Muses: Hot Chick or Rambo Downey Jr.?

Muses. They’re supposed to be there for motivation and inspiration. According to Greek mythology, they are the goddesses, or spirits, that guide and inspire science, and literature and the arts. Some say there were three muses, some say there were nine and each one had their own field (epic poetry, dance, love poetry, astronomy, music/song, history, tragedy, comedy, and hymns). I don’t really give a fuck how many there were, so long as they got the job done. I like to go with three, simply because my personal journal has three muses imprinted on the thick leather cover (and it’s got gold trimmed pages, because I’m classy as fuck), when it comes to matters of mythology. However, when it comes to matters of needing a muse for personal projects and work and whatnot, everybody only ever says, “I need a muse,” referencing a single entity to help them out.

So what the hell is this muse anyways? I think most people imagine a drop-dead gorgeous woman, with flowing locks of auburn or gold, and eyes that pierce your soul like Excalibur. And some sort of toga that just barely covers her boobs. But looks aren’t everything, she’s also the smartest and most creative mother fucker there ever was, and that’s why she’s a fucking muse.

 But why stereotype muses to be bodacious babes? I mean, that surely wont help you get motivated or inspire you do be productive in anything at all. Instead, you’d be distracted more than ever and you might as well just sit and stare at her, drooling, wishing that some magical breeze came by and blew away her loose toga instead of painting, or writing, or music-ing. I know I wouldn’t get shit done, I’d be distracted too. And I would probably be plotting ways to cut her hair, or convince her to start wearing parachute pants with Uggs, because my muse sure as hell isn’t allowed to be prettier than me.

You see, a more reasonable approach to what a muse would be would probably be some kind of drill sergeant, screaming at you to get your shit done or else he’s going to tie you up and pour Tabasco sauce on your genitals, and take pictures of you crying like a little bitch and send it to everybody in your email contacts. Now that’s what I call motivating… But lacking in the inspiring department. So he (the muse is a man now, apparently) needs some sort of rogue-hero quality, too, making you kind of want to be like them. Something to inspire you while simultaneously scaring the crap out of you.  Like muthafukkin Rambo!

I can already imagine him yelling “You’re going to write some fucking music, and make a fucking painting, and write a fucking song, and discover a new planet so you can be a bad ass like me, or else I’m going to chop your mother fucking dick off and make you eat it on a mother fucking bun with some mother fucking sauerkraut!”

But you know, if you can get as lazy as I can get, even motivation via threats won’t work too much. No matter how much I think I could be a bad ass like Rambo, it still isn’t inspiring enough. What I am going to need is some rewards for my work, or a good healthy amount of bribes. Like cash money, or a free housecleaner for life (I really, really, really, really hate cleaning), or better yet, my sexy muse will pleasure me all I fucking want. And if you are like me where you are pretty sure your virginity has grown back, that’s a nice trade. But not with Rambo’s face. Sorry, Mr. Italian Stallion, you’ve got a nice bod, but that mug doesn’t whip me up in any sort of frenzy. Let’s see…

Oh dear god. Oh my lord. Mr. Robert Downey Jr., you can help me discover new planets any day! If you tell me too, I’ll write a fucking novel of epic proportions, I’ll paint a new Sistine Chapel, I’ll even compose a symphony that could make Beethoven weep. Just don’t put your shirt back on, and I am good to go.

Although, I think he still might be a distraction while standing around the room looking like a god of all that makes my vajayjay dampen. But knowing the rewards from accomplishing the tasks and goals and work that he is there to help me complete (whether they be under the sheets or on a table top or in a hot tub… Mmmm…) would be a fine enough inspiration and motivation. I must say, though, the subject of all the works I would create in that situation would be rather adult-rated in nature.

I don’t fucking know. As far as it seems, my idea of a muse has transformed from a spirit guide into the arts, literature, and science to being an orgasmic bribe.

But then again, Muses can be many things. Your muse can be passion for a lover, or an obsession, or a presence of enlightenment in life. Some inventers and painters have copies of Leonardo da Vinci’s sketchbooks as their muse. Some songwriters and musicians have a collection of records and tapes and CDs to play over and over by their favorite artists as their muse. Some writers have favorite authors that inspire them, and the idea of a best seller is their motivation. John Lennon’s muse and greatest inspiration was probably Yoko Ono, despite the fact that she is most notorious for breaking up one of the best bands of all time and it was more than likely an unhealthy relationship. It doesn’t necessarily have to be one imagined entity for all things, nor does it even have to be a person at all. For fuck’s sake, I think Van Gough’s muse was absinthe. Actually, I think many artists of the late 19^th century used (and abused) absinthe as a muse. I personally am not a fan; I don’t like the licorice flavor and it’s too expensive.

Eh… I’m just going to stick with my Robert Downey Jr. as my muse for now and call it good. I’ll make a more meaningful one later, but at the moment, my mind is… elsewhere… Oh goodness, is it ever elsewhere.

The Good, the Bad, the Oly.

I come from an unfortunately small town (Olympia, WA), and I detest it with all my might, but refuse to move elsewhere. I suppose, one could say it isn’t that I refuse to move, it’s just that I am comfortable enough here not to. I have such mixed feelings about this place, let me explain: 

(Olympia's finest, which hasn't been brewed in Olympia since 2003) 

 

I grow increasingly irritated at the town I live in because of its predominant hipster mentality that seems to be so infectious (I saw a poor little southern girl get enveloped within only a few months of moving here, so sad...). This mentality is insestual and passive, and rather aggravating. Most of the people that live here are college transplants (we have three colleges), or people that moved from some other similar community because they wanted something “different” but didn't want change. The people here seem to all like to sleep with each other and think it’s all fine and dandy. Sexual freedom is fine and dandy, but I’d rather not know that all my friends have had sex with each other, and I certainly don’t feel like discussing how somebody I am currently seeing has slept with any of my friends. I’d actually rather not know that at all. I’m more the monogamist type that likes relationships, but almost every person I know has nearly 5 different sex partners a month. And they all think I’m the one that isn’t open-minded because I don’t sleep with everyone around me. I’m open-minded as hell, I just don’t need to fuck everyone to prove it, and I don’t like being pressured into the idea of sleeping with everyone just to fit in. That just isn’t my thing.

So many people like to pretend to be activists ‘round these parts, but all they are doing is being unnecessarily overly-defensive and talking too much about crap they hardly know about. The girls are all hardcore feminists (with the idealistic wooly mammoth legs), the boys are all void of emotion whilst pretending they are profound philosophers, and everyone is an alcoholic vegan/vegetarian in a crappy band that has no real fans except for their friends, who are also in crappy bands. Nobody is going anywhere in this town that is overcrowded with arrogant twenty-something’s. The few thirty-something year olds that participate in this “thriving” scene are generally still there because they haven’t grown up yet and moved on.

There are too many flannels. I know it’s cold, but Christ. Enough is enough, flannels have a reason and a purpose and it shouldn't be exploited year-round. And the unkempt mustaches! I am a fan of mustaches, I love them, and I think they are amazing, but having a crappy one just to be “ironic” isn’t really that cool, it’s just pretentious, and makes you look fucking stupid. And they’re all misinterpreting irony, too. Did I mention every single person here is a self-proclaimed artist? No, you’re not an artist, douche bag, you just want to call yourself that because you think it makes you unique to be EXACTLY THE SAME as every fucking other liberal arts student around you.

There never seems to be enough PBR around here to keep up with fashion, either. The trend is to look like you are constantly hung-over, and unwashed from a night of coke-snorting, binge-drinking, sex parties, and you must keep this look at all times, no matter the occasion. Weddings? Funerals? Your nephew’s 2^nd birthday? It doesn’t matter, because you didn’t have the time to change into a cleaner 80’s t-shirt (that may as well have nothing to do with you or your life because you were probably born after ‘87 anyways) while you are hurrying off to the co-op to buy a brand of organic coffee that is essentially the same as every other coffee, but it’s cool because it’s organic. And don't forget to add a nice slab of pizza grease to your [always uncombed and asymmetrically-cut] hair, for that extra "I don't give a fuck!" look.

Everybody wants to be angry about something, when there really isn’t anything to be angry about. They always find something to be bitch about, though. Like how some crappy noise band’s latest album totally sounded like they sold out and were getting too mainstream (despite the fact that it still has not signed with any record label). Or they want to be angry at society for being too… Mainstream. Everything is just too mainstream!

And the worst part is that they all want to complain about exactly what I have written here, while simultaneously doing it. Really? REALLY?? STFU AND GTFO!

There is, however, a brighter side of living in a small town. When you have had your flirtations with the scene like I have, you get to know a lot of people and develop many relationships. And in a small town, after having been able to get to know the community, it’s nice to walk down the street and see familiar faces. Aside from the general passive-aggressiveness that radiates in the “drama-free” social groups (“drama-free” is taken with a grain of salt, we all know there is a tremendous amount of drama even if we don’t want to admit it), people still smile and say hi, and ask how you are doing. The town is too small to hold grudges, so you have to learn to get over your shit (or at least pretend to) quickly and play nice.

The music scene isn’t really that bad. For as many fleeting, crappy, alternative music projects going on that last the duration of a semester at most, there are also many quality bands that produce good music worth checking out. Many shows are hit or miss, but the hits make all the misses worth the trouble. And quite a few well-known and semi-well-known bands and artists have their roots in Oly, too (e.g. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Music_of_Olympia).

As mentioned earlier, everybody thinks they are an artist, but they all think that because they are surrounded by so many legitimate artists. Many buildings downtown have murals by local painters, and there is a plethora of art groups and projects going on, and every venue and many restaurants and bars have turned their walls into a display area for local artists, not to mention a gallery on every block. After a saddening closing of a popular west-side art supply store, a couple of Olympia noobs came in and saw the opportunity to open a new business called Olyphant that is thriving harder than anyone could imagine a small business in this economy to, and now has a large building located downtown that also hosts art classes, and is a focal point in the local network of painters, sculptors, inkers, and sketchers alike.

And one of my favorite parts of Olympia is how community-orientated it is. Off the top of my head, aside from the new city hall (which is an eyesore and completely unwanted by “the people”), and one single Starbucks (that doesn’t get nearly as much business as any of the other cafés in town), downtown is mom-and-pop shops, quaint and cozy locally owned businesses, and near completely free of any big, corporate business. The money we spend in the community stays in our community, that’s how our little economy works, and that's how we like to keep it.

I guess, for as much as I can bitch about it, I can revel about Olympia, too. But seriously, quit with the fucking flannels.

Measuring Insanity

"They never tell you how crazy you are. Just that you have lost it, that you're beside yourself... out of your mind."

I have a few favorite foreign short films, and this is certainly one of them. It’s an interesting take on the concept of how to measure a person’s sanity, or lack thereof. Or more, how it feels to be in the midst of losing your sanity, and how you are supposed to adjust to life as an insane person, while trying to find out exactly just how insane you are.

I could never imagine what it would be like to be clinically mad. I know that I am not fully right myself, and doctors have been telling me so from a very young age, but nobody is fully “right” anyhow. I have been diagnosed with a few disorders, but they are slight and do not inhibit my ability to function in society as a normal person. I don’t hear voices, I don’t see things that aren’t real, I don’t have multiple personalities, and I am not paranoid or schizophrenic. Everyone has a disability of some sort, I believe, and that might possibly be what gives us humanity; the capability of knowing and understanding that we are not perfect, and are all flawed, and persevering with that as a social and empathetic species in our environment. I suppose you could say I am less insane than most people. If measured, I’m sure I am only 2.7 centimeters insane.

I have always wondered what it would be like to be crazy, truly crazy, and know that I was crazy. I often see people downtown talking to themselves, or at a wall. I have seen a woman walking down the street with three old, tattered dolls in a stroller, and taking care of them as if they were her own children, and it reminds me of an old horror movie called “Don’t Look in the Basement” about a mental facility where one of the patients in the institution has a doll that she cares very deeply about and thinks is her real child. But none of these people I see actually know they are crazy, or at least I don’t believe they do. I think their insanity could be measured to be approximately 124 centimeters.

To be insane, and know you are insane, could be a terrible thing. Not only would you have to learn to re-adjust to the world around you, but you’d have to learn to juggle both your insanity, and the knowledge of your insanity. I’m most certain that understanding you are insane would drive you even more bonkers, especially after finding a way to measure it. Exactly 91 centimeters. And you can't possibly do anything about it because you are insane and incapable of grasping the sanity needed to change it.

Do people committed in institutions know they are deranged? You’d have to know something was wrong with you when you realize you are being given medications every day, and have to ask permission to go outdoors only to be kept under surveillance in a closed area. Wouldn’t you have to realize things were a bit off when you watch movies and the television and see that nobody else has the same restrictions as you? Or is the mind of a crazy person similar to an elderly person that has become senile? They don’t know they are senile, they just ARE.

If my mentality were ever to be derailed, I wouldn’t want to know it. People look at the touched differently, and treat them differently than they would a normal person. Relationships change when you are crazy. I wouldn’t want to become crazy and know it was happening to me, and see the way the world changed around me because of it. I’d rather it happen without my knowledge. Perhaps it already has, and if that is the case, then I am pleased with the outcome, and I am pleased to not know how many centimeters I am from sanity.

Wine Story

"God, it's fucking cold in here. I should call the manager to fix the radiator in the morning," she thought aloud in her empty apartment. A slight shiver caught her by surprise while she grabbed a bottle of cheap cabernet sauvignon and poured a glass, glancing across the table towards her best friend. Her best friend was a quickly emptying bottle of Lorazepam, and it had become her nightly boyfriend; something to make her feel warm and fuzzy inside when she faded away to sleep. "Maybe tonight, I'll sleep alone." But then maybe not, and another pill found its way to her mouth and the taste was covered with wine.

She sat on her couch, which was a stained- with-time futon from a cheap Swedish department store and was unusually comfortable. Only minutes would pass before she felt the loneliness dissipate. Lighting up a cigarette would pass the time, and maybe a book. She was a smart girl, and could read anything and understand what she was reading, but she preferred young adult fiction. The kind of fiction that was labeled “Young Adult” but had the psychology of a real adult. What was a real adult, anyway? She constantly pondered that when she looked at her personal library. These books are far beyond the mental capacity of any average teenager, and held deeper meanings and a sense of profoundness that only an aged person would understand. Maybe it is merely the publishing company’s misunderstanding of young adults today; they certainly aren’t as bright as what she wished they were. Then again, what the hell does an “aged person” mean? Does it mean old, or just wise? She grabbed a book that was only a mere two chapters from being finished.

“Wisdom,” she thought, “Comes from experience. Young adults don’t have this kind of experience.”

The Lorazepam wasn’t working, or at least, not fast enough. She just wanted to feel her lover again, the warm embrace synthesized in her nerves that the pills would bring. She knew she shouldn’t take any more; she just needed to give it some time. The wine should help speed that up.

She heard herself murmur, “Fuck.” It just slipped out, she never meant to actually speak, it was an accidental vocalization of thought. Her boyfriend better show up soon, or else… or else… She didn’t know what else to do. She couldn’t take another pill, she didn’t want to risk mixing too much drugs with too much alcohol. For a moment, she took pride in her responsible mind. Of course, the wine would surely obliterate all responsibility soon enough. A second glass was poured, and this time, it was poured just slightly more than the previous glass, but no pills accompanied it.

She forgot to eat. She wasn’t really hungry, and the thought of eating hadn’t passed her mind that day. When she looked at her fridge, she felt so lazy. It was full of meats, cheeses, vegetables, and all kinds of things to cook and prepare, but she didn’t want that. She wanted a snack. Nothing was going to be easy tonight. “Ah, fuck this!” she shouted at the seeming emptiness of her fridge. No food would be made without work. She didn’t feel like cooking, she wanted something immediate. The wine might suppress her appetite, just give it some time. And another two sips are taken from the glass.  And another cigarette is smoked.

Normally, she can drink the boys under the table, or at least her friends have said so. Today, with a lack of food, it isn’t working out well. She could feel the wine warming her chest, but her boyfriend still hadn’t come. It was getting late, too, almost four o’clock AM. Or early. Either way, she should be getting to sleep, but it wasn’t going to happen without him. Perhaps another Lorazepam will help. And with that thought, she gave away responsibility for the idea of a comfortable rest, and another pill was taken.

Another half hour went by and she felt like her body was becoming sloppy with its movements, but she still wasn’t tired. She finished a novel by Robert Cormier, and began to pick up another book that she only ever read in short portions between other books, “House of Leaves,” by Mark Danielewski. It was an odd book, and she didn’t know how to read it, so she just took it chapter by chapter, and often had to re-read several parts out of confusion. After only a couple pages, and another empty glass of wine, she had had enough. She put the puzzle of literature down and poured another glass. This time, she decided to put on a particular song on her computer’s playlist. She selected the options and made it repeat one song, a song by Ben Lovett, called, “Eye of the Storm.” And she hummed along during the first few rounds, and sipped at her wine, and wondered why she couldn’t sleep. Why had her boyfriend not come, she called for him twice already. If he won’t come now, she would ask someone else to tuck her into bed, and wish her good night.

She had a bottle of Hydroxyzine, and it was such a small doze that she often took at least seven pills at once, just to make it work. Lorazepam was being such a jerk tonight and not answering her calls that she decided, “Tonight, I’ll take some fifteen!” And that is exactly just what she did, out of anger. Her Lorazepam didn’t come when she wanted it to, and so, with more wine, and more pills, she chased the idea of sleep. She had a busy day tomorrow, she needed as much rest as she could get, and she needed it now. There was cleaning that needed to be done, and she needed to check in on a potential job that she had applied for. She needed rest to function for this.

And rest would never come soon enough. She decided, one last call to him, and I’ll give up for the night. One more Lorazepam. No, another. Two more calls to her love, and she would quit. Another glass of wine, the last of the bottle. And to fill the time until the visit from her lover, she wrote in her journal:

“He won’t come to me. I called him, and he never returns my calls or answers at all. I don’t want to waste his time, or be so clingy, but I would sleep better if I knew he was here.” At this point, she wasn’t even sure who she was writing about. Lorazepam, Hydroxyzine, or maybe even an imaginary man she wanted by her side. “I wish I could understand my mind. Why do I need him to sleep?” The words are becoming increasingly confused with scribbles. All that can be made out from now is a poor attempt at cursive, “I reelly like slep. Its so nicee too dream.” Clearly she had added in some swoops and curves in her writing to make a few misspellings. But she wasn’t sleepy enough. And she called onto Hydroxyzine seven more times and onto Lorazepam three more times, and she was near finished her last glass of cheap wine.

“Tea,” she thought, “Tea will help.” And then she stared at her bottles of pills that lay across the table. “Aspirin will help, too. I drank an entire bottle of wine, after all.” So she took four Aspirin pills with the last gulp of cab-sauv. The recommended dose is two at most, but she had to make sure she avoided any hang-over for the following day. She put some water in her kettle, which was a house-warming gift from her mother when she first moved out into a small studio downtown.

But Lorazepam would still not return her calls. No matter how much time she gave him, he wouldn’t respond. She didn’t need him entirely; she just wanted a good-night kiss before she headed off to bed. And though she said she wouldn’t, she called him again. Twice. And she decided he was just another let down in her life, and she didn’t need him. She had others to love, the empty wine bottle that she threw into the trash bin with more force than usual, and Hydroxyzine would surely help her sleep, and Aspirin would cure her of all her endeavors. And so she called Hydroxyzine again, and once more for Aspirin.

And a few minutes crept by, and she was sick of that song she chose to go on repeat. She changed the song, but kept the repeat setting, and now she was listening to “For You” by Tin Sparrow. She felt so neglected on her couch. Abandoned by sleep, cast aside by any sense of rest or slumber. She kicked the side of the table that served as a holder for her medicinal lovers, and various magazines. It seemed much harder to kick than any tantrum she has had before. Her foot felt heavier, but she tried anyway. Perhaps, she only tapped it, but in her mind, she broke it with force. And then she remembered something she had completely forgotten, something important that might be the reason she is feeling so upset right now. Her doctor had prescribed her Zoloft recently, to help with depression.

“Of course!” she shouted. Of course she was so moody; she forgot the one medication that was supposed to prevent this. But how many days has it been? Three? Four? She grabbed the bottle of what she thought would make her become the person she wanted to be, and took five pills, just to make sure she didn’t skip a dose, dry. They went down hard, and she gagged, but she kept swallowing until it became smooth. Salivate, swallow, salivate, swallow. The water on the pot isn’t hot enough to make tea yet, but it can be heard bubbling.

And now, she is tired. Finally, she finds sleepiness. Tomorrow is going to be a productive day.  “I’ll get up early, and I’ll clean and I will run all my errands.”

So she lay down, and closed her eyes. Lorazepam finally came to visit, so suddenly, and she could feel the presence of her beloved Hydroxyzine as well. They were there to soothe her, to comfort her, and ease her into a dream, and she would sleep well. She felt a tingling, burning sensation in her chest, and she wasn’t sure if it was the Aspirin or her lovers pressing against her. And she closed her eyes, and it feels so easy now.

The water on the stove in the kettle is beginning to whistle. It screams at her, “WAKE UP! WAKE UP!” and she hears it, but she won’t respond. Her lover finally answered her calls, all of her lovers followed through. The kettle is just a muffled sound in the background, and like her consciousness, it too will drift away.

And the kettle keeps screaming, “Wake up. Wake up.”

But she won’t.

Death and the Concept of Immortality

My earliest experience involving death wasn't my first memory of it. I was two years old and my grandpa died. I can't remember that, and I don't remember him being around at all. I know he was a loving grandfather and cared a lot about his family, because everyone tells me the stories, but I don't remember him myself. What I know of him is only what I have been told. That he was kind, honest, and had a heavy Swedish accent. That he worked at the mill downtown, and went to lunch every day at the Spar where he hit on my grandma, his favorite waitress, until she finally fell for him. Because I didn't remember his death for the fact that I was too young, I didn't really understand what death meant until much later on in my life.

My second experience was when my childhood best friend's mom, Treava, died. That woman was extraordinary. She was like another mother to me, always affectionate to everyone. She was an amazing mother to her own children, and acted as one to all of the neighboring children. She died when I was eight years old. I remember being at home and my best friend, Katie, knocking on my door and she was in tears. My mother and I let her in and asked what was wrong and she told us between sobs. My mother and little sister tried to comfort her. I, however, just sat with them and did my best to understand why she was crying without asking because I didn't want to offend anyone in such an awkward and emotional time. Even then, I didn't understand death and what it means. I remember her funeral, the first funeral I've been to that I can make a real memory of, still unable to comprehend why everyone was so upset. It wasn't until a few months later when I went over to her house and finally realized that I was never going to see Treava again and I wondered why she had left us. But I didn’t consider her as “dead” so much as I thought she was just “gone.” To a child, those are two different and very conflicting things to comprehend.

When I was 18, a friend of mine, Jypsy, was killed in a car crash. I was walking down the street downtown and a couple of my friends ran up to me telling me they had something important to tell me. "Jypsy's dead." I didn't believe them. Why would I? My friends aren't supposed to die. "Jypsy's dead. She died in a car crash." I nodded and they told me what they knew, that her fiancé had been drinking and driving and the car flipped over, and they asked me to go up to Community Youth Services (CYS) to find out more. I still didn’t believe it until I arrived at CYS, when I walked in to find all of my friends crying. For the rest of that day and a long time afterwards, I dwelled on the ideas of life and death and what I am supposed to do to cope with it. I didn’t understand it as a child, and I still wasn’t anywhere near ready to realize it as a young adult.

And then it hit me hard in 2011. Five people in my life passed. One was shot in the head and murdered when his home was burglarized. Another died in an abandoned warehouse fire when someone left a candle burning. The girl that first taught me how to play violin killed herself by exploding her apartment via gas. My grandmother died of Alzheimer’s. And finally, one of my closest friends relapsed and died from a drug overdose, and that was the one that made me realize so much more than I wanted. All of this happened in less than a year, and it became increasingly tiresome to accept and deal with. “All of my friends are dying,” I kept thinking. In the end, you can either let it drive you insane or you can analyze it and accept it with the best logical sense you can summon despite all the emotional stress. Death isn’t going to stop happening just because you can’t handle it.

Let's lay down the basic facts: With every birth comes the guarantee of death to follow later on. It is inevitable, you can't avoid it, and it will happen to everyone. Whether you like it or not, you and everyone you know is going to die. You cannot prevent it, you cannot stop it, and you have to accept it and move on when it happens.

Death, as defined, is the act of dying; the end of life; the total and permanent cessation of all the vital functions of an organism. It is the termination of a life form’s existence.

As death occurs in our lives, we are reminded that our bodies are mortal. However, we are also reminded to cherish life, the gifts that we are given, and all of our blessings while we can and while we are alive.

Nothing, except your spirit, will endure eternity. And that isn’t even completely proven. There is as much evidence proving the existence of a spirit after a body’s death as there is otherwise. Maybe we humans get the shit end of the stick and even our “spirit” disappears with our rotting corpse. I like avoiding that train of thought, though. It’s a bit depressing.

While I am trying my hardest not to sound like some sort of hippie that has had way too much free time in the woods with hallucinogenic fungus, I’d like to say that though we are physically mortal and our bodies will eventually expire, it is still possible to be immortal, in a sense. To be immortal means to live forever, right? I am in consensus that it means eternal life, though I believe it’s spiritually. I am not talking about an afterlife or reincarnation, and at this point in my life, I don’t acknowledge a god or a heaven or a hell, either. That is an entirely different matter that should be reserved for another time.

People think of immortality in different ways. To some, it means eternal life both physically and spiritually. That, I suspect, is the most common belief.

Another idea of immortality is eternal youth, but still the capability of death. An example of this is in the Amazon culture in the comic books of Wonder Woman. I know, I probably should use a better example, but I read comics, and it's only natural for me to use it as a reference and example. In Wonder Woman, the all-female race of Amazons is granted with the gift of immortality by the gods of Mount Olympus. However, in the battles that have occurred in Themysciran history, many Amazons have been killed, including Queen Hyppolita, Donna Troy, Artemis, and even Diana (aka the current and everlasting Wonder Woman, though Hyppolita and Artemis were both Wonder Woman for a time) have all died. These Amazons are immortal in the way that they will be eternally young and will never grow old, but they can still be killed just as any other human can be.

In my opinion, though, immortality is a mental stand or condition. It is achieved during your life and granted after death, much like a mental version of the Fountain of Youth.

Let's look at the Fountain of Youth for a moment. A mythical spring promising eternal youth to those who drink from it. Stories of this legendary fountain have been around since before the European's first arrival to the Caribbean. However, the most well known tales revolve around Juan Ponce de León's quest to find it in Florida in 1513. He heard of the story from some Natives in Puerto Rico after conquering it, discovering loads of gold along the way, and although his journey led to the European discovery of Florida, the Natives he encountered eventually shot him with a poison tipped arrow and killed him. He never found any fountain, let alone any future life.

No one has found a real spring that produces youth granting water. It does not exist. But what if the Fountain of Youth is a metaphor for a sense of cultivation that Ponce de León didn't understand? Maybe to find the Fountain of Youth means to reach spiritual and psychological self-enlightenment. It is something one searches for themselves internally. It continues bubbling fourth because it comes from within. That could be the ultimate idea of immortality.

That being said, to become immortal means to set oneself at ease in spirit. Immortality is a state of mind in which what is physical doesn't mean everything but what you can remember being. Those memories live on in stories, myths, folklore and legacies between people everywhere in this world. Death to us means to cease to exist but when in fact it doesn't necessarily mean that. If people close to us remember us then we never die at all. Same goes if we have children, because they carry on parts of us in spirit, blood, and most of all, personality. Therefore, if we are remembered, we can continue to live. We will still be very much alive in the hearts and minds of those who knew us. Thus, we reach the state of immortality. Just as how I remember Treava putting a bandage on my shoulder when I fell out of a tree in her yard, and how I remember my friend teaching me how to play the Israeli national anthem on violin on Decatur Street in New Orleans.

Coyote

I'm thirsty. It's hard to swallow, and my throat hurts. The kind of sting you feel after vomiting from a flu, and it aches not just in your throat, but in your entire system. Every time I manage to salivate, it takes what feels like hours to swallow a bundle of fire. And my head. It throbs and pulsates in its own deprived way of telling me that I am so close to the end of the world. I think this is what the sailors must have felt when they were stranded at sea with no sign of land. I remember the stories; they only had salt water, and each other. Their choice was to resort to cannibalism to survive, or drink the ocean which would inevitably make them delirious and fatefully ill. Another demise I'd rather not imagine. Damn this desert to hell. But what's the point in damning it? It feels like hell already.

I acted as stubborn as a mule when I insisted on going on to visit my mother despite the warnings. She is sick, with a hereditary disease that will cause blindness. I will suffer the same illness someday, but for the time being, my vision is mostly clear and she needs me. The trains were stopped due to some sort of malfunction on the railroads, and it should take days, weeks even, to clear. My mother is an artist, and I won't let her suffer that long. Because I am an artist too, and I feel like I know that the worst thing to take from an artist would be their vision. I can't imagine what it would be like to look at a canvas, and not see it. I have spinach and blueberries for her. It's what the doctor suggested to at least slow the process of blindness, it's better than nothing. I can get to her. I can.

I've been walking for miles, I'm sure. My pace has slowed, but I know by my shadow that it has been hours. It's late evening, summertime. The sun sets late here this time of year so I know to set up camp before the light falls. Camp is an overstatement of what I am doing. I am merely just lying down to sleep.

Thirsty. So thirsty.

I can see the shimmering lights in the distance. The city I just traveled from. I'm disappointed that I can't see my destination, but I have two canteens of water and my mother isn't too far away. I have never traveled to her on foot before, but it never seemed too long by train. I'll take four sips now of my water. That was the plan, but I take gulps that empty an entire canteen. One left. Sleep now.

I'm so tired, but I can't seem to fully rest. I suppose I am used to the quietness of the schedule of the city. Everyone falls to a deep coma when the lights are out, the only stir is a patrolman shuffling by in a duty that must be futile since violence and disturbance is unheard of in my home. Here in the desert, I can hear snakes and coyotes. I heard about them in the stories that the schools told us, that they'll eat you alive if you wander off alone. I wandered off alone.

I'm cold. I realize how under-educated I was about the desert before the sun sets. They always teach you in the schools about how you'll die of a heat stroke or dehydration, but they always figured everyone would only risk the dangers of the waking hours, the daytime. They clearly forgot to warn us that the night is cold and merciless. My shivering doesn't help, and my muscles ache more with the shaking of my bones. I've managed to doodle a sloppy design of the sun setting in the thin layer of dust that has settled on the dry rocks that I am lying on. It looks similar to the designs I have seen on the travelers from Polynesia, and I spend my restless hours imagining what it would be like to place those designs in the flesh of others. It's really a spectacular sight where I am from, but it seems normal to them to be marked so strangely. By the time the sun rises, I am sore all over from trembling in the freezing night.

I pack up my gear which is no more than two canteens and a light jacket, along with the food, and head to the direction of my mother. I've decided to nibble on a bit of spinach, but only a bite's worth. Just for the strength I'll need to get to her. I can recover when I am there, but for the time being, I need to actually get there. Still only one full canteen left. I have to save it.

Mother must be hurting for water, so I'll push my thirst a bit longer. She lives far from town and only has a warm well to drink from, which I am sure isn't a very healthy well as she gets sick often. It will be nice to gift her with something pure from the faucets of the city. I have to keep walking.

I can't keep track of the hours, but I know it's been a while. My back burns from a scorching pain that can only be a severe sunburn, and my throat is getting that searing, dry pain again. My brain feels like it is banging against my skull. I know I am close to my destination, even if I can't see it. I can't see the city anymore either, it must be further than I thought.

I can't see anything, really. Just desert. Did I take a wrong turn? Was I that unprepared for the journey? I think I was traveling in a straight line...

And then I see her. Mom. I run to her but she runs from me for a short distance and then stops and looks at me as if she is planning something dreadful. She seems shorter, and is crouched down on her hands and legs, like a toddler learning to walk, but not out of the crawling phase yet. My vision isn't doing so well; it must be the heat and the thirst and lack of sleep. "Mother!" I call to her with a scratched voice. Is she hurt? Why is she acting so strange? Another copy of her rushes to her side, and then another and another. And then I see it. Her teeth are sharp and brutal. This is not my mother. I begin to realize her furry shoulders and her anger towards me. She leaps forward, and her friends follow. But it can't be anger; it must be something she needs. Like how I need water and rest.

It hits me in my throat and around my neck. Then my left arm, and then my right calf. I try to fight, but I just want to protect my mother. But this isn't my mother. This isn't the woman that kissed my scrapes and made the pain go away as a child. This is a canine creature that is beginning to tear me apart. A coyote. There is a warmth of the liquid rushing down my arm and my leg and now my face as I come to the conclusion of what is happening to me. It's faster than I can understand. The red is darker, and the smell of blood much more putrid. I'm trying to scream, but I can only gurgle after that first attack on my neck. My body is becoming torn, and all I want is to protect this image of Mother. But she is not my mother. Mother would never hurt me.

I can hear the howls that the canines produce in the desert, and I can't help but let my eyes close and try to block out this pain. The pain seems to be drifting, and I can feel myself falling into a rest that seems to be more splendid than any nap I have ever had. I lose all feeling and suddenly a drastic sleep overwhelms me.

Understanding Suicide

The suicide attempt or commitment of an individual is seen as preventable and tragic by society. When a person takes their own life, they are mourned and their acts are spoken of as misguided, wrong, and unfortunate. It’s seen as the chicken-hearted way out. Craven, as if it was an easy decision to avoid any difficult work towards a better life. Actually, the decision to commit suicide is quite the opposite.

To think about suicide and plan it is an easy task. It takes simple thoughts, and a basic understanding of the fragility of life. Carrying out the plan is much tougher than you would ever imagine. It may be easy to put a rope around your neck and kick a chair out from under you, but the final moments leading to it take more courage than any living person could summon. You must accept that it is the end. You must check your mental bucket list and wonder if there was anything else you wanted to do. Make your final goodbyes, and write your letters if you want. And then you wonder if there is any other option; if there is any other safer route that is not the pain of the life you have, nor the ultimate ending that you are about to face. Most attempted suicides back out at about this point with a slight gleam of hope, wondering about, and desperately clinging onto the slim and slight chance that things will get better. Life never gets “better.” It’s a long and winding road that leads to your door and will never disappear.

David Foster Wallace brilliantly, and very accurately, described the act of committing suicide as a comparison to escaping a fire: “The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’ can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped to really understand a terror beyond falling.”

It takes real courage to choose death over life. I have a level of respect for those who have chosen to commit suicide, for whatever reason, despite the fact that it hurts me and everyone else they were loved by. They have chosen to do something that nearly every person has thought about once in their life, seriously or from curiosity, and didn’t have the guts to follow through with. I admire them not for their decision, but for the bravery that seems almost impossible to summon to do it.

The girl that taught me how to play violin when I lived in New Orleans recently committed suicide by blowing up her apartment. I do not know why she did it. I don’t understand what was troubling her so much. We had lost contact and haven’t spoken in a couple of years, so I am unaware of what her situation was. I don’t know if it was over love, over general depression, over a large amount of small misfortunes adding up too quickly to bear, or a combination of anything. I heard she was actually doing rather well and had just got a new puppy. But she made her decision. I can’t change it. I can’t ask her to undo it. I can’t go back in time and find out her telephone number and give her a call to ask how she is. I have to learn to live with it. I accept these facts, and I respect her choice even though I wish she had not come to that conclusion.

When we hear of suicide, we tend to ask, “What could I have done to prevent it?” and “Why did they do it?” and “How could they do this to me?” All of these questions reflect on the self and what actions we could have taken to prevent their decision. The answers are simple and easy, and often not accepted. “You could not do anything to prevent it. When a person chooses that this is what they ultimately want, they will do it and there is nothing you can do to stop it.” “They did it because they would rather die than experience the life they have in their situation and circumstances, and they found no other option.” “They didn’t do this to you. They did this to themselves. They chose how to handle their own life and it was about them. Just because you are saddened does not mean they did something terrible to you.” It is true. Most people tend to say the suicidal are selfish, when in fact, the truer act of greed comes from trying to convince a person to live when they would rather not merely because you think you know what is best for them, or you would be sad without them in your life.

When a person in combat is under attack from an enemy or taken prisoner and their situation will inevitably lead to their death, they will often take their own life first. This is not seen as cowardly or insane. No one in their right mind would advise going through trials of torture and suffering a slow and agonizing death over ending it yourself quickly. In this type of situation, suicide has been often encouraged in many countries for a number of centuries. It is even still seen now as an honorable act if there is no other life-granting opportunity. However, if a person is being tortured and driven mad by their own mind and/or emotions, it is gutless. How is it really any different? The burden that our own thoughts and feelings can cause and having to live through it can be far more traumatizing than keel hauling.

Some would consider it even reasonable to commit suicide if one was suffering a terminal and painful illness. In fact, dogs and cats are often put down for this reason, and the veterinarians surely don’t ask the animal what they want first. It is merely assumed that it is for the better well-being that the animal not suffers any longer. There are doctors around the world that have been known to administer drugs to patients for a peaceful ending, given that the patient has undergone proper medical analysis and is coherent and completely aware of their decision. This process is more extensive and takes intense scrutinizing of the patient’s mental and physical condition than any course a veterinarian takes before making the choice for an animal, and yet most of these doctors are ridiculed, and threatened for assisting suicide. Some of them have even been sued for malpractice, which is about as reasonable and proactive as suing any hardware supplier for selling the rope that someone used to hang themselves, or an architect for designing a tall building that someone used to jump from.

If there is one thing that ought to be said considering the act of suicide, it should be agreed it is that it is a very difficult decision and is far from cowardly. The one thing that every human has is their incontrovertible right to choose whether or not they will take their own life. It is the biggest and heaviest decision that a person can make, and not that many people have the balls to. The person that chooses to commit suicide is not pathetic in their endeavor, but in complete control, a fortune that few have on their death beds. Who are we to question them? 

This should in no means or way be used to glorify or excuse the act of suicide, but be taken as an attempt to understand suicide without a negative judgement.