Peeping the Unknown

I lay there, window open wide. The weather's warmer now, and the frogs peep as I contemplate sleep. Way off, the familiar rumble of a train. Wonder what the frogs think when they hear it. Must sound mysterious, bigger than life. What name do they give it? The Great Croaker: Lord of the Frogs? Do such magics, well beyond a lowly frog's ability to comprehend appear God-like? A force of nature to be reckoned with? The train passes. My mind wanders. I think maybe I should have been born a frog.

Checking In

Not entirely sure why I'm posting this, other than to publicly acknowledge that I realize this blog often sits here neglected these days. Sometimes I feel like I'm slipping into that comfortable role occupied by those who are naively content with their lives. Those who at the end of a long and challenging day want only to relax and allow their minds to amble beyond the confines of political ridiculousness, and the day to day grind of discussing "the world." Since I'm not one to go on about my favorite trivialities, I guess that leaves me somewhat silent. As the end of the semester approaches, I remind myself gratefully that soon I will be able to think for myself again.

Huzun of Being

For the bulk of my life I have experienced a persistent sadness... and I've never known what to attribute it to, or what to call it. Abuse? Death of innocence? Depression? Failure? Lonliness? No matter what I've sought to call it, none of the titles ever fit because this sadness is not negative. That is to say, it's never detracted from my life, only enhanced it. I've drawn from my sadness, harnessing it as a source of compassion, creativity, inspiration and love. This sadness that lives within my soul is the bittersweet essence of a tragically flawed, and yet wondrously beautiful existence.

Now having read Orhan Pamuk's Istanbul, I believe I finally understand the nature of this feeling. Pamuk refers to it as huzun, a Turkish word meaning "melancholy." He explains that within Islamic tradition, there is a philosophy that has evolved over the centuries to explain the huzun that we experience in this life. Dating all the way back to Aristotle's idea of the melaina kole--"black bile." Pamuk suggests that the huzun in Turkish poetry is far different than the Westernized view of melancholy. He explains that it expresses a 'grief that no one can or would wish to escape, an ache that finally saves our souls and also gives them depth. For the poet, huzun is the smoky window between him and the world. The screen he projects over life is painful because life itself is painful' (Pamuk 104).

I find this strangely reassuring as I sit here wrapped in such a pervasive melancholic funk, enjoying it, drawing strength of purpose from it. Poking and wiggling it like a sore tooth.

The Animal in Man

The longer I study psychology in the academic sense, the more it occurs to me that it is a science largely interested in drawing distinctions between human and animal intelligence. As if some level of separation were egotistically necessary. I have yet to encounter a psychology textbook that isn't saturated with the statement: "unlike animals." We seem to have this base need to believe that we are somehow vastly apart from the rest of Earth's creatures, existing outside the dirty sweet soil of the natural world.

Let's for the sake of discussion assume that this is true, and we are on a separate evolutionary track destined for intellectual grandeur. Because when we seek to identify our so-called advantage, (thumbs aside) it is our brain, and therefore our ability to create, imagine, and intuit. We should, by all reasonable means then, be interested in the advancement of human thought, and applaud progressive ideas. We should be rewarding those who display the courage to go against the grain and speak out. Additionally, there should be more of us interested in doing just that! However that is not the case. We, as a thinking species are largely conservative, regressive even, and we do not reward radical minds until centuries after their passing when their words are no longer frighteningly relevant.

While browsing through this months PBS program guide, I stumbled across an entry that really helped to solidify this concept. It looked a little something like this:

Walt Whitman

He is one of the most-recognized figures in American literary history; poet, patriot and faithful advocate of democracy. But in his own time, critics denounced Walt Whitman as a "lunatic raving in pitiable delirium." They pronounced his signature book of poetry, Leaves of Grass, "slimy," "vile," and "beastly."

But this is not a sentiment reserved for dear old Walt. This is an indoctrinated social stance that is carefully cultivated by the same uber-conservative elements responsible for such things as book burnings, the pledge of allegiance, and Sunday school.

On the one hand, we use this notion of advanced free thought as a measuring stick capable of putting some space between ourselves and the beasts. Yet, the hidden reality is that many of us don't want the responsibility inherent to free thought. What we secretly want is to be told what to do. We want someone else to manage our lives and make our decisions for us. And in this sense, we ironically have gained no separation. We are merely sheep.

The Religious Myth

Recently, I was accused of being "anti-Christ." Too funny. Sometimes I wonder how much thought religious folks actually put into understanding the history of their chosen religion, and how many dots they have taken the time to connect. Just as humanity exists as evolution's most recent child, so too does Christianity represent the Western theological flavor of the era. Do Christians realize that their lore is based on pagan ritual? Do they understand that they are worshiping constellations through mythology? Yes, I've been on about this far too much even for my own tastes, so this will be it for a good while. Please, if you consider yourself a religious person, take the time to watch these videos excerpted from the film Zeitgeist.