Gay Wrongs

To be frank (and Frank is such a lovely person to be), I think it’s quite obvious that our very narrow definitions of “right” and “wrong” are not just teetering on the edge of utter desuetude, but have been violently shoved off into the abyss by what can only be described as a beautiful, streamlined utilitarianism. They were dispensed so quickly and so noiselessly—a blunder, I think, but one that a utilitarian would be wont to make in the absence of any reason to perform the execution otherwise—that only a handful of the Neanderthals (see: Tea Party) were able to tear themselves from sniffing their forefingers before plodding over the edge after them.

But I’m not going to argue about which is morally or ethically apropos, in regards to the issue of homosexuals on the battlefield. I quite honestly couldn’t care any less about what you or anyone else thought was “right,” by any measure of the imagination, nor would I ever presume to impose my opinion (on this matter or any other) on anyone else.

I would instead appeal solely to logic here, and this should be a very simple matter for all parties involved.

What is most astounding in this entire silly situation is the degree to which we have so complicated War. It is no secret that animals compete for success in the wild, and that there is no logical distinction that can be drawn between man and beast in this (or, as we continue to dissect the matter, any) respect. No matter how misanthropic you are, the pointlessness of your mundane career, the number of Israelis you take out with you when you self-destruct—the end result, so long as you continue to abide by governing forces that are human (this includes you, you sociopaths out there, as you still are governed by your interest in yourself and self-preservation) is that you fit into a very complex system working toward a very obvious goal: the preservation of the human species.

There is competition among the human species, naturally, just as there is interspecies competition in any animal. Now, ordinarily, these interspecies competitions are resolved by that golden Darwinian anthem of “survival of the fittest,” and so it was for humans for many, many generations. Yet suddenly, onto the scene there appeared a code of conduct in war—a way of carrying out what one might not just call a victory but a noble victory instead. Introduce the atom bomb some time later, and the rules change again, this time, out of sheer paranoia that someone might make a Hiroshima out of New York City.

Rules, you see, to keep the species alive, but giving the nations a continued opportunity for war.

We may still compete, and someone may still come out the victor. This may be done in one of two ways, or a combination of both: 1) out of sheer numbers and by way of attrition; or 2) by being on the team with the more sophisticated weaponry.

The Americans have the potential to utilize both options 1 and 2 simultaneously.

But you know what makes more sense? Clinging on to a desperate sense of morality, rather than bolstering its troops with more bodies. I mean, I know if I were a heterosexual soldier with bullets whizzing past my head, grenades exploding a few meters from my cover, and exploding Allah-crazed idiots running all over the place, my primary concern would be whether or not Jim was thinking about fucking me in the ass.

Now is the time to be asking ourselves where our priorities really lie.

“Isolation is the best environment for creativity.”

The words struck me hard—hard enough, it would seem, to knock me out of bed and into the computer chair. Shaken, and all but in a cold, melodramatic sweat, I sit now, contemplating not only the veracity of these words but their applicability, as well. And I find myself once again placed before the chasm of existential doubt, a yawning, inescapably obvious unimportance ahead of me, and that fleeting sense of pride I’ve never been able to turn around and face.

It is by no coincidence that this phrase should stem from the mind of a very accomplished writer (Orson Scott Card), nor that its significance should be anything less than as dazzling and multifaceted as any diamond worth a look at. On the surface, the easiest of conclusions we might draw from the phrase would be that humble artistic honesty, a confession of somber loneliness as per the demands of mastering so difficult as a task as having an idea—and, moreover, recording said idea into something anyone else would be interested in hearing about. “I can’t write without being left the bloody hell alone.” It’s simple. It’s trite. Yet it is superficial, and it’s not the whole enchilada.

The world is obsessed with endings. It’s written into our very adages—“a means to an end,” “the end is nigh,” “the end”—to such a degree that we have developed a very special relationship to endings, not unlike addiction. The perpetual race to the finish line is preempted by the ending of our wait to begin the race; the book is read in order that we might finish it; a painter begins, not to begin (that would be profane), but to finish. We fornicate and finish.

We build our religions on endings. Christianity encourages you to cast this life in the discard pile and skip your happy, winged ass to heaven to hang out with a bunch of other equally boring people. Jesus himself was a completely tragic case of one being wholly (har-har) addicted to his work—so much so that he couldn’t wait to die the first time, and now can’t wait to kill the rest of us get this show on the road and wrap up this nasty business of time. Meanwhile, the Muslims are literally ticking time bombs, and the Mormons are only looking forward to infinite dicking in their endings (yet another pun).

Scientists love endings too, being intrinsically drawn to that same mystery which compels religious idiots—only their efforts are more directed to an understanding on how the Big Crunch might occur, when, and just how we might prevent it (rather than sheepishly consigning ourselves to ultimate death, doom and destruction).

In each circumstance, we assume there is, somehow, a prize to be had at the end. We’ve been conditioned to believe so. If we push a button, we get an elevator. If we give a blowjob on the corner of 63rd and Queens Blvd., we get $20. We wait for a response to the end of our plight—or to the end of any activity in general.

Yet it is only in our group setting, where amongst material things and in observation and interaction of said material things (anything from pencils to elephants, I mean), that our thoughts turn to these endings. We are able to reflect upon them, so long as we remain completely affixed with them; they are there to serve as a reminder of what must, inevitably, collapse.

Yet alone, immersed within ourselves, there is creation. An echo of this truth can be found in the Bible: “In the beginning, there was nothing. Then God said, let there be Light.”

I don’t think people contemplate the depth of this excerpt hard enough. I mean, in the beginning, there was nothing. Fucking. Nothing. And I am by no means endorsing the Bible here, especially Christian (and I’ll bastardize the word by applying it here) thought.

Religion is really like Science’s stupid older brother who made all the mistakes, got into drugs, and now has a beer gut and several illegitimate children. For they both suppose, generally, the exact same things—a beginning and an ending, when it boils down to it.
And both versions of this beginning require, by virtue of being a beginning of everything, a nothing. An isolation.

In Christianity’s case, the isolation of the deity from void; in Science’s case, the isolated singularity; and in my case, and perhaps every other writer I know, isolation of the self.
You see, as in religion, science and the psyche, creation bursts from within. It is only a matter of collapsing hard enough inward that you find something worth creating.