On wit

I had a sort of epiphany today. It happened just as I was talking to someone online, actually. It's long been a matter of some distress to me that my wit tends to come and go, rather like a cheap hustler. I could not, for the life of me, figure out what sort of currency would convince the little hussy to stay for a while, as I enjoy having her around. I pause in an aside to note how interesting it is that my wit seems to be female. Normally when I think of wittiness, I consider that paragon of mental agility, Oscar Wilde. I had thought that the personification of that rather fleeting aspect of my personality to be a British gentleman in a finely tailored suit, making snide remarks while eating cucumber sandwiches. But no, my wit wears a black and red bustier, and she is not afraid of showing off her more prominent attributes.

So epiphany, yes! I've discovered that at least one secret ingredient is cynicism. That's it. Nothing terribly esoteric about it. I'm a fairly observant person, when I want to be, and I'm dreadfully creative when I feel like it as well. It is, I think, the optimism that's the problem. A rapier wit usually isn't used to encourage someone to strive for their dreams. Speaking poinards, as it were, is somewhat detrimental when you're urging the chubby girl to shake her bon bons, baby! If that's her dream. Unless you're being cruel, and I'd sooner spoon out my eyes than be intentionally cruel. There's more than enough of that to go around as it is.

Maybe that's why I can verbally spar with my Blacksburg crew so much. The closer I feel to someone, the freer I feel about making fun of him mercilessly. Particularly if his name starts with a C, ends with a y, and he refuses to respond with a barb as pointed as mine. Except that one time, when the Battle of Midway was apparently between Godzilla and Alexi's Mom. But that's a story for another evening.

So I just have to tempt out my sultry inner wench of wit using a sufficiently bleak world view. Ahmmmm...let's see. There is no ultimate meaning behind everything, no place under Heaven, no plan external to what we have to make for ourselves. For better for worse, our meaning and our place in the universe is what we make of ourselves. Even if the insensate stars are ultimately uncaring, it is enough that there are people down here who do care for us, and care deeply, and for their sake we have to make as good a go of it as we can. We will determine ourselves whether our legacy is one of hatred and violence, or one of tolerance and understanding.

Huh. I think that kinda backfired. I was going more for an angsty sort of, "Life is pain. We suck. Rock on!"....damn! Where did that come from? I don't think "Rock on" is part of the goth creed.

Ah well. Even if I must surrender a bit of the edge on my words, I guess for now I'll stay a tried and true optimist.

On chaos

Chaos, in a primordial sort of way. The Greeks regarded Chaos not in the modern connotation of the term, as a mass of confusion, but as the endless void. The infinite nothing from which spawned everything. Chaos is more appropriately written Ka-os, pronounced Kah-aws. The break in the middle, the awkward hesitation, the actual phonetic representation of that momentary lapse in sound, is actually of greater significance than most laymen realize. Although the word signifies the meaning, the break is representative of Chaos in a more accurate way than the word itself.

In the Theogony, written by Hesiod, after Chaos came Eros, Gaia, and Tarteros. It is an important note to mention that it was not Chaos that birthed Eros, Gaia, and Tarteros, but in fact the three came into existence on their own. They willed themselves into being, if you will (no pun intended). Although, if one stops and really examines the situation, creating oneself into the void, an infinite span of ultimate nothingness, can only be likened to being birthed by the void. There's nothing there to give birth to you, so only Nothing could have given birth to you. Or is that arguing semantics?

I imagine, were I a much better philosopher, or perhaps a much more competent abstract thinker, I could find the distinction between the two. Perhaps it's really a matter of power, the kind that occurs when something gives birth to another, or when something forces itself into a space that (if we may assume, in this train of thought) didn't want the intrusion.

Nevertheless, I've always found it a point of fascination that Hesiod chose Love, the Earth, and the Pit of Ultimate Suffering to be the three primordial entities after the void. Love, in particular, as the other three can arguably be described as places. I do think it significant, however, that even as early as Hesiod a place of punishment was considered a primal aspect of creation.

At any rate, I think it is perhaps an indication of what a tumultous force Love was, to the ancient Greeks. The God of Love was nothing less than one of the first four entities responsible for creation, and the Goddess of Love the result of a rather violent struggle for power, a betrayal of a particularly intimate sort, and the emasculation of the very Sky. Love is powerful, creational, promordial, and therefore also dangerous and potentially ruinous.

And then, somewhere in the order of the 12th century or so, the bloody French came along and turned the whole thing romantic in the worst sort of way. The noble knight, forever adoring his lady from afar, doomed to love her but never able to claim her. Perhaps she returns his love, but, alas, even if she weren't wedded to the lord, or baron, or marquis, she was still a noblewoman, and therefore as out of his reach as the stars in the sky. A romantic notion, maybe, but ultimately a foolish one.

Is there a point to this? Ha. Yes, actually, but not for anyone but myself. Read the subtext, if you like - I'm just writing to add a layer of serenity to a rather disheveled me.

On revision

Sometimes, we become so focused on what is far away that we completely miss what is in front of us. Thus it is with me, particularly in realms wherein I have little experience, and little I may use to guide me.

I am told that I should be more forgiving of myself when I make mistakes. I think I'm going to take that advice.

On rollercoasters

Ah, hello blog.

First off, I've decided to move my little pet project to a different forum. It simply seemed much more appropriate to section off that aspect of my life from this one, which I think I will continue to use as a public method of complaining.

My stories may now be found on http://dispater27.blogspot.com/

That's for those of you who are actually interested in the stories I'm writing. Even if you're not, let's just pretend that you are and go with that. Salvage my ego!

So, here we are again. It is once again stupidly late at night, or insanely early in the morning, depending on your point of view. My soapbox looks dusty, and my spotlight could probably use a bulb replacement, but here I am again, ready to sing my grievances into an unhearing world. Perhaps I believe, in my own way, that if I cast my hopes into the vasty dark long enough, they'll somehow finally reach the one for whom they are intended, as he stands on a distant shore listening for my voice.

A decidedly romantic notion, no?

I was talking with a friend tonight, and we touched briefly upon the subject of optimism. He's been disappointed a great deal in his life, and his optimism is ebbing, although he remains at heart a romantic. I've suffered a great deal of disappointment as well, but I still remain a tried and true optimist. I believe, truly believe, that things will work out, and by extension, I suppose, that means that I ultimately do have faith in mankind. In spite of all our idiocies, I think we do learn from our mistakes, eventually. I choose to believe that we'll overcome our worse natures in the end.

But that's not really the reason I'm discussing this topic. On a random aside (you all should be well used to these by now), I suddenly had the mental image of a penguin as a lounge singer, as an almost direct result of my choice to use the words "sing my grievances." I do not know why I choose the penguin, save that I find them rather ridiculous birds. I certainly don't ordinarily associate myself with the penguin, nor do I sing in lounges. It might be fun to be a penguin, however, particularly if I get to be the mascot for Linux. I could lounge around all day while nerds with computers feed me fish. Oh yeah, baby! Nerds with fish! It might also be fun to sing in lounges, but I'm not sure I could resist the urge to wear a sparkly, sequined dinner jacket. Yes, that's tackier than minute-long superglue. Hell, it's tackier than David Hasslehoff. Good God, I've just admitted to being tackier than David Hasslehoff.

Segue! Segue! Oh my God, I need a segue!

Ummmm...modern comics! Yes, I read comics, and I think I've mentioned this in my profile. Just another way that I escape into something that nevertheless has real life pertinence at times. It's interesting, when you stop and think about it, how comics reflect a shifting attitude in American culture - particularly about illustrated stories. They've gone from generally being extraordinarily campy, even goofy, to stories that can have a truly visceral impact, with some incredibly sophisticated ideas behind them. I point out the Grant Morrison run of New X-Men as a particularly fine example of this.

Hrm. I didn't give that a very good run, now did I? To be honest, I wasn't really prepared to engage in a discussion about the artistic integrity of comic books. I just wanted to completely leave behind the idea that I might actually be cheesier than David Hasslehoff.

Alright, I should get to the real reason I'm typing tonight. I think it's because I've allowed myself to hope again, knowing full well that the odds of those hopes being met, or even heard, are probably somewhat worse than the odds on the New York Powerball Lottery. I said to my friend earlier that it may be because actors are peculiar creatures - we have a certain masochistic streak when it comes to our emotions. I'd rather have my hopes get trampled, then allow myself to hope again, then to retreat away. Maybe it's because retreating is what I would have done, years ago.

Bah. This is gotten decidedly taciturn and just a little morbid. I seem to have become rather morose, and I must conclude that I don't look good in morose. I'm much more of a...benignly amused. And in a state of benign amusement, I shall go to bed.