As I lie here in the dark of the spare room at my Father's house, with my insomnia out in full force, my brain decides to remember that this blog exists, and perhaps that it is about time to write once more. My e-words have been confined to email of late, as I have taken away one social media outlet, which has been fantastic. This leaves me with a self-indulgent itch to broadcast though, and one hundred and fourty characters ain't gonna cut it, son.
Today's thoughts have led me back to an old musing. Where is the line that dictates when your life is your own, or when it has become the property of another or others? When do you cease being a human and become a symbol, for better or worse?
I think I first thought about this in the Gingerman Tavern in Chicago. I had been drinking all evening, which often leads me to engage in perhaps inappropriately personal or indepth conversations with strangers. It is a vice of sorts, the mirage of understanding an unknowable person. In any case, this stranger had begun to divulge to me his aching feelings of regret linked to the recent passing of his father. He spoke of how his brother had gone against his father's wishes and continued with the treatment, that was sapping him of dignity and strength, as a last ditched attempt to save his life in his final days. He spoke of the horror the last hours became, and wished that he could have gone in the manner of his choosing. Apart from opening up the right to die debate, this began me thinking of the line, when the dying cease to own their destiny, and become property of the living. Was it the man or the choice that became more important to the brothers in those last moments? Going forward, how will each of them own the memory of their father, and how will it change the past?
Death is not the only catalyst for this line being drawn in the sand. Fame creates a the same effect, almost as if someone who is approaching a level of infamy goes through the death of a part of themselves, and watches as another part, a part not belonging to them, is born. Once this part exists, the group claims ownership, and demands characteristics that perhaps do not even exist in an individual. How is a person meant to live, as they are cleaved in two, and do not have control of half? On a personal level, think of that person you know who is gaining notoriety. Think of when you might have said in conversation, 'Oh yeah, that guy in that band, I don't really know him' but as they gain popularity, he becomes your 'friend in that band'. Your relationship as an aquaintance both protects you from being found as a fraud, and give you power to change the side of them that belongs to the people. They are now a wikipedia page of sorts, a victim of common law.
These are all problems and questions that have plagued mankind for thousands of years. When is the symbol of a person more important than the person? Religion is built on such a conundrum. Christianity dictates that Jesus dies so that we may live. The church uses this power, the power that came of a man ceasing to be his own. Selfless acts enchant us, and give us something bigger to believe in. But how does that effect the symbol themselves? How does it change their story? Society has used this symbol to write a common law myth, morphing it over time into whatever society needs it to be. Religion is a tool of the group, and of the individual. It gives people something outside of themselves, it gives comfort, it gives an answer when truthfully, there is none. To know that there is no one big answer scares the general population, and religion has always been there to make the dark seem less dark. I for one do not feel the need for it, and I don't mean that to sound arrogant in any way. Religion to me is a social construct, a way of allowing a symbol to bring a community together. I have other social constructs, and other communities, and a firm belief that there is no one infalliable answer.
That's it I guess. I do not want to write a conclusion because that is not what this piece was about. It was mearly a statement of questions, and of musings, and that lines are funny creations of humanity. And, in an ironic way, this is a fitting conclusion that I have written.
