Samson,
I really did love you.
Do you believe that?
I destroyed everything that was 'myself' before I could destroy you.
And then you were gone, and I thought, what would I have settled for to keep you by my side?
I was a prostitute Sam! What did you see in me? I didn't believe in your love - how could I? I had already seen too much of love.
When you kept lying to me I was happy, I thought maybe you'd keep it up. I wanted to stay with you forever, but I knew that I couldn't, so I had to leave first. I had to make the best deal I could, and look out for myself.
Can you understand that?
You had parents who loved you, a God who showed you favour, and you gave that up for me. I didn't appreciate that, I despised you for it.
I loved you for your nobility, and yet being with me annulled that. What I wanted most had already ruined you.
How could I keep living with you, knowing it was I who shackled you long before I turned you over to their chains?
And now I sit with a bag of silver and write letters to a blind man.
Tell me, Sam, who really won?
Delilah
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Saturday, December 14, 2013
esoteric
adjective
1 understood by a select few
2 language specific to a certain topic, jargon
Those are my own definitions, don't take them too seriously. I like to use technical terms metaphorically, like truncated, equilibrium, catalyst, etcetera. (not 'etcetera', etcetera, got it?)
Let me tell you about meeting 'esoteric'. I was in grade 11 at a sweet little country high school. It was either in the reading or in something my eccentric teacher said.
I said, "hello esoteric, where have you been all my life?" and I started applying the word and the concept to everything I saw.
Mr. Romachiauskias, or something like that, was the teacher's name. I don't remember because I called him Romo almost from the start. He was strange and indiscernible and offensive, because people didn't understand what I did, that it was all an act. He didn't care if people's feelings got hurt or he said something ambiguous or his students learned nothing at all. He didn't care because somewhere in his life he'd learned that it really doesn't matter what you say or do. The only effect you have is the perceived one. The one people make up in their heads and take home and file away. So he could have tried very hard to be understood, to be clear and precise and clinical in all that he said. But he chose to be esoteric. He chose to be the legend that students would talk about and shift up their time-table for. But no one knew him. He hid behind his crazy gags and strange methods and frustrating obliqueness. And even though I understood this, I didn't know him either. Knowing that something is a façade doesn't necessarily mean you know what's behind it. I liked to think he was totally normal at home. Well, perhaps not normal, but not purposefully obtuse.
What I learned from him is that good writers never spell out what they want people to learn. Their writings are the soil that they hide the seed of their thought in and what grows in the readers is the fruit. Sometimes their seeds grow different fruit than what they hoped for, but that's the risk of trying to be understood by other people.
1 understood by a select few
2 language specific to a certain topic, jargon
Those are my own definitions, don't take them too seriously. I like to use technical terms metaphorically, like truncated, equilibrium, catalyst, etcetera. (not 'etcetera', etcetera, got it?)
Let me tell you about meeting 'esoteric'. I was in grade 11 at a sweet little country high school. It was either in the reading or in something my eccentric teacher said.
I said, "hello esoteric, where have you been all my life?" and I started applying the word and the concept to everything I saw.
Mr. Romachiauskias, or something like that, was the teacher's name. I don't remember because I called him Romo almost from the start. He was strange and indiscernible and offensive, because people didn't understand what I did, that it was all an act. He didn't care if people's feelings got hurt or he said something ambiguous or his students learned nothing at all. He didn't care because somewhere in his life he'd learned that it really doesn't matter what you say or do. The only effect you have is the perceived one. The one people make up in their heads and take home and file away. So he could have tried very hard to be understood, to be clear and precise and clinical in all that he said. But he chose to be esoteric. He chose to be the legend that students would talk about and shift up their time-table for. But no one knew him. He hid behind his crazy gags and strange methods and frustrating obliqueness. And even though I understood this, I didn't know him either. Knowing that something is a façade doesn't necessarily mean you know what's behind it. I liked to think he was totally normal at home. Well, perhaps not normal, but not purposefully obtuse.
What I learned from him is that good writers never spell out what they want people to learn. Their writings are the soil that they hide the seed of their thought in and what grows in the readers is the fruit. Sometimes their seeds grow different fruit than what they hoped for, but that's the risk of trying to be understood by other people.
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