JONMALEK.com

I have this sensation sometimes that there is an “occult history” - not a history of the occult, but an “occult history” in the true sense of the word (occult means hidden, from the latin occultus i think) - a secret, or hidden, history. It is sort of a gut instinct, a “scholar’s intuition” if you will, that sets off these thoughts of mine; a certain understanding that there lies so much in th epast that we know only a fraction - and that fraction that we know, and the interpretations that we make of it comes to be known as “history”. (Some people don’t make much, if any, distinction between the “past” and “history”. History is what we know; more specifically, it is how we interpret and explain what we know. The past is just that: the past - everything that has come and gone before this moment right now. Sometimes the past and history overlap, sometimes they don’t.)

I’ve said before that, to me, history is like a mistress, a lady who calls and seduces like a Siren. Maybe this analogy confuses or amuses others, but for one who has a passion - music, art, writing, any passion that can at times be consuming - it makes perfect sense. The garment that this lady wears, her lovely gown, is made up of all the events in the past. She stands before us so that we may gaze and marvel at her wonderous gown, at the creation that has been made and that she know wears. The patterns and designs of history that she displays on her gown amazes us and causes much wonder. But for all this, there are parts of her dress that we do not see. There may be a fold in her gown hiding an important design that we could see and marvel at if we just shifted the point from which we look at her, or straightened out the fabric so that it was smooth. In some places we can see that someone else ahs put their own design over that of History’s gown, thus hiding it with their own (flawed) creation. and then there are those patches of design that seem so simple and mundane, that you know there must be more to it. It is these patches of history which I now dwell on.

There are thoughts out there, events that have faded from popular memory, that have either been hidden by those who were responsible for them or repressed by those who were in power and did not want them. Thus is the nature of history, it is truly written by the victors for the victors. And, being the heirs to the past, we are affected by these histories. We read them, we study them, we are affected by them in one way or another, and at times we know that there is more to the story than we are being told. The problem is to then find what it is that is missing, or to identify what has been added - to find a closer semblence to this notion of Truth, absolute and divine Truth, that every historian searches for, and have so far failed to achieve.

However, the things which I seek go beyond what I have described. What I speak of, what I search for, are things that are hidden from us and yet there plainly in sight, things that for one reason or another been hidden or buried in the records of the past. One of my dreams is to discover one such thing, to find a new and much greater meaning to something than had been previously attributed to it - a work of art, a piece of literature, a song. Occultists in the Middle Ages and Renaissance are known to have created complex systems to convey their beliefs to others like them in a hidden manner that only they would understand.

It is for this reason that I am at times fanatically consumed by things like Magic and the Occult, religion, and art history. And this is THE reason for my conflict in chosing between such studies as these and my other choice, fortifications/warfare. While I could definately make a good career out of the later, I feel like I would be missing out on a world of wonder, of a past more abstract than physical, of a realm of thought that only a few come to know. Both choices exercise different areas of my intellect and my interests, and unfortunately I haven’t really been able to come up with a method of bringing the two together.

Popular opinion states my last post was a success, so its now time to disappoint all my critics.

Its my birthday today, and I’ve turned 22. Its an exciting birthday because the next time I’ll have two of the same digits in my age is in another 11 years; so I better savour this coming year. Other than that, it was just another birthday. It was nice for everyone to be over, and luckily Little Owen was over and was the life of the party, taking the pressure off me. I remember when I was younger I heard that the older you get, the less important your birthdays seem. No idea where I heard that from, but I heard it somewhere. And, well, its rather true in my case. While they’re still exciting - what with the gatherings, the gifts, the attention… - they come and go much faster. The excitement of the day itself doesn’t really dissipate, but its certainly not as when I was a kid, counting the weeks, then days, to my birthday, then remembering how great it was for days after.

But perhaps that only means that I’ve found other things to count down to? Isn’t life just the time in between you waiting for something to happen? And lets face it - our ultimate date is the one we were born for. Job 1:21 reads “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return there; the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away….” So what then can be called the best lived life? The one with the most appointments, the one with the most dates to count down to? I would be cautious to say so. If I didn’t have so many things to wait for, things to preoccupy myself with, perhaps a simple yet huge event as my birthday would be met with more anticipation. Then again, perhaps not. I’ve been counting down the months, then weeks, and now days until school starts up once again. Perhaps its just a case of shifting levels of importance that I place on all the things going on in my life. Certainly, though, school - more specifically History - is a huge part of my life; anyone who knows nill about me will know that. As one of my older posts states(which I admit was copied from an older writing I had done a couple of months ago), history is a mistress of mine that is so dear to me. And if it wasn’t for my REAL, human mistress I’d probably be an eccentric book-hermit by this stage.

Perhaps thus is the meaning of life. Not history, in particular, but rather finding your own Mistress for life. Ultimately I can’t see any point to life, even when religion is in the picture. If we leave a human womb only to enter the womb of God, is there a point to that? Sure, some may easily say the point is to pray, worship, do good deeds, and then gain entry to Heaven; and although I can theologically agree with this argument (for reasons to long to put down here) I can’t help but feel that it seems a little silly. (For an atheist this dilemna is almost non-existent, but again - its a whole different argument.) I say that life is by-and-large pointless, to the point of despair. Therefore I think it is wrong, or at least utterly pointless, to enter into long polemics and apologies on the point of life (and, rest assured - this is neither!) For we must not ask others what to point of life is. It is not some generalized thing that can be summed up with one point, such as asking what the job of a human resources manager of a company is. Such a thing has a specific description. But life is to individual to summarize; yes yes we all have the same things we go through, but we all experience them differently. Some things one experiences is never experienced by another. So it is to ourselves that we must ask what the point of life is, for - because this life is so individual - it is up to us to decide what the point of our life is. For some it is religion; for some it is school; for some it is personal ambition; for some its family. But ultimately it is up to us to decide what makes us tick, right until our time runs out.
Yet one more case of Tom Foolery

I get these boughts from time to time where as if I’m lost, as if I fit in my surroundings yet I don’t quite belong. As if I’m playing the biggest trick on everyone by fooling them into believing I belong where I am! Its not a case of a lack of satisfaction, or a lack of happiness, or shame of the life I’m in. Its as if I’ve been kidnapped from some other era and thrown into the 20th/21st century. Even though I’m not a social outkast and have a fairly ‘normal’ social life, I’ve always felt as if I’ve been drifting just on the outskirts of social life, spending more time watching & studying than I have in partaking in. Perhaps thats why my life choice has been to study history than, say, make history. Sometimes they’re fleeting moments where I take a step back stunned, as if I’ve come out of a trance stuttering “where am I? what am I doing here? what kind of world have I stumbled into?” I think I’d be narcissistic to think I’m the only one this happens too, of course, but its intriguing enough to me to be blog-able.

I seem to have fooled people into thinking that I am in fact a blogger - but alas I am not! Blogging is very difficult, though; no, really it is. Its a lot different than writing in a personal diary that you know nobody will read. Thus you are free to put down anything you want: your thoughts, your feelings, your believes, your distastes, your hatreds, your loves…&c. And undoubtedly some stuff in your diary you would not want anyone to read, ever, either because they are your deepest of dark secrets or because it would hurt the person reading it. With a blog you don’t have that confidentiality. I wouldn’t trust anyone who is a blogger, when it comes to any self-reflection, because they know somebodies going to be reading it. And if they aren’t embellishing something to improve their net-image then they may be hiding certain things to maintain their net-image. Or, perhaps they are being completely open and honest with their self and others. But thats a gamble you don’t really have to take with a diary.

Being the Loki that I am, I just blogged a paragraph on the faults of blogging.