Knowledge

I am different.

I think everyone eventually makes this realization at some point in their lives. It’s an important part of growing and becoming an individual. There are varying levels of extremity, but everyone looks around at some point in their lives and notices for the first time that they are unique. Some may realize it at a young age, perhaps while playing on the playground, and then never really think of it again. Other people struggle with their individuality their entire lives.

But it isn’t just identity is it? On the contrary, it seems that people who dive more deeply into their own self-understanding are the same people who dive more deeply into every other facet of life. Some people just seem to live on the surface, never analyzing, never pondering, and other people live at a deeper level.

I don’t think one is better than the other. They are both methods of life, and everyone succeeds in living. I don’t think that it’s possible to fail at LIFE. After all, to live means only that you metabolically process oxygen and nutrients, excrete waste, take up space, and eventually die. This isn’t a sad or morbid way to look at life. Actually, if you think about it, this way of thinking about life is quite liberating. Why be afraid to fail when failure is impossible?

But these people who live more deeply just have an innate desire to KNOW and to understand! And unfortunately, if they cannot come to terms with their own desire to understand more and to dig for deeper meaning, it’s quite possible they will miss out on simplicity. One of the most important things to learn about living is how to stop pushing forward. There is always something to do, isn’t there? There is ALWAYS something that can be done. Although for many people, the ability to slow down and relax comes naturally, for other people this ability must be learned. But more importantly, these people must REALIZE who they are. If they do not realize, and if they do not learn how to enjoy the world, they will rush through their entire lives. They will hurry and hurry and hurry and never get ahead. Because let’s face it, there is always something that can be done in life.

All of this comes down to self-realization. Sometimes I believe life would be easier if I could live on the surface the way I see some of my peers living. It’s as if for some reason I was born caring about the whole world, seeing everything through everyone else’s eyes, living as an observer. Blacks and whites disappear into a world filled with shades of grey. Even when I look at myself, I am sometimes overwhelmed by how complex my own personality is. But it is not a complexity which is altogether confusing. And I have found that knowledge is power. Nothing is a stranger to me if I can learn about it, myself included. The more I learn about myself, the more comfortable I become with who I am. Over time, I realized that I make more sense if I remove myself from mankind as a whole and examine my nature independently.

I am, innately, a solitary person. The more I accepted my introverted nature, the less frightening it seemed. And the less I tried to fit myself into a social world which confused me, the less confusing it appeared. After a while I realized that I make more sense to myself if I imagine that I am an entire different species of human. I can live in a world of people, friends, family, and coworkers more harmoniously if I stop trying to fit myself into their canvas of puzzle pieces. I am simply not one of them. And over time, as I stopped trying to be one of the masses, I felt less lonely and more integrated. I think perhaps it was because when I was constantly comparing myself to them, I felt alienated and different, but once I realized that I simply cannot be one of them, my differences became acceptable. I suppose it would be how a cat would feel once it realized that it was not a dog. Imagine how frustrating it would be If a cat had been living its entire life trying to bark at cars, but had all along been wondering why none of the other dogs could climb trees and walk along fence tops! The entire picture becomes more understandable once the poor cat realized that it was not a dog, but another mammal altogether.

The same was the case for me. I am different, a different type of human. I think differently from all of my friends and family, and sometimes, when I explain my thought processes, I am met with silence and confusion. Now I believe that some people who know in their soul that they are different from the world become bitter. They push and try to cram themselves into social boxes where they do not fit. This only makes their differences more obvious. But there are others, like myself, who handle things differently. My goal in life is integration. I want to blend. I want to function smoothly in society. Why should I make myself seem like an alien? It is enough that I know in my heart that I am different. My own unique viewpoint on life enriches my life every day in ways that are astounding. I would be lying if I said that I don’t often feel superior to others. If they could only see through my eyes for an hour! Everything is layered; everything can be followed, integrated, grown and linked to everything else. We live in a world of intersecting and ever changing dynamics. Everything is related to everything else! There is so much to know, and everything I learn adds onto and enhances everything I already know. I love that about life.

And this mental integration which for so long handicapped me in my relationships with other people eventually became the single most wonderful part of my life, I only had to set it free! Unfortunately however, the way I see the world which makes science so simple and effortless also makes people confusing and convoluted. This is often the case with introverts and people who are strong in science and critical thinking. I find social norms strange and confusing. Simple things like small talk and friendships may be second nature for many people, but for me they took lots and lots of practice. I spent years of trial and error learning social customs which most people learn within a few weeks or months.

I think often people like me who do not get society as a whole are labeled as people with “rough teenage years” or who went through “phases”. And often, the investigation goes no further. However, my nature is analysis, and I needed to know why I am the way that I am. Once I realized the reasons I struggled so much with understanding and acting appropriately in social situations, it took all of the confusion out of my behavior. In fact, if I could have been given an early dose of self-understanding, I probably could have prevented many of the social catastrophes I blundered into. In much the same way, a person with low blood sugar can prevent fainting if they just keep some food with sugar nearby. It’s just a matter of knowing beforehand. I guess that’s just life. If I had a mainstream personality I would have been able to understand myself more easily, and there would be less confusing time spent in exploration limbo. 

You see, knowledge is where real power lies. Why do you think there are historians, and writers, and journals, and photos? Every generation passes its wisdom and new knowledge on to the next generation. In a way, I think that we’re afraid that if we don’t pass what we've learned and our stories on to the world, that we’ll just kind of….cease to exist. We’d disappear, no longer matter, hold no value, be forgotten….we’d just….vanish. That truly must be the worst fate for any human being.

Imagine if you woke tomorrow, and suddenly the police come in and threw you out of your own home for trespassing. Another person who resembles you is now living your life. And the most infuriating part is that no one seems to notice the difference! You employers hand him your paycheck, your mailman brings him your mail, your dog whimpers and runs to him. Even your own wife and children look you in the eye and deny that they know you! Every high school, college, photo you've been in, friend you know now accepts the impostor as the genuine individual. You have been effectively erased from history. What a truly horrific nightmare this would be!

This, my friends, is why knowledge is the true currency of planet earth. I don’t know a single individual who would trade their place in history for a lifetime of wealth. After all, what good is wealth if your name and story were blotted out of history the moment you died? Your whole life would have been spent as a ghost. You would build a life of memories which would disappear forever in an instant. You would lovingly form relationships with people who would never even remember that they loved you.

Yes, it is knowledge which gives us meaning, and holds us together in an ever-growing web of human knowledge. It is a web which each of us sees and experiences; a web, into which, each of us adds our own unique branching and inter-connected contribution. But I would like to suggest that self-knowledge is the most significant type of knowledge that we can acquire. Self-knowledge is a key which each of us receives, and with it we can decode the world. Without it, we can never hope to understand the universe, and our place in it. 

I think we often forget...

I think we often forget...

What rage we felt that day! We were not strangers, but brothers! Five minutes earlier the man walking next to you was unfamiliar, now, you are comrades.
The smoke was billowing, people were crying. Was it an accident? Was it an error? Was it even reality? Surely not. But then the second plane hit and every eye that saw it knew....this was deliberate. What sort of person could justify this unholy slaughter!?
People were running, rumors flew, and tempers flared. Through the smoke there was a sickening screech and a rumble that shook the sea. People screamed and watched in horror as the first tower fell. It was as if the earth swallowed the monster in one gulp. White dust covered every surface, and debris floated through the air. It was serene in a sickening sort of way.
There was a united sinking of hearts as those standing in the streets imagined all of the people trapped inside the buildings; injured, dying, or dead already.
"We should kill them! The people who did this, we should bomb them!" cried one man as disbelief turned to horror and rage.
The whole country watched as the second tower fell, and the whole country shook with fear. Was this the beginning of something much worse? Was the entire world under attack? Who was targeting the United States?
Above all, at that moment, every man, woman, and child in the United States of America were....UNITED.
We stood as one reckoning force, crying out in rage against this attack on our homeland. We bled with our brothers and sisters trapped in the rubble, and we supported the injured and weak. We put our differences aside, and stood up.....as AMERICANS!!

I think we often forget how that day felt to us.
Sometimes I listen to the debates I hear around me about the trending issues, and I wonder, is this really the most important thing? Pro life versus pro choice, who cares? How about pro mutual respect and support instead? Republican versus Democrats? Why do we have to fight over labels? Republicans and Democrats died side by side on September 11! I guarantee they weren't arguing over the correct method of regulating healthcare when the building collapsed under their feet.
I'm not saying these things aren't important. I'm just saying that I think we get caught up in the logistics so much, that we can't remember what really matters, running America for the American people!

We should be brothers and Americans first, and then the rest will come more naturally.

Sometimes I think we should sit all the politicians down before a big decision, and play ground zero footage from September 11 just for a little perspective. I believe the greatest shame would be for us to forget that day and what it meant to us.

Changes

Hey fellow bloggers and meager followers. I've made a recent change to my blog. If you'll notice, to the righthand side of the page (from a laptop or desktop web browser) there used to be a disclaimer informing you that all of the pictures on my blog are my property, do not steal, I have the copyright, yadda yadda.

But to be honest, this self imposed policy has been hampering the original reason I made the blog, for self-expression. Yes, I would very much like for people not to copy photos I've taken and use them as their own, that's rude. But let's be honest, google's little spiders run all over the Internet collecting whatever photos they want to. If I take a photo off of google's photos tab, there's no way I can be sure that the photo isn't copyrighted. It may have been used dozens of times all over the Internet.

The thoughts and ideas and words I write are the real reason I've made this blog, not to showcase my photography or to create a utopia where only things I've created exist.

So in conclusion, this policy is gone. I will be writing for self-expression, and I'll use whatever photos i want to use. I guess, the best way to express my new train of thought is this, if you don't want me to intentionally or accidentally plagiarize your photography, don't put it on the Internet in a way which makes it susceptible to right-clicking.

Homeless

I saw him a few weeks ago. He was standing in the median, holding a sign. His sign was fairly typical. Homeless, traveling, broke, hungry, family to support, etc. I didn't see his clothing too well, I was driving past fairly quickly. I did see his eyes though.
As I was driving past, he was walking across the on-ramp, back to a woman sitting on the other side. She too, was wearing tattered clothes, and she looked tired. For a split second, I glimpsed his face, crystal clear in my eyesight. There were tears in his eyes, pain in his dejected face. He wiped away a tear, dropped his gaze, and then he was gone. The light had turned green, and he became lost in my rear view mirror.

I couldn't get his face out of my head for the rest of the day. I've always been taught to be leery of people with signs. These roadside beggars have been classified as "alcoholics", "lazy", or "dangerous". But what about the people who really are down on their luck?

More than likely the reason that dejected face struck me so acutely is because....I've been there. Not begging on the side of the road, I have too much pride for that, but I've been down on my luck before. I've slept on the couch of someone who didn't want me there. I've looked for work in a town where there were no jobs. I've spent long days in libraries and Starbucks coffee shops. I've walked the sidewalk of a busy street with nowhere to go and no way to get there. I know how it feels.

And maybe that acute experience with failure is what made that face stick in my brain like a poisoned hook. It was a cold chill of the past, a bitter reminder of a time when life was cold, bleak, and heartless.

Today I drove through that same intersection, and although the face had changed, the story was the same. This time it was a young couple. They held signs, him standing, and she, sitting at his feet.
Thoughts raced around my head. What if they're just getting easy money? What if they aren't really down on their luck? What if they aren't really hungry, homeless, traveling, unemployed, or raising a family?
But this time, I reached into my pocket, pulled out that bill I was saving for a rainy day, and held it out with a smile.

Who cares what their reasons are? Sure, I can't verify their story or their intentions. All I know is that there was a time when I needed help, and a hand reached out the preverbal window for me. I had nothing, nowhere to go, nothing to cling to, and I can never describe how grateful I was for that assistance. Don't they deserve for someone to take that risk for them?

I do not own rights for this photo

Stereotypes: My Nemises

I'm extremely annoyed. Now, I don't usually begin posts this way so I'll explain.
There is something I covet in this world more than money or success or love of life itself. I jealously watch others who are lucky enough to have it and I boil inside. Occasionally I feel like I could actually leap out and grab it, but something always jerks me back and slaps my wrist.
This thing, that I covet so much is......short hair. I'm not talking about a pageboy-cute-pixie-girl haircut, I'm talking about a straight-up, hair generally about four inches long, extremely short boy-cut.

I really and truly hate having long hair. Occasionally I look in the mirror and like the long blond locks, but generally, I detest caring for long hair. I hate blow-drying it after showers, I hate fixing it so it looks like I enjoy having it, I hate dealing with it when it's humid and my hair decides to freak out like I rubbed a balloon over it and then I tried to curl it while simultaneously juggling chain saws. I HATE HAVING LONG HAIR!

However, even though I hate long hair more than I hate clowns, society says I need it. In our day-and-age short hair is allowed for boys, lesbians, and extremely feminine women. If you don't fall into one of these categories, it's not okay. I know this from experience, see in high-school, I was attempting to solve my abhorrence of long hair with an "inbetweener" cut.

That's me, on the left, in highschool. An inbetweener cut is long enough to classify as semi-pixi-cut, yet short enough so I didn't actually have to deal with long hair. As a general rule, I was a social outcast in highschool. Now I'm not blaming this completely on the hair, after all, I matured much more slowly than I'd like to admit, however, I do believe the hair contributed.
Once I started college, grew my hair out, (and matured....a lot) I have worked my way up the social ladder. Nowdays, when I actually take the time to fix my hair, (which is about 2% of the time, the rest of the time it's either straightened or pony-tailed) I get tons of compliments. I have even expressed my lust for a boy-cut to a few of my closer friends, and they are skeptical that I would be able to "pull it off".

See, the problem is that I don't fit into any of the three acceptable boy-cut categories.

1) Boy

Clearly, this is the most obvious way to qualify for short hair......actually being a boy. And obviously I do not fit into this category. 

2) Lesbian

This is another category of people that are allowed to have extremely short haircuts. I, like any teen growing up in the 2000's had to, at one time or another, decide where I stood along the gay/not gay line. I never had any lesbian doubts to begin with, so I also do not qualify for this category of short-hair.

3) Extremely "Feminine/Attractive" or "Famous" Female

Short hair on straight women becomes socially acceptable when:

a) the woman is excessively feminine. As long as the woman is feminine enough (clothes, jewelry, makeup, a boyfriend never hurts) the short hair is considered an accessory and doesn't drag her towards the ambiguous "I can't tell if she's gay or not" line. 

b) The woman is extremely attractive. I'm talking about the kind of attractive that stands out in a crowd and causes car accidents. If a girl is that attractive, it doesn't matter what she does or how she wears her hair, it just ceases to matter. 

c) The woman is famous. Let's face it, celebrities get a free pass. If you're a movie star or singer ect, you can do anything you want to do because society already loves you.  

What a nightmare!!! Social stereotypes are worse than politics! In summary, I'm not a boy, I'm not a lesbian, and I'm not famous, excessively feminine, or extremely attractive. I'm not saying that I'm ugly, I'm just saying that I'm no Kiera Knightly! 

It's awful! I can not successfully pull off a boy-cut without repercussions! If, at some point, I decide that I don't care what people think and I go ahead and rid myself of my labor-intensive locks, I will be stepping into a dangerous area. This area is called, I am cool/original or self-confident enough to defy social conventions altogether! And honestly, I'm not sure if I have that kind of courage.

Someday, my friends, I hope that we can get past these social conventions far enough for people like me, who hate petty guidelines, to live happy, successful, fulfilled lives without sacrificing hair-happiness to get it.

UPDATE:

After linking this page to my Facebook wall I received a large number of comments and emails from friends who felt the same way I did, or who recommended I go ahead with cutting my hair. Because of this, on September 20 I cut my hair. I have also added a new category of woman to the list of women who can "pull off" short hair: 

Author

Feminist: A women who believes in equal rights for men and women, and finds predominately male-established social rules regarding women to be confining and arbitrary.

The Conductor

He stands up slowly. The spotlight dwarfs him, making him a solitary silhouette in a world of darkness. Each bow is frozen in the air, poised above the strings. The spotlight softens and widens, revealing the pit of musicians. Violins, violas, and cellos helplessly lie at the mercy of the hands that hold them. They thirst for guidance. They long for gentle love to coax a melody, sweet and pure, out of their willing souls. The potential for beauty reverberates sharply around the massive room like an electrical shock. Suspense is thick, blinking away sweat and fear, the musicians wait for their cue.

Once again the silhouette commands attention. Time slows to a crawl. The spotlight forces the lone figure to trust that his music will appear in the air, in the darkness. He is alone in the great hall. Caging him into the solitary scene, the spotlight beats him into submission. Running down his back, he feels a single bead of sweat defying his strict orders of courage. Yet, even with his feelings of impending doom, the master of the melody raises his hands with an ease that comes with repetition. The great event is mere seconds away. One………….Two…………….Three……………Four; the hands gain courage with each beat.

The deafening first note raises the hair on the back of every neck. Like a jet passing through the barrier of sound, the colossal sonic boom seems to echo through the hall even after it has been chased away by the next measure. The violins harmonize with perfect pitch. Each violin appears to be playing itself. Musicians have faded away; the instruments take over and form a dictatorship. No pitch unless it is perfect pitch, no note unless it is the perfect note. The sorrow of each chime is humiliating and humbling. Like sweet honey, the violins pick up the melody effortlessly. Swelling and fading, swelling and fading, the violins waltz this dance to the death.

The violas take control of the undertones. The violins may be dominating the tsunami, but the violas kill the survivors in the rip tide. Swift and deadly, the violas grasp the hearts of the audience and torture them into falling in love. Rosin wafts through the air at each abrupt collision of string and bow. The staccato is hypnotizing. Clashes of blue and yellow explode against the black horizon. Melting into one, the violins bow to the violas, enticing them to join the fatal waltz. Each note is unique, a moment in time caged and presented like a bouquet. Each stanza bursts into the present, and then fades quickly into the past without a second chance at perfection. Antagonizing each other in this melodious tug-of-war, the violins and violas support this frail balance called music. 

The cellos suddenly swoop into the fiasco like a powerful explosion. Flirting with the melody, the cellos sway in and out of the way, laying the foundation with pride and bold strength. Accepting the role with grandeur, the cellos pick up the evolving sculpture and mold it into the spherical reflection of beauty it was always fated to become. The low current of the cellos moves effortlessly among the light pattering sunbeams that the violins are scattering throughout the great room.

All of this the silhouette anticipates and prepares. He stands, introverted by the massive floodlight, preparing each trill, catching each note. Caught up in his enjoyment, he not only hears, but he lives the music. No longer is he singled out in the auditorium. Instead, the entire world is engulfed into his light, and his dream. He moves with the music. Directing with enthusiasm, he gives the cellos their courage, the violas their majesty, and the violins their energy. He whispers loving words into the darkness. He swells with the crescendos, he floats with the pianissimos, and he antagonizes the fortissimos. This lone figure, he is one with the beauty.

As the last note fades into silence, there is nothing but empty air. The standing ovation is overdue, but it does not appear. His eyes open slowly; a single tear rolls down his cheek and hits the stage with a resounding crash. The music is over, the finale has been dealt.

They watch him from the door.

“A madman,” they mutter, “a raving lunatic.” The nurses shake their heads as they pass his room. Medication is the answer, some of them hypothesize. The doctors discuss solemnly, “If we just get the right combination of drugs, maybe we can pull him out of his crazy fantasy world and back into reality.” One by one they wander away. As they leave, the ragged conductor sinks down onto the floor. He feels the cold concrete underneath him, and he sighs. The lights start to go out one by one, it’s time for bed. As the last light flickers and fades away, a small voice breaks the silence. Quietly, with only the darkness as his witness, “I’m not crazy, I’m the only one who’s alive……I’m the only one.”

Realist versus Pessimist

I've always strongly associated myself with the title of "realist".
Clinging to the strong, sensible sound it portrays, I've mentioned time and time again that I am, have always been, and will always be, a realist.
I often say, "I see the good in good situations, and I see the bad in bad situations. I don't sugar coat things and I don't blacken the good things in life. I'm right in the center, seeing things exactly the way they are."

However, while I've been saying I'm a realist, I've also been saying that I am a cynic and a philosopher at heart. Both of these things are realities that I can not deny.
Recently I've been wondering, can I truly be a cynic and a realist at the same time? These things seem contradictory.
As I've been examining this more closely, I've come to the conclusion that, even though I don't like the way it sounds, I am more closely associated with pessimistic qualities than those of a realist.
I guess I'm a realist who leans towards pessimism. I see the good things in life, but I don't trust their validity and I don't expect them to last. When I'm enjoying the pleasant things in life, there's a little part of me that I have to ignore.
I guess this pessimistic tendency of mine is something often seen in people who have to deal with depression as I do.
My acquired ability to ignore my pessimistic feelings is a very positive skill.
If I were to listen to my cynical/pessimistic side all the time I would never be able to enjoy positive things.
These pessimistic shades through which I view the world have been a permanent part of my life for as long as I can remember. It's easy to see how a person who is constantly ignoring the silver lining and expecting tornados could develop a sense of despair or hopelessness.

My cynical side looks at love and sees future heartbreak, it looks at my health and vigor and dreads old age, it looks at my successes and weighs them against my failures constantly. My pessimistic side looks at friendship and sees only that everyone leaves. It looks at the joy of owning pets at whispers how foolish it is to love an animal who only lives for a decade or so.

These are the whispers of anger, fear, and despair that I hear every day.
However, as I've grown older, my pessimism has quieted into the background. I've learned objectivity, and fostered a sense of perspective that has smoothed my once rocky terrain of emotions into a horizon of hills and occasional boulders.

I'm sure many a psychiatrist would read this blog entry and comment dryly about the wonders of modern medicine. "Just look at how the vast world of anti-depressants has benefited this once-troubled child and turned her into a level headed young adult!"
Perhaps the wonders of modern medicine did have a part in my emotional development, but I believe there is a lot to be said for self-searching. Meditating on the realities of life, learning how and why you react the way you do, and above all else, embracing your personality, learning how to live with your flaws, and giving yourself the benefit of forgiving and forgetting your own mistakes.

I guess in the long run I inherited some of my pessimism, but I also found a lot of wisdom along the way.