Anthem

I heard "Beautiful People" by Marilyn Manson yesterday.

I found myself having a profound appreciation for the song, whereas I remember when it first came out, I was decidedly unimpressed by it. Back then it seemed to me to be clutter in a popular culture that was already so riddled with shock value tactics of being noticed; piercings, tats, clefts... I remember thinking that the 90s was simply the 60s version of disenchantment with authority, however through a filter of angst and directionless rage.

I still feel the same way about piercing and tattoos for the sake of the act; I feel like they have been so thoroughly diluted as statements of individuality that they have an adverse affect. It is almost more original now to be devoid of markings and brands as such, the absence of these statements being a statement of its own.

What really held my attention about the song (as I found myself unconsciously cranking it up louder and louder) is that it brought me back to a period of my youth where the music really did have a resounding effect on the authority figures who stood above us. I was still in high school when the song came out- and I remember that if you made your support of Marilyn Manson or any such artist known, you were putting yourself at risk of expulsion. Similarly, I remember one girl being told that she was not to wear a shirt that had Alice in Chains written on it, the penalty being suspension. Of course, these ridiculous threats only served to have an adverse affect on us as students; essentially they were proving our point. The prior generation- that had once been known for standing up against he Vietnam war and protesting against ignorance and violence- had grown fat and lazy, they had lost their spark, they were irrelevant, and they were just plain wrong.

What got me to thinking, however, was the fact that the prior generation's anthems of upheaval and rage against the system was manifested in songs that seemed vanilla by our standards- our music was heavier, more shocking, it had rows of sharp teeth- shit, it had fangs.

My wife and I were in a music store the other day and there were some youngsters (12 - 15) looking at CDs, a phenomenon unto itself. I was quite surprised to hear one of them say "He's my hero!", noticing that they were holding and referring to a copy of "AntiChrist Superstar". A first I wondered- how do they even know about Marilyn Manson, and then I wondered- does the music we listened to have staying power- will it continue to be the defacto standard for anthems of frustration for future generations? If so, what will that say about the way we are perceived by our students, as we become teachers and people in authority roles? Will it make us any more relevant? Will it thin the barriers between us- the fact that we listened to music that had fangs?

Now, with my wife being seventeen weeks pregnant, I wonder whether the tendency will be for our child to revolt against the music we listened to while growing up. But it begs the question- where can it go from there? How much more shocking or cutting does it need to be? Or, will our kids also pick up copies of Marilyn Manson albums (digital versions, of course) and refer to these artists as heroes?

As the song frenzied its way to a close, I turned my volume down and then wondered about whether we would end up borrowing the music our kids will listen to, to exemplify a whole new era of distain for the system. After all, there's nothing that states that every subsequent generation has to feel like the music their parents listened to was vanilla. And if they do, it begs the question about just how hard that music will be.

In the meantime, I covet my time with tracks like "Beautiful People", because at least for me, the music hasn't gone soft or lost any relevance. If anything, it has improved with age.

Echoes

We as people are not ineffectual. Nor are we impervious to harm. I suppose the latter sentiment can be lost on the young, with impetus notions of being able to survive anything. As younger people we drank more, ate less healthily, stayed up later, had more sex, did myriad foolish things. We seemed to be inexorably drawn towards the limits of consumption and contemplation.

With the world gaping in front of us like the yawning mouth of an indescribable monstrosity, we hid within our means and shook our fists, we rattled our cages with ferocity and vociferousness. We drank deep the time of wasted youth and were content to delude and dilute ourselves.

And as life began to take its toll; get its hits in as it were, we began to notice that we were veering into previously set paths. As much as we cried against the establishment, we became established. As much as we fought against the current, we were caught up in currency. We started thinking back on all the old adages, the ones that have lasted through the ages and countless generations. With a profound fear, we came to the stark realization that we were actually beginning to identify with some of these dusty platitudes, not the least of which being that youth is wasted on the young.

Now, nearing my mid-thirties, I find myself thinking back on where I figured I would be when I reached this age. There was once a sentiment of an elusive idealism; wherein I thought my revalations would end up changing the world. Carrying a beacon of intellect and recognition with me, I would storm the gates of ignorance and intolerance and shake darkened palaces to the ground. I would defy the system. Then, there was a moment in which my small pond was let loose into a tumultuous ocean, and I began to realize the immensity of the world, and gathered a grain of perspective as to my place within it. I became complacent and grew content with teetering on the verge of irrelevance and obscurity.

Still, even as the seemingly overwhelming notion came upon me that I was the victim of delusions of grandeur; a legend in my own mind as it were, certain other realizations have gradually come back to me. I have carried forward a mantra that had always served me well in my youth, when the world was large and terrible, but still accessible; even the smallest of pebbles makes ripples in the ocean.

Now, having matured (as much as that notion makes me want to suppress a gag reflex) I feel I still have that same sense of purpose- that explosive determination that propells me forward and makes me want to continue getting up every morning to be me. Although these days it is possibly less explosive, and perhaps more fine-tuned. Whether that comes from wisdom or tentativeness, I cannot say. Regardless, I am encouraged by the thought of having any such effect on the world around me, albeit minuscule.

I am furthermore encouraged by the prospect of being able to impart what little knowledge I have gathered onto my children, and subsequently I am warmed by the thought that their actions will also have an effect on the world around them.

As such, things come full circle. The clarity of youth, at least in my case, gave way to a certain tepid despair, and then arose into something more calculated; I could even say profound, guardedly. I realized that there is no obscurity, there is no shimmering void beyond the edge of the cliff. There is your voice, your imprint on the world, and there is no measurement for its effectiveness or its potency. Every individual has an effect on the world around them, whether they realize it or choose not to.

We as people are not ineffectual. Nor are we impervious to harm, pain or despair. But by the stark essence of the human condition, we can be catalysts for one another and still accomplish great things, once we realize that by nature, the shape and size of our effect on the world matters less than the true reality: that we each have a defined and beautiful effect on one another and on our surroundings. And those effects resonate and carry, and echo sweetly thereafter.