The struggle of the songless

Tonight, I held the DVD of "Happy Feet" in my hands, wavering about whether to feed it to the DVD player like a fish to a, well, penguin.

On the one hand, I thought, I am not five years old - at least, most of time. St Paul instructs us to put away childish things - you know, like the murderous tools with which he persecuted and murdered crowds of Christians. So, I piously stuffed childhood into a tattered box of dusty keepsakes, though it is an open question of whether I - or anyone - grew up. It all depends upon what 0ne means by "grow up," and I don't think anyone in our confounded society of everlasting adolescence has a goddamn clue.

But I digress - got a problem with that? Anyway, Happy Feet, at first glance, struck me as a Disneyesque puker that would do more to tug heartstrings and parental pocketbooks than satisfy the needs of the searching soul. Besides, penguins are getting too much press these days, what with March of the Penguins, HF, and an upcoming attraction with surfing penguins.

Still, in spite of all this, I figured I had the damn video from Netflix, so I might as well see it so I can send it back. OK, then, I watch it, and, while not artistically overwhelmed, I did enjoy it. I was most struck by the "love song" that the emperor penguins used to match mates. Whether or not this is scientifically accurate, it implied an idea of greater interest to me: that each living thing has its special quality that sets it apart.

We call this quality many things: talent, gift, niche, spirit, charism, essence, etc. Heidegger called it the Being of a being, an ineffable phenomenon that "presents" itself in its "unconcealment." I may be getting lost here, but the point is that each being has something about it that makes it special. Speaking of humans, it is our spirit, an essence that has basic similarities yet infinite differences among individuals.

Returning to the idea from Happy Feet, one might say each of us has his or her own "soul song," that special expression of his or her unique Being, that sets him or her apart and, quite often, lends itself to a unique niche in the larger community. In the movie, the song gave the penguin its place, and so the songless Mumbo was ostracized. The same thing, it seems, happens in human society.

So what happens to those who are songless? What happens to those who have nothing of their soul to give or share, nothing of themselves to contribute? Two things happen: they go broke or they go mad - most often, both. They are the homeless, the mentally ill, and the wandering. They are also the poor souls slaving away in hellish jobs that stifle their spirit. In any case, it raises the question of whether these lost souls become lost because (a) they have no song, (b) they cannot find their song, or (c) there is no opportunity for their song to be sung.

I believe it is a combination of the latter two factors. In other words, no soul is songless, is nondescript, in itself. Rather, the person has not found a means for expressing it. Nor has he or she found the right time and space in which to share expression.

I am rambling and getting sleepy, so I will punctuate the point with a rant: I am feeling lost and songless right now. I have not discovered the point to my existence, the gift I am to give, the niche I am to fill, and it frustrates the hell out of me. What if I don't have a song, after all? That cannot be, so it is all the more infuriating that it's there and I cannot find it or share it. What is my sound, my muse, my voice? I yearn to go beyond the vicious cycle of blah blah blah and say something with my being, something that will make my life worthwhile and echo beyond my death.

But all is silence, now, silence amidst the noisy bullshit of my brain and the useless American culture that never shuts up. So you can all go to hell, because you judgmental wretches all helped get me there; and I didn't need any help. Yes, I blame all the "you's" past, present, and future who tell me how to live, what I'm doing wrong, why I don't measure up, and other such spiteful shit. Certainly, I blame myself as well: that part is easy. Yet the beauty of a blog that no one reads is that I can go beyond myself and vent, let go, shout, shout, let it all out like Tears for Fears.

Yet, like the story from Harlan Ellison, I have no mouth and must scream, so I shout, and no words come out, except the useless drivel that is filling my blog. Curse it, you, me, everything.