The Finer Points of Bokononism

Bokononism: a religion completely fabricated by Kurt Vonnegut in his book Cat's Cradle.  To my knowledge there are no actual practicers of this religion; and yet it has some great ideas.  The best works of fiction are the ones that leave a lasting impression, that inspire you to think differently about life.  And Bokononism did this for me, so I'd like to share some of its principles; this will be a rare blog post in which most of what I write is not my own idea.

The central premise of the religion is the idea that God is working in each of us in ways that we will never understand.  Nonetheless each of us has an important role to play.  And none of is is alone; we are all part of a karass, which is a team of people working unknowingly together to achieve God's purposes.  A karass ignores the typical boundaries of nation, institution, organization, family, and class.  So if you find your life tangled up with somebody else's for no logical reason, that person might be a member of your karass.

"Oh a sleeping drunkard
Up in Central Park,
And a lion-hunter
In the jungle dark,
And a Chinese dentist,
And a British queen--
All fit together in the same machine.
Nice, nice, very nice;
Nice, nice, very nice;
Nice, nice, very nice;
So many different people
In the same device."

There are other people, ones not in your karass, whose purpose in your life is to steer you away from a given course of action.  For instance, there is a nihilist in the story who completely destroys the narrator's apartment and kills his cat.  It was this man's purpose to forever disenchant the narrator with notions of nihilism.

A key ritual of Bokononism is called Boko-maru, or the intermingling of souls.  It is achieved when two people place the soles of their bare feet against each other's and share an intimate, peaceful moment in this position.  It is not sexual in any way, yet creates a similar emotional intimacy through physical connection.  People form bonds simply by sharing a quiet moment together, embracing in a unique way.

The last rites of the religion talk in large part about God's creation of man from mud, speaking of God's great power and man's comparative lowliness in beautifully humble terms.  My favorite part: "The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn't even get to sit up and look around.  I got so much, and most mud got so little."

It should be noted that several of the tenets of Bokononism are not included here because many are cynical, and therefore not particularly useful in my mind.  Most of these deal with larger matters such as affairs of state.  Seeing as the nation-state that practices the religion in the story is a complete failure, these tenets strike me as rather bad ideas.

Yet there are enough good ideas to merit me wanting to share them with those who would rather not read a whole book but don't mind reading my occasional 1-page posts.  So here are a few more quotes and ideas that derive from Bokononism:

"She was a fool and so am I and so is anyone who thinks he sees what God is doing."

"Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God."

How to answer yes to an inquiry about yourself: "That happiness is mine."
Example:   Q: "Are you Zach Peters?!"
                 A: "That happiness is mine."

To want all of somebody's love is bad.  Love is meant to be shared and spread.

"Beware of the man who works hard to learn something, learns it, and finds himself no wiser than before.  He is full of murderous resentment of people who are ignorant without having come by their ignorance the hard way."

"Think of what a paradise this world would be if men were kind and wise."

Replaced

A leaf falls away and turns brown,
Then is forced to watch later from the ground
As green sprouts again in Spring,
Which is now a separate thing.

A grandparent goes to a nursing home
Which his family finds depressing;
The family comes round less and less
Preferring company with more blessings.

A friend moves away and the phone calls decrease.
Then you're slipped a thirty day notice
When new tenants sign a lease.

A kid gets an Xbox for his birthday
And his teddy bear lays forgotten

While many fabrics are rendered less popular
By the practicality of cotton,.

A lover's lover loves another.

A son takes a wife, leaves his mother.

A girl goes away to college
Then comes back for Thanksgiving,
Then stumbles on the knowledge
That her friends have new friends,
New manners of living.

Oh, what an uncertain longing we face
When we find that we have been replaced.

Here's to the Mothers

Thanks
For getting the wrinkles out of my clothes,
For finding the right ointment for the zits on my nose,
For lifting me up
And not giving up,
For carrying me around 9 months,
For meeting my needs and some of my wants,
For buying me my first suit
While calling me handsome-- never cute,
For teaching me to love books,
For eating the meals I cook,
For keeping a roof up over my head,
May you feel fully alive and never dead,
Because you deserve to
And because I love you,
Here's to you, mothers,
From me, my sisters, and my brothers.
Our gratefulness is expressed best
Not here in rhyming couplets
And not fully anywhere,
But we're grateful nonetheless.
Thanks for being there.

The Root of All Evil

Original sin.  Self-interest.  Money.  Satan.  Hearts of Darkness.  There are a few things attributed as being evil's source, but they all trace back to mankind.  "They're only as good as the world allows them to be," says the Joker in The Dark Knight, "You'll see.  When the chips are down, these... these civilized people, they'll eat each other."

Or there's Simon in Lord of the Flies.  The children of the novel, stranded on an island, start believing in  a monstrous beast that lives out in the jungle.  But Simon asks, What if the beast is us?  And sure enough every bad thing that happens in the novel is caused by the children themselves.  Simon has a fantastic (in the literary sense) conversation with a representative of this beast, who says, "You knew, didn't you?  I'm part of you?  Close, close, close!  I'm the reason why it's no go?  Why things are what they are?"

I do believe that evil comes from mankind.  However, does that make mankind evil?  I do not believe so.  Mankind produces evil, but we produce good too.  After all, the people stuck on the ferries in The Dark Knight choose to risk their own lives rather than sacrifice the lives of others.  And there are characters in Lord of the Flies that try to act for the common good even when it isn't fashionable and even when ridiculed, betrayed, and abandoned by others.

There are people who have children and abandon them.  But there are also people who devote the better part of their lives to raising their children.  And there are people with no children of their own who still try to teach and improve the children of others.  There are people who will kill for 100 dollars.  But there are also people who save lives for 100 dollars or sometimes more or sometimes less or sometimes nothing at all.  There are people who use other people like objects... to be disposed of as soon as they're no longer useful.  But there are others who make an effort to show love every day to those they care about.  And there are people who try to love those they don't even know.

We are not inherently good or bad.  It is a choice we make.  And sure, there are many circumstances out of the individual's control (poverty, international relations, natural disaster, tragic accidents, and the positive or negative actions of those around us) that might influence how a person acts, but when it comes down to it we all have a choice to do good or to do evil.  Some do good.  Some do evil.  Most do a bit of both.  But no matter how hard or easy life may seem, there is always a choice.

Dissatisfied Man Finds Hope Online

There is a certain anonymous dating website that caters to people already in relationships who are looking for something on the side.  No names, no pictures.  Just people who are bored and require a change.

Bill, who had been married 10 years, had started to resent the predictability of his wife Nancy.  She never surprised him anymore.  And worse, he never seemed able to surprise her.  Even if he did the most insanely idiotic and damaging thing, like the time he got into a barroom brawl defending the honor of a woman that was not her—even then Nancy forgave him and found something positive to look at. 

“If you were willing to stand up for a total stranger, I can only imagine what you’d do for me,” she told him later that night.

It made him sick.  Show a little anger, he wanted to say.   I was attracted to her!  That’s why I defended her!   But he didn’t say that.  Instead the two of them made love and then Nancy went to sleep.  Bill stayed up a while thinking about the what ifs of life.

A month later he joined the dating website.  Just to see what else is out there, he told himself.  To prove to myself that I have it better than I think I do.

And for a week or so, the site did exactly that.  The profiles all fit into one of two categories.  Half of them were overly shallow, obvious advertisements for sex with no strings attached.  No relationship desired.  The other half of them were involved, detailed profiles that described all of the women’s hobbies, desires, wants, needs, aspirations, and shortcomings.  These women were openly unhappy in their current relationships and were just dying to find a reason to leave, but they also seemed cautious about actually agreeing to meet up with anyone from the site.  Bill found himself despising them all.  All the women in both categories.  Sure, he messaged a few of them.  But it didn’t even feel like communicating with real people.  It felt like a chat room from the 1990s where people could say whatever they wanted because it wasn’t the real world and there were no repercussions.  Then Bill found himself despising himself for considering cheating on Nancy for these chat room women. 

But his wife just kept bothering him, killing him with her kindness.  What happened to the naughty girl that used to manipulate her roommates into all being out of house at the same time so he could come over?  What happened to the girl who used to go out to the balcony and throw water balloons at pedestrians?  What happened to the girl with the big brown eyes with that mysterious glint and the untamable spirit?  What happened to the girl he married, and who is this woman that lives in his house and does anything he asks without ever needing recompense?  Of course, he never asked her any of these questions.  Nancy seemed so willing to please him.  How could he tell her that despite all her efforts he was dissatisfied?  How could he tell her that he wanted more?

So Bill gave the website one last try.  He was up half the night. He drank a six-pack and sent women message after message with no replies.  He walked to the corner store and bought another six-pack.  Then something happened.  When he was halfway through his 9^th beer, he found someone real.  Her profile read like this:

I love my husband, but lately something just seems to be missing.  There is no spark anymore.  We go out, but mostly for the change of scenery, not because we really care for the night’s activity.  Neither of us is trying to impress the other anymore.  It’s like we succeeded.  We got married.  Now what?  It’s like we don’t know what the next step is.  And we haven’t known for years.  I just feel stuck, but I try to be as loving a wife as I can.  My husband seems perfectly fine.  He never complains.  He tells me I’m beautiful.  But he really doesn’t say much beyond that.  What happened to the boy who used to stay up all night making inquiries with me about what made people tick, about what made the world turn?  What happened to the boy who was not afraid to criticize me for selfishness, who inspired me to care more about the people around me?  Who is this man that comes home and eats the food that I make then stoically heads to bedroom to perform his husbandly duties?  When did our relationship become a duty?  What happened to the fire?  I miss the fire.  I’m burning for a change.  If you think you’ve got the heat, then message me.

Bill spent the next week messaging this woman.  Sometimes they’d exchange several messages in the same day.  They really seemed to hit it off.  They shared almost all of their interests.  They liked the same music.  They’d been to many of the same places.  They had the same pet peeves.  And most importantly, they both craved a steamy romantic encounter that would make them feel alive again.  The things this woman wanted to do behind closed doors… Bill hadn’t been this turned on in years.  He particularly loved this one idea involving ropes, ice cubes, and an entire bed covered in feathers.  He almost couldn’t wait to try it—he even thought about asking Nancy, but couldn’t figure out how to begin.  In the end he decided against it.  He cared about her too much, and what if she took the suggestion as a sign that the sex they’d been having wasn’t good enough?

No, instead Bill set up a date with the online woman.  She agreed to meet him at a café in the next town so they wouldn’t chance running into their respective spouses.  He told her he’d be the mustachioed man reading a newspaper and drinking espresso.  She said she was a brunette and she’d be wearing a purple dress and heels.

Bill spent the better part of the day trying to decide whether or no to wear cologne, then which type of cologne to wear.  Once deciding, he experienced a brief surge of confidence before the question of whether or not to bring a condom popped into his head.  He didn’t know how these online dates worked.  Is the person looking for sex right away?  Does she just want to talk first and make sure I’m not a serial killer?  What if she doesn’t want sex right away but she sees the condom in my wallet when I go to pay and then she thinks that I’m shallow and too assuming, then ends it right there?

In the end, he decided that based on their messaging, sex was likely.  So he brought a few condoms, but left them in the car on the off chance that he was wrong.  He showed up to the café early, probably a little too early for his own good.  He downed a few espressos in short time and was getting jittery.  He tried to calm himself by focusing on the positives, on the potential of this woman.  She seemed perfect after all.  She was having the same problems.  She had the same interests.  He loved brunettes.  She had a wild imagination.  And all of the things that had been bothering him—he felt comfortable talking about them with her.  She gave him hope.  Hope that even well intro adulthood there could still be some magic, some fire in life.  One could still, after 35 years of living still have interesting conversation, still be excited for the future, still find novel outlooks on life in people that haven’t been entirely jaded and ruined.  Bill had just about made up his mind that if this woman was even remotely good-looking, his life was about to get a whole lot better.  It would be more complicated, sure, and laced with guilt, but at least he’d feel alive.  He and this woman would save each other from their failing marriages and increasingly dreary lives. 

“We will save each other, I swear it,” he whispered to himself.

Then the little bell rang on the front door of the café, and in walked Nancy in a purple dress.

The Importance of Being Earnest

I've been reading a fair amount of young adult literature lately (this is the designation for books written primarily for adolescents), and of the books in this genre, Stephen Chbosky's The Perks of Being a Wallflower struck me as particularly good.  But then again, I also enjoyed the Hunger Games trilogy and am presently speeding through The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing.  Why, you may ask, am I reading the same books that people half my age are reading?  Because they still have relevance.

There's something about this genre that appeals to all audiences.  It's why the Hunger Games are blowing up in popularity.  It's why people will never stop loving The Catcher in the Rye.  In a word, this magnetic quality of young adult literature is its earnestness.  The narrators in these stories are often so direct with their emotions, with their thoughts and feelings, that anyone can relate to them.  Combine that earnestness with the universal conflicts of adolescence (struggling to find an identity, striving to belong, craving love, and alternately fearing and longing for the future) and you've got a work that has the ability to touch anyone.  Because as we get older, these conflicts never really go away.  We just become a little more adept at handling them.

Few people in real life are ever so honest, open, and direct as the narrators and characters in this genre.  To be so directly engaged and allowed into another's world is immensely refreshing.  Even if the person we're connecting with does not technically exist.  That doesn't matter.  The conflicts exist.  The feelings exist.  The person that wrote the book exists.  And the experiences and events that inspired him or her to write in the first place... those exist too.  And all of these facts lead to a reading experience that, while fiction, can feel much more real than most works of nonfiction.  The ability to make a reader feel, to evoke a genuine reaction from us-- this is the mark of a good work of literature.

Einstein's Dreams

For those whose imaginations have not yet died out, Alan Lightman's Einstein's Dreams is a delightful series of four-page stories offering a variety of alternate worlds, each with its own twist on time.  In one world, the speed of time varies from city to city, making travel a confusing endeavor.  In another world, time moves slower as altitude rises, so everyone moves to the mountains in an attempt to elongate their life spans.   Elevation of one's house becomes a sign of status. 

Each story is composed of three key elements.  First, the parameters of the imagined world are established.  Then there are illustrations of what the world is like.  Then there are always some people who rebel against the established order.  For instance, in one world people have no memory of the past, so they keep books to remind themselves what they've done so far.  There are people who glance at these books from time to time, but there are also some who spend all their time reading them, consequently becoming stuck in the past.  Some people have abandoned the books entirely and have learned to live 100% in the present.  For these people, "each night is the first night.  Each morning is the first morning.  Each kiss and touch are the first...  Such people look you directly in the eye and grip your hand firmly.  Such people walk with the limber stride of their youth.  Such people have learned to live in a world without memory."

The remarkable draw of these stories is first the intelligent imagination that went into creating them, and then the fact that despite the seemingly impossible nature of the worlds described, each one ends up relating in a very real and heartfelt way to how time and life actually feel.  In a world where time no longer matters because everyone is immortal, two lifestyles emerge.  Some people choose to take up the challenge of trying and doing everything there is to be done because there is time to do it.  I know people with this mentality.  Others figure that they have all the time in the world, so why rush? I know these types of people as well.

Einstein's Dreams is a book that should appeal to thinkers and dreamers.  To anyone with an interest in human nature and anyone who ever fell in love with something they could never fully understand.

What Makes a Person Interesting and Valuable?

Belief:: a specific core value which you desire to share with others, which you feel the compulsion to support, which you need to survive, and which helps you love the world.

Some believe in God.  Some believe in themselves.  Some believe in love.  Some in success.  Some people believe that finding a penny face up brings good luck.  Others believe that 3 is a magic number.  Some people believe in ending every conversation with the phrases, "Good night" and "I love you."  There are people who believe that art can change the world.  Some believe that war is a necessary evil, and some believe that war is just evil.  Some people believe that money is power.  Others that power is an illusion, and still others that power is bestowed by the weak rather than earned by the powerful.

Christians believe that you should love your neighbor as yourself and love God above all else.  Scientists believe in controlled experimentation.  Jews believe that the Messiah is on the way.  Pick-up artists believe in un-relenting charm.  Sports fans believe that this season just might be THE season.  Children believe in their parents.  And your friends believe in you.

It's not so important to the world WHAT you believe (this is not to diminish the importance of your beliefs, for your devotion to these things is what drives you forward, is what pushes you to be better, to be more, to matter.  So to you, there might be nothing more important), but what's most important is simply  THAT you believe.  Believe in something.  And life is fuller.

Alone in a Quiet Valley

There is a place where dead leaves are strewn across rolling hills like anti-confetti.  Between these hills is a valley where sun shines down through a light covering of mist.  The wind picks up from time to time and reanimates the leaves.

Years ago a great many people fell in this place, in the valley between the hills, but time has brought peace there.  Peace and stillness.  The trees, the wind, the sun, the grass, the moon, the stars, the hills, and the valley.  That's all there is in this place now.

At night the wind dies down, and it gets so quiet that you might just hear the faintest roar of a shooting star as it pushes through a field of immobile darkness which you might gaze up at from the top of one of those hills.

Or an animal might come crunching through the leaves looking in vain for something it's lost until eventually the animal gives up, comes to rest in the grass, and becomes content to stare up at the sky, waiting.

There is a certain kind of person who has something of this place in him.  Or a better way of putting it would be that he has the nothingness of this place in him.  You look at him and on the surface all is fine, well, normal, and peaceful, but inside he is empty.  He will welcome you with open arms, but if you try to complicate the simple beauty of what he offers, you will be brought down.  This person will cut you off, will take his knowledge of you and bury it.  Deep down in some dead place where the wind doesn't reach.

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.