Existensialism

I started writing a poem for my philosophy class on existentialism. I based it loosely on a book I had to read in high school. I can't remember exactly what book, but I think it may have been "The Stranger" by Albert Camus. Anyway, I wrote more than a page, depicting the character as the stereotypical existentialist, living in a shitty apartment by himself, his life consisting of working, eating, smoking cigarettes, sleeping, etc. A day later I went to work on it again and realized how cliche it was.

In literature, existentialists are often portrayed as lonely men who don't exert themselves, who don't do much except live. They are portrayed as helpless and hopeless. I don't think this is what existentialism is meant to be.

In high school, I took a College English course with this hard-ass teacher. We spent a month reading and discussing existential literature. The teacher constantly would talk about life as being this hopeless ordeal. She would say that we only live and die, that there was no purpose to living, so we might as well do what we want and accept the world around us as is. I went into this class believing that I was an existentialist, doing what I wanted to do, because, what the hell, it doesn't matter anyway. After hearing this teacher that I respected immensely tell us day after day that nothing matters, something inside me clicked. I realized that I didn't want to go through life without purpose or hope. Towards the end of the month, fed up with having a teacher tell a classroom full of impressionable teenagers that life has no purpose, no hope, I raised my hand and asked her why she was doing it. We got into an argument about it. She claimed that if I was getting the sense that I existentialism was hopeless, than I was completely missing the point. This may have been true, but the way she was teaching it to us sure as hell felt like it was. At the end of the argument, she assigned the class a paper on why there was hope in existentialism, saying "You can thank Jesse for this one." I wrote "There is no fucking hope. Its fucking existentialism." and turned it in. Needless to say, I failed the paper.

Looking back on it all, I realize that she is right. There is hope in existentialism. Though I don't necessarily agree with the philosophy, I see the validity of her argument. If their is no outstanding purpose in life, then we are free to make our own, free to think for ourselves. We are free to do what we please while simultaneously accepting the consequences, whatever they may be. This makes existentialism an entirely freeing way of thinking.

Tying everything together, existentialism in literature should not convey a feeling of hopelessness. It should convey the opposite. I plan to re-write my poem based upon this realization, full of hope and the freedom that existentialism creates.

Onions

Mother stands at the sink,
the sleeves of her faded
blue dress rolled up
to her elbows. Her hand nestles
a paring knife, a warm fetus
incubating in her palm. A pair
of onions lay half-diced
on the cutting board beside her.

I tug at the back of her dress,
just above the pit of her knee.
She turns slowly, her eyes
moist and red, her tears tiny
glass infants sliding down
her freckled face.

She bends over, pulling me in.
She clears her throat, a knife
scraping the sides of an empty
embryo. She tells me she loves
me. I wrap my arms around her neck,
burying myself in the folds
of her blue dress.

Now I start to cry, mother and I,
crying in unison, me crying
because mother is crying,
and now the paring knife is crying,
the fetus, the embryo, the glass
infants cut out of the womb,
all of us crying together,
while the pair of onions
that started it all
lay spread out
on their cutting board couch,
their eyes blinking periodically
and their limbs relaxed, as if they
are watching the evening news,
a dozen more men
dying over seas, an angry kid
shooting his teacher
at the local high school,
as if to say that white-masked men
ending thousands of lives
before they begin
is alright.

Wade Rouse

My girlfriend, Ashlee, is currently taking a creative nonfiction class at Kalamazoo Valley Community College (KVCC). One of the books she has been reading for the class is "At Least In the City Someone Would Hear Me Scream" by Wade Rouse. She cracked the book open for the first time the other day while we were having coffee at Fourth Coast, proceeding to read aloud to me the first chapter. I could not stop laughing. The humor was spot on, down to earth, and most importantly, honest. I am waiting for her to finish before I start reading it myself, but she has nothing but good things to say so far.

Today I had the treat of seeing Wade as he read excerpts from his book and shared some personal experiences and influences with the audience. He was invited to come speak at KVCC by Ashlee's teacher, who attends the same gym as him. He was very insightful and inspiring. He talked about moving to the woods of Michigan from New York City to get away from his material life and pursue his dream of writing, much like a modern day Thoreau.

One thing he said that struck a chord with me was to pursue your dreams, no matter what anyone else tells you. I know this is one of the most cliche sayings out there, but what he said next made more sense to me than any stupid bumper sticker or inspirational speaker ever has. He talked about having a successful career in public relations for twenty years, hating it, then throwing everything away to do what he was passionate about. He talked about not knowing anyone in the business of publishing, but through constant work, he was picked up by a major publisher (Random-House Publishing House). He talked about the act of writing, the dedication and hard work. Everything he said made sense to me. It was all stuff that I want to pursue in my life time.

I have wanted to start a blog for a few weeks now, and through both the encouragement of Ashlee and the inspiration of Wade, here it is. I will be updated a few times a week, posting random thoughts, poetry, writing prompts, and other interesting things I come across. Thanks for reading.