The Tragic Sense of Life

In class we have spoken of tragedies and the tragic sense of life. I have examined my own life and will in this post give exerpts from my personal experiences with tragedy. What follows is pretty heavy in places so read on with discretion.
When I was 7 years old my mother married my stepfather and I was ripped away from my known, comfortable existence as an only child in a loving home raised by his single mother and grandparents, to a Cinderella-esque situation having 3 step siblings with whom I did not get along. This was a terrible experience for me, at first, it has since gotten much better.
When I was in 8th grade my Papa, whom was more of a father to me than either of my actual fathers (biological, step), was diagnosed with two different types of cancer one of which being Mesothelioma caused by esbestos. I watched the man I looked up to most slowly deteriorate in front of my eyes wating away to what was, at the end, not much more than a thin layer of flesh drapped loosely over bone. By the end he was so weak he couldn't speak or move on his own. I spent nearly every free, waking hour by his side. I watched my hero die and to this day am still deeply effected by what happened. Not only did this leave me without a hero, it left my Nana without the love of her life, the man with whom she'd had 6 children and spent everyday of her life from a young age. I cannot think of a greater loss.
The summer after I had graduated from high school a good friend of mine, and teammate, died in a drunk driving accident, the night before I had been partying and hanging out with him and other friends and this kid frequently drove innebriated. I certainly didn't approve but I kept my mouth shut, something I wish I hadn't done. The following day I received a text that read: Matt is dead. That's all it said, no more, no less, just; Matt is dead. Imagine getting that text at 9:00 a.m. I didn't even believe it, I chalked it up to a cruel joke, it was anything but, it was all too real. To this day I can't help but wonder if things may have been different had I been there, but I can't allow myself to dwell on that because what happened can't be changed, so instead I redirect my thoughts to the memories and good times.
This past summer I recieved a message telling me that a friend of 12 years had passed away. He overdosed on prescription drugs and hard liqour and died in a pool of his own vomit at only 19 years old. If this isn't tragic in the most basic sense of the word than I don't know what is.

Boring: Books or People?

Sexson made the statement early in the semester that there are "no boring books, just boring people" and I have spent the entire semester rolling this thought around in my head but am not sure that I have made a decision as to where I stand on that. I see books that I know are of no interest to me, books that will bore me, but is it I that am boring? Take, for example, an engineering structures manual, I know without a doubt that this book will bore me, most likely to the point of tears. Is itsimply because I am not aninteresting person enough to find this exciting? In this case it seems that, because I am not an engineer or an engineering student, or someone who knows anything about structures, there is the distinct possibility that I am the boring one and not the book, boring for not diversifying myself and learning the ways of structures and/or engineers. At the same time I pick up a book on Phenomonology (a part of philosophy) and am completely consumed by everything it has to tell me, that is to say, deeply interested by it. Someone who has not interest in philosophy or philosophical notions would most likely deem the book on Phenomonology boring and possibly unreadable. Is it because they themselves are not interesting enough to care for deep, abstract thought and philosophical notions? I would say yes, they are the boring ones and not the book. However when I see a cheesey romance novel, such as a Danielle Steele, I can't help but think that no matter how interesting one is those books could, in themselves, be boring as hell. The story is usually predictable and, well to be honest, crap. It seems to me that people read these books (if one wishes to call them that) to experience the sensations of lust, love, and, I suppose, joy and at times sadness but there is nothing of intellectual value in these stories, no real thought involved in their reading, and no deeper meanings to be had. So why not just watch television? It is such stories that I believe can be, and usually are, quite boring and not the people whom read them. However I suppose that can be said to be a biased viewpoint and that the matter of boring books or boring people is one of absolute subjectivity and as such is a matter which must be decided by each on their own.

Green Dress

Inhale this breath before you take then next
Oh how sweet do you look in that green dress
All your problems shall for now be vexed
But on my lap your head you must not rest

Our love must remain in secrecy, yes
They do not understand our sweet embrace
But oh how sweet you look in that green dress
Come they will chase, but for love we must race

When I taste your lips on mine; sweet, divine
You breathe life into my soul; heal, console
When we're caught, locked away, confined
But tis you I forever long to hold

So against adversity we shall be bold
Forever refusing to do as we're told

Final Paper

My final paper dealt with Sexson's claim that "there are no original stories". Upon first hearing this statement I was confused, slightly aggitated, and a bit unsettled. How could there be no original stories? So I went on a mission, a mission to find originality in the stories which surround my everyday life (television, life, music, books, etc.). What I found only furthered my frustration; there was no genuine originality that I could see, everything around me was either bits and pieces of other stories embodied in a different manner or exact retellings (mostly through television/movies). However is it not foolish, and even naive, to think that in a world where human beings have been roaming the planet for several hundred-thousand years that there could be a story that was not a retelling of a prior one, or an event that hasn't previously occurred in a very similar manner but with some differences? I think that it is not the human condition to accept life as a retelling though, but that there is a neccessity people today seek in originality to console themselves and feel like more than just a number in a system or a dot on the map. So we search for this originality, never allowing ourselves to accept its falsity, or simply being ingnorant of it. However I believe that seeing our stories as retellings or similarities can actually be of more use to us; we can take solice in knowing that others have gone before us, that our stuggle is not ours alone, at times these links between stories can even serve as a source of laughter, and they can always serve as a source of learning. So, don't fret knowing that you're not completely original, but take comfort in it.

Dukkha

The First Nobel Truth of Buddhism; Dukkha. Dukkha= all life is, or leads to, suffering. I believe that suffering is a major part of life and without suffering we could never truly experience the same kind of highs that come from a joyous experience.
In my life I have certainly experienced suffering. I first really experienced it when I was six and my cat Spot died. I experienced suffering once again when my Papa, the man whom I admired as a role model and father figure, wasted away slowly and agonizingly in front of my young eyes. The person I looked up to most was ripped away from me by ravenous cancer at a time in my life when I could have used him most. A few years later, the summer after I graduated High School, one of my good friends and teammates wrecked his car while driving intoxicated and lost his life. Yet more tragedy occurred when last year a friend of over 10 years overdosed on prescription medicine and alcohol and never woke up. These are merely the major occurrences of suffering in my life, there are many more (mostly dealing with members of the opposite sex), and the degrees of the suffering varies, but such is life.

found poem

This came from a prescription drug information sheet, I just twisted the words a little.

DO NOT SHARE
ADDITIONAL INFORMATION
DO NOT SHARE

KEEP THIS MEDICINE
DO NOT SHARE
DO NOT SHARE

USE THIS MEDICINE
USE THIS MEDICINE
KEEP THIS MEDICINE

KEEP THIS MEDICINE
for whom it was not prescribed
USE THIS MEDICINE

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:

living life and books

The statement that one whom reads without doing is missing out on life is, to me, profoundly absurd. There are many things which I have done in my life, of that there is no doubt. I've gone all across the country in a car, I have climbed the mountain with the highest recorded wind speed from a surface station (Mount Washington, NH), I have experimented with mind-altering substances, I have driven a train and soared 75ft through the air with no more than a hi-tech piece of wood strapped to my feet. However, none of this exceeds the experiences I've had in books. I have lived in worlds where people are created in test tubes with varying levels of brain function to keep them satisfied in their social situations and they don't know romantic love, where the population is kept at bay via a drug induced emotional coma (Brave New World, Aldous Huxley). I have thumbed my way 'cross country with Sal Paradise and met some very interesting people along the way (On the Road, Jack Kerouac). My point is that while the things one may experience in "real" life are tangible, physical occurrences of their being- those achieved in literature can be richer. Richer in the sense that I will probably never get to thumb my way across country and I am most certain that I will never know the oddities of residing in a land where love is seen as madness and people are bred to certain mental capacities. Books are our portals to different worlds, they are an escape from "real" life, and are, therefore, that much better.