Wasted Potential.

I know what I am.  My third grade teacher pointed it out to me.  In some ways I cannot help but feel disappointed in my final project.  In others I laugh at my arrogance.  I do not care for the A or the B.  A C is just fine with me, I simply sit in college for one reason or the other.  But mostly I'm just there for the piece of paper that says I'm employable.  I am reminded of the ant and the grasshopper story.   One plays all year and starves, the other works all year and lives.  The moral of the story... Haha.
Today instead of working on these posts I spent the day relaxed, enjoying the company of my nephews.  We went out for Ice Cream.  It is so funny watching a 3 year old eat ice cream.  When we left the ice cream stand two things happened on the way home.
First which is funny, we left the ice cream cone in a bowl on the trunk of the car.  When noticed it still sitting there we pulled over.  As my brother grabbed the cone off the trunk he hit his elbow.  My nephew asked his dad if he would be alright.  My brother jokingly responded, "No Jamez it's a good thing we we pulled over in a funeral home because I might die."
"What's a funeral home?" He asked.
There was this awkward silence in the cars as the adults tried to think of the response.  I ended up just telling him the truth.  "Well buddy, when people die.  We take them here and this home makes them all pretty so we can say good bye to the ones we love one last time."  I'm watching him, as I explain this complex idea in as little words as possible.  Because in truth what the hell is a funeral?  But as I watch, I can tell he is listening, like he knows I'm talking about something profound even if he can't quite comprehend.  Trying to move onto a less somber topic my brother asks his eldest son, "How was school today?"  He started off by telling us a story his teacher told them about lion's teeth, alligators teeth, beaver's teeth, and on and on about teeth... the end.
My brother laughed, and his son asked him what a moral was.  The second profound question of the day.  For a moment the adults were silent yet again as we tried to answer.
So the grasshopper dies, and the ant lives.  Hard work prevails?
But when the ant dies what kind of life did he live?
For the past month I had thought about our project.  I know I delivered crap and we will address that in time.  I've trying to write a story.  That's why I sat down in American Literature, to make time to read stories I wouldn't otherwise read.  Also as a secondary prize I got a chance to show off my literary genius.  Arrogant, yes I know and I have been told as such.  But it is truthful.
One of the ideas that cropped up in my story was one of robotics, artificial intelligence... Does a robot have a soul?  I cannot help but think of the book, "Do Robots Dream of Electric Sheep?"  WHich was the basis of Bladerunner.  One of the last movies to be filmed without the use of computer special effects.  As I thought about that, I tried to find other stories.  I found one written by Edgar Allen Poe, titled; "The Man That Was Used Up."  But it fell a bit outside the timeline of our genre.  It's about a man who fought in the civil war.  The public sees him as perhaps it's most shining figure, and all the ladies of the town lust over his physical appearance.  Aside from that no one seems to know anything about him.  By the stories end, the author has discerned that the man destroyed in war was entirely rebuilt by man.  Then I found a beautiful story, written by C.L. More.  It's titled "No Woman Born." It's about a dancer who was burned in a fire and she is rebuilt by science.  The doctors wonder how she'll cope living in a world of sight and sound.  In the end we begin to see her disconnect with humanity.  And the creator question their creation, just like Frankenstein.  I was fascinated to learn that C.L. wrote under a pseudonym with her husband at times.  One of the stories they wrote would become the basis of the movie, "The Last Mimzy."
But I felt the ideas of robots, might be a bit over played.  So I dropped the idea.
Dying earth.  I found so many stories dealing with this subject.  Like Jack London's "The Scarlet Plague."  And Bradbury short story "There Will Come Soft Rains."  Which is based of a poem of the same name by Sara Teasdale.  Written in the 1920's it is about the battle fields post world war one.  I thought about all the things  I wanted to say, and then instead of working I played.  I fired up the Playstation 3 and played video games all day long.
I was very impressed by with the presentations, and ashamed of my work.  I walked in expecting a C, and that is what I got I set my self up to fail.  And I need to quit that,  I should've adopted an author or rewrote a poem.  But what if, one can balance the grasshopper and the ant.  The middle path is the thin trail I'm trying to walk.  A very buddhist thought.
Enjoy your summer.

The words flow from my brain, strange and deranged. 

Like a drain, I can feel the pain.

The evil in this world is relative, is it because we see good?  Like beauty and the beast.  It’s only the ugliness in this world that creates the colors swirl.  I’m hopping topics like a squirrel.

My brain’s deranged strange thoughts flow from its pain.  I’m caught in its tormenting swirl. 

Like the monsoon’s rain, I’m just seeking release from its evil deeds.  Planted seeds of doubt sprout.  I’m out and about exploring the world’s cultures, overhead the vultures twirl.  A wayfarer in a desolate land, am I insane, or just walking alone?

Am I a Brahmin or just a misplaced warrior, more than likely I’m a child of god.  Touched with an untouchable grace, I’m just seeking Moksha.  A release from my pain.  It’s time for a change of pace.

I’m seeking a release from this place.  Does it matter if it’s Shangri-La or just a heaven.  I’m at the seven-eleven making my decision.  It’s a choice that’s mine, and mine alone to make.  I can’t shake this grace…

I’m seething in hatred, and I’m in your face like Shiva dancing on a demon.  Like the Ramayana, I’m just searching for my Sita.  Does it matter if its Hanuman, or Enkidu who lights the way.  At the end of the day it’s just another guru’s tale.  Are you prepared for man’s fall from grace?

There she stands, skulls laced around her neck.  Blood wets her neck, from her fanged teeth life falls.  Who will answer the goddess’s call?  Reborn into this maya.  Out with the old, and in the with new.  The cycle of rebirth.  The curse of Karma, decrees your custom of dharma.  Please save me….

Oh Devi, great mother Durga.  Wash me clean, cleanse my filth in the river Ganges.  Please accept my puja offering. 

Just a little history...

Rosa Parks, and the Montgomery Bus Boycott.

It’s sad to think of the atrocities this nation has transgressed against itself, grievous violations of civil rights against those of a different ancestry.  This nation is so great, but its past is jaded.  People speak of a once faded glory this nation was capable of, but look around us.  Look at the freedoms we have.  Now more so than any other time in this nation’s history, have we had more freedom.  This nation should represent freedom, not democracy.  It is so easy to forget that.

            That being said as generations come and pass, it is easy for us to forget from where we came.  I hope this isn’t misrepresented, but the civil rights movement, means nothing to me.  I don’t mean that to come across in the wrong light, but my generation hasn’t had to grow with this racial discrimination.  Sure there is prejudice in my time, but nothing on the scale of the Fifties and Sixties.  This past winter, I spoke with one of my co-workers, a man of color, I asked him if he was going to do anything for Martin Luther King Day he remarked. “Martin didn’t do nothing for me.”

            When I think of the Civil Rights movement, the name Martin Luther stands out from the rest.  He stands above Malcolm X.  Although both men fought for the rights of their people, their methods couldn’t be any further apart.  It is hard for us to remember, that before these men were great, they were people like you and I.  They were, they are ordinary people who stood for extraordinary ideals.  Although no less important, numerous other stand in their shadow.  Rosa Parks, a simple seamstress, with her desire to sit in the front of the bus would be an igniting spark in the Civil Rights movement. 

            The truth behind the Rosa Parks story is... Well like the rest of history shrouded behind the veil of… Well you’ll see.  Mrs. Parks was in fact quite well educated for her time but couldn’t find a job to complement her skills.  In December of 1955, Rosa sat in the 5^th row on the bus, the first rows in which blacks where aloud to sit.  When she refused to vacate her seat to a white she was arrested.  E.D. Nixon of the NAACP chose to represent Rosa Parks. On the night before her trail, Jo Ann Robinson put plans together for bus-boycott.

            No one expected the boycott to last for very long, it seems no one ever does… As the boycott dragged on it was met with animosity.  Any cab driver caught charging less than 45 cents would be prosecuted.  Many black cab drivers, had been charging the same as the bus fare.  But they met this animosity with ingenuity.  They organized a personal taxi and moved with, precision.  Like all things it seems, the battle for equality, would seemingly be settled over the economy.  The bus boycotts had cost Montgomery’s businesses thousands, but blacks refused to end the boycott.  As a result of this boycott Judge Rives asked, ”Is it fair to command one man to surrender his constitutional rights… in order to prevent another man from committing a crime?”

            I think the Judge hit the nail on the head, to turn a phrase.  I should think that the “Separate but equal” clause was one of the worst decisions ever made by this country.  Things were indeed separate but they were far from equal.  Looking back it’s easy to fall into the trap of how such a notion ever came to pass, in the same manner it’s easy to fall into the trap of hindsight.  We have the benefit of the doubt.  It would be easy to chalk it up to, that’s just the way it was.  How did this ever become acceptable behavior?  Inequality, slavery these are, our burdens to bear.  All of us, not just whites or blacks, privileged or unprivileged.  It’s our duty to look back and say, “this is wrong.”  A once great man said for “evil to prevail, a good man mustn’t act.”  It’s saddening to think only a few generations removed that the deeds of Dr Martin Luther King Jr. have already began to fade.  Although my co-worker hasn’t had to face the same atrocities as his fore fathers, surly he must’ve been down playing the importance of King.  His mother and father must’ve lived through these times of civil unrest.

Moving onto Amari

Jumbled Thoughts

“I am inside someone who hates me,”  This first stanza of the poem, I cannot help but feel someone who is seething in their own hatred.

“In the second stanza Slits in the metal, for sun. Where my eyes… a woman, a man.”  In the second stanza, I wonder if the sun represents knowledge.

In the second stanza mentions a woman, a man where in the third stanza it speaks of innocent loss, I cannot help but think of Adam and Eve.

“I was blind, and dead.”  Reflects his turning from god?  Blind from the sun?

Pain.

“Inside his books…”

“Cool air becomes cold.”

I cannot help but feel that this poem starts of with a voice, one that is seething with anger.  One that cannot stand his “fouled tunes.”  Perhaps the, “Slits in the metal,” represent an armor of hatred wrapped around him.  The cool air, the glance of light are…

I’m not sure how to put my thoughts in to words…  I can feel a man so consumed by hatred, that he has buried himself within it’s calloused walls.  I’m not saying his hatred isn’t justified, but it is “without shadow, or voice, or meaning.”

No that’s not it perhaps his hatred is the enclosure.  The “abandoned soul”, reeks of why hast thou forsaken me

I need to elaborate on what I said in class when I say “Black Power” became the very thing they hated.  Let’s look at this train of thought with a modern day example.  One of the current issues we face today is terrorism.  It’s hard for us in such a peaceful environment to consider how they act.  But their methods are quite simple, and easy to discern.  Our military is superior, so any acts of aggression must operate clandestinely.  Without going so far to draw an inaccurate conclusion, lets think about in the manner of pain.  Terrorists claim to be acting in either, the will of their god, the will of their people, or acting in the vengeance of those slain.  They will claim American Ideals are devilish, or that America is corrupt.  They will claim that the evil war machine of America has pillaged their land, raped their people.

So they attack America, they pillage the land and rape the people.

Let’s look at another example.  In the world today it is said, “Sex sells.”  Just look at the world around us, billboards of scantily clad women.  Commercials for burgers, with women on the beach, hell just look at the GoDaddy commercials with Danica Patrick.  Now the feminist movement, will decry that these women have been objectified.  Their sex symbol has become their empowerment.  In their disgust the extremists will claim that, men’s only purpose is to provide the seed for birth.  In this sense they will objectify men.  In essences becoming the very thing the hated.

In any group, especially within the militant “Black Power” movement there will arise an extremist faction.  Often these organizations will form out of being wronged.  Their anger is understandable.  They have faced atrocities I have never faced, have never seen, and hope to never see.  That is what I mean when they have become what they hate.  Amiri Baraka has been praised as a revolutionary poet.  But I’m not sure I can agree.

I understand that in many ways these outlets of hate, this “black art” might be their world.  Might be the only place they can find relieve from a hostile world.  I cannot feel their pain of “separate but equal”, feel the pain of Jim Crow, the lynching’s, the beatings, or their the second class status.  The pain of being born into pain.  In pain one can find the birth of anger, in anger disgust, in disgust, the divide.  In the divide, we can rationalize. One or the other… Perhaps I cannot hear the voice you hear in this man’s words.

And that makes me wonder, did I walk into this room with preconceived notions, thoughts of …Is that what Amiri wanted me to think?  To fall into the trap of his anger.  To point the finger, to see his words and draw on their seething anger.  I wonder if, if he is man full of anger.  I wonder if he flourishes in the controversy, of saying something stupid, saying something we will hear.  Who cannot help but listen… Who?

Who is this man?

Who spreads his hate?

Who judges his fate

Who misrepresents his hate

Who? Who…

Who am I to judge his work

Who here can cast the first stone?

Who can think of his lies…

Who can speak of the past lies?

Who am I to deny his voice, to deny his words of choice…  Why can’t I hear his voice.

Who here can feel his pain?

Who can place his blame?

Who will speak of his claim to fame…

Who is this man…   Who can inspire hate with just words, like the poet.

Who? Who?

Pardon that… Have I misjudged this man?  In his works I find nothing but anger and hate.  I cannot help but wonder if that’s what he wants us to feel, is that what he feels?  Is that all he can express?  Is that all he wants to express?  Is that all he knows how to express?

Trying to maintain a grasp of history, this class, and my life.

That picture on the wall.

“Who is that picture?”  The young child asked pointing towards the wall.

            Tears welled in his mother’s eyes.  She struggled to choke them back.  But the gleaming in her eyes betrayed her pain.  It had been such a drain, such a strain for her to bear that burden.  She looked up to the picture of a young boy.  He was just a few years older than the child that stood before her.  She reached down and tussled the boy’s hair.  She bent down and embraced the child in a hug.

            “I’m sorry mommy, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

            His mother let out a sob, still embracing the child.  “No honey, it’s not your fault.   Mommy is just upset she… she had a bad day at work.”

            The last part of his mother’s sentence sounded false.  Her tone reminded him of when he found her make-up and painted the walls, as well as the curtains, and told her he didn’t do it.  Well who did it she asked?  And he had responded, Grandma did it.  But his young mind couldn’t comprehend that much complexity.  He looked around the room satisfied with her answer, he began his search for his glowworm toy.

            A few years had passed, and yet again the child found himself looking at the picture on the wall.  It looked liked him, he used to think it was him.  But when he looked into the mirror, he knew it wasn’t him.  Once again he looked to his mother, “Mom who is that on the wall?”

            Perhaps she had grown accustom to the question, or perhaps the pain had eased.  Yet the child could see the pain in her face.  The anguish in her eyes.  They held that hollowed look, that look of one who had faced so much tragedy.  The look of hopelessness, the look of someone who wanted to die.  But she had two young children to look after, she couldn’t fail them.  The child watched the conflict of emotions play out on her face.  After sometime he realized the answer wouldn’t be forth coming.  He reached down for the G.I Joes he had been playing with.

            As another year passed, the child was now enrolled in school.  He began to notice things.  The other kids in the class couldn’t wait to get home, to play with dad.  In class he learned that other children had dads.  And that they were like mom’s only different.  Excited by this new discovery, he couldn’t wait to get home.  So he could find out who his dad was.  When the bus dropped him off he ran to his mother embracing her in a hug.

            “How was your first day school honey?”  She asked.

            “It was so much fun, I made some new friends, and we learned about the alphabet and numbers, and ZERO the HERO!!!!” He exclaimed with much jubilation.

            “Wow honey it sounds like you had a fun day at school.”

            “I have just one question?”

            “What is it Hun?”

            “Whose my dad?” He asked.

            As soon as he asked the question he saw his mother wince.  She had that same look on her face the last time he had asked her about the picture on the wall.  He watched as she began to fall within herself.  He could see the pain wash over her.  He was sorry, even though he knew it wasn’t his fault.

            It had been an innocent enough question anyways.

            A few weeks had passed by, or maybe it had been a few months… A child doesn’t keep track of such things anyways.  The mother brought her child to see a doctor.  On the way they stopped at K-mart and bought some Legoes.  They were some bandits, thieves from the castle day.  He had so much fun playing with them in the waiting room.  He and his brother fought over them, while they waited for the doctor.  When their name was called, she brought him into the doctor’s office.

            “That’s not a doctor!” The child exclaimed to his mother.

            “But I am a doctor.” The doctor without a white coat answered.  “I’m the talking kind of doctor.”

            The doctor turned away from his patient and looked at the mother.  “I’ll talk to just him for now if that’s all right.”

            “Thank you doctor.”  His mother said.

            “Now do you know why you are here today?”  The doctor asked.

            “No… are you my dad?”

            A chuckle escaped his lips he had not been quite prepared for that question.  “No I’m sorry that I’m not your dad.”

            “Oh, ok I didn’t think so, because I’m not the same color as you.”

            “Well that doesn’t necessary mean I couldn’t be your dad.”

            “Ok then well who are you?”

            “Well I’m friends with your mom,” he said as he reached in his desk.  “She asked me to talk to you about this.”

            He handed the child the picture that had been hanging on the wall of his house.

            “Hey we have that picture too!”

            “This is your picture.”

            “Oh… Well… why do you have it?”

            “Well you see, that’s your brother.”

            “No it’s not, my bubby is younger than me… and smaller… “  the child stammered then he pointed at the picture. “…and he’s bigger than I am.”

            “Well that’s because he’s your older brother.”

            “Then why haven’t I met him?”

            “Well he’s not here.”  The doctor said sincerely.

            “Not here?  You mean like bubby.  I’ll just go get him here then.”

            “Do you remember Crabby?”  The doctor asked.

            “How do you know Crabby?”

            ‘As I said I’m friends with your mother, she told me about your pet Crabby.”

            “Crabby’s dead…” The child said.  “I don’t want to talk about him.”

            “Why?”

            “Because it makes me sad that he’s not here.”

            “I see my child… you know your mommy gets sad too.”

            “I know…”

            “Well would you like to go for a walk?”

            ‘Sure… I guess.”

            “We’ll just walk across the street to the comic book store.”

            “What’s a comic book store?”

            “Come on I’ll show you.”

            And the child went with the doctor to the comic book store.  The child saw a lot of things he liked, like toys.  And there were all these picture books.  He was overwhelmed with joy.  He was elated and had forgotten about the talk of his brother, and Crabby.  Mommy’s friend was so nice to show him this wonderful place.  He even found a “comic book”, as the doctor had called it, which had pictures of his favorite toys.  The doctor bought him that comic book and all was well.

As we discussed Babylon Revisited, in class I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of sadness, perhaps even despair.  I found myself falling within my past.  Some of the issues we talked about really hit home…

Please excuse me, while I check on my dinner.  Cordon Blue and mashed potatoes.  Delicious, but I digress.

I keep seeing, or remembering, or however you describe a scene from literature.  I keep picturing… yes that’s the word.  I can recall the scene where Charlie asks Honoria if she still has a picture of her mother.  She responds in turn that it is still in her possession.  I think that Charlie thinks it’s of the upmost importance that Honoria remembers her mother.  Now the afore mentioned story I wrote is what I called social realism from my own life.  It’s not quite fiction because the story was conjured of memories that I possess.  However it’s not quite true because these memories are conjoined with a lack of, a lack of, shall we say chronological order.  They were plucked, and reorganized to create a story.  But that photo really does hang in my mother’s living room.  And it is a memory, albeit a painful one.  Therefore the picture must represent… that we mustn’t forget the ones we love.  We mustn’t forget the joy that they have brought us.  But we must also take the good with the bad.  We have to learn to let go of the pain, but not the memory.

Holding on to the religion...

So I Met a Man From Sri Lanka

Under the rising sun, a sea of grass danced in the wind as a child plays.  Clutching his bokken, he swings his wooden sword at a pretend demon.  His shadow grows under the morning sun he is lost in his play… without a care in the world.  From shadows of the twisted trees, his father watched him as he played.  A smile found its way to his face as he watched the boy play. He was content, for he too had not a care in the world.

The gong, or rather bell rang for the second time, shattering my thoughts.  Had it been forty minutes already?  As we rose we met just outside the Zendo, visiting the Zendo this week was a monk from Sri Lanka.  Jess asked him, what would he recommend to a beginning Buddhist.  To paraphrase he said that breathing was perhaps the most important aspect.  He also said that when we calm the body, we calm the mind, “And that is all I have to say, at least for now.”  Is what I recall.  We also ran into a student from Sinclair, she was taking this class with a different teacher, and said that she wished she had taken the class sooner.

Moving further back into time, perhaps when we first arrived at the Dharma Center.  I remarked to Jess, “Man this is gonna take forever.”  She was like, “I know you’ve been looking forward to it.”  I counter with, “It’s not that, I like to keep my mind active.  Do nothing, thinking nothing is… is not something I know how to do.”  We had arrived just in time, I made it a point to remove my shoes, and out walked a Buddhist Monk… what the… I was not expecting that.  I guess I was expecting some hippie dude.  We are in Yellow Springs after all.

I remember walking into the room, into the Monastery.  I took a moment to look around, and then I started to head for the chairs lining the back of the room.  But Jess headed for the mats.  In the end I realized that, I can always sit in a chair latter.  But, I’ve never sat on a prayer mat… meditation cushion?  All I know is it began to hurt my butt.  I did not even attempt to sit in the lotus position I ended up sitting cross-legged, Indian style.  Then the gong rang.

I remember looking across the room, what am I supposed to do?  Just sit and breathe?  I look to the monk at the head of the room.  He’s sitting their calmly and serene.  Honestly I began to wonder is this preparation for death?  The stillness of it all, it felt very somber.  Eventually I close my eyes, and I rest my hand on the palm of the other.  Man time is taking forever.  Inevitably my eyes open, I can’t keep them shut they wander around the room.  I look at the alter, flowers filled vases adorning the statue.  I notice one of the wall outlets is crooked, and one of the grates on the heater as fallen in on itself.  I try to force my eyes close once again, but to no avail.  My eyes tarry on the sole poster in the room, I think it is blue skinned man but in the fading light it is hard to tell.  It definitely reminds me of Krishna.

The hardwood floors are laced with cracks.  I begin to trace them with my eyes.  I begin to reflect inwards.  Maybe the first crack is reminiscent of my early childhood, cut so short.   As the crack diverges left and right, I think maybe left is where my life could be and to the right is where it is.  As the second crack intersects the third it diverges.  The crack is large, like a large pit.  A trap.  Maybe this is where I am, at the edge of the third crack.  I have been wading in this stagnant water, stuck wandering with no real goals. I have lost count of my breath.

I force my eyes shut, and my mind begins to wander.  So I tell it a story of a young boy.  A Samurai’s child.  He is playing in the field, without a care in the world.  He is playing with his father.  Eventually the father tires, and he instructs the boy to sit, he tells him to just sit and listen.  The father looks down, and explains to the child there is more than just play in this world.  It is full of pain and suffering.  As the sun reached its Zenith, he began to explain to him the ways of the world, he speaks of things pertaining to life, and death.  He passes his knowledge to the boy-child.  By the time of the setting sun, the pair returns to their home.

I open my eyes, and look out the window.  I can hear birds singing, cars driving by, and a child’s laughter.  My eye catches the bush dancing in the wind.  I wonder what causes the wind?  As I watch the branches sway, it reminds me of the ocean.  I can’t help but think of the lapping waves, could the waves cause the wind to blow?  It seems absurd, but perhaps the wave pushes the wind.  I have been told a butterfly’s flapping wings can cause a tsunami in Japan.  But images of ocean, lead me to the moon.  It is understood that celestial body is responsible for the oceans current.  Perhaps it’s gradual spin around the globe, causes the drifting winds.  Man that Yuenling Light in my fridge sounds good right about now. 

I begin to realize my mind is drifting aimlessly from one thought to the next.  I close my eyes and summon my story back, giving something to my weary mind to grasp onto.

The child awakes from his sleep, as the light drifts over his sleeping body.  In a daze he staggers towards the doorway.  He sees his father outside arguing with the Tax Collectors, demanding his tribute.  His father looks back at him solemnly.  “I do not have it, we are but lowly rice peasants.  Our crop is small, our harvest was bad, and we have just enough food for the two of us.” 

The guard snickers, “Come here boy.”  He motions to the child.  “We will take your boy as tribute, and now you can pay us your grains.”

The boy is taken from his home, carried away by the guards.  He is enlisted in a prison camp, sent to mine the river for the precious black sands.  The prisoners are malnourished, being fed just a single cup of rice each.  Fed just enough to keep them alive.  To supplement his hunger, the child learns to hunt the salamanders on the banks of the river.  He considers running away, but they will just track him in the mud.  One day as he is hunting the salamander, and the beast slips away.  He was too tired to chase after the beast, and collapses.  As he lay there sinking into the mud, he notices the lizard’s tracks end at the river’s edge.  He realizes that he can use the river to escape.

As he makes his way home, he can’t wait to see his father, to be reunited at last.  The land begins to look familiar, and he knows that he is close to home.  His pace quickens, he sees his father’s cabin.  It is dilapidated, and covered in weeds.  It is not the place he once remembered.  As he approaches the door, he can tell something is wrong.  He opens it, as the light fills the room he can see his father’s decaying body.  His father had lost the will to live he had killed himself. And that is the story I told myself. 

Then the gong rang once more; I look around puzzled has it been forty minutes already?

After it was all said and done it felt like mere minutes, and not two thirds of an hour.  It’s funny it felt like forever when I first sat down, and in the end it felt so short…Kind of like life. Maybe because there wasn’t a clock for me too look at, that I felt I had been liberated from time.  When our meditation was done, my eyes scanned the rest of dharma center for a clock.  When I found one, I reassured myself it had in fact been forty minutes.  I had been lost from time.  Perhaps it is liberating to live in a world not dominated by numbers.

  I think, no I know, I probably mediated poorly.  My mind jumped from thought to thought.  It was in constant motion.  I probably didn’t sit right at all.  As one hand rested in the other, I could feel the sweat forming.  But does it matter?  I sat, not looking for anything and I found nothing.  Perhaps mediation could be used as a tool to further my writing.  I love stories, the capturing of the human emotion.  Lord knows I don’t spend enough time doing the things I love.

A strange, and perplexing thought traversed my mind, is suffering the ultimate form of entertainment?  My mind struggles, to grasp this concept.  Death dominates the News; stories of war bring the masses to box office.  We watch the suffering of others, transfixed on how they will adapt.  If they will adapt, are we preparing ourselves for such struggles? Or perhaps we are reminded of our own struggles.  I wonder does story telling hold any place in meditation?

Perhaps the story is a metaphor for our lives.  As children, the world is a serene simple place.  We play, un-jaded.  And then it becomes complicated.  We no longer, live in our peaceful bliss.  Perhaps the father figure in the story represents my father, a man who walked away from my life, or perhaps have I turned my back on him.  Or better yet, perhaps the father figure is a representative of god, and it is a story for all the people.  Or whatever benevolent force, that spins the wheels of this world, to appease the Buddhists or atheists of the land.  Due the guards represent the forces of this world tear us from his grace, from his arms.  We live in this paradise, but all we see is hell.  The home we left will never hold the same luster it once did.  Did the man wither away?  Or has he turned his back from us?  Has he lost hope in us?  What of the innocent child, slaying demons.  Perhaps he already knows this world isn’t so innocent.  Perhaps it is simply just a story, one told to keep my mind still.

Stevens, wrote during a time period when Christianity began to lose its appearance.  The poem’s footnote also states that Key West is an island where Stevens vacationed.  This conjures up images of sirens from Greek Mythology, maidens singing their sorrowful song on the shores of an island.  I disagree with the footnote’s synopsis that he is observing a woman walking down by the sea.  Also I’d be willing to disagree with Dr. C as she said it could represent the inadequacy of words.  The poem spoke to me, and I listened.

Our society is founded on the ideals of once great societies, mimicking their motions.  We look back in time, gazing back “theatrical distances (824).”  We treasure their left behind “bronze shadows (824).”  Ages become defined by their technology, and there is no doubt the Greek Age was the Bronze Age.  Perhaps we have moved into the godless age, as the once great philosopher echoed, “God is dead.”

There is no discernable rhyme pattern in this poem.  It’s iritic at best, indiscernible.  That isn’t to say that rhyming is nonexistent.  If we look at the third stanza it begins and ends with “sang (823-824).”  If we look to the fourth stanza, it possesses an irregular break.  This divide could be a break in the stanza.  The rhyme sc  And surely Heaven heme of the previous stanza can be seen with “sea” and “sea (824).”  This would now create the fifth stanza, starting and ending with “made (824).”  With this divide, the poem is now broken down into 7 stanzas.  This could mirror the &days of creation.

Mimicking the irregular line break, the poem assumes the role of watching a woman sing.  It could be infrared that this woman, is representative of mother earth…or even God.  Traditionally God is portrayed as a woman.  Holding onto this train of thought, “She was the single artificer of the world (824).”  Now this world could be the song she is singing being uttered, “word by word (823).”  Perhaps…  “In the Beginning there was the word… the word was God (John 1).”  As we look at the creation story of Genesis recall, “The Earth was a formless void (Genesis 1:2).”  This is illustrated in the poem, “The water never formed to mind or voice (823).”  God creates order out of the formless chaos.  Even the first line, “She sang beyond the genius of the sea (823).”  Echoes the first book of the Bible.  The archaic definition of genius is plural for genii.  Guardian.  Or better yet, Latin: “attendant spirit from one’s birth (New Oxford).” Genesis 1.6 states that God separated the, “waters from the waters.”  He separated the seas below from the seas above forming a dome.  The upper waters represent the sky, and the waters below the sea.  The opening stanza closes on the “veritable ocean (823).”  The origins of veritable can be defined as truth (New Oxford).  Although God is inhuman, he is a sea of truth.

Stanza two states that, “The sea was not a mask. No more than she.”  Perhaps, man was created in god’s likeness.  And that is a reference of our creation although this doesn’t take place until the 6^th day.  More on this later, more likely the seas above represent the creation of heaven.  Genesis 1.8 “God called the dome sky.”  Chaos must be tamed in the inharmonious melody.  “The song and water were not medleyed (823).”  Heaven is revealed to us as a shroud, “The ever-hooded, tragic- gestured sea Was merely a place by which she walked to sing (823).”   God sings praises of this promised land.  It has to be so much more than we were promised.  I’m reminded of Moby Dick, when one of the protagonists walks into a church and scrawled on the wall is a profound message; “If the dead go to heaven why do we mourn their loss?”  Albeit that was a generalization, but heaven is a “tragic-gestured sea.”  And surely God, must sing her song as she walks in her realm.    “Whose spirit is this?... It was that spirit we sought and knew That we should ask this often as she sang (823)?”  The read she note, that knew is past tense.  We knew her, but now we ask who is she?  Where is god?  The heretic asks… I ask.

Moving onto Stanza Four, She speaks of the “dark voice of the sea… the outer voice of the sky… (824).”  On day four God created the sun, the moons, and the stars declaring them to be: “ for signs and for seasons, and days and years (Genesis 1.14).”  Stanza 5 echoes this, “She measured to the hour its solitude (824).”  Time has dominated, it has become essential to our lives.  But perhaps there is so much more to it than this… God is lonely, she is not of this world.  Even though she is the sole, “artificer of the world.”  Remember she is not of this world.  We are her toys, her play things, her play things, her creation.  Stanza four closes on, “Of sky and sea (824).”

Genesis day five God creates the creatures of the sky and the sea: “Let the waters bring forth swarms of living creatures and let the birds fly (Genesis 1.20)…”  Recall that there was never a world for her.  Except for the song that she sang.  The world she foraged.  Stanza six opens, with the name of a man.  It might be of interesting note to the reader that on day six god created man.  Also Stevens has claimed to created this man. “The singing has ended”… this might be a reference to the seventh day of rest.  The song is over (824).  Perhaps there is a certain symbolism here.  Man has turned his back from God, “We turned Toward town (824).”  Perhaps in this age of technology man has, “Mastered the night and portioned the sea (824).”

The poem closes on, “In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.”  A keen is an Irish song of mourning (New Oxford).  Perhaps the line between man and god was drawn a sad keening, a sad song sung.  Perhaps man has become a ghost of God.  The song has been sung, a mournful wail.  Have we lost our origins?  H

An Apology

On our last class, I wasn't prepared to discuss the poem we were supposed to read.  I had spent all week trying to memorize the poem.  I think I may have disappointed our teacher in a small manner by reverting to a sort of immaturity.  Instead of discussing the poem I attacked the scansion discussion we had.  I mocked the poem, it's structure.  Instead of thinking critically I receded into one of my defernse mechanisms.  During class she issued a challenge of a parody.  I left class, and instead of paying attention in my next class I read the poem, and wrote the ensuing poem:

Bayberry Cove.

I went for a walk,

                                    down the path,

                                                to Kroger’s on my daily walk.

But then I turned

back; to the apartments.

And I travelled along the paved sea on my return home.

           

The paved sea.

It was icy, and windy, a black sea seized white under winter’s grasp.  Some paved black, breaks through…although after a bit;

the blacktop is overcast.

            The walk imprisoning, bond in all forms straight lines edging where the side walks end.

            Imprisoning thoughts, bindings in all forms.

            Though I walk freely bound under-

                                                                    hues of slavery.

My mind, like my walk is bound to the ebb and flow, yearning for a sense of direction.

A significance.

            Freedom found in idle thoughts

There are cars in motion,

            Slaves to this live.

                        Familiar strangers, people I barely know; they fill my house

They come and go, pains of remembrance

reminding me who I am…

            In this concrete nature, there are few lines.  Buildings grow and cannot be drawn, the swaying grass cannot be found.

            The disorder of Bayberry Cove, the rows of cars.

Disorder amongst the children’s play.

            I have erected boundaries, based on predisposed conclusions.  I have drawn lines from the inside out.  In chaos there is order, and within order there is a chaos.  The rows of cars will not quite be the same today as they will tomorrow.  Becoming thoughts of yesterday…

            Ending a beginning that has not yet begun. 

            The black sea fades, to grassy walkways and dirt trails running along the creek side.

            There was no moon last night, a celestial body, cover in a blanket of overcast clouds.           

Through the woodworks they crawl, these faceless strangers delivered under the days sun exposed to risk.

            A bottle here, a battle there an inexact measure of time.

            The white globe passes through the air, back and forth, marking the passage of time.

            Vomit is wiped away, a lost possession.

            The risk of time in every living thing.  The demands of life is to keep living this dream…

            Be it a nightmare, the end of day is here.

            Alone, so alone filling the home with thoughts of lonesome love.

            The passing of time, why can’t I hit rewind.  Or find the meaning…

                                                                                                            The meaning of time.

Time is swallowed in seconds, and minutes, lost to hours…lost to days.

            Thousands pass, uneventful and forgotten.

            The only constant is change,

                                                noticeable,

                                                            inseparable.

A perception of time,

The calculating of an incalculable center.

            In the bellies of homes, order is sown, broken down into changeless states

Lifeless shapes, becoming living and real.

            Chaos is working with order, together and against.

A series of millions of events

From the formless concepts, I have formed a formless mold. 

In this forced image,

  A meticulous plan of organized thought.

In this reality of perception;

                                                Serenity is found.

Bound in terror…

            Order pervades… to grasp disorder.

There is no final vision.

For I have perceived nothing in my mortal walk.

It's not quite the parody I had set out to write, but it has become what it became.  I'll offer a bit of a analysis of the poem for any who might be curious.  I didn't set out with any intention of a rhyme scheme, however I probably forced a few in the poem.  The structure is simply miming the poems inspiration.

Kroger's is down a dirt trail from my apartment, and the paved sea represents the blacktop of our driveway.  Our apartment complex doesn't plow the roads very well, so they are covered in the winter's snow.  Carson's Inlet speaks of the liberation of the Author's walk.  But my walk is one bound in slavery.  In many ways I'm looking for some sense of direction as I have set adrift in this life.  I find my freedom in my thoughts liberating me from my responsibilities.  Strangers in my house refer to to my friends and family.  The people I love, remind me of who I am.  The disorder of the cars represent the parking lot, these cars will come and go and park in "claimed" spots.  Although they will look the same tomorrow they will have moved.  Becoming thoughts of yesterday, is a reference to how often we plan the future.  We forego the present laying our plans.  Thinking of tomorrow, today.  The passing of the white globe, and the bottle and the battle are a reference to beer pong.  I can't tell you how many nights just hanging out with my friends the time had passed without counting.  Our lives have become consumed with time, and time has slipped away.

But that is all for now, it is time to watch, "The Walking Dead."

Hey all,

I hoped you all had a good spring break.  I know some of the students expressed some disappointment that I picked such an easy poem to memorize.  But the truth of the matter is, Robert Frost is about the only poet I know.  I think the only other poet I can name aside from Dr. Suess and Shel Silverstein is Edgar Allen Poe.  I ended up taking a challenge from our teacher, and writing a critique of The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock."  I had actually written a unique critique of "The Road Not Taken."  Dr. C had said that it met the requirements of the assignment but suggested that I try for the more traditional approach.  I'll share my critique of Robert Frost here.   Just to provide you with some inspiration of operating outside the box.

8:42

The ringing bell reminded him it was 7:42 a.m.  That meant seven more hours till he got home.  He sighed, longing for home.  His eyes drifted lazily across the classroom searching for any form of entertainment.  First they settled on a poster hanging above the classroom door.  It depicted a fiery gate, and he supposed it represented hell.  Above the gates a waving banner proclaimed:  All ye who enter here abandon faith.  Perfect he thought as his eyes drifted towards the clock.  7:44 a.m.  In two minute an eternity had passed, but he realized the futility of watching the clock.  He abandoned faith, just two minutes into sophomore literature.  He rested his head on the desk summoning forth the sleep that was so readily available.

“Mr. Wheeler,” The teacher said awakening him from his slumber.  “How nice of you to join us this morning.”

He looked at the clock, 7:51a.m.  He had managed to kill another 7 minutes. He looked up at her with sleep still in her eyes.  He wondered why she felt the need to single him out.

“Would you care to turn to page 732? Or did you forget your book again?”

She stood over him, her shadow overwhelming him dominating every aspect of his desk-chair.  He reached down for his backpack.  As he unzipped his backpack, looking into it he winced at the unorganized mess it was.  He fumbled through its contents, with an overwhelming sense of dread filling him.  The teacher dropped her book onto his desk.  The thud of the book drew the entirety of the class’s attention towards his desk.  She must enjoy this he thought.  Enjoy watching those underneath her squirm.

“You truly are wasted potential,” She muttered. “Now open to page 732.”

He opened the book to the demanded page.  He lifted his vision from the page numbers, and scanned across the text.  His eyes settled on the title, “The Road Not Taken.”

“Class, now when you read this poem.  Here are some things to consider.  You shouldn’t just read the poem.  You should examine the poem.  What emotion does it elicit?  What is the mood of the poem?  You should look at its structure, the punctuation, even the rhyme scheme.  Now take a few moments to read the poem, and write down your thoughts.”

He grabbed a crumbled up piece of paper from his backpack.  He started to dig through the various pockets of his backpack unable to find a pen.  He dug through his pants pockets, fishing for hope.  But he came up empty-handed.  He asked his neighbor for a writing utensil.  He was able to procure one from the student on his left.  He would try to remember to return it this time.  It wasn’t that he stole it.  It was just simply that he forgot.  He refocused his attention to the task at hand.  As he read the poem, he considered the things his teacher had said.  The poem was short, simple, and elegant. He reconsidered what she said, but as he put the pen to paper his mind went blank.  He took a deep breath, and then started to write…

            The hunter followed the wild game trail.  It intertwined through the wilderness.  It was here, that the hunter felt alive.  Even with his keen eyes, he lost had lost the trail in the dense undergrowth.  As he stood under the yellowing canopy of falls grasp he considered his options.  He could go back and retrace his steps. Or he could push forward into nature’s wilderness.

            He lost the trail in a beautiful clearing.  The morning rays gleamed in the glistening dew.  It was a beautiful grove.  A hidden oasis.  One untouched by the hunter’s meddling.  This part of the forest held him in a certain allure.  He marked the trail, hoping to make his way back.  But he knew ‘how way lead to way’. He doubted that he would ever make his way back to this sanctuary.

He looked at the trail he had blazed; the leaves were trodden black from his venture into the woods.  He looked at the unbeaten trail.  It was grassy and longed for wear.  The wilderness perhaps had the better claim, but the hunter realized the trail he had forged was worn nearly the same.

            For a long time he stood there contemplating, which path he should take.  Ages seemed to pass, but this was a monumental decision.  He had only himself as a guide.  Only himself to look to, only himself to blame…

            “Now finish up.”  The teacher said.

            Nervously he looked down at what he had written.  He knew it was inevitable that she would single him out for this.  He knew that she would tell him his writing was beautiful, but he had missed the point of the exercise.  He knew all of this, and yet he couldn’t help himself.  He didn’t understand why he felt the need to challenge her.  As the collected papers made it to his desk, he slipped his crumbled paper into the middle of the stack.  Hoping it would slip through unnoticed.  But she would find it he just knew it.

            “Mr. Wheeler,” she said holding his trodden black paper up.  “Did you even read the poem?”

            “Yes…” he answered hesitatingly awaiting the incoming attack.

            “Well then would you care to tell us something about the poem? Because I’m simply at a loss for words… Where on earth did you find the inspiration for a hunter?”

            “Well…” he said buying himself a moment.  “When I read the poem.  I got the feeling of a time before ours.  Something primordial… something that had transcended the ages.”

            “Your aware that this poem was written in the twentieth century right?  Would you care to tell us something about the poem instead of creating something from you imagination?”

            He froze, put on the spot.  His mind began to race.  He read through the poem once and came to the conclusion that the man arrived at a decision.  No matter the outcome the author would regret either choice.  Even if only just slightly.  But it wasn’t that he made a bad choice or a hard choice.  It was just that he had to make a choice.  And though he had made his choice; he would always wonder, about the choice he didn’t make, err… “the road not taken.”   He was really onto to something here; the poem wasn’t full of regret.  That wasn’t the point of the “sigh”.  The sigh represented his peering down the undergrowth, a planned path just not the one chosen.  Now he just didn’t understand why he couldn’t write that but… He dismissed that thought.  He glanced down at the poem one last time, looking for something, anything to bail him out.  He didn’t see it’s structure, or form.  These things just didn’t exist in his world.

            “Yea, when I first read this poem I saw a frontiersman.  You know, like Daniel Boone.  Actually… yeah, yeah that’s it.  The hunter can be related to this concept.  The hunter is a metaphor.  He’s a man completely at ease in the wilderness.  It’s almost like it has become part of his nature.”

            “While that’s a beautiful analogy.  But, in reality Mr. Wheeler the wilderness, the undergrowth, is an allegory… it represents the uncertainty of the future.  The reason the author portrays it as nature, is because he is looking back-“

            “So your saying it represents controlled chaos?” He said cutting her off.

            “No. Look at the ninth and tenth lines, ‘Though as for that passing there had really worn them about the same,’ I hope you can see it now.  He hasn’t made his choice yet.  He could go either way.  They are worn about the same because neither path has been taken yet.  His first passing has worn them about the same.  But I can tell you misinterpreted that.”

            “How so?”

            “Your hunter is choosing to move forward or to return to a path that he has already walked.”

            “Yea….” He knew she was right.  “I was just trying to tailor the poem to a story.  And though it loses some of its original qualities, I think it highlights the uncertainty the author is facing...What do you want me say?”

            “Well Mr. Wheeler,” She started, carefully choosing her words.  “I… want you to recognize the beauty that can arise from simplicity.  The beauty of the poem’s structure… It’s ABAAB rhyme scheme composed to an almost unoticed iambic tetrameter beat.  I just want you to recognize the beauty of its form.  I want you to read the poem.  I don’t want you to run away with your imagination, or to twist it to your distorted reality.  I just want you to… to read the true beauty of what merely is.”

He shrugged his shoulders, unable to offer any defense to what she said.  She was right after all.  The poem was beautiful and simple… he just wished she wouldn’t chastise him.  His imagination was the only true knowledge that he possessed.  He looked at her trying to level some attack, trying to think of something witty to say, but the ringing bell reminded him he still had six hours left of school.

A Time to Kill.

Where to begin… I always ask myself when I sit in front of the page ready to type.  Millions of thoughts cloud my judgment.  How does one sort through so many topics, and hear just one echoing.  Yet one voice stands out from the rest.  Yesterday I found myself trying to answer the question, “Do video games cause violence?”  I kept trying to come up with logical arguments to support my views.  You see I grew up playing video games, for as long as I can remember I’ve had a controller in my hand.  Whether it be an Atari, a Nintendo, a Sega, a Playstation, and then lastly an Xbox.  Video games are perhaps one of the most important things in my live.  I know it sounds stupid, such a waste.  But that was where I found my escape.  I could bury my hate, my fears, and my loneliness into these devices.

            I think it was games that led me onto literature.  Designers would pluck realities from real life and bury them in the game.  It was from these, Easter Eggs as the industry calls them, that I learned about things like history and mythology.  First person shooter evolved from historical battles, like World War 2, Vietnam, and so forth.  But they evolved from that, somewhere the story was muddled, and multiplayer battles became important.  Sometimes when I pulled the trigger in the game, for a brief moment I wondered… Does a video game character have soul?  Does he have a family?  Did I kill someone’s dad?  I can remember that even when I was younger and Golden Eye had just come out on the Nintendo 64.  I would drop down in the bathroom and kill the guard using the bathroom.

            It seems a stupid thing to wonder, if a pixilated image whose whole world is revolved around ones and zeros possesses a soul.  It’s not a person; it’s not real, but it left an impression on my mind.  This trail of thinking is personified within the confines of ashow known as Battlestar Galatica.  The show is set in a futuristic post apocalyptic world.  One where humans are hunted down by robots, however the robots have become human (think Terminator).  The characters begin to question if the robots have a soul.  Where is this going you might be asking yourself at this point?

Last night as I was watching Battlestar Galatica, the President of the Twelve Colonies (Twelve Tribes anyone?) was asked, “why… why are being hunted down?  Is it because of our violence?”  She responded in turn, that question isn’t one that can be answered with simplicity.  She said that as humans, “we are trying seek the simple answer, so that we believe that we are in control.”  And I believe that is how the argument of violent video games will play out, a complex question, that seems so simple to answer.

For the moment lets take a look back into time.  Now I’m not a very religious person.  But one of my favorite stories is from the Bible.  The story of Kane and Able, stands out to me.  I find myself wondering about the first murder.  Was it an accident was it out of malice, self-defense,  or perhaps defiance?  What sots of emotion transpired? Perhaps we are straying to far from video games.   Let’s shift this train of thought back to video games.  In the game of Warhammer, one of the gods is named Khaine (which is in my opinion a beautiful spelling of that name).  And within the game, he is the God of Murder.  Now back to the biblical story of Kane and Able.  It has been theorized that this story might be a representation of the clash between the hunter-gather and the farming communities.  This reasoning should be thought about carefully.

Regardless of your faith, two things have become apparent: the first is as follows, murder is wrong.  Look at any culture murder and you’ll find that murder is an act of radicalism.  The other is seemingly unrelated to the first, however it bears careful consideration as well, the fact of the matter is we evolved from the hunter-gather society.  If we bear in mind that the story of Kane and Able are a representation of the two, then it could be reasoned that violence is in fact perpetrated by society.  Let’s examine this notion further.

Prehistoric man is generally thought to have roamed around in bands of less than twenty-five members.  They were nomadic, following the hunt.  The fact that they relied on the hunt is an over used generalization, and perhaps misconception. Alas that is a topic for another paper on another day. The fact of the matter is that their staple diet was from foraged nuts, fruits, and other plants of that nature.  Philosophically speaking, the very nature of gathering was suited for child rearing.  Along the same lines, physically speaking hunting large game was better suited for the males of the tribe.  So naturally it fell to the women, to act as the guardians of the tribe by raising the children and foraging the food.  It should be mentioned that since their diet relied on the foraging it was imperative that women didn’t fail.  Where as with the men, they could return to the tribe unsuccessful with little to no bearing on the tribe.

Now the next leap in man’s evolution would be to farming, I’m not sure how this leap was made.  Or if it can ever be explained.  Two arguments that take the forerunner are: beer (that’s right I said beer) and the other could be related to hunting.  It has been speculated that, when large game was caught, that the animal’s young were given to the children of their tribe so that they might become familiar with their prey.  This in theory could explain the domestication of animals.  As the animals grew into adulthood they could be farmed at will.  Thus leading to the planting of crops.

As farming tribes evolved, other tribes did not.  They would’ve retained their hunter-gather nomadic lifestyle.  Eventually one of these tribes would have ended up foraging a farm.  Now this also bares careful consideration.  With stable food in the form of crops and animal rearing, the hunter has now become obsolete.  Thus we see these hunters evolve into craftsmen and builders.  As the tribes begin to become familiar with the lay of the land some began to learn the weather patterns.   Others learned to read the celestials lighting our nights sky.  We can start to see the forming of our first mystics, ones who can read the sky and predict the weather.  Recall the defunct hunter, as the hunter-gathers begin to raid… no that’s not the right word; as they begin forage the land as they have for thousands of years.  We can see the first clash, the hunters become soldiers protecting their land.  From here we can see the evolution of armies, protecting other farmers.  And we can see the first forms of taxation evolve as payment for their services.  Governments evolve.  But we have trailed way of our topic of video games at this point.

Perhaps the argument shouldn’t be whether video games perpetrate violence.  But rather that society itself perpetrates violence.  All to often we forget our past, focus on what is trending now, “the spark burns brightest” a famous author once said.  The very truth of the fact is that Sandy Hook isn’t the first school shooting.  It’s just one of the latest in a long line of tragedies that our nation has had to face since the Union was formed.  We forget that we have seen this played out before.  We sympathize with the victims, reason with the aggressor, and it becomes a spectacle that fuels our emotions.  Anger, fear, remorse, sadness… the Human Condition, all these emotions swell within us.  For thousands of years scholars, philosophers, anthropologists, sociologists, psychologists, psychiatrists, even religious leaders have all tried to explain this phenomenon we call violence.  Their literature, their media, their doctrines, their philosophies have failed to address this issue.  The fact of the matter is that such a complex emotion cannot be explained away by something as simple as video games, and yet there is another side to this coin.  Human are imitators it would be just as naive to think that video games don’t perpetuate some violence.  And that is what I have stayed up in the dark to write.