Pity Not the Ignorant

Intelligence is based primarily on focus.

It has become increasingly obvious to me that even those who are ignorant are rarely unintelligent. Naturally I am not alone in this conclusion, as was seen with the sudden rise of the buzz-phrase "emotional intelligence" for a few years. Indeed, I have come to be of the opinion that focus determines whether or not an individual is thought to be "smart". Consider, if you will, the example of the social butterfly whose frequent goings-on distract them from academic superiority, thus yielding the inevitable result of poor or satisfactory grades in school. This metaphor is simple in nature indeed, but let us expand it.

Our socialite's name is Fred. Fred loves sports, being outdoors, and hanging out with friends. Fred's problem is that he's failed two of his classes this semester. As a result, his parents have banned him from all social activities until he brings his grades up. Two things can occur in this instance. In one scenario, Fred's focus does not change; he sneaks out during the night to attend gatherings, continues to practice with the football team, and walks home after school. His focus remains stagnant. In another scenario Fred realizes that the quickest way for him to return to his previous lifestyle is to shift his focus. As a result, he begins studying daily and brings his grades up to a satisfactory level so that he is no longer, as it is said colloquially, "grounded". In this scenario, he changes his focus just long enough to bring about change, and then reverts back to his usual self.

Intelligence has for quite a long time been determined via the transfer of knowledge. If you can answer a question, that makes you intelligent; the more difficult, complex, or numerous the questions are, the more intelligent you must be! The truth is, however, that this is not the case. As I'm sure many of my readers realize, academic grades are not always the best measure of intellect. I propose that this is because it is an individual's focus which determines what they are good at, and skill is one of the primary indicators of intelligence. Even being a "jack of all trades" is a compliment, as is being "verbally proficient" or "a great quarterback."

Consider again the example of Fred. In each of our imaginary scenarios, Fred's focus remained relatively unchanged. In one his focus was stagnant, and in the other his focus flickered briefly, but only to obtain the larger goal of maintaining his current focus! Because of this, Fred's lifestyle and personality remained unchanged. In this case his focus is entirely egocentric; he has always enjoyed certain activities, and so he attempts to make these a priority. On the nature side of the nature vs. nurture debate it is logical to assume that if Fred changed his focus and attended law school as his father desired then Fred would be miserable. This is a reasonable assumption to make, and I would not disagree.

In this case I have presented the idea that focus strongly affects what we consider intelligent. If Fred shows himself to be exceedingly clever in sneaking out at night, we may assume that he is very intelligent (if misguided). Because of this I am led to the following conclusion: the better someone is at focusing at various levels, the happier they will be, and the more intelligent they are. My conclusion, in so many words, is that intelligence is inexorably hinged to joy.

There is more to explore on this subject, but I will leave that up to you, the reader. Ponder this:

If intelligence and joy are directly related, what manner of relationship is it? Does the generally unhappy individual develop a superior intellect for the purposes of maintaining focus on the things they enjoy, or is it this superior intellect that makes it so difficult for this person to enjoy life? Is this theory in conflict with the statement "ignorance is bliss?" Where does the bulk of intelligence development lie, nature or nurture?

An Ode for Everyone Else

The worlds are full of people,
Whose vitality is lost,
Who moan and wander 'cross foggy lands,
Who shake sins, though they be extraneous,
From their hands.
These men, these women,
These children who cry,
And know not why,
Are subject to your graces,
They blend in to hide their sin,
But no-one remains faceless.

To whom do you owe your allegiance?
Your loyalties are subject,
To your lies.
You are a free spirit,
A leaf that blows from limb to limb,
Never 'lighting, though you think you must,
You do not know your freedom,
Like we do.

We are the prisoners, the captives,
To our own emotions are we bound,
With minds run dry,
I wish for a soul like a sieve,
We wish for souls.

An Epitaph for the Poetic

In Death and Life I Have Suffered,
It Was Only In Sleep That I Endured,
The Bliss of the Unconscious.

An Imagism for the Morose

Soft round droplets, clear like a prism,
Clouded like your soul,
Deep into the abyss they hurry,
Slowed only by the rush of cool, damp air,
Like wandering businessmen,
They collect on fragrant greens,
Reds and yellows amalgam with the cliff face,
The deep blue creating stark contrast,
And so that rain,
That soul rain,
Falls, never ending, into the pit.

An Automatic for the Confused

Overwhelming orange in seas of purple
All through My Life i feel all my atoms
It is the spiking of the tea in which climaxes wane
All disdained poetic measurements of wonder
Blare not in my ears of injustice frothy
All my words are sands in sands, sands in dust, sands in dust in words
Dime!

A Villanelle for the Damned

My fear resides in a course unmanned,
Though in fact I see no error,
My life and death remain unplanned.

In straining and moaning I creep from the land,
Tuned to the constant wavelength of terror,
My fear resides in a course unmanned.

It is with asphyxiated trembling I stand,
My manacles entwined by my captor,
My life and death remain unplanned.

My vices in packages crammed,
My voice screams out in silent ardor,
My fear resides in a course unmanned.

With faux-freedom I fly, without time to land,
Even in life I am a martyr,
My life and death remain unplanned.

I already know what I'll never demand,
Answers that lift me from my graveside grasper,
My fear resides in a course unmanned,
My life and death remain unplanned.

A Waka for the Unloved

Why do we desire,
What people cannot fathom?

Where does our love lie,
That we pursue foolishness?

We don't know ourselves,
We don't know the world's orbit.

I feel like the fool,
In a cosmic imbalance.

My feet dare not rest,
Lest I fall prey to a prank.

A joke of the gods,
From that I flee, on the winds.

I may often run,
But I will not find peace here,
For in the running is life.

For art to be successful it must exhibit these two properties:

1. It must be expressive.

2. It must be entertaining.

Without expression there can be no entertainment, and even if it does express something, it must be expressed in a creative fashion, lest it fail to occupy even a fragment of its viewer's attention.

Freedom . . .

I've been locked away for too long. These manacles dig into my jellied flesh like rats gnawing on that last bit of bone. Red and white were never meant to mingle in this fashion, and as more food scrapes its way down my parchment of a throat I realize that I do not miss my eyes.

I'm not lonely. I think you'd have to know what it's like to be with someone to ever be lonely. I don't miss what I never had. It's a strange feeling, this mental castration. I could rip out into the open, tearing my own hands off, and yet I think I would never really feel. That's why I stay here anyway. Because there's nothing I can do.

I do miss her. I am lonely. I scream but no sound comes out, I am strangled by my own ineptitude. Why did I sacrifice my voice? I remember, but I do not recall. Is it so impossible? Is my duality a cosmic experiment? Yes, an experiment . . .

Fragments . . . misshapen features . . . a face . . . a voice . . .

All these and more have fled from me now. Now I can wait. I'm good at that . . . something I'm good at. How nice. I feel . . . nothing. No joy at this skill I possess. No thrill of excitement courses through my heart as I scrabble desperately for this one paltry ability. Excitement . . . how do I recall this? Perhaps I have known something before this . . . what I am now. Perhaps . . .

Perhaps I was more than I am.

Black Dress

Hello my name is Maryann. I am seven years old but my mom says I act old for my age. :-) Today my father died.

We went to the funral and I had to wear the itchy black dress that I hate. Mom says that I should be glad I have a black dress to wear that some girls dont have black dresses at all. This makes me sad becuse I know that I was being selfish and I wore the dress anyway. There was an old man at the place and he looked like he had done a lot of funrals. I wished someone had come with less experense so I could sneak a look in the casket but the old man gave me a stern face when I started tiptoing closer so I stayed back next to mom.

There really isnt anyone here that I know except for Paul the grocer man. He used to come over and talk to mom for a long time when she thought I was asleep. I like Paul except he always looks tired even today. I think people are staring becuse I keep writing while old man talks about dad like he knew him. He didnt.

Ow! People in the back are shoving!!! I lookd behimd me and thers men comming thru the crowd! They are wearing black but I dont think they are here to be sad abot dad!

I ran away. I dont think they can find me here but they took mom! They said she was taking dads plasce! I dont want mom to go but I cant find anyone now and it is getting dark! Im scared.

I dont kno what time it is but I heared noises so I got up and I still hear them getting closer.

Lust

Conquer synapses through chaotic seances,
Vainly I attempt to collaborate my mind,
Collate and collect and try my best to divine,
My intentions, contentions, my attempts at ascensions,
All mesmerized and hypnotized,
As my mind writhes in the dry stream bed.

Painting my face red in agony,
Clawing desperately and disparately,
Unique in methodology,
Neurotic in doxology,
Satiated in psychology,
Incorrigible in pathology.

Yes, I lust,
Indeed I do,
The flames of passion leap high for you,
Not a person or place,
Not a name or a face,
The thing that I love,
The thing that I crave,
Is the vapor of fact,
The wafting allure,
Of information et al
However impure,
Or righteous in nature,

It is this knowledge,
That is my mind's suture.

Tmesis and Other Adventures

Distributibubble, verb;
1. The act of being distributed in a biased manner.
e.g. "The votes for the recent presidential candidate have been distributibubbled in his, and his party's, favor."

Mantagonisticize, verb;
1. Giving criticism that is not constructive in any way, shape, or form.
e.g. "His mantagonisticisms tore into the painting like wolves into fresh venison."

A Paltry Offering

How strange it is when we expect something that we do not encounter. Stranger still is the feeling incurred by a sacrifice we make in expectancy, yet do not crave that which we have given up. When we lose but do not feel, does that make us less human? Less mortal? Never has it occurred to me that life is anything less than utterly cerebral. These feeble bodies are but containers for our selves, and the bettering of them is only to be focused on with longevity in mind. For the mind is the whole self, and the body only part.

How strange death feels when we are detached and we do not expect detachment. For we feel as though our burden has been lifted, and our selves freed, yet we weep silently. How sad it is when we cannot weep, though we try so hard. How difficult it is for us to feel pain when we hear only silence, never screams.

Island

He is very afraid of drowning.

I know this, and so I do my best not to make him go near water. Makes sense right? Of course, my uncle knows all about this. As a matter of fact that's probably why he invited us to the lake house. I couldn't refuse, Brian loves my uncle: the two of them are great friends. Sort of.

I love Brian, but sometimes I forget how easily he believes in people. My uncle . . . well . . . let's just say that he can be a bit deceptive sometimes. That's why I was so reluctant to go. Nevertheless, despite my hesitation, Brian plowed ahead. That's why we're here. I'm lying on the cold leather couch, sinking into the cushions, trying to read a book. Cardinal Sin. Brian always makes fun of me for reading these "trashy romance novels," but there really isn't much else to do out here in the middle of nowhere. Brian's reading too, in the chair next to the fire. Secretly I wish he were on on the couch with me, but Brian's about as literate in women as I am in rocket science.

SLAM!

That'll be my uncle. He'd said that he'd gone to check on the motorboat, making sure that it was full of gas or whatever. He'd been unusually cordial this week, and all the tension that had built up over the week had slowly evaporated in the face of his easy hospitality. That and the distinct lack of any unusual behavior.

"Hey Brian, how's it going?" Brian was immediately drawn out of the magazine article by my uncle's voice, standing up quickly and stretching to compensate for his awkward stance. His stretching may have been for my uncle's benefit, but that doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it at least a little. The country air had been good to him. What little time we'd been up here Brian had spent hiking and hunting. I was never one for either, but I had gone on a short walk with him last night. The moon had been almost full, and its pale light had given everything, even Brian, a sort of angelic glow. Just thinking about the tender words he'd had for me made me blush, as I too stood up.

"What's the matter hon, is it too warm in here?" I shook my head and gave him a cautious smile.

"No, it's fine."

"So, I was thinking." My uncle rubbed his hands together and gave a friendly grin. "There's one place around here that has the best hunting on my entire property. Normally I wouldn't take visitors down there, but I have to say Brian, you're a much better hunter than your wife gives you credit for." Here he interjected a friendly wink, and Brian smiled broadly. "Now, we may be out for a bit longer than usual, so be sure you've got enough food and shells for, say, eight hours?" Brian nodded and smiled again, this time with genuine excitement.

I could see the nervous enthusiasm in his movements as he bustled around the house preparing for the trip. I glanced out the window and noted that the hot noon sun would be at it's peak in a couple of hours. Walking behind Brian I tentatively put my arm around his shoulders.

"Be careful babe."

"Don't worry Jess, I will." Bruskly he finished replacing his equipment in his backpack and hoisted it over his other shoulder. One short peck on the cheek later and he was gone. My uncle's feet tap-tap-tapped down the hardwood stairs, and I noticed that he had two rifles with him. At least, I think the other one was a rifle, it was much longer, with a larger barrel.

"Stay fresh J, we'll be back before you know it!" He waved his chapped hands at me, and then he too was gone. Sighing because I knew my spot on the couch had probably cooled at this point, I re-seated myself in Brian's chair by the fire, picking up the magazine he'd been reading. Cryptozoology For Amateurs. Weird, but my uncle had always been interested in this stuff. That was when I heard the motor. For a split second I thought it was the truck, but it didn't take long for me to hear splashing as well. My uncle was taking him on a boat!

I burst through the front door just in time to see them pull away from the dock, my uncle chatting amiably with the obviously vexed Brian. I tried to call out to them, but they were too far away. Brian couldn't do this, he couldn't be near water! For a moment I considered calling the police. This seemed to activate a switch in my head, and for the moment my hysteria eased. What a silly thing to be worried about. People go out in boats all the time and never even get wet, let alone fall out. Besides, my uncle was with him, he'd make sure nothing happened . . . wouldn't he? I was so anxious that I hardly even realized that I was still standing, shock still, on the shore of the lake. A stiff breeze cut through my thin jeans and I shivered briefly before wondering why it was so cold.

The thermometer said 42 degrees, but it was getting hard to read in the darkness. The sun that I had predicted, it seemed like an eternity ago, had been obscured by clouds, and the temperature had steadily dropped all day. Anxiously I slathered more mayonnaise than I would have liked over the fresh venison I had retrieved from the 'fridge. Again and again I found myself peering out into the darkness, hoping to see the vague shape of a motorboat. It was only after I had finished my sandwich that I realized I would probably hear the boat long before I would see it. Feeling slightly foolish, I decided that I needed to relax. This had been a good week, and my uncle had said that Brian and him would be gone for a while. Now would be a perfect time to finish my book . . .

* * *

"No James, I can't!"

"Why not Julia, you know how much I love you! Is it that fool Damien? Has he stolen you from me?"

"He didn't steal me, you let him have me! You could have-"

That was when I heard it.

I kept my thumb in my book as I sat, still as stone, listening for it again. Yes, there was definitely something unusual. Still holding my book and praying it was my imagination, I slunk towards the door. I've never been a very brave person, and the incessant splashing was beginning to phase my courage when I happened to glance out the window over the sink. There was . . . someone . . .

I squinted my eyes, and realized I wouldn't be able to see anything while I was still inside with the lights interfering with my vision. My fingers turned the knob with an agonizing slowness, and my heart could be clearly heard over the now-louder splashing. I realized I wouldn't be able to go through with this if I didn't move soon, so, in a moment of courage, I shouldered the heavy wooden door open and closed it behind me, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

There it was, a small, dark figure splashing out on the lake. If staring could turn someone to ice, the whole lake would have frozen over from my questioning eyes; and, although my eyes had mostly adjusted to the deep blackness, I could see no more than when the person had been farther out. Farther? I noticed then that the figure was significantly closer than it had been before. It seemed that it was heading towards the shore with great vigor, and the closer it got the harder it worked. Another chill wind cut into me, and my teeth rattled and felt as though they were coated in ice. Whatever was out there, it didn't stand a chance of surviving this cold while wet.

Then the heavens opened, and the moon shone forth in all its glory.

It was Brian.

* * *

Gasping like a fish, he'd managed to say one word. "Island." I couldn't understand at the time, and no amount of time I've devoted to trying to solve this riddle has ever presented a solution. I had dried him off, and called an ambulance immediately. They treated him for shock, but when I asked if he was OK I was perturbed by their answers.

Answers . . . I haven't been given any for thirty . . . maybe thirty-five years. Brian still goes for hikes, long ones. Sometimes he doesn't come back until the morning, sometimes for days. I used to get calls from his boss, asking where he was. I don't anymore. I don't know how he hasn't gotten fired, and I honestly don't know if I ever will. It's just another mystery . . . another mystery about Brian.

Snakes of the Open

I felt a dream in the evening,
It passed through my mind on the wind,
Initially I was unsure,
And my mind coursed with a dirge-like din,

The wisps of tangential manifestations,
Slithered about my fingers,
Chills through my spine like shock waves flowed,
To snare my mind in the undertow,

I wish now that I had succumbed,
Although it was harsh and disarrayed,
As dismayed as I am,
I know why I refrained,

The nightmare I had,
The nightmare I felt,
Was of you.