How Much for a Mind?

I've been doing a project for art on Vincent van Gogh, and it made me wonder, perhaps all geniuses are a little bit crazy. In his case, he was quite off his rocker, but perhaps all geniuses are in some way a little off. And then I thought, many people who are considered geniuses die at young ages, or are at the very least misunderstood and ignored. It's hard to say if they are geniuses because they were outcasts or they were casted out because they were geniuses.

In van Gogh's case, his illness (undiagnosed to this day, though many think he was bipolar and a raging alcoholic, on top of possibly being epileptic (seizures could have been induced by his excessive drinking of absinthe)) was drastically exacerbated by the time period and his surroundings; 19th century France hardly had the knowledge, let alone capabilities to diagnose bipolar disorder, or medicate it. So they locked him up, because he had a few lose screws. True, what else could they have done? Let him run amok and possibly injure himself and/or others?

But it is tragic, his life story. He failed out of school so many times and lost so many jobs that all he had left were his paints. And he didn't even mean to be an artist! Then, they committed him to a mental hospital with one tiny barred window (I've seen pictures of it) and tried to take his paints from him. It's no wonder he cut off his own ear; unable to name the pain he felt, he must have wanted to be able to pinpoint some kind pain. I think he cut himself because he wanted to know what hurt so he'd be able to stop it. But, of course, it didn't work. Not too long after that Vincent went out into the hospital courtyard and shot himself in the chest. You want to know the worst part? It took him two days to die. Two whole days until he succumbed to blood loss and infection. He couldn't even die painlessly.

Earlier this year we talked about what makes a tragedy. His story is tragic because he didn't start out so screwed up- he just wanted to be normal. He tried his whole life to be somebody to someone but in the end, he was left alone in a cold cement cell. It's tragic because such a gem, such an artistic genius, was ignored and cast out until he finally was unable to bear the pain any longer. His suicide made people finally pay attention, and that worth he had searched for all his life was just a little too late. He never got to see how famous and how loved he became.

It is a common misconception that van Gogh's talent was ignored during his lifetime. Yes, true recognition didn't come until later- the recognition he was searching for didn't come until he had already pulled the trigger- but during his brief and troubled lifetime, some of his paintings did do quite well. It was just that van Gogh was too crazy and too seemingly scary for people to buy his work and admit his genius. That probably had to kill: knowing that his work was liked but that no one would admit it.

And there are other geniuses too that people wanted to ignore. Take Einstein for example; in his lifetime he did gain recognition, but initially he was pegged as a problem child, an idiot, a common, lazy adolescent. And Stephen Hawking has made sacrifices for his genius mind, too. Perhaps it is insensitive of me to say that, to suggest that he has ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, a motor neuron disease) because he is a genius. That's not really what I'm saying though. I'm saying perhaps he has the disease because he was given a great gift, the gift of the mind, and that comes with a price. I don't know, who know the reasons for these things, if there is a reason. It just makes you think, is all. It makes you think.

The Horror

Even now, after finishing Heart of Darkness, and discussing it a bit in class, I am unable to believe Conrad is saying mankind is by nature dark and evil. Yes, Marlow (the character he created) is spiteful towards all the ignorant Europeans when he returns, and he likens their lives to a futile game, a worthless jounrey with eyes fixed on a non-existant prize, but I must believe he leaves it up to the reader to peg a word on life. He explores the darkness humans have inside, and the darkness brought out by them into the world, but he never says all people are evil. He says some people fall into the pit and can never get out. He does imply that the darkness is in all of us, but he doesn't insist we are all dark. Is this making any sense? Just because we are capable of these atrocities, doesn't mean we all will commit them. This book is a tool for thought. It is meant to make people see what we are capable, not what we will all become.

In the beginning of the book I was immediately reminded on the Holocaust. Conrad descibred the natives as angles, and as soon as this was referrenced in class I thought of how the Nazis starved the Jews so that they would look less human. I read somewhere that they did it on purpose, so that they wouldn't feel as bad murdering them; if they weren't human, these Jews, if they were creatures to be exterminated, they could be killed without remorse. In this book, the natives are kept looking bony and inhuman- and of course, their differing skin color could not have helped them look European. It is sick, really, how people can come to trick themselves into murder. And, the book was written before the Holocaust. I wish someone had read it, seen the Holocaust coming and stopped it. But perhaps there was no other way, no other way to make people see.

It's horrible the things that have to happen to make people see sometimes.

Heart of Darkness

I’ve not written about how I perceived the end of the book; I took ample notes, yes, but haven’t really put anything together concretely. This wasn’t because I didn’t have anything so say, but rather I wasn’t sure how to say it. I’ve decided that informal would probably be better. Sometimes an “RTL” like piece is too contrived and is just appropriate.

Throughout the reading of this short novel I have tracked Conrad’s use of the words “dark” and “black”. Of course that in turn allowed me to take special note of his uses of the words “light” and “white/ivory” but mostly I looked at the first two. I was especially taken by his description of the “intended”, as Conrad wrote,

“She came forward, all in black, with a pale head, floating towards me in the dusk…The room seemed to have grown darker, as if all the sad light of the cloudy evening had taken refuge on her forehead. This fair hair, the pale visage, this pure brow, seemed surrounded by an ashy halo from which the dark eyes looked out at me” (160).

I was confused by his description of her as he seemed, at one moment, to be describing the angel of death, and the next, a poor helpless girl. When he later describes her pain and the ‘darkness’ of death that has taken her beloved, and her, he writes,

“The sound of her low voice…the whisper of a voice speaking from beyond the threshold of eternal darkness…but bowing my head before the faith that was in her, before the great and saving illusion that shone with an unearthly glow in the darkness, in the triumphant darkness from which I could not have defended her- from which I could not even defend myself” (Conrad, 162)

Conrad makes a point in both of these pieces to pay special attention to the light and dark aspects of her face, the room, and the metaphorical darkness, symbolizing sadness and pain. I could pluck countless more uses of these words throughout the novel, but the point has already been made: shadows and the absence of light lead us to immediately picture mysterious danger and death, and Conrad has used this to, quite effectively, set his scene.

Another thing I found interesting about this book was how in the beginning, Conrad initially calls the natives shades, shadows, acute angles, and phantoms, but later calls them human. In similar form, he starts by calling the Europeans human, but by the end, he describes perhaps the two most quintessential Europeans (Kurtz and his Intended) as a phantom and a shadow. Perhaps this was an inadvertent switch but I really think he was trying to show what the darkness of mankind had done to them. It had turned them into nothing, just as the natives had been viewed as nothing. They became inhuman because the darkness took all their good-intentioned vibrancy. Well, perhaps Kurtz wasn’t originally good intentioned in terms of wanting to civilize people just because he found them uncivilized, but I feel the goal was initially meant to be noble. Many people argue after reading this book (classmates of mine I mean) that Conrad is saying all civilization is bad. I disagree. He is showing the battle, the fine line, between the good of civilization and the bad. He is showing how power and corruption and humans’ innate desire to own has brought the darkness out from within. Conrad shows the struggle Marlow has with condemning Kurtz because he sees the man behind the mask, the man who came to Africa to help the people. In the end, Marlow, and arguably Conrad, find sympathy for the man who lost himself along the way. Yes, he committed numerous atrocities (those heads on stakes outside his hut...etc....) but isn't it worse to lose yourself? No matter what he did to everyone else, he hurt himself the most and this is why Marlow so pities him and his fiance.

In the end, Marlow spares the intended from the truth, almost as an attempt to smother the darkness within her. He knew if he told her the depressing truth, she would be unable to recover, and would be completely and utterly succumbed by the darkness of mankind for the rest of her days. In this way, he gave her light and life in his lying. The reader is left with a feeling of sadness, remembering Kurtz’s depressingly lonely and ‘horrifying’ death. But the reader is also left with a flicker of hope, knowing Marlow has been able to save at least one person.

The End of the Beginning

note: names of this paper have been changed to protect the identity of the people. or to keep from answering awkward questions from random people....


People always ask me what happened. I don’t know. If I had known, I would have stopped it.

I remember painting our nails. I remember it so clearly; sitting by the edge of the pool as the brush glossed maroon polish over my toenails. We used to laugh about our classmates, about people we didn’t know, and about life. The laughter is what I miss the most. The easy laughter. Now it is forced and awkward, as if we both knew the other was only laughing to laugh on the pretense of enjoying the time spent together.

I remember talking about our crushes; she’s the one who gave me the nerve to admit how I felt about John. We nervously giggled by the pool that day, scared and excited about the future. We would tell each other everything. When people asked who my best friend was, there was no hesitation. Samantha Wallson. I know there was jealousy and insecurity, but we worked so well as best friends that we were never afraid to admit our deepest thoughts and fears. When we went to the Cape, the beach was calm and clear. We built sandcastles, I think, or maybe we sunbathed, flipping through trashy magazines. I remember the night we took the golf-cart out and drove around the complex in the damp evening. We thought we heard a ghost. Or maybe she did; she’s so skittish. We listened to her cell-phone messages and suppressed our laughter at what Rob had said. I remember we kept losing service and I kept having to inch the cart up until she got enough service bars. We huddled in the cart, laughing and listening in the warm summer air.

She told me about her first kiss, and we laughed about the awkwardness. One time we sent this stupid plastic egg down her river, and with it our “feelings” for this one crush. How ridiculous! We thought we could let the water take our feelings away and that we could let go of pain so easily. Perhaps then we could, but now it is different.

I used to think Sam was fun. Behind every joke was a happy spirit waiting to bubble out more insane laughter and behind every smile was a full heart. We went through guys, or at least, she did, and how we talked! I think sometimes we thought we were adults, giving each other relationship advice. I told her about breaking up with Sander. I was so scared and confused but I told her and she helped me through it. I think she told me what to say, though I can’t quite recall.

One time in my pool we played this balancing game, trying to stand on this one float together. Of course we never got it; we kept falling over right as we gained balance. We would explode into hysterics of shrieking laugher and barely have enough time to gasp for air before we plunged into the water. When we came up, still laughing, we’d point to each other and smile at how ridiculous we were.

We went to this garden near the end of last year. It was a small nature conservatory and we walked through the woods talking about Robby and Will and how they all talked about her when we weren’t there. I made some joke about them being obsessed with her. That’s the way it was with us; I was always making little sarcastic comments and she would laugh, and then elaborate. We sat down in the sun and chatted about our other friends. We always used to jest insults at each other but each of us knew the other was perfect. We each thought the other was flawless and so we both respected the hell out of each other. I felt a kind of sisterly love towards her. She knew I wouldn’t be the same carefree fun-loving person with out her, and I knew she’d be way too stressed out all the damn time if it weren’t for me.

Anyway it’s all so fucked up now and I can’t even begin to explain why. I’ve tried to explain how close we were, the bond we had, but it just hasn’t worked. Reading this now, I know it doesn’t do justice to the way we were. You don’t understand; we told each other everything. We knew each others dreams. We felt each others pain and joy and we were as one. It sounds odd when I try to explain it, because I just can’t find the words. She was a sister in all practical senses of the word. The only way I can describe it is that I felt completely comfortable around her; silences weren’t awkward and there was no hidden meaning in our words. Our time spent together wasn’t time wasted, it was time cherished and it was so wonderfully comfortable. It is a rare thing to feel that open with a person, to feel so utterly yourself around them. That’s the way I was with her.
We didn’t have one falling out, we had about twenty. Maybe more. It just started to deteriorate and it’s my fault. It’s her fault. It’s both of our faults, and it’s neither of our faults. People change, relationships change. We used to walk on my road together, all the time. This one time we talked about the future, going to college and getting married. We both agreed that when we grew up, no matter where we went to school, we would keep in touch, and when we got married, we’d each be the others bridesmaid. We said our kids would grow up together. How naive we were. We didn’t know how time can murder this kind of kinship, how even the best of us can die a little inside.

The day I knew it would never be the same was the day I had to let it go. I had held onto this tiny shard of hope, this miniscule piece of remembrance- not wanting to let our life slip through my fingers. This whole ordeal has been like watching water cupped in your hands. You can’t see where that damn crack is but the water keeps on seeping out and you stare at your reflection in the draining water, and you are powerless, utterly powerless to cease the trickle. I watched her turn away, again and again. I felt my own jealously kill us and I knew it. I hated it, but I couldn’t stop it. And now it’s a shell of the old love. I say love because that’s what I felt for her. Not a passionate love one might have for a boyfriend or partner, but a love one might hold for a sibling. A kind, enlivening love; a simple, appreciative love. As I said, I felt inexplicably tied to her as if we had been kin. We made each other laugh.

It’s dead now, the life we once had between us. The sorrow I feel towards her, about it all, is almost too much to write about. She has shaped me so indelibly in so many small ways, and now I have nothing to cling to anymore. She doesn’t talk to me anymore, on account of our last talk. Fight, really. And I haven’t tried to speak to her because I know now it won’t make a damn bit of difference. Call me a cynic, but you haven’t been through what I have with her and you don’t know how many times I’ve tried, she’s tried. She can’t change now, back to how she was before, and she shouldn’t have to; Robby loves her and that’s all she needs. That’s not to say she’s a terrible person now; she’s not. Perhaps she is more herself than she has ever been, but all I know is she’s not the girl I grew up with. She’s not the Sam from those long Lost District walks, and she sure as hell isn’t the shy-with-boys girl from middle school. She is something entirely foreign. I don’t want you to think she is bad the way she is, it’s just that she’s not the best friend I once knew. She’s some imposter, who is probably equally likable, but none-the-less, wholly unalike. Almost all traces of the “old” Sam have been swept under the carpet.

Sometimes I lie in bed at night and wonder if I caused all of this. Am I the only one who sees the change? Alex told me I wasn’t, that I was right, because Sam wasn’t ever like that with me before. But Alex also said I was wrong, because towards the end of us being friends, Sam was like that with other people. She was one way with me, and another with outsiders. That’s what ultimately got to me, her mind. I didn’t understand how she couldn’t see what she was doing and I couldn’t stand the secrecy of it all. That insane secrecy that perhaps only I saw. It’s my fault. But it’s hers, too. It really doesn’t matter whose fault it is anyway, because once the bomb goes off, no one is left alive to point the finger at the guy who walked it with it strapped on.

People ask me what happened. I don’t know. If I had known, I don’t think I would have stopped it, knowing where I ended up. Sometimes, heartbreak makes you stronger. Sometimes.

Trapped without Escape

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to call the Escape my own. The candy-apple red, 399-RKR, Ford Escape. I can't remember when it started exactly, but initially I liked it because it exuded coolness in every form. My older siblings drove it to high school and that meant it was mature. It looked sleek yet sporty, and that too was deemed cool. The bright red color was bold and eye-catching, not abrasive like the yellow, and the shiny finish didn't hurt it's image either. I longed to drive it, to acquire it as my own when my siblings went off to college. I wasn't eager for them to leave or anything, but I took solace in the fact that this masterpiece would fall into my hands. No school bus for me senior year. No toolish suburban or 10mph-max Subaru. I would have the Escape.
Time ticked by slowly and incredibly fast at the same time and before I knew it, I was leanring how to drive so that I could pass my license test. I practiced in the Ford Focus, a smaller silver car with a few dents already visible on its once-new metalic surface. I came to have a special kind of appreciation for the Focus, after all, I was learning to drive in it and for that reason we shared an inexblicable bond. I trusted her and she trusted me. But as more time passed and I recieved my license, what I had been hearing for past months became a reality: that the Focus was a trainer-car, a warm-up, and that now it was time for the big leagues. It was time for a real kick-ass car. In short, it was time for me to acquire the Escape. I lamented my parting with the trusty Focus, but as soon as I pressed on the accelerator in the Escape, as soon as I gripped the sleek, slightly cushioned and specially gripped wheel, I knew this car fit me. Summer would be great, I told myself. I pictured the windows down as warm air whipped into the chamber of the spacious Escape. I pictured myself driving down Farm Road, hair gently blowing, donning sunglasses. I would drive this car everywhere: to Waveny for Cross Country practice, to friends' houses for 'get togethers', to school and back. I smiled pleasantly at the vision of my red car, sparkling in the sunlight, nimble and fast.
As time continued to tick by, my dreams came true. My car became part of my identity, as most all people's cars do. I was the Cross Country captain with the red Escape, that could fit four more people to drive to that team-dinner. I was the earlybird who came to school at 7:00 to secure the perfect parking spot. I was the Lost District driver of the Red Escape and they all knew me as such. The car, I will say again, fit me. It was, is, the perfect blend of sensibility with sportiness, with a hint of feminine flare. Of course, it adapts to its driver like a chamelion; I've seen my brother drive it and it reeked of badass masculine power, though subtle power, one that you might expect from a lean runner of 19. I got used to the stereo buttons; I perfected the drive-while-switching-CDs-and-turning-up-the-volume method. I know the heat dials, I know the defrost, I know the AC. I know where to position the point of my right index finger so that I might skip to the next song without ever taking my eyes off the road. I've driven through sheets of rain, clouds of fog, the intimidating darkness of night, and the light of early morning. I know how to work the windshield wipers, the lights, the list goes on. Most of all, I have mastered the driving on this vehicle. I know how much ressure to apply to release from the accelerator and I have been able to consistently perform "gentle stops". My car doesn't jerk. Every turn is fluid, every corner, smooth.
Let's cut to the chase. Tonight I was informed that my beloved baby, my harmonious companion of barely five months (not even!) was being taken from me. The Escape, My Escape, was being given to Julia, my sister, to take to Virginia for God knows what reasons. The reasons are as insignificant as my futile attempt to thwart defeat. Julia has already had her chance at it, her senior year was unbombarded my bogus claims of "ski-trips". She got to relish in the glory of the Escape, long before I had the chance. But her time with it wasn't enough, she was greedy. She had to have more. She was fed up with the Focus, the poor dejected Focus, and demanded My Escape.
In its peak of usefulness, on the cusp of winter, my car will be taken from me. I will never see its four-wheel drive capabilities. I will not get to whip it into a parking spot at NCHS anymore (a skill that took me months to master; I would come early to school unbeknownst to my family and friends, and would practice -discreetly- parking in the NCHS slots. They are wider, you see, and must be dealt with differently from the average parking slot. Anyway, I finally am able to park My Escape dead center in one of these spots, but now, it is of no consequence). I will never get to pull it into the garage again, another task I practiced. Her gentle wheel and greedy roar- her signal that she is eager to soar over pavement- will never again grace my lonely soul.
I will be stuck- no, wedged- into the Focus. My head hits the ceiling, you know. Every time I get in it, I reach in the wrong spot for the gear shifter. I can't find the lights. My bearings are off and to be frank, it's dangerous trying to familiarize yourself to a car while driving it (CD changing was an absolute DISASTER yesterday). I don't know what to do. My words have fallen, quite plainly, on deaf ears: my protests and flawless reasoning ingnored.
I told my mom I wanted the car because it drives more safely in the snow. It does handle better in the snow than the Focus, on account of its four-wheel drive, but that wasn't the first reason I wanted to keep it. I wanted to keep it because it's part of my identity now. We, as people, are constantly trying to find our own identities, and this was that one crucial aspect that has given me confidence in myself. It sounds dramatic and silly, but it has. Will I be the same person without my car? Of course. Mostly. But something is missing now. Now I'm just the run-of-the-mill silver sedan wannabe. I'm boring and businesslike. My adventurous, excited spirit is trapped somewhere in the innerworkings of the Escape, and they can't escape because I can't escape this nightmatish excuse for a suitable automobile.