Theme, Week Ten

My sister Tara hates hunting. She reasons that it's brutal to go out and kill innocent animals regardless of an individuals purpose. I can certainly respect her intention; it shows that she at least has a consience. It's strange, however, because Tara grew up in a household where hunting was a mainstay. Every year, every season, my father, brothers, and even some sisters would hunt for deer, partridge, ducks, and rabbits. I suppose that seeing all of these dead animals, and witnessing them being cleaned must have had some impact on her current opinion of the matter. 

This last week I asked my sister to lunch when I was in Portland  for the day. We ordered our food, and Tara began to tell me about a hunter that she had fooled this last deer season. With her face flashing between humor and disgust (depending on the part she was talking about) she told me how she had seen a hunter creeping up a hill with his bow toward a group of deer. Expressing her disregard for the sport of hunting (as I'm sure she did that day in her car) she chuckled as she told me that she had honked her horn and scared all of the man's prey away. After informing Tara of my disgust with her actions, she proceeded to go into a rampage about how, "these poor deer have moms and dads, and just want to live! What gives us the right to go and kill them, just because some asshole has a superiority complex and feels more like a 'hairy caveman' when he murders some innocent creature." 

Just then our meals arrived, Tara grabbed her big juicy burger and took a bite. I couldn't help but think about the farm that I used to hunt on with my father. The farmer, Bussy York, used to come out and tell us about butchering his cows. I can still picture his wrinkled face as he would express how terribly he felt about the way that he ended so many of their lives. He would use a bolt gun and shoot the bulls at the base of their skulls while they were trapped in a metal frame. 

Tara's still outraged by the fact that hunters go out and find their "wild" prey and kill it. She's really passionate when it comes to the ethics of killing. 

Theme, Week Nine

You'd think that a subtle hint would tell him that he should stop talking, but it hasn't. She's talking to him, but her legs are crossed and pointing away from him. Her eyes dart across the room searching desperately for a savior. As he talks she wonders to herself, "why am I still here, why don't I just get up and say 'I'm sorry' and walk away?" Instead her manicured hands accept the drink that he is handing her and she takes a sip; the bitter vodka startles her tongue but she likes it. He too feels uncomfortable, yet, he stays. He can tell that she is rejecting him, she hasn't said anything other than "oh really" and "huh" in the last minute. Instead of leaving, accepting the reality, he orders her the martini she wants; his precious cash buys him a few more moments of companionship. It's hard to hold a one way conversation, but he's doing his best. Sensing the urgency, he tells her that she is beautiful, and that he likes her hair. She smiles and says, "thanks."  Her eyes look away; his do too. After a while her friend comes over and abruptly grabs her hand, pulling her to her feet. Her diamond bracelet glistens in the light. He smiles as though they were his friends and the two girls walk away. She doesn't look back at him. Leaving the bar that night, he climbs into his saw-dust filled pickup and drives away; his chain-saw rumbles in the back.

Theme, Week 8

For this one I chose to go with a prompt start, (41).

"I think, therefore I am"(prompt 41). When I was small I was told what I was, a child. A child: one who may not do as they wish. I was told who I was and what I was by my parents and everyone around me. Now I am told I am a man, a human, an American; I am told I have a responsibility to my fellow man, my society, and that I must work hard to be successful. I've been told that successful means that I make a lot of money, and that I have nice things, and dress nicely; and can afford to. I'm told that I should pay $3.50 for a gallon of gas, and that it's right that I should have to obey certain restrictions placed upon me by others.

The things that I'm told are the things that I slowly begin to believe. After a while I began to believe that I was a child, a human, a man. I began to believe that I should work hard, and that I should contribute to society, and obey the laws of the land. I pay $3.50 for a gallon of gas because I believe that that is the appropriate capitalistic action. I become the the things that I am told that I am; that becomes my identity.

Who taught me my identity? My parents; they were once children, so who taught them, and who taught their parents? My identity is based upon the the identities of my parents; they taught me what was right and wrong, what to believe. What makes Queen Elizabeth royal but the fact that she is told she is royal, and everyone believes it? Did she know she was royal at birth?

The things that I know I base upon the things that I am told are truths. I'm told that killing is wrong. I'm given reasons, religion, morals, justice, fairness. All abstract ideas that I'm also told are right. After a while I stop questioning everything that I'm told and accept certain truths; because those who are wiser than me also accept them. When did my ancestors accept this truth, that killing was wrong? Thousands of years ago, was it as wrong as it is now? Did my ancestors feel that it was immoral to kill, period? Indeed, thousands of years ago killing was a mainstay of culture, doing it gave you power, and I dare say, "happiness". At what point did riding into a village, burning all of the houses, and killing all of the peasants become "wrong"; when did that become a reality? What set of my parental ancestors first told their children that to kill was immoral? Over time, that concept became common, civilization made it common, and now it is wrong, and it is part of my identity to believe that killing is immoral (except for the societal loop-holes that allow us to kill in war, in which case it's not immoral anymore but moral). Part of who I am now, is based upon a reality that is taught to me.

I am a copy of my parents, renewed in their values. A mirror image of their thoughts, now my thoughts. I might disagree with them; even change my beliefs as my life goes on, but the foundation is always there, the foundation of my identity. I will teach what I learn to my children, and they to theirs. They will be a continuation of me, a carrying on of my knowledge and beliefs. I am a copy of a copy.

This world is an illusion, based upon values taught to us by our ancestors. It is a great structure; built for years and years upon the blocks below. It rises into the sky undaunted; the highest blocks no longer see the blocks below them; they simply accept that they are very high, and that the blocks below are solid enough to hold them, and therefore must be right. Indeed, we too assume that we are right, because those before us have lived successfully believing the things that we now believe.

What we are told is simply true because we allow it to be true. I am not royal because I don't believe I am royal, and no one else does. They don't believe I'm royal because no one has told them that I was. What we are told is what we believe. So my question is; who am I?

Theme, Week Seven

I can remember visiting my grandfather when I was younger, about twelve, and there being a man there working for him. His name was Stanley and he had the typical look of hardened alcoholic. Stanley's face was either very dirty or very tanned, and it wore the wrinkles that come from years of hard living. Whatever its reason for being bronzed, his face was always disgruntled. Upon seeing him one might assume he was drunk, even when he was sober. He was very bow-legged, and walked with a slow, unsteady stride. Indeed, filming him, one might have thought that they were using a highspeed camera, for his snail-like pace was enough to slow even the thoughts of the person observing him. As it happened, this worked to Stanley's advantage, for his voice was even droller than his walk, and hearing it made time stop compeletly, making Stanley seem as though he could running. His Brownish hair was long and was thinning enough so that one could see the bald spots forming on the top of his head, and he wore an old blue jean jacket which had taken on the colors of his trade: painting. I can recall finding Stanley sleeping against the house one time, while my grandfather was away at work; when he awoke he had paid me $10 to help him finish up the spot he had been left to do. My grandfather noticed the paint on my shirt when he came home, and after a thorough scolding at having played near the wet paint, I foolishly informed him that I had been paid to help. He fired Stanley the next day for sleeping on the job; he was an unforgiving man. Stanley, moped to his car in no apparrent rush to leave (though one couldn't have known) and drove away. I can still hear his snail-like voice calling my grandfather's name as he was known to do, "Heeeey.....Eeeeaaarrrrlllll."

Journal Entry, Week 6

I have often wondered what we leave behind us when we finally walk away. What portion of ourselves do we instill in the things that we have touched, the people that we have met, and the work which we have labored at? Do the things that we remember, remember us or help us to be remembered; and if so does that make us significant, does that help us to last? Often the idea of what is in one's blood can lead us to believe that we can achieve the impossible; if we have had some distant relative who has achieved much, does that make us more likely to do the same? Does sitting in the chair of a once great man, make us great as well?

I wonder all of this as I stand gazing at the armor of Louis XIV in the Louvre in Paris, France. Earlier that week I had seen his home at Versailles, and had stood in the bedchamber in which he slept, and walked the halls that he had walked as he commanded his empire. The vastness of that building had made an impression upon me; and I felt that same feeling now as I stared through the glass at the king's armor. Indeed, it seemed that everything that Louis XIV came into contact with (that I was aware of) seemed to have a certain awe inspiring feeling to it. Oddly, He might not have ever worn this armor, and yet it feels like he must have. As I examine it I can visually picture his kingly figure donning it; perhaps riding on his horse, or walking the lines of a battlefield. There is a certain, powerful feeling to it, as though it carries with it the essense of its former master; as though it is its master, or all that is left of him.

As I stand in the white halls of the Louvre, surrounded by glass, I 'm consumed by the powerful feelings that tug me from every direction. In the room ahead of me stands the great black stone which bears the famous Code of Hammurabi (the ancient Babylonian stone which bears the worlds first known written law). Behind me is the corridor which leads to the great Mona Lisa, and to my left the Venice De Milo stands, armless and surrounded by asian tourists. Though I am surrounded by thousands of people, the feeling between the Louvre and I is intimate, and private. I'm standing as close to the great men of the past as I ever will, and they are speaking to me. 

This building gives its residence eternal life; and that idea draws the millions that come to visit it and imagine. Each hoping for even a hint at what it takes to stay within its walls for all time; students, mouths agap, absorbing the teachings of the most experienced instructors known to man. As I walked into the Parisian night, I turned to see the Louvre once more, and take in one last breath of its power. It's light filled the sky, a glass pyramid shining in the dark; an everlasting tomb.

 I have never forgotten the intensity of my visit to the Louvre, and I never will. I learned that day that we each leave behind us, pieces of ourselves in everything that we come into contact with. The ideas that we have in this life, and the things that we do are impressed upon those that see them and into everything in our lives. As to how long those things are remembered for what they are is dependent upon how deeply we are able to make our mark. The memories that our work can inspire serve as fodder for the masses that observe them; and teach them that greatness is possible; tudors them. Once the human mind understands that something is possible, it has no limitations; and my visit to the Louvre was one of the best lessons my mind ever received.