There's a difference between grief, as in one who is emotionally struck after a death or loss of someone close, and grief as in an emotional scar or oversensitivity, as in one who gets uncontrollably emotional at the sight or thought of a loss of anyone, or for that matter anything. Whether this emotional scar is caused by a genetic reality, a trait like the color of one's eyes, or by a tramatic experience during childhood, or even childbirth. This emotional scar leaves its victim an emotional reck at times when support is needed to be given and care is needed for others besides themselves.
In use of the phrase: emotional scar, I give the term a negative conotation. I do this because of the negative affects I feel it has on me. Whether this oversensitivity to loss is a negative or positive attribute is debatable, and should be considered seperately for every case. For me, I feel this emotional scar is a liability in my relations with people.
When I say in my relations to people, perhaps that should be clarified to in my relations with people who have the slightest chance of dying. In my original thoughts I had also included the loss of someone moving away, but, although that is an anguish, and I do grieve for the loss of that person in my daily life, it by no means leaves me in the same state as is if that person passes away.
The liability of this emotional scar is when I feel I am most needed, like by my mother, while my grandmother is going under surgery. The very thought, or sight of tears by either my mother, my grandmother, or any other relative automatically touches off an emotional attack. And even when I reread this last statement, I am barely able to fight off another attack.
I use the term emotional attack without truly defining it, so let me explain what I mean by this. The first feeling is a tightness, or perhaps tingling in my nose, that is the first warning that the attack is underway. Following that tingling my eyes begin to water. At this time even if I am able to stem the flow of tears that follow, a headache will follow no matter how far I go into my attack. If I am not able to hold back my tears, then my eyes begin to tear rapidly, my heart feels like its tightening up and my head begins to slightly ache. This may go on for minutes, or in some extreme cases hours. I call this an attack because of the nature and cause of it. It is uncontrollable, and although perhaps quite normal under certain circumstances, with an emotional scar, it becomes debilitating and frequent.
This emotional scar is an attribute most people like to group with 'the sensitive guy'. A man who is not afraid to show his emotions by crying. Perhaps more sensitive guys are needed in this world so that people can share their emotions openly. Perhaps I am only writing this because as a sensitive guy, I feel like I am not living up to my 'manly' requirements. Perhaps. Although I think that there is a difference between a sensitive guy, and a person who can't handle death. Yes, it is probably an inability to handle death that sets off these emotional attacks.
If it is an inability to handle death, then perhaps I can credit this fear or unacceptance to the fact that my father died when I was 13. That was my original thought, but as I went deeper into it I do have childhood memories of my grandfather dying. My father sitting my two sisters and me down and him taking off his watch and explaining to us that '...life is measured by time, which is continuous. It doesn't stop for anything or anybody. And each person is allotted a certain amount of time to live. After their time is up they leave us.' I also remember my grief at that moment quite vividly. Perhaps that was my first emotional attack. If that is so, then my emotional scar had to originate at a sooner time than the death of my father, or even my grandfather.
At what time could it have originated at? I was always a 'sensitive' kid. A 'good' kid if you like that word better. Always listening to my teachers, afraid of their scorn if I didn't. At this time I'd like to relate to you another emotional attack I had. This one had a negative affect, causing my rational thinking to turn irrational. It was when I was in fifth grade. One of the school aides who I worked for as a guide in the morning -- counting and writing the time buses arrived -- called us to the main office. It had been snowing a couple of days before, and she informed us that one of the teachers had reported that we had been throwing snowballs outside while waiting for the buses. I do remember meekly trying to defend myself and my friends with how I was just throwing the snow up in the air, and not at anyone. Which if I remember correctly (and this is a big if) was what we had been doing. Well, if the truth be known, I had been planning that as something to defend myself with when she called us in after informing us of what we had done. I of course wasn't able to relate my story because of an emotional attack which hit me right after she began to give us the fifth degree. To make a long story short, I accepted detention, instead of a vacation from our morning job for a week because the cloudy thinking that an emotional attack brings. Although this seems a millenium away, I offer it not as proof that emotional attacks are bad, but rather as proof that emotional attacks have been plaguing me for a long while.
And still there is the question of what causes this emotional attack. This overly good person to not allow themselves the freedom to feel a loss without remorse. Upbringing? Perhaps. Or maybe its just my inability to deal with death as a concept; not truly understanding it. That could be it, back when I was smaller, but as I've grown physically, and mentally. I have to rule it out as a reason. I have learned to accept death, perhaps not willingly, but at least grudgely. I'd also like to now document a change that has occurred in my emotional attacks. I am now able to stand up to authority which would have caused emotional attacks when I was younger, like the story I related before. This change cannot be attributed to an exact date, or time, but I do not fear the retributions that authority have on me as a reason for an emotional attack.
This revelation perhaps supports the fact that I am just a sensitive guy who feels deeply losses, and morals in which I have been taught since I was a little kid. Perhaps its morals that play a role in these emotional attacks? It is possible. Without morals people are nothing, instinctual like animals, but with the ability to reason. Perhaps not nothing, but monsters. Of course I use the word monsters dividing what is not morally correct by our societies standards as bad, or evil, and what is morally acceptable as good. This might be an unfair division, but I will leave that discussion open for a later date and just concentrate on morals without labeling their teaching as teachings of good, or teachings of society's good.
In all that is known and unknown there remains a constant. A starting and ending point for all that is, all that will be, and all that never existed. It is at this starting point that our quest for truth must begin.
It is. It is forever. It is for eternity. It is for but a moment which lasts forever. It contains. Within It is the majesty, the power of eternity. All things are contained within It, and yet It has no spatial existence. It knows all and within that knowledge all exists.
We exist within a tree which grows within the instant. We perceive the tree as an ant crawling up its branches. But that is not exact. Our perception is like the ant, but the ant which never moves upon a tree which is ever in motion. Our perception is the ant, but our existence is the tree. Our decisions are free within the tree as the ant chooses its path, so must we, but it is only our perception which is changed. What are we but our perception?
The tree makes up a forest, but our paths makes up a design. Each of us contain a divine spark. It is the combination of sparks which ignites the fire which is the design. The pattern is complete in the instant of the tree; our perception moves within the instant, relative to the instant. It is only relative to us, but important nonetheless.
When the sparks combine they set fire to the tree. It is this fire which is the divine purpose. Each spark is a piece of divinity with fire being its purpose. We are free to fulfill or not fulfill that purpose--such is the nature of free will. But, this freedom is limited by our perception. For It, the choice has already been made because the moment has been for eternity. For the ant, the choice is yet to be made, or already just made; either way the choice is free within its perception which is its life.
What are the ant's physical laws but the binds of its perception? Without these chains there would be no need of choice and no fulfillment of purpose. To break these chains is to become the pattern and no longer the ant. The price of this freedom is the failure to fulfill the purpose. Or perhaps the purpose is to remove these chains? Is the purpose fulfilled by the completion of the plan, or is the completion of the plan only an avenue to fulfillment of the real underlying purpose?
What about fires which burn within blackened branches, what is their purpose, and are they moving toward the completion of It's purpose? It would seem that the blackened branch would fall off and wither. But, the decayed branch is caused by a multitude of divine sparks, valuable individually, but more so in packs. What then of their divine purpose? What then of their perception that is evil?
It seems the more one looks at the tree, the more one finds questions about it. As is the way of all things, and why should eternity's riddles be any different?
What do you want to write? I guess I want to discuss my feelings first. What were you feeling yesterday? I was depressed about life. About how I don't talk or feel things. What do you mean? A long time ago, I know I tried to surpress my feelings. I locked them away and used a string of personalities to cover up who I truly was. I came to a point a few years ago where I had to remove those masks. I thought I had done so and I thought I would be able to feel. But what I've realized is that while I feel like I've made a positive step forward, I don't think I can truly feel yet.
What is it about you that you feel is not "correct"? That's a strange question. I guess it's this: I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel. For example, my grandma is not doing too well. She's be in and out of the hospital, but I don't feel much for her. I never really knew her, but still I feel that I should somehow feel for her. Think about her, or at least miss her. But I don't do any of those things. Does that make me a monster?
Define monster for me. I guess a monster is somebody who doesn't feel; an asocial being. I guess killers would be monsterish (nice word). Is that what you are? A monster? I hope not. But I'm not sure I truly feel.
What about the other day? Didn't you feel then? I think I did. I went on a second date with maria to a museum. I had been looking forward to it the previous evening and the entire day. When we finally met up, I didn't feel the same (I think I was depressed--probably because of food again). Afterwards, although the date didn't go exceptionally well, I still had hopes that we would go on a third date. That's when I figured she didn't like me anymore. When I asked when she'd like to go out again, she answered, "I had a really good time." The weird thing is that during the end of the first date, I had told her that when I don't think things are working out on blind dates, I usually say, "I had a nice time," when they ask if we are going to see each other again. I think she did that to me; although I'm not sure. She did ask me what I was doing the rest of the weekend. I might call her tomorrow to find out for sure.
So then you do feel things? Didn't you feel something for her? I dunno. I guess I should get back to my discussion about feelings. Okay. Why else do you think your feelings aren't "real"? Another reason could be because of the types of discussions I have. I like talking about silly, nonconsequential stuff. I like gossiping; I like talking about my "theories" on life, which are just small-talk turned into theories (for example, all of traffic are caused by three old ladies at the front of the road). I tried to be cute and charming, but I know what's really going on. I'm covering up for something. It's like I never learned how to talk. I can talk about metaphysics, I can talk about every day activities, and religions, but when it comes to, I don't know. When it comes to talking about real stuff, that's where I'm lost.
What do you mean by real stuff? What do people talk about that involves real stuff. That's another good question. Perhaps there's nothing out there that's real. What is reality? You see? When I try to head in that direction, I'll go down the road that leads me to metaphysical or "deep" truths talk. I don't want to go there. I want to stay firmly planted on the ground; to understand what other people talk about.
You ever think that perhaps you're not like other people. That what you talk about is important to you. You do feel. You know that because you dream of bad things happening and you know how you feel after they do. Like when you dream about your mother dying. I do feel sad when I dream about that. But you know what always happens in those dreams? I always end up doing something heroic or living better because of the death. Isn't that sick? It's like I want her to die so I can get this reward that I know isn't there. I know it's my familial support that makes me who I am. Without it, I wouldn't be half the man I am--I won't go into how I think I'm only half a man. Is there something wrong with me? Are my feelings still fucked up from where I was way back when I used to wear personalities as masks and change them at the flip of a coin?
My hand hurts now. I'll leave it at that. Nothing learned, nothing felt, nothing thought-up. Answers don't come quickly to nimble fingers.
Notes from an article by Max Tegmark in Scientific America, May 2003
This is great discussion on the hypothesized four different types of multiverses (summary--some quotations--from the picture pages of the article):
Level 1 Multiverse: The simplest type of parallel universe is simply a region of space that is too far away for us to have seen yet. THe farthest that we can observe is currently about 4 x 10^26 meters, or 42 billion light-years--the distance that light has been able to travel since the big bang began. (The distance is greater than 14 billion light-years because cosmic expansion has lengthened distances.) Each of the Level 1 parallel universes is basically the same as ours. All the differences stem from variations in the initial arrangement of matter.
Support for this universe comes from the argument that if the universe is infinitely large (which it seems to be) and has enough mass, then, just by chance alone, every variation of our local universe (which is made up of 10^118 subatomic particles) will exist somewhere. That means that an identical parallel universe would be 10^10^118 meters away from ours.
Level II Multiverse: A somewhat more elaborate type of parallel universe emerges from the theory of cosmological inflation. The idea is that our Level 1 multiverse--namely, our universe and contiguous regions of space, including the copies and variations--is a bubble embedded in an even vaster but mostly empty volume. Other bubbles exist out there, disconnected from ours. They nucleate like raindrops in a cloud (or bubbles in a rising bread). During nucleation, variations in quantom fields endow each bubble with properties that distinguish it from other bubbles.
Cosmologists infer the presence of Level II parallel universes by scrutinizing the properties of our universe. These properties, including the strength of the forces of nature and the number of observable space and time dimensions, were established by random processes during the birth of our universe. Yet they have exactly the values that sustain life. That suggests the existence of other universes with other values.
Level III Multiverse: Quantom mechanics predicts a vast number of parallel universes by broadening the concept of "elsewhere." These universes are located elsewhere, not in ordinary space but in an abstract realm of al possible states. Every conceivable way that the world could be (within the scope of quantom mechanics) corresponds to a different universe the parallel universes make their presence felt in laboratory experiments, such as wave interference and quantum computation.
According ot the principle of Ergodicity, quantum parallel universes are equivalent to more prosaic types of parallel universes (like those found in Level I. The key idea is that parallel universes, of whatever type, embody different ways that events could have unfolded.
Most people think of time as a way to describe dchange. At one moment, matter has a certain arrangement (think of rolling a die); a moment later, it has another. The concept of multiverses suggest an alternative view. If parallel universes contain all possible arrangements of matter, then time is simply a way to put those universes into sequence. The universes themselves are static; change is an illusion, albeit an interesting one. (Think movie theater--or, better yet, twist-a-plot books, since free-will should exist thanks to quantum mechanics.)
Level IV Multiverse: The ultimate type of parallel universe opens up the full realm of possibility. Universes can differ not just in location, cosmological properties or quantum state but also in the laws of physics. Existing outside of space and time, they are almost impossible to visualize; the best one can do is to think of them abstractly, as static sculptures taht represent the mathematical structure of the physical laws that govern them. For example, consider a simple universe: Earth, moon, and sun, obeying Newton's laws. To an objective observer, this universe looks like a circular ring wrapped in a braid (moon). Other shapes embody other laws of physics. This paradigm solves various problems concerning the foundations of physics.
In other words, universes are just mathematical structures. Think of people as an animal crawling on the ground, and a bird as the one seeing the entire universe at once (this analogy is much better in the article).
There's a bit more to this than is found in most school history books. Here are some disturbing details about the Arawak Indians of Haiti:
Columbus had to make good on promises of gold and slaves he made for the 17 ships he was given for the second expedition. Columbus did not find the gold he expected, and what follows is a truly horrifying retelling of what happened to the Arawak Indians (People's History of the United States, A, pp. 5- )
The Indians had been given an impossible task. The only gold around was bits of dust garnered from the streams. So they fled, were hunted down with dogs, and were killed.
Trying to put together an army of resistance, the Arawaks faced Spaniards who had armor, muskets, swords, horses. When the Spaniards took prisoners they hanged them or burned them to death. Among the Arawaks, mass suicides began, with cassava poison. Infants were killed to save them from the Spaniards. In two years, through murder, mutiliation, or suicide, half of the 250,000 Indians on Haiti were dead.
The author goes on to describe Bartolome de Las Casas, a young priest who participated in the conquests of Cuba, but became disgusted with how the westerners were treating the local peoples. He left one of the only written records of what happened to the Arawaks.
In it, he describes the Indians. They are agile, he says, and can swim long distances, especially the women. They are not completely peaceful, because they do battle from time to time with other tribes, but their casualties seem small, and they fight when they are individually moved to do so because of some grievance, not on the orders of captains or kings.
Women in Indian society were treated so well as to startle the Spaniards. Las Casas describes sex relations:
"Marriage laws are non-existent: men and women alike choose their mates and leave them as they please, without offense, jealousy or anger. They multipily in great abundance; pregnant women work to the last minute and give birth almost painlessly; up the next day, they bathe in the river and are as clean and healthy as before giving birth. If they tire of their men, they give themselves abortions with herbs that force stillbirths, covering their shameful parts with leaves or cotton cloth; although on the whole, Indian men and women look upon total nakedness with as much casualness as we look upon a man's head or at his hands."
....
Las Casas tells how the Spaniards "grew more conceited every day" and after a while refused to walk any distance. They "rode the backs of Indians if they were in a hurry" or were carried on hammocks by Indians running in relays. "In this case they also had Indians carry large leaves to shade them from the sun and others to fan them with goose wings."
Total control led to total cruelty. The Spaniards "thought nothing o fknifing Indians by tens and twenties and of cutting slices off them to test the sharpness of their blades." Las Casas tells how "two of these so-called Christians met two Indian boys on day, each carrying a parrot; they took the parrots and for fun beheaded the boys."
In the end, no Arawak remained. Las Casas recorded, "From 1494 to 1508, over three million people had perised from war, slavery, and the mines. Who in future generations will believe this? I myself writing it as a knowledgeable eyewitness can hardly believe it...." The author describes the total deaths of the Arawak nation at between 1 million and 8 million persons.
Inspiration really does come in the stupidest of places. I just finished watching the first two parts of Band of Brothers, the HBO miniseries based on the historical book of the same name. It’s a WWII story about airborne troops, their training, initial attack on Europe, and follows them through the war.
I like feelings. And watching these two episodes brought about feelings. I’ve been missing them lately. I like them. I like to feel. It’s something I don’t get to do enough of. The last few days, and few weeks, have been devoid of those feelings. I am going through the motions of life, but I’m not sure I’m doing anything but that. The movies also brought about another dissatisfaction with my life. (It’s more of a general dissatisfaction, then anything specific that’s been happening lately.) Besides passion, I think life should hold more. It should hold meaning.
I think that’s why I’ve become depressed after finishing my computer projects. I’ll work passionately for a few days, or even a few weeks, and then when I finish, I feel terribly empty. It happened when I installed linux on my server, and it’s happening again with my website. I’m not sure why it happens, but it leaves me feeling empty. Watching these movies started me thinking about some of those reasons. There’s more than just passion. I generate passion through facing and overcoming interesting challenges (I won’t even get started on what John Ryberg said today about my decision to stay in Houston and turn down the Oslo job. Fuck him, is all I’ll say).
Passions make life better, but emotions is where life is lived. I had another conversation with Steve from Work about his child. Not that he says anything different from the million of other parents, but he talks of how he lost his selfishness when he had his son. I wonder if I could find emotion and passion with children. Is that really what life is all about? It’s difficult to say.
I used to actually write interesting musings. I wonder what ever happened to that time.
I’ve never gotten along well with my feelings. They dance at the edge of my vision and tease me. At times, they disappear for months only to reappear at unexpected moments. My wintry logic is useless in understanding them. My trouble extends doubly to the expression of feelings. I am incapable of telling others how I feel. I can talk for hours about the minutiae of my day, but when it comes to a simple statement about a feeling, my tongue expands and constricts my throat. This constipation is lessened on paper, where I have time to shape the words and submit them in a brief moment of courage.
As an example, I’ve never told my mother that I love her, let alone how much I love her (if you don’t know her, she is the best mother, ever), and yet here I write it, with much less difficulty if no less conviction. These troubles I understand at a superficial level. I usually give a nod to my father’s death when I was a boy and leave it at that. I don’t try to analyze these difficulties, and I certainly don’t attempt to remedy them.
I’m writing this while deliciously depressed. I get like this sporadically, but when I do, it inspires me like nothing artificial can. I hate to admit it, but I like this feeling. Mainly I enjoy feeling something, anything. There was a long period in my life (from around thirteen to twenty-something) when I suppressed all feelings. Now, when I am able to conjure feelings, it feels good. This includes depression and sadness. Does reveling in these bad feelings make me a horrible creature? It probably does. But that doesn’t lessen my enjoyment when I sit down with a clarity that’s lacking during ordinary moments. Perhaps clarity is the wrong word here. It’s more a feeling of openness than clarity.
I claim to be a sensitive person. However much this seemed to surprise past (and current) girlfriends, I believe that this claim is accurate. When I do feel, it is at such intensity that it debilitates me. (This sounds a lot more profound than it actually is.) My failures with my feelings are as good a reason as any for why most of my relationships were failures. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen a girl for more than a week. As Julie has told me many times since reading through my musings, I’ve lived a rather pathetic life when it comes to relationships. (It’s hard to argue with her on that point.)
While writing this, my emotional state changed (more like dissipated). I had problems organizing and writing these thoughts, deleting and restarting many times. I came here with the best of intentions, awfully tired, but ready for a large caffeine intake. I accomplished this with a grande mocha, which was my first mistake. I drank it too quickly and now I’m feeling nauseous and tired, not the best way to attempt such a musing.
What makes it even worse is a distracting guy. He is on a first date, probably a blind first date. He talks too loudly and is too expressive. He’s discussed his past three dysfunctional girlfriends (a huge misstep on a first date) and hasn’t stopped talking for more than 30 seconds at a time. I can’t think with him there. It’s too cold to go outside and continue writing there. At first, I thought he would turn her off and she would leave. She made some motions toward the door, claiming some sort of Spanish class. But she’s stuck around now for more than half an hour. How can she stand it? From my eavesdropping (although, it’s not really eavesdropping since he talks loud enough for people driving in the street to hear him), I believe he’s unemployed, having recently been fired from his last job. He’s also interested in Spanish, but his seventh grade Spanish skills make him incapable of stringing Spanish words together to form coherent sentences. I’m sure you’re as fascinated as I am by this important information.
At times, I feel my voyeur skills are detrimental. When I’m near an annoying person, I am unable to ignore them. I imagine telepaths have the same problem. I don’t think I’d want to have the power to listen to what other people think. Besides the obvious fear of hearing the foolish thoughts of other people (just look at how demented and malformed my thoughts are), the inability to sit quietly and think my own thoughts would be unbearable. (As I’m sure you know by now, I like my own thoughts very much.)
With all of that said, what I really wanted to talk about today (before my cleverness and confessions drew me in a strange and rather unexpected direction) was Julie. She has been depressed lately and I’m sure part of the reason is because of me. I’m beginning to understand that she wants more from me than I’m currently giving her. I care very much for her and it hurts me to see her that way.
I had other things that I wanted to say about (or more exactly, to) her, but thanks to caffeine mismanagement and a general wimpiness, I’m not going to say more. While most of my musings take a while to write, this one took a very long while. As I said before, when I’m talking about minutiae, I can’t type fast enough to keep up with all my clever asides. When it’s time to talk about something more serious, my joints tighten and drafting each sentence takes an eternity.
(As a happy conclusion, the blind date victim finally escaped and it is mostly quiet…with the exception of the two guys who just sat next to me. One is a high school student and the other is a University of Chicago alumnus who is interviewing him, probably as part of the admission process. Why won’t the voices stop?)
I wish the caves of my mind were more complex and not filled with so many obstructions. If I could explore those caverns on the page, I would have more to write about and would stare less into the abyss of nothingness. But it’s not just about writing, it's more about living. How can one live such an empty life?
Wasn’t it said that the unexplored life is not worth living? What happens if my life is explored, but my discoveries just show how small my world really is? I circumnavigate my world in mere hours, realizing that what looked complex from the outset was really as simple as a child’s maze. That is my real concern in exploring my inner feelings.
I won’t say where I went, but I’m currently on an airplane headed back to Houston.
Last week, I set out to apply what I learned from reading on writing to my storytelling. I failed. I've been searching for the reasons for that failure and at first I thought that my failures related to a lack of energy or inspiration. But I don’t think inspiration does it for me. What I seek more than inspiration is a calm, dedicated feeling where everything is clear and work becomes not work so much as—again, I find myself at a loss for words. Work is still work but it is somehow different. I just woke up from a nap, so this is not coming out like I expected. I wanted to say something profound and instead I roll around in a mound of putty.
I’m stressing too much on a well-written story instead of just the story. I have to forget about the writing and work on the storytelling. I am a good writer, and the writing style will be there whether I sculpt each word or edit the work after I finish the story and character development. I worry too much about the writing. I spend too much time drafting and redrafting paragraphs until what I’m trying to get across loses its flavor and only stale, well-formed writing remain. I need to escape.
I like it when I work: I flex my brain muscles and that creates contentment. When I sit around there is no fulfillment. The problem, again, is not just the starting to work. I can get over the inertia: instead, it’s my moods, which was the word I was searching for above. I don’t lack inspiration as much as the right frame of mind, the right mood.
That sounds rather silly looking back over it. Why should my mood so drastically affect how I work? I don’t know, but it does seem to. When I’m in the right mood, I can get anything accomplished. I can sit in front of the computer and pound away for hours. I can write poetry, stories, or long musings that are insightful and full of emotion. But when I’m not in the “mood,” nothing comes out and I end up trying to find something—anything—that will pass the time during that mood. That’s what video games, movies, and television programs have been for me: a way to pass the time, a way to enter a neutral mood. It changes my mood not into the firebrand mood that I desire, but the passive, time will pass if you keep your eyes closed, mood.
I’m writing this to a dark screen. It’s not so much a privacy thing as a way to avoid running from what I write. That’s a concern. I don’t want my writing to scare me. I don’t want my feelings to scare me, but they do. It is something that I need to address.
I was watching (at three this morning) an infomercial on Tony Robbins program. I’m tempted to buy his CDs, or, at the least, find out if he sells his books somewhere. It sounds rather ridiculous (especially to me), but if he can show me how to stay in the right mood, I would accomplish more. I guess there are drugs that might help, caffeine is something that certainly improves my mood. There’s also meditation, which I do want to begin (how else will I perfect my mental powers?). And then there’s physical wellbeing, the gym. I’ve been neglecting that lately and I plan to rectify that soon.
This flight has another forty-five minutes or so left. I won’t make the best of it.
I fear that I have nothing to say: no stories, no philosophies, no discoveries. Only emptiness greets me. My words stagnate, caught at the base of my throat, no water washes them down and no fingers yank them up. I stare into space and the void stares back; it is my solitary friend. My thoughts race before me, neither going anywhere nor returning from anyplace. They skip through my roaring head and find no handholds.
There are stories to tell, places to visit, characters to inspect, philosophies to share. And yet, I sit and what do I do? Nothing. I sit and sweet words tumble off my fingers and find no foundation. Thoughts crave to break free, form into ideas, and I impede them, commanding them to slink back to the dark caves where they formed. A lack of inspiration does not keep me from going forth. Nor fear of failure. Instead, it is the dread of doing. The status quo pushes and pulls at my soul until there is nothing left.
Ideas are plentiful and my well is deep, but the bucket is small and the thin rope frayed. It takes long dips into my well to pull up enough to drink. I can’t even count the dips needed to bathe. Concentration is my enemy, focus deserts me. Why do I fight it? I want to reach down and let it come to me. I don’t want to sit here and stare at nothingness. Nothingness is my curse. The status quo is my companion. The rope is breaking and I am helpless.
I have time now. There will not be another opportunity when I have this time. I should be using this time. I have to stop pretending and start doing. Stop complaining and start writing. I’m going to share what I write. No longer will I hide it behind Stephen King’s directions. While I say I don’t care about this website, that’s not accurate. Posting gives me the excuse to sit down and write. Without the deadline, the looming nothing-posted-in-weeks messages, I wouldn’t write.
I’ve noticed a pattern. I write a bitter, angry, or consternating musing. I wait at least three weeks, and then I complain how I don’t write enough, usually blaming something as innocent as television or video games for my transgression. This time, it was the traveling: jetlag, sickness, lack of sleep, and other devices kept me from putting more than a paragraph down at a time. I spared you the paragraph-length musings because they didn’t really say anything.
I’d like to say that I thought of many topics to discuss over the last few weeks. But I haven’t been thinking much. The only realization I’ve had has related to scheduling. This is something that I’ve known for a while and Julie has been trying to convince me of. I’m a creature of habit. It’s not just that I do the same things day after day. I’m happier when my schedule stays the same, when I get the same hours of sleep every night, when I go to the gym the same days each week, when I eat and wake up at the same time, when I write and read at certain times each week. All of these things improve my mood.
I’ve almost returned to my schedule. Writing this weekend has helped me get my focus back. I’m hoping this stays with me and allows me to write more, to share more stories, and to write.
I want to be a mean person but I am a nice person. My parents raised me to be nice, and as far as I can tell, they succeeded. Relevant maxims: Mean people suck; Nice guys finish last. I choose to suck.
What is a mean person? There is no such thing as a “mean person,” just like there is no such thing as a “happy person.” People are different depending on the situation and the people around them. When I say a mean person, I am referring to a person that uses meanness to achieve a goal. I am not thinking of the person who kicks cats or tortures children.
Speaking of kicking cats, a mean person is not the same as an evil person, just like a nice person is not the same as a good person. Nicety relates to social graces, and good and evil relate to morality. A nice person is more likely to be a good person, but there is probably only a weak relationship between the two concepts. Imagine a mean person using her cruelty to obtain donations for a charity: ‘If you do not donate, you will kill poor, defenseless children. Do you even think about the children? You will give to my charity or your neighbors will know what an uncaring bitch you are.’ While this mean approach might or might not obtain more donations than a nicer approach, the mean person using this approach could be using it for a good end. Therefore, she is, under most definitions of morality, a good person, but she isn’t a nice person.
Meanness, therefore, is a social attitude. Some synonyms for mean: unkind, malicious, cruel, bad-tempered, nasty, unpleasant.
Most of the mean people I have as friends are lawyers. The funny thing about their meanness is that they achieve amazing things by being mean. If asked, they would claim that they are demanding, not mean. But there is little difference between the two. The way I measure meanness is how others look at that person. If they are disliked after an interaction, then that person is mean. These same friends are not mean to me, or I would not be their friend. They are mean to select persons, usually underlings or those that they don’t respect.
What is interesting about a mean person is that their victims respect them. Their victims do not like them, and might even fear them, but they do respect them. And this respect gets the mean person what they want. Their demands do not even have to be rational. They get ahead using this strange logic: a mixture of assertiveness, reputation, and meanness.
I’ve noticed two things about meanness: First, within every nice person, there is a mean person lurking, waiting for the right opportunity to strike out and take advantage of a situation. And second, it is so easy to be a mean person to those that you love, and so much work to be a mean person to those that you don’t know.
Yesterday, I was writing about Good Things. I was saying that not playing video games is a Good Thing. After returning from the gym yesterday, I was tempted to play video games. I was thwarted, of course, by having destroyed the video game CD. This allowed me to find alternatives to my addictions. Regrettably, I was not able to translate my free time into much more productive ends. I wrote a few paragraphs before the pull of a DVD dragged me into media oblivion.
I finished How to Be Good during my non-video game time yesterday. It was wholly satisfying and a quick read (as one of the helpful reviewers commented on the back of the book. Why they would pick that reviewer’s comment as a selling point for this book is beyond me). The story is simple: the narrator is in an unhappy marriage with her husband. They have two kids. She has an affair and wants a divorce, and then doesn’t. The husband learns of the affair and wants her to leave. He visits a mystical healer for back problems and comes back a different person who wants to do Good. He invites the mystical healer, a healing hippie, to move in and hilarity ensues. There is more of this, but the theme and writing, which is all internal thought and dialogue, makes this a good book.
The theme relates to doing Good (he, like David Foster Wallace, is a big fan of capitalizing phrases—this is pretty popular on the Internet as well, but Internet posters add the ™ at the end for an even cleverer affect). The questions the book asks is at what point do you sacrifice your own happiness to do Good? Nick Hornby does not have the narrator provide any answers, but she does conclude that family happiness is more important than universal happiness.
What does this have to do with being a mean person? I have no idea. There’s another secret to my new musing style: it doesn’t always have to make sense. So, fuck off.
(Okay, I apologize for that. I was trying to be a mean person, but I felt guilty as soon as I wrote it and wanted your approval. Please don’t think any less of me. I’m really a nice person. Really. That’s why I finish last. See, there’s the finish line, and there are all the runners that finished ahead of me. I just hope there’s still a crowd to see me limp across the line.)
It’s again that time when everything slows down and I stare at the walls and wonder, somewhat anxiously, what’s next? I know what I should do. I should breath. Then, without answering the voice, I should let my mind wander. There is no next, there is present. How can I live each moment if I live only to plan the next moment? I have to stare at the walls and live. My life doesn’t need to be a collage of happenings. It is what it is: a collage of moments.
As this website is named, I have lived a life in search of relief from ennui, or relief from boredom. As a child, my favorite....
Of course, once I start to sit down to write—or pick apart my brain, as these sessions have become—I become anxious and begin to look for excuses to stop. Videos, e-mails, phone calls, news sites, any distraction is welcome. It’s part of my generation’s neurosis. Long gone is the generation of sheepherders. Long live the sheepherders.
It’s easier to write in other places where I have fewer distractions. I’ve had some rather negative thoughts while writing in one of those places today. I was in the Bucks of Stars with Julie. She was visiting for the weekend and she’s a wonderful distraction. I love seeing her and spending time with her. I hate saying goodbye at the end of these short weekends we have together. But I lie in the moment and enjoy what I have. In other words, blah, blah, blah.
We were sitting in the Bucks, Julie was studying for her Step 3 (prescriptions, here she comes), and I had my computer open. I wrote a crappy musing, looked at my story and blanched, closed my computer, and stared at the walls. Julie gave me her fantasy book and I read the first fifty pages. A great sense of failure enveloped me. I asked myself, who am I kidding? I don’t write like this. I don’t tell these types of stories or form these types of images in other people’s minds. I should stop pretending. Maybe I could continue writing musings, since at least these can be somewhat interesting, and give up my creative aspirations. It’s difficult to answer these black questions. I’ve been on the same paragraph in my story for weeks. Why do I even bother?
I should allow myself to fall into the media overload: cable TV, video games, movies, telephone calls: white noises that protect me from the silent walls and their questions. These black moods sicken my stomach. They crystallize my feelings, and draw my weakness in liquid red on the chalkboard.
...my favorite phrase was ‘I’m bored.’ I would tell that to anyone who would listen. The adults would give me suggestions on what I could do to lessen my boredom. Not surprisingly, my mushy brain would scoff at them and continue the mantra, ‘I’m bored. I’m bored.’ Other suggestions would find similar deaf ears. I am not sure what I was looking for at that time.
I still haven’t discovered how to relieve boredom. I’ve learned to accept it and cover it with noise. I write these musings in a feeble attempt to embrace ennui and cover up the noise. I hope there is nobility in this.
Random thoughts fill my brains these days. Here are some icy scoops:
Rather quiet thirty five thousand feet in the air. The brain cools down after sizzling the whole day. Late evening crawls in and curls up under the sun.
They’re taking over the world. They start out in victory processions, grabbing people from the crowd until the parade swells down the streets. Who are they? They are who will rule the world one day. Bow to their eminence. They are not you, at least, not the you in the sense you’re thinking. They are not your family and certainly not your friends. They are different from you and therefore you should fear them. But you need also to respect them, because they are your rulers. Learn to live with it, or don’t. There are no options. Death awaits those who rebel. Change is death. Learn to live with these crazy thoughts. I have. I have for many years.
I speak nothing. I don’t understand why I bother. I wish I knew things other people know. I don’t know things. I barely know how to babble, and I’m interested in the non-babbling. I sit and write and nothing comes out. Nothing is written and nothing is fixed. The world we live in is still bad. What, she asks.
I raised the moon in the sky and pulled the string to lower it. The moon’s face smiled at my impertinence. I laughed and lowered the moon until it hung in the center of the window. If only all heavenly bodies obeyed my whims.
You must be as anxious as I am to read more about sewcrates.com’s purpose. As I’m sure you’ve discovered by reading my contradictory purpose pronouncements, the purpose evolves with my many mood swing. I doubt I’ll ever come up with a definitive purpose, but as I search, I will share all my advances and missteps. All for your entertainment, of course.
I’ve been told that the best part of my website is watching me fail. Chuck summed it up best with a comment about my discussion on meanness: “While I applaud your efforts at being mean, I think it is far more humorous to watch you try to be mean and fail.” Julie chimed in as well: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Today’s purpose is brought to you by the letter “S.”
I am forever inspired by how others write. A weakness of those who can’t: they study and aspire to understand those who can. Since I’m almost finished with The Da Vinci Code (finally), I drove to Borders (like most hyperlinks, this one is completely and utterly gratuitous (kind of like the words “completely and utterly” (notice the embedded parenthetical))—nobody will ever click it, and if they did, they’d ask themselves, why the hell did he link that? if I wanted to buy a book, I would have went to a book site and not read his crappy musing), and while browsing the bookshelves, I came across the journal of Albert Camus.
I glanced through the book and found inspiration. The publication of the journal is a precursor to the blog. Camus’s journal catalogued his everyday ideas and philosophies. He jotted down lines of dialogue, descriptions, synopses, or anything that struck is fancy. Some of this writing ended up in his novels as transcriptions or themes. His journal was his memory. He wrote sporadically. Some days he would write pages, other days a few lines, and sometimes months would pass with no entries.
While it is not clear whether he thought about publishing the journal when he wrote it, he did make the decision to publish it after he had found success as a writer. He typed his notes and edited the journal for publication. What I liked about the journal was that the audience was himself. He sometimes recorded cryptic notes with no introduction or conclusion. He was not trying to entertain with his journal, he was trying to document his thoughts for use at a later date.
I didn’t end up spending the seventeen dollars to buy the book, mostly because while the format interested me, the ideas were of less interest. They are Camus’ ideas, not mine. The format inspired me to not worry so much about completing my thoughts or musings. I posted my last two musings (April 15, 2004 and April 11, 2004). Both contained snippets of information. They were not complete, and they lacked a theme and polish. I will try to worry less about that. The polish will come later, when I use the musings for something discrete. For now, I’ll post my thoughts in whatever form or idiocy they come in. The following is the first step:
notes on responsibility
People try to avoid accepting responsibility, especially for negative activities. The afterward for The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich is an example. The book itself is an interesting history of how Hitler and his men doomed the world to a world war and some of the worst atrocities of the century. The author, William Shirer, was an American journalist covering Germany during the rise of Nazism. In the afterward, he discusses how the public reacted to his book—mostly positive, with some negative comments from the academic historians who didn’t think a journalist using his experiences and the Third Reich’s documents should write a history book (it seems, for them, history should only be told by history professors. I guess they fear a non-historian might make it interesting).
The not-so-surprising discussion in the afterward was how the German people reacted to his book. It was well received in most of the world. The German critics and people did not enjoy the book. Mr. Shirer attributes this bad reception to his belief that the German people have not accepted their role in what happened during Nazism. I’ve read and heard this before.
I didn’t want to discuss whether this is true or not. I do not know enough about the German people to get into that debate. I will assume there is some truth to it because it helps support my thesis: people hate negative history. They will avoid looking at the past if they know they made a mistake. An article I read discussed a study of car buyers. After buying their car, the buyers would read everything about their new car. They would not, however, read anything about other cars that they thought about buying. Like the German people, the buyers did not want to know or be reminded of any mistake.
This is probably why we never learn from our mistakes.
Don’t tell anyone, but I’m writing this at work. And it’s not lunchtime. It’s not quitting time, either. But remember, you said you wouldn’t tell. The day has been crawling by. Literally. It has grown short legs, ten of them to be exact, and started crawling along the wall, leaving an oily residue. I’m going to have to clean up the mess tonight.
There are times when waiting is great. Waiting builds the anticipation, whetting the appetite. (I always picture a whetstone sharpening my tongue when I hear the expression, “whet your appetite.” The only thing that could give me worse shivers is tongue depressors. What were they thinking making those out of wood? Don’t they know there are better materials that won’t make you gag? I have the same problem with wooden chopsticks. Goosebumps pop all over my skin when the wood grates against my tongue. Do you they think they’ve heard of plastic or ceramic?)
I seem to have gotten off topic. I was talking about waiting. I won't get into what I'm waiting for today, but I spent the better part of yesterday waiting at a service center. So, to start off this story right, I decided to give up my German automobile (I like to pronounce this word like the really tall guy on The Simpsons did before he forced Nelson Muntz, the class bully, to walk down the street with his pants down around his ankles so the rest of the town could say “ha-ha” to him. The tall guy says, “Why do you make fun of my aw-TOE-moe-BEEL?” Yes, I performed a Google search to double check the exact quotation, but couldn’t find the exact episode. At least I found Nelson’s full name) and buy a Cadillac. I won’t bore you with the details of my purchase or even which car I chose, but suffice to say, I was terribly ridiculed before my purchase.
My brother-in-law on particular was brutal. The jokes revolved around the image that the Cadillac is for old people. There is a lot of truth to that statement. I’m in the dealership for a tire blowout (yeah, yeah, I’ve had the car for less than a month and I needed a new tire after a screw embedded itself in the sidewall. Lucky for me, I had runflat tires, so instead of having to get out and put a spare on, I drove the car to the gas station with a flat tire and paid an additional $300 for this privilege. Yeah me.)
As I was saying, I’m in the dealership to replace the tire, and I’m observing the people around me. I’m a terrible voyeur (and not in that cool, sexy way). While I won’t try to guess the average age of the people around me, there are plenty of canes to go around. I am the only customer under seventy. One particular moment demonstrates the changing face of Cadillac. My car is at the service driveway and I am sitting on an outdoor bench, enjoying the rare, cool Houston weather, writing in my little black book. A grandmother and her granddaughter (I assume she’s the granddaughter) walk by.
Because I have nothing better to do, I’ll describe the girl. She wears kakis with a faux white belt. The kakis fall to three inches above her ankles. A pink tank-top shirt, with a white, faded 6 on the back, shows her perky breasts. She carries a brown, leather pocketbook with a short strap, which she wears over her shoulder. Her brown, straight hair covers her cute and slightly pug face. Her nose is as pointy as her breasts and she has fresh acne on both cheeks, looking like freckles. When she stops, she stands in the girl pose (I have pictures of my mother hitting this same pose when she was that age): one foot forward and the other back at an almost ninety-degree angle.
She says to her grandmother as she walks by my car, “That’s what you should have gotten instead of wasting your money on a Deville.” To which her grandmother responds, “I don’t want to hear anything more out of you.”
Younger generations always seem to think they know more about style than older generations. They just don’t realize that they know more about their style than the older generation. Styles change and few people in a generation change with the styles.
I need to think before I talk. I have a tendency to agree with people, especially people who are hierarchially higher than me. I need to temper this tendency with forethought. My initial reaction, which I base on the plausible sounding words that roll off the person’s lips and the decision by someone I pray is in a good position to judge to place this person above me, must be judged not just by the words but by the underlying ideas. There have been too many times when I agree initially only to regret and backpedal on this agreement. This is why I like writing: I can change my mind halfway through an idea and lose no face.
LM should be simple and funny, not too complicated and clever, but simple, easy, and funny.
One of my problems, which I discovered while reading DFW’s belletristic essay, Octet, a brilliant four part pop-quiz format narrative that, once I realized what the fuck was going on I nearly Busted a Gut, is, getting back to my original thought, which I accidentally lost and had to flip back the page to find again, that I need to, again had to flip, write a story that is incredibly long-winded and repetitive. I need to break away from my fear of boring the reader and repeating myself (I resisted adding ad naseum there).
I don’t know or really care what the story is about, but the important thing is to take the idea (i.e., the story’s idea that I have not thought up yet) and run with it and beat it and whip it until it (i.e., the idea again) dies a rather painful death. Once it’s dead, I’ll pick it up, whip it again and keep going with it (i.e., the story idea, the mythical one I keep talking about—perhaps mythical is not the right word, let’s say hypothetical one) saddled on my back so everyone can see that not only am I not done with it (i.e., you should know by now what it is, but, being the kind-hearted writer who doesn’t want the reader to work any harder than she (I’m playing the odds here: 2 girls and 1 guy read these musings) has to work, I’ll tell you that I am, again, referring to the story idea) but that I will keep returning to it again and again until I no longer have words to describe it which are different from the last ten thousand (okay, I admit I’m being overly optimistic by citing such a large—for me—number to refer to how long the story will be) words I used to describe it (i.e., the story idea).
I really, really need to stop reading DFW.
I was used to denying myself everything until I realized that I risked denying myself life. In other words, caffeine is a good food.
Some people’s faces are stronger from the front, others from the side—and most, from the back.
And he sat there, poking holes in his ketchup with shoestring fries.
I like design—I like completed design—design isn’t necessarily form over function. It’s sometimes form and function. Design for my website; design for my house (when I eventually buy one, and, at the looks of my current finances, I can probably afford a wall of a house); design of computer programs and the results they output; design for my apartment and book, music, and movie selections. And finally, and most importantly, at least I am trying to convince myself of the importance, the design of my stories.
There is little difference between an advertisement design, a website design, and a story design. There is always a message (even lack of a message or an emotional response is a message), it’s just the building blocks that are different. My toolkit for stories is still missing some basic tools, but I’m working on that. I just need to keep in mind the design when I’m writing a story—and I’m not (necessarily) talking about the “form” of the story. This doesn’t make an incredible amount of sense, but at this moment, in this depressed state, with hours of TLC’s design shows under my belt (allowable, but still terribly, terribly wrong, because I’m in California visiting Julie), this message is very important
The design of a story is something you will work for, like you work for the design of your website. You stay up all hours to make it work and make it “right”—the right of the last stroke in a painting or the rightness of the design of a computer program or look and feel of the website.
You’ve known about the rightness for some time, but you’ve never caught it or understood it. I’m not asking you to understand it now. I’m only asking you to use it—replace your “ought to write” with “want to write until the writing is right.” I want to stay up because I’m dissatisfied with the design of the story, butting my head against the monitor until I can give it no more. I don’t want the empty page’s gaping mouth to hold anything against me. I will write and force myself to start over if it’s not. Adding new words will be like filling in the next blank part of the canvas and editing will be the adding the detail work and touching up. All will be in furtherance of the design concept.
You will identify this, the design concept, before you start and stick with it throughout the work. There you go, running out of steam—is it right yet? If not, suck it up and continue. Now, go apologize to Julie for going crazy and the get to work.
The words flow just like lines of programming. When you don’t know what to write, step back and plan. There really is no such thing as writer’s block. What it is is a lack of a direction and plan. This happened often in programming. You would sit down and try to write a program without a plan and sometimes the results would be good, sometimes even with a rightness, especially if the results you were looking for were short and easy to get to. More usual, however, you would hit many dead ends and the right design would hit you at one of those ends or when you were about finished with a workable program with a bad design. Then you would have to start over. While this sometimes happened with programs you had expended the effort to design, this was less likely, especially if you found the rightness during the design phase.
The same should be done with writing. Don’t let your unconscious mind do all the work. It’ll chime in with the creativity when it needs to—especially if you supply it with the workable framework. This is outline work we’re talking about. The outline where the concepts based free of the writing can be explored and used to manipulate the reader. This work shouldn’t be used as a straightjacket for your writing. Let your writing go where it will. Likewise, this work shouldn’t stop you from actually writing a section because there is no framework in place for it. Design and writing are interchangeable concepts and it’s not always the rational mind that will provide the border between the two.
To truly write, you need to reach into that higher place—the place where the gods of your mind and muses walk—and let those powers guide you. They will if you let yourself go. They will guide both your writing, the poetic and associative part of the communication, as well as the framework. The spark of creativity creates the rightness in the macro-design or framework, as you’ve been calling it.
Enough about it. It’s time to test these concepts and see if they’ll help you conquer Lenny, Carl, and Moe—or if this is just another wasted effort brought about by a focused depression courtesy of caffeine.
Eating corn on the cob is like eating popper plastic (whatever that’s called).
He keeps repeating to himself, “I am not superficial. I am not superficial.” And yet, he looks at her and thinks how much better she would be if this and that was changed.
In my never-ending quest to improve David (which will now be known as NEQID, pronounced naked—does my cleverness know any bounds?), I have attempted to squash each of my addictions, similar to what I’ve been doing to the spiders that have taken up residence in all of the Castle’s windows and occasionally sneak into the house and scuttle across the carpet before they find the unkind side of my foot. There are just some things that I enjoy more than others, and when I find those things, I end up doing them over and over again (and I’m not just talking about vacuuming-up bugs). It’s when I stop enjoying those things but can’t stop doing them that I force myself to take a closer look.
I last gave up television at the end of a marathon session of MTV’s Cribs. In the happy event that you’ve never seen this show, let me give you a brief primer: in 30 minutes, MTV tours two famous peoples’ houses. Think of a modern day Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous with jerky, 30-second attention-span camerawork, and overly perky famous people. MTV, similar to many basic-cable channels, has marathon days, where to fill time, or more probably to drive people mad, they repeat different episodes of a show continuously across the day or weekend. It was during a Cribs weekends that I knew I had a problem. I was lying across my couch watching Cribs when I found that I couldn’t stop watching it. It wasn’t that it was interesting: the famous people were demeaning and the houses all looked the same, with gaudy bathrooms, sporting TVs installed in the mirror; garages filled with the same cars and SUVs; and swimming pools with fake rock formations. I knew it was horrible and yet there was nothing I could do to stop myself from watching it. The best way to explain this is to think of the scene (in the book or movie) of A Clockwork Orange, in which the protagonist undergoes an experimental treatment to “cure” him of his evil impulses. The scientists pry open his eyelids with (from the movie) thin metal spikes, and force him to watch gruesome violence while under the influence of a nausea- and pain-inducing drug, with the hopes of conditioning him to be a less-violent person, or, more exactly, conditioning him to become horribly sick when he starts to perform a violent act.
It was in the fifth hour of watching MTV’s Cribs that I knew I had a problem. I don’t remember how I escaped, but I do remember that it took a tremendous psychic effort to press the power button on the remote control. I then flung it across the room to remove any temptation, peeled myself from the couch, and ran out the door. I jumped into my car and drove as far away from my television as possible. I don’t think I was fully dressed. The next day, I disconnected ReplayTV and cancelled my cable. Since then, I’ve not watched television in my house (I do have exceptions to my self-imposed television isolation, including DVDs and other people’s TVs), and I’m happy to report that the Castle, like the unnamed and unmissed Houston apartment after the Cribs incident, continues to be Cable-free.
These memories are a long-winded way of bringing up what I really wanted to talk about: my relationship with video games, and in particular, the online games that I play with Julie. Technically, these games are called Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games (a horrible name), or MMORPG (okay, it just got worse), but I’ll call them More-pugs, because that makes them seem cuter. Before I describe what More-pugs are, let me tell you where I find myself.
Julie and I were playing the More-pug Dark Age of Camelot for the past six-months or so. It was working out well for us. Before we started playing, we would spend the evenings talking on the phone (remember, she was in California at the time, and I was in Texas). That’s when I had the brilliant ideas to revisit my More-pug addict…err…habit. The reasoning was rather sound: instead of spending all night on the telephone running out of topics to discuss, we would spend all night on the telephone, while we played video games and never ran out of any topics to discuss. Knowing Julie’s personality and her fondness for console video games, I thought it would be an easy sale. It was. Especially after I offered to buy her a new laptop to play the More-pug on (her old laptop wasn’t fast enough).
We started playing for a couple of hours a few nights a week and everything was good. Julie learned the game quickly and our telephone conversations benefited from discussions on the More-pug. The longer we played, the more we both enjoyed it. Our characters grew stronger, as they do in More-pugs, and we moved from fighting the computer-controlled monsters, which are fun but not terribly challenging, to fighting other players, which increases the difficulty and excitement of the game. Before I left Texas, we were playing about five times a week for two to six hours (the six hours was mostly on weekends) at a time. Especially toward the end of my stay in Texas, when my workload was almost nonexistent and Julie was working (i.e., mostly sleeping) nights in the hospital, we would spend most of the day playing our maturing characters in the More-pug’s world.
Then I moved. My computer was packed away and took a long and unsuccessful trip to the lovely state of Washington. Although my movers did a good job of moving most of my stuff (I had a much better experience during this move than the move from NYC to Houston), my computer didn’t make it. It would be easy to point fingers, so I will. The movers devised an ingenuous slide made from flattened garment boxes to send my packed stuff from my second floor apartment to the ground floor where they could then trolley the boxes to the moving truck. I anxiously watched them drop box after box down the slide and cautioned them that the boxes marked “Fragile” and “Computer Stuff” should probably be carried down and not slid down. I’m sure you can see where this is going. While I didn’t witness them sliding the fragile boxes down the chute, when I returned to supervise the box dropping, all the fragile boxes were on the ground floor and the chute was still in use. The move left three casualties: the face of my favorite clock, three dents in my stainless steal kitchen table, and my Alienware computer, loaded with the More-pug.
But I’m getting a little ahead of myself. I didn’t learn about the broken computer until after I moved into the Castle. When I first arrived in Seattle, I spent almost a month living in temporary housing while I closed on my house. During that time, Julie and I did not play the More-pug (Julie wasn’t allowed to play without me because of addiction concerns). After moving into the Castle, I immediately unpacked the computer boxes and tried to get my Alienware box running. The computer died before the bios came up, and the computer-store guy, after I brought it to him the next week, didn’t think it was worth fixing. His diagnosis: the motherboard died, and with it, probably the CPU. Because they didn’t make the motherboard anymore—the computer, while top of the line three years ago, hadn’t aged particularly well—I would be better off buying a new one. And buy I did! I upgraded all the parts except for the sound card, the peripherals, and the power source. It screams now.
After getting the computer home (safely) and installing the OS and drivers, I installed the More-pug. As I mentioned in my last post, Julie has been wading her way through a painful night-float OB rotation. She works all night, drives home while trying not to fall asleep at the wheel, and sleeps all day. I wake her up at 4:30pm to get her up and moving so she can rinse and repeat. As you can see, her schedule is not conducive to video game playing. Since I packed up my computer in Houston months ago, Julie and I have not played the More-pug.
I’m sure you’re asking yourself (or probably me, but we won’t get into the discussion of whether I’m talking to myself or little, green, intangible, invisible space aliens) what exactly is a More-pug and why do I spend so much time playing it? I was getting to that, hold onto your britches. The More-pugs, in short, allow its players to step into a different persona and interact with an environment that is very different from the world we live in. The new persona is called a character, and the player controls the persona’s appearance, name, dress, and abilities. Since the More-pug we play is based on a fantasy world, like what you see in the Lord of the Ring movies (or books, for those, like Julie and me, who are into that genre), our characters have the magical attributes and medieval fighting abilities of this world. As we play more, our characters become stronger, relative to where we start and the other people who play. For the most part, the longer you play, the stronger you become. The main difference between a More-pug and a normal video game, is that you share the world with thousands of other players. That is, Julie and I played with different characters played by people of all ages from around the world. I attempted (quite unsuccessfully) to recreate this in my short story Grelko the Giant Slays a Mouse. I’ll hopefully revisit More-pugs in another story and do a better job of conveying the excitement and enjoyment of these games.
Getting back to the More-pug, Julie will be finishing up her rotation on Monday, and we’ve been talking about whether we will continue to play. I’ve raised some questions as to whether this is a good use of our time; particularly looking at how much time we spent playing the game before I left Houston. I had almost convinced myself (if not Julie) that we would not return to the game, when I started thinking about all the new More-pugs that are coming out over the next month. As I browsed these websites, I felt the tingling of excitement as I read the descriptions of World of Warcraft and Everquest II. Here were two new games to play, new worlds to explore, and new monsters to keel.
I had high hopes of describing what it was about More-pugs that I enjoyed, but it’s obvious I won’t get there tonight. I’ve written too much and said too little. I wanted to talk about my love of magic; the beautiful microcosm that More-pugs create, which allow the player to study the economics, player interaction, and community interactions; the sense of power and achievement (some of it false) that these games impart on the players; and the addictive force of these games. But, alas, such discussion will have to wait for another day. While these games are inherently addicting, they are also rewarding, and as long as Julie and I can control the amount of time we spend exploring their regions, we will probably continue playing them. It beats watching Cribs.
The following are raw thoughts I had this morning. (Read that as: damn, why does he post this shit? I ain’t going to read it. I’d rather rake my eyes with a fork.)
I write to hear thoughts. My words, when I hear them, are profound, but others hear them as only words, words that fall on blinded eyes. I suffer the curse of inaction, the loss of impetus to action. Inertia keeps me, and I obey its whims. I should fill my moments with doing; instead, I fill my moments with waiting.
I woke up deliciously depressed, drained of any semblance of any energy. I stared at myself. And I looked through the internet. And I found nothing. Nothing. It may have been for hours, and I couldn’t think to do anything; I didn’t want to do anything. This is how depression leaves you, with the inability to act. And I realized that I was worrying, I was thinking about other moments, and how unsatisfying those moments are, and how I’m unfair to this moment.
I’m suffering from an anxiety of the future and past. I need to get over it. I need to worry about the now without being anxious. In other words, I need to find my center. My center is the moment; the moment is now. The moment is not the future. What happened in the future, what happened in the past can and should influence me. But I should acknowledge it and live. I harbor and worry about not getting stuff done. I live with a desire to find a good moment without wondering what the present moment holds. I’m always look forward, or berating myself for the past. For this moment, I do little but sit there. I become anxious and I don’t want to finish my thought because I’m worrying about what the future might hold, or worrying about why the last moments did not go as well as perhaps the next moments will go. And if this moment is not going as well as the next moment, then perhaps that’s caused by me not doing he right thing in this moment. I’m not “savoring” the moment (because that word is awfully clichéd and not terribly accurate).
Stop not doing things, do things. That’s the important part. You have to live the moment, you can’t just let the moment pass by or use the moment to worry about other moments. That’s the secret, that’s what I’m not doing. I’m so anxious and worried about what happened in the past or what’s happening in the future that I don’t wonder what’s happening now.
The problem is that I don’t always feel this way. I don’t always feel this inspiration where I know if I wasn’t driving write now I’d be typing (this is transcribed from my voice recorder) my thoughts.
Fatigue descends and conquers. Edit! I sit around too much and create instead of finishing my creations. Whatever have I been good at except enjoying my own creations?
There was more, but my voice recorder didn’t record. You didn’t miss much, trust me.
I try hard to hide depth in concise obscurity. There I go again, writing a well-formed first sentence with no personality. I’m losing my voice, my favored meandering style, in the name of conciseness and abstract imagery. I wrote the following anecdote with a concise and morbidly skinny style. I’ve grown sick of writing in this manner. I’ll present you with the two versions, one stilted and precise, and the other freewheeling and long-winded.
Version 2:
My back hurts. I don’t think God intended me to grow this tall. I’m pushing six feet three inches, and I feel every inch along my back. When I signed up for this height, they never told me about the pain. It was probably in the small print along with disclaimers of liability and choice of law. I did find a cure for backaches. When I lifted weights—this was almost a year ago when I could poke out the eyes of an unsuspecting passerby with a well-timed flex of my arm—my back stopped hurting. The pain returned when I fell off the chrome-plated, clanging, groaning wagon. I know the gym is good for me, but I have trouble turning that thought into attendance.
When I was ten years old, I was confident that (1) I controlled the universe; and (2) the universe was designed for my enjoyment. Magic was common in the many fantasy novels I read, and it was only natural that since the characters in these books manipulated the world around them, I, who was the center of my universe, should have similar powers. I started practicing the magic I found in my favorite book: will something to happen, speak a word, and it happens.
To test this magic, I lay on my living room’s red rug, stared at the stucco ceiling, which looked like the torched icing of a meringue pie, and prepared. At ten, I was average height as measured by the school’s lines organized by height. I never thought much about my height, but when asked about how tall I wanted to be (this was a surprisingly common question), I settled on the answer of six foot three. Nobody I knew was that size, but it was a nice round number, and I like how the three was half of the six (my mind was simple like that—something that hasn’t change much over the years). I closed my eyes, placed my arms at four and eight o’clock, and breathed. I imagined my arms, legs, and torso stretching. I thought to myself, “six foot three, six foot three.” The sounds around me quieted: the television in the next room, the traffic noises, which seeped through a living room window wedged open with a book, the whispering of my sisters, until only my mind’s voice, a guttural, sleepy sound, remained repeating my mantra. When I felt my hands tingle and gold energy flow through my body, I breathed one word: “grow.” I stood up and shook out my relaxed limbs. I ran to the mirror to document the changes, but nothing was different. I felt gypped.
I grew through the years a bit more than the boys around me. By the time I graduated high school, I was six-feet tall. By college, I settled into my height. Whenever I think back on my meditation, I attempt to determine if it was real, or a happy daydream. The only proof I can offer is the evidence of my unnatural growth: my arms, legs, and neck are long and thin as if stretched like pulled taffy, and my wrist bones look like hardened twigs.
Version 1:
My lower back is indignant because God never intended me to grow this tall. I push six feet three inches and my levered weight strains my back. I cure the pain by strengthening my muscles, but I am not a good patient, and months have passed since I took my medicine.
I’m ten years old, definite in my understanding that I control a universe designed for my enjoyment. I read many fantasy novels and understand the mechanics of magic. If you will something to happen and speak the word, it happens, magically. Nothing’s simpler. I lie on the living room’s red rug, stare at the stucco ceiling, which looks like the torched icing of a meringue pie, and prepare.
I crave a test of my powers, an opportunity to validate my significance. In school, they line us up by height and place me in the middle. I’m comfortable with my height, but I settle on a height of six foot three as an experiment. Nobody I know is that size, but it sounds right. I close my eyes, my arms at four and eight, and breathe. I concentrate and will myself to grow. I imagine my arms, legs, and torso stretching. I think, “six foot three, six foot three.” The television sounds in the next room mute, the traffic noises, which seep through the window wedged open by a book, quiets, and I hear only my mind’s voice, a guttural sound repeating my mantra. When my hands tingle and I feel golden energy flowing through my body, I breathe the word “grow.” I stand and shake out my relaxed limbs and run to the mirror. Nothing changed from the morning.
Many years pass and I move back through the line. I’m six feet when I graduate high school, and by college, I settle into my height. I think back on my meditation and attempt to determine if it was real, or a happy daydream. But as in everything, there is a price for my growth. My arms, legs, and neck stretch like pulled taffy, and my bones thin to hardened twigs.
I made it to the gym this afternoon. I didn’t do much, lasting only sixteen minutes on the escalator machine and shooting hoops for another fifteen minutes, but I went for the first time in a month. As I established for writing, I need to establish a habit for exercise. When I lived in Houston, the gym was very convenient, a few blocks away from my work and apartment, and I went 2-3 times per week, paid a personal trainer, and built muscles and a stronger heart. Most of those muscles have since atrophied, leaving me skinny and flabby in places. Luckily, there is a powerful muscle memory, which means when I return to the gym it will take me less to recover what I’ve lost than start anew. Notice how I used when instead of if.
Today is the second day I started a musing with a discussion about the gym. I hope this signifies something—perhaps my guilt has started to get the better of me and I’ll find myself back on schedule. With travel to NYC scheduled for this weekend, it seems unlikely, however. Travel messes up my exercise schedule and drains my exercising desires.
I grow tired of the bug hunt. I feel like a prisoner in the Castle. I can’t change rooms without scanning the floor, preparing the vacuum cleaner. I know I should forget about the menace—it’s decreasing with only a few crawlies and a dead spider sucked up today—but it’s hard. I’m wound up and anxious. The Castle makes a settling sound, and I assume the worst: bugs broke through the wood and the beams supporting the Castle will break. I’m babbling now and I hope babbles make good medicine.
I prepare to write about distractions, and I find myself flipping over to my mail and the internet. I’m obsessed with small bites of time. I can’t concentrate for longer periods anymore, and I don’t know if I ever was capable. My favorite complaint as a child was boredom—you can see that in my chosen subtitle for sewcrates.com: “Relief from ennui.” My misplaced boredom was the result of a shortened attention span, something that most children and many adults suffer. If I had all that childhood time to do again, I think I could make a better of use of it the second time around. But as a wise man told me, had I made a better use of it the first time around, I might not be the person I am today.
My writing lately has suffered from my attention span. I’ve written a few badly edited paragraphs, and then posted them, with no thought as to its flow or purpose. I write thinking of only the end—not the end of the thought or story, but the end of writing for the day. I race toward the next moment without finishing the current moment. There is nothing waiting for me at the next moment, but that truth refuses to convince me.
I want to read more. I look at my sad stack of books that I’ve managed to get through this year and I’m not satisfied. I know I need more fodder to write and learn about myself. My friend Steven is searching for himself in Southeast Asia. He gave up everything: his job, his profession, his belongings, in this quest. I respect his decision, and while it’s not right for what I want to do (or I’ve managed to convince myself of that), I envy him at times. He found his dream late in life—as I did—and decided to pursue it instead of living an unfulfilled life. Do I find fulfillment in my life? What does fulfillment even look like?
I try to start a simple goblin story, and I can’t do it. I stare at the computer, knowing the images I want to get across, but not finding the words or voice. I freak out about “the voice” ever since I finished TFTS. I thought I had a voice the morning I wrote the first part. I was in an airport, exhausted, and I started to write. It was such an incredible, free writing time where the words and story created themselves, and I was along for the journey. I don’t expect that to happen—I’m too anxious and inhibited to find myself in that condition unless other factors (e.g., lack of sleep) bring me there. I need to get over these fears about voices and storytelling, and just write. I stare and stare and knock myself upside the head, and what do I have to show for it? These piddling words, and a big bump.
***
Nose Biter crouched on his heels on the hilltop overlooking the beach. An alien boat floated in the water. From his vantage he could make out Gobs on the deck. He never saw such foolishness. The Gobs painted their skin brown and yellow, and some of them even painted their hair. The boat remained off the beach fighting the incoming tide.
Julie, who started Yoga and Tai Chi classes in Newport Beach, bought a book today about Chakras, the spiritual points of energy in a person’s body. The idea of Chakras is rather universal (or universally borrowed) between the different religions and spiritual sects. I skimmed parts of her book, and the contents reminded me of my own spiritual quest. I don’t remember if it began in college or graduate school, but for a time, I explored many New Age and religious books. I know it sounds silly but I sought to wield real magic, to manipulate the universe and the people around me in a mystical way. I hoped books with titles such as Modern Magick and Qaballah would enlighten me to this path.
Much of the books instructed meditation and ritual practice. At the time, my concentration and imagination were not strong enough to “see” things in my head. I remember not even believing it was possible to see in my head. I forget what we were discussing, but in college during a philosophy class, I first verbalized this theory. I mentioned that I did not see anything when I dreamed. I knew that things in my dreams were there and I could describe them, but I did not see them as I normally thought of seeing when awake. I still don’t see things in my mind in that way; I wouldn’t describe my imagination as a movie screen. But I can hold visualizations in my mind longer and I now consider that equivalent to seeing.
One of the exercises in the Chakra book directs the reader to form a room in their mind, a safe place to find peace and escape from thoughts and emotions. I was surprised to find my room forming effortlessly. As I thought more about it, the details clarified and I can now imagine the room and myself sitting in with but a thought. I don’t know if this is a product of opening myself to my imagination, or writing, or my (rather pathetic) memory training, or just aging, but it’s a skill I have that I didn’t expect to have.
My room is not large and is in the shape of a half sphere. I painted the sphere white but I can change the luminosity with a thought, ranging from a brilliant white for clarity to a brownish darkness for contemplation. As instructed in the book, there are two windows, which represent my eyes on the world. The circular windows are spaced apart on the front wall. When I look out the windows, I see a darkened horizon with a brilliant and moonless starry night. The Milky Way galaxy crosses the center of the window, and dark, rounded hills blot out the lower stars. Between the two windows is a rounded fireplace with burning logs always at the late-ember stage. The room smells pleasantly of burning wood. The fireplace crackles occasionally, but never suddenly, the sound building up slowly before disappearing. I covered the floor with a luxurious black rug that feels almost like grass when I slide across with my bare feet. In the center of the room is a black smoking chair with a full-sized ottoman that pushes against the chair to support my feet and behind my knees. The material is supple like leather but allows my skin to breathe, so I don’t become sweaty with prolonged use. A small table stands on the right side of the chair. Its legs wrought with iron and curved. A buffed greenish rock holds a cup of steaming mocha covered in tightly drawn whipped cream.
There you have it, my room of relaxation. Every time I visit, I add more details. I’m not sure if I’ll visit after today, but it’s nice to know that I created it. This visualization reminded me of a memory technique mentioned in my memory book. People in the 1800s used a mental imagery of a house with different ideas in each room to memorize speeches. As they walked from one room to the next, the room would remind them of the next part of their speech. Just more of my useless knowledge for your edification.
The reason I stopped in my original magical quest was that I discovered that there was little in magic that interested me. The power to foresee the future never excited me because if I always knew what was going to happen, the happenings would not be nearly as interesting. Similarly, the power over the universe was overrated. Even if I had all that power, after impressing people with my ability to fly or move things, it wouldn’t be that useful. I realized that I wanted the power to impress people. Once I realized that, it wasn’t much of a leap to give up my search of power because (a) impressing people turns empty quickly; and (b) all the books talked about the capacity to love as the path to the goal—I’m not against love, but love has little to do with impressing people. (This hasn’t stopped me, of course, from occasionally staring at a pencil and trying to will it to move. As of yet, no pencil has obeyed my wish, but I know it’s just a matter of time or the right pencil.)
I wrote the first part of a story, but I’m going to keep this one closer to the chest until I get a bit further. I’m realizing that I write to post, instead of writing to finish a story. I’ll let you know the progress (or just post it if I realize that there won’t be any progress).
Most of my time, I think other people’s thoughts, read other people’s words, wait for the newest tidbit to distract me from visiting the space in my head. I was on my way to do that when this hit upon me, this being the thought of me searching for distraction. I’ve taken to jotting down these thoughts in short, segmented musings that focus on the terribly internal processes that fire off inside my head. As most people, my mind spins almost constantly reflecting on how other stuff affects me. It’s sad to think that almost everyone is thinking about the same thing: themselves.
This is the first appearance of the blue guy. He's a combination of my friends, and my sense of philosophy. Like most of my friends, he's much smarter than me. And he wears glasses (which rule!). It's not a coincidence he first appears in a coffeehouse. Many great things begin with coffee.
There was a lot of discussion about the title of this doodle between Julie and my mother. They both think that the English is bad, that I should have titled it "If I only know now what I'll know then." I didn't agree and it remained the way I drew it. I know the grammar isn't right, but I was trying to convey the circular sense of time: the Little Guy is looking at himself in the past, and speaking as the past Little Guy about knowing the future. I couldn't quite wrap my mind around it, which is why I used the grammatically strange title.
Julie didn't like my first version of the little, Little Guy. He was full sized with an extra large foot. I explained that the large foot is like the large head of babies. Julie didn't buy it and I ended up redrawing him.
Ah, when in doubt, I draw the little guy and then scribble a background until something hits me. Obviously nothing really hit me here.
This brought back memories of my Snowmen in space doodles. I love drawing stars and the moon, and, come to think of it, anything in the sky. Throwing the earth in there with the space helmet was just a bonus.
I don't know what it is with the blue guy and the sky and the philosophy, but there you have it.
I'm rather proud of this sky. I'm still working the kinks out of my sky technique, but I feel like I'm getting closer.
Another in a long line of philosophy in the morning. The thought came to me and I grabbed a piece of paper to record it before I lost it (I lose many Horribles ideas that way). I was thinking about religious choices and how doing nothing is the same as making the choice against doing something. That morphed into the more general thought that sometimes you make a choice without even thinking about it.
And, yeah, I realize how terribly unoriginal this is. It was more a reflection of my failure to act on what I thought was right than recording a new and clever saying. Before cleverness and intelligence and book-smartness (hehe), there is willpower. Without will, you can do nothing. For all my pretend knowledge, I severely lack that very important aspect.
Originally, I drew a setting sun, but when that didn't look quite right, I replaced it with the cloud bank.
I had this thought when I started praying a few months ago. As part of my Jewish journey, I pray each weekday morning before leaving for work. Jews are supposed to pray three times a day, so it's only a start. Even the bit I do, reading the Amidah, which is known as the standing prayer, is only a small portion of the rich prayer tradition. The Amidah is at the center of the ceremony, and there is much text that surrounds it. It is where you acknowledge God, ask for your needs, and then thank God. In the middle, I include more personal prayers--although the more I learn about the text, the more I realize all of these personal requests are included in the Hebrew prayer at a higher level. It has taken me some time to learn the routine, and I still don't understand most of the words I'm saying. Like most things in life, it's a process.
I'm so used to recording my thoughts and ideas--and, yes, I realize that since I rarely write anything these days, this means I rarely think or have ideas anymore--and to say and think something that I know nobody except me and maybe Him will hear felt strange at first. The more I did it, the less strange it felt. I'm still undecided on how it makes me a better person. What I do know is that if I don't try, I'll never know. It's not one of those things that I can think about know how it will come out. It's something that only experience can teach.
The moon in an episode of Full Metal Alchemist inspired me to draw this doodle. It was another quick and simple doodle. Many times, they come out much better than the more complicated and intricate (and time-consuming) doodles.
I'm leaving for NYC tomorrow, and I probably won't have a chance to draw many Doodles until I return on Sunday. While I still have a number of backup Horribles, I won't be posting Wednesday or Thursday because of the Jewish holidays.
I had this discussion with a friend at work. He's always complaining that I cut him off when he's telling a work story. I do this for two reasons. First, because I want to show how smart I am by guessing the conclusion of the story, or providing advice before he's finished. This sometimes works.
The second is the stronger reason. Once I understand the gist of the story, I want certain details to better understand it. I find it's much more efficient to interrupt and solicit those details than wait for them to come out in the telling of the story.
One of the amazing parts about working in my corporations are meetings with executives. They walk into a meeting and take over the conversation. It's not that they dominate the conversation by talking more or louder as many people do who enjoy hearing themselves talk. It's more that they want to guide the conversation to the issues that they think are important.
The first time I was in such a meeting, I sat in amazement as the executive interrupted the detailed powerpoint presentation, and attacked the important issues, some of which the presenter was attempting to avoid. I hate meetings, especially meaningless meetings. But by guiding the conversation in this way, the executives turned a potentially useless meeting into an exciting and productive one. At the end of the discussion, we walked away with a detailed plan, and covered the pertinent issues.
After leaving that first meeting, I vowed to emulate their example: I walk into every meeting, and where possible, guide the conversation in a more productive (and sometimes combative) manner. It sometimes goes over very well. It very much depends on the audience.
I drew this in my religious phase, which happens every few months. I'm on a very normal cycle. For the curious: the last few months has been a severe downturn in belief.
The following argument thumbnail could have been better written and organized. Come to think of it, most of my writings can be better written and organized. You'll have to take what I give you, however.
This was the answer my rabbi gave for the meaning of life: connecting with the infinite. It sounded very profound when he said it. In brief, if there's an infinite being out there[1] that created us,[2] then the best possible explanation for our existence[3] is that we're given an opportunity in this life to grow closer to the infinite.[4]
[1] An infinite being itself contradicts our existence. By (human) definition, nothing can coexist with infinity since infinity includes everything, including us. There cannot be anything outside of the infinite. There are certain touchpoints in Judaism where the rabbis hold up their hands and say, this is an inherent contradiction of life, and humans will never be able to understand it, regardless how smart or wise we become.
[2] I'm not a proponent of Intelligent Design. I can very easily imagine a universe created by an infinite being that includes evolution from the galactic down to the organism scale. I even like the idea: the infinite being created the mind-boggling huge universe to show humans a perspective on their existence as compared to infinity (and this is true even if the universe isn't technically infinite--it is as close to infinity as we can understand in a non-mathematical sense).
[3] By "best explanation," I'm also including the assumption that the infinite being is Good. This isn't technically necessary for this argument, but does help understand why the infinite being would want us to connect to the infinite being.
[4] Remember, an infinite being doesn't need anything from humans. There is nothing that a human can give an infinite being that it doesn't already have. A perfectly good infinite being would give us something, however. Usually people say existence is the gift. While existence is definitely part of the gift, it can't be the end in itself. The evidence that there needs to be more than existence is in our very makeup: we always ask about the meaning of our lives. Is it really just about feeding our physical body and needs, or is there something greater.
There are rationalist that say the greater meaning in this random world is to make our lives and our children's lives better. I understand and sometimes feel that that is sufficient. Other time, I look to a more spiritual answer. I'm not saying the above is the correct one, but from a logical perspective, it does have its merits.
Ah, another perfectly titled doodle. I really want to take credit for these, but I drew this in July. I must have known I would be approaching the end of the Marathon without having posted a word for anyone to read. Trust me. It's better that way.
I should finish the writing today. I can't say I finished the story, or that a story ever even formed. I'm beginning to think these Novembers are nothing but an exercise in finger fatigue. But I persevere and hope that one day I'll find something of value in the mountain of words.
Today's doodle is another in a line of religion/philosophy doodles. The idea was simple: Judaism (and many other religions) were created/discovered by people with an incredible amount of time on their hands. They did not have much to do (from what I understand, sheepherders stand around a lot) or many people to talk to. So they spent their time contemplating their navels. It's amazing what you can discover by looking at your belly button. I figured that was step one in religious discovery. I'm still searching for my navel and hoping to find the silence that will lead me to answers.
I'm not thinking today. My brain is moving through molasses as I try to formulate thoughts and words. I thought I slept well. I must not have.
Silence is not always a bad thing.
This doodle is in league with my doodling philosophy: all good art requires is creating lots of art over a long enough period of time. This philosophy has been going around the internet recently through excerpts from Art and Fear (most recently via Kottke).
The book presents a study where pottery students are divided into two groups. The first group is graded on how much pottery they produce. The second group is instructed to create only one piece of pottery, and is graded on the perfection of that piece. The quantity group churned out plenty of pieces and learned from their mistake. The quality group, which sat around theorizing and thinking how best to create the pottery, ended up with lumps of clay.
While the experiment isn't exactly scientific (at least from the exerpts--as soon as the book's on Kindle, it'll go in my queue): We're not told the skill of the students. For beginners, this would be the obvious outcome. But for advanced students, perhaps with more time and thought, the results would be better. Thinking and planning doesn't always hurt.
For me, I realized that doodling as much as possible, and forgetting about quality or the perfect Horrible has made the creation process much more rewarding. This is a long way of excusing the current Horrible. It was another quickly drawn and titled doodle that sat in my queue for a while before I posted it.
I always hoped to apply my creation philosophy to my writing. I still haven't figured out how to turn off the filter and be happy with the words I scratch while I'm scratching.
Thanks to the magic of computer art, even my crappy doodles can be tolerable. I hope you've realized that the secret to my doodles is in the pen stroke. Take a closer look: the pen is splotty, with variable thickness and uneven lines. It makes even poorly drawn lines seem slightly artistic. And as long as I draw many poorly drawn lines, I can one day point to one or two Horribles to claim they're artistic.
As I've mentioned before, coffee is great at faking intelligence and passion. It's Friday! The sun is out and the weekend promises to be sunny and filled with Watchman goodness.
I had a terrible headache yesterday. Today is a bit better but the pain is still lingering.
Ah, the philosophy of a know-it-all. I know him only too well. It's another beautiful day in Metropolis.
We learned that in Naginata. I'm exhausted today. Too much of Naginata yesterday. I'm going to curl up on my chair and sleep for a bit. Hopefully the world will look different when I wake.
Bonus Horrible! Actually, we're leaving for Dallas tomorrow through Monday, and I've been prolific in doodling. I decided to post this a bit early so you wouldn't miss out during the weekend. Enjoy!
But I do try. I always do try.
I really have to get back to doodling. My queue is running to 28 weeks now. Not good. Not good at all.
I'm off to NJ this weekend sans family. I'm very sad.
I've been doodling again. Not sure where these characters are going, but I thought it was time to throw them up on a page. For now I'm calling it Inner Tirade.
