Caught in a Muse

I whispered her name in the falling rain last night.  It was in the park, where ducks we'd fed bagel crumbs to had waddled about me like I was their mum.  Come home lovey, come home, I whispered.  The words stole into the air and became instantly soaked by the rain.  They fell to the ground mournfully, soundlessly, sweetfully, as if every syllable had been washed away in the puddles.  Oh little bird, little pet, who never minded getting wet; how the rain falls on everything in sight, echoing that whisper I murmured with each resounding drop, laminating the ground with the succulent letters of yesterday, a day gone by that no other living man could have survived.  If anyone else had known your touch would be their last, they would have ended their lives in despair by now.  But not me.  Somewhere in the back of my soul there lives a weakness that feeds on the hope that someday you'll return to me and be my wife for eternity.  I can't go on living knowing that you'd love another man, and that I should spend the rest of my days searching for someone who's second best.  You're my number one, my angel above the rest, my trophy in the flesh.  Nothing in the world would make me happier than to see your sun-kissed face re-appear on that boat I watched taking you away from my life.  My dearest lady, please, I implore you to deliver me from this madness; the same madness that made Paris select Helen of Troy for his mate, a decision that sent a thousand ships sailing across the Aegean and caused the longest war in ancient history.  I suppose it is a great madness though, for of all the reasons to start a war, isn't love the greatest?  And this isn't just any love I have for you, dearest, it is of the highest form, I can assure you.  Most men perceive love as being smitten by a turn of the cheek or the wink of an eye- things that are only contingent on the beauty of their beholders.  This love is often mistaken for lust, and men hunt for it as if it were a treasure that could make them rich beyond measure.  The women they try to possess are like prizes for the victors of a game they're trying to win.  These men wouldn't recognize a decent, refined woman if she stepped on their shoes.  I am not of these wretched men; I have recognized the true you.  That's not to say you aren't beautiful; you are one of the loveliest things I've ever laid eyes on.  What I'm trying to say is that the love I have for you runs deeper than the flesh.  It cuts through your bloodstream and flows with it, deep into the chambers of your heart, where a precious world of fine materials and diaphanous light lives with every beat it takes.  It's a type of love that gets stronger with time; not worse, like the fleeting passions of lust.  This love I have for you is a spiritual glory that may only come about once in a lifetime.  Tell me, do you feel the same way too?  That this is the kind of love caused by a chemistry so great that our marriage could last for as long as the rest of our lives, that it is a love so strong that it feels like we're in a fairy tale, where true love is possible and the story we write has a happy ending; that it is a love that doesn't corrupt, doesn't make us codependent, or make us feel afraid that we'll leave each other? 

She hummed a line from I Thought About You, a lazy, jazzy line crooned from the lips of Billie Holiday, and oh what a line it was.  Her voice was a magnet to my ears; every sound in the world yielded to her British drawl.  She is like the Asian version of Daphne Moon, as I am a more reckless version of Niles Crane.  What a great couple they made; what a great couple we'd make.  I'm sure I looked at her the same way Niles would look at Daphne; a look of longing, a look that could unleash the animal from within a sheltered and orderly person.  He called her his love and his Goddess: she was his only reason for visiting that neurotic brother of his day in and day out.  But most of all, he was patient.  It took them six years to finally be together, so if I am to learn anything from this man it is that patience is my greatest ally.  Yes, my bird, I shall be patient and wait for you to realize that I am the only man in this world for you.  Oh, what a glorious day it was when Niles finally realized that Daphne loved him as much as he loved her; that theirs was the same type of love that I described above.  Our day will come too, I promise you.  A day of white.  Doves flying out of an elm tree.  Your dress as polished and praiseworthy as Monet's wife in A Woman with Parasol.  Often I imagine you in one of his paintings, with a little one ambling beside you; me the one painting my family in a landscape of wildflowers, poplars, and other icons of the French countryside, instead of Claude.  He painted a portion of your world for everyone to see, least of all me, who would have done it if he hadn't. 

That journey to your world has become my greatest destination.  There may be iced-over gardens everywhere, but they are alive with your texture.  Flakes of fluff, ribbons of pink, furry felines flying through the firmament.  Snowy trees and rabbits who have nothing to fear nibble on their food, for there are no predators here.  That farce of nature, being banished from the ideal, doesn't suit your pacifism and honorable respect for animals.  Nor do the drab aesthetics of modern living.  Your home is a boudoir of transparent chiffon waving in an autumn breeze.  Marble floors, sheets of satin, paper wind chimes made of origami birds.  Even little Luna, your favorite swan, still dangles from the ceiling where her parents protect her.  A wink, a blink, a nod.  A stray kiss under the chandelier.  The wine is toxic to your conscience; we shouldn't be doing this.  No, yes.  Everything is alright.  The light in my chest burns for you.  Put the glass down, let’s get to the bedroom.  Put on that silk nightgown, and those red velvet gloves.  Your bedroom has a view of the morning sky, where curtains of lavender greet the sun every morning.  The bed you sleep in is like a temple of dreams, a place where all your desires take form in the alchemy of night.  Even me, your big strong American, rests there, lost in a world of flora among the feathers.  Dizzy patterns of topiary surround me.  I can't get out, I don't want to leave.  Tie me to the bed posts and pretend I didn't let you.  Turn out the lights and lay by my side.  Lay on my chest, my bird seeking rest.  I'll give you the wings you always wished you had.  A soft little lullaby, a chemical reaction.  Our bodies bonding with every bombardment in a nuclear synthesis.  A fire rages there, a passion of the senses, alighting our cutaneous membranes with pain and pleasure.  Then comes an invasion of perfume, soapy and solemn, marching up my nostrils like the lilacs you planted last spring.  What an extraordinary combination of sensations.  I feel like I'm being tossed about in a sea of bosomy cream, cream that came from the faucets of your nipples.  Turn off that world that made you weep, crawl into bed and let’s go to sleep.  Creep into my arms and dream in the deep.  My breath on your neck, your hands on my chest.  The buoyancy of our bodies on this mattress of milk, tossing and turning us in a hypnosis of silk.  It's your favorite time of day, the time when you get to rest in my arms.  Close your eyes, my sweet, close your clean, crystal eyes.  Let this wonderful place wash your day away.  Hold me like you'll never let me go, say my name like it's the last thing you'll ever say. 

A vision came to me this morning.  It was of an emerald Icelandic bluff, where a little town nestled on the shores of a bay surrounded by volcanic mountains.  Clouds rolled through the air and Viorar Vel Til Loftarasa was playing in the background.  That cold piano called at the evening sun as it fell toward the horizon over the great Atlantic, relaying all the events of the day, every chapter of every creature in the world ending on its slow descent.  We were there on that bluff, and so were many others; it was a celebration, a consortium of white.  Then the moment came, a kiss that erupted from our navels like the volcanoes might have done had they erupted over the town.  And suddenly we heard violins from the song that seemed to drop out of the clouds, soaring notes came out of them that made gravity give way, sending the atmosphere asunder.  Oh yes, the moment came and we wished it had lasted longer but they never do; time sets fire to such moments and just sits there and watches as they burn through the ornaments of eternity.  One note soared above the rest, and yes, it was good.  Parcels of light from the sun etched the clouds above us with holy shades of maroon, proving that God was a painter and that He'd dedicated this evening to the angels of love.  The moment came when I said yes and she said yes and everyone watched us kiss as the sky collapsed, pouring out streams of celestial light onto the seascape.  We became stars, halos of white, and children were running all around us, flying kites and playing soccer and watching the waves of the ocean crash on the shore.  Others danced while the music of the chapel burst through the seams of the day, bent over the altar in layers of waves that eventually floated to the sky with the words she'd said, yes yes yes, sweet as sugary fingertips and babies laughing, the best word of all the languages known to man, the only one that could have possibly delivered me from the emotional wastelands of the Earth: yes I will, yes I am yours, yes I will marry you. 

 

The Iroquois Confederacy’s Influence on Democracy

As children we aren't taught about the enormous influence that Native Americans had on democracy.  This is because we want our children to believe that the success of America was generated by our founding fathers, not anyone from a foreign nation.  We also want them to believe that the people we took land from had nothing to offer us, which might help to ease the burden of our guilt.  But they did, and while what we borrowed from their society isn't on the same order as the amount of land we took and the people we killed, it's still a great debt we owe them, a debt that is widely ignored in history textbooks.  If you were raised to believe that the founding fathers created the first democracy in the world (as I was), then prepare to be disillusioned. 

The Iroquois Confederacy consisted of five tribes- the Senecas, Cayugas, Onandagas, Oneidas, and Mohawks- making up an area in modern day New York state.  Prior to its establishment these tribes had been at war with each other, and there was always a conflict of interest between them.  It wasn't until the 16th century that a great spiritual teacher united them all.  His name was Deganawida, which translates to the "The Thinker".  Legend has it he was born of a virgin mother- curiously, the same way Jesus was.  He traveled east from the Hurons, into the lands of all these tribes, gaining widespread appeal.  His most famous convert was a former warlord who changed his name to Hiawatha (the same from Longfellow's epic poem of the same name).  His exit from the region is just as mysterious as his entrance.  After bringing peace and to the land, he rowed away from on it on a lake with a setting sun in the background, never to be seen again. 

Here's some information from Britannica about how the Iroquois Confederacy united together: 
 

“Cemented mainly by their desire to stand together against invasion, the tribes united in a common council composed of clan and village chiefs; each tribe had one vote, and unanimity was required for decisions.  The joint jurisdiction of 50 peace chiefs, known as sachems, embraced all civil affairs at the intertribal level... The Iroquois Confederacy differed from other American Indian confederacies in the northeastern woodlands primarily in being better organized, more consciously defined, and more effective.  The Iroquois used elaborately ritualized systems for choosing leaders and making important decisions.  They persuaded colonial governments to use these rituals in their joint negotiations, and they fostered a tradition of political sagacity based on ceremonial sanction rather than on the occasional outstanding individual leader.” 

 

It seems to me that these 50 peace chiefs were like members of our senate.  They would cast their votes and agreements were made based on popular opinion.  This social system that lacked the total influence of an individual leader was appealing to our founding fathers, because they knew how easily corruptible dictatorships and monarchies are.  They wanted to create a form of government that was completely different from their English rivals, one in which the economic tyranny of a figure like George III couldn't cripple individual liberty.  Since there was no effective way to unite colonies by following any of the European methods of governance, they turned to the Iroquois' model instead. 

In the following years, the Iroquois weren't acknowledged for their contributions.  Instead of showing our appreciation by respecting their rightful kingdom, they were driven out of their land like countless other tribes.  By the war of 1812, the confederacy had lost total control of upper New York, and most of their land with it.  It wasn't all the way until 1988 that the U.S. Senate formally recognized their contributions with the following statements: 

 

“Whereas the original framers of the Constitution, including, most notably, George Washington and Benjamin Franklin, are known to have greatly admired the concepts of the Six Nations of the Iroquois Confederacy; whereas the confederation of the original Thirteen Colonies into one republic was influenced by the political system developed by the Iroquois Confederacy as were many of the democratic principles which were incorporated into the Constitution itself, etc..." 

 

It's a great tragedy that the birth of democracy was stolen by invaders who erased its authors from history.  The real founding fathers- Deganawida, Hiawatha, etc.- would have been ashamed at what's happened.  Now all that's left are fragments of dialogue translated from their language into ours, words that still reverberate through the walls of Independence Hall, where they'd signed their souls away to us.  The least we can say that's positive about this is that in their defeat, our victory inspired great uprisings against despotism and tyranny all across the globe.  Even the third-world rebellions that go against us took a page from our own book, rebellions in which our economical debauchery aroused the wrath of the native populace.  Perhaps one day we'll be eradicated like our natives were, only to have our history rewritten and glorified by the latest conquerors. 

 

Ending of Birdman Explained

 What's not to love about Birdman?  It's a cinephile's masterpiece, and one of the greatest works of symbolism in our era.  It's completely original, made to look as if the entire film was shot in one piece, like a play.  Which suits it perfectly because a play makes up a good portion of the film.  And not just any play, but a play written by a washed-up movie star seeking to redeem himself after selling out to a blockbuster franchise.  He's played by Michael Keaton, an actor best known for playing an action hero himself (Batman), and there are some parallels between his character's development and his own personal life.  But Keaton didn't write the film, someone else did.  In fact, the director wasn't even going to do the film unless Keaton played the lead role. 

Its dramatic monologues and masculine humor give it a good balance of serious and silly moments.  There are Raymond Carver references, jazz drummers that provide an avant-garde atmosphere, a lesbian make-out scene, an old man running buck naked through Times Square, and psychotic breakdowns galore.  The camera literally follows people wherever they go, and the drums in the background make it sound like what Black Swan would have been like if it were a jazz rendition instead of a ballet.  The acting was top notch; Ed Norton gives an amazing performance, as usual.  And I was pleasantly surprised to hear Rachmaninov's second symphony in the score during the flying scenes, which I've never heard anywhere else in popular culture. 

 

Warning:  spoilers ahead. 

 

There's an interplay between fantasy and reality in the film that isn't entirely clear at times.  This is especially true when Keaton's character "makes" something from the ceiling fall on an actor's head, and in the end when his daughter "sees" him flying after jumping out the window.  For all the film's seeming devotion to realism, this magical ending has a lot of people scratching their heads about what really happened.  After watching him shoot himself on stage, I feel that the hospital scene really did happen, despite the director's decision to give it a more "heavenly" atmosphere than the rest of the movie.  He shot himself in the nose to get rid of the Birdman's beak, signifying that he was letting go of the past and moving on in the wake of the play's success.  Considering this, I'm not even sure it was an attempted suicide.  In the hospital he sees his Birdman hallucination, but for the first time in the film he doesn't say anything, causing Keaton's character to mumble a "yeah, fuck you" at him. 

The part where he jumps out the window is open to interpretation.  Many people think this was his real suicide, and that he was only imagining his daughter smiling at him as he flew away after his death.  But I must return to the moment when his telekinetic powers made the camera fall on an actor's head early in the film.  If he really didn't have superpowers then how could that have been a coincidence?  It opens the door to the interpretation that he did have them, and that he really flew away at the end of the film instead of died.  But if this were true then why didn't he really fly through downtown New York before the premier of his play, instead of imagining it?  I don't know.  I've seen the film three times and haven't been swayed either way. 

One thing I have considered is that his daughter may have actually smiled on witnessing his suicide.  This is because she had suicide ideations of her own.  We know this because of the way she'd been sitting on the ledge of the building in Times Square, searching for the courage to jump off.  Suicide to her was a way of liberating oneself from a world she feels is dreadful to live in.  After she saw her father dead on the ground, instead of crying out in horror like any normal girl, she may have sensed that he'd become liberated and was flying into the sky like a bird, as he'd always dreamed of doing.  It's pretty strange that her father's suicide would make her smile like that but considering her opinions about life this theory seems more plausible.