David Icke's Epic Speech on Humanity

Partial Draft

"Let me die." The cold ring of the gun barrel presses to my temple. "Please, let me die!" My thoughts scream. "This depravity is unbearable; languishing in it won't fix me." "It's time to end it." My hand is oddly calm for a man about to take his own life. "There's nothing left to value; they've destroyed it." I can't even feel hatred though. "Why should I love when there is nothing to live for?" I'm trying to rationalize the atrocity I'm about to commit. "Death is all they value; consciously or subconsciously; spiritually or physically." "Taking my life would make me a hero in their eyes. They'd look up to me. They'd write articles and air tv news. They'd call for changes, always looking to someone else to make that change. They'd cry for me, never remembering to cry for themselves. "Friends" and "loved ones" would arise to speak on my behalf against the "system" that destroyed me, those same "loved ones" who despise me in life. For a week, I'd be a God, then they would forget. Nothing would be different, only one less life, not a big deal." Hatred for myself wells inside. "How could I say that? Only one less life? That's tragic." "I don't deserve to live because I've allowed everything I live for to be thrown away as trash. Only the ignorant, those who can't truly live, only they deserve life." "I don't really believe this, that's them speaking. Need can't be the standard for deserving; and they need life badly." "Maybe my death will help them see...I know it won't. No matter, it's time." I close my eyes and press the barrel harder against my head. The cool morning wind rustles my hair. "I'm going to miss this." I take a deep breath. Cold air fills my lungs and suddenly I'm no longer on the side of the cliff. I'm ten years old. It's snowing and my father and I are walking back through the woods. "Dad?" I ask. He looks at me with his sharp, intelligent eyes. The hint of a smile is on his face. He loves answering my questions. "Yes?" "At school today I was told I had to share my truck with Joey." "Oh.." He frowns, a look of deep concern.We're just coming up on a large granite rock near the clearing to my house. "Sit down," he says. "What did you do?"  "I said no, Dad. I hope that wasn't bad, but I don't even like Joey and I don't know why I should have to share with him. He's never given me anything. Dad I'm not sorry I didn't give it to him, and I'm sorry about that. Did I do wrong?" My father smiles like I've never seen him smiling; a smile of straight, pearly teeth and absolute confidence in what it was about to say. "No, you did everything right. I'm so proud of you." He puts his arm around me. "But sometimes, Dad, I feel maybe I should just give in to make others happy, even though it makes me unhappy. Maybe that will help me avoid the wall my teacher says I've put around myself." My father laughs. "Son, when you're banging your head against the wall, bang harder. Never, ever, stop banging." I'm back now. The gun is still pressed to my head. "Dad," I whisper to the wind, "You never stopped banging, and they killed you for it. I can't give them that satisfaction." My finger wraps around the trigger....Nothing happens.; my hand won't move, not out of whimsical weakness or fear of what lies beyond, but rather, out of metaphysical necessity. I've never been self-destructive. My body won't register the orders I'm giving it. I feel terror, true terror as I haven't felt since the day my parents disappeared. Tears begin to well in my eyes as I'm overcome with a sense of utter helplessness. "Oh God! If you exist, let me die!" I don't think he's listening, and the tears are now streaming down my face. "I can't live in the world on their terms; Those who despise the living; those would tell me what to think, what to do, what to feel." I'm ordering my fingers to pull the rigger but they aren't listening. "What do they even value? I've never seen it; my entire life I've been witness to their systematic destruction of value. They've bastardized their religions, they've emasculated their men, made whores of their women. They've attacked reason from both faith and science. They've destroyed genuine benevolence in the name of obligation and taught one to be tolerant of all cultures but ones own. They've punished the great while championing drug addicts and dipsomaniacs on their televisions. They tell us we can never be 'humble' enough. They've made the producers greedy and the non producer a victim, never realizing who pays for their welfare checks. They have demanded what is not theirs. They have demanded my life." "Don't you realize what you're doing!" Suddenly I'm screaming. "Don't you know by destroying us you're destroying yourselves?!" I feel as if my insides are going to explode. My head is spinning. "You sons'a bitches! You tell me I can't feel; I've felt more than any of you ever will!" "Want to know why?" I'm laughing hysterically. "Because I've thought more than any of you!" "Do you under..." I'm cut short by nausea and my lunch begins to poor out of my mouth over the edge of the cliff into the ocean. The gun falls from my hand into the water below, but I make no attempt to catch it. I lean back, drenched in sweat. "Of course you don't understand." I whisper. "I don't even understand." I'm drawn back into the past again, this time I'm sitting in my third grade classroom. I've just received my test; I earned the only perfect score and my teacher announced it to my class. I wish she hadn't. A boy named Andrew notices me smiling at my paper. Andrew is portly for his age, for any age actually, with a soft round face on which his cheeks somehow hid most of his puglike nose that seemed to always be running into a glob of mucous that dries just above his upper lip. Andrew was an average student. "You shouldn't be so proud of your grade you know. My pastor says pride will make you go to Hell." "I don't believe in hell." "You should still be humble and shouldn't brag." "When have I bragged. I never told you my score." Andrew is getting angry. "I can see it in your face, just don't think you're all that." "Why?" Andrew looked puzzled. I continue, "I got the grade, why should I pretend I didn't?" "Umm," Andrew face is as bright as a cherry. "You just shouldn't." "Okay, Andrew." I'm now taken to a few weeks later. Andrew just received an A- on his test. "Hey everybody, what did you get?" Andrew is running around the classroom hoping to compare his grade with everyone else to make sure it's actually a good score. "Ha! I beat you!" He screams, proudly flaunting his grade at whoever will look. He comes over to me. "What did you get?" I won't tell him. "I told you not to be so proud! I beat you!" I didn't respond and he walked away triumphantly. On the flip side of my test, written in red, it said, 100%.

Chapter One: Silence

Silence-to silence her foes is the duty of her existence, to cut them down swiftly, clean, absent of sound. Guided by the skill of her master, how many lives they have ended. Dripping the fresh blood of her latest victims, she glimmers a deep yellow in the dim candlelight, three persons lay cold below her. They were unwise in tongue, thought themselves more powerful than they proved to be; they deserved this, it was their fate. The master wiped her blade clean with a single stroke and sheathed her upon his belt, together they had performed the necessary task.

Thank you Ayn Rand

What is your favorite word? "Ambiguity" - College Essay Prompt

If you've never given thought to exactly what your favorite word is, I'd encourage you to try. It's quite an entertaining exercise.

"I find a great deal of charm in the word “ambiguity,” primarily in semantics, which I hold in higher regard than pronunciation, though I won’t say why. There’s something endearing in revealing so little as to keep others in a constant state of guessing. It allows for endless possibilities, endless assumptions conjured in the imaginations of the vexed. The boundary between angel and demon becomes blurred with a carefully placed “perhaps” or a momentary silence that hits that precise psychological pressure point in your listener. From that seed of uncertainty, planted skillfully in the mind of another, grows an image of secret romances, nighttime excursions to empty parking lots, a life apart from the one you’re living: a dark side. I love it. Nothing can make one so captivating as a hint of sin, be it fictitious or not. Our literature espouses this notion: Heathcliff, Gatsby, Edward Cullen, (forgive me for pairing him with the former two) a dark side allows our minds to escape the monotony of “being good.” Sin aside, we are fascinated with the abstract; our standard for deep is that we can’t understand it, an idea Camus put so beautifully: "That must be wonderful; I have no idea of what it means." Ambiguity is an empty space to be filled by something epic. In fact I’ve probably been too specific about why “ambiguity” is my favorite word as to lose any of the charm I wrote of, and my hopes rest in the fact that this essay doesn’t call for many personal details. I can be anything you imagine. Be creative."

- L.C.

Government and the Individual...Comparing Lao-Tzu and Rousseau

Through freedom and liberty only can man find himself; freedom to pursue passion, thought, love, meaning, liberty to make for himself the world in which he best sees himself fit. Individuals who have the opportunity to reach self-actualizion, rather merely play a role in society, are the leaders of the world according to the drive within their hearts. To pool a society of individuals, given the freedom to pursue their passion within, can only create a nation of energy, courage, drive, and productivity. In the words of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, "Each of us contributes to the group his person and the power he yields as a person..." Unfortunately, the world contains evil, in which individuals must protect themselves against. There are those whos passion lies in deeds of harm, those who seek dominion over all, and leeches whom live off the blood of its host. These evils provide a necessity of protection, in which those who are free, must enter an agreement of government, to protect against those evils which outweigh the power of these single persons.
    In a world with limited resources and the presence of said evils, the necessity for strength and protection seems self-evident. Man must protect himself from things such as invasion of a foreign power, theft of property, and most importantly, the abolishment of his freedom. Though counter-intuitive, the only way man is able to maximize his liberty, is to limit his freedoms. This is done through law. "The individuals who compose it being known as citizens in so far as they share in the sovereign authority, as Subjects in so far as they owe obedience to the laws of the State..." -(Rousseau). This law is referring to the body politic formed by the people for the people. Its function as Rousseau so rightfully articulates is to increase freedom through law and order. We as a society are now free to walk the streets with little to no fear of robbery, rape, domination, and so on. Through law, criminal acts are defined; through enforcment of the law, fear instilled to those whom consider evil acts. The result is a civilized society of individual equality regarding law and justice.
    Virtue, as defined by Aristotle is a means between two extremes. For a government to have complete dominion over its citizens is the extreme of power. A non-existent government is the extreme of chaos. Lao Tzu preaches a government of subtle action, little involvement, almost ruling as a ghost. Tzu does not lie on the extreme of a non-existing government, but definitely leans that way, or atleast to the illusion of such. This idea of subtlety is expressed in his statement "When the Mster governs, the people are hardly aware that he exists..." he expands, "When his work is done, the people say, "Amazing: we did it, all by ourselves!" This form of govenrment is to promote individuality. The master is an aid to a group of individuals, and the significance of such a society lies within the coherency of this group. Rousseau's ideas parallel this thought of Lao Tzu's. With the agreement of individuals to band together as a body politic, pool their powers, protect one another, and live in such a way as to promote the individual, therefore the group, the society and the citizens within will thrive.
    The State must not become something other that the sum of its parts. Through elected officials the state is born. The duty of these officials is to represent its colony within the nation. The United States congress is a perfect example of citizen representation. The state is essentially a whole of colonies, united under one banner; it is a machine composed of many cogs, working in harmony to produce the product of social order and to uphold the virtues of its citizens. In the United States, officials are elected to represent the people in a specific geographic location, i.e. the fifty states. The United states congress is a collaboration of these representatives, each negotiating for the best interest of his state. Points are made, perspectives are evaluated, and compromises met. The role of congress is met through an agreement among the powers of the states. In the past, each state agreed that their effectiveness as a people will increase through an agreement of individuals, to join together. The United States of America is the result of said agreement, and has lead to the becoming of the most powerful nation on Earth. Each man remains an individual within a system of pooled power and agreed-upon law. In large, the man remains free; he is free to pursue the level of education he best sees fit, to work as hard as he wills to reap, to love who he wishes to love, and follow the faith of his heart. The law abolishes the freedoms which so obviously take liberty from others. Examples of such freedoms would be the freedom to murder, rape, and steel. Laws that are less clear on their moral solidity, will constantly remain in debate, as they should. Depending on where the majority of the nation lies on subjects such as abortion and the death penalty, will determine the stance of law regarding these debates. If the state were to somehow allow the rise of a dictator, where machine becomes a single whole, rather than a sum of its parts, then revolution must incur. The dictator, or ruling party must be eliminated to bring the power back to the people and its representatives.

"When you're banging your head against the wall, take an Advil and keep banging" - L.C.

"A wall, you see, is a wall ... and so on, and so on."

"Ah Women. They make the Highs higher and the Lows more frequent" - Nietzsche

This quote takes on a special meaning for me tonight because it's message describes my emotional state during these past few months. I'm utterly bipolar as of late, happiness receiving the shorter end of the time line. Don't bother calling me a hypocrite; I'm quite aware of the sinful contradiction I'm living. Me, the man who creates a blog to champion reason is plagued by irrationality. It's as disturbing to me as I'm sure it is to my readers. However, nothing can be done of it now. What's interesting is that this whole issue is quite paradoxical. I was content when I wasn't talking to **, because I could hold onto the dream of talking to **. The dream came true, and Nietzsche was certainly right; The high was high, higher than it's ever been. I got my wish. One would expect me to be happy, but I'm worse off than before. It's like a drug. I can't get enough, and each moment I'm deprived of it feels like a heavy link is added to the chain that is now weighing my soul down.  I feel I'm slowly going crazy. I've become prone to over-analysis of every minute detail. I have brief spells of neurosis. I'm trapped in inertia; my actions are governed almost entirely by the desire to regain that high, or at least break the low that seems to be becoming increasingly eternal in the face of the ephemeral good moment. Doubt, I think, is the cause. If I could figure out if ** shares the highs and lows, I could cure myself: acceptance or rejection, just free me from uncertainty. Nietzsche once asked if truth were a woman, or something like that. I'd offer a revision. Madness is a woman. Truth is freedom, yet it so rarely makes a speedy appearance.

           -L.C.

Common Application Essay: Perennial Questions Rough Draft

"Life presupposes perennial questions: What is its purpose? Is there a god? Does beauty exist only in the eye of the beholder? As Montaigne once pondered, “When I play with my cat, who knows if I am not a pastime to her more than she is to me?” Concerning imponderables, questions such as these have never given me much pause. I’m far too young to know answers to the first three, and far too old to know them of the last. Don’t label me an ignoramus just yet though. Naturally I have my theories; a person without theories is a bore. For the sake of argument I could even say they’re objectively true, but I won’t, because I once read that “all our final decisions are made in a state of mind that is not going to last.” Time, apparently, is the enemy of absolutes, though I can’t absolutely say that. I once made a final decision, when I was five. I decided destruction was a form of creation and proceeded to smash my grandmother’s Limoge collection. I soon realized the contrary; that I couldn’t put the pieces back together like the Lego sets I was certain were waiting for me under Grandma’s Christmas tree that year. Mysteriously a few of the gifts disappeared over night and I spent my Christmas day Lego-less, wondering if every action did indeed have a reaction. I thought I had answered that, but then Brian Greene introduced me to quantum mechanics. Of these perennials however, no question has been so recurrent, has so defined my life, as the one I experience every time I walk into Starbucks. My mind, foggy from the aroma of coffee bean, becomes aware of greatness even before the rest of my senses. I turn and the inquiry becomes clear: “What is that guy doing on his laptop?” It must be something extraordinary, as evident from the 13 shot venti soy hazelnut vanilla cinnamon white mocha with extra white mocha and caramel sitting on the coaster in front of him. He takes a sip. He’s no Gatsby. He’s the real deal. I couldn’t even begin to formulate a response to this question of questions until the summer I spent studying at Oxford. There’s something about being at a nine hundred year old college that forces someone to think things beyond themselves; how many others had sat in that Oxford Starbucks, undoubtedly doing things worthy of the good and wise? How can I be one of them? The theory of I came to form, was implied in the first question. They are doing things. Good things, so my imagination tells me. The answer isn’t necessarily what they’re doing, it’s that they’re doing. Text trivializes this whole moment but it was comparable to a religious experience for me. I was a thinker, but many of my thoughts I never acted upon, perhaps from sheer inertia. I was filled with a ferocious desire to be just like Starbucks guy, a man of action. Nowadays I too carry my work into Starbucks with me, and, as I relax into the cushions of the couch, I know I am."

-L.C.

A Brief Response to George Herbert's Poem: "Virtue"

 Virtue

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridall of the earth and skie:
The dew shall weep thy fall to night;
                                    For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye:
Thy root is ever in its grave
                                    And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My musick shows ye have your closes,
                                    And all must die.

Onely a sweet and vertuous soul,
Like season’d timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
                                    Then chiefly lives.

George Herbert's poem is a testament to his time period: a time when the physical realm was seen as something of evanescent beauty, and Death was an ever-present specter.  In this world, in which the human body, despite its splendor, was seen as another decaying reality, the spirit became mans claim to the immortal, and upon that notion rested the sanction for his entire existence. The world, as Herbert seems to convey, is a secondary concern; matters of the spirit are much more important. One is forced to wonder whether this is a correct view to hold; whether, it is right to bet ones chips on immortality that may never manifest and abnegate the recognition that while beauty in the physical realm dies, it is also reborn. Herbert chooses the former world view and closes each line discussing physical beauty with “must die.” He references day and night, the life and death of a rose, and the changing of seasons, never once taking note that the ephemeral is the eternal; that where one flower wilts, another takes its place. This blindness stems, quite naturally, from Herbert’s fear of death. He can’t reconcile death with life, and hopes the soul will allow him break free of the bonds that hold the other forms of life on Earth: “…though the whole world turns to coal, Then (the spirit) chiefly lives.” I personally agree with Herbert, that the “vertuous soul…never gives.” However, unlike him, I can recognize that while Death may be lurking around every corner, it hasn’t found me yet, and I certainly don’t need to wait for it to find eternal beauty. Immortality exists here, now.

-L.C.

College Essay: Why I am Unique? Rough Draft

"Beyond your impressive academic credentials and extracurricular accomplishments, what else makes you unique and colorful?

We know that nobody fits neatly into 500 words or less, but you can provide us with some suggestion of the type of person you are. Anything goes! Inspire us, impress us or just make us laugh. Think of this optional opportunity as show and tell by proxy and with an attitude, but please restrict your submission to what will fit on one sheet of paper."

Lain Coubert

"This essay topic is particularly satisfying because it acknowledges what I had written in a previous rough draft of my common application; that 500 words were nowhere near enough words to describe something significant, and on this premise rests, ironically, the chance to discover other noteworthy aspects of oneself, such as a college experience.  Words are being wasted as I type however, and I’ve always found a certain amount of concurrence with Nietzsche, that “what is superfluous is hostile to what is essential,” so I’ll attempt in the 400 some words I have left to give you a brief description of everything quintessentially “Lain Courbert.”  I like to think of myself as versatile. My iTunes library ranges from Chopin to Buddy Holly to Adele. I’ve read Nicholas Sparks and Aristotle. I’ve refused cheese popcorn on moral principle and I’ve participated in a rave at the Christchurch Chaplaincy in Oxford. I’ve seen sunrises atop mountains, but I prefer the calming darkness of the beach at nighttime. I consider myself an Objectivist, but I staunchly believe in a higher power. I’ll choose an intimate drive over a party nine out of ten times; I’ve been to many parties; my yearly mileage is 18000. I’ve criticized Mayan pyramids for their wavering architectural integrity. The voice in my head is often an Albanian named Butrint, but I’ve never been to Eastern Europe. I started a political revolution at my school; a teacher of mine later commented on the absurd number of Anthem copies floating around. If I could choose a time period to live in other than my own, I’d choose Dostoevsky’s Russia. If I could recreate society, I’d shape it in the way of Ancient Athens (without slavery, naturally). I think impossibilities; I perform improbabilities. I find a great deal of charm in ambiguity. I’m politically minded and enjoy arguments; debates are daily occurrence for me. I’m anti-authority, in the sense that age or title has never been my standard for consensual governance. I believe political correctness is a worse prison than the words it’s meant to protect people from. I sometimes pretend my car is an X-Wing. My greatest source of frustration is incompetence; my greatest source of annoyance is the minivan (My apologies if you own one). Blackouts are a blessing for me; there’s something very spiritual in candlelight, especially when it’s coupled with my green laser pointer from Chinatown, which, no matter how often I use it, never ceases to amaze me. I’m concerned with everything, and indifferent to almost everyone. If my life could have a theme song, I’d want it to be Eden Roc, which, being purely instrumental, is unrestricted by the limits of language. I feel an intense joy in writing new lyrics in my each time I hear it. I'm a bibliophile, and often find myself trying to live the lives the characters. Your prompt says to explain how I’m unique, but I see myself as completely normal, except in one aspect, that I see myself as such."

           -L.C.

The Silent Sanctuary

"Let us keep our silent sanctuaries, for in them the eternal perspectives are preserved" Edith Hamilton quotes Senancour in The Greek Way. "We have many silent sanctuaries in which we can find breathing space to free ourselves from the personal, to rise above our harassed and perplexed minds and catch sight of values that are stable, which no selfish and timorous preoccupations can make waver, because they are the hard-won permanent possessions of humanity. 'Excellence,' said Aristotle, 'much labored for by the race of men.' When the world is storm-driven and the bad that happens and the worse that threatens are so urgent as to shut out everything else from view, then we need to know all the strong fortresses of the spirit which men have built through the ages. The eternal perspectives are being blotted out, and our judgment of immediate issues will go wrong unless we bring them back."

The eternal perspective can be observed all around, from the subtle darkness of the beach at night, to the piercing rays of the morning sun. I maintain that all the wisdom of the ages can be grasped in the solitude of an unlit bedroom. This isn't easy for all of us however. The world, as Hamilton said, is "storm driven." Moments of absolute silence are becoming increasingly more rare. Where can one turn when the technology that is supposed to help us is hindering our ability to connect with the immortal? Literature is my sanctuary. In literature we find truths about the world we would be hard pressed to discover on our own.Thucydides can't show us how to cook an omelette. He can't show us how to repair a car. But he can teach us about the perennial reality of human nature. Dostoevsky can't demonstrate a proof for a logarithmic function, but he can take us into the psyche of a wannabe nihilist killer better than any psychology textbook. Rudyard Kipling's If is more informative than any self help seminar.


To be continued

Rising from the Ashes

The September 11 memorial could not be more perfect. The architecture of the waterfalls as a void really does bring a deep sense of reflection upon me, and I am thousands of miles away viewing them on a computer screen. The artistic beauty of these falls is that it recognizes a hole in New York City which cannot be filled, yet the artist manages to fill this void in all our hearts with the symbol of a void. I believe the architect of these falls understood that spot could not be filled with another building or statue, so they created the ingenious symbol of what it had become, and always will be. Being that some wounds cannot be healed, the next best thing is to accept its existence, embrace it, and live in reflective harmony. Sometimes its better to learn to love a wound, rather let it heal and forget.  The 88 lights forming a ghostly structure of the twin towers is likewise a perfect example of deep reflection and the American spirit. In essence, this simple masterpiece is representing the ghostly pair of once thriving beings. It implies death of the once-living, and its continued life in spirit. All those who perished on that horrible day ten years ago, live within the energies of those projected lights. Out of great tragedy, true beauty is born, this is the majestic story of 9/11. Listening to the museum director, I marvel at his depth and understanding. He has obviously spent hours on end immersed in reminisce, reflection, and spiritual contemplation. His understanding of the emotional horror accompanying 9/11, and his symbol of memory and strength truly represents the national emotion we all experience. Stories and men like this make me ever so proud to be American. In God we trust.