Sunday, July 31, 2011

hate and rage, cruelty and cowardice: where’s the very violence, Ms.?

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This brief, unimportant note I had the intention to leave onto a particular realm, with tenderness and regard. Once I am not allowed to, here you are, my respectful considerations on “the name of things”. What a horrid habit most of us have to place considerable importance on “naming”. Maybe yes, we have indeed. Maybe not, who knows…




In few words, to what extent are these so-human feelings – hate and rage – meant to be read as their "common-sense" opposite – love and compassion – or as two sides of the same coin and not separated by passion and sincerity, or cruelty and cowardice? Once they are all human possible feelings, you easily figure out that there are too many things between earth and heaven and inside these words, so that you will be barely able to understand their actual meanings and forward motion in life. You can hate when something feels very bad, or harsh, to be accepted. You rage, for example, when you are assaulted on your basic rights… But there are so many other variations, of course…
All-in-all, I come today just to quest. No hate, no rage within – it’s important to point it out by advance. Sometimes it is just difficult to understand why someone who appears to be one person, and insists that they are indeed like that, is just another for any reason (the most obvious one: we are all fragmented and multiple at the same time) and feels offended when invocated by the name of anyone else’s, even if they mirror this “someone else” living anywhere particularly different, with some other face and/or profile, but at the same time just posing a claim that, “no, I am this and dot, exactly this one I appear to be, this one I insist that I am indeed”. In the end, you can be whomever you want, it has no need to be this or that exact model; you are in fact one and another, surrounded by a variety of dresses – the "social functions" world imposes you to perform... If you think over the virtual instance or  the very realm of fiction, well, so this "inference" is much more wide-open, evident, patent… Let’s put it this way: you are a persona, almost never a person in our contemporary virtual times, huh?
I do not give a S--- if you, or she, or he, or they are Ms. Bean or Bird, or some kind. Names are useful to name things and persons but never to provide "adequate" ground for competence, talent, sensitiveness,cruelty, cowardice etc; never to attest a word (in respect, of love, about madness or sanity, and yada-yada-yada) about them… So for it I cannot understand why a person may be offended when named equally or differently (for a case in point, it does not matter) from their "indeed or not genuine name" since their identity and/or personality rely on a variety of options in front a variety of persons and events in life…What is the problem when someone reverberates here and there that they have a “name” that does not actually correspond to their real one? I, for example, met yesterday a very kind girl who likes to be called by the name of Angelica rather than D----. The problem begins when people insist to be aggressive toward the other by using this stuff (the names of persons, or things) to shut off people, to prejudice them, to expose or violate their intimacy, to neutralize their choices and rights (one of them is, in fact, the will to remain in some circumstances just anonym), and to gracelessly unveil this or that feature/reason/personality/option/name etc. without permission or wish from the other – this is something harsh, violent and inelegant I never did, and will never do…
Well, the fact is that there is a real violence, too, at brushing aside someone’s behavior (even if provided by hate and rage) and doing immediately the same, for the same motifs, by the same coward gesture: the gesture of hiding yourself behind masks (which everyone can do, by the way; I do not see any problem on it, once I do it here and there, for example, when I “vomit up my fictionisms” – why not?) yet exposing the other and breaking their privacy by publically "naming" them as “coward, cruel”, and so forth, just because this other expressed themselves with honesty and sincerity, even if in anger, or stuff like that. Who is in the very position to say that acting with hate and rage is something censurable? Or crude? Or nefarious? These adjectives are much more complex than what they may appear to be, and for sure they need to work well in this or that context. Who gets to say what passes as weirdness or something merely refusable, and what is eligible, acceptable? Whether love reads as hate, or vice-versa? By saying this is something by "the name of love", or "hate", and dot? Is someone in the position to typify persons and things only by naming them, and believing that doing it they are defining them? 
In the end? Names, names, names… What the! Oh my! Much more importantly than naming things and persons and their attitudes is that great gesture of feeling/knowing them out of their “dictionary condition”, far beyond those occasions they appear to be requested in (documents, at most). But this is something really rare nowadays, huh? It feels like we are yet deeply instilled in (and baffled by) the importance of naming… persons and things, and (which is worse) of trusting that this is something singular to define… ourselves and the Other 
Are you Ms. Justice, Mr. Truth? Good for you! Is she Ms. Wealthy? Good for her! For me, what’s really important in this weird, absent, almost always gloomy, transitory and lonely life is to not decline to be alive and make as much as you can your environment just like that: alive, less crude, more generous (and, in my case and most of my friends', more artistic). Difficult, almost impossible task… I know…
Let us think over what really deserves our attention, preoccupation and reaction in this world. I can assure anyone that this is something that really counts nowadays, very urgent, actually. No time to waste in this sense: attempting to make the world a better place to live (by art, generosity, communication, love, non-acceptance, and whatsoever). Difficult task, I know… But that’s it – in the end, with or without names to label our own misfortunate misery of being nothing but a S---! Or not…

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Friday, July 29, 2011

the misfi(c)t(ionist) [or five elements making you stumble into face and expel]

misfictionist


Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction (Lord Byron)



[WHERE ¾ THE SETTING ¾ COMING INTO AND MOVING AWAY FROM YOUR EYES AS IF IN OSCILLATION] You sometimes just look around, with such an impetuous uncertainty or (mis)appropriate feeling of unease, and ask yourself why it would be wrong if you decided ¾ at least for a moment ¾ to cross frantically the streets of your devoid and dark reminiscences, beckon over the whole far-fetched absence coming from the best-case scenario of all those twisted words you were so compelled to say but did not back in the day, and just break down? It feels like you only exist to… fictionize. But oh, and opps ¾ two eyes are not enough to capture your and anybody else’s essence, their ghosts, their doubles! In this context, how to draw a line that signifies what passes for living and being alive? And then you wake up today ever so Kafkaesque. Cast in the same reality or into the very realm of your misfit fictionisms? And then you are ready to be so distressed over a conjuncture of stumbles, or just to… die away…
[HOW ¾ THE POINT OF VIEW ¾ YOUR VOICELESS INTONATION TO EXPRESS] Words, words… They mean the world for you, especially into a transitory existence which appears to be yours, fully permeated by them, the words ¾ said in moments of glory, temptation, delirium, fraud, everyday tasks, at work, for obvious reasons, or just for nothing…
[WHY ¾ THE THEME ¾ YOUR pusillanimity OR shrewdness, YOUR HIDDEN PAIN OR NEED TO JUST SAY] It is not so hard to accept that words do not mean, so that the silence, not even its “materialization”, but the silence itself cuts across this everything almost everybody takes by the name of… “life” ¾ an instance within the universe of strangeness and solitude and struggles with anything that means “being alive”, one way or another. Words do not capture this (beautiful or unpleasant) movement you live in ¾ as a person(a) or a fictionist? They embroil you in a cloistered environment of enchantment or delusion ¾ as a realm resulting from the interplay between the real world and the virtual, fictional one. As mediated by networks of sensors and actuators, your own plot  ¾ a mélange of both worlds complete unto themselves and merged into one another ¾ is enriched by your words are inept to exert yourself to try out being less absent, étranger, or just existent… And then you keep writing to become invisible…
[WHO ¾ A PROTAGONIST ¾ YOUR MISFIT PATH INTO ONE’S FAILURE] Is it possible that you step into a hall of mirrors, look at your clean or distorted image, and just move away from your purest part in life, this one so willing to be received, accepted, and kept like a gem on one’s path? Why does one leave you in dark and shade when the only touching gesture requested is but the opposite of a painful silence for days and days, months and years? How to not freak out in front of a tormented underground of sorrow and many shocks against the wall? Wondering round and round, alone, nowhere to go or just attempting (brave or deliriously) to bear up well against?
[WHAT ¾ THE PLOT ¾ YOUR EVERYDAY VERY ACT OF LOOKING] By your very turn, your feelings do not show; they are but a scream you have when flying ¾ over and over… A dream but a spleen but a sense: and all this, like a permanent link, as intertwined and strong as frail and destroyable, blows up in your face as if this, the dream, or the scream, or the fear for having dreams, was but a ghost, or a clear-cut idea on your own/else’s misadventures into… life? May be, may be not, who knows…
**THE END PRODUCT [CREATURES INTO THEIR CREATOR], that which can be shared or consumed, is unlikely to “inner sanctum” or outwardly resemble the forms of… a fictionism? Is this life itself or are you living in a simulation? Just stranger than fiction? Why not?