Let me tell you my last thought

Three days ago I found myself sitting next to GR at the kitchen table in his grandparents' house. We were eating pork and enjoying a sunset with two people who have been married for over twice the amount of time that either of us has been breathing.

After passing over the topics of recipes and lame jokes, eventually our conversation wound around to the topic of memory, writing, and diary-keeping. Both grandparents agreed with surprising earnestness that, at their advanced age, they would heartily encourage that GR and I (along with anyone else our age) take up journaling, in the most basic sense of recording our mundane factual life events ("Woke up at 9 a.m. Considered not showering but showered anyway. Rewarded myself with Captain Crunch"). Seemingly boring and tedious at the time of composition, they insisted that such a compilation--inevitably full of repetition and evidence of couch potatodom--is invaluable over time, especially when years pass with few extraordinary events and it becomes exceedingly difficult to remember anything in particular that happened during an entire decade.

Their point is good and, frankly, fairly self-evident when you think about it, which makes me all the more amused by the fact that I started this blog (my longest and most regular method of LifeRecord yet) with the specific, conscious intent of avoiding the exact type of journaling style that they promoted. It's a real struggle for me to do what they ask, actually. Even when I was waist deep in the self-aggrandizing waters of early- to mid-teenagerdom, I would barely approach an attempt to write in any great detail about my day before thinking, "Man, this is stupid," writing, Baked cookies. Watched a movie. Came home. Good times. and calling it a day. The only way that I've managed to keep this blog going for so long is that I've managed to consistently prattle on about things that are more or less objective and usually only tangentially about my current life.

I suppose you could argue that I'm simply presuming that FutureMe will find my CurrentSelf's opinions and thought processes more interesting than what I do on a day-to-day basis, memory be damned. She'll be too cool for the minutiae. Why so haughty, FutureMe?

Mark my words, I might be something someday

The possibility that this is a warning sign for narcissism aside, an article in today's issue of IWU's student newspaper immediately made me think of my rant only a few weeks ago on the subject of my generation, and our general lack of ability (or inclination) to make discerning value judgments.

The article in question is a music review of "Belus," the newest album from the band Burzum (a non-mainstream, non-American black metal band characteristic of the writer's apparent belief that only the most obscure bands qualify as fitting review material). The first paragraph reads:

Burzum is a solo project by Vargi Vikernes, a Tolkien-obsessed murderer, arsonist, racist, Odinist, one-time Satanist and probably neo-Nazi who was paroled last year after spending nearly 16 years in jail for the 1993 murder of Mayhem guitarist Oystein Aarseth.

The author goes on to discuss the album in question, its musicality and appeal, with reference to "fans of the old Burzum" and how (if at all) this contribution influences the genre. While the article does note that "Most people wouldn't want to have anything to do with [Vikernes]" and that the popularity of the man has dwindled to "[t]hose remaining Buzum fans," little more is mentioned of the man's character, and the album is awarded four out of four stars.

In my mind, this is emblematic of the sort of Twilight Zone cognitive detachment that our generation is capable of performing when faced with a tricky moral dilemma. The author states the violent and criminal behavior of Vikernes with the factual ambivalence of a Senate minutes-reading, saving his opinions and sense of judgment for the separate, pertinent issue on the table: the album. There exists in this article a thick line of separation between Vikernes' character and his musical talent. Who cares if he's a life-ending, fire-starting, devil-worshiping white supremacist? He's capable of reforming the genre of "depressive black metal." Let's focus on his art.

Similarly, by not only writing this article (thereby drawing more general attention to an undoubtedly obscure name) but also lauding the album with the highest praise afforded to him, the writer privileges Vikernes' musical identity. This article openly honors a man who, by practically all ethical standards, should be drawn, quartered, and then reassembled so that it can be done again. According to this review, it's okay to applaud and support Vikernes, because his value as a musician has nothing to do with his moral or ethical worth as a human being. Is there any good reason why a torch-wielding murderer shouldn't win the admiration and approval of the music-listening public?

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, YES, THERE IS.

Or, presumably, that would have been the answer before. Now, apparently, it's not clear. Disquieting, to say the least.

(And, because I think it's an immediate and potential counterpoint: Yes, scholars do look at the mediocre paintings from Adolf Hitler's wannabe-art-student days and comment on their aesthetic value. But only after affirming that everyone in the world knows that he was quite possibly the worst person in history.)