The Opposite Of Charity Is Justice

I am nearing finality with my indepth reevaluations into the fundamentals of Objectivism, and felt like recording some thoughts here.
I first read Atlas Shrugged in the summer of 2000, while living in Mystic, Connecticut. I was sharing a place for the season with an old lesbian drinking buddy of mine, working at a hotel and with all the world of time seemingly before me. I had known that the work meant a great deal to my father, and as I was in those days digesting philosophical texts like flowing water it only seemed right to dive into Ayn Rand's seminal book. I recall at the time seeing many commonalities in the ideas expressed and the decisions I had myself made in the years previous. I never allowed myself to go beyond the point of questioning, though, as to whether the similarities were somehow instilled in me by my old man, or whether they were the natural results of my own ongoing psychogenesis. I never pursued that line of thought, as those were in fact the months leading up to the murder of my sister Rebecca.
In the months that followed that tribulation, I threw myself steadfastly into Objectivism, to militant levels. The tenets, the ideology, were the flint that made me sharper than what I was, providing a focal point. In that direction, the combination of the increasing degrees of grief with the blossoming personal belief system left me entirely unwilling and unable to work many of the occupations then open to me. That Fall and Winter I had worked for the Salvation Army of Worcester, Massachusetts, disagreeing with the theology of the organization but appreciating its politics. On the side I modeled for a variety of life-drawing groups and art courses, as it was during this period when I also began marrying Tai Chi with isometrics. I was in the greatest shape of my life, physically and mentally. Emotionally, even spiritually, was another matter altogether, obviously.
At the start of 2001 I was living and working in Boston, Massachusetts, heavily involved with the community union known as the Acorn program. A select group of my coworkers there and I would gather, after work, at assorted bars around the neighborhoods of Dorchester and Chelsea, where we would engage in long-winded debates concerning economics, sociology, and philosophy. None of us agreed with the program of our employment, but each of us saw it as a stepping stone in our prospective individual paths of social and political development. My own views at this time were an increasingly clusterfuck of a mix of Discordianism and Objectivism. There were no shades of gray in my outlook, for good or ill. The bloodthirst for a changed world was something we all shared, which ended as a rather volatile mix itself.
Long story short, members of that particular circle were being plagued by a serial rapist, and other members chose to take matters into their own hands, in the most illegal of ways conceivable. I was not directly involved in any of the ordeal, though I was directly involved in the cleanup. Events that to this day weigh in on my thoughts from time to time, to the point of harrowingly vivid nightmares. Make of this what you will.
Shortly thereafter, the overburdening weight of life and death proved too much for my own shoulders to carry, and I experienced a severe psychological collapse, physically destroying many of my personal belongings and then relocating back to Kentucky to be nearer to what family remained.
Ten years of a prolonged paradigm shift ensued, and along the way I have since incorporated the philosophy of Absurdism into my own belief system.
Wondering how specifically Objectivism still fits into my inner dialogue, as well as realizing just how entrenched was and is the great Steve Ditko (one of my artistic heroes) into the teachings of Ayn Rand, I decided to study the works once more. The Fountainhead mesmerized me, keeping me up late every night as I absorbed it completely. And now, as the end pages of Atlas Shrugged draw near, I encounter this passage:

"He felt a peculiar cleanliness. It was made of pride and of love for this earth, this earth which was his, not theirs. It was the feeling which had moved him through his life, the feeling which some among men know in their youth, then betray, but which he had never betrayed and had carried within him as a battered, attacked, unidentified, but living motor- the feeling which he could now experience in its full, uncontested purity: the sense of his own superlative value and the superlative value of his life. It was the final certainty that his life was his, to be lived with no bondage to evil, and that that bondage had never been necessary. It was the radiant serenity of knowing that he was free of fear, of pain, of guilt."

And for the first time in years, I really teared up. This is my life. Imagination, Intelligence, Individuality, Initiative, and Ingenuity, all employed for the excellence of self and of the world around me, no matter the sacrifices along the way. No matter what destruction comes of it. This is my life, I live it for myself and by my standards alone, and I always have. Especially whenever I am so unfortunate as to reap what I sow.

there and here

In a middle-grounding of a spot, though thankfully not between a hard place and a rock.
Waiting on certain things from before to be released, while working on projects that may or may not be released anytime soon. Nothing current in creative ends, although my interviews for A.N.A are lining up nicely.
Frankly, at the moment I am concerning myself more with day work so as to have a new apartment by x-mas. It is a race with no real finish line, but I will make it happen.

"Do or do not, there is no try."
(Apparently, Yoda read some Ayn Rand as well!)

words

I am, apparently, a finalist in a contest.

Read my story here. Follow the directions at the bottom, which will then involve going onto facebook to cast a vote for (or against) me. However, if you are one of the sensible ones who lives life just dandy without online social networking, then please feel free to leave a comment below the story itself.

fire away, boys.

ars amandi

"In the spectacle of death, in the endurance of intolerable pain, and in the irrevocableness of a vanished past, there is a sacredness, an overpowering awe, a feeling of the vastness, the depth, the inexhaustible mystery of existence, in which, as by some strange marriage of pain, the sufferer is bound to the world by bonds of sorrow. In these moments of insight, we lose all eagerness of temporary desire, all struggling and striving for petty ends, all care for the little trivial things that, to a superficial view, make up the common life of day by day; we see, surrounding the narrow raft illumined by the flickering light of human comradeship, the dark ocean on whose rolling waves we toss for a brief hour; from the great night without, a chill blast breaks in upon our refuge; all the loneliness of humanity amid hostile forces is concentrated upon the individual soul, with what of courage it can command, against the whole weight of a universe that cares nothing for its hopes and fears. Victory, in this struggle with the powers of darkness, is the true baptism into the glorious company of heroes, the true initiation into the overmastering beauty of human existence. From that awful encounter of the soul with the outer world, renunciation, wisdom, and charity are born; and with their birth a new life begins. To take into the inmost shrine of the soul the irresistible forces whose puppets we seem to be- death and change, the irrevocableness of the past, and the powerlessness of man before the blind hurry of the universe from vanity to vanity- to feel these things and know them is to conquer them."

by Bertand Russell
from A Free Man's Worship, 1903

by my halidom...

If I were to write zombies, which I don't, something that always bugged me would be acknowledged. You kill a zombie with a headshot, right? You have to destroy the brain. Why?

I think the reason lies inside of the pineal gland.

Hallowe'en was fun this year. Literally ran into some old ghosts. In a good way.

Reading list...
I finished The Fountainhead, and saw that it could only be followed by Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, which I reviewed here:
http://poplitiko.blogspot.com/2010/10/modern-prometheus.html
The ultimate man and then the anti-man. Then I tackled Alan Moore's novel, Voice Of The Fire, which was quite nice. Too historically accurate to warrant the dark fantasy label, and too much of a headtrip to qualify as horror in the traditional sense. Great for the season though. I am currently almost finished with a collection of essays and lectures from Bertrand Russell, titled Why I Am Not A Christian. There are phenomenal ideas expressed here, from the godfather of Western Atheism. Actually, I wonder now how much his work might have influenced Ayn Rand in her founding of Objectivism.
Speaking of which, the long-ago ordered copy of her Atlas Shrugged is ready for pickup at the public library, so I will be hipdeep in this stuff awhile more.
I am returning to doing interviews. Jaymes Reed let me practice on him, to see how rusty I am. See the results for yourself here:
http://poplitiko.blogspot.com/2010/11/jaymes-reed-word-balloon-blower-upper.html
Beyond that, I am back with A.N.A Comics, to continue my series of artist interviews conducted for their company blog group. I am already lining up some great talents, and I hope to have a couple per month.

As for that other news...yea...