Tell Stories. Try New Things. Don't Give Up.

It's all been said, many people say,
Usually cynics
Or writers on a bad day,
But there's always more.
The world's not perfect,
But it's getting better than it was before,
And to say something new can further that change;
Though be sure not to lose your message
In the quest for something strange.
Indeed some are content
Simply to see how far they can push the envelope;
How deranged can they make us all?
Be not like them.
Listen instead to a higher call.
Nor be content
To find one working formula
And repeat it over and over and over and over;
That's been done before.
It's become a bore.
And even if you can't find news to say,
There will always be people
Who still haven't heard the old messages,
And you can tell them
In a new and interesting way.

Do I Dare?

A kid came to me today and asked,

"When's my mommy coming back?"

"Your mom's gone?" I asked.

"Well, where'd she go?"

"I cannot tell.

I do not know."

I dammed my tears and thought a while;

I could not make my own this child,

But I did have a friend who'd lost a son

And seldom left the house since it was done.

Perhaps the holes they feel inside battered souls

Might be mended with a little labor.

Maybe they can be each other's saviors.

But they can't-- not right now,

Unaware as each is of the other's existence.

No kindnesses shall come to pass

Unless I have the stones to call my friend and ask.

The Alternative to Growing

He's falling apart for real in this rhyme.
Suck on a lemon.  Suck on a lime.
He falls apart one piece at a time:
There goes an arm,
There goes a conscience,
There goes his sense of alarm,
So now he sees no doctor.
He sees no point,
And then he sees nothing
As his eyes go--
Fall out on the floor,
Roll across the room,
And now they're no more.
There go five teeth, three fingers, two nuts,
And all the hair on his head's left side
Along with (thank God for the freak's sake) his pride.
Then the real mess happens;
His skin crumbles off,
Blows away like ash,
Greatly accelerating his organs' decline--
They all turn yellow,
Then brown.
Then he falls down.
He does not get up.
His brain, heart and lungs fight on 'til the end
Along with his mouth,
Which wails, "What happened?
Where'd I go?"
It repeats this for hours
Until the last part of him, his pain, dies too.
Before looking away, one thing you must know:
Life is quick-- death is slow.

Life is Well-Balanced

Today watched on
As I took 723 steps
And 724 missteps.

"A .499 average," a friend of mine said,
"Aint bad.  It's fantastic for batting
And range shooting as well."

"Yes," I said, "but not so great
When looking at test scores
Or the liklihood that the treatment will work."

My friend laughed and coughed
Long and hard enough
To quake his hospital bed.

Then he regained control and said,
"You were always such a stiff,
But that's what I liked about you."

A nurse came in just then with a razor.
"It's time to prep you for the procedure."
And then she tripped and fell face-first.

She got up in time
To hear my friend say,
"Well, I'm glad we got that out of the way."

Well-Balanced is Life

For every birth there is death.  For every extinction, an evolution.  For every man there is a woman, and should the equation become imbalanced, there is also homosexuality to make up for it.

For every marriage there is divorce, some brought on by legal action, others by the natural tragedy of one lover dying, leaving the other to die a slower more lonely death.

For every win there is loss.  Every gift given is also a gift received. For every crime there is punishment.  And for every well-spent minute is another thrown away.

So we can not only hope for but also count on the notion that even the heaviest sorrow ends.  And we must love every minute of the happy times, because soon enough they turn to something less pleasant.

And we must never cease believing that if we've experienced Hell, then there also is Heaven.

Responsible Censorship

What images should and should not be seen?  Where are certain images acceptable and where are they not?  What contexts make them acceptable and unacceptable?

To me it is a question of value.  If an image conveys important info or meaning, then you should show it regardless of graphic detail.  If you believe an image, song, film, whatever has something to say that other people need to hear, then share it.  However, if this thing is controversial, you have to go into it prepared for conflict.  The abortion protesters that hold up signs depicting aborted fetuses do this.  They stand behind their beliefs knowing full well that these images will piss a lot of people off.  They believe that people need to see those images even if they don't want to.

At the same time, however, they are putting these images on display without censor in a public setting where anyone could pass by and see them.  Graphic image display like this needs to carry with it a certain responsibility; children in particular should be protected from having to see such things.  This is because they may not fully grasp the message or purpose, and all they see is a blown-up bloody mess.  They will be disturbed without the full capacity to understand why.  Adults too will be disturbed, but they can put their feelings in context and take in the information appropriately.  Distributors of such images have a responsibility to avoid exposing children to things they are not ready to see.

Images that are excessively graphic should be further censored when there is little social need for them.  They should be restricted so that only those people seeking them out are exposed to them.  Such images would include pornography, bodies being cut open for surgeries, autopsies, etc., and mass violence.

Violence and gore are rarely necessary in the media, and they should be censored more often than sex and foul language, though it's usually the other way around.  I can think of many violent images I've seen that disturbed me and still stick with me, but there are few cases of exposure to language or sex that have left marks on my psyche.  The ones that are there are from cases when sex and language were combined with violence.  The only situation I can think of in which gore is necessary-- when the general public needs to be exposed to it-- is when someone (a government, the mafia, whoever) is trying to cover up some tragedy they've committed.  Gory images in this case would serve as proof and as a call to action, a call for positive change.

Such images should, whenever possible, be presented after a warning that the material is in fact awful.  But sometimes that is not even enough.  There are some websites like bestgore.com that are devoted to depicting the most gruesome images possible for the sake of the gruesomeness alone.  There is no social statement that I know of.  It's simply "Dude, how sick is that?"  Many of the images are worse than anything I'd imagine on my own, but it isn't the images that disturb me the most.  What bothers me is that there are people in this world with the motivation to create such a site/sight, that there is a big enough market of interested viewers to keep it going.

And even if images or stories do seem important, the media has the responsibility to censor them if they are likely to do more harm than good.  Suicide, for instance, is a very tricky topic to cover.  Presenting it one way, with lots of details of the act itself and a tone void of sympathy often adopted by news anchors, can make it appear that you're disrespecting the dead, which will likely upset friends and family of the deceased.  Presenting it another way, with emotion and investigation of the subject's motivations, can glorify and sympathize with the act of suicide, which can in turn inspire an audience with suicidal thoughts to move one step closer toward suicidal action.  Any coverage of a suicide must be kept free from a value judgment, positive or negative.  In most cases, it's probably best to cover such events minimally, as it should rarely be the business of anyone other than those involved directly.

At the same time, coverage of a suicide could be possibly used to prevent future suicides.  It's all a matter of how responsibly it's done, how well the possible results have been thought out and prepared for.  The story of the suicide could have a positive effect potentially, but I can think of no situation in which it would be necessary to distribute visuals of suicides.  All that would do is disturb, sicken, and inspire fear.

Stories and information should almost never be fully censored, but they should be distributed responsibly, keeping in mind the effects they will produce.  We have freedom of speech and freedom of press, of course, but there is still a social responsibility that goes with these freedoms.  With that in mind, information should always be available to those who seek it.  Images, on the other hand, are not always necessary.  They have a greater potential to disturb and produce negativity.  And while you can choose whether you will read an article or listen to a story, you cannot always avoid seeing an image.  It's just there.  It hits you.  It registers.

Natural Magic

There is a magic to life.  Of this I am sure.  It comes and goes.  As we get older it shifts its shape, and its infrequency seems to increase.

But I remember magic being everywhere when I was child.  It was there when I built a dam in the neighborhood creek, and also when I ate my first bowl of Lucky Charms.  It was there when I knocked on a friend's door and asked "Can Nate come out to play?"  When I was a child, holidays meant something, snow was a good thing, the world was full of mystery, swimming pools were immense fun, and friends were relatively loyal.  Kids would stay out all day until bedtime.

There's magic in riding a bike, in chasing down the ice cream truck, in playing kickball in the cul-de-sac, in not even knowing what a cul-de-sac is, instead simply calling it "The Circle."  As a child, few ideas are stupid.  Fireworks are amazing.  Birthdays are a cause for celebration.  Money is a privilege, not a necessity.  And you only really need enough to purchase an Icee on a bike trip to AmeriStop.  An allowance of five dollars every two weeks is more than enough.

There's magic in the week before school starts, in going out and buying all new supplies, in calling up all your friends to see who's in your class.  There's magic in soccer games, in halftime snacks, in victory soda pops, even in the way your legs are all warm and smelly when you remove your shinguards.  And trophies are cherised possessions, placed prominently on display.

Of course not all is paradise.  Parents get divorced, grandpa dies, the dog attacks your best friend, you slam a tree branch into your sister's eye.  Sometimes your dad wants to wrestle, but most of the time this consists of him simply putting his weight on top of you until you almost suffocate.  And even when you do gain an advantage, he feigns injury until you let your guard down out of concern, and then he gets you.  Sometimes you're afraid of him.  Sometimes you hate him.  Like when he pretends to throw you in the animal cages at the zoo.

Of course you love him as well for taking you to the zoo at all, and to other magical places like the putt-putt course and the arcade.  You don't realize it at the time but you blow tons of his money winning tickets at those arcade games only to use the tickets to purchase prizes worth way less than the money spent.  And yet you get your money's worth anyway from the joy these things give you, because there's a certain magic in having a bouncy ball war with your sister across the kitchen linoleum.

Overcome Fear

Few things scare me in this world.  It used to be the opposite.  As an adolescent, I began the majority of my days with a nervous breakdown.  But since then I've come to realize that while fear can have its place, for the most part it is a harmful and needless thing.  Something will either happen or it won't.  Worrying isn't going to change that, at least not for the better.

Instead I try to be optimistic.  If I'm going somewhere I've never been before where I know not a soul, I don't think about the risks.  I don't think about what I can lose or about my own inexperience relative to those around me.  Instead I take joy in the novelty of the  experience.  At worst it will make for a good story.  It's like a challenge to see how many difficulties I can overcome, and I'm going for a top score. 

To overcome difficulties, you may need to develop a healthy amount of masochism.  You learn to find something good in the pain you're dealt.  Perhaps a better word to use is selflessness.  It's hard to be afraid if you don't care what happens to you, or if you don't believe it particularly matters what happens to you.  Life will go on.  We learn from mistakes and adapt.  Death comes first to those who can't adapt, and the ones that can't adapt are the ones who don't learn, and the ones who don't learn are the ones that never try anything because they are too afraid.  So to think that your fears are protecting you from harm... this may very well not be the case.  Your fears prevent you from growing, which is a much bigger harm in the long run.

The first step toward selflessness is gaining a strong sense of self.  Figure out who you are, what's important to you, what you have to offer the world.  Learn, know, and be confident with who you are; then it won't matter who does what to you, because you know who you are and you know that no one else can touch that; no one but you can change who you are.  And once you know this, you can forget about it.  You can let it out of the forefront of thought to slip into your subconscious, making room for more important things.

You can spend more time outside your own mind and start living for other people.  Instead of worrying about how people see you, you think about what you can do for them.  Don't think, "What if I make a bad impression?"  Think, "What if I can make an impression?"  Strong impressions are what reach people; whether their impression is good or bad, they will remember you.  Most people think a not-bad impression is the same as a good one.  It is not.  A not-bad impression is a non-impression.  You didn't do anything bad, but that doesn't mean you're good by default.  You didn't do anything good either.  You didn't do anything.  You are both not-bad and not-good.  You are nothing.  People are indifferent on the subject of you.

Which brings us back to fearlessness.  You have to act, and acting involves some degree of fearlessness always.  And whatever you're doing may or may not be important, but if you do it withour fear, people notice that.  So if what you're doing does matter, your confidence might just inspire confidence in others to join you, to take up a belief in what you're doing because you've created in them a belief in you.

Of course, while this manner of living does allow you a freedom from a great many fears, it can create a fear that may not have been there before.  When you are selfless, when you try to live for others, you may become struck by the fear of indifference, of ignorance, of dispassion.  What if there's somebody who cannot be reached?  Somebody who will neither talk nor listen, who will not communicate?  This one hits me from time to time, but it too is best avoided.  Because once you let in one fear, you open the door for the rest.  Your mind is full of neuroconnections that link everything like a chain.  One fear connects to another which connects to another and before you know it, all the fears you've ever felt are swirling around uncontrollably in your mind preventing you from thinking about anything else, preventing you from seeing, paralyzing you from acting.

Which is why it's good to not spend too much time in your own mind.  Live selflessly.  Live for others.  And don't worry about indifference.  There will always be people who won't hear what you have to say.  But don't base your happiness on whether or not your actions are well-received.  Do the things you love, and take happiness from the simple fact that you're doing them.  And if you affect even just one person out of one hundred-- seeing that one spark of inspiration, which you helped create, is a high like no other.

The Source of Good Writing

What makes one piece of writing popular and another one forgettable?  There are all kinds of answers.  But the one that seems to this writer to apply most often: conscience.

When writers dig inside themselves, down deep into the issues that they truly care about, into the beautiful and harsh life experiences that shaped them-- when they do this and then have the courage to expose these feelings and experiences to others... that makes for powerful writing.  Writing that comes from the conscience-- this is something that other consciencs can learn from.  It doesn't necessarily have to be positive and it doesn't necessarily have to take a moral stance and it doen't necessarily have to give advice (though none of these things is bad), but it does need to convey real feeling so that someone experiencing something similar can connect with the truth of the writing and know that they are not alone.

The writing should convey not only feelings, but also sensations, events, experiences, facts, anecdotes, and character details because feelings alone make for a groundless, irresponsible rant with little context.  Because words are beautiful, but they're also easily faked.  It's easy enough to tell someone, "I love you."  But it means more if you say "When I'm with you, everything in my life seems better" or "Your family makes me very uncomfortable but I will spend time with them because it means something to you" or "Did you ever notice that your left eyebrow always rises up just before you make a joke?  Because I noticed that."  The details give substance to the spirit and feeling.

Meaningful writing comes from feeling, from the conscience.  And responsible writing uses significant details and contexts.

Of course, good writers should also try new things, new forms and styles-- not merely to shock but rather to add meaning and inspire creativity.  That way not only are people comforted by the shared expression of feeling-- they are also excited and surprised, which is a very good thing for a reader to be.  Because when people are excited and surprised, they let down some of those defenses, those walls they've been building around their emotions ever since the first time they got made fun of in middle school.  They allow themselves to feel, and they become exposed.  They become affected.  And it is only in affected readers that writing truly finds success.

Always ask questions, but don't question everything.

My desire's fire implores me to ask,
"How much mileage might I milk from this moment?
Can I overcome insecurity's snake?
Can I kill the cancerous contempt
Of folly's flippant fakes?
Will someone care about what I do?
Do I care about them-- or you?"
There comes a time
When questioning becomes benign
And all that matters
Are those things you're already doing.
Who cares what might be
When what is is good enough?
And is it?  Is it really?
Or are you deluded?
Or am I for begging the question?
I don't have all the answers;
Some of them I do,
But some of them belong to you.

Working the Corner

Am I the only one who feels a whore
When unemployed yet seeking work?
Hire me!  I'll love you longer and better--
Plus look how my backside shakes and jerks!

Mayhap I've discovered whoredom's genesis--
People needing work and not finding it.
Alas the Christian in me won't sell my heart
And the idealist won't let me settle or quit
And the Holden Caulfield won't let me play any game
But my own-- even if I don't understand it.

So I'm predisposed against whoredom
And yet... to perform an act without the feeling behind it--
To figure out what an employer desires,
Then sell myself with that in mind...
I feel that I'm a whore all the same--
A phony lover scraping by--
Too poor to afford a little shame.

Book Recommendation: Every Man in This Village is a Liar

In the United States, there are younger generations who have only lived in a world where our country is in conflict in the Middle East.  9/11 was long enough ago that there are 6th graders who don't remember it.  Many, probably most, Americans, are confused by or unaware of the specifics of why our country does what it does in the Middle East.  We don't like the wars.  We don't like that more money goes into them than goes into the education of our children.  We don't like having Americans die and not understanding why.  And there are thousands who have died in this way.

And yet, by comparison, this is nothing.

In the Middle East there are multiple generations who have been born into, grown up through, and died living directly in conflict.  Megan K Stack's "Every Man in This Village is a Liar" is an account of the various Arabian conflicts between 2001 and 2007.  But it is so much more than dry history or an explanation of what this and that leader did and why.  It gives that info, but more useful is the time spent with the common man.  Stack interviews the powerful and greedy, the intelligent but broken, and the hopeless and confused throughout the Arab nation bringing us insight into Iraq, Afghanistan, Egypt, Libya, Yemen, Lebanon, Israel, and Saudi Arabia.

Stack does the best thing a war reporter can do; she humanizes things.  She reminds us that Muslims and Arabs are not evil, deserving of evil, or even really all that different from us on most levels.  She shows us their hopes, their pain, their lives as they live them despite every obstacle.  We see people in Egypt being prevented from going to voting polls by hired gunman.  We see the old and the handicapped who were left behind crawling out of a demolished village in Lebanon.  We see people give interviews but refuse to give names for fear of being disappeared by their own government.  Many have lost faith in their own governments and must rely on the hope that the outside world will help them.  In some cases the outside world tries.  In some cases, not.

Stack's book forces us to look in the mirror at ourselves as a nation.  At how many of the injustices in Arab lands are being done with weapons provided by America.  Sometimes by US-backed Israel.  Sometimes by the American military itself.  Both countries have bombed entire cities in hopes of taking out a relatively small group of insurgents.  Sometimes the weapons are used by people we supported a few years ago; we changed our minds about them, but they still have the weapons.
Or how about America's claim that it will give support to Arab nations that attempt to become democracies, but then it's failure to support fair democracy when the popular candidates happen to be Muslim idealists? 

Stack takes these confusing, distant conflicts and throws them right in our lap.  The stories are gritty.  They are heavy.  They are hard to stomach.  But they are necessary to hear if you care at all about human rights and America's position in the world.

Liquid is the Only State of Matters

Diversity training made me think in stereotypes.
Being put in a leadership position made me a rebel.
Teaching helped me learn.
Learning helped me teach.
Medicine caused a new illness.
Faith made me ask questions.
Poison eased my pain.
I smiled at criticism
And winced at praise.
A friend hurt me
And an enemy helped me grow.
The sun blinded me.
Darkness helped me focus.
Having no choice freed me from worry.
Sickness helped me relax.
Depressing movies made me feel better.
I found anxiety at family gatherings
And comfort around strangers.
I wanted to be great but not famous.
Running helped me face my problems.
Losing encouraged me to improve.
The less I talked, the more important my words became.
By observing true animosity, I learned to demonstrate true compassion.

The World is Full of Beauty

The world is full of beauty, but sometimes people forget.  So remind them.  And remind yourself.  Because it's everywhere if your eyes are open to it.

I've seen some beautiful things in this world.  Why, I've seen the sun rise and set in ten different countries.  I've kissed Norwegians, danced with Indians, sung with Danes, kayaked with Croatians, drank wine with Italians, and played soccer with Egyptians.  I've loved.  I've lost, but I've also won.  I've seen homeless people sing in the streets.  I've seen depressed people find their way again.  I've given rides to and received rides from total strangers without anything bad ever happening.  I've seen a child's face light up from having learned something new.  I've had amazing late-night discussions, both drunk and sober.  I've met and befriended people with different points of view.  I've won trophies.  I've read countless books and am delighted that they're being written at a pace faster than that at which I can read them.  I've laughed at a wedding.  I've cried at a funeral.  I've cared for a sick friend, and been cared for when I was sick.  I've felt God.  I've walked through creeks, been moved by a performance, been drenched in strangers' sweat in the front row of a concert.  I've sped down the highway next to my best friend with the windows down and the music blasting.

One time I was having a terrible day at work and had just spilled a bunch of trash everywhere when a customer I'd never met before stopped and helped me pick it up.  One time I was lost in a foreign city and some hookers gave me directions back to my hotel.  One time I caught my reflection in the mirror and realized I like who I am.  I've exchanged hugs, kisses, constructive criticisms, words of encouragement, jokes, handshakes, and high fives.  I've ridden horses.  Played hide and seek, cops and robbers, and truth or dare.  I've tasted pizza.  And cookies.  And steak.  And tropical pineapple smoothies.  And Thanksgiving dinners.  I've seen a guy pop bubbles with the tip of his nose.  I've taken a massage class.  I've been smiled at.  I've had an ice-cold beer after working sixteen straight hours.  I've cooked dinner with a friend.  I've sat with a friend staring out at the ocean for hours.  I've received unexpected gifts.  I've worked jobs I enjoyed with people I liked.  I've admired someone professionally.  I've admired somone personally.  I've felt the pleasure of giving respect.  I've had a date on Valentine's Day.  I've had my own radio show.  Been to the circus.  Taken countless showers.  Danced in the rain.  Been part of an entourage.  Stayed up all night.  I've sat in a park drinking coffee and watching dogs run around while girls in bikinis stretch out in the grass.

The world is full of beauty and don't you ever forget it.  What have you witnessed?  Please share it below.  And elsewhere.  And anywhere.  And everywhere.

Another Picture of War

A man in a suit and a tie makes a telephone call.  When he hangs up, he calls it a day, putting any loose files inside his desk and then locking it.  He leaves his office and grabs a drink with a colleague.  He gets home in time to tuck his kids into bed and read them a Dr. Seuss story.  Later his wife asks him how his day was and he says, "Oh, nothing out of the ordinary."  They make quiet love and then go to sleep.

Above a distant country a plane drops a bomb that kills two hundred people whom the pilot will never meet.

A Picture of War

Upon an otherwise beautiful beach lies the bloodied soldier who, for no other reason than having been ordered to, doth die a shameful and lonely death amongst a thousand other shameful ghosts.  They wail and scream silently while silent vigils are held several seas away and silent candles scatter silent shadows in a church that is silent save for one or two confessors.

Meanwhile, half the houses on the block are bathed in the screams of fatherless children.

When to Get Involved with Someone

One of my major life goals is to never stop learning.  I want to continually seek out new experiences and learn to do new things.  I want to be joyful and to give joy and to show/teach things to others.  I want to make people see things in new ways.

This is not to say that I want everything to always be changing-- that I don't value deep, close, lasting relationships.  Because I do.  To me, these deep relationships are not only good, but necessary.  But seeking them cannot be a goal in itself.  It is a byproduct of working toward your goals; you get close to those who help you along the way.  But relationships themselves cannot be goals because simply wanting a relationship is not reason enough to form one.  That will not serve as a foundation.  True bonds need deeper roots.  This is why picking someone up at a bar or meeting someone online just doesn't work for me.  Shared experience = relationship.  One does not exist without the other.  Not truly. 

You can't get together with someone based on the fact that you both want a relationship and you've analyzed each other's profiles and projected selves and determined them to be a suitable match.  No, meeting someone shouldn't be a primary goal.  Living life fully should be, by your terms and by God's-- and along the way you meet people.  Sometimes you like them.  Sometimes you don't.  But you should feel something for a person before deciding to get together.  Something for the person, not for who they might be or who you can make them into or what they can do for you.  You don't form a relationship because it seems like a good option, or a smart option, or a fun option, or a beneficial option, or a kind option, or an interesting option.  You form one when it is the option.  When to do anything else would mean being untrue-- would mean torture.

If your relationship starts in this way, then you know it is something of value and you can engage in it wholeheartedly.  You will gain more from it and give more to it: more joy, more meaning, more freedom.  Less insecurity, less indecision.  You won't waste time worrying whether the other person really likes you or not, or worrying what your friends and family will think of him or her, or worrying whether he or she might be cheating on you.  You in all likelihood won't even think of these things as possible problems.  And even if they were, it wouldn't matter much to you anyway.  Because you know what you want and you're doing everything in your power to get it.  No holding back.  There is a freedom from worry when you aren't holding back, when you know you're doing your absolute best to be exactly the kind of person you want to be.  And if, heaven forbid, it doesn't end up working out, you will have no regrets.  Because you'll know you did it right.  And if it does end up working out, well then- ain't that something?  You'll have a true soulmate whom  you care about, whom you know you can trust, who shares values with you,  and who frees you from worry.

And you might say, "What if there isn't anyone in my life that I feel this strong compulsion toward?  Am I supposed to just be alone forever?"  I would say get more people in your life.  Never stop going out there and engaging the world.  Meet people, and not in the dating sense-- just get to know those you interract with.  Strike up conversations with strangers.  Join a social organization.  Volunteer somewhere.  There are plenty of ways to meet people without any awkward romantic pretense.  So what if you don't find someone you want to date right away?  You'll still make friends.  And every time you make a friend you open yourself to the potential of a sea of new meetings in all that friend's friends.  There's one thing in this world you can never have too much of, and that is personal connections. 

Make friends everywhere; few bad things come of friendship.  But don't rush to be involved romantically simply because you desire companionship.  You need to desire the person more than you desire the idea.  There are good people everywhere, but not everyone will be wholly good for you.  Know what you want, and pursue it.  That is an active decision you can make.  But who you want is trickier.  You can't really know that until you know them.  So be patient, friends.

The World's Most Interesting Animal

A mouse of a woman clicks her womanly mouse
As she searches the spider's Web
For a new steed to ride, or
A young buck to mount on her wall.
And nearby her is a busy busy bee
Who searches for a shelved fantasy
She might worm her way through,
And sure enough there's one she sees,
Though she misses the sloth on the floor
Over whom she trips, eliciting a lion's roar:
"You damned clumsy mule!
I'd sooner do a dog than you!"
But the bee takes no offense at the sloth,
Seeing the battiness in his eyes.
Instead she grabs her fantasy and off she flies
To disentangle the mouse from the Web,
The former of which says with a scowl,
"My, you're both the early bird and the night owl.
Tell me, when do you ever take to bed?"
There was a catty bite to the question,
So the bee replied, "Wake up you drone!
I'll sleep when I'm dead!
Or when the cows come home."

Passion -- in Parts

My hand on yours
Is not so awkward as I'd thought,
My thoughts not so clumsy as my mouth,
Which tries to speak the truths
My mind forgot.

My mind's memories,
While vast, varied, and deep,
Are, as yet, unfinished,
Uncertain, unkempt, at times
Ingenious, yet incomplete.

And don't get me started on my feet
Which move hither and yon
Cross the north and east,
Never sleeping, never sleeping,
Looking for something to quest upon.

But my heart still pushes
Regular as ever--
Fiery, bloody, unconcernedly
Bound to what's good
In fine-- and harsher-- weather.

The Sacrifices We Make

Yellowed newspapers sit on a shelf
Just below the shelf holding fresh ones;
Both go untouched
By me and all others.

What do I care about
What some journalist
Convinced his editor was important?
Or was it the editor
Who convinced the journalist?

I confess I'm too harsh;
Both are trying to make it in this world,
Trying like the rest of us,
Trying to do something they love
And get paid for it.

But modern journalism begs the question,
How many worthless stories are worth
The opportunity to write one good one?
How much space between good can we handle?
Is one good one a year sufficient
To prevent a soul's deflation?
Perhaps one every six months is enough
To keep the mind from rotting?
And what if it's not?
What happens to our newsmen then?

The Nature of Human Equality, part 2

Does every human life have value?

Even the Assholes?
Even the Criminally Insane?
Even the Gays?
Even the Christians?

Does every human life have value?

Even the Congolese?
Even the Ones with no resources that are of use to you?
Even the Whites?
Even the Less Intelligent?
Even the Fascists or the Anarchists or the Indifferent?

Does every human life have value?

Even the humble and meek and bewildered.  Even the drunken, the angry, the ignorant, the violent, the foolhardy, and the selfish.  Even the loved, the grateful, the trustworthy, the faithful, the loyal, and the peaceful.  Even the black, white, yellow, brown, red, green, and orange.  Even those paralyzed by fear.  Both those who read this and find it beautiful as well as those who consider it unnecessary drivel.  Even your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.  Even the blissfully happy, the mortally depressed, the obsessively compulsive, the pedantically infuriating, the monotonously dull, and the unfailingly kind.  Even those long since dead whose memory goes on-- the George Washingtons, the Albert Einsteins, the Genghis Kahns, the grandparents, the parents, the children, the friends and enemies we grew up with.  Even the holy ones who are not real to some and yet are everything to others: Jesus Christ, Muhammad, Buddha, and every version of every god ever conceived or misconceived.  Even those characters that were never real, though this didn't stop them from touching our souls-- the Holden Caulfields, the Tyler Durdens, the Harry Potters, the Three Little Pigs, and the Ebenezer Scrooges.  Not only every single person you know or have ever met but also all the people important to them and even those neither you nor they have met or will ever meet whose well-being might just depend on your service to the common good.  Even those who haven't been born yet.  Even  those who might exist way out on some undiscovered planet.  Even that annoying person who won't stop texting during the movie or the person who's coughing up a storm throughout the performance.  Even the next door neighbor who hides from you behind a six foot fence.  Turn and look to your left, then your right.  Even those people.  Even me.  Even you.

The Nature of Human Equality, part 1

Barriers to Love

Creep – noun: the guy who stands at the edge of the dance floor licking his lips and rubbing his hands together.  He has spike-gelled hair and is slightly overweight.

We’ve heard people say, “Don’t be a creeper!”

“That’s so creepy.”

“That guy kept creepin’ on us, so we had to leave.”

“You’re a creepy bastard sometimes.”

I’ve been called a creep before, in my younger days when I did something naughty like hiding in a bedroom pretending to be a pillow until the lights went out, and then screaming.

Until I was thirteen the east and north sides of my house were wrapped in creeper vines.

The crazy woman in Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper”—she creeps.

She narrates: “I sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had less opposition and more society and stimulus—but John says the very worst thing I can do is think about my condition, and I confess it always makes me feel bad.”

           

Radiohead wrote a song about all this once.

People want sex more than they’ll admit.  To tell a person, “I’d like to be intertwined with you, wrapped around you… right now”—that can have consequences.

Creep.  Creed.  Seep.  Weed.  Smoke.  Croak.  Frog.  Bloke.  Drunk.  Stroke.  Feel.  Weak.

In the 1990’s, young girls received the Easy Bake Oven for Christmas.  Young boys got the Creepy Crawler Oven, which allowed you to fill insect-shaped molds with goo, then cook the goo-molds into rubber spiders, dragonflies, and worms that could be successfully stuck to television screens, and could be made to look rather real if the boy-cook-bugmaker knew what he was doing.

It’s a lot harder for a girl to be a creep; there’s one social stigma they win out on. 

Although creeping is something women seem to do when trapped inside yellow wallpaper.

Creepy, I sometimes think, is nothing more than a misperception of honesty:

Actions alone (like say, masturbating) are not creepy.

Thoughts (like say, So-and-So is really attractive)... those are not creepy either.

But Expression of those thoughts and actions—that’s creepy (especially when too closely juxtaposed).

For those who speak in equations: f(x) = e(d), where e = Expression, d = Desire, x = STALKER

But we, the young men of mine and neighboring generations, are a demographic largely raised by single women.  We were not raised by creeps, but by divorcees and weekend fathers and sometimes little more than memories and stories.

Creep – verb: to attempt to deal with intense feelings of loneliness and entrapment without regard for the (pre)conceptions and (mis)perceptions of others.

TLC sang a song about this, too.

We tried to learn about love from songs and books and television actors.  We internalized.  We imitated, not realizing the extent to which our actions, when traced back to the source, were inspired by money, drugs, and sex— things we did not have, though we sometimes pretended to.

You know, creeper vines can be quite beautiful when viewed in the appropriate season’s light.

                       

I’ve gone to school and learned some skills, and on the dance floor I’m all about having fun; there’s no other agenda, really.  My Creepy Crawlers are in a black suitcase in the back of a closet, back home, and I’m not the same size as a pillow anymore. 

But none of this changes the fact that I am incredibly unsuccessful with women.

My First Complete Rap Song

This is a song I wrote and performed at the end of the year for the kids I've been mentoring.  I had a video of it, but have had trouble uploading it, and the sound quality wasn't that good anyway.  But below are the lyrics to my first complete rap song, written for soon-to-be middle-schoolers:

You know me; I’m Mr. P.  I’m your card-slapping, fool-zapping, book-stacking, math captain and today I’m rapping so if you want to, get those hands clapping.  I’m making math happen.  Math like taking two fractions, then subtracting.  Multiplying then simplifying.  Times tables, variables, and nutrition labels.    

I don’t claim to be a lyrical mastermind.  I’m nearly nameless, completely fameless.  I’m no Eminem, no Jay-Z, no Nikki, no Master P. no O.D.B.  You won’t see me on TV and that’s exactly how I want it to be.  No illusion.  No cruising, snoozing, or using.  Just me out here in the real world confusion.  Refusing the easy.  Choosing the real.  Sometimes winning.  Sometimes losing.  Sometimes taking a pretty bad bruising.  Stopping to feel, learning to deal, and then heal.

Now you say that you hate being told what to do—well here’s your salvation.  The game has a name—it’s education.  Take time to learn how the world turns and you won’t have to yearn like a bird on a shelf.  Instead you’ll learn to turn it yourself.  You’ll rise above the drooling fools who’re too cool for school and you’ll have the tools to set your own rules.

And don’t say “I can’t” or “I’m dumb” or “I have no worth” because we’re all equally stupid at birth.  Knowledge comes later, gator, and it can only be earned, not handed out as a favor.  But if you take the time to do it right, to gain insight, ignite a light with mental might, you’ll have the range to make some change, to be in control, to set your world’s goals.

Getting you the tools is what we’re about at this school.  We’re breeding intellect and we reject all disrespect that might deject you or me – we eject, neglect those negative histories and interject with positivity.

In your life they’ll be first and second chances, first and last dances, romances and unreturned glances—all this enhances and advances you one step ahead, and it may not always feel like progress; it can be quite a mess, but don’t stress.  Life is a mess, but a beautiful one with ample time for both hardship and fun.

So child, smile.  Life goes on a while, mile by mile by ever-loving mile, and it’ll throw piles of vile not-worthwhile pains your way, but fear not – for every scar you got, they’ll be a memory sent to thee which’ll mean quite a lot.  More than the things you sought, bought, and forgot.  You’ll remember foes and friends, teachers and peers, beginnings, ends, joys, fears.

So don’t hate, wait, bait, procrastinate, violate, instigate, assassinate, underrate, hesitate, or exacerbate. 

Instead here’s a book; read it.  Fill your brain; feed it.  You’re going to need it, so don’t cheat it.  Heed it.  That’s my edict, see it?

Give credit where credit is due; what you dish out to others comes back to you.  Believe in yourself and everyone else.  Show respect and love to all the above.

Eyes open, ears listening, heart hoping, skin glistening with the sweat— of goals worked toward and met.  That’s how I want you to go through life.

I have an idea what you see when looking at me, but I’m not sure you do—know what I view in you.  I see potential.  You can be influential.  I see artists and dancers.  I see caring, kindness, daring, bravery.  I see smarts, determination, compassionate hearts.  Some of you are curious, always going after.  Some are hilarious always bringing me laughter.  Some are great at math, some are great readers, some are super-fun, some are born leaders. 

So remember, boys and girls, to use your skills to improve your world, to lessen strife, to better life.  These skills exist; let them show.  Stay in school and help them grow.  Now soon I must go, but know when I go that I’ll miss you so.  I wish you the best.  Keep hope alive in your chest.  Goodbye and God bless.  And when I am gone I’ll do my best to make life great and not lame, and I’ll wish for you to do the same.

To the Assholes of the World

Animated,
Kill-created,
Sadly situated,
Ugly,
And impotent
Is the man
Who doth tear down another.

His arrogance,
In thinking he is better,
is like the power of a gun-
Illusory.

One may say, "I'm gonna get a gun"
I'll reply, "Why?"
And one will say "For protection."
But no matter how many
Guns you wield
Or bullets you fire,
It still only takes one,
just one bullet to end you.
You are no less weak
For all your strength.

Which is why he who is arrogant
Is like a gun-
He cannot protect.
He cannot save.
He cannot heal.
All he can do
is take and destroy.

Why You Should Read Books part 2

It makes you smarter!  When you read something of value, you're expanding and practicing your vocabulary.  You're opening your mind up to the viewpoint and experiences of another.  You're an active participant in your own entertainment.  You're giving your brain some novel stimulation.  You're making connections between your life and the universal truths the author tries to convey.  Your memories are accessed when just the right detail hits you in just the right way.  Your powers of argument strengthen as you agree with some parts of the book but not others.  You hone your ability to focus.  You leave this world and use your imagintion for a little while. 

Reading is a full-brain workout.  What to some is a simple and boring act is to others (those who have learned to do it properly) an experience that involves just about every part of the mind.  Just like when you exercise the body, it can be difficult, even painful.  But once you've had your fill and it's time to move on with your day, you feel better, fresher, healthier, stronger. 

And who knows, maybe you'll learn to think in new ways.  Maybe you'll find new facets to your personality, find some new and amazing thing you never knew you cared about.  Maybe, at the very least you'll have something different to talk about.

Countdown

10.  Hal and Jenny spent that night together making gentle love on the sofa, then cuddling in silence afterward as they watched the Cavaliers lose to the Heat. 

9.  Hal took his son fishing for the day.  He taught him all the different kinds of bait and what each one was good for.  Young Douglas paid too much attention; within the first hour he hooked some monstrous beast that pulled him face-first into the lake.  It was difficult for Hal to convince him to let go of the rod.  That sometimes nature just gets the better of you.

8.  Hal went drinking with his buddies.  Fredo, who could never handle his alcohol, had no more success than usual that night.  The group left the bar early and walked their friend home, periodically stopping so Fredo could throw up in an alleyway.  Once they reached Fredo's house, the group stayed up late in his living room playing cards and reminiscing until one by one they passed out for the count.

7.  Without telling anyone, Hal left the house at sunrise and drove through the old cemetery, parking at the edge of the road that separated the stones from the trees.  He walked, stopping and kneeling when he came to a grave that he knew.  Then he went into the woods behind the cemetery where he hiked the trails of his childhood, stopping frequently to rest, to sniff the dead leaves, to rub dirt on his hands.

6.  Jenny was cooking when he got home.  He sniffed the air.  Roast beef and onions.  Walking into the kitchen, he saw her peeling and mashing potatoes in the largest pot they owned.  Her shoulders and butt jerked with her efforts.  From behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist and started kissing her neck.

"Where have you been?!" she asked him.  He started nibbling on her neck now.  She laughed.

That night the small family ate their dinner like kings.  They ate and they laughed, and finally they cried.

5.  The next day, Hal went to see his parents.  He told them how well his family was doing, using an optimistic tone of voice to try to cover up how bad he looked.  His parents cried and told him how proud they were.  A tear rolled down his own face.  They hugged.

4.  He got back home in the early afternoon while Douglas was at school.  Hal and Jenny made love furiously, shoving themselves together, moving from room to room until they'd exhausted the whole house and each other.  They made love until they were sore, and then they continued.

3.  That evening Hal played catch with his son.  Then they sat on the porch swing together drinking grape soda and watching the sun set.  Hal spent the time teaching young Douglas everything he could remember ever having learned about life.

2.  Hal kneeled down in a room by himself and prayed.

1.  That night, Hal had a dream.  He was having a pool party, only it was at the house of Jordan Miles, his best friend growing up.  And it was weird because Hal was 40 in the dream, but Jordan was still 14.  And Jenny was there playing hostess instead of Jordan's mom.  Douglas and Jordan were playing together, taking turns going down the waterslide.

Hal walked around the pool.  He dreamed he saw his high school love interest in the corner of the shallow end alternately making eyes at him and giggling with her friends.  Nearby his work buddies were playing volleyball against his drinking buddies, who were losing.  His godmother jumped off the diving board, and while watching her Hal bumped accidently into his R.A. from college.

"You're having quite the party," said the R.A.

Hal had dreamed up quite a party.  Everyone was there, everyone he'd ever known and loved was there in his best friend's pool.  And they were all the same age he'd left them at in his memories.  And Hal dreamed that no matter how many people were there, the place never seemed overcrowded.  He dreamed this.  He didn't wake up.

Genius and Psychosis

So many things he wants to say, so many that these things can't keep still inside him.  They swirl about and they swirl about inside until they get tangled up, and he can't tell one idea from another anymore, and all the while as this tangle is constructed he is continually having new ideas, discovering smart-sounding half-truths which are added to the great mess.  And then something happens.  Sometimes it's big, but sometimes it's as small as a word.  This something triggers an anxiety that causes a great heat in his mind and a stirring in his bowels.  And all at once, all of these things which have built up inside of him are ejaculated in a fury of words and sounds and gestures, some of which make sense and others of which are emotions that don't know a better way of being heard but to take advantage of such a flushing of the body and escape the prison in which he has kept them.  They come out because they've been kept in there too with everything else, and they cause him to spew a convolution of genius and madness, two things which he does not know the difference between.

Most people listening will not bother to try and separate the two.  Instead, people will make this man into an extremist he did not necessarily intend to be.  Depending on his and their sets of circumstances, everything he comes to say in his impassioned outbursts will come to be heard as either genius or rubbish.  Only one or the other.  Either black or white.  This is how great men and psychotics are made.

Musical Compatability

When looking for music compatability between your tastes and those of another person, you probably shouldn't talk in terms of specific bands or artists because there are so many in this world that to compare tastes based on this would rarely produce a match.  Using specifics like these would cause an excess of judgement, making you like less someone who could in fact be an amazing match for you.

Instead talk about what it is in music that you respect.  What general things make you like or not like a song?  For instance, I respect feeling.  When you can tell from the singer's voice that they really care about what they're saying.  When the lyrics are poetic and original enough that you know the singer cared enough to spend the time making them that way.  And it's not just the singing that has feeling; it's all of the music.  Every instrument is played with feeling by a person who has devoted their life to mastering it.  This is why rock is the genre I respect most, and why it's hard for me to respect pop or hip-hop.  Because in those genres, the backbeats are arbitrary and they are played by machines.  Even the lyrics are many times arbitrary.  It's all about the hook, about making something that's dance-y, making something that sells.

No, I respect feeling, an attempt to engage with the human struggle.  I respect meaning.  And effort.

But anyways, you can see how important music can be to a person, so if you care about them, perhaps see why it's important, and you might interract in a much more positive and meaningful fashion.  You may even learn something.

The Easy Life vs. The Valuable Life

There are a lot of rebel-nonconformist-cynics out there who shun anything and everything that has any kind of popularity or weight with the masses.  They think themselves hip and unique.  They think themselves bold, exciting, and superior.  They see themselves as going against the grain, maybe even as fighting the system, but it's really not hard to do that.  Our society is freedom-based; you're allowed to shun everything without any real repercussion.  Millions do so every day.  So to think yourself better than most simply by taking easy advantage of a value already set up and enforced by the very system against which you thrash-- this is a fabulous blunder.

It's easy to be a hater.  It's also easy to blindly do everything that's expected of you.  You can go to the schools you're told to, take the jobs you're told to, marry the person you're told to, have the kids you're told to, buy the house you're told to, and never really think at all.  You can meet all the surface measures of American success.  But how much will it mean to you?

No, friends, the truly difficult thing to do in life is to find something to believe in and to commit to it.  It's easy to have no ideals, to be good one day, bad another, and mediocre the next; you can operate on whims alone.  But what's hard is to back a person/project/ideal/organization/value wholeheartedly despite its flaws, despite your flaws.  It's hard to stand up for something.  It's hard to not betray, not once.  It's hard to betray, then ask forgiveness, then continue to believe/support/commit.  It's hard to care.  But it's necessary.

Good rebels don't just shun the system.  They raise up an alternative solution.  Instead of simply rejecting that which they dislike, they take active steps to change the world into a place they do like.  Their lives are struggles, slow day-by-day struggles aimed at something bigger than themselves.  Their lives have value.  Struggle.  Motivation.  Victories.  Defeats.  Caring.  Belief.  Attempts to have real, constructive interractions with the world.  These are the signs of a life that has value.

Talking to Children

Ask kids questions they know the answers to, for children delight in knowledge, and they will love you for giving them the chance to put theirs to use.

How to Fix America's Budget Issues

It seems to me that America finds itself perpetually in a budget crisis.  Popular remedies involve cutting back on domestic services like AmeriCorps and the entire education system.  Those who make the money decisions don't eliminate these programs entirely; they only render them less potent, less able to serve their purpose.  And yet the money used on these programs, while it does add up to quite a sum, is spread very thin.   It is all being used, and in countless ways.  So if you're trying to save money without ruining these programs entirely, you're not going to be able to get enough out of them to solve anything.

No, here's the real solution-- the real sinkhole out of which billions of dollars can be fished:  Cut the military.  Sure a military (which don't forget is, when simplified unfairly, a kill squad, and when simplified optimistically, a protective force) is a necessary evil.  But we're (at least ostensibly) only at war in a few countries.  And we, ourselves, are only one country.  So why the fuck do we need 750 military bases in 63 different countries? 

Is it necessary?  Are we trying to protect the whole world or control it?  Can either be done?  And if we're trying to do it, if we've got guns at the ready in every part of the world, ready to be called into action on a moment's notice-- if the message our military sends is "Don't fuck with us, or you're done," are we the heroes or the bad guys?  Is all of that necessary for us to feel safe?  Is us being more comfortable worth the spending of billions upon billions?  Is it worth putting lives in danger?  Is it worth the arms buildup which, if the Cold War was any indication, will result in an eventual surplus of weaponry which after enough shady deals go down will probably end up in the hands of the very types of forces we're fighting against?  And while we're at it, is it worth making war for an entire country when you're only after a select group within it?  Might that be a better job for a smaller, more covert, more precise, and less destructive task force?  Where is the cutoff?  How many lives is it okay to end with a bomb as long as one of those lives happens to be a terrorist leader?  You can't put out a fire with a flamethrower.  It might make you feel more powerful and safer that you can make a fire even bigger than the other guy's fire, but the overall fire, once your hand comes away from the trigger, will either stay the exact same size or it will get bigger, and it will only stop if it runs out of things to burn.

Cut the military.  Cut it big.

Fight Entitlement

Americans have this view of themselves as powerful, as winners, as good people in a good country.  They've come to expect opportunity to come at them.  Our constitution gurantees us certain rights.  Our celebrity culture generates a want to be worshipped.  Our labor unions generate job security.  There are all these systems set up that enable people to feel great, honorable, worthy, and entitled without necessarily doing anything to earn it. 

Rights are meant to protect us from unjust suffering.  They aren't meant to make us think we can do (or not do) anything we want and be rewarded for it.  You are not special because you're an American.  You are simply lucky.  You are certainly not a better person by being American, nor by being wealthy or famous.  The only true way to deserve what you have is to earn it.

All people should have the rights to respect, courtesy, safety, freedom.  But even these can be taken away or witheld.  Even these must sometimes be earned.

But most "rights" should always be earned.  You do not have the right to a job, education, reward, or opinion if you have done nothing to earn it.  You do not have a right to your job if you aren't doing it well.  I don't care what that job is, whether you pick up trash, teach children, put out fires, grow food, or run a country-- if you suck at your job, you don't have a right to keep it. 

If you enter a competition and lose, you don't get a trophy.  If you haven't contributed anything valuable to society, you shouldn't be famous.  If you spend two dollars on a random lottery ticket, you don't deserve 50 million dollars for it.  If you aren't actively trying to learn, no one will want to teach you.  If all you do is tear others down, you shouldn't speak.  If all you do is take and not give, what do you really deserve?  Who wants to spend their time on someone who will take that time and waste it?

There is nothing about you- not your wealth, your intelligence, your job, your social status, your friend count on Facebook, your awards, your parents, your country, your fame, your ideals, your advantages, your disadvantages-- nothing that makes you a better person than anyone else, nothing except your actions.  What will you do to benefit others?  What will you do to contribute to the betterment of your little part of the world? 

You deserve less than you think, and you will be given even less than that.  So don't expect someone else to save you, heal you, teach you, make you, or love you if you aren't going to go out there and do the same for them.  Engage the world.  Prove your worth.  You are not entitled.  

Stairway to Heaven

The stairway to Heaven
Is built on sacrifice.
I'll say that twice;
The stairway to Heaven
Is built on sacrifice.

Fatalities

The second time I died was a collision—

Head on, no escape, as on a bridge—

An undesirable fate foreseeable

Which I approached, full steam ahead,

Despite my 20/20 vision.

She was the chocolate to my hound’s yap.

She was the low-budget horror flick.

The flame to my moth.

The pornographic image.

If you saw Independence Day, she was the giant, city-sized explosion, and I was the chubby guy in the car saying, “Oh crap.”

Fatalities are personal; they happen inside—

For the lucky: every few years,

For the stupid: much more frequently—

As a small piece of the soul shrivels

Or scars or warps or, amputated, altogether subsides.

Maybe she’d pick me over that other guy;

I was hoping in spite of myself, hoping,

Longing, deep beneath my innards,

But when I leaned in, and she turned her face out—

That was the second time I died.

Or maybe it was the fifth?

Or the twelfth—

I can’t be sure,

But I do remember the first.

It was much less poetic.

Noise and Noise

"Today the world goes back
To the way it was--
No real reason.
Just because.

Back to struggle,
Back to life--
Two eternal synonyms."

"Lovers and cellmates."

"PAIN PAIN PAIN pleasure."

"PAIN pleasure PAIN PAIN."

"PAIN PAIN pleasure PAIN."

"pleasure PAIN PAIN PAIN."

"But that's rather negative, no?"
"You're damn right it is!"
"It's honest too!"
"Gains are modest!"
"I can't forgive it!"
"Let's go get drunk!"
"I'm not moving!"
"Let's go to bed!"
"I'm not moving!"
"Fuck-a-you!"
"Fuck you too!"

"It's all for nothing!"

"It's all for nothing!"

"It's all for nothing!"

"It's all for nothing;
Life is what you make it--
Perception's in the mind,
And minds can be controlled.

You can look at something
And see good
Or see evil;
There is a choice involved."

"Unless you're blind--
Then you can't look at anything."
"You can't look,
But maybe you still see!"

"People talk a lot."

"They do!"
"They scream!"
"They cry!"
"They laugh, whisper, and implore!"
"They hum and they buzz."
"No real reason--
Just because."

Why You Should Read Books part 1

Edgar Allen Poe praised the form of the short story for its ability to produce what he called a singleness of effect.  Short enough to be read in one sitting, a a whole short story (beginning, middle, and end) can be kept in a reader's mind all at once and can therefore be understood, felt, and contemplated more accurately in terms of the whole.

And that all sounds very nice.  But it doesn't work for everyone, say for instance... me.  Don't get me wrong; I can get plenty out of a good short story, but when push comes to shove I'll choose a longer work any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

The simplest reason for this is that a book, be it a novel or anything else, gives you MORE.  More characters, more plot, more description, etc.  There is an entire new world in which you can immerse yourself.  And it lasts you longer.  And even if one part doesn't strike you, another part might.  There are so many devices, subjects, styles, and pieces of information found in just one book-- most people are bound to be able to relate to something, and most people are also bound to learn something they didn't know.  These longer works are complex, like life, and this gives them value.

Short stories on the other hand, are as simple (and also as potentially powerful in their messages) as the firing of a gun.  But like the firing of a gun, they are also hit or miss.    

To Love is to Be Extreme

When you love, you are committing an extreme act.  You are saying, "There is something in my life that is more important to me than everything else in my life."  And people who say this are willing to go do some extraordinary and drastic things (both good and bad) to preserve this love.  People will change any other aspect of their life if it means improving that one all-important aspect.  They will even sacrifice entire areas of their life if necessary.  And it does become necessary; all great things require both risk and sacrifice.  So to not love-- this can lead to its own sort of success.  You might make it through life without having to make any real sacrifice, without having any major challenges.  You can definitely focus better on any given task without being distracted by all the unstable variables that love brings into the equation.  But nothing that comes of that focus-- nothing will ever quite match the elation and despair that come from loving.

A Cautionary Tale Against Caution

The longer he lived and the more he talked, the more difficult it became to say anything.  He got caught up too easily in the trappings and niceties of society.  Too many topics became off-limits; he did not speak of them lest he offend someone.  He began speaking like an army cadet reporting to his senior officer.  No nonsense, only the obvious questions and the obvious answers.  This went on for years, him talking and talking and holding back more than he ever meant to. 

            Then the coughing started.  It began like a mild flu.  Then it escalated to the point that he could only speak in a quiet gravelly voice without going into a fit of coughing.  And the more he talked like this the worse he got.  Something was lodged deep in his throat where no one could see: maybe a year’s worth of feelings held back, or ideas not spoken, or wants not met.  Eventually he could no longer talk at all, and the coughing subsided for just one week.  Then it came back and it remained, even when he was silent.  And sure enough a discernible bulge formed and swelled in his throat.  It started the size of a golf ball.  In a month it was the size of a grapefruit.  In two more months, it was as big as a soccer ball and he was admitted to the hospital against his will.  And the last thing he ever heard was a doctor asking him why he hadn’t come in sooner.  His response, if he still had his powers of speech, might have been that he didn’t want to burden anyone.  Or maybe he would have said he was afraid.  Or that he hated and mistrusted doctors.  Or that he secretly wanted to die.  Or that no one loved him enough to make him come in.  Instead his eyes just got really wide, his mouth opened wider, and a big vein in his neck pulsated, snake-like.  Then with a sound like a thousand dying frogs or maybe a handful of dreams betrayed, his neck exploded right there in the hospital room.  

Why Relationships Fall Apart

There are certain qualities we look for in sexual partners, and other things that we look for in romantic partners, and still other things that we look for in friendships.  And the person you love should be a romantic partner, a sexual partner, and a good friend all rolled into one.  But if our expectations for these three roles are drastically different, it seems unfair to ask one person to try and act like three.  This is part of why there is so much infidelity, unhappiness, divorce, and lonliness.  We have unrealistic expectations.  We expect societal ideals that can't plausibly coexist in the same person. 

For instance, a man might look for exciting, adventurous sexual partners-- women who challenge and stimulate him, women who won't be tied down.  Then when he marries one, he starts expecting her to suddenly become a conservative housewife.  Not gonna happen.  You can try and force it for a while, and on the surface it might seem to work, but it will be soul-killing, and eventually the relationship will end. 

Or say a woman seeks out strong, confident, assertive men, men who show no fear, who are who they are with no apologies.  They attract her.  They make her feel wanted.  They are men of action.  But then the woman starts wanting this same man to be a sensitive guy for her, to talk about feelings, to gossip about so-and-so.  That's just not who he is though; if he cares enough he'll give it a go, but she's trying to make him be two people at once for her.  He'll either fail outright, or succeed for a while and then snap.

To avoid conflicting expectations, I think it best to have certain valued qualities that are at the root of all your relationships.  What do you care about?  No, do not count the qualities that would be nice.  Do not include the qualties you think you want.  Scrap all that.  Scraps the minute details. Scraps wants.  What do you NEED?  What values are essential to you?  What universally qualifies a person as worthwhile in your book?  Use those qualifiers and let the other expectations go.  If you rely only on these qualifiers (which should be relatively simple and few in number), then you'll know when you like a person that he or she is a candidate as a friend and a romantic partner and a sexual partner-- because you use the same standard of measurement for each.

Example of a universal qualifier:  Respect.  Every type of relationship is enhanced and deepened by the presence of respect.  If you don't respect someone, you really shouldn't date them.  It's not gonna end pretty.

No one is perfect.  It is impossible for even your soulmate, your life's true love, to be "your everything."  No single person can be everything for you because that would involve possessing opposing qualities that cannot coexist in one person.  Example:  Let's say you like to gossip, but you also have secrets you'd like kept.  It is unfair to expect your spouse, significant other, or any one person to be both a gossip buddy and a secret keeper. 

It is important to have realistic expectations of people, to know what they're good at and what they're not.  It is also important to have a variety of people in your life to fulfill your different needs.  The people you get closest to will be able to satisfy several of your needs, many more than those more distant.  But no one can satisfy them all. 

What Does Heaven Look Like?

To most, it seems, it exists

Only as a dream—

An unhappy utopia

Where white clouds cushion

Handsome harp-playing heroes and harlequins

Whose hearts haven’t held hate

The way it’s lodged in my left ventricle—

Where boisterous laughter is a sin

(As are lazy eyes, uneven breasts, bad jokes,

And the tendency to seek divergence).

A growing population favors the other end—

When our bodies rot,

Riddled with worms and mushrooms,

So too do our souls,

Our essences, which get drunk

Up through the roots of, say, an oak,

And we are no longer Zach or Tom or Melissa,

But rather oak or birch or evergreen,

Until fire or time wears down once more—

That goodbye is the last thing we ever say.

But maybe it’s a virtual reality

DVD controlled by us, the deceased—

A decathlon of memories best

Where we might say,

“Let me love her one more time”—

Masterstroke of an omniscient statistician,

His remote in our hands

So that we might re-experience,

Might achieve life’s failed goals.

Then again maybe heaven’s a lot like here—

Minus all the assholes.