Define “Living”
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Define “Living”
Since I have been . . . unable . . . to follow the others to the rescue of Ben, I have put my time to other use: Ron has his hands full raising Hannah and learning to be a father . . . so I take his place and keep his streets safe.
I have taken to watching a family some ways from Ron’s hotel abode during the quiet hours. They are obviously new to the neighborhood. And I am fascinated by what I see. Their home is directly across the street from a condemned field of buildings. One of which houses me in a most incredible manner: I can watch the house during the day, for a north-facing window in my building looks directly at them, while the rest is shielded by brick walls and awnings; at the same time, the house as a number of windows that lets me witness their daily routines. After I took residence in the building and cleared out the area of paranormal undesireables, I watched this small family of a husband, wife, and two children exercise their newfound freedom with interest. The father, whom I’ve dubbed “George,” sleeps during the day and works at night; the mother, “Kathy,” does the same; their eldest son, “Hammond,” whom I guess is a midteen, “lives” normally: goes to school during the day, goes straight home after, and sleeps at night. He looks ordinary and healthy.
The youngest son, “Joshua,” is special. I only see him at night, for the windows to his rooms are cordoned off with thick drapes and the lights dimmed in his presence. Mother and Father take him out each night, swathed in layers of clothing so thick it would choke an Arabian camel. And yet for all this quilted armor, I see he is brittle; as thin as paper and as small as a seven-year-old, though I hesitate to guess his age; he might be the older boy. They avoid streetlights and other illuminants like the plague. While the parents leave with their child, Hammond remains. Once their presence is missed, he turns on every light in the household, opens all the drapes, and sits in a corner at a computer.
I follow George, Kathy, and Joshua. Sometimes they go to a small playground, where Joshua makes use of the empty swing set, the slide, and the merry-go-round; other times they take the boy to a diner open 24/7. My favorite was at a small petting zoo. Not once has Hammond gone on these excursions. George calls him on his cellphone before coming home, whereupon Hammond shuts off the computer as though he knows he is breaking a family rule, turns out the lights, resecures the drapes, and promptly go to bed.
I wonder if this little boy ever imagines what life could be like had he been normal. I wonder if it even matters. As a little girl, I used to go to dance classes, singing and piano lessons and recitals, acrobatics and gymnastics training . . . all on account of my mother. As a young woman, she was an Olympic contender for all of the above; but a mishap forced her to retire from such dreams young. So she lived vicariously through me, pushing me to live her dreams. I used to resent such control fiercely, but now I understand a little of what she was going through and why she did what she did.
According to Webster’s Dictionary, Life is “the aggregate powers of . . . mobility . . . duration of existence . . . animation. Fine; the definition is adequate. But could Hammond claim he lives as much as Joshua? I think not.
I have taken to watching a family some ways from Ron’s hotel abode during the quiet hours. They are obviously new to the neighborhood. And I am fascinated by what I see. Their home is directly across the street from a condemned field of buildings. One of which houses me in a most incredible manner: I can watch the house during the day, for a north-facing window in my building looks directly at them, while the rest is shielded by brick walls and awnings; at the same time, the house as a number of windows that lets me witness their daily routines. After I took residence in the building and cleared out the area of paranormal undesireables, I watched this small family of a husband, wife, and two children exercise their newfound freedom with interest. The father, whom I’ve dubbed “George,” sleeps during the day and works at night; the mother, “Kathy,” does the same; their eldest son, “Hammond,” whom I guess is a midteen, “lives” normally: goes to school during the day, goes straight home after, and sleeps at night. He looks ordinary and healthy.
The youngest son, “Joshua,” is special. I only see him at night, for the windows to his rooms are cordoned off with thick drapes and the lights dimmed in his presence. Mother and Father take him out each night, swathed in layers of clothing so thick it would choke an Arabian camel. And yet for all this quilted armor, I see he is brittle; as thin as paper and as small as a seven-year-old, though I hesitate to guess his age; he might be the older boy. They avoid streetlights and other illuminants like the plague. While the parents leave with their child, Hammond remains. Once their presence is missed, he turns on every light in the household, opens all the drapes, and sits in a corner at a computer.
I follow George, Kathy, and Joshua. Sometimes they go to a small playground, where Joshua makes use of the empty swing set, the slide, and the merry-go-round; other times they take the boy to a diner open 24/7. My favorite was at a small petting zoo. Not once has Hammond gone on these excursions. George calls him on his cellphone before coming home, whereupon Hammond shuts off the computer as though he knows he is breaking a family rule, turns out the lights, resecures the drapes, and promptly go to bed.
I wonder if this little boy ever imagines what life could be like had he been normal. I wonder if it even matters. As a little girl, I used to go to dance classes, singing and piano lessons and recitals, acrobatics and gymnastics training . . . all on account of my mother. As a young woman, she was an Olympic contender for all of the above; but a mishap forced her to retire from such dreams young. So she lived vicariously through me, pushing me to live her dreams. I used to resent such control fiercely, but now I understand a little of what she was going through and why she did what she did.
According to Webster’s Dictionary, Life is “the aggregate powers of . . . mobility . . . duration of existence . . . animation. Fine; the definition is adequate. But could Hammond claim he lives as much as Joshua? I think not.
Death isn’t a state of nothingness. It’s a journey. What path are you forging?
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Not really... If we were all created equal, there'd be no point. May our differences and our weaknesses become our strengths...
Interesting that you gave the cripple my name, Celeste. I know it pry wasn't intentional, but I always find it interesting to see how people think of my name...
Interesting that you gave the cripple my name, Celeste. I know it pry wasn't intentional, but I always find it interesting to see how people think of my name...
I am not A bitch...I am THE bitch. And to you, I'm MS Bitch.
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"Living" is that miniscule time frame we have from the moment we are born till the day we meet our maker. It is what we do with that time is what matters.
The best way to put it is this bit of philosophy I once heard from a great man while sharing a beer with him;
" Live each day like you were dying. "
I told him to write a song about it.
The best way to put it is this bit of philosophy I once heard from a great man while sharing a beer with him;
" Live each day like you were dying. "
I told him to write a song about it.
"Too serve and protect", somethin' bout that gets a lil' blurred when dealin' with the supernatural.
If you go by the scientific book definition of life it is that something can undergo metabolism, possess a capacity to grow, respond to stimuli, reproduce and, through natural selection, adapt to their environment in successive generations. So by that he is alive, but the question is about his quality of life.
In the case of the child and his family, it is a matter of what you make of what life has given you. The child can either be defined by his condition or he can live life to the fullest he is able. Helen Keller is an example of someone who refused to be defined by her disabilities.
In the case of the child and his family, it is a matter of what you make of what life has given you. The child can either be defined by his condition or he can live life to the fullest he is able. Helen Keller is an example of someone who refused to be defined by her disabilities.
“Whoever starts out toward the unknown must consent to venture alone.” - Andre Gide
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Joshua is a good name
KonThaak wrote:Interesting that you gave the cripple my name, Celeste. I know it pry wasn't intentional, but I always find it interesting to see how people think of my name...
I didn’t intentionally name him after you, thought I did intentionally name him Joshua. It has interesting . . . connotations to its meaning.
Death isn’t a state of nothingness. It’s a journey. What path are you forging?
I'm afraid to admit I'm unaware of these connotations... I just know that my namesake marched to a city "because God told him to", declared that they were wicked "because God said", marched his army for three days around the city, blew his horn, and destroyed Jericho "because God said it was the just thing to do".
I'm not too proud of my namesake...so if there're connotations on the name that would make it more appealing, by all means, please share them.
As to the issue of life... There're too many issues surrounding life. What one child does through physical activities, another child may do through mental...and there're more disabilities than what are always easily classifiable. We're still struggling to properly classify and address minor social disorders, such as attention deficit, autism, and simple communication disabilities. Nowadays, if one takes a rambunctious kid to a psychiatrist, they're almost guaranteed to get diagnosed with ADD, regardless of whether or not they actually have the disorder.
Not that I'm downplaying your "Joshua" or praising your "Hammond" for what they do... I'm simply saying that perhaps "Hammond" has a minor social disability that, if it were addressed properly, would help him get his butt off that computer and to go out with his family at night, and play with his younger brother.
I'm not too proud of my namesake...so if there're connotations on the name that would make it more appealing, by all means, please share them.
As to the issue of life... There're too many issues surrounding life. What one child does through physical activities, another child may do through mental...and there're more disabilities than what are always easily classifiable. We're still struggling to properly classify and address minor social disorders, such as attention deficit, autism, and simple communication disabilities. Nowadays, if one takes a rambunctious kid to a psychiatrist, they're almost guaranteed to get diagnosed with ADD, regardless of whether or not they actually have the disorder.
Not that I'm downplaying your "Joshua" or praising your "Hammond" for what they do... I'm simply saying that perhaps "Hammond" has a minor social disability that, if it were addressed properly, would help him get his butt off that computer and to go out with his family at night, and play with his younger brother.
I am not A bitch...I am THE bitch. And to you, I'm MS Bitch.
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Joshua . . . Yeshua . . . Jehovah
Joshua . . . Yeshua . . . Jehovah: savior of Humankind. Yes, I realize you are not a Christian, Konthaak, but the connotation is still there: a man believed to be a God, a man who supposedly rescued Humanity from sins and death, a man who supposedly gave hope to the Earth.
True or false, it does not really matter. The truth of the matter is, his teachings survived for over two thousand years. His teachings, if lived correctly, help people to be loving, forgiving, kind, longsuffering, charitable, and a defender of the weak and downtrodden. I do not seek to turn this into a religious debate, and so I will go no further than that.
True or false, it does not really matter. The truth of the matter is, his teachings survived for over two thousand years. His teachings, if lived correctly, help people to be loving, forgiving, kind, longsuffering, charitable, and a defender of the weak and downtrodden. I do not seek to turn this into a religious debate, and so I will go no further than that.
Death isn’t a state of nothingness. It’s a journey. What path are you forging?
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I need to double-check with my father-in-law, but I'm pretty sure Yeshua and Joshua were two completely different "names"... Yeshua, as I recall, wasn't even a proper name. (Though I could be confusing it with another; even if I am, I know that Yeshua and Joshua were two different names altogether...but if I'm not getting confused...) I believe Yeshua was a title that meant something to the effect of "one whose name must be forgotten because he practices idolatry", or something like it.
I dunno; I'll check on it and get back to you.
I dunno; I'll check on it and get back to you.
I am not A bitch...I am THE bitch. And to you, I'm MS Bitch.
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Flowers and girls
I do love flowers. Orchids and geraniums especially, though I enjoy tulips, irises, lilacs and . . . well, let us say I’ve learned to like many others. Of course, caring for them and enjoying them are two entirely different things. I never learned how to take care of them, and they seem to wilt in my presence anyway . . . .
I would very much like to meet you, if Ron ever allows it. I would greatly enjoy that. What do you say, Ron?
I would very much like to meet you, if Ron ever allows it. I would greatly enjoy that. What do you say, Ron?
Death isn’t a state of nothingness. It’s a journey. What path are you forging?
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Daisies and Dandelions . . .
I just wanted to thank all those who have helped me throughout my tenure here. Your thoughts and efforts have given me much to think about. While turning back into a human may be impossible, I am beginning to think that “living” again is not. Willie Long was the one who first told me that, but it has been . . . an interesting road to transverse.
Yes, I forgot about putting daises down Hannah. As a child, they were the suns of the ground. And dandelions . . . who can forget dandelions? The memories of blowing on them as hard as I could, watching the seeds scatter down the pasture . . . .
I can no longer do that, just as I can no longer drink milkshakes. Another of the pleasures of watching children.
Yes, I forgot about putting daises down Hannah. As a child, they were the suns of the ground. And dandelions . . . who can forget dandelions? The memories of blowing on them as hard as I could, watching the seeds scatter down the pasture . . . .
I can no longer do that, just as I can no longer drink milkshakes. Another of the pleasures of watching children.
Death isn’t a state of nothingness. It’s a journey. What path are you forging?
Celeste... After studying more of Windner's notes, I'm starting to think there may be a few ways to make you human again. At worst, they'll be harmless attempts... At best, you'll once again draw breath, and be able to enjoy those things.
They're still theoretical at best... I need time to work on them...time which, now that I'm retired from running around the country, I should have. I don't know how much time I'll need...but there are chances, Celeste.
Don't ever give up hope...not when I'm around, anyway.
They're still theoretical at best... I need time to work on them...time which, now that I'm retired from running around the country, I should have. I don't know how much time I'll need...but there are chances, Celeste.
Don't ever give up hope...not when I'm around, anyway.
I am not A bitch...I am THE bitch. And to you, I'm MS Bitch.
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Hope . . .
KonThaak wrote:Don't ever give up hope...not when I'm around, anyway.
Hope . . . is something I don’t really care about, Konthaak. However, offering hope to other people . . . now that I wish to never lose. I leave no expectation for myself; in that way, I will never be disappointed. If such a thing happened again . . . if I was given life . . . what would I do with it? I am dead, physically, literally, and legally. Must I hide like a criminal? Must I pretend to forget the crimes I committed, whether I am guilty of them or not? Would I have to help my victims anonymously, and pray they never discover what I was, lest they shout, “You were given your life back, when my son was not!?” How would I explain to them that I was given mercy, before justice had been meted out? And then would I have to duck my head in shame, when they cry out “Injustice!”?
Life may not be fair, but I don’t want that to be a contributor to the unfairness of it. No, Konthaak, I reserve no hope for myself. I try to give others as much of it as I can.
Last edited by Celeste Darken on Tue Sep 16, 2008 6:03 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Death isn’t a state of nothingness. It’s a journey. What path are you forging?
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Re: Hope . . .
Celeste Darken wrote:Hope . . . is something I don’t really care about, Konthaak.
That's rigt you heartless um, thing!.
Just be a sad puppy girl.
Deathblaster is coming for you . . .
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For Goodness Sake
Oh, for goodness sake. Deathblaster . . . Ben, you’re only encouraging him. Just ignore him.
Death isn’t a state of nothingness. It’s a journey. What path are you forging?