We've been through a lot since, not all of it pleasant. But I'm still in love, and I’m gonna show it. It won’t take much to find passion again. I think we both deserve it.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XXXII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Truck Love
We've been through a lot since, not all of it pleasant. But I'm still in love, and I’m gonna show it. It won’t take much to find passion again. I think we both deserve it.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XXXII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Reconciliation
Well, so now it seems I'm the only one who hasn't had my say.
It's not because I haven't been paying attention. When all this (recent) business started, I delayed reaction, and asked others to delay reaction, because I wasn't sure what the right course of action was, or if any action was necessary at all. I was temporarily content to maintain my silence.
In the meantime, I was (justly) accused of not speaking up for the greater good, not making a strong position well known. This wasn't really surprising to me. Don't think I didn't feel a little wimpy because of my inaction. However, I know myself, and I know that when I respond immediately to a tender situation, especially in writing, I usually get myself in trouble because I haven't allowed myself to absorb all the facts and emotions, and my response is usually misunderstood because I couldn't grasp the context enough to present it well to my audience(s). This situation was certainly no exception, and so rather than risk being taken out of context, and thereby accused of something much more egregious than not speaking up, I chose instead to endure the accusation. The actions of others that followed were not entirely unexpected.
One problem here is that I am not understood well enough to be trusted to do what's right. You see, it isn't that my intentions aren't good, or that my priorities aren't in order. I do know what's right, and for the first time since this all began, I finally understand why. There's a reason I'm here; there are important things for me to do. It's no surprise to anyone that I'm ill-equipped for these roles, but what might be is that I desire more than anything to fulfill them well. I've been called to do something important, and even though I've proven over and over that I'm incapable of it, that job is still in my lap. I'm still expected to do it, and if the one I'll answer to when I ultimately succeed or fail can have this much patience with me, maybe I can find it in myself to become capable after all. I deserve another shot at it, and even if I've squandered the patience and trust of those around me, I am going to take that shot. To put a humorous spin on it all, Steve Martin put it best in "The Jerk" when he said "I have a special purpose!" Well hey folks, so do I.
To be fair to my doubters, this isn't the first time I've tried to change. It's true that much of what I've said has been said before. To be fair to myself, it is the first time I've tried changing my approach to change, if that makes any sense. My entire adult life, I've made some very bad decisions, and I have 20+ years of legitimate reasons why, but none of them qualify as excuses any more. Changing how I operate hasn't been easy, and it hasn't taken hold because I've been doing it for the wrong reasons. Now I think I have the key. This doesn't mean I won't have trouble, and it doesn't mean I don't foresee problems in fulfilling this purpose, and it sure doesn't mean I won't occasionally fail. I have a lot of details to work out, and I'm going to need a lot of help, but for once I think I've found the team that will pull me through.
So listen here. I am paying attention. I want my position to be known. It just seems I needed more time to speak it than others. Let me state it now then, for the record: Any and all who wish me well, if they are to support my success, should honor their place as has been agreed and forewritten. They should respect the sanctity of my heart, my home, and my family. We all have some role to play in this and I, for one, am ready to move on and start figuring out how to play mine. Finally, regardless of how others may feel, I will not speak or write words intended to harm or hurt anyone. There have been more than enough of both from all sides and it's time for something greater than a tenuous ceasefire. We need to learn to coexist peacefully, even if we intend to steer clear of each other, before any of us can begin to heal, let alone prosper. I will pray for this outcome, and I invite you all to do the same.
SCWA
It's not because I haven't been paying attention. When all this (recent) business started, I delayed reaction, and asked others to delay reaction, because I wasn't sure what the right course of action was, or if any action was necessary at all. I was temporarily content to maintain my silence.
In the meantime, I was (justly) accused of not speaking up for the greater good, not making a strong position well known. This wasn't really surprising to me. Don't think I didn't feel a little wimpy because of my inaction. However, I know myself, and I know that when I respond immediately to a tender situation, especially in writing, I usually get myself in trouble because I haven't allowed myself to absorb all the facts and emotions, and my response is usually misunderstood because I couldn't grasp the context enough to present it well to my audience(s). This situation was certainly no exception, and so rather than risk being taken out of context, and thereby accused of something much more egregious than not speaking up, I chose instead to endure the accusation. The actions of others that followed were not entirely unexpected.
One problem here is that I am not understood well enough to be trusted to do what's right. You see, it isn't that my intentions aren't good, or that my priorities aren't in order. I do know what's right, and for the first time since this all began, I finally understand why. There's a reason I'm here; there are important things for me to do. It's no surprise to anyone that I'm ill-equipped for these roles, but what might be is that I desire more than anything to fulfill them well. I've been called to do something important, and even though I've proven over and over that I'm incapable of it, that job is still in my lap. I'm still expected to do it, and if the one I'll answer to when I ultimately succeed or fail can have this much patience with me, maybe I can find it in myself to become capable after all. I deserve another shot at it, and even if I've squandered the patience and trust of those around me, I am going to take that shot. To put a humorous spin on it all, Steve Martin put it best in "The Jerk" when he said "I have a special purpose!" Well hey folks, so do I.
To be fair to my doubters, this isn't the first time I've tried to change. It's true that much of what I've said has been said before. To be fair to myself, it is the first time I've tried changing my approach to change, if that makes any sense. My entire adult life, I've made some very bad decisions, and I have 20+ years of legitimate reasons why, but none of them qualify as excuses any more. Changing how I operate hasn't been easy, and it hasn't taken hold because I've been doing it for the wrong reasons. Now I think I have the key. This doesn't mean I won't have trouble, and it doesn't mean I don't foresee problems in fulfilling this purpose, and it sure doesn't mean I won't occasionally fail. I have a lot of details to work out, and I'm going to need a lot of help, but for once I think I've found the team that will pull me through.
So listen here. I am paying attention. I want my position to be known. It just seems I needed more time to speak it than others. Let me state it now then, for the record: Any and all who wish me well, if they are to support my success, should honor their place as has been agreed and forewritten. They should respect the sanctity of my heart, my home, and my family. We all have some role to play in this and I, for one, am ready to move on and start figuring out how to play mine. Finally, regardless of how others may feel, I will not speak or write words intended to harm or hurt anyone. There have been more than enough of both from all sides and it's time for something greater than a tenuous ceasefire. We need to learn to coexist peacefully, even if we intend to steer clear of each other, before any of us can begin to heal, let alone prosper. I will pray for this outcome, and I invite you all to do the same.
SCWA
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Job Opening
Mother Nature wishes to fill a position recently vacated in the Department of Seasonal Services, Winter Office, for the southeast Michigan region. Job duties include facilitating snowfall, maintaining sledding conditions, and ensuring ice thickness suitable for fishing between the months of November and February. Ideal candidate will be proficient with precipitation and judicious with extremes.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Lantern
I am a light, and I am pure, because I was created that way. I am brighter than any earthly thing any mortal being has ever seen.
I shine behind lenses fitted crudely about an awkward housing. There never used to be lenses, but their creation was a necessary part of Becoming. They are crafted from shards of others' lenses which have broken, handed to me by broken people so that I may construct my own, and as mine break along their various faults, so shall I hand out shards to those whose lives I am shaping. The housing is not awkward by definition; it has become so shaped by the many hands that have warped it throughout my years. It does not define me--it is merely a vessel--but it becomes the perception of who I am, both because that is part of its purpose, and because others who see me have only their own lenses through which to view me.
My light falls onto that background which is nearest at hand, into which I've carried myself, sometimes by folly. As my lenses shift, and the backgrounds change, those images which are created will become what others will come to define me by. And, though limited, my choice of lenses through which to shine, and screens on which to project, will become what others call my character.
(work in progress)
I shine behind lenses fitted crudely about an awkward housing. There never used to be lenses, but their creation was a necessary part of Becoming. They are crafted from shards of others' lenses which have broken, handed to me by broken people so that I may construct my own, and as mine break along their various faults, so shall I hand out shards to those whose lives I am shaping. The housing is not awkward by definition; it has become so shaped by the many hands that have warped it throughout my years. It does not define me--it is merely a vessel--but it becomes the perception of who I am, both because that is part of its purpose, and because others who see me have only their own lenses through which to view me.
My light falls onto that background which is nearest at hand, into which I've carried myself, sometimes by folly. As my lenses shift, and the backgrounds change, those images which are created will become what others will come to define me by. And, though limited, my choice of lenses through which to shine, and screens on which to project, will become what others call my character.
(work in progress)
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
ET Go Home
- "There are times in the life when the soul says, 'ET, go home, I don't like it here, it's a terrible squalor nasty place, and I wanna go back to Heaven...I wanna go back to the Garden of Eden, and merge back into the Whole, and God's eternal grace.' But I can only have that I if I die, but I wanna live, so I choose not to do that. At that point we begin to look for something in this world of reality to take the place of connecting with GOD."
I've allowed this statement to rattle around in my head ever since, weighing its validity from time to time, and I've never found cause to reject it. In fact, I've found it's the key to understanding many of my behaviours and some of the situations I've found myself in.
Of course, this statement is based on the assumption that a body has our soul 'installed' at some point during conception. A reiki practitioner once said to me, "Your body is not who you are; it's just a vehicle." I remember those words very clearly, and when I heard the ET statement, this experience came rushing at me like one of those movie epiphanies that ends with the camera focused only on the character's eyes, leaving me a little dumbstruck.
The ET statement is also based on the idea that there is a separation between the spiritual world and the physical world, and that we as human beings have the unique capacity to inhabit both simultaneously. This is something C.S. Lewis first introduced me to while reading The Screwtape Letters. Unfortunately, our modern existence revolves mostly (completely, in most people's cases) around pursuits of worldly gains, and not entirely because we have a choice. Screwtape writes that inhabiting both worlds comes at a cost: we lose our understanding of the spiritual world. That doesn't mean we shouldn't try, though. It's true that I could choose to focus solely on tuning my spiritual radio back to the Divine Channel, but I've grown up in a life that requires some degree of material success to provide for and maintain the other gifts I've been given from God: notably this body here that sits typing, nourishment enough to keep it healthy, the means to become and remain employed, a warm bed to sleep in at night, and the people who love me. Ironic, I dare say, but I'm sure it's all just part of the Plan. Not knowing, and having no control anyway, makes faith so much easier.
A spiritual man (one of the few I've ever really trusted) once told me he believes babies have memories of God when they're born, which totally jives with the concept of soul 'installation.' Eventually, of course, these memories fade, due both to the enormous worldly experiences we have growing up, and also to the teachings of the people surrounding us who have become 'seasoned' (wearied) and therefore willing (though unknowing) agents of Pantheon of Worldly Pursuits. Even when a human being grows up knowing God, that knowledge is always subject to the interpretation of those human beings who raise him or her, which, in my experience, always seems to be some self-interested perversion of true faith based on exclusion of those who disagree or believe differently, or don't match some description of the thing one finds oneself to already be. Zappa was right when he said we are dumb all over.
It's a terrible, messed up world we live and grow up in, but we're not completely hopeless. The ET statement reminds us that we all have the secret decoder ring to make sense of it all: our soul, and that if we listen, we will have the knowledge we need to make it through. I don't just mean survival; I'm talking about actually thriving in both the physical and spiritual worlds. We were all put here for a reason and given a unique Gift with which we were intended to make the world a better place. As I teach my children, it is up to each one of us to discover what that gift is, develop it, and then make good on our end of the bargain by using it for the betterment of the world (and people) around us.
Easier said then done, I know...but I'm trying. Even if I hadn't spent years developing this philosophy, there's almost no chance I (or anyone) would get it right on the first attempt. I've held many jobs and had many successes and failures, all of which only contributed to my understanding of the whole ordeal. We are only blind, feeling our way around a huge room to find the thing that feels just right, occasionally bumping into others who are blind, sometimes believing we've found what we were looking for, sometimes giving up and settling down wherever it was we stopped searching last. Sometimes we get up from a place we've been resting and continue the search, much to the anger or disappointment of those around us.
And all of that is okay. I don't believe we are meant to know right away what our intended role is, and I also believe if we don't get it right this time around, we're given another chance, and in between times we do get to go back to where we came from, and have a moment of rest with our creator before we're dumped back into the maelstrom.
There will be no disclaimer with this post. Even if I was formally educated in theology or philosophy or psychology, I don't think any of these professional fields includes what I think I've learned in my brief time exploring my own space in both the physical and spritual worlds. I don't claim to know what works for others, only what has been working for me, and I'm not interested in anyone's judgment of that. If I'm completely off the mark, so be it, but even if I'm driving myself off a cliff, I know I'm at least providing for a few very important people along the way, raising them up with love, having fun and enjoying each other's company, and encouraging them to develop their minds, thereby enabling them to ask those same questions of themselves that led me to my own conclusions. Even if I'm wrong, maybe they'll get something a little more right, and that will make it all worth the struggle.
SCWA
Thursday, January 19, 2012
No Love For Narnia
(alternate title: I Am A Very Bad Man)
I'm ashamed to admit it, but...
I just can't find love for the Chronicles of Narnia.
I know--just stone me. As literature goes, this series is supposed to be universal, loved by young and old, generation after generation. As authors go, C.S. Lewis is supposed to be captivating, inspiring wonder and excitement in the deepest recesses of the reader's mind. As epic stories go, the Narnia series is arguably a modern Aeneid, missing only a visit to the Underworld (and possibly a tragic father/son power struggle). And I'm sorry. But I just can't get there. Believe me, I've tried.
I made it through The Magician's Nephew just fine. I started The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe only to get shut down by the kids with Lucy crying, "Mr. Tumnus! Mr. Tumnus!" I remember the very moment I read that line, feeling very goofy, completely unable to imitate what I'm sure Lewis meant to portray as a frightening and terrible moment. But the kids weren't having it. They'd given me twenty minutes of their bedtime ritual, and they were done. They politely requested I read something else.
I was genuinely aghast. Really, I knew *I* wasn't getting into it, but these little darlings were supposed to have been enchanted. Wasn't everybody when they first broke into this novel? I thought by that point they were supposed to be hanging on every word, knowing in their hearts that Mr. Tumnus, the tragic pawn of the White Witch's trap, had been caught and surely punished, but hoping with their last breath that he would somehow escape his inevitable fate. But they weren't. We opted for Brave Potatoes instead.
Eventually I finished the book out of principle, but it took me several weeks. I even started the Horse one after, but when the evil guy bargaining for the kid turned out to be everything he'd been presented as originally, with nothing either sincere or sinister beneath the surface waiting to be revealed at the last minute, I just gave up hope. I finished the chapter and re-shelved the book.
Now I'm trying again, this time working in the order in which the novels were written in an attempt to revive interest. Having Read Wardrobe, I'm now digging into Prince Caspian. I wasn't worried about missing anything in the long years between, because I made absolutely no emotional investment in the former. What I've found so far is what I remember experiencing before: a really good story told in a flat, linear, single-layered monotone. And every time Peter says, "By Jove!" I almost want to puke. The greatest value I can find overall are the colorful and wonderful passing descriptions Lewis makes of characters and landscapes, but he never stops telling the facts of the story long enough to let me, as a reader, enjoy the mental image he's just flashed before me before it's snatched away.
I don't know what my problem is. I am sure I'm missing something. I do, of course, realize that the story as a whole, in particular Wardrobe, is a Christian allegory. I also know that Lewis was a dear and respected friend of my very most favorite, J.R.R. Tolkien. And the people in my life who love books and stories and fantasy and literature love The Chronicles of Narnia. I've also read one of Lewis's earlier books, The Screwtape Letters, and I couldn't put it down. Not understanding the passion for this series is like stepping out of the theater for Snowcaps just as the key moment in the movie is about to occur. Everybody else is in awe by the time you get back, but it's simply too late for you.
Please, somebody help me. I want to find beauty and wonder in this series. I want to find what others say they love. I want these books to change me the way other classics have, but I guess I keep missing the mark. If anyone can offer some pointers, I'd really appreciate it. Don't worry though, I'm not giving up this time. I intend to finish Prince Caspian and The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. And then I'll watch the movies. But after that, all bets are off.
I'm so sorry, Clive. You know, it could be worse: I absolutely hated Voltaire, and I didn't even feel bad about it.
I'm ashamed to admit it, but...
I just can't find love for the Chronicles of Narnia.
I know--just stone me. As literature goes, this series is supposed to be universal, loved by young and old, generation after generation. As authors go, C.S. Lewis is supposed to be captivating, inspiring wonder and excitement in the deepest recesses of the reader's mind. As epic stories go, the Narnia series is arguably a modern Aeneid, missing only a visit to the Underworld (and possibly a tragic father/son power struggle). And I'm sorry. But I just can't get there. Believe me, I've tried.
I made it through The Magician's Nephew just fine. I started The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe only to get shut down by the kids with Lucy crying, "Mr. Tumnus! Mr. Tumnus!" I remember the very moment I read that line, feeling very goofy, completely unable to imitate what I'm sure Lewis meant to portray as a frightening and terrible moment. But the kids weren't having it. They'd given me twenty minutes of their bedtime ritual, and they were done. They politely requested I read something else.
I was genuinely aghast. Really, I knew *I* wasn't getting into it, but these little darlings were supposed to have been enchanted. Wasn't everybody when they first broke into this novel? I thought by that point they were supposed to be hanging on every word, knowing in their hearts that Mr. Tumnus, the tragic pawn of the White Witch's trap, had been caught and surely punished, but hoping with their last breath that he would somehow escape his inevitable fate. But they weren't. We opted for Brave Potatoes instead.
Eventually I finished the book out of principle, but it took me several weeks. I even started the Horse one after, but when the evil guy bargaining for the kid turned out to be everything he'd been presented as originally, with nothing either sincere or sinister beneath the surface waiting to be revealed at the last minute, I just gave up hope. I finished the chapter and re-shelved the book.
Now I'm trying again, this time working in the order in which the novels were written in an attempt to revive interest. Having Read Wardrobe, I'm now digging into Prince Caspian. I wasn't worried about missing anything in the long years between, because I made absolutely no emotional investment in the former. What I've found so far is what I remember experiencing before: a really good story told in a flat, linear, single-layered monotone. And every time Peter says, "By Jove!" I almost want to puke. The greatest value I can find overall are the colorful and wonderful passing descriptions Lewis makes of characters and landscapes, but he never stops telling the facts of the story long enough to let me, as a reader, enjoy the mental image he's just flashed before me before it's snatched away.
I don't know what my problem is. I am sure I'm missing something. I do, of course, realize that the story as a whole, in particular Wardrobe, is a Christian allegory. I also know that Lewis was a dear and respected friend of my very most favorite, J.R.R. Tolkien. And the people in my life who love books and stories and fantasy and literature love The Chronicles of Narnia. I've also read one of Lewis's earlier books, The Screwtape Letters, and I couldn't put it down. Not understanding the passion for this series is like stepping out of the theater for Snowcaps just as the key moment in the movie is about to occur. Everybody else is in awe by the time you get back, but it's simply too late for you.
Please, somebody help me. I want to find beauty and wonder in this series. I want to find what others say they love. I want these books to change me the way other classics have, but I guess I keep missing the mark. If anyone can offer some pointers, I'd really appreciate it. Don't worry though, I'm not giving up this time. I intend to finish Prince Caspian and The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. And then I'll watch the movies. But after that, all bets are off.
I'm so sorry, Clive. You know, it could be worse: I absolutely hated Voltaire, and I didn't even feel bad about it.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Insanity
14 October 2011
This much pain creates a kind of insanity that drains the waters of confusion from the morass of self-imposed disorientation, and presents the difference between reality and fantasy with stark and unwelcome clarity. Thank God it only comes on rare occasions, and for tension headache pills, and for the Muses that help me exorcise these demons that escape as words written, chords played, and a rain of tears I can only hope will cleanse the Truth of a rotting plague.
SCWA
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Murder
"I know you're in here, and I'm going to find you," I muttered, "and I'm going to kill you."
Movements slowed as I watched the contours and shadows of every corner.
With the CRACK of my weapon, I struck. A body drifted to the floor. Victory!
The fly was dead.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XXX. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
The Review and Experience of The Book Thief
Today I finished The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak. In all my years of reading, my only memory of being moved to sobbing like this from a book or story way was caused by James Hurst's The Scarlet Ibis in 8th or 9th grade.
My wife was worried about me. My little daughter walked in and saw me in the aftermath of Himmel Street's destruction, and was concerned, but said nothing. They wonder why, and I have an answer. But how can I express it?
I imagine the questions. Or rather, I've heard the questions, and imagine the answers, if any askers ever had enough patience to hear them. The Question: Why read such things if they affect you in these ways?
Why indeed?
Because, my child, my wife, my neighbor, my friend... I am but a human, and being human, by definition, means being alone. We are all islands of Body cursed with the ability to see beyond ourselves, but never be beyond ourselves. This causes feelings of desire, want, hunger, jealously, ambition. We are plagued by our emotions, and they drive what we become. This happens to us all. But it happens to each of us alone.
If we were all as self-contained as our Bodies and Emotions would have us believe, we would never be able to share or express what we want, what we feel. We would instead go day to day doing what the powers that be make us think is the "right" thing to do. Enlist. Educate. Graduate. Employ. Marry. Procreate. Provide. Rinse. Repeat. Most of us are stuck in such a state, and I imagine most such folks are locked in some self-perpetuating cycle of confusion about why they might have landed in their particular life. More often than not, they bemoan it. Enter the existentialists.
It is for this reason that I believe there could never be such a thing as a true atheist. Who could imagine, let alone accept, that this is all there is to our lives? But I digress.
Maybe I'm alone in my answer to the Question, but I suspect not. The Answer: the reason I subject myself to such artisticly inspired depths and heights of emotion is because I refuse to be an island. I may not ever be able to be anything other than what sits in the chair as I write, but I can certainly reach and try to experience what else is here, what else has happened. Because I am certain to feel love, and desire, and loss, and when I do, I want to know what it looks like from the outside. I want to be able to recognize the smell of an experience when it comes my way. I want validation that those events that hurt and excite me are worth the trouble. I want to see someone else suffer, and love, and fail. I want to see how others deal with the tragedy and confusion of enduring the unendurable. I want to see it all because it will happen to me, and when it does, I want to be ready.
To refuse to acknowledge the experiences of others, shared through art, is to limit one's own human experience, and condemn oneself to being truly alone in an already lonesome existence.
So when I lay in bed sobbing over Liesel Meminger's loss, do not have pity for me; do not worry for me. Celebrate and recognize the bridge I've made, or rather, that I've found from my lonesome island to someone else's, in this case Zusak's. See that when I discover and cross such a bridge, I do so with every other person this novel has touched, and in this way, we all rise above the ocean that separates us. And know that for a moment, when the words on the page become more than dried ink on processed wood pulp, the story before me is transformed into real emotion handed directly from author to reader, and all I had to to was reach out and accept it.
Why, oh why, would anyone deny themselves such a gift?
The Review
The Book Thief is a beautiful novel, and true to its cover review, it will be life changing. It isn't an easy read, and though I know it's being assigned as middle school reading, it isn't for the unseasoned soul. Being narrated by Death, it becomes two stories, each intertwined with and dependent on the other. Though set in a familiar place for stories of love and tragedy, this is entirely new, and told in an entirely different way. It's not really possible to describe the novel beyond the characters and plot, because such a description doesn't even begin to say what the story is about.
If every other decent and common story you've ever read was a hamburger, you'd have a wide variety available. Most would equate themselves to McDonald's hamburgers, which are hardly hamburgers to begin with. The Book Thief, by comparison, is akin to the juiciest bar burger you've ever had the pleasure of biting into. It's thick and messy. It has lots of everything else you've ever had on all your other burgers, but something new too. There's a flavor you've never tasted, and it's almost too spicy to endure, but its addition to the whole makes this meal greater than any stack of meat and bread you've ever seen. This book demands to be read, and demands to be finished. In truth, you don't actually read this novel, you experience it. You let it in and offer it your chair. And though much of it is ugly and unpleasant, every page contributes to one of the most satisfying book experiences I can ever remember having.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Bibliophilia
But I am alone in this houseful of people. There are none else who share this love. Not here.
T.S. Elliot and Emily Dickenson sit beside me, offering such treasures that no one else seems to recognize.
I am both enraged and ashamed. I am dumbstruck.
Poe sits above me and tempts my imagination, but I am the only one with enough patience to enjoy such a fine and delicious treat.
Milosz makes frames for my emotions. Dahl sits down to share an evil laugh. Hawthorne engages me in the finest depths of guilt. Buck reminds me what is just and good. Both Lewis and Carrol will walk with me along their separate paths. Homer and Virgil and Melville too, though most nights are usually too short to enjoy their company. Bradbury, Flaubert, Silverstein...when will there be enough time?
Figures crowd the room around my shelves, and only I can see. They smile silently at me, each knowing too well that part of my soul they alone have touched and spoken to. I carry them always with and within me, for the lessons and tools they have given have made me strong and rich.
Oh, how I am loathe to let those others be content without these gifts. But their time will come. They will find their way.
Or they will never truly know me.
Close Call
Light years away, a tentacled arm wiped a sweaty brow. “Þ∩Ħפ∩∟ך○Ŧ!” [Translation: “Phew, that was close!”]
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XXIX. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XXIX. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Message
21 November 2011
We seem to be at an impass.
This situation has oscillated dozens of times by now from wildly convoluted to painfully simple. At each turn, there is a small moment of uncertainty when I feel anxiety about what's to come, and you revel in my apparent thoughtlessness. It is at these times when you believe me to be the most vulnerable, and while that isn't an unreasonable conclusion, you are sorely mistaken.
Right now we are at that latter stage of oscillation: painfully simple. I thought everyone's roles were well understood. I thought, for once, the bases had been swept clean, and everyone knew their place, and we could start a fresh inning. As an added bonus, I also believed there would be a relative peace about the whole encampment, which is not typical of our ups and downs, as everyone's weater-beaten shelter can attest to. Recent events prove that this time, I was sorely mistaken. There will be no such rest.
It seems we may be back on an upswing. Energy is being added to the system. Instability is being created which will lead to another inflation and inevitable uncontrolled reaction. We are tempting Entropy, Pluto's ever faithful hound, to come in and set things right all over again, leaving another giant mess we can all pretend to be surprised and regretful over.
But I have news for you. I'm no longer in the mood. I'm taking my ball and going home. I am reaching a level of self-acceptance that, while totally unfamiliar and anxiety-inducing, is increasingly comfortable. True, there are complications, but I'm learning to wear my scarlet letter well, almost proudly. I am branded, yes, but I am also free of the secrets that held me down for so long. I can no longer be hurt because the armory is empty.
So while I may not have the grace of Hester Prynne, I am still striving for the self-honesty of Reverend Mr. Hooper. Like both characters, I am surrounded by Puritans who display horror at such realities they deny any knowledge of or experience with. Like Prynne's community and Hooper's congregation, my acknowledgement of wrongdoing is repulsive to those around me. Like these two, one a blatant sinner who proves herself to be a good and worthy person, and one a pious minister who mourns the Weltschmertz he can't help but notice, I will experience expulsion and suffering, and be better for it.
Sneer at my scarlet letter and my black viel. Point and accuse. Curse me with your self-righteousness. And thank me. It is people like me, we scapegoats of accusation who bear the blunt ends of the shameful secrets you keep, who enable you to live in your pristine existence unnoticed. It is I who will stand by and publicly endure my own sin so that you can sit quiet in yours which is hidden.
You're welcome.
We seem to be at an impass.
This situation has oscillated dozens of times by now from wildly convoluted to painfully simple. At each turn, there is a small moment of uncertainty when I feel anxiety about what's to come, and you revel in my apparent thoughtlessness. It is at these times when you believe me to be the most vulnerable, and while that isn't an unreasonable conclusion, you are sorely mistaken.
Right now we are at that latter stage of oscillation: painfully simple. I thought everyone's roles were well understood. I thought, for once, the bases had been swept clean, and everyone knew their place, and we could start a fresh inning. As an added bonus, I also believed there would be a relative peace about the whole encampment, which is not typical of our ups and downs, as everyone's weater-beaten shelter can attest to. Recent events prove that this time, I was sorely mistaken. There will be no such rest.
It seems we may be back on an upswing. Energy is being added to the system. Instability is being created which will lead to another inflation and inevitable uncontrolled reaction. We are tempting Entropy, Pluto's ever faithful hound, to come in and set things right all over again, leaving another giant mess we can all pretend to be surprised and regretful over.
But I have news for you. I'm no longer in the mood. I'm taking my ball and going home. I am reaching a level of self-acceptance that, while totally unfamiliar and anxiety-inducing, is increasingly comfortable. True, there are complications, but I'm learning to wear my scarlet letter well, almost proudly. I am branded, yes, but I am also free of the secrets that held me down for so long. I can no longer be hurt because the armory is empty.
So while I may not have the grace of Hester Prynne, I am still striving for the self-honesty of Reverend Mr. Hooper. Like both characters, I am surrounded by Puritans who display horror at such realities they deny any knowledge of or experience with. Like Prynne's community and Hooper's congregation, my acknowledgement of wrongdoing is repulsive to those around me. Like these two, one a blatant sinner who proves herself to be a good and worthy person, and one a pious minister who mourns the Weltschmertz he can't help but notice, I will experience expulsion and suffering, and be better for it.
Sneer at my scarlet letter and my black viel. Point and accuse. Curse me with your self-righteousness. And thank me. It is people like me, we scapegoats of accusation who bear the blunt ends of the shameful secrets you keep, who enable you to live in your pristine existence unnoticed. It is I who will stand by and publicly endure my own sin so that you can sit quiet in yours which is hidden.
You're welcome.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Busted
It usually happens that I'm caught with her on my lap. Many nights, we're snuggled on the couch watching TV, and we'll see my wife's car pull into the driveway. Quick as a flash, she jumps down, leaving me cold. Usually, though, after that she's greeting the wife at the door, her tail wagging furiously.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XXVIII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XXVIII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Temptation
I looked sidelong at Pluto, who’d just handed me a key. He noticed I’d been standing at the door a long time looking in, and thought I might want to open it. “But I can’t,” I said, looking down my wide, chosen path. Nodding, he turned away. But he didn’t ask for his key back.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XXVII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Mischief of One Kind And Another
Isn't that the perfect ending to any story?
When the live action film was announced, I was ecstatic. I couldn't imagine how anyone would make the movie, but I didn't care. I couldn't believe a feature film could be adapted from a story that's less than 350 words long, but I didn't care. I wanted to see it; I couldn't wait, and I have to admit the trailer itself
When the film was released, I was surprised to hear negative or hushed reviews, and criticism that the film's story didn't follow that of the book exactly. Truth be told, I became even more intrigued. I was secretly happy the critics weren't raving about it, because it meant the film was made for its own reasons, not those for which it would be judged successful entertainment. When I heard about the parents who threw a fit because it wasn't a happy kid's show, I knew even better that it had been made for me, and nobody else.
I didn't see the movie in the theater; I couldn't get anyone to go, except when I could, and then there were always more 'entertaining' movies to go see. Finally I watched it on Netflix. I didn't know what to expect, but whatever I got was more than satisfying. I haven't had the experience very often of seeing a movie and not feeling some closure at the end, but this one came close. Sure, it has a conclusion: Max makes it home, just like he's supposed to. But unlike most stories that are neat and clean, that go around their story arc from beginning to end, Where the Wild Things Are kept turning around inside me, following the same arc over and over, just in the context of my own self instead of Max.
When I described the movie to my family, it was difficult. All I could come up with was, "it's a movie about growing up, and facing your fears, and finding out who you really are." Which is lame as movie descriptions go. The movie is different. Where as the book gives us a story of exploration that's fun to read, the movie is sometimes difficult to watch. The characters get into uncomfortable and unpleasant situations that are common, at least in my family, but nobody wants to see, and certainly nobody wants to deal with during an evening out. They fight. They call each other names and hold grudges. They hurt each other.
Today, for some reason, my mind went back to that story, the one on the screen, and I found out more about who I really am. I saw myself in every predicament the characters endure. This morning as I looked into the bathroom mirror, what I saw partly completed a picture I've been piecing together my whole life.
I could see my own wolf suit.
We all have a wolf suit, and we all do with it exactly what Max does with his. It changes us; that is its purpose. It allows us to become brave and reckless; it lets us present to the world that which we would like everyone else to see, instead of that which we know will be disapproved of, that which is weak. It lets us tame the wild things in our own lives, and gives us a barrier of protection against the terrible roars and gnashing teeth that would otherwise reduce our broken souls to tears.
My personal realization is that I have relied too much on my wolf suit. I have never taken it off, because I have never believed myself strong enough to live without it. I have hidden inside from everyone I've known. Some, a tiny few I could count on one hand, have been shown this truth. But no one, including myself, has a real understanding of who is inside.
This must be my quest: to do what Max does, and finally come home, still loved, and feel safe enough to start taking off my wolf suit. People will be hurt, more than have already been. I will be shamed, more so than I am already dealing with. But maybe, like Max as he sees his dinner, I could just start with the hood.
I am scared to death.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Interruption of Service
Dear Sir:
The Department for Internal Moral Upkeep (DIMU) regrets to inform you of a partial system failure which has resulted in an interruption of service. As a result, you may experience lapses of judgment including, but not limited to, lust, greed, apathy, wrath, pride, and envy.
We apologize for any inconvenience.
Kind Regards,
DIMU
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XXVI. Write a story with exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
The Department for Internal Moral Upkeep (DIMU) regrets to inform you of a partial system failure which has resulted in an interruption of service. As a result, you may experience lapses of judgment including, but not limited to, lust, greed, apathy, wrath, pride, and envy.
We apologize for any inconvenience.
Kind Regards,
DIMU
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XXVI. Write a story with exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Disclaimer
Dear Friends,
Big news: I may not be the man you think I am. I'm certainly not the man I want to be. If you've read more than two posts in this blog, you likely already know this. No, see, the man I actually am is not very respectable.
Maybe you've figured this out. It's possible you've been personally screwed over because of it, or that you've heard it through the grapevine. I probably won't come out and say it to you, not unless you're willing to commit a few hours to sharing a pair of barstools, and you might have to buy shots. But the list of people I'd talk to even if those conditions were met is very short. I am ashamed, you see.
So here's the truth: The real me, my True Self, took off 15 years ago or so, and left a shell that has been operated like a grotesque puppet by an Evil Twin on and off since. It's a lot like those movies where a guy is taken over and controlled by some entity, but occasionally breaks through to warn the people around him to flee before he loses control again.
Or maybe it's the other way around; maybe this has been the real me the entire time, and I wear my public perception like a garment so no one will suspect it. A wolf in sheep's clothing. I operate in this guise to manipulate those around me into thinking I'm a good guy.
Actually, both of these descriptions fit who I've become, but the key to understanding myself is that my True Self, the man I wish I could be, has been drowning, held under water by both the fearful and addictive behaviour of the Evil Twin, and the man driven by a desperate need to maintain a respectable public image.
Anyone who's known me any decent length of time has actually seen this True Self, this elusive man I'm struggling to free. You've each probably seen whatever little slice applies to our relationship, whatever that may be. Some of you have access to more slices than others. But I can't leave him out, you see, because he is both respectable and repulsive, both compassionate and cruel. He is not universally accepted, and so must be squelched in the name of social duties and standards.
This is a cruel fate, because this man, this True Self, is actually a good man. He's good because he will speak the truth even when it's offensive, but he is learning gentleness and tact. He's good because he speaks his mind, and is thorough and eloquent enough to do so in a way that even those who would be hurt by the words can't deny their truth. He's good because he honors his committments, even though he needs help learning how to say no, both to the people he should not cavort with, and those who pretend to like him but create unhealthy situations. He's good because he is willing to explore and develop himself in unexpected ways, and takes the risks necessary to realize change. And he's good because when he makes mistakes or misjudgements, he acknowledges them and pays his dues.
I do not know how I will manage these three identities: the pure deciever who lies for shame of the truth, the smiling neighbor and happy face at kids' school events, and the man in between, the one I really need to expose and become. I do not know who I will hurt or abandon in the process of revealing that man, first to myself, wholly for once in my life, and then to those who claim to love me. And then that love will most certainly be tested.
So whatever your relationship with me may be, consider this a disclaimer, but not an apology.
SCWA
Big news: I may not be the man you think I am. I'm certainly not the man I want to be. If you've read more than two posts in this blog, you likely already know this. No, see, the man I actually am is not very respectable.
Maybe you've figured this out. It's possible you've been personally screwed over because of it, or that you've heard it through the grapevine. I probably won't come out and say it to you, not unless you're willing to commit a few hours to sharing a pair of barstools, and you might have to buy shots. But the list of people I'd talk to even if those conditions were met is very short. I am ashamed, you see.
So here's the truth: The real me, my True Self, took off 15 years ago or so, and left a shell that has been operated like a grotesque puppet by an Evil Twin on and off since. It's a lot like those movies where a guy is taken over and controlled by some entity, but occasionally breaks through to warn the people around him to flee before he loses control again.
Or maybe it's the other way around; maybe this has been the real me the entire time, and I wear my public perception like a garment so no one will suspect it. A wolf in sheep's clothing. I operate in this guise to manipulate those around me into thinking I'm a good guy.
Actually, both of these descriptions fit who I've become, but the key to understanding myself is that my True Self, the man I wish I could be, has been drowning, held under water by both the fearful and addictive behaviour of the Evil Twin, and the man driven by a desperate need to maintain a respectable public image.
Anyone who's known me any decent length of time has actually seen this True Self, this elusive man I'm struggling to free. You've each probably seen whatever little slice applies to our relationship, whatever that may be. Some of you have access to more slices than others. But I can't leave him out, you see, because he is both respectable and repulsive, both compassionate and cruel. He is not universally accepted, and so must be squelched in the name of social duties and standards.
This is a cruel fate, because this man, this True Self, is actually a good man. He's good because he will speak the truth even when it's offensive, but he is learning gentleness and tact. He's good because he speaks his mind, and is thorough and eloquent enough to do so in a way that even those who would be hurt by the words can't deny their truth. He's good because he honors his committments, even though he needs help learning how to say no, both to the people he should not cavort with, and those who pretend to like him but create unhealthy situations. He's good because he is willing to explore and develop himself in unexpected ways, and takes the risks necessary to realize change. And he's good because when he makes mistakes or misjudgements, he acknowledges them and pays his dues.
I do not know how I will manage these three identities: the pure deciever who lies for shame of the truth, the smiling neighbor and happy face at kids' school events, and the man in between, the one I really need to expose and become. I do not know who I will hurt or abandon in the process of revealing that man, first to myself, wholly for once in my life, and then to those who claim to love me. And then that love will most certainly be tested.
So whatever your relationship with me may be, consider this a disclaimer, but not an apology.
SCWA
Monday, October 17, 2011
reality
20 February 2006
to fuck
is to feel.
to rend the delicate fabric of gentleness
is to need
to shatter the innocence of naivete
to crush the hand of generosity
to pull the fragrant hair of beauty
to scream in the face of piety
is to LIVE
A life without beauty is only half lived.
To live--
Within that fabric of gentleness
Innocent and naive
Extending the generous hand
Inhaling the scent of beauty
Striving to understand God
is to LOVE
to fuck
is to feel.
to rend the delicate fabric of gentleness
is to need
to shatter the innocence of naivete
to crush the hand of generosity
to pull the fragrant hair of beauty
to scream in the face of piety
is to LIVE
A life without beauty is only half lived.
To live--
Within that fabric of gentleness
Innocent and naive
Extending the generous hand
Inhaling the scent of beauty
Striving to understand God
is to LOVE
The Gardener
6 March 2006
What I've really lost is my humility.
It's fairy-tale-like, remembering back. I had a healthy sense of shame. I knew what felt wrong, even if I didn't know why, and I just didn't do those things. And I remember the gratification that comes from decisions like that.
It took me years to learn to admit when I had misjudged, at least out loud, to face the people I'd hurt. But all honest mistakes...mostly. The seed was always there. Once, I decided I could be both things, be both kinds of people. I justified it by looking around and watching who was successful at this or that. The key thing I missed was that neither this nor that were the things I wanted to be successful at. None of those people were really the kind of person I was trying to be. But I sacked the Gardener anyway, and the Seed flourished.
Now look at the grounds: still with promise, silent with potential. Silent. And overgrown. The stone bridges over the brooks that once ran here are cracked and dangerous. The trellis that supported a budding vine in childhood is weather-beaten. The house, standing as alone as it always has, though still a home, is not the manor I once envisioned.
I call this life, and some days I am ashamed for it.
What I've really lost is my humility.
It's fairy-tale-like, remembering back. I had a healthy sense of shame. I knew what felt wrong, even if I didn't know why, and I just didn't do those things. And I remember the gratification that comes from decisions like that.
It took me years to learn to admit when I had misjudged, at least out loud, to face the people I'd hurt. But all honest mistakes...mostly. The seed was always there. Once, I decided I could be both things, be both kinds of people. I justified it by looking around and watching who was successful at this or that. The key thing I missed was that neither this nor that were the things I wanted to be successful at. None of those people were really the kind of person I was trying to be. But I sacked the Gardener anyway, and the Seed flourished.
Now look at the grounds: still with promise, silent with potential. Silent. And overgrown. The stone bridges over the brooks that once ran here are cracked and dangerous. The trellis that supported a budding vine in childhood is weather-beaten. The house, standing as alone as it always has, though still a home, is not the manor I once envisioned.
I call this life, and some days I am ashamed for it.
Step Four
16 March 2006
I was thinking of that TV commercial where everyone wore signs on their backs revealing their financial problems. Like the older guy in the business suit's said something like "Can't make his house payment" and the haggard-looking housewife's said something like "Credit score: 752" and shit like that.
If we all wore signs detailing our biggest secrets or sins, mine would say "ADDICT". I'm not proud of myself. Most days I do my best to stay on top of damage control, while allowing my addict-self to wreak havoc, much like simply cleaning up after an irresponsible child rather than teaching him the rules and enforcing them with punishment and positive reinforcement. I do not know what drives my addict-self, but I am very aware of the returns, and I will be the first to admit the instant gratification feels good. It's the damage control, and guilt, the hiding, and the constant fear that I hate.
We all have signs, just like in the commercial. Some people's problems aren't really terrible, they're just embarrassing facts they'd like to keep secret. That's fine. I learned a little about real problems from a Chaplain that had served on a B-52 during the first Gulf War. They flew home from a sortie with an unexploded ground-to-air missile stuck in their wing, having gone right through and stuck in the middle. They didn't know if it was a dud or not; for all the crew knew, it could have detonated at any time, killing them all. They didn't know if they could even land with it. That, I agreed with him, is a problem. Rear-ending somebody on the way to work when you're already late is not.
During lunch today I pondered what the others' signs around me might say. The wholesome girl next to me might have been paying for her burrito with money she got after hocking her mother's earrings. Thief. The lady with the twin girls, no more than 3 years old, might be on her way to meet a lover after dropping the kids at daycare, eager to taste forbidden flesh. Cheater. The older woman with the high school ID around her neck might have just taken advantage of a vulnerable student during a counseling session. Molester.
Is it presumptive to think that everyone has issues, that we all carry burdens in our hearts we'd dare not share with others? Or is it naive to believe that some people are actually happy, that some facts about their lives are simply personal, and although potentially embarrassing, would not completely ruin their lives if revealed? I know the answer to this question, but I can't figure out how it might be. And so I deny that it is.
The truth is I have more than one sign. Most are in the second category: I would not be happy to admit to some very humiliating things about myself, but if confronted with evidence, I would nod and say "yes, I did that" and nothing would really change. But there are a select few that would almost certainly ruin my life as I know it now. From a distance, I cannot fathom what would make anyone continue these behaviours given the risks. On the inside, I know it's the rush of pure gratification, it's the depression that sets in between fixes, it's the constant questioning of my identity and self, whether I am worthy, pure, good. It's fear of facing who I might become outside the context of the drug.
I am an addict, I know. Some day, I will have to admit this to other people openly, with my voice, and acknowledge what I've done to feed the drive. That is a prerequisite to understanding the addiction and finding the source. Of all days, I fear this day more than any.
I was thinking of that TV commercial where everyone wore signs on their backs revealing their financial problems. Like the older guy in the business suit's said something like "Can't make his house payment" and the haggard-looking housewife's said something like "Credit score: 752" and shit like that.
If we all wore signs detailing our biggest secrets or sins, mine would say "ADDICT". I'm not proud of myself. Most days I do my best to stay on top of damage control, while allowing my addict-self to wreak havoc, much like simply cleaning up after an irresponsible child rather than teaching him the rules and enforcing them with punishment and positive reinforcement. I do not know what drives my addict-self, but I am very aware of the returns, and I will be the first to admit the instant gratification feels good. It's the damage control, and guilt, the hiding, and the constant fear that I hate.
We all have signs, just like in the commercial. Some people's problems aren't really terrible, they're just embarrassing facts they'd like to keep secret. That's fine. I learned a little about real problems from a Chaplain that had served on a B-52 during the first Gulf War. They flew home from a sortie with an unexploded ground-to-air missile stuck in their wing, having gone right through and stuck in the middle. They didn't know if it was a dud or not; for all the crew knew, it could have detonated at any time, killing them all. They didn't know if they could even land with it. That, I agreed with him, is a problem. Rear-ending somebody on the way to work when you're already late is not.
During lunch today I pondered what the others' signs around me might say. The wholesome girl next to me might have been paying for her burrito with money she got after hocking her mother's earrings. Thief. The lady with the twin girls, no more than 3 years old, might be on her way to meet a lover after dropping the kids at daycare, eager to taste forbidden flesh. Cheater. The older woman with the high school ID around her neck might have just taken advantage of a vulnerable student during a counseling session. Molester.
Is it presumptive to think that everyone has issues, that we all carry burdens in our hearts we'd dare not share with others? Or is it naive to believe that some people are actually happy, that some facts about their lives are simply personal, and although potentially embarrassing, would not completely ruin their lives if revealed? I know the answer to this question, but I can't figure out how it might be. And so I deny that it is.
The truth is I have more than one sign. Most are in the second category: I would not be happy to admit to some very humiliating things about myself, but if confronted with evidence, I would nod and say "yes, I did that" and nothing would really change. But there are a select few that would almost certainly ruin my life as I know it now. From a distance, I cannot fathom what would make anyone continue these behaviours given the risks. On the inside, I know it's the rush of pure gratification, it's the depression that sets in between fixes, it's the constant questioning of my identity and self, whether I am worthy, pure, good. It's fear of facing who I might become outside the context of the drug.
I am an addict, I know. Some day, I will have to admit this to other people openly, with my voice, and acknowledge what I've done to feed the drive. That is a prerequisite to understanding the addiction and finding the source. Of all days, I fear this day more than any.
Winter
6 March 2011
Walking through the frigid air
The wind passes over me
Like your disdain.
I lift my feet as high as I'm able
In heavy boots
But the snow is much too deep
To clear
Without leaving some regrettable act
Behind.
Still, I push on.
Every step takes me further
From a truth we both know
All know
Every day I'm another mile away
Every inch is an eternity I'll have to retrace
When it all comes pouring out.
Why was I ever walking this way
To begin with?
Into the ever cold night
Writing letters I'll never send
Because those feelings are too hot
For soft hearts to bear
Those words too sharp
They rend and tear
Gentle emotional flesh
Tender spiritual mesh.
No, these words I will hold within.
There they still burn, still tear
But only one person
The wrong person?
But isn't it right to carry this weight?
For you, for them, for everyone
To see?
But who is doing their best, for me?
Who will be their best
For me?
Walking through the frigid air
The wind passes over me
Like your disdain.
I lift my feet as high as I'm able
In heavy boots
But the snow is much too deep
To clear
Without leaving some regrettable act
Behind.
Still, I push on.
Every step takes me further
From a truth we both know
All know
Every day I'm another mile away
Every inch is an eternity I'll have to retrace
When it all comes pouring out.
Why was I ever walking this way
To begin with?
Into the ever cold night
Writing letters I'll never send
Because those feelings are too hot
For soft hearts to bear
Those words too sharp
They rend and tear
Gentle emotional flesh
Tender spiritual mesh.
No, these words I will hold within.
There they still burn, still tear
But only one person
The wrong person?
But isn't it right to carry this weight?
For you, for them, for everyone
To see?
But who is doing their best, for me?
Who will be their best
For me?
Friday, September 30, 2011
Dedication
It’s always a good thing when the spiders’ silk has time to build up in the lanyard that keeps Old Glory held high. Unfortunately, the emails keep coming, and I keep walking to the flag pole, and inevitably evict some poor arachnid as I lower the flag to half staff for yet another fallen hero.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XXV. Write a story with exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Dedicated to Specialist Chazray Clark, age 24, a Michigan soldier killed in Afganistan. His loss is no more or less tragic than any of the dozens of others for which I've faithfully lowered the flag they fought under, the symbol of the reason all the rest of us can selfishly watch our TV shows and complain about our jobs instead of put our own lives on the line for the sake of others. No matter how you feel about our president, or the wars US troops are involved in, you can not deny the truth of the privileges you enjoy thanks to their sacrifice.
If you want on the Governor's mailing list so you, too, can honor Michigan's fallen, go here.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Resonance
I heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
Wikipedia says that "in physics, resonance is the tendency of a system to oscillate at a greater amplitude at some frequencies than at others. These are known as the system's resonant frequencies (or resonance frequencies). At these frequencies, even small periodic driving forces can produce large amplitude oscillations, because the system stores vibrational energy."
You don't need to be a physicist to understand this. Everyone knows when a kid is on a swing, pushing at the right time will keep the swing going, either adding energy or at least making up for what's lost to entropy, while pushing at any other time will probably result in a bigger-than-natural reduction in the swing's oscillation, and also maybe a hurt or angry kid.
Another easily understood example comes with sound waves; any musician knows this. When tuning a guitar, playing the 7th fret harmonic on the E string and the 5th fret harmonic on the A string should result in the same tone. Small variations in tuning make the combined sound 'bumpy', meaning that the sound waves no longer reinforce each other, but periodically negate each other in cycles based on how different the tones are. The more off the tuning is, the more frequent the sound waves kill each other, and the bumpier the combined tone becomes.
I submit that art creates a similar resonance that produces reactions in the people who experience it. Human beings are, after all, energy systems. There are sculptures, paintings, photographs, poems, stories, songs, and even architecture that have moved people throughout human history. Among these many media, however, music has a particular effect on me and many people I know.
Like every art form, music is created as an expression of some human condition. The audience that appreciates any music most is made of people who can identify with those feelings expressed in the piece by its composer. I heard it said once that sad songs are always more memorable and loved because they mean more to the people who hear them, which is, of course, because our sad life experiences always make a more lasting impression on us and always demand some kind of reconciliation, which can be partly found in song. In my opinion, this occurs because music, especially when created with a deep passion, carries with it some emotional 'resonant frequency' that strikes those individuals who are most 'tuned' to understand its message.
Sadness isn't the only emotion that touches people through music. My adolescent years are characterized by the many expressions of anger and discontentment found in my musical choices, many of which I still turn to when necessary (hence the FB nickname 'DamageInc' for all those people who asked). Happiness, too, can be conveyed via music. Throughout the history of Christianity, artistic works commissioned by the church were essential to its vibrancy, and still have an enormous effect on us today. Revolution and social change have been driven by music. In short, there is no variation of human emotion or experience which has not, in one way or another, been set to song in a moment (or a lifetime) of inspiration.
This is not news to anyone who's ever seen a favorite band in concert, or had to close his/her eyes at some point during a song in order to take in more than just the sounds, or been moved to emotion hearing a singer perform a certain way that speaks to his/her core. These experiences are deeper and more meaningful than sound waves travelling through some transducer to a listener's eardrum that results in neural impules in a familiar or desirable synaptic pattern. Of course, in the biophysical world alone, that's all that's happening, but another purely biophysical result is the release of endorphins, adrenaline, testosterone, etc. Such a hormonal release isn't a routine reaction to hearing just any old song.
I do realize, of course, that psychology also plays a role in how we feel about some music. That song that was played during our first kiss or dance, or at the funeral of a loved one, or the moment a car accident ruined your life, always becomes linked to that experience and all those emotions and hormones that went with it. I don't discount that. In fact, I think what happens during such an experience is that we become 'tuned' to that song in a very specific way. This emotional resonance can then be perpetuated by anyone who uses such an experience as inspiration to create their own artistic work. And the cycle continues.
Though the origins of my thoughts on sonoemotional resonance came earlier in the week, Tuesday I had an experience which only confirmed every word that was forming in my brain. I heard Jeff Buckley's cover of the Leonard Cohen song Hallelujah (this version in particular) on Pandora. It's beautiful, of course, but I found over the next 48 hours that I could not get the tune or that first verse (atop this post) or any of the chorus out of my head, and I don't mean in the annoying, earworm way. I mean in the way that I had to hear the song again. So today I found it, and listened to it more times than I'm comfortable admitting. Then I clicked to hear another cover by an LA singer named Kina Grannis. Yes, it was partly because she's pretty (what can I say; I'm only a man), but her rendition put my emotional resonance with this song at a new level. Her cover is here. In the hours since, I've listened to other versions of the song, including the original, so that I can not only fully appreciate the song's meaning, but learn to play it myself.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Lust
Drunk with lust, I beg your attention. Let me fill you, let me [expletive] you. Let me show you the ecstasy I bring. Allow me to slide into your night and give you a ride. I will make you beg, I will make you whimper, I will make you scream. I will make you mine.
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FFF-55 Vol. XXIV. Write a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
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FFF-55 Vol. XXIV. Write a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Cloud
Looking out at the horizon this morning, while sitting at the intersection waiting for the red to turn green, I saw a wall of clouds squeezed between the tops of the cars and buildings and a vast expanse of sky. I imagined I could drive five or so miles down the road to reach a railing, at which I could stand and look down a deep dropoff, seeing the lower altitude towns below, and see straight into the rest of that wall of cloud as it extended below me, and still marvel at the top contours and curves at eye level.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Remember
Is never enough
To remember the thousands of lost
Lives that were taken
Not only the dead
But the living have suffered the cost
Of all that has changed
Destroyed on that day
The things we will always regret
Having not said
To those dearly loved.
We swear we will never forget.
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FFF-55 Vol XXIII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Remembering the 10th anniversary of the tragic attacks of 9/11/01. Honor the fallen: take a moment on Sunday and find your own way to remember.
Remembering the 10th anniversary of the tragic attacks of 9/11/01. Honor the fallen: take a moment on Sunday and find your own way to remember.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Lost
She remembers nothing from before the accident.
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FFF-55 Vol. XXII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Procrastination
He sat at his desk, elbows on either side of the keyboard, fingers clenching hair above each ear. Ideas and inspiration sat atop his head, but did not sink in. Clever strings of words assembled themselves, but could not be knit together in any logical or respectable way.
“I’ll write one next week,” he grumbled.
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FFF-55 Vol XXI. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
On Marriage
[Unfinished]
11 March 2011
I was thinking today about marriage.
Marriage, the legal union between two people who've decided they're done searching the world for a good partner with which to share their lives, is one of those social institutions so embedded into our culture that it means something a little different to everyone who engages in it, but also has solid legal, historical, religious, and traditional meaning as well.
So now's your chance to move on; go for it: hit that 'Next Blog' button up there. I'm warning you.
Still here? Okay, you asked for it.
What I was thinking is this: all the things we grow up thinking about marriage, all the things we read in books and see in movies and on TV, all the stuff your pastor and parents tell you about marriage, is all a joke. The idea of marriage, presented in the context of all this fluffy crap, is just plain silly. And I'll tell you why.
Marriage is this: dirty, heart-breaking, scandalous, exausting. It's a social and legal construct that forces us to act out expected behaviors that may or may not be agreeable to who we really are deep down, and hide those behaviors that are contrary to ideals held primarily by those around us, in particular the marital partner.
Now wait--I'm not necessarily knocking the whole package. Most of that silly stuff we grow up expecting is based, in some fashion, in truth. Marriage can be rewarding, fun, and satisfying in so many ways life as a single person could never be. At its greatest, a couple's marriage is the keystone of their household, the foundation for the family they build. And that's just the practical part. The most ideal part of marriage, the part which produces that bliss people talk about, is that you can be all done pretending for the rest of the world. I told a friend that once youv'e found a true mate, you are free to remove all your social filters and be your True Self. Your partner becomes a sanctuary. Likewise, you're expected to reciprocate and provide equal sanctuary to your partner, but in doing so you are able to further delight in your partner's True Self, that person who only you have priveleged access to, because you alone are the person s/he feels safe exposing it to.
Any married person reading this will now be shaking his or her head. I realize that marriage means different things in different cultures, and all those cultures have ideals and silly expectations regarding marriage unique to them, but I'm willing to bet that in all these cultures, most actual marriages deviate significantly from those ideals and expectations.
That's because none of what you learn about marriage beforehand can prepare you for the actual work of being married. Keep in mind that, while being your partner's sanctuary, you also have to make sure the bills are paid, shopping gets done, dinner is cooked, dishes are washed, laundry is done and put away, and--hold on a second, somebody better put away this box right now or the TV will not be turned back on the rest of the weekend! In short, there's a whole lot of work to be done in addition to all the work of marriage. Typically, there's so much other stuff that the marital work is taken for granted, put aside, postponed, or simply dismissed as unnecessary.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Holdup
“We discussed this; it’s the only way,” I told her. I opened the chamber and started filling the magazine. “Besides, wasn’t this your idea?”
She smiled, a little embarrassed. “Yeah, I guess,” she admitted. “Let’s do it then.”
Together, we walked calmly through the doors and into the bank.
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FFF-55 Vol. XX. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
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