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.