The Brightly Coloured Crayons

Image credit: JerrySpinelli.com

“She was bendable light: she shone around every corner of my day.” 

Tonight, I had an extraordinary evening. I don't mean that generically; I mean that two specific things occurred that made it wonderful and beyond ordinary, things I hope I will remember forever.

The First thing: I read the novel Stargirl, by Jerry Spinelli. This book was loaned to me by my sister, a human being who is beyond words, who I had the rare occasion to see last week. We weren't discussing books, nor had any idea of suggested reading come up. She just handed it to me. A small part of me was annoyed, only because I haven't had (made) time to finish the other novel I'd been carrying around with me. The rest of me was elated, and I read the first page right there in the chair.

So tonight, having made plans to go out with my friends from work, and having been subsequently ditched by said friends, I decided I'd crack open Stargirl. My sister reported it as a three hour read, and though if I've ever read a novel in a single sitting I can't remember, I at least decided to get through a serious chunk of it.

Three hours, in fact, was a fair estimate, even at my slow reading rate (I don't bother to try reading quickly; I read to myself about the same speed that I read aloud). I knew in the first few chapters that Spinelli's art was sufficient to draw the same emotions experienced during The Book Thief, and midway through the tears started. Although the novel is short, and the story considerably simpler than that of Liesel Meminger, it was still written with the same passion, both tragic and elated, and by the end of the novel, I was bawling like a little child.

Tonight I made another bridge, and tapped those emotions that sit for too long beneath a pathetic veneer of mundane everydayness, a "world of gray nothings," as the novel's narrator says. And I connected with my sister, and her bridges. And I fell in love all over again with such a joyous thing. It's hard and disappointing to realize that I've become so 'mature' that I had forgotten the wondrous things a book can do, and when I came downstairs to the family, with my reddened eyes and my runny nose to don my shoes and find the dog's walking stuff, I hope they all noticed, and may yet wonder what power exists in books, so that they, too, might discover it on their own.

The Second thing: I took that walk with every intention of being immersed in a dark late summer night, devoid of anything interesting, so that Stargirl could sink in even deeper. The night failed me. Also, my daughter asked if she could come, and she is hard to refuse. Though I love this little girl more than anything, her presence is distracting with such a chore as mulling over the happenings of Mica, Arizona when Stargirl Caraway appears. So it goes. So the dog and I went out with my daughter, instead.

That wasn't the only change of plans. We hadn't yet left the driveway when we both noticed a large storm off to the west. The thunder rumbled vaguely but the lightning was definite. A flash occurred somewhere in the sky no less frequently than every second, yet the sky directly above was clear. As we walked, we watched it and wondered: it was a marvel, like a great feature film projected onto a vast screen solely for our benefit. We walked and talked, and we could see the storm moving, and I guessed maybe it would miss us. We discussed what might be happening only a handful of miles away: the terrible rain and awful racket of thunder, and how different it was from what we were experiencing. We talked about the book I'd read.

I asked my daughter if she thought it was weird that a book would make me cry. She said yes, almost with embarrassment. Then I described a box of crayons to her that was filled with only muted and dull colours: greys and browns and darks. I asked her to imagine using only that box for days and days, for so long you started to see everything in the world as one or another of only those shades. Then what would happen if one day, you were loaned those forgotten colours: reds and yellows and oranges, so you could draw a sun; and green and blue and violet, so you could draw a rainbow. And imagine what picture would emerge that day, that hour, when you finally had access to the brightly coloured crayons once more, especially if it were only for a little while, and you knew you'd have to return them.

And she understood where my emotions came from: she suddenly knew that all the happiness and sadness that might have caused my tears over the novel weren't a bad thing, but something wonderful, something necessary. And we both grew in that explanation and realization. And with the backdrop of lightning flashes above us, we both made it home before the rain came (I was wrong about it missing us), but as human beings more whole and more strongly bonded than before.

So tonight was extraordinary, and when my buddies and I do finally get together, I owe them every round of drinks, every appetizer, and more, because what has happened to me in the last handful of hours is something I never want to forget. I want to remember these sensations and emotions and sensitivities the rest of my life.

And I hope my daughter does too. I never want to lose what I shared with her tonight.

Binge And Purge

For people who truly understand this term, binge and purge, it's well understood that a feeling of nausea should overcome any mental images accompanying the phrase. For those who don't know what this means, I'll explain: you gorge yourself on (typically) alcohol until you're senseless, then vomit it all out, along with other miscellany that may come with it. Sounds like a blast, eh?

The Red Book uses the terms emotional intoxication and emotional sobriety. The first is a state of mind brought on by the influence of whatever behaviors accompany a person's dysfunction and/or addiction. Point: it's the behaviors that cause the state of mind. It could be any number of things, from raging to codependence to avoiding a bill, but the effect on one's emotions is the same effect that alcohol has on the body: an intoxication that allows the indulger to believe that, just for right now, everything is okay, even though all around him/her, some situation that is usually perceived as a threat is swirling and ready to bring chaos. Just as with chemical/physical intoxication, emotional intoxication allows for a temporary escape.

Disclaimer on escaping: Knowing how to care for oneself well enough to recognize when it's more healthy to not deal with something is a serious life skill, and it necessarily involves the complementary skill of being able to plan to deal with the thing before it's too late, penalty or pain is incurred, etc. Doing this right ensures that, when you take the time to deal with an issue, it's done with an appropriate amount of attention and adequate resources. There are entire industries created around the need to escape (vacations/travel, recreation/sports, entertainment, etc.), but this all becomes unhealthy the moment the escape takes priority over dealing with the problem.

Some people spend the majority of their lives in a state of emotional intoxication to varying degrees, depending on the severity of the problems they're avoiding. Clearly, it's dysfunctional when avoidance is the default behavior as opposed to setting an appropriate priority to dealing with a problem, figuring out how to solve it, and putting that plan into action.

Emotional sobriety is the process of recognizing one's emotional intoxication and getting rid of it. Unlike physical sobriety, which, on the surface, just means not boozing or drugging it up, emotional sobriety is much more subtle and complicated to achieve. Many substance addictions are easy to recognize because, well, something must be consumed to engage in them: alcohol, painkillers, food, etc. But behaviors are usually harder to recognize, at least from the addict's point of view, and therefore harder to stop.

Imagine growing up in a house where, anytime the family ran out of bread or milk before grocery day, everyone got out the vodka and took shots until the problem was forgotten about, even the kids. Unhealthy, right? These people would all become physically intoxicated. It's almost funny how inappropriate this reaction would be to the stimulus. Now imagine if, in the same house and situation, everyone started yelling at each other, maybe about who used the last of it, or why we didn't make it last longer, or how some of it was wasted two days ago and now we're all out... ad nauseum. These people would become emotionally intoxicated. Ever seen a house like that? Ever lived in one? If so, you know that, growing up that way, you learn that yelling is the right response when things go wrong. Yelling takes the place of the addictive substance. Over time, dozens or hundreds of these lessons build up in children, who grow up thinking these behaviors normal, until one day they have a home and family of their own, and the bread or milk runs out before grocery day... (Repeat After Me)

Just like with substance addictions, addictive behaviors come with motivations and underlying causes that make perfect sense (subconsciously) to the addict. Stopping alcoholism isn't as simple as keeping a person from tipping the bottle. Addictions are preferred because they satisfy a need, usually emotional, which must be rooted out through a lifelong process and serious lifestyle changes. A person cannot simply stop addictive behavior, wither it involves consuming a substance or acting out, without understanding and addressing those needs. Even people who claim to have beaten an addiction have usually only moved on to some other substance or behavior (smoking, exercise, religion, work, rage, etc.) if they haven't dealt with the underlying issues.

Notice that, at no point in the previous examples, does anyone ever bite the bullet and go out to the store, or pull out the powdered milk and make everyone suck it up until grocery day because the powdered milk isn't nearly as good as the real thing. This is a rational response to running out of milk. It's true that none of these actions answer the questions about why some was wasted or who didn't stick to the rationing plan; the only way to do that is through rational discussion and candor with calm questions and honest answers, and then better planning. But this takes a tremendous amount of effort when the yelling response (and/or other myriad dysfunctional behaviors) are at work. And this is the challenge with emotional sobriety.

Now back to binge and purge. Just as alcohol can be overindulged in as an addictive substance, so can something like anger or withdrawal. Using these 'substances' instead of physical ones has the same effect: as a user, you become totally immersed in the effects of it, eventually extraordinarily so. You begin to feel the extremes of the behavior. Unfortunately, too much of the 'substance' halts normal emotional processing: you no longer listen or think rationally, you can't have a reasonable conversation, you're unable to use the social skills necessary to interact with people in a professional, social, or family setting. You hurt people.

And then comes the pain of realization. Just as the body begins to reject too much alcohol in the system by vomiting, so does the mind recognize lost connections or missed deadlines or failed obligations. Just as the body heaves to release the perceived poisons, the mind panics and goes into a stress response, and you as the 'user' undergo emotional extremes as you struggle to understand the impact of your behaviors and the damaging consequences. This is the purge, and just like puking doesn't always get out only that fifth of vodka you drank, emotional purges can also bring up other feelings and thoughts that were part of the mix during the bingeing.

I'm not saying that being emotionally intoxicated constitutes an emotional binge, nor am I saying that you are an addict (either of substances or behaviors) if you 'use' recreationally to explore those dark parts of yourself. Like alcohol, which can be recreationally misused (either accidentally by people who lack the experience to know how much is too much, or intentionally by those who want that escape once in a while), it's okay to 'recreationally' 'use' anger as a means of expression at times when it may not be completely appropriate, as long as you recognize and manage the potential risks. Indeed, since anger is a perfectly healthy response to some stimuli, learning how to control your anger, and your behavior while angry, including the way you act and speak to people, is really the only way possible of becoming skilled in using anger when it's called for. Another way to learn this is by watching how healthy angry people act, but now we're back to whether the family uses vodka or yelling or conversation to deal with running out of milk.

Emotional purging is a necessary part of being a behavioral addict. This is due, in part, to the frequency of emotional binges that occur, as compared to physical/chemical binges. Unfortunately, addictive behaviors are usually so subtle, or even socially acceptable (reality TV, anyone?), that it's sometimes difficult to recognize when they're being used without social interaction. At least, that's true in my case. As a result, emotional purging must occur. Through whatever activities are involved in the purge, the addict is hopefully able to sort through several emotions and/or behaviors at once, sorting out which ones are relevant and which ones are not, and string together a chain of remembered events or feelings that will he or she hopes to use as a sort of decoder key the next time some stressful stimulus presents itself and demands to be dealt with. That's how this blog was born and, most of the time, the purpose it's meant to serve. I share it publicly partly as a means of accountability, and because I occasionally wish to rant, criticize, or entertain to the lucky few who happen by. You know who you are ;)

Many thanks to my muse for today for shaking up the pieces of these thoughts well enough to fall together into a (semi)coherent post. This self-exploration was much-needed.

SCWA

Postscript: When I wrote this, I was -in no way- making reference to the binge/purge cycle of bulimics  Any insensitivity encountered is purely unintentional.

Repeat After Me

This morning, we had a little craziness in my house as we all prepared for our days. I was getting myself ready to leave at 7:30, my kids were finishing up breakfast, and my wife was in the bathroom finshing her business. As I headed out the door, I said goodbye to everyone.

Less than a minute later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. In my pants pocket. I was on a two lane residential road with unpredictable patches of ice. There were school busses and other commuters moving in both directions. I was buckled in with two layers of coat over my waist and gloves on my hands, and I'd already spilled tea onto my breakfast of toast and peanut butter. I realize, every time this happens, that the caller has no idea of this--they are only calling for what they perceive to be a good reason--but each time it happens, I feel anger.

Repeat after me...

I got the phone out too late to answer, and in the process spilled more of my tea onto my center console. So I wouldn't have to repeat the previous process of unbundling the damn thing, I set it down next to me. Immediately it lit up again. It was my wife, saying she'd tried to flag me down when I pulled away because our son was late for orchestra practice. Knowing what was coming, I asked what she wanted me to do, and heard the answer. This is when the stress reaction started: fight or flight.

The fight or flight response was originally intended to save mankind from sabertooth tigers and ensure he had the strength to respond when assaulted by an enemy. It still serves a purpose. For example when stepping off a curb, if we hear a horn close by, our senses are heightened and our blood quickens, our muscles become instantly ready to react when we realize a car is heading for us, and we're able to back up in time to get out of the way, thereby saved by our cavedweller instincts. However, although our social evolution and lifestyles rarely demand a real life-or-death fight or flight reaction, one still takes place upon perception of some stress. Our blood vessels still constrict, our hearts begins to race, muscles tense, adrenaline is released... the whole biopharmaceutical package is delivered, even when we get a call from a bill collector or we suddenly realize... oh shit, my son is late for orchestra practice.

Back to that moment on the road: even before my wife answered my question, I knew she was going to ask me to turn around, come back home, and take our son to school. For some reason, this enrages me. Rationally, I of all people understand forgetfulness, even the occasional willful negligence. This is what happened to my wife and son: they forgot. My wife's alarm went off right about the time I probably put the car into drive and then they remembered. It makes all the sense in the world that she'd try to stop me so our boy could get to where he needed to be.

Emotionally, however, I was livid. All manner of questions about unmet responsibilities that weren't mine crossed my mind in an effort to justify telling her hell no, take him yourself. Fortunately my higher thinking intervened and I made the decision to help, but not without some malicious flavor. Because I was right near an intersection with no nearby traffic, I didn't take the time to answer the question, hang up the phone, and proceed back home. No, what I did was throw the phone onto the passenger side floor and do a quick U-turn. This is the only seemingly angry part of my reaction I can justify, as it really did save me probably two minutes--remember I'd only been on the road about a minute at this point. But everything after that, until my son exited my car, was pure dysfunctional response. The only part of the return trip I really remember well was getting caught driving like a crazy man by my neighbor as he walked his dog past my house.

Repeat after me...

By the time I'd pulled back into the driveway, I was fumbling around trying to find a place for my (wet) toast. It only took a few seconds for me to decide to just go back inside and grab towels. The door opened and my son exited; I told him to get in the car and headed to the kitchen as my wife stood there with wet hair and my daughter sat on the floor donning her boots. I flashed a mean look at my wife to express an ambiguous rage for being asked to come back home. I got my towels and stepped back through the foyer, again throwing as much angry energy at my wife as I could muster. I knew beneath my raging that she didn't deserve it, but I dished it out anyway, not because I didn't care that I was wrong to do it, not because I don't love her, not because I think she ought to be treated that way... just because my reaction had taken over, and some part of me insisted on driving home the point that I'd been horribly inconvenienced by her (yes, perfectly normal) forgetfulness. I know my rational mind was present because I expressly avoided eye contact with my daughter, with whom I not only had absolutely no quarrel, but also was terrified that she'd pick up on the way I was treating her mom and realize her dad is, in fact, a monster. My wife said, "Thank you," timidly; I grouched, "You're welcome," back; and stepped out of the house, slamming the door behind me.

Repeat after me...

I even grilled my son in the car. This was completely unfair. I know he's learned his share of dysfunctional responses because he replied to me with a raised, angry voice. I was reasonable enough to use words that expressed my simple need to figure out what had gone wrong, and tell him not to yell at me, but my tone was a million miles away from my intent. Hopefully, he'll remember that I told him I loved him when I dropped him off more than he'll remember the rest of it. Of course, that doesn't mean the rest of it won't have an effect on him, not to mention the impression my daughter got when I left the house.

Repeat after me...

None of what I can remember takes into account what may have happened in the house this morning after I left. I can imagine my wife and son's reactions upon hearing the alarm and realizing what it meant (panic?) I can imagine the mad shuffle to get me on the phone, and the response my wife may have had when I tossed the phone away (confusion? anger?) I can imagine the meaning of the words spoken as my son hurried to get his stuff together (your father is angry and it's all my fault? your father is angry and he's an asshole for acting this way?) I can imagine the thoughts of my daughter as she put on her boots, seemingly outside the situation, but completely immersed in the reactions both her parents were having (why is daddy angry? why is mommy crying? why didn't he say anything to me? why did he slam the door? why do I get punished when I slam a door?) Of course, all of this is speculation.

Repeat after me...


It is in this way that my wife and I perpetuate the broken and dysfunctional behaviors we learned in our families of origin. These reactions are a disease with which we were infected as children and continue to be affected as adults, and we are fully engaged in the process of passing it along to our own kids.

Today, for example, the lessons were:

1. Even though you're not perfect, it's okay to expect others to be
2. You should hold other people's mistakes against them
3. If you are asked to help someone who's made a mistake, they should pay for it somehow
4. Someone else's mistake is a cause for you to be angry
5. The proper way to act when angry is shows of verbal and physical violence
6. If you make someone angry, you deserve to be mistreated
7. The proper way to react to an angry person is to yield to whatever abuse they dish out, or lash back at them with an even bigger reaction

Thinking about some of the arguments in my house in the past, I know my kids are learning these lessons well, and using each other to practice their own dysfunctional behaviors for when they are grown and have families. As I look back on it now, I am ashamed, as I am every time something similar happens. Deep down, my heart breaks for it. I am working hard at just being able to recognize these behaviors. I know the only thing I can do afterward is apologize. Many days I still have no idea how to prevent the reactions before they occur, but when I am able to, I am met with a special brand of resistance only a fellow dysfunctional person can deliver, which only deepends the mess.

The fact is I am sick, and at this point, I am always left wondering how to move forward. As with every day, there is work to be done, and I can't afford to stop for long. Rarely do I have the luxury of stepping away from my existence and responsibilities to examine the behaviors that tear apart my relationships, and even when I do, I'm out of the context of those relationships, so any proposed solution is only experimental until I'm back in my 'real world,' and therefore subject to a response by the people in those relationships (who are also sick) that might completely dismantle whatever outcome I may have hoped for.

Rays of such sunlight are ever fleeting and must be appreciated when they appear, or healing will never happen. To ignore the problem just keeps the brew acidic, and every new episode of dysfunction sours it further, poisoning the family and ensuring future generations will be just as messed up. This cycle must stop, and I yearn with every breath I draw to find a way to start over.

For now, in this moment, I must concede that the only way to start over is with each new moment, each new day, and each apology and admission of guilt or explanation I give the kids in the hope that they won't grow up and repeat my unhealthy behaviors. I also hope that, as I strive toward emotional and spiritual health, I will also demonstrate an increasing number of behaviors that enhance their ability to function as healthy people: to have fun and be frivolous, to believe in themselves because there is no legitimate reason not to, to take risks that might create a better life for themselves, to love vigorously and loyally, and to only accept vigorous and loyal love.

Oh, what I wouldn't give to break these chains, but the fact is I wouldn't know how to live without them should they all just fall immediately. They are safe and familiar. They were forged one link at a time, both by my parents when I was a child and by myself as I've built an adult life using the rules I was taught. Breaking them will only happen with the same slow process.

Repeat after me. SCWA.

---

Addendum: I owe many of my original realizations, and some of my continued recovery, to the book Repeat After Me, by Claudia Black. Anyone who finds themselves in similarly distressing and confusing situations should definitely give it a look. Dr. Black is a pioneer in studies of children from addictive and dysfunctional homes, and I honestly don't know what kind of mess my life would be without the intervention of a counselor and the realizations of Repeat After Me and other books, videos, and meetings I've needed to realize what was happening to me emotionally. I'm still a long way from being truly healthy, but I'm on the right path.

This one....................................not this one.

No infringement is intended on the book Repeat After Me, its cover, or the images of Claudia Black, Ph.D or the actress Claudia Black. Please email me should you have any issue with their being included in this post.

Ferndale Nocturne

Ferndale Nocturne, by Taurus Burns. Posted with artist's permission.

Tonight I had coffee with a couple guys, one of whom is a local artist, Taurus Burns. Considering how we're acquainted, it's a bit unusual that I know his profession at all, let alone that I've seen his work. While we were talking, I admitted I'd web stalked him and seen the work he's posted online, and mentioned a couple pieces in particular that struck me.

Both are part of a larger series of Detroit landscapes, one of which is entitled Ferndale Nocturne. The painting is of a corner house in a residential neighborhood behind a tree. The scene is dark and lit from an extreme angle, as if from a streetlamp or a setting sun behind the viewer, so some features are given extreme emphasis, the leaves on the tree for example, while some are subdued beyond normal light/dark conditions.

The painting was different in my memory when I was discussing it with him than the actual image, which I looked up again before sitting down to write this post, but the reasons it struck me so well are more or less the same either way. The way I remembered it, there weren't lights and darks as much as whites and blacks. Rather than struggling to understand the what and where of the light source, I remember having a hard time figuring out the actual scene being lit, aside from the bold colors of the tree.

I blabbed through a meek description of the painting, which of course he recognized, and probably said something pretty weak in the way of telling why it struck me, but running through the conversation in my head while driving home, the real reasons came out pretty easily. The experience of refining those thoughts was surprisingly overwhelming.

What I'd like to have said, and maybe what would have done him more good to hear, is something more along the lines of how the subject of the painting emphasizes the difference between what's hidden and what's apparent, and what separates the two. It would have been especially relevant to our conversation immediately before and after my meager compliment, too, but I'm a lousy conversationalist. Even though the contrast between the hidden and apparent isn't nearly as extreme in reality as I'd remembered, it's still true that the metaphoric light and shadows hit me hard, on both the first and most recent views of the painting. As a viewer, I see three major components to this work: the light source, what's lit, and what isn't lit, each with their own personal metaphorical meaning.

The light source is a mystery. It's difficult to tell if this is a night scene lit by a street lamp, or if the light source is natural and the setting is dawn or dusk. Also, the source of the light isn't apparent to the viewer; it's outside the scene, which may mean the artist either didn't think it was important enough to include, or he meant that each viewer should interpret it differently. (It could also mean he thought it should be obvious, but if that's the case I'm a woefully unskilled viewer of art, which I refuse, for the moment, to consider.) The only clues about the light source are the angle at which the shadows are cast, and the colors of the leaves on the tree, which may be a reflection of a bright orange or yellow light, but could also indicate the season; that is another mystery. Whatever the case, the light source creates a vivid contrast between the other two features I mentioned, and what's more, is very representative of those aspects of my life that force some parts of who I am to remain in the shadows, while at the same time throwing a bright light on the other parts. As Shakespeare's Hamlet said, "I am too much in the sun."

The second major feature of this painting, in my opinion, is the part of the scene that's lit up. In the painting, the street curbs and a large deciduous tree are fully illuminated, as are the autumn-colored leaves. Most of the house itself is obscured. Without drawing too many parallels between the actual painted objects and my own personal meaning, I can still say for sure this is definitely representative of all those things in my life that people choose to see, mainly because those are the things I throw into the forefront of their perception. The things I choose to have lit are almost exclusively distractions from the main object: my actual State of Existence. My entire life, I've thrown up perceptual road blocks to prevent people from seeing facets of who I really am: my father's alcoholism, my family's dysfunction, my depression, my marital troubles, my personal failures, my low self-esteem. All these things are terrible and embarrassing to me, despite how common they may be in others' lives, and I have chosen, almost every day of my adult existence, to hide them behind something (anything) that may look more favorable to others in the hope of obscuring my real self.

Finally, there are the objects which are hidden in the shadows cast by the light and tree. As with the lit objects, the darkened portion also speaks to me of the aspects of my self I tend to keep hidden. To lend further meaning, the darkened house is the largest object in the painting, making up the majority of the background space. It is arguably the most important single object. As a viewer, I see the house as being representative of my real self, that which is kept behind more prominent (socially acceptable) objects (perceptions). A house as a metaphor for human being is by no means a new concept, but I think in this context its use is novel and delightfully done, despite the dark meaning I've assigned it through my own personal interpretation of the work. In the painting, all but a small portion of the lower level of the house is obscured by varying layers of darkness, which, again, speaks perfectly to the metaphorical comparison of that image and its personal meaning for me.

This painting is beautiful in many ways. On the larger level, it's a well-created and accurate reproduction of the scene itself. The perspective would be difficult for anyone but a professional to capture, and the light and shadows seem to fall as naturally as if in a photograph. The colors are wonderful, from tans in the tree and branches, the reds of the house and brick chimney, the leaves, and finally the brilliant azure of the sky. Going deeper, Ferndale Nocturne is a great example of solid talent. Despite my layman's ignorance of any true art appreciation or history education, I'm proud to call this artist part of my regional talent, and I hope to see him succeed not just because I know him, but because I think he does great work. One of the things I said to him during our coffee night is that art is a form of language, and this particular painting was created using expressions I find very familiar and appealing. For this, I have to thank him, and truthfully every artist that has communicated with in me this way. My life is made richer, and my emotions more clear, when I'm exposed to such expression. I know in this I am not alone.

Pitiful Souls

This morning I had an encounter with a wounded animal. A fawn, to be exact, spots and big ears and all.

It all started while driving to work. I'd left early, and I was looking forward to being extra productive. The traffic was starting to slow along a road where the speed limit is already 25 mph. Each car in the small, gathered clump of traffic was swerving away from the curb in somewhat the same manner as when a biker is on the road, except these swerves were more deliberate, around a tighter circle, and faster, with less of the courtesy and care that usually comes with avoiding something moving on the side of the road.

When I came close enough, I could see it was a fawn. It was frantically trying to get up, but it was against the curb, and its hind legs weren't doing what they were supposed to. It was then I realized just how careless and callous a human would have to be to drive past this wounded, clearly terrified, baby animal, especially in such a deliberate manner.

Full disclosure: I considered doing the same thing myself. As I've said, I was running early, a rarity for me. And probably like everyone else, I didn't really know what I could do. Based on what I could see, there was nothing I could do to actually save the animal. My next thought was, if I chose to do anything at all, I'd better get it off the road. This fawn was a wild animal, and though I didn't fear that I'd get hurt, I was sure I'd get dirty. I don't dress up for work, but I wouldn't even pick up my own dogs wearing the shirt I chose this morning unless there was some emergency to handle. I'm not vain, but I dress nicely for work about as often as I'm early, and I didn't really want to ruin either.

All this went through my head in a second or less, nearly enough time to keep driving and go right past. I'm not a heartless man by any stretch, but I've done this before in comparable situations, as recently as this past weekend (though I'm sure that racoon was dead, and someone had already stopped to 'help' it). Today, it was most likely my initial thought about the other drivers who'd gone past that motivated me to actually stop my car next to where the poor creature was struggling on the road.

Just a warning, the story doesn't end well. I followed through on my good intentions and moved the fawn off and away from the road. Sure enough, my hands and forearms were filthy, not only with dirt, but the fawn's hair and sweat. Like my own canine confidantes, deer apparently shed when they're nervous.

The fawn still couldn't stand. Its futile struggles to get up only made it more of a danger to drivers should it be left there and end up back where I'd found it, where I'm sure it wouldn't be so skillfully avoided as before. I hadn't helped; though it didn't seem to be in pain, it was obviously scared, especially when I came near, touched, and carried it, so after setting it down on the ground, it fought even more to get up.

I've had first aid training, and though I was under no illusion that I knew what to do in this particular situation, I looked its body over for signs of injury. I felt its bones, an easy task with this small and lanky animal. Even though its hind legs weren't working, I felt no breaks or sharp turns in the legs or hips, or anywhere along its back. None of the joints were bent at an odd angle. I touch its head, but more because I was trying to soothe it than diagnose its injury. I thought to take its picture, but for some reason that seemed cruel.

It bleated weakly, softly, not necessarily because it was weak or wounded, but because it was young. Deer bleat, like sheep, did you know that? I'd heard it was true, but sometimes, though you may not question them, things like that don't make much sense until you experience them. I've actually heard a doe bleating loudly in a northern Michigan forest a dozen or more Novembers ago, probably having been shot by a bad hunter (good hunters try to minimize or eliminate their prey's suffering, and aim to kill instantly with their first shot). That sound was one of frantic terror; the doe knew she was going to die, and probably knew she was being tracked. It was haunting. This morning, the sound the fawn made was one of a simpler feeling: confusion. It clearly had no idea what was going on.

Looking between the fawn and the road and imagining the worst, I made my next goal to move it to the other side of a wooden fence surrounding the adjacent property. Assuming the animal could eventually stand and walk away, I thought it unlikely it would try to jump the fence to go back across the road. I picked it up--it weighed less than my dog, not more than 50 or so pounds--and tried to lower it onto the ground while standing on the road side of the fence, but I'd only lowered it a couple feet when it jerked its body and fell. Looking back now, if the fawn's injuries had been some kind of broken bones, I would have only made this worse. It's scary how easily the best of intentions to solve or soothe a situation can make it worse, or even push it over the line beyond recovery. Fortunately, that wasn't the case today. As I climbed the fence to straighten out its back legs, which had become crossed, again in the hope that it would somehow recover if left alone, another car had stopped, and a woman exited. She came over and climbed the fence, too.

I was glad for this woman's presence. Though neither of us really knew what to do, nor were either of us comfortable with the idea of leaving the wounded fawn alone. I was already invested, whatever the outcome, but she still had the choice. It is because of her that I started to seriously consider that I couldn't handle this, that I'd have to call some civic authority. The woman told me she'd recently watched her horse suffer in the same way, struggling to get to its feet, but unable to because its hind legs wouldn't work. This memory was obviously painful to her. The woman left, and I decided then I had to make some kind of phone call.

I moved my car off the main road and onto a dirt street along the other side of the property. I called home and had my daughter look up the phone number, then got in contact with the police. They'd already had calls, but I knew the address of the property, and so provided it. I tried to see if someone was home, but less than a minute after ringing the bell, a police motorcycle had arrived. I showed him where the fawn lay, still struggling, still confused. I should have known what was coming. In truth, I would have been surprised if the cop had said anything but, "I'm going to have to shoot it." But that's what he said.

I accepted this, not knowing any other alternative. I crouched to touch the fawn one last time, in some effort to express regret. It was still afraid of me; my touch did not soothe it. I made whatever spiritual expression I could, but there was no recognition, no inter-species barriers were broken between us. I turned to walk away as a police car pulled up, and I knew the first cop was unholstering his weapon. I heard the shot and looked back just in time to see the upper half of the fawn's body that could still stand fall.

I was neither shaken nor numbed, and this confused me. I felt, and still feel, sadness, but this was tempered by the short reach toward a better solution where none existed. Most assuredly, I was as dirty as I feared I'd be, but not enough that I needed to go home to change, and it no longer concerned me anyway. Back in my car, I continued driving to work, but I did not continue my radio program, and I could not continue to eat my mobile breakfast. Something had changed, but I couldn't tell what. My only thought was that I, and the woman who'd stopped to help, would really be the only two people in the world who would mourn this, if that's the right word for how you feel about a wild animal you can't help save. We'd encountered it, I'd carried it, and just like that, in one policeman's shot, it was over.

Farewell, David Rakoff

David Rakoff has died. He was 47. He had cancer.

This story, "What You Lookin' At?" (Act 3), was my introduction to David Rakoff. In it, David talks about a trip he takes to go climb a mountain. It's not really the content of the story, but the way he tells it so timidly, with such vulnerability, that instantly drew me into this man. Because most of the monologue is spent describing events other than those involving the actual mountain, this story is a self-exploration that anyone who's ever felt inadequate can identify with. It's beautifully written, and told quietly and intimately, as if he and the listener are the only two in the room. Eventually, he talks about being on the summit, having made it in spite of his own self image. He says, "the only one casting strange glances of disapproval my way is me," and marvels at the thought of himself as a man who climbs mountains. I identified with these sentiments so heartily I almost had to stop the car the first time I heard it, and still need a bit of privacy whenever I listen now.

When This American Life (TAL) put on a stage show ("What I Learned From Television") in Chicago in 2007, I happened to be in town. I saw David Sedaris and became enamored with Dan Savage. I admit this is when I truly fell for Sarah Vowell, despite my pre-existing fandom and all her stories I'd heard before. David Rakoff was in the lineup and had performed at other shows on the tour, but wasn't there that night, which was disappointing.

When TAL did their first broadcast event in 2009, "Return to the Scene of the Crime", my wife and I were there. For TAL's second and more recent broadcast event, just a couple months ago, I procrastinated and missed it, and not having kept up with David Rakoff, didn't know he was sick, and didn't realize this might be my last chance to see him perform. When I listened to the radio version, "Invisible Made Visible", David tells a story about losing the use of an arm due to his cancer treatment, and once again brought tears to my eyes with his expression of self-doubt, being threatened by self-defeat, and then ultimately standing to dance on the stage despite his dangling limb. The part of me that identified with David most, that embarrassed child afraid to show himself to the world, was glad to have been at home the night of the show, sure that I'd have burst into a moment of inconsolability while sitting in a theater full of people.

Years ago, I took a chance and emailed David to express my thanks for...well, everything of his I'd ever been exposed to. Although he'd never been portrayed in any capacity as anything but a quiet, humble man, I never expected a response. I'm not one for fan letters, and I'm always sure anything I ever have to say to anyone I admire will be taken with a grain of salt and responded to with a polite but impatient smile. David not only replied, but expressed great surprise and appreciation that I'd written him. For the life of me, I cannot find the email (God knows I didn't delete it), and this upsets me greatly, but it makes me infinitely happy that I could fill at least one small moment of this man's life, which he shared with me so readily and selflessly, with happiness.

Thank you so, so much, David Rakoff. Rest in peace, you will be greatly missed.

Update: Here is Ira Glass's tweet/TAL blog post on David's passing: http://www.thisamericanlife.org/blog/2012/08/our-friend-david-rakoff

Audiophilia, Part II

My love affair with music has manifested itself materially through the evolution of my media players. As aforementioned, my earliest 'device' was a boombox hanging by wire from the heater vent of my '78 Buick Century. It was awesome not only because it played cassette tapes and the radio, but because I could take it in and out of the car. (I'll be the first to admit my standards were low back then.) Ever since, I've had lots of things that play music that I've been inordinately attached to because I must--must--be able to play certain songs at certain moments, or be ready to listen to this artist or that album whenever a particular mood strikes.

As far as real music players go, I've owned three so far:

1. Motorola m500 
This little thing thrilled me. It was compact, cute, and tough. It was easy to use and smart: this MP3 player was probably the very first reason I ever had to appreciate USB, and at the time 5 megabytes was more than enough to hold every ripped, downloaded, and generated song/sound file I had. I used it for more than two years, even well after all my friends started buying iPods for large multiples of what I paid. I mourned its loss when it finally quit like a tired mule, and I'll always consider it one of the best purchases I've ever made.

2. Zune 8, (Microsoft, third generation)
After the demise of my m500, I was at a loss. I had no desire to buy an iPod, mostly because I had no desire to let iTunes hijack my computer or my music collection. Plus, what I was seeing is that my friends who bought the cool new iPods were mostly being abandoned by Apple as the cooler, newer iPods were released. I didn't want in on that, so I turned to my next best untrusted option: The Evil Empire, Microsoft.

I know I should have considered alternatives, but I was a bit taken with the sleek look of the Zune, and considering my budget, I knew I couldn't afford to make a bad choice for a good reason. Everything about the Zune was sexy. After I finally spent months saving like a teenager, I bought one: red--sexy, I told you!

It took me a couple weeks to get the hang of. It was nowhere near as easy as the m500, and I bought it at the height of the DRM movement, so not only did it not like the only two songs I'd ever bought online, it questioned my authority to load and play songs I'd ripped years ago from CDs I'd owned even longer. It also wanted me to become part of some social network I'd eventually have to pay for monthly access to. The final straws were that it wouldn't let me use part of its 8MB capacity for mass storage and the proprietary software it wanted to use to transfer music files.

Frankly, it pissed me off, but by this time I'd spent my money and was going to make the best of it. After all, rated strictly as a music player, it worked well, and the sexiness of it wasn't lost in the menus and the touchpad control. So long as all I had to do was charge it, I didn't have to mess around with the software much, and that was enough. Sadly, very shortly after the warranty ended, the screen backlight went out. I could still use it if I held it directly in bright sunlight, but really that was it. My already bruised sense of value purchased was shot to hell.

2.5 Cell Phones

Storing and playing music on basic cell phones is easy and... basic. The only one of these worth mentioning is the LG Cosmos Touch. Though marketed to teens, it's a cool little phone and was ideal for use both as a phone and (basic) music player. But I lost it, and had to go back to my Env3, which doesn't even have a standard-sized headphone jack. Boo.

3. Galaxy Player 5.0 (Samsung YP-G70)
This is my most recent acquisition and my real cherry-popping entry into the world of digital devices. In the years since I bought my old m500, the Western world has exploded with Android and iPhone, 3G/4G networks, and data packages that amount to the payments I'll end up making on my teenage son's braces. The term "MP3 player" has almost become obsolete, and considering everything current media players can do, it's absurd to refer to modern, even low-end, devices with the term.

I decided I needed a new music player months before I actually put down the payola. When I started the shopping process, I looked online of course, and got in my head that I could spend a third what I'd paid for previous devices and get more than twice the music player. When I actually walked into a store to try and play with the myriad of products available, I got even more confused. But I also fell in love.

First let me say I was shocked at the price range: I went shopping for a simple touch-screen MP3 player, some of which are out there for as little as $30 or $40. I was expecting something not much more complicated than my three year old GPS. Then I learned about touch screens and started messing around with the fancier devices. Considering these things are just smart phones that don't make calls, the higher price makes sense, and considering Android devices are direct competition for iPhones and high-end tablets (which are even beginning to include souped-up e-readers like the Kindle Fire), the drive to maximize functionality also makes sense.

When I started messing around with the Galaxy Players in the store, I was fairly amazed. (I realize that makes me a bona fide tech noob, but after a certain accumulation of ignorance, it becomes quaint, and therefore excusable...or so I tell myself.) So I decided to get one, eventually, not only because I'd gone way too long without being able to carry my music around with me (basic cell phone music playing in the interim notwithstanding), but because it was a perfect excuse to enjoy all the cool stuff my friends were doing with their phones without paying through the nose for data.

To insure myself against another Zune debacle, I didn't use my own money, so it took me a while to get to walking into a store to buy anything. I spent this time reading reviews and going into more stores to touch and play. During this time, I learned the Galaxy Player 4.2 was coming out, and considered it instead, especially given its size. In the end, however, when I had my VISA gift cards in-hand, and spotted a package deal that included a case and charger, I took the shot and made the buy.

A note on the purchase: I had many options when buying. Unlike Apple's devices, Samsung's prices aren't fixed at every store and website. I chose to buy locally rather than online, and I chose to buy from a store that actually put their products out for customers to try out. Some of the players I looked at online were front runners, even more than the Samsung, but there was no way I was paying money for something until I could touch it and mess around with the menus.

Audiophilia, Part I

I am a music lover. I might even qualify as an audiophile if I understood the classical importance of the hardware necessary to optimize sound. It's a fact that I was born between the analog and digital ages, so my appreciation of music is an amalgam of my very early years sitting around while my mom listened to her favorite albums, my own childhood discovery and exploration of music, and the modern explosion of both availability and portability of musical formats.

As a result, I've been experimenting with ways to have my favorite music with me ever since I got my first cassette recorder. Like most folks my age, I made my first mix tapes by holding the recorder near radio speakers, trying to time the beginning and end of the song just right while keeping everything steady enough not to get those brushing sounds in the recording. Later I owned a dual cassette deck and that was a comparative wet dream. My first car was thirteen years older than me when I bought it, and didn't even have an FM receiver (or an eight-track tape player--I missed that era completely), so I rigged a harness for my boombox with a wire hanger and bought lots of D batteries. I was one of the first people I knew to own a cassette adaptor--both the wired kind that plugs into a headphone jack and the wireless kind that broadcasts a tiny FM signal to which you can tune your car radio--and one of the first things I did after buying my current vehicle was research and purchase an auxiliary input cable.

With the invention of digital music, my world became nearly complete. Remarkably, I never got into Napster or other file sharing methods, but I surely was ripping not only my own CDs to my computer, but those from every friend who would let me borrow them. The fact that libraries loan out music and other audio CDs for free is a testament to human kindness. And then of all magical things, my computer would let me create playlists of all those songs and burn them to a new CD. It's the ultimate mix-tape: all the songs, no ambient noise to ruin the song, and no signal degradation due to making copies of copies ad infinitum. (Seriously, if all the young'ns who grew up with this CD-burning mix-tape method knew the arduous steps such a task used to require, it would make all those when-I-was-your-age stories of "going uphill both ways barefoot in the snow" sound like a cakewalk.) I'm still very fond of this practice; I'll honestly never lose my attachment to physical media, regardless of how advanced we get in the digital age. (Plus, even if you could download liner notes, who would? And would the file include the smell of a freshly open jewel case, or the feel of carefully unfolding the paper for the very first time? I think not...)

Because of my constant desire to keep my favorite tunes nearby, I have watched with childish glee as music services such as Pandora and Spotify have become more mainstream and user friendly. I'm still using the free versions of both of these, with almost no desire (or need*) to upgrade to paid versions, and I have yet to try other, less popular (though certainly mainstream) services like iHeartRadio and Grooveshark. What I love about these services is that they are available almost anywhere (especially with Wi-Fi hotspots and smartphone apps) and that the artists get paid when we music consumers use them, which, after all, was the big deal when Lars took down Napster.

(Discussion on how the music-entertainment business treats/pays artists, especially since the explosion of digital distribution, will not ensue here; perhaps another time, since there's surely plenty to shout about.)

ET Go Home

Months ago, I overheard this statement:

"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 was eavesdropping, I know, but it struck me, as if my own soul sought out these particular words as an opportunity to poke me and say, "See?! See what's been going on? Now maybe you'll understand what we've been going through!" Immediately, I wrote it down (hence the grammatically incorrect format; it was also a spoken statement, and so was made without the normal care a writer would take).

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

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.

The Review and Experience of The Book Thief

The Experience
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.

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. 

The List

I recently bought a new CD, my first in a long time: Rosanne Cash's The List.

The story behind this album is that, after graduating high school, Rosanne went on tour with her dad, the legendary Johnny Cash. In a conversation with him about music, he kept mentioning songs, to which Rosanne would reply, "I don't know that one." It happened frequently enough to disturb the Man in Black to the point of jotting a list he called "100 essential country songs." The songs on my new CD are thirteen items on that list.

In the liner notes (a main reason I still love the actual, physical media), Rosanne mentions the songs as part of her musical geneology: those songs which came before and helped shape the songs she'd discovered and loved in her own time. I have to admit: of the thirteen, only two of the songs are familiar to me, and all of them are somewhat obscure (in my limited musical experience) and not exactly my genre of choice. However, if Johnny Cash made the list, and Johnny's in *my* musical geneology, then obviously every song he thought of that day on the tour bus is also part of mine.

This led me to think of making my own list, and as I drove my daughter to her dance class last night, the need for this was confirmed. I put on the CD and had her listen to Heartache by the Numbers, a duet Rosanne sings with Elvis Costello. The song itself is catchy enough, and their version includes such a deep and rhythmic guitar solo I thought for sure the little girl in the back seat would find something to appreciate. When it was all over, she said to me, "What's so special about that?"

My dear girl, you are *so* missing out.

And so I present my list of 100 Essential Rock Songs. It isn't so much a list of songs essential to understanding or appreciating rock (I'm vastly underqualified to make such a list), but those songs which have helped define and shape the person I've become, at least up until now. They all have some special quality or meaning that I consider essential, and therefore all have at least a small connection to my Core.

Don't flame me; I know there are egregious, almost criminal omissions. About half the list popped spontaneously into my head during the remaining ten minutes of the car ride to dance class, and had to be reconstructed later. About a quarter of it came from a quick perusal of the musical library on my computer, and the rest came from sources outside my immediate reach, because, though I can certainly come up with 100 songs I think are amazing and awesome, I know there are songs that have shaped me which I own no copies of, and haven't heard in many years, so I went looking for some of those. Some of these are personal favorites, some are what I think is representative of the artist's work, and some are truly what I consider "essential" in one's musical exposure. Certainly each meets at least two of these criteria. On the obvious omissions, I've concluded that 100 are not enough, and even if it were, everyone's 100 would be different than everyone else's. I invite any of my three or so readers to make a comment and add their own full or partial lists.

I'm cheating a little; where multiple artists are listed, I imply that each artist's version of that song should be listened to, contrasted, and appreciated separately. With all due humility, here is my list:

1. (Anesthesia) Pulling Teeth, Metallica

2. Almost Cut My Hair, Crosby, Stills & Nash

3. Am I Evil, Metallica

4. And it Stoned Me, Van Morrison

5. Aqualung, Jethro Tull

6. As I Am, Dream Theater

7. Back in Black, AC/DC

8. Travelin Man+Beautiful Loser (live combo), Bob Seger

9. Black Magic Woman, Santana

10. Blue on Black, Kenny Wayne Shepherd Band

11. Bohemian Rhapsody, Queen

12. Born to Run, Bruce Springsteen

13. California Dreamin, Mamas and Papas

14. Cemetary Gates, Pantera

15. Come on in my Kitchen, Robert Johnson/Allman Bros. Band

16. Crazy Train, Ozzy Osbourne, Tribute to Randy Rhoades album

17. Cult of Personality, Living Colour

18. Descending, Black Crowes

19. Do You Feel Like We Do? (Live), Peter Frampton

20. Domino, Kiss

21. Dream On, Aerosmith

22. Eight Miles High, Byrds

23. Even Flow, Pearl Jam

24. Every Break You Take, Police

25. Everything is Broken, Dylan/R.L. Burnside/Kenny Wayne Shepherd Band

26. Fearless, Pink Floyd

27. Fight For Your Right (To Party), Beastie Boys

28. Fire And Rain, James Taylor

29. Flying High Again, Ozzy Osbourne/Tribute album

30. Folsom Prison Blues, Johnny Cash

31. Guitar Shop, Jeff Beck

32. Have You Ever Seen the Rain, Credence Clearwater Revival

33. Higher Ground, Stevie Wonder/Red Hot Chili Peppers

34. Holy Diver, Dio

35. Hotel California, Eagles

36. House of the Rising Sun, Animals

37. I Am the Highway, Audioslave

38. I Shall Be Released, Bob Dylan/The Band/Nina Simone

39. I Want A Little Sugar in My Bowl, Nina Simone

40. Imagine, John Lennon

41. Instinct Blues, White Stripes

42. Jenny Was a Friend of Mine, Killers

43. Kashmir, Led Zeppelin

44. Knocking on Heaven's Door, Bob Dylan/Guns N Roses

45. Life By the Drop, Stevie Ray Vaughn

46. Light My Fire (full length), The Doors

47. Lines in the Sand, Dream Theater [1,2]

48. Lithium, Nirvana

49. Little Wing, Jimi Hendrix/Stevie Ray Vaughn

50. Living' on a Prayer, Bon Jovi

51. Mama Told Me (Not to Come), Three Dog Night

52. Manda Una Señal, Maná

53. Master of Puppets, Metallica

54. Maybelline, Chuck Berry

55. Mellissa, Allman Bros. Band

56. More Than A Feeling, Boston

57. Nights in White Satin, Moody Blues

58. One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer, George Thorogood

59. Pack Up, Eliza Doolittle

60. Piece of My Heart, Janice Joplin

61. Purple Haze, Hendrix

62. Rainbow in the Dark, Dio

63. Rock This Town, Stray Cats

64. Roundabout, Yes

65. Runaway, Del Shannon

66. Sea of Heartbreak, Gibson/J. Cash/R. Cash-Springsteen

67. Slaves and Bulldozers, Soundgarden

68. Sledge Hammer, Peter Gabriel

69. Someone Saved My Life Tonight, Elton John

70. Something Beautiful, Lynn Miles

71. Sometimes, Ours

72. Somewhere Down A Lazy River, Robbie Robertson

73. Space Oddity, David Bowie

74. Star Spangled Banner, Jimi Hendrix

75. Strawberry Fields Forever, The Beatles

76. Sweet Baby James, James Taylor

77. Sweet Child O' Mine, Guns N Roses

78. Sweet Euphoria, Chris Cornell

79. Taxman, The Beatles/Stevie Ray Vaughn

80. That's Alright Mama, Elvis Presley

81. The Distance, Cake

82. The Flame, Cheap Trick

83. The Great Gig in the Sky, Pink Floyd

84. The Pretender, Jackson Brown

85. The Weight, The Band

86. Think About Your Troubles, Harry Nillson

87. Thinking Of You, A Perfect Circle

88. Trouble, Coldplay

89. Voodoo Child, Hendrix/Stevie Ray Vaughn

90. Walking Blues, Robert Johnson/R.L. Burnside (acoustic/electric)/Eric Clapton

91. Wander This World, Johnny Lang

92. War Pigs, Black Sabbath

93. Welcome to my Nightmare, Alice Cooper

94. When the Tigers Broke Free, Pink Floyd

95. Whipping Post (Live recommended, not required), Allman Bros. Band

96. White Moon, White Stripes

97. White Room, Cream

98. Yesterday, The Beatles

99. You Got It, Roy Orbison

100. You Know I'm No Good, Amy Winehouse

Much thanks to the posters on YouTube, and apologies for possibly crappy versions of otherwise amazing songs. I found what I could, knowing these links may all be dead someday anyway.