9/11 Never Forget (To Live)

"The earth belongs to the living, not to the dead."

~ Thomas Jefferson

My old hometown hasn't changed much over the years. People come and go, houses are bought and sold, businesses are built and die out, but for the most part, the streets still look the same, the sidewalks are still cracked in the same areas, and that fire whistle still makes me jump whenever it starts wailing.

One of the things that I have noticed has changed is a building near the elementary school I used to attempt. It's still unknown to me what the building is for, and it's still set in such an odd place, being right on the route where the buses drive, but there's a big white sign hung on the side of the front of the grey metal building that shows an American flag and 9/11, with the words "Never Forget" emblazoned in big red letters so no one can miss them.

I remember the attack on the Twin Towers. I was in my eighth grade English class when Mrs. B turned on the news, and for the rest of the day, we were left to watch as two planes crashed into the skyscrapers over and over again. Was it horrible? Yes. Was I bothered by it? Yes? Was it the end of the world? Yes.

Don't give me that look, you know I'm right. Oh, sure, the Earth's still spinning, the Sun still rises every morning and sets at night, and we're still dealing with the weird-ass weather prominent in this region. When September rolls around, however, as it always does, people look upon the month as though the entirety of it represents what happened a growing number of years ago. People look upon this incident as having shaped their world, and they forget that life has gone on, despite the pain and horror that attack caused.

What happened that day was a tragedy, no question, and a lot of people lost loved ones during the attack, and after it. It was a horrible day, a horrible week, and yes, even a horrible year, and those that lost others especially have suffered the aftermath. Life doesn't end for those of us who are left behind, however. The dead have passed on beyond our reach, but they're at peace now, and while we must suffer their loss and what remains now that they're gone, we should not act to bring suffering more greatly upon ourselves.

The world keeps moving on, and so should we.

We will never forget what happened on September 11th, 2001. It's been written in the minds of those who bored witness to it, and children now and in the future will read about it in history books for decades and centuries to come. We will never forget, but in the wake of remembering the pain and terror and loss, we must be careful not to forget to live.

Life is very short, and shorter still for some, and each moment is precious and should be cherished. What is gone is gone, at least for now. There will be more tragedies to come in the future, as there were tragedies in the past, but we must remember to not forget that the Earth continues spinning, the Sun continues rising, and Life goes on.

As should we.

The Pursuit of Happiness

"Money never made a man happy yet, nor will it. The more a man has, the more he wants. Instead of filling a vacuum, it makes one."  

~ Benjamin Franklin

When I was in my eighth grade History class, we were discussing the Declaration of Independence. When the teacher asked the class to define to what the writers of the Declaration referred when they said "the pursuit of happiness," I was the only one in the class who understood what it meant - or, at the very least, what my professor believed and was teaching us that it meant.

The pursuit of happiness. The pursuit of money.

I would like to take a moment to mention to everyone that I am thoroughly disgusted that I was the only one to know this. And then I would like to take another moment to slap myself across the face.

Do not make the mistake of thinking that I am disgusted that no one else in the class knew what those words meant. Rather, I have been, since the eighth grade, disgusted that I did know. Not because I believe I am a greedy person and this reveals my own nature to myself, but rather that in a classroom of ignorant people, I understood the one concept of the Declaration that I can honestly say I think is a load of horseshit.

Not that people are able to pursue careers that will help them survive in life, but that within the confines of the Declaration of Independence, in a classroom full of eighth graders, what was one of the most important things in the minds of America and Americans is a foolish, arbitrary concept.

Money.

Were stupidity to take a physical form.

Those of you who have two-year-old nieces and nephews, siblings, children, mouthy kids that you babysit, understand precisely where the concept of money came from, though you may not realize it. The guy who precipitated the creation of currency was someone with a toy just like one of those two-year-olds.

Now, of course, it wasn't just like it. I'm sure it didn't have as many flashing lights or bobbles or play the sounds a cow makes when you spin a dial. But to that guy, his toy was the most awesome toy in the awesome toy squad. It was the Superman of toys. It was the pimpin' shiznit of the era, bitches, and don't you argue none.

And just like those two-year-olds we're all so fond of, this guy didn't want to share, either.

But if you had something better...

Currency is a word used nowadays to refer most prominently toward money - the American dollar bill, which is doing its damnedest to take over the world. Currency, however, as defined by Dictonary.com, is "Something that is used as a medium of exchange." At one time, paper money wasn't used as often as the trade of services. If one person has a green thumb but no skill at making clothes, and another guy's got a dead garden but a field full of sheep and a loom, Mr. Green Thumb might tell Mr. Loom, "hey, neighbor - I'll fix your garden up proper if you make my lass a sweater." And there you have a trade.

Of course, then you get into the times where Mr. Green Thumb's still growing tomato plants like they're weeds, but the guy who needs his help only knows how to feed cattle, and Mr. Green Thumb's only got Old Bessy, the ancient cud-chewing heffer out back. Not much of a fair trade, is it, for Mr. GT to plant and take care of this whole huge garden, when Mr. Cattle-Feeder has to toss a bucket of chop in front of Old Bessy.

Behold, the idea to create a system where everyone has something of the same value. A little green piece of paper with some old guy's mug on it is worth just as much in your hand as does in mine. Whether or not one person has more than another doesn't matter, so long as one is worth the same as the other (one being a 1 dollar bill to a 1 dollar bill, a 20 to a 20, etc).

Here now, we have a bunch of paper money for the world to handle. The government will take all of the gold and silver and give you paper money to play with, and you'll be happy, because no one has to worry about the garden not be worth as much as the cow. Mr. Green Thumb can feed his own damn cow, and if Mr. Cattle-Feeder needs some tomatoes, well, damn, he can buy them off of Mr. Green Thumb, can't he? Isn't money grand?

Money sucks, ladies and gentlemen, and if you haven't figured that out yet, I pity you.

Happiness was an incredibly asinine term to use as a metaphor for money. Money, you realize, doesn't actually exist.

Yes, of course, gold is substantial and can be held in the hand. Silver is as real as anything. The dollar bill, even, is a thing I can touch and feel, and if I feel like making myself ill, taste. However, I can take a lit match to a dollar bill. I can melt a nickle down in my furnace. Where's that dollar? Where's that five cents? They don't exist anymore... they never did.

Currency was originally what someone would do in trade for what someone else would do for them (Let's look again at Mr. Green Thumb and Mr. Loom). Now, of course, that loom could break down, but then maybe Mr. Loom would get some help from Mr. Carpenter across the street, who just happens to not have enough food for his family because the hunting was bad. Well, Mr. Loom has an old sheep that was going to get slaughtered soon, anyway. You fix his loom, Mr. Carpenter, and I bet he'd buy you dinner. He might even sheer it for you.

Once upon a time, people helped other people. Altruistic behavior didn't exist at every moment, no, but people were willing to trade one talented action for another, and in the end, everyone ended up better off for it. Here, I can hand a crinkled, green piece of paper with a 5 and some dead guy's face on it to the poor schmuck in the drive-thru window, and she can give me back some jingling pieces of metal. I get some greased up piece of cow in a bun for all I gave her, and what's she get out of the deal? Some more play money and a couple smoke breaks. Maybe she'll even have a nice new pimple from all the grease floating in the air. Who benefits from all of that, though? Suppose the guy behind me in the BMW, pumping Eminem out of his pristine windows is a bloody millionaire. Well, la ti da. Let's whip out the Monopoly board and play a game, because that's all the paper bills are good for, in the long run.

No one benefits from anyone, anymore. We all get handed some paper bills, a few coins, and we trade them off for more coins, and we work for more paper bills, and we watch as some people drive around in hot-ass cars they bought with play money, and other people buy stuff on the bargain shelves, because the Monopoly Banker took a smoke break when it was their turn to be dealt the cash.

Once upon a time... in a land long ago and forgotten, people knew each other, helped each other, and currency meant everyone made off better. Now, we ignore everyone else, help ourselves with idolized "currency," and wander around in our own little bubbles, thinking that this is happiness.

Deus ex Machina: The God Button

WARNING

This post contains references and negative opinions about a popular author's choices in the design and climax of her work. Whether you are of a like mind or definitively opposed, I don't care. Do not post a comment meant to defend her against my opinions. I am using her as an example only, and besides, I won't be swayed. Thank you.

Normally, I refrain from making posts about aspects of writing, because The Recreational Writer, a dear friend of mine, has a lovely blog consisting of just such a thing - very useful, and always a good deal of fun to read. However, despite my reservations, I have come to the opinion that I need to say this, because, frankly, it's ridiculous that some writers are just so damn lazy. 

Deus ex Machina literally means "god of the machine." It was created by the Ancient Greeks and used quite often in plays. Basically, the deus ex machina occurs when everything has gone pear-shaped. Good characters have died, bad characters are wrecking havoc, tyranny and chaos reign, the world is ending, and there's nothing anyone can do. 

Behold! From the Heavens comes the gods, who clap their hands and make everything better, because they're gods - they're allowed to use their omnipotent powers to do whatever they damn please? Are you gonna be the one to complain?

As I said, extremely popular in Ancient Greek culture, because a great deal of faith was placed in gods and on religion. Over the years, the deus ex machina migrated from Greece and was used in various plays throughout the world. As centuries past, however, and the eras shifted, gods changed, or religion held less sway over people than some other ideas - science, for instance, or money), the deus ex machina was used less frequently. 

The deus ex machina has altered slightly over time, however, due to the fact that religion means less to people of the modern era as it did to the Ancient Greeks (and don't you dare argue with me, either! The Ancient Greeks built temple upon temple to their gods, praying to them, worshipping them constantly, writing play after play about their greatness. In the modern age, Christians build churches for their nameless deity, and then ask people for money when they come. They pray when they want something and forget about their god when they are content, and only country music retains the strength of character to sing praises about the one they worship - though, I'll get into religion another day).

The shift in the deus ex machina was slight, if you overlook the religious connotations. Though the name remains the same, it is not necessary that it be a god who arrives to save the day. It can be a powerful character who suddenly arrives to rescue everyone, a situation that stops all dangers flat but which was otherwise not built into the plot previously in such a way to lead to this, or other failsafe options that amount to basically a cheat code to perfection. 

And for the most part, deus ex machina does end up looking like nothing more than a cheat code. There are a few exceptions, however. The one in particular that I have always recalled with relative ease was the ending of the movie Dogma. The deus ex machina was used here as a modern translation of the original idea - the god arrived and literally cleaned up the problem. It worked for two reasons: the first, the movie was based on religious lore and the existence of a god, which set the whole movie up, from the very beginning, to end in exactly the way it did. The second reason it worked: The movie was a comedy. It was supposed to be ridiculous - a demon gets exorcised because he's struck with a golf club blessed by an arrogant priest! The deus ex machina at the end of this movie was the icing on top of the proverbial cake - the cherry of ludicrosity that topped a sundae of stupidity.

The fact that they made it work in Dogma was lovely, because despite the fact that most people won't recognize the deus ex machina when they see it, it's nice to see when it's done well. The past and the effects of an ancient culture should not be forgotten, but returned to cautiously, and enjoyed.

Unfortunately, the deus ex machina is occasionally returned to in a manner that is ineffective for one basic reason: it's used to avoid having to do actual work.

The prime example: Stephanie Meyers Twilight series.

Now, mind you, I loved the first three books of the series. I had characters I liked, characters I hated, there were parts where I laughed, sympathized, and outright bawled, and it was the best. I was thoroughly excited to read Breaking Dawn, because the final book of a series is supposed to wrap everything up, finish it all off, answer all questions and be the best of them, if slightly less-awesome than the first on principle. And then, in the middle of the book, Meyers pulled a deus ex machina to save her from having to disappoint a character.

SPOILER ALERT

A multitude of things were consistent within the books up to a point. Bella was worried about growing physically older than Edward, Edward was worried about not having a soul and damning Bella by biting her, Edward and Jacob both loved Bella, and Bella loved both of them. And the werewolf pack was just waiting for an excuse to kill the entire Cullen Clan - Jacob would have his when Edward bit Bella, and Sam and the rest would have theirs when the half-vampire, half-human hybrid child was born.

The final book of the series cleared up a lot of these for us. Bella was bitten by Edward, turning her into a vampire and solving the problem of her aging. This also stopped any complaints Edward would have about her losing her soul, because he bit her, and he can't time travel. Edward and Jacob both fought for Bella's attention and, though she loved them both, she made her choice and was bitten by Edward. She also had her hybrid baby and, now that Jacob could no longer have Bella, he turns his attention to killing the baby, as the rest of the pack plans to, since this creature is dangerous. 

And then Jacob realizes that the baby is meant to be his life-mate.

This solves the problem of him wanting to kill the baby, because he's bonded with her now. 

It stops the werewolf pack from killing her, because that would go against the way they do things - they won't kill the creature another wolf is bonded to.

It also makes certain that Jacob won't pine for Bella, because he's bonded now. 

It stops the animosity Jacob had for the vampires, because he's bonded to a half-vampire, whose family is a family of vampires. 

All problems are solved, the world is a wonderful place to live in, and everyone gets to live happily ever after. 

Art is an imitation of life. It's a well-known, oft-stated thing. Life, imitates art, imitates life. For those of you who have yet to realize this, allow me to spare you the shock and horror of an otherwise shitty-ass realization: life is not perfect. Life is not sunshine, daisies, and happily-ever-afters. Disney lied, darling. Not even the original fairytales ended on a happy note. People died. A lot. They usually do. 

Writers often write for entertainment, yes. However, because they're giving their worlds to others to leap into, they must be certain to make sure that their readers accept the rules of this world. In the world of Twilight, lots of humans were killed by vampires, then lots of vampires were killed by other vampires and a few werewolves. Then, a creature who is basically undead is still able to mate, despite the fact that hormones and certain plumbing shouldn't be functional after 400 years! But okay, I'll bite. Vampires can mate, despite being frozen corpses. Werewolves can tear vampires limb from limb. Vampires are like statues - cold and brick. Lots of people die throughout the books, all the time. 

But the main characters never die. They're also going to be perfectly happy at the end of the book, because no one wants a sad character. 

Except we do. 

Reality is harsh. Ignoring that, pretending that everything can turn out fine, is ridiculous. Pressing the God Button is cheating. The deus ex machina is a technique rarely used because it's abused. It ruins a story. 

In a Twilight tale that refused the deus ex machina, Jacob would have had to make a choice. Would it have been a hard one, yes! But it would have mattered because it was hard. It would have mattered to the readers that he made this choice, because they have to make hard choices everyday in their life. 

Instead, life hands him a get out of jail free card. He gets to fall in love, and suddenly everything is perfect. How lovely for Jacob. Too bad it's a slap in the face to the readers that Jacob might be able to get out of having to live a real life and suffer, and reminds them that life sucks. 

So, basic rule of writing: The deus ex machina is a form of cheating. 

Unless you can pull it off, suggest it from the beginning so subtly that people will reach the end and be able to look back and go "holy fuck, that's awesome, it was planned from the start!", DON'T USE IT! Don't ruin a perfectly good story, because you want an ending where everyone is happy. People in real life have to make hard choices. Characters in stories have to make hard choices, because they're trying to look as real as characters in real life. The writer has to get off of her ass and make the hard choice, too. You want your story to go down in history along with King Lear and Beowulf and To Kill a Mockingbird? Work for it, fight for it, and bleed for it, all over the page. Hurt, and let your characters hurt, because real people hurt, and the characters are real.

Memory

“A place in thy memory, dearest,

Is all that I claim;

To pause and look back when thou hearest

The sound of my name”

- Gerald Griffin

WARNING

This post contains some references to popular culture and may contain spoilers and/or opinions about such areas. 

It’s funny, the things that our minds choose to pick up and carry with us. Sometimes, it can be terrifying, to find that a particular incident leaves its mark upon our souls – a dark memory that haunts us as well as any ghost. Still, our memory banks may also be stocked with those happy memories; the first time you held your baby cousin, though she’s all grown up now, or the shriek and spontaneous hug that a friend gives you when she sees exactly what you got her as a gift. These are the things we carry with us, wrapped up in our minds and hearts – the good, the bad, and the unforgettable.

Books and movies leave their marks upon us in the same manner that true life does. The truly remarkable thing about such media is, however, that it isn’t our own actions or interferences that remain in our minds, but those of characters who do not exist. Greater still is the fact that sometimes, the most powerful of memories are those that come from the utterance of a single word.

Twilight.

Before Stephanie Meyers released her book, this word brought up two different thoughts. The first was the ubiquitous (for me) pondering of what time, exactly, defines twilight. The other was the episode of NCIS, where Kate dies. Now, Stephanie Meyers has released her series by such a title, and popular culture being what it is, no one is allowed to forget that Twilight means Bella and Edward, and the modern epitome of the dues ex machina, goddamn Breaking Dawn.

Clarence.

I’ve never heard this name used by anyone other than the angel we all know and love. It’s a Wonderful Life was a great movie, and the name Clarence never ceases to bring to mind frozen rivers and jingling bells.

“Khaaaan!”

Captain James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise, played by William Shatner in the original Star Trek series, will be known by Trekkies for an eternity of memory for screaming this name to the heavens. Funny, how a single word can bring so many images of the good captain and his crew to mind.

Sometimes the words we recall from these movies or books bring the following phrases right to mind. Much like the amusing, if somewhat annoying, commercial for Red Robin (yum!).

Casper. (“The friendly ghost!”)

Rudolph. (“The red-nosed reindeer.”)

Frankly, my dear. (“I don’t give a damn.”)

Back! (“To the future!”)

Memory is a funny thing, and the lines and images that stick with us from movies and books are truly amazing. In a way, it’s just one more occasion where art is imitating life, and an artist can only hope that whatever they create with their hands – be it a sculpture, painting, or a book – someone, somewhere, will hear a word, and remember.

~ Wandering (“Muse”)

Love, Like Ghosts

He’s one of my best friends.

Is it actually possible to have more than one best friend? Isn’t the word “best” supposed to be definitive of being better than all of the rest, and therefore, only applicable to one person? So then, are there tiers of best friends, with the best of the best friends being the Superman of Best Friends, and the others falling into the lesser categories of the Supergirl, the Batman, the Spiderman, and the Joker of best friends (and yes, this time lowercase)?

But then, doesn’t that, in itself, negate the claim of having best friends, plural? Is the use of the phrase “one of my best friends” done out of some guilty attempt to not reveal one friend as being less than another? Or is it a dodge out of the way of the unpleasant and potentially terrifying prospect of categorizing your friends?

Can friends even be categorized? Isn’t there something sacrilegious about the idea of placing friends in different categories? Labeling them, like they’re products on a shelf, waiting to be bought? Let’s stick a price tag on them, while we’re at it, so people know just how much they’re worth – just how little we’ll accept to dump them and turn to someone with a faker smile, but pockets lined with things we want?

… there’s something incredibly painful in that idea. Something that hurts a lot to think about, stabs you in the heart and in the back to feel. Brutus, with all of his betrayal, and a knife.

Heh. Ironic.

I’ve never put a price on friendship. Maybe it sounds egotistical to you, after what you’ve just read. I’m not gloating about being a better person because of that. It’s an observation only, but something that brings enough pain and memories with it to make anyone brood.

I’ve lost a few friends in my life. We all have, I’m sure. It’s a part of the inevitability of our existence – that things should begin means that they will ultimately, at some point, end. A harsh truth, but one we must become accustomed to, or risk being shattered irreparably. We can’t be glass houses, because these people we keep with us, who we hold inside of us, deep inside in our hearts, carry the stones of knowledge that will be our destruction.

The first friend I lost was named Rosa. I use her name here without concern because it was over fifteen years ago that we parted. My first friend, I think, but kindergarteners make friends so easily. Friendship is so simple for children. Hey, our hair’s the same color! Hey, your dress is pretty! Hey, can I borrow the blue crayon? Let’s be friends forever!

Rosa moved away. I remember crying, because when you’re five, the world is an endless expanse of land and the furthest a letter goes is to grandma’s house, twenty miles away. A state? What’s a state? Pennsylvania, trees, a valley of mountains is all I know. The world ends beyond this point. Nothing stretches on forever.

The second friend I lost left me as much as I left him. I’d always been a tomboy growing up. After that childhood stage of wanting to be a princess and wearing dressed because all of the Disney princesses did, there were jeans and T-shirts, and grade school was good for making you pick a clique and staying there. And since painting your fingernails and actually knowing how to apply make-up was damn girly, I joined a group of four boys and we commandeered the jungle gym, which totally became our pirate ship (and yes, it was completely logical that it could sail through lava without sinking), and we played Alligator Tag during recess until the aids told us we would get detention if we didn’t come in now.

But the shifts in school are not kind to friendships. The movements from grade school to high school are as exciting as they are terrifying, and then classes are different and you’re placed because of your last names, now, and suddenly, being at the top of the alphabet sucks, because all of your guy friends – the guys who saved you from burning up in lava pits, who flipped the bars in the jungle gym because you asked them to, who pushed you on the tire swing and hung out with you even though you were a total loser and nerd – are at the bottom of the alphabet, and now the only time you get to see each other is if you pass each other in the hallways. And the phone calls become fewer, the glimpses, the notes in the hall lessen, and suddenly, it’s years later and you spot each other in the grocery store, and hell, is he actually taller than me now, when did that happen, god, I wish we were still friends. But you don’t even know them anymore.

The third friend I lost died. Sometimes it still seems surreal. I’ll think about her, about how we should definitely go out for Chinese again sometime, like we did that time she was babysitting her goddaughter, and then I’ll remember – Jesus, she died. They tried to save her, but they couldn’t, and now she’s gone, and she was a really good friend and I wish I’d realized that sooner, but now it’s too late, and she’s gone… and it’s so weird.

The fourth time I lost a friend, I lost two, and it nearly broke me. In a way, it did, because it shattered who I was – destroyed the person that I was at the time. Dependent on the two of them, leaning on them for the near-decade of my life that we’d been together, I sometimes wonder how I couldn’t have realized how very sick I was, to go through my life needing such a crutch. But three’s a crowd, and they’re not lying, because it is – someone always gets left behind, even when they really try to be a friend, even when they’re like a damn puppy, needing to please, or perhaps because of that.

And I remember the screaming over the telephone, having to hold it away from my face because I don’t mean enough for them to talk rationally, or I don’t hurt enough for them to stop saying such mean things. And for some reason, I’m speaking so calmly, but inside, the shattered glass that was once this part of me that needed them is slicing into my insides and cutting wounds that surely can’t be healed – they’ll just bleed on and on and on until I die, and gods, please, I want to die, because I can’t go on without them, I can’t breathe without them, I’m nothing without them. I’m not me without them.

Do we define ourselves by our friends? Or are the friends – the friendships – defined by us? Which way does it go? Is there enough force in the connection between these two people for it to spread equal parts both ways, or does someone have to initiate this? How much can a person be willing to give up, to create this thing we call friendship? But really there’s another name for it, we’re just afraid to use it. We’re afraid because people take it the wrong way, they assume it means something else, but it’s all the same. Friend, sister, mate, mother – each is a title given, not by determination of blood, but by love, and really, calling it anything else is ignoring that simple, beautiful, thankgodyouexist thing some precious deity graced us with.

Love. The word brings to mind chocolates in a heart-shaped container. Corny romances on TV with lines so overused dinosaurs would roll their eyes. Satin sheets and canopy beds, legs sticking out from under a comforter, groans and grunts in a darkened room in the middle of the night, and too much tongue and not enough thought, and damnit, THAT’S NOT LOVE!

And what is love, then, Wandering Muse? What is the definition of this four-letter word, or are you just a bitter young woman whose about to spend another Valentine’s Day alone without ever having been on a proper date? Well, readers, dears, you’ve answered your own question, haven’t you?

Love is a four-letter word.

It’s right up there with fuck. It’s sitting in the middle of damn with shit piled on top of it. It’s lying on its side and getting the crap beat out of it. “Love” is a word we overuse, but never use enough.

Rouchefoucald said, “Love, like ghosts, is often spoken of, but rarely seen.”

He’s right, in a way. We all talk about love – I talk about love a lot. I love watching horror movies, I love cherry pie, I love working for my mom’s business, and I love going out for Chinese food with my best friend and crashing on her couch for a sleepover. I love, I love, I love.

The truth is, horror movies are generally awesome, but they can get overly predictable. Cherry pie is a nice treat every now and then, but it’s too sweet to eat often, and I always get the piece with the pit. Working for my mom rocks, but it’s still hard work, and it’d be awesome to get paid to sleep. Chinese food is my favorite type of food, but the restaurant we go to always makes me feel bloated afterward. Honestly, out of everything I put there, the only thing I really can say I love for certain is crashing on my best friend’s couch, and it’s not the couch or the sleeping, or even being surrounded by two dogs, five cats, and a guinea pig. It’s the best friend.

Hey, nice segue, Wandering Muse! Why, thank you, dear reader. I aim to please.

Friends mean a lot to me, because friends are family. And I’ll take a family made up of friends over a family made up of blood relatives.

You can’t choose who you’re born to. Your ancestors, your cousins – they’ll come screaming out of a uterus whether you want them to or not, bearing similar genes to yours, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I have people I’m related to – a lot of them, in fact – who I don’t talk to. I have people I’m related to who I wish I didn’t talk to. I was damn lucky to be born to parents who are, in no uncertain terms, completely-freaking-awesome. I have a brother who could not be better if he got awesome-implants. They’re not just blood relatives, though, because blood doesn’t mean shit. They’re friends – they’re people I want to know for the rest of my life, and after that – and that makes them family.

I have a friend from the UK who I’ve known for what might be going on seven years. We met by chance, by luck, by fate, whichever you choose. He’s a part of the circle of my friends that I call family, and there aren’t many that fit there, but those that do are special. Really special. I call him frere. It’s French and means “brother,” and I really don’t know why the language shift is there, but it means something. I suppose maybe it’s a separation from my brother by blood, because they’re on different levels, because my blood-brother is “bro,” when I refer the title, but he’s closer. He’s that person who will share all of my childhood memories. A person closer to me than anyone else, in a way that we probably don’t even realize, yet.

I have another frere, in the south. We haven’t known each other nearly as long, but we’re so much alike it’s like we met ourselves from an alternate level of possibilities – different fates, different choices, different ages, but still so similar, it’s almost terrifying. And he’s part of the family circle, too.

Soeur is a word I’ve discovered I don’t have much luck with. I’ve had a lot of female friends in my life, and whether Fate’s just decided I need a good kick in the kidneys or the female species is just that fickle, the friends that I call Soeur always end up leaving. I’ve almost stopped calling anyone by that title. I don’t have a sister of my own by blood, and maybe I’ve always wanted one, but the last person I gave that title to is still around, but we don’t talk much. We’re too different, and while some minor similarities keep up acquainted and friends, there’s a rift there I think my own laziness has kept me from breaching too often. And that’s sad. It is.

I have three girlfriends who I attend college with, and one girlfriend I work with. I love all four of them more than I can put into words, and as a writer, that’s one hell of an accomplishment for my heart to make – one hell of a connection, to be somewhere beyond the realm of my mind. And I’ll tell you what that friendship with each of them is, more than it’s awesome, more than it’s beautiful, more than it’s wonderful to feel.

It’s terrifying.

And I know why it’s terrifying. It’s terrifying because I know that sensation, of losing everything in losing a person. Of having your heart ripped out of your chest and trod on like it’s a bug that needs to be squashed before it infests something. That feeling, of being torn to shreds by a visceral word, and I don’t want to hear anything about sticks and stones, because goddamnit, words fucking hurt worse. It’s a horrifying thing, to realize that you’ve been beaten as close to death as you can come without actually dying by those people you called your friends, and here you are, throwing yourself toward someone else, even though the same situation is – not inevitable – possible.

A potential destruction, and it’s terrifying. But not terrifying enough to stop.

“I understand with love comes pain, but why did I have to love so much?” – unknown

I never do anything half-assed. One of my bosses once commented about me that I am nothing if not thorough. When I love someone, I do not do so in a simple, easy fashion. I do not love carefully. When I love, I love fully, and I throw myself into this feeling, this friendship, this emotion, as though it is a sky and I am a winged creature as of yet forbidden to fly.

Terrifying. Painful. Raw. Love is all these things, and many more things – some that I know from my experiences, and many that I do not know, but you might. Perhaps, for you, love is peaceful, or proud, or heavy, or close. In my experience, love is painful, and thank god.

Maybe I’m a masochist. Maybe I’m insane. Maybe these past experiences have fucked me up more than I can tell, but I’m glad love hurts. Because the fact that I’m still throwing myself into it means that the idea of loving someone – of that sensation of love – is more powerful and still greater to me than the pain that will come if I should lose it.

I make a family out of friends, because I love them. And how do I define these people whom I love? They are those who are close to me. They’re the people who have managed to crawl beneath my skin and buried themselves somewhere within the shell of myself, where they can see part of who I am, where they can know me, and where they’ve learned the words that can tear me apart. These people whom I love are the ones with the power to destroy me more than anyone else in the world. They have greater strength than the strongest man alive. Greater power than a gun-collector riding a tank. More wisdom about my heart than a three century old psychic on an empathy kick. I love them.

So where did this blog go? Somewhere far away from what it was originally supposed to be, but the message is still just as strong. Every friend has a place in your heart, in your life, somewhere underneath your skin where they bury themselves – where they never leave from without ripping some part of you out with them.

My mom, dad, and my brother bear those titles because I love them, not just because I was conceived by two and forced into siblinghood with the other. In friendships I’ve made with others, I’ve found two other brothers, something resembling a hybrid aunt-grandmother, a weird-ass uncle, and four sisters. Maybe someday I’ll have more. Gods, I hope so. I hope someday my skin is rolling because I can’t hardly contain the people that have slipped underneath it and found their way into my heart.

Love is something people are afraid to talk about, because it means French kisses and spaghetti dinners to most people; but that’s not love – that’s Hollywood. Love is rare, hard to find, terrifying to feel, painful to speak of.

Love is agony. And may the gods strike me with it and never allow me to recover.

~ Wandering Muse

Down With the Sickness

It is probably not the best of ideas to be posting on a blog while suffering the flu. In fact, there is probably a list somewhere containing all manner of stupid ideas, where this action is at the very top. I imagine it comes at some point after "creating your own blockbuster thriller" and "driving while under the influence of too much rock n' roll."

Regardless, here I am, lungs full of shit, throat raw, and fever burning my skin and giving me one hell of a blaring headache.

I'm honestly unsure of what I should talk about, but I haven't updated my blog in a while and, frankly, I've missed it. So I thought, perhaps, I would offer my condolences to all of the rest of you poor saps who also have this flu, and who are working through it, and going to school through it. I advise all of you who can to take the weekend and use it as one big couch-fest. Lie down, sleep however long you gain, drink lots of water and cranberry juice, eat toast when everything else tastes horrid, and get over this flu. Because frankly, I'm tired of you people giving it to me.

Feel better soon!

An Introduction, The Name

Muse

How many can tell you what a muse is - where the word comes from - without looking it up? The muses are rarely, if ever, called upon in literature, as they used to be. Their origins and name have dwindled into nothing more than a word, and the act of "musing" over something.

There were nine, in Greek mythology - daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory. These nine muses gave inspiration of the arts to humankind, and so they were often called upon by writers to aid them in the telling of tales. Chaucer, author of The Canterbury Tales, was well-known for him "call to the muses," and considering the popularity and brilliance of his work, one can assume he felt they aided him aptly.

A muse, then, is what? One who gives inspiration to others. As such, I call myself a muse, even as it stands as a double-entendre, for I muse on these thoughts that, as a muse, I hope to inspire you with.

Wandering

I could easily offer an all-too-common quote about wandering, but I would be forced to smack myself for such a cliche. I feel, rather, it is more pertinent to ask - what does it mean to wander? Or, better yet, what is it to be a wanderer?

A wanderer is one who wanders, naturally, but why? One who has a mission, a reason, intention, generally walks with purpose, so is one who wanders one who has no purpose, or do they seek it? But still, to seek is a purpose, and a wander is a meandering walk, a journey without destination - or perhaps a known destination.

Who am I, to wander? No one special. I am neither queen nor lady fair. I am by no means a genius and far from a god. I am but a human, in this life, in this world, but my mind is not so trapped, and it wanders, unlimited by all things but my own imagination, and I cannot fathom or name the limitations that carries, if indeed there are any.

As a wanderer, who am I? I am a sister, a daughter, a friend. I am a student, of a university, and of life. I am a writer, a philosopher, a theorist, and, at points, a madman, when my mind wanders too far and I lose myself in whims and fancies. I wander without purpose, seeking my purpose, my purpose to wander - and in this contradiction, I exist, dwell, and, yes, wander.

The 

The. This sentence bears no meaning. It contains no subject, no verb, no description. There is a word here, but what this word exists as nothing of importance. It is not a thing, but the call to a thing. It is a prerequisite to the thing, but cannot exist without the thing, for the thing is it's purpose, and the thing acts, and so The begins a tale.

But we know this. We read, we speak, we know the barest tint of grammar, if not the technical jargon of it, then the execution of it from our speech, from books, from our own experience communicating. I cannot tell someone a tale by saying "The" and leaving it at that. Nor can I introduce myself in the same manner. I am not "The," and yet - I am.

The. The holds many things, as the beginning of all manner of subjects. Pounce the World is The Cat who holds my heart in two golden eyes and an endearing purr. The University is where I attend classes. The World is the great mass upon which I and you live. The Wandering Muse is who I am.

And yet, it is not. I am, after all, not only The Wandering Muse. You may know me by this name, but some of you know me also as Umbrae Calamitas, or Case, or daughter, or friend.

~ * ~

This post has been an attempt to introduce myself to you, to greet you as one meeting someone for the first time should greet another, and to explain the purpose of this blog. For some of you, the previous ramblings of a wandering muse may have done such the trick. For others, you may be demanding a straight answer, a blunt reply to your demand that I explain myself now. I'm not sure I could ever offer you the latter.

I am not a creature of blunt words or sure decisions. I am a creature of the mind. You may take this many ways, and yes, it is intended to allow many translations.

I spend the majority of my time trapped within my own mind, and I believe that trapped is the appropriate word. I am here both of my own accord and by the graces of whatever creator you believe crafted each of us in turn. And while trapped may be the appropriate term, I enjoy the copious amount of time spent here, contemplating the various wonderings of a creature who seeks the answers to everything, but is often not satisfied with those that she gets.

And so that is what you will find here. My thoughts meander through every topic possible, and surely we will touch the edges of a depth that will make men cry, and brush the height at which laughter is as copious as it is nearly impossible. There is no set amount of times I shall post a month, for my thoughts come as they will, wander where they will, and will sweep my from my feet as surely as I hope to sweep you from yours, and carry you with me over the falls of a new perspective.

So wander with me, through time and thought - life and insanity. If, our journey complete, you wish to return, do so. But still, you are welcome to continue on, hand-in-hand, heart-in-heart, mind-in-mind with me, and become another Wandering Muse.

W.M.

Live long. Live well. Write. Read. Dream. 

And wander on.