Welcome back. It's April of 2015. I don't remember how long it's been. I'm tying on a mechanical keyboard. I don't wonder if I can fill my gas tank. I drink bourbon for relaxation on the weekends. It has been a long, long time.
Reflection is an interesting thing. I once learned that the best way to write something well is to write it in the heat of emotion, put it in a drawer, and not look at it for months upon months. Years, if possible. Distance. Do you want to write something well? You need distance.
Isn't that ironic? You need emotion and soul to write. You need distance and objectivity to tell if it's worth anything. So you write. And you wait. And you write (I hope). And you wait. And you wait.
And you find you blog three years later. These perspectives and thoughts are no different. Nothing speaks to your soul like the words from your soul that you yourself wrote. You tear up. Maybe it's that bourbon. Maybe it's the truth.
Let's be real here. You have become complacent. You had to spell-check the word complacent. You haven't written. You haven't thought the same. You have forgotten. You are blessed. You don't HAVE to remember the anguish. Sartre's existentialism as a humanism. Derrida's Deffierance. Your soul is stagnant. Your soul is unchallenged. Your soul is distracted. Your soul is a proxy. You watch the challenges from a distance. You have built incredible walls, of financial stability and daily monotony and stability and cynicism and projection. Reflect. Look upon yourself. Know thyself, you coward. You master of distraction. The starvation of perspective, the reality of survival is lost on you. Once, you knew that you had it good. That it was easy to live, and therefore, you at a RESPONSIBILITY to use your mind, to wonder, to struggle, and to suffer (as futile as that word is when you have a mattress and fridge at your HOME) and to strive for understanding, comprehension development.
Think.
Write.
Listen.
Listen.
Listen.
Don't stop listening.
Do you hear me, self?
Don't stop listening.
To the self-absorbed, listen.
To the unheard, listen.
To the proud, listen.
To the brave, listen.
To the brilliant, listen.
To the idiots, listen.
To the kind, the friends. To those with your best interest in mind, listen
To your elders, listen.
Do your youngers, listen.
To those you despise, those about whom your bile duct rages, remember the patience of a former, entitled life, and LISTEN.
Listen.
Listen.
Listen.
Does this word mean anything still?
Hear words.
Hear hearts.
Listen, before casting judgement.
Listen, before hating or loving.
Listen.
Listen.
Listen.
02 May 2015
02 January 2014
05 December 2013
Biblical metaphors.
You know what's really interesting? Viewing the bible, not as a literal and historical account of anything, or even as a god-breathed work intended to teach a group of people how to live, but as a literary metaphor for a major change in humankind.
There are major differences between the old and new testaments. I think of it in terms of power, though. In communing with god in the old testament, all communing had to be done through sacrifices and through a prophet - no regular person could commune with god by him or herself unless ordained by god to do so. Since government and religion were quite literally inseparable, this meant that exclusive power lay in the hands of the person (man) who could commune with god. Similarly, the power that the individual held was nearly nothing. He or she could not commune with god without a medium of some sort, and therefore, alone, each person holds little to no power. This results in, I think, a de-valuing of individual human life. That which holds no power is weak, and weak things tend to be weeded out by natural selection, one way or another.
This is illustrated, in my opinion, by the overall violence and, by standard scruples, lack of respect and value for individual human lives. We look at something like stoning children for being insubordinate to parents and we don't see biblical justice, we see child abuse and murder. Mass war, genocide, glorification of violence - all traits of the old testament - hold less impact in a society where the life of the individual does not matter as much.
But, come to the new testament, and you see a radical change in the beliefs taught. Suddenly, communing with god is no longer a distant spiritual language spoken only by the chosen, but god is "personal" through jesus. The individual is handed the power to commune with god, both figuratively in theology and literally in jesus' interactions with the people of his age. The power of the gospels is founded in jesus' empowerment of "the least of these," effectively granting the powerless power, and in that respect, value. The individual is made important.
Now take a look at our society in the US. I have some friends who are diabetic. In a biblical time, a person may have been able to survive as diabetic by learning, by trial and error, how to regulate his or her diet. These days, thanks to advances in medicine, diabetes, along with a slew of other health issues, are considered treatable and completely livable. Blindness. Down Syndrome. Deafness. Hemophilia. We live in a society that completely violates social darwinism in favor of value for the individual.
So what was the message? God has sent his only begotten son so that anyone who should believe in him will not perish, but shall have eternal life? Maybe that's a metaphor for the value of human life. Anyone means The Individual carries value now. It means that genocide is no longer acceptable, and it means that killing one to save many carries much more weight than it used to. It means that it's not acceptable to terrorize anyone in the name of religion. It means that the life of a serial rapist still holds inherent value, despite the crimes he committed. It means that slavery is not okay, under any circumstances. It means picketing the funeral of a gay soldier is not okay. It means it's not okay to commit infanticide because a child is born with Downs.
Thoughts.
There are major differences between the old and new testaments. I think of it in terms of power, though. In communing with god in the old testament, all communing had to be done through sacrifices and through a prophet - no regular person could commune with god by him or herself unless ordained by god to do so. Since government and religion were quite literally inseparable, this meant that exclusive power lay in the hands of the person (man) who could commune with god. Similarly, the power that the individual held was nearly nothing. He or she could not commune with god without a medium of some sort, and therefore, alone, each person holds little to no power. This results in, I think, a de-valuing of individual human life. That which holds no power is weak, and weak things tend to be weeded out by natural selection, one way or another.
This is illustrated, in my opinion, by the overall violence and, by standard scruples, lack of respect and value for individual human lives. We look at something like stoning children for being insubordinate to parents and we don't see biblical justice, we see child abuse and murder. Mass war, genocide, glorification of violence - all traits of the old testament - hold less impact in a society where the life of the individual does not matter as much.
But, come to the new testament, and you see a radical change in the beliefs taught. Suddenly, communing with god is no longer a distant spiritual language spoken only by the chosen, but god is "personal" through jesus. The individual is handed the power to commune with god, both figuratively in theology and literally in jesus' interactions with the people of his age. The power of the gospels is founded in jesus' empowerment of "the least of these," effectively granting the powerless power, and in that respect, value. The individual is made important.
Now take a look at our society in the US. I have some friends who are diabetic. In a biblical time, a person may have been able to survive as diabetic by learning, by trial and error, how to regulate his or her diet. These days, thanks to advances in medicine, diabetes, along with a slew of other health issues, are considered treatable and completely livable. Blindness. Down Syndrome. Deafness. Hemophilia. We live in a society that completely violates social darwinism in favor of value for the individual.
So what was the message? God has sent his only begotten son so that anyone who should believe in him will not perish, but shall have eternal life? Maybe that's a metaphor for the value of human life. Anyone means The Individual carries value now. It means that genocide is no longer acceptable, and it means that killing one to save many carries much more weight than it used to. It means that it's not acceptable to terrorize anyone in the name of religion. It means that the life of a serial rapist still holds inherent value, despite the crimes he committed. It means that slavery is not okay, under any circumstances. It means picketing the funeral of a gay soldier is not okay. It means it's not okay to commit infanticide because a child is born with Downs.
Thoughts.
11 November 2013
Meta-Narrative
Listen. The cynic in me knows that there is no narrative. Narrative is like events, and events only exist in retrospect. Our minds cannot process constant, unprioritized time. We use the concept of events to create an informational hierarchy and divide our past experiences into those things that matter and those that don't.
Hindsight is 20-20. Our position currently allows us the retrospective distance to reflect on our past and divide it up into events and experiences. Our creative minds, born from evolutionary necessity, find patterns, draw conclusions, and make assumptions based on our biology, rational minds, emotions, and social structure, and these events and experiences form a narrative.
There is no meta-narrative. There is no narrative beyond what we impose for our own processing. Cue Sartre's eyeroll and sigh. Duh, he says. That's what I said the whole 20th century.
I'm going to say something, not because I believe, but because I want to, and might, believe it. Maybe by the end, I will believe it.
Does this make the narrative less valuable? We have this concept that "real" things matter and "fake" things don't, but what qualifies as real in this instance? Because the universe doesn't have a narrative tattooed into it's matter, does that make our imposed narrative less real? Our narrative is like time. Time doesn't exist beyond what we impose.
I am drawn to story because it takes life and condenses it into an arc with a distinguishable start and end. Maybe it's not so much that there is no narrative to life - it's that we cannot distinguish narrative when we experience it, when it is being created as it is lived. Perhaps that's why there have been no novels about one year of a person's life that take a full year to read. Why read that story? You're already living it.
Perhaps I am drawn toward narrative because it allows me to impose a sense of story to my own experiences. Part of it, I'm sure, is my biological imperative. I think part of it is emotional imperative too. Things make so much more sense when you can see them laid out in a series of chapters or episodes. We can process the emotional responses, and then while the emotions are still fresh, experience the catharsis. Not so much in reality. Resolution that in a book takes 200 pages can take 10 years in reality. There's too much sensory input in ten years for our minds to keep emotions fresh that long. Our neurological pathways need refreshing. Hence, story. Narrative.
I feel my neurological pathways firing. My amygdala is in overdrive. When I experience a narrative, it gives me the presence of mind to reflect on my own experiences, and see my own narrative. Imposed narrative, perhaps - but, in a sense, even more real for that fact. It's our minds using a metaphor to process an inconceivable amount of information. It's me learning to relive emotions and memories long forgotten or stale. It's an opportunity to learn from my own experiences so that the narrative that will continue to be written is one I will be glad to experience when next I reflect.
Hey, that totally worked. I'm pretty sure I believe that now.
Hindsight is 20-20. Our position currently allows us the retrospective distance to reflect on our past and divide it up into events and experiences. Our creative minds, born from evolutionary necessity, find patterns, draw conclusions, and make assumptions based on our biology, rational minds, emotions, and social structure, and these events and experiences form a narrative.
There is no meta-narrative. There is no narrative beyond what we impose for our own processing. Cue Sartre's eyeroll and sigh. Duh, he says. That's what I said the whole 20th century.
I'm going to say something, not because I believe, but because I want to, and might, believe it. Maybe by the end, I will believe it.
Does this make the narrative less valuable? We have this concept that "real" things matter and "fake" things don't, but what qualifies as real in this instance? Because the universe doesn't have a narrative tattooed into it's matter, does that make our imposed narrative less real? Our narrative is like time. Time doesn't exist beyond what we impose.
I am drawn to story because it takes life and condenses it into an arc with a distinguishable start and end. Maybe it's not so much that there is no narrative to life - it's that we cannot distinguish narrative when we experience it, when it is being created as it is lived. Perhaps that's why there have been no novels about one year of a person's life that take a full year to read. Why read that story? You're already living it.
Perhaps I am drawn toward narrative because it allows me to impose a sense of story to my own experiences. Part of it, I'm sure, is my biological imperative. I think part of it is emotional imperative too. Things make so much more sense when you can see them laid out in a series of chapters or episodes. We can process the emotional responses, and then while the emotions are still fresh, experience the catharsis. Not so much in reality. Resolution that in a book takes 200 pages can take 10 years in reality. There's too much sensory input in ten years for our minds to keep emotions fresh that long. Our neurological pathways need refreshing. Hence, story. Narrative.
I feel my neurological pathways firing. My amygdala is in overdrive. When I experience a narrative, it gives me the presence of mind to reflect on my own experiences, and see my own narrative. Imposed narrative, perhaps - but, in a sense, even more real for that fact. It's our minds using a metaphor to process an inconceivable amount of information. It's me learning to relive emotions and memories long forgotten or stale. It's an opportunity to learn from my own experiences so that the narrative that will continue to be written is one I will be glad to experience when next I reflect.
Hey, that totally worked. I'm pretty sure I believe that now.
05 September 2013
08 August 2013
"One time, as the cold wind blew and she kept watch over the playground, Aomame realized she believed in God. It was a sudden discovery, like finding, with the soles of your feet, solid ground beneath the mud. It was a mysterious sensation, an unexpected awareness. Ever since she could remember, she had always hated this thing called God. More precisely, she rejected the people and the system that intervened between her and God. For years, she had equated those people and that system with God. Hating them meant hating God.
Since the moment she was born, they had been near her, controlling her, ordering her around, all in the name of God, driving her into a corner. In the name of God, they stole her time and her freedom, putting shackles on her heart. They preached about God's kindness, but preached twice as much about his wrath and intolerance. At age eleven, Aomame made up her mind and was ultimately able to break free from that world. In doing so, though, much had been sacrificed.
If God didn't exist, then how much bright my life would be, how much richer. Aomame often thought this. Then she should be able to share all the beautiful memories that normal children had, without the constant anger and fear that tormented her. And then how much more positive, peaceful, and fulfilling her life might be.
Despite all this, as she sat there, her palm resting on her belly, peeking through the slats of the plastic boards at the deserted playground, she couldn't help but come to the realization that she belived in God. When she had mechanically repeated the words of the prayer, when she brought her hands together, she had believed in a God outside the conscious realm. It was a feeling that had seeped into her marrow, something that could not be driven away by logic or emotion. Even hatred and anger couldn't erase it.
But this isn't their God, she decided. It's my God. This is a God I have found through sacrificing my own life, through my flesh being cut, my skin ripped off, my blood sucked away, my nails torn, all my time and hopes and memories being stolen from me. This is not a God with form. No white clothes, no long beard. This God has no doctrine, no scripture, no precepts. NO reward, no punishment. This God doesn't give, and doesn't take away. There is no heaven up in the sky, no hell down below. When it's hot, and when it's cold, God is simply there.
...
Aomame pondered the idea of God. God has no form, yet is able to take on any form. The image she had was of a streamlined Mercedes coupe, a brand-new car just delivered from the dealer. An elegant, middle-aged woman coming out of that car, in the middle of an expressway running through the city, offering her beautiful spring coat to the naked Aomame. To protect her from the chilly wind, and people's rude stares. And then without a word, getting back in her silver coupe."
Haruki Murakami, "1Q84"
Since the moment she was born, they had been near her, controlling her, ordering her around, all in the name of God, driving her into a corner. In the name of God, they stole her time and her freedom, putting shackles on her heart. They preached about God's kindness, but preached twice as much about his wrath and intolerance. At age eleven, Aomame made up her mind and was ultimately able to break free from that world. In doing so, though, much had been sacrificed.
If God didn't exist, then how much bright my life would be, how much richer. Aomame often thought this. Then she should be able to share all the beautiful memories that normal children had, without the constant anger and fear that tormented her. And then how much more positive, peaceful, and fulfilling her life might be.
Despite all this, as she sat there, her palm resting on her belly, peeking through the slats of the plastic boards at the deserted playground, she couldn't help but come to the realization that she belived in God. When she had mechanically repeated the words of the prayer, when she brought her hands together, she had believed in a God outside the conscious realm. It was a feeling that had seeped into her marrow, something that could not be driven away by logic or emotion. Even hatred and anger couldn't erase it.
But this isn't their God, she decided. It's my God. This is a God I have found through sacrificing my own life, through my flesh being cut, my skin ripped off, my blood sucked away, my nails torn, all my time and hopes and memories being stolen from me. This is not a God with form. No white clothes, no long beard. This God has no doctrine, no scripture, no precepts. NO reward, no punishment. This God doesn't give, and doesn't take away. There is no heaven up in the sky, no hell down below. When it's hot, and when it's cold, God is simply there.
...
Aomame pondered the idea of God. God has no form, yet is able to take on any form. The image she had was of a streamlined Mercedes coupe, a brand-new car just delivered from the dealer. An elegant, middle-aged woman coming out of that car, in the middle of an expressway running through the city, offering her beautiful spring coat to the naked Aomame. To protect her from the chilly wind, and people's rude stares. And then without a word, getting back in her silver coupe."
Haruki Murakami, "1Q84"
24 June 2013
Writer's circle
My internal struggle:
Me: You should write some scifi or fantasy. You read lots of that
Other Me: No way, dude. I couldn't write that stuff
Me: Why not?
Other Me: My writing sucks
Me: Nuh uh
Other Me: Of course I don't think it sucks. Don't you remember creative writing? THAT'S HOW YOU KNOW IT SUCKS
Me: Okay, it sucks. You should write it anyways.
Other Me: But scifi and fantasy already has so much really awful shit.
Me: So how much worse can yours be?
Other Me: ....goddamit.
Me: You should write some scifi or fantasy. You read lots of that
Other Me: No way, dude. I couldn't write that stuff
Me: Why not?
Other Me: My writing sucks
Me: Nuh uh
Other Me: Of course I don't think it sucks. Don't you remember creative writing? THAT'S HOW YOU KNOW IT SUCKS
Me: Okay, it sucks. You should write it anyways.
Other Me: But scifi and fantasy already has so much really awful shit.
Me: So how much worse can yours be?
Other Me: ....goddamit.
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