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.