I’d swear up and down I don’t need to drink, I’m not addicted, that my life is completely fine. I would love to believe depression is a choice, that my life was worth this nineteen years of bullshit, bullying and scorn, Wouldn’t that be a fucking dream. Well I won’t, I’m fucked in all the ways I don’t need and more than half of it is my own fault. Welcome to life. The realization that I have nothing to live for but to tell death to fuck off is a stark one, but not a surprising one. Perhaps it is even dark, but I cannot tell anymore. The light left my thoughts a long time ago. The scars on my hands attest to more than one kind of fight, and the scars on my mind prove I haven’t won all of them. Have you ever thought that the noose wasn’t too tight, the knife wasn’t that sharp, or the love wasn’t too strong? I have. Lies all the time. Lying to myself, but I can’t lie about it to the people who care. Sometimes there are more of those than I’d care to admit.
There is no daemon like the soul
who drinks and eats it’s fill.
For though it longs for sweet repose
It’s friends are all it kills.
Hellfire and damnation are
the knowledge of your loss
And if ever you are whole again
I ask you, “What’s the cost?”
Drat! The twilight of the gods came and passed, and here I am without so much as a single ancestor to fight alongside with in the last days. Although a Discordian, I have friends in the Asatru faith who had informed me that the end of fate should befall on Saturday the 22 of February 2014, and had began preparing for a surely glorious battle with the Jottunar. Unfortunately I only did battle with my Asatru friend, and subsequently drank to our ancestors, or was that before…? In any case, the Aesir still live, and I downed about a bottle of Paddy’s Honey Whiskey and sang “Scots Wha Hae” and “The Parting Glass” long into the night in solid steel battle helm and armed with a bush knife. Truly the Goddess has spoken to me and told me that celebration is it’s own reward
When confronted with the term, “Chaos,” many people immediately jump to some reptilian definition such as “disorder,” but, as any chaote will tell you, Chaos is change. It is not prejudiced towards one state or another, but rather the flux of states. Chaos is life. Chaos is the immediate fragmenting of each reality with every decision we make. Chaos is to look at the left and think right. Chaos is growth, the life and death of atoms giving your body the necessary energy to survive. Chaos Magick is a different story for a different day, but the force of Chaos is neither good nor bad. It is. When people demand a solid moral stance, Chaos is not involved in any way. Chaos is the state of creation.
The gray faces greatest ally is always their greatest enemy, fnord. The wise-man who thinks he’s a fool is less foolish than the fool who thinks he is a wise-man fnord. From the buzz words of health and fitness to the pathos bound fallacies of the gun control crowd, there is nothing more insidious than a damned fool trying to trick you into something you don’t believe except a fool who is trying to trick you into believing something is unbelievable. My blog has started in such a way, that it should be under the critique and questioning of prying eyes who would say they are non-judging, when a grade hangs in the balance. To be honest, this doesn’t entirely irk me, I’m simply an ass. I am now forced to blog, if not for a grade, to get the professor off my back. It appears I shall be arm-twisted into posting once a week, fnord. Aren’t you lucky! I get to ramble about whatever political/mystical/musical issue I can think of fnord!
To finish, a quote.
"POEE is one manifestation of THE DISCORDIAN SOCIETY about which you will learn more and understand less We are a tribe of philosophers, theologians, magicians, scientists, artists, clowns, and similar maniacs who are intrigued with ERIS GODDESS OF CONFUSION and with Her Doings"
Soul. It’s a dirty word these days. It conjures the visage of specters and superstition, but it is not of some ethereal presence I speak of; it is, rather, the medium which binds together the throngs of people in a way that allows each one to truly feel empathy for those present and those long since buried. This medium is, in it’s simplest form, music. I have listened to music halls, I have played at bus stops, and no matter where I go, music is there. Whether I am in my College Chorus singing Ein Dutches Requiem or I am jamming with a Russian homeless man as he belts out Katyusha while we wait for the bus, I am surrounded with the memories of people I have never met. The lamentations, jubilations, and the prostrations they have offered to their inheritors, strikes me in such a way that I feel at peace with all that is around me. I understand how new-age and hippy that sounded, but try to understand; from an early age, I was diagnosed with depression, and pre-bipolar disorder, I have had a charmed life in many ways, but I have never felt I belonged, never felt like I was not fighting a battle between the void I could succumb to, or the opportunities I could rise to. Music, the true soul of the people, makes me BE. Now there is music, and there is “music”. What truly defines music is the spirit of it. The feeling that this was done with intent. The knowledge that what you are listening to is an actual expression of someone else’s inner machinations. Not some bubblegum pop, but something rooted in the earth and the bones of a man who would sweat and bleed to make such a thing material. The people, I am sad to say, seem to have lost their soul. And Pete Seeger’s passing is a large piece of the American Soul that has been lost. Goddess willing, more will come to sing out in the open and behind closed doors, so the people can regain what they have lost.