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Does blind faith promise salvation? |
| “I realize today that “I” does not exist-No! Does not exist. Not in body, or in what some may claim is a “soul,” Nor its debts, statuses, or ambitions; yes, these things may be of use to some, but not I." -A poet named Sam Discovery @ The Indigo Room, Hers and His Hers “So, how do you not believe in God? You sayin’ there’s just nothin’ out there? Where'd it all come from then? What's the point?" His “What’s it matter? Just enjoy the now. Be sincere, stay cordial and indulge wisely,” “Uh-huh, so then what afta’ all dat?” “Well, when I find out I’ll fly ya a kite. Ya-da-mean?” “But really, what makes you get up in the morning? I mean, do you even want there to be a heaven or hell?” “I can’t speak on heaven; but if there’s a hell, we’re all goin’. ‘Least once,” “Maybe you should get a therapist,” “Funny, ther-py was actually a big part of the problem. All this guilt for being human, just as much as the rest,” “But didn’t you tell me once your faith could never be shook? You used to be a believa’ and now you just flipped. I just don’t understand how anyone-” “I told you a’lota things, myself a’lota things… and since then we’ve grown very much, don’cha’gree? When life gives you new answers to old questions, how u s’posed to keep thinkin’ the same as when ya knew no beta’?” “So what, you sayin’ you too smart and grown-up to have faith and wanna be saved?” “You savin’ nothin’ and nobody 'cept your own doubts. Ihn’t that why it’s called blind faith? It’s jus’ a promise to do as much: ignorin’ wat you don’t want to see anyway.” * January ‘00 Well, we’re still alive. Guess Y2K was just a gip. But is it fair to say, when all I cared about was the Dexter’s Laboratory episode I was gonna miss? It was airing at midnight, airing airing @ midnight. Seated in our respective pews with other believers, I wondered if any here seriously believed our salvation lay in the hands of an unseen puppet master. What made us so special? I mean, from what I’ve learned in natural science and bio, “Mother Nature” is by far a more sensible name. Otherwise why the theatrics and posturing? Why would God behave as if He’s got a rep to maintain, like a holy mafia don. The dread of a new school semester today was what really got me. Though it wasn’t academics, which interested me because of how organized everything was and the discipline of making it all work. Because how does any one person-especially a teacher-streamline old opinions and ideas and make them still relevant? While reminding the student to accept that they’ll always be wrong about something. But I preferred doing all this alone, learning the world through surveillance, which naturally made socializing awkward and, in my mind, more trouble-than-worth. Reconnaissance, the military “parlance” says dad, is the game I made of it all. “Not every-things gotta be so complex all the time. Fate is not your enemy.” In any case I’ve accepted mine as an average student, just because I have no desire to be any different; though, it’s not because I’m not curious, I just get distracted with recon. Most of my teachers claim that the real problem is insolence-but I don’t hear half of what they sayin’ anyway. I’m grateful mom and dad never let them put me on medication when we lived in the South Bay. Would’ve just made me a fuckin’ zombie like Byron or Claudia (I miss ya’ll so much if you can hear me). It was mostly black and latino-hispanics that I grew up around and it became too obvious why few if any other outlets were provided in favor of such. What else struck me was the novelty of the supposed ethnic, i.e. ghetto experience. Sure, everyone likes to play tough now and again, but when I joined my family in Pomona as we “upgraded” to middle-class, I found that kids glamorized it; as if parole officers, born addictions, manic depression and few outlets for all the fiery rage which follows, gives some hint of their realness (one of few terms I find universally offensive) and their potential for rising up against whatever the hell it is they think is holding them back from happiness. I guess they figure if they act like they came from the bottom, one day they’ll have to rise to top..? And as for most of the blacks I encountered I was ashamed. Pretending their ignorance and acting out in front of one another as if some ringside show for the masses, then when in the company of their non-black-or just middle class-peers and authority figures, they’d reveal their full domestication. But then again, why should I care at all? Just who’s gonna care if I don’t? Does God hate dumbasses and we’re just to mark them as unlucky? Un-deserving? Or does He (or She) just like fuckin’ with underachievers? * A Thought on Revol-, Devol- and Evol-ution From primates to parasites all forms of life share in them an ambition for survival; of either their selves, their kind, or at the very least, ambition itself. On the way they learn the means of navigating through the world, and in a broad sense each yielding some sort of education, by which any event which affects one’s thoughts, feelings, or behavior can be called such. Case of the primates, skills and knowledge were at first haphazard, passed orally then crudely imitated, though “professionals” did emerge before written language, when careers in religion, politics, and trade or commerce were heavily tied with literacy. Unsurprisingly, these parties would exert the boldest, most varied influence on the development and mission of education, in each era coming a time to allow some frustration over the previous faith. In respect to the latter, this required simple overwhelming, towards more critical and empathetic application. Justly so. * Prophet Xulu, Melancholy Gypsy J.J. ^ Iron Flat, No Chaser Xulu “You talk to your fam’ late boy?” J.J. “Naw man,” “Y’not? You miss dem, day miss you- ALWAYS tellin’ how much better you feel after ya do,” “You ain’t gotta tell me what I feel…I’ll call ‘em when I’m damn ready…Just tell me how’s your music com’n long man. Got any grapes?” “Beta’ calm yo self boy, ‘less you r'lly wanna toe-to-toe righ’n’ here. And the music can wait, but if you don’t wanna talk then we can just blaze. I don’t have any grapes though. Hellt’y-liv’n boi, hahahaha!” “Yea-yea-yea Ha-ha. Naw man, grapes is the bud-wat we call it in Cali anyway-and I didn’t mean anything, jus’, I know to call them but I- my head just ain’t good for that right now,” “And who say it’s aw‘bout you suh? Hahaha,” “…” “So quiet now ain’t cha? ‘Kay, I didn’t mean to hurt feelins by exposin’ yo selfish-ass ways. If it’s okay, pick up ya ax and we can get it started” “Ya but first man tell me ‘bout your fam. I ‘ve never heard much ‘bout ‘em.” “Well, you know my younga ’sis, momma and tha lil’one…I don’t think I told you ‘bout dad. He was irish, a soldier in War II-he married my momma young. ‘Member now he was a strict, disciplined man; impatient. ‘Cuz of his age and mom being Jamaican he got plenty shit. There was little we could do as I grew up and after he passed, durin’ my teens, it was just me and her. She inherited money from him but it was burned through in less than a year,” “That why you enlisted? ‘Cuz of his service?” “Partly yea, mos’ likely the biggest reason at the time but, growin’ up complicates things ya know. You goin’ through that right now. It’s hard to make ya self believe there ain’t somethin’ or somebody out jus’ tryin’ to fuck with you. Could be ya freedom, love, pride, or at the very least they’ll get at your sanity. In that case most the dirty work does itself: Contact-Contaminate-Control. Buh an’way, ya talk to momma lately? How’s she holdin’ up?” “She tells me she’s alright. Kids say she’s stressin’ cash ev’ryday, but I know how she is wit’ money. She hasn’t been to the hospital late, ‘cept for dialysis.” [Xulu handles Strat, J.J. acoustic] “Well, jus’ don’t do like a‘lota people and ignore her ‘fore homecomin’. Otherwise she’ll just be another picture on draped ‘cross the mantel. A token of time lost, naw’mean? Jus’ a-notha pic-cha on the wall/ Draped ‘cross the mantel of forlorn/ Memories/ Time we spend and sweet reverie/Shoul‘’ neva’ again be minnneee… Well, you gon’ play rhythm or just act like you forgot how ta skank?” “Alrite. Four-three-two-“ Both “Wun!” “ “I” is a tide swole and restless, sound as a ream of chimes; a flocking youth spellbound, their custodians fear their insights; oft pleasant polite, so much they befriend cruelty- and refuse any admission or intent-that is, unless “I” have already been convicted.” -Sam Illusion A Thought on Passion, Custom and Reason Of the base human drives none parlay as much dispute as that for “altered states of mind;” written history and chance observation justify as much. As early as 8000 years ago coca (from which cocaine is derived) leaves were used by the Andes peoples to relieve fatigue and hunger, as an anesthetic, explore high altitudes, and remains a commercial staple of their society today. Globally, caffeine, tobacco and alcohol stand as highly regulated and robustly produced commodities, functioning as daily staples for billions worldwide. Many refuse to compare these substances with cannabis, opiates or LSD, though all share the make-up of “psychoactive” drugs. That is, all possess chemicals that act on the central nervous system (via the brain), altering one’s mood, behavior, cognition and/or perception. Psychiatrist Ronald K. Siegel, renowned for his research on drugs and human behavior, cites intoxication as merely the “fourth drive,” alongside thirst, hunger and need for shelter. Indeed, the act of spinning or dancing-especially for children-suggests the desire to alter one’s state of mind is universal and innate. Attempts at reform have varied, and in the U.S. for example, Prohibition has long been credited with fostering organized crime, straining resources by incarcerating one-time, non-violent offenders, and diverting law enforcement agents from more pertinent tasks, not to mention the commercialization of prisons. Still, drugs such as cannabis remain a Class I narcotic (LSD, Heroin) though the Department of Health & Human Services-officially representing U.S. federal government-has held a patent on it since 2003, for its “antioxidant properties” and neuroprotectants, used in treatment of Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s and autoimmune diseases. For these contradictions in logic, policy, and human behavior, there’s been few political strides. Yet hypocrisy rarely has time to enjoy itself when the general public overcomes its sheepishness, to rely on its deserved resentment. Hopefully. * Mom, Son + L.A. Downtown Son “So do people choose to live like this? Or does God just not like them?” Mom “What? ‘Course they don’t, nobody wants to live like this. God loves all his creations, even the ones that ain’t perfect,” “Well, why don’t they ask for help or get a job or something? If they’re good people they wouldn’t be strung out and living in the streets, right?” “Oh? And since when do you know who’s righteous and who isn’t? Terrible things have happened to these people. And though all people make mistakes, the world is a very cold, unforgiving place,” “Unless you’re born saved, right?” “Becoming saved is a choice and not always one that’s easy to make. Nor is it very obvious,” “So the guy that got shot in front of my school, you think he was saved? He mustn’t of been if he had to die like that,” “I didn’t teach you that. Nobody in their lives will ever have that answer, but it isn’t my place or desire to judge. You don’t know what’s going on in one’s life, and how’d you enjoy someone making assumptions of you?” “Doesn’t matter-they don’t know me and I don’t have to let ‘em! But I know for sure I’m not bad inside,” “Oh yeah? Cousin Sasha and your uncle Willis have told us much different. And do you think one that’s ever done good never did bad either? Usually the two go hand-in-hand,” “So one day I could choose to be bad through and through? Just forget there’s someone watchin’ that will punish me?” “You should do right whether or not anybody is, and well, sometimes life won’t let you do only good. Dig deep enough and we all got a little dirt," “Even you?” “Maybe.” * August ‘99 In the spring of ‘94 my parents welcomed their fourth and final addition to our family: a second son. “So you ready to see your little brother?” asked Jefferson, my step-grandfather, as we drove to our Manchester apartment. “He’s gonna be lookin’ up to you when he grows up.” I wondered if, as the man who replaced my grandfather, he ever felt the sting of having to embrace an intruder as kin. “No,” I replied, “why would I want to see him?” “Don’t be like that baby. I know you didn’t have a big brother or sister but you got two sisters and a baby brother now. You’ll learn to like it. They’ll all be tryin’ to follow what you do.” Just whose kids were these? Aren’t I just a kid? Why don’t mom and dad be the leaders? “I don’t care. I hate them.” As soon the words left I was flush with shame as the weight of my statement fell on. It was somethin’-or maybe someone, a self I hadn’t grown into just yet-that made me understand that such bitterness breeds consequences which must always be embraced (or else the sentiment owns no context). We arrived and were up the stairs. “I know you don’t mean any of that baby. I really hope you don’t,” he finally said. I remained silent. His words as forgiving as they were scolding. Step-by we made our way ‘til in our sights was only my mother and his shriveled, pyg-meed frame. Why do I want him gone so bad? What has he done? Nothing. Nothing at all. From then I wondered all the time if any person would remember or record this confession; a tally of my vices and their proof of my own narrow humanity. As I prepare to join my immediate family in Pomona and leave behind Athens, Inglewood and any familiar I’ve ever known up to this point, I now understand the depth of anxiousness; raw desire. There’s no comfort in knowing I’ll have to conform in my new environment, as this will be the first time I’ll ever in a white, asian and middle-class majority. I know this was mostly mom’s doing; she always seemed ashamed of her upbringing, which I understood, but if that meant “passing” in order to have a stable career and life, what’s the damn point? * A Thought on Education, Reform and Empathy Public opinion means little without an institution to validate; which explains how only with legislation or mass revolt, has the political landscape-or any tenet of society-made long-term reform. However, the force of economics on these realms has made many skeptical of their efficiency and inclusiveness. This remains especially true of the last two decades, as globalization and advances in technology have spurred more public engagement than ever before. No credit is too much given to the role of Internet blogs and chat rooms in that respect. In April 1991 the World Wide Web was made available free to the general public, followed three years later by the first web-based message boards. The cheap and relative ease-of-use made them hot-beds for discussion on everything from business, sports and politics, to ethics, culinary and sexual fetishes. Recently, various “occupy” movements have emerged globally, taking their name from the first “Occupy Wall-Street” movement in N.Y.C.’s finance district, themselves inspired by the revolts in the middle-east. Dubbed the Arab Spring, these uprisings owe much to social networking platforms, allowing for the first time many of these citizens to firmly protest and resist their oppressors who have held power for decades. Dissenters complain of the movements’ lack of focus, disregarding that their presence is and always will be the point. “Transacted on one plane, the human conspiracy, artificial faculty, a defense, a front, a dirty secret told sloppily, a curse endured ‘lone forever and oft-willingly. All those in favor, say “I”." -Sam Balance January ‘11 This past New Year’s Eve was spent at Ken and Dana’s. We’d met at Faye and Erin’s party the last year, though it wasn’t until this past week that we had any real convo. Faye and her off-kilter gourmet were not enough condolence for Erin’s marathon fetish for musicals and theatre. This troubled me for reasons more than sanctity of art, a dilemma of our friendship: mutual interest. Not that I shared no interest-quite the opposite! I simply couldn’t keep pace with Erin, whose own output seemed the focus of such gatherings. Erin embodied the spirit of craft I assumed all artists hoped to achieve. A working playwright, actor, musician and, most admirably (to myself), a poetry scholar, there wasn’t an encounter which ended w/o some dense esoteric-or equally generic-display of fanboy affection. It was cute at first. But it was finally seeing a man like this in his domestic life which made me grateful to be only a hobbyist and no longer ashamed to claim just as much. Ken and Dana reminded me the inspiration of damn good company for sake of. Dana was candid and even at her most buoyant never a step off; Ken more calculated, observant. Resilient. For this, it wasn’t long before I was enamored with either and began the narrative. Mature, curious, insightful. Is it that compliments invoke the charm of shelter-home tramps, or domesticated servants which makes them intolerable? I was all anchor and my expression must’ve told, because they each asked reason for my sudden unease on the topic of romance-and affection in general. Besides truth there was little else I could tell them (add to this my waning sobriety), leaving me ashamed for it. The truth that is, which was my shame itself. Critical, isolated, paranoid. They say your true friends will waste all or most their means to find you a better end. As for vices, they must know and never judge, for then they are merely passer-by, chance encounters which make one recognize just what is deserved in life: Nothing. * A Thought on the Human Spirit and “Figuring It Out” It isn’t until adolescence that many come to understand the value of wandering. “The wanderers’ usually on to something,” some often say, as occupying one’s body with the solace and mundanity of, frees the mind to purge; to observe. The task of passing into society only inflates its value, as one must guise their naivety and general disinterest. It is more so the binding conflict of intuition and reason that makes these years so troublesome, and often cited by many as their phase of “personal awakening;" later basing crucial adult decisions on the insight of an angry teenager. So then it’s without wonder that so many become narrow in their own bitterness and resentment as a means of defying those genuine, or merely suspect, opposing forces. But even as the first ages of enlightenment have passed, so has any comprehensive means of refining those pursuits for the benefit of one’s sanity, or that of their familiars. Unless most have simply missed the point of their being; as the world lingers on. * We + Quiet Bungalow They “So really man, tell us what the problem is. All this time alone, working on your art, and showing us not a bit,” I “Already told ya’ll I’ll show when I’m ready. B’sides, my art is personal-I need it to keep me sane” “But why all the struggle just to get you out the house? We just like to know you’re doin’ okay from time to time. Aren’t we your friends? Is it that hard being around us?” “Believe what you want about our relations-it is pretty damn hard!” “Oh! So it’s you that has to put up with us all? What makes you think you’re so much better than us? ’Cuz you can hide your shame and malice behind those big-brain insights? If you can call them as much. You hurt and yearn just as much as the rest, but instead of embracing what makes you human you try to pass off as some kinda Über-man. You didn’t stop believin’ in God-you just changed the definition! And for what? Are you any happier than you were then? ” * August ‘11 I’d settled on no sleep the night Deedee told me mom was abruptly back in the hospital. “Mm-hm. Pneumonia.” “Pneumonia?” Apparently, fluid in her lungs collected in wake of earlier operations on her heart. Months earlier. “Do you think she’s going to die?” I’m unsure if I wanted her more to affirm or scold the mere suggestion (either seemed appropriate enough), as DeeDee was always most protective of mom, more so than I ever was of dad. At 22 years old I’ve never attended a funeral, or experienced a death in my immediate circle, though death was far from being a stranger in my life. But whose to argue with Mother Nature’s terms? And excluding a juvenile interest in gore-hop (it’s dark blend of hip-hop and various sociopathy couldn’t have been more appealing at the time) I gave little thought to it, often citing Dìa de los Muertos and other celebrations of the dead as more appropriate and uplifting. “No. She’ll be fine.” I mulled over little else after that exchange, little different from the past, and I was unsure if I should’ve been still grateful to have been right: the distance was doing me good. “Okay. Talk later.” “‘K. Bye.” “Bye.” Even before moving out 4 years ago there was no ignoring the profound and irreparable changes overtaking her body. Just in her late thirties she described ailments of menopause. Heat flashes, depression, yes; frequent urination, fatigue, yes. But also her feet and legs once swole ‘til she looked near disabled and often remained stubbornly cold. There wasn’t much I understood about what was happening to her so I just hoped this as just one of many phases the body must endure. I couldn’t admit that I was scared for her life; the implications of her condition on our lives. Mom called me a month before that last trip to the hospital, wishing me a happy birthday and hoping to talk soon. That day was mostly spent benign, in a Yuengling and cannabis-fueled stupor. It’d only been six months, I thought. Besides, the dialysis was going well and she was becoming more active every day-from what she’s told me. But in the past years she was habitually cold and unexplainably fatigued, fom what the kids told. To “surprise,” I rescinded on my promise to await the call fully alert, instead waking just moments before it the following morning, still inebriated. Deedee, 2 years my junior, didn’t so much as whimper when giving the verdict, though in her tone I felt an unspoken tension. Well, you were right. Are you happy? Those words she never spoke rang as loud as fractured Pacific tides. “...” “How soon can you come out?” what she actually asked me. “I’m not sure.” + These years since leaving home I’ve yearned for a new pride in my heritage. There are some things which will remain in the dark (as some should) but this is the first in a while that nostalgia has led comfort and resolve, instead of vice or ennui. It excites me; a second breath. After asking Jamie the cross-streets of grandma’s house I went online to verify. 124th & Vermont. Athens, Los Angeles. South of Century 105. Memories long tucked away were unearthed as I traced our commutes via map overview. A new flora and fauna emerged, somethin’ I could’ve never known had we stuck around; a new severity. For just how long can one run before knowing the cause of their flight? Or at least, where their course is sure to follow? And if they should ever know for sure, is it their right to decide when their pace should wane? What is the fuckin’ point, I wonder, of it all anyway? |
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