Seriously, people, do we need to be setting legal age limits on trick or treaters? Of all the asinine things people could be wasting government time on, this is right up there with changing the name to "freedom fries."
Call me crazy, but I never realized there was any sort of social norm on this one. Yes, it's mostly for little kids -- but when did it become a big bad evil thing for a teenager to do it? Isn't trick or treating a pretty benign thing for a teen to do? Shouldn't we be applauding a teen for doing something so wholesome and not worrying what his peers think? Hell, maybe they are all roaming in a pack. I don't know about you, but I'd rather be giving them candy than scrubbing their tags off my fence.
To make matters worse, the article that brought this very important national issue to my attention was couched in terms of fear. "Have you ever looked out your peephole and been scared of a trick or treater?" First of all, isn't the idea of Halloween to be scared? And second, who the hell uses their peephole on Halloween?
In my day, teens were too "cool" to trick or treat. I took it up again in college, when I learned how to not care what others thought. Sure, I got a few odd looks when I rang some bells, but mostly people appreciated my motto: "You're never too old for Halloween!"
Look, if you have a beef with giving teens candy, then don't give them any. But like so many other personal beliefs, this has no place in the halls of lawmaking. Maybe if local governments weren't focusing on such drivel they might, oh I don't know.....have money for schools to buy copy paper or something.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Friction of the Soul, continued: Wanderlust
For the last few years I have been experiencing what I would call a wanderlust of the soul. I thought at first that it was a "seven year itch" kind of thing -- an "untamable creature living a domesticated life" scenario. And while I can't deny that these are elements of my psyche, I have come to realize that they are not the true issue at hand.
The longing I feel is not for something that I wish existed. It is for something that was, or maybe could have been. For who I used to be, who I wish I were, who I could have been. For some part of me that for a brief time flowered but only lasted a season. For blooms that could not sprout today, for though the roots still live, the plant they sustain has changed. What I was, before life beat me down. What I could have been, had I the strength and support and love to be true to that Self. Strength and courage I eventually found but too late to do anything with.
I mourn the parts of me that will be forever broken. Thge little girl who will never know her parents' love. The young woman unable to value herself and demand that others do the same. The woman I am today, doomed to play with fire because it is the only way to remember she is still alive. Who misses the torment that threateneed to rend her soul.
The angst I carry now merely incites a melancholic discontent. Nothing of use will come of it.
I send my words, my cry, to the Universe, but who hears? One or two souls may hear, may even be inspired to reply -- but for the most part I shout to the wind. And so again, still, I am alone. It has always been so; thinking I was not was only an illusion.
So if this is my natural state, why can I not embrace it? Maybe what I perceive as longing against solitude is really a longing to be fully myself -- who I was, who I could have been, who I shall be.
The longing I feel is not for something that I wish existed. It is for something that was, or maybe could have been. For who I used to be, who I wish I were, who I could have been. For some part of me that for a brief time flowered but only lasted a season. For blooms that could not sprout today, for though the roots still live, the plant they sustain has changed. What I was, before life beat me down. What I could have been, had I the strength and support and love to be true to that Self. Strength and courage I eventually found but too late to do anything with.
I mourn the parts of me that will be forever broken. Thge little girl who will never know her parents' love. The young woman unable to value herself and demand that others do the same. The woman I am today, doomed to play with fire because it is the only way to remember she is still alive. Who misses the torment that threateneed to rend her soul.
The angst I carry now merely incites a melancholic discontent. Nothing of use will come of it.
I send my words, my cry, to the Universe, but who hears? One or two souls may hear, may even be inspired to reply -- but for the most part I shout to the wind. And so again, still, I am alone. It has always been so; thinking I was not was only an illusion.
So if this is my natural state, why can I not embrace it? Maybe what I perceive as longing against solitude is really a longing to be fully myself -- who I was, who I could have been, who I shall be.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
A Walk with Freddy
What men call passion is the friction of the soul with the Universe.
Herman Hesse wrote these words (roughly paraphrased) in The Glass Bead Game. Of the many words in that long, dull book (I couldn't bring myself to finish it), these were instantly seared onto my brain. Why? Because I understand them.
I suspect this is one of those "if you have to ask" situations. If you have to ask, you can't afford it. If you have to ask, you won't understand. But let's try, shall we?
Truly great art -- whether visual, written, or philosphized -- can only stem from great torment. Think about it. What does calm, peaceful, serenity give you? Beautiful but vapid Monets. Socially poignant but emotionally flat Jane Austen. Saccharine Emily Dickenson. But what does the tormented soul produce? Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Nietzsche! Stormy seas, these people have sailed -- and their art is so much more meaningful and profound because of it.
Monet painted beautiful pictures, Jane Austen wrote fine novels, and I suppose someone out there likes Dickenson. But one's enjoyment of them does not plow the depths of one's soul. On the other hand, even the most placid of Van Gogh's paintings evokes an emotional energy so raw that it is palpable. Plath -- who can read her poems and not feel a sense of self-recognition in their darkness? And Nietzsche -- he went so far off into the universe that he ended up in the nuthouse.
And sadly, that is a common fate for such friction-filled souls. Why did Van Gogh cut off his ear, Friedrich get carted away to the asylum, and poor Sylvia off herself in her early 30s? Why do such brilliant minds, with such insight into reality end up mentally unstable?
Because such souls are few and far between, and at the end of the day humans are social creatures. If one doesn't have another like mind, someone who understands, it takes its toll. Even the accepted-but-social-oddity of the absent minded scientist or out of touch and solitary philosopher eventually cannot resist the innate need for companionship. And so these souls spend their lives alone, adrift, trying to find their way in a world that does not understand them.
Some, like Plath, give in to despair and the desire for release. But those who lack emotional stability to begin with or who simply refuse to assimilate end up in asylums --or today, find themselves in a lifelong relationship with Xanax. I suppose it is to be expected -- what else would a society do with its "crazies"?
I wonder how this phenomenon will change in the modern world. The internet and social networking make it so much easier to meet people far and wide. Will this lessen the solitude of such souls? Will feeling less alone reduce their friction enough to make life bearable?
I've outlived both Sylvia and Vincent, so I guess I'll have to let you know when I get to my padded cell.
Herman Hesse wrote these words (roughly paraphrased) in The Glass Bead Game. Of the many words in that long, dull book (I couldn't bring myself to finish it), these were instantly seared onto my brain. Why? Because I understand them.
I suspect this is one of those "if you have to ask" situations. If you have to ask, you can't afford it. If you have to ask, you won't understand. But let's try, shall we?
Truly great art -- whether visual, written, or philosphized -- can only stem from great torment. Think about it. What does calm, peaceful, serenity give you? Beautiful but vapid Monets. Socially poignant but emotionally flat Jane Austen. Saccharine Emily Dickenson. But what does the tormented soul produce? Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Nietzsche! Stormy seas, these people have sailed -- and their art is so much more meaningful and profound because of it.
Monet painted beautiful pictures, Jane Austen wrote fine novels, and I suppose someone out there likes Dickenson. But one's enjoyment of them does not plow the depths of one's soul. On the other hand, even the most placid of Van Gogh's paintings evokes an emotional energy so raw that it is palpable. Plath -- who can read her poems and not feel a sense of self-recognition in their darkness? And Nietzsche -- he went so far off into the universe that he ended up in the nuthouse.
And sadly, that is a common fate for such friction-filled souls. Why did Van Gogh cut off his ear, Friedrich get carted away to the asylum, and poor Sylvia off herself in her early 30s? Why do such brilliant minds, with such insight into reality end up mentally unstable?
Because such souls are few and far between, and at the end of the day humans are social creatures. If one doesn't have another like mind, someone who understands, it takes its toll. Even the accepted-but-social-oddity of the absent minded scientist or out of touch and solitary philosopher eventually cannot resist the innate need for companionship. And so these souls spend their lives alone, adrift, trying to find their way in a world that does not understand them.
Some, like Plath, give in to despair and the desire for release. But those who lack emotional stability to begin with or who simply refuse to assimilate end up in asylums --or today, find themselves in a lifelong relationship with Xanax. I suppose it is to be expected -- what else would a society do with its "crazies"?
I wonder how this phenomenon will change in the modern world. The internet and social networking make it so much easier to meet people far and wide. Will this lessen the solitude of such souls? Will feeling less alone reduce their friction enough to make life bearable?
I've outlived both Sylvia and Vincent, so I guess I'll have to let you know when I get to my padded cell.
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