Meaning

One often seeks for 'meaning' in myriads of things,

small and big, 'signifcant' and 'trivial' (these two words

also being related to the term, 'meaning').

There are questions, discussions, and even heated debate

over the "Purpose of Life" (as so deviously exploited by a

certain religious figure with some serious financial rewards,

whether intentional or not, and regardless of how he utilized

all that profit), in our hopeless effort to "FIND" some "meaning"

in what we call our lives.

Such quest for meaning in one's life already implies that one

regards the self as deserving of that attention, worthy of the

very thing he or she seeks, i.e. "meaning."

During a recent conversation with my colleague and friend,

which we usually have in a surprsingly casual manner

(surprising because we draw some insightful conclusions,

like finding a gem in the mud, or to be more appropriate -

ash tray), I found myself saying something like the following.

"People always seek for meaning in everything, as if it is

some tangible, self-standing absolute. But we often forget

how meaning is something you "give" to something else

otherwise, well, 'meaning-less'. Meaning itself comes into

'being' when you assign it to an idea, object, people, and

of course, the never-ending subject of the whole discussion

on meaning- one self."

My friend then quoted the well-known sage regent:

"Yeah, even Solomon, the wisest man, said "Meaningless,

meaningless, everything is meaningless. SHIT, it's fucking

all meaningless!"

And I agree. Everything, any thing, those that may exist

without a particular value given to it, is in fact, meaningless.

More abstract "bodies" only find more substantial existence

in "meaning" it self, in its being assigned the particular value

which we call, or at least I address for the purpose of this

bit as "meaning." The idea of "meaning" itself, for instance.

Even yet, the word "meaning" still can exist on its own

as a juxtaposition of alphabets which, well, "mean" nothing

more than curves and vertical lines to someone illiterate,

I suppose.

Every being, object, or invention (whether physical or

abstract) are rather like a vessel which require the contents

to reach its "true", or "full" value. These e-pressions I

am attempting employ turn out to be quite self-explanatory and

obvious, so much so that this babble almost appears

strained and well, "meaningless." To get back to my original

train of thought, let's consider the word, "meaningful", and

"meaningless": quite clearly, assuming that we haven't

realized this obvious, self-explanatory fact already, the words

point to the fact that meaning is something bestowed upon

another. So to be blatantly obvious, things are meaningless

without the meaning given to it. Ergo, everything, in its

natural, still form, is meaningless.

But is it so depressing? Was Solomon just going through

that nervous breakdown every genius seem to go through

before he cuts off his ear or does him self in with a pistol,

drugs, or, I suppose in Solomon's case, the alleged

debauchery accompanied by his idolatery (and a harem

to compare, which leads me to question whether he was

really the wisest man, or just the bad-ass-est P-I-M-P).

No, I do not think so, for one. As mentioned before,

things are meaningless in their natural state as, well,

they are not given the meaning. All we need to do is

bestow meaning on it so it becomes meaning-full. Like filling

an empty glass with milk, wine, or beer. Like a knife,

as my friend pointed out, and how many people use as

an example, although that metaphor does not serve best

in me pointing out (no pun intended) the composition of the

word revealing its true nature.

So this circles back to the premise mentioned quite earlier

on in this barrage of words. Meaning it self, as people

often say they are trying to "find", is not a self-standing,

objective "being (for the lack of a better term without

being redundant and obvious... by using any e-pression

related to, well, "meaning" itself). Rather, it is something

created and that creates, "meaning" in a "meaningless"

object, idea, relationship or whatever it may be, in turn making

it "meaningful". The very process of bestowing a value,

or to be more precise (and yet again, self-explanatory and

redundantly obvious), meaning is created by giving meaning

to something for which many people seem to look for: an

effort to "FIND" meaning, rather than so simply bringing

in to existence what they so longed to discover.

Of course, it may seem like I'm being an ignorant ass

just arguing over symantics and the word usage of "finding

the meaning." Perhaps so, especially considering the

e-pression translate quite literally in Korean, though my

knowledge of other languages are not sufficient to make

the same case for those as well.

My intention behind this lengthy prose, however, is to give

the readers, and myself, some hope in the fact that

meaning (a close relative of concepts such as purpose,

fate, love, faith, and other ideas or beliefs that seem oh so

elusive to the despaired) is not a fleeting butterfly often

out of our reach, but something over which we have command,

just like breathing, eating, or even shitting. Hell, we have

even less command over shitting than our powerful ability

to create meaning.

And in this vein, I'd like to point out that "finding" meaning is

not a process of discovering something that may possible

remain undiscovered, but rather like arranging the elements

of the complete product that already exist in one's mind.

The pieces are always available: you just have to find your

way to putting them together, and often it appears to be a

daunting task, as it may well be, although I previously did

make it sound so simple and easy.

But you know what the beautiful part is? If you fuck up a LEGO

structure, you can always redesign and rebuild it as you learn

better ways to do so. Meaning too, is fluid and malleable, that

you always have the opportunity do refine or completely

redesign something that requires such reconsideration.

Of course, realistically, the task is not always that simple,

as the ramifications already incurred may be severe,

and the fear of such consequences prevent many of us

getting started on the blue print.

I'm generally not an optimistic guy, but I would like to propose

the following. If anything, you can always go at it

brick-by-brick. And I'll leave it at that for today.

In the absence of sure Justice

What happened to the bygone days of Justice?
Has the weight of the sullen air pressed down too heavily
on the breast of the thrusting spirit to let it breathe?
Why does not fire burn the way it should,
but shrivel shyly into dampened patch of sickly ashes?
The mountains no longer thrive in verdant emerald
but heave witlessly in dusty despair.
The roses bloom no more as their fragrances sigh down,
sinking low with their withered leaves of old.
Lackluster lard clogs the pores of consciousness,
while vomit spurts from where truth once sprung.
Avarice has tarnished the golden shrine a brazen gray,
and the clergy robes decay from the heavy starch.
Does Justice no longer reign, but hide shivering in the shade?
Perhaps it lives no more, for it has first died in me.

Unfettered Contempt - Chapter 1

When people speak of heaven, they always tend to describe it as some actual spatial realm, often composed of clouds, light, and winged angels, complete with their usual halo, wings, and harps. That's the way Sunday School teachers always taught, or at least implied, to the naive children who did not even have the faintest idea of what the remainder of their mortal life would be like, let alone of the unfathomable afterlife. Though I managed to pull off the good-kid image throughout my childhood, I was always skeptical of the whole aerospatial description of heaven. The whole concept of going somewhere after death was paradoxical in essence, since physicality no longer applies after leaving the mortal realm. I feel that if we prefer to describe heaven in tangible terms, we should accordingly seek for it among earthly experience. Of course, the whole idea behind heaven is that it is a hope beyond what this wretched world can offer; I merely dare to suggest that one can find such supernatural delight amongst the common. Beauty in simplicity, as one might put it. Indeed, poets and philosophers may find profound truths in a simple flower or a leaf. Yet I don't fiddle with the idea that I have come to such revelations when it comes to how I discovered my idea of heaven, the one that personally supercedes the usual aforementioned Sunday-School-description. It is neither sacred nor eloquent. It does not bear the profoundness and simplicity of the cherry blossoms that inspired the zen masters. Alas, my revelation of heaven is at best vulgar, but authentic nonetheless.

Unfettered contempt - Intro

My life is a tale of toil and turmoil.As is with all creatures of my species, I was birthed in torment, baptized in blood and amniotic fluids. The depths of my being were filled with the viscous liquids which I had to churn out from my system as I choked in an unfamiliar atmosphere. Contrary to popular opinion, the first contact beyond the darkness of the womb is not the warm embrace of the mother's robust buxom. No, it is the cold, bloodied latex gloves that grasp around the shriveled skin of pathetic pink mass, hanging it like a slaughtered sow at the butchery. The warm kisses and hugs only come after the seemingly cruel beating of the buttocks, the first act of violence, albeit non-malicious, that one would suffer throughout the rest of this relentless journey.

Of course, it would be an exaggeration to claim that I remember any of this, but the events that followed suite, the ones that remain ever so sharply in my scarred memory, seem to continue the pattern of violence, pain, and repugnance that were present at the beginning of my being.

Fishing 3

Not wanting to remember any more of their stupid past, the couple embraced each other in a frenzy and dove into the lake, drowning as slowly and painfully as this story.

-END

thank goodness.

Fishing 2

Back then it was slightly warmer. The sun shone a little stronger, and waters shimmered more gently, with the breeze but a coy sigh that lasted but a moment, which was still longer than how long it took them to realize their mutual bond.

Who knows how they ended up there together in the first place?

As for him, he had been somewhat of a regular visitor. He came a few times in his youth with his father who donned a gruffy look whenever they made the trip. The first few visits he enjoyed in his naive curiosity and ignorance of the going-ons around him. As he grew into adolescence he began to notice that there was a reason for his dad's gruffy look and strong smell of liquor. The lousy driving was also explainable. Most of all, the broken dishes in the kitchen that somehow came about every fishing trip didn't seem so coincidental. Not to mention the bruises, scratches, and the awful noise at night. Perhaps it's because he began staying up longer as he aged. He's never noticed it all before. Then one day, he just refused to come along on the trip. Instead, he left on a trip on his own.

As for her, that summer was the first time she visited the place at all. She fancied her eerie hobby of making a grand escapade twice every year, leaving everything behind for a day. Because she kept the getaway time to one day she saw some limitations in her choices of destinations. Hence once in a while she would bend the rule for really far locations. But most of the time she found a day was long enough for random trips as there were plenty of unexplored spots nearby. The night before, she made herself a lunchbox with two sandwiches and an apple. She got up early in the morning, fixed herself a bowl of cereal, and took off. She wasn't much of a breakfast person, but always made certain she started the day off on a full stomach whenever she made that biannual getaway. With a light white top and washed jeans, she was off to the train station.

The train station that awaited him on his first trip alone was more packed than he'd expected. After all, it was hardly sunrise, but people were already bustling about, ready to go somewhere. Work, home, vacation. Wherever. All sorts of feelings and thoughts rushed through his head like the mesh of the crowd weaving through each other, then as each batch cleared out with the trains, so did his apprehension. He'd been smart and old enough to leave home with enough cash to buy a ticket and perhaps a few meals, but that didn't seem so smart as he sat blank-faced on the bench. Sure, he'd thought about this before. Still, the fear that he had taken the wrong step never failed to keep him nailed on the bench and wondering if he should go back, and if his drunk father would come fetch him for another supposedly therapeutic fishing trip. Then he remembered all the bruises, scratches, and awful noise at night. And the blood. Then he got on the next train.

Fishing

With his legs propped up like a tripod by the glassy lake, he donned a brick-red corduroy unfitting of the weather and a tattered baseball cap that sat squat atop his wavy locks. With the checkerboard wool shirt thrown in with the rest, you'd imagine him to have a ruggedly chiseled lumberjack's face. Curled up next to the woodsman was a cat-eyed gal with pearl-white skin and pitch-black hair. The contrast continued down her chest with her ivory cleavage perking shyly out her slick leather jacket and low-cut black top. Who could tell why she wore a metallic miniskirt, but perhaps her fishnets could be deemed appropriate for the occasion, at least compared to the rest of the habiliments that she and her companion so curiously fashioned. As if to mock their own idiosyncratic buffoonery, their naked feet brushed freely against the soft, aged wooden planks of the sturdy dock. His feet were surprisingly clean and free of hair while her nails were painted black like her saucy apparel. He couldn't hide his slight look of disgusted disapproval on her choice of nail polish color, though he did not mind the rest of her outfit at all. Then again, he was dressed far more strangely, except for the fact that his rugged look seemed to fit the whole fishing situation much more than the girl's skanky outfit.

Everything about them seemed to contrast each other, in fact. She had sharp almond eyes, a thin crisp nose and even thinner lips. Everything about her face was winterlike, sheets of icy snowflakes. He, in turn, was the late summer harvest, or maybe even autumn, tan and round, yet with a boyish charm in his jawline. His eyes seemed to bear a touch of childish melancholy, pure yet mischevious in some odd way that led her to both pity and adore those big round eyes. Objectively, one would say he had the prettier face, with smooth and round features. She did have more delicate features, but the unexplainable coldness about it all seemed much less appealing than his warmth, although some would find such chillingness charming, as he surely did.

So they sat there like sun and the moon, with the late summer breeze caressing her silky locks and his waves peeking out of the grey old cap. The wind nudged the line a little and made the bell make a shy tinkle or two, but the metallic ding dong was hardly worth a whisper when breaking the awkwardly peaceful silence at the lakeside. Perhaps they were waiting for a violent shake at the rod, a silver beauty of a carp, like the one they caught last summer at the very same place. And the sameness of it all accentuated the change they went through. The coy awkwardness that presided between them then now heavily doused the entire atmosphere, while the intimacy that just began to sprout then now waned, leaking through their familiar, yet uncomfortable, juxtaposition with each other.