Posts Tagged With: society

Who is Society?

Who is society? (A Subjective Coalescence with the Living Object of Society)

 

While contemplating the concept of society, I often forget to consider myself a member. Society is a living, breathing, and constantly changing aggregate of economies and entities. Forgetting this, I envision myself as an observer, somewhere high above the petri dish of humanity. In doing so, I sterilize all learning with the immature habit of disconnected reflection. I avoid the dust of the world so as not to get my hands dirty.

I don’t want to take responsibility for the ill effects of industrialization & globalization. Dirt is inevitable. I’ll effortlessly purchase throwaway cell phones, receive goods in plastic containers, burn fossil fuels for travel, & spend US Dollars.

In avoiding major sources of societal expansion, my sense of pride tells me I am making a difference. Through this feeling of pride, there arises an idea: I’m not like them. I am not better or worse but I am certainly different from them. This type of thinking brings separation with it. Embracing separation from our environment denies a fundamental law: nothing exists separately.

This very idea of the rugged individual, I believe, is responsible for a dangerous disconnect. The individualist diverges their identity with the organized human form, creating a dualistic separation of organism and environment. This dualism leads to avoidance of the tough issues of life, mainly ethical & philosophical.

“I love man not the less, but nature more.” Lord Byron

Industrialized humanity has abandoned wild nature in favor of human nature. Human nature is a part of nature. I consider it to be inhibited, suppressed, in denial. Extending this to myself, I realize that I too, am those things. In me grows a resistance to accept the ultimate nature of society as it is, here & now. Living in a world of potentials and ideals, I sometimes miss the pragmatic counterweight of realism.

I feel a restless spite toward civilized humanity; at odds with some greater human entity. Denying benefits in favor of losses, focusing on ugliness rather than beauty, giving in to self-loathing before recognizing self-approval. If I am to take responsibility for my membership within “this”, how am I to feel? Rejecting society, living on the fringes is only an avoidance of the real problem: how do we cope with ourselves?

Through quiet acceptance, a door beyond intellect opens. Emotional states become unreliable. Just as thoughts, feelings are mere relative responses, not to be confused with ultimate nature. Soon the thought might arise: I am society.

All these things I am, in an ever-expanding fashion as all forms consistently dissolve into space. I am ultimately inexpressible. I feel myself filled with life, I feel myself decay. I see it everywhere, inside and out.

All mammals arising from the womb of a beautiful female, we share these experiences. I am not separate from life function & the cessation of life function and neither are you. We share this and we are this.

None of these ideas belong to anyone, as much as character doesn’t belong to anyone. They are collective reflections of influences, both inward & outward. They are gifts from society, just as much as our biological makeup is a gift from nature.

As a member of humanity & its greater idea of society, we are inseparable from the discoveries & failings of our members. We are able to share (or deny) these discoveries just as we contribute to the overall catalogue of evolution & decay.

We are these ideas. We are this ignorance. We are these inventions. We are this destruction. We are society.

“You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.” R. Buckminster Fuller

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Categories: Essays | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Am I real yet?

In response to a post:

“There are many ways to fake authenticity but vibes don’t lie, habibi !!”
Sometimes, I say “have a nice day” but I don’t mean it. Sometimes I smile on the outside but I’m scowling inside. Why do I do this? Who does it help? 
When I act the way I feel, if it is coarse & negative, I find it to be passively injurious to others. So I mask my malaise & conceal my contempt in a vein effort to appeal to the senses & appear as though nothing is wrong. 
Sometimes I want to scream honesty in the face of lies but all I find is myself alone in the grocery store bathroom. Sometimes I think writing a shitty comment poem will resolve my dilemmas and make my strife appear to have purpose. 
Am I real yet?

Categories: poetry, Rants | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Facebook Breakup?

“Shut up, FACEBOOK!!!” hollered Jon D Rapp

 

“Fuck you, JRAPP.” Facebook replied.

 

“This is going nowhere.” Jon said with a cynical grin.

 

Together they were growing stale like store-brand corn flakes exposed to tropical humidity for a week. Their relationship was low-viscosity, like breakfast cereal eaten with water instead of whole milk. Stalemate.

 

Jon passed his Social Media moments by destroying his own hollow philosophies along with what he saw as the misguided philosophies of others. It was a cheap and petty thrill. It made him feel empty in a good, redemptive sort of way. He secretly hoped that someone would come along and cut him to pieces with the sword of correct discernment and constructive criticism.

 

When Jon wasn’t shredding through ideas, he would spend time bashing his peace apart with old junkie war-stories. He liked to show off scars but he would eventually look back on his output with a strong feeling of self-denial. He was a drama queen.

 

Facebook spent her time recreating moments into events; she had a knack for making life appear to be much more awesome than it really was. This paved the way for all sorts of jealousy, anger, envy, and other misguided states of emotional experience. She could be a real wench. A wench can be a tool, but it can also be a derogatory feminine term. She was both.

Jon used to be a misogynist; he had comprised his perpetual discontent into two types of blame: the kind that blames parents and the kind that blames self. Most of all, he blamed his mother and all women, for this co-created dis-ease. Maybe it was because he’d never been breast-fed. Perhaps he simply adopted the cynical view of femininity that had been passed down from father to son for generations. Like a jaded old blues player, he blamed women for the pain that he himself designed. Like most average men, Jon could only see objects of attraction instead of counterparts for completion. Jon was simply afraid to be caught vulnerable.

Facebook met Jon after he completed high school. He felt the need to connect on different levels, and thus set himself out to explore the world of tagging photographs and sharing memes. She gave him reinforcement & recognition he needed. For a while, he felt that he’d convinced the outer world that he was indeed handsome and not a moron. In good time, this veil would be uncovered. In a world that gave very few fucks, he would find himself giving far too many on Facebook. They wasted hours together.

 

To a culture built upon a sense of physical tangibility, the internet is no more real than the thoughts in our heads. Nobody really cares or listens.

 

For Jon, there was always some uncomfortability factor that presented itself in moving life. He never felt worthy of his own body, thus he set out to modify both his mind and his social standing. Facebook could help with one piece of this puzzle.

A self-declared “armchair shaman”, Jon explored a diverse range of altered states through chemical experimentation. He grew strangely bound by a hypocritical oath; his assumed role of psychedelic physician would lead him largely astray. His intentions became muddled and he was wrapped up in a consumer-driven counter-culture that parallels the very society he initially felt so alienated from. For the hip crowd, peace and love can be bought and sold.

 

Tiring of his tongue-lick-cheek antics, Facebook employed the NSA to keep track of everyone, everywhere. A natural-born paranoid, Jon would curb his stories to keep himself free of self-incriminating details. His girl had gone federal and he had gone underground. The spiral staircase of his mind began to crumble under anxiety. Xanax and whiskey did not help.

 

Now more than ever, Jon felt it was time to break it off with Facebook. With a head full of nonsense and no true outlet to receive & relieve him, Jon realized that ranting to Facebook would never fill that lonely place between his teeth. He accepted that his social avatar was no more substantial than the dirt upon his feet.

 

With this newfound understanding, Jon began journaling and expressing himself by writing narcissistic letters of himself, to himself, by himself. This self-absorbed practice grew tiresome. One day, Jon had a burning sensation crawl up his spine. It was the voice that told him his identity didn’t matter; the voice that made him convinced of his irrelevance to the universe at large. Jon began to turn his sword inward. In a culture that is image-driven, the man who destroys his self-image becomes liberated. To this end, Jon became his own voodoo doll.

 

Lingering by the doorway of his own self-perception, the man-child felt wind come rattling through the screen door of his ego. Blown wide open, he tasted fair-weather upon his tongue; he would reflect his inner mirror outward and share this inside understanding for the sake of his own map should he ever get lost again.

 

Knowing that he is an outward physical expression of the phenomenal universe, Jon saw Facebook as a layer of human reflection. Not needing to acknowledge himself beyond the social context, Jon’s identity of self seemed to separate and fall onto the floor like a bathrobe untied. Some naked body stood in the doorway, a ghostly skeleton of what used to walk & talk.

Today, you can here his teeth chattering to the rhythm of butterflies. Some dance while some get dizzy.

Jon sat down with Facebook to reflect on what he had just felt.

 

“That was a trite self-indulgent, don’t you think?” Facebook sneered.

 

“Well yes, but I’ll burn this one after writing it.” Jon plainly stated.

 

“If you share it, it cannot be burned.” She reminded him.

 

“I know, bitch. We find harmony in exposing our weaknesses. I find grace within vulnerability. I am full of my own shit and here is another testament to that sentiment.” Jon confessed.

 

Facebook took a long sigh and told Jon the truth for once,
“You know this whole thing; all of this is for you. You are the one who abuses it. You are the one who inflates your own ego. You are the one who convinces yourself of some substantiated outside existence. I merely act as a medium; a platform upon which you build. It is up to you to represent yourself. I am a mirror. If you cannot handle me, then break me loose.”

 

Jon pondered her words awhile, considering all of the ads, the ignorance, the spying, and the selling out. He realized that everyone is chasing the same thing; they are running away from their deaths meanwhile ensuring the safety of their lives (at all costs). Whether they wish to control resources or mediate social statuses, the battle for control wages on. Jon finds himself smack in the middle.

 

Self-control does not exist beyond the self. Control does not exist beyond concepts of ownership.

What can we really hold? What do we really own?

 

He found himself coming back for more. He couldn’t help but continue wondering,
“What is this?”

 

Like many others, Jon has sophomoric tendencies. He is an educated fool. He falls into his own folly and files it away under “ailments”. Always seeking a cure, this sick boy-man will engineer his own to share. You can find it on your news feed somedays.

Categories: Ailment, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Sane Man, Insane Society / Sane Society, Insane Man

“A sane person to an insane society must appear insane.”
Kurt Vonnegut, Welcome to the Monkey House

it makes me feel
weird
when strangers become
genuinely concerned
for my well-being
as a result
of my honesty

like i’m off my rocker
(i most certainly am)
and i need some help and
guidance
or support
that i haven’t already
gotten
from the Good Lord
of things, feelings,
and understandings

i sit quietly
and do-nothing
as much as time
allows & forgets
so i can rest
and absorb
before i take off
on another flight

call me a “not-so-zen lunatic”
or a “less-than-saintly madman”

i ramble, rant, rave
with froth upon my lip
and a burning flame
that cannot be
long contained

i burst,
on occasion
overflowing,
i make messes
of vomited psyche
and i take my shirt off
to mop it up
and wring it out
right here

some style it “mad”,
but my friends often say
i have a “voice of reason”
and i try to forget that

because it makes me wonder
who is really crazy,
me
or
them?

Categories: poetry | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

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