Letter to the Future

This one's from a few months back.  Can't decide what to do with it.

_________________________________

We know our civilization is different.  From the textbooks we read and study, we know humankind hasn’t always lived in tunnels.  The only time scholars gave any time or length of paper to burrowers, they spoke demeaningly of the inferior species—unintelligent and two dimensional with no hope of ever being truly sentient beings.  Actually, the old textbooks described the “modern man” as having evolved from apes and as being at the height of existence and learning.  Had these people known that they would evolve, in a sense, to be the lesser creatures, perhaps they’d have recognized the instinctive genius in taking cover beneath the ground.

Five billion years after the birth of Jesus of Nazareth, we have no religion.  The sun is dying, the human form no longer resembles painted images in relic churches, and we livelike demons cowering beneath Earth's crust.  Who could believe in a God whose doctrine teaches us that his love is undying like the sun, that we are beautiful, and to model ourselves after his glory, the glory of Jesus, and those holy angels?

Let me repeat that:  our sun is dying.  The only people who walk on the surface of the Earth are scientists conducting research on the rate of the sun’s deterioration and its effect on Earth’s surface.  There was a newfound respect for art from the renaissance because of the focus on the natural forces when humans first closed of the sun's toxic light.  Those images which remained may well have been humanity’s last look at the wind on an open sea, the sight of two lovers strolling under trees enjoying the afternoon sun.  For those reasons the Jardin Arenas were built to satisfy our innate desire for the green and blue Mother Nature created, by supplying artificial grasses and breezes.  These arenas have since become rundown; what we first loved because of its limited existence, we now feel has turned against us.  The public feels cheated by nature.  Instead our highways are decorated with vibrant graphic designs—the greater the distance from natural beauty, the better the art.

                                                             ~~~

“What are you after, here, Henderson?  Who’s your audience?  You write this like a message in a bottle to posterity.”

“This is a message to posterity.  Humans have survived all that is possible to survive.  What makes us so special that we are Earth’s finest, Earth’s final?”

“Oh come on.  Don’t pull your elitist accusations on me.  For the sake of the reamining population’s sanity we must adorate the present.  Start mentioning a possibility of future for humans and people see, first of all, your lack of credibility, and second, that the civility exhibited and instituted by the ROS will no sooner save us from annihilation than a bean from being eaten.  Do you want to remind them of that?”

“So don’t publish it, not yet atleast.  Put it in a safe place.  Even let it get lost, because if we as a race truly are limited in our days, I want some record of our existence.”

“You’ll have to take that request up with the ROS.  I’m a small-time newspaper editor.  You think I can communicate with extra-terrestrials?  Now go write me something I can publish.  Talk to Knorr about that baby factory for the future story he’s been researching, will you?”

                                                                  ~~~

The last remaining government is the ROS, shortened from the Reunification Organization for Survival.  It was founded by a group of environmentalists who offered the smartest power alternatives when the fossil fuel wells dried up three billion years ago.  For the majority of its existence the ROS was a beneficent, placid entity advising the global population on how to live with the Earth, not just on top of it.  It was the ROS who suggested air-fueled crafts that essentially bounced from building to building, eliminating the need for highways and increasing personal mobility.  There was such a high approval rating for the ROS that when they suggested relocating us underground, the public met the idea with very little disapproval.  The ROS claimed it could provide re-generated sunlight through a system of pipes and filters from the surface.  They argued we would be closer to the underground water reserves.  On the surface, our fresh water sources evaporated, creating a thick blanket of air, never precipitating, so when the ROS promised cool water, thinner air, and gentle sunlight the globe rejoiced and began building tunnels.

Today the ROS controls our diets, our sleep habits, our work places, and our national identities.  While on the surface the last reamining marks of national identity were minimal and defined solely by sports teams, here there are neither sports nor diversity because, over time, everything has become mixed together.  “America,” reads one textbook, “is the melting pot of the world, embracing all the ethnicities of the world in a microcosm of global unity which gives hope to the possibility of a future peace.”  The textbook correctly predicted peace and complete global unity, but at the price of progress.  The freedom of speech and press remain, but anyone with an idea for a better future admits that conflict is the only path.  Therefore change is sacrificed in the name of communal happiness.

                                                                      ~~~

“Welcome, Mr. Henderson.  My name is Wagner.  I’ve read your stuff and I must admit your examinations of the choices of the ROS are, well, none too kind.  Why should I put this in _some kind of box they'll send to SETI_ when you are so critical of what we do?”

“I wrote the truth of what I see.  You obviously can’t deny the organization’s actions, and I put them in perspective for the potential readers.  If what you say is correct about the final death of Earth, then the message will reach its intended audience long after the end of ROS.  Therefore the ROS will suffer no consequences, no humiliation.  If, then, you still wish it to be unread then you represent the ROS as an organization concerned with its reputation.  Juvenile, I’d say.”

“My, what heavy accusations.  I can take your manuscript before the board, but I don't think they'll take your voice in this piece too lightly, especially not your criticism of peace.”

“Let me go before the board when it comes up.  When my work, when my thoughts are in another’s hands, I like to defend myself.”

“Fair enough.  Thank you for your visit, Mr. Henderson.  Surely your work will go recognized.”

“And your time, chairman Wagner.”

                                                                          ~~~

Therefore it is in your hands I leave this piece of literature.  Make of it what you will, but know that you were not alone.  The humans, as we call ourselves, are a proud race.

Trains

Even an hour distance can't seem to separate us from what happened a few months ago.  Every once in a while, a train whistles by campus.  We might be out in the grass enjoying the sunny breezes, or we might be cozy in a bed somewhere.  We might be happy, oblivious at least, but its horns rear us out of that reverie.  I see the train coming, with its lights, its horns, its majorly reduced speed.

Then in English.  I never noticed how many authors use death for some literary effect.  In every single large piece I've read this semester, someone has died, been killed, or killed themselves.  In the other pieces, maybe one in three stories featured death.  Death, death, sadness, death, and their significances.  It makes me angry, actually.  Are these authors really not talented enough that they find no stories about the human experience that don't include death?  Why the obsession with mortality?  No, that I get.  Why do we have to be so narrow-minded?  Why do we have to bring up those bad memories just to understand why somebody is sad and feeling lost?  Proof:  before now I didn't really weigh what untimely death meant to the people it touched.  That's proof because the author doesn't seem to be effective.  I have read a few that made me feel that feeling, but not most of them.

The train passes and I go back to my midnight homework, knowing I've lived to see the spring, the summer, children growing, young people experiencing.  I'm coming around to pity him, but it's hard.

As of yet, Untitled

The Beginning



I fell in love with an Indian once, two summers ago. He was a kind and forgiving gentleman, and as exotic as his cocao skin. Before him I only knew American men, with their thick calves and thicker skulls. He was like a blossom for me, beyond beauty as a little white flower bud, growing and showing me its secrets as its petals yawned for the sun.

We met in a flower shop in India. I had just graduated from a minor American university and decided that I had not really been educated, so I boarded a plane with my waitress earnings with no assurance of my safety except for a bar of soap. I first travelled through Europe, but found it to be mostly populated with thick accents. Their cultures were not a surprise. Then, I travelled East. Past the Indus River was a wild none of the videos could capture. India captured me, and so I stayed. I'd never witnessed such a humility as with the Indians--they gave me their flowers and, soon after, their hearts.

Within the first week I had a small, two-room apartment in the packed city of Mumbai. Though it was an ocean city, I saw little of it during my daily routes. I worked for India's Reserve Bank as a minor teller, for very little money. I was comfortable, however; my only cost of happiness was the little apartment, a few food items, and eventually the flowers to bring the sun into my apartment.

The reason I went to that particular flower shop is that one of my friends at the bank, a French woman on similar travels, recommended its beautiful blooms. They decoded India, she said.

The next day I had off, I went to the shop with the greatest desire for orange and red petals, blue and violet. Once in, I was drawn to the small bud of the white Dasavala flower. I stood inspecting its soft exterior for what must have been an extraordinary amount of time, because a man came up to me and spoke about its even softer, pink interior. He said once the Dasavala bloomed, the white petals seemed to beckon the eye inwards, toward the soul of the flower, where its worth lie. This man was Ravi.

He continued to give me a tour around the flower shop, describing each blossom as passionately as if they were each his daughters. It was clear, though, that the Dasavala was his bride. All others, no matter how splendid, were still not quite as elusive and wistful as its luminous petals.

By the end of my tour, I had chosen small flowers of every color and style. So many had I chosen, that I spent my first week's pay there, in that shop! Ravi, the sweet gentleman with the chocolate thumb, carried some of my many flowers out the door. He walked with me around the shop, down the street, past the small fruit market, on past the many temples for the many people, back down some narrower streets, up my stairs, into my apartment. At none of the moments during our walk had I said, "Ravi, would you please come in?" Yet I felt no discomfort in letting this perfect man behind my locks and bolts.

Once inside, he made no affection known but for the flowers, which we were setting on their new vigils over my life. Some went on my kitchen table, some went outside, on my balcony's tiny wooden table between the two wooden chairs. The Dasavala, placed last, went in the window in my room. Ravi placed it so that the sun would hit its blossoms in the morning, while the sun was just ripe, and innocent.

The Wanting Past

Senior year of high school, about a year and a half ago, one of my teachers asked what being half-Greek-Cypriot meant to me. It's funny, because it sounds like one of those college application essays. I want to talk about it here because I don't ever feel like I've fleshed out these thoughts, or the thoughts of why I actually do love my parents (despite the neglect I blame them for).

Let's see here. Greek Cypriotness is a small percentage of the global landscape and doesn't have a very high coefficient of pride when I travel places. No one's even heard of the island itself; of course they don't know the difference between being Greek-Cypriot or Turkish-Cypriot, or just plain Greek or Turkish.

Why do I feel so proud of being born in the place and having family there? I certainly can't attribute any part of a childhood happiness to the nation, as I've never lived there permanently. Vacations were enjoyable, yes, but not a part of my permanent mind-set. I don't speak the language, which is often a great source of pride for certain national-types.

One might think I take a selfish sort of pride in the half-ethnicity because it just sets me apart a little from everybody else. Maybe it's just something that justifies my having an awkward, abnormal at least, nose.

And you would be right. I like to feel a little bit removed from the general population; I like to think I have more than one place to call home. I like having an eccentric father that I can't bring out in public because he's just never understood.

Most of the time, all I feel is a knowledge of where I came from. I feel like it explains me better. Perhaps my eccentricities, but they can easily be explained by my dad and my mom. It's more of knowing that there's some place in the world I can go and be welcome. A second home maybe.

I like to feel that a part of me dates back to the ages of antiquity. I am Greek, the greatest of all heritages! The source of knowledge, beginning the endless pursuit of its rusty knobs (wanting to be cleaned). I am the great-granddaughter of Alexander the Great, the great-niece of the ancient philosophers. My sister is the woman who's face launched a thousand ships.

Yes, I fantasize, but it's something that allows for a concrete definition of myself, more than anything else ever has. For all this I am proud to be from some tiny little vacation island in the Mediterranean.

The Science of Art, and Art's Useless Science

This picture is what it feels like to cry. The vision aspect is the same. Up close, all I can see are the tears dripping from my eyelids. Then in the distance, I see the shapes forming illusions of themselves, allowing me my privacy. There's something comforting about crying, the way it builds a wall, the way I can only go inward. Inward is where the comfort is. But then, the cry is disturbing. It must be, otherwise I wouldn't still be smothering myself in my pillow. Who are the shapes in the distance? Are they unknown figures who glance my way, wonder at my story, and go on being glad they're not wearing my stockings? Is it my mother standing in the doorway, stifling her curiousity and about to offer me some dinner (to which I'll say no)? Are they emotional goblins waiting for the precise moment to pounce on me? My immediate future made blurry by teary emotions? Again, I go inward.

All this in a photograph is art. It's not the half-blurry, half-intensely-focused shot that these PhotoJerks always take and feel leads to perfection. No, it is the speculation, and the possibility for interpretation. You, for instance. Before I talked about crying, you may have thought of funerals or of the city or of refreshing spring and life even among death. It is the passion I feel at first glance, and the chest beats that make me slow down some just to look at something so inconsequential, but so important. This is art. I think it was taken by one of my friend's friends over the sea, in Germany. I used to think that creativity was for the distants and the far-offs, the exotics and the paid-wells. Just like the musicians who, if I didn't know them beforehand, must have performed some business-trickery in getting a record deal they didn't deserve, or scoring hits that they paid the radio to spin.

But then, art is not something local. It's not something that everybody in that creative writing class can access. So, what is it?

I might think it's a universal spirit. One must first tame their desire and selfishness in order to access the altruism of pure art. I can reference Ratatouille here: the quote 'Anyone can cook' wants to mean not that any person on the street can cook, but that a great cook can come from anywhere and be any type of person. The same with art.

Revolving around that thought, the 'pure art' thought, the 'universal spirit which must be accessed.' Are we born with the ability, or are we taught. Consider this, also. Many critically acclaimed and popular artists were not even recognized until after their gravestone had dried from the first rain. What kind of drive does it take for a true artist to persevere when their surroundings do not encourage them? This would seem to support that the artist is born and cannot avoid accessing the universal spirit.

As for me. No, I am no artist. I know many artists, though I couldn't exactly claim if they are the cosmically consequential artists or the everyday artists who use it as some lease for their daily struggles.

The entry title, "The Science of Art, and Art's Useless Science" refer to the ancient perception that science is some unattainable exactness, mastered only by the well-educated. For art, I probably lean toward the thought that art (atleast, the deep part of art that inspires to create something genuine and unique to the creator) cannot be taught or learned. The unattainable part of the science definition is what fits here.

And then--what use is art to us? I read an article somewhere talking about how art in recessions and depressions inspire the locals that a better future is up ahead. I might call that the, oh whats it, opiate of the masses? That fits. I think it's more than that. Art is everything. Science used to be an art. Take Leonardi daVinci as the prime example if you wish. All of the great scientists achieved their successes and were able to pass on their knowledge to the future world, us, because they could imagine something larger than what already existed. I consider Galileo and Newton and Kepler and the like all to be the great Romantics. They saw the pre-existent knowledge and rebelled to the greatest height by declaring it as completely false! Who could dare to do that today without receiving scorn from the scientific community, even with the best support? Now that statement is a bit extreme, but it still leads to the conclusion that science has diverged away from its origin.

I like to fantasize sometimes that I'm back in the 1600's, when women were just barely dipping their toes into the science pool, and I wonder if I would have joined them. I look back to the turn of the 20th century, the mid-twenties, and I wonder if I might have agreed with Einstein, or if I would consider it a lofty dream not based in our reality. I yearn for the scientific frontier, as well as rejoining it with the original deviation from the mean.

Aye

I am a successful sinner in the land of repentance and humility. I begin my sentences as references to myself, clear indications of my selfishness.

I am a girl with a brain and a few hips that aren't too seductive, and eyes that reward seldom. I have all-male professors, if just a little bit feminine.

I create stories in my mind--both long and short. They have characters and plots which are mostly ironic. I do not write them down, because I think my mind is a reservoir that never leaks. Life has proven it to be a colander, straining material of less value than the noodles I cook at home.

I put off my future, as if I only have today. My mother speaks to money, my peers speak to happiness. Proof positive both are exclusively separate.

Broken English best reflects the tumultuous mind. Since the mind never smooths, we practice an injustice in misrepresenting it.

End.

Little Girls Need Moms

I find it funny that having a bad relationship with my mother teaches me so much more about how to be the right mother than even a good one might have.  The thought and theory that it works comes from the notion that through my failed relationships I have taken away some positive lesson to be learned.  I looked at my life as if it had been some piece of fiction, and I asked what the moral of the story was and how the characters grew.  Each time, I learned something valuable about myself, and all lessons have helped me towards being my better self.

I've only recently realized that this practice can help while still inside the failing and doomed relationship.  The source of failure is now both our faults, but of course originates with the bearer.

Source of failure: love.  

Sometimes I imagine her in her college days when she might have been seducing each little seedling of a future.  One of them ended up being my dad, and I think that says a great deal about her.  I can attempt to brag about my dad without trying to sound like I'm (indirectly) bragging about myself, but it's impossible.  He's a smart guy.  He outsmarted his professors in college without even caring, but that's not a very good example.  We all know what professors really are, but that's another essay for another time.  In the end, my mom chose someone she felt suited her, and who suited her?  The smartest guy around.  It makes sense, too.  She was the only one of her siblings to go to college like a normal person should.  The rest either were manipulated into impregnating young women (yes, it's true) or ended up in drug and alcohol rehab.  She was used to being the brightest, and so she must marry the brightest.

They go along happily for a few years, even have two little squats running around their feet.  She coasts through the first few years because the first little girl was just so docile.  Even after having been thrown into a parenting shock with the second, the Tasmanian Devil, she seemed to be doing okay.  Both were making good grades in school with no disciplinary problems.  Her brother's children were not so lucky.

After a while, though, she begins to wonder philosophically as to who she wants her children to become and how to achieve the result.  Of course, she wants her children to be raised in her image so she treats them accordingly.  She speaks to us as if we are adults; she begins planting good, healthy behavior in our habits; she rewards us for smart behavior.

The result of it all is pretty good.  Her first daughter is at school on scholarship, seems to be having all the normal relationships she should be.  Her second daughter is well on the same path with some nice side dishes of musical talent.

I thought this was the story, but then I start seeing the behavior she's implanting on the two new little daughters she's molding.  I see her rewarding them with "Oh, what a smart girl" when, once a day, they count correctly.  She doesn't see the hugs she should be giving them, or the simple playtime and attention they so desperately want from her.  She doesn't see that the rations of affection she gives them now will be devastatingly missed when she slowly whittles them down to nothing.

Then what do the girls do?  They get lost from trying to find love.  I did.  All through middle school I never had the courage to love myself, and I blame it on her all because she was too busy fine-tuning a smart little gadget to say "I raised the child," somewhere down the line.  At what point, exactly, did she forget that the only thing I wanted was her eyes and her attention.  We were never good enough for her, never good enough to keep her company.  Just good enough to brag about and then tuck into bed.  "Think of all the great things you'll be doing tomorrow!"  And then she stopped tucking us into bed/stopped noticing anything to be proud of/started noticing the heating bill/water bill/dirty dishwasher.

I think that in her eyes we are machines.  All she did was provide the original parts and occasional grease to work out the rust.  When the machine broke after she didn't maintain it, she yelled at it like the piece of tin it is.

I'm losing my focus.  Anyone can blame her mother for feeling lost without love.  Instead, I'm thankful that I have love with Judson and that I can regain some of that lost, truly unconditional love with his family (I never knew it felt like that.  If you're reading this, know you're lucky.  I've never seen such love inside my own home).  More than that, I'm thankful that I can see how to be the mother mine didn't know how to be.  She blames her mother, but I should thank mine for showing me.  So what?

Love.  That's it, and that's all.  Don't hold back the love for fear of seeming foolish.  Don't stop tucking in the little girl, even if she becomes a big girl while you're in the middle of it.  Don't stop reading her stories, or telling your own, or listening to heres.  Don't stop the embarrassing hugs and I Love Yous.   Don't kid about her hardships even when you feel like they've long passed.  Don't ask why she's crying, just hold her and let her listen to your heart.  Do cook her breakfast, her favorite meal, even after she's moved out.  Do act like she's still the little girl whose back you scratched before bedtime.  Do have the deep eight-year-old conversations that bore you but make her feel a part of everything.  Do say you're proud of her, no matter how small her accomplishments are.  Help her cook, sit down with her and help her with homework instead of complaining what a shitty day at work you had.

Most and best of all, be with her as much as you can.  Just talking or sitting or sleeping or watching a movie, anything.  Make it so that when she gets older, she doesn't doubt your love for anything, and make it so that you're the one she runs to when she needs someone.