The Rise to Uruk

davesemenko @ 2003-08-21T11:30:00

2003-08-21T15:44:04Z

Do we create mythology in our lives?

When I was ten years old, I walked along the shores of the Indian Ocean in South Africa. It was out last night in the country, our last night on the ocean, before we were to head back to the dry, dusty plains of Swaziland, and then home to Canada for good.

On a whim, I turned to my mother and said that I wanted to collect some of the water. She gave me this thing that I now have before me, this small, clear, plastic cylinder that was used to store film. I filled it with water, sealed the cap on, and put it in my pocket.

Sometime, a few of years later, when I was an adolescent, I realized that there was something I desperately wanted to do. I wanted to take my little container, and throw it back into the Indian Ocean, completing the circle. I still desperately want to do this, though if you were to ask me why, I'm not sure I could tell you.

But you see, this is mythology.

I am a nomad, my whole life has been defined by never quite being able to achieve permanence. And this little thimble of water is probably the only thing that I still have now from my childhood. It represents my continuity, my permanence.

To add even more depth to my story, the water is disappearing. No container is totally airtight, and this water is slowly but surely evaporating. And I stand, like Gilgamesh, totally bereft of permanence. Face to face with the stark reality that "all things move toward their end".

To complete my hero-quest, I have to journey into a dark, mysterious place (Africa, or the mythologyical Cave), find where I took the water from (hardships, consulting elders[mother]) and toss the water back in, completing the circle (uroboros). If I don't do this in the next ten or fifteen years, the water will be gone.

The final piece of evidence: all of this was dreamed up unconsciously. I didn't sit and think "yes, this would clearly be the best thing to do, to go back to Africa", I just *knew* that I had to do it. Myth is unconscious. When you live your life is a piece of art, as a movie or play or novel, you can't also be outside the art, creating it to your conscious desires. You have to let go and "Amor fati"... love your fate.

I think we all have, at any given time, 9 or 10 mythological stories going on in our life, that follow the same patterns that all myths have for tens ouf thousands of years. This isn't my idea, obviously, but to see it come to fruition in my own life is incredible.

Today's Truism

2003-08-19T23:46:25Z

If most people saw themselves in a movie, they would laugh, or cry, or be disgusted at the character. We walk away from movies feeling superior, feeling that we could never be as weak or stupid or immoral or evil as the characters on screen. But we are. Oh, lord, we are.

davesemenko @ 2003-08-18T11:52:00

2003-08-18T15:57:21Z

I am the wind the blows o'er the sea
I am the wave of the deep
I am the bull of seven battles;
I am the eagle on the rock;
I am a tear of the sun;
I am the fairest of plants;
I am the boar for courage;
I am a salmon in the water;
I am a lake in the plain;
I am the word of knowledge;
I am the head of the battle-dealing spear;
I am the god who fashions fire in the head.

davesemenko @ 2003-08-18T11:30:00

2003-08-18T15:50:13Z

I went to a wake yesterday for a woman who was randomly and brutally murdered two weeks ago. I knew her a while back.

It's one of those things that you simply can't describe to people.

The best friend of the victim's brother had a really, really weak handshake. I wondered afterwards if it was his regular handshake or if two weeks of hell had sapped the strength out of his hands.

Her funeral is right now. I'm not there. What would it change if I was?

The family is devoutly catholic, and stereotypical as this analysis may be, that is their rock right now. The rock of ages. But how, how can someone place their knowledge of their daughter's final fate in the hands of a 1500-year old religion?

Some would call it easier. I call it cowardice. There is religion in this world, far older and deeper than the scattered writings of a few dozen Jewish schitzophrenics. If you are too afraid to look for it, to search out your true humanity, then so be it. But I could never be you.

I have the best woman in the world. But we don't do well apart. And the separation is over in exactly a week, so fuck it. Let's blank slate this mother.

davesemenko @ 2003-08-16T22:02:00

2003-08-17T02:02:56Z

That’s what they all say.

And here I am, trying to assimilate some semblance of eastern philosophy into my life, without a single shred of the culture which created it anywhere around me. THAT’s alienation.

If you could leave your infant child one written sentence before giving them up for adoption, what would you write? If anything at all?

I think most people would either come up with some useless platitude about God, or one of those stereotypical Hallmark “be true to yourself” sentiments.

But I’d like to think that I would be more original and profound.

If I had to list all my current psychological problems, they would be:

Fear of my physical masculinity, or more specifically, a lack thereof.

Fear of love

Fear of sex/women/sexual inadequacy

Need for children/younger siblings

And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that when people ask for my opinions on various current issues, I honestly tell them that I have none.

I don’t care about politics. I care about myself. I don’t care about the population. I care about my friends.

Walking around this city, I can see glimpses of people’s lives. Of what, in that instant, is making them tick. I see things in people, I always have. My vision has been strong. And I’m still trying to figure out if that’s a blessing or a curse. Maybe someday Siobhan will be able to tell me. She’s got it, too.

Sometimes I wonder why I get more out of late-night chats with drunken schitzophrenic nutcases than I get from talking to most people I know.

And then I remember: he’s not a nutcase. He’s disconnected, and he hasn’t come back yet. And that means two things:

1) He is, on one hand, immersed in a world of fantasy, but

2) He can also see this world better than most people can.

I don’t know why the idea of my love being with someone shortly before she met me bothers me so much. Scares me so much. Never, ever, on the green fields of this earth has there existed a more loyal companion. She loves me, and I love her. But something about him bothers me. I want him to die. Okay, I don’t, I want him to move to venezuela and live in a tree somewhere, so that I never have to think about or hear about his.

I don’t know why this. All I know is that there is something eternally comforting about your woman’s past dating life being a total bloody mess. And I don’t like that hers isn’t.