Reflecting Upon Emerson

Having recently moved to Boston for college, I've decided to delve into some of the works from great New England thinkers, mainly my Transcendental-soulmates, Thoreau and Emerson. I've always found "The American Scholar" to be extremely eloquent. I will start my reflection by citing a portion of the speech which I currently relate to most: "Meek young men grow up in libraries believing it their duty to accept the views which Cicero, which Locke, which Bacon have given, forgetful that Cicero, Locke, and Bacon were only young men in libraries when they wrote these books." I don't think I've ever been one to blindly accept anyone's philosophies without first thinking critically, but there is a specific dilemma I believe I face. I read the works of great thinkers and become so enchanted by their ingenuity and dazzled by their brilliance, and I sometimes forget that if I work and think hard enough, I may be capable of contributing something to society just like my heroes (mainly Thoreau and Chomsky, right now) have. I sometimes feel powerless because even though we live in a society, which, because it is grounded in capitalistic values, should theoretically reward ingenuity and innovative ideas, it often does not. I find this daunting and occasionally doubt whether it is worth it to strive for anything other than mediocrity. I quickly recover from this thought process, however, and realize that if anything else I know I will simply find it more fun to stimulate myself mentally, and if I happen to achieve something great in the process, so be it. Still, it is not fun to fall prey to demoralizing thoughts where I question the impact I am capable of making as one tiny unit in a massive, convoluted world.

On a similar note, Emerson remarks, "The so-called 'practical men' sneer at speculative men, as if, because they speculate or see, they could do nothing." It's so true, too! I wonder how many parents genuinely fear for their children if they see them developing a tendency to think freely and outside the box - as if society will have no place for them because they are too iconoclastic and less willing to submit themselves to traditional ways of doing things. Still, I must say, I do believe it is 100% understandable for a critical person to become jaded very early on, hence, falling prey to apathy does make sense if you are aware enough to understand how the world works and consequently have difficulty seeing yourself as a content, active participant within it. It's interesting how such a keen awareness of the world can either propel one to "do" something about it or to develop such a deep-seated revulsion toward all things, thus retreating and forever living a life enshrouded in observation and speculation rather than physical creation. Emerson claims "The preamble of thought, the transition through which it passes from the unconscious to the conscious, is action." Gosh, it's amazing how difficult this can be to implement sometimes.

Nonetheless, it was refreshing to read "The American Scholar" because Emerson's words were so infused with a beautiful sense of hope. His faith in human reason and potential is so inspiring. Thoreau's work contains a similar appreciation for human potential, but his language is more emotional to me. Emerson's declarations of human potential hit me at a more cerebral rather than visceral level for some reason. Here is a portion of Emerson's speech which I really enjoyed: "One must be an inventor to read well. As the proverb says, 'He that would bring home the wealth of the Indies, must carry out the wealth of the Indies.' There is then creative reading as well as creative writing." I took this to mean that if we want to be active members of society, we cannot simply consume without producing something of redeeming social value. Society, with all its plagues and banes, gives us many useful things such as portal through which we can express ourselves and connect with others of similar mindsets. Therefore, it is our obligation to give something back to society in whichever way we see fit. I'm excited to figure out exactly what my particular calling may be...

Ugh

I'm pretty fucking disgusted. I have to say, overall my Living Skills class is kind of a bullshit class, and I'm only taking it because I need to graduate, but occasionally some thought-provoking information comes up. Today we watched this video called "Generation M" (with the M standing for misogyny) and while some of us are trying to pay attention to the commentary on the rampant hyper-sexualization of women in today's society, the Abercrombie-dwelling fuckwits next to me are glued to their Cosmos and Seventeens, giggling and gossiping without any regard to the absolute IRONY that they are bringing to the situation. Now, I'm not saying anyone ever died from reading a 21st century fashion magazine... but wait, that's sort of true. Is it really surprising that 95% of eating disorders are experienced by women and girls when everywhere we turn is laced with idealized beauty and, in my opinion, fucking classless objectivization of females? Honestly, those godawful Carl's Jr. ads? Like you're really going to stay that hot if you eat that greasy hormone ridden filth all the time.

In one part of the documentary, they played a clip of one of Eminem's songs, "Kim." Now, I used to really dig Eminem. Before my conversion to the faith of Punk Rock, I was a big fan of rap. But when you hear lyrics like "Sit down bitch, move again and I'll beat the shit out of you" and "Come on, we're going for a ride, bitch, while I'm in front you'll be in the trunk," it's fucking revolting.

But people in my class started LAUGHING. How the fuck is this funny?

This is when I lost it.

One of my closest friends killed herself one year ago because she was physically abused so bad, she didn't know what else to do. The look of desperation that I saw in her eyes just 2 days before she committed suicide was probably one of the most haunting images that I'm never ever going to forget.

Everyone really needs to step it up. I honestly don't care about your "stay in the kitchen" jokes but if you ever see someone disrespecting a woman for no good reason, stop it.

It's amazing how much things can change.

Perhaps the best quality of life is that we all have the potential for change. We don't always have control over our circumstances, and sometimes it feels like our thoughts and actions never amount to the outcome we've hoped for.

But living without faith - faith in our potential to change - will amount to the most dismal existence of all.

For a while there I think I had forgotten what happiness felt like. I forgot the warmth of self-assurance and the bliss of optimism.

All it takes is a small reminder to reiterate our beautiful capacity to refocus our direction and change our mentality. Change is the most amazing thing we have.

Hello, I am a song.

I'm not a typical piece of music. Most songs are prerecorded and then eternally bound into a compact disc, forever stagnated in digital form. What makes me special is that I constantly rewrite myself. My artist blessed me with the ability to erase the parts I dont like and enter in new content that better suits my vision. I'm always modifying, never committed to a static existence.

I was not signed to a major label, so I don't get a lot of attention. It's okay though because once and a while someone hears me and I get the sense that I made them think or they enjoyed my tune.

When I started out as just a little tiny song, I didn't have a lot to say. My artist supplied me with a bit of content, but as the years went on, I started to build myself up, amending and rewriting until I felt confident that I was ready for my listeners.

I like being a song. I don't think I'd ever want to be a human; people seem strange to me.

I've spent so much time organizing the zeros and ones embedded into my configuration, making sure that I sound exactly how I want to sound, fine tuning my bass, strengthening my drums, making my lyrics as meaningful as possible. Honest, I make an earnest attempt to make my message, my sound, and my impact valuable. I couldn't tell you why people pass me by in the stores and refuse to hear my story.

I doubt that humans put as much effort into being thoughtful like me. I doubt that human beings try as hard to evoke meaning into the lives of others, like I try to.

Everyone can know what they're going to get when they hear my sound byte. I am a safe investment. I can't say the same about people.

A September Morning

The lights have dimmed and the shine has dulled and

the loudest of the lot have become so sullen.

The city of charm and romance, the city that claims to never sleep,

the flowers that once glistened, the butterflies and the angels retire and weep.

Their beautiful mouths now hidden from view beneath those protective masks--

Thin as paper, stretching across those unfathomably fragile faces.

All of the lovelies, the models, our radiant neighbors-- their perfectly shaped lips covered with film of debris, the remnants of a trademark dissipate into the sea.

Those beautiful eyes, crying tears which mix with the dirt on your cheeks. You wipe it away but the dust still collects and collects. It collects and collects and your efforts are in vain. You do what you can to ease the pain but the bodies fall and the children are slain.

You can't escape the thrust of the cloud, and all those attempts to make your parents proud, all of it for nothing just like your attempts to wipe away the dust that settles on your once colorful face.

You can't escape the force of the smoke, and I can't forgive those who misspoke, assuming we had their trust when all we have is this inescapable, omnipresent dust.

The most vibrant borough covered in brown and gray--

These shades of sorrow are forever here to stay.

The remnants of the city of the fearless and brave, buried under sheets of that ashen Tuesday.

The murky depths of Hell rise into the streets. Colorless waves consume unapologetically, mile upon mile until the walls appear bleak and the air smells vile. Pallid faces and wan, waxen hair, I look into your eyes with a dismal stare. You glance over and the overcast skies match your anxiety-ridden eyes.

Hoary streetlights and civilians collecting dust, an entire city reduced to brown and gray. Here today, gone tomorrow, stand proud once, eventually fall in sorrow. Every glance stricken with pain and every hand trembling in grief except those responsible who were granted a reprieve.

The Lost World of Iconoclast Park

I was going through old shite in that darkened abyss I have dubbed my closet, and encountered the 2007-2008 yearbook from the highly acclaimed Hewitt School: 45 East 75th Street. After recovering from having died a little bit due to seeing the cover of the yearbook's "Express Yourself" theme (which was absolutely ironic considering they excelled in hindering most forms of self expression), I decided to browse through it.

If you know me in the slightest, you know that I detest everything about the Hewitt School and dreaded my experience there. If you don't know me at all, allow me to tell you that, in my eyes, that school is about as prestigious as a golden gilded shit can. Masked by ostentatious portraits of previous headmistresses (including Ms. Hewitt, herself) and a seemingly out of place grand piano in the library, the students were about as sharp as the convex surface of a plastic spoon. We had Smartboards© though. Those were radical.

Anyway, this post has not been created for the purpose of complaining. A striking thought came to me as I was reading the few student autographs I had in my yearbook. In essence, I was astonished to read these because they remembered me in the way I've always wished to be remembered by people, which I sure as hell didn't expect. I had no idea that I had an impact on some of those girls; I thought I was the least suitable person whom they would even consider learning from and the least likely candidate to come along and inspire them. Anyway, to provide context, here is one of the entries I received on that grand last day at the Hewitt School.

"Shit, where do I begin? You've been here for 2 years (in great pain) and yet you've still managed to offer something great. You are one of those people who come along and stretch my mind. I will miss the conversations we have after Advisory, and being able to look across the room at you and know that someone just 'gets it'. You say what you think, not what others want you to think. You are sanity and originality, brilliance and analysis, even in this ocean of stillness and conformity. I hope you continue to question everything and fight the fight, and one day reach peace. I can't thank you enough because I feel like I won't realize everything I learned from you until I get the opportunity to implement it."

I made a conscious effort to rebel in a myriad ways when I went to Hewitt. It sometimes got me into trouble but it always gave me gratification. We all were forced to look the same via uniforms, so I felt an obligation to make it clear that I was not one of them despite our physical homogeneity. While I do not feel any spirit of warm kindredness toward those girls, I do appreciate that they took the time for one day out of the school year to let me know that my struggle to salvage my originality taught them a little bit about the nature of iconoclasm. God knows if they'll retain it, but that's not where my quandary lies.

My issue is the fact that it is in our times of struggle and adversity that we realize the true meaning of discovering who we are and presenting it to the world. Since I never found my comfort zone in New York, I had to work extra hard to develop a sense of self. Now, I live in California and feel happier with my station in life. I wonder if feeling too situated is a curse, for it destroys that little engine encased in the shrouds of displacement and uneasiness which propels us to find a sense of home and identity.

I think this affliction affects the weak minded and complacent. I try to remind myself every day that we are never truly done growing up until the day we die. Therefore, we cannot become too fixed into our niches; we will miss out on so much learning, growth, and joy.

Panem et Circenses

Hello there my young child. Put that book down and listen to me. My, what a beautiful piece of carbon-based wastage you’re growing up to be! It’s 8:42 am. We’re losing contact. Allow me to nurture you. See how I provide you with the illusion of choice with your 500 channels? Bow down to me. I’m responsible for making Vladimir cry. He envies my ability to vegetate you. It’s 8:46 am. Flight 11 impacts the North Tower. Sit right there. Continue to absorb as I sensationalize. It’s 8:52 am. The F-15s are scrambling. These problems don’t affect you. We’ll get around to fixing them. Stay complacent in your contentment with the war—you’re not the one fighting it. It’s 9:00 am. Flight 77 hits the pentagon. Sit still. Allow me to offer you more short term government palliatives. I know you’ll unwittingly comply. You and I have formed a lovely relationship. You’re bored, I entertain you. You’re disgruntled and I pacify you. I am your baseline necessity. You need me. It’s 9:02 am. Flight 175 impacts the South Tower. Some say I’m sick. They say I should be reformed in order to counteract the natural tendency to seek power. I say fuck ‘em. If you wanna watch The Bachelor getting screwed over by the scantily clad cheap trick in the red, you go for it. It’s 9:21 am. The Port Authority orders all bridges and tunnels in New York to close. You know something? You’re much, much cuter as an inactive, sleeping pawn. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You’re one big myoma that thinks your planet supports you and you alone, and let’s keep it that way. It’s 10:03am. Flight 93 crashes. Except there are no plane parts. And the hole in the ground is only 14 feet wide. But you weren’t supposed to know that. Young child, don’t let anyone tell you I’m trying to infect you. You’re a pathetic example of earth’s organic heritage, but I adore you! I see you spend with careless abandon, but I love you anyway. Remember back in March, 2003? The Gallop poll asserted that 51 percent of your fellow Americans thought Saddam Hussein was personally responsible for 9/11. That’s all my doing. No need to thank me. So remember, baby doll, listen and listen good—the only way to ensure progress for a more perfect union is to remember who your goddamn boss is.

In The Waiting Line

The rope is being wrapped tighter and tighter around your neck.

The wind serves as a vessel, transporting the leaves into the distance, parallel to the birds in constant motion.
But I can take no flight of my own.

Do you ever get the feeling that something good is always happening somewhere else?

They say my flight will take off soon.
But I’ve been on the waiting list far too long.

I’ve been watching the planes land and take off for two years now—
But the Pilot doesn’t think I’m ready to leave.

I wander around the airport to pass the time.
But it gets old. All of it.

Change is constant here. New people arriving and departing. New languages I’ve never heard before. I want to be one with the change. I need a fucking change of scenery.
But first I have to make the change within myself.

I’d rather switch airlines and find a fucking way out.

The beautiful becomes the ugly.
That’s what it means to be depressed.
I open the shades of the waiting room and try to enjoy the sun, try to appreciate the people I hate, try and love the sounds I called noise.
That’s what it means to make an effort.
I close the shades of the waiting room and bury my head in my hands once more.
That’s what it means to relapse. Again.

I keep checking the boards for my flight.
It’s not listed.

However... I’m done complaining, too.

Patience is not my forte.
But I’m telling you—

I

am

doing

the

best

I

can.

Gross

Between 1979 and 1997, income for families in the middle class rose 9 percent. Income for upper class families in the top one percent of the population rose 140 percent. Why has the response to rising inequality been to reduce taxes on the rich? Because we’ve settled for “panem et circenus”: our bread and circuses, and have unwittingly complied with short-term government palliatives offered in place of a solution for significant, long-term problems. Our baseline necessities and entertainment have become the only entities the broad masses long for and are satisfied with. Meanwhile, George Bush has packed the Labor Board with his cronies serving corporate bigwigs at the expense of workers, after FDR passed the National Labor Relations Act to protect workers. Adolph Hitler said, “The broad masses of a population are more amenable to the appeal of rhetoric than to any other force.” It worked to his advantage once in history, and this same ideal is very likely to follow through at our expense on such a massively catastrophic scale once more if we continue to be inactive, sleeping pawns. Standing idly by, settling with complacency goes against the idea that to be a productive human on this earth means to be a nonconformist. What we need is a healthy media system to counteract the natural tendency to seek power, which reinforces the notion of protecting your interests by paying attention. Why is this imperative? In March 2003, the gallop poll asserted that 51 percent of Americans thought Saddam Hussein was personally responsible for 9/11.
Enough said.

Blind Acceptance Can Be Hazardous

People aren’t stopping to think and reflect once they realize that they are on the side of the majority. The human race has been brainwashed to think that we’re on pedestals when I feel that so many of us have become useless ecosystem-destroying carbon based wastage.

But alas, in a society where the media system is a pure subsidiary of corporate America, we are conditioned to lead completely unbalanced lives. There is a frighteningly weak democracy in this country and an ever increasing rate of depoliticization that propels tyrannical governments around the world to envy our vegetated population. Our media system trivializes or sensationalizes news rather than making an earnest attempt to educate us in a culture where information is supposed to be the currency of democracy. However, the illusion of choice is maintained when we can have 100 cable channels, magazine stands, movies, and a plethora of music at our fingertips, when really it’s all just the products of 5 or 6 multinational corporations that serve as Big Brother.

It aggravates me when my peers hold the mindset of “these problems aren’t affecting ME, someone else will get around to fixing them...,” which has never worked throughout history; much like when I’ve heard people say that they’re fine with the war because they don’t have to go and fight it. Or, despite the HUNDREDS of discrepancies that I alone have found and publicized in regards to the 9.11 Commission Report, people still settle for the official story because it’s not directly affecting their lives. (All the while I see grieving families at Ground Zero every day desperately yearning for real answers.)

 

Question the official story.