So Rachel Held Evans has this book coming out, and I think her ideas she puts on her blog are pretty bitchin', so when the opportunity came about to be part of her "launch team," I threw my name in the hat.
http://rachelheldevans.com/biblical-womanhood-launch-team
Before I started filling out the application, I figured it was a shot in the dark - I've only been following Rachel's blog recently - but as soon as I looked at the application, I knew it was a crapshoot. The whole point of a "launch team" is to help provide honest publicity. I've got the honest part down, but publicity? The application asked me my twitter name and my blog URL. My blog? My blog isn't something written for an audience anymore. My audience is myself. I am not a person who helps with publicity. I am the unintentional hipster of the blogosphere.
But, I was selected for the launch team. Out of 300 applicants, 75 were picked. The indication from the link I posted above suggests that more applications have come in ex post facto. But from the beginning, I have been an outlier for this text.
Then the facebook group. (Some of you are reading this now; welcome, and try not to stub your toe on the embarrassingly transparent shards of emotional turmoil littered in the corners and early posts here.) The majority of the others selected for the group are women (although there are quite a few men as well) who have their own blogs. Many are married, and many are mothers. Insofar as I can tell, they are all christians. They have written books. They have PhDs and are ministers. They do book reviews and have their own websites. I am not this audience. I post reviews of death metal albums by using the word "fuck" as often as possible and mocking Travis Barker. I have 46 twitter followers. I have five blog followers. I don't consider myself a christian.
My instinct was to complain to caroline. "Why did they pick me? I'm nothing like the group Rachel is trying to reach. I'm not her audience."
Yes you are, says my friend. She does not allow me wallow. I suppose I've earned that. Bit karmic.
"I am not a woman, a christian, a mom, a churchgoer, a blogger, a tweeter, or a promoter."
That's not what makes you her audience. I wish I could quote you here, caroline, but I can't find what you wrote. You are her audience because you choose to live and embrace a state of deconstruction.
Thanks, Rachel. Thanks for the opportunity. I don't mean for the blog traffic or the free book. It seems to be harder than I expected for me to accept people who value me for what I present myself as, rather than what others think I should be. It's hard to accept being accepted. How fuckin' weird is that?
I think we're not as different as I thought. I think my interpretation of myself is highly biased by a desire to distance myself from a group of people I've felt so wronged by. But we both read Half the Sky and cried. Apparently, we both throw books that frustrate us (you: Debi Pearl's Created to be His Help Meet, me, Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. Although I must confess that I was temped to buy a copy of Pearl's so I could throw it. I decided the money would be better spent buying porn or crystal meth). We both want, and try to maintain, egalitarian romantic relationships based on efficiency and communication - without what Dan called the hidden weapon.
We both are willing to watch what we knew be deconstructed. We both recognize the futility of our understanding, and seek knowledge as grace rather than a solution. I think you have a strong grasp on humility. That monster that I'm coming to know.
Do you know how empowering it is to be asked for your opinion by a representative of a group who has by and large rejected your opinion as invalid or worthless?
Oh wait. Yeah. You do. All you ladies do. That's what this goddamn book is about.
And I end up at the same place as before. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues,they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.
For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
We shall not know fully until we are fully known. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
21 October 2012
18 October 2012
Want to read what I wrote?
Of course you do; otherwise you wouldn't be here. The more I interact with people who host massive blogs, the more I appreciate my tiny one. I have no expectations of you, and you have none of me. There is no shame in my words here. Only memories of what I thought and felt then.
Anyways, trying to do 21 days of a page a day, every time a different topic, all fiction (ideally). Kind of fell off the wagon again, but trying to get caught up. Read what I wrote, if you will. Unedited, all things thrown together in an attempt to get my fix for the day.
Of course you do; otherwise you wouldn't be here. The more I interact with people who host massive blogs, the more I appreciate my tiny one. I have no expectations of you, and you have none of me. There is no shame in my words here. Only memories of what I thought and felt then.
Anyways, trying to do 21 days of a page a day, every time a different topic, all fiction (ideally). Kind of fell off the wagon again, but trying to get caught up. Read what I wrote, if you will. Unedited, all things thrown together in an attempt to get my fix for the day.
Moses
When
you say, “worshiping a golden calf,” you make us sound crazy. It’s not nearly as sensational as you make it
sound, especially when you consider what we had been asked to buy up until
then. Sure, we melted down the gold
everybody had and cast it into a golden calf.
But think, for a moment, what that sculpture is a representation of: the
nation’s wealth, gathered in donation from individual sources, channeled into a
work of art. That calf was a
manifestation of our bitterness towards the leader who walked away from
us. It was an icon of unity amongst a
people divided by loyalty towards a man who had left us with no answers, on
promises of law from a source on high that none of us were worthy to contact. Distance.
That’s what he promised. More
abstract manifestations of an in-concrete, fluid law. Nothing was ever set in stone.
Tangible,
controllable divinity was what the calf represented to us. We all knew there was nothing supernatural or
divine about a sculpture when we devised it – or at least, that’s what we said
aloud. There was an ethos about this calf, though, a foreign appeal that declared
validity through popularity by means of the tribes around us. But looking to the statue for comfort had no
harm. When our children were hungry and cold,
and the only answers to why we remained stationary were the empty promises of a
man so cowardly and awkward that he couldn’t speak to us without his brother
translating, we could look to the artwork in the middle of the camp. We could point and say, “Look children, that
is why we stay.” And our children would
believe us, although we lied.
What
we said as comforting lies at first became reality soon enough. We told our children we stayed because of the
calf, but that’s not what we were really saying. It wasn’t Baal that kept us together – it was
our act of unity, the expression of oneness that our people demonstrated in
sacrificing the gold from their very ears, the trinkets and heirlooms
reminiscent of generations whose words had been lost, whose trials and
enslavement forgotten, that tied us to each other. We could look to Baal and know that each man,
woman, and child could speak to the calf and listen for the same silence that
we knew our prophet professed not to hear.
Pop
Pop,
like bottle of champagne. Sploosh, like
sound of a boulder in a swamp. That’s
what heads popping would sound like, I imagine.
Maybe there’s a little fizzing sound before the cranium separates into
individual bony plates, deconstructing itself like some sort of accelerated
reverse pregnancy. It’s like a pressure
that coats everything around it, dust settled on your ears and scalp, static,
waiting to discharge. And then,
pop. Brains stuck in the grout. Crusty blood underneath the linoleum, too
awkward for the sponge and too narrow for the mop.
I
mean, I know my head doesn’t actually pop – I’m not stupid. I’d be fucking dead. But I swear, when the stress settles in, my
peripheral vision turns to tunnel vision and all I can think about is the blood
pounding into my head. There isn’t that
much room up there! If you keep filling
it up, it will pop. No, mom, I haven’t
seen your cat. Yes, Sandy, I did send
you the productivity reports from last June.
No, Elise, I don’t think it’s fair to bring another man into our bedroom
because you think my penis is too small.
Sometimes
they think I’m ignoring them, but I’m really doing my best to listen. It’s difficult to try and clench your
arteries to slow the bloodflow to the brain.
Most people can’t flex their arteries, but I can – it’s just difficult
and takes concentration. You probably
wouldn’t appreciate it if I stopped focusing, either. I think Elise just likes me for my money, so
my mushy grey matter caking her foundation and eyeliner would probably make her
file for divorce. My doctor might get
sued if I exploded brains in his office.
My job would probably sue me
for the carpet damage. Lord forbid if my
cranial shrapnel get lodged in someone’s eye.
I’d feel awful if that happened, and I hate apologizing.
I’ve
had some close calls. Once, my dad made
me clean up dog shit he thought our retriever Goldie shat on a lawn at the dog
park, but no, it was that fucking chiuaua, and even though I TOLD him, he still
made me clean it up and I almost painted his idiotic beard with brain juice.
Bellkeep (my favorite so far)
The
bellkeeper ran his thumb along the aged bronze, rust scraping atop his
fingernail like caked blood. These seven
bells – some were hundreds of years old – had always struck him still with
their majesty. He had watched as a child
as the youngest was forged by the bellmaker, long dead in his casket now, each
curve lovingly released from the bronze, shapely, like the hips of a beautiful
woman, but with a resounding stoutness that spoke of character. The oldest of these had lost its youthful
sensuality, but none of its beauty, intensified by storms weathered rather than
dulled. Just another thing, thought the
bellmaker, which differs from people.
The
central bell of the tower was the largest, it’s body reaching greater than
seven feet in height and the bronze almost ten inches at its thickest. The bellmaker traced his hand across the
circumference of the mighty giant, as he had done almost daily for the past
sixty-eight years, and the rust peeled from the metal like skin from a scab,
coating his wrinkles. His hands lovingly
explored the crevices and depths of the bell, tracing deeply into the gash than
ran up the side of the metal, nearly halfway to the peak of the bell. Once, this bell had tolled indiscriminately
from the town, alerting all listening to funerals and fires, weddings and
holidays, pealing loudest at noon, declaring its voice brazenly over the bustle
of the townfolk. Now, the crack on its
side, a product of the salted breeze and an unforgiving clapper, ran too deep
for the bell to sing. With these old
bells, the man knew, it was a matter of surgical ambition to extend the bell’s
life, for the crack and all the weakened bronze would have to be removed to
preserve the continuity of the bronze.
She may sing again, but never as deep, never as full.
A
rasped breath escaped the old man’s strained throat, and he wiped a few
droplets from his face, smearing rust like paint. He felt the cold aching in the scars along
his bones where the poisoned marrow had been siphoned and replaced. The bell would be retired, he knew, within
the next few weeks, upon his own recommendation. The metal was too brittle, despite the
craftsman’s care and intent, and the hanging monstrosity posed a danger to
those below should an unfortunate peal rend the metal in two. The bellkeeper gripped the rope firmly and
pulled with determination that masked his knowledge that the clapper had been
removed days before. The bell swung
wildly and silently, creaking and shaking the tower with its mammoth might,
mute in a way that nearly negated its status as a bell.
Shaking from
effort and cold, the old man creaked his way to the edge of the tower where he
briefly surveyed the landscape before turning back to his bell. It’s silent voice stilled as the motion of
the bell slowed, and the man smiled and took a step back. He turned and spun as he fell, and on the
bricked road below, his brittle bones broke like twigs. No one was privy to witness the old man’s
fall save the choked, bronze behemoth from which he fell, whose mute voice
stirred none.
02 September 2012
Anti-Intellectualism.
Lets talk about anti-intellectualism. In the wake of this political nightmare that is the Romney vs. Obama election, it's all I can think about.
Why do people run away from thinking?
Because thinking is hard.
Because changing is hard.
Because humility is hard.
Because loving others is hard.
Because confrontation is hard.
Because listening is hard.
Because patience and understanding for others is hard, but not nearly as hard as patience and understanding for yourself.
Thinking is hard.
But, hm. Humility, changing, loving, listening, patience, understanding...sounds like 1 Corinthians 13, doesn't it?
In order to think, you have to be willing to take ownership of your mortality. You have to face god in the garden, covered in clothes of leaves, look god in the eye, and admit your inadequacy. You have to realize that you are a failure - and complete and utter disappointment - and that the only thing you function on - the ONLY thing - is grace. Grace from god, grace from your family, grace from your government, grace from your friends. You and I deserve nothing. What we earn is drivel compared to what we owe. Our debt outweighs our net worth one hundred thousand fold.
Once we recognize this, even just the slightest glimmer of this, we can start thinking, because we can start admitting we are wrong.
The hardest thing I can think of is to admit I'm wrong about something I don't believe I'm wrong about. So, since political debate is all about forcing the other to admit he or she is wrong, I have the right to refuse.
I might be wrong. There might be a loving, caring, listening god inches from my ears.
Being gay might totally be a violation of nature and god's law.
Maybe more socialized health care is a really bad idea.
Maybe higher taxes is gonna make everything a lot worse.
Maybe women do not have the right to kill their unborn children.
Maybe having sex before marriage does ruin something in someone so deep that it leaves an unforgettable scar.
Maybe Barak Obama is doing way more bad things than he says he is.
Maybe digital copyright is a way bigger deal than I think it is.
Maybe Ayn Rand is right about capitalist selfishness (that one's hard to say).
Maybe there is a serious, unbridgeable difference between genders.
Maybe there's only two genders.
Maybe the proper way to run a household is with a single, male breadwinner.
Maybe every single person who doesn't say "the prayer" goes to hell. Maybe that doesn't exclude Ghandi or Anne Frank.
Honestly?
I don't know.
Just once I'd like to see a politician get up on stage and say to his opponent: "Here are my stances. But I might be wrong. You might be right. And I'm willing to listen." But it will never happen. Listening doesn't win elections. Neither does trusting the masses to make good decisions. Neither does compromise.
"Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues,they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."
Prophesy, tongues, knowledge - all will pass, because they are partials of the whole, which will come. Our gifts, the things we treasure and pride ourselves in most, they are all pieces of something greater. But we cling to them. They are our identity. Our abilities, our education, our social and political positions, they are our tongues and prophecy. They will leave us, and none of them matter.
Did you catch that last part? Three things remain. Faith. Hope. Love. Faith, which I lost listening for a god that didn't answer, and which has flickered inside me like a subtle reminder, constantly doused in cold water by the institution suggested by the term faith. Hope, which I lose when I listen to the poison people spew at each other over things that genuinely don't matter.
But love. Paul says it's the greatest of the three. The greatest of the three things that remain after knowledge and prophesy and tongues are gone. Love, the equalizer, the source of both grace and forgiveness,
I'm not from woodstock. Love isn't tye-dye and fucking. Love makes woodstock look more shallow than a middle school relationship conducted entirely over myspace. Love is more than live and let live, it's more than smoking weed and listening to Jimi.
I don't think love is something I can give to you. I crave it like nourishment. I cannot love you. I can't do anything like that properly. I am a fallen man, and my brokenness and shame are only lightened by the love I crave from an unknown source. I can't give love. I can only try to accept it. The reflection I attempt is a pitiful part of the whole, and my love to you is only a humble man's best attempt at regifting.
Anti-intellectualism? Please think. Please hurt, change, question, observe, research, and please listen. But most of all, please be humble. We are just parts. We know nothing. After all, for now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. That sounds a whole lot like a call to shut the fuck up and listen.
Why do people run away from thinking?
Because thinking is hard.
Because changing is hard.
Because humility is hard.
Because loving others is hard.
Because confrontation is hard.
Because listening is hard.
Because patience and understanding for others is hard, but not nearly as hard as patience and understanding for yourself.
Thinking is hard.
But, hm. Humility, changing, loving, listening, patience, understanding...sounds like 1 Corinthians 13, doesn't it?
In order to think, you have to be willing to take ownership of your mortality. You have to face god in the garden, covered in clothes of leaves, look god in the eye, and admit your inadequacy. You have to realize that you are a failure - and complete and utter disappointment - and that the only thing you function on - the ONLY thing - is grace. Grace from god, grace from your family, grace from your government, grace from your friends. You and I deserve nothing. What we earn is drivel compared to what we owe. Our debt outweighs our net worth one hundred thousand fold.
Once we recognize this, even just the slightest glimmer of this, we can start thinking, because we can start admitting we are wrong.
The hardest thing I can think of is to admit I'm wrong about something I don't believe I'm wrong about. So, since political debate is all about forcing the other to admit he or she is wrong, I have the right to refuse.
I might be wrong. There might be a loving, caring, listening god inches from my ears.
Being gay might totally be a violation of nature and god's law.
Maybe more socialized health care is a really bad idea.
Maybe higher taxes is gonna make everything a lot worse.
Maybe women do not have the right to kill their unborn children.
Maybe having sex before marriage does ruin something in someone so deep that it leaves an unforgettable scar.
Maybe Barak Obama is doing way more bad things than he says he is.
Maybe digital copyright is a way bigger deal than I think it is.
Maybe Ayn Rand is right about capitalist selfishness (that one's hard to say).
Maybe there is a serious, unbridgeable difference between genders.
Maybe there's only two genders.
Maybe the proper way to run a household is with a single, male breadwinner.
Maybe every single person who doesn't say "the prayer" goes to hell. Maybe that doesn't exclude Ghandi or Anne Frank.
Honestly?
I don't know.
Just once I'd like to see a politician get up on stage and say to his opponent: "Here are my stances. But I might be wrong. You might be right. And I'm willing to listen." But it will never happen. Listening doesn't win elections. Neither does trusting the masses to make good decisions. Neither does compromise.
"Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues,they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."
Prophesy, tongues, knowledge - all will pass, because they are partials of the whole, which will come. Our gifts, the things we treasure and pride ourselves in most, they are all pieces of something greater. But we cling to them. They are our identity. Our abilities, our education, our social and political positions, they are our tongues and prophecy. They will leave us, and none of them matter.
Did you catch that last part? Three things remain. Faith. Hope. Love. Faith, which I lost listening for a god that didn't answer, and which has flickered inside me like a subtle reminder, constantly doused in cold water by the institution suggested by the term faith. Hope, which I lose when I listen to the poison people spew at each other over things that genuinely don't matter.
But love. Paul says it's the greatest of the three. The greatest of the three things that remain after knowledge and prophesy and tongues are gone. Love, the equalizer, the source of both grace and forgiveness,
I'm not from woodstock. Love isn't tye-dye and fucking. Love makes woodstock look more shallow than a middle school relationship conducted entirely over myspace. Love is more than live and let live, it's more than smoking weed and listening to Jimi.
I don't think love is something I can give to you. I crave it like nourishment. I cannot love you. I can't do anything like that properly. I am a fallen man, and my brokenness and shame are only lightened by the love I crave from an unknown source. I can't give love. I can only try to accept it. The reflection I attempt is a pitiful part of the whole, and my love to you is only a humble man's best attempt at regifting.
Anti-intellectualism? Please think. Please hurt, change, question, observe, research, and please listen. But most of all, please be humble. We are just parts. We know nothing. After all, for now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. That sounds a whole lot like a call to shut the fuck up and listen.
15 August 2012
More
I won't be able to sleep until I get this out, I think.
I'm not a Christian, but everything I analyze is based on a Judeo-Christian value system, ultimately founded in scripture. Why is that?
Well, I think it's because I started with christianity. Then I lost that and looked to government, and realized, holy fuck, as messed up as the bible is, democracy, theocracy, communism, totalitarianism, representative democracy, republics, anarchy...it's all bullshit.
Fuck me, man! I need some sort of center. Fuck off, Derrida, because to be entirely centerless is to be apathetic. Of course we can't change anything. There's nothing to change to. And nothing to change from.
So, I find the teachings of jesus - and, for the most part, JUST jesus - to be a good enough center. I guess I'm desperate enough.
Jesus and Derrida. I think that means, work with your center. Love your neighbor as yourself. Do unto others as you'd have them do. Love, love, love, love, love. But, remember that your center is a false one. It will shift. You know nothing.
I know nothing.
I will be wrong.
Humility. The practice of biting my tongue. The practice of admitting failure.
Imagine a presidential candidate that got up on stage and told us to fix the problems ourselves. To stop trying to pawn off the US problems onto a new policy, and take personal, individual responsibility.
I think I wrote years ago that I don't think I can survive looking at the macro. I need the micro. Things are...so messy up in the sky. The postal service had it wrong.
I can't do macro anything. I can't teach hundreds of thousands of students to read. I can't fix a budget crisis. I can't fight nation wide obesity.
I can just do small things. God, some days I wish somebody would remind me that the little achievements I make towards these goals are what matter the most.
I'll remind you instead. The little achievements you make towards these goals are what matter most. Your afternoon jog fights American obesity. And then, you encouraging your friend to jog with you fights it even more. Don't give up.
Your kind word, your willingness to engage instead of exercising the majority privilege of disengaging, your grief and your apology are a single stitch in the gaping wound left in the side of the native american population by manifest destiny.
I'm mostly talking to myself right now.
I'm not a Christian, but everything I analyze is based on a Judeo-Christian value system, ultimately founded in scripture. Why is that?
Well, I think it's because I started with christianity. Then I lost that and looked to government, and realized, holy fuck, as messed up as the bible is, democracy, theocracy, communism, totalitarianism, representative democracy, republics, anarchy...it's all bullshit.
Fuck me, man! I need some sort of center. Fuck off, Derrida, because to be entirely centerless is to be apathetic. Of course we can't change anything. There's nothing to change to. And nothing to change from.
So, I find the teachings of jesus - and, for the most part, JUST jesus - to be a good enough center. I guess I'm desperate enough.
Jesus and Derrida. I think that means, work with your center. Love your neighbor as yourself. Do unto others as you'd have them do. Love, love, love, love, love. But, remember that your center is a false one. It will shift. You know nothing.
I know nothing.
I will be wrong.
Humility. The practice of biting my tongue. The practice of admitting failure.
Imagine a presidential candidate that got up on stage and told us to fix the problems ourselves. To stop trying to pawn off the US problems onto a new policy, and take personal, individual responsibility.
I think I wrote years ago that I don't think I can survive looking at the macro. I need the micro. Things are...so messy up in the sky. The postal service had it wrong.
I can't do macro anything. I can't teach hundreds of thousands of students to read. I can't fix a budget crisis. I can't fight nation wide obesity.
I can just do small things. God, some days I wish somebody would remind me that the little achievements I make towards these goals are what matter the most.
I'll remind you instead. The little achievements you make towards these goals are what matter most. Your afternoon jog fights American obesity. And then, you encouraging your friend to jog with you fights it even more. Don't give up.
Your kind word, your willingness to engage instead of exercising the majority privilege of disengaging, your grief and your apology are a single stitch in the gaping wound left in the side of the native american population by manifest destiny.
I'm mostly talking to myself right now.
Manifest Destiny.
"The last chapter in any successful genocide is the one in which the oppressor can remove their hands and say, my god, what are these people doing to each other? They're killing each other; they're killing themselves...this is the legacy of Manifest Destiny."
This crushes...crushes my soul.
We live in a country founded on a successful holocaust. Where the storming of Normandy failed.
250,000 out of 8 million? That's 96.875% of a population killed. 7,750,000 people. Perspective: scholars agree that approximately 6 million Jews were murdered during the Third Reich. 800,000 in Rwanda. 1.5 million Armenians. 600,000 Filipinos. 1,000,000 Greeks.
I stand on the bones of people who deserved to live. imago.
The "uhmurica" joke has become...less and less funny this year. I think I'm going to be sick.
I can't...see anything through this haze. Guilt and anger are unmourned grief. Grieve. Mourn.
And what the FUCK are they teaching in elementary schools? The schools are built from the bones of possibly the largest mass genocide of a people group in documented history. And we teach thanksgiving. Cowboys and indians.
Lets teach our kids to play Jews and Nazis instead. Sick.
Internationally, it's no news...we need a reality check. Humility. The US has a really big head on it's shoulders.
Nothing makes me want to leave more.
http://fadedandblurred.com/blog/the-shadow-of-wounded-knee-aaron-huey/ Thanks, Nikki.
This crushes...crushes my soul.
We live in a country founded on a successful holocaust. Where the storming of Normandy failed.
250,000 out of 8 million? That's 96.875% of a population killed. 7,750,000 people. Perspective: scholars agree that approximately 6 million Jews were murdered during the Third Reich. 800,000 in Rwanda. 1.5 million Armenians. 600,000 Filipinos. 1,000,000 Greeks.
I stand on the bones of people who deserved to live. imago.
The "uhmurica" joke has become...less and less funny this year. I think I'm going to be sick.
I can't...see anything through this haze. Guilt and anger are unmourned grief. Grieve. Mourn.
And what the FUCK are they teaching in elementary schools? The schools are built from the bones of possibly the largest mass genocide of a people group in documented history. And we teach thanksgiving. Cowboys and indians.
Lets teach our kids to play Jews and Nazis instead. Sick.
Internationally, it's no news...we need a reality check. Humility. The US has a really big head on it's shoulders.
Nothing makes me want to leave more.
http://fadedandblurred.com/blog/the-shadow-of-wounded-knee-aaron-huey/ Thanks, Nikki.
02 August 2012
imago
I've been thinking about this recently:
Why is identity important?
I'm a white, upper-middle class american male. I have time to think about these things because I am not afraid of starving to death. Identity is important to me.
When you're starving as Kim Jong Il terrorizes your country, well, it doesn't matter nearly as much, right? Eat, or don't eat: it doesn't matter who you are.
But when a N Korean refugee returns to his country out of national pride for a leader that would kill him without a second thought, I'm forced to reconsider the depth of identity. Maybe it's more important.
Identity - knowing who you are outside of your individual self - is probably the most important thing any of us deal with day to day. I think for a N Korean refugee or a displaced child in the Congo, it's not as important as food, water, shelter, and safety. But I think it might be in the top ten. Who do you belong to? With whom do you identify?
I suspect that it's evolutionary. Without an identity, we have no family - without a family, no pack, and without a pack, no survival.
Now here's the part I find interesting. Identity doesn't exist without a population. We cannot define ourselves without comparing.
Example: I am white, have long hair, and am a good drummer.
But, compared to native Inuits or Finns, I'm pink.
My hair is short compared to Tim's.
I'm an awful drummer compared to Gavin Harrison.
Stick with me here.
We have no identity outside of our populations, because without our populations, our variances or similarities are neither - they're just traits. Our constant comparison to the group creates a unique, specialized identity which distracts us from a simple, terrifying fact:
We are all identical meatbags.
If we weren't, modern medicine wouldn't exist. The reason I can have corrective laser eye surgery is because we know what is correct and incorrect, based on the success of traits (natural selection, anyone?) in our population.
So we're all the same. Gayle Rubin said this in The Traffic in Women, possibly my favorite essay:
Now just take out the bit about genders - we're talking about humanity as a whole, not men vs. women - and you see just how un-special everyone is.
If you find yourself reacting negatively to this concept, lets talk about why. Nobody likes hearing that they are the same as everyone else.
Why?
Evolutionarily? Because uniqueness, the act of being different and better, survives in natural selection.
Theologically? Because, perhaps, the christian folk are embedded with the concept a personal god who knows us individually - suggesting that there is individualism to be known.
Theologically, I think there's a deeper root issue here. Humanity was separated from god, right? Man and woman walked alongside god and there were no qualms about identity then - we were naked, both physically and metaphorically, and our identities were exposed and known.
Humankind was separated from god. Humankind wore clothes, and was ashamed of its identity. Humankind began dressing its identity. Humankind lost its identity in a sea of self-definition.
So when our smokescreen is called out - when our clothes and politics that we define ourselves by are threatened - we bite back.
This is why we cling to romance. Northrop Frye said:
I am no different than Fred Phelps with Westboro Baptist church. We disagree on just about everything, but we are both the same flesh and blood that clothed ourselves when we realized we were exposed in the garden. I don't want to believe this.
Instead, I believe that he and I are different on the basis that I love gay people and he hates them, or on my belief that god doesn't hate america specifically, while he believes the US is doomed.
I forget that we both were born of human mothers, and we both have fathers whose genes make up half our own. We both eat, breath, drink, shit, and piss.
I don't want to be the same as Fred Phelps, but fuck it, I am.
Honestly, I suspect that this is why people are so opposed to compromise and understanding each other. Definitionally, compromise is coming to a conclusion where both parties are equally satisfied. I don't want to find common ground with people that make me so angry. I want to show how I'm different than them.
I want to hate them.
I want to separate myself from them.
I want to prove to someone,
perhaps, to god,
that it isn't me who deserves this curse;
it was him.
It wasn't my fault,
I'm different;
I'm unique;
I didn't take the fruit.
She did.
See, we've been playing this blame game since the very beginning. And it's all a ploy, to disguise our guilt. We find our differences, and we exploit them; we stretch them and hyperbolize them until they are stars born from carbon atoms, great chasms separating us from them, isolating ourselves from our guilt and grief, and consequentially, dividing ourselves from the source of our original identity, the imago dei.
And every time we scream and fight, we contribute to the chasm. We lose our souls to a hole we dug.
All I can do is see it in myself when people throw their weight behind Chick-Fil-A and Douglas Wilson. I'm revolted by some of the things these people say, and I want to get away - that's not me. They are the ones wrong, evil - I hate them.
My mother often says that anger and hatred are grief unmourned.
People are too scared. I'm too scared. We will never be able to do it. There are too many centuries of guilt hidden behind self-hatred for humanity to break free.
You christians are lucky. You believe in an afterlife, where we start over.
Just remember: we define ourselves, not by what we love, but by what we hate. We have to make the choice: find identity through hatred? Or risk losing identity in love? And, theoretically, finding identity in imago dei.
Why is identity important?
I'm a white, upper-middle class american male. I have time to think about these things because I am not afraid of starving to death. Identity is important to me.
When you're starving as Kim Jong Il terrorizes your country, well, it doesn't matter nearly as much, right? Eat, or don't eat: it doesn't matter who you are.
But when a N Korean refugee returns to his country out of national pride for a leader that would kill him without a second thought, I'm forced to reconsider the depth of identity. Maybe it's more important.
Identity - knowing who you are outside of your individual self - is probably the most important thing any of us deal with day to day. I think for a N Korean refugee or a displaced child in the Congo, it's not as important as food, water, shelter, and safety. But I think it might be in the top ten. Who do you belong to? With whom do you identify?
I suspect that it's evolutionary. Without an identity, we have no family - without a family, no pack, and without a pack, no survival.
Now here's the part I find interesting. Identity doesn't exist without a population. We cannot define ourselves without comparing.
Example: I am white, have long hair, and am a good drummer.
But, compared to native Inuits or Finns, I'm pink.
My hair is short compared to Tim's.
I'm an awful drummer compared to Gavin Harrison.
Stick with me here.
We have no identity outside of our populations, because without our populations, our variances or similarities are neither - they're just traits. Our constant comparison to the group creates a unique, specialized identity which distracts us from a simple, terrifying fact:
We are all identical meatbags.
If we weren't, modern medicine wouldn't exist. The reason I can have corrective laser eye surgery is because we know what is correct and incorrect, based on the success of traits (natural selection, anyone?) in our population.
So we're all the same. Gayle Rubin said this in The Traffic in Women, possibly my favorite essay:
"Men and women are, of course, different. But they are not as different as day and night, earth and sky, yin and yang, life and death. In fact, from the standpoint of nature, men and women are closer to each other than either is to anything else - for instance, mountains, kangaroos, or coconut palms...far from being an expression of our natural differences, exclusive gender identity is the suppression of natural similarities."
Now just take out the bit about genders - we're talking about humanity as a whole, not men vs. women - and you see just how un-special everyone is.
If you find yourself reacting negatively to this concept, lets talk about why. Nobody likes hearing that they are the same as everyone else.
Why?
Evolutionarily? Because uniqueness, the act of being different and better, survives in natural selection.
Theologically? Because, perhaps, the christian folk are embedded with the concept a personal god who knows us individually - suggesting that there is individualism to be known.
Theologically, I think there's a deeper root issue here. Humanity was separated from god, right? Man and woman walked alongside god and there were no qualms about identity then - we were naked, both physically and metaphorically, and our identities were exposed and known.
Humankind was separated from god. Humankind wore clothes, and was ashamed of its identity. Humankind began dressing its identity. Humankind lost its identity in a sea of self-definition.
So when our smokescreen is called out - when our clothes and politics that we define ourselves by are threatened - we bite back.
This is why we cling to romance. Northrop Frye said:
“Romance avoids the ambiguities of ordinary life where everything is a mixture of good and bad, and where it is difficult to take sides or believe that people are consistent patterns of virtue or vice. The popularity of romance, it is obvious, has much to do with its simplifying of moral facts”So here's the biggest romantic notion of them all: our differences matter.
I am no different than Fred Phelps with Westboro Baptist church. We disagree on just about everything, but we are both the same flesh and blood that clothed ourselves when we realized we were exposed in the garden. I don't want to believe this.
Instead, I believe that he and I are different on the basis that I love gay people and he hates them, or on my belief that god doesn't hate america specifically, while he believes the US is doomed.
I forget that we both were born of human mothers, and we both have fathers whose genes make up half our own. We both eat, breath, drink, shit, and piss.
I don't want to be the same as Fred Phelps, but fuck it, I am.
Honestly, I suspect that this is why people are so opposed to compromise and understanding each other. Definitionally, compromise is coming to a conclusion where both parties are equally satisfied. I don't want to find common ground with people that make me so angry. I want to show how I'm different than them.
I want to hate them.
I want to separate myself from them.
I want to prove to someone,
perhaps, to god,
that it isn't me who deserves this curse;
it was him.
It wasn't my fault,
I'm different;
I'm unique;
I didn't take the fruit.
She did.
See, we've been playing this blame game since the very beginning. And it's all a ploy, to disguise our guilt. We find our differences, and we exploit them; we stretch them and hyperbolize them until they are stars born from carbon atoms, great chasms separating us from them, isolating ourselves from our guilt and grief, and consequentially, dividing ourselves from the source of our original identity, the imago dei.
And every time we scream and fight, we contribute to the chasm. We lose our souls to a hole we dug.
All I can do is see it in myself when people throw their weight behind Chick-Fil-A and Douglas Wilson. I'm revolted by some of the things these people say, and I want to get away - that's not me. They are the ones wrong, evil - I hate them.
My mother often says that anger and hatred are grief unmourned.
People are too scared. I'm too scared. We will never be able to do it. There are too many centuries of guilt hidden behind self-hatred for humanity to break free.
You christians are lucky. You believe in an afterlife, where we start over.
Just remember: we define ourselves, not by what we love, but by what we hate. We have to make the choice: find identity through hatred? Or risk losing identity in love? And, theoretically, finding identity in imago dei.
09 July 2012
Followup
Holy fuck, there's a lot of good stuff in 1 Corinthians 13. I don't think I've ever read it. And to think, this verse was used to tell me to stop swearing. Or not to have sex until I'm married.
I can't believe people read this shit at weddings. There's no romance in this.
This isn't loving the sinner, hating the sin. It's not cuddling in the mountains or fucking on your honeymoon either.
This is pure, unadulterated, fucking humility.
"For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."
For now.
We only see a reflection.
Then.
We will see face to face.
For now.
I only know ANYTHING in part.
But then.
I will know fully.
And, more importantly,
I will be known fully.
Tattered rags.
I can't believe people read this shit at weddings. There's no romance in this.
This isn't loving the sinner, hating the sin. It's not cuddling in the mountains or fucking on your honeymoon either.
This is pure, unadulterated, fucking humility.
"For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."
For now.
We only see a reflection.
Then.
We will see face to face.
For now.
I only know ANYTHING in part.
But then.
I will know fully.
And, more importantly,
I will be known fully.
Tattered rags.
Politics
Lets play a game.
It's called the "You and I Disagree, But We'll Still Get Along Fine" game. Here's how you play:
RULES:
1) This game is for 2 or more players
2) At least 2 or more players must hold contrary political, social, religious, or personal beliefs about some topic. Opinions do not need to be inherently opposed or polar opposites, they just need to have the slightest difference.
3) Players take turns sharing their opinions and positions. Player that is speaking is called the "AWESOME TALKER"
4) Players actively listen to the opinions of the other players. Players that are listening are called the "AWESOME LISTENER(S):
5) Players individually and politely rebut other players or refine their own position
6) Game is over when all Players have learned something new and have a healthy respect for all other players, regardless of opinions.
7) Nobody loses.
There are so many problems with everything. Opinions.
_____________________________
See that line? That's the thin line dividing differing opinions with disrespect and disregard for human worth. It's not very long or thick.
Here's what I want:
Believe whatever the fuck you want. Share it with me, even debate it with me. Politely. Remember that I am not the summation of my opinions. Remember, if you are a Christian, ESPECIALLY if you are a Christian, that I have fucking value by sheerly existing because of Imago Dei.
Everyone has their limits, of course. The key word to any of this shit is Grace. I don't care whether you're a fucking satanist pagan whatever. Grace for other people = grace for you later on. When you fuck up. Cause it's coming, have no doubt.
I'm gonna be less likely to listen to the rational of racist prick. Because I need grace from other people.
But hey, I get the feeling most racist pricks don't have much of a rational anyways.
You know what I learned once? When you have patience and understanding for other people, you're happier. You know why? Because you (and I) are narcissistic beings. You base everything you feel on the assumptions of what everyone else feels, and you assume everyone else feels like you.
So if you're a fucking asshole to everyone around you, you expect everyone to be a fucking asshole to you too. You're on the brink. You road rage and people, and you're just waiting for someone to spit in your burger.
You know what sucks about generalizations? Every single goddamn one of them comes with a fucking "unless" statement. A caveat. An exception. Which definitionally mutilates any sort of blanket statement.
Centers.
Again, with this bullshit, Derrida? I was trying to have an intelligent conversation (read: rant) about politics, religion and grace. You had to stick your obnoxious nose over here too?
But bricolage doesn't stop the fighting; it just pulls a Pontius Pilate. Washing our hands or responsibility. But dude. I'd have done the same fucking thing.
This wasn't where I intended to take this, but think about it: Pilate was up the fucking CREEK. A mob full of angry jews intent on rereleasing some convict rather than the hippie. What the fuck would you do?
When I was a child (I always hear 1 Corinthians 13:11 when I start sentences this way), I used to almost idolize Pilate. Sure, he could have stood up for the "right" think. But what the fuck, man!! He doesn't know who the hell this hippie is, and the hippie sure ain't doing anything to save his own sorry ass. Here's the dialogue:
Pilate: What are all you fuckers so pissed about?
Jews: KILL THE HIPPIE!!!!
Pilate: What, are you serious? This dude in the sandals with the long hair and beard?
Jews: Kill him! Fucking torture his ass and kill the FUCK outta him!
Pilate: You guys gotta be joking. This is the dude who was healing your sick asses and telling you guys to chillax and love each other like you love yourselves. That's not treason! Who do you think this guy is, Jeffery Dahmer? He practically shits rainbows!
Jews: We don't give a shit! He tricked us because we thought he was gonna be a warlord and he's just a fucking hippie. We thought he was gonna kill everyone but us in some reverse-anti-Semitic genocide, but instead he told us to LOVE each other!
Pilate: Jesus christ, are you fuckers serious? This guy's like the middle eastern buddah, and you want him dead? You'd rather have the serial rapist back on the fucking streets than let this dude go?
Jews: Kill his ass!
Pilate: Fine. Do whatever the fuck you want. Y'all are stupid as fuck. I'm not about to have a goddamn riot on my hands because you shitheads want to kill a hippie. There's no reasoning with you, because you've already made up your mind, and no amount of truth or untruth will change that. Do whatever you want, because all I want to do right now is get as far away from you as possible.
Back to the beginning, I guess. I'd wash my hands too. I wash my hands every day. Because a whole fucking ton of you people out there aren't interested in listening. You're interested in crucifying the nearest goddamn scapegoat. And if he turns out to be the Messiah, well, fuck it, at least you got what you wanted.
Sometimes, I don't understand how god could love us. I make me sick. I can't imagine an armada of me.
Please, everybody. Take a little advice from someone who you may or may not have met, and who has no qualifications to give you advice - someone who has probably not lived as long as you, probably has less education than you, probably believes different things than you, probably makes bigger mistakes, says stupider things, makes less money, has less experience, and has life less figured out. Give me grace for being younger, naïve, and idealistic.
Opinions aren't people. People are. And you are as worthless as they are. Or as precious. So shut the fuck up.
No seriously. That's my advice.
Shut the fuck up. And have a little grace for your brother or sister, because trust me: you're a fuck up. And you need it.
It's called the "You and I Disagree, But We'll Still Get Along Fine" game. Here's how you play:
RULES:
1) This game is for 2 or more players
2) At least 2 or more players must hold contrary political, social, religious, or personal beliefs about some topic. Opinions do not need to be inherently opposed or polar opposites, they just need to have the slightest difference.
3) Players take turns sharing their opinions and positions. Player that is speaking is called the "AWESOME TALKER"
4) Players actively listen to the opinions of the other players. Players that are listening are called the "AWESOME LISTENER(S):
5) Players individually and politely rebut other players or refine their own position
6) Game is over when all Players have learned something new and have a healthy respect for all other players, regardless of opinions.
7) Nobody loses.
There are so many problems with everything. Opinions.
_____________________________
See that line? That's the thin line dividing differing opinions with disrespect and disregard for human worth. It's not very long or thick.
Here's what I want:
Believe whatever the fuck you want. Share it with me, even debate it with me. Politely. Remember that I am not the summation of my opinions. Remember, if you are a Christian, ESPECIALLY if you are a Christian, that I have fucking value by sheerly existing because of Imago Dei.
Everyone has their limits, of course. The key word to any of this shit is Grace. I don't care whether you're a fucking satanist pagan whatever. Grace for other people = grace for you later on. When you fuck up. Cause it's coming, have no doubt.
I'm gonna be less likely to listen to the rational of racist prick. Because I need grace from other people.
But hey, I get the feeling most racist pricks don't have much of a rational anyways.
You know what I learned once? When you have patience and understanding for other people, you're happier. You know why? Because you (and I) are narcissistic beings. You base everything you feel on the assumptions of what everyone else feels, and you assume everyone else feels like you.
So if you're a fucking asshole to everyone around you, you expect everyone to be a fucking asshole to you too. You're on the brink. You road rage and people, and you're just waiting for someone to spit in your burger.
You know what sucks about generalizations? Every single goddamn one of them comes with a fucking "unless" statement. A caveat. An exception. Which definitionally mutilates any sort of blanket statement.
Centers.
Again, with this bullshit, Derrida? I was trying to have an intelligent conversation (read: rant) about politics, religion and grace. You had to stick your obnoxious nose over here too?
But bricolage doesn't stop the fighting; it just pulls a Pontius Pilate. Washing our hands or responsibility. But dude. I'd have done the same fucking thing.
This wasn't where I intended to take this, but think about it: Pilate was up the fucking CREEK. A mob full of angry jews intent on rereleasing some convict rather than the hippie. What the fuck would you do?
When I was a child (I always hear 1 Corinthians 13:11 when I start sentences this way), I used to almost idolize Pilate. Sure, he could have stood up for the "right" think. But what the fuck, man!! He doesn't know who the hell this hippie is, and the hippie sure ain't doing anything to save his own sorry ass. Here's the dialogue:
Pilate: What are all you fuckers so pissed about?
Jews: KILL THE HIPPIE!!!!
Pilate: What, are you serious? This dude in the sandals with the long hair and beard?
Jews: Kill him! Fucking torture his ass and kill the FUCK outta him!
Pilate: You guys gotta be joking. This is the dude who was healing your sick asses and telling you guys to chillax and love each other like you love yourselves. That's not treason! Who do you think this guy is, Jeffery Dahmer? He practically shits rainbows!
Jews: We don't give a shit! He tricked us because we thought he was gonna be a warlord and he's just a fucking hippie. We thought he was gonna kill everyone but us in some reverse-anti-Semitic genocide, but instead he told us to LOVE each other!
Pilate: Jesus christ, are you fuckers serious? This guy's like the middle eastern buddah, and you want him dead? You'd rather have the serial rapist back on the fucking streets than let this dude go?
Jews: Kill his ass!
Pilate: Fine. Do whatever the fuck you want. Y'all are stupid as fuck. I'm not about to have a goddamn riot on my hands because you shitheads want to kill a hippie. There's no reasoning with you, because you've already made up your mind, and no amount of truth or untruth will change that. Do whatever you want, because all I want to do right now is get as far away from you as possible.
Back to the beginning, I guess. I'd wash my hands too. I wash my hands every day. Because a whole fucking ton of you people out there aren't interested in listening. You're interested in crucifying the nearest goddamn scapegoat. And if he turns out to be the Messiah, well, fuck it, at least you got what you wanted.
Sometimes, I don't understand how god could love us. I make me sick. I can't imagine an armada of me.
Please, everybody. Take a little advice from someone who you may or may not have met, and who has no qualifications to give you advice - someone who has probably not lived as long as you, probably has less education than you, probably believes different things than you, probably makes bigger mistakes, says stupider things, makes less money, has less experience, and has life less figured out. Give me grace for being younger, naïve, and idealistic.
Opinions aren't people. People are. And you are as worthless as they are. Or as precious. So shut the fuck up.
No seriously. That's my advice.
Shut the fuck up. And have a little grace for your brother or sister, because trust me: you're a fuck up. And you need it.
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