The Fall of A Resonating Genius

I have come to admire several people greatly. One is the ever so genius philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche. His work has come to embody the very threads of the details of my stupid little life:

Despite it's flaws, Human, All Too Human marked Nietzsche's emergence as the finest psychologist of his age. He was essentially a solitary bird. In the normally accepted sense, he scarcely knew anyone. He had no real friends. Throughout his life he retained several close admirers, but his uncanny self-obsession prevented him form entering into the give and take of true friendship. So how did he acquire such a profound psychological knowledge?
Nietzsche also suffered from violent incapacitating headaches which would sometimes confine him to bed for days on end, and he was generally a mass of psychical ailments and complaints. His desktop collection of elixirs, medicaments, pills, tonics, powders, and potions put him i a class of his own, en among the great hypochondriac philosophers. Yet this was the man who conceived the idea of the superman.
For the most part, Nietzsche lived a life of utter isolation, while doctoring his blinding headaches as best he could. Yet each year he produced a book of astonishing quality. He continued to work on in solitude, unknown and unread, gradually driving himself ever harder as he found his utter solitude and lack of recognition ever more unbearable. His was a great mind, and he knew it. In Ecce Homo, he describes Thus Spake Zarathustra as "the highest and deepest book in existence" - a statement which stretches critical altimeters. then followed, "Why I am so Wise," "Why I Write Such Great Books," and "Why I am Destiny." The bombast of Zarathustra was reappearing with vengeance - in mania.
Then the end came in 1889. While walking down a street, he collapsed, flinging his arms tearfully around the neck of a horse that had just been whipped by its driver.
Nietzsche was now clinically insane, and would never recover. he was put in the care of his mother after being in an asylum. He was harmless, existing for much of the time in a catatonic trance which reduced him to an almost vegetable state. After the death of his mother, he was cared for by his sister, that last person who should have ever been put in charge of him, Elisabeth Forster. She had married a failed schoolmaster who had become a notorious Anti-Semite.Nietzsche despised his both as a a man, and for his ideas. Forster later committed suicide. When Elisabeth returned to Germany to take care of her insane brother, she began doctoring his unpublished notebooks, inserting Anti-Semitic ideas and flattering ideas about herself. The notebooks went on to be published as The Will to Power, which had since purged of the rubbish Elisabeth had inserted by the great Nietzsche scholar Walter Kaufmann, to produce what is arguably Nietzsche's greatest work.
He eventually made it into the twentieth century whose nature he had predicted so well. A pathetic pale little finger with an enormous military mustache, who had little idea of who or where he was. His brilliance will live on forever

FRIEDRICH WILHELM NIETZSCHE
October, 15, 1844 - August 25, 1900

Continuance

IN ORDER TO BE STRONG we need to feel weak sometimes. That's how these things work. And it's the "weakening" that makes us question how "strong" we can be, have been, should be, and will be. And thinking such things weakens me even more, but I still hold on. And it's not to whatever I can find, it's to what I've always held onto: the pursuit of what can make me happy. And I've grown to accept that people should never have anything to do with trust. People are human beings. And it's not that trust cannot exist within a person, it simply fades. And thinking one should, even sometimes, rely on other people, is simply the most naive thing I can imagine. Part of growing up is greatly, but not completely, affected by others. We meet people. We converse, we argue, we laugh, we cry, we become friends, we become enemies. And sometimes, we fall in love, we fall out of love (because that too can fade) and even when we promise ourselves it will never be the same, we find ourselves meeting more people and falling in love; stereotyped action. And there are all these tiny spaces in between that mean everything. They make, to a certain extent, who we become: mature, dignified, happy, bitter, confused, lonely, thoughtful, uncertain, smarter, more ignorant, complete, expressive, secretive, complicated, arrogant, sly, hurtful, caring - you get my point, right? And even yet! There are the unfortunate few who go even beyond the things fore mentioned. We get lost somewhere in between the chaos of figuring out other's effect on our life. And even after trying time and time again to unblend the gray into black and white, we end up falling asleap, a decision that no longer rests in our efforts to stay awake, but continue to run endlessly within our dreams that, also have been affected. Damn. The next morning is quiet. You can't even cry anymore. So you laugh. And you prepare yourself for the beginning of another day. Then you get angry. Because you wake up all sad and in an attempt to be deep and miserable, you tell yourself, "This is it! I wont speak for a week."
Then your mother walks into to your room and makes a joke about how ever since you've been young you can't last the night with your socks on, and reaches over to grab your feet and so you laugh. And then you get sad because although you know there are people you can "talk to" about how you're feeling, you also know chances are they'd only understand something to a certain extent. It's impossible to know just how someone feels unless you've been in the exact same situation, which also sounds fairly unlikely. And you tell yourself you cannot love anyone anymore because it's not worth the efforts; efforts that mean nothing after some time, and they fade, because you can trust no one. But then you're walking to class, thinking about how numb you feel, when suddenly you make eye contact with this tiny little individual and you walk faster because you think, "how rude! He's interrupting my "sad" mojo!" but you can't help but hope he follows you up the stairs. He does. You exchange a "hello," and a nod, and he hands you a note and you walk away, into the miserable oblivion of a classroom with a chubby teacher who bitches about people who "glance" at things. Then...you read it, vent for a while, and realize you're willing to start all over. Because whomever made you sad to begin with, is not worth it in the slightest. It's them who will one day realize the despair... and feel hollow. Even if just for a moment.

Affection

I've become more and more aware that never in my moronic existence will I meet someone that possesses the unworldly allure of your mind, and the ardor of your heart. You carry with you, the inviable vitality that consumes me with all the love I can ever comprehend. In that crazy head and heart of yours, resides the simple, most modest of passions for all the things that matter: our versions of art, or ideas of "importance," and our endless, tired less want to conquer.

Frustration

The theatre, through my eyes, is the escape from our everyday selves, and a room that opens doors to endless possibilities, strange time periods, and extreme characters.
To say that something, especially when dealing with a stunning work of art such as 1984 by George Orwell, might be too much, too bleak, to...depressing (!?) for a theatre production - is the most absurd thing to ever be uttered. Quite frankly.
Acting is about taking risks; stepping away form the comforts of child-ish, light-hearted productions! Stepping on stage under bright lights is about embracing a task that others are urging you are difficult and "might not work."
Yes - I understand all the little details about "why" the addaption, 1984 the play, should not be chosen. But those "reasons" do not justify the clear avoidance of something, that quite surely, holds to ability to be sometyhing brilliant - something extraordinary.
It takes initiative and trust in one another that we CAN. And being willing to fail, but never failing to try with all our might. There are risks that are worth taking, that help us to grow as actors, as a theatre group, or simply as an admirer of the beauty that is the creation of theatre.

A Failure

LISTENING TO: "BIG MISTAKE " BY TIM FITE

I'm not supposed to be the type a student that allows herself to form priorities that are based on self-righteous needs as opposed to what some woman of 47, who likes jean fabrics with patches of little rulers and apples, thinks learning is.

I'm not supposed to be the type of student that reads a book, slams it down on the table and says, "Fuck no, this isn't pretentious - it's brilliant!" as opposed to discussing and answering questions 1-20 using the first ten chapters of the book.

I'm not supposed to be the type of student who strives to make her dent in society, not by getting the highest GPA, wasting away hundreds of hours that could be spent embracing, experiencing, imagining, or observing, reading books about nothing. But instead, by writing endless equations that have nothing to do with mathematical formulas, but instead with faulty truths, hopeful expectations, and scarred knees.

I'm not supposed to be the type of student that ditches English class in the morning so she can run away to write down the thoughts that build up inside her stupid little head that she is certain will get her to where she wants to be instead of sitting inside a room that smells like apricot lotion and sweaty kids and pretend she gives a fuck about how some guy fucked up when he was trying to grow wheat in a book that says nothing.

I'm not supposed to be the type of student that writes 400-something paged books about the reasons why and the beauty in the questioning of what is real, as opposed to writing a 200 word essay about the importance of school, or a 300 words thesis of what I was expected to read over the summer.

Fortunate me...

I don't give a fuck about whom I'm supposed to be. I'm happy with who I am and where I am in my intellect. I refuse to follow the ways that others think i will succeed. We all have different versions of success, and happiness. I have conviction - the necessary ingredient to any revolution of all size. I have the willingness to fail and be miserable, to say "no," to find my own priorities and base the actions following such discovery on the delightfully unsteady realm of continuance in this mad dream.

In the end, the things I choose to do, will take me somewhere and alter the next, however they will not define me...

Letting Go

TAYLOR ANDREW DUNN.

Ian Michael Roberts

Portrait of:
A Philosopher
A Writer
A Theorist
A Clever Individual
A Mindset
A Storm of Anxiety
A Piece of Art
A Complicated Calculation
A Thespian
A Mess

My everything.
THE ARCHITECT OF MY INSPIRATION

You're my Bob Dylan. I love you

A New Blog

www.theironyofwhyiamsowise.blogspot.com

Theatre of The Absurd

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
"BENEDICTION" by THE WEAKERTHANS

The art of pretending is my favorite of all. Specially when it's masked with the word "theatrical acting." One Act Season has begun. The pretenders that make up our student theater body are quite curious adolescent characters that speak of gay things (literally) and use a cell phone to listen to the latest tunes during class (an excuse to show off their singing abilities; observing is enjoyable). Like all, I am flawed: I take theatre quite seriously. Although I'm willing to admit that I am no where close to the best at acting, but as self-absorbed as this sounds: I'm certain I know what it takes, it is simply not my focus of expression. I want this year's One Act production to be spectacular, not just another "cute little thing" that makes people want to pat our back and grin a little. I want what we do to make leave people speechless, to make them want to invite us out for shots of vodka (I'm the only one who wishes this) and I understand fully that there are limitations when it comes to One Act. I'm certain that all these funny little people and I have what it takes to not only make the best of One Act, but also re-difine our own activity horizons. I'm a big dreamer, sure, something that can be mistaken for an unrealistic grasp of things. But fuck... "Ambition" is my middle name...

A Narcissist

THIS IS NOT PRIDE OR SELFISH ADMIRATION. THIS IS THE WILLINGNESS TO EXPOSE, EVEN IF SIMPLY THROUGH A PHOTOGRAPH THAT I STUMBLED UPON A FEW MOMENTS AGO, A PERSONALITY I POSSES, THAT ALMOST NO ONE EVER SEES. THIS DOES NOT DEFINE ME.

Migraines and Hugs

The Neural Theory:
When nerves in the brain stem become irritated, a migraine begins. In response, the body releases chemicals which cause inflammation of the blood vessels.

IT'S SOMETHING LIKE THAT WHEN IT COMES TO THE STRANGE EQUATIONS OF FRIENDSHIP...

Assuming that you know yourself, you learn things about others and then you decide you like what you have learned and you give people hugs and call them friends. The one day you realize, "son of a bitch, they're full of shit!" Then it begins. There's no medication to cure quickly enough the bizarre emotions that are caused by other's who give in to another illness: ignorance. The chemicals enter the equation in an angry dash to fix things...sometimes with destructive formulas. The entire process is exhausting. But like all migraines, they go away. Anger, frustration, and disappointment in others eventually goes away, for at least long enough to remind us that when everything in our friendships is beautifully complicated life feels worth it. These headaches, these issues, will come back. And sometimes, right before they happen, we have just enough time to take a breath and brace ourselves for what's coming.

And the beautiful part:

Being lucky enough to know that the person you're going through the migraines for, is totally worth it...

Ocean Water

(if any of the following makes any sense to you (more than that brought by literary definition,) I love you. You are all my reasons.

Like waves,our decisions sway:

Some waves are strong and as you see them approach the shore, the anxiety creeps up and you start hoping this one does not submerge you - begging whatever you conceive God to be, that it'll feel remarkable and comforting against your skin. The kind that make you close your eyes and smirk as your thinking you're glad to be there.

Then there are those smaller waves. The kind that come countless of times per day. They mean something but only because they announce themselves when they splash your ankles and because with enough of those...there are big ones. It's a cycle, really. We welcome its invitation to the circuits.Blindly, sometimes. But always with dedication. Amount may vary.

But... waves fade and decisions transform
LOVE CAN BE MANY THINGS:
Admiration
Fascination
Appreciation
Devotion/Dedication
Inclination
Fixation
Consolation
Attraction

Some say that combination of all the "tion"s is what: "True Love" is. I'm no one with enough accreditation to wisdom, to declare that assumption as incorrect.
But lucky me: It's safe to think my narcissism leads to the determination necessary for conviction enough to attempt believing otherwise.
So I try on such assumptions just for size. And then tell you my side. (Whether it matters to any extent or not)

My descisions are based on observation.But I also like possibility...

NOW WE PLAY THE WAITING GAME

As of now, the personification of "love" (to me) is a man with shorts that don't cover his knees, wearing expensive boots and
you can tell he's wearing comfortable socks, and a nice button-up shirt that makes you wonder if he wears it all the
time because it has some stains, all which he is alright with. And he has this way of walking that couldn't be more
confident. But yet sometimes he couldn't look more terrified at possibility when his hands are in his pockets. He's a
man who, with a smile, can make you want to buy him a vest with pockets and encourage him to fill the pockets with
insignificant nothings that he comes across (like the tobacco at the bottom of a cigarette box,) and ask him about
his assumptions of everything dealing with the perception of life. He's a man that makes you even more intrigued when
he admits that to him, his assumptions are divine in their stupidity.

SIMPLY PUT:
the feeling of "love" (to me) is that weakness we all ache for-the ardor we would do anything for...

The Unlocking and Lift Away

I HAVE THIS STUPID THEORY that being able and willing to dig around in the old box of painful memories is the most heroic of acts that any individual can forgo within himself. It's safe to say that it's much easier to avoid certain things and particular thoughts. For most. But I don't know - my impulsiveness has lead me to a realization: I need to accept and admit anything and everything into my steady stream of my daily consciousness, otherwise I think I'd go insane. And in that possibility I feel sane. But alone and a little confused. And yet again...



WITH LITTLE ANTICIPATION and numerous warnings , the time has come, for me to associate my decisions of recent times with the ones I can perceive are waiting to happen. This is the now I need to be now. No longer does throwing my arms up in the air, wishing for a getaway or a sign that might tell me why any of this is "worth it", in any way get me to any simple, calm “state-of-mind” that can make sense. I am no longer a child. But yet... I feel so small.

These words are not created to give anyone a reason to dissect them. These words are a fragment in time, yet another dent that goes by unnoticed.

Although to me some of what I experience begins to make me feel alarmed at all the possibility zooming by, I’ve begun to worry about the thoughts and emotions I'm carrying as I prepare myself to jump into wherever this life is leading me. And, believe it or not, such apprehension can drive one into universal madness and exasperation which then leads to decisions, some which may not be...so "wise." But I find myself willing to take the risks.


I stayed up late last, just looking out my window at the brilliant little lights, perfectly aligned with the horizon that belongs to a different country at the same time that I sat there listening to beautifully executed words of someone Else's voice. Then I felt scared. The things I know now, the reality I freely belong to (and with perspective, belongs to me) has begun to change rapidly into something vast, something that can bring absolute bliss, yet at the exact same moment, absolute misery.


“I’m not bitter” I find myself saying in the dark. But I’m ready to accept I may be wrong. Yet, I sit there and hope that I’m just a little lost, that I’ve been looking at a map upside down but caught the mistake and fixed it.

People come around and change everything. You're hoping it's only for a little while but after their adventures inside your life are completed and you're supposed to "move on," it works for a while. But then it comes rushing back one morning and grunting "oh, shit!" is no longer enough. So you open the box and dig. Knowing about all the sharp edges, but also knowing that you carry around in your back-pocket another little box: band-aids.


Then you feel something in your heart. You can't tell whether it's hardening slowly or softening quickly, but with a rhythmic pace that stung with a necessary panic under your skin, you accept it all, even if your words may say otherwise. And with an electric jumpstart to the soft thumps you can hear in your ears, your heart has realized, for the billionth time:

To start KEEP ON GOING.

And this time it means something.

I'VE COME TO THE ATTENTIVE INQUISITION as to WHY everything I'm doing is relevant, and in fact so, IF it is at all relevant. I've been getting bored and I stand around fidgeting my fingers, in that manner that implies I know which words I want to have the courage to gather into neat little explanations, but wont because I'm too scared to. Because I over think things. If only I had that conviction when it comes to the type of courage to say something to someone. But, because I may be getting used to exhaustion, I keep wanting that courage. And thus, searching on. This expedition has to take me somewhere, even if it's somewhere sad, and still lonely.


Then I realize that I'm excited, nervous, and staring at the future with an intense weariness, motivated by the present - a current state that is suffocating me.


But time doesn’t slow down to figure out life’s absurd equations about love, and hate and confusion within you. Time does not sit with you to listen to your theories or things you're certain you have "discovered" because it knows you haven't yet. Because when you do... you're speechless...

But..ready or not...

Feeling Alright

I'm hoping I'm not the only one. But I'm definitely alright with feeling:
Alone and Sad.
Because then listening to music's even better.


YES!

The Line Between Here and There

I haven't felt that happy in too long. It was as if for that moment, it was alright not to exists. We didn't exist because others could not see us.
All it was and all it needed to be was me... and you.
It was not planned.
We were not rushing. In fact, I cannot remember the last time I walked so carelessly, not realizing I lacked a stated purpose.
Your arm was around my waist and mine, over your shoulder, caressed your collarbone and the skin behind your ear.
We talked about victory, imagination and it's cruel opposite (reality), love, and those miserable moments we both adore; when our lips beg to touch but we think we know better.
This isn't wrong.
It's merely unexplored.

There was this complicated analogy you and I came up with.
It wasn't perfect, but it was, without a doubt, fantastic.
The dirt meant this.
The pavement: that and those.
And the small patch of grass meant that "in-between" that kept the two at peace with each other, and that kpt us together through both.

I told you to jump and you screamed "no!" to make me smile.
And I was happy because I knew you knew it was exactly what I wanted.
I sat on the dirt and explained things to you, because sometimes I pretend to be wise and reasonable.
And I was happy because you listened and nodded even when what you wanted to do was kiss me.
I threatened to touch the pavement but before I did you held my hand.
And I was happy because I wanted to kiss you back.

It was getting darker outside progressively.
And I was happy because under the moonlight things shine differently, and the glow stays.

The Few

More like: "The Only"

The slightest of details inspire me. And the most silent of confessions motivate me. I've found myself lucky enough to meet individuals who both inspire and motivate me to go where I want to, how I get there...and the reasons why. But there's this sound that I cannot help but to drown my atmosphere with: Bon Iver. His songs-his words hold everything admirable. You can hear the strangest combination of emotions that few of us dare to show or say. When I listen to him, he can change everything. He makes me incandescently content. His honesty will never hesitate to astound me. His words will never fail to provoke imagery, and his voice will never seize to suggest everything and nothing at the exact same time...