On Crime and Punishment
by Boil the Water, Walter aka Cut That Work, Jack
Part I
I recently had the luxury, and extreme pleasure, of re-reading the most meaningful, which also happens to be my favorite (an indication of just how sensitive to the human condition and of how important I am, no doubt) novel of Modern times; Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment.
Before you enlightened literary experts (FCHorn, I'm looking at you) and empty, faux-intellectual shills (Grendel, my glance moves to you) chime in together and turn hipster on me, I'm well aware that The Brothers Karamazov is a lesser read, more polished and overall “better” novel as well as being the darling of literary critics. Not only do I lack the time and energy to digest a large volume of dense reading, but Crime and Punishment can still, to this day, give me butterflies, as it was my first love and it shall be my last.
Let me preface that my re-reading of C&P was very difficult for me to undertake. This book was a very formative narrative for me and tapped within me the wellspring of existential living, of which I adhere, and sprung from the deep the driving questions that move my life:
Mainly: What is the meaning of my living? For what am I living for?
And
Supplementary: Why do I do the things I do? Why do I want the things I want? What are my passions and goals? What do I strive for? Why even live?
I realized that, because of C&P’s strong influence, the reason I’ve been slow to revisit this book and why I’ve been weary of lowering myself down into the depths of my soul was because of the sheer amount of time and energy it takes to clear an earthly schedule to allow for the proper spelunking and mining needed to find and polish all the new, funky jewels that have collected and gummed up, like sticky plaque, in the dark abscesses since my last reading.
Putting off reading this book again, even as I devoured every other Dostoevsky novel(la), short story, and essay, along with anything I could get my hands on of Nietzsche (who commented that “…Dostoevsky is one of the few psychologists from whom I have learned something.") and Camus, (whose The Stranger is counted as my second favorite and most read resource, owing a lot to its diminutive size and readability (and that is NOT to say it doesn’t pack a punch, my dearies!)), I knew that one day I would have to read this book again and I would be forced to reevaluate the story, the message, the writing, the style, and what C&P means to me.
Would I still feel the severe and personal rousing this rudimentary tome of existentialism stirred in me through the expert conveyance of the decay and dejectedness a self-aware man feels, caught between the unfeeling and unworthy masses, the weak, “material that only exists in order by some effort by means of crossing races and stocks, to bring into the world at last one man out of a thousand with a spark of independence” and the said ‘one in a million’ flash of genius?
Would I, an evolved and astute man, above the station of most but achingly aware of impotently existing on a rung below the elite class of the ruling and powerful, still appreciate the struggle of the self aware adult male or would I have grown fat and lazy, like a Christmas ham, on the contentment of an average, middling, and all together base life- one of mediocre (by my, perhaps lofty, standards) standing full of irrelevant trifles and minimal material gains?
Will the follies of youth show me to be a silly and idealistic boy or would my resolve be reaffirmed and would these hitherto lifelong values and source of hope follow me into my (arguably, by most of my friends and family) manhood?
Ultimately, I didn't want this book to have any less of an impact or lose even one glint off the constellation of brilliance and luster it once held for me, but, because I have stalled with a personal project and have “gone through every house on the block” as the addicts and derelicts say, I had no other choice but to go to the heart and home of my muse, timidly and anxiously rap on that hard and unyielding door, and see who was home.
That is to say, a week ago I deigned to pick up C&P and allow my cold heart to love again.
So with the anxiety of a 14 year old girl, I exhaled a nervous breath, spread my chaste rib cage and allowed Dostoevsky to again insert his cold, stiff two fingers an inch and a half in my heart (a thoroughly feminine organ, after all) and perform, once again, a come-hither motion.
Part II
The latest reading of Crime and Punishment was a very inspiring undertaking for me and left me with very different, but equally enthralling, inspired takeaways.
Before, as a 22 year old, I fancied myself not unlike the protagonist, Raskolnikov. A budding sprig with many of the unavoidable foibles of youth, I thought myself a man of considerable intellect and introspection, and one of the few (oh how I hated the average dullard- I still am not altogether cured and pique when people like Slorch or Rocko begin to opine) with absolute capability to “utter a new word”, as is said, by creating a theory for which to live by (and I did succeed in creating a philosophy, rules to govern my behavior, which I took great pains to establish).
In Raskolnikov I found my hero- a man who, not unlike your author’s beleaguered and youthful soul- mired in frustration with outward circumstances and environments and who found it difficult to exist in the Absolutes and Universals decreed by the juvenile and intellectually cheap understanding of our world. (Note the folly of my youthful logic; a young man who fancies himself bestowed with ‘absolute’ capability but lashes out when ‘absolutes’ are spoken! I still, however, reject the premise of absolutes outside of mathematics on the charge that it is ignorant and irresponsible to do so. I begin to digress…)
But, unlike Raskolnikov who could only wade in egoism and who mostly remained on shore, marooned by his miscalculated weakness, emotions, and nerves, I was a young but seasoned mariner, ready and willing to “spit on my hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats”.
Beyond all the good, those strong down winds that helped me sail successfully through life, I harbored all the shortcomings, that short sighted, myopic worldview enabled by living fully in the self and ego and was thoroughly disgusted when Raskolnikov would not power through his flawed human condition, take his dick out of his heart, and dismiss the notion he was a Great Man, “a Napoleon”, and resist turning himself in. I couldn’t- and most importantly, I wouldn’t- understand.
It wasn’t until this most recent reading that I now understand. Because Raskolnikov was not a Great Man- not a leader of terminal men- once he crossed the threshold and transgressed law, he lacked the ability to maintain his head and was subsequently left with three choices;
Madness (of which he flirted with and led on as if she were his betrothed)
Suicide (of which the true Hero, I humbly submit, Svidrigailov would eventually submit to*)
and Repentance (which Dostoevsky seems to argue is, ultimately, redemption) with the knowledge moving forward that one, as a man of limited capabilities, is to stay in one’s lane and stay out of the way of grown men’s (the parlance of my day) travels and travails.
By turning himself in and opting for redemption Raskolnikov effectively opted, through truncating the theory of his being a Great man unburdened to the arbitrary rules and laws created by flawed and imperfect men in a world we can’t fully understand, for a mediocre, albeit easy and comfortable, life with close friends and family who love him at his bosom. He admitted to himself his true worth, that he a meaningless existence.
As a delusional, 22 year old student (again, not much unlike dear Rodion- especially in my gripping good looks, he-he-he), who fancied himself a “remarkable” and “great” young man, I could not follow my, up until then, Sherpa on that weak, flat, easy and well paved path.
I would rather have died.
And, still, as pride grips me and I retain enough of that youthful vigor (at the ripe old age of 28) to continue to hold out hope- a hope to redeem what I consider to be god given, innate strengths and excellence in abilities and attributes- and I still stand in defiance.
I understand, this time around, why Raskolnikov must do what he did, but I reject Raskolnikov’s decision and, still, would “break a sword over my head and kiss the pieces” before capitulating.**
Part III
Come with me as I turn my full and current attention to the technical details; the craft, the literary merit and the actual writing contained in C&P.
After my first reading, never had I been so moved by a literary creation and my body was rendered weak because of it. I dropped the book, completely fatigued from the reading, and rolled over exhausted and in need of a drink or a cigarette, as if Dostoevsky had just fucked the shit out of me.
But, just as it is after great sex, my memory was given to short term and immediately after reading I had forgotten exactly how all the pieces and devices had been engineered together to create such a dynamic machine. All I remembered, in fact, was the end result and I was content to remain ignorant as long as I had that product and, owing to that, after this current reading, I was surprised at the actual writing, character development, character arcs and story line, and how Dostoevsky employed his unique abilities.
I don’t want to lurch into the dry and technical details of writing and bore the remaining five Mensch’s who have come with me this far, so I will speak to a few brief, but meaningful, points.
The most glaring aspect of Dostoevsky's writing that immediately jumped out at me, and what I completely missed the first go around, was the generous use of tension to move the story forward. Dostoevsky constantly and expertly built tension to keep fluid what could have easily been, because of the emphasis on psychology and the cerebral, a plodding and heavy-footed plot and this adroit use of conflict made for a smooth ride.
At times, though, Dostoevsky was almost vulgar in his excessiveness (examples of this were the constant cliff hangers at the end of chapters where someone was always showing up or something was revealed- a kitschy technique honed by the good people at Days of Our Lives and General Hospital) and there were times when it felt aged and archaic.
Next, something I noticed was that the shock and awe of a few scenes were tempered the second time around. The prevalent use (and some would argue, abuse) of ‘stream of consciousness writing’, while very much a Dostoevsky staple, seems to have been muted by the last few years of reading contemporary writers who make their bones with overt and, increasingly, obscene and anything-goes-streams of illogical, shocking, and random musings from writers like Chuck Palahniuk, B. Easton Ellis, and Hunter S. Thompson
And lastly, an unaccredited major influence on my own personal writing style and "voice" that I must have subconsciously picked up from Dostoevsky, I really enjoyed his elaborate and garrulous descriptions- the sing-songy, melodious rhythm- and, especially the postulations and suppositions handed out in Socratic dialogue's, and I was reminded numerous turns of phrase, tonal direction, or word choice and realized the reason why everything I write, no matter the intention or genre, seems to err on the side of meta-fiction.
Epilogue
New and delicious tastes, accompanied with the staple flavors digested from my first read, satisfied a few of the nutrients my being was starved of and I left this book content, that still, there is a lot of intellectual bread I have yet to sniff because of how quickly I’ve filled up on these first two courses.
But for now I am full again. And from the belly of a fat man, I say to you:
To the well-read and learned man- Do not feel unworthy and unqualified to critically critique. Share with me your thoughts and opinions!
To the budding novelist- Do not let the weight of the great literature already published encumber and shackle you but, instead, hoist these works high and, like a flag of independence, give honor to creative freedom and the existence of creation as an option for humanity.
To you Great Men, you “Napoleon’s” among us- Let the hug and embrace of this work motivate and inspire. As rejuvenated men emboldened with the reminder that we can, and must if we are, in fact, worthy of it, create our own meaning in this savage jungle.
Notes (from the Underground? He-he-he)
*Another essay entirely is required to expound and explain the question and topic of why Svidrigailov is the tragic hero and should be the celebrated and revered man in Crime and Punishment
**One must always take into consideration the possibility that perhaps the author is already showing the signs of age and the pussification that a dwindling of opportunity and the loss of grains of sand creates, because while he maintains that to die would be a more noble and honest ending, the reader must note that he has taken measures to “hedge his bets” so to speak, by having a kid for, if nothing else, a biological success and further chance to “spark genius” as was said.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Mi Amor
With his jailors enjoying their midday nap, he continued to search for a Great Escape.
The sleet slapped his dirty glass door and began another barrage of attacks.
ugh
Larry hadn't foreseen this disastrous turn of events and his heart dropped at the realization of the message those stinging welts left; his baked in excuse to go out and booze with his buddies was dashed.
He turned on a sore rump and stared at his dirty, phlegm dried computer screen. He clicked to his Augean stable of "favorites" and thought about perusing a free tube site. For an instant a sore member throbbed and he caught a whiff of dried spit, like bad breath, and thought better of it. Winter weather made him amorous.
He wanted to booze. Football was about to be on and he had spent entirely too much time with his family. Don't get it wrong, Larry loved his family. His family consisted of his beautiful, blonde wife who somehow disputed time and motherhood to keep her tight, firm body of youth and his precious son. Brexton: The manifestation of all that is love and peace and innocence and beauty. On the good days. Other times it was the other side of that psychedelic coin- ignorance, maelstroms, and uncommunicated misery, a regular bad trip.
Larry did a pretty decent job at heading a household. Like the leader of a company, Larry was well versed in the expectations that his shareholders (and the general public that consisted of corporate raiding mother in laws) shouldered upon him. His job requirements left for his own trappings a lot of stress and a little time. Between a full time job that required vigor, alacrity and a pinch of passion and a family that consisted of a female and a baby, he was left to legislate the little shit that his committee of said woman and child could not seem to formulate or agree upon when he returned home. Everyday his son would wake, don his most comfortable jammies, and proceed to filibuster his mother for the eight hours Larry was at work so that when he came home it was up to Larry to execute the needs of the house. After laundry, dishes, and cooking, Larry had no desire to delve into his real life's work and passion and instead gave in to the loving embrace of resistance. That sultry bitch.
During this ice storm, though, our life-weary patriarch was especially downtrodden. He wasn't afforded the luxury his work release program usually gave him and instead spent the entire spell in his apartment cell. He turned his heat on in the hopes of recreating a comfortable, cozy environment, like those of which he remembered fondly from network television shows of his youth, in order to relax the time away but, instead, he induced upon his person, which is to say prisoner, the condition of claustrophobia. Dirty clothes soaked his apartment and rose from the floor, ankle deep, and the inappropriately hot environment compounded the stagnant feeling. He smelled his dried spit hand again.
Ew, Mildew. He thought. Ugh. I need to go out.
A rustle from inside Brexton’s room closed this window of opportunity and Larry cleared his history tabs and silently replaced her Jergen’s lotion, lest he be caught with any contraband.
It was 4:00 pm and Larry’s day was effectively over. Lock down. Chicken pot pie at 5:00 pm. TV at 6 pm. TV until 9pm and then ‘Lights Out’. He would then be lucky for the whipping of ice crops against his walls then, for if it weren’t for that distraction to break the dark silence, he might have to confront a harsh reality; he was on a voluntary death row with his Resistance his Executioner.
Jonathan Gonnet
The sleet slapped his dirty glass door and began another barrage of attacks.
ugh
Larry hadn't foreseen this disastrous turn of events and his heart dropped at the realization of the message those stinging welts left; his baked in excuse to go out and booze with his buddies was dashed.
He turned on a sore rump and stared at his dirty, phlegm dried computer screen. He clicked to his Augean stable of "favorites" and thought about perusing a free tube site. For an instant a sore member throbbed and he caught a whiff of dried spit, like bad breath, and thought better of it. Winter weather made him amorous.
He wanted to booze. Football was about to be on and he had spent entirely too much time with his family. Don't get it wrong, Larry loved his family. His family consisted of his beautiful, blonde wife who somehow disputed time and motherhood to keep her tight, firm body of youth and his precious son. Brexton: The manifestation of all that is love and peace and innocence and beauty. On the good days. Other times it was the other side of that psychedelic coin- ignorance, maelstroms, and uncommunicated misery, a regular bad trip.
Larry did a pretty decent job at heading a household. Like the leader of a company, Larry was well versed in the expectations that his shareholders (and the general public that consisted of corporate raiding mother in laws) shouldered upon him. His job requirements left for his own trappings a lot of stress and a little time. Between a full time job that required vigor, alacrity and a pinch of passion and a family that consisted of a female and a baby, he was left to legislate the little shit that his committee of said woman and child could not seem to formulate or agree upon when he returned home. Everyday his son would wake, don his most comfortable jammies, and proceed to filibuster his mother for the eight hours Larry was at work so that when he came home it was up to Larry to execute the needs of the house. After laundry, dishes, and cooking, Larry had no desire to delve into his real life's work and passion and instead gave in to the loving embrace of resistance. That sultry bitch.
During this ice storm, though, our life-weary patriarch was especially downtrodden. He wasn't afforded the luxury his work release program usually gave him and instead spent the entire spell in his apartment cell. He turned his heat on in the hopes of recreating a comfortable, cozy environment, like those of which he remembered fondly from network television shows of his youth, in order to relax the time away but, instead, he induced upon his person, which is to say prisoner, the condition of claustrophobia. Dirty clothes soaked his apartment and rose from the floor, ankle deep, and the inappropriately hot environment compounded the stagnant feeling. He smelled his dried spit hand again.
Ew, Mildew. He thought. Ugh. I need to go out.
A rustle from inside Brexton’s room closed this window of opportunity and Larry cleared his history tabs and silently replaced her Jergen’s lotion, lest he be caught with any contraband.
It was 4:00 pm and Larry’s day was effectively over. Lock down. Chicken pot pie at 5:00 pm. TV at 6 pm. TV until 9pm and then ‘Lights Out’. He would then be lucky for the whipping of ice crops against his walls then, for if it weren’t for that distraction to break the dark silence, he might have to confront a harsh reality; he was on a voluntary death row with his Resistance his Executioner.
Jonathan Gonnet
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
A Walk-through of an American Garage Sale: Humanity's Trail of Tears
A Walk-through of an American Garage Sale:
Humanity’s Trail of Tears
Pre-Sale
I was tangentially part of a Garage Sale this past weekend.
Somewhere between my delusions; elaborate and detailed daydreams of a future life of luster weaved with an influx of 500 wind-fallen dollars and waking up at 6 A.M. on a Saturday to stock my inventory of chattel for the municipalities’ Mexicans, I found myself questioning the notion of this whole Garage Sale business.
The whole rigmarole is insulting. We scour our homes for items that we deem unfit for our households; us civilized and sophisticated square feet barons of urban sprawl. With the exaggerated promises of riches we recruit our family members into a hunting party to help us undergo the tiring expedition to locate, extract, and gather any and all of the out of date, unfashionable, ratty and tattered, blemished, broken, stained, abused, and otherwise neglected bullshit that we have been too lazy to artificially inflate the value of, and haul off to, Goodwill. That’s right; we would rather publish our home address and aim it towards the poor and criminally inclined (statistically speaking, of course) and commit a weekend to the practice of broken Spanish with strangers, in the heat, than to cheat on our taxes. You know, Civilized and sophisticated.
(After constructing our great pile, naturally, in the middle of our living room, the patriarch, like a worker ant carrying five times his body weight, loads up with broken electronics and hole-ridden-clothes, carrying the kill piecemeal to the garage. Since, inevitably, the actual sale will keep getting delayed, the hauled carcass’s will fester and (eye) sore from sitting stagnant and being too long in the way. But, that’s okay; we have a few extra inches of closet space and you really can’t buy that kind of real estate! I digress…)
Like a Jewish jeweler of the Upper West Side we scrutinize over each and every item in its entirety, all the while mentally calculating worth. We inspect everything that we ourselves don’t value to keep and, like an insurance claim adjuster, we arbitrarily set a price. We compare against fair market value (of which we are hopelessly unaware) and try and rack foggy memories for what was paid when purchased new (as if one could actually account and depreciate for the value of crap) and then we list the price- We are exceptionally proud of this part. Like kid’s playing dress up in Daddy’s clothes, we are participating in the American economic model and imagining ourselves profitable business men.
The Actual Sale
In the morning, invariably, the first two customers of any respectable garage sale will be black and they will not buy anything. That’s okay; we will see many people on the sale’s first day and will need the energy our first dark and bitter guest will provide us. After pouring a second cup of coffee we prepare to face our second patron; the depressing darkness of early morning that reminds of the precious and much needed sleep that has been nailed to a cross made of mismatched wood, sacrificed for a few extra bucks.
Then, like a biblical omen welcoming the holy morning, the sky opens up and glorious and optimistic light shines. We are committed, refocused and ready- We will have a great sale!
What we aren’t prepared for is that, en masse, people will come and treat our backyard’s like a Ross or a Marshall’s. The invited attendee’s will rifle through our things, disorienting the gypsy-like displays, shoplift and only want to buy the few things in the actual garage, within eyesight, that are not actually for sale. Who signed me up for this? Is that part of my probation?
For all of that, the actual interaction is the worst part. Believe it or not, great anxiety is caused by having someone rummage through your offerings. We immediately second guess our economic acumen and being reevaluating prices.
Is it too much?
What if they balk?
Are they putting that shirt back?
Motherfucker, you’re gross and your clothes suck, you better buy that tattered polo I ruined and no longer want!
I am a pretty fashionable and good looking man. Again, I digress…
Finally, when a customer has tired of wiping Cheetoh’s over the linens they will then send a diplomat, their 7-year old son, and lowball an offer in an attempt to open up negotiations (as cash-only race’s are want to do). We will stand proud.
“Prices are firm”.
Not only do we have the conceit to believe that our contemporaries, our neighbors and peers, will want to buy the hopeless junk that we do not want, but we are wholly insulted that they would have the gall to try and cheat us by countering with such predatory and cheap counter-offers!
At what point did the human principles of commerce and exchange become lined with such bulky arrogance?
I’m not sure how this backwards and unbecoming human behavior pattern came to be. I think with my newly minted $400, I am going to get a booth at TGI Fridays and really investigate these profound academic questions.
Humanity’s Trail of Tears
Pre-Sale
I was tangentially part of a Garage Sale this past weekend.
Somewhere between my delusions; elaborate and detailed daydreams of a future life of luster weaved with an influx of 500 wind-fallen dollars and waking up at 6 A.M. on a Saturday to stock my inventory of chattel for the municipalities’ Mexicans, I found myself questioning the notion of this whole Garage Sale business.
The whole rigmarole is insulting. We scour our homes for items that we deem unfit for our households; us civilized and sophisticated square feet barons of urban sprawl. With the exaggerated promises of riches we recruit our family members into a hunting party to help us undergo the tiring expedition to locate, extract, and gather any and all of the out of date, unfashionable, ratty and tattered, blemished, broken, stained, abused, and otherwise neglected bullshit that we have been too lazy to artificially inflate the value of, and haul off to, Goodwill. That’s right; we would rather publish our home address and aim it towards the poor and criminally inclined (statistically speaking, of course) and commit a weekend to the practice of broken Spanish with strangers, in the heat, than to cheat on our taxes. You know, Civilized and sophisticated.
(After constructing our great pile, naturally, in the middle of our living room, the patriarch, like a worker ant carrying five times his body weight, loads up with broken electronics and hole-ridden-clothes, carrying the kill piecemeal to the garage. Since, inevitably, the actual sale will keep getting delayed, the hauled carcass’s will fester and (eye) sore from sitting stagnant and being too long in the way. But, that’s okay; we have a few extra inches of closet space and you really can’t buy that kind of real estate! I digress…)
Like a Jewish jeweler of the Upper West Side we scrutinize over each and every item in its entirety, all the while mentally calculating worth. We inspect everything that we ourselves don’t value to keep and, like an insurance claim adjuster, we arbitrarily set a price. We compare against fair market value (of which we are hopelessly unaware) and try and rack foggy memories for what was paid when purchased new (as if one could actually account and depreciate for the value of crap) and then we list the price- We are exceptionally proud of this part. Like kid’s playing dress up in Daddy’s clothes, we are participating in the American economic model and imagining ourselves profitable business men.
The Actual Sale
In the morning, invariably, the first two customers of any respectable garage sale will be black and they will not buy anything. That’s okay; we will see many people on the sale’s first day and will need the energy our first dark and bitter guest will provide us. After pouring a second cup of coffee we prepare to face our second patron; the depressing darkness of early morning that reminds of the precious and much needed sleep that has been nailed to a cross made of mismatched wood, sacrificed for a few extra bucks.
Then, like a biblical omen welcoming the holy morning, the sky opens up and glorious and optimistic light shines. We are committed, refocused and ready- We will have a great sale!
What we aren’t prepared for is that, en masse, people will come and treat our backyard’s like a Ross or a Marshall’s. The invited attendee’s will rifle through our things, disorienting the gypsy-like displays, shoplift and only want to buy the few things in the actual garage, within eyesight, that are not actually for sale. Who signed me up for this? Is that part of my probation?
For all of that, the actual interaction is the worst part. Believe it or not, great anxiety is caused by having someone rummage through your offerings. We immediately second guess our economic acumen and being reevaluating prices.
Is it too much?
What if they balk?
Are they putting that shirt back?
Motherfucker, you’re gross and your clothes suck, you better buy that tattered polo I ruined and no longer want!
I am a pretty fashionable and good looking man. Again, I digress…
Finally, when a customer has tired of wiping Cheetoh’s over the linens they will then send a diplomat, their 7-year old son, and lowball an offer in an attempt to open up negotiations (as cash-only race’s are want to do). We will stand proud.
“Prices are firm”.
Not only do we have the conceit to believe that our contemporaries, our neighbors and peers, will want to buy the hopeless junk that we do not want, but we are wholly insulted that they would have the gall to try and cheat us by countering with such predatory and cheap counter-offers!
At what point did the human principles of commerce and exchange become lined with such bulky arrogance?
I’m not sure how this backwards and unbecoming human behavior pattern came to be. I think with my newly minted $400, I am going to get a booth at TGI Fridays and really investigate these profound academic questions.
by Jonathan Gonnet
Monday, October 11, 2010
You know how shit is.
He reached for the toothpaste and remembered he squeezed the last of days ago. He eeked the last of out of the cap and rubbed it on his teeth with his finger. Bar receipts and random shit from barely remembered nights littered the resting place of where a toothbrush used to lay. Hygiene had been disturbed.
A dream
I walked unobstructed from the entrance of the cave, low hung and rounded at the top like that of the typical door of a house, where it opened up like a bottle, refracting light impossibly (in my science’s mind eye) like a bottle too, to what I imagined had to be the earthen core. Bright white snow made up of the ground, beautiful white, undeterred in keeping its cherry no matter how many people walked on her.
“Why have I never seen anything like this!?” I thought to myself as I scanned the den from left to right and up in an effort to take all the sensory shrapnel in, it was like being at a 21st century rave party on ice (hosted by Disney, no doubt).
“Because you have never been invited to anything like this.” Came an audible answer from a beautiful woman clad in a bikini and gloves. She had the long flowing brunette characterized by the Italian Rennaisancial beauty with a body imagined by those perverted with lust for Mermaids, curvy and busty, with contoured, smooth legs in the place of scaly fishparts.
“I’m sorry, what?” my irrational and surprised reply at this psychic womans terse reply.
“Why, simply, because you have never been invited to anything like this.” Parroted the would be talking fish mermaid thing, with the sweet innocence and naaivety of the snow around us we inhabited.
“Well, I can’t imagine you are speaking to me, as you would have no reason to assume I have never been to a party such as this and I neither initated a conversation or look upon you in demand of a reply.”
“You can imagine, which is why you exist and why we are here. It is becoming clear to me why, exactly, you have never seen anything like this, hehehe”
“Be off, reprobate promotional booze woman and speak when spoken to!”
It was at this overture that I decided to take my leave and walk about the biosphere, explore where exactly I am and the consistency of that around me, hoping that a rapp upon the walls would not be answered with the thunk of hollow glass.
“Why have I never seen anything like this!?” I thought to myself as I scanned the den from left to right and up in an effort to take all the sensory shrapnel in, it was like being at a 21st century rave party on ice (hosted by Disney, no doubt).
“Because you have never been invited to anything like this.” Came an audible answer from a beautiful woman clad in a bikini and gloves. She had the long flowing brunette characterized by the Italian Rennaisancial beauty with a body imagined by those perverted with lust for Mermaids, curvy and busty, with contoured, smooth legs in the place of scaly fishparts.
“I’m sorry, what?” my irrational and surprised reply at this psychic womans terse reply.
“Why, simply, because you have never been invited to anything like this.” Parroted the would be talking fish mermaid thing, with the sweet innocence and naaivety of the snow around us we inhabited.
“Well, I can’t imagine you are speaking to me, as you would have no reason to assume I have never been to a party such as this and I neither initated a conversation or look upon you in demand of a reply.”
“You can imagine, which is why you exist and why we are here. It is becoming clear to me why, exactly, you have never seen anything like this, hehehe”
“Be off, reprobate promotional booze woman and speak when spoken to!”
It was at this overture that I decided to take my leave and walk about the biosphere, explore where exactly I am and the consistency of that around me, hoping that a rapp upon the walls would not be answered with the thunk of hollow glass.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Michael Vick: Pariah or Messiah?
Michael Vick: Pariah or Messiah?
A critical look at the interrelationship between society and the Original Man.
I was doing some light reading as I watched the game last night when I stumbled upon a clue as to why I root for, am fascinated by, and thoroughly enjoy (if not completely identify with) the much-maligned, beaten down, and flawed entertainers of our generation. Michael Vick and his ilk, in your humble author’s perverted opinion, embody the tragedy that is the flawed Human Condition. These fallen and, sometimes broken, angels are the tragic characters in our weak and misunderstood script.
Ah yes. I know you, noble reader, and I know that as soon as the above premise, emotionally swollen and thoughtfully tangled, is revealed and allows you to slowly gain understanding, your pupils spreading across the whites of your eye like a droplet of wet ink on a fresh sheet of paper, scribbling your thoughts to me, that you will turn your head in disgust. Humor me, your old friend, and sneak a peek out of the corner of that little orb and let me show you what I mean.
These unfortunates I spoke of earlier, they are all creatures of an extraordinary talent. Sometimes the result of a rare and innate gift and other times the calculated result of hard work, focus, or determination, but always the reality is of an excellent ability that is unknown to the vast, vapid majority. What separates the graceful heroes of antiquity and our befallen contemporaries, beyond the luxury of time, which is extremely adroit at refinishing written history through expertly applied glossy coats of perfection over the chipped and grainy reality, is the bad luck of living in an overpopulated world where the majority of it’s denizens can only be classified as ignorant and weak.
This army of the weak strives to mute the individual, who is often viewed as an antagonist due to the nature of the organizational structure created by the weak masses, and conscript him to their ranks. We, the persecuted belligerents (ah, now you see how, by betraying my orientation, I can shine such lucid light on this unique perspective and motives therein.) - We, the persecuted belligerents- aggressive, open-minded, curious, courageous and all together truthful (to a clear fault) - while providing the fuel to move the machine forward, are, sometimes, beaten to dust and ash by the brute force of billions of agreed upon judgments, opinions and moralizations.
Now, how do these cheap and timid souls conquer the cutting edge? Good question and I am glad you asked. Let me first unsheathe for you a weapon in your fight to understand:
Any action in the name of morality, no matter what the driving emotion, is really just an attempt, varying from the thinly veiled to the obfuscated, to impose the will of the weak over the strong.
You see then that the ubiquitous moralizations drawn, like brackish water from an underdeveloped well, from our societies pervasive folk lore and (Christian) godly traditions, are released upon the dominant and truly noble men- those who act with an accurate sense of self worth, who do not need, nor seek, the herd’s approval, but instead act in accordance within his own self-subscribed values based in real time and couched in positive incentives- to drown them in negative light.
It is my position that, for the sake of the humanity I love, my befallen idols deserve the deepest of sympathies. In spite of, though admittedly, sometimes purposely, finding the course to be against the grain of societal pressures, they have the strength and integrity to define their own rules- to legislate their own personal laws- and the courage and the sense of purpose to Execute and Live. They have not only been overpowered and slain by our weak society, but, like Achilles’ dragging of Hector’s body around the walls of Troy for nine consecutive days, they are desecrated by our faux moral and chicly-Christian society.
This is why I rooted for Mike Vick yesterday. By rooting for those who You are told to hate, standing by the bewitched as You attempt to tie up and burn their careers, at (a) stake- for what? There is nothing of substance to gain. (see what I did there? That is tricky and a bit of written gymnastics). My vocal support for Michael Vick is not an admittance that I could give half a shit about fighting inferior animals, as some have surmised, but, simply, a show of solidarity for and support in an ever-evolving society of Masters.
Ookie- Get well soon.
I Remain,
Jonathan Gonnet, Original Man.
A critical look at the interrelationship between society and the Original Man.
I was doing some light reading as I watched the game last night when I stumbled upon a clue as to why I root for, am fascinated by, and thoroughly enjoy (if not completely identify with) the much-maligned, beaten down, and flawed entertainers of our generation. Michael Vick and his ilk, in your humble author’s perverted opinion, embody the tragedy that is the flawed Human Condition. These fallen and, sometimes broken, angels are the tragic characters in our weak and misunderstood script.
Ah yes. I know you, noble reader, and I know that as soon as the above premise, emotionally swollen and thoughtfully tangled, is revealed and allows you to slowly gain understanding, your pupils spreading across the whites of your eye like a droplet of wet ink on a fresh sheet of paper, scribbling your thoughts to me, that you will turn your head in disgust. Humor me, your old friend, and sneak a peek out of the corner of that little orb and let me show you what I mean.
These unfortunates I spoke of earlier, they are all creatures of an extraordinary talent. Sometimes the result of a rare and innate gift and other times the calculated result of hard work, focus, or determination, but always the reality is of an excellent ability that is unknown to the vast, vapid majority. What separates the graceful heroes of antiquity and our befallen contemporaries, beyond the luxury of time, which is extremely adroit at refinishing written history through expertly applied glossy coats of perfection over the chipped and grainy reality, is the bad luck of living in an overpopulated world where the majority of it’s denizens can only be classified as ignorant and weak.
This army of the weak strives to mute the individual, who is often viewed as an antagonist due to the nature of the organizational structure created by the weak masses, and conscript him to their ranks. We, the persecuted belligerents (ah, now you see how, by betraying my orientation, I can shine such lucid light on this unique perspective and motives therein.) - We, the persecuted belligerents- aggressive, open-minded, curious, courageous and all together truthful (to a clear fault) - while providing the fuel to move the machine forward, are, sometimes, beaten to dust and ash by the brute force of billions of agreed upon judgments, opinions and moralizations.
Now, how do these cheap and timid souls conquer the cutting edge? Good question and I am glad you asked. Let me first unsheathe for you a weapon in your fight to understand:
Any action in the name of morality, no matter what the driving emotion, is really just an attempt, varying from the thinly veiled to the obfuscated, to impose the will of the weak over the strong.
You see then that the ubiquitous moralizations drawn, like brackish water from an underdeveloped well, from our societies pervasive folk lore and (Christian) godly traditions, are released upon the dominant and truly noble men- those who act with an accurate sense of self worth, who do not need, nor seek, the herd’s approval, but instead act in accordance within his own self-subscribed values based in real time and couched in positive incentives- to drown them in negative light.
It is my position that, for the sake of the humanity I love, my befallen idols deserve the deepest of sympathies. In spite of, though admittedly, sometimes purposely, finding the course to be against the grain of societal pressures, they have the strength and integrity to define their own rules- to legislate their own personal laws- and the courage and the sense of purpose to Execute and Live. They have not only been overpowered and slain by our weak society, but, like Achilles’ dragging of Hector’s body around the walls of Troy for nine consecutive days, they are desecrated by our faux moral and chicly-Christian society.
This is why I rooted for Mike Vick yesterday. By rooting for those who You are told to hate, standing by the bewitched as You attempt to tie up and burn their careers, at (a) stake- for what? There is nothing of substance to gain. (see what I did there? That is tricky and a bit of written gymnastics). My vocal support for Michael Vick is not an admittance that I could give half a shit about fighting inferior animals, as some have surmised, but, simply, a show of solidarity for and support in an ever-evolving society of Masters.
Ookie- Get well soon.
I Remain,
Jonathan Gonnet, Original Man.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
TY' IIIIIIIII' IIIIIII IIIIME is on myy siiiide
At a certain stage in a man’s metamorphosis, you develop a ¼ life crisis. Well, maybe you adjusted and well nourished great thinkers-and-doers of our age didn’t, but I certainly hurled headfirst into one. As another day slips through my fingers and my grand aspirations, ideals and goals shrink on the horizon, I admit those difficult feelings an otherwise proud man would keep hidden in those well worn crevices we are known to have.
My best looking, most energetic, carefree days are, probably, over. I will never become a demigod of physicality with, seemingly, all the wonders of the world at my finger tips, otherwise known as an NFL football player and I’ll probably never harmonize my way into the American Fabric by way of musical Rock star prowess. The odds of a billionaire’s future seem, well, 1 in a billion. I’m a self aware man, if nothing else, after all.
As I swaggered with my new Lil Boosie through the ivory and scarlet aisles of Target last night with my Kevin Durant aquatics, navy blue and checkered work socks pulled just beneath where my knee met pajama striped shorts expertly matched to an accidently dyed pink shirt bred from the unfamiliarity’s of domestic exercises, I stumbled upon a creation that (uh, maybe) would definitely change my life forever!
Like Prometheus stealing Fire from the Gods to bestow upon mortals, I hurriedly grasped at the cheap Coffee Maker and ran to the safer and familiar confines of the bra and panties aisle to better assess what I had given myself.
Time Continuum. The final and least understood of experimental physicists conundrums. I had single handedly brought about the advent of the Time Travel Age! What I, in fact, found, was a way to gain an extra 2 hours in the day, and with it, finally helped to start the healing process by answering the lingering pain brought about by the question, “Why aren’t there enough hours in the day!?”
After gaining my composure, I slowly venture out of the thong aisle with my Black & Decker Time Machine safely under my arms. I need to find fuel for it so I go to the food aisle, strolling through the various assortments of gourmet beans and flavors from around the world, uncomfortable, nervous, and self conscious, like a man browsing double penetration and ass to mouth DVDs hoping he doesn’t leave with an unsatisfying pick.
Finally, after what felt like two hours (get it, get it? I’m a subtle genius, guys) I get home to my laboratory and set my alarm for 6am, two hours before I would have normally awaken the past two years, and the beginning of the time I have gained because of the ability of my new machine to keep me from sleeping my life away.
I won’t go on boring you with the details of how my coffee making skills leave a lot to be desired, but rest assured dear friends, I’m faring well. I’m sending this pioneering note at 2:17pm Jonathan Time, but in my new alternate reality, it is only 12:17pm. I hope to not return to Jonathan time (and alcohol) for quite a while.
Before you feel too bad about me and my situation, don’t miss me or mourn for me too much, I’m chasing my dreams and taking back the horizon, one Morning at a time!
-Jonathan R. Gonnet
The Neil Armstrong of the 21st Century
My best looking, most energetic, carefree days are, probably, over. I will never become a demigod of physicality with, seemingly, all the wonders of the world at my finger tips, otherwise known as an NFL football player and I’ll probably never harmonize my way into the American Fabric by way of musical Rock star prowess. The odds of a billionaire’s future seem, well, 1 in a billion. I’m a self aware man, if nothing else, after all.
As I swaggered with my new Lil Boosie through the ivory and scarlet aisles of Target last night with my Kevin Durant aquatics, navy blue and checkered work socks pulled just beneath where my knee met pajama striped shorts expertly matched to an accidently dyed pink shirt bred from the unfamiliarity’s of domestic exercises, I stumbled upon a creation that (uh, maybe) would definitely change my life forever!
Like Prometheus stealing Fire from the Gods to bestow upon mortals, I hurriedly grasped at the cheap Coffee Maker and ran to the safer and familiar confines of the bra and panties aisle to better assess what I had given myself.
Time Continuum. The final and least understood of experimental physicists conundrums. I had single handedly brought about the advent of the Time Travel Age! What I, in fact, found, was a way to gain an extra 2 hours in the day, and with it, finally helped to start the healing process by answering the lingering pain brought about by the question, “Why aren’t there enough hours in the day!?”
After gaining my composure, I slowly venture out of the thong aisle with my Black & Decker Time Machine safely under my arms. I need to find fuel for it so I go to the food aisle, strolling through the various assortments of gourmet beans and flavors from around the world, uncomfortable, nervous, and self conscious, like a man browsing double penetration and ass to mouth DVDs hoping he doesn’t leave with an unsatisfying pick.
Finally, after what felt like two hours (get it, get it? I’m a subtle genius, guys) I get home to my laboratory and set my alarm for 6am, two hours before I would have normally awaken the past two years, and the beginning of the time I have gained because of the ability of my new machine to keep me from sleeping my life away.
I won’t go on boring you with the details of how my coffee making skills leave a lot to be desired, but rest assured dear friends, I’m faring well. I’m sending this pioneering note at 2:17pm Jonathan Time, but in my new alternate reality, it is only 12:17pm. I hope to not return to Jonathan time (and alcohol) for quite a while.
Before you feel too bad about me and my situation, don’t miss me or mourn for me too much, I’m chasing my dreams and taking back the horizon, one Morning at a time!
-Jonathan R. Gonnet
The Neil Armstrong of the 21st Century
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