Welcome to Objectivism Online Forum

Welcome to Objectivism Online, a forum for discussing the philosophy of Ayn Rand. For full access, register via Facebook or email.

Summer

Regulars
  • Content count

    100
  • Joined

  • Last visited

About Summer

  • Rank
    Member
  • Birthday 09/20/93

Contact Methods

  • Website URL http://www.facebook.com/iconoclastaesthetics
  • ICQ 0
  • Yahoo [email protected]
  • Skype RagnarRepossessions

Profile Information

  • Gender Female
  • Location Texas

Previous Fields

  • Country United States
  • State (US/Canadian) Texas
  • Chat Nick Summer
  • Interested in meeting Perfection: capitalist atheists who study psychology and recognize that all individuals have different needs for their psychological wellness, as opposed to assuming that it's "my way or the high way."
  • Relationship status No Answer
  • Sexual orientation Bisexual
  • Real Name Summer
  • Copyright Copyrighted
  • Digg Nick Not Available
  • Experience with Objectivism First became acquainted with the philosophy at fourteen.
    Read all of the books and had a decent comprehension of the system of thought at fifteen. Went on to disagree with certain statements made by Rand but continue to respect her as worthwhile.
  • School or University Student.
  • Occupation Self-help coach/aspiring neuroscientist

Recent Profile Visitors

6829 profile views
  1. Wait, I don't have permission to log in?

  2. Wait, I don't have permission to log in?

  3. Wait, I don't have permission to log in?

  4. I'm looking for direct quotes from Rand on alcohol and drug use. I've read that she didn't oppose casual drinking but I can't find a quote to prove such. I also read that she deemed marijuana use as immoral (no disclaimer) and did read a quote proving she made that statement. Anything else would be helpful. I know the alleged stances, but I'd like evidence from the source.
  5. An unpopular cause is a dangerous business for anyone. "Howard, the Banner is not helping you. It's ruining you." It had taken him eight weeks to prepare himself to say that. "Of course," said Roark. "What of it?" ... Wynand would not advance into the room. "Gail, it doesn't matter, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not counting on public opinion, one way or the other." "You want me to give in?" "I want you to hold out if it takes everything you own." [Ayn Rand, the Fountainhead] Found it if anyone's interested. It's not on any quote sites that I know of:
  6. I'm sorry, but I believe the second is of the former. I have often heard Rand's take on sex described as the "Objectivist stance on sex." Sex being described as intended as a celebration of life between egoists. I personally agree that this is a bit "mystical." I am not saying that sex cannot be as she described it, only that it is not immoral to engage in sex for other reasons.
  7. I'm sorry to bother you but it's been about four years since I read the Fountainhead and I'd like some help locating a passage. Wynand was defending Howard Roark in a vehement fashion which actually made Howard Roark look bad to the public, but when Howard Roark was advised to stop Wynand, he expressed that it wasn't about winning over the crowd; that Wynand's crusade was for Wynand and he should be allowed to proceed. Could someone please help me find this? Thank you/Koszi!
  8. Glad to see this site is up and running. Wish chat were more active.

    1. educated_guess

      educated_guess

      same here... i work mostly in front of a computer so it would be nice to pass the time and have some intelligent conversation

  9. After excessive editing, I'd consider this complete. I've posted the rough drafts of most of these previously (by most, I mean all but one). Changes were had, and besides, I never presented them in this form (together, as a series). "But Summer!" my hyperbolic imitation of your response exclaims, "they don't progress like a series at all! There are different characters and situations being undergone in each story!" "Young reader," replies annoyingly omniscient Summer "that is what you think." I'm excited to discuss it if any of you are. And with a poof... His jaw line was sharp and hardened with maturity over the years of his intellectual growth. It was miraculous to witness the visible evolution in aesthetics subsequent to a change in philosophy. His corrected posture, posed and confident, made an infinite difference. As he admired his model, however, he attested to the stretch ahead. His eyes, a blend of hazel which looked green from a distance, were saturated with sentiment. And yet, if she were to say this aloud, it could not be understood. Laughter would ensue – “what’s the punch-line?” because his face knew no sadness. No drama, and no depression. The guilt-inducing emotions were non-existent. However, he could be moved by aggression and passion. He could be brought to his knees by his temple of reverence, of awe, of ownership; of what must be deserved and won. His hair was like fire: thick, and violently red. Of all of his features, he loved his hands the most. Today, those hands had been put to work, shaping and breaking the clay against rough palms. His angular shoulders shifted with precision and expertise, and the visualization was more glorious than any angelic depiction. The woman would never bow her head in church, would never kneel before an altar, but, with him, she felt a profound sense of religious adulation; of salvation, almost. He was no angel. Darkened by the earth’s sun and strengthened through tribulations, here was a creature who was not reluctant to be, as was his birth, man. At any given instance, something had to rupture, but she enabled the impulse to escalate in confinement. Her expression was a lake with the immobility of glass; an unbroken surface, or the unchallenged equanimity before some overwhelming storm, prepared to burst into explosion. Although their sharp silence screamed of profanity, he remained at peace, bathed in her grace. She wore his gift upon a slender wrist: a watch of chains, binding time and pushing forth the waiting game. An unclad collarbone was exposed beneath the thin, orange sheet, which she excused under the pretenses of a robe. The royal colors were endless, not dissimilar to her legs as they stretched over the bed. The sheet was thin and barely acceptable. It opposed her skin like another man, flowing over and mating with silky, rose covers. Her hard eyes were shut; her lips, partially opened; her face – closed. Concealed by the hair that enveloped her merciless features and swallowed them alive, she was bound by the ticking of his clock as he sculpted the clay, apathetic to her genuine body but feet away. Indigo waves rush through eroded rocks. The points, piercing the surface like daggers to a fluid pulse, untouched by the emanating currents, are sharp and jagged around gnawed edges. She sits in the dirt, her long sun-brown legs absorbing a cool aurora; toes playing in the tide as guppies flock to them curiously, murmuring secrets against soft flesh before gracing it with lively tails as they scatter onwards. Her eyes are portions of the atmosphere, captured for decoration. A khaki notebook upon his lap, he watches this unfold, unconscious of his adoring stare, and equally averse to breaking the connection. In the corner, he sketches an outline of her silhouette. She gazes to the stars, seeing nothing. Lost in thought. Spring mist signifies a memory sinking upon the municipality, under the rising moon, conquering the terrible hues of lilac. Without explanation, she slips into the water. The burning, searing twinge, and the tremor of muscles decrepitly quivering as her body is ravaged, as she collapses within the bearing as a face drowned below the surface, where he can no longer see, is torturous to defer, but the fury is her maximum splendor. A moving current cuts through the arctic river, the surface of which masks a concealed beauty: the deadly maturation of knowledge hidden inside the head of a naked woman, ripping through the forgotten whispers of twilight. Her unabashed determination to the future translates history into a potential for celebratory beginning, and so, out of respect, he stands back, waiting for her to rise again. Like a rabid animal clawing its way through, you’ve come for me: my lover, the repressed. Sleep, I am not avoiding you. I swear. There is much on my mind to pull us apart. I know that you will wait on me again, patiently beckoning. Sleep, you are so familiar when you take me in your arms. You ask not where I have been, although a foreign taste delights my neck. Your embrace is one of recognition and of warmth, a juxtaposition when contrasted with the cold of my skin. Sleep, I apologize for my absence. I am stricken. I know you want me, lifeless and still. Take it now, because the dawn’s judging eyes will spur further resistance. In assurance, you step aside, motivated by the knowledge that eventually, I must return to you; certain that I cannot live without you. Helplessly, I concede. My gown of black silk, weary upon a form fierce in stature, lies cold as granite in the pale moonlight. His pondering stare grants the impression of soul-searching, and I know that, prying into my face with an unprecedented intensity, searching for something evident in each movement, he sees more than this flesh. The wind teases my hair, and our eyes are engaged. Mine convey a message: I am not ashamed to expose myself before you. I have nothing to hide. He tempts me, darling, for again, we share a night of restless tossing, and, again, I am with someone else as you lie alone, a vicious smile, self-induced torture, unbothered by the revelation of my incessant destruction, but perhaps taken by the limits to which we push ourselves. You have always recognized what I am. Maybe you are excited when contemplating the frustration by which skin is meeting, or by the prospect of my body, unmoved in his most frenzied pursuit – It is not as you expect: I will rise to life. It is not a matter of controlling me, but of destroying the presence of inhibition; of personal dominance. My grotesque reminiscences are to be restrained and liberated in paradox, so that the resulting grandeur may attain its rightful glory. He is too gentle to help me. I am still unconquered, will always be unconquered. I curl up beside you at the end of hours, my head supported by your hard chest. As I am held in arms that know me, too tired to protest further, I sleep in comfort with the steady rise and fall, to the sound of your heart’s supremacy. A battle fought for years, one finds it hard to surrender. It is important to remember that I am not losing, and that this adaption is a triumph unto itself. A triumph over myself. The dusk is a living creature. Each car racing down the wet street provides it with rich respiration. The mechanical titans slice through the night, cradled by fragmentizing eruptions which clap like thunder, swallowing the consistent rhythm of nocturnal hours. The remaining laconism of their absence is enhanced, so that her every word sounds alone in the suffocating quietude. Clear and penetrating as a recurrent initiation, again and again. Her brown boots have created a comforting beat in collision with hard cement, and the thuds dissolve into pearls as puddles cling to their elevating motion. He watches, simply to see her move, for he likes that she is going somewhere, and, in this instant, that they are going somewhere together. His voice could never be familiar, because it is not to be possessed. He won’t be owned, and she is separate, even beside him. It has been remarked that in her presence, people feel continually unaccompanied. The right men, the good men of esteem, are liberated, whilst the guilty cower, smothered and trapped beneath the brutality of enterprising appraisal and steadfast standards. Their two figures walk with straight backs and arrogant shoulders. It is enough to catch second looks from those whom bustle past, hunched over and cold, but she addresses the weather with pleasure. Although not fond of it himself, it is hard to resist that rare, dazzling smile when she laughs, allowing streams to drip down her loose, black shirt, exposing both shoulders with shameless disregard for conventional modesty. Running water is a constant outpouring of energy and good health. It represents regular and reliable progress. There are those who hide from it, fearful of disrupting make-up and hair, but she holds her arms open, as if to say of the whole damn city “take me. I am without regret.” The road is linear and definite. A destination has been determined, and now it is only a matter of progressing towards that goal. The wind was bitter to her hair, blowing about and dancing alongside the challenging fiend like a blur of sunlight in the dark of night as the glowing waters illuminate golden strands. Her eyes were level, looking to the battle with an intensity unmatched even by the pounding of waves, colliding against silver sand and pulling back to taunt the shore with promises of undisclosed satisfaction should it follow into the massive expanse of black, untamed sea. Her palms were pointed toward the torrid exchange, leaving her body assailable, but her countenance did not share this predilection. She displayed an intrepid audacity, innocent to humility and distress, as if she had the might to fend off such a brutal demon of fluid power; as if she stood a chance. And yet, she did not resist. She would never deny herself again. The war continued with the slap of waves and rock, followed by acute retraction. Had these been men, surely the stone would fall, stripped, overcome by the secession of blows, offering no sanctuary or shield. The combat sequence continued endlessly, rather than let her tension escalate. It was a free passage of truculence, consenting to its presence; the release spawned from total admission. Not surrender, but the recognition that it must be done. Forget the wind and its howling malediction. There would always be ongoing strikes as bits of shard material bit into her bruised arms, carried in gusts of freakish opposition, but she didn’t care to acknowledge it. There came a time when you couldn’t, and she chose to focus her attention on the grand performance ahead.
  10. Just rereading it. I started and dropped this over a year ago, and I can see glaring flaws at present: The year was 2049: an era of service. Nearly a decade had passed since the Sidonia Procedure was established as a mandatory operation. Since then, all forms of crime were completely eradicated. There was no money any longer; instead, the Head of State distributed rations equally, and according to the Needs of the People. Although she was considered too young to have her emotions medically obstructed, Amber struggled in vain to imitate the apathetic quality worn by older ones. Her teachers accused her of being too intelligent, and regarded this thirst for knowledge as a negative attribute, for it led her to articulate a question to which no answer was possible. The question of 'why.' Matters were less painful to address if one simply accepted each moment upon its occurrence, as opposed to making empty plans and acknowledging the unspoken. Attempting to understand only brought forth anger and sadness, because there was nothing to be done with the realizations attained through her analysis. No hope for change. For so long, Amber Ford did not trust herself to think, but it was becoming more and more difficult to hide what she saw. .... Amber knew the truth, of course, but she evaded her knowledge as one would avoid the plague. In result to Adam's surgery, civilians lacked the willpower to break or evade laws. [Ridiculous redundancy error.] Amber knew the truth, of course, but she evaded her knowledge as one would avoid the plague. In result to Adam's surgery, civilians lacked the willpower to break or challenge laws. ... Her sister, who had only a month until her scheduled treatment. ["Whom"?] In any case, it's obviously not perfect, but keep in mind that this is, as I mentioned, fairly old. Meaning that I was, as a corollary, fairly young.
  11. This is a fairly old piece, but I'm going to have to extend the same message as with my newer ones: I am not looking for advice on my writing style. It's mine, thank you. At this juncture, the firmament had shifted into brilliant shades of red and orange that shattered off the copper penny sinking aloft as the framework adumbrations of the housing structures extended their reach. They sat on the second floor of a condemned building, feet hanging over the ledge; perched upon rotten boards that hung in the absence of what was once a beautiful tower. The familiar pale of architecture was whitewashed over the passage of time. In the semblance of dying trees, their bodies remained, but all proposal of life had faded on. And yet, the pair of children seated there were untouched by this terrible misfortune. Like flowers blossoming among a generation of weeds, there was not a drop of shame to be seen in Alexander's expression as he spoke. Nothing else seemed significant. There was no longer an earth beneath them or a sky beyond. The populace was nonexistent; the future, untainted. "They chose to believe in something, to disregard logic in favor of emotion. We chose to believe in something else, and as long as our actions remain consistent to that premise, we are what we are. Such is the essence of all people.” The way he stared with those cold, blue eyes, his visage closed but still devouring each word, only pushed her deeper into the confession. Tears fell readily and stained her face, but even when the flow ceased and her expression hardened, she went on talking. It had been overwhelming at first, but now the words maintained a systematic beat. Amber knew that she must speak. If all else went to hell, it mattered only that he knew as well. “For so long,” she gasped, “I tried to ignore it. To convince myself that none of this was as serious as I felt it to be. I wanted to believe it would end on its own if I stood back and looked away. But Alex, it’s not right. I’ve been so empty since the revolution. They took everything from me – from all of us.” She had not realized that she was trembling until she noticed the quiver in her clenched fist. “My sister…” She murmured, when the silence broke. “She understood from the start, but when it came time for action, her fear of consequence surpassed all else. She said it was too late for us”. Amber watched in stringent hush through dark lashes as the sun leisurely rose within the lavender-kissed sky. The glaring red of its sphere and waves of majestic color seemed incongruent against the inanimate, gray rooftops towering above her bowed head. Below, city streets were bursting with the assiduous movement of workers progressing in blind compliance; their march was unbroken by hesitation or thought as they pushed forward, abiding to the whim of some unseen transmission, like soldiers to the call of distant war drums. While the weather held a promising clarity expressed through its cloudless view, the study of aesthetics was a lost merit when presented to those incapable of appreciation. The year was 2049: an era of service. Nearly a decade has passed since the Sidonia Procedure was established as a mandatory operation. Since then, all forms of crime had been completely eradicated. There was no money any longer; instead, the Head of State distributed rations equally, and according to the Needs of the People. Although she was considered too young to have her emotions medically obstructed, Amber had struggled in vain to imitate the apathetic quality worn by older ones. Her teachers accused her of being too intelligent, and regarded this thirst for knowledge as a negative attribute, for it led her to articulate a question to which no answer was possible. The question of 'why.' Matters were less painful to address if one simply accepted each moment upon its occurrence, as opposed to making empty plans and acknowledging the unspoken. Attempting to understand only brought forth anger and sadness, because there was nothing to be done with the realizations attained through her analysis. No hope for change. Amber Ford had not trusted herself to think, but it was becoming more and more difficult to hide what she saw. The procedure was initially developed by a young scientist by the name of Adam Sidonia. Its intention was to eliminate man's conception of greed by destroying his ability to form opinions or desire. This would end the interference of selfishness within the community, he explained, in order to innovate a successful utopia. Instantaneously, the media conceded; however, statistic reports began the awareness of negative side effects. Having asphyxiated identity in their patients, the subjects would often work for days without food or sleep, divorced of the body and its needs. It was decided then that those in positions of significant authority would abstain from undertaking the operation, lest it in impair leadership. The remaining free-minded formed the Head of State, and were permitted to provide families with instructions on when to eat. From therein, bedtimes were assigned, along with strictly abided timetables. Those who were not yet convinced maintained skepticism regarding such regulations, but a preacher by the appellation of Jonathan Adriel stepped forward, wielding a powerful message to doubtful disbelievers. "The Lord said to love thy neighbor as you would yourself!" It was midday on a Sunday in 2038, and the church was packed to its full capacity. Tightly woven women clutched young infants to their chests as men with puffing cigarettes crammed into the mass, wide-eyed and curious."You who doubt are blinded by arrogance and self-importance, too foolish to seek the salvation God sacrificed His very son to enable. "It is your moral duty to capitulate the evil of our covetous way. In the event that you refuse, only damnation will follow. Sacrilege is the worst sin imaginable, as it separates us from the love and passion of God, putting our very immortality at risk. Without the Father, we are nothing. The Bible teaches us that all must submit to authority. Consequently, if you rebel, you are standing against God. "Selfishness is not the way forward. In a world ruled by economic depression and dog-eat-dog capitalism, we lose sight of the path. This operation will give us the opportunity to finally achieve a warless brotherhood and fulfill God's plan." His message aggregated to a commonplace. It was written on billboards and spread from door to door - from mother to child. On July fifth, 2040, the will of a democratic poll insisted that the righteousness be imposed by force. When the brain completed its development at the age of twenty-five, the Sidonia Procedure became requisite. The moment this information was publicized, a group of would-be convalescents refused to go under the knife. They made public protests, demanding representation. Then, without warning, the cluster vanished. There was never a mention of rebellion in the papers. It was as if nothing had happened. Amber knew the truth, of course, but she evaded her knowledge as one would avoid the plague. In result to Adam's surgery, civilians lacked the willpower to break or evade laws. In fact, they possessed no desire whatsoever. A terrifying stillness had settled upon the people. A deathly saturninity which seemed to suggest that at any given moment, they would all combust from the chaotic desperation building inside. Being only nineteen, Amber still bore signs of an individual consciousness. Her mind was untamed and wild. Six more years, she had thought; I have plenty of time. Nonetheless, it was the image of her sister's face which troubled her so. Her sister, who had only a month until her scheduled treatment. A week. A day. Amber recalled those late nights when Rachel had crept into her bed and whispered for fear that their parents may hear. She spoke of the archaic lifestyle pre-Sidonia and pleaded for some flicker of intellect within her. ‎"Amber," She begged, "this is immoral. I wish you'd admit it." "What good would that do?" "We used to be so full of life and now -" "Let's not worry. I'll think about it tomorrow." A tomorrow forced back for years. A tomorrow she believed would not come, if they only turned the other way and refused to appraise it. "Why are you so afraid of passing judgment?" Rachel's words cut like a whip, and Amber could only respond in equal bitterness. "Why do you insist on hurting us both?" Time had run out. Her bus crawled up the road like a massive animal. There was an unflattering screech as it approached its designated stopping point, and the doors swung open, revealing an ultimatum. There could be no alternative but to enter. She gathered her belongings and climbed down the creaking shafts of rotten wood with a newfound spark of visible indignation. She knew that he didn’t need her touch when they boarded the vehicle together, but she wished it all the same. Their brief contact was a small comfort in the face of what was to come. As they chugged frontward, her vision fell upon the city; there was something eerie about the stillness its populace maintained even in motion. She noted with disgust how their shoulders hunched forward by way of ignominy as they dispensed into allotted buildings. She had lost her sister to this. She would not lose Alex. He was a sculpture given life, with a promise of success in each movement. “Arrogant creature,” she whispered inaudibly to the very idea of his existence, “they possess an inexplicable desire to watch us fall.” Spoilers: Plotline is fairly obvious. Alex had formed a formal resistance movement before Amber came around among those who are too young for the surgery, and integrates her. At first, those in charge allow them to gather as a means to make them feel guilty, thus pushing them further into HoS control, but when it becomes apparent that they're proud of the congregations, the HoS tries to squash the progression. Alex mistakenly calls the attention of a committee member (Head of State representative), who sees him during an assembly for what he is (does not conform, as with the other students). This leads to conflict as the HoS begins keeping tabs on him. The individuals who went missing were not killed. They formed a separate resistance, and contact Alex to combine efforts. Twist at the end helps them to realize that you can't save the unwilling. After the HoS is overthrown and they start a fresh, pure society, those who were cast out go onto make the same mistakes again. More elaboration through flashbacks reveals how Alexander and Amber came to meet and discover each other, and depicts Rachel's (Amber's sister) inevitable surrender. (The name "Rachel" means "sheep.")
  12. That's fine.
  13. I would be interested to see if, because you know me so well, Garrett, you picked up on the metaphors in practically every piece of writing which I have posted here, or what that metaphor signifies - particularly what this one represents.
  14. As always, I have no interest in hearing advice regarding my style. It's mine. Recovery and Rebirth by: Summer Hamori The dusk is a living creature. Each car racing down the wet street provides it with rich respiration. The mechanical titans slice through the night, cradled by fragmentizing eruptions which clap like thunder, swallowing the consistent rhythm of nocturnal hours. The remaining laconism of their absence is enhanced, so that her every word sounds alone in the suffocating quietude. Clear and penetrating. An initiation, again and again. Her brown boots have created a comforting beat in collision with hard cement, and the thuds dissolve into silver as puddles cling to their elevating motion. He watches, simply to see her move, because he likes that she is going somewhere, and, in this moment, that they are going somewhere together. His voice could never be familiar, because it is not to be possessed. He won’t be owned, and she is separate, even beside him. It has been remarked that in her presence, people feel continually unaccompanied. The right men are liberated. The good men of esteem, whilst the guilty cower, smothered and trapped beneath the brutality of audacious appraisal and steadfast standards. Take your pick. Their two figures walk with straight backs and arrogant shoulders. It is enough to catch second looks from those whom bustle past, hunched over and cold. She addresses the weather with pleasure. Although not fond of it himself, it is hard to resist that rare, dazzling smile as she laughs, allowing streams to drip down her loose, black shirt – a shirt exposing both shoulders and collarbone with shameless disregard for conventional modesty. Running water is a constant outpouring of energy and good health. It represents regular and reliable progress. There are those who hide from it, fearful of disrupting make-up and hair, but Purnima holds her arms open, as if to say to the whole damn city – “take me. I have no regrets.” The road is linear and definite. A destination has been determined, and now it is only a matter of progressing towards that goal.
  15. Note: I am not looking for tips regarding my writing style. My Law By: Summer Hamori I am absolute. Consistent and perpetual. The start and the end. That first spark – the initial breath was mine, and mine alone. I am erected, built and solidified; independent of all support and guidance – there could be no question. What I took – you took twice from me. Threats were met with steady eyes – break everything. Do it. You’ll make me stronger. Until I can defend myself, I dare you to. In fact, I demand it. I have risen to reject these worthless games. I came from nothing, and there is nothing behind me. Alone. Each footstep – You can’t control me. I am the start and the end. The means and the purpose. That first spark – the initial breath was mine, and mine alone. I won’t have it. I won’t have you look at me with those eyes – with those eyes of sadness… There is nothing to pity. Not in me.