Guiltless

At the risk of being risky, I'm going to tell you the truth. About me, about my life, about what I believe. I don't know who reads this blog, and that's part of the thrill I suppose; not knowing. So here it is.
I'm a Mormon. I was born Mormon, raised Mormon. That was my identity. In Texas I was the Mormon. In Utah I became a Mormon. But it was something I never doubted.
For all my pursuits of truth, for all my affirmations of objectivism and reason, I never looked beyond what I knew to be true. I estimated new knowledge only so far as it agreed with what I knew to be Universal Truth. I did not doubt it, and therefore anything true must agree with my personal knowledge of the Universe.
And then I experienced something.
For the first time my eyes were opened. I saw what my life had become, I saw my beliefs and faiths reflected in the eyes of a woman on fire.
I watched a woman, the same as you or I, destroy herself. Willingly. Happily. She carried a guilt that threatened to crush her. The only way she knew to rid herself of it was to brand herself a sinner. Her hope was that honesty would triumph over the power of her family's secret darkness. It did not.
Like Hester Prynne herself, she was branded. Like a Saint of old she was burned. Like a criminal she was crucified. And the people of the congregation sat there and watched.
Tears streamed down the woman's face as she confessed the sins of her husband. Sins that bore her down like an anchor and tied her to his guilt. Sins that proclaimed her guilty by association.
I watched her sacrifice herself. She tore out her heart, the little personal bits and pieces that are sacred to one's self, and she cast them in front of us to be judged and scorned. She tied herself to her own pyre. She threw herself and her family out into the mercy of our judgment. And the people watched.
I was horrified.
As I sat there I witnessed an act of moral depravity. Altruism taken to its extreme. Her self immolation was supported and expected by all. Her personal family affairs were the business of every do-gooder and nosy busy-body in the room. Her husbands actions affected them all in such deeply personal ways that her punishment was deserved for what she had done to them. Her family's personal decisions affected them all. Her punishment was just.
I was horrified.
In atonement for her egregious crimes against the community, she and her husband sentenced themselves to travel the state telling their story. Nothing could be so humiliating, so heart wrenching, so shameful as sharing their story with every soul who did not deserve to hear it.
I was horrified.
My hands shook. My heart raced. It was as though I were watching a gruesome self torture, surrounded by those who thought it good. To my left and to my right were those who would have stoned the Adultness, who hung Salem's witches, who crucified the Savoir and passed judgment upon every living soul other than their self.
I was horrified.
And there sat the people. My people. Smiling and nodding. Taking notes. Seeing nothing wrong. Seeing nothing. It was agonizing.
I sat there in my seat, muscles clenched either to run for my life away from the monsters that would tear out my heart and eat it while I watched, or to save her. The burning woman. To scream and shout and tell her that her guilt was undeserved. She had done no wrong! By what right could they punish her?!
What I saw next will forever be seared into my memory.
She looked at us, and she smiled. A smile so full of agony, so full of guilt and self hatred and loathing. But there in her eyes, was approval. She! The victim! She approved of it all! She thought it to be good and just! She, the woman on fire, tied to the cross and staked through the heart, believed that she was deserving of this hell! She was a monster too.
I sprang into action.
I sprinted away as though from the very gates of Hades. I trembled and found myself sobbing as I ran.
By what right?! I cried. By what right?!
Before I fully knew it, I was standing at his door.
When he let me in, I wonder what he saw in me. I had seen something that I had not thought possible in our modern day. I had witnessed something medieval and wrong. Those smiling faces danced behind my eyes.
He let me in and I cried. First in horror, then disgust, then bewilderment and anger.
By what right?! By what right?!
It was her face. That womans' face. The face of a cannibal.
I cried, and he let me cry. And when I was done we talked. And when we talked I learned something important. The most important thing I have ever known.
Every since I was a little girl, I've been guilty. If I wasn't committing sin, then I was not doing something that I could have, committing a sin of omission. If I was doing everything right in my life, but thought one inappropriate thing, I was guilty. If I thought nothing wrong at all, but rushed and did not read my scriptures that morning, I was guilty. If I was too busy loving my best friend to convert him to the gospel, then his soul was in my hands and I was damned. If I drank the wrong drink the ambiguous voice in my head whispered of my guilt.
There was never a moment of freedom. I lived on my guard. I put up walls in my life, walls in my friendships, walls in my head. In order to protect myself from evil, I boxed myself in. Walls and walls of guilt.
My face had been the same.
The only way to atone for my sins was to try harder. And when I failed again and my guilt grew, so did my desperation. So did my secret agony. So did my smiles. I began to pretend as I began to realize my imperfections. I began to know that I would never be free of this weight. Even if I did everything right, even if I followed every rule, even if I went to my dear loving bishop to atone for my sins previous, the result would be the same.
The only consequence that lay ahead of me was sacrifice. The only presence that was sure in my future was guilt. There was nothing else.
And then it happened.
My eyes opened and I saw what I had never been able to see: The guilt was mine. It could not be distributed by another, only accepted by me. No other, no person nor organization or God could make me feel what I did not willingly take. And just like that, like cutting the rope from a heavy anchor, the guilt fell away.
I was free.
I saw the blind futility of it all. The entirety of my life that I had spent feeling so alone, so lost, so ashamed, it all meant nothing. I looked at myself and I liked what I saw there. I saw a good person. I saw a girl with values and morals and a lifetime of good decisions. I saw the potential for whatever I wanted that girl to be. I saw happiness in her eyes and goodness in her heart. There was no more guilt in that face.
I am free.
The consequences of what I have done are still largely unknown to me. I do know, however, that I can never go back. The door to what I once was has been closed forever. Only an uncertain future awaits me now. But I am not afraid.
Will I be able to return to that organization that demanded my own immolation since my birth? Will I be able to one day reconcile myself with a church that supports self sacrifice? I do not know.
I do know that my relationship with Deity has never been stronger. I do know that I am, for the first time, entirely made up of only myself. I do know that what tempted me previously holds no sway for me now because GUILT is not my motivator. GUILT is not my natural state of being. I was born, I was created to be happy. To experience joy. And I feel that now like I have never felt it before! My life is in my own hands. I am sailing this ship alone now. There is no one to tell me where to go.
My life is now uncertain. In some ways, I am afraid. But that is a fear of the unknown, not of hellfire and damnation. That is a fear that I will conquer.
I am free.
I am happy.
And I am guiltless!

A Revelation

Reality cannot be escaped. Existence is real. It exists. So when someone offers up the irrational as their wish, it can only be allowed existence by faking reality. It is our duty as worshippers of logic and reason, to vehemently deny the irrational, the illogical, and refuse them existence. We cannot presume that "good will out" or that evil will destroy itself so that only good can remain. To do so is to slip into a victims complacency. It is our obligation to ACT.
So when our politicians offer us up philosophies of good intent, we cannot sit idly by, trusting that one day they will see the error of their ways. By doing so we give them permission to continue on deceiving themselves and denying reason, forsaking thought. Doing so damns us as victims of a non-reality that we allowed to exist. One that is doomed to destruction and bloodshed at the hands of good intent.

Existential Flu

I seem to have caught a bit of Existential Flu.
I should get over it in a week or two but it's quite annoying, let me assure you.
The basis of it is this:
What's the point?
I mean, I don't mean to sound arrogant or anything, but I'm intelligent. Not only that, I'm resourceful and determined. I plan to do things with my life. My family looks at my To Do list and they laugh at me, but it's only because they can't see what I see. Not yet.
But even if I accomplish that list in full, if I get all my degrees in History, Business, Philosophy, Physics, Law, if I get my Mechanics license, become a lawyer, own a successful business chain, write a million books, change the world, EVEN THEN. What's the point?
My life, even if I accomplish every great thing that I intend to, will be nothing more than another ordinary human life in the never ending chain of humanity. Escape is impossible. I've felt since I was a little girl that the only way out would be to run away and join a circus, but even then, to never taste greatness...
And it's not for glory. Well, it is. But not the kind you'd think. I have to reach my potential. I've just got to. I could care less what other people think of me, they're not important. I just have to know that I've done everything I possibly can to become the greatest person who's ever lived. For me personally. Nobody else need ever know, ever speak of me again. I just have to know it for myself.
To top it all off, I'm bored. I work, I read, I write, teach myself French and Quickscript and writing backwards and guitar and piano and calligraphy and mind mapping and philosophy, but what's the point?!
They already cured Ebola without me.
I'll never be able to afford a trip to Africa.
I'll never reach the level that I want to, that I need to.
Last time I felt like this it lasted for more than a year. A year long Existential Crisis. Jolly good fun.
Anyways, I suppose I deserve it. I should care more about other people and serving and getting lost in my service. But I just can't bring myself to care. They'll manage on their own. Just like I will. I don't have time for their constant complaints and endless need for coddling. And if they need help, that's what friends and family are for. I'm not really a "friend" to anyone so that let's me off the hook there, or at least it should. What's the point? Of all of it?

 

Here's a journal entry for you

Haha ok. So it turns out that I do have feelings. I am perfectly susceptible to human emotion. I had a funny example of it this past week. So I ended up writing this really entertaining (at least to me) journal entry and I believe that journals are to be shared. So I'm going to post it here. Heh. Be prepared. It's pretty snarky and sarcastic all the way through.  Oh, and I'm using names and things. I believe in that too. Be warned. These are my personal thoughts and feelings, uncensored and unedited. Do with them what you will.

"Dear Kooper,

...My whole life I've always thought that I was an excellent judge of  character. Over the years I've realized that I am actually really terrible. Then yesterday I discovered that I was absolute crap. But now I think that I'm not too far off the mark. You see, my story begins with Michael Fletcher.
Fletcher is attractive. He's tall, tan, has dark curly hair, rippling muscles and a smile to make Chris Hemsworth blush. He's an actor, singer and dancer.
Fletch is the type that knows all women love him and loves to be loved by them. I've always thought that he was an arrogant dog who wasn't worth a moment of my time. well, I've always told myself that anyways.
On principle, I have never liked men like him. A pretty face, even great talent, has never been enough to attract me. Normally when these personalities discover my immunity to their charm, they work extra hard to make me fall for them. This never works, but is fine by me. I love the attention. But with Fletcher it was different.
I always thought he was ridiculously attractive. I've probably told him that a few times too. At the same time that I knew he was a dangerous womanizer and nothing but a pretty face, I liked him. I liked his arrogance. Even though I knew he did not meet my qualifications in a man. So I avoided him like the plague.
Turns out that wasn't too hard to do. He was a year ahead of me with only a few friends of mine in common. Soon he graduated and I gratefully left him behind.
Until, that is, I volunteered to work the Stadium of Fire. I discovered after a few days that he was working there too. Only, I worked in the offices making copies and running errands, while he spent each day in the sun doing hard physical labor.
For some strange reason Jill and I were talking about crazy parties and she began to explain that Fletcher could make out with anyone and then just walk away without it bothering him. Without thinking twice. This was true to everything I knew about him but it still made me feel uncomfortable. She sensed my hesitation on the subject and began to push me on it. She eventually joked that I could ask him for a kiss and he would give me one without a second thought.
I could not hide my reaction from her. What she saw was revulsion. Revulsion that, even in jest, she would ever think that of me. Revulsion at the thought of stooping to such a level, of asking him for a kiss. Revulsion at what he would have thought of me. And revulsion towards myself. Towards the little part of myself that entertained the idea. She did not see that part.
Elated at having found something to use against me for her own amusement, she ran to Michael Fletcher to plan evil schemes with him.
My next few days were filled with his suggestive glances and wicked wiggling eyebrows. I only saw him a few times, but it was enough. Clyde talked to me about him, laughing. He said that Fletch had asked him, "How am I supposed to seduce her if she's never here?"
You're not! Was my ferocious silent reply. Well, half of it. The other half was a desire to quickly run down to the field and make myself available for his seduction.
Instead I bolted to the women's bathroom in the other direction, the only safe haven that I knew. I spent the next hour there fighting with my reflection.
He's just a boy! I told myself. A petty obnoxious boy. He posses no real intelligence, no cognitive genius for me to admire. why should I care about his looks? I'd met more attractive men before and reacted in the appropriate way. Why should it bother me now? I, who have always prided myself on the ability to find someone attractive and not be attracted to them, was falling like an idiot for some playboy I hardly knew, who I knew would never like me. How absolutely, ridiculously illogical!
I decided to end that foolishness. To crush it before it escalated.
"He is attractive." I admitted to myself. "But I am a woman." A woman such as myself would never fall for his tricks. I assigned this to be my mantra, to give my strength in weakness. He is attractive, but I am a woman!
I steeled my resolve and finally pushed open the bathroom door, ready to conquer the world.
At the same time he stopped, three feet in front of me on the way to the men's room.
He lowered his sunglasses and looked and me approvingly. Then he flashed a brilliant white smile and said, "...Hi."
Horror paralyzed me for a fraction of a moment. But then, I gathered my wits and found the appropriate response, rolling my eyes and walking away. However, the muscles in my cheeks didn't get the memo. It wasn't until after I left that I realized I had been smiling like a loon the entire time. The only reason I did finally realize it was because the grin was still there, plastered to my face.

That night, I dreamed of him. There were no zombies, no rainbows, no machine guns, no space travel, no flying, no magic. Nothing the identifies my usual dreams.
There was a dance.
With a sparkling red evening gown and music from a 20's speakeasy in Chicago, I saw him. He wore a vest, dazzling as ever. He passed blonde after blonde, dress after gorgeous dress, and came to a stop in front of me.
He looked me over and wiggled his eyebrows. I stared in disbelief. Then he held out his hand for mine. Without a word I took it, he spun me close to him, and we danced.

The next day I texted Ryan for support, to help me shake my insanity. He said something to the effect of, "Fletch is trouble. Don't waste your time." As if I didn't already know.
During this time I was in the middle of reading Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. Her writings gave me strength. I was looking for Fransico d'Anconia, Henry Rearden, John Galt and Howard Roark. These were the men I wanted. The only sort I would ever accept: Men of intelligence and ability and joy and a love and respect for life.
Throughout my time there people would ask me what it was that I was reading. The either didn't recognize it, hated the writer, pretended to know it, or said they were just impressed that I was reading a booThis is Rachel again. I'm having some car trouble, so I'm running late. But I don't think it's too serious so I should be on my way soon. Is there somebody I need to call or something?k so big, which wasn't exactly encouraging.
Anyways, I was talking to Michael Edwards. He wanted to know why I was so against love.
Feeling like a hypocrite but stating ideas I used to deserve in order to convince myself once more, I explained myself.
Fletcher joined our table just as I began.
Good. I thought. Let him hear.
I told them how I was a complete being, a whole entity in and of myself. I would never need another person to feel complete. I did not have a "missing piece." There was no hole in me to fill. I was happy by myself, independent and strong.
Fletcher laughed and said that he loved relationships. Or, that he would if her ever found one.
He perplexed me. I knew what he was, yet when I was around him I could never reconcile that player I knew him to be, with the man in front of me.
Mike gave in and explained that he never went into an argument looking to win, but looking to be convinced. And since his mind would not be changed on this matter and neither would mine, further discussion was pointless.
Fletcher and I looked at him like he was crazy.
A little let down, I went back to reading my book, feeling like I had cast my pearls before something worse than swine. Something truly indifferent.
I looked up to see Fletcher staring pointedly at the pages I was excitedly underlining and scribbling over.
"Oh...um." I grinned sheepishly and saw all my colorful annotations. "It's my favorite book." I held up the cover for him to see. "Atlas Shrugged."
"By Ayn Rand." He nodded with a smile. "I love that book. Have you read The Fountainhead?"
A part of me knew I should have been shocked, but I was too excited to notice.
"Of course! I loved it!"
"And Anthem." He acknowledged. "I love her philosophy. I mean, it's a bit extreme for me, but Stalin didn't exactly get it right either." He chuckled.
Someone at the table asked what Anthem was.
"It's like a condensed version of her other books. Like Objectivism made easy. It encompasses her philosophy, but it's much shorter."
"It's the cute version." I agreed and we looked at each other with laughing eyes.
It wasn't until afterwards that I realized what had happened.
Shocked, I asked Clyde and Jill if that was normal for him. They laughed and told me about all his amazing test scores, the endless books he was always reading, his incredible intelligence.
My last barrier shattered.
I don't know how long I sat there trying to process this new information. Michael Knight sat next to me the entire time, finding my reaction hysterical.
That was it. I had nothing left to fight him with. Everything that I had known about him was a lie. Every reason I had to hate him was blasted away. I was left powerless, knowing and dreading the implications of this information. In the end, all I could do was store it away for future processing. I didn't have the capacity to deal with it just then.
I resolved the next time I saw him to ask him why. To force the truth from him.
He sat down next to Clyde. The two passed his phone back and forth between them. They were playing chess. Fletch was winning. I groaned silently.
"Fletch?" I asked. He looked up. "Why do you pretend you aren't as smart as you are?" He leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin with a quick laugh. "I don't know." He shrugged. "It's fun.
I shook my head. "From the moment I met you I thought you were just a player. And you let me think it too!"
He grinned.
"You know what that makes you?" I realized aloud. "Fransico d'Anconia. The playboy that wasn't."
"Thank you." He said sincerely. "If there is anyone in the book that I would dream of being compared to someday, it's Fransico d'Anconia."

So, you see, maybe my judge of character isn't so bad. Maybe some part of me knew what he really was.
But the funny thing is, rather than this sending me into a fanciful obsession, this realization has only set me free of him. Because he is Frisco. He really is. And Frisco was a great man, everything anyone could ever dream of. But he was only step number one.
Step number two? Hank Rearden.
Then, finally, my John Galt, my Howard Roark. The best man. The only options that matter.
And that's my story. :)

-Rachel."

Heh.
Anyways, I just realized how brilliant he is. He plays the fool that every girl thinks she wants. That's his mask. And he's hiding what he really is, which is what every girl actually wants. It's brilliant. The perfect cover.
But yeah. There ya go.
My super special journal entry. Aren't I hilarious?
Thanks for reading! Until next time ;)

Sentiment

I haven't updated my blog in a while, so here you go! Fantastic new poems and even a bit of a commentary for you! For the twelve of you who follow me, I can barely fathom how excited you are right now. Especially the two of you who actually read what junk I post. 

So! Today's commentary!

My life runs in themes. For a day or a week or a month or even a whole year, one thing will repeat itself or come up over and over and over. 

My last theme was honesty and truth. Before that was beauty. 

Currently it's.... Sentiment! 

In every show I watch, every book I read, every movie I see, it talks about sentiment. 

Here's the thing.

Emotions are a part of us. They come with the package. They are chemical reactions in our bodies that send certain signals to our brain which, in turn, makes us "feel" a certain way. We can't really get rid of them. BUT we can avoid them to an extent and control them. I don't hate feelings. I love being happy. I even love a good cry sometimes. It's when emotion controls you, that scares me. 

Example time. 

A certain person I know who, for my own safety will remain nameless, thinks that they are the very picture of reason and common sense. Yet they are the center of every drama, the victim of every insult, the mastermind of every good idea, the spear head behind every attack. Even so they cannot see it. 

Does that make it their fault? I'm not sure. But I'll tell you what that does mean. 

Emotions are very... forward. It's like standing right in the middle of a football field during a big game. (Yes that was a sports analogy from me. Shocking, I know.) When you're right in the thick of it, you have an idea of what's going on. You feel like you're a part of the action. But in reality you could not possibly comprehend everything that was going on around you. That is what emotions do. They magnify everything and zoom in on YOU. They breed selfishness and deceit. We start forming facts to fit our opinions instead of forming our opinions to fit the facts. (A bit of Sherlock for you.) 

When you take emotion out of the equation, or at least try, you distance yourself. Instead of the middle of the field you find yourself in the stands. Some people manage to climb higher than others. The pros and cons of that distance are pretty clear but I'll get to that later. 

In the stands you can see everything. The entire game becomes clear to you. You can see the complexity of the individual pieces and how they work together towards a common goal. That's what life is. It's an incredibly complex dance. Some people are born to be the dancers, moving and shaping the world. Some people are born to watch them, some to follow. 

Personally, I favor the height of the bleachers. If I could, I would climb all the way to the top. Distance sacrifices activity. The further you retreat to see the entire picture, the less you are a part of it. You become an observer instead of a participator. There is a middle ground. It's tricky to find, but it's there. You just have to want it. 

Personally, I'd rather just watch. Sentiment, feeling like I'm a part of the game, the dance, the show, when I know I'm not, feels like a lie to me. There are things in my life that are mine, and in those things I am the dancer. But with people, with school, with friends, with relationships, with social events and gatherings, I like to observe.

There are many who would say that I am anti-social that way. That to be alone is to be lonely. That if I prefer my own company better than the company of others, I must be depressed and sad and begging for their camaraderie. They are wrong.

So here's my point, I suppose. 

Forgive me if I do not cry when we say goodbye. Forgive me if I do not grow nostalgic at the thought of leaving high school forever, if the approaching graduation date does not make me quake with anticipation and fear of what comes next. 

It is not that I do not understand. In fact, I understand better than most. 

It is just that I am watching, carefully, the dancing of the lives around me. I am watching you. How you react, the things you care about, the dance you are creating for yourself. It's beautiful. 

So forgive me if I do not dance. If I prefer not to play the game. 

I'm the scientist in this equation, carefully recording and analyzing the world and these bizarre humans that surround me. I can't ask you to understand me, why I do what I do. I'm a freak show in my own right. All I can ask is that you let me be me. Let me leave sentimentality to the rest of the human race. I don't need it in my life, any more than I've got it. (And I have plenty of it, just ask my journal box!) 

I will let you be yourself. 

Even those of you who scare the living daylight out of me by being Tasmanian devils of wild emotion and unpredictable mood swings, need not fear that I will ask you to be anything more than who you are. 

So please, allow me the same privilege?

Until my next theme, au revoir!

Luna

On the full moon
The world is bathed in a pure white light.
Shadows recede and trees become skeletons in the dark.
But the new moon
Has it's own magic.
The new moon is when she leaves the sky
Comes down to earth like a frozen snow
Blanketing hot summer nights in ice and cold silence.
She lives here
For a time
Among the black that has no name.
The source of light herself,
She can see nothing but the trees,
Faded shadows of the creatures she has seen from the skies
On the full moon. 

Sadness

Sadness is in my blood.
It sludges through my veins
Numbing what is not important
To make the pain more intense.
Sadness is in my joints.
My elbows and knees become weak
Heavy with sorrow
My hands hang uselessly at my sides.
Sadness is on my skin.
Prickling like needles,
Hurt manifests itself in a wave.
Sadness is in the tears I will not shed.
Held back,
The effort of keeping them captive makes the sacrifice meaningful.
Makes it ok to grieve.
Sadness is in the words that echo through my mind
Stinging relentlessly like angry wasps that refuse to die.
Sadness is in the whole of me
Unexpected because it is uncommon.
It attacks without warning, without mercy.
Leaving as quickly as it came.
Sadness is my insanity.
The only one I have to my name.