Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Chapter 2 - I'll Say It Only Once
I was molested for several years by the same person. I won't say who. I won't give details. It happened and it played a part in my life. Life totally used my teen years as a dumping ground...and this wasn't the end of it.
Chapter 1? Yeah...I guess so.
Black southern family in the mid 70's, living in a small town is nothing new. A hard working couple with two sons of distant age. Father was Billy Sneed, Jr.; married to Lula Lee Sneed and worked in the oil field. He was a tall and lanky chain smoker with a swagger to him. He made good money.
Lula was a stay at home mom. She was overweight but proportioned, not afraid of foul words or an argument. She filled their house with nice things. You can do that when you're married to a man that makes good money.
Number one son, Willie Sneed. A short athlete, spending his time on football and girls. He was popular and charming, despite having a name that also represents the male organ. However, with his arrogance, it was appropriate. He made use of the good money that father made.
Finally, there was the other child. He was chubby-cheeked and rosy-lipped. His skin was much lighter, his hair much softer, his curls much bigger than everyone else. It was like that one pup of the litter that had spots while everyone else was of a solid color. He was full of smiles and curiosity. Eager to please as he was eager to find adventure, but as mother's piece of gold, that adventure was limited to the walls of his quaint old house. This child...was me.
Sure, I may sound egotistical with all of the descriptions of how adorable I was, but that was me. Momma told me several times how a woman who worked for a magazine wanted to use me as a Gerber baby. It's like being a Goldwyn Girl or a Malboro Man, but with mashed carrots. My mother turned it down, though.
When you grow up sort of...hidden, you assume it is just how things are. You don't question or compare. You just take it. You're just a kid. You don't question much of anything if you are getting the love you need. Love was not scarce between me and my momma. The most splendid memory (protected and fed over the years by my momma's recounting) was laying in her large bed on our backs listening to Al Green gospel music. I was in diapers still and patting my fat hands to the music with her. Happy little boy. Happy little Christopher...or Chris...or Chris-co, as a cousin called me.
When dad was gone working (most of the time), and brother was off wooing the women (most of the time) and mom was too busy to be entertaining to me...I usually had animals to throw my affection at. Throughout my life in that house, I had a rabbit named Prince, a dog named Baby, a male cat named Buffy, a puppy named Blacky, another cat named Snowball (later changed to KKK for "Kitty Kitty Kitty"), a couple of Cockatiels named Lucy and Ethel (later "Lucy" and "Ricky" when gender identity confirmed), countless chickens, cows, a turtle (I wouldn't go near), a chihuahua (that wouldn't go near me).
I came to rely on them more than I did Willie. He was always promising things and lying to our parents. He would rarely spend time with me, and when he did it always seemed like I was just luggage being toted around. After all, he had a different woman with him on each of our outings...why would he need to give me any attention? And that attention probably wouldn't have been craved if daddy wasn't off on a rig somewhere, keeping us cradled in nice things. Good money.
My mother kept my leash short. I rarely went outside and when I did, I had to check in every ten minutes or her nature-shaking voice would ripple through the house, out the door, and into every nerve in my body. Each year, from toddler to teen, that voice got louder and meaner. Eventually it was occasionally accompanied by a beating. Now, one tends to fall on either side of the fence with the "spanking issue."
No matter what you say, mine was a traumatic fit of screaming, flailing, and striking. I wasn't thinking about what I had done wrong during these disciplinary moments. I wasn't considering the philosophy of morality. I was thinking a lot of nothing, embedded with tiny particles of "please make this stop" when my undeveloped brain got a peak at the light of day. I was curled up in a corner blocking wild swings that struck wherever they may. Understand, though...it wasn't that I got spankings, so much as that the spankings weren't related to anything that made sense to me at the time. A belt to the legs if I didn't pick up my clothes off the floor fast enough. A switch (defined as a long, skinny durable branch from a tree that acted as a whip) to the back and hands when I accidentally dropped a glass. I got in trouble for lying and got the same punishment when I told the truth. If I tried to question what I had done wrong, the reply was usually "You know what you did wrong" and then more spankings. I think they went on until she got tired. So, my goal as a kid was to not get whippings, not to try and figure out what her system of justice and ethics were.
The older we both got, the more pain she tried to inflict. Here's the kicker, though. I was once a baby laying in bed clapping to "Christian" music. I said "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am". I was a gentle and frightened kid who knew nothing of the world outside. I cried when I saw other people hurting (even if I didn't know them). I prayed, laughed, and cared for people, even when I couldn't care for myself. I loved her deeply and these "spankings" were confusing and frightening, because all I saw was anger.
I was on edge so much growing up and wasn't allowed an outlet. I got in trouble for trying to talk to anyone, like my favorite aunt, about anything like this. No matter how bad things were, I was only allowed to express my hurt, anger, and sadness the way my mother wanted me to...which was not at all. So...as they say...we bottle it up. The thing is, though, that it is never really bottled up. It's never really far enough on the back burner. It's going to come out.
One peculiar way it came out was through minor self-mutilation. I nibbled on the skin of my knuckles and around my fingernails. On occasion, enough to draw blood. My parents and certain family members noticed eventually and would tell me to stop, but it wasn't conscious. It was not a hobby of mine...it was nerves and pinned frustration, funneled down into that little act.
Another quirk of my childhood was my imaginary "friends." I was not a happy child. My photo album would contain no pictures of sleepovers or vacations with friends. Relatives and my brother's many girlfriends were the only people that darkened our doorstep. Even that socializing diminished as I got older. The loneliness sculpted several "imaginary people."
These non-existent beings were not ones that I talked to, but instead the people I would "hang with" when I shut my eyes or the ones I would see when I stared off into the distance. Some part of me must have known that people would think I was crazy, though I never thought about it outright.
I would daydream for hours out of the day and at school, imagining a better version of myself sharing adventures with these people.
The comfort that this provided became an addiction. As the skies around this boy began to darken as he hit his 12th birthday and his 13th, I overdosed on this other reality. If the real world needed my attention, I would simply put it on pause, returning to where I left off as soon as I could. In this world, things were perfect and exciting and I had some control. I began to pull real people into these fantasies...usually men. I teetered as close to the edge of delusion as I could without losing my grasp on reality. I didn't believe these people were real, but I pretended I did. My mind was so precise that I never called anyone by the wrong name nor would I forget the hell I saw in reality that grew closer and closer.
Understand, dear reader, this wasn't depression's dance with insanity brought on by just getting hit for everything I did, being screamed at every single day, being forgotten by my only sibling, being teased and bullied at school by my peers and teachers(yes, we will get there), psychological guilt trips from the parents, or being treated like an outcast by my grandparents. No, it wasn't a single one of these things. It was all of them...plus...
Lula was a stay at home mom. She was overweight but proportioned, not afraid of foul words or an argument. She filled their house with nice things. You can do that when you're married to a man that makes good money.
Number one son, Willie Sneed. A short athlete, spending his time on football and girls. He was popular and charming, despite having a name that also represents the male organ. However, with his arrogance, it was appropriate. He made use of the good money that father made.
Finally, there was the other child. He was chubby-cheeked and rosy-lipped. His skin was much lighter, his hair much softer, his curls much bigger than everyone else. It was like that one pup of the litter that had spots while everyone else was of a solid color. He was full of smiles and curiosity. Eager to please as he was eager to find adventure, but as mother's piece of gold, that adventure was limited to the walls of his quaint old house. This child...was me.
Sure, I may sound egotistical with all of the descriptions of how adorable I was, but that was me. Momma told me several times how a woman who worked for a magazine wanted to use me as a Gerber baby. It's like being a Goldwyn Girl or a Malboro Man, but with mashed carrots. My mother turned it down, though.
When you grow up sort of...hidden, you assume it is just how things are. You don't question or compare. You just take it. You're just a kid. You don't question much of anything if you are getting the love you need. Love was not scarce between me and my momma. The most splendid memory (protected and fed over the years by my momma's recounting) was laying in her large bed on our backs listening to Al Green gospel music. I was in diapers still and patting my fat hands to the music with her. Happy little boy. Happy little Christopher...or Chris...or Chris-co, as a cousin called me.
When dad was gone working (most of the time), and brother was off wooing the women (most of the time) and mom was too busy to be entertaining to me...I usually had animals to throw my affection at. Throughout my life in that house, I had a rabbit named Prince, a dog named Baby, a male cat named Buffy, a puppy named Blacky, another cat named Snowball (later changed to KKK for "Kitty Kitty Kitty"), a couple of Cockatiels named Lucy and Ethel (later "Lucy" and "Ricky" when gender identity confirmed), countless chickens, cows, a turtle (I wouldn't go near), a chihuahua (that wouldn't go near me).
I came to rely on them more than I did Willie. He was always promising things and lying to our parents. He would rarely spend time with me, and when he did it always seemed like I was just luggage being toted around. After all, he had a different woman with him on each of our outings...why would he need to give me any attention? And that attention probably wouldn't have been craved if daddy wasn't off on a rig somewhere, keeping us cradled in nice things. Good money.
My mother kept my leash short. I rarely went outside and when I did, I had to check in every ten minutes or her nature-shaking voice would ripple through the house, out the door, and into every nerve in my body. Each year, from toddler to teen, that voice got louder and meaner. Eventually it was occasionally accompanied by a beating. Now, one tends to fall on either side of the fence with the "spanking issue."
No matter what you say, mine was a traumatic fit of screaming, flailing, and striking. I wasn't thinking about what I had done wrong during these disciplinary moments. I wasn't considering the philosophy of morality. I was thinking a lot of nothing, embedded with tiny particles of "please make this stop" when my undeveloped brain got a peak at the light of day. I was curled up in a corner blocking wild swings that struck wherever they may. Understand, though...it wasn't that I got spankings, so much as that the spankings weren't related to anything that made sense to me at the time. A belt to the legs if I didn't pick up my clothes off the floor fast enough. A switch (defined as a long, skinny durable branch from a tree that acted as a whip) to the back and hands when I accidentally dropped a glass. I got in trouble for lying and got the same punishment when I told the truth. If I tried to question what I had done wrong, the reply was usually "You know what you did wrong" and then more spankings. I think they went on until she got tired. So, my goal as a kid was to not get whippings, not to try and figure out what her system of justice and ethics were.
The older we both got, the more pain she tried to inflict. Here's the kicker, though. I was once a baby laying in bed clapping to "Christian" music. I said "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am". I was a gentle and frightened kid who knew nothing of the world outside. I cried when I saw other people hurting (even if I didn't know them). I prayed, laughed, and cared for people, even when I couldn't care for myself. I loved her deeply and these "spankings" were confusing and frightening, because all I saw was anger.
I was on edge so much growing up and wasn't allowed an outlet. I got in trouble for trying to talk to anyone, like my favorite aunt, about anything like this. No matter how bad things were, I was only allowed to express my hurt, anger, and sadness the way my mother wanted me to...which was not at all. So...as they say...we bottle it up. The thing is, though, that it is never really bottled up. It's never really far enough on the back burner. It's going to come out.
One peculiar way it came out was through minor self-mutilation. I nibbled on the skin of my knuckles and around my fingernails. On occasion, enough to draw blood. My parents and certain family members noticed eventually and would tell me to stop, but it wasn't conscious. It was not a hobby of mine...it was nerves and pinned frustration, funneled down into that little act.
Another quirk of my childhood was my imaginary "friends." I was not a happy child. My photo album would contain no pictures of sleepovers or vacations with friends. Relatives and my brother's many girlfriends were the only people that darkened our doorstep. Even that socializing diminished as I got older. The loneliness sculpted several "imaginary people."
These non-existent beings were not ones that I talked to, but instead the people I would "hang with" when I shut my eyes or the ones I would see when I stared off into the distance. Some part of me must have known that people would think I was crazy, though I never thought about it outright.
I would daydream for hours out of the day and at school, imagining a better version of myself sharing adventures with these people.
The comfort that this provided became an addiction. As the skies around this boy began to darken as he hit his 12th birthday and his 13th, I overdosed on this other reality. If the real world needed my attention, I would simply put it on pause, returning to where I left off as soon as I could. In this world, things were perfect and exciting and I had some control. I began to pull real people into these fantasies...usually men. I teetered as close to the edge of delusion as I could without losing my grasp on reality. I didn't believe these people were real, but I pretended I did. My mind was so precise that I never called anyone by the wrong name nor would I forget the hell I saw in reality that grew closer and closer.
Understand, dear reader, this wasn't depression's dance with insanity brought on by just getting hit for everything I did, being screamed at every single day, being forgotten by my only sibling, being teased and bullied at school by my peers and teachers(yes, we will get there), psychological guilt trips from the parents, or being treated like an outcast by my grandparents. No, it wasn't a single one of these things. It was all of them...plus...
Clough
I am...
1. I am attractive.
2. I am smart.
3. I understand things.
4. I am resourceful.
5. I am wealthy.
6. I am brave / courageous
7. I am a performer.
Thanks
1. I am thankful for my voice.
2. I am thankful for my friends.
3. I am thankful for my income.
4. I am thankful for my looks.
6. I am thankful for coffee with friends.
7. I am thankful for positive male attention.
1. I am attractive.
2. I am smart.
3. I understand things.
4. I am resourceful.
5. I am wealthy.
6. I am brave / courageous
7. I am a performer.
Thanks
1. I am thankful for my voice.
2. I am thankful for my friends.
3. I am thankful for my income.
4. I am thankful for my looks.
6. I am thankful for coffee with friends.
7. I am thankful for positive male attention.
Friday, November 15, 2013
Clough
Thankful
1. I am thankful for creative energy.
2. I am thankful for opportunities
3. I am thankful for lessons I've learned.
4. I am thankful that my past relationships have ended.
5. I am thankful that people want to hang out with me.
6. I am thankful for Bud.
7. I am thankful for my bed.
I am...
1. I am attractive.
2. I am confident.
3. I am stable.
4. I am intelligent.
5. I am funny.
6. I am stylish.
7. I am resilient.
1. I am thankful for creative energy.
2. I am thankful for opportunities
3. I am thankful for lessons I've learned.
4. I am thankful that my past relationships have ended.
5. I am thankful that people want to hang out with me.
6. I am thankful for Bud.
7. I am thankful for my bed.
I am...
1. I am attractive.
2. I am confident.
3. I am stable.
4. I am intelligent.
5. I am funny.
6. I am stylish.
7. I am resilient.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Clough
Thankful
1. I am thankful for the ability to give money to other people.
2. I am thankful for what I have been able to get fixed at work.
3. I am thankful that people are willing to follow me when I'm on a mission.
4. I am thankful for my creativity.
5. I am thankful for Bud
6. I am thankful for my age.
7. I am thankful for my rabbits.
I AM'S.
1. I am attractive.
2. I am intelligent.
3. I am brave and confident.
4. I am happy.
5. I am amazing.
6. I am charming.
7. I am focused.
8. I am creative.
9. I am talented.
1. I am thankful for the ability to give money to other people.
2. I am thankful for what I have been able to get fixed at work.
3. I am thankful that people are willing to follow me when I'm on a mission.
4. I am thankful for my creativity.
5. I am thankful for Bud
6. I am thankful for my age.
7. I am thankful for my rabbits.
I AM'S.
1. I am attractive.
2. I am intelligent.
3. I am brave and confident.
4. I am happy.
5. I am amazing.
6. I am charming.
7. I am focused.
8. I am creative.
9. I am talented.
Friday, November 1, 2013
Clough - 11/1/13
I am thankful for...
1. Finding the chord to the camera.
2. For the camera selling quickly
3. For the nice chat I had last night with Jason
4. For self-discovery
5. For music
6. For my looks
7. For my enthusiasm
I am...
1. I am a positive influence.
2. I am strong
3. I am friendly.
4. I am smart
5. I have a great memory
6. I am happy.
7. I am safe.
1. Finding the chord to the camera.
2. For the camera selling quickly
3. For the nice chat I had last night with Jason
4. For self-discovery
5. For music
6. For my looks
7. For my enthusiasm
I am...
1. I am a positive influence.
2. I am strong
3. I am friendly.
4. I am smart
5. I have a great memory
6. I am happy.
7. I am safe.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
A Song In Your Heart - Music's Relevance
You have asked (or have been asked) the following question in your lifetime; What kind of music do you listen to? The response is often "A little bit of everything." You ask for clarification and get something along the lines of "Pop, rock, country...but not rap, classical, opera." Is that really all there is? What about J-pop, soul, r&b, jazz, indie, folk, metal, swing, electro-pop, dance, reggae, ska, alternative, punk, new age, goth, middle eastern, latin, and on and on? Are you really as musically submerged as you claim to be? The music industry carries with it a million albums released a year.
I had a discussion with a friend about playing the guitar. I guessed that so many people are able to play today's music on guitar because there is nothing complicated or special about what's on the radio. It is said that playing classical music for babies will help their brain activity (though that study has been argued). The question is "Is dumb music helping support dumb people?"
Obviously, not every smart person listens to Mozart and Tchaikovsky, but I think the music that leads the charts is directly related to where education and intelligence falls in our society's priorities. Let's face it, Joseph Haydn created complex music that a symphony of over 100 musicians must rehearse to play well, meanwhile Icona Pop gave us lyrics like "I crashed my car into a bridge!" or Kei$ha's "Blah, blah, blah." Yeah, that's how I feel about you, too. We have the almost forgotten Alanis Morisette who throws together a lyrical jumbo such as "How crass you stand before me with no blood to fuel your flame / How dare you wield such flippancy without requisite shame / Your very existence becomes my sacred mission's bane" from her song I Remain versus Robin Thicke's Blurred Lines' "Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, If you can't hear what I'm trying to say / If you can't read from the same page / Maybe I'm going deaf / Maybe I'm going blind". Not only does that make no sense, but it's laid over a track that pretty much ripped off the late, great Marvin Gaye. I don't even need brilliant use of the English language in my music, but tell me Miley Cyrus, Rihanna, or is a good singer and then listen to Jill Scott, Florence Welch, or even Gladys Knight. How can people not see the difference in quality between early Aretha Franklin and Selena Gomez?
Let us look at this differently. There are singers, like Adele, Celine Dion, Whitney Houston, Kathleen Battle, Sam Cooke, and Josh Grobin. Those in the "singer" group are gifted with beautiful voices that are good even without good music or lyrics. We also have artists; Alanis Morrisette, Lady Gaga, Florence & The Machine, and Michael Jackson...who are reaching a little deeper to bring us unique lyrics, sounds, and/or sights. Another group is the "performers"; Madonna, Black Eyed Peas, Nicki Minaj who don't have particular good voices or anything "artistic" to contribute, but they can put on a show (full of imagery and catchy tunes). Last, we have the "money holes"...the celebrities who have been so manufactured by the industry that they have been made to look as if they are talented or deep. In actuality, they have made it because they look good. Think Creed, Rihanna, Selina Gomez, Lena Del Ray. We should be giving ourselves to the first two groups, but we are whores to the last two instead...just following whatever is popular.
The current problem is that so many (not all) younger people have more money to spend than they did 40 years ago and easier access to songs. Throw in the visual media and you have a bunch of financially irresponsible hormones who haven't been around long enough to develop a taste in music. They end up dumping their attention on "money holes." The radio or tv tells them to like a song and they feel they need to spend money on it.
I am certain that bad music has been around since the moment we started adding lyrics, however, I think we are starting to embrace this musical stupidity with both arms. Why does it matter? The music industry is a multi-billion dollar industry. We feed it money for downloads, concerts, and merchandise. It matters because our environment plays a part in who we are and music is an unavoidable part of our environment. I'm not saying that "fun" music doesn't have its place, but it should not be dominating our minds and our pocket books over quality songs and artists. We choose stupid and simple because it is easy. It doesn't challenge the deeper regions of our brain.
How do we grow? Do a search for "top 100". Go see local artists. Stop spending money on Nicki Minaj and find an up and coming "Janis Joplin" or "Ray Charles." Play classical music when you're cleaning the house instead of Kesha. Yes, life is a party...but every party doesn't have to be at a drunken frat house. Some can be refined and serve something other than your social needs. Desire to be smarter. Strive to bring new music to your friends' lives. Pick apart your favorite songs. If the artists can sing live, but sounds great on a cd, stop buying their music. Look for the "real deals" that you can appreciate even more at a concert than you do on the radio. If you can't close your eyes and still feel something from that singer's vocals (not the lyrics), then stop listening. Go for emotion and go for something unheard of.
Look, I've got my moments where I need a Christina Aquilera (sp?) fix or run across an Demi Lavato song that makes me want to dance. Yet we are neglecting another part of our mind and soul by not seeking more. If we want to be better, we have to demand better. If we want to be smarter or more meaningful, then we should surround ourselves with more meaningful things. Music is powerful and right now, it's being manipulated into something ugly because we don't want to take the time to help it, help us...to be better people.
I had a discussion with a friend about playing the guitar. I guessed that so many people are able to play today's music on guitar because there is nothing complicated or special about what's on the radio. It is said that playing classical music for babies will help their brain activity (though that study has been argued). The question is "Is dumb music helping support dumb people?"
Obviously, not every smart person listens to Mozart and Tchaikovsky, but I think the music that leads the charts is directly related to where education and intelligence falls in our society's priorities. Let's face it, Joseph Haydn created complex music that a symphony of over 100 musicians must rehearse to play well, meanwhile Icona Pop gave us lyrics like "I crashed my car into a bridge!" or Kei$ha's "Blah, blah, blah." Yeah, that's how I feel about you, too. We have the almost forgotten Alanis Morisette who throws together a lyrical jumbo such as "How crass you stand before me with no blood to fuel your flame / How dare you wield such flippancy without requisite shame / Your very existence becomes my sacred mission's bane" from her song I Remain versus Robin Thicke's Blurred Lines' "Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, If you can't hear what I'm trying to say / If you can't read from the same page / Maybe I'm going deaf / Maybe I'm going blind". Not only does that make no sense, but it's laid over a track that pretty much ripped off the late, great Marvin Gaye. I don't even need brilliant use of the English language in my music, but tell me Miley Cyrus, Rihanna, or is a good singer and then listen to Jill Scott, Florence Welch, or even Gladys Knight. How can people not see the difference in quality between early Aretha Franklin and Selena Gomez?
Let us look at this differently. There are singers, like Adele, Celine Dion, Whitney Houston, Kathleen Battle, Sam Cooke, and Josh Grobin. Those in the "singer" group are gifted with beautiful voices that are good even without good music or lyrics. We also have artists; Alanis Morrisette, Lady Gaga, Florence & The Machine, and Michael Jackson...who are reaching a little deeper to bring us unique lyrics, sounds, and/or sights. Another group is the "performers"; Madonna, Black Eyed Peas, Nicki Minaj who don't have particular good voices or anything "artistic" to contribute, but they can put on a show (full of imagery and catchy tunes). Last, we have the "money holes"...the celebrities who have been so manufactured by the industry that they have been made to look as if they are talented or deep. In actuality, they have made it because they look good. Think Creed, Rihanna, Selina Gomez, Lena Del Ray. We should be giving ourselves to the first two groups, but we are whores to the last two instead...just following whatever is popular.
The current problem is that so many (not all) younger people have more money to spend than they did 40 years ago and easier access to songs. Throw in the visual media and you have a bunch of financially irresponsible hormones who haven't been around long enough to develop a taste in music. They end up dumping their attention on "money holes." The radio or tv tells them to like a song and they feel they need to spend money on it.
I am certain that bad music has been around since the moment we started adding lyrics, however, I think we are starting to embrace this musical stupidity with both arms. Why does it matter? The music industry is a multi-billion dollar industry. We feed it money for downloads, concerts, and merchandise. It matters because our environment plays a part in who we are and music is an unavoidable part of our environment. I'm not saying that "fun" music doesn't have its place, but it should not be dominating our minds and our pocket books over quality songs and artists. We choose stupid and simple because it is easy. It doesn't challenge the deeper regions of our brain.
How do we grow? Do a search for "top 100". Go see local artists. Stop spending money on Nicki Minaj and find an up and coming "Janis Joplin" or "Ray Charles." Play classical music when you're cleaning the house instead of Kesha. Yes, life is a party...but every party doesn't have to be at a drunken frat house. Some can be refined and serve something other than your social needs. Desire to be smarter. Strive to bring new music to your friends' lives. Pick apart your favorite songs. If the artists can sing live, but sounds great on a cd, stop buying their music. Look for the "real deals" that you can appreciate even more at a concert than you do on the radio. If you can't close your eyes and still feel something from that singer's vocals (not the lyrics), then stop listening. Go for emotion and go for something unheard of.
Look, I've got my moments where I need a Christina Aquilera (sp?) fix or run across an Demi Lavato song that makes me want to dance. Yet we are neglecting another part of our mind and soul by not seeking more. If we want to be better, we have to demand better. If we want to be smarter or more meaningful, then we should surround ourselves with more meaningful things. Music is powerful and right now, it's being manipulated into something ugly because we don't want to take the time to help it, help us...to be better people.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Introduction
I have done much writing in my life. Most of it was done with strong intention, in an effort to align my thoughts. On a greater scale, I always hope that something I say or do will have positive influence on the world around me.
Avairmali was a name I came up with in high school for a book I was working on. It was a perfect world that had been destroyed. It seems appropriate for the title now, as the world (in its most basic state) could be perfect, but we insist on wounding it for our own purposes. So as it continues to limp along, I cannot help but think about what it would take to repair it.
I suppose it all falls in the category of "philosophical," doesn't it? I'm always problem solving to my own great destruction as most people don't want to hear what others have to say, especially if it is important or difficult (those two things often merge). We want to go about our lives, "head in the sand" as they say, oblivious to what is really wrong and what really affects us.
Those that try to be more aware of often seen as a little insane because they have set forth on a journey of discovery that almost no one else embarks on. Dave Chapelle, Sinead O'Connor, Van Gogh, John Nash...They have all been considered a little "off" when really they were just "off" the trail most travelled, but it separated them from society so far for so long that they suffered.
I've made no secret of my past. I was raised indoors, unable to go out and socialize, because people wanted to kidnap me and possibly kill me as a child. As I got older, I was embarrassed by the lifestyle I had grown up in and my mother's raging temper with no regard for my mental anguish or self worth.
So, I spent 80% of my childhood with my own thoughts. I was a forced philosopher. Haha! I was raised as if I were a home school child. So, what follows from here are 35 years of solitude, experience, and constant thinking. It is my perception, my logic, behind the world and the way it is. I also include what I think it would take to make the world a truly better place and not just an ugly sofa that we keep trying to throw pretty blankets on.
Enjoy, fellow mental cases.
RCBSB
Avairmali was a name I came up with in high school for a book I was working on. It was a perfect world that had been destroyed. It seems appropriate for the title now, as the world (in its most basic state) could be perfect, but we insist on wounding it for our own purposes. So as it continues to limp along, I cannot help but think about what it would take to repair it.
I suppose it all falls in the category of "philosophical," doesn't it? I'm always problem solving to my own great destruction as most people don't want to hear what others have to say, especially if it is important or difficult (those two things often merge). We want to go about our lives, "head in the sand" as they say, oblivious to what is really wrong and what really affects us.
Those that try to be more aware of often seen as a little insane because they have set forth on a journey of discovery that almost no one else embarks on. Dave Chapelle, Sinead O'Connor, Van Gogh, John Nash...They have all been considered a little "off" when really they were just "off" the trail most travelled, but it separated them from society so far for so long that they suffered.
I've made no secret of my past. I was raised indoors, unable to go out and socialize, because people wanted to kidnap me and possibly kill me as a child. As I got older, I was embarrassed by the lifestyle I had grown up in and my mother's raging temper with no regard for my mental anguish or self worth.
So, I spent 80% of my childhood with my own thoughts. I was a forced philosopher. Haha! I was raised as if I were a home school child. So, what follows from here are 35 years of solitude, experience, and constant thinking. It is my perception, my logic, behind the world and the way it is. I also include what I think it would take to make the world a truly better place and not just an ugly sofa that we keep trying to throw pretty blankets on.
Enjoy, fellow mental cases.
RCBSB
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