Infinite Hope

"Reserving judgement is a matter of infinite hope. "

 ~The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

 As rays of empathy radiate from the heavens into the chaotic earth,  a bud springs from the rough trodden ground and blossoms its pearly iris of hope. Nevertheless, homicidal toxins - those that strive to maintain a perfectly uniform lawn, for appearances sake, of course - asphyxiate such a flower shorty following its birth before it forms roots,  before it spreads its soothing hue throughout the neighborhood.  Its snowy petals crinkle and brown, topple into the unforgiving landscape, exiled from view.  Deemed a weed, it shall not thrive as long as the terrain does not flourish spontaneously, as long as there is less regard to life than garish and ostentatious beauty.

Embracing compassion, appreciating disparity in all forms, and living hopefully is a beautiful thought. The poignant musing rings in my ears, reverberates in my conscious, as I grapple with the inherent truth of it and with the near impossibility of its survival in "this viscous little world" (All Time Low- "The Reckless and the Brave"). Benevolence is massacred with cruel words and lethal glares, lost amidst an apathetic society that prizes wealth above than character, beauty above integrity, a nice garden above a blossom of purity.

 

 White Iris

The Flower of Hope

The End.

It is argued that the dwindling codes that society has abided by is a testament to the growth and betterment of the 21st century. Certainly, in some areas such as equality, I rather agree with this statement that urges a freedom of mind and compassion in a harmonious society. Even in punctuation, perfect adhesion to regulations is almost impossible to obtain, and is often considered ludicrous to even merely consider. However, how far will the impairment of this basic literary tool reach? I wonder, as society stresses less and less the merit of punctuation, will it eventually lead to chaos in literature? I reckon it might. Either that will occur or there will be some fracture in the bindings that unify the English language itself. How, pray tell, can you expect there to exist effective communication even within this nation if there is no reference or rulebook to weave all the different sections of the country together. There is already enough confusion with the colloquialism that makes those whose native language is not English to learn it, shall we supplement it with no aid in the intended meaning of text? Even though obviously this will not occur, due to many factors I shall not attempt to enumerate,  the World would be much easier if all humans communicated based on one language. The Earth's people would be more unified and less likely to quarrel if we were part of one whole, instead of 196 parts. The thought that less stipulations amplify creative thought is nice, but the repercussions must also be considered. The end is nigh, some pessimists say, and it seems every other year is a new prediction about the end of the world. Nevertheless, whether the Apocalypse is near or far from our time, I believe chaos will have a hand in it, and so maybe, just maybe the burdensome rules might be reconsidered before they are thrown to the wind, because after all they were put in place for a reason.

There's An Angel On My Nose

 

Humanity consists of the good - happiness, love, compassion - and the bad - anger, fear, revenge. Basic humanity itself is the the devil and the angel hovering over each individual's conscious, but above  these impulses, these instincts and passions that seem to govern each individual's very being rests the true bringer of everyone's essence, which is choices. Simple choices -  little miniscule, seemingly meaningless decisions, such as picking up a pencil of a fellow student -  even these are at the crux of each person's character. Minister Dimmesdale exemplifies this exceptionally in the Scarlet Letter as he struggles to maintain his goodness and good stature within the Puritan community. However, he cannot retain his integrity because the cowardliness of his choices has corrupted it, and  has allowed the devil on his shoulder, aptly named Chillingworth, to torment his soul. The pitiful minister loses himself amidst his inability to expose the truth, and although after seven years of agony, the angel, Hester, who represents the love and goodness that sleeps dormant within the pitiful minister, appears to guide him out of his self-inflicted torture, she cannot. He asks her , "Think for me.  Though art strong. Resolve for me,"(Hawthorne 193) and although she attempts to by arranging an escape, she is foiled by her opposite, old Roger, her husband. That the symbols and agents of good and evil were once married is ironic, yet it seems to parallel how they are two sides of one humanity, and how good and evil, God and Lucifer, were once united. Maybe then, it is not that children are neither good nor evil and therefore innocent but that they are both, so selfish and yet incapable of harming others, and that the two parties within them are at a stalemate. This is what permits the thriving and capacity of both affection and loathing, bravery and cowardice, good and bad within each person and makes decisions so crucial. This is why the decision of Dimmesdale to reveal his part in the adultery that ruined Hester, and therefore the goodness within him, delivers him from evil and into the light. Although both Hester and Chillingworth toil to sway the reverend, he is the only one able to unshackle himself from damnation.

Liar, Liar, Pants On Fire

 

 Lies, such horrid actions, often lead to likewise horrid consequences. Even little ones, they add up, pile up, until you drown in all the the misconstructions of events, partial truths, and white lies. Lies eat up at your very core, as your conscience becomes worse than a nagging mother, and guilt consumes your thoughts to the point that not a moment of your life is spent at rest. This is what happens, it seems, to almost all parties in the Scarlet Letter. Hester, first of all, is weighed down by the secret of her old husband's presence, which leads to her ex-lover's doom. Her refusal to speak the name of her lover eventually is what seals the loss of his very soul.  By the same token, Dimmesdale is devoured by the sin that he never shared, and his complicity in the crime of adultery which is the root of his sickness. Even Chillingsworth loses himself amidst the new fiendish character he has adopted, as he lets himself be consumed by his obsession, his manipulations, and his pleasure in wringing the utmost suffering out of the poor minister.  Lies can brig no good to the lives of the ill-fated characters in Nathaniel Hawthorne's masterpiece of physiology, or to you, or to anyone. Lies are not only reflected outward, but also inward, so that the cost of a good appearance is internal rotting. Until the truth is expelled, paranoia and ill-will will hold happiness in their grip, so do as your mommy always told you, and don't let your pants catch on fire, or else risk your soul also bask in eternal hellish flame.

A is For Acceptance

"Treat others like you want to be treated" said my mother, my counselors, my teachers ever since preschool. I've heard this so much I often forget the idea behind it, I dwell on the humdrum it became instead of the truth dormant within it. As a matter of fact, in elementary school, I was often resentful of this motto, because frankly, even though I treated others how I wished to be treated, the idea was never reciprocated, and most often, it was thrown back in my face. I recollect the sense of isolation, of solitude, and I wish no kid ever had to feel that way. Nonetheless, I believe that however that experience hurt me as a child, it has made me a more accepting person. I seek to never, ever, ever, ever, ever, for all of eternity to injure someone like that. No matter a person's appearance, their countenance, their differences, there is a detectable humanity that compels us all to pursue affection, acceptance, and love. Instead of focusing on the dissimilitude between ourselves and others, it is imperative that we perceive the common qualities and aspirations we share. We need to surrender our "default setting" that dictates our view of others only in accordance to their purpose to ourselves, and realize that no one person is better than any other. Essentially, we must be more patient with each other, not lose consciousness of the repercussions of simple actions, such as sympathy and understanding, and yes, most of all acceptance.

The Pen Can Raise The Sword

The power of words often astounds me, enthralls me, captivates me in inquisitive wonder. I love them and cherish them, especially when they are formatted into novels.  Literature has molded me, obviously in my mind's eye positively, but sometimes I wonder about the reach of manipulative rhetoric. I begin to ponder, if the equivalent of Hitler was my professor, if I read constantly misguided, but seemingly accurate, novels that encouraged loathing towards a specific denomination such as homosexuals, if I was surrounded by ads urging me into a bigoted mindset, would I be? What is so terrifying is that I reckon I might. Most people would. That is the reach of language. It is the basis of justice and fairness in American government, but it could so easily be the venue of ignorance and hostility. Just as the simple, but convincing pamphlet, Common Sense, influenced an entire people to war, even if it was for good reason, language could just as easily incite chaos. When one considers it from British perspective it seems insane. How could a mini book induce so many to mutiny? Nothing more that the right compilation of letters, sentences, and pages did this. Which means that it could just as well impel another Holocaust to occur. The pen is is not only mightier than the sword, it can be what raises the sword and decapitates humanity.

Historia e a Estoria: History and A Story

Historia, is history in Portuguese. Estoria is a story. In Portuguese, these words are homonyms, and because of this,  I began to overanaylze their relationship, as I am prone to do. It is quite interesting, to say the least, the intrinsic connection between the two, when one thinks about it. History is what happened in the past: it is supposedly factual, concrete and indisputable. Oppositely, stories are narratives, "either true or fictitious, in prose or verse, designed to interest, amuse, or instruct the hearer" as defined by dictionary.com. Yet history isn't as incontestable as your history teacher makes you believe.  History can be a story, it can be distorted and viewed from differing perspectives. It can be told differently. For instance, the Civil War isn't always referred to as the Civil War, inside or outside the United States. In the South, it is called The War Between the States and, and in Brazil, it is called "A Guerra Civil Americana." Details can be lost in retellings, in faulty memories, in lack of primary sources. History depends on where and when you live, and it is the story of the past based on what the teller knows. History and Stories, they aren't as dissimilar as they initially appear.
 It must also be remarked the effect of stories, of words and literature, on history -  or history as we know it. Just from the colonial times, if Common Sense, if Patrick Henry's Speech In The Virginia Convention, if all the the pamphlets that helped the constitution pass, hadn't existed, would the United States stand as it does today? The domino effect says that even miniscule differences in time would have major effects, but I believe the nation would be especially be astronomically different if literature, if these stories, hadn't existed. Literature is essential to not only the social structure of today, but to the memory of the past and the lessons they hold that must be taught to each generation to come.