“Tell Your Story”: the many ways
Nov 30th, 2009 by Priya Haran
3 Responses to ““Tell Your Story”: the many ways”
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Philosophies from a Deranged, yet Logical, Madman
God didn’t just roll his dice on days 1-7 and decide on universal idiosyncrasies and stochastic variations that cause the Earth to skate around the sun.
He instead transferred his own cosmic kinetic energy osmotically ‘till Carbon atoms decided go through their own diaspora and compound themselves
Just as Moses himself brought about the compounding of all his champions of the contest we call evolution.
Yet our so called champions misunderstood that which has been passed down for us to understand.
We have endured an unimaginable quantity of births and rebirths, each time proving once again our own inadequacies and committing acts considered:
sinful, illogical.
Two sides of the same coin that determine the date and time at which an egg will divide.
Its own centrioles causing the separation of two sisters. Just as I was separated from my unborn sister.
Was that science?
Was that fate?
I have questioned and pondered ‘till my own consciousness was elevated from n1 to n∞, becoming capable of understanding the will of the force that caused the collision of relativistic particles and the homogenous filling of the universe.
That understanding does not make me a messenger of God.
I am God.
I am capable of seeing the patterns that determine everyone’s way of life.
Capable of helping an old man cross the street.
Yet I choose to spend my time demonstrating that which seems impossible for the masses to comprehend.
So I etched my words in double helices and a pair of stone tablets:
Thou shalt not kill
Thou shalt not steal
Thou shalt not pander to the logical fallacies that caused the Crusades, the Inquisition, the Salem Witch Hunts, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, the Cold, Civil, Vietnam, Korean, Congo, Gulf, or Iraq Wars. The Genocides of the Jews, the Armenians, the Native Americans, the Tibetans, the Ethiopians, the USSR, Darfur, Rwanda, China, Korea, Nanking, or any embodiment of innocence that can’t be blamed as much as a cell can’t be blamed for splitting in two.
However, despite my conviction, I am simply a schizophrenic motherfucker that can’t find the words for the idea I’m trying to express.
I tried spitting out synergistic analyses like a wise man spins myrrh, but now I’ll simply end my propaganda with a bulleted summary:
-We are beings of God, Gods, Newtonian forces or Scientific events that organize our existence, according to fundamentalists and atheists alike.
-Those things, however, aren’t separate—they can intermingle, dance together under the all-revealing starlight, if we take the time to sit down, wonder, and build up each individual connection in our minds.
I posted up the video for my “Tell Your Story” project, but I accidently put it on a new blog, so here’s the link to the video.
http://eportfolios.macaulay.cuny.edu/ritual/
“While the Trains Delay”
a monologue, by Priya Haran
Monologue- Girl (adaptation from “While The Auto Waits”, by O’Henry)
I will excuse the remark you have just made because the mistake was, doubtless, not an unnatural one—in your circle. I asked you to sit down; if the invitation must constitute me your honeysuckle, consider it withdrawn.
Now, tell me about these people passing and crowding, each way, along these paths. Where are they going? Why do they hurry so? Are they happy?
How fascinating they seem to me—rushing about with their petty little dreams and their common worries! I come here to sit because here, only, can I be near the great, common, throbbing heart of humanity. My part in life is cast where its beating is never felt. Can you surmise why I spoke to you, Mr. 53rd?
It is simply impossible to keep one’s mind still. Or even one’s wishes. This lag and this slowness—my immense amount of time’s, of course—are my only vices. They furnish me with an incog. You should have seen the time staring when he thought I did not see. Candidly, there are five or six names that belong in the holy of holies, and mine, by the accident of birth, is one of them. I spoke to you, Mr. Lexington, because I wanted to talk, for once, with a natural station—a real station—one unspoiled by the despicable gloss of rush and supposed importance.
Oh! You have no idea how weary I am of it—time, time, time! And of the distractions that surround me, dancing like little marionettes all cut from the same pattern. I am sick of not rushing, of not hurrying, of excess of time, of society, of not hastening!
A competence is to be desired, certainly. But when you have so many millions that—! [She concludes the sentence with a gesture of despair.] It is the monotony of it that palls. Lags, glances, straggles, small steps, glides, small steps, glances, more small steps, followed of course by glances and glides, with the gilding of superfluous wealth of time over it all.
Sometimes the very tinkle of the ice in my champagne glass nearly drives me mad.
You must understand that we of the carefree class depend for our amusement upon departure from precedent.
These special diversions of the inner circle do not become familiar to the common public, of course. We are drawn to that which we do not understand. For my part, I have always thought that if I should ever love a life it would be one that’s fast paced. One that is full of work and not a bore. But, doubtless, the claims of leisure and recreation will prove stronger than my inclination. Just now I am besieged by two suitors.
One is people watching. I think he has, or has had, a victim, somewhere, driven mad by his intemperance and cruelty. The other is listening to the musicians, so cold and mercenary that I prefer even the diabolical nature of the first. What is it that impels me to tell you these things, Mr. 51st?
I am sure you understand when I say there are certain expectations of a young lady in my position. It would be such a disappointment to certain satisfactions of my own if I were to hurry, as they all do. You simply cannot imagine the scandal it would cause. All the magazines would remark upon it. I might even be cut off from satisfaction’s bliss. And yet … no calling could be too humble were the life I led all that I wish it to be.