October 19th, 2006 by Hoopleton

I am of that generation slowly fading into it’s thirties and I sense in us a restlessness of time and place. We are walking shadows in societies that we have inherited without consent. We are voiceless in a world in which we struggle to make impact.

Most of us have jobs. Some of us have families. We all have debt.

From what I have seen of us I know that we enjoy the fruits of luxury more than any of those toiling masses that came before us. We know how to have a good time. For the most part we are tolerant of new contacts and revel in the possibilities of new ideas. There is optimism in us. There is definite hope.

But while our outward spirits remain high, there also seems to be a lingering depression in the air. Those of us born in the latter half of the seventies and twilight years of the eighties have a clarity of vision that makes our optimism naïve even to ourselves. We understand the way things work. We see into the shadows of human weakness so clearly that at times we want to set fire to the world and start from scratch. Often we settle for the role of cynic, too entrenched in the emptiness of life to prefer the role of revolutionary.

Although most of us have jobs and we live wrapped in a cocoon of expensive cars, clothes and gadgets, we seldom know how to live within our means. We are the generation of the Great Depression without ever having seen a crash. We have little money. If we have careers we’re unsure of them. If we have families then they don’t feel like our own. We huddle together in small groups, warming our hands by the fire, and commiserating on how little we actually have.

Ginsberg saw the greatest minds of his generation destroyed by madness and the intoxication of an industrial society hatching all manner of drug and abuse to subdue the human spirit. I have seen the greatest minds of my generation undone by a commercial society whose greatest weapons are compartmentalization, consumerism and disregard. We don’t seek drugs because we want to cope with feelings of emptiness. We’re not driven into madness by the juggernaut of soullessness. We abuse what there is to abuse because that’s what is expected. We sink into madness because we sense that the juggernaut is part of who we are.

What is our own in these times? Is it religion? Few of us have questions that there is something higher at work, but the dogma of the past seems alien to the way that we’ve been raised. No matter what we do we seem to be permanently in God’s shadow, living in a nation that can seldom talk about anything else.

Is it war? Is it glory? We have the longing to believe in struggles greater than ourselves. We have the capacity for unmatched patriotism. Yet, we have no Great War, no altruistic battles. Every military endeavor seems to end with the same cynicism and lies.

We’re getting older now. Our generation is firmly in the realm of reality. And yet… And yet, all of us are disembodied to some extent. We are uncertain of our place. We are uncertain of our paths.

All I can offer, all I can say, is that we are joined together in our despair. And that, at the very least, must count for something.

October 7th, 2006 by Hoopleton

I have barely wanted to write. Creativity has washed out of me replaced only by the shared grief of the world. The season turns and summer has given way to the emptiness of fall and winter. Depression is in the forecast.

I am aimless because that is the purview of my generation. I am morose because the inequalities of life drain away my purpose. I am cynical because it is easier to laugh than cringe.

For the last two days I have been struck immobile by the view outside my window. The winds are still and the daylight slowly spawns and wanes. The nights are ghostly and there is little noise. The yellow glow of the street lamps seems to be my only companion. Those lights whisper to me. They say, “stay still. Stay still.”

Some are born with endless opportunity, others are meant to shift in and out of the shadows. Permanently fused to the lower rung. Some are born to endless night, some are born to sweet delight…

Ever since I was born I have felt wrestles in this life. I grasp at every opportunity, but find little to keep me tethered to any weight. I try, and find comfort that others may find their pace. I accept the fact that I am an observer here. Meant to travel along the path and watch as others pass me by, choosing high roads and low roads. Grasping at the golden ticket and unwittingly tossing it away. Forgetting where they came from. Understanding little of where they are.

The pain of life fills me now. I find myself compelled to let it in because there is illumination in the end. Despair leads to salvation. At least I hope it does.

And I turn the lights off. And I fade away to sleep. And I dream of what reality is. I begin to drift towards thoughts of waking up, as though I have been dreaming all along.

I was staring at a photograph of myself from when I was barely two-years-old. I didn’t recognize the image as being my own, and yet I could see my soul reflected in those eyes. And I wanted to feel that sense of innocence again. But as I looked deeper I realized just how old I’ve been my whole life.

Clarity is what I want. Clarity of perception and clarity of self. And outside my window the wind picks up. And the street light whispers, “stay still. Stay still.” And I don’t move. And I don’t protest. I just let the pain in, wishing that the tides would change.