The world is a quiet place
Jul. 3rd, 2003 11:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
annundrielLast night I finished Equal Rites and started Lemony Snicket's autobiography. I'm already half way through. It's highly enjoyable in it's silliness. I'm also on chapter 3 of the first book in the Gormenghast Trilogy. I'm not sure whether I'll stick with it right now or save it for some other point in time. Probably save though. Right now I'm looking for quick fixes. So, after I finish the biography I'll read another Discworld book and maybe some Elizabeth Peters.
Mom and I have continued watching random movies over the past few nights. Tonight she rented Punch-Drunk Love before she came home from work. It was . . . different. And I don't mean that in a bad way. I don't really know what I mean. I will say that it's nice to see Adam Sandler do something different. And I do like his movies. Some of them are guilty pleasures. Anyway. Parts were really sweet, parts were really scary, parts taught me life lessons. (Such as don't call an adult hotline no matter how lonely you are and don't give your social security number to anyone. Both of which I already knew.)
Now the other night. That was the movie that really played with my head. Frailty was on TV. Whoa. Talk about a freaky movie. And this was the kind of movie I love, too. Psychologically scary, makes you think, makes you go "wait a gosh darn minute!". It was great though and inspired the following thoughts.
I think religious fanatics are the scariest type of people out there. Seriously. Because the thing about religion is that you can never know for sure. Which is actually the point of religion. Faith and belief. But the idea that someone could be receiving visions from God that told them to do things . . . Well, who's to say they aren't? Who's to say it's God? Or Satan? No one can ever really know, beyond a doubt, what is really going on in a person's mind. They could be lying. They could be delusional. They could be both. But you can only take their word for it that they're not.
The human mind is a strange thing and the things that go on in it are even stranger. The mind is actually a scary place. If you see something and your mind tells you that it's real there's nothing you can do about it. You believe it. You believe that it's true, you believe that it's real, and you believe that everyone who doesn't believe is either crazy or uninformed. And then no one can tell you otherwise because your mind has tricked you into believing something so thoroughly that you're stuck.
This is all actually reminding me of a quote I pulled from Neil Gaiman's American Gods when I was reading it earlier this year. The quote stood out to me at the time. (Great book, BTW.)
All we have to believe with is our senses, the tools we use to perceive the world: our sight,
our touch, our memory. If they lie to us, then nothing can be trusted. And even if we do not
believe, then still we cannot travel in any other way than the road our senses show us; and we
must walk that road to the end.
-- Neil Gaiman, "American Gods" Ch. 6 pg. 139
The mind is a tricky thing.
Anyway. On a completely different level of randomness, here is a bit of fiction that I wrote several months ago. Sometime last year I think. I haven't really looked at it since then, but I was just going over old bits and pieces of writing with Neesha and she didn't discourage me from sharing so . . . yeah. I definitely wouldn't mind feedback. Good that is. It can be bad as long as it's constructive.
Between Wake and Sleep
Lying in his bed he feels safe. Sheltered. The dark surrounds him completely, making everything around him invisible. He can feel the blankets wrapped around him. They are soft and warm. Almost comforting. In the dark where he can't see he likes to pretend that they are arms holding him. Comforting him. His mother's arms.
He never knew his mother. She died long before he could remember. His father, too. He never knew what it was like to rough house with his dad. To be rocked to sleep by his mother. He would even have welcomed a scolding from her. Anything. Anything to know them better.
But now, in the dark, he likes to pretend he is wrapped in her arms. Drifting to sleep he almost believes it. She is soft and warm. If he is still he can hear her heart beating beneath his ear as she holds him, gently rocking him to sleep. She smells of flowers. Sweet things that remain with him forever. A part of her that will always be a part of him. That single memory. That smell.
In that place between wake and sleep he is happy. He is where he has always wanted to be, but never quite knew how to get to. Wrapped in the warm embrace of his mother. Breathing her in. In this moment he is nothing but hers and she is nothing but his. They belong to each other, together. Mother and son. Safe. Warm. Protected. Loved.
And then a car will honk and the spell is broken. He is jolted out of this perfect world. Out of those perfect arms. So soft, yet strong enough to keep all the bad out. All the evil that ever came to get him. Nothing stands a chance against her. But it is all an illusion. Coming out of the place between wake and sleep he is disoriented. He is still warm, still held, but it is no longer by the loving arms of his mother. It is nothing more than the tangled sheets of his bed. He is alone and his parents are dead.
Mom and I have continued watching random movies over the past few nights. Tonight she rented Punch-Drunk Love before she came home from work. It was . . . different. And I don't mean that in a bad way. I don't really know what I mean. I will say that it's nice to see Adam Sandler do something different. And I do like his movies. Some of them are guilty pleasures. Anyway. Parts were really sweet, parts were really scary, parts taught me life lessons. (Such as don't call an adult hotline no matter how lonely you are and don't give your social security number to anyone. Both of which I already knew.)
Now the other night. That was the movie that really played with my head. Frailty was on TV. Whoa. Talk about a freaky movie. And this was the kind of movie I love, too. Psychologically scary, makes you think, makes you go "wait a gosh darn minute!". It was great though and inspired the following thoughts.
I think religious fanatics are the scariest type of people out there. Seriously. Because the thing about religion is that you can never know for sure. Which is actually the point of religion. Faith and belief. But the idea that someone could be receiving visions from God that told them to do things . . . Well, who's to say they aren't? Who's to say it's God? Or Satan? No one can ever really know, beyond a doubt, what is really going on in a person's mind. They could be lying. They could be delusional. They could be both. But you can only take their word for it that they're not.
The human mind is a strange thing and the things that go on in it are even stranger. The mind is actually a scary place. If you see something and your mind tells you that it's real there's nothing you can do about it. You believe it. You believe that it's true, you believe that it's real, and you believe that everyone who doesn't believe is either crazy or uninformed. And then no one can tell you otherwise because your mind has tricked you into believing something so thoroughly that you're stuck.
This is all actually reminding me of a quote I pulled from Neil Gaiman's American Gods when I was reading it earlier this year. The quote stood out to me at the time. (Great book, BTW.)
All we have to believe with is our senses, the tools we use to perceive the world: our sight,
our touch, our memory. If they lie to us, then nothing can be trusted. And even if we do not
believe, then still we cannot travel in any other way than the road our senses show us; and we
must walk that road to the end.
-- Neil Gaiman, "American Gods" Ch. 6 pg. 139
The mind is a tricky thing.
Anyway. On a completely different level of randomness, here is a bit of fiction that I wrote several months ago. Sometime last year I think. I haven't really looked at it since then, but I was just going over old bits and pieces of writing with Neesha and she didn't discourage me from sharing so . . . yeah. I definitely wouldn't mind feedback. Good that is. It can be bad as long as it's constructive.
Between Wake and Sleep
Lying in his bed he feels safe. Sheltered. The dark surrounds him completely, making everything around him invisible. He can feel the blankets wrapped around him. They are soft and warm. Almost comforting. In the dark where he can't see he likes to pretend that they are arms holding him. Comforting him. His mother's arms.
He never knew his mother. She died long before he could remember. His father, too. He never knew what it was like to rough house with his dad. To be rocked to sleep by his mother. He would even have welcomed a scolding from her. Anything. Anything to know them better.
But now, in the dark, he likes to pretend he is wrapped in her arms. Drifting to sleep he almost believes it. She is soft and warm. If he is still he can hear her heart beating beneath his ear as she holds him, gently rocking him to sleep. She smells of flowers. Sweet things that remain with him forever. A part of her that will always be a part of him. That single memory. That smell.
In that place between wake and sleep he is happy. He is where he has always wanted to be, but never quite knew how to get to. Wrapped in the warm embrace of his mother. Breathing her in. In this moment he is nothing but hers and she is nothing but his. They belong to each other, together. Mother and son. Safe. Warm. Protected. Loved.
And then a car will honk and the spell is broken. He is jolted out of this perfect world. Out of those perfect arms. So soft, yet strong enough to keep all the bad out. All the evil that ever came to get him. Nothing stands a chance against her. But it is all an illusion. Coming out of the place between wake and sleep he is disoriented. He is still warm, still held, but it is no longer by the loving arms of his mother. It is nothing more than the tangled sheets of his bed. He is alone and his parents are dead.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Real, Not Real. Real, Not Real.
Date: 2003-07-06 04:16 am (UTC)Perhaps in this way it is exactly like a troubled person going to therapy, or a chronic drinker attenging AA meetings, in that, neither belieive they have a problem.
Here's a cazy thought. Imagine a crazy person, telling you that he is not insane, but you are. Crazy!
You know what this reminds me of. Did you ever see that Buffy episode where she was in that insane asylum and they were telling her that there was no Sunnydale, and she was not a slayer, and none of her friends were real. That they were all figments of imagination, all something she made up for the world in her head.
Imagine if you and I and everything we know and see around us are all part of someone else's made-up world. I guess this would all revolve around what is real and what is not. Over all, this can be very mind-numbing, but at the same time, its insane to think about it. 'Know what I mean?
Re: Real, Not Real. Real, Not Real.
Date: 2003-07-08 09:02 pm (UTC)And crazy people? Of course they're going to call you crazy if you don't believe them. They are so convinced that they are right, that what they see/hear/feel is real, that there's basically nothing you can do about it. And so the sane person becomes the insane one and the world is turned topsy turvy and we all end up crazier than before. It is a crazy idea. :)
I'm sorry to say that I missed that Buffy episode. I heard a lot about it and would have loved to have seen it. I stopped watching Buffy at the end of season 5 when she died and the show moved to UPN. I don't get UPN. Excuse me while I pout.
You know, that's a very interesting idea you bring up about being in someone else's made up world. When I was younger I used to think it all the time. I can remember when I was 7 or 8 and playing with Barbies (walk down memory lane here) and I would think, you know what if we're all just dolls/figures being manipulated by someone because it's playtime and they're bored? Picture books are interesting too. What if life is really just a picture book someone else is flipping through?
It is very mind-numbing to think about.