Question!

It is mankind's greatest blessing and greatest curse that every decision is easier made the second time. I find it interesting where "the world" is headed. The world is a loaded word, a generalization for men in society, white men, American men, because I can only speak for them as far as I see it, and even then, only because I am one; thus, quotation marks.

I think Chuck got it right. We are the middle children of history. We are the the fast food generation. Ours is no noble battle, no fight for some righteous cause. We have no reason to live. At least a few hundred years ago men could still be men. Back then, being a man meant chopping down trees on a homestead to literally build a life for yourself and your family. Back then, your worth as a man was decided by how well you could protect and provide for a wife and offspring. Life had purpose, even if that purpose was simply to survive.

What do men build today? What decides a man's worth? Who do we protect? For whom do we provide? What is man's purpose? Why is the white male alive in America? With the easiness of modern life, what is left to live for? What do men have to value?

I can answer these questions, my religion gives me satisfying and fulfilling answers to all of them. But what do others say? (Take this next part lightly) It seems to me that all men build today are stock portfolios and bigger bank statements and beer guts. Man lives his life in a vain pursuit of what he pictures to be contentment. And for the first time in history, society's structure allows him to get at it. It was originally called the American Dream. But this dream is turning into a nightmare, for what does the white male find at the top of the corporate ladder but another rung? He finds that once he has all the things that he thought would bring him contentment, he still feels an empty bed where contentment should be sleeping soundly.

I once went to a party at a mansion in Alpine, UT. The house was enormous. It had everything. Hardwood floors, a library, a gigantic kitchen, a pool. Literally a modern castle. The owner was some lawyer in his late 50's, divorced, and alone. I later came to learn that he invited various groups of young kids to have parties and hang out there. Other people may have seen this as "such a cool thing" and "so generous," but I left feeling bad for the guy. Here was a man who had "everything": a ridiculous car, a giant house, and a boatload of money. He also had no one to share it with. Here was a man with all the trappings of the illusory "modern contentment" who slept alone in a little corner room of a gorgeous home. I couldn't help but feel like I had been used.

We as humans value that which is the hardest to get. For most people, happiness is hardest to get because they equate happiness or contentment with ethereal numbers, notions of wealth that are assured to you by banks and investment firms. They tell you how much money you have, how much you are "worth", but all those numbers will come and go without you ever setting eyes on them. And one day, one day in the near future, all that will collapse like some laughable house of cards we've built. The banks will tell you that you have nothing. When that day comes, you may find that you have nothing left to live for, and that you have squandered your days in frivolous pursuits. You'll wish he hadn't made the same decision the second time, and the time after that. And for all you who doubt the validity of my words, rest assured, Apple is working on a new iPad. So keep working at that job you hate.

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Poetry Masterwork

So I'm in a creative writing class right now and I just turned this in today as my "Poetry Masterwork." So this is the best I can do at this point. Let me know what you think.

On Arriving Home

A prevailing wind brings with it hints of pressed olives and sun-raised wheat—

the smells of Ithaca.

It fills the sails with speeded flight and caresses time-torn faces.

Of home it breathes, of solace it sings.

The gentle waves lap at the hull,

and push and glide the leaning shoulders to familiar shores.

These few eager travelers, orphaned by fate—

they all smile and thrill—

all but one.

This Odysseus finds a full home so empty,

halls lined with profane suitors

no baptism of blood can purify.

For this warrior has been bathed in flame;

Has borne a bronze crucible—bears it with him still—

battlefields in mind and memory of soul-cracking horror.

Now his haft-calloused hands

find it hard to embrace old companions,

muscle-memory gone, replaced by scars and sinew and salt.

The tired years pass and he now holds a squalling child, where dying men had lain,

And looks past the uneven ends of a stolen life,

on to the horizon, the call of which beckons still.

[Keep following, cuz they be rapin' 'errbody up in here.]

You Get Inspiration In The Darnedest Places

Her spectre-steps linger and prolong her arrival to whoknowswhere. She clutches stacks of papers and books in a desperate hug. The scrunched brow and thin-lipped expression damn up a reservoir of emotion. And her eyes see things beyond sight. Those hollow orbs view a memory; an unholy vision played out on an ethereal stage. The sun does not exist for her, simply a waning moon this afternoon. And she'll never be like the women she spends her savings trying to imitate. Now her concrete cracks and saline lines collect in the open space of her lids. They don't fall. A testament to pure numbing steel of will. But the pressure is patient. Pressure to be, to do, to love, to resolve. In this moment she learns to live. She must spend this night outside and learn to sleep in spite of it; to make the most of dawn. She doesn't know the flaming star will rise to burn out those dewey drops. This, like all good times, will pass.

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