Inculpability →

A smoothed-out, layered compilation of many disparate ideas coming into one very long short story, still a work in progress (includes excerpts of earlier posts). 

Secrets (excerpt)

There once existed an obscure school of thought which held that the essence of an entire life can be captured by the tracing all of the secrets it held. More specifically, it was hypothesized that by inputting qualitative and quantitative data concerning these secrets into some yet-to-be-found formula, an output could be generated encapsulating the meaning of the particular life in question. For example, at the end of Anne’s life, her data sheet might read:

Category: the secret of thinking too much and doing too little. Quantity: the solitude of twenty years in prison.

Category: the secret of running backwards while moving forward. Quantity: the productivity of an insomniac night spent hunched over a desk illuminated by the soft glow of a table lamp.

Category: the secret of how could I have not known that I never really meant anything to you in the first place. Quantity: the insanity of consuming two point five nine six pints of an alcoholic beverage with seven point nine four three eight percent alcohol concentration.

Category: the secret of today is the day I think I am going to give up. Quantity: the grief of the death of three children.

Category: the secret of maybe my life is now so empty I have no secrets left to tell. Quantity: the consequences of and placing your happiness contingent on the fickle whims of another.

The list goes on and on.

The only problem is that the formula was never found, despite the efforts of the most intelligent men at the most prestigious research institutions. Eventually, this idea was simply discarded, shoved into the pile of other rejected ideas that similarly never came to fruition because of the secret of today is the day I think I am going to give up.

And so it goes, so it goes, the few that still remain loyal to this dying theory believe that with each coming generation, all the secrets of lives passed merely accumulate beneath the ignorance of a world unable to decipher their significance, and there they deteriorate into the void of the forgotten.

I’m Sorry (excerpt)

“Listen,” he said to the minister, “I have a confession to make.”

“Well, what is it?” the minister inquired.

“You see, as a result of a recent realization I left my girlfriend-Anne a couple of days ago. I expressed my regret over the fact that our personalities were inherently incompatible and told her that she should have all of the happiness in the world-I was just not the right person she would find it with. I explained that despite my greatest efforts my humble love would always be insufficient because I could never imbue her life with the significance she deserved. Then I admitted that I had actually been unfaithful to her for quite a while now, for unfaithfulness was not simply being caught in physically intimate relations with another woman. Those types of betrayals, under the right conditions, were repairable. No, I told her that the cheating I had done was far more shameful and unforgivable, for even while she lay right next to me in bed, I had pushed a vast universe of mental and psychological distance between us. Even while she kissed me at the height of our lovemaking, all I could think of were algorithms and computations. I explained that I had been so consumed by my work that I had not been able to concentrate on anything else. I apologized for all the love I could not give to her and urged her to find a man more worthy than me of her pure and genuine affections.”

“Well, I am sorry to hear that, but unsuccessful relationships often come to these unfortunate conclusions. I would not be too hard on yourself.” the minister replied.

“No, but you don’t understand,” he demanded.

“What do I not understand?”

“I rejected her, for none of the reasons above. I left her because I just didn’t think she was that pretty anymore.”

The more I write the more I realize just how much more there is out there that is impossible to put into words. 

The Altruist (excerpt)

There was once a grotesque monster who lived by his lonesome in a cave on the edge of town. He was rarely seen by day, but rumored descriptions of those who caught a glimpse of him at night struck fear into the hearts of the townspeople, terrified did they become of his atrocious appearance and gargantuan size. They had only more reason to fear when they heard shrill screams in the middle of the night, followed by loud rumblings. Oftentimes, they would wake up the next morning to see trees knocked down and street signs destroyed. 

It was not long before the policemen started to investigate, camping out in bushes around town to witness the monster in action. Some nights they would merely catch his shadows lurking around the streets. Some nights they would miss him completely. Other nights they would see him tearing down tress and grappling with the air. The chief of police knew something had to be done. The beast could not simply run around town all night destroying city property and causing civilians to feel unsafe in their own homes. But what could he do? Would it be feasible to lock him in a cage? Would it be morally unjust if they killed him?

The chief’s question was answered when one night, a police squadron saw the beast commit a terrible act. He was attacking an innocent girl walking down the street! He knocked her off balance and appeared to be tearing off her clothes and, and-was he doing the unspeakable? Horrified, they shot him multiple times. The wounded monster gave out a loud groan then disappeared into the shadows. The police scurried to aid the girl. Turns out, it was the major’s daughter, the precious beauty of the town! Her lipstick was smeared, her high heels were broken and her skirt was all torn. They quickly took her home and relayed to her father the incident that transpired. Upon questioning, she admitted that she was confused as to what had actually happened. She was just walking home when suddenly the beast appeared out of nowhere and knocked her down. Poor girl the police thought, she must have been so violated and so scarred by the incident she could hardly talk about what had occurred.

Yet, unbeknownst to everyone, the creature was actually a benevolent beast-an altruist-who fought the invisible daemons that attacked the town every night. Every evening he would be on the prowl, battling these creatures undetectable by human visceral senses and keeping the town safe. That one particular night he was only narrowly able to save the major’s daughter by snatching her away from the grips of a daemon about to possess her soul! Unfortunately, devoid of any means of communication with the townspeople, and lacking any evidence even if he did, the beast became a helpless victim to their faulty accusations.  

When the chief of police heard about what he believed was the monster’s disgraceful act, he was disgusted and demanded that the town hold a rally to come to a consensus on the beast dilemma once and for all. After the previous night’s events were recounted for the entire town to hear, the incensed crowd easily came to a speedy decision: the monster’s presence could no longer be tolerated; he had to be put to death. Chants of “Kill the beast!” filled the air and the chief quickly formulated a plan to capture him. Understanding that physically attempting to incapacitate the beast might be difficult, the chief requested that the town’s most knowledgeable chemist create an poisonous concoction that would weaken him from within. This poison was then converted into the form of a bullet, so that the chief himself could do the deed.

The next night, the chief stealthy hid behind a tree and waited for the beast to show up. And when he did, the chief shot a single bullet to his stomach. The squadron then dragged him to the town center, where all the civilians were waiting. The creature was incapacitated, but surely, he was still alive! Ahh now was their chance to torture him, to take revenge and inflict upon him the agony he truly deserved for his terrible deed. As the bullet slowly worked its poison from within, the police attacked body from without, first striking him with their leather whips until their own hands were sore and bloodied with the sin of the beast. Then they rubbed a special cream onto him so that he would itch uncontrollably, forcing him to violently scratch the skin off his own body. Oh how the sensation burned! The beast cried and cried as a funnel above his head dripped mercury onto his scalp. All the while the crowd cheered his outcries of pain and threw sticks, rocks, anything they could find. Only one little girl noticed the beast’s sad tearful eyes, eyes that pleaded I’m innocent I’m innocent while the beast himself screamed to death.

After hours of violent struggle, the beast finally collapsed. At the end of the day, everyone cheered the heroic achievements of the police department. Finally, the town could rest in peace!

But after the beast died, the civilians were no longer protected by the daemons that swept the streets and the town was filled with grief.

What a peculiar deception it is to associate repulsiveness with the wicked! 

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Spontaneous trip to downtown LA 

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If only he tried hard enough he thought, he could find an algorithm for love.

As I am typing this from the peace and safety of my dorm room, I can hear the rumble of the news helicopters in the distance and know that a couple blocks down, thousands of people gathered on Sproul screaming their lungs out. All I have been hearing about today is the shooting at Haas, arson, police brutality, etc. and while it is quite an experience to have the opportunity to witness this action, this news, this history first-hand, I find myself struggling to make sense of it all. My perception of recent events is just as incomplete and confusing as the movement itself and quite frankly, all I can say is shit is going down.  

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belle-andthebeast:

qwertyivana:

HEY so remember the sound of the pouring rain while you were happy and snug at home after school? YEAH WE WERE MILING THROUGH THAT<3333

*zoom in to see MUUUUUD.

WAHHH i miss this & i’m not even in the picture :( hahaha 

xc 4ever!

I miss this so much. 

Anne’s Dreams (excerpt)

Anne let her eyelids close as the world of reality faded into the mysterious realm of the subconscious. It was in former that her tears existed, but how easy it was to escape into the latter in a mere blink of an eye! It made her think of those criminals sitting behind jail cells, of how they must long for an escape every day, of how they must wish their bodies could momentarily separate into molecules small enough to diffuse through thick jail walls. But they didn’t need to be a product of some physical miracle to escape, all they had to do was close their eyes, and for a while, liberation was at their fingertips! Indeed, it was this miraculous avenue of escape that Anne sought tonight. She hoped to recede into the deep corners of her identity and to fetch out all those significant pieces of her life, those fleeting moments of triumph she derived from occurrences that were capable of sparking epiphanies in her mind and her mind only! These particular moments were the ones that made her unique and precious, for it would be impossible for any other human being, without having experienced the specific set of circumstances of Anne’s life, to extract the same indescribable yet infinitely profound form of insight. Although with the limited vocabulary of an eleven year old Anne could never put these insights into the form of words, nor share them with anyone else, she knew that these were the instances that characterized the elements of her life worth living. Anne wished nothing but to see these elements come alive in a story as real as the nightmare she was living now.

Her flight from reality was mildly pleasant at first. She was sitting at the local park bench, purchasing apple juice from a friendly street vendor. Unfortunately for Anne, however, whatever hope she had of protecting herself within the confines of a pleasant dream lasted but moment, as she was powerless to stop the controversial and troublesome aspects of her existence from surreptitiously sneaking their way into her subconscious mind. With the blink of an eye, the apple juice transformed into a vial of poison. The park quickly morphed into a barren desert and the heat suddenly intensified sevenfold. She stared down at the cool bottle of liquid in her hands as it seduced her with the promise of temporary respite from the blistering heat. Before she knew it she was gorging down bottle after bottle. “More!” she demanded, as she crept up to the vendor, asking for another bottle. “Sir, please, pour me another glass I am thirsty.”

“Why child, this is poison,” he crackled, “why would you want to poison yourself? Drink a few more glasses and you’ll die!”

Anne, somehow comprehending his words in the midst of her inebriation, knew that she had already understood the gravity of his warning even before she asked for the first glass. She did not want to take it, but some raging thirst within her, some uncontrollable desperation, had already devoured a thousand glasses. To that desperation, reason was an excuse, and excuses, of course, were disposable. She snatched another glass from the man’s hands even before he could refuse and took giant gulps. She could feel the poison working its way through her body. She felt the liquid tricking down her esophagus, its virility burning through her intestines, permeating her organs, slowly and painfully undermining all that was supporting her physical existence. Shocks of sharp pain attacked her stomach; it was as if a snake had injected its deadly venom in her internal cavities. But she refused to surrender to the sharp pains in her stomach, and ignored all the physical cries of anguish her body let out, all except for the one that demanded her to quench her insatiable thirst. She was crawling now, and her arms were wrapped around the man’s legs, still hoping that he would answer her pitiful implorations.

Luckily, if luckily should even be the word here, Anne had the privilege of witnessing her own funeral. She also witnessed the lawsuit filed against the vendor, who was now wearing a doctor’s coat. The judge spoke, “Sir, how could you prescribe her such voluminous quantities of antidote? Were you not aware of its virulence? It’s toxic effects in large doses? Sir, you are a professionally licensed medical practitioner, why did you give her the vial?” The doctor was nervous. The audience awaited his response. Then finally, after a minute of silence, he quietly muttered, “She asked for it.”

As it was such, Anne had begged for her own poison, consciously inserting the agents of her own destruction into her body, seemingly contradicting the universal notion that every living creature fights for its own survival. Anne, overwhelmed by impulses not unalike the ones experienced by those on the verge of suicide, perceived that the only way of survival was through death. It was another twisted notion of escape, an impetus stronger than life itself. She harbored an inextricable motivation to escape not only reality, but also her dreams, and from that impulse there was no liberation.             

Ahh, but this was merely her first dream of the night, and as it so happens with the human brain, the first dream is almost always forgotten.   

Her second dream of the night took place at a circus. There, Anne found herself pushing and shoving among a giant crowd of boisterous circus goers. There are so many people here, the entire world must be at this stadium, she thought. A booming voice reverberated through the vast arena, “Welcome to the greatest show on Earth! Prepared to be dazzled! Prepared to be amazed! Prepare to see that which you cannot believe you are seeing!” The crowd let out a deafening cheer.

The first show was the performance of the freaks. These were strange people of all shapes and sizes. First came a five hundred pound woman dressed in nothing but a skimpy bathing suit. The crowd cheered and laughed. They threw french fries, hot dogs, packets of ketchup, whatever they could find. Next came a man, or rather, two men conjoined by the head. The crowd gazed with amazement as the men walked seamlessly across the stage, in a practiced zigzag formation. More cheering. Then came a flexible man covered in tattoos. The crowd gasped as he looped his feet behind his head, licked his elbows, and contorted his body into a dozen of impossible positions. 

Then the announcer exclaimed, “And now, for the finale of our show, we have saved for you the greatest freak of all.” He waited for the crowd to silence, enjoying the tension and anticipation hanging the air. He continued, “But first, patiently let me share with you a sliver of my insight, for through the lens of my perspective, I assure you the following show will only be more spectacular. I have been working in the circus for decades, and I have finally found the answer to the question that has plagued me ever since our circus’ inception: what does it mean to be a human and what does it mean to be a freak? Now, let me tell you, when the architect of the universe sculpted the soul of the human being, he was generous enough to bestow upon these creatures the gift of defining their own character. Humans beings were given the ability to formulate their own perception of the world, waiver between their own decisions, and synthesize novel possibilities stemming from their own imaginations. But one crucial ability that they ostensibly lacked, a gaping blank in their list of capabilities, was the ability to alter their own appearances. Physical appearance remained under the power of the inscrutable language of genes, and while humans could attempt to beautify and conceal, at the basis, they could not change what nature gave them without defying it. Soul upon soul who have trudged the grounds of Earth have wondered why we are devoid of the power to create that which holds so much influence in our lives, of which we are constantly judged by and granted undeserved discrimination from, in the form of both privilege and handicap. How great it would be if talented artists could paint themselves? If great writers could describe themselves and intelligent mathematicians could calculate the placement of their own features and curvature of their own cheeks?”

He paused, letting what he perceived to be a profoundly insightful speech sink into the audience’s heads. “Now, we are all human beings here and I am sure all of you know exactly what I am talking about, so to answer the second part of my question, what does it mean to be a freak?  I’m sure you may say, ‘why that’s simple, those people we just saw were freaks!’ But not so fast. Of course they may fit the casual characterization of a freak, but listen closely to my words and I am sure you will see that my special definition, coming from the perspective of an experienced circus old-timer, makes far more sense. Although there are those who have distorted physical appearances and strange talents, in the end there is only one type of freak that exists and can ever exist and that is the freak who is the inverse of a human being. Lucky for you all today we have someone who fits this very definition of freak. Although she is lacking in talent and thus incapable of actuating her own metamorphosis, she can become any creature you wish for her to be, so as long as you can create the image!  Don’t be afraid to shout out whatever you please because I assure you she has no thought of her own, no ability to formulate concepts and judgments, no control over her own decisions. What she has is the amazing ability to manipulate her own DNA! Now you see what I mean by the inverse of a human being? Audience, feast your eyes on a once in a lifetime spectacle, a freak who is certain to not disappoint, a miracle of creation…without further ado…welcome…ANNE!”

Anne gasped as she found herself naked in the center of the ring, with millions of eyes gazing down upon her. The spotlights blinded her momentarily before the crowd began to shout. Cow! Pig! Flying dragon! Three headed snake! And Anne felt herself uncontrollably morphing into every creature uttered by the circus goers. Giraffe! Monkey! Scapegoat! Retard! Thief! Slave! Victim of child abuse! Daughter of alcoholic! Victim of human trafficking! She wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. The crowd was only coming closer and closer…cornering her with their menacing retorts. Then she saw the announcer walk to her, holding a black leather whip-the very same leather whip her mother had used last night… “Faster! Faster,” the announcer shouted with each sting of the whip. Then he turned back to the crowd, “Tell me if any of you have ever seen something as pathetic as her! You can call her a coward, but she is incapable of processing what the word means in her empty head! This miserable monster is clearly not worthy to be part of the human race! Come on now, keep the comments pouring, it won’t be long until she tires out. That’s it, That’s it!”

And so, poor Anne lay helpless and exposed in the center of the crowd. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the sinister face of her mother, laughing, bottle of liquor in hand. Her mother began to throw pills at her, shouting, “SWALLOW! SWALLOW!” But her crackling was soon drowned out by the crowd, which let out a deafening cheer as they celebrated the capitulation of the most disgusting freak of them all.

Panting hard, Anne woke up. The dream had ended, but the nightmare, as always, was just beginning.