Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Allegory of the Cavelove - I, Glaucon

6 comments:

S'Mat said...

This is a transmission. An admission. Intentional statement of mission... perhaps even an act of remission? I've been pinned to my bed, it became a gravity well and the ceiling fan, the heavens. My axons became wriggling anemone tendrils, sieving and syphoning for morsels in the stale waters of a forgotten tide pool. But, unbeknownst, they were constrained by the surface tension of the evaporating waters, and stinging themselves for want, realized that I am alone. And missing.

This is the oft-channelled allegory. I find it misused, understated and perverted by many. Burger-chain Holy Houses and economics profs; the greats of cinema and haunters of the cafe you sit'n'sip in; by the They and the You and the Me. It is like a Beatles' tune in that it feels somehow embedded in your awareness awaiting the first time you hear it to reignite. And that is exactly how it has been constructed to feel (it was to be {mis{s}?}taken as proof)... The Cave. Along its sole access shaft, down in its marrow-dark depths, there are a people enchained, fettered from movement and impassive to the restriction. A nearby wall hosts a shadow-show from which these unsuspecting prisoners cannot turn away. It is as elaborate as it need be: perhaps the scene presents gambolling giraffes; perhaps rivalling soccer teams; perhaps they are a season ahead in Desperate Housewives. Doesn't matter: it is simulated. What if one person is released and - likelily - coerced to the surface? There, would she be dazzled, struck blind by the sun, by the sunlit images that strike her directly? Would she apprehend actual nature and the mechanisms thereof? Would she rush back to the cave, and try to rouse her old friends, at the obvious risk of being ridiculed for her unrelatable antics? What frame of reference could she use to convey this revelatory information to those still held captive? Should she persist? Or abandon them to their simulated stimulation? What role should she take if she chose to join them again? Could she join them again without going mad (or, as most madness is, being labelled as such)?

Now, please consider the intimates. They've been in a box all winter, a spacious and secure habitat, the fragility on the inside cradled some by the styrofoam snow on the out. Valentine's Day, that old bugle horn, sounds, either speciously or in earnest, to protect the inevitable turmoil that results in such a climate: to revitalize the possible torpor that results in such an emotional and claustrophobic environment. But it is a hollow monument, it recognizes, but does not deliver the call.

How did I get here? Unsure whether I blink because of the light or the dark.. My behaviour slipping into the comfortable, and betraying my vigil. Betraying the one thing in my life that I necessarily rely on. Me. How can someone like me, with such uproariously turbulent and ambivalent feelings upon dependency, have bound himself willingly to the back of a cave? And where am I now? Were I not a being of the light? Did I not make provision to protect myself? Champion my proud values? Urge my standards to buoy the bearers? How did I disappear? It is most alarming how welcome and refreshing utter heartbreak can be. Finally, I can hurt and heal again without fear of confusion (ahahahambiguity) and hurting the one I cherish most. I believe I am in the light now, as far as I can decipher.. light's de-cifer.. but I am also a wreck of contradiction. I intend to prosper, but I hurt so much. My spastic flailings of distractive noise were evidence of my predicament, they preceded the event by far, as clumsy as only devotion can be. I took so much for granted, and perhaps left nothing for myself to love with. This leaves me resentment for no other save myself, and my pupils are dilated. I did not deserve this, but I do now. I will endure, and like all that does endure, commit myself to my constant realization.

Me: The Sequel said...

You Blogger peeps really should switch to Wordpress.com, because I must dig up my Opera browser to leave comments due to some weird Mac/ Firefox lovers spat... so, all 2 million of you - switch now for MY convenience! :D

But, seriously. Tom, they (whoever 'they' is) say that when we are in that cold, dark place, it is either because of a disspointed hope, or an inward turning rage. I believe this wholeheartedly.

Don't commit seppuku for whatever real or imagined lackings or slackings you imagine yourself guilty of. You have done your time.

Also, caves are really smelly cuz the bat dung all over the floor heats up 'an stuff... I saw that on a documentary once. Very interesting.

S'Mat said...

yah, guano, the batmobile's lament. bugs thrive on it too, sometimes inches thick of bugs, the nasty, wriggly, feel-like-step-on-fortune-cookie types.

death by documentary, that's how i want to go.

Indiana James said...

How Steve Irwin of you. I guess the Halloween thing really stuck with you eh? Loss is something we'll both agree opens your eyes and if you're willing to see what's there, it can be good in and as much as it is disturbing to face. Here's to hoping the light is gentle enough that your eyes both open up to it.

H said...

I've decided.
You should write songs.

Anonymous said...

I agree, brother.