Nostalgia

A while back, on a day hike along the Appalachian Trail, my father asked me offhand “when did you stop believing in God”?

It took me a minute to contemplate the honesty in the question. He’s a strong Christian, like I had once been. He wasn’t meaning to incite any emotions, or tension. He was just honestly curious.

I knew then I couldn’t tell him the true answer. It was too personal an issue. Instead I shrugged, chugged up another hill, blamed it on just growing up.

It was that, yes. But the fall of my senior year contained more discernable and definable events. Turning points. These were the instances he was looking for, but I could not reveal, because they cut just a little too close.

That fall, 1999, my parents decided to refinish the living room in our house. This resulted in a ton of drywall being cut, and the dust infiltrated my room. Due to an allergic reaction, I was horribly sick for a week. I went to the hospital and had an epinephrine shot. I remember coming home from the hospital, bursting with energy from the adrenaline, yet so drowsy from the illness. It was like being underwater, my body lucid yet my mind in limbo. That next week I saw the movie Fight Club, a personal favorite and a definite mind fuck for me.

Never before had one two-hour movie changed my perceptions of the world so strongly. A few weeks earlier I had started dating my high school best friend, and we were finally fooling around. I remember one night, after a heated make out session, coming home and just writing furiously on a scrap of paper, a vow to myself. It said something along the lines of “Once you go there, lose your innocence, you can never go back. And you’re taking hers with you.” It was a weird thing for a horny high school boy to write, but I was a weird kid, and I still had a Christian conscience.

I lost my virginity, got horribly ill, smoked marijuana, drank beer and saw Fight Club for the first time that fall. Imbibed substances made me realize how “programmable” the body was. How a simple liquid, or some smoke, could alter emotions and worldviews and senses. Opening the door of the flesh only confirmed the fact. And in our virgin fumbling, there was an innocence to sex, a purity that went against my entire religious upbringing. How could these activities be so sinful, when they in themselves were uplifting, entertaining, even spiritual?

Combined with the anti-everything nihilistic manifesto of Fight club, in my dazed yet cathartic state, God disappeared. Church became a farce, and my parents became so much more human.

So that was growing up. Eventually I justified my changes with reason and logic. I’ve grown into my viewpoints with some maturity over these four years. It was an interesting time in my life, days worth remembering.

Introduction to Destruction

Daedalus was the father of Icharus, the boy who tried to fly to the sun. Like myself, Daedalus was an engineer, a thinker, yet a mere mortal. He had intellect to match the gods, yet was constantly confronted by frailty, human weakness, and the wrath of the gods.

Anyway, thats the background of my username. To tell you the truth, I just wanted a clever username that related to some historical or mythological figure. Pathetic.

This is a test entry.

Oldies but Goodies

I meant to send this letter to an old friend back on the 13th of September, a month ago. I never sent it:
———————————————————————————
You convinced me.

Of course its alchohol induced. Of course I’m neglecting crazy times and drunken craziness to type this out in a rush or emotion and jaw clenched fury.

I’ve decided to finally write something down. About myself.

Maybe that’s vain. Maybe that’s concieted to only think about myself. But it seems that’s what you’ve wanted.

My letters have always been stream of conciousness rants about my desires, dreams, feelings and accomplishments.

But something like this has become in my mind immature. Journals and diaries are so two years ago. I’ve silently composed myself the past few yars into resignation. It’s not mature to write about personal problems. Instead, I put it away, in some place to be recalled while intoxicated. There are too many responsibilities otherwise.

So I’m in my fourth year of college. I’m going to graduate basically on time. So here’s to recollections and resignations. Here’s to unfulfilled promises and unreached destinations. There are so many things that I thought college would be that it wasn’t. No loves found. No memorable epiphinies. No overwhelming spiritual catharsis during late night religious musings.

I think of myself as the same person I’ve been for four years. Yearning, I guess. But complacent and content. I’m ok with how things are, no matter how unspectacular they may be.

Sure I have some crazy college stories, now that I think about it.

Running across campus, crazy drunk and wearing nothing but boxers, soaking wet from diving into the Olympic pool at 3 in the morning.

Dancing around a pinestraw bonfire, again drunk, again late at night, puffing on a black and mild, throwing wild grins and inside jokes to my friends.

Late night sessions of video games, finishing up coding projects, or getting dead stoned and just becomming a wild consumer of junk food.

Whats changed is this: the desperation is gone. My hormones are no longer a ticking time bomb for the perfect junction of flesh. Drinking is no longer a marathon session of insanity. Nights are calm. I get my work done on time.

I do laundry.

I eat healthy. Relatively.

And what else can I say that I’m waiting, looking forward to that day when I graduate, and that miraculous day when the job interview is done and I can smile and know with confidence I have a successful future. That my anxiety has not been wasted, that I have a possible happy future.

But I’m still that same guy, with a touch of nervousness and darkness. I’m not charismatic. Music can still move me. And I’m still bitter about the hard times.

I guess we’ll see. We’ll see, with a smirking grimace on my face, eyes sparkling with an unformed tear. Just wait and see and try to capture that overwhelming aura of hope. Because what else can I feel but just that,
a simple happiness that things are gonna be just great.

Things are gonna be just great.

Infuriation

Impetus: Matrix Revolutions:

Why I dislike Matrix Revolutions:

The biblical allegory in matrix revolutions is weak at best. Christ without a resurrection is a fraud. CS Lewis said it best, if Christ merely died, and there was no resurrection, then Christians believe the biggest lie in history. Without rising from the dead, and also the creation of a new paradise, Christ’s message is no better than the martyrs of any nation or ideology.

Neo makes a truce with the machines, that the oracle hopes “will last a long time”. The architect doesn’t look the least bit unnerved, merely walking away at the pretty display of pixels Indian girl makes. And what of Merovingian? There is word that the others are still around.

Neo’s sacrifice and the sacrifice of the Zion’s fighters is a hollow one. The Machines are not the least bit affected – they still have their fields of human batteries. The architect promises some will be freed (and we can believe him). But only a few would choose to leave the relative utopia of the matrix.

Perhaps the architect was correct all along in his intentions. Neo – the anomaly – must be reintegrated with the source. And he most probably is reabsorbed into the source as he’s ferried away on his arachnid pyre.

It is a very dismal ending to a science fiction paradigm that held so many promises and possibilities.

If I had done thing differently, Neo would have fulfilled his Christ like role, which requires a resurrection, and a promise of a world rebuilt. Neo’s matrix-like powers could carry over to the real world. What new realities could a correct peace (not a standstill ceasefire) bring about between Neo and the machines? A return to the sun, a clearing of the ash and lightning filled clouds that block the sky? Perhaps a return to nature, completely free of machines (contrasting the Councilor’s earlier speech in Reloaded about dependence upon technology).

Yet the inhabitants of the matrix (Merovingian, Oracle, Indian Girl) persist, meaning nothing has changed, a new reality has not been made. And all we have is a pretty sunrise to satiate us, yet another level of control.

It is a full revolution, three hundred sixty degrees, the machines in control as always. Either the Wachowski brothers lack the talent once attributed to them, or they are solid in their purpose, creating what is quite possibly the most nihilistic science fiction trilogy ever.