eyes quickly burned in admiration for his success. He needed to make a decision.
He looked down at the coffee table. He noticed the Sherlock Holmes novels strewn all over. He shed a faint smile. He needed to make a decision.
He looked down at the gun. His facial expression became taut. He reached down and picked up the gun. He moved it around in his hands, wondering if the metal was as cold and dense as his current state of mind. He needed to make a decision.
—
He put the gun up to his head. He put his finger on the trigger.
Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Judged
“The funny thing about people…”
Abe paused. He wiped his brow. He slipped the noose over his captive’s head, dropping it on his collar as some sort of chic braided scarf.
“…is that their deeds speak so fucking loudly for them.”
Cain stared at the two people before him, two friends.
—
“There’s no need for an explanation, no need for excuses. True character defines the deeds. Deeds define the man. Simple.”
Abe worked the rope in his hands. He pulled slightly tighter on the noose’s knot. He was no longer a faux fashion designer, but a pretend snake charmer. The noose became a python, adjusting it’s reptilian death grip on the captive at his handler’s behest.
“Traitors die a traitor’s death. Hanging by a tree is the only appropriate way to deal with those people,” grunted Abe, in between breaths.
The captive, ever pensive, stared. He stared in agony, in fear, in hope. He knew he was guilty of treason, but he also knew that there was more to the story, that he was justified. He looked to Cain, the only one who understood. Cain sensed this.
“What this guy did was awful, no doubt about it. But, Abe, shouldn’t we hold on a second? Isn’t there more to it? There’s no way he could just do something so immoral without a good reason. Look at him!”
“What about him?! He’s a fucking traitor! I don’t give a shit about his reasons, he threw down his own allies. That speaks for itself!”
“Abe, look at him! Please, look at him.”
“Look at what? He…he…disgusts me. His treason is synonymous with weakness, selfishness, greed. He’s made his real self known.”
“I just don’t think that’s very…very…fair,” gasped an exasperated Cain.
“Fair? Fair?! Fair is acting moral. Above all else. I don’t care if it’s self-defense, for a greater good, or any other reason. Immoral is wrong. Always. Treason is wrong. Always. And those who practice it are wrong, morally and otherwise!”
“You’re being insensitive, Abe! Unfair! Fair is listening to this guy, this alleged traitor. Fair is hearing him out. I’ve heard his story. He has his reasons. Fair reasons!”
“Can you shut the fuck up about “fair” this and “fair” that? Shame on him! He’s a traitor, a fool. He’s blinded by selfishness. I’ll show you fair…”
Abe pulled out his combat knife, a worn handle with a blade speckled with notches, stains, and nicks. He jumped off his makeshift hanging platform, without a word to Cain or the prisoner, and stormed off about ten feet to a small cooking fire that he had set up earlier. He held his blood-lustful knife in the short flames for almost a minute. After he appeared satisfied, Abe, the defender of Earthly morals and purveyor of cosmic justice, stood up slowly from his crouch and paraded back toward the prisoner, a new instrument of fairness in hand. He looked momentarily at the smoldering blade, glanced over at Cain, then touched the blade’s tip to the prisoner’s face. The captive screamed in agony, to no avail. Amidst the smell of burnt flesh, Abe gazed upon his work. A two-inch simultaneous gash, burn, and scar lay on the prisoner’s face.
“Now that is fair. People like him needed to be marked. They need to be marked with shame. Shame on them. Shame on them for their disgusting actions.”
—
Abe sheathed his knife, put his hands on his hips, and spat on the ground next to him. He was a performer reveling in his success, waiting for lavish applause and praise. But tension and apprehension filled the air behind him from Cain’s direction.
“That…that…was unnecessary. There was no, no need for that, Abe.”
“Cut it out, of course there was. This…animal made the wrong choices. The wrong choices tainted his appearance. That mark? He brought it on himself, with his choices. He stained himself and his personality. Now, by my watch, it’s noon, and God knows there’s no better time to hang ‘em high than midday.”
Abe moved forward and began making his final adjustments on the captive’s noose.
“Don’t you think he should have a chance? You know, a chance? He’s a human being, regardless of his actions.”
“He’s not a human, he’s a traitor,” responded Abe, pulling the rope taut and stepping off the platform.
“Bullshit, Abe, he’s the same as either of us. Who are you to be his executioner? His judge? His critic? He had his reasons! He has his chances!”
“He had his chance. Damn it, Cain, you’re so naive. Don’t you understand? Don’t you see? The moment he started betraying people is the moment he started betraying himself, and all he stood for. He could have been a saint, but treason changes things.”
Abe walked around the platform towards the lever that operated trapdoor of the platform, the trapdoor to death. Cain jumped from his place and leaped towards the lever and reached it first. The prisoner watched from his doomed perch up above.
“This man is a good man. Talk to him. He’s told me things, nice things. He does good things. He is generous, kind. Go ahead, talk to him.”
“Cain, there is nothing this traitor can say to me about his other actions or personality or his Little House on the Prairie shit that will change a thing. He is still a traitor. He is still ugly. He is still going to die.”
“But, wait! Don’t you think it’s terrible to judge him? To let his one huge action define him? He has his circumstances, his treason worked within that. It doesn’t define him, you’re letting it define him.”
“It is what it is, now step aside from the lever.”
Abe grabbed the smaller Cain by the shoulders and threw him to the side. Cain flew several feet and landed hard on his butt in the dust. He looked around for his gun or knife, but both were far away inside of his tent. He sat there puzzled, half-appalled and half-angry. Abe steadied himself at the lever. The prisoner looked down at Abe, smiled, and looked over at Cain. His gave a look of forgiveness, of content. A weary voice spoke up for the first and last time that day.
“Cain, it’s my problem, not yours,” the meager captive whispered aloud.
The lever was pulled. The prisoner’s leg’s fell through the trapdoor hole, his neck held firm by the rope. His body squirmed for less than a minute, then the deed was done.
—
The judge and executioner let go of the lever and wiped his hands together to remove the dust. Abe was proud. He began to walk away to the fire, but turned around to look at Cain.
“I did that for everyone, Cain. I did it for you. You didn’t need a traitor for a friend.”
“And you continue to judge him,without evidence, because of his one bad deed.”
“It was a bad deed.”
“He was good person. You based your assumption off of one action. You hanged him for one reason.”
Abe started to turn away. He noticed his hands got dirty again. Cain stood up and began to walk away backwards.
“No, he was a bad person. Let it go. That one action was enough to earn the noose.”
“Well, one action is enough to tell me that the true bad person may have been the one who made the noose.”
Cain stared at the two people before him, two dead friends.
He turned around and walked away.
————
The funny thing about people…is that they think themselves clean and others dirty. Dirt is indiscriminate, it doesn’t judge.
Welcome to Miami
People shouldn’t open their legs more often than they open books.
People shouldn’t consume more alcohol than knowledge.
People shouldn’t drop the maturity they never had.
People shouldn’t be as “fake” as my Chinatown Rolex.
People shouldn’t…[Insert Here]
Immaturity, thou art afoot in Miami.
I look left, I look right, I don’t know what to think. I see things. I feel things. I don’t know what to think anymore. Should I ignore the decay before my eyes? The meltdown of decency? The deterioration of common sense?
Or, should I embrace the culture typical of the generation? The selfishness. The superficiality. The ignorance. The disillusion.
Maybe it’s just my area. Maybe it’s just a few people. Maybe it’s just the private, Catholic high school circuit. Maybe it’s all of those or none of those. It’s just happening.
Gone are the times where friends can hang out…and just hang out. Good conversation is a lost art, real happiness an elusive prize, true comfort a luxury.
Now, you can mention Jack Kennedy and receive a groan…but mention Jack Daniels and receive a smile. It’s come to a point where “fun” and “intellect” can be hardly mixed or enjoyed in harmony in one’s life. One should not be ignored for the other, more so intellect than “fun”.
I’m ranting, but there’s too much to say. Basically, people need to get off the stupidity, and get with the program. Happiness should not have to come through artificial means. It should come from organic means.
Real happiness should be a product of internal happiness, not car happiness, alcohol happiness, drug happiness, money happiness, and so on and so forth. Sure, those all can contribute to internal happiness, but, more often than not, they don’t. Internal happiness gets forsaken. Some of us forget that we make our own happiness. We think that putting something into our bodies will make us happy. It will, for a moment. But it’s superficial. It touches the surface of human experience. It equates to painting a new house, but leaving the furniture intact inside. I am not one to judge, but the consequences must be considered. We cannot forsake what makes humans special—the ability to manipulate our emotions from the inside—for different decisions we may or may not make.
Dogs don’t become happy because they choose to be, they become happy because they receive food, belly pats, back scratchings, toys. They receive most of their pleasure from superficial pleasure. After all, they’re just dogs. But if some of us act the same way, then is there really a difference between those people and animals?
Teenage Miamians don’t need to become completely sober, law-abiding, or prudish, just mindful. Mindful that overindulgence without a true grasp on real happiness is dangerous. Degrading.
Real Talk.
The Laundry In My Head
My body is sick, my brain is puking, my emotions are spinning.
—————
I look at my phone, tearing the words apart letter by letter; I disassemble the characters in an effort to put their meanings together in my mind. I feel disgust. I feel anguish. I look upon my work with despair. I put the phone in my pocket. I always fuck things up.
I need to clear my thoughts. I check my Facebook, as a News Feed check is in order. No, I do not care about this girl’s photos in her bikini in her own house. I see the same as usual. Unnecessary photos. PIN numbers. Cheesy inspirational statuses. No way these beotches understand half the quotes they post. I look for something substantial. I look for a distraction, something to keep my mind off the negativity wreaking havoc in my head. Fuck it, I’ll post a Back To the Future quote I’ve always liked and watch the damn marathon on ABC Family.
I turn on the TV and tune in to the antic of Marty McFly. I begin to watch Part II of the series, a good one. I remember that the movie is quite confusing. Shit, I’m tired of confusing time-traveling plots, Dr. Who is enough. I pull my phone out and check it once more. I type something. I wait. I read. I feel more disgust for myself. Knots start to form in my stomach. I walk out into the backyard for a breath of fresh air.
I head to the corner of the yard, where the pavers meet the grass. You know what? Peeing out here would be liberating. I start to urinate. For a moment, I feel calm, as close to nature as I will get in suburban style. I see a worm. I urinate on it. I doubt some pee will kill it. I pull out my phone. I type something. I wait. I read. The knots get bigger, I feel a little sicker. I head back inside to wash my hands.
I wash my hands and check my phone again. I contort my face to express my sadness, but no one is there to see. I quickly type something and gulp down some water. Already nearing a gallon for the day, damn. I look around the house. I see laundry. Piles of laundry. I remember that earlier I sorted it out for washing, but only put one load to wash. I decide to be productive and helpful and continue washing. I put some loads to wash and dry. I check my phone. I hold off on typing. Geez, I need to pee again. I decide to go outside again.
I walk back out to the corner of the yard. Without any neighbors on two sides, it’s the perfect spot, so I start to urinate. I look down. I see something familiar in the grass. I see the worm. The worm is dead. Dang, that sucks. I guess we both haven’t had such a lively day. I walk away. I go inside, wash my hands, and walk back outside. I check my phone. I am devastated. I read the screen. I read it again. I look around. I crouch down, my legs have weakened. I regain my strength and start to pace. I look at the yard. I want to just throw myself on the dog-pooped grass and just lie dead in the blazing heat until my parents pry me off.
I stand still, waiting to either cry or yell or fall or throw my phone. The cell phone falls out of my hand. Fuck. I pick up the phone, scrawl something with the keyboard, and begin the slow, painful walk into the house. I settle down for more Back to the Future Part II. Still a tad confused. I browse Wikipedia for an explanation of something I missed. I check Facebook again. I look at my phone. I read that my typographical daggers have missed their mark and have plotted a return course in full force with backup from the other side. I feel crushed, obliterated. My mind starts to bleed, my heart starts to gush. I am a bad person, I deserve this. The other side needs to know it’s all my fault. I realize that I caused a lot of harm to my opposing party. I caused unfair damage. I grab the phone. I express my grief. I accept my blame and my punishment.
I desperately look for something to do. I hear the washing machine ring. Saved by the fucking bell. I return to the laundry room and begin to move wet clothes over and pull dry clothes out. I start to fold the whites of the entire family. I fold and I fold and I fold. I never would have thought that experimenting with various ways to fold a pair of boxer briefs would be therapeutic. I start to suppress the stress and mess of my emotions and numb the gnawing at my brain. I quickly check my phone and respond, but I worry a tad bit less. I keep working the laundry. I keep sorting through the 9569 types of socks and the 315 different types of underwear worn by members of the family. The laundry is helps me cope. The laundry helps me understand my errors and my faults. The laundry helps me realize what I am not willing to lose. At the moment, the laundry becomes not just a wash/dry cycle of clothes, but a wash/dry cycle of my mind. Some The Things They Carried double-meaning type of shit.
I feel depressed still, but I feel a little more diplomatic. I pull my phone lay it on top of the drying machine, for easy reach. I’m not leaving this laundry for a few hours. I grab piles of clothes off the floor, put them into the washing machine, and pour in the necessary chemicals. I press the start button. I have an epiphany. I realize that my present and future want and need what I’ve been battling all day. Before I can act, I look down at the machine. I read “00:51”. I flash a frown. I need this laundry. Fifty-one minutes will not come soon enough.
I check my phone. Laundry is on my mind, but I start to think. I try to come up with paths to take with party person I am typing talking to. Laundry is on my mind, but I create ways to go with my sadness, and with the person. I type. I look back at the laundry machine. My mind is tumbling. Heavy duty, max spin.
—————
My mind is in flux. I wish I could go back to the future.
Quote
Some men are truly great because they follow an ideal; other men are great because they follow those men.
Quote
“If I accept you as you are, I will make you worse; however if I treat you as though you are what you are capable of becoming, I help you become that”—Goethe
———
Interact nicely with others. Who knows, maybe Chochi will turn into a responsible member or today’s society.
December, December
I help finish another episode of PBS at school. Running Chicken, FTW. After waiting what seems like hours for the DVD to burn, I finally take off from the lonely campus in the dead of night. I get a call from my parents. They’re going out to dinner so they tell me to buy myself something while on the way home. I don’t want to use my money if I have food in the fridge! They tell me they’ll pay me back. I grudgingly accept, and start slightly mildly moderately somewhat speeding on the expressway and back to the warm shelter of my house. I stop at BK. Short for Best Kooking, otherwise known as Burger King to mere mortals. All is good as I collect my naked whopper and onion rings and head home.
I pull in to the quiet house, enter, and feel satisfied yet alone. I put the food down and open it up to start eating. Goddamn it, forgot the stupid “Zesty” sauce. I look in the cabinets for any packets of that liquid success. I find some, and proceed to chow down. Soon, I finish eating. I get off the bar-chair, throw away the garbage, and get the stuff I need before going upstairs. I get distracted by the TV, stop, and stand watching whatever show is on. I pull out my cellphone. Let me check my e-mail and shit before I head up. I log on to G-mail, hoping to see something about an upcoming Harvard interview. I see something else…“Stanford Admission Decision,” what the fuck is this?!
I stand looking at the link perplexed. This is probably some shit reminding me that next Wednesday is when I find out if I got in or not. I nonchalantly click the link, curious more than anything. The phone takes a few seconds, perhaps a few too many, to load. Stupid MetroPCS. The e-mail loads, I start to read. It doesn’t take me but two second to read the first line and see something I don’t like: “It is with regret…” The language of defeat is easy to catch.
I then start bawling smacking my fists on the couch. Actually, the preceding sentence was a lie, I don’t do anything of the sort. In fact, I kind of…do nothing. I’m not mad, sad, or any other three-letter word that fits the situation. I just gently toss the cellphone onto the couch. My face is blank. I actually feel a little apathetic, peeved if anything. Fuck, at least they could have used a non-template letter. Pricks. I even go to the main computer so I can read the denial on a bigger screen. Still, no feelings. How come I can’t feel shit? I don’t remember being raped or anything…
I head upstairs. I put my stuff in my room, get my PJ’s and underwear, and take a shower. I text someone the news: “I didn’t get into Stanford. I’m not mad or anything though, lol.” I hop in the shower. It’s a little cold, so I stand in the corner, reminiscing about what could have been. I then notice I have no body wash. Holy crap, not again, I’m getting too old for this shit. I step out of the shower, and holding my towel under my legs, I hop over to the cabinet and grab a new bottle of body wash. Fuck you Axe Dark Temptations, I’m prepared this time. I jump back to the shower, and wash away. I don’t even feel emotional or upset. It’s cheesy and cliche as can be, but I’m washing the troubles away. Cue the damn Lifetime channel music.
I finish showering and see my phone. It is lit-up by a singular text message. Friends are always nice. I eventually call and tell my parents the news: “Hey guys, you don’t have to worry about me going to Cali anymore, I didn’t get into Stanford” They try to comfort me and tell me to move on and what not. I know, I know, I know.
The call ends, I put my phone on the office desk, and hop on Facebook. I seem to think a status update would be nice. I think, I write I forget. Stanford is but a memory. So, when the fuck is this Harvard interview gonna be, anyways?
Terrible attempt at a haiku
Bird flies to desert
Autumn sun and sand playground
Oh will it miss me?
God Bless the TSA
I change the channel to the local news. Every ten minutes there’s some bit about the TSA and its scans. I hate those dicks. I notice people complaining about the scans and give some horror story of feeling violated one time. Ahhh and there’s the obligatory conservative asshole saying that he’d undergo a cavity search, no, two cavity searches, if that meant flying would be safe. Douchebag.
The story then flashes shots of the scanners and the images they make. Strange human figures (Pillsbury Doughboy bastard children with the Michelin Man) are shown as the scans the agents see. Eww, I do pity the TSA, though, for seeing saggy old lady images. People continue to get interviewed. The pissed off passenger is shown again, then the douchebag once more, then a TSA representative. Fucking airport rent-a-cop.
I see more images, and then statistics are thrown out left and right. Apparently, I notice, there’s something like 133 weapons that have been captured due to TSA recently. Weapons? That’s because those special ed grads classify nail-clippers as threats to national security nowadays. Of course, those weapons are not shown or described, but the rep continues to speak about the purpose of TSA’s mission and its importance in this “global environment full of possible threats”. So global it seems that Mahmoud is inside my recycling bin waiting to strike when I throw a Diet Materva can inside.
The subject of the segment then turns to the infamous pat-downs. It’s explained that pat-downs are done to people who refuse the radiation poisoning full-body scans. I turn the volume up and lean slightly forward to take everything all in. A female reporter subjects herself to a mock pat-down by a “security expert” to demonstrate it to the audience. Security expert? Psh, that means she went to the ITT Tech School of Criminal Justice. I see more video of how the pat-downs work. I see TSA agents run their hands around people’s bodies, going all the way up the inside of the legs, under breasts, and around butts. I start to picture what I would do if I were ever subjected to that hands-on check. The kid from “Role Models” pops into mind. No I’m not gonna take my pants off!!
The segment then starts talking about what some sane people are going to do to protest the TSA. A man comes on-screen to urge people to opt for the pat-downs across the country to swamp TSA and slow down the airports. In my head I agree and wish I could do the same. You look at my junk, so a few hour delay is the least I can do for you pricks.
—————
It’s okay for people to complain against violations of gun rights (which kill people all the time), but it’s not okay for people like me to complain against violations of personal space. I’m all for flying safe, but the truth of the matter is, this safety is going to cost us. In some cave somewhere, Osama B-L is laughing his ass off seeing middle-aged Americans being fondled by their own government. If we were to devote more money to diplomacy or making peace with our enemies, instead of pissing them off even more, then maybe that family headed to Topeka, Kansas, can get there safely without having their 3- year-old subjected to “confusing touches”.
Come to think of it, while we’re keeping terrorists off planes they could bomb the long-ass lines of hundreds of people that TSA is creating in airports.
Let me get off my soap box now.
—————
I need a shirt that says “DON’T TASE SCAN ME, BRO!”
“Those choose security over liberty, deserve neither security nor liberty.” - Ben Franklin
