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Fri April 19, 2024 06:06:59 [ Login ] [ Main index ] [ Post a new message ] [ Search | Check update time | Archives: 1, 2, [3], 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 ]

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Date Posted: 19:37:09 03/01/03 Sat
Author: Blueprint
Author Host/IP: dhcp065-024-108-139.columbus.rr.com / 65.24.108.139
Subject: This is a production I'm going to recite for a 600-level "Cultural Trauma" course about the effects of cataclysm on social narratives and the contexts in which these memories are encoded. It's not meant to be spit, but said. Any comments are welcome. Sorry about the length. Thanks.

In 1980, whether “God made me” or “Chance gave me” my sapien manifestation, I have not the faculty to determine.
Dostoevsky claims we created Yahweh in our likeness, time and space confine us, so, I digress the existential sermon.
Earth was the landscape, Nathan was my name, “Gift from God” with a phenotype predefined as the domestic, roughshod façade.
At first, I was a billion brain cells, uniform like stem cells, connected to five sense, awaiting cultural commands.
Nurture over nature, Blank canvases, we humans consume variant narratives, that - like legs - carry us through precarious areas.
We calculate preemptive guesses, formulizing directions for life’s intersections, analyzing fate projections for our big brains.
They’re designs that undermine whatever’s scaring us, Random-access answers. Cancers. Call them what you will, one and the same, amazing skills.
My first memory has me falling five feet in my sleep, landing head first, on the dark linoleum in our mobile home in - the inner-city.
My father, Steve would chop wood for heat. And Nancy, Mother beauty, would wrap up in an afghan when she’d read to me.
We moved to the country, secluded suburb, Steve was torn between jealousy and love for his first born son.
At birth I usurped his attention, spent more time at his wife’s chest than he did, and Steve became second to my spit and shit.
We bonded over Wall street journals in White Castle’s at dawn, he’d drink coffee and correct my pronunciation flaws.
Physical punishment was haphazardly delivered, regardless of the infringement, justice became skewed, producing me - a recluse buffoon.
Flash cards, promises, drunk confessions of altruistic intentions, “I wish he’d leave”, then came divorce - and a job up North…Say la vi.
My grandparents gave me solace from the torment peers presented - when they resented my contempt for the social consensus
Rest in peace, I’ll never forget you, and never needed to do anything but be me, for any of you to show me the love I’d need to (eventually) succeed.
Absorption, Chapter one, from infancy to thirteen I could care less about what the world expected, identifying - my own - individual nexus.
But I collected unwanted attention, class clown getting punched in the head, what have I said?
Regardless, changes need to be made n’-
These failing grades are marring my future n’ I hate how these girls overlook me, I want pussy, friendship won’t do, I’ve gotta try something new, Chapter Two,
Conformity. Society won’t let me experience beautiful women n’ stolid camaraderie. So I’ll sit n’ watch - until females submit n’ dominate men nod to me.
My zits cleared, and humans determined that the manner in which my white skin stretched, was a direct measurement of my inner worth.
My looks would withhold the barometer of my soul, Whatever! I’ll roll with it, do things for me, That’s what I’ve been waiting for.
I digested books, drugs, sexual encounters, beatings, fear, compliments and knowledge…Until I’d satisfied my deepest desires.
Then I stumbled across the transcribed discussions of an Indian agnostic, who probed the roots of emotion in human consciousness.
I’d assumed as much about the world and it’s inhabitants as my father did, I cried and realized that It was time to redirect my own life, once again.
Self-actualization, enlightenment, give it a name. I’m trying to discard the shards of garbage that I’d amassed to take part in the American farce.
I fell hard, now I need to get up. Dust myself off, and replace my earning for power with patience and love for sisters and brothers.
Everyone, we’re all children, acting grown in a milieu over-wove with unchallenged assumptions about how to interact, and how to function.
I’m a collage - a scattered hodgepodge of cultural flaws because we’re all byproducts of trauma’s, individuals - in the smallest context.
Chapter 3 will encompass my years from nineteen - till the time I’ve released the biased beliefs our society instilled in me.
I’ve discovered that “Love” is not a romantic term. On earth, it’s lacking, I’m grappling with a disposition to distrust man’s intentions.
From this point on, I will strive to approach mankind, with understanding, notwithstanding the lies intertwined inside of my mind.
I will prevail this time. I will age like fine wine, and vow - never to allow - social constructs to obstruct the roads I’ll go down.

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