“I cannot stress how important an independent mind in a person is to me. I like the dreamers, the idealists, and the impractical. I take great joy in exploring the depths of someone’s intelligence and imagination. I enjoy watching someone think, for it is only then that I do not feel so utterly alone.”

Jayel Aheram

I have a profile on every major online social network (and on little-known ones as well) that exist. My space is on MySpace, my face is on Facebook, and my work history is linked in LinkedIn. I am live on Livejournal, a furry in Fur Affinity, and a tweeter on Twitter. I am a Flickr addict, a Stickam user, and a Digger of articles. In the online medium, I am a social media maven. I am a public figure by choice. I am always connected; always online. At last count, I am a member of at least eighteen different social networks. And those are just the ones I actively track.

Offline, of course, my network of friends and acquaintances is far smaller and far more personal. I am able to count in both hands, the number of people I choose to associate with in my spare time (not counting family, naturally). Either I gravitate towards those types of people or them to me, but more often than not, it is those who are unashamedly different or fiercely independent or ambitious that I find myself being around. I like people who are themselves, people who are not preoccupied with other people’s perception of them, people who not only think, but think for themselves. I cannot stress how important an independent mind in a person is to me. I like the dreamers, the idealists, and the impractical. I take great joy in exploring the depths of someone’s intelligence and imagination. I enjoy watching someone think, for it is only then that I do not feel so utterly alone. Descartes once claimed that “I think, therefore I am.” I claim that “They think, therefore they are.”

When I was just a young kid in school, I was blessed (or cursed, depending on your viewpoint) with a vibrant and outgoing personality as well as the fearlessness of being the weird kid in school. I was the kid the Catholic schoolteachers had to ban from the library because I was reading too much and asking too many uncomfortable questions about religion. I was the kid that needed to be punished for singing songs outside in the rain during class. I was the kid in my public high school that gave to and received hugs from girl friend to the ire of their boyfriends. I was the kid that ran around with a pair of Pikachu ears on his head and screamed, “Pika!” Though, I was not quite popular (infamous would be a more fitting term), I was well-liked by my fellow students.

I was neither so wise nor so fickle in my choice of company in my younger years. In fact, when I was in high school, I hang out with a quite a large group: my English honors class. From the time I was freshman until I left before my senior year, the people that made up my English honors class remain relatively unchanged. And oh, what a group it was! Mostly females (I was one of six boys in a class of thirty), we represented most of the school’s civic life. We made up the leadership of all the major clubs on campus, from student government, to homecoming council, to the volunteer organization, and even the Japanese club. I like most of them for their ambitions, sometimes for their smarts, but mostly because they were for the most part independent thinkers. I remember a teacher saying one time to us, “You are the loudest class I have and I sometimes wonder why. But then I figured it out: you all have something to say.” But, being high school, there are occasions when some exhibited herd mentality. And I resented it deeply.

The rules of etiquette that were followed were as contrived as it was silly.

Herd mentality was even worse in the online networks I logged on to after school day after day. Excite’s Virtual Places was the online version of my high school with none of the learning and all of the drama and more. It even had a social hierarchy that mirrors that of high school (though, being a network on the relatively new World Wide Web, it was in favor of the computer geeks, where the hackers are the rock stars). There were the speed-fighters who often wore Dragon Ball Z avatars. Like their high school jock counterparts, they moved in groups, hyper-masculine, and just as dumb. There were the role-players whose only roleplaying setting seemed to be the tavern. I, myself, hang out with the anime aficionados. The rules of etiquette that were followed were as contrived as it was silly. For one thing, the quality of your avatar and what anime you wore determined your status within this group. (a side note: I learned much about graphics design and composition from cropping anime pictures for avatars). It was considered faux-pas to wear the same avatar as another person. It was considered a crime to steal a personally tagged one.

Despite the inanity of Virtual Places, I was able to create strong relationships with people that last to this day long after Virtual Places shut down. I met my best friend Devin there as well as others I am still in contact with. Nothing has replaced Virtual Places in my life (though, Flickr + Photophlow make very good candidates) with its soap-opera drama and cry-fests. We were young then, just coming of age, and barely reaching adulthood. We were coming to terms on who we are, striving to forge an identity that is genuine to whom really we were. We are now older, hopefully wiser, and still message each other on Facebook.

So, it turns out
That I will not be there.
So, it turns out
So, it turns out
That life is not so fair.

Photography by Jayel Aheram.

If ever a future biographer decides to chronicle my life, he will find no source as rich as the many notebooks I have filled with doodles, to-do lists, opinions, and various other things that my mind happens upon. As of this writing, I own about twelve different notebooks of varying sizes half-filled or completely filled with writing. It is an impressive collection of volumes ranging from a notebook dedicated to mere doodles (oh, how I love my Prisma Markers), one with various tidbits of applicable and not-so applicable Marine Corps knowledge, a private journal that is updated once every four months, a notebook filled with made-up words complete with their own etymology, and a much-abused utility notebook that both serves as a daily planner, to-do list, and is home to many drafts of aborted blog posts. With the exception of my utility notebook which always within arm’s reach, these notebooks have a permanent home in my shelf, readily available for when I am suddenly stricken with inspiration.

The utility notebook, while lacking in the focus enjoyed by the other subject-specific notebooks, is a constant a companion to me. It is the medium upon which many of my writing ideas are formulated. They usually begin with a simple concept that sometimes becomes the title of the work. There are many blog postings in this blog that can trace their beginnings in the utility notebook. It is an essential link in my creative workflow, from the formulation of an idea, to drafting and expanding upon it, and then finally publishing.

Photography by Jayel Aheram.

As I sat through yet another pre-deployment brief about Escalation of Force procedures and Rules of Engagement, I was reminded of a particular policy in force in Iraq of allowing Iraqi nationals to own and keep only a single weapon per household. At the face of it, it seems like a reasonable policy. The motivation behind it was to limit the availability of weapons that can be used against coalition forces and innocent Iraqis. The argument for it, however, does not hold up to the most basic of challenges.

If one of the goals of the coalition forces in Iraq is to establish security in that country while at the same expecting more of the Iraqis to take a greater role in their own security, why then are we depriving these same Iraqis the very means which they can protect themselves? How can we reasonably expect Iraqis, who are often living in extended households, to protect themselves and their numerous family members from a gang of armed terrorists or criminals with nothing more than a single AK-47? It is not a wonder they are not taking a greater part in their own security when there is a clear disincentive to do so.

As a member of the armed services, I am faced every day with challenges of leadership. From both side of it: as a follower and as a leader. To be able to lead, one first needs to learn how to follow. But does a good follower necessarily mean a good leader? What are the traits of a good leader? The question becomes, actually, what is leadership?

What must I do as a leader in order to: accomplish the mission at hand and ensure the welfare of my men? And to me, ensuring the welfare of my men not only involves making sure their health and safety is ensured, but also to maintain or improve their level of morale. Oftentimes, morale takes a backseat in many leadership decisions to the detriment of the unit as a whole. Accomplishing the task is well and good, but to do so in the expense of your men’s morale and well-being, I think, is a bit like taking a step forward and then two steps back. What have you really accomplished?

It is a bit difficult to convince others that leadership through intimidation is not leadership at all, especially In a military institution where most learned “leadership” from a screaming drill instructor. Not only intimidation and fostering of a fearful atmosphere, but also belittling of subordinates. I am of mind that there is never a reason to belittle and demean your subordinates, no matter how big of a mistake they have made. I have yet to hear a convincing argument for the humiliation and the destruction of your subordinate’s self-worth as a legitimate tool to facilitate obedience and competence from them.

Speaking of mistakes, one of the fallacies of leadership (or lack thereof) is the expectation that your subordinates should be perfect! Expect as much from your subordinate as you would yourself! Never hold them to a higher standard than you would yourself! It is hypocrisy to do so otherwise. One of the things that have frustrated me is the lack of perspective in many of my colleagues’ when they deal with “fuck ups.” They seem incapable of making a distinction between deficiencies in character and mere incompetence. Not every “mistake” should be punished. Deficiencies in character are deserving of punishment. If the subordinate is lazy, belligerent, or uncooperative, then it is the duty of his superior to amend this deficiency in character via punishment as long as the punishment does not involve the humiliation or belittlement of the subordinate. Mere incompetence on the other hand cannot be amended by punishment. What would be the purpose of the punishment? Does it facilitate learning? It will not! Incompetence can only be neutralized by teaching.

Holding your subordinates to a higher standard than yourself is hypocrisy and an example of bad leadership. It is my belief that a leader must be tolerant of mistakes made by his subordinates. How else will they have the opportunity to learn if not from their mistakes? Intolerance of mistakes is a sure-fire way to destroy what little incentive your subordinates might have in the first place. If every mistake, even honest ones that stem from incompetence, is dealt with harshly, then what is the incentive for your subordinates to take those risks? Instead of mastering their job via trial and error, all you would end up with are a lot of risk-averse subordinates that are competent in the limited things they do and willing to try, but nothing else.

The Dragonmage Aza’ardon’s beginnings are now lost to the ages, but his treacherous hand in the spectacular fall of the Tower and his eventual transformation to the much-feared Dread Overlord is well-documented. His story (that is, the one that is known) begins in the desert city of Thanos, where the High Mages rule.

The High Mages are the revered leaders of an elite group of sorcerers and mages known collectively as “The Tower.” [The name is derived from their home and center of learning, a massive ivory tower also known as “The Tower.”] The Dragonmage Aza’ardon appeared at the doorsteps of the Tower, seeking refuge and the opportunity to learn the secrets of Tower. The High Mages, who consider themselves to be well-versed in dragonlore, thought it auspicious that one of dragonkind humbled himself before them and came to them in its time of need. They also considered it to be a validation of the greatness of their organization. The Tower took the Dragonmage in and welcomed him among its ranks. But as the saying goes, no good deed ever goes unpunished.

Aza’ardon, under the personal tutelage of the High Mages, quickly became one of the most skilled users that ever attempted to wield the might of the special brand of magic the Tower possesses. Under the guidance of the High Mages, Aza’ardon’s skill in Tower Magic became formidable. In return for their guidance, the Dragonmage became the Tower’s fiercest champion and enforcer of its rule. Being well-versed in dragon lore, the High Mages know that dragonkind’s potential in magic is limitless and so taught Aza’ardon everything they knew. From basic cantrips to long-held secrets of the Tower. It was the consensus among the High Mages that one day Aza’ardon would someday join their ranks. But not all are enthusiastic to the prospect. A few of the High Mages are troubled by Aza’ardon and his magic. In all external appearances Aza’ardon’s magic, they say, looks that to be of the Tower, but one whose power is driven by something completely foreign. The mages of the Tower all derive their power from a specific magical thread they all know as “Tower Magic,” a similarity that Aza’ardon does not seem to share. Tainted, some say. One used the word “corrupted.”

This was originally an improv poem written in Voodoo Chat’s Cafe El Nuit. But I decided it was a good concept for a poem so I decided to work on it.

Last Bastion of Humanity

The lady clothed
In nothing but
The many lies
Fallible men uttered.

She looks on
Upon the wreckage
Of fragile hope
And shattered dreams.

A lone figure
On tower high
In the last
Bastion of Humanity.

The last woman’s
Ebony hair tussled
By the wind
Of Armageddon’s storm.

The world shuddered
From many betrayals
And the energy
Of atom split.

Fiery wrath consumed
All but two
In the last Bastion of Humanity.

For amid chaos
Another shall survive.
One so virile,
The last man.

The lady clothed
In many lies
Finally shed these
Robes of deception.

So be it
Two become one
In the last
Bastion of Humanity.

“It is creativity for its sake.”

Jayel Aheram

Every so often, someone would ask me why I listed creativist as my occupation in my many profiles. I would answer that a creativist is someone who follows the ideal of Creativism. More often than not, derision would follow. I would be accused of making up the word, which is not entirely false. I probably did made up the word and its corresponding definition. At least, what Creativism and what a creativist means to me.

It started a year ago when I was editing my profile on Flickr. It was asking for my occupation and instead of writing down what I do for a living, I felt compelled to write down what it is that I do to occupy my time. And I needed to find a single word to describe what it is I do. I cannot call myself a mere photographer, because photography for me is just a hobby, not the all-encompassing thing like it is for some people. I could call myself a writer, for a I write, a lot. I write poetry, I write stories, I bloviate, I opine, I philosophize, and I write rambling things that will not make sense to all but me. I write in EditPad, in Notepad, in a real notepad, in the many notebooks I have, scrap pieces of paper, sometimes on napkins, on myself! I am constantly doodling things down. Notes, ideas, quotes, anything! Words fill my day. However, it is not just what I do. I suppose I could call myself an artist, but I do not consider the things I create as art. Some of them turn out as art, but I do not start a work with the intention of it being art. And it will not describe everything that I do.

I am a drawer, a photographer, a painter, a sketcher, a chatter, a blogger, a philosopher, a web designer, a coder, a gamer, a linguist, a helper, a traveler, a volunteer, a copyfighter, an advocate, a warrior, a leader, a lover, a brother, a poet, a son, a friend, a best friend, and a man of the world. I need something to describe all of that I am. I came upon on it. I create art. I create drawings. I create writing. I create relationships. I create love. I create. That is what I do. I make tangible the creative forces within me. I bring it to life and light and knowledge. I rescue it from the suffocating darkness of the abyss of my subconscious. It is unleashed, unshackled, made free. Ideas are not meant to belong to one person and once it is given birth to, it belongs to the world. Am I an idealist? An ideaist? A creatist? A creationist? Nay! I said to myself. I am a creativist!

It is creation without pretension, intention, or expectation.

It was the start of Creativism, an ideal in search of a definition. I thought about it, wondered what it means. I was consumed by it. There were implications that I did not yet understand. Creativism is not artistry, I knew that for sure. But at the same time, I also knew that artistry can be a product of a creativist. And simply someone creating something does not mean that someone is a creativist. A politician creates speeches meant to incite. An author creates fiction meant to be sold. An artist creates art meant to inspire (or to be sold). An advertiser creates advertising to advertise. An architect designs a building to be used. And then it came to me: I am creative for creativity’s sake. That is what it is. To pursue art, pursue architecture, pursue writing, for creativity’s sake. I draw to depict. I write to write. I take photographs to take it. I design for the sake of making tangible the design.

What then is Creativism? The simplest definition would be is that it is creation without pretension, intention, or expectation. It is creativity for its sake. There are no allegories to be found or hidden agendas. The agenda is the creation itself. It does not suffer from subtlety or the sublime. It is neither deep nor shallow. It is not political. Inspiration and messages drawn from the works are unintended. They are the happy accidents.

A poem about a certain dracolich necromancer whose egotism is only matched by his penchant for cruelty. He is the Dread Overlord of Zebedee, a very addicting text-based roleplaying game (or MUD).

The Dread Overlord

The lumbering draconian:
Monolith of terror,
Avatar of despair.
The tormented air
Writhes in dread
At his malevolence.

His ruined form
Desecration of life,
Of the fertile.
Mocking parody of
Dionysus and Aphrodite’s
Virile son divine.

A hellish prison;
A rigid erection
Of tortured flesh.
The putrid stench
Of death’s decay
Like malignant shroud.

He stands tall,
Arrogant in his
Maleficence and depravity.
Defiant, he shouts:
“Now! Be undone
You wretched peons!

You inconsequential filth!
Abandon hope and
Be torn asunder
By the horror,
The roiling despair,
My dreadful miasma!

Be devoured by
My fury’s crescendo;
Terrible and mighty!
Be plunged into
The eternal void;
This inevitable oblivion.

Let be unleashed
The howling scythes
Of my wrath!
I, Dread Overlord,
Am Despair Personified,
And Fear Incarnate!”

The LOON cow. An entity whose body is made up of the letters L, O, O, and N. It goes “LOOOOOON” instead of mooing.

Right from the get-go, I knew that I was dreaming. For one thing, my sister was taller than me in it. She has not towered over me for nearly a decade. The colorful pastel world was a dead give-away as well. And I knew I was really dreaming when I encountered the LOON cow. And it was not out of place, either! The LOON cow (which looned instead of mooed) was joined by a flock of C-birds, blue birds shaped like the letter C and chirped “C c c c c c!” Really obese caterpillars that mewed and shoot deadly spines while still looking cute and adorable. It was a surreal all right.

My dreams are not always surreal though and I wish they were. They give me something to draw and talk about. But often my dreams (the one I remember) are the terrifying sorts. One time, I went through a phase of having ultra-vivid dreams every night for nearly two weeks. And while the dreams would be different from each other, the theme and the general feeling is always the same: I always end up murdering a group of people in cold-blood and then being hunted like prey. And in all of these dreams, there is always a raven somewhere playing a vital part in the story. As for the emotions in all these dreams, a mix of rage and sheer terror.

One of my dreams during those nights started out as my being enrolled in a school of magic. Something happened and the students mutinied against the teachers of that institution. I was designated as their killer and I went into a rampage, using anything I can, including magic, to inflict death upon the teachers. However, somewhere along the way I captured three “teachers” in a cage. Instead of killing them, I kept them alive. And the two teachers pleaded for me to let them go. The third one could not speak, as it was a raven. All I knew is that it was the most powerful of the three and just stared at me, watching me. I finally relented and let them go. However, this action turned all the students of the institution against me. I had to run.

In the second part of my dream, I had somehow disguised myself as a tomboyish 11-year old girl with dorky glasses. I was living with my black grandmother (I am not black). I also had a big fluffy white dog (a she) who follows me around. The students apparently had sent two assassins to go after me and they have managed to find me. I dodged them and hid in the bushes, where my dog laid on top of me to protect me. However, the assassins went into the house and I knew my grandmother is in danger. I entered the house and into the bathroom, where I find my black grandmother and both of the assassins lying naked in the bathtub. All three of them. One of the assassins had a gun and I told him “Guns do not work in water, stupid.” and then I grabbed his gun and shot to death both of the assassins (I guess they do work in water!). Afterward, I had my black grandmother dye her white hair with black hair dye as a disguise and my dog. Something happened and she told me something, but it made sense apparently as I went after the students for a final showdown.

Turning into an 11-year old girl living with her black grandmother is just plain bizarre. Maybe I have some subconscious desire to be mothered by an other-worldly colored woman that espouses wisdom. Who knows? Another thing that worries me is the appearance of the raven (or crow) in my dream. It probably does not mean anything, but it worries me that it always plays a significant part in my dreams. I saved it in one of my dreams, in another it gave me a list of instructions, and while in another I used it as a courier to carry a message for me. What does it mean? What does it want?! IS IT TRYING TO SAY, “NEVER MORE!”

But the dream that wins the title as the most terrifying dream is the one about the great wave. Werewolves, murderers, and skeletal zombies I have seen in my dreams, yet nothing is more terrifying and recurring as often as the dream of that great wave. It always begins with me playing by the edge of a calm water. But then something happens and I will look into the vast expanse of the ocean. All I will see is darkness and sense danger churning from beneath its inky depths. I will try to run, but I will struggle to climb up a steep sand bank. I will slide backwards, back to the increasingly turbulent waters and danger. And then finally I am forced to face it. To face a great wall of water boring towards me. A great wave to overwhelm me. I will then wake up with my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest.