February 2022 – Grigori T. Cross

What follows isn’t meant to be helpful. No tension will likely be released by my words, nor any unnecessary violence prevented. Writing this is a cathartic act that may be meaningful only to me. With all that out of the way, I’ll proceed.

When the events of September 11^th transpired, I was still referring to myself as a Christian and a liberal. In my naivete, I made desperate wishes for war not to happen. So firmly in the front of my mind was the belief that we as a species had learned war was undesirable that I believed up to that point I would not see a new war in my lifetime. Had the United States gone solely after Osama bin Laden, I see no reason I would have objected. Instead, as everyone knows, we chose to invade Afghanistan and then Iraq. The announcement fractured some part of me that has since either further fractured to cope with aggravated assaults on my sensitivities or healed to allow me greater understanding of harsh realities.

If pressed on the matter, I could not tell you the moment I lost my faith in Jesus Christ. Leaving Christianity was a gradual process, a personal one. Having never been a member of any church, no formalities were involved. I suppose I grieved in my own way for the death of God, but it was quiet, contemplative, ruminative mourning, and I remember nothing of it worth mentioning except that I was in my own head most of the time and ready to let Him go. Maybe the idea of God’s nonexistence comforted me in the face of the brutalities in nature I was coming to appreciate, whether because of or despite my sensitivities.

It might be argued that the declarations of war by the junior President Bush that so affected me were the catalyst for me to build bridges in myself—to Satanism, to more conservative thinking (ironically), to more nuanced understandings of power, of violence, of justice; he may have shattered my naivete, but I would not allow him to shatter my psyche. Years passed. I studied Hobbes. I studied Nietzsche. I discovered in myself an appreciation for struggle, for conflict, for growth that I found increasingly in opposition to “peace.” I grappled with the central ideas of the communists and the fascists and tried with some success just to understand the lens through which any of the supposed extremes saw the world.

One point of contradistinction between me and most other conservative Americans is that I have always adored Russia. Despite Stalin’s recklessness and excesses, despite her ludicrous economics, the sheer wealth of her culture and her indomitable spirit is really something worthy of admiration. Rasputin’s magnificent and zany antics could only really have come from Russia. Dostoyevsky, Stravinsky, Prokofiev, Tchaikovsky, Pasternak, all brilliant exemplars of a distinctly Russian spirit. It may be the case that I feel no real animosity because I was not here to witness the Cold War, but I have only ever seen her as a friendly rival rather than a true enemy, propaganda aside.

Ukraine has been holding her own on the cultural front lately. She’s been making metalheads especially happy, giving us both Jinjer, an extreme metal band whom I was privileged to meet at the end of October last year and whose live-session video for “Pisces” has now surpassed 60 million views on YouTube, and Andriy Vasylenko, a YouTuber, podcaster, and all-around Metallica megafan who’s done an incredible job helping other Metallica fans like myself appreciate layers of the band’s music we—certainly I—didn’t know were there. These are wonderful, phenomenal people creating even greater art. If anything is worth fighting for, it’s good art.

When the United States invaded Afghanistan and Iraq, to say I was disappointed would be the understatement of the millennium. I was horrified. I never let go of my national pride, but what disgraceful moves they were to make. Now, with my friendly rival country making such similar, such ghastly moves, especially without apparent provocation, the disappointment, the horror, the nausea and ache, the despondence, it’s all here anew. The tears are fresh. What am I to do?

Make music.

Hope for the best.

Play chess with someone from Russia and win. I did that, at least.

Stay strong, Ukraine.

With care,

~ Grigori

That I am myself is what I think, above all else, is most worthy of my love.

Intelligence, I say with confidence, I have—less than some, but more than most. It has served me incalculably well. That is a lie, but who wants to pass up the opportunity to say “incalculably?” Not I. The calculations, ruminations, reflections, strategizations—that’s not a word, and you shouldn’t use it—amplifications of thought, of pattern, of motive all boil down to intelligence. It helps me see advantages where others would not. It helps me predict with startling accuracy what my enemies will do. You might reasonably object here, pointing out that what I’m describing isn’t intelligence pure and whole, but cunning! I think you’re right. While I maintain that intelligence and its displays are indeed worthy of praise, that which I find worthy of praise in myself is the application thereof, the monuments built to it.

Musical aptitude has played a part in making sure I’m still here. Indeed, as Nietzsche wrote, without music, life would be a mistake. The time I have spent writing music I knew to be of above-average quality purely for the purpose of personal artistic fulfillment tells me I’m right to suspect I would not be here without it. Sharing the rough and messy ideas for guitar riffs I’ve made with friends, whether out of insecurity or excitement, has confirmed that I know enough theory and have a good enough ear for melody to write good music and that my friends are supportive, or, of course, revealed that my friends are liars who don’t want to hurt my feelings. Fortunately, my intelligence says it’s the former. In any case, I was not a prodigy. Musical aptitude grew in me as I grew.

Need I be unnecessarily verbose and list off numerous other virtues I possess? No, that sentence will do.

Intelligence is wonderful to have, and critical thinking is key to sharpening it. Aptitude, be it musical, literary, or in any other way artistic, is unusual and worthy of much praise and love, but is it not conceivable that it could exist in an individual who is not sensitive to art’s many wonders and thus fails to appreciate such creative endeavors on anything other than a theoretical level? No, I much prefer to be who I am, even with my occasional bouts of self-loathing that reveal themselves to be nothing more than a way for me to remind myself of who I want already to have become. I could not have become who I am now without my sensitivities, without my struggles, without having overcome all my former selves, without the instincts in my body informing my decisions.

I, Grigori, Great Ego, Guardian Fallen Angel, Creative Extraordinaire, love most about myself that I am who I am.

With care,

~ Grigori