Music and Lyrics

I have an aversion to good music with bad lyrics and yet a strange, inexplicable attraction to them. One thing I can vouch for is my strong dislike for unnecessarily distasteful lyrics in a song. I really don't understand the charm behind the tough gangsta rapper who sings about his quivering member while watching some "bitch" shake her "ass." And then there are those who feel the need to recreate the violence they experience due to gang activities, in their music videos and mesmerize virtually every testosterone ridden male, or gangsta-wannabe female, who in turn imagine themselves inspired by the valiant gladiators of the gangsta rap fame.

Why are these people considered inspirational? Surely this is only the product of our materialistic, capitalist society, and media, its bitch. What happened to the poets of old who could melt hearts of stone, and influence queens and kings?

But heres the catch, heres where I begin to doubt myself.

On the one hand we have the freedom of speech and on the other there are a set of decorous and indecorous standards, which constantly place people in a hierarchy within society. Why does it bother me that these artists are exercising their freedom of speech? Why does democracy have to battle morality and ethics, and in this case, propriety? What gives me the right to judge these people based on the company they keep, or the image they feel necessary to portray? They are definitely doing more than I am, by making people listen to them. With that kind of power, why shouldn't they be justified doing what they're doing?
I don't think I can ever resolve this battle.

Dates and such

I've always been ridiculously bad at remembering dates. But the worst part is, I always end up forgetting the important dates. My parents are always in the back of my mind and I don't forget the fact that they're not alive anymore, but somehow I can never voluntarily recall their memory on the important days. In the past 7 years since they've been gone I've often found myself thinking of them a day or two before or after their birthdays and anniversary and even their death. Today, 7 years ago, is the day they died, and it took me this long to remember.

I try to tell myself that it doesn't matter if I remember them on purpose on certain days or not, because frankly I'm reminded of some memory of them every single day. But does that justify my forgetting to especially remember them on certain days? No, it doesn't. There is absolutely nothing my parents haven't done for me. They have done everything conceivable so that my sister and I could have the best possible life. I owe the life I have today to them and their sacrifices. And to all my family. And there is no way I can thank them all for it.

Wow. I think that's enough emotion for one post.

In the beginning, were the mountains and the rivers......

In a conversation with a friend I discovered that the human mind can only retain 7 things at a time. So to ensure that the important is retained, keeping some pen and paper always handy is a good idea. And at the rate that my mind tends to dispel thoughts, I definitely need to write stuff down. Besides, there is nothing more satisfying than penning down one's thoughts.

But for all my professions of joy and satisfaction about the act of writing, I am quite a disgraceful journal keeper. I attempted writing on live journal and ended up with 2, or perhaps 3, posts in a span of 3 years; and you don't even want to know the sorry state of my diary (which I have possessed for about 7 years now). But, this is a new attempt and a clean slate, and all else that signifies a beginning, so I will attempt to be relatively regular with this one.

What a dry first entry....