Silent sighs slice the air
Suffering whispers inward aching
Some way to erase
A blurry emotive aftermath
~David Stanovcak, a.k.a. Ian
Tears shed softly
Silent sighs slice the air
Suffering whispers inward aching
Some way to erase
A blurry emotive aftermath
~David Stanovcak, a.k.a. Ian
Her True Nature
So, feel, for Her,
She fell. Shall we,
Find gain embracing
Shebang’s joy and pain?
Her play more a deception,
Staging remorse and regret.
Disguising the fateful flight
Spiraling, spinning down …
Without Her Syzygy.
Tears drop, laughter shouts
This Magna Mater’s redoubt,
Backdrop for El-Shaphat’s fight,
As stars smile duping delight.
She desires worshipers
Bruised from bended knees.
Seeking Her promised grace,
Lighting candles, offering prayers,
Adoration to a frigid, rigid, statue
Cast high upon an altar
Rewarding Her mistake.
Young man rises from genuflect,
Walks out the Church in ecstasy.
Wild youth prancing steps of a steed
Searching pleasure passion palaces,
Tucked away within steel-concrete,
Towering cathedral constructed city.
Iron-clad girder Overlords watching,
Serving beyond the Unseen Hand.
His mind gallops through streets
Littered with strolling cadavers.
Corporate, clergy, legal birds of prey gather.
A declining civilization still demanding,
Constant homage: there’s no free lunch.
Wage on slaving, a detailed routine day.
His leisure, an elusive finite treasure.
Shall he order more amour?
Enraptured, distracted, avert the bore?
Buy her diamond rings, and much more?
Proposing to her prostrated, below
Hopes and dreams dangling from the Moon,
Sky languishing above the ruminating sea
Shall it be yes to his ravishing plea.
Waiting … lingering … unanswered
Time enough to live, love, and cry.
Sorrows sleep, tearing away the years
Waiting for true love on an eve
When reality shatters accusingly
Delivering white feathers to his bed,
Driving him to Siren songs of War.
Enticing enchantment, revealing
Scores of sacred nightmares.
Scared wounded soldier
A plaything, forgotten,
As She whimsically sings.
Dabbling Her feet in blood
Pouring down from battlefields;
Incantations through millenniums
Consecrating sacramental wine.
Whine it is with screams of dying
Murdering the solace of night and soul.
Mayhem dwindles on morning dew
Gory moans, mouthing the word:
Poor chivalric sons, deluded and deceived
Lying grotesquely contorted, devotions distorted,
Supplicating heaven for Her womb to reopen,
Welcoming the ouroboros of eternal returns.
She devours worshipers
Bruised from bended knees.
Seeking to sate Her grace,
Lighting candles, offering prayers,
Adoration to a frigid, rigid, statue
Cast high upon an altar
Rewarding Her mistake.
Weary soul, mere survivor, plods along.
Steps leading to an estranged home.
Trauma slithering with memories.
Dread, agony, disturbs the hours
Distilling moments, lucid reckoning:
Hurting … always … inside.
Daylight glare blinds and binds,
Drowning depths of honor and pride.
Addicted to putting out burning sorrows.
Door opens a labyrinth of tomorrows.
Broken warrior, humpty dumpty through the streets,
All the King’s men ensuring his suffering kept discreet,
Consumed and crumbled in tortured meditations;
Pan handling employed seeking daily medications.
Moments that forever measure.
A mirage to escape the past.
Through the looking-glass, a unicorn,
Displays the horn causing previous scorn.
Standing lost before imaginings:
Did he grieve enough,
Battling for love or bluff?
Greeted with another feather
She’s tucked smugly in her hat.
His longing speaks a frozen gaze.
Reaching for words, twilight dwindles.
Nether currents of disquiet deliberation
Murmurs an uneasy reservation.
Ariadne appears, his question ignites,
Vetting inquiry upon the uttaravedi.
Shall we spend our lives occupying
One another’s place and space?
Birth, rebirth, sons and daughters
Under a canopy of pseudo-security,
Acting out proverbial parental scripts,
Society’s shallow bowl pretending bliss.
It is here our life’s course entwine.
Together the blood becomes one.
Housed within, the path grows old.
Done and redone, our souls are sold.
Sun sets and rises through many
Seasons, performing aging roles.
Evening, he sits contemplating,
Deliberating, watching his children play,
Joyful cardboard cutouts enjoy the day.
Vision captures thoughts out of time,
Photographic snapshot, shadow of his son.
Did Ariadne sway this child against him?
No future other than performing the past?
The eyes of the son set darkly,
Abattoir concave quest for glory.
Jingoistic slogans canonized,
Funnel words self-righteous.
Cattle-like courage confronting,
Stunner gun deadens fear forming.
Self-soothing, maintains a mother’s pride.
Shining in the stare of the son,
A stature of strength, a charade,
Scapegoat sent out to wilderness plains.
Salvation salivating the cunning due
Requesting to placate the Universal Muse.
A Savior’s salve to heal all wounds,
Snake oil, snake eyes, singing sacramental tunes.
Another war to end all wars,
Uniform obedient, military lore.
Men against men, again
Soldiers’ sorrowful duty on lend.
Father slowly shut his eyes
Drawing the aching inward.
Envisioning his son thousands of miles
Away from friendly family sighs:
Piercing sound of artillery,
Pulsating pounding bombs,
Terror gripped, scorching battlefield,
Grasping for life, while
Calculating odds for death.
Back home, Soldier son’s fiancée
Feigns protesting foreign violence,
As his father quietly weeps
And siblings forget with sleep.
Combatant now stands witnessing:
Snow gently falling to the ground?
Charred fragments scattering around?
Perhaps white feathers descending,
Marking the final moments surrendering.
As bullets enter heart and head,
Crouching, dazed disbelief.
Clutching pierced mortal coil,
Bleeding away his final farewell …
Looking upward …
Gaping … horror struck …
Trying to understand an ash-strewn heaven.
The answer lies whispering:
She delights in sacrifices,
Bruised with fleeced torn flesh,
Lamb of God perishing before Her.
Candles lit as prayers are wept
Adoration to a frigid, rigid, statue:
Cold marble Pieta
Rewarding His mistake.
(David Stanovcak, a.k.a. Ian, October 9th, 2018)
Earthly Tears for Fallen Angels
Great Light separates the heavens.
River Lethe flows, finding form,
A sea that swims the sky.
Dark waters drown the baptismal head.
Waiting in the wings, Priestly curators prepare,
Pointing the Initiate toward, Elysian realms.
Through the cavernous halls of Hypnos,
Bated breath carves memories upon the walls,
Caught between, extensive winding corridors.
A twisted plot, trapped in the throat
… entombed …
fails to manifest.
An unspeakable stance.
Long time forgetting …
Attempting to articulate
Lost inside confining chambers.
Confiding our deepest sins
Spoken with sincere, severe …
Chilling cries of contempt.
Cold stone grave
Lying a few steps away
Plodding through consuming gray.
Body falls … and …
Tortured Soliloquies stab the air
Ignites into an incisive bird of prey.
Yearning to fly feather light
Beyond Samael’s sentencing quill.
~ by David Stanovcak (aka, Ian)
Conversations cast against shadows.
Silhouettes shift across the lawn,
Fingerlike creeping toward the walls.
The room patiently awaits the dawn.
Primordial cycle not caring what we say,
Decoding only as moments require.
Enslaved pondering the puzzle
Duty-bound in boundless dire.
Crying retreat from countless sparring,
Craving to crawl back into dreams,
Knowing that awakening sets to greet
Soft light deceptions coming in streams.
Before I descend toward sleep
A gentle-wearied face mirrors me.
We are pawns posturing at a table
As evening steeps in to a darkening sea.
How is this encounter possible?
Each redoubt drawn perturbs,
Every syllable sighing defends
Doubling down chanting disturbs.
Scribbled thoughts floating midair
Inhaling ideas, exhaling rebuttal,
Festering wounds, ancient disgusts,
Flooding denials, as tears swim subtle.
~ by David Stanovcak (aka, Ian Bar)
Moon Swallowing Night
Living lies and lines
Following twilight to dawn - with
Good ole one-eye
Moon shadow casting bitch
Yellow-silver, standing frozen rock hard
Stiff silence preying – for the
Fly fisherman catching her in the sky
And she waits ready upon parting clouds
Wings of night spreads her legs
With no prescient contemplation
Seeking a new way
A way out
No way out
Screams in the darkness bury the sirens
Gunshot wound bleeding happy resolution
Red dripping produces the gathering
… of …
Elders here to judge every breath
Countless vibrations leading to decisions
Beyond the existence of space and time
Following patterns on a chessboard
And always trying to guess
The correct move
Several steps ahead ~ (Poem by Ian Bar, author of Enmeshed Within)
Cold logic hung from the threshold of every entrance and exit
Like icicle blades cutting a path toward truth
In the back room and down the alley way
Passion cried out from its darkness
Awaiting a desire undefined, unfulfilled, but always consuming
A temporary gratified warmness slowly sweltering
Finally burning out in the brief moments flickering
Cool reasoning then awakens a soothing light of necessity ~ (Ian Bar, author of Enmeshed Within)
In the end
Is yet another breath
Awakening to tomorrow's night
At a lost, within dreams
Soon come seeking light
Artificial posturing in public
Words fall from the lips
Like paper confetti
A pretense sensed in a smile
A humorous exchange
Don't overplay the laughter
Keep guarded, my hidden agenda
Back at home
Planting springtime bulbs in fall
I lift my eyes from the soil to the sky
Sharing a secret within an unassuming bluebird
Barely aware of my existence
It flutters flying
Seeking life upon the field
That I mow down contemplating other things
Grasshoppers nearly escape the mower's blades
My breath a reminder
So easy to plow
And yet ...
Difficult the reaping of the harvest ~ (Ian Bar - a.k.a. David Stanovcak - June 25, 2016)
The Third Eye of a Reptilian Truth.
Jimmy threw back his head on the over used sofa-couch that sat squarely away from Graham’s apartment window that overlooked Ponce de Leon. His eyes slowly glided across the white textured ceiling of the apartment. Just moments before, he shot heroin into his toes. Graham, helped, of course – gliding the needle into the vein that bounces. The bounce is somewhere between the toes. Sooner or later one is going to find that vein and the drug will pounce.
The wet pavement outside marked the time as the cars streamed a soft swishing sound, sliding in one series after another. Each car was like tracers inside Jimmy’s head. A Doppler effect. A gliding movement of mass times undefined purposes divided by the drivers behind the wheel.
The sofa-couch had a wooded frame that served to rest Jimmy’s neck. The couch was also a mix of green and orange entanglement of leaves and branches spun within its upholstery, but the couch was fading into an ugly yellow remorse produced by aging. Jimmy always experienced a snake like hissing comfort sitting in Graham’s apartment. Graham never ran the air conditioner, and even if had to due to his guests, it was always set at a slow cycle. The windows were always open – or slightly open, letting in the sounds of the environment outside. Swish-swash-swuash – another car – another movement from outside. Another dream untold. The busy Atlanta street always spoke outside the window of his friend Graham’s apartment, recording nature moments joined together by pedestrian interaction.
Jimmy was acquiring the habit of assigning his experiences and thoughts to mathematical formulas. Words became numbers, and numbers became words. Solutions, a figment of imagination. It was the same when he suffered from insomnia and he would picture a baseball batter constantly hitting home run balls. He really didn’t know if the latest mathematical trend was a way to detach from the pathos of his environment, or just another one of his compulsive obsessions.
In a somewhat startling moment, he thought he saw his friend Graham cross the room without the movement of legs. It was difficult for Jimmy to direct his concentration, because he was fading in and out from a daze to a blurry focus. The street-life hissed nightlife revealing the outside environment. The hot humid rain became a serpent’s tongue caught in the dormant breeze. Slitter-splatter and pitter patter. Everything was dancing in a pattern of eight … seemingly eternal … circling in on itself … a cycle … without end. Amen.
The face of Graham suddenly appeared smiling bewitchingly in oversize ridiculousness before Jimmy. “What haunts you?” Graham asked beguiling.
The pause stood the test of time like a spiral within a Mandelbrot Set. Everything reaching back on itself within Jimmy’s mind. Memories. Blank. Then reappearing. A cascade of thoughts pouring out a stream of moments – lost – captured in time – searching to reunite – connecting to something within him. Perhaps, even with another, outside of himself.
“How does one do it?” Jimmy asked with narcotic subtleness.
“Do what?” Graham responded with what appeared as suspicious intimidation.
Jimmy said nothing for the moment. Silence. Pondering. Eyelids half open. Closing. Then eyelids opening wide again and wandering, as if seeking the room for an answer. “How does one perform the tasks of this life?” Jimmy finally asked gazing at one corner of the ceiling. Pause. “Any life.”
A green haze seemed to rise from the floor. Everything appeared in a milky emerald fog. The street night whispered the sliding and slithering sound of a hot humid thick breeze and the pacing of cars. Occasionally, conversations from pedestrians echoed from the street below, undeciphered and indistinguishable. Jimmy thought he saw Graham standing center before him, and then bending down to gaze into his face. The embodiment of Graham appeared to be fluxing in and out like dialing in the frequency of an AM radio station.
“Separate your actions from your meditations,” Graham finally responded, looking squarely into Jimmy’s face. “Let each and every moment transpire … without questioning.”
Feeling his eyes roll backward into his head, Jimmy slighted nodded. “Who are you? Really? What are you?”
The emerald haze softly drifted in the room. Jimmy suddenly saw Graham reclining cross legged opposite him in a lazy-boy chair. Noticing a beguiling smile from his friend, Jimmy could detect no real physical form, presence, or shape to Graham. Moments wandered. Searching. Something concrete waited in anticipation to reveal itself. Nothing. Time floated above without any answers for what was taking place.
Night dwindled. Street life resounded as distant echoes. Thoughts awakened. “Graham, there’s something that feels different today.”
“How’s that?” Graham asked with a calm nod of his head.
Jimmy paused and shifted his eyes to stare at one corner of the room, but finally asked. “These are no longer hallucinations, are they? I mean, like what happened today at the cafe. Time stopped outside our field of conversation. You know, Lydia, you, … myself.”
Graham pulled himself up from the chair. He walked over to the open kitchen and pulled off a numerical clock hanging on the wall. He then approached Jimmy and held the clock before him. “Look at the numbers on this clock. You see the numbers? The numbers are mere references points.” Graham pulled the clock close to his chest and continued. “The numbers are a poor assimilation of a sun dial, and the sun dial is a poor assimilation for what the ancient civilizations measured in the sky and cosmos.”
Graham then took the liberty to walk about the room. He didn’t say anything, but only occasionally looked back at Jimmy. He then stood still and pondered. Finally, after releasing a long drawn in breath he continued. “The numbers don’t stand for anything, but are arbitrary markings for what you perceive as the passage of time. A consensus decided upon using them as a way to measure the production of labor.”
Jimmy tilted his head slowly, seeing that the room was out of focus. “Time is an illusion?” he tiredly asked.
“Oh please,” Graham scoffed. “Time simply doesn’t exist. It’s merely a concept in your head.”
Jimmy then offered. “Motion gives us a sense of time?”
Graham grunted, growing somewhat impatient. “Motion. Another concept in your head. I can see this is going to take a while.”
Jimmy blinked innocently. “I move from point A to point B. Sometimes I take detour and move from point A to C or D.”
Graham stared straight before him with growing agitation. The pondering pause filled the room – suddenly the balloon of anticipation popped. “There are no points,” Graham shouted. “In fact, there are no lines, curves, circles, squares, triangles!” <another pause>. “You get the idea?”
“Please,” Jimmy smiled and laughed. “We’re both high, right now.”
Stone cold silence surfaced. Staring off out the window opening to the sounds streaming along Ponce de Leon. Graham finally remarked, “I never mix business with pleasure.”
“Lighten up, man.”
“No. I will not,” came Graham’s direct and cold response. “The game is over, Jimmy.". The room suddenly seemed to become 15-degrees colder. “Point A and point B,” Graham began, slicing the air demonstrably with one arm. “Well, point A and B are abstractions, because a point is merely a mathematical abstraction. So, the lines or curves you draw between point A and B are nothing more than abstractions? Why do you think these lines and curves produced by movement are any more real than the points that you choose to connect to that movement?”
“And the raven said, nevermore,” Jimmy intruded, as he was dosing off.
Suddenly, in a sun burst flare, Graham grabbed hold of Jimmy’s shoulders and shook him violently. “Don’t you dare. The drugs are not sold to you on a mere monetary and pleasure value, but what you produce from the ingestion of these drugs.”
“What do you want me to say?” Jimmy responded, now hovering midair from the violent shaking.
“I want you to answer the question to gain firmer and further understanding.”
Jimmy flung himself forward, kicking his legs about . He then took a series of exhausting deep breaths. “What the fuck is this, man? This was a night to focus on getting high. Instead, I’m bogged down in some deep philosophical bullshit.”
Graham’s intensity seemed to wane. He rethought his approach. “I hate these goddamn things, but they do work to mollify your species.”
“Your species?” Jimmy groaned.
“We’ll get into that later. Now, look at the hands on the clock. See? The hour hand, the minute hand, and the second’s hand.” Graham oversimplified the lesson pointing to each hand on the clock. “You are measuring points of abstractions. This hand goes from four to five, but four is just a representation of a point, as is five. Nothing is really moving between the four and the five, but your experiences. If you think yourself in the realm of time, you lose the true essences of the experiencing. Time is a distraction … something cultivated as a mere concept … it’s all in your head.”
“My man,” Jimmy began with small huffing sigh. “At the café tonight, motion stopped all around us, but you, Lydia, me – did not.”
“We were on a different frequency,” came Graham’s blunt reply.
“There’s movement in frequency, Graham.”
“No, Graham said, slowly shaking his head. “There is vibration. Something is awoken like a spider detecting something in its web – a realization.”
“C’mon. There’s movement in vibration.”
Graham cocked his head slightly signifying his subtle disappointment with Jimmy’s deduction. “No. The vibration appears from sheer will.”
“A mere thought?” Jimmy offered.
“No. Thoughts come afterwards. It is the will to exist that creates that comes first.” Graham paused and pondered. “Look at it this way. In the café tonight, the surrounding environment was suspended – negated. Everything within the environment with all its social interaction could not relate to what had transpired between Lydia and me. There were no reference points for the outliers of actors to attach themselves to the scene taking place. It was then impossible for those others to interact – different frequency, you see? They seemed frozen because there was no entrance and exist designed for them within the drama. You then came on to play your bit part … no offense … but you were already tied into trying to play the white knight and protect Lydia, thus you were tuned into the frequency between Lydia and me.”
“Oh,” Jimmy said with played up dismay. “I’m always relegated to the secondary roles.”
“Yes, but if you play your role well, you might get notice in the credits.”
“Where are we going with this?”
“Tuning in, Jimmy. Tuning in. There are no points. There are no lines. There are no curves. Your entire existence is vibration … a will to being … a conscience effort to exist. Sometimes, the thoughts are a sound, and sometimes they are a word pronounced, which is a vibration – a sine wave in electronics.”
“Why do I feel nauseated?”
Graham sighed. “It will take some time for you to tune into this new frequency.” He then leaned back and observed Jimmy.
Jimmy then attempted to rise from his chair, but his hands locked until the arm rests, and he wavered. The wavering signified his doubt. “Movement,” he cried. “Let me move. Please.” His head sunk forward. “I want to know distance and time. I need to. Please. Too many opiates. Release me from this mortal coil.”
“You need the opiates to sedate you for your next journey into the hallucinogens. I don’t want to see you spiraling out of control from paranoia. Do you want me to prepare the needle – again?”
Jimmy’s face became the tragic mask of an Attic Play. “I’m in hell,” he said, still trying to push forward from the chair.
‘Heaven and Hell are mere concepts in your head,” Graham simply responded. "When you come to finally realize that there are no points, lines and curves, and space and time are merely perceptions that you hold unto - then when ever a line is drawn in the sand and you're told what to do, say, and think - you'll have no problem crossing that line realizing it simply isn't there."
Suddenly, Graham’s apartment appeared to drop in temperature. The night seemed caught in a still frame. Everything once again stopped. Pausing like the breath between a pumping pulse. Purple night painted the passing. The apartment then glowed a green liquid hue. Jimmy stared at Graham, as he still grasped the arm chair of the chair that gave him rest. Graham’s eye pupils became slits and stopped blinking.
ConfessionS of an Iconoclast (Part II)
By Ian Bar, author of Enmeshed Within
“As if the blind rage had washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world.” ~ Albert Camus
“The Theatre of the Absurd attacks the comfortable certainties of religious or political orthodoxy. It aims to shock its audience out of complacency, to bring it face to face with the harsh facts of the human situation as these writers see it. But the challenge behind this message is anything but one of despair. It is a challenge to accept the human condition as it is, in all its mystery and absurdity, and to bear it with dignity, nobly, responsibly; precisely because there are no easy solutions to the mysteries of existence, because ultimately man is alone in a meaningless world. The shedding of easy solutions, of comforting illusions, may be painful, but it leaves behind it a sense of freedom and relief. And that is why, in the last resort, the Theatre of the Absurd does not provoke tears of despair but the laughter of liberation.” ~ Martin Esslin, introduction, Absurd Drama
In continuing with deconstructing the characters and style used in my book, Enmeshed Within, the above quotes best identify the nature of the storytelling within the book. Suffice it to mention that within these blogs I cannot give away too much of the plot for those that have not read the book. However, I would like to give an analysis for Enmeshed Within, to give an explanation and to prepare readers for the why behind the style chosen in writing the book.
As stated in my blog, Confessions of an Iconoclast (Part 1), Jimmy’s observations within social settings are identified by him as banal, cliché, and mundane; however, there is always the sense of the absurd. When we identify with a worldview that posits our being as absurd and lacking meaning, then one finds solace with a feeling of liberation. The freedom that recognizes existence as absurd is not the same as that posited by existentialists. For example, at the end of Jean Paul Sartre’s, No Exist, the conclusion is that “hell is other people” the absurdist’s would never come to such an assumption or that deduction. The absurdist delights in his/her freedom; whereas, the existentialist knows he/she is free but feels the burden of creating meaning where there is none.
Whereas, the character Jimmy is existential in his weltanschauung found on the pages of Enmeshed Within, I impose the absurd upon the unfolding leading up to the denouement in the book. It is amazing that those that actually read the book Enmeshed Within did not detect or mention the scenes involving slapstick. Instead, invariably, the readers responded when asked about these comedic moments(viz), “oh yeah, that was funny.” These readers were so captivated by the macabre style of Enmeshed Within that the essence of the absurd was lost on them. More often than not, these readers were quick to point out how messed up Jimmy appeared. These same readers did not even offer the caveat as to how crazy or messed up he seemed to them particularly. The crazy or messed up statements stated by these readers can only be digested as a general blanket commentary lacking any real critical thinking.
Of course, it does seem redundant to have to explain to the reader that the synopsis of the book found on the back cover states: “after returning from a psychiatric ward recovering from a breakdown caused by the trauma … as his world oscillates between jaded reality and nightmarish psychosis.” The latter description should probably serve as a beacon or red flag that Enmeshed Within is something intense and beyond consensus thinking. The Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard stated that “once you label me you negate me.” Using the sage observation from Kierkegaard and applying it to the character Jimmy, is it possible the readers simply labeling Jimmy as crazy are also negating the reasoning behind what they construe as crazy? Is it that reading Enmeshed Within has uncovered a cognitive pathology within those readers – an unknown cognitive dissonance residing in the readers of Enmeshed Within and not the characters of the book found therein?
“People understand me so poorly that they don't even understand my complaint about them not understanding me.” ~ Soren Kierkegaard
As stated on my previous blog: Confessions of an Iconoclast (Part1), many readers and viewers of fictional works tend to accept brutal horror in books and films that lack a coherent reasoning behind the verbal and visual revulsions presented. Enmeshed Within presents historical figures that are perceived as monsters and attempts to demonstrate some justification and rational behind their monstrosities. Through these historical bestial figures that preyed upon entire populations of people, a mirror is being held up before Jimmy. The brutish nightmarish hallucinations Jimmy witnesses’ serve to unveil the delusion that his lust for revenge is any different than those of these historical fiends.
What is implied here is that as long as acts of horror remain buried in the subconscious and approached only through the nightmarish landscape lying outside of his/her cognizance, the conscious mind can then accept acts of malevolence without recognizing the psychosis dormant within himself/herself. However, would if the cognitive reasoning of our brain attempted to understand evil and our own responsibility and role in its perpetuation? Would the shock to our ego that such levels of brutal malfeasance might exist as essential to our very being that it might even have us distant it and project it upon others – even if those others exist only in the realms of hallucinations? If a person is unprepared for confronting to a battle conjuring hallucinations manifesting from the hidden vaults of the subconscious, he/she might thrice remove it into the realm of watching it transform upon the silver screen.
Here is the reality: Our culture appeases the vast majority of people through the media and movie industry. The horror film has de-evolved further into slasher films. Just as the ancient Romans espoused to being upstanding citizens and from good families, these same Roman citizens delighted in the bloodlust of the Roman circuses. Today, families enjoy Thanksgiving dinner together in the warmth of their homes and even greet the meal in prayer, and yet, the teenagers will gather after dinner and watch the same kind of blood lust take place in a movie.
What is also true is that when nations prepare to invade another country under the banners and slogans that will justify the savagery acts of war, a minute portion of the population actually partake in the brutal force and violence. In the current times, the populace of developed countries are not even required to sacrifice anything in the form of rations. The blood shed occurs and it doesn’t even interrupt the public’s shopping routine or infringe on mass production and consumption one whit.
“In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule.” Friedrich Nietzsche
The vast majority of people construct their perspective from a point of consensus. It is because of this consensual way of adhering to a worldview that allows for a dialectic way of thinking. There is the thesis, anti-thesis, and the synthesis: argument, counter argument, and compromise. Following a dialectic approach to reasoning automatically deprives the chance for other alternatives. It could be argued that the synthesis/compromise scenario would allow for other options, but not when dealing with trying to appease both parties. It is difficult enough to try let either party accept the counter arguments from their interlocutor, let alone any alternatives outside the scope of both parties.
Before being published, I had Enmeshed Within edited by an experienced and knowledgeable person in the field. One of the comments that I received back from this professional editor stated that she believed that I had achieved “somewhat” in making Jimmy a sympathetic character. However, the editor also added the caveat that I had to beware that Jimmy’s rather cynical commentary on his surrounding social settings might alienate or turn off the readers, because this is the kind of society that the reader is accustomed to and lives every day. I am not quoting directly from the editor, but I could produce the commentary. In addition, the implication was to beware not be aware. As author of Enmeshed Within, I must reject this premise based on what is stated above in this blog.
If horror has been relegated to being something psychotically depraved beyond the constructs of critical thought, how can the reader take a historical account for the reasoning behind the dreadful acts that have served numerous epochs? If we cannot understand the past, how can we ever hope to understand the present. If the reader is simply a byproduct of social engineering with all its media influences that form every argument in the black and white charade of a dialectic, how can an author serve the responsibility of introducing a unique perspective – something outside the two channel discussions we listen and see twenty-four seven from bloviating talking heads on CNN, Fox News, and MSNBC? The latter are the echo chambers of the narcissistic socio-path that sell false patriotism, as well as manipulate rather than mold minds.
Enmeshed Within demonstrates clearly that Jimmy has compassion, but he simply refuses to act upon it for fear of its deception. He creates and reinvents himself as a cold dispassionate and cynical observer. Unlike the pseudo-patriots with all their faux-platitudes of concern and hero worship for those serving in the military, Jimmy can experience the pain through many of his drug induced visions relating to what his father went through during battles in war. Jimmy certainly entertains revenging Carla’s death with a plan to brutally murder his father, but Jimmy also understands that his father is a wounded soul. In the same way that Jimmy is a wounded soul.
Jimmy is an intelligent and sensitive soul that rides the ecstasy of Carla’s seductive nature, but he is at the same time traumatized by the painful existence of what he knows. The roller coaster rides of ecstasy and trauma based experiences produced by observing suffering soon creates a disassociation within Jimmy. Once disassociation prevails as an elixir to the trauma, reality falls apart and enters the brain like a thousand reflections seen through shattered shards of a glass mirror.
“All great things must first wear terrifying and monstrous masks, in order to inscribe themselves on the hearts of humanity.” ~ Friedrich Nietzsche
It is not a matter of Jimmy being crazy, as it is a matter of Jimmy not being able to have a healthy internal argument. Because Jimmy cannot confront the darker aspects of his nature due to a belief that he is justified in his seeking revenge upon his father, he then generates demons from his irreconcilable internal strife but refuses to recognize any compatibility with his thinking comporting to those very same demons. The historical psychopaths from the past challenge Jimmy to justify his pursuit for avenging Carla’s death. In his quest to retaliate against Carla’s death, Jimmy confronts not only the banal/mundane but also the absurd. Although, Jimmy trivializes the absurd, because it challenges his concept that his actions are actually noble instead of an unreconciled anguish.
Many of the stories from family, friends, and acquaintances in Enmeshed Within are taken from observations witnessed by the author. The latter thought it an interesting exercise to place these ridiculous stories in Enmeshed Within to measure the readers sense for the absurd. The absurd acts as a contrast to both Jimmy’s self-importance for revenge and the macabre guidance he receives from demons and hallucinations. The haunting crisp autumn night that serves as the backdrop for Enmeshed Within intersperses with the churning power of locomotive trains and the seething humming of the steel mill.
Jimmy stares up the railroad tracks and realizes how endless and repetitive existence seems. The industrial complex breaths all around him like a monster waiting unnoticed in the undercurrents of the city. Although the railroad tracks appear linear, in reality, they lead to another set of cities and towns that are simply clones of an emblematic city – with the same blueprint – same quiet and wounded suffering. The locomotive represents the brute power of an uncaring system. The steel mill burns away into the night forging what is the hard core facts of reality.
Existence is cyclical and there is no concatenation to history, i.e., a linear progression in history with an ultimate and all transpiring goal. There is nothing causal in history. Cause and effect can only be observed in the micro corners of science; however, no one knows the cause for the existence of the universe – nor can the existence of the latter merely be relegated to random occurrence. Existence appears meaningless, but the knowledge, responsibility, and skills are there for one to give meaning and purpose to existence. Jimmy acknowledges an existential current surrounding him, but he still wants to know the cause as to why it is that things are such. If only Jimmy could negate the existential and accept the absurd, causality would then give way to finding a destiny.
Social engineering and programming are two constructs that keep readers maintaining the position that fiction delivered in any particular medium should remain linear. Everything in a literary work or movie script today follows the same formula. In our current modern society, movies and novels are more interested in sociological aspects of the story rather than philosophical. In fact, today’s literary critiques often haphazardly conflate sociology with philosophy.
For example, the environment, the interplay between characters, and the scenes leading up to the denouement all serve to unfold the story modernist manifestation (Confessions of an Iconoclast Part 3 will discuss postmodernism). There are novels written today that are abstract, but the intellectual and radical literary style usually overshadow the novel's story line. Whereas, Enmeshed Within proffers a schism: the environment with its autumn breeze, rustling leaves, and black clouds swirling around the moon, its social settings debauched in drunken fights, songs, and forgetting, the industrial behemoth of the railroad, steel mill, and tractor-trailer busy warehouses, are all juxtaposed with no cohesion. The only constants are the appearance of demons and hallucinations.
Jimmy’s positing throughout Enmeshed Within is one that exposes the banal and confronts the intriguing horrors buried in the shadows of the city and forgotten through history. There are three issues that I have determined that makes a reader ill-prepared to cognitively process the dialogue between Jimmy and his demons/hallucinations:
The Dialectic - a preponderance in only processing information presented and playing out as a false dichotomy.
Social Engineering – a willful campaign perpetuated by government and media to create news and works of fiction only in the form of the dialectic/false dichotomy.
Predictive Programming – presenting in movies and other works of fiction situations that in later years have a striking similarity to actual events.
First, the audience accepts all arguments through the dialectic discourse. Only two sides are presented with the only alternative being that of a compromise between the thesis and anti-thesis. Never considered are other alternatives that would negate the premise of the thesis and anti-thesis presented, and thus the audience is given a false dichotomy. The preponderance of a false dichotomy that is now aired 24/7 on broadcast news begins to engineer the audience’s perspective from only two angles. The audience swings its head back and forth between two political sides, as if watching a tennis match. In reality, the audience is being hypnotized, because the same action of that of watching a tennis match is the very same motion of a patient being put into a trance by a swing pendulum, such as a pocket watch swinging from a vest chain.
Once the condition is achieved in hypnotizing the audience with a world of duality mixed in with options from other controlled opposition, the industry of Hollywood and major publishers act to guide the audience into entertainment that actually introduces formulated plans that present ideas the audience will accept sometime in the near future. In this way, the movie and news industry are partners in assimilating the public to the dynamics of society already planned by the-powers-that-be.
One overplayed tool, or one would think that it would be overplayed by now, are all the movies and works of fiction today that deal with “dystopia.” Writing with a main plot line unfolding in an imaginary dystopia is a cheap parlor trick. It demands nothing from the writer, because everything falls into plausible deniability that such things take place in an imaginary world. These works of fiction with these over used dystopia worlds try to use CGI and special effects to simply find the short way out with something akin to Deus ex Machina. More importantly what happens is that the public now views dystopia as something taking place as actuality in the future – collapse of the civilization is imminent – therefore, the public will be less reticent to ignore the apocalyptic news items spewed from the talking heads littering the airwaves.
When an audience watches the news programming on television, the critical thinking part of the brain is activated because the audience knows the news is commenting on reality. However, when an audience watches a fictional movie, the critical thinking guard is down and thus ideas can be introduced to the audience without the cognitive faculties coming into full play. When the news reports something similar in its reporting that seemed to take place in a movie, the audience has already seen it in fiction and therefore accepts it unconditionally.
For more on the positing above, I would have the readers read or watch YouTube material presented by Alan Watt and Terence McKenna. The reason the above is mentioned in this blog essay is that the vast majority of people in our society really do not connect with the nature of things, but rather, an induced panacea of a constructed reality that assimilates reality from advertisements, books, game videos, movies, music industry, news resources, and sporting events. It is all manufactured. Just as most movies and novels are written in such a way so that members of the audience can identify with the characters. The identity is not a real one, but only an avatar. The audience falls head over heels with heroes and anti-heroes, as the latter plays out what is bottled inside most members of any said audience. Movies and sporting events are simply a catharsis, not anything connected with healthy psychological and spiritual development. Hollywood is a better mind control tool for the populace than any government manipulation and government does use Hollywood for its own end, not vice versa as some would have you believe.
The character Jimmy in Enmeshed Within is neither a hero or anti-hero. Jimmy is plagued by the societal dialectic consensus and his internal strife conducting itself into further psychosis. One might attempt to explain Jimmy’s dilemma as a dialectic, but Jimmy cannot connect to any synthesis, and this is why he disassociates until the hallucinatory world becomes more prevalent. Jimmy wants to annihilate what he sees as the iconic figures that manipulate people upon a chess board. Jimmy wants to light his own little fire in a murderous symbolistic ritual as an act of revolution. The problem is that Jimmy is still confined to the tactics of the matrix he finds himself. He cannot detach from his disdain. He cannot laugh at the inevitable. He cannot face the uncertainty intimacy brings.
The strife within Jimmy is not so much his psychosis or entertaining murderous thoughts, but rather, his quandary is applying labels instead of understanding motives. The shit-charade-parade of atheists, exoteric religions of all affiliations, feminists, tea partiers, right wing conservatives, liberal minded progressives, military salutes with all their badges and honors, the single-parent dilemma, the gay couple making a stab at fitting into society, the accommodating mangina, the chocolate eating movie watcher, the truth of unfairness, the death knell of rock stars that faked their deaths, the political correctness of the social justice warriors (SJW), and all the other comedy troupes sharing our existence are without meaning or purpose.
Therein lies the problem for Jimmy, because he cannot phantom the risible nature of being. Diving furthermore into intellectual complexities, Jimmy wants to piece together a chivalrous world at the expense of knowing the true dynamics that are opposed to chivalry. The licentious Carla is given a pass from him because she defies conformity, but Jimmy has to place Carla on a pedestal to defeat the reality that she cannot be true to any one man/person. It is not so much that Jimmy’s father has betrayed him through bedding Carla, but Jimmy has deceived himself that he could possess such a creature as Carla for his own beckoning and pleasure.
Jimmy believes that his suffering for a cause to capture a lady of the night such as Carla will justify his pursuit of her for his own ends. Furthermore, Jimmy deludes himself into believing that returning to the dysfunctional lifestyle of his hometown will illustrate an ultimate opposition to the grandiose intellectual posturing he endures from academia. Simply put in Shakespearian terms, Jimmy wants to equate the world of Falstaff on the same terms as that of Henry V, and does it in reverse fashion. In Shakespeare’s play Henry IV, the young Prince Henry (Hal) is friends with a ragtag group of criminal headed by the “bloat knight” Falstaff. Once Prince Henry is about to assume the throne he betrays/casts Falstaff from his life:
“I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers;
How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!
I have long dream’d of such a kind of man,
So surfeit-swell’d, so old and so profane;
But, being awaked, I do despise my dream.
Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace;
Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth gape
For thee thrice wider than for other men.
Reply not to me with a fool-born jest:
Presume not that I am the thing I was;
For God doth know, so shall the world perceive,
That I have turn’d away my former self;
So will I those that kept me company.
When thou dost hear I am as I have been,
Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast,
The tutor and the feeder of my riots:
Till then, I banish thee, on pain of death,
As I have done the rest of my misleaders,
Not to come near our person by ten mile.
For competence of life I will allow you,
That lack of means enforce you not to evil:
And, as we hear you do reform yourselves,
We will, according to your strengths and qualities,
Give you advancement. Be it your charge, my lord,
To see perform’d the tenor of our word. Set on.”
Jimmy does what Prince Henry did in reverse fashion, and betrays/casts off the world of academia and embraces the ragtag criminal outfit run by his father. In an effort to escape from the knowledge he has acquired, Jimmy seeks the carnal drug induced world of the dysfunctional. Even though he also despises the posturing and weakness of the defective wounded creatures that he comes in contact with, he recognizes that he shares the same nature of the latter. It is as if he is on a tether seeking to break free from an environment of his own choosing.
Carla is the ultimate prize for Jimmy, because she is unique in her voluptuous seductiveness. Furthermore, Jimmy returns to his father in the hope of reconciliation. The irony lies in the fact that it was Jimmy’s father wanting an academic education for his son. It is upon his return from academia that Jimmy discovers his father is sleeping with Carla. Jimmy breaks down. He no longer seeks sanctuary in higher truths and virtue. He is alone. Isolated. There is no way out of here. Trapped, he goes insane, caught with his unresolved reconciliation and confronting human nature – desire, lust, and validation, thus he hallucinates the greater dilemma of unresolved issues from historical psychopaths.
The character Debbie in Enmeshed Within is the most suited for a well-adjusted Jimmy, but she equates to the mundane manufactured lives of Jimmy’s hometown and certainly is not on his intellectual level. Debbie represents the maternal and Sophia. The latter is the eternal Mother Spirit. Jimmy cannot trust Sophia. His world is absurd, comical and nightmarish, but he only recognizes the horrific hallucinations that engulf him.
In the final analysis, Jimmy is trapped in the existential world conducting itself without meaning. However, the truth lies in the fact that our existence is absurd and represented in the comedy of silent movies. Once an individual accepts the dark truth of an existential existence, he/she turns to the liberation of absurdity. Comedy and slapstick becomes the actions of the truly courageous. Once we delve into the world of the absurd, it is then we can create spiritual awareness – (to be continued).
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