final history paper

Havel, the Hammer. Admittedly, all things un-English, un-American, have the tendency to evaporate from my memory upon their touch to my ear—names, terms, you name it. But the words, Vaclav Havel, prove the exception. That alphabetic arrangement is ingrained with permanency; as if chiseled unto my cranium by the work of a mallet. Although a championing cry against the “auto-totalitarian” contraption, his poetry on the dysfunctional order of ideology is in itself, a concept of totality. It is all encompassing. It is omnipotent. The truth within “The Power of the Powerless” however, is deliverable with only so heavy a hand to be, not that of the dictator, but of God. The extent to this is such, that to believe in Havel’s professing is to be bludgeoned by its proof.  

            There are two ways I could answer the question provided. The first would be, to actually answer it—that is, to give a research based response which fits the expected requirements. In this approach I would refer to cases of “kitsch” which convey the seize of popular cultural art, notably western music styles, that Soviet Union officials then propagated through feigned mediums such as the state sponsored jazz/rock bands—which nobody, not even the officials themselves, really liked. I could also reveal how the “second society” forged itself by its relation to the so called official society. To achieve this, defectors of the communist doctrine became enveloped in underground cultures, where the outlawed distribution of Beatles records, guitar instruments, trending articles of garment, and other related contraband could be discovered and appreciated via black market networks. But, if everybody always wrote four pages of what was to be expected, life would admittedly, be boring.

            What I would prefer to do is just speak my mind…which, is always an entertaining enterprise. For three years now, Havel’s essay has been the itinerary for my life. My first perusing of his piece led to unprecedented consequences. I recall it as something of an awakening of delirium; the fruition in recognition to the walls around me which once appeared so durable, condense and concrete, were really nothing but paper mache provisions—so deceptive in their demeanor. The world now became fragile; and with it, so did I. I took the next three semesters off. I used my quarantine to bleach away my dispositions. The system Havel describes took on the image of a colossal arachnid reigning from above, and so the natural resolution was to bury myself underground. Where Havel witnessed that creature create a shadow-society, I was conscripted to a shadow-self. It took three semesters to finally crawl from my tomb. My resurrection was impelled by vengeance. Indeed, the skeleton makes for a great soldier, for they have nothing neither to fear nor lose.  

Challenge Check in 3

After my sophomore year, I took three semesters off from school. I stayed with my parents in Tampa during that. Having duly accrued amateur recording/production equipment, and with unabated support from my Father, we set out to create a demo(ish) disc of original tunes. 

It took a year and a half to finalize the project. It was our first time ever trying to produce something at that level--hence, a good amount of trial and error was involved. But the delay also owed to my lack of ability; and performing most of the melodic instruments, I had immense difficulty, and setback in executing adequate takes. Additionally, all of the songs were written when I was 16-17 years of age; and so, readdressing them at 19-20, it seemed necessary to revise the lyrics for a more refined audience (though, there are still hints of juvenile nuance). Yet, aside the lyrics, the other alterations made for the accompaniment resulted in something more of a transformation to the overall song set. (One day, when a more official webpage is set up, I'd like to display the prior versions from my high school years--which are near awful--with those made during recent times, to show their progression.) 

That task though, was in all ways an invaluable experience. I learned the degree of talent required to perform not only at a professional level, but at a satisfactory one as well. Listening to yourself is like constantly looking in the mirror; a mirror that hides no defects, and remorphs your very image at every temperament. I learned that self-criticism can escalate beyond self-infliction, and mount to a chronic self-defeat. It can always be better. I learned that, despite that being true, it is more dire to simply move on. I learned that the studio is not a stage (i.e. a point) the musician must proceed through. It is an end in itself. The studio is the songwriter's instrument--absolutely. I learned that the recording is the piece, the song, and that the performance is just the interpretation. 

During this point in my past, I recognized my future. I received the reigns to direct its precipitation. Since then, the ambitions of my Father and I, and the capabilities of our gear alike have progressed. Where I go from here is the underground. The studio we have forged since then is our Batcave, as much as it is our headquarters, from where our worldly vengeance will commence. Look for our signal. You'll know it when you see it.