Monday, July 20, 2009
Five percent pleasure and Fifty percent pain
It's that time now. What's in a name? Would a rose by any other name smell as sweet? How much of identity is wrapped into a moniker? We instantly associate words based on our conceptions of them, "rose" means love, friendship, peace...take you pick. It certainly doesn't bear a connotation of dung heap. Call it a dung heap, would it smell as sweet? Would you choose to smell it? So often we make assumptions about people and things based on their names, or nicknames. Biff is a jock, Heather's probably blonde, Eugene probably hasn't had a date in six years, and Olga probably owns a viking helmet. This is the reason for my explanation.
Kira Karamazov. Already it's a contradiction. It is in and of itself absurd. The mixing of two cultures, Japanese and Russian, is the spring board of this absurdity. I doubt you could find anyone who would argue that the cultures are very much alike. It is two names from two very different worlds.
Taken at the level of inspiration also, it's a contradiction, a paradox. Karamazov comes not to quietly from the novel The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Kira is a bit more generic. The name in this instance however was lifted shamelessly from the Gundam anime series (Gundam Seed and Seed Destiny to be specific). This is the second paradox, to pull one's identity both from a novel of classic literature, and a modern animated tv show. The cultures again clash, not so much from a geographic sense this time, but a chronologic sense. It is two names from two very different times.
Karamazov is easy to explain, difficult to understand. It seems as though Dostoevsky uses the name in the phrase, "After all, I am a Karamazov" to express something more than family attachment. In the book, the Karamazov family patron is described as a sensualist, a perverse old man given entirely to self satisfaction. His three sons all take different roads in their lives, yet they all recognize the genetic proclivity towards self indulgence. It is almost as though the author, in the describing of the family, is instead talking about humanity as a whole. While all of the characters in the novel have their share of faults, the Karamazov's are the natural sins of mankind as a whole. While Dmitri is himself a sensualist, Ivan is a scholar, Alyosha is a lover and man of God. Dostoevsky himself said that the three sons are himself at different stages in his life, yet in their natures he captures all of mankind at once.
For me, it embodies my own nature. I am a thinker, I strive to be a lover, and I am a fighter, yet in all these three I am given to corruption just as every person is. Hence the surname, after all, aren't we all Karamazov's?
Now for the interesting part. Kira. Kira Yamato, coordinator. He is the perfect product of genetic engineering. He is pulled into a war he wants no part in, and ends up fighting to protect his friends. Along the way, the primary struggle he faces is this, When does wrong become right? When does evil become justified? At what point does war and fighting become a necessity. The answer is invariably the same, when the lives of the innocent are at stake. When your enemy is so corrupt and powerful that the only way to protect the innocent is by striking back, without thought, without hesitation against the monster. When the enemy makes it clear that there is no alternative that will prevent an atrocity.
The secondary question, who are the innocent? The natural and instinctive answer is civilians. However, the question is raised, at what point must the civilians who empowered the enemy take responsibility? Tyrants do not appear, they are made, carefully, by a knowing party who desires the ends that the tyrant can obtain.
This is a struggle I believe our society has a particularly difficult time with. No one wants to take responsibility for their actions. No one likes the thought of killing, but at some point it does become a necessity. For the protection of the innocent, the imprisonment or execution of the evil is a necessity.
I will be the first to say that this concept is absurd. At the same time, it is a concept that must be considered, it must be thought about in a rational manner for justice to be served instead of vigilantism. That makes it necessary. This is the necessary absurdity.
This is the contradiction, these are the two sides of the coin. Wickedness and justice. Who are we to judge? We are sinful by nature as well, and God is Loving. Who are we to stand back? We are God's image, and God is Just. Who are we to be apathetic, after all it's not us getting hurt? We are human, and this is humanity.
Kira Karamazov is a person of sinful nature, held to a higher ideal.
Kira Karamazov. Already it's a contradiction. It is in and of itself absurd. The mixing of two cultures, Japanese and Russian, is the spring board of this absurdity. I doubt you could find anyone who would argue that the cultures are very much alike. It is two names from two very different worlds.
Taken at the level of inspiration also, it's a contradiction, a paradox. Karamazov comes not to quietly from the novel The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Kira is a bit more generic. The name in this instance however was lifted shamelessly from the Gundam anime series (Gundam Seed and Seed Destiny to be specific). This is the second paradox, to pull one's identity both from a novel of classic literature, and a modern animated tv show. The cultures again clash, not so much from a geographic sense this time, but a chronologic sense. It is two names from two very different times.
Karamazov is easy to explain, difficult to understand. It seems as though Dostoevsky uses the name in the phrase, "After all, I am a Karamazov" to express something more than family attachment. In the book, the Karamazov family patron is described as a sensualist, a perverse old man given entirely to self satisfaction. His three sons all take different roads in their lives, yet they all recognize the genetic proclivity towards self indulgence. It is almost as though the author, in the describing of the family, is instead talking about humanity as a whole. While all of the characters in the novel have their share of faults, the Karamazov's are the natural sins of mankind as a whole. While Dmitri is himself a sensualist, Ivan is a scholar, Alyosha is a lover and man of God. Dostoevsky himself said that the three sons are himself at different stages in his life, yet in their natures he captures all of mankind at once.
For me, it embodies my own nature. I am a thinker, I strive to be a lover, and I am a fighter, yet in all these three I am given to corruption just as every person is. Hence the surname, after all, aren't we all Karamazov's?
Now for the interesting part. Kira. Kira Yamato, coordinator. He is the perfect product of genetic engineering. He is pulled into a war he wants no part in, and ends up fighting to protect his friends. Along the way, the primary struggle he faces is this, When does wrong become right? When does evil become justified? At what point does war and fighting become a necessity. The answer is invariably the same, when the lives of the innocent are at stake. When your enemy is so corrupt and powerful that the only way to protect the innocent is by striking back, without thought, without hesitation against the monster. When the enemy makes it clear that there is no alternative that will prevent an atrocity.
The secondary question, who are the innocent? The natural and instinctive answer is civilians. However, the question is raised, at what point must the civilians who empowered the enemy take responsibility? Tyrants do not appear, they are made, carefully, by a knowing party who desires the ends that the tyrant can obtain.
This is a struggle I believe our society has a particularly difficult time with. No one wants to take responsibility for their actions. No one likes the thought of killing, but at some point it does become a necessity. For the protection of the innocent, the imprisonment or execution of the evil is a necessity.
I will be the first to say that this concept is absurd. At the same time, it is a concept that must be considered, it must be thought about in a rational manner for justice to be served instead of vigilantism. That makes it necessary. This is the necessary absurdity.
This is the contradiction, these are the two sides of the coin. Wickedness and justice. Who are we to judge? We are sinful by nature as well, and God is Loving. Who are we to stand back? We are God's image, and God is Just. Who are we to be apathetic, after all it's not us getting hurt? We are human, and this is humanity.
Kira Karamazov is a person of sinful nature, held to a higher ideal.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Travel Log: Endeavor
So this evening, after a round of drinks at the Deck (as usual) we decided to take a chance on going to see the shuttle launch. Normally I would have decided to stay at the hotel and sleep, but after all, how many times in your life do you get a chance to see something like that. So we drove down to Ponce Inlet to the lighthouse. We hadn't been at the top five minutes when a ball of flame erupted to the south. We all gazed transfixed as the ball became a stream of fire pushing away from the cape. The setting sun glinted off of the shuttle at the tip of the trail. As it arced up and out to sea the flame sputtered, then re-ignited and the first stage split apart and the debris floated towards the ocean. It's amazing how slowly something seems to move when it's almost 70 miles away and miles in the air.
Then, just like that, it was gone, the fire, the glint, the trail of smoke, just vanished. Everyone at the top turned and walked down the stairs. Not wanting to be in the press down the narrow flights of steps I turned out to look at the ocean. To the north of Ponce inlet lay Wilbur by the Sea then the Daytona strip. There were thunderheads rolling over the Daytona highrises, sheets of rain pouring down obscured the northern end of the beach. The lightning danced through the clouds 10 miles up the strip. I waited expectantly for the thunder out of habit, even though it wouldn't travel that far, then all at once it hit. Except it was distinctly coming from the other direction, and it didn't stop. It took me a second to realize the thunder I was hearing was actually the roar of the rocket, 50+/- south of me.
So I sat there for five minutes or so, looking out at the ocean, watching the rain, and listening to thunder, all while the sun shone overhead. Man florida's wacky.
Then, just like that, it was gone, the fire, the glint, the trail of smoke, just vanished. Everyone at the top turned and walked down the stairs. Not wanting to be in the press down the narrow flights of steps I turned out to look at the ocean. To the north of Ponce inlet lay Wilbur by the Sea then the Daytona strip. There were thunderheads rolling over the Daytona highrises, sheets of rain pouring down obscured the northern end of the beach. The lightning danced through the clouds 10 miles up the strip. I waited expectantly for the thunder out of habit, even though it wouldn't travel that far, then all at once it hit. Except it was distinctly coming from the other direction, and it didn't stop. It took me a second to realize the thunder I was hearing was actually the roar of the rocket, 50+/- south of me.
So I sat there for five minutes or so, looking out at the ocean, watching the rain, and listening to thunder, all while the sun shone overhead. Man florida's wacky.
Travel Log: Irena
Her name was Irena. She swayed slowly down the aisle to my row on the airplane. Now, understand, swaying gently down an airplane aisle is about as easy to do as pirouette in a church pew. Her hair was a natural golden blonde, and offsetting the anticipated blue eyes instead she had deep brown eyes that shone when she smiled. blah blah blah, cute flowery bs. She was hot. They ended up sitting across from me. Her mother was German, her father French. They had caught the flight over from Frankfurt, then down to Orlando for holiday. My french is somewhat lacking but I'm fairly certain her father was a banker and met the mother in germany while studying there...or maybe on business...dunno. Anyway, in short, she was gorgeous. Didn't talk much, but she had a beautiful voice, very little accent. We landed in Orlando, walked together to the baggage claim, then she left, I wished her a happy holiday.
It's late, maybe more on other subjects later. Bear in mind I make no guarantee of absolute truth in these writings, only that at the very core there is a kernel of truth.
It's late, maybe more on other subjects later. Bear in mind I make no guarantee of absolute truth in these writings, only that at the very core there is a kernel of truth.
Ghost of a Hero
Black army fatigues did anything but blend in with the well lit garden wall. Combat boots tapping slowly against the brick pavement clicked loudly across the full parking lot. Underneath the resting soldier the brick wall abruptly ended its travels from the side of the church. In the gleam of the lights one could see the ghostly branches of the birch trees growing just outside the wall, peering over it's top into the garden of the hero.
There was a metallic rasping, once, twice, and finally a flare of light as the soldier lit a cigarette. A long breath set the flame deep within the tobacco. The soldier turned and blew smoke over his shoulder, noting the statue set in the middle of the garden. St. Michael stood there, sword raised over his head as he looked to heaven for the signal to end the dragon. As the smoke diffused upward towards the statues face the old soldier nodded to it, winking at the ethereal warrior and murmuring something about long nights away from home.
He gazed out at the parking lot filled with cars, each one carrying a family to Christmas eve services. In his mind he knew exactly what each one looked like inside the heavy church doors. Small children, their faces lit by candles, watched expectantly and waited. Their youth and innocence kept them from understanding the full implications in the world around them, however they could sense a peace and calm in the light cast by a thousand candles. The thought crossed his mind that at one time he had been just such a child, bright eyed and naive. Then fate had caught up to him. A soul tortured by past sins had turned to fighting for justice as a way to atone for his crimes. Yet with each child he protected he had to kill another man, and the demons that now clawed at his heart were far greater than the ones he had been trying to appease in the beginning.
Snow began to fall from the sky, at first the small white flakes were indistinguishable from the stars above, but gradually they gained sway over the night until the stars disappeared. The falling crystals caught every passing sound and gently scolded it for disturbing such a night.
The soldier shook his head and put up a hood to protect himself. All these thoughts of innocence and peace would have once troubled his mind, however, he now knew that he was the one meant for this. He was the man destined to carry the burden. Deep within him he understood that he could not forgive, could not bring himself to be forgiven. All he could do was protect the innocent so that in time, they would be able to forgive others. It was not given to him to save them, only to preserve them so that they could be saved by another.
Slowly the church doors were opened and a joyous throng issued forth, singing carols. Even their exuberant cries however were immediately hushed at the sight of the falling snow. The soft quiet of the night insisted upon respect, and they gave it. A woman, who had been young not long ago, stepped quietly across the threshold of the church. At her side a man walked who had limped in his left knee.
A glimmer of recognition darted through the soldier's eyes as he saw them. To any passers-by it was apparent that he cared for the woman. It was not clear whether she was a sister, a lover or a friend, what was clear was that he was happy for her. He knew the man with her, by reputation or personally, and was confident that the man would care for her as he himself could not.
Her gaze passed over the wall where the soldier sat, it hesitated at the sight of his face. A memory passed across her countenance as her lips mouthed a name, but the name was lost in the falling snow.
She started to change direction towards him. Her step hastened a little. For the first time in a great while a forgotten emotion flooded her brain. Without allowing herself to name it she knew exactly what is was. Hope.
Even as her pace quickened and her heart with it, a friend called to her from the doorway. She turned for an instant to wave, and when she looked back, the wall was empty.
Black heels stood stark against the junction of vertical brick and walk. Soft crystals of white floated down upon the black, trying to quell the discord, yet as soon as they touched they disappeared into drops of water. Soon it became impossible to tell if the water on the walk and shoes came from the melted snow, or from the eyes of a woman who had dared to hope.
A lonely cigarette butt lay on the edge of the wall. Her instinct called out to pick it up, anything solidify the vision she had seen. Instead she turned, and hastened away to the man with a bad knee.
It didn't take long for the church to empty. The walk, wall, and garden stood alone in the falling snow. All alone but for the cigarette, inner coal still burning, sending up a thin trail of tainted incense at the shrine of the warrior's Angel.
There was a metallic rasping, once, twice, and finally a flare of light as the soldier lit a cigarette. A long breath set the flame deep within the tobacco. The soldier turned and blew smoke over his shoulder, noting the statue set in the middle of the garden. St. Michael stood there, sword raised over his head as he looked to heaven for the signal to end the dragon. As the smoke diffused upward towards the statues face the old soldier nodded to it, winking at the ethereal warrior and murmuring something about long nights away from home.
He gazed out at the parking lot filled with cars, each one carrying a family to Christmas eve services. In his mind he knew exactly what each one looked like inside the heavy church doors. Small children, their faces lit by candles, watched expectantly and waited. Their youth and innocence kept them from understanding the full implications in the world around them, however they could sense a peace and calm in the light cast by a thousand candles. The thought crossed his mind that at one time he had been just such a child, bright eyed and naive. Then fate had caught up to him. A soul tortured by past sins had turned to fighting for justice as a way to atone for his crimes. Yet with each child he protected he had to kill another man, and the demons that now clawed at his heart were far greater than the ones he had been trying to appease in the beginning.
Snow began to fall from the sky, at first the small white flakes were indistinguishable from the stars above, but gradually they gained sway over the night until the stars disappeared. The falling crystals caught every passing sound and gently scolded it for disturbing such a night.
The soldier shook his head and put up a hood to protect himself. All these thoughts of innocence and peace would have once troubled his mind, however, he now knew that he was the one meant for this. He was the man destined to carry the burden. Deep within him he understood that he could not forgive, could not bring himself to be forgiven. All he could do was protect the innocent so that in time, they would be able to forgive others. It was not given to him to save them, only to preserve them so that they could be saved by another.
Slowly the church doors were opened and a joyous throng issued forth, singing carols. Even their exuberant cries however were immediately hushed at the sight of the falling snow. The soft quiet of the night insisted upon respect, and they gave it. A woman, who had been young not long ago, stepped quietly across the threshold of the church. At her side a man walked who had limped in his left knee.
A glimmer of recognition darted through the soldier's eyes as he saw them. To any passers-by it was apparent that he cared for the woman. It was not clear whether she was a sister, a lover or a friend, what was clear was that he was happy for her. He knew the man with her, by reputation or personally, and was confident that the man would care for her as he himself could not.
Her gaze passed over the wall where the soldier sat, it hesitated at the sight of his face. A memory passed across her countenance as her lips mouthed a name, but the name was lost in the falling snow.
She started to change direction towards him. Her step hastened a little. For the first time in a great while a forgotten emotion flooded her brain. Without allowing herself to name it she knew exactly what is was. Hope.
Even as her pace quickened and her heart with it, a friend called to her from the doorway. She turned for an instant to wave, and when she looked back, the wall was empty.
Black heels stood stark against the junction of vertical brick and walk. Soft crystals of white floated down upon the black, trying to quell the discord, yet as soon as they touched they disappeared into drops of water. Soon it became impossible to tell if the water on the walk and shoes came from the melted snow, or from the eyes of a woman who had dared to hope.
A lonely cigarette butt lay on the edge of the wall. Her instinct called out to pick it up, anything solidify the vision she had seen. Instead she turned, and hastened away to the man with a bad knee.
It didn't take long for the church to empty. The walk, wall, and garden stood alone in the falling snow. All alone but for the cigarette, inner coal still burning, sending up a thin trail of tainted incense at the shrine of the warrior's Angel.
Passing Elysium
As night draws in my journey comes to an end
My body must rest, yet the winds are rising in the east
The breeze of pine drives my soul onward, ever into the night
Trailing, following, haunted by pale headlights
which never allow me to see the future
On my right spread elysian fields, sung of by poets
She stands in the door on the hill
lamplight glowing about her silhouette
A name screamed into the wind
Then I am pulled again into the dark ahead
Never I returned, to the cottage on the hill
my headlights never passed me, returning to her
My body must rest, yet the winds are rising in the east
The breeze of pine drives my soul onward, ever into the night
Trailing, following, haunted by pale headlights
which never allow me to see the future
On my right spread elysian fields, sung of by poets
She stands in the door on the hill
lamplight glowing about her silhouette
A name screamed into the wind
Then I am pulled again into the dark ahead
Never I returned, to the cottage on the hill
my headlights never passed me, returning to her
The beginning
Explanations are naturally in order. To begin with, why the name? Necessary Absurdity. This is not chosen to elicit an instinctual expectation of comedy, indeed quite the opposite. The absurd is not the same as the humorous, nor even similar to the hilarious. Absurd is contrary to reason or propriety. It is the seemingly illogical contradiction to common sense.
As to the necessary, while reading through a novel by a Russian author I came upon the following passage (paraphrased naturally, Don't tell Dr. Taylor)
"And what should be done with this man, this monster? A man as evil as this?", The soldier asked.
"He should be shot!" cried the monk.
"Aha! There you have it, in truth the very essence of humanity, no one is above it", cried the soldier gleefully.
The monk frowned, "No, I spoke hastily, the very concept is absurd."
"Alyosha, sometimes the Absurd is only too necessary in this world."
This passage bears the inspiration for the name. The concept that sometimes the world is all too real, and calls for actions seemingly absurd, but which are only too necessary for the protection of others.
On this thought the post ends, more will follow. This will be a journal of thoughts, stories, songs, poetry and more...frequently we will not even touch on the theme of this necessary absurdity, yet through it all, it is the driving force behind me.
"We are responsible to each other, for each other, outside of our own sins."
As to the necessary, while reading through a novel by a Russian author I came upon the following passage (paraphrased naturally, Don't tell Dr. Taylor)
"And what should be done with this man, this monster? A man as evil as this?", The soldier asked.
"He should be shot!" cried the monk.
"Aha! There you have it, in truth the very essence of humanity, no one is above it", cried the soldier gleefully.
The monk frowned, "No, I spoke hastily, the very concept is absurd."
"Alyosha, sometimes the Absurd is only too necessary in this world."
This passage bears the inspiration for the name. The concept that sometimes the world is all too real, and calls for actions seemingly absurd, but which are only too necessary for the protection of others.
On this thought the post ends, more will follow. This will be a journal of thoughts, stories, songs, poetry and more...frequently we will not even touch on the theme of this necessary absurdity, yet through it all, it is the driving force behind me.
"We are responsible to each other, for each other, outside of our own sins."
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