Keeping an open mind

2012-02-10T02:15:00.001-05:00

permanence & change & change

This space looks empty.

I can hear the faint echo in this neglected gallery of self-portraits done in myriad forms. It's so quiet without the cacophony of run-on prose or the marked syncopation of comma after comma, dash upon dash, open open open parentheses. (Close close open close close parentheses.) It's funny how much louder the not-poetry was compared to the not-not-poetry. Non-existants never cease to amaze me.

Yet the echo is familiar--as it's me calling out, asking if I should return to curate, as I often do after bouts of inactivity...or, rather, activity elsewhere. I hear the whisper and wonder if it's worth it to put my words on the web. And reflect on why they're not here already.

Emotional exigencies aside, I'm compelled to dust off the cob webs for the sake of consistency. I've always written here, so I should write here--faulty logic that nonetheless strikes flawlessly at the part of me that yearns for the nostalgic and the familiar. I have no particular audience in mind save for the teeming millions who hunger tirelessly for the next word to slowly/effortlessly escape from the tips of my fingers. Satiating the masses with fishes, loaves, and the occasional semicolon.

And then there's the catharsis--the sweet kiss-on-the-cheek and belly rub of a thought-spark igniting a thousand pixels and, at the end, seeing meaning in the freshly burned forest. It's almost creative destruction except without the violence that it ~~subtly~~ implies (unless you count my brutality against the English language (and I'm sure you do (KMN))).

Lastly: There's the fun of it all. Being coy. Being explicit. Making you work for it and being intellectual promiscuous. What's the risk compared to the reward? Why am I even asking you--aside from the fact that you're not likely to tell me to STOP while I'm ahead?

This space no longer looks empty--for awhile.

2011-12-04T02:46:00.001-05:00

Almost like I pictured you in that dream--the one where we're running in wet sand, chasing the foamy tide and each other and a future--you have that same expression, wide-smiled face with solar intensity framed by lips who find purpose in such moments and in the movements that follow those moments. Your eyes are velour and your demeanor warmth--an invitation to see, an opportunity to recall.

It had taken you energy you didn't know you had to get here, to get me, to get yourself--to recognize that you belong to a culture no more you belong to a slave master. Awakening your senses, your sense of life, your sensational spirit. To hear it spoken. To feel it against your fingertips. To taste guava from an orchard outside the confines of an Eden.

And every morning it takes that same energy to raise the night shades that deflect/reflect the darkness and to lift your eyes to mine with that sense and that smile, saying, "Good morning, love." Yet here you are--almost like I pictured you in that dream--the one where you grab my hand for the first-second time, squeezing deeply the grooves of our identities to make sure that I know it won't be gone again and that it never really left.

Every morning I look at you and think that I couldn't possibly love you more than I did the day before. Then we get up, tease each other, buy bread, eat rice, make fun, take a walk, find a Starbucks, drive, dash, dodge, make love, watch Spongebob, drink martinis--live. And at the end of it all, when you reflect the moonlight and I the day, I find it possible to surpass a summit, to love you more than I did the last time I watched you sleep, to know over and over and over and over that I will/have moved mountains if they annoyingly cast a shadow on your footpath. I will/have pluck(ed) orbs from the sky and fashion(ed) them into a suitable jewel for your ankle when it seem(s/ed) bare. I will/have love(d) you until the time when those night shades will not reopen and we part for the only real time in what I know will be a regretless life beautifully lived.

2011-09-14T23:54:00.003-04:00

XII

It's the way you keep focus through a laugh, anchoring your gaze in mine like an innocently selfish child who refuses to relinquish her staked spot at the start of Saturday morning cartoons, or it's how your compliments come from a place so guarded in your heart that their value transcends price and enters the realm of the sacrosanct, or it's the way your body changes when we talk, betraying the urgency of your desire and the depth of your sensuality, or it's where you lead our conversations--miles into the immediate moment, years into the distant future, which by playful wit feels just as immediate--or it's how the number of minutes we devote to each other feels insufficient as hours meander by and moments stack up like fortified Jenga towers amidst an army of reminiscent fingers, or it's the way we kiss like lovers separated by decades having been separated by the length of a shower, or it's how when I look at the sky I'm reminded of a picnic and how I expect--not hope but expect--as I gaze skyward to see your smile overshadow the clouds and your happiness outshine the sun; perhaps it's these things and perhaps it's everything that makes me realize the intensity of what I feel for you, but no matter what it is--of the mind, of the body, of the incontrovertible spirit--the fact remains that what I once understood as happiness cannot remain a benchmark for my current joy, and what I experience now--when it's you and me as against the world--is orders of magnitude stronger, nearly to the point of warranting a new kind--and all because of one remarkable difference, one actuality that cannot be approached in sensation by the merely possible, something, I realize, that I lacked from previous engagements of romantic love: love.

2011-08-07T23:19:00.000-04:00

words I wish I'd written

"She has the soul of a poet and the fire of a bullet."

2011-08-05T00:05:00.001-04:00

lyrics that seem particularly relevant at the moment (though, admittedly, I'm just reading too much into things like usual)

"Los Angeles" by The Audition

She said,
"I'm jealous of Los Angeles, she gets to keep you for a month or two
And I don't know if I can handle this the thought of being without you."

I know it's cold, but baby maybe we can stay a little longer
Then warm up those toes, the last thing we need is to blow our cover
And I know it's tough to reconsider what you thought was love
But I'm so proud of all the plans you're speaking of

Lay with me stay with me now, oh
'Cause you are all I think about

She said, "I'm jealous of Los Angeles, she gets to keep you for a month or two
And I don't know if I can handle this the thought of being without you."
She said, "I'm sorry for the way I've been, it's so much harder, but I guess we'll see
If I can prove myself wrong, show you I can be stronger than we thought that I would be."

I said, "Let's go and baby, maybe I can show you what you need to know
And how to cope the citizens can listen in but they will never know
About this love and just how stronger we can be
So what if they don't like the plans that we've been speaking of?"

I'll crave your kiss while you're gone, oh
So much I'm missing that alone

She said, "I'm jealous of Los Angeles she gets to keep you for a month or two
And I don't know if I can handle this the thought of being without you."
She said, "I'm sorry for the way I've been it's so much harder, but I guess we'll see
If I can prove myself wrong, show you I can be stronger than we thought that I would be."

And I can commit to change
(I said I'm sorry for the way I've been)
If you can promise to stay the same
(It's so much harder than I thought it'd be)
And never let this fade
(I said I'm sorry for the way I've been)
Baby, just promise to stay the same
(It's so much harder than I thought it'd be)

She said, "I'm jealous of Los Angeles she gets to keep you for a month or two
And now I know that I can handle this the thought of being without you."
She said, "I'm sorry for the way I've been it's so much harder, but I guess we'll see
If I can prove myself wrong, show you I can be stronger than we thought that I would be."

"You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go" as sung by Madeleine Peyroux

I've seen love go by my door
It's never been this close before
Never been so easy or so slow
Been shooting in the dark too long
When something's not right it's wrong
You're gonna make me lonesome when you go

[...]

Situations have ended sad,
Relationships have all been bad.
Mine've been like Verlaine's and Rimbaud.
But there's no way I can compare
All those scenes to this affair,
You're gonna make me lonesome when you go

You're gonna make me wonder what I'm doing,
Staying far behind without you.
You're gonna make me wonder what I'm saying,
You're gonna make me give myself a good talking to.

"A Whole New World" from Disney's Aladdin

(Aladdin:)A whole new world
A new fantastic point of view
No one to tell us no
Or where to go
Or say we're only dreaming

(Jasmine:)A whole new world
A dazzling place i never knew
But now from way up here
It's crystal clear
That now i'm in a whole new world
With you
(Aladdin:)Now i'm in a whole new world with you

(Jasmine:)Unbelievable sights
Indescribable feeling
Soaring, tumbling, freewheeling
Through an endless diamond sky

(Jasmine:) A whole new world
(Aladdin:) Don't you dare close your eyes
(Jasmine:) A hundred thousand things to see
(Aladdin:) Hold your breath- it gets better
(Jasmine:)I'm like a shooting star, I've come so far I can't go back to where i used to be

(Aladdin:) A whole new world
(Aladdin:) With new horrizons to pursue

[...]

(Jasmine:) A whole new world
(Aladdin:) A whole new world
(Jasmine:) Thats where we'll be
(Aladdin:) Where we will be
(Jasmine:) A thrilling change
(Aladdin:) A wonderous place
(Both:) For you and me

...

Judge away, Internet-people.

2011-05-03T21:45:00.001-04:00

Difficulty is not an excuse for hedonism.

2011-04-29T14:22:00.001-04:00

Knowing that people like You exist has helped me get through this week. Thank you.

[If you know this applies to you, then it does. [You know who you are.]]

2011-04-29T00:56:00.002-04:00

[I wrote this on my flight to CA. It's still in its early stages and will undergo several more revisions. I haven't written fiction since I was an undergraduate. [Revised at 11:13p ET.]]

17A

“Now boarding Group 4. Groups 1, 2, 3, and 4 should now feel free to board.”

Mark looked at his boarding pass. Again. It said “Group 4” this time, too. The reassurance was nice. He stepped into line behind an Asian family on their way home from Disney—or who had peculiar taste in hats—and in front of an Asian family with no particularly distinguishing characteristics—except their lack of mouse ears.

Mark stood alone between the two Asian families, left hand in pocket, half-wishing he understood more of what they were saying than the few random oddities like “waffles” and “pop-up blocker,” half-focusing on his group number. He handed the attendant his boarding pass. She smiled and scanned it.

Bleep. E-pproval.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. O’Conner. Enjoy your flight.”

He nodded, smiled-of-sorts, proceeded to the jet way.

“17B,” he recited aloud, just before giving into the urge to check his seat assignment for the nth time. Sure enough, with the stoic expression of a cast iron bust, the boarding pass affirmed his seat assignment: 17B.

“Can I help you with any baggage, sir?” The flight attendant was eager enough but overly sweet—a Hershey kiss contra a grandmother’s fudge.

“No, thank you,” Mark replied, bowing his head slightly. She was cute, he noted, and young—but unnaturally blonde: a damn shame and deal breaker.

“You can pick up your bags at baggage claim area seven when we land, then.”

“I didn’t check any bags,” he said, walking past her and down the narrow aisle. He looked back briefly, noting that confusion did not make the girl any less cute—nor any less blonde.

He reviewed his boarding pass. 17B. Not that it mattered. Aside from the Asian families and a handful of sun-seeking-seniors, seats were filled only with a second quarter loss for American.

Mark found his seat, removed his suit jacket, and placed it gingerly in the overhead bin. He sat in the aisle seat, his hand quickly finding its way back to his left pocket. He leaned out slightly to watch the remaining passengers board but saw no one—a row to himself and the rows in front and back of him, too. It was good thinking space. He fiddled with his seat back, flipped through a magazine, read the safety card, then repeated these actions.

The right half of his seat belt fell toward the aisle and he leaned out to grab it. Black flats suddenly came into focus, and in those flats, two feet attached to two legs, long legs, which led to a pale blue dress—the kind you’d see on a member of the royal family or first lady or, at the very least, a railroad executive with something to prove in an industry dominated by the less fair sex. But this woman was none of those people, and the dress, clutched at the waist by a simple black belt and held up by a single shoulder strap, suited her better than any “celebutant.” Mark’s eyes made their way to her face and held there out of desperation, caught in the quickening undercurrent of the greenish blue seas just north of her understated nose. Everything about her face projected confidence—from the hue of her blush to the missing tension from the corners of her mouth. Yet her posture read excitement and her demeanor cautious optimism—or, at least, guarded benevolence. Mark’s lower lip dropped slightly and in place of words gave way to overwhelming silence.

“17A,” she said.

Mark hesitated, thinking that was his seat, but stood urgently after a quick glance at his boarding pass. He gestured her in and she nodded a “thank you” reserved for just such awkward social chivalries. Mark stood for a moment-too-long, watching the purposefulness of her movements and contemplating the stark, inappropriate contrast between her simple black belt that emphasized everything that was perfect about her body and the black lap belt she proceeded to buckle. He was tempted to rip it away like invading ivy from a flourishing oak. Instead he sat down and buckled his own ivy belt and placed his hand back in his pocket.

“I asked for this seat,” she said suddenly, staring out the window. Mark thought her words might shatter the glass as they did the silence, and his head subconsciously tilted with intrigue. She continued, “I like to sit over the engines, to think that such incredible power is mere feet beside me, and to know that I’m remarkably safe.”

Mark was stunned and didn’t know what to say, so he evaded. “I’ll move once they close the cabin door,” he spouted, not because he wanted to but because it would be suspicious if he didn’t offer.

The woman turned from the window with serious inquiry. “Why?” she asked.

“So you’ll have more room.” He attempted a smile but aborted mid-grin.

“Are you saying I’m fat?”

“What? No. You’re… Of course not. I’m just…” He stopped when he noticed her laughing. This time his smile came through as planned.

“It’s up to you,” she said, looking to her cell phone. “I’ve got plenty of room…Mark.”

He removed his hands from the seatbelt, relaxing cautiously, then tensing again as he realized what she said. His puzzled look was her cue.

“Your tie clip. It has your name on it.” She pointed but Mark’s eyes wouldn’t break from hers, so she touched the tie clip with two fingers and pushed it into his chest. Mark noticed.

“Right,” he managed to stammer. “It was a recent gift. I forgot I was wearing a tie.” He loosened the knot in a not-entirely-stereotypical fashion. “Who wears a suit on a plane, anyway?”

“Apparently, Mark does.” She withdrew her fingers and, per the captain’s request, turned off her phone before returning to the window for take off. They sat in silence for longer than Mark could stand until he could find words that didn’t sound entirely superficial.

“Business or pleasure?” he asked, instantly hearing their superficiality.

“Why do you separate the two?” she asked honestly.

“It’s just something people ask. I don’t know.”

“Do you ask it?”

“No.”

“Then why ask it now?” There was no violence in her voice. There was innocence and curiosity and a digestible amount of sweetness, but she wasn’t attacking and Mark never felt as such—just relieved.

He decided to do something out of the ordinary—at least out of the ordinary for the past few months. And he decided to do so because he was sure it would work—this time. He decided to tell the truth. He wasn’t an accomplished liar. It had been too long since he engaged in such frank use of language. No word play. No massaging the point. No meaningless qualifications or empty rhetoric.

Simply: “Because I want to keep talking to you.”

She adjusted in her seat, turning toward him and uncrossing her legs. “Then let’s talk, Mark.” She rested her face on her hand and waited patiently for his words. But when they came, some patience was swept away in a wave of triviality.

“Where are you headed?” he asked.

“California. And yourself?”

“The same. Why are you going?”

“Vacation. You?”

“Of sorts. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a stripper.”

“No you’re not.”

“What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then why bore us both?”

Mark paused then said the first thing that came to mind. “Truth or dare?”

She grinned and sat up straight. “Truth.”

“What’s your favorite book?”

“No. Ask what you’re interested in knowing.”

Mark thought only briefly. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Right to the point, Mark. Much better. There’s hope for you. And no—not any more. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Who’s Beth?”

Mark leaned back with the look of a man who had been surprised by a gunshot to the chest. “What?”

“Beth. On your boarding pass, by the group and seat number, you wrote, ‘Goodbye, Beth.’ Who is
she?”

Mark’s smile didn’t disappear, but it lost its edge. He blinked a few times and looked down like a boy being playfully teased by the neighbor’s daughter, his fingers tapping nervously in his pocket. He raised his eyes to hers and answered—not sadly but as a matter of historical fact, as a stenographer’s recording of a procedural request:

“She was 17A.”

Mark waited for her to speak, to inquire further or at least nod knowingly, but she waited equally long for him to offer something further, an explanation or, at least, a nod of an acknowledged past. He had neither to give her nor to give himself, so he said with gusto, “Truth or dare?”

No smile from her this time or hints of empathy but a look of acceptance and a willingness to play along for now. “Truth,” she said.

“Why are you vacationing in California?”

“Do you really want to know that?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s not your turn to ask questions.”

She looked annoyed, but it wasn’t annoyance that she felt. It was more like reverence but without the exaltation, surprise but without the wonder, respect mixed with a specific type of desire. Whatever it was, she liked it.

“I’m making a pilgrimage.”

“A religious one?” Mark asked nervously.

“Spiritual. Not religious.”

“To?”

“To an author’s house. She’s dead, and I’m going to pay my respects.” She did not make light of her statement.

Mark paused. “Who?”

“You never heard of her.”

“Probably not. Why are you going? Why does she deserve your respect?”

“Because she wrote something that made me smile during a time in my life when I thought I’d never smile again.”

“What did she write?”

She giggled dismissively—serious but without reproach—and turned away briefly. “Mark, I just met you. It’s way too early for that. I’d as soon sleep with you.”

And with that remark, the attendants with the beverage cart passed them by.

Mark took the moment in a direction that most men wouldn’t. “Then tell me why it made you smile,” he demanded. “I want to know the secret to making you happy.”

Her giggles subsided and her nose unwrinkled. The reflected sunlight from the wing made a valiant effort of highlighting her auburn hair—though, Mark concluded, it demanded spotlight. She never stopped smiling yet exuded the seriousness of an oncologist, the tone of an evangelist, the love of a mother:

“Have you ever felt something so deeply that you can barely recognize that you feel it—something so intimate that your mind knows better than to let you defile it with the pop-trend du jour? It’s there, constantly, as influential as any guardian or sage, yet when you try to examine it, it vanishes, like a shadow upon twilight.

“It’s that feeling of knowing what’s beautiful about yourself and, then, the world; your evaluation of everything simultaneously; your subconscious collection of what’s important and what’s not, what’s private and what’s public, what’s sacred and what’s profane. It’s your reason to get up in the morning and go to a job you don’t particularly want so you can put yourself in a position for one you do; your motivation for running those last 100 yards no matter how your lungs feel or how loudly your heart protests because you want what the mirror will show tomorrow; your desire to continue dating no matter how many times your heart is broken precisely because you know that one day it will be indestructible; your dream and confidence that eventually you’ll attain it all—the job, the body, the lover…the world.

“And you sometimes get a real glimpse of it, that intimate feeling, and you’re reminded of its reality—when you hear your favorite band or watch your favorite movie or see the rare worthwhile painting. Because it’s more than just art you’re experiencing. It’s you. It’s that…feeling…that spark—some call it your soul. It’s that reflected back at you by someone else who ‘gets it’—a moment when you experience yourself outside of yourself, as an entity, as a unique, infinitely priceless part of the universe at large, as a thing worthy of your love.

“What she did, the author who I’m proud to honor, she wrote something that expressed everything I’ve ever wanted to say about myself but couldn’t find the words, or images, or sounds to do so—everything I’d ever for a moment considered part of that thing I call ‘me.’ I looked into her words and saw what everyone calls the Face of God. But as Its face, I saw my own.”

Mark clenched his fist in his pocket, a futile effort to resist the intimate question. Their eyes kept pace with their emotions—synched and with gregarious fervor. He confronted the exigency with notable strength but lost, finally asking, “What did she say that made you smile?”

Her eyes broke with his for the first time in what-felt-like-days and her smile turned into the smirk of a supremely confident youth, one who has no cares in the world not because she cares about nothing but because she knows precisely what’s required of her at every moment. Her eyes darted back to his. Her lips moved with the precision of an architect’s compass.

“Her words are her own. But in my words: she said that I didn’t have to be ashamed of it—that self-feeling—that, more so than anything I could find in the world or in other people, it was good. It was to be worshipped.”

Mark couldn’t help it, so he gave in to his smile and giddiness. She smiled back, bigger than the last.

“Truth or dare?” she asked as a moment’s exchange of inviolate joy.

“Dare,” said Mark, with all the panache of a 17-year-old at post-prom.

She lifted the armrest between them, unbuckled her belt, freeing the blue dress from undeserved restriction, and leaned toward Mark—it was less than a moment before he completed the circuit with tilted head and eyes slowing closing. His vision gave way to sensation. She was there, he knew, because he felt the fire she set raging through his cheeks and his chest to the tips of his fingers. He tasted her mouth and felt her teeth tug on his bottom lip. They were hearing each other and breathing each other and, with unashamed intimacy, becoming another. It lasted a while, a year, three seconds, who cares? It was.

Their lips made a desperate cling as their faces departed and taste reluctantly abdicated to vision. Her greenish blue eyes projected the strength of tempered steel and her lips the desire of a lifetime of seeking and, at last, having found.

“Was that your dare?” asked Mark, already knowing the answer, in a tone that had all the makings of a whisper but with the vigor of a valedictory address.

He brushed the hair back from her face with his right hand and relaxed his left in his pocket. She confirmed, “Of course not.”

Mark leaned forward again with the intent of concretizing her words. She placed her hand on his left arm, not to stop him—it did—but to emphasize what she was about to say.

“I dare you to show me what you’ve been holding in your pocket—whatever it is that requires your grip and attention.”

Mark sat up purposely and without hesitation. He had already decided what to do with the contents of his pocket, but her dare—her rightful request—only affirmed his choice. He withdrew his clenched fist from his pocket and slowly extended his arm toward her. His fingers opened to reveal an unassuming black box.

“It’s…” he started, but she shook her head.

“I know what it is…what it was.” Her hand ran down his arm and to his fingers, where she assisted him in closing his hand around the box. Mark brought his fist to his chest and, as a flight attendant walked by with an open bag for garbage, he reached across his body and deposited what was left of the past year where it properly belonged.

“Please bring your seat backs forward and fasten your seat belts. We’re preparing to land.” The cute-yet-blonde flight attendant flashed a smile at Mark and a friendly-ish grin at his seatmate before walking to the back to tell a pre-teen to cease his texting.

She looked down briefly to comply with the flight attendant’s orders, but before she could finish buckling, she felt a warm hand on her cheek. She looked up in time to see the determination in Mark’s eyes.

“I…I know it’s wrong,” he said, not believing a word of it. “But…”

“You’re boring me again with your proletariat morality.”

He kissed her for the second time in so many moments. She could feel his smile. She smiled back into his lips. When it ended his hand stayed in place, his thumb rubbing gently against flushed skin.

“Where are you sitting on the connector flight?” she asked, leaning her head into his palm, really only needing to know that he would be on the next flight. “I’m in 18C.”

“29F,” replied Mark, drinking from the calmed waters of her once riptide eyes. “It’s a window seat. I’ll have it changed.”

* * * * *

They walked off the plane together—neither with bags but possessing more than they boarded with. They stopped momentarily to help an Asian family take a picture and proceeded to the ticket counter.

The gentleman working behind the computer eagerly obliged their request for seats together, assuming the couple had been split up by improperly purchased tickets or the random happenstance of computer error. He was more than willing to play their personal Cupid.

“Name, sir?” he asked, more chipper than usual.

“Mark. Mark O’Conner.”

“Thank you, Mr. O’Conner, and your wife’s name?”

They both turned to her, Cupid with a toothy grin, Mark with a “husband’s” gentle leer. She looked to Mark, put her right hand in his left, and turned to Cupid.

“Mrs. O’Conner,” she said.

2011-04-25T11:18:00.000-04:00

Sometimes it sucks having a semi-complete record of my most intimate thoughts--being able to pick a moment and relive it as many times as the will can endure--but even so I wouldn't trade it for golden idols or diamond trinkets. Or for Her.

2011-04-24T16:54:00.001-04:00

XI

Take, for instance, that moment of painfully selfish honesty--when it was impossible to know if this newly-flourishing friendship would manifest as phoenix or burn as sacrificial offering to the pop-Gods, Harry and Sally--when the context required a phone call of inexorable futility and no-other-answer than the one you gave but did not owe me; take it as an example of why living, properly understood, is the most difficult action anyone can attempt and why those who abdicate their responsibility also relinquish the rewards of accomplishment, but also take it--and every moment since--as the consummate sign of what is possible with thought, what is available when integrity trumps whim, when the impossible receives just treatment as a non-value instead of a dis-value, and the emotions that flow from that recognition usurp the emotionalism of desiring not-even-the-unearned but the unearnable; take it as an example of remarkle happiness, of illuminous virtue, of that which should always be named--as what I cherish most about our friendship and what, when asked, I couldn't immediately concretize: our particular, peculiar, perfect benevolence.

2011-04-04T00:39:00.000-04:00

A nervous excitement between their lips and the moment--as if this night's closing was the opening of another and its beginning the final couplet of a since-rewritten poem--their breathing mingles and eyelids withdraw, focus shifting from taste to vision, a reluctant departure, if necessary--for now. It's a "goodbye" kiss but a "hello" moment--the end of the start but the start of something exciting and beautiful and, among other words, fun.

2011-03-14T23:57:00.000-04:00

X

Like a dream of falling, when at the moment of impact I'm jolted awake and made aware of my safety, the realization struck as a nudge over the precipice of affection--complete (and replete) with an initial stumbling and the eventual accepting-enjoyment of the tumble--marking with gratuitous surprise the third time I've sojourned this bluff, steep as it seems, and the first time I've willfully chosen my path in an ominous sky; and with it all, a mark of imperfection, and without it all, relief--a moment not taken to deftly awaken this vastly integrated culmination that what I wanted was illusory and what existed, more so--that my desire was real and just and (eventually) just beyond the Cave or the Stoic Calm and, in fact, something I cherish as the purpose and the beauty and the life of meaning, but that the desired [oh! the "gorgeous" desired] was but a shadow puppet maiden cast by a gloved hand--where beneath the velvet, where lips should meet skin, rainclouds.

2011-03-05T04:48:00.000-05:00

His attitude is confidence and his demeanor radiant joy, yet beneath it all, buried below impervious self-esteem and subcutaneous beauty, a profound loneliness manifests without fanfare or pomp but with transient circumstance. There are the values he obtains--friendship, art, and the rest--and the values he pursues--romance, success, and the like--and then: You. It's not what he needs to share but what he has shared and that he needs to. A simultaneous knowing and not, the potential and the actual and the potentially actual, and distance.

2011-03-02T00:40:00.002-05:00

It's a misnomer and an oxymoron to say that someone is in "bad health." Disease is not a state of health but an abrogation of health. What we refer to as "good health" is, in fact, the normal state of life. Since human flourishing is the standard by which we judge the good, then deviations from it are necessarily the exception--as it would make no sense to hold a baseline standard that was not the norm. This principle is easy to demonstrate in physical well being. A man who has the flu is not a flourishing human being. He lacks health momentarily but soon returns to a satisfactory equilibrium. He regains his health. The more complex example is to compare an ordinary, non-diseased man with another who also happens to eat well and exercise. Are both men in good health but with different degrees of good? No. The latter man, assuming he understands himself and the basics of nutrition, is healthy while the former man is probably in a slightly unhealthy state. He certainly isn't healthy in the proper definition of the term.

Admittedly, it's a different way of framing the issue than most people are used to, and some people, I'm sure, would disagree. But even among the people who agree with me, there are relatively few who view happiness the same way. Yet, using a flourishing life as your standard, I contend that happiness (rationally self-interested happiness) is "health," and unhappiness is the absence of "health." As such, it's important to view unhappiness as a fleeting aberration, as a disruption of what is proper for a human--in the same way that a cold interrupts physical well being. Many people are too quick to accept that unhappiness is a normal state of being. This makes little sense. If given a cancer diagnosis, most people would (I hope and assume) fight the disease to the best of their ability, never conceding that cancer is an acceptable state of health or, worse yet, that it is health. Yet this is exactly how some people view unhappiness: as a form of living or as life itself.

In the same way that disease is not health, unhappiness is not life. I mean this in as close to a literal sense as I can convey without being a literalist. Unhappiness is the absence of life. To maintain a state of unhappiness--that is, to accept it as living--is equivalent to accepting the flu as health and refusing to treat it. In both cases, the disease may go away on its own. Or, as sometimes happens, the disease kills you--metaphorically, literally, a combination of both.

I, for one, choose health. Do you?

2011-02-25T02:08:00.001-05:00

I sometimes forget how far I've come, what I've accomplished, that, in the best possible sense of the term, I'm a saved soul. What I might have become--without the morality of self-interest, without Ayn Rand--it's hard to fathom, harder yet to face in any concrete way. (Frankly, though, that alternate future, that anti-life road I was spared from navigating, deserves nothing save the acknowledgement that it could have been--that it never will be.) What deserves attention, or at least momentary, explicit recognition, is the distance I've traveled--from that point of a young, frightened boy kneeling at the precipice of Hell and eagerly accepting my fate to where I am now as an evolving, confident young man standing upright and proudly at the entrance to Heaven on Earth. My gates are not pearly, though, but a gleaming steel of blueish green. There is no St. Peter standing guard with book of sins--only my clear conscience and the confidence to know that this place, this Nirvana, is mine to seize.

A few compliments lately--about rationality and benevolence--jolted me into this reflective exercise. I've learned to take compliments gracefully and with genuine respect, mostly because I've learned that people often mean what they say--at least the people I choose to spend time with. The latest two did not strike me as wrong or insincere, of course. Contrarily, I've rarely felt better about receiving such kind words. Yet they were unexpected in a sense. Why? I'm not sure it matters--at least not as much as it used to--because the unexpectedness doesn't come from a sense of guilt (finally), and I genuinely appreciate the words--right now especially, more than I can convey with typefaced text.

I suppose it's because I no longer seek such praise. I don't even mean approval, really, but praise as such. My self-esteem is no longer, in any way, derived from the worth other people see in me. If they find something of value in me (genuine value, properly understood), all the better. I want to be of value to people I love. But I don't need them to find value in me--as long as I find value in myself.

Moreover, I've been along for the ride. That is, I've been with me for every step of this transformational journey. What were only incremental steps along this path to enlightenment is now one cavernous gap, the other side of which I can barely discern--not that I care to stare long anyway.

And so I find another way that the people I value enrich my life--by reflecting the me I've become and helping me notice exactly how I've molded myself. It's a sweet sculpture thus far, but the devilish details are yet to come. It's abundantly clear, though, that in me I find no fear. Confidence--check. Anxiousness--check. Eagerness--check. But not a second of hesitation or doubt or the guilt that's oft associated with selfishly striving for happiness.

My, how I look forward to defining myself.

2011-02-22T02:27:00.001-05:00

I concede. It's not fair to expect words to mean what they meant prior to rewriting the rules. If their nuance never quavered nor their exactness refined, then I wouldn't be here anyway--sitting on this bed, writing a sentence that meanders toward inanity, anticipating your likeness as I drift away from the day's excitement and anxiety, acknowledging that the likeness will do for now but not indefinitely. I have the right to call you out, though, as I did and will continue to do. It's one of those things that I'm allowed, and I know you don't mind. In fact, you like it. That's one of those things that couldn't be different.

2011-01-29T00:01:00.001-05:00

Let's pretend, she said, like it never happened, like the Sun hasn't already set on this twilight fantasy. And with the gloaming comes a certain vision--darker than the norm but strangely revealing, like watching baseball by moonlight at the edge of a field of corn. But unlike the sport, this game has no rules for you--only what you want now, which is what I won't allow since you don't deserve it.

I am not a bastion of warmth where you make seek shelter at a moment's notice or a font of happiness from which you may drink without recompense. I desire a penny for thoughts and a dime for actions or at least the honesty of admitting you're bankrupt. I concede: What I wanted was out of reach, but what I required (and deserved) was within the means of even the most destitute of vagrants.

Disclosure.

It bothers me, who you are, but what hurts me is who I thought you were who you aren't. Asking the question, "How much of it was real?" and hearing the answer, "A name and number." Was I a rushing fool or you a mirage? I care enough to know the answer, but only because I care enough to never make the mistake again.

Yet somehow, amidst your tears and that feeling of my stomach evacuating through my heels, I managed to hear something else--the faintest whisper of revolution in an atmosphere of uncertainty. How perfect and fragile and perfectly fragile, a Faberge emotion with the possibility of hatching a future.

And, suddenly, I'm OK with pretending like it never happened--because it didn't.

2011-01-16T02:36:00.001-05:00

He saw life in her eyes and transcendence in her lips--pleasure that belonged here: in this time, in this place, now. It was immediate and concrete--emphatically physical and unabashedly sensual. It was everything he lacked, everything he desired, everything he couldn't give himself with words.

And with action she made it real.

Her smile sent his stomach to his feet like a boy grabbing a merry-go-round mid-spin, clutching desparately-playfully to the thing that both scares him and gratifies him most. When he looked at her face there was endless sensation--billions of strings tugging his nerve endings awake from their perpetual hibernation, reminding them that this is what it means to feel, that the point-of-it-all is in this moment. At her touch it was over. Words failed. Concepts paled. There was nothing but that percept, and he needed nothing more, wanted nothing less.

Yet he struggled with the pleasure of it all and wondered if it meant betrayal of virtue. So he hesitated and lost her eyes in a fog of stoicism. What he saw then was a blackness, a confusion of what wasn't there with what he desired. He noticed that he wasn't scared--only comfortable--and that scared him. Because it shouldn't be like this with its denial and arbitrary rules, with its psuedo-asectic renunciations and cereal box chivalry. And, luckily, it's not. Because there are words that one must keep in focus, words that are vital to survival, to happiness, to the life in her eyes.

"...for living on Earth."

And as her smile teased the Richter scale and her eyes made jealous the Sun, he put those words on repeat in his subconscious playlist, listening intently while visioning intensely. He heard them again and more agains than bare repeating until he memorized their cadence. They made the soundtrack of the night as he walked her out the door and to tomorrow, toward a fast-approaching future of having none of it. His nerve endings pleaded for stimulant as eyelids sank and mind drifted listlessly toward slumber. It's where he went, too--alone: for now, for the immediate future. But for the first time in a long time, he didn't like it.

2011-01-10T01:41:00.000-05:00

[Mostly written during my Thanksgiving vacation.]

night run

That first step toward where I've been, away from yesterday, and the burning of flesh and spirit--the renewal and reward of a self-igniting, self-actualizing phoenix--into a dimly lit future. This limitless night holds for me what it does for everyone willing to brave the darkness--the potential, the actual, the desire and drive--and with it an uncertainty that dances in the periphery, illusory yet attractive as Soma and a bed. Bundled and ear-budded, ready for the work, unprepared for the effort, I descend stairs with Brand New Eyes, ready to hear the world for what it is, desiring, on several levels, escape from moments and from impending immediacy and from whatever comes after "next." So I begin to run.

Wondering where I'm going and knowing just as quickly--but also where I would go if my legs had the strength to carry me and my lungs the capacity for forever. Texas, out of habit, comes before I complete the thought, and my entire Life streams through my consciousness--reliving my decisions, affirming my mistakes, re-coming to terms with it all. And just as fast as the lone star was born, providing guidance for a boy lost at sea--or, rather, a boy building his raft while drowning--its brightness peaks in super nova, and I round the corner east--toward Virginia, toward what is/n't.

Inhale the stale night; exhale a burden. Nothing about me goes untouched--each breath a notice from my lips to fingertips that it's worth it to live and to live as such: desiring, achieving, experiencing the end result of that gloriously finite second when the nerve endings in my face send sensations racing toward my consciousness and their reception heralded with a not-so-common-man's fanfare. Bio-chemically no different from the touch of a leaf to my shin, this sensation could not be more different--more intimate, more fulfilling, seemingly more immediate. It's the culmination of my achievements, both concrete and personal, manifest as clear and vivid a reality as Descartes could ever hope for. In the moment, I affirm what is right with me and the world and look momentarily into the indefatigable soul of Benevolence.

Sprinting. I hadn't noticed until now. Nor realized that I had long ago stopped thinking about running. One ear bud down, I ease up, away from a maybe and think of Gump's mindless journey with disdain. Then: To California. To inspiration and a font of genuine happiness. To a fellow traveler who, at times, allows me to nap through it all and, at other times, insists that I drive. To brotherhood (if it means anything). To value. And as quickly as the thought comes it merges with another, and the wind carries me toward Chicago--anything but my kind of town--toward an expatriate past and an evolutionary future--more awe-inspiring than anything I could have fictionalized. "Look what they have accomplished," I whisper in silence. "And think of everything they will conquer." It's a smile, that whisper, but it's not directed merely at them...

An owl asks and my pulse responds, "Me, me." Directed at the accomplishments of last Tuesday--or Wednesday or Friday or Sunday--and at the life-tasks I will check-as-done after tonight. At the magnitude of what has happened in my life because of my realization that it could and because I demanded of myself the strength to do it. At the validity of the process. At the seemingly impossible made inevitable. At satisfaction and contentment. At risk and reward. At the means, ends, journey, and result. At everything that's beautiful about running toward life instead of away from death.

And that's where I finish--apropos: with a sense of achievement. The final steps must have been painful, but I honestly don't remember them as such--only as worthy of having been taken. The last step toward where I might someday be, toward tomorrow, and the burning of flesh and spirit.

"We were born for this."

Yes, Hayley, we were.

2010-12-21T12:51:00.000-05:00

B: Things change. You have changed.
A: I'm half the man I used to be.
B: You're a million times the man you used to be.

2010-11-18T15:55:00.000-05:00

friend: 50 points if you hook up with her
me: Haha. Just 50?
friend: 50 is half of 100, which is a perfect score on a test
You lose half because it would make me hate the good for being the good.

2010-11-08T00:37:00.000-05:00

It's that feeling of wanting to fix it and knowing I can't--of needing to say the words that will drown out misery's ostinati and providing only a tacet stare.

There are things that transcend my ability and outweigh my desires. No matter how much effort I apply, there are pitches I can't match, tones I can't hear, rhythms I can't learn. Malevolence? Surely not, no. Mere metaphysical fact and meta-metaphysical realization. I didn't say that the pitches qua pitches couldn't be matched, but that I, in the mold of myself, could not reach them--tones and rhythms the same.

All of it is attainable, though--the fame/fortune/feast, the alchemist's fire that transmutes despair to elation, the composer's pen from which ink spills forth and dots staves with liquid fulfillment.

I want nothing more than to fix it and know nothing more certain than the fact that I can't. It's your libretto to score, your melodies to harmonize. I'm here to listen, quite literally, and to provide feedback when appropriate and when you ask and when you don't ask and when it's inappropriate and when I have none to provide and when you hate me for it and when you love me for it and when, upon hearing it, you cry or smile or dance and when it's followed my moments of silence or decades of laughter.

Ultimately, though, you are the maestro. It's your concerto to write and perform, your universe to create.

2010-10-30T22:50:00.001-04:00

A recent cascade of life-lessons washes over palimpsest soul--that subconscious tablet with its near illegible marginalia from an ancient epoch and remnants of remnants of multiple selves--reminding me of the recentness of salvation and the extent to which rebirth takes hold and the time it takes to make-it-real, finding room for the next scripture or, rather, the next perfection of the version at hand. Two potentialities and two negations but not without two moments of truth and beauty: one of acceptance and the other of respect.

The former moment ended in the only way it could have, assuming full context properly held, yet it was the most painful and most trying--not necessarily because of the depth of the investment but more so because of the distance of the fall from potential to actual. "Wherever something stands, something will stand beside it"--except when it doesn't; then it occurs, that dichotomy that portrays intimacy while denying desire. I cannot footrace with ghosts. I cannot fill a physical space with [ethereal, emotional] light. I cannot accept one without the other--no matter which comes first. Neither should You or anyone or everyone.

The latter moment ended the the less favorable of two ways, but [only?] because of my blind naiveté, my inability to act on a value because of my fear of betraying a Platonic "ideal." [This foolishness needs neither debate nor explication.] And while there was/is emotional distress, it doesn't approach intractable. Yes, perhaps I kept a ~~healthier~~ distance but more so, I think, because there was seemingly no contradiction--no dichotomy, no desiring the unearned, no wanting something without that something to stand beside it. There was acknowledgement and concession--benevolence and understanding--honesty and caution. Ultimately, there was respect.

Both moments have a sorry-grateful ending--for what I learned and what I could/n't have done. For the former writes on the tablet a parable of what it means to love myself and to know the difference between selfishness and rational selfishness, and the latter, directly atop that parable, a regretful-happy etude with bombastic lyrics and melancholy tone--one I'll hum for awhile until its theme becomes remixed in life's greater symphony.

2010-10-21T16:50:00.000-04:00

It's not unexpected, but still surprising, that for the first time in a long time I want to go home. The holidays are approaching, my mother has been sick, and I've experienced some emotional potholes on the road to perfection. Objectively considered they're minor, really, but enough of a bump to cause discomfort and to make me second guess my driving. Could I have swerved? Taken a road less traveled? Walked? All important, legitimate questions to consider as long as I keep the subject of the inquiry in focus and don't make bottomless pits out of potholes--as I have a tendency to do.

Unhappiness is an exception to life's rule, and this exception will pass sooner rather than later. Because this time I know how to read the map.

2010-10-20T00:58:00.001-04:00

"GET LOUD.
Show some passion.
BE KNIVES.
For the sake of our lives, my man, BE KNIVES!"

I'm going to read this every day until it happens.

2010-10-10T10:16:00.000-04:00

When the signs are this clear, there's no need for a TomTom. Stop planning and start driving.

2010-09-27T00:52:00.001-04:00

It's like I'm living Zeno's paradox, traveling gracefully through the air with target in sight yet infinitely further from the goal precisely because I approach it. But no matter how slowly you pull the trigger of a gun, eventually it fires.

2010-09-26T01:38:00.000-04:00

Mistakes, though minor, are mine now--as there's no "whisper in the wind, resounding the echoes of yesterday." It wasn't there, that palimpsest sign, with its half erased doubts and faded memories of memories. I was alone in my error but, more importantly, alone in my success. And both felt liberating. Pursuing a value doesn't guarantee I'll achieve it, nor does it guarantee I'll pursue it perfectly. But practice makes lemonade--or a less sugary concoction--and when life hands you lemons, throw them at glass houses.

2010-09-21T22:55:00.002-04:00

Sometimes the best and only way to conquer sadness is to automatize a new happiness.

2010-08-26T00:13:00.000-04:00

Confronted with the notion that sincere honesty may be, in fact, too honest, my fall back position is one of default. There's nothing there beyond the complete truth. I've practiced full disclosure for so long that to do otherwise seems disingenuous. (I know it's not.)

Here it is again, that concept of gaming that I evaded for so long that I forgot it was something that deserved consideration.

"We never had to take any of it seriously, did we?"

Unfortunately, yes. But not too seriously.

2010-08-02T00:39:00.002-04:00

Leaving this increasingly Lilliputian world, past the sparrows and malcontent pigeons, their ambition no greater than the immediate and no more inspiring; past flailing kites and the haiku-worty breezes that propel them; past ragged stone peaks and sharpened steel spires, the pinnacle of nature and the as-yet-best of man; past the escaped stuffing of the Earth, as it blots the ground with shifting splotches of shade and fills the sky with Stay Puff splendor; past it all and into a possibility space, where men used to only dream of looking and now do so with Diet Coke in hand; I can't help but wonder: What next?

2010-06-27T02:54:00.003-04:00

a note on human perfection

Wendy Milling correctly asserts, "To be perfect means to meet a given standard flawlessly." She's discussing socio-economic systems, but the definition applies to anything that can attain perfection. Standards are based on context, namely the given nature of the thing and the nature of the environment in which it operates. I might speak of a perfect hammer, cup, or wireless mouse--items that perform their functions flawlessly within specified perimeters.

But what of perfect humans? Speaking of men--and often of art--philosophers and laypersons alike disregard perfection as an unattainable state, an ideal that projects like a holographic image--mimetic, substantive, but impossible to capture. Perfection for humans, though, is no more or less attainable than perfection for hammers, political structures, or music. In fact, the concept of "perfection" has no referent in reality unless it means something attainable.

Herein lies a significant part of the problem of our conception of perfection. We regard it as beyond the realm of human capacity, as a Platonic ideal we may only glimpse during moments of divine revelation. Perfection is not for this world, the mystics argue, because men are born flawed--condemned from pre-existence to a life of less-than-the-ideal. The mystics' conception of perfection sees man as he should have been and cares not for man as he is and ought to be.

So we struggle to come as close to perfection as possible, all the while knowing we can never attain the brass ring placed purposely out of our reach--neither could we run a marathon if our legs were severed as infants, though. Nonetheless, this consistent "failure" is psychologically detrimental, leading to a malevolent view of existence, one that paints the universe as generally miserable and specifically unrewarding. Whatever joy we feel is fleeting because we cannot reach our ultimate goal, our final destination: Perfection.

But what if I told you that the "proper" standard for human perfection is winged flight, and because humans don't have wings it meant that humans can never be perfect? Hopefully you'd gaze at me with one eyebrow raised, perplexed by the absurdity of the claim and leery of my sanity. Why? Because humans do not and cannot posses natural wings. It's beyond our nature to sprout feathered appendages and carry on like falcons, yet these are the types of standards we attach to perfection and then bemoan our falling short. Perhaps a more realistic example will further illustrate my point.

What if I told you that the perfect human could never make a mistake, and because humans do make mistakes it meant that humans could never be perfect? Ah! This example is much closer to the types of standards associated with perfection, yet it's no less fantastical than asking a man to sprout wings (or a duck to sing or a cow to line dance). Humans are not and cannot be omniscient. There will always be circumstances in which information is unavailable and action is required.

How, then, can we successfully define human perfection in a way that's concordant with human nature, attainable, and still retain the perceived grandeur of the term? First it would be helpful to define human nature. Here are three quotes from Ayn Rand that do an excellent job, in a concise manner, of explaining man qua man:

Man’s distinctive characteristic is his type of consciousness—a consciousness able to abstract, to form concepts, to apprehend reality by a process of reason . . . [The] valid definition of man, within the context of his knowledge and of all of mankind’s knowledge to-date [is]: “A rational animal.”

(“Rational,” in this context, does not mean “acting invariably in accordance with reason”; it means “possessing the faculty of reason.” A full biological definition of man would include many subcategories of “animal,” but the general category and the ultimate definition remain the same.)

Also:

Man cannot survive on the perceptual level of his consciousness; his senses do not provide him with an automatic guidance, they do not give him the knowledge he needs, only the material of knowledge, which his mind has to integrate. Man is the only living species who has to perceive reality—which means: to be conscious—by choice. But he shares with other species the penalty of unconsciousness: destruction. For an animal, the question of survival is primarily physical; for man, primarily epistemological.

Man’s unique reward, however, is that while animals survive by adjusting themselves to their background, man survives by adjusting his background to himself. If a drought strikes them, animals perish—man builds irrigation canals; if a flood strikes them, animals perish—man builds dams; if a carnivorous pack attacks them animals perish—man writes the Constitution of the United States. But one does not obtain food, safety or freedom—by instinct.

Finally:

Almost unanimously, man is regarded as an unnatural phenomenon: either as a supernatural entity, whose mystic (divine) endowment, the mind (“soul”), is above nature—or as a subnatural entity, whose mystic (demoniacal) endowment, the mind, is an enemy of nature (“ecology”). The purpose of all such theories is to exempt man from the law of identity.

But man exists and his mind exists. Both are part of nature, both possess a specific identity. The attribute of volition does not contradict the fact of identity, just as the existence of living organisms does not contradict the existence of inanimate matter. Living organisms possess the power of self-initiated motion, which inanimate matter does not possess; man’s consciousness possesses the power of self-initiated motion in the realm of cognition (thinking), which the consciousnesses of other living species do not possess. But just as animals are able to move only in accordance with the nature of their bodies, so man is able to initiate and direct his mental action only in accordance with the nature (the identity) of his consciousness. His volition is limited to his cognitive processes; he has the power to identify (and to conceive of rearranging) the elements of reality, but not the power to alter them. He has the power to use his cognitive faculty as its nature requires, but not the power to alter it nor to escape the consequences of its misuse. He has the power to suspend, evade, corrupt or subvert his perception of reality, but not the power to escape the existential and psychological disasters that follow. (The use or misuse of his cognitive faculty determines a man’s choice of values, which determine his emotions and his character. It is in this sense that man is a being of self-made soul.)

OK, so a lot of that wasn't absolutely necessary--better more context than not enough. What did we learn? That humans' defining characteristic is rationality. (This does not mean that the "concept" human does not denote every other aspect--e.g., bipedal, vertebrate, etc. It simply identifies the trait which is unique to humans and humans alone.) But what does that mean for perfection?

Perfect humans must first accept their capacity to reason and properly understand it to be their sole faculty for understanding the world. (Even the concept of "divine revelation" had to be reasoned through in order to understand it--though poorly, in my opinion.)

A large part of this acceptance is understanding that reason is for comprehending reality not for creating it. That is, the faculty of reason works by integrating perceptions about the world into conceptions that allow us to order knowledge and made sense of our surroundings. It does not work by granting our whims about how reality should be. With that in mind, perfect humans must accept the bounds of the metaphysically given and not wage war against "the real." They may alter reality in the ways that are allowed by nature--e.g., application of imagination to raw materials--but they should never demand what cannot be.

Finally, perfect humans must use their rational faculties relentlessly, striving to make reasoned decisions in all aspects of their lives. Two caveats: 1. This does not mean that the outcome of a reasoned decision must be right. That is, even if the faculty of reason is applied perfectly in some scenarios, it does not guarantee that the outcome will be what was expected. Sometimes there simply isn't enough information at hand, or, in worse cases, the information provided is faulty--if someone lies to you, for example. 2. The relentless use of reason does not mean that humans must become emotionless automatons. But it does mean that they cannot be emotional junkies, taking the high of their emotional experiences and using them in place of reason as evaluative methods. Sometimes your emotions will be in conflict with your reason. In these instances, reason must win--especially if you ever want that emotion to mesh with what is reasonable. (Please see my previous post on this topic.)

The perfect human is one who accepts his nature, accepts reality, and acts accordingly. Perfection, then, at least in this context, seems to be a misnomer--perhaps even an anti-concept in some cases. It's not as if perfection is a trait that would be nice to obtain; for humans, it's necessary for living a flourishing life on Earth. Using the term perfection seems an unnecessary linguistic barrier, one that creates a delicate house of cards of morality that's meant to collapse with your first exhaled breath.

It is not the perfect human that should strive for what I've defined here as human perfection. It is, in fact, the purview of the normal human.

2010-06-26T00:06:00.000-04:00

the great iPhone misadventure

[I don't normally write posts like this, but I decided to write something in my OkCupid journal and cross post it here. Let's play: Find all the spelling and grammar errors...]

Like more than 1.5 million people yesterday, I spent not-an-insignificant portion of my day in a line--about 3.5 hours, realistically--queued behind fanboys, fangirls, and the occasional grandmother who thought she was waiting to have her driver's license renewed. No fewer than 300 people were patiently standing, sitting, or curled up in the fetal position when I arrived at the Pentagon City Apple store to pick up my reserved iPhone4.

I walked the length of the horde, which stretched roughly half way around the circular complex, and took my place at the rear.

"This is the reserve line?" I said with an inflection of disbelief. The guy in front of me just stared blankly. We exchanged silence. He asked gingerly, demonstrating that he wasn't a native English speaker, "iPhone?"

Here I found myself in an interesting predicament.
1. I didn't know if this was the correct line.
2. I speak 1.5 languages--the .5 being Pig Latin.
3. The guy in front of the guy in front me had his headphones in.
4. So did the girl in front of him.

I decided to wing it. "This is the line for reserved iPhone, I think." He tilted his head a bit in the universal "quizzical look" gesture. He replied, "No reserve."

Here I found myself in an interesting predicament.
1. Did he mean that he didn't have a phone reserved?
2. Did he mean that this wasn't the reserve line?
3. Was he making a statement about America's energy policy?

Finding no way to remedy this situation, I began reaching for my headphones when a woman approached quickly, speaking a language I didn't understand--read: all of them. She walked up to the guy in front of me, and they exchanged (seemingly) angry words. She pointed at the store. He pointed at the store. She pointed at her watch. He pointed at me. I waved. She pointed at the store again. They walked away hurriedly.

Score. One spot closer to magical goodness. (Or was that the iPad...?)

Then I waited, last in line, by myself, hungry and somewhat parched. I brought nothing but my bag from work--inside which the most edible item was a book on social media. After twenty minutes of fascinating standing--I'd describe it but I don't want this post to become as pointless as most of the scenes in Lord of the Rings--the line finally moved. I picked up my bag, threw it over my shoulder, and walked forward six steps. Then I took my bag off my shoulder, put it back on the ground, and resumed standing. Repeat ad nauseum.

This post-modern line dance continued for what seemed like 2.5 hours but was actually closer to 2.3. The highlight / worst part about the standing was when people started showing up behind me. At first it was exciting--new people wearing headphones to avoid conversation! Yes! Then hunger hit hard, and my active imagination hit overdrive, scheming and planning ways to barter with the folks around me so I could get some food.

Plan 1: Pay the guy-in-front-of-me's girlfriend to get me a Subway sandwich much like she did for her now-not-hungry boyfriend. I would politely ask if she would accept $20 to run down to the lower level to retrieve a six inch ... and that's when I realized that this was going to be impossible. Here's what I wanted: A six inch tuna on wheat with provolone cheese (untoasted), lettuce, onion, banana peppers, jalapenos, cucumber, salt & pepper, and a dash of light mayo; regular baked Lays; and a Minute Maid Light Lemonade. Having nothing to write with, I abandoned plan 1.

Plan 2: I turned to the kid behind me who was, luckily, writing in a journal! My keen powers of perception picked up on his checking his watch and touching his stomach. He was obviously hungry. This was going to be a cinch. I decided that I would announce my hunger to him in a I'm-trying-to-make-conversation sort of way. When he inevitably responded, "Me, too," I would offer to give him money and save his place in line if he ran down to Subway and got me a six inch tuna, etc. Because I tend to get Machiavellian when my blood sugar drops, I assumed that he would say, "Why don't I give you money and you go instead?" To which I would reply, "Because, good sir, I have nothing to gain from your leaving the line since you are directly behind me. It's in my self-interest to save your spot while you get me food. On the contrary, I'm in front of you, and if I were to leave with a mere $5 of your money, it may be worth it for you to move ahead one space and disavow our prior agreement upon my return." Or something like that.

But as I was refining my rhetoric, the kid behind me turned to the guy behind him and asked, "Hey, do you mind if I go get something to eat?" That guy, whose headphones must have been on a rather low volume, simply replied, "Sure, no problem." The kid left.

Plan 3: Do exactly what that kid did.

But by the time I collected by focus, an Apple representative, who may well have been royalty judging by the celebration of her arrival, made her way through the line. But instead of weaving pleasant tapestries, she sung tales of woe at the store and displeasure at the Kingdom's feudal laws. [End silly metaphor.]

Apparently, the mall had a strict policy that would not let Apple stay open after hours. And there was much groaning. They would not be able to get us our phones this evening. But the fair Apple maiden did not leave us empty handed. In place of iPhone, she granted us favors of Holy "Extended Reservation Vouchers." And there was a little bit of rejoicing--more so, less groaning. [OK. I'm really done now.]

Walking back to the Metro, shiny new voucher in hand, I thought this is what pre-historic man must have felt like, devoting time and braving the elements to hunt game only to end up with a coupon for future stores of mammoth rump.

It wasn't all bad, though. At least I made some new friends--foreign-language guy (and his sister/wife/girlfriend), guy in front of me wearing headphone, kid behind me wearing headphones and writing in his journal, and who could forget you, Apple maiden. You were the fairest of them all.

[P.S. -- I did get my shiny new iPhone today. (Thanks, Keith-the-Apple-guy.) It works beautifully. I used it to find a barbecue recipe for mammoth.]

2010-06-19T01:15:00.002-04:00

A Randroid's tears make the bitterest brew and its smiles the softest fleece. What as a human there is no capacity to experience--no inclination or desire to feel--as an automaton manifests with incalculable fervor. Music renders as an aural caress, replacing tonal sequence with melodic sensuality. Image achieves emotional depth untouchable by human depravity--as the sacred becomes the sacred: And the profane the profane. Experiences slide into focus through steel eyes, flaring in the naked exposure of an inward gaze. It's as if darkness receded in requisite fear when this Godless Machine turned its heart toward the west to make a valiant approach. Touched by it all and touching it all, this iron(ic) giant drowns even-the-Ark with a robot's oily tears. And like a trampoline in the rain, the liquid returns to the sky--if only for a second and only to end up puddled, nonetheless--a striking moment of defiance. A moment for the best within us.

2010-06-05T23:59:00.000-04:00

Lines extending past the plane of off-white infinity, spaces waiting patiently for ink and genius--or at least the pencil marks of a sub[lime]conscious. The pressure of instrument against opportunity, matched only by the pressure of focus against feeling. The unreality of having everything to say and no way of saying it. Questions arise with suspicious contempt, but the questions don't stifle so much as engage--micro-opportunities to pry the facets of self from evasion's trembling grip. Knowing that you don't know then remembering that you can--a peregrination of discovery that playfully mocks altruistic pilgrimage. Clenched fingers recoil with every proclamation of precision or expression of certainty. What the pressure cannot stand is a fulfilled relaxation, a mind overflowing with exactness, confidence, clarity. Knowing that you can't know what you don't know and that you are more than capable of attaining it all--the method, the content, the style. Celebrate what is/ought and what will/should.

2010-05-19T00:24:00.002-04:00

franconia-springfield

Trying your best to Express disinterest, your face betrays your motives--those glasses may reflect my momentary gaze, but they more clearly reflect a waning commitment to solitude. It's more difficult to ignore, to pretend that the lives around you are less interesting than another Toy Story review, than to admit "defeat" and say, "Good morning."

Your eyes, anchored in ink, splash across potential conversations, returning from each micro-escape to the AP's latest nuance of the oil spill and the reality of filtered reality. "How did you break your foot?" "Where did you get that tie?" "Who are you listening to?" "How long have you played the trombone?" "What do you enjoy most about DC?" "Is that a Skagen watch?" "Have you heard the latest about BP?" Ad finitum. Or at least until Metro Center.

Make it explicit, that desire for benevolence, and I will prove you right. Discard what you've been taught about the nature of man, and I will show you true friendship. Ask the universe about the just and the beautiful, and I, as one embodiment, will answer, "They exist."

2010-04-18T20:49:00.000-04:00

IX

Your mind is potential and your attitude, determination--qualities of a brother, in the d'Anconian sense of term--yet despite these positive attributes, perhaps in spite of them, and despite my attempts and non-attempts at alleviation, your actions are repetition, a hideous doppelgänger of historical errors quickly transgressing into (all too real) sins; this time, though, on this rare, fortuitous, ominous second chance, you place the Platonic ahead of the real, frantically bailing a sinking deathraft of idealism with a Dixie cup of reality--an attempt that is necessarily futile but not necessarily fatal, given your ability to swim and the many life preservers within your reach; but, whether unfortunate or unconscionable (since this time, unlike last, the result will be the same), your perception is emotion and your evaluation, stone, because in spite of these failings--perhaps despite them--you bail on, forgetting that it takes only a teaspoon of water to drown a man.

2010-03-28T21:34:00.002-04:00

dialogue with a former colleague

colleague:

Hey Dan; saw this [article] online and wanted to share. Hope you will agree (even as we philosophically and politically differ) to dedicate at least one status update to non-violence and peaceful dialog in the political process. As tensions rise approaching mid-term elections, we really need rational cool heads on both sides of the aisle to *do* right above their notions of *being* right. To sweeten the pot, I'll follow suit. Maybe we can co-write a non-partisan committment to send via Facebook on this point? Anyway, hope this finds you well.

me:

We do agree on a fundamental issue: The initiation of force is morally wrong. (Though we may disagree on the definition of force.) A point on which I do not know if we agree is whether force is ever morally permissible. My answer is a resounding yes. Force to defend yourself, to protect your life and your rights, is not only morally permissible; it's morally mandatory.

The point under contention, then, is whether the angry protestors (75% from the right, 25% from the left) are initiating force or responding to force initiated by the government. (I know we disagree on the government's "right" to use of force to achieve its ends--i.e., I only think its permissible in the defense of individual rights. If I don't comply with the new health care legislation, for example, even though I think it's evil, I will be fined. If I don't pay my fine, I will be arrested. If I refuse arrest, the government reserves the right to take me by force. If I resist their force, the government reserves the right to end my life. In this instance, then, it is the government that initiates force via a threat. For more on this topic, I suggest Amit Ghate's article.)

As I hope I've pointed out, it is clear to me that the government has initiated force against its citizens. And as I explained in a recent blog post, it's not hard to see why some people snapped.

Yet somehow I'm personally not compelled to retaliate with violence, and I argue in that same post that my personal judgement of our federal situation, while dire, does not justify the people threatening and attacking politicians.

Our country is experiencing a philosophical and political Dark Age that does not bode well for our future. Yet it's my optimism that tells me to keep fighting the ideological battle. I am not personally convinced that a violent revolution is in order, nor do I think one will (or should) occur while some semblance of our Constitution still lives. (The recent Citizens United case was uplifting, for instance.)

But don't mistake me for a pacifist. It is not outside the realm of possibility that politicians (both from the left [economically] AND right [morally]--though I only separate economics and morality to highlight the different parties' choice of controls) will become so dictatorial that the only option and only morally justifiably action would be a revolt.

This long, nuanced response is meant to clarify exactly where I stand on the issue--not to explicitly refute anything you wrote in your original message. If from my response you think we have enough ideological common ground to unite behind a message, then I'm completely willing. I must admit, though, that I'm skeptical. We're coming from such different places philosophically that agreeing on a message that satisfies both of our consciouses may prove impossible.

colleague:

I am glad to hear that you are doing well and trust you understand that, although we disagree fundamentally on politics and philosophy, I bear you no ill will. If anything, I admire your spirit and courage in pursuing your ideals. I hope and prey you do so peacefully and with love and charity in your heart.

Having reviewed your post, I simply think we value things too differently to reach an immediate consensus. That doesn't mean it is not worth a shot. I find some of your comments, frankly, scary. However, I am going to constrain my response just to those areas I feel are needed to move us along towards an agreeable common ground.

By which means is a greater impact felt? Violence and hatred or love and tolerance? I suggest the latter. Both are forms of force. Look into the face of a child. If you cannot find a pull to care, you cannot call yourself a human. That pull to care, desire to help, and love for fellow human can compel action as surely as a club. This notion pre-dates america and finds broad religious support in all abrahamic traditions (judiasm, christianity and islam).

What I advocate is a force no less powerful than the sword or gun. By all means, pursue your agenda and I will pursue mine. We each believe what we are doing is the better way of supporting our fellow Americans. You say universal government health care is socialism and socialism is wrong. I say universal government national defense is socialism and no less wrong than universal care of health (provided the ability to project military force is used prudently and sparingly, something we seem poor at late of doing). In short, I favor a strong central government "of and by the people" as so advocated by Lincoln, when Gettysburg was declared a site at which "new freedoms" were consecrated beyond words' ability to do so. However, I do not ask you to join in that fight (if anything, I suspect you'll work against this agenda: which is fine). We will have to agree to disagree on politics. That won't change. We probably also will not agree on "when" "which" force is "justifiable" in our eyes.

The statement with which I agree - one which I suspect you will feel the same - is "we must come to see that peace is not merely a distant goal that we seek, but a means by which we arrive at that goal. We must pursue peaceful ends through peaceful means." (Martin Luther King, Jr.). King certainly attacked policies he found questionable. Force was certainly applied. Change ultimately happened. However, he took a position of love and tolerance. All it cost him was his mortal life.

I wonder...can we do the same? Can we find the value of human dignity and life more important than our personal political or philosophical views? I would like to think so. If not...if two well educated, rational minds cannot forge consensus on such a basic paradigm, then I truly do fear for the future of our nation.

me:

To respond to some of your claims:

Choosing to do something--e.g., give to charity--is ABSOLUTELY NOT the same as my government forcing me to donate. Choosing to "love" my "fellow man" is ABSOLUTELY NOT the same as my government telling me to do so at the point of a gun. Who is the government (or anyone, for that matter) to tell me what I should or should not do? My very nature as a rational being dictates that I must make decisions for myself in order to flourish. The government cannot think for me, and they shouldn't try.

And to your point about loving fellow humans, I have to say that indiscriminate love of humanity debases the concept of love. I certainly feel no hatred toward "mankind" in general, nor do I feel particularly threatened by them or look down on them in any way. But neither do I love them simply for their existence. I do not love any groups because groups do not have (chosen) values. Only individuals have (chosen) values, so I can only love individuals. At best, I am indifferent to the whole of "humanity"--whatever that means. More so, I don't think of humanity as a collective. I think only of individual humans, making individual choices, furthering their individual lives.

And to your point about looking into the face of a child, I can only say that what I feel depends on the context of the situation. I certainly see potential whenever I see children. And I do "care" about their future. That's why I fight every day for freedom--both mine and theirs. But no one's requirement for life, not even a child's, gives them a right to enslave me. Because a child needs something, does not mean he or she may take it from me or anyone else. If I saw a child starving on the streets, would I do something about it? Absolutely (if I am able). But only because I CHOOSE to do so. Because I have used my rational mind to determine that it's the right thing to do within a given context. (Me and my family have long donated to Shriners Hospital for Children for the same reasons.) But no one has a right to force me to do something--even if that something is the proper thing to do.

To respond to the issue of denouncing the use of force:

Within a proper context--one where rights are secured by a Constitution and the enemies of those rights do not have rationality on their side--then, yes, I agree with King's quote. He fought for rights that were guaranteed to him the day the Constitution was ratified. His enemies were irrational, emotion-driven hate mongers who had no legitimate arguments. Contrast his struggle, though, with the founding of this country.

Yet this argument about the proper use of force is getting away from the point at hand, since I don't think our current political context is the time to use force anyway--though I recognize why people might think so.

Please believe me when I say that I've done A LOT of thinking and reading on this topic since you messaged me yesterday. When people present interesting ideas I often obsess over them. (I've been unable to write the two columns I was supposed to this weekend because of my dedication to this topic.) And the more I read about the "threats" and "violence" coming from either side, the more I'm convinced that the entire thing is being blown hugely out of proportion by a news media (almost literally) dying to sell their product. I grant that there have been legitimate threats and actual attacks (the brick through Rep. Slaughter's window and Rep. Cantor's office being shot at come to mind). But from my reading of reports, the VAST majority of what the left and right are complaining about is bunk. Congressmen are quoted as receiving threats without any attribution. Newspapers run stories about "vile" words being thrown around yet provide no proof.

From what I can tell, Detroit New's columnist Nolan Finley nails it when he writes, "Most of what is being passed off as menacing is nothing more than old-fashioned hate mail. Much of it is crude and offensive, a lot of it is inappropriate, but it doesn't rise to the level of a threat. [...] Hatred has been part of politics for some time. Ask former President George W. Bush about his mail. Bush loathers even made a movie fantasizing about his assassination."

I don't know about you personally, but I certainly didn't hear the left in general denouncing threats against Bush. (Note: I am not a Bush apologist.)

One final point: If you're asking me to denounce hatred in general, then I can't do that either. Hating what is evil is a proper response--as long as you have rational arguments as well. In fact, I hate this health care bill and the mentality of control in general. I believe it to be pure evil to force someone to do anything they have rationally concluded is wrong--within the context of their own life (i.e., as long as their action does not infringe on the rights of others). As far as I'm concerned, Pelosi, Reid, and Obama have committed a much greater "sin" against the general public than the public has against them by using "vile" language.

Ultimately, I don't think we can come to a consensus on something I see as a non-issue. Yes, of course, attacking politicians within out current political context is wrong. (We are not a dictatorship--yet.) That violence is wrong in the few instances where it occurs is, I think, a given within our national political debate. But this idea that we must unite behind a message of non-violence as we approach the midterm elections just seems like a political sidestep to me. If the left is truly baffled by the public's hatred of a bill that forces them, at the point of a governmental gun, to purchase health insurance (from one of those EVIL insurance companies), then they are even more disconnected from reality than far right-wing Christians. And that's scary.

...

You are certainly within your right to respond, but please note that this will be my last correspondance on the issue. I've given it all the thought I think it deserves. Our basic philosophical premises are so radically different that I would not be comfortable coming to a consensus.

colleague:

In regards to your point that this may be a non-issue invented by the media, I can but hope you are right. There may simply be alarmism in play. Generally, I can shake such nonsense off. But when either side - so called "right" or "left" - creates a "moral" justification to harm another, an alarm should ring loudly. I really don't care if it is the weather underground or some faction of the tea party. I fear and sense it may be coming.

My friend, I am concerned that you have taken the first steps down a road best not travelled. You have said you will not correspond any more on the issue. Your message implies you are unwilling to work with me because I see and think differently than you do. You have repeatedly framed my attempts to reach a consensus on the basic questions of life with a perverse logic juxtaposing freedom with greed, evil with rule of law, "a" public as "the/your" public. Your argument undermines a service to humanity in favor of self-service. In time, youthful zeal can give way to wisdom. I know not what has so twisted your world view, but from what I can see, you are truly lost.

Reconsider and, when you do, know that you have an ally. Peace be onto you, my friend.

colleague

Hmmm...today's top suggestion: make friends with you. I apparently have been cut from your friend list. It is unfortunate that my efforts to build consensus on a very basic issue - non-violence - resulted in being "dumped." And we wonder why there isn't more bipartisanship :).

My words were strong, but so too were yours. I still believe (and hope) you are a friend.

Rise above, young Daniel, and incorporate a morality of greater value than property ownership. Combat true injustices, not the Sarah Palin/Glenn Beck-esque fear of "socialism" behind every corner. Join the "good fight" in addressing intolerance, cruelty and poverty. "Reload" not your hatred of those whose words will disagree with yours on the comparatively small issues of taxation, but care for your fellows as you wish they would do for you. Remember the words of Gandi "a coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave." Or if you would prefer a 'good ol' American voice, consider the words of Jimi Hendrix: "When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.” To harken back to 18th century American thought, a period near and dear to your heart I know, Ben Franklin once said "There was never a good war or a bad peace.”

I (still) respect and admire your spirit, and hope you will find comparable feelings for mine.

2010-03-17T00:28:00.000-04:00

They passed me on the elevator, no doubt on their way to the top, a murder of aspiring laywerettes whose heals all made the same flittering rap on the buffed lobby tile. Each had her hair in a respectable bun with faux chopsticks protruding above her air--two antennae intercepting unwelcome transmissions. Her suit was gray and her's light gray--while her's was grayish gray and the one to her right: dark gray with gray trim. They chattered so lightly--their words like gnats buzzing at the entrance to my ears yet lacking the confidence to invade. "Like"s abounded and "Totally"s weren't left out, yet most of their words might as well have been the whir of a boxfan or the hum of a florescent bulb. It wasn't until the elevator door made its triumphant pass that I noticed the silence in the lobby. How comfortable I was with it! Sartre said that "Hell is other people" and from the tone of this post you may be inclined to think he and I intellectual brethren.

And you would be wrong.

2010-03-07T02:04:00.000-05:00

A mind whose honesty outpaces its curiosity--even with the latter intent in catching its apocryphal rival--draws tragic conclusions from ersatz information. Induction serves you well--better than most--yet you're still a social metaphysician, constructing your reality, in part, from the lips of others. No more than you would permit poison into your diet should you allow whim into your reasoning.

It's the "I-issue," the great alter of self-esteem. Unlike its liturgical counterparts, this alter allows no sacrifices--neither yourself to others nor others to yourself. Others, in no context, are its purpose. "I" exalts man by focusing his attention to the proper subject--the only being worthy of worship. "I" defends against evil by allowing it no sanction and no alms. "I" produces value as the master architect of life's necessities and pleasures.

For the inviolable and uncompromisable. For moments of spiritual transcendence--properly understood. For values.

Determine and defend them as if they're the only things that matter--because they are.

2010-02-14T23:57:00.034-05:00

Valentine's Day is a time to explicitly acknowledge your love for the people that make you happy--your true brothers and sisters whose virtues bring you selfish pleasure and whose spirit you share. The commercial nature of the holiday is a consequence of its egoistic nature, but objects are means not ends. Your values are the ends. You give flowers because the smile they put on her face is an unmistakable sign of her joy. And her joyous experience, her elation at the realization of your devotion, fills you with the unmistakable warmth of inviolate self-esteem.

2010-02-01T00:01:00.002-05:00

On specific milestones and the possibility of forever

Our lives have been one of metaphor, yours and mine--what started as the misbegotten communication skills of an erstwhile romantic novice ends only on the other side of here and now, a reminder of the past and a telescopic lens for the yet-to-come.

Our playful word ballet represented, at first, the inability to fully accept reality but the passionate desire to do just that. There was no conscious evasion--only exploration and exhalation and eventually a certain euphoria in midst of it all. Metaphoria. The pleasure of the pirouettes, anticipatory arabesque, figuring out the steps as we go while simultaneously changing the time. We knew the song and we didn't--not a contradiction but an admission of naive optimism, of half-knowledge with epistemic willingness.

Here the greater symphony reaches a milestone, a page turn as it enters a new movement still furiously being composed--this etude évoquant an "excuse" to say, "Thank you"--a phrase far too often neglected among friends.

You are the accumulation of your accomplishments over the past quarter-century. And if I am to be an objective judge of that sum, then I pronounce a verdict of "awesome"--"an emotion variously combining dread, veneration, and wonder that is inspired by authority or by the sacred or sublime."

And what I have accomplished through you--your Lockean claim to ownership--is both sacred and sublime, if those words are to have any real meaning. And it should invoke in you a feeling of unmitigated pride. It should emanate through your being a chorus of triumph with soaring melody and fastidious rhythm.

Dismiss that counter-melody that leads to misstep. The one that makes a pseudo-claim to a world without dancing. There are always steps to take, notes to hear, counterpoint to untangle. There will always be a new movement to compose and a new scene to choreograph. There is no shortage of adventure in the lives of two people who know what it means to live.

For what you've done and what you will do, in this 200th post of an endeavor you helped to build, I say: Thank you, immensely.

Happy 25th birthday.

less than three,

DTR

2010-01-31T19:21:00.000-05:00

CulturEsponse

A new blogging endeavor. Don't worry, my adoring fans and stalwart enemies. I will continue to keep an open mind.

2010-01-22T23:01:00.001-05:00

On architecture and values

Suppose you visit the Great Pyramid of Giza, Khufu, and have the irreplaceable pleasure of standing at its base, staring upward toward its peak, and contemplating the architectural accomplishment before you. The oldest of the Seven Wonders of the World, the great--dare I say, "greatest"--pyramid has survived when all other wonders have crumbled, a testament to its structural integrity and craftsmanship.

Yet something bothers you about the monument, and you rightfully put the building in context. Historically, it's a structure built on the backs of slaves--a tomb for the ruler constructed at the expense of the ruled. You're conflicted and a little distraught. Where once stood a magnificent example of the ingenuity of thinking men you now see an eroding edifice of brutish conquerors. Should you continue to admire the building for the achievement of its architects? Or should you revile it for the process of construction?*

Ayn Rand wrote, "A building has integrity just like a man. And just as seldom." Men, like buildings, live within a context and must be judged as such. Perfect men are rare--though they do exist--so we are required to deal with imperfect men. The degree of their imperfection is the degree to which we judge them. Put in a much more positive light: The degree of their values is the degree to which we judge them. With everyone we meet we must ask, "Do we have similar values? What are they? How strongly do they hold their values? On what points do we differ? Are the differences enough to warrant disassociation?"

If your standard of judgment is value-perfection, then you are far less likely to have close relationships. (Unless what you value is commonplace--e.g., you value simply that your friends have good teeth.) Contrarily, if your standard of value is relative, then you will find it impossible to distinguish between friend and enemy. Most of us have a value system between these two, embracing several inviolable principles while maintaining room for errors of knowledge. (There is much to be said here about association, acceptance, "trial" friendship, casual persuasion, and many other topics, but this is not a post about making friends.)

Buildings--and all accomplishments, really--can be judged using a similar process. The pyramid in question, for instance, in undoubtedly a major achievement in architectural history. Yes, slaves were used as tools for construction, but Western philosophy put an end to such practices--yes, I know it still happens in some parts of the world--and the concept of individual rights would prevent it from happening in any civilized society. In this context, I value the work of man's mind over the historical atrocity of slavery because it was man's mind that eventually ended the practice. Slavery as an institution has been refuted.

In another context, though, my values might be reversed. If Hugo Chavez enslaved his citizens and ordered them to construct the world's tallest building, I would adamantly oppose the project. Even if I studied the blueprints and recognized that the building would be the most masterful ever built, I would still not value it more than the lives of the enslaved populace. In this context, I value the principle of individual rights more than I value the construction--since we live in a time where man's mind has shown us the unalienable importance an individual's ownership of himself.

Take a much less extreme example: Apollo 11. Man's walk on the moon is one of the greatest achievements in scientific history--if you believed it happened. (I do.) About the rocket launch, Ayn Rand wrote:

The meaning of the sight lay in the fact that when those dark red wings of fire flared open, one knew that one was not looking at a normal occurrence, but at a cataclysm which, if unleashed by nature, would have wiped man out of existence—and one knew also that this cataclysm was planned, unleashed, and controlled by man, that this unimaginable power was ruled by his power and, obediently serving his purpose, was making way for a slender, rising craft. One knew that this spectacle was not the product of inanimate nature, like some aurora borealis, or of chance, or of luck, that it was unmistakably human—with “human,” for once, meaning grandeur—that a purpose and a long, sustained, disciplined effort had gone to achieve this series of moments, and that man was succeeding, succeeding, succeeding! For once, if only for seven minutes, the worst among those who saw it had to feel—not "How small is man by the side of the Grand Canyon!"—but “How great is man and how safe is nature when he conquers it!” from "Apollo 11" in The Objectivist, Sept. 1969

(I quoted it at length because it's a stunning passage.) How could Ayn Rand, a staunch supporter of laissez-faire capitalism and minimal government, applaud the government-gun NASA space program? Because Rand, in this instance, valued the achievement more than she despised the process of its construction; because she knew the achievement was possible without government; and because she continued to actively fight against statism. (There were other reasons as well. You should read the whole essay if you have time. Or at least this excerpt.)

All of this "set up" brings me to the genesis of this post: Churches. More specifically, cathedrals. MKJ recently excoriated me for disliking the "majesty" of ecclesial architecture.

My position is this: I do not question the architectural achievements embodied in cathedrals--their construction a testament to the ingenuity of incontestably talented men--but upon entering cathedrals the majesty of their engineering is quickly diminished by the air of their purpose--namely: the degradation of man-on-Earth.**

JML recently wrote a review of Avatar, and I commented in response to a question about metaphysics. I said, in part:

"I would argue that since authors cannot recreate the world in its entirety, they choose to highlight what is metaphysically important to them. This choice tells us a lot about authors. If authors focus on pain and suffering with no regard of happiness, then their personal worldview is one in which misery takes precedence."***

This point abstracts to art in general and also applies to the specialized art of architecture--with modifications and specifications for material and functionality. In other words, architects' choices--specifically, their aesthetic choices that are often (superfluous) additions to their structural choices--necessarily reflect their judgment of what is important in the world in the context of the building being created. Or in the case of cathedrals, what is important outside of the world.

Walking into a cathedral, I am immediately made to feel small, the most minute of specs in the presence of the Almighty. There are pillars that stretch to a curved ceiling that seems infinite and is often decorated with heavenly scenes reachable only through divine ascent. Every element is a vertical line accentuating the unobtainable, telling man he is insignificant as part of the lowly Earth. The pews are below the alter which is below the cross. The King of kings looks down upon his servants as they, in return, gaze heavenward from their rightful place: Their knees. Nothing about the visual symbolism of the cathedral exalts man. Contrarily, the building is a house of God, not of men, and you are meant to forget that men had anything to do with its construction. And, if dogma is taken literally, they didn't. They were merely a tool of the Divine, carrying out His will.

These descriptors are contextual, remember, and I do not make such pronouncements lightly. Certainly my vehement disdain for organized religion compels me to use strong, perhaps offensive language, but my analysis, I think, is an objective account of religion's attitude toward the placement of men over God. You might recall the story of the Tower of Babel wherein a unified humanity dared build a massive, beautiful tower the likes of which the world had never seen. Since the tower's main purpose was not the worship of the Lord, but the unification of men and peace on Earth, he punished men for their great achievement--which was a great insult to God--by dividing them into different nations and tongues.

Within this context, I value man's achievement in building cathedrals less than my passion for fighting organized religion--which is fundamentally anti-achievement, anti-reason, and, ultimately, anti-man--especially since these doctrines exist today. They are not conceptually like slavery which has been debunked and is widely considered an abomination. When the concept of organized religion becomes as openly and universally degraded as slavery, then I may value cathedrals' construction more--perhaps as much as the pyramids. What is more likely, though, is that someone like Howard Roark builds a "cathedral" meant to honor men--or at least a skyscraper, taller than the one in Dubai, that explicitly represents the achievement of man's rational mind.

(I should note that I make the tiniest of exceptions for the National Cathedral in Washington, DC. I still do not place the value of its construction over my fight against religion, but I do appreciate the placement of men and women alongside saints in the sculptures. And the Darth Vader grotesque is especially amusing.)

___________________

*According to Wikipedia, modern Egyptologists believe the pyramids were actually built by salaried labor. I wrote the example before fact-checking. So what? Big whoop. Wanna fight about it? Insert your favorite structure built by slave labor. History has given us quite a few. If you're uncomfortable abstracting the example, email me and I'll create a personal example just for you--though there will be at least mild mocking.

**I should clarify that I'm more anti-religion than I am anti-spirituality. That is, I see choosing-to-believe-in-God as a deeply personal choice that often reaches the depths of people's psycho-epistemology and, ultimately, their sense of life. While I reject the notion of "epistemic faith" as a contradiction in terms, I won't outright denounce people who practice "personal faith." It is only when faith is used in the realm of politics--especially in any coercive manner--that you will see me adamantly oppose it. I can get along and even befriend spiritual people who do not support faith-based-politics, do not militantly try to convert me (though healthy debate is welcome and encouraged under appropriate circumstances), and do not expect me to participate in religious rituals in their presence (e.g., church, praying before meals, no meat on Fridays, etc.)--though they should not feel they have to refrain from them in my presence either. Undoubtedly, some of my Objectivist colleagues will think I'm too lenient on people who believe in God. As this long footnote contends, I draw a clear distinction between my spiritual friends and my religious enemies. For now, that clarification works quite well.

***I can't take credit for the idea, though, as I first encountered a version of it through Kress and van Leeuwen's "Reading Images" and read a philosophical treatment in Leonard Peikoff's "Objectivism: The Philosophy of Ayn Rand." Rand's aesthetic statement, taken in small chunks, is, "Art is a selective re-creation of reality according to an artist’s metaphysical value-judgments. Man’s profound need of art lies in the fact that his cognitive faculty is conceptual, i.e., that he acquires knowledge by means of abstractions, and needs the power to bring his widest metaphysical abstractions into his immediate, perceptual awareness. Art fulfills this need: by means of a selective re-creation, it concretizes man’s fundamental view of himself and of existence. It tells man, in effect, which aspects of his experience are to be regarded as essential, significant, important. In this sense, art teaches man how to use his consciousness. It conditions or stylizes man’s consciousness by conveying to him a certain way of looking at existence." Read more at the Ayn Rand Lexicon.

2010-01-18T00:07:00.002-05:00

I'm not perfect.

Not yet.

That's no reason to be discouraged. In fact, it's a reason for encouragement and substantial hope--not the rhetorical hope(y)-change(y)-nonsense variety.

What would have devastated me for weeks or months now leaves me annoyed for minutes or hours. Soon: seconds or minutes. Later: infinite regression. Significant life improvement is necessarily impossible on an alter of sacrifice--an allowed knife-through-the-heart tends to kill the self in self-help.

When people ask me how I was able to better myself physically, I reply, "The self-esteem diet."

When people ask me how I was able to better myself mentally, I reply, "A philosophy of rational self-interest."

When people ask me how I was able to better myself spiritually, I often blink three times and return to whatever I was doing.

Selfishness is a virtue.

2010-01-14T22:51:00.002-05:00

There is no proof, he said, that I am here or that you are here arguing against me. The irrelevancy of the whole thing astounds me--that we continue to pander to the Philosopher God of Reason--since science has long proved the inescapablity of nothingness. We're only motion, you and I, more empty space than "matter"--whatever that is.

My first instinct is to punch him--my second, to run. The latter is the only proper response to an argument that defeats itself yet convinces its master. And he truly is a brainwashed slave--chained to his evasion, yet fanatical in its defense: For a well-kept servant like himself, he is told, possesses more freedom than the independent man who must fend for his own food and fight his own battles. The slave howls, "A man is only truly free if he is liberated from burden!" And what is more burdensome than the necessity of thought?

As I recently discovered, I don't enjoy running. I'm a sucker for an argument I can't win--not because I'm wrong, mind you, but because the act of answering the question gives it undeserved validity. Granted, arguments on matters of taste rarely interest me. (I dislike apricots, and you will never convince me otherwise.) But reality is not ice cream. And existence is not Baskin Robbins. The "real" comes in one flavor and whether or not you "prefer" it is irrelevant. Man up and take a second scoop.

Ultimately, I'm not an advocate of Objectivism. Boiled down to its most basic philosophical axiom, I'm an advocate of the law of identity. I was derided recently for my confidence in an argument. I was called "too sure." I checked my premises and reiterated my stance, proud of the way I handled myself. My assuredness came not from an "inflated ego" or "conceitedness" but from the knowledge that my argument was backed by the only evidence necessary--not the media nor someone's personal blog nor my whim, but the objective arbiter of all disputes: A is A.

"This empty space just kicked your empty space's butt."

2010-01-02T04:30:00.002-05:00

"Man's life must be a straight line of motion from goal to farther goal, each leading to the next and to a single growing sum."

For the first time, the cynicism didn't engulf me and I found myself surprised by my own happiness. Previously, reveling in the passing of time, resolution-making, the party scene--none of it was "for me." Yet drinking my second glass of wine, quietly listening to the separate yet intricately related conversations about principles and foreign policy and James Madison and the future of our culture, I realized, "Prior to this moment, perhaps I wasn't 'for it.'"

Certainly I had enjoyed New Year's celebrations before--any excuse to stay up late with the people I most selfishly value brings me immense joy. Yet New Year's as a holiday was never something I understood. Growing up as one of those intellectually-curious, philosophically-misguided kids, my sense of mortality was likely more heightened then my peers. (I remember one night nearly self-inducing a panic attack thinking about the concept of infinity and my life in relation to it.) Consequently, I framed any occasion that marked forward progress in time as a reminder of what I haven't yet accomplished, stunned that people seemingly enjoyed the ticking of a clock.

I couldn't suppress one of those annoyingly large grins last night, shaking hands with people I only recently met and hugging almost complete strangers, as the silliness of my former beliefs became clear. New Year's to my "pre-living" self seemed like any other holiday--an observance of the past, a memorial of the long-since-gone or, even more cynically, the soon-to-be-forgotten. Within that rigidly nihilistic context, celebrating a New Year was the equivalent of celebrating your own death, drinking a toast of champagne to "another year down and not enough to go."

And there you have the culture of death made explicit--something I actually "believed" at one point in my non-life. (As much as an infinitely resigned knight can wholeheartedly believe in something.)

It never actually occurred to me until last night--at least not in a manner so vividly realized--that New Year's is neither about loss nor punishment. It's not a holiday to celebrate the passing of time but to look ahead and say to the universe, "Tomorrow is mine to achieve."

New Year's is a holiday of renewal--a moment to take stock of your life's inventory and place an order for supplies. For some it can be a moment for forgiveness, for acknowledging prominent errors and renouncing them--spiritual repentance properly understood, paid in full by self-esteem. Because our lives are not meant to be lived looking backward, our eyes facing away as we stumble haphazardly toward an unseen destination. With a slight reorientation, it becomes clear that the light outside Plato's ill-conceived cave is not blinding; it's illuminating.

There is no rebirth but the one we allow. There is no guilt except what we choose to accept. There is no absolution but that which we grant ourselves.

Through resolutions we implicitly acknowledge our free will (hat tip to AS), take the (first) necessary steps to living a goal-directed life (hat tip to AE), and make ourselves and, therefore, our happiness a priority. We resolve to recreate ourselves in our own image. Far too often that image is rendered hazy by the fog of self-doubt and unearned guilt. We chain ourselves to a tree and fail to realize our resolution to run a marathon, complaining about the uselessness of resolve--ignoring the oak.

I was there once, and to a minor degree I still feel chained--though I'm realizing just how rusted and weak the links actually are. I've grown so much this past year. And 1000 fold this past decade. Where once I was "a radical for thought destruction," I am now "a radical for individualism and the pursuit of happiness," to borrow a line from AJE. And where once I thought ideas were simply a game of words, I now understand that ideas have consequences. Once content, now happy. Defeated, invigorated. Constrained, boundless.

Selfless, selfish.

* * * * *

This year, I resolve to pursue my happiness by:

- Continuing to make my health a priority
- Increasing the amount of philosophic literature I read by at least one book a month
- Learning new media design skills (namely Facebook markup language and basic Flash)
- Increasing correspondence with friends and family
- Actively seeking out friendship
- Going on at least one date (Hey, I have to set the bar somewhere.)
- Going on a trip (within the US) for my 26th birthday
- Learning to cook tamales

A sufficient list.

* * * * *

I realize that some of what I wrote may appear trivial or naive. And, frankly, it is. In a previous post I cite myself as "a novice, a recent convert to the art of living," so you'll excuse my stumbling in some areas even as I take confident strides in others. Even making the most routine and mundane experience into a focused, thoughtful examination makes this entire blogging experience worthwhile. And in this new year--"Rational Men in Twenty Ten" (women, too, I suppose)--I look forward to more blogging: philosophy, "poetry," musings, conjecture, rants, treatises, essays, fiction, fantasy, stream-of-consciousness, haiku(?), the important and the mundane.

Here's to a new year, a new decade, renewed passion.

DTR

2009-12-30T21:37:00.003-05:00

musings

I look forward to that box of granola bars in the morning--reaching into the reduced sugar variety pack and choosing my daily mood. Will it be a peanut buttery day full of creamy goodness? Or a chocolate cherry day with sweet surprises in every bite? No. Today is an oatmeal raisin day filled with loathing and contempt and raisins. "I'll eat you anyway, good-for-me bar because you're the healthiest of all, but I don't have to like it." The only worse scenario would be eating an oatmeal raisin granola bar on the Metro.

* * * * *

Despite the nasty side effects, I do enjoy Chipotle. And despite its popularity, the long line usually moves quickly and I can enjoy my barbacoa burrito with red chili salsa within a reasonable amount of time. But not tonight. Oh, no. Not tonight. Tonight the line moved slowly and without focus. The twenty feet to the assembly station took nearly 15 minutes. That's upwards of 6 hours when you convert CRT (Chipotle Restaurant Time) to SRT (Standard Restaurant Time). As I approached the counter, I realized the reason for the delay. Working front assembly station: A white guy. I walked up to order. As I started to speak, he said, "Cold out there tonight, eh?" Confused, I replied, "Barbacoa burrito." He countered, "Supposed to be colder tomorrow," reaching methodically for my tortilla. I looked him straight in the eye and said intensely, "Black. Beans." The moment passed. The rest of my time in the line, including additional filling and payment took approximately .8 seconds.

* * * * *

I've started folding cranes again. This is not a metaphor.

2009-12-16T00:52:00.002-05:00

I suppose this is a sort of Gonzo-journalism, a mixture of the real and the should-have-been. There are only a few moments in my life so far when I've wanted so badly to create something of personal significance and been unable to realize my desire. My grandmother's wake was the most recent example. I'm sure there will be more. Unexpectedly, though the argument could be made that my surprise was more a matter of evasion, my mother asked me to say a few words at the Father's request. It was spur of the moment yet more thought out than something unexpected should be. I rose from my seat, one among a room of crying mourners, and said the first few words that came to mind. Here is both what I said and what I wanted to say . . .

Eulogy for Diana

I'm grateful that you came today--from down the road or across the state. And I know my grandfather is grateful as well.

We’re a family familiar with reasons to celebrate, be they birthdays, graduations, or Christmas Eves. But we’re also a family far too accustomed to more somber gatherings. My grandmother was sick for a long time and suffered more than anyone should--more than any of us could stand to witness.

But for everything that she endured, in the recognition that pain should not be the standard for life, I refuse to remember her as she was last week over the phone, last year at Thanksgiving, or any time during her illness. I will remember her as a woman of strength and endless joy, as a woman whose very presence made me feel comforted and at peace.

You should do the same. For those who had the privilege, you should remember her as that 18-year-old supermodel in the picture on her casket--full of potential and beauty and moxie--or as a lively but steadfastly loving mother or as a spirited and committed wife or as a caring friend and neighbor.

I will remember the woman who when I broke my arm told me not to worry about it because it would be gone by the time I was married; the woman who made the most ridiculously sinful cookie bars (if there was any batter left to bake); the woman who took her dogs through the drive-thru at McDonald's (where she used to work) and gave the Happy Meal toys to local kids; the woman who could make me laugh until I cried and who would sit with me at the kitchen table and do so for hours and hours; the woman who teased me relentlessly for everything; the woman who used to wear pantyhose on her head and shoes on her knees.

I know most of you have similar memories or have heard similar stories. And that’s what I urge you to recall--a moment that will stay with you for the rest of your life.

Whether you knew her as Diane, mom, grandma, grandma Thawville, aunt Diane, Deetsie, Diana, or “that crazy lady who’s always in Harbor House,” I’m certain she made a positive impact on your life and on one or more occasions brightened an otherwise mediocre day. She had that knack, a gift for reminding people that smiling and laughter and happiness should be your pursuit in life and that pain and sadness, no matter how deep, are cured over time with humor and love.

I want to leave you today with some of Diane's words of wisdom. My grandmother gave me a lot of advice. But the best advice she ever gave, both for its literal and metaphorical implications, she gave to me when I was too young to understand it. I recall vividly that whenever she said it, her whole demeanor changed and you could read the intense joy on her face--a look I will always associate with her and, by proxy, my childhood. It may have been a superficial advertising platitude to the rest of the humanity, but in Diana’s world, it was a philosophy of life and happiness:

“It takes a whole . . . roll . . . of paper towels to do the work of one Handi Wipe!”

2009-11-16T00:45:00.003-05:00

VIII

I'm betraying an absolute--I thought--when first our eyes made acquaintance in that gawky flash--you having caught me in what "life" assured me was a moment of weakness since it required my "self" and some actual "esteem" but what I hoped would be more like a mercurial dream sequence from [generic 80s teen movie] (but without the sidetails and turtlenecks)--so I quickly retreated, hoping it wasn't true--the betrayal, that is--damm/ning the feeling, and resolving, like "i" was "taught," to keep check on that capricious emotion you must have accidentally aroused; yet it was the identification of such and the coming to terms with such and the desire to live in such that has had such a profound influence on my understanding as such--that your questioning mind, uncompromising spirit, resplendent attractiveness--and, moreso, your Objective values--made my heart declare not a betrayal but the sound of an inexorable revolution, not a betrayal but the lyrics from [generic 80s love song], not a betrayal but a realization that the "betrayed" and the impetus-of-revolution, though necessarily separate, are not as such.

2009-11-07T15:42:00.003-05:00

I rode the metro with an astronaut yesterday--at least I think he was an astronaut. He was wearing a flight suit, and the patch on his arm had a little shuttle in front of an Earth. He exited at the Pentagon stop. Yes, I'm sure he was an astronaut. Otherwise that helmet would have been pointless.

I stopped by a lake today on my way home from lunch. I thought, "Just what I need--a serene lake." So I walked to the shore and sat on a picnic bench and went looking for "the Serene." Oh, I found it. Don't think I'm going to say it wasn't there, that this whole trip was for nothing. No, no. I thought that at first, too--as I sat there staring at the lake. "This doesn't 'do it' for me," I thought. "It's water. I get more excited when it comes from my faucet." The guy at the bench next to me seemed to like it, though. He had his hands behind his head in a very satisfied manner. He stared at the water with a vague smile. He found the Serene in the lake, in its undulating splashes on the shore below. Well, at least I think he did. Granted I never asked him. He might have been as bored as I was, just sitting there thinking about the hot girl in the biking shorts that just rode by. He noticed her. You couldn't convince me that he didn't. His smile did change, though, when a speed boat went by. It went from vague to vanished. His hands went down to his lap and he slowly got up to leave. I think. I wasn't staring any more because I was too busy drooling over this boat. It must have been going 50, 60 thousands miles per hour. "You don't know." I wanted to meet that guy, the owner, and convince him to share his vessel. I wanted to cut through the water and disturb those ridiculous-looking birds--the ones with the really thin beak and flat head. I wanted to relate with the person who looked at this lake or whatever body of water it was and said, "Your waves are pathetic." And so, you see, I did find the Serene. It just had more horsepower that I was expecting.

I was walking up the escalator yesterday, because that's what people do in DC even when they're 30 minutes early for work, and I passed a crazy woman entering the metro. I know she was crazy because she was wearing a silver dress, loads of eye shadow, and not much else while singing at the top of her lungs--something about her uncle. And since this wasn't college, I could certify her insane. Here's the thing. I might have been the only person who noticed her. Again, that's what people do in DC; they actively donotnotice things. Most city dwellers are similar, I imagine--from New York to Chicago to Dallas to LA. There's so much crazy that if you took time to notice it all you'd waste those 30 minutes and end up being late.

I will ride the metro again next week--to and from work, five days a week--and if I see that astronaut again I think I'll introduce myself. Or how about this: I'll at least say good morning to the person who sits next to me--especially if that person is an astronaut. Or a speed-boater. Or a crazy, singing, silver-dress-wearing psychopath. Or that girl from the bike path.

Especially if it's that girl from the bike path.

2009-11-03T22:46:00.002-05:00

In many ways I'm still a novice, a recent convert to the art of living. Every morning I awake to a cliché, happier to be alive than I was the day before. (The cynic that lived in me even a year ago would have espoused, "Sure. You're happy now. But how long do you really expect it to last?" He's still there, certainly. I can hear the questioning as clearly as the triangle in a smooth bossa. It's there if I purposely focus on it. But why should I? Unlike the triangle, whose purpose is to subtly enrich the rhythm, this doubt falls behind the beat, dragging the pulse to a dead stop.) There were so many dichotomies presenting hopeless Either/Ors, asserting that my only two choices were a blindfold or a coma. A pig satisfied or Socrates dissatisfied? I choose Aristotle satisfied. A knight of infinate resignation or a knight of infinite faith? I choose a knight of infinite reason. Mysticism or brute force? I choose rationality. Mind or body? I choose soul--properly understood. Slave master or sacrificial animal? I choose rational self-interest. Rationalism or Empiricism? I choose Objectivism.

Scoff. Laugh. Dismiss. Do everything but think. Your denial is your own immolation, and with that attitude, you deserve it.

[...]

What do you accomplish with your half compliments and claims to the "truth" "behind" the author? Even if we take the most radical of your accusations as true--which they're not--what have you proven? It's a sad commentary on culturally accepted practices that we must make heroes "real"--i.e., deeply flawed--in order to have any appreciation for them. I literally want to scream, "What do you gain from focusing on the mundane and the trivial?" Any excuse. ANY "reason" not to acknowledge her accomplishments. ANY frivolity that allows you to dismiss an entire philosophic system. "Well, you see, her claims to morality can't be trusted because she smoked." "And, well, you can't expect me to take her seriously if she *gasp* had an affair." "And, frankly, she was mean." "And, you can probably tell by her photos, but she was just dreadful to get along with." "We heard she did drugs." "We heard she was a lesbian." "We heard she didn't tip at a restaurant once." "We heard she didn't applaud at a 20th century piano performance."

"Why why I want to listen to a woman like that?"

If you kill all the heroes, who's going to be left to save your life?

[...]

On my first day in the office, a coworker asked, "Are you ready to save the world?" I cheerfully replied, "Can we have it done by Friday?"

Rorschach, though, would have had a different answer.

2009-10-29T22:23:00.003-04:00

"Here. This is what you've been desperately searching for. The stamp that validates your existential passport--the answer to 'why?' and 'what for?' and the only response to your teacher's insistence that 'you will feel inept and incompetent like a fraud among geniuses.' Frankly, though, its because you were a fraud. You were here illegally, an alien in your own reality--the land so foreign you assumed the customs of your peers for lack of any better idea. How could you know? It's not as if people had this stuff figured out thousands of years before you were born."

"What? Take it. I'm giving it to you. Oh, I see. I knew you'd be like this. They all are. What you need lies right before you, yet its closeness is what makes you hesitate. 'It's out there,' they told you, pointing to the stars. 'It's in here,' they assured you, pointing to a primitive tome. 'It's all within,' they espoused, asking you to close your eyes and wish the world away. Mystics and brutes told you that what you were looking for either existed outside your ability to know or didn't exist at all."

"And again I say, 'Here.' I'm showing you that it does exist and that you can know it, that you can discover with certainty the meaning of life, the answer to the ultimate question, the 'what does it all mean?,' the roadmap to happiness. And, yet, you're reluctant."

"There's a certain irony, I suppose, that the fact that you need an impossible standard of proof almost guarantees your rejection of the very stamp you seek. Not always, mind you. There are those few cases where a person's corruption isn't 100% complete, their consciousness clinging to life. 'Better late than dead,' my grandmother used to say. Nonetheless, years wasted in pursuit of the philosophical version of the Easter bunny."

"But you...oh, you: a mind born to accept this discovery, a mind actively searching for a truth it should have found at the outset, a mind of more potential than any other I've yet to encounter. You will reject it the quickest and with the greatest fervor. You will not only cast your eyes away from it but also vow to burn it to the ground--because, you will claim, no one should have to endure the burden of knowledge."

"Accepting this stamp means affirming your life. And you can't do that. 'Even if it existed, it wouldn't be mine to affirm,' you argue, echoing dead philosophers whose entire lives were spent ensuring the meaninglessness of being. That same teacher, the one who said that doubt is inescapable, told me that philosophers were the physicians of the soul and that philosophy was the study of how we should live. If that is true, then the collective voice of modern and contemporary thinkers has screamed, with an unrivaled passion, 'Don't.' These witch doctors have shrunk your head, yet you look in the mirror and admire the improvement."

"It doesn't have to be so. I beg you because I selfishly care about your well being, 'Here. This is what you've been desperately searching for.' Take it and remake the world--rediscover Atlantis."

"Why are you staring? I'll wait. Can you?"

2009-10-19T01:35:00.000-04:00

on racism and cultural relativism

"I know it's wrong, but..." a friend recently confided in me--probably confident that his disclosure wouldn't be discussed on the Internet--"I just hate the way they talk. It sounds stupid."

Black people, he meant. (African Americans. Americans of African decent. I'm not sure what's p.c. anymore.)

Foremost, it's fascinatingly disgusting that we live in a time when all opinions on "racial" matters must first be qualified either with self-flagellation, like my friend, or with the nouveau cliche, "You know I'm not a racist, but..."

Nevertheless, my friend's comment has had me thinking on and off for two weeks. Was his comment racist or the appropriate expression of cultural preference? (I should clarify that I recognize the "stereotypical" nature of the remark. Certainly not every black talks in a way that my friend would find unpleasant. But not every stereotype is racist. Words have meaning, and if he was writing an academic treatise, I would suggest to my friend that he clarify his universal statement. But just as words have specific meaning, so do colloquial expressions--especially in the context of friendly banter. I understood that he wasn't making a claim about an entire race. I had to clarify, though, for people out there looking to dismiss arguments on purely semantic grounds. You know who you are.)

To clarify:

Racism is a very primitive form of collectivism that considers genetics to be the sole, and therefore most important, factor in someone's intellectual and cultural makeup. And, as Rand states, "Like every form of determinism, racism invalidates the specific attribute which distinguishes man from all other living species: his rational faculty. Racism negates two aspects of man’s life: reason and choice, or mind and morality, replacing them with chemical predestination."

It's quite obvious that racism is irrational and shouldn't be practiced. But using this definition as a guide, was my friend's comment racist?

In short, I don't think it was--otherwise I wouldn't be writing this post and you wouldn't be wasting your time reading it. (Unless you're the tens of Kool-Aid-drinking fanatics that visit at least weekly. Google Analytics is awesome.)

To be fair, my friend may be a racist. I don't know what he does in his free time, what Klan rallies he attends, ethnicities he cleanses, etc. I do know that he has black friends. I also know that his black friends don't talk "that way." An African American Studies professor might classify them as "Anglicized" or contend that they've at least assimilated a Western vernacular. Agreed. Might these Anglicized black friends, then, also prefer more "white" speech to "black" speech? And what does skin color have to do with your culture anyway?

Frankly, not much--otherwise I wouldn't be writing this post and...see above.

Race does not determine culture. And having cultural preferences doesn't make you a racist. Yes, people are born into a culture and may experience difficult-to-alter sense of life experiences from growing up in it. But the fact remains that people do, ultimately, choose to adopt cultural behaviors at some point in their volitional life. (Unless you're going to argument against free will. If you are, please, just go away.)

If culture is a matter of taste--that is, a choice of mere preference having only personal implications--then go forth and rejoice in cultural relativism. If culture is not a matter of taste, if it is, in fact, a matter of objective truth, then please step away from the jar of multicultural goodness. I tend to see culture as (shock) the latter, having possible implications for people other than one's self. For example, the cultural practice of female (genital mutilation) circumcision or the cultural beliefs that keep a significant part of Africa in horrific poverty.

Alas, cultures can be right and wrong. (Cultural practices, actually.) And choice of culture, therefore, can be right and wrong. Let me be the first, then, to denounce the atrocity that is multiculturalism--AKA cultural relativism AKA subjectivism AKA evil--and declare that forced female genital mutilation is a disgusting and terrible act that we should unite to stop.

But, then, should I also take the hard line on talking "that way" and declare it should be stopped? Probably not. How, then, can we decide where to draw the line on cultural practices? First, let me say that choice of language can be beneficial within a context, but pretty much all major languages can get the job done. Language isn't the problem in Ebonics. The perversion of grammar is. Nonetheless, while we should agree that grammar and syntax play important functions in any language and that their subversion impedes communication--except in special cases not discussed herein--there is no need to coercively stop people from choosing to speak Ebonics--since their choice is personal and has no physical repercussions for other people. (No person should be forced to learn Ebonics, though.)

And that's the line: harm. Does the person's cultural practice infringe on anyone else's individual rights? If not, then the practice is allowed. If so, it's not.

There is so much here I can't fully explain. I don't have time to write a book. Other people have, though. And you should read them.

2009-09-07T00:10:00.005-04:00

I'm changing the quotes on my facebook page, but I don't want to forget the current batch. So, here they are:

"I have nothing to gain from fools or cowards; I have no benefits to seek from human vices: from stupidity, dishonesty or fear. The only value men can offer me is the work of their mind." - Ayn Rand

"Don't work for my happiness, my brothers--show me yours--show me that it is possible--show me your achievement--and the knowledge will give me courage for mine." - Ayn Rand

"...I do not recognize anyone's right to one minute of my life. Nor to any part of my energy. Nor to any achievement of mine. No matter who makes the claim, how large their number or how great their need." - Ayn Rand

"When I disagree with a rational man, I let reality be our arbiter; if I am right, he will learn; if I am wrong, I will; one of us will win, but both will profit." - Ayn Rand

"[A man] will always be attracted to the woman who reflects his deepest vision of himself, the woman whose surrender permits him to experience--or to fake--a sense of self-esteem. The man who is proudly certain of his own value will want the highest type of woman he can find, the woman he admires, the strongest, the hardest to conquer--because only the possession of a heroine will give him the sense of an achievement, not the possession of a brainless slut." - Ayn Rand

"...there are no victims and no conflicts of interest among rational men, men who do not desire the unearned and do not view one another with a cannibal's lust, men who neither make sacrifices nor accept them." - Ayn Rand

"For the genuine orator must have investigated and heard and read and discussed and handled and debated the whole of the contents of the life of mankind, inasmuch as that is the field of the orator's activity, the subject matter of his study. [...] And if we bestow fluency of speech on persons devoid of those virtues, we shall not have made orators of them but shall have put weapons in the hands of madmen." - Cicero

"When one acts on pity against justice, it is the good whom one punishes for the sake of the evil; when one saves the guilty from suffering, it is the innocent whom one forces to suffer. There is no escape from justice, nothing can be unearned and unpaid for in the universe, neither in matter nor in spirit--and if the guilty do not pay, then the innocent have to pay it." - Ayn Rand

"A democracy is nothing more than mob rule, where fifty-one percent of the people may take away the rights of the other forty-nine." - Thomas Jefferson

"If you don't think your life is worth more than someone else's, sign your donor card and kill yourself." - House "Without competition, we'd still be single-celled organisms." - House

"A desire not to butt into other people's business is at least eighty percent of all human wisdom...and the other twenty percent isn't very important." - Jubal Harshaw

2009-08-27T16:58:00.002-04:00

satisfied

There is was--salvation--

On the edge of your mightier-than-a-sword,

On the pressed fibers of dried trees,

In the stain of your ink.

From the conclusions of your mind--

On the conclusions of nameless labor--

From work, salvation discovered.

Inductions into a different hall,

Not one of kings or queens or diversity's fame,

But of men and women whose effort,

Meant selfish reward and whose effort,

Made all others possible. And probable. And explicit.

Against the moral agnosticism and baseless whim-worship,

Against the spiritual tyrants and existential heathens,

Against we, us, them, and all was:

"I."--as complete affirmation, as existence/identity, as life.

"I am neither a happy pig nor a dissatisfied Socrates. Nor a nothing."

"I am Aristotle satisfied."

--------------------------------------------------------

As far as potentially life-changing decisions go, this particular query was no more difficult than deciding what I should have for lunch. "I'll have the soup, please, with a side of smug satisfaction."

Or so I thought. Until the fourth day of contemplation.

--------------------------------------------------------

In art, I can't maintain proportions. This is not a metaphor.

2009-07-28T02:09:00.003-04:00

a facebook conversation of little consequence to the general public

Friend
i look best with a cigar

Daniel
I look best with Megan Fox standing next to me.

Friend
it would be better for you, I think, to look best next to an object you could control

Daniel
You couldn't have known this without the context in my head, but I meant that if she was standing next to me, no one would be looking at me. (Or maybe you did somehow figure that out--since the joke could have gone numerous ways.)
Welcome to my weird mood. Enjoy your stay.

Friend
are there any extra pillows

Daniel
No. And shots of cheap liquor are $7.

Friend
i feel like i've been here before

Daniel
And you'll be here again. Thank you for flying Air Richards.
So, now that we've got that out of the way. How the job search going?
(Also, I'm Cherokee.)

Friend
i might have a lead
ahah

Daniel
Tres bien.
(Little known fact: American Indians were fluent in French.)

Friend
it is a job
i keep thinking of Roark

Daniel
In what way?

Friend
bad job
but be good at it
i'll be building garages instead of sky scrapers

Daniel
Yep, yep. (But maybe not. Who knows?) At least you're building.

Friend
true
and being paid to build will be nice

Daniel
I am least glad to hear that you won't be begging on the streets of Decatur for the upcoming year.

Friend
but its just a lead anyway
hahah

[…]

Friend
i think shes a figment of our imagination
simultaneous imagination

Daniel
of our collective mind
(that felt gross)
I think she is the Norse demi-God Loki.

Friend
hahhahah to all of the above

Daniel
In other news, I'm eternally mad at you for ditching this trip. There is no way I will ever forgive you since my hatred is unconditional. I thought you were compassionate. I thought you were selfless. I thought you put other people first. Etc.
(I want to hire Ben Stein to read the previous paragraph.)

Friend
hahhahahahahhahahhahaha
you don't need to be upset, several people voted and decided this trip wasn't best for you

Daniel
I applied for stimulus funds so you could afford the trip--based on your great need--but some New Jersey democrat got his application in first.
I think it was their governor.

Friend
hahahhaha
thats not fair

Daniel
Life isn't fair, Friend. Nothing is fair. Fair isn't fair. If the government was fair to you, that simply means it wouldn't be being fair to someone else.
And that's not fair.

Friend
i feel so guilty now

Daniel
Guilt is good. Guilt means you learned something today--like how to racially profile a white cop.

Friend
hahaha
i don't want to play this game anymore

Daniel
HA
Ok. I wish I could say that to my accountant.

Friend
hahaha
you could try

Daniel
Yes, I could. It would be in accordance with my new pledge to stop being too passive about my political beliefs with people that disagree with me.

Friend
its interesting that you say that

Daniel
A group of my Clemson friends (and AJE) decided to start being very proactive in starting debates. And not letting ridiculous comments slide without intelligent rebuke.
Or at least without passive consent.

Friend
i have done the same thing
in some company
namely, in company other than current or possible employers

Daniel
Touche.

Friend
but I would like to live out my philosophy more readily
instead of being afraid of hurting peoples feelings

Daniel
Quite. I especially found it strange that I was reluctant to hurt the feelings of people I hardly ever talk to...or don't really care to associate with--like a lot of my Facebook "friends" or classmates.
So I said to myself, "Self, you have a lot of really good friends. Time to start drawing lines."
Intelligently, that is.

Friend
the weird thing is, I think I am afraid of having enemies
but the people i would make as enemies would be helpless to hurt me in any way

Daniel
Quite. I need to remember that rule. When I do make enemies, they tend to be my professors. Oops. Anyway, lately I've been taking more stands. It's fun. I used to be this way in high school--except that my arguments were much less intelligent and relied mainly on ad hominem attacks.
Basically, I was Keith Olberman.
But straight.

Friend
i'm doing a google search of Keith Olberman so that I can be a part of this joke

Daniel
lol (literally)

Friend
oh you meant OlbermanN
of course
I am intimately acquainted with his work

Daniel
I didn't know you were that into gay porn.
The things we learn.

Friend
hahaha
i find it easier to keep track of the story
less complications

Daniel
Yes. Adding women just... well it just.
(If I had said Chris Matthews instead of Olbermann, would you have followed?)

Friend
if you would have posted a picture

Daniel
(Wolf Blitzer?)
(Walter Cronkite?)
((Too soon?))

Friend
hahaha
where they football players
?

Daniel
Yes. They played for the Washington Elitists.

Friend
tight ends?

Daniel
The tightest.
[insert "committing Sotomayor" joke here]

Friend
right handed?

Daniel
Only if two lefts make a right.
(I'm dying here.)
(Next segment.)

Friend
i was trying to set you up for the finale

Daniel
>> Finale.
"The Aristocrats."

Friend
hahahahhahaha

Daniel
(Get it? We're literally speaking about aristocratic politicians.)

Friend
oh i got it

Daniel
It works on, like, 12.7 trillion levels.

Friend
or at least 2

Daniel
I said "like."
…
It just says, "Sending."
There it goes.
The Intertubes were clogged.
With lolcatz and midget porn.

Friend
hahah

2009-06-14T03:05:00.000-04:00

possessive

A property claim like no other--Lockean, perhaps, as your work improves on nature--part of me will always belong to you, in the same way that your life belongs to you. "To own" is to possess not only the object but also "the consequences of producing or earning that object." Of course, no one holds claim to a man's life insofar as that man maintains his ability to choose freely his thoughts and actions. To own something in the manner I'm addressing is not a form of slavery but a path to achieving freedom and "spirituality" and love in its most selfish sense.

To be possessive of something requires an interest, and that interest, if it is a genuinely desired pleasure, comes by productive means--a recognition of your values in conjunction with the effort put forth. Kelley might call possessiveness of humans "selfish benevolence," (and it is) but it isn't. I appears much closer to love than benevolence--which has a standoffish element. But, if I may, I'd like to suggest for purely theoretical purposes, that there might be a semi-emotion different/beyond love or perhaps a subcategory thereof--a feeling of completeness that integrates, differently, the recognition of value and the virtue of production.

(Randians may stop reading this point as I will just go farther and farther away from the Objectivist mythos--a term used ironically, in this instance--into a realm of possible contradiction--not because I find some truth in the illogical but merely as a way to begin structuring my thoughts. Foucault, the obnoxious bastard, did make a brilliant, metaphorical point about new knowledge flowing much easier from the poetic--though unlike Sprig's Phaedrus, I'm not afraid of the eventual "classical" interpretation and classification of my current "romantic" offering. It is, for me, a necessary next step.)

Some basis for my thoughts:

"Love, friendship, respect, admiration are the emotional response of one man to the virtues of another, the spiritual payment given in exchange for the personal, selfish pleasure which one man derives from the virtues of another man’s character."

and

"Productiveness is your acceptance of morality, your recognition of the fact that you choose to live—that productive work is the process by which man’s consciousness controls his existence, a constant process of acquiring knowledge and shaping matter to fit one’s purpose, of translating an idea into physical form, of remaking the earth in the image of one’s values—that all work is creative work if done by a thinking mind, and no work is creative if done by a blank who repeats in uncritical stupor a routine he has learned from others..."

Since the moment you said that you felt possessive of me in some way, I've been working the idea over in my head--perhaps to a fault. All relationships are unique. Some are just more unique than others. And our interactions--however I choose or not choose to define them--are something I doubt I will ever experience with another human being. (It's to be seen whether or not that's a good thing, bad thing, indifferent thing, interesting thing, or otherwise.)

I first thought that it might be a matter of familial association--much like an older sibling helps in the raising of a younger brother or sister and feels a sense of pride and accomplishment when he or she achieves. And certainly this may be a form, sub-category, or other relationship-to-be-determined-later of the "semi-emotion" to which I'm referring. But I don't think it fully satisfies all the criteria of "sameness." (Though if it does, and I'm simply over thinking, mis-thinking, or evading, then I'll kick myself in the shin.)

I'm thinking more of an integration of the Objectivist concepts of love and production, recognizing the brilliance of someone's virtues and, at the same time, actually making that person a better human being--more so than even the best "standard" friendship. Think of actively putting work into another human because you recognize their potential and because you love them for their character--and because you learn as well during the entire process.

Perhaps there was a time when this pseudo-definition best described the relationship between teacher and student--but I fear that time has long past in most instances. Nevertheless, I don't want to abandon the idea just yet.

It seems improbable that even the best teachers feel this way about all their students, but I will consider a "top-notch" educator and his relationship to a brilliant student. In this instance, the teacher loves the student for his ideals--an active pursuit of a healthy mind, dedication to the subject, hard work, etc. Additionally, the teacher puts his own effort into the student during lectures, conferences, feedback on papers, etc. Certainly the teacher takes pride in the student and may even feel a bit possessive of the student when he accomplishes something wonderful.

In a lot of ways, this scenario satisfies the criteria of the "semi-emotion." But consider that the professional relationship of the student and teacher necessarily separate them no matter how strong the teacher's possessive and/or loving feelings. Assuming a normal, appropriate relationship between the two, the student will eventually depart, make his own way in life, and the teacher, though always possessive of the student, teaches new pupils and seldom makes contact. (I realize this is not always the case, especially in higher levels of education. Nonetheless, it's necessary to point out for the purposes of my rambling.)

So, begin with this sort of student/teacher relationship--an integration of love and production--but change it by substituting the professional nature of the interaction with the more relaxed atmosphere of a close friendship. As best I can tell, this sort of possessiveness in this relationship requires a sort of "The Price is Right" effect. It is as close to a romantic love as the parties allow without going over. (Sidenote for the Freudians who might be reading this post: I have no doubt that this sort of experience can happen in friendships between two men or two women without implying that they could ever cross the sexuality line. Even as they approach the peak of this type of interaction, the ledge before "going over" might be blocked by a cement wall with reinforced steel. Unlike a lot of feminist or new "bromance" scholars, I do not mean to imply in any way that heterosexual friends have some sort of underlying, sub-conscious sexual desire for each other. Close does not mean romantic.)

Often the spectrum of love runs on a single axis from "Friendship" to "Romance." Even when a y-axis is added, it often merely represents intensity. Perhaps another way to think about the semi-emotion to which I'm referring is a third axis, a z-axis that represents the extent to which we've influenced someone's life by actively helping them to become a better person.

Why is any of this important to me?

Perhaps its because I still don't fully understand exactly how I feel--more so why my feelings often conflict with the actions I want to take in a given situation versus the actions I plan to take. It's certainly a self-esteem issue, but I'm still trying to identify its source. Many of my close friends swear it's an evasion, and if I ever conclude that they're right, I have a lot of apologizing to do. But right now, even as I reevaluate everything, I conclude that I'm not wrong and that my non-actions are illogical and that the ultimate barrier to my achievements is myself.

I don't want it to be easy. Otherwise there would be no point in my success. Conversely, I don't want it to be impossible. Otherwise there would be no point my trying.

No signs. No hints. No cheat codes. No Game Shark. No clues. No secret passages. No short cuts. No easy buttons. No map. No Virgil. No peaking. No crystal ball. And especially no following when I'm supposed to be leading.

I want to struggle. I want to overcome it. To achieve and make it mine. How primal. And beautifully moral. And beautifully difficult.

2009-06-10T02:35:00.009-04:00

persistence

Marked by the moon, your cheek provides canvas--as the distant light hurriedly dispatches across millions of empty, meaningless miles, evading innumerable obstacles and potential respites for the improbable prospect of finding its purpose in your smile. A fair illumination, despite Romeo's envious satellite, the light draws just attention--not just draws attention--both to your highlighted beauty as well as your presence beyond the rays.

You are here. Like the sun is here--in reflection, in spirit.

A hand transgresses the darkness--as casually as the light is swift--lifting the beam from your face and with it the burden of perception. Notice the difference and ask the question. Take to heart what only you know is the answer. Contrast the hand with your vanished smile, with what is no longer made "object" by a gaze, with the intentions of 10,000 ignorant veils.

Realize, then, that the hand is mine.

Reaching through the tired light toward your cheek, gently gliding as the fingers brush your skin, feeling the intensity of your smile and the clarity of your comfort and the softness of your character, the hand stalls at your lips--stationary but for the pulse, a moment of hesitation, of self-doubt, of "what if," of "what not," of "why not," of "who cares," of reaffirmation. But the time is too great. And its greatness too fleeting. And the light intensifies--painless but bright--until white pervades the spectrum and makes absence the rule.

[...]

Persuaded by the sun, two eyes hesitantly open. Reluctant to acknowledge what the mind has already concluded, a hand reaches out. And where your smile once teased the light into action, a palm finds a pillow--cold to the touch. In the wake of your absence, the hand recoils slightly, feeling foolish and excited and anxious and, among other emotions, everything else.

You were there. Like the light was there--in conception, in love.

But the light remains and with it the "burden" of reality--of realizing that the attainable comes from, not with, the ability to attain, of accepting, not expecting, defeat only if it is just and only if it is real, of running toward life instead of away from death.

There is something to be said about the light. It is actual. It has potential. It is persistent.

The hand guides the body to its back then to its opposite side, away from the pillow. Two eyes blink into focus, fixated. They look beyond the immediate, perceiving the possible:

"Good morning," she says.

2009-05-30T04:07:00.002-04:00

Where once silence meant the absence of noise and, therefore, a solemn emptiness, a new meaning emerges--one of understanding, comfort, self-knowledge. Letting it be--as it is, as I want it to be--a pause encompasses both a moment of introspection and, consequently, the confidence of a mind finally at ease with itself, its perceptions, and the emerging meaning. Filling the silence no longer seems imperative, its potential no longer ominous. It's absurd now to recall that quiet once symbolized the capacity for danger and regret--that given enough time to think you might reconsider "it all" and conclude...whatever it is that one concludes when realizing time has been wasted.

No more. Honestly and confidently: No more.

To revel in my happiness; to consider, thoughtfully, our words; to recollect; to reminisce; to laugh silently; to arrange my thoughts for future interjection; to rest my voice; to consider, in awe, the intricacies of "it all": These are the infinitives that begin in silence.

Jim Burden's words are infinitely perfect. But also consider Antonia's response:

"How can it be like that, when you know so many people, and when I've disappointed you so? Ain't it wonderful, Jim, how much people can mean to each other?"

Intimately perfect.

2009-05-24T17:43:00.005-04:00

I know.

But being reminded first thing in the morning makes for a remarkable day.

Words have a way of motivating us unmatched by other techniques. When they're pleasurable, we consume them, like Alice's cake, and we grow taller for awhile--bounding from one moment to the next with a certain sense of invincibility.

Burke argues that language is symbolic action, that when we speak the words hold the promise of thought transferable into operation. Like most sophists, he is partially right. Words are metaphors for interplay between consciousness and reality. They fill the interstitial space between object and perception. Without them we have no way of dealing with the process of thought and its relationship to the world and our relationship to that interaction. For this reason we distinguish between words and noise, words and grunts, words and mere sound.

Action, even as metaphor, requires something on which to act. There is scarcely any walking without something on which to walk or fighting without something to fight or thinking without thoughts. Why, then, consider language as symbolic action instead of simply action?

The person who has no convictions--no substantial thoughts or beliefs or morals--has nothing for words to act against. For Burke, and other modern relativists, the action is symbolic because he could not imagine a world were someone believed strongly enough in something to be moved by language. (Burke might try to defend himself by citing his belief in propaganda and manipulation as forms of "movement." I'll let you read his work and decide if they're the same thing...)

I remember a time when nothing anyone said moved me--in a positive or negative way. To me language was noise. I prided myself on not being able to be offended. I dared people to try. It wasn't as if I was born without the capacity for taking offense. I just didn't understand what it entailed. And therein I found the horrific duality of living without a morality.

The man with no convictions cannot be moved by the most vile words, but neither can he find meaningful pleasure in the praise of a teacher, adoration of a friend, or love of a significant other. Conversely, the man who believes that all convictions are equal will find himself strangled by competing emotions and consumed by every whim of his subconscious. Unable to discern which "offense" or "pleasure" takes precedence, he follows them all--blindly and without the comfort of certainty.

The number one criticism leveled against me--when I try to explain to people how I've decided to live my life--is that I'm "emotionless," a "robot," "without feeling." I can't help but smile even writing these words. It's impossible to show them the vast difference from where I was to where I am. No physical distance metaphor accurately describes how far I've come in terms of emotions. I find myself moved not only to anger by offensive words--described previously--but to tears by what seemed liked trivial matters to me before: song lyrics, 80s cartoon plots, quotes from books, art, etc.

It's a misunderstanding to think that my goal is to suppress my emotions. An emotionless life is a contradiction in terms. Stillness is the antithesis of life. If you cannot move, you cannot live--physically or "symbolically."

Understanding something does not destroy it--like Phaedrus claims in Zen. Understanding emotion allowed me to experience it in a way that I never thought possible--in a way that allows me movement and excitement and happiness.

And so I've moved through the day with a heightened sense of awareness and pleasure, taking to each task a remarkable attitude--one of exhilarated pride--and a feeling of being just slightly taller than I was yesterday. Some people might think my actions--physical and verbal--an overreaction to something as inconsequential as text, expression, "words." Hark! When you understand your emotions, you realize that there can be no such thing as an overreaction.

All of this--from five words at 6:53 a.m.

2009-05-17T18:18:00.002-04:00

If I desire a soda, I walk to the refrigerator and retrieve one. If I desire entertainment, I watch an episode of House or read a book or play a game or sing at the top of my lungs when no one is home. If I desire creative fulfillment, I start a project and work on it until I'm satisfied--often until it is complete.

But what if I desire something beyond my immediate reach? What if, for example, I desire a red velvet cupcake from Sprinkles in Dallas, TX?

I am not beyond fulfilling my desires no matter the cost--based on my rational self-interest--being aggressive to achieve a certain end. Except in one instance. In one "genre" of desire.

And the cupcake seems a terrible metaphor. Enjoy terrible metaphors. (Schrodinger had a cat. I have a cupcake.) If I desire a cupcake, assuming I've considered the physical and philosophical implications of consuming it, and, presumably (what an ominous word), the only thing stopping me from having said cake in a cup is my willingness to obtain it and the "finances"--both of which I have--then it would seem absurdly self-interested and even moral to plan a day trip.

Yet a soda is not a cupcake and a cupcake is not a cat. And so on. And on so. And what of the cupcake's free will? What if it won't be had even by willingness and "finances"?

And there it is. The question mark that negates transactions. The swirly sword of infinite resignation.

Oh, what the hell. Airplanes are fun. Trips are fun. Even if I don't return with the pastry.

---------------------------------------------------------

This is all true.

2009-04-18T01:18:00.002-04:00

I've never been accused of being affectionate--let alone too affectionate. Perhaps it's time.

2009-04-06T02:54:00.008-04:00

putting words in your mouth

"Wake up," she said in my head, in my dream about waking up and seeing her there. "Wake up from this five minutes rest and kindly remember what you've known through and through since that night in September. Layers of complexity are perplex, I see, but they are not a different answer, different path, or different key. It's the same as it has always been--until it isn't. It's the same as it always will be until it's no longer so. The words change; the meaning doesn't. The melody lilts, but the song stays the same. A non-choice is a 'no' but a non-choice in this voice makes me wonder, 'How so?' There is no avoiding choice only deciding not to partake--which is a decision I'm willing to make and one you're willing to accept and one that ultimately means your choice is my choice by means of not choosing. And what are you losing by my frank non-decision? Nothing less, nothing more--by choice and definition. What I offer you is what I have always offered you--until it's more. It's the same as it always will be until I have the confidence to decide to decide. My words change--their meaning only slightly. The tempo wanes, but the song stays the same. My missing you neither means that 'to miss' rhymes with 'kiss' nor that poetic license requires you dismiss what you want to shout into that massive space between our phones and our ears, 'I would give anything to silence your fears with an embrace lasting into tomorrow's dawn. (Like that one in the doorway when you confessed your confusion about where this had gone and I reassured you that going is not the same as too late--and you said that you'd taught me that when I was in slightly different psychological state.) I would give anything to know that you're safe at night as I watch you dreaming, to know that you're rested as I watch you awake, to know that you're happy as I watch you laugh--to know by my presence instead of my phone.' But you don't condone saying this directly--only through metaphor and pretentiously long sentences and not-poetry where words have meaning but also infinitude. Where express expression and intimate confession create a cathartic experience and intellectual progression. Where I love you means I love you--until it doesn't. Where it's the same as it always has been until it's 'yes' instead of 'no.' (The 'word' changes--the meaning most of all.) Where the rhythm advances, but the song stays the same."

2009-03-30T02:14:00.004-04:00

I'm lucky, I thought, that this decision means for me what all of your decisions have meant. Nothing less (by choice) and nothing more (by definition). The mere--though how inconceivably not-mere--conversation reaffirms it since its very existence presupposes the achievement of a goal I once told myself was unattainable.

I'm lucky, I thought, to have been "given" the "chance" by god, Bog, and the rest to make the "right" choices--properly understood--in the "right" contexts. Like Ms. Taggart, I realize that tomorrow is not an abstract understanding of impending difficult decisions and relentless quagmires. Tomorrow is another day of my life--another opportunity to demonstrate my love of knowing, beyond any doubt, the fact that I exist and understanding its implications.

I'm lucky, I recognize, to have found someone else--and how!--that understands the unintended evil, but evil nonetheless, behind the suppression of desire, behind the sacrificial slaughter of pleasure to asceticism, behind telling someone to withhold "I love you" not because it isn't true but because people believe that truth can be offensive.

I'm lucky, I recognize, to comprehend so clearly A is A and that which happens happens. And whatever "A" chooses to represent, it will be "nothing more" than proof of what I already know--because nothing more, in that sense, is possible.

I'm lucky, I know, to have a glimpse of your beautiful rational faculties even from hundreds of miles away, to have my lifevalues inexorably intertwined with yours, and, most importantly, to understand that no matter where our choices lead us--or to whom our choices lead us--my "luck" in life would have been remarkably lessened, and perhaps impossible, without your charm.

I know that regardless of your choice--not to discount my rational self-interest in the matter--my luck does not end where your decision begins. I love you because I love you. The recognition of that "I" is not choice-dependent. It is a constant, an absolute within the context of the recognition of my existence. It is, necessarily, a value-laden realization that whispers softly but with fervent desire:

Pssst! It was always lemon. And it always will be.

2009-03-25T00:12:00.002-04:00

You have a lot more power than you realize and a lot less power than I realize. It's as if, metaphorically speaking, you're not living up to your potential and, at the same time, I'm giving you too much credit--and neither is necessarily a negative (at this point).

Weird, eh?

Not if you consider absolute truth within a context.

Non sequitur (or is it?):

Words have meaning. Ideas have consequences. Nothing operates in a vacuum--especially culture and love.

Non sequitur (or is it?):

I once professed that I could never be offended. How naive a statement. It was, I suppose, that I could not understand the concept of being so deeply moved by a remark--mere "words"--that it would cause me emotional distress. It is a mockery of the term "offend" to use it in a non-personal context. No one is offended by a wardrobe malfunction at the Super Bowl or nativity scene in the town square. People may find those displays distasteful or inappropriate or "gross" or scary--but not offensive. A "people" cannot be offended. Only a person can be offended. And an offense comes not from experiencing something you do not like but from a violation of your values by someone you trusted not to do so and whose opinion you value. Consequently, it is impossible to be offended by a known scoundrel, a person without the capacity to control his or her language, or your known enemy. That being said, it seems silly to take offense to the truth or a statement made with a lack of knowledge--assuming the statement is recanted once the knowledge is available. These criteria leave very few experiences that fit into the "offensive" category, but they also acknowledge that truly offensive statements are not something to be taken lightly. With these constraints in mind, consider what it means to be offended: You are, essentially, betrayed--though that word has some interesting connotations about motive that I do not (necessarily) intend--by someone you trust through an experience that violates one or more of your core beliefs--values that you have "grokked" honestly by your rationality that guide your life. To be offended is not to acknowledge that you derive your self-esteem from someone else's opinion. It is, in fact, a recognition that your values are what drive your life, and that you take those values very seriously. A violation of those values, even in jest, is not tolerable. As long as it's not a reoccurring theme, a joke may be forgiven as a slip of the tongue or repudiated quickly by mentioning that the joke isn't all that funny--some things are just too important.

Non sequitur (or is it?):

Fundamentally, all I have are my actions. The corollary of that statement--as much as I dislike Kenneth Burke--is that "words are symbolic action." My "word," in fact, is a metaphor for my integrity and honesty and love of justice. Stripped of all other bartering tools, my reasoning mind gives me my actions and my symbolic actions as a means of dealing with other people. Therefore, I take both of these very seriously.

Non sequitur (or is it?):

I consider myself to be a very honest and open person. It is not in my rational self-interest to evade truth or reality. I often spend hours--if not days or months--critically reflecting on different aspects of my life searching for contradictions, false conclusions, and outright evasions. To date, I think I have a fairly high success rate, and I only continue to improve.

Non sequitur (or is it?):

The foundational criterion for someone to be considered my friend--the one value on which all my other criteria are built--is that he or she trust me. I'm not speaking about classmates, acquaintances, roommates, or even people with whom I hang out occasionally. I refer only to the few people with whom I have a close enough relationship that I have earned their trust and trust them in return. This point, however, does not imply that we agree on everything or that our trust is a substitute for our own judgment or that the trust is infallible and perpetual. Trust, like all relationships, is based on values within a context. If those values change or if the context changes, then the trust must be reevaluated. What I mean by trust is the knowledge that our relationship is built on common values: "Love, friendship, respect, admiration are the emotional response of one man to the virtues of another, the spiritual payment given in exchange for the personal, selfish pleasure which one man derives from the virtues of another man’s character." What you trust is that I have no ulterior motives for our relationship, that I am not manipulating you as a means to an end, that I am not sacrificing your life for mine for any reason. What you trust is that we deal with each other not as beggars, looters, second-handers, or murderers but as traders. "A trader is a man who earns what he gets and does not give or take the undeserved. A trader does not ask to be paid for his failures, nor does he ask to be loved for his flaws. A trader does not squander his body as fodder or his soul as alms. Just as he does not give his work except in trade for material values, so he does not give the values of his spirit—his love, his friendship, his esteem—except in payment and in trade for human virtues, in payment for his own selfish pleasure, which he receives from men he can respect." Without this level of trust, there is no friendship. Acquaintance, yes. Someone to hang out with in group settings, perhaps. But I cannot trade my value with anyone who believes it is a faulty transaction from the beginning.

Non sequitur (or is it?):

It is often pointless to be angry or resentful, so I'm not. And I won't be. I love life too much to waste it with any form of regret.

Non sequitur (or is it?):

There is a nuanced philosophical difference between "expect" and "deserve" that I want to explore later. This note will remind me to do so: You may deserve something you don't expect, but you cannot expect something you don't deserve. This idea has some interesting implications for love and relationships, methinks.

2009-03-08T01:47:00.005-05:00

on emotions and knowledge

Emotions make life worth living while, at times, challenging us to question our rational faculties by putting them at odds with our feelings. (A man who claims control over his emotions is not a liar but neither is he a wordsmith. Men no more "control" their emotions than they do their hunger. A rational man understands hunger and acts accordingly. The man who "controls" his emotions understands them and also acts accordingly. And just as men may change their eating habits, decide when and how to eat, and learn to manage their appetites, so also can men change their emotional habits, decide when and how to act on their emotions, and manage their emotional appetites.) Far too often, when an emotion conflicts with our rational decision we conclude one of two things: either our emotions are irreconcilable with rationality or the decision we made was incorrect. While the latter might be true--based on a proper understanding of "emotion"--the former is necessarily false.

"Your subconscious is like a computer—more complex a computer than men can build—and its main function is the integration of your ideas. Who programs it? Your conscious mind. If you default, if you don’t reach any firm convictions, your subconscious is programmed by chance—and you deliver yourself into the power of ideas you do not know you have accepted. But one way or the other, your computer gives you print-outs, daily and hourly, in the form of emotions—which are lightning-like estimates of the things around you, calculated according to your values."

Emotions, though, are not as immediately rewritten as a logical construct. Emotional response builds up over years of programming. Eventually, some logical processes become automatic. That is, they become emotions.

For instance, if a man continually finds high values in someone's character, he grows to love that person. It is impossible for him to love a stranger since their values are unknown. (Unless our hypothetical man ONLY values physical appearance--which I suppose is possible but unlikely.) But as he gets to know the stranger (Betty) and identifies the values, he gains pleasure from the interaction. Over time the pleasure becomes such a positive experience that the man's mind decides to automate the process to conserve logical processing power. His mind formulates the emotion "love."

His love is necessarily conditional and necessarily contextual. If the conditions or context change, then the man becomes confused and may even decide that the changes are enough to stop loving Betty. But even as he consciously understands that it is no longer in his rational self interest to love, he finds it incredibly difficult to halt his emotions. He might become distraught, angry, or otherwise fed up with feeling "that way" for someone who no longer deserves it.

If a newly formed conclusion stands in opposition to an emotion, you have to understand why in order to make a value judgment about both the conclusion and the emotion. Note:

"Learn to distinguish the difference between errors of knowledge and breaches of morality. An error of knowledge is not a moral flaw, provided you are willing to correct it; only a mystic would judge human beings by the standard of an impossible, automatic omniscience. But a breach of morality is the conscious choice of an action you know to be evil, or a willful evasion of knowledge, a suspension of sight and of thought. That which you do not know, is not a moral charge against you; but that which you refuse to know, is an account of infamy growing in your soul."

(In our situation, Betty represented herself as pure--as pure as a South Carolina snow storm in March. Betty was, in fact, a whore. And when the man found out, he decided not to love her. His was an error of knowledge. He had no way of knowing that Betty's representation was, in fact, a misrepresentation. He is neither God nor Greg House; therefore, he is not omniscient. He cannot be blamed for giving his love to someone who was hiding her true character. If he decided to ignore Betty's whoreishness even though it deeply conflicted with his values, then he would also be committing an act of evasion and, ultimately, a breach of morality. But for the sake of this argument, he's making the (right) choice to no longer love (ugly) Betty.)

The man's emotions conflict with his decisions because the automated processes of his mind are confused by their new orders. They had been programmed to accompany being around Betty with the values that caused the emotion love. Seeing Betty resulted in pleasure, and the man's body liked it--was addicted to it--as we're all addicted to pleasure. The man must now struggle to reprogram a computer that does not want any such reprogramming. It wants what its always had: Betty (as a representation of an achievement of values). His mind can certainly be reprogrammed. Over time the new logical processes--Betty as a representation of misrepresentation--will over write the old code.

(It's hard to say if the old programming ever goes away. It depends greatly on how deep the attachment was and the will of the programmer. Its as if the programming is written in ink. Sure, it can be erased, but it almost always leaves traces of its previous message.)

Of course, the man's automated processes do not stop receiving orders during this entire process. They start writing new reports about "love" and how it actually sucks. His brain goes emo. It creates a new automated logical process in the form of the emotion fear (of attachment). The hypothetical man finds it difficult to form new relationships because he's overly suspicious, paranoid, and afraid of abandonment. He certainly enjoyed the pleasure of loving Betty, but he also wants to avoid the pain of having to experience another break up.

Its a vicious cycle but not one that's impossible to break. His rational mind keeps up with the reprogramming and, over time, his emotions stop conflicting with his conclusions--but it doesn't happen instantly. It can't and shouldn't.

Consider the ramifications of emotions forming as quickly as logical conclusions. Emotions form over time because we're fallible. That may seem contradictory, but it is, in fact, a fail safe mechanism to help us deal with the world. We do not know everything, so our mind gives us time to find out, to make multiple rational conclusions, and to make sure that our investment is worth the emotion. And, yes, we are sometimes rewarded with emotions for situations that turn out to be something other than they appear. These situations, though, should not be used to damn our emotions but to damn the people that evade reality. They are literally messing with our minds by perpetrating lies. In falling victim to these evasions, we make an error of knowledge while they breach morality.

2009-03-02T00:54:00.003-05:00

Sometimes I feel like we're middle school boys, you and I, sitting in our backyard playing with a junior chemistry set. I glance over at you and excitedly declare, "OK, now try this!" Our mixtures occasionally create beautiful little puffs of smoke and we stare in awe. Just as often, though, our experimenting results in annoying explosions. And not the cool kind of explosions, either--the Michael Bay kind that merely distracts us from what's actually happening. But whether we see the colorful flashes or the frightening detonations, it's difficult for our adolescent minds to determine how they came to be. We're ultimately messing with something we don't understand, that we want deeply to understand--that we need to understand. But unlike actual chemistry, we can't learn it from a book or a professor or those naughty sites on the Internet that our moms tell us to avoid. (Yes. Those naughty chemistry sites.) We have to learn it by causing more explosions. And more puffs of colored smoke. And even more explosions.

Now if only we had started when we were actually in middle school...

2009-03-01T21:17:00.002-05:00

"[The argument about words versus actions] is not important. It doesn't matter which signs/clues are more important, because what's most important is whether they have fun together, whether they make each other happy."

2009-02-28T02:04:00.003-05:00

It's hard to decide when every decision feels like the wrong one. And here we see the problem of using feelings as decision-making tools. One decision is not wrong, but I can only know after the fact. Cruel. But incredibly exciting.

Also, cruel.

Also, exciting.

-------------------------------------------------------------

On third thought, why does only one decision have to be right?

2009-02-23T01:53:00.001-05:00

I stand by my previous post 100%.

2009-02-22T04:11:00.002-05:00

I'd still rather be me, but I am learning a lot from you--your passion for the "minutia" of life and everything it entails. Bad luck may follow you in games of chance, but in the cliche "game" you (clichely) make your own luck. And what an amazing concept I'm just beginning to embrace. My personal diagnosis: A classic case of mind/body dichotomy. Since my rediscovery of reason, I've been adamant about my philosophy and how it guides my intellectual and professional life--to talk in dichotomous terms. Yet I've been slow, if not reluctant, to apply the same sort of practical application of philosophy to my personal life. It happens. Slowly--not even methodically, just slowly. Not quickly enough, though. And here you are. A living example of how to do it--even if, at times, you have no idea what you're doing--an inspiration if not a model. But both more often than not.

----------------------------------------------------------

Judd Apatow has become one of my all time favorite writer/directors. Praise be to him.

2009-02-11T02:14:00.003-05:00

We are now, officially, old enough for drama--though I'm sure you'd argue that we were never too young.

Fine. Perhaps. But we're definitely old enough now.

So your apology for the dramatic seems unnecessary, yet I find it fascinating that it's the part for which you feel the need to apologize.

Funny, isn't it, that not so long ago it was I who had a long way to go before I could stop feeling inferior--many thanks to Mihm, Hesse, AJE, Rand, and others. I "got" there "some day." And yet it wasn't too late--because neither my self-esteem nor time were the proper conditions under which the referent "it" would necessarily change.

"Everything is conditional," says House. "You just can't always anticipate the conditions." Love is conditional. You just can't always anticipate the conditions. Life is conditional. You just can't always anticipate the conditions. My life is conditional. You just can't always anticipate the conditions. Your life is conditional. I just can't always anticipate the conditions. ("You" and "I" bolded in two separate sentences about the conditions of love, life: Apropos.)

When you say, "It just might be too late," I literally do not know what you mean. I know how to read the combination of words, to put together what they might mean in other contexts--e.g. if I can't get on the heart transplant list, "it just might be too late." But aside from their structural meaning, I cannot understand their significance or point. Very seldom can I admit such an ignorance of contextual meaning (outside of my short-lived discussions of time travel), but in this situation, it seems more appropriate to be forthright with this feeling of "uh...woof" than to disregard it and pretend to know. Faked knowledge is an evasion of reality, and I've been trying to evade evasion for quite some time now.

The following is a list of my expectations to rectify my ignorance:
[null set]

The following is a list of my desires to rectify my ignorance:
1. Converse.
2. Not make assumptions no matter how grand or minuscule.
3. Go on living my life.
4. Who is John Galt?

I am not making mole hills out of mountains or mountains out of Floam or mountains out of macaroni and Elmer's glue. The meaning you ascribe to your words is important to my rational self-interest in many different ways, but not more important than my life. The meaning you ascribe to your words is important to your rational self-interest in many different ways, but not more important than my life.

A is A. What is B, I wonder...

Yet I'm reminded of another House moment:

Wilson: I'm curious...
House: No you're not.

Is this entire post rhetorical? What's the alternative? Who is John Galt?
[Fact.]

A student recently said to me, "I see the point, and I have no counter argument, but I disagree." The basis for his disagreement was the fact that he wanted the point to be false. The Universe doesn't care what you believe. Somehow, though, I think this entire post is connected in some weird sort of way. I don't have time to think about it. I'll just assume it's true.

2009-02-08T02:18:00.002-05:00

deus ex machina

There are moments when we have our own flashbacks--brief and fleeting an intensely moving. Something we experience sends us back, filling in a forgotten moment of a life that resembles our own but somehow fascinates us with its simplicity. They're not revelations--but scenes. They're not memories in the immediate sense--but shots, angles, arcs. The mind's peripheral vision: items moving toward and away from clarity with our focus and the lighting. Something reminds us of that cut and we relive it. And it retells a part of the story, a part long since un-remembered--not in the bad or painful sense, more so a rank ordering. Was it, at the time, important that I remembered the theme to "Fraggle Rock"? No. But having that flashback, that brief cut, allowed me to make a connection--a connection I had un-remembered. It moved the plot: unexpectedly.

2009-02-06T20:49:00.001-05:00

If you're afraid to look silly once in a while, nothing good will ever happen.

Thank you, old guy on House.

2009-02-02T01:51:00.001-05:00

reprinted from Facebook for those of you that think it's the devil

I AM SHEEP (or 25 Things)

Rules [modified for future madlibbing]: Once you've been [verb], you are supposed to [verb] a [noun] with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about [you]. At the end, choose [number] [noun] to be [verb]. You have to [verb] the [proper noun] who [verb] you. If [noun] [verb] [direct object], it's because I want to know more about you. [Also, bored.]

1. I am half-Mexican (the left half), but I have not identified myself as such on any unofficial government forms since sixth grade--when I attempted to fill in half of the "Caucasian" circle and half of the "Hispanic" circle on a standardized test. My teacher protested. Instead, I filled in "Other" and wrote "American." I now use my race only in socially awkward situations when someone tells me I wouldn't understand the plight of minorities because I'm white.

2. My "Star Wars" collection is absurdly large and absurdly nerdy, filling two rooms of my house. It will, hopefully, pay for something less nerdy in the future. Like an Edward Tufte sculpture.

3. I have, undoubtedly, been in love--and plan to be again.

4. Before spring break 2008, I was drunk only one other time in my life. I was nine. My mother used to drink vodka and cranberry--moreso straight vodka with a splash of red coloring. Coming home from t-ball one day (4b. I used to play t-ball and baseball.), I saw my mother's red-colored vodka and mistook it for virgin cranberry juice. I downed it. I had to sit down for a while. (4c. I do not like vodka to this day.)

5. Like John Scott, I'm told at least daily that I look like Ashton Kutcher. (5b. That was a lie.) (5c. I have been told, at various points in my life, that I look like: Wayne Knight or Newman from "Seinfeld," Pavarotti, and the professor from "Sliders.") (5d. I have no idea what these people have in common.)

6. I have no pet peeves--only absolute moral imperatives.

7. My first dog was a pug named Simon. It was the first and only time I remember crying because of a Christmas present.

8. I seriously considered dropping out of school after my sophomore year of college, having been convinced by existential philosophers, politicians, and our culture that life was meaningless. I cannot be sure, but "Atlas Shrugged" may have literally saved my life.

9. A corollary to number 8--that deserves it's own number, nonetheless--is that I firmly believe that I'm the most important person in my life and that my happiness, derived from my rational self-interest, is the meaning of life.

10. If JML's fantasies came true and we could all travel in time, I would not want to meet my high school self--nor would any of you. I pity those who have. Looking back, my goal in high school was not to learn or engage in any sort of rational thought or present any solutions of my own, but to make everyone's arguments look bad. Basically, I was on my way to a PhD in a modern philosophy program.

11. I am often incredibly quick to decide whether or not I will like you or want to be your friend. Remarkably, I'm right a great majority of the time. I have only been REALLY wrong once. My bad, ARM.

12. I am a member of a social fraternity. Our values are music-based, but we are not honorary or professional. Yeah, I'm a frat guy. Wanna fight about it?

14. I have an irrational fear of spiders and the number 13.

15. Nature has no appeal to me except as resources for production. It never has. Lakes do not make me sigh; mountains do not make me weep; the sky does not make me feel small. In high school, I started a "Pave the Earth" campaign to increase the availability of parking at my favorite store, my temple, my Mecca: Walmart.

16. After getting to know people, they often tell me that upon our first meeting they had two distinctly different thoughts: A) My voice is much higher than they expected. B) I scared them. Yes, I sing tenor--always have. The choir director at my church told me I was going to grow up to "sing a lovely baritone." When my voice changed, I gained fewer than three steps to the bottom of my range. (16b. I would trade any of my talents to sing bass or play jazz piano.) For whatever reason, though, my piercing tenor voice does not make me any less intimidating. I work hard to tone down the intimidation factor, but it may come from the fact that:

17. I am terrible at small talk. It's a "skill" I've only recently tried to learn, having previously disregarded it as useless. Nonetheless, I'm still at a loss for how to start a conversation with someone I don't know. I'd just so much rather talk about politics, religion, philosophy, current affairs, or pop culture.

18. Several people have told me that I'm the "smartest person" they know. I often reply, "You need to get out more." Confidence can be mistaken for intelligence if done right. Not that I would do such a thing...

19. I was never a confident person. I am now. In most matters. (19a. I'm incredibly confident when I'm teaching.)

20. I cannot be true friends with someone who does not believe in the primacy of reality. I can "get along" with them. I can work with them. I can even be acquaintances. But I cannot invest time and energy into people who believe we live in the Matrix.

21. There are at least three people I could not tag in this note because they do not have Facebook. Can you guess which three? (21b. No, you can't.)

22. I was a terrible, but clever, child. Evidence: A) I once shouted, "Where's my G-D Coke?" at a waitress. When she brought it, I decided I wanted to take it home with me, so I poured it in my mother's purse. B) My mother once scolded me for not finishing my spaghetti. She said, "There are starving children in Africa that would love to have this food." I got up from the table with my plate and proceeded to pour it into an envelope. I told her, "Send it to them." C) Upon seeing a black man for the first time, I started pointing in the middle of White Castle and rather loudly exclaiming, "Look, mom! A chocolate man! He's made of chocolate!" We immediately left.

23. I love you all, but to be completely honest, there is only one person tagged in this note that I would like to know more about per the "rules" of this note game. Fight amongst yourselves. (23b. I love inciting riots.) (23c. Among my friends.)

24. My favorite food ever: Gyros. A close second would have to be homemade tamales. [See number 1.] (24b. One of my close friends in high school used to call me "refried bean" because I was half Mexican.)

25. I'm often reluctant to consider "things" that are "popular." I'm skeptical of anything new. In fact, I did not even consider doing one of these "25 Things" until I saw Danny Rowland's. He gets a free tag for the inspiration. Knowing him, he'll be elated.

26. [Don't freak out that I'm on number 26. See number 13.] Some of the best advice I've ever been given is to live my life without regrets. From the time I received that advice on, I've done so to the best of my ability. And it has been glorious.

rock,

DTR

2009-01-30T00:20:00.000-05:00

"You only get put on the friends ladder if you suppress your own desires." - someone smarter than me

2009-01-27T18:50:00.002-05:00

Academic: Breaking - I'm not prepared to be an academic--a teacher, perhaps, but not an academic. With every word I write, I think about the meaninglessness of my action. My topic has been so bastardized by certain "orders" or "discourse" that it has lost its significance to me. Like a defeated Roarkian (an oxymoron?) or moreso a pre-Galtian Rearden, my efforts to salvage what's left of an atrocity are futile and, perhaps, even immoral. And today I learn that the mutant proposal--which I allowed them to create--is not even good enough. I must be fair to all theories. Even my thesis must be multicultural / postmodern / dead. If someone said to you, "Even if you believe in the value of your own life, you must consider the fact that it's not valuable at all for the sake of everyone else who think's their life is worthless," what would you do? Would you make the argument? The proper response, it seems to me, is to punch them in the face and walk away. But that won't get me a master's degree in most states. This isn't Alaska for God's sake.

Social: Breathing - Aren't I always?

Personal: Confused - Aren't I always? No. That's not fair to me. In a time when I feel as if I'm able to live more freely than ever before, it seems as if I don't know what to do with my new found freedom.

2009-01-24T19:59:00.001-05:00

on duty

This link is the perfect example of what I mean when I say that I have neither the time nor the desire to restate arguments that have already been made.

2009-01-24T02:13:00.002-05:00

Taxation is theft.
I am against theft.
Therefore, I am against taxation.

All taxation.

If only a crazy person can hold such a view, then I wholeheartedly accept my insanity and unrepentantly damn the sane.

She can explain. I don't have the time or the patience to repeat what's been said.

You may gladly pay any taxes you'd like to the government. Cut them a check. Send 90% of your paycheck. They'd accept it. They'd even tell you you're moral for doing so. It's just money. What's the big deal? It's just paper. Paper with no attachment to reality. With no attachment to production. With no attachment to value. It's nothing. What's one more percent? Two? Three? Four? Five? Six? Seven? Eight? Nine? Ten? Eleven? Twelve? Thirteen? Fourteen? Fifteen? Sixteen? Seventeen? Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty?

The question is not whether you should pay more in taxes. The question is whether you have the right to make someone else pay more in taxes. What hold do you have over another man's life? His production? What right do you have to his time and effort? By what right do you hold a gun to his head and say that he must work for his "brothers and sisters?" Show me that right, please. I didn't say "should" or "ought" or "it would be nice if." I said "right." Show me that right.

Since you are undoubtedly tired of reading Ayn Rand quotes, no matter their truth value, I'll leave with some from another writer I greatly admire:

"A democracy is nothing more than mob rule, where fifty-one percent of the people may take away the rights of the other forty-nine." - Thomas Jefferson

"A wise and frugal government, which shall leave men free to regulate their own pursuits of industry and improvement, and shall not take from the mouth of labor and bread it has earned - this is the sum of good government." - Thomas Jefferson

"There is a natural aristocracy among men. The grounds of this are virtue and talents." - Thomas Jefferson

"To compel a man to furnish funds for the propagation of ideas he disbelieves and abhors is sinful and tyrannical." - Thomas Jefferson

"I predict future happiness for Americans if they can prevent the government from wasting the labors of the people under the pretense of taking care of them." - Thomas Jefferson

"Force is the vital principle and immediate parent of despotism." - Thomas Jefferson

How far we've come.

2009-01-20T01:28:00.006-05:00

Why do people think I'm joking when I gleefully cheer impending socialism? I welcome it with open arms and wallet. I emphatically pre-endorse every collectivist policy that President Obama and the Democrat Congress plan to pass.

When universal health care arrives, my health will be the envy of my friends. At even the thought of sickness I will schedule a visit to my doctor. I'll take every drug s/he prescribes until the refills run dry. Headache? Doctor. Stubbed toe? Doctor. Tired? Doctor. Angry at my roommates? Doctor. I plan to take full advantage of such a program and encourage everyone else to do the same. Hell. I'm not paying for it!

Likewise, I will relish in my tax cuts, tax breaks, or any welfare system enacted. If only those making $250,000 or more are to be taxed then I will plan my life accordingly. My salary will cap at $249,999. I'd certainly like to work hard and make more, but we all have to make sacrifices in these troubled times.

The left is right. (See what I did there?) It's about time some of these rich people started paying for my well being. They have so much money. It's absurd. What right do they have to it? The only right any of us really has is the right to obey the majority. Individual rights are as antiquated as the second amendment. I don't own a gun. I've never fired a gun. And I don't plan on owning a gun. So if they're banned, restricted, or taxed, I suppose it won't bother me in the slightest. At least they'll finally be out of the hands of criminals.

Nationalizing the banks? That's fine with me. Why would I care? If it works, it must be right. While we're at it, we should nationalize the car companies so this whole "bankruptcy" thing doesn't happen again. Our government has a great track record with managing money. Or, at least, it will with Obama in office.

Oh, change can you see by the dawn's early change
What so proudly we changed at the twilight's last changing?
Whose broad change and bright hope thru the perilous Bush,
O'er the changes we changed were so gallantly changing?
And the rocket's red change, the bombs bursting in change,
Gave change through the night that our change was still change.
Oh, change change that change-spangled banner yet change
O'er the land of the change and the home of the change?

Play change.

2009-01-17T01:14:00.001-05:00

Kevin James perpetuates "the lie." And no. The lie is not that Kevin James is funny. He is often funny-ish.

2009-01-14T01:11:00.002-05:00

"Giddy" is often a good thing. Most of the time, at least. And in this case as well. It's an accomplishment--or as the French say: "accomplissement"--something to take pride in.

Giddy-pride. (Sounds too much like "gay pride.") Prideful giddiness. (Eh.)

Giddy is a terrible word phonetically. It's not manly at all.

2009-01-12T00:38:00.002-05:00

Do you want to...
Yes.

Strrrrrrike one!

How about...
Sure, sounds great.

Swing and a miss!

Well, I still want to... Do you?
Yes, absolutely.

Strike three! You are outta here!

Good thing I have two more batters. And it's only the bottom of the second.

(Was that a sports metaphor? On this blog? My, my how things change.)

------------------------------------------------------------------

Yes, BRT, that was four exclamation points in one post.

2009-01-07T00:39:00.002-05:00

It's I who have won in this situation, you know. It's not a "sad" feeling to glance or a "depressing" feeling to emote. Awkward? Ok, yes, a bit. But more so invigorating.

------------------------------

When you say, "I want to share an experience with you," what power are you conceding? Does the content of someone's answer change based on your saying what you desire? Does your mere expression disqualify you from its attainment? Is acknowledgment of reality the ultimate turn off? It might be more appropriate to ask, "Should I be interested in someone for whom the acknowledgment of reality is the ultimate turn off?" It could become a litmus test.

Dagny didn't believe that he was possible. She was ready to die searching for an ideal.
(Dagny is a fictional character.)
(He is a fictional character.)

I didn't believe that she was possible. She is not the ideal--for the simple fact that I am not her ideal--but she is an acknowledgment of the possibility. For me. I am ready to die searching for an ideal.
(I am not a fictional character.)
(She is not a fictional character.)

You¹ do not believe that she is possible. You¹ are ready to die not searching for an ideal.
(You¹ are not a fictional character.)
(She is a fictional character.)

Nuances of possibility and actuality.

2009-01-03T03:36:00.014-05:00

What do you think it was that I thought when you opened the door and entertained the idea of aesthetic supremacy--of knowing a Platonic ideal through the witness of beauty? (It's nonsense, you know, what they say about Platonic love. "Selfless love" is neither selfless nor love. How flattering to say, "I derive no pleasure from loving you." Platonic "love"--a bastardization of the term--is more so a prison than an emotion, more so a self-imposed panopticon of shame.) But Plato may have been on to something he could not understand. (People who don't believe in the primacy of reality cannot comprehend its frighteningly beautiful complexity. You may ask anything of "philosophers" except that they admit what they see.) "Ideal forms" exist but not in some higher realm. (What higher realm exists besides that which I can achieve with my life?) Death is not a prerequisite for their attainment. But truth is. And ego. And happiness.

What do you think it was that I thought when you commented on my "looking great"--aside from my Payless shoes? It wasn't that I was the luckiest man in the Universe wearing cheap footwear--though it probably should have been. It wasn't that I was overwhelmed with happiness to be blessed with this evening--though it probably should have been. It wasn't that "love sometimes occurs without pain or misery." Or that "the idea of you is part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times when I don't realize it." Or that "[a man] will always be attracted to the woman who reflects his deepest vision of himself, the woman whose surrender permits him to experience--or to fake--a sense of self-esteem."

What was it, then, that pervaded my senses--both physical and spider--when your hair draped your shoulders to hide them from undesired glances--as if there were such a thing--when your red dress refused, demanding eyes and everything they bring and everything they imply and everything you want them to bring and imply? (Like looking at a sculpture except that art represents the potentiality of man and you the reality. And the actual is much more exciting than the potential, let me tell you.)

I thought to myself, and no one else, that you deserved something tonight that I couldn't provide: a date. (There is something to be said for independence--something grand and profound and incredibly important. But your independence is not dependent on your relationship status on Facebook.) Every new year that passes with our celebration is one without your celebration. A travesty of told--though still unbelievable--proportions.

Don't think me an ingrate. Or a fool. Or whatever else you're thinking of me. Every moment I have the privilege of spending with you provides me incalculable happiness--pure, unadulterated, selfish happiness. "And you think it's not the same for me," you ask? "You are my friend and I love you." To which I reply: It's not the same. And you know it's not. (And I'm still not scolding you.)

And it's OK, your difference in experience. More than OK, even.

It's beautiful.

But it's also not something I want for you for/ever. "That's awfully selfish to want something for me? What if I don't want it?" The first hypothetical question invalidates the second. How's this for your double meaning: I want for you but I can't actually want for you--no more than I can breath or think or move for you, no more than I can make you want or give you permission.

You're allowed, killer. And you should take every advantage. I do. And I will continue.

How's that for scolding?

2008-12-21T10:13:00.002-05:00

Maybe it's the hotcake syrup talking, but today sucks. The temperature is approximately -infinity and the metropolis I call home hasn't had power for going on twelve hours. It is so cold [how cold is it?] that the Diet Dr. Pepper in my bedroom has turned to Diet Dr. Pepper icee--and not the good kind that AJE used to get at that gas station. The bad kind, the kind that tastes watered down and anemic and depressed. [that wasn't very funny.] (I don't live to amuse you.)

At the current moment, the present time, this exact second, I'm sitting in the Gilman McDonald's. They have heat. For the first time in my life, I payed for temporary Internet access only to stare at an empty e-mail inbox and an iChat list with lots of red dots and the word "Away" staring me in the face, provoking me like a damned Diet Dr. Pepper icee. And not the good kind, either.

Let's play a game, I say to myself. Let's see how long it takes me to stop staring at "Away" and start doing something productive.

I would participate, but I don't like these storts of competitions with myself. They wouldn't be so bad if the cards weren't so stacked against me that it was impossible to win.

Chicken.

More so, I would participate if my participation didn't imply weakness, which it almost inevitably does. Feeling weak isn't my "thing." Confused, yes. Frustrated (AJE style), sometimes. Weak? Not so much. Perhaps a self-esteem issue here and there might project an aura of weakness. It's not so much weakness, though, as a self-evaluation of my shortcomings--with the knowledge that I have the ability to "fix" most of them. Granted, I'm often the harshest critic of mysef--and you of yourself, and you of yourself, etc. But I don't feel weak, often.

Well, no more "Away." It took only 47 minutes, and I'm pretty sure I stared the entire time.

Is that weakness or strength, self-control or self-immolation?

2008-12-18T20:39:00.002-05:00

It felt something like this:

My tongue is in my fingertips and it abhors the keyboard's bitter zest. It's not possible to say how I feel or how I think you feel. I can't imagine because I haven't experienced. This isn't so much a conversation as a dance and not even a good kind of dance, having recently learned that there is such a thing, where at least one of the participants actually enjoys the movement. It was, more so, a dance of avoidance--a dance where the purpose was, in fact, to avoid moving too abruptly, to carefully step away from each other and on to more important ritualistic dances, to elevate the discourse such that it ceases. Because it's impossible to comprehend this rhythm. Because the tempo is much too fast to feel this remarkably slow. And because it's not a fad. Or the chicken dance. Or the electric slide.

And that's why I won't type, "I'm sorry..."

2008-12-04T01:36:00.003-05:00

You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him realize that the water is actually a metaphor for free will and that the horse, itself, isn't actually a horse but a symbol for man.

You can never lead a man on, but you can't stop him from leading himself on.

You can show no interest in a man, but you can't stop him from imagining interest.

You can lead a horse to a certain conclusion, but you can't make him accept that conclusion--no matter how self-evident.

You can lead, but you can't make.

You can, but you can't.

You, but you.

You, you

You can lead a lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink his own reflection.

(Why do you continue to lead this horse, anyway?)

(Oh, that's right, you're not. I already forgot.)

----------------------------------------

This is not poetry.

2008-11-20T02:10:00.002-05:00

It's liberating, really, to do something you want to do and are afraid to do simultaneously. You decide to do it and the fact that it happened is more important--for the time being--than the actual action itself--the importance of which will come as the action acts. Even if the action turns out to be wrong or false, it doesn't negate the importance and impact of your doing it. And if it's right...

well...

...hot damn.

--------------------------------

Post 150. And there was much rejoicing.

Yay.

2008-11-13T01:28:00.005-05:00

from June 21, 2007:

"As much as I hate the idea, it's going to take South Carolina. How pitiful is that? (Rhetorical?)"

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha...ad infinitum

It's going to take something more powerful than a state, larger than the South, or stronger than sweet tea.

It's going to take someone.

2008-11-09T03:37:00.001-05:00

my strengths according to an online test

I took this test (registration required). Here are the results. I mostly agree.

...........................................

Your Top Strength

Creativity, ingenuity, and originality
Thinking of new ways to do things is a crucial part of who you are. You are never content with doing something the conventional way if a better way is possible.

Your Second Strength

Industry, diligence, and perseverance
You work hard to finish what you start. No matter the project, you "get it out the door" in timely fashion. You do not get distracted when you work, and you take satisfaction in completing tasks.

Your Third Strength

Judgment, critical thinking, and open-mindedness
Thinking things through and examining them from all sides are important aspects of who you are. You do not jump to conclusions, and you rely only on solid evidence to make your decisions. You are able to change your mind.

Your Fourth Strength

Perspective (wisdom)
Although you may not think of yourself as wise, your friends hold this view of you. They value your perspective on matters and turn to you for advice. You have a way of looking at the world that makes sense to others and to yourself.

Your Fifth Strength

Honesty, authenticity, and genuineness
You are an honest person, not only by speaking the truth but by living your life in a genuine and authentic way. You are down to earth and without pretense; you are a "real" person.

Strength#6

Hope, optimism, and future-mindedness
You expect the best in the future, and you work to achieve it. You believe that the future is something that you can control.

Strength#7

Caution, prudence, and discretion
You are a careful person, and your choices are consistently prudent ones. You do not say or do things that you might later regret.

Strength#8

Bravery and valor
You are a courageous person who does not shrink from threat, challenge, difficulty, or pain. You speak up for what is right even if there is opposition. You act on your convictions.

Strength#9

Love of learning
You love learning new things, whether in a class or on your own. You have always loved school, reading, and museums-anywhere and everywhere there is an opportunity to learn.

Strength#10

Forgiveness and mercy
You forgive those who have done you wrong. You always give people a second chance. Your guiding principle is mercy and not revenge.

Strength#11

Humor and playfulness
You like to laugh and tease. Bringing smiles to other people is important to you. You try to see the light side of all situations.

Strength#12

Zest, enthusiasm, and energy
Regardless of what you do, you approach it with excitement and energy. You never do anything halfway or halfheartedly. For you, life is an adventure.

Strength#13

Curiosity and interest in the world
You are curious about everything. You are always asking questions, and you find all subjects and topics fascinating. You like exploration and discovery.

Strength#14

Social intelligence
You are aware of the motives and feelings of other people. You know what to do to fit in to different social situations, and you know what to do to put others at ease.

Strength#15

Capacity to love and be loved
You value close relations with others, in particular those in which sharing and caring are reciprocated. The people to whom you feel most close are the same people who feel most close to you.

Strength#16

Gratitude
You are aware of the good things that happen to you, and you never take them for granted. Your friends and family members know that you are a grateful person because you always take the time to express your thanks.

Strength#17

Kindness and generosity
You are kind and generous to others, and you are never too busy to do a favor. You enjoy doing good deeds for others, even if you do not know them well.

Strength#18

Self-control and self-regulation
You self-consciously regulate what you feel and what you do. You are a disciplined person. You are in control of your appetites and your emotions, not vice versa.

Strength#19

Citizenship, teamwork, and loyalty
You excel as a member of a group. You are a loyal and dedicated teammate, you always do your share, and you work hard for the success of your group.

Strength#20

Fairness, equity, and justice
Treating all people fairly is one of your abiding principles. You do not let your personal feelings bias your decisions about other people. You give everyone a chance.

Strength#21

Appreciation of beauty and excellence
You notice and appreciate beauty, excellence, and/or skilled performance in all domains of life, from nature to art to mathematics to science to everyday experience.

Strength#22

Modesty and humility
You do not seek the spotlight, preferring to let your accomplishments speak for themselves. You do not regard yourself as special, and others recognize and value your modesty.

Strength#23

Leadership
You excel at the tasks of leadership: encouraging a group to get things done and preserving harmony within the group by making everyone feel included. You do a good job organizing activities and seeing that they happen.

Strength#24

Spirituality, sense of purpose, and faith
You have strong and coherent beliefs about the higher purpose and meaning of the universe. You know where you fit in the larger scheme. Your beliefs shape your actions and are a source of comfort to you.

2008-11-01T02:21:00.007-04:00

three related meta-pseudo-meta-rants about everything in particular

hero

"At the round earth's imagined corners blow
Your trumpets, angels, and arise..."

I want to be a hero--sans cape, powers, tights, sidekick, secret identity--a hero to someone. Not "society" or "people" or "they" or "them" or even "public" or "culture." I want to be a hero to someone who needs my heroism but doesn't demand it, who accepts it knowing that it's the most selfish thing I could possibly offer, who is appreciative of my offer--all of which are qualifications that, to this point, I've seen only partially realized in the someones in which I've invested. (And, as far as my knowledge extends, they may be impossible qualities--qualities that exist only in a perfect world, or so I'm told. If so, then, for now, I willfully evade reality--conscious that long term evasion means stagnation and stagnation means death and so on and on and on. If I truly am "hiding," then I prefer being hidden to facing what actually exists: a conglomerate of nihilistic, sad/is/tic pseudo-philosophies.) It's primal, almost, this sense of wanting to protect, to shield from the "thems" and "publics" and "theys" and ..., to provide for and to care for not in selfless, Platonic terms--but in full recognition that I would give my life to be the hero because I am selfish--not because their happiness comes before mine but because their happiness is mine. Not because I love but because I love.

think/feel/realize/do

What I think:
If you asked me to wait a year, I'd happily give you 10, 20, a lifetime. I would wait outside your window with an out of tune guitar that I couldn't even play and serenade with a tune an octave too high until my voice ceased acknowledging my desires. I would take being ignored and comforted and teased and ignored again. The sprinkler wouldn't bother me, nor the snow. I would, I would. If you asked.

What I feel:
Guilty. Anxious. Torn. Excited. Defeated.

What I realize:
That moving on means moving on. That I deserve. That the world, despite what the "theys" tell us, is not about suffering and hopelessness and despair. "That love sometimes occurs without pain or misery." That what I'm feeling is neither painful nor miserable--only gripping. That I have no idea how to enact the practical motions of "moving" "on"--from that, mind you, which never existed to "move" "on" from. That when I speak I have little chance of saying anything remotely close to what I want to say. That that isn't always a bad thing--except when it is.

What I do:
Live.

...

Try--often fail.

Learn. Take more chances than usual.

...

words

Creating friendships has never been my forte. It happens. I do not know how. When I try, it seems as if I'm being stilted, scripted, shady. I can't even imagine translating that awkwardness beyond establishing a friendship. I don't have the confidence and I don't have the social awareness. And so the words escape me.

"For, if above all these my sins abound,
'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace,
When we are there. Here on this lowly ground
Teach me how to repent..."

2008-10-25T03:59:00.000-04:00

Barack Obama: The president America deserves

Daniel “Hussein” Richards

Brothers and sisters of the People’s Democratic States of America:

With the election quickly approaching and tidal waves of change washing away the recalcitrant debris of outdated logic and old-fashioned reasoning, it has become fuliginously clear that this country needs, deserves and longs for a president that reflects its most cherished values, upholds its strongest convictions and endorses everything it has come to represent. It should be no surprise then, comrades, that the Democratic Party has nominated just such a candidate: Barack “We are all ‘Hussein’ ” Obama.

In no other living person could America find such a strong combination of progressive, populist, pro-people politics. It’s as if Darwin Himself, may He bless and keep us, directed the evolution of man to its ultimate conclusion in our Savior, the “O”ne, the Alpha and “O”mega: Barack “H” Obama.

In an era when reason has been proven invalid, logic determined to be illogical, and science exposed as mere illusion, we must abandon old ways of knowing, thinking and doing and embrace the only true absolutes: pity, love and faith. Only “O”ne man can bring about that change we deserve: Barack “Help Us” Obama.

When it comes to fighting “terrorists”—a crude term that should be replaced by the more accurate phrase, “Freedom-Loving, Often Wary, Reluctant Soldiers” (FLOWERS)—both ends of the political spectrum agree that using reason is pointless. That’s why Barack Obama has advocated abandoning reason when dealing with FLOWERS or states harboring FLOWERS. Obama was even bold enough to admit his stance during a Democratic Primary debate sponsored by CNN and YouTube. When asked if he would meet with leaders of Iran (Mahmoud Ahmadinejad), Venezuela (Hugo Chavez) and North Korea (Kim Jong-il) without precondition, the Great junior senator from Illinois proudly exclaimed, “I would!”

These men are not inherently evil and their ideologies are not inherently evil. More likely than not, these men were teased as children, picked on during recess or, even worse, picked last for kick ball. We must not turn our back on them now in their greatest time of need. We must show them pity, mercy, leniency. America, need I remind you, has committed unspeakable crimes in its past—similar or worse than those committed by Ahmadinejad, Chavez or Jong-il. We mustn’t take the moral high ground lest we call ourselves hypocrites.

Irregardless, hasn’t multiculturalism proven that it’s wrong to judge different cultures and their practices? We cannot say that “destroying Israel” is any more of a noble goal than invading Afghanistan or Iraq. Ahmadinejad has his culture. We have ours. Who is the United States to judge? No one. And only “O”ne man can abandon the shackles of reason and show these countries and their leaders the pity they deserve: Barack “Heidegger” Obama.

Even on the home front, Obama is committed to breaking the oppressive death grip of logic on our economy and replacing it with the warm embrace of love. Everyone knows—and by “knows” I mean “strongly feels as if”—greed is to blame for the current economic downturn. Greedy industrialists and their greedy bankers got their greedy hands on your money and spent it recklessly to feed their greedy, greedy greed.

Greed!

And Barack Obama is ready to do something about it. He knows that the only solution to the economic crisis is love, love for your fellow man and your fellow man’s family. Only when we whole-heartedly believe “love is the answer,” that “love will keep us together, that “love shack is a little old place where we can get together,” will we finally be free from the bonds of logic and the most contemptible of all ideas: capitalism.

Even if you do not fully commit to the idea of love, Obamanomics can help you! Under Obama’s ingenious planned economy, the “free” market will be replaced by a series of committees that determine how much money you deserve to make. Always remember: The government is your friend. The House Democrats attempted to institute a Reasonable Profits Board in April of 2008 to confirm that Big Business was, indeed, making an unreasonable amount of money. The greedy Republicans shouted, cried and used their oppressive logic to defeat the matter. Conservatives are anti-love.

Additionally, Obama calls for 95 percent of all tax payers to be loved more by the top five percent of wage earners. Under his plan, the super-ultra-mega-rich people and businesses making more than $250,000 a year would be compelled to spread their love among the people that have less love. It has long been established that need outweighs all other concerns, and Obama firmly believes that men of ability should be compelled to provide for men of need. It should sicken any man with a heart to see businessmen make money for themselves. When they succeed it naturally follows that they force others to fail.

In response to a greedy plumber’s greedy concerns about a pittance more in taxes, our Fearless Leader Obama replied, “I just want to make sure everybody who is behind you that they’ve got a chance at success, too. […] When you spread the wealth around, it’s good for everybody.” Indeed! Obama understands that wealth is like a very tiny pie, and when greedy plumbers hog the biggest pieces then it’s the poor and hungry that suffers. There is no constitutional right to money like there is privacy. Why should a man complain when he is allowed to keep $400,000 of the $700,000 he made this year? The people need that money more than he does. And if the public demands it, they have the right to it. Only “O”ne man understands the principles of loveconomics: Barack “Handouts” Obama.

Finally, my brothers and sisters, only our Glorious Leader Obama can lead us out of the environmental reasoning of the past and into the environmental faith of the future. And I’m not talking about religious-like faith, oh no! Nietzche irrefutably proved—and by “proved” I mean “strongly believed in”—god’s death long before you or I even had the chance of being aborted.

No, I’m talking about blind, “shout until it’s true”-like faith—the same faith that led the Glorious Revolution in China, Cuba, and the Soviet Union.

It is now irrefutable that we are experiencing record temperatures and that global warming is upon us. Those on the political right dare to challenge our resolve by presenting “facts” and “science” that suggest world temperatures are dropping or, like the Senate Committee on Environment & Public Works, that Antarctica has shown record ice growth over the past 50 years. Blasphemy! Anyone who dares disagree with our beliefs should be considered a traitor to mankind and plantkind. Yes, comrades, we must consider the well being of plantkind, since they cannot consider it for themselves. As the progressive Swiss government recently recognized, plants have dignity. That is, plants have value for their own sake and not just because we can kill them. It should be illegal in our backwards country, like it is in Switzerland, to decapitate a flower. We must stop flower FLOWERS before it’s too late. Only “O”ne man is environmentally faithful enough to lead us into this new era of man and plant walking hand-in-leaf: Barack “tree-Hugger” Obama.

It is up to you, my fellow proletarians, to elect the only candidate this country has ever needed, to cast(e) your vote for the only man ever to understand the struggles of the commoner, to choose the president the United States truly deserves. And why do we deserve such a glorious leader? Let me tell you, brothers and sisters:

We have finally abandoned reason in favor of pity—since being nice is more important than being “right.”

We have finally discarded logic in favor of love—since need, not ability, now determines capital.

And we have finally rejected science in favor of faith—since policy is now determined by who shouts the loudest.

You have a once in a lifetime opportunity to make a real difference, comrades. How will you vote?

2008-10-16T23:21:00.006-04:00

Given the choice between an economic liberal and an economic conservative, I will always choose the conservative no matter what their social views are. Economic policy, especially at the federal level, will more directly influence my life than social policy. If a religious zealot somehow seized office and enacted a law that would require us to become Christian, I could still believe whatever I wanted to believe. Conversely, if a communist zealot somehow seized office and enacted a 60%+ income tax (I'm not referencing Obama here) I can't choose to not pay taxes. Laws cannot punish action or inaction.

This election presents me with a more difficult choice. I would say that neither McCain nor Obama are economic conservatives, but McCain is more conservative than Obama. I could vote for Bob Barr or right in my vote for Bobby Jindal. But given the political climate for third-party candidates, it would not be in my best interest to do so--since an Obama presidency would be in my worst interest.

The reason it's so easy to be pro-McCain via anti-Obama rhetoric is because Obama's ideas are a radical departure from my own. I look at his ideas, cringe, and actively campaign against him--for any other candidate running (except Nader).

"But you're for tax cuts, aren't you?" asks little Lisa Liberal. "Obama plans to give tax cuts to 95% of wage earners!"

Are you sure about that? A "tax cut" by Obama's definition does not mean actually letting people keep more of the money they earn (how sick is it that the government has to let or not let you keep it?), but it's actually giving people money that they didn't earn. A third of Americans don't even pay income tax, so how could they get a tax cut? Well, it's not really a tax cut at all. It's welfare. And how does Wundercandidate plan to pay for this change? Taxing the rich, of course. They can afford it. They don't deserve their money. It would be better for everyone to spread the wealth around. "Close the wealth gap!" The difference between Obama and Robin Hood is that Robin Hood robbed from the government to give back to the people. He didn't rob other citizens.

"There are no victims and no conflicts of interest among rational men, men who do not desire the unearned and do not view one another with a cannibal's lust, men who neither make sacrifices nor accept them." -- Atlas Shrugged

If this is what Obama considers a tax cut, I don't want it. Sure I would have more money in my pocket, but I could get the same outcome if I put a gun to someone's head and robbed them. The difference is that the government holds a monopoly on force. Their "negotiation" at the point of a gun goes unpunished. My wouldn't (and rightfull so).

The "rich" bear no responsibility to the "poor." No adult bears a responsibility to another adult unless they have an agreed upon contract.

"I do not recognize anyone's right to one minute of my life. Nor to any part of my energy. Nor to any achievement of mine. No matter who makes the claim, how large their number or how great their need." -- The Fountainhead

Obama has also said on numerous occasions--much like McLame--that it was "greed" and "lack of regulation" that caused the economic downturn in this country.

Bullshit, Mr. Obama. Bullshit by the pound.

If regulation solves finanical problems, why do we keep having them? Our market is no where near as unrestrained as it was in the 30s. How could we possibily have a situation even close to the Great Depression? How could "greed" bring down the markets now? Additionally, if regulation was the answer, why did the most regulated markets in the world collapse faster and harder than ours: Russia, China, Europe? Of all of the failing markets, we've actually fared the best--this might relate to the fact that we have the least regulated market of the four, but I'm not sure.

Additionally, I trust McCain more on foreign policy than I do Obama. The extent of Obama's foreign policy experience is giving campaign speeches to Europeans--oh the hopeless audacity.

Finally, the fuss about Palin is incredible. Yes, I personally would have preferred Romney as the VP--then again I would have preferred him as the presidential nominee. Nonetheless, to argue that Palin is inexperienced and Obama is seems breathtakingly silly to me. Two years in the Senate with no prior executive experience does not qualify someone to lead a nation--and he's at the TOP of the Democrat ticket.

Palin on the other hand has just under two years as the governor of a state with 15,000+ employees and a budget of $11 billion. Unlike Obama, she has actually changed things in her short time in office AND she's a Washington outsider AND(!) she's the Republican VP nominee...I think the media tends to forget.

I refuse to address the claim that she's "stupid." The default argument against any conservative is that they're stupid, and I think it would be a waste of my time to give it serious thought.

I am voting for John McCain because, of the two electable candidates, I honestly believe he would make the better leader of the free world. This stance does not mean I agree with all of McCain's policies or that I endorse his "maverick" style. Equally, though, it does not mean I am supporting the "lesser of two evils." Neither candidate is "evil" in this race. One just has horrible ideas.

Now, KGF, where is your treatise on how someone as smart as you could possibility support someone like Barack Obama?

------------------------------------------------------------------

This is the worst blog post I have ever written.

2008-10-15T01:56:00.004-04:00

What have we here? the man asked.

A "Bottle of Sense," his sidekick eagerly replied. I got it for you. It's a present. It cost me a week's wages. It's for you. To have. [The man looked at the bottle in disgust.] Are you going to open it?

What use have we for sense in times like these? Fetch us a bottle of hope instead.

The sidekick complied and the man drank heartily. And yet he thirsted.

Bring us another bottle, would you? The extra large one. The Mega-Chug version with the built-in crazy straw.

The sidekick complied and the man drank heartily. And yet he thirsted.

The man continued to drink and the sidekick to fetch for many days and nights. After a particularly heaving night of hope binging, the man slept and the sidekick retrieved the dusty bottle of sense from the pantry.

And the sidekick drank.

You are not so terrible, little bottle, he said. You could be better, but I wonder why the man dislikes you so? I shall ask him when he rises.

And the sidekick drank some more.

Come morning the man had to fetch his own bottle. The sidekick had left the man that night and the next day applied for a small business loan. Within a year he was no longer the sidekick but Mr. Sidekick--as in "Mr. Sidekick's Home-Brewed Hope" and "Mr. Sidekick's Home-Brewed Sense."

And the man bought Mr. Sidekick's hope because it was the best hope around.
And while very few people bought Mr. Sidekick's sense, it was also the best around.
And the sidekick never did get to ask the man why they preferred hope to sense.

And the world was a more horrible place because of it.

2008-10-11T02:09:00.002-04:00

and now, for your ridicule and enjoyment, my second script EVER (written as a high school English project...which we performed in front of the class)

LIBERATOR
(Judgment Day, but of course, No Death Penalty)

Narrator: Not so long from now, in a galaxy, well, NOT so far away...there will be an election.

(cue: STAR WARS THEAME TRACK___)

(Music ends abruptly)

Narrator: That’s enough of that...so anyway...The incumbent, George W. Bush, will once again face his arch nemesis, the updated GOREBOT2004.

(Boos)

Narrator: GOREBOT manages to rig the election and capture the win.

(More Boos)

Narrator: Shortly after taking office, GOREBOT manages to convince the UN to ban all guns...and eventually...the internal combustion engine. With no guns to defend themselves, and only squirt guns filled with chicken broth, the world easily falls to GOREBOT’s liberal demands.

>>>FAST FORWARD INTO THE FUTURE>>>

Narrator: The year is now 2025 and all majors cities have been demolished to make way for forests filled with bunnies and other Bambi like creatures. Animals outnumber humans 20,000 to one because of the absence of hunting. Out in the Tearwood forest, there is a small resistance against the liberal mongrels...

(cue: ODE TO JOY TRACK___)

they are...

LA RESISTANCE CONSERVATIVE

As we come upon them, we will see exactly how liberal the word has become.

(Enter George White and a Resistance Member )

(They are tossing around a poor defenseless bunny when RM notices a bug on the ground.)

RM: Oh look! A poor little defenseless bug. (Steps on it.)

SQUISH!!!

(cue: ALARM NOISE)

(Enter Two Liberal Guards (LG1 & LG2)

LG1 & LG2: (As they Enter) Hut Hut Hut Hut Hut Hut Hut...etc.

LG1: HALT! Step AWWWWAAAAAY from the bug!

(LG1 picks up the bug and puts it on a tiny “bug stretcher.” Then he takes it to the hospital. EXIT LG1.)

GW: You people are sick! LONG LIVE...uh...ANN COULTER!

(Squirts LG2 with squirt gun full of chicken broth.)

(LG2 looks at GW and looks at vest...repeat.)

GW: (explains) It’s chicken broth moron.

LG2: (With look of horror) Oh...AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...this pleather is dry-clean only! (Falls down and dies, but grabs GW’s leg first)

GW: Get your hands off me you DAMN DIRTY LIBERAL! (PAUSE) I’M SPARTACUS!!!

RM: (Silence...looks at GW.)

GW: WHAT?

RM: Uh...nothing...say, lets go invade the Liberal HQ in Berkley California.

GW: ...Ok.

Narrator: The two resistance members managed to save the last two cars on the planet. Two SUVs that get 2 gallons to the mile. They begin their treacherous trek through the forest. They gather up all the meat they can find. Just in case.

(cue: JURASSIC PARK THEAME TRACK___)

RM: Is that a liberal in the road?

GW: By George, I think it is.

RM: 10 points if you hit him.

GW: (With big grin) *BUMP* Liberal...OH ANOTHER ONE *BUMP* Liberal...(To the tune of jingle bells) Up on the sidewalk *BUMP* *BUMP* *BUMP*. What is that? Fifty points now?

Narrator: They soon come upon the most horrifying site in the world.

RM: Oh my god, that’s the most horrifying site in the world.

Narrator: Told ya.

(They “get out” of SUVs.) (They see a man hugging a tree.)

Man: I Love you tree...

(RM walks up to man...looks at him...slaps him...and then gets back into SUV.)

Narrator: There, now that that’s been taken care of, they can continue on their journey.

Meanwhile...at Liberal HQ...GOREBOT awaits their arrival.

-------------------------------------------------------------

(We come upon GBOT and LG3. Both have their back turned to audience.)

(cue: MARS, BRINGER OF WAR TRACK___)

GBOT: MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAH...etc.

(LG3 smacks GBOT in back of head.)

GBOT: Thank you......They think they can stop me and my liberal ideals...MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA...etc.

(LG3 smacks GBOT in back of head.)
GBOT: Thank you...I will now unleash my army...

(cue: WICKED WITCH MUSIC TRACK___)

...OF FLYING SQUIRRLS!!! FLY MY PRETTIES...FLY!!!!!!!!!

GBOT: NO, WATCH OUT FOR THE SU...(Boom)...Vs. Ah well, there goes the army of flying squirrels.

(Heard in background: GW: That’s ten points a piece...count ‘em up!)

GBOT: Damn them and their SUVs...I INVENTED the SUV!

(Enter GW & RM)

GBOT: My army may have failed, but now I shall turn your army against you...all...ONE of them! I shall show scenes from the movie...Bambi!!!! MUAHAHAHAHA!

(GW turns away, but RM is already stuck staring at the screen.)

RM: (In drone voice) MUST WATCH CUTE FLUFFY ANIMALS...(drool)

GW: NO! YOU MUST RESIST!

RM: Must...kill...self...before...becoming...PETA member...

Narrator: He then drowns himself with the chicken broth.

RM: I will now drown myself with the chicken broth.

Narrator: Why do you always repeat everything I say?

RM: Why do you always...Oh...I mean...(he dies...kind of.) George...use the Pork George...use...the...Pork. (He really dies this time)

GW: (Reaching for the Pork) It’s time to die GOREBOT.

GBOT: (Think hard through out) But GW...I...I...(gets an idea) (stars breath like Darth Vader) GW...I am your father.

GW: (Looks at his funny) Uh...yeah...you’re a robot.

GBOT: That’s beside the point...
GW: (In Scottish accent) You can take my guns GOREBOT, but you’ll never take...THE OTHER WHITE MEAT! AHHHHHH! (Hits GBOT with Pork) (GBOT FALLS).

GBOT: (On ground) ...cough...R O S E B U D ... (dies once)

GW: (Look’s at narrator) What’s Rosebud? (Narrator shrugs)

GBOT: (alive again) It...was my bunny. (Dies again)

GW: (With big grin) OH, you mean...THIS BUNNY! (pulls out fur)

GBOT: (alive again) Yes...my poor little bunny. (Dies again)

GW: Oh. (Throws it.)

GBOT: (alive again) NO! SNOOCOMES! (Dies again...for real this time)

GW: Why won’t you die! (Gets Republican flag and puts it on GOREBOT.)

(cue: CHARIOTS OF FIRE TRACK___)

Narrator: And so, good is restored to the world and all liberals are vanquished to a far off island. Our hero eventually marries Brittany Spears and they have many many...MANY children...all named G.W. of course.

POWERPOINT: MAY THE PORK BE WITH YOU!

(cue: STAR WARS THEAME TRACK___)

The End

2008-10-01T00:36:00.004-04:00

What goes here again?

Ah. That's right.

Stuff. About things.

Having recently learned that I have an audience beyond my close friends, I suppose I've been a bit skittish about posting. The existence of this blog a priori implies a certain level of "pretentious-dickitry" that I don't consciously perpetuate but I'm sure gets perpetuated--then again, using the term "a priori" doesn't help, does it? I'm not sure I know why--except that I know exactly why--since I write nothing here that I wouldn't say in a converstation at Nick's or an IM conversation during 886. Evidently, it "takes a lot" to be this "open" about seemingly private matters or intimate thoughts, but I don't see this space as providing either a personal look inside my head or "private" life. I'm not ashamed of anything I've written here or embarassed or humiliated or any other words with the same connotation that I haven't learned. Really, I just have precious little spare time to share my thoughts with the people I'd like. Very seldom do I have time to talk epistemology with KGF, aesthetics with DFS, politics with AJE (a lie?), rhetoric with JML (yet again), or video games with ZER. (And when was the last time I talked to anyone about literature--besides Atlas Shrugged?) Then again, even if I do have time, seldom do I have the chance to share my thoughts in writing--which is, arguably, where I do my best thinking. Enter: Blogger--a place for me to almost literally gather my thoughts, work with them, have others look at them, and rework them at a later date. Repeat ad infinitum--that's another one of those academic buzz words. This space also allows me to break rules about paragraphs, spelling, and grammar. Screw you, Mrs. Banks! I don't have to know how to spell "kneel." The computer does it for me! (Those two exclamation points were specifically addressed to BRT! And a third.)

So why are you skittish? you ask, eagerly awaiting a ridiculously, and unnecessarily, long-winded response involving at least three more ivory-tower-laden phrases and reference to Ayn Rand.

Well, I've had nothing interesting to say.

Yep.

For the first time since I was blissfully unaware of being "a fool satisfied," I can honestly say that am, and have been for a little while, "Socrates" satisfied. (The quote I just butchered was the only good thing Mill ever wrote.) This statement does not imply, of course, that I've figured everything out, that I've found the meaning of life and the key to happiness--which I have, it just doesn't imply it. (Oddly, the "key" to happiness is just to choose to be happy. Weird, eh? Not so much a "key" as a face-palm.)

When I have something to explore, I'll post it. Tomorrow? Perhaps. Late one night when I should be doing my 856 midterm? Even more likely. Before I graduate? Almost certainly. Ten seconds after this post goes live? I wouldn't bet on it.

Until then, go read other funny/interesting things. The intertubes are chalk full of them.

2008-09-04T03:14:00.003-04:00

I once told a struggling high school student that ease of moral choice is inversely correlative with the likelihood that it will be wrong. That is, the easier a choice is to make, the more likely it will be the wrong choice. Oddly, this has very little to do with moral choices as units. It has more to with increased time and, in that time, an increase in the chance that you will thoroughly evaluate a given choice.

Perhaps this tidbit accounts for my not-so-recent change in character from an emotionally-driven child to a rationally-driven adult. I have the seemingly inconsequential ability to allow or disallow persuasive rhetoric to consciously influence my actions.

i.e. I seldom get mad at people that anger me. Instead, I choose to not let their words "offend" me.

Conversely, I wanted the news to move me this evening as I watched the reaction to Palin's speech. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to be invigorated by ignorant commentary and asinine opinions.

I often wonder what my limits are.

2008-08-25T00:04:00.001-04:00

End It Like Beckham