ConorJames

I see what you mean. Makes sense. And Greebo, good point. Thanks for the replies guys.

The five of them were crowded around the old man's bed. To the man's right, on a battered pink armchair, sat his son. He was forty years old or thereabouts, but in the dim light of the tiny, crowded bedroom he looked quite a bit older. The impression of premature age was not helped by his rapidly-receding hairline, nor by his marked resemblance to his wasted old father. Furthermore, as he'd changed into a pair of light blue pyjamas the night before last and had not changed since, he almost looked to everyone else in the room as if he should take his father's place underneath the old-fashioned patchwork quilt. Though his eyes never left the old man, his attention was focused mainly on his right hand - for the last half hour he had been aimlessly looping the belt of his wife's dressing-gown around his fingers, over and over again. His wife, the old man's daughter-in-law, hadn't noticed. Nor had she really registered the dull ache creeping up her lower back from sitting on her husband's knee all morning. Like her husband, she had her mind on other things. She'd held a handkerchief up to her mouth in an effort to disguise the fact that she was gnawing on her lower lip, a nervous habit she'd had since childhood. With one hand pressed firmly to her lips and the other curled protectively around her husband's shoulder, she found herself unable to brush away from her eyes the stray lock of hair which had been bothering her for a while now. It would have been easy to just raise one of her hands and brush it back, but for some reason she couldn't bring herself to move at all. Every so often her gaze was drawn to that errant blonde curl, and each time it took a conscious effort to force her attention back to the old man. In the corner sat the old man's nine-year-old granddaughter, on a tall wooden chair. The girl stared blankly at her grandfather, but for the moment she was preoccupied with a pointless little game of her own devising: each time she swung her feet (which didn't reach the floor) forward, the chair would creak. When she swung them back, the chair would creak again, at a slightly lower pitch. She swung her feet back and forth like little patent-leather pendulums, trying to maintain a steady rhythm. The incessant creaking was the only sound in the room. Nobody shot her a stern look or told her to cut it out. Nobody seemed to notice at all. At his post by the window, the old man's neighbour was the only one not looking at the bed. His arms were folded across his broad chest and he drummed his fingers impatiently on his bicep. Meanwhile, his gaze roamed slowly back and forth across the room. At some point during this impromptu vigil, he had picked out a pattern on the opposite wall and was now engaged in following it from one end of the room to the other. When he reached a corner, he would simply trace the pattern back again, to the other corner. Standing right beside the bed, to the old man's left, was the local priest. His calves were starting to hurt from standing in one spot for so long, and he had begun rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet in a vain, unconscious effort to relieve the ache. His austere, priestly dignity forgotten, he had long since thrust his hands lazily into his pockets and was now fingering a set of rosary beads, not in prayer, but by mere force of habit - prayer would come later, and in any case, he was not sufficiently mentally alert to recall more than the first few lines of the Lord's Prayer at the moment. The heat in the tiny room was getting to him, and his eyes were beginning to close. In bed, the old man lay still. The son's face was expressionless as he stared at the prone, useless thing which, until very recently, had been his father. A man who'd never been sick a day in his life, who'd somehow held on to the manic energy of childhood for over seventy years. Then, two days ago, he'd crawled into bed, fallen asleep, and hadn't opened his eyes since. The son believed the end was nigh, and was prepared to keep watch by the bed until the old man breathed his last. God knows he'd waited long enough for the old bastard to pop his clogs. Money was tight and getting tighter for the son and his wife, and it was common knowledge that the old bastard was fairly wealthy, having sold off his reasonably-successful meat-packing business some years earlier, though he never spent more than he had to - his house was a small, two-bedroom bungalow; his clothes were cheap and unostentatious; his pantry was more-or-less bare. A fat inheritance was just what his son needed. Now, he mused, the day had finally arrived... if the old bastard would just die already. The daughter-in-law was also thinking about money, as she artfully avoided meeting the eyes of the neighbour across the room. For over two years she'd humoured her husband, smiling and nodding and occasionally laughing excitedly as he told her, in meticulous detail, how much better their lives would be once they got their hands on the old man's fortune. A new car, a new house, good food, fancy clothes and a prestigious private school for their daughter - he'd list all these things and a dozen more, and she'd tell her how much she loved him while crossing her fingers behind her back. In truth, her excitement was only partly fake - she knew well that she had a lot to gain from the old man's demise. She had it all figured out: as soon as her husband received his inheritance, she would file for divorce and get half of everything he owned. Then, armed with a huge sum of money and a bare ring-finger, she would elope with her father-in-law's young neighbour, her lover of five years. Fifteen years of marriage had taken its toll; she was sick of her husband, sick of her daughter and sick of her life. The old man's impending death was the one thing she had to look forward to. The granddaughter continued to count out the seconds, swinging her legs back and forth. She'd been in her grandfather's house, along with her parents, since the day before last. They had decided to pay an unannounced visit that afternoon, but had found the door unlocked and the old man asleep - they had tried and failed to wake him, and so they'd decided to stay for what they presumed would be his final hours. She'd missed two days of school so far but, she had to admit, she wasn't entirely keen on missing a third. She too was looking forward to the old man's death, but not for the same reasons as her parents. She had now knowledge of his fortune, nor of her inheritance. All she knew was that she'd never seen anyone die before, and she was innocently curious as to how it would play out. She had some vague idea of what death was - she knew that people stopped moving and breathing and that they went to heaven if they were good, hell if they were bad - but no idea what it looked like. If her grandfather were to float up through the ceiling and into heaven, or if he were to sink through the bed and floor and into hell, she certainly didn't want to miss it. The neighbour had never been so uncomfortable in his life. The old man's son had invited him over the previous morning to pay his last respects, if he so wished. He had nothing to gain from the old man's death (except for the slice of the inheritance his lover would get from her divorce), and as he barely knew him, he hadn't much to lose either. In fact, he had no interest whatsoever. He'd agreed to come over simply out of politeness, as well as a desire not to raise his lover's ire. Now he regretted it; he was stuck in a tiny room with his lover's husband, daughter and father-in-law - not to mention the local priest. He had no way out, and was terrified that something in his body language would give away his affair with the woman sitting across the room. All he wanted now was for the old man to hurry up and die so he could go home, take a long shower, and perhaps have his first cigarette in over four years. He felt that if he could make it through this unbearably tense situation without incident, it would be a cigarette well-earned. The priest's head slowly drooped forward until his chin was resting lightly on his chest. He dozed off for a few seconds, then woke with a start. Blinking, he glanced around to see if anyone had noticed; no-one had. He was starting to sweat, and it wasn't just from the heat or the closeness of the air; he'd been called in by the family that morning to perform the last rites before he'd had a chance to eat breakfast - and before he'd had a chance to have his morning glass of brandy. He had hurried over anyway, thinking that this wouldn't take longer than an hour (maybe two if he were to stick around to offer his condolences), but it was now late in the afternoon and every cell in his body was beginning to cry out for a drink. As the sun sank lower in the sky, he forgot all about loving his fellow man and began instead to actively resent the old man before him who, though showing no sign of waking, was still very much alive. He decided that if this was God's way of testing his patience he would submit to the test, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy it - nor did it mean he wouldn't idly fantasise about beating the man over the head with a bible in an effort to end both of their suffering. In bed, the old man lay still. Another hour passed by, dragging its heels roughly across the thinning patience of the room's tired occupants. Nobody had said a word all day, and nobody had the energy to speak. Without warning, the old man's eyes opened. His breathing hadn't changed and he hadn't moved, so nobody noticed that he'd woken up until he threw back the sheets. They were completely lost for words as he put on his slippers and got to his feet, unhurried and without effort. They stared, open-mouthed, as he shuffled, yawning, towards the door. He didn't acknowledge them or even seem to know they were there. When he left the room, those who'd been sitting leapt to their feet as one, those who'd been standing grimaced slightly as they moved their stiff legs for the first time all day, and they all followed him down the hall. When he reached the bathroom door, he finally turned to face them. He stood staring at each of them in turn for what felt like a long time, but no-one spoke until, at last, he sighed and said, "Well?" Nobody answered. None of them could quite believe what they were seeing. He continued, "I don't know what the hell you all think you're doing here. I don't remember inviting any of you over. You just turn up out of the blue, while I'm sleeping no less, and when I wake up, here you all are, gaping at me like a bunch of slack-jawed idiots. Well, what the hell do you want?" Still, nobody answered. Laughing bitterly, he turned to his son. "I suppose you're here looking for money. Oh sure, you've never asked me for a handout before, that's not how you operate. You just complain and complain about your life until I hand you a roll of bills out of the kindness of my heart, then, when you have what you wanted from me, you think up an excuse and leave. Maybe you should waste less energy sniffing around my wallet and start focusing on your job for once. Too timid to ask for a promotion and too damn lazy to earn one, that's your problem, boy." To his daughter-in-law, he said, "I think you have the wrong house, love. Shouldn't you be over at his place?" He pointed at his neighbour, who blushed and looked away. "Don't think I haven't noticed. Granted, my son doesn't work very hard, but he works, paying for the food you eat and the fancy clothes on your back. Meanwhile, you sneak over here every morning and while away the hours in another man's bed. I never thought I'd say this about my son, but he deserves a hell of a lot better than you. "Which brings me to you," he said, glaring at his neighbour, who refused to meet his gaze. "We've never said more than two words to each other, and yet you think you can barge into my house, eat the food I've spent my life working for because apparently you can't afford to eat on social welfare, and even stand in the same room as the man whose wife you're screwing behind his back? You're either ballsy as hell or the most insolent little bastard I've ever had the misfortune to meet. I'd ask you to apologise to me and my son, but really, you owe an apology to the child you were for the poor excuse for a man you've become." Turning to the priest, he shook his head and sneered, "Ah, father. Of all people, I never would have expected to see you here. Ever since I was old enough to make up my own mind about religion, I haven't once set foot in God's house. Even if I wanted to, the likes of me probably ain't welcome. So what gave you the impression that a servant of God is welcome in my house? What, you saw me taking a well-deserved rest after decades of hard work and thought I was on my way out, did you? Did you think you'd sneak in and try to save my soul at the last second? It's not yours to save, father. You priests, you call yourselves shepherds, but you're no better than wolves set loose within the flock, preying on any sheep too stupid to run." The old man was out of breath. His daughter-in-law tried to catch the eye of her husband, who was staring intently at his shoes. The neighbour looked as though he'd like nothing more than to leave and never come back, but he wasn't sure if the old man was finished with him. The priest was fiddling agitatedly with his rosary beads. At this point, the old man noticed his grand-daughter for the first time. His expression softened. "Well, hello there sweetheart. Working hard in school?" The girl nodded, and he smiled warmly. "Attagirl. Keep it up." He looked back up at the other four, his face hardening once again into a look of absolute contempt. He glanced at each of them in turn, but not one of them could look him in the eye. Grunting with apparent satisfaction, he turned on his heel, marched into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

This post is just an introduction, the story itself will follow in a minute. Today I wrote my first piece of fiction in over a year. It's not the quality of the piece I'm proud of (because by my standards it's not great), but the fact that for the first time in too damn long, I whipped myself into action and actually did something productive with my time. Here's the fruit of my caffeine-fuelled six hours of labour. EDIT: I just realised that, although I didn't write it with objectivism in mind, the last part does have a bit of an objectivist slant at times. Oh well.

The question of the morality of charity work has never been more relevant to me than it is now. A little background first: A while ago, having finished college for the summer, I sent out dozens of job applications. To maximise my chances of employment, I applied for pretty much everything an unqualified 19-year-old could apply for, including paid fundraising work for a charity organization. Today I got a callback for an interview for tomorrow. Nobody else has called me back. So my question is this: is it moral to work for a (non-government-affiliated) charity, for pay, assuming one's primary motive is to support oneself until one finishes college and starts a career? I don't care about helping the underpriveleged and I don't care about helping the organization. I don't care how much or how little people donate (apart from the fact that the more they give, the more I earn). All I care about is the (surprisingly good) pay. But that still doesn't change the fact that I'll be in the employ of an organization dedicated to taking money from people, even if that money is willingly given. I'm not sure how to feel about this.

My choice of recreation depends on my mood and energy. For example, if I'm in a good mood and/or I'm not tired, I'll read a book/watch a movie/listen to music that could be considered art; my mind is operating at full speed (or near enough), so I can properly appreciate it. Also, it'll stimulate my mind, making it easier to focus on (and hopefully enjoy) whatever I have to do afterwards, like studying or writing. On the other hand, if I'm in a bad mood, or if I'm too tired to do anything but not tired enough to sleep, I'll put my feet up, drink a few beers and watch pro-wrestling. Is pro-wrestling art? Of course not, but it doesn't require me to think too hard about it, so it entertains me and cheers me up when I'm too tired to think. I don't think there's anything wrong with enjoying something that isn't art. In my opinion, people who reject all low-brow entertainment in an effort to be "cultured" are just pretentious. I haven't read Rand's writings on art (yet) so I don't know what she had to say on the subject, but I believe that art enlightens, entertainment entertains, and there's nothing wrong with either. EDIT: I just noticed how old this thread is... oh well.

I tried it for the first time a few months ago. I was at a party and I shared a joint with my friend's dad (which was bizarre in itself). I was already blind drunk so I may not have felt it as strongly as I would have were I sober; it just felt like a different kind of drunkenness. My hands tingled, I felt light-headed and I was suddenly inclined to talk nonsense (we discussed chess for about an hour; it felt like we were uncovering the meaning of life).

Once upon a time, I was a socialist. I see no reason not to admit it, even here. I won't bore you with my reasons for believing in socialism, mainly because it would bore me to write even half of them down, but essentially, I was taught to. I accepted it without question or protest, even though some points didn't quite ring true and (though I wasn't fully aware of it at the time) it went against all my natural instincts; I've always been a selfish person at heart, even when preaching selflessness. Since I'd grown up believing that selfishness was immoral, I concluded that I was nothing more than a hypocrite and felt secretly ashamed of myself. Then, one day, I bought a copy of The Fountainhead. I was vaguely aware of the controversy surrounding Ayn Rand and Objectivism, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I thought I knew what I was in for when I started reading - I'd be amused at best, offended at worst - but I certainly wasn't expecting to have the socialist ideals I'd held so dear torn down and exposed for the lies they were. Nor was I expecting to start thinking of my ego and my once-shameful ambition as the infinitely valuable things that they are. Since reading The Fountainhead I've read a handful of articles and essays by Ayn Rand and Leonard Peikoff, I've watched one of Rand's TV interviews and I've started reading Atlas Shrugged (a book which, I've noticed, is large enough to be used as a serviceable weapon, though I won't let that keep me from finishing it). The more I learn about Objectivism, the more I feel as if I'm on the right track for the first time in my life. In making the transition from socialist to objectivist, I kind of feel like I've recovered from a long-term illness: I'm still a little shaky on my feet, but knowing that I'll only get stronger from here feels damn good. So, with that little preface over and done with... hi there!