democracy and deference

Democracy and Deference, by Mark Slouka. Good read.

dear poet, please consider these peanuts

why are all of your poems about death?
even your poems about sex
are about death.
and so are your poems of longing
and the universe and youth. Death
follows your verse like pigpen’s dust cloud.
you carry death around like linus’s wubby.
you pounce on it’s keys like Schroeder’s piano.
poems about bright red yo-yo’s that go up
and down on a snowy white string
evade you like the football that Lucy pulls away
from Charlie Brown in the last second.
i can see death has even gotten into this poem.
he is in the room with me now, picking at his
tooth with a long bony finger.
he’s saying something to me now,
but I can’t understand him
through his warbly & distorted adult voice.

*
From Mule And Horse.

are we not men?

75 Skills Every Man Should Have: This is a prime example of what makes Esquire ideal bathroom reading.

A Scientist's Prayer: God Is My Alternative Hypothesis

Dear God,

Some people lose their faith before they lose their baby teeth. Some stop believing after a personal crisis, or after they learn enough about the mechanics of this world that you become redundant within the context of their worldview. I am not one of these people.

For the person who--upon looking under the hood of their car--ceased to imagine that it was a large rodent on a slightly larger wheel that propelled them along their way to work every morning, I say good for you. But I also say, might not something of that athletic rodent animate your car’s engine?

How silly. What a silly thing to say. I’m not trying to offend you God. Who would want to be flip with the creator of the universe, you who smote the sodomites, you who told Abraham to kill his son and then turned around at the last minute and said, Gotcha! I certainly don’t want any of what you’re bringing. I would be walking with a limp after round one.

I am willing to hang with you God. I’ve learned a lot about science, a lot about how species evolve, how we adapt (for good or ill) and how we find solace in groups and dogmas and fairy tales. I know all of this stuff, Yet I am not fully on board. I haven’t had my card punched by Richard Dawkins, et al. I exist somewhere between the delusion and the cold reality, whatever that is. The alarm clock hasn’t gone off yet, and I am clinging to sleep. Although I know I’ve only got minutes to go, I cling to my pillow ever tighter.

There’s something that doesn’t add up in the equation. They (the heathens) have certainly made an appealing case for why I don’t need to believe in you. Yet I persist. I’ve always been a contrarian. Maybe that’s it? No, it’s something else.

They can’t know what’s up with you God. However right on they are about the claims of your followers, however they show up their detractors time after time, you--whatever you are--are beyond them. But we’re working on it, is what they’ll say. And I say, yeah, you work on it. That’s what you do. But let’s stick with the formula, and let‘s follow it through. Ho: No pearly gates, no omnipotent artisan. H1: It’s all you, just like it’s always been, just like it always will be. Alpha and Omega. The numbers certainly don’t add up so far, but there are bigger things than numbers. I’m not asking for an Evel Kenevel trick. I don’t want you to jump through any flaming hoops, or across any major crevasses. I don’t want to tempt you God, I just want to know you. And if there’s nothing to know, then that leaves a lot of room to fill with other stuff. I’ve always kind of wanted to learn piano.

Amen.

ps: When the preacher starts talking about root words, you can be sure that they don't know what they're talking about.

assorted randomness

My two year old son thinks my car keys will open every door in the world. There was a locked fence at the park we went to today that separated us from some horses that my son wanted to pet. He asked me for my keys so he could let them out. He's always trying to get into random doors with random keys.
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Thanks to everyone who called, wrote, and left blog comments regarding Mule and Horse. I enjoyed writing it, and didn't make a single red cent: I'm a capitalist, but apparently not a very good one.
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I've read a few things online lately that are worth sharing:

Journalist Bites Reality!, by Steve Salerno
Ben Stein and Darwin: Truth Is What Matters, by Mark Chu-Carroll
Two Birds, a poem by John Grochalski
*
Remember When Michaels Fell Off the Dock?

They put the body in the guest room. We weren’t supposed to go in, but I don't know why. It wasn't like we were going to wake it up. Aunt Lou was knitting it a hat (to cover the wound),and the rest of the house was preparing for the funeral as if it were a wedding anniversary, or a theme graduation. There was all kinds of cooking going on: all of those wonderful, competing smells filled our nostrils and wet our mouths. Our bellies were always full. Someone was always saying, 'hey, try this', and 'do you think this needs a little more cinnamon?' It was wonderful. Every time there was an accident at the plant it was like Thanksgiving.

Mule and Horse

Now available for free download or viewing here.

It's Always the End Of the World*

I keep track of asteroids. They’re interesting to me. When I look at the above image, there’s a little fear, a little thrill. My human solipsism is confounded by the idea of a universe without us. Walking across the Cincinnati suspension bridge the other day, I looked at our beautiful little city and found it unimaginable that it would one day be gone. All of the bridges down, all of the windows blown out. Ohio used to be underwater. A walk along the evolutionary stones at Sawyer Point illustrates that nicely.

So the next potential planet killer is a little asteroid named Apophsis. Apophis is the Greek name for the Egyptian god of destruction. Maybe the name is appropriate, but it’s a little melodramatic for my taste. I prefer Daisy.

Apophsis--sensationalism aside--is expected to be another in a long line of near misses. Only if it passes through what is called a ’gravitational keyhole’ as it zooms past us in 2026, could it cause a problem, creating a highly probable collision in the year 2036.

Why is all of this so appealing to me?

How can it not be? If you allow yourself to slip from the Summer Blockbuster angle, step past the survival fantasy, and override the slight tingling in your death instinct, there are good reasons to contemplate both your own, and the Earth’s, ultimate revelation. Such considerations aren’t--at least on my part--purely morbid, nor are they some kind of Hicksian yearning for Arizona Bay. While as humans we surely fall short, I don’t eagerly anticipate some kind of cosmic come-uppance.

Knowing that the story has an end, that our time is finite, and that indeed,we are lucky to be here at all, can only do us good. As Richard Dawkins opens his awesome book Unweaving the Rainbow :“The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the sand grains in Arabia.”

Out of all the variations, disasters, missteps, etcetera, that could've happened to us along the way to existence--navigating our way across a long, unbroken chain of evolutionary idiosyncracies--we are here. And we are alive, which is doubly lucky! The miracle in this scenario is our presence. We have already overcome the greatest hurdle we could ever face; all before we were even conscious of the concept of hurdles at all (and I was worried about getting into grad school)!

We are all grad students in the school of life.

So for creatures so random, so free to create our own meanings in this life, is it so bad to consider that someday we're going to check out?

It helps me. To know that I'll die--to know that you'll die too--takes a hesitation away from action. I am not here forever, and I can't be sure about anything that comes after this. I can't stow away my true intents and secret philosophies for vindication at a later date. I need to do it today. To know that I am finite and fallible (not necessarily operating on marching orders from some divine force), tells me to be open to others and to be kind. We are all in a similar situation here. And we're not guaranteed tomorrow.

Someone said all of this better than me:

Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day's own trouble be sufficient for the day.

who could argue with that?

There’s at least metaphoric rock at the end of both mine, and the Earth’s life. While it can be unsettling to consider, it helps keep me on point, and adds a poignancy to both the sound of my children's bare feet patting across the living room floor, and the sound of my now creaky knees as I stand up.


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*This is a tweaked version of a post I wrote in August called 'Daisy, Daisy, Give Me Your Answer Do...

Exhibit A

When the aliens invade and ask us why they should spare our little blue planet, I think someone should show them A Boy Named Charlie Brown.

Pequin, Foley

I'm in danger of posting a new blog every day or two telling you to go read the new thing at Pequin, and to check out the newest thing Brian Foley has written. Instead of doing that, I will just tell you that there is a new piece by Brian Foley at Pequin, and it is very good. Odds are the next thing that Steven Coy posts at Pequin will also be very good, and the next thing that Brian Foley writes will probably be very good too. So keep up on them. Both are linked in my free refills section, Pequin under Pequin, and Mr. Foley under Eunuch's Blues.

2 poems @ Why Vandalism?

I have two poems in this month's issue of Why Vandalism. My e-book, Mule and Horse, will be available from them later this month.

The Monty Hall Problem

Looks like some of psychology's most famous experiments may have fallen victim to a tricky little statistical error. Click the link to see what's behind door number one.

Not Feeling So Bloggy...

I haven't been feeling incredibly bloggy so far this month. Spring has arrived in my part of Ohio, and there are bees (honey bees!) buzzing around all of the freshly bloomed flowers in my yard. It's hard to stay inside. As soon as the ground dries up a little more, it will be even harder. Spring is the time for riding bikes, playing soccer, cooking out, and getting allergy shots.

Spring and Summer is why we don't produce many notable epics in the midwest. They do that in former Soviet Sattelites, where it is too cold to fall through the ice. In the midwest--while we can be angsty from time to time--we're mostly good for blogs, sports articles, and limericks. The writing on the bathroom walls in midwestern universities--especially in the psych. departments--is exceptional.

I'm working on and off on a little piece about existential psychology, I've got a story or two on the back burner, and I may churn out a poem or bathroom-wall-etching every now and then, but for the most part this April (if you need me), I'll be in the yard.

I Am In Frequent Contact With You Know Who

A story I wrote called I am In Frequent Contact With You Know Who is currently on display at Pequin.

Pequin is awesome, and you should check in with them a couple of times a week.

Who's In Charge Here?

It occurred to me a moment ago, as it does from time to time, that I am a father. You may reasonably ask me where the revelation in this is, being that I have two children, the oldest of whom is six. Fair enough, but it’s not that simple. Or maybe it is.

I become accustomed to things very fast. This can be both good and bad. I go to a hotel in another city for a weekend, and on the second day, I feel like I’m home. That funny smell in people’s houses? It doesn’t bother me for long. These are good things.

But I am usually in a state of anxiety about parenting. From time to time I catch myself just kind of rolling with it, taking it as it comes, and this feels good, although not in an entirely conscious way. Then something hits me, something reminds me of how foggy and uncertain life is, and the weight gets piled on. This is such a moment.

My wife and I just got finished watching Gone Baby Gone . We had spent the whole time trying to figure out who the killer was, and were both kind of surprised how we had misjudged the whole point of the movie. The ultimate meaning of the movie--at least insofar as we could tell--was that good and bad decisions are not always so clear cut, and that the world can be a scary place.

This tapped into an anxiety I often carry around with me. I am someone who wants yes or no answers on everything, and yet I have very few. In spite of myself I believe in God, and yet I find it hard to believe anything anyone (including myself) tells me about he/she/it. I certainly have not received any discernable revelations. I don't trust people who wear moustaches.

This inability to accept received wisdom and to follow the lead of authority figures without question has left me,uneasily, with the conclusion that any meaning that is to be found in my life must be carved out by myself. Which is unfortunate, because I am not that experienced with a knife.

I know it’s trite, but I’m starting to understand where my parents are coming from. There is no one that can tell you for sure how to do things. You kind of have to play it by ear in the parenting game, and none of us have all of the equipment to make the right decision all of the time. Does anyone really know what they are doing?

It gives me some comfort to know that everyone is operating on their own best guesses to some extent, with the shoddy equipment found in their own rusty toolboxes. This is mildly alarming, but it makes empathy a little easier. It makes it easier to ease up on yourself a little too: Woody Allen is fun to watch in movies, but he's not as fun when he's perched on your shoulder all the time.

I have no idea what I am doing, and yet I am in charge of this most important project, and overall, things seem to be going well so far. My kids are intelligent, creative, compassionate, and well adjusted. So maybe the kind of uncomfortable soul searching that I do is appropriate for the role I've been given. I don’t know. I’m just going to assume that God is better at making appointments to high office than George W. Bush is, and try to act in good faith towards my kids.

Sign Test

I have squared myself.
I am six standard deviations from the mean.
The bell has cracked.
The bats are coming in.
The road is skewed. My tire has a flat.
When you make it to Grad school,
Send a car for me.
AAA isn’t returning my calls.

Swimming With Winston

I've chosen Martin Gilbert's Churchill:A Life as my spring break reading material. I was reading it the other night in bed, and had decided that I'd turn in after 'the next paragraph'. The next paragraph contained an excerpt of some of Churchill's writing that contained some really good imagery.

He and his brother Jack had taken a boat out on a lake in Ouchy, Switzerland. This was while he was on break from Sandhurst. They had jumped from the boat to swim, and a strong wind took the boat away from them. Churchill tried to catch up to it, but it kept getting blown away. The boys were getting tired, and this is how Churchill described the scene:

"Up to this point no idea of danger had crossed my mind. The sun played upon the sparkling blue waters; the wonderful panorama of mountain valleys, the gay hotels and villas still smiled. But now I saw Death as near I believe as I have ever seen him. He was swimming in the water at our side, whispering from time to time in the rising wind which continued to carry the boat away from us at about the same speed we could swim."

I got a chill when I read that. I don't know if it had anything to do with the tumbler of scotch I had imbibed, or the late hour, but I know that I smiled at the good writing, and then took a cursory glance around at the shadows in my lamp-lit room.

Easter Reflection

John Marks provided the most appropriate way for me to herald in Easter this year, with an essay about Dracula on All Things Considered.

lawnmower season

I'm pleased to let you know that a piece I wrote called Lawnmower Season is currently on display at Eyeshot. Thank you to Mr. Klein for posting it.

e-book

Good news: my first e-book--a collection of poems entitled Mule and Horse--will be available for free download from Why Vandalism April first.

In the meantime, there are a few things I've written for their march issue, so please help yourself to those. While you're there, be sure to treat yourself to a look at the e-books available from Chris Major and David Mclean, both of which are worth your time.

The Parachutist In Love

For E.G.

The Parachutist’s ripcord is malfunctioning. He is aware of this piece of information, and finds it duly disturbing.
You see, were the Parachutist on ground, in his plane, lying in his bed, sitting on the toilet, eating eggplant parmesan at his favorite Italian restaurant, bedding a young vixen, bedding a few young vixens (one slightly older than the other), practicing the clarinet, making a shopping list, or even playing volleyball (again with young vixens) at the beach, becoming aware of such a piece of information would be easily resolvable. Being however that he is currently falling from a very great height, the information about the ripcord is pertinent.

His instinct is to curse, but not being the swearing type, he decides to pray instead: Praying turns out to be harder to do mid-free fall than one might expect, so he curses.
Being a person who has read a book or two by Deepak Chopra, he attempts meditation: He is going to die. This is evident. He attempts to clear his mind by focusing on the snowy mountain tops that cap the quickly disappearing horizon. Also difficult: Consider G-forces.

What about the man in the colored jumpsuit with goggles and helmet?

The Parachutist’s favorite joke is one that usually only garners polite laughs when he tells it:
Q: How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb?
A: Two: one to hold the giraffe by the neck, the other to fill the bathtub up with clocks.

He has a picture of his nephew riding a horse on his coffee table at home. The picture was taken by his brother, on the boy’s twelfth birthday. The boy’s name is Cody. The Parachutist has tried to teach the boy how to play chess several times and has failed. Once, when Cody was about six, a little marble pawn showed up in his stool. The Parachutist has quit trying to teach the boy chess.

The Parachutist closes his eyes, takes a breath, and then opens them back up again. The earth is very beautiful, and very small from where he is. It is getting larger quickly, which is vaguely alarming. The Parachutist decides it would be better to misinterpret this alarm as exhilaration. ‘Whoop!’ he says.

He’s over a piney region of Alaska. The tree line spreads far and wide, and there are mountains in the distance. The Parachutist tries to imagine himself crashing down through the evergreens. Every snapping twig that he foresees, were he to write a blog about this episode, he may call it ‘Returning to the Earth in a very real way’, and the post would be very spiritual. The Parachutist is a very spiritual person in his own way. He has read books by Deepak Chopra, and always plays Prince music when he beds young vixens.

The Parachutist is pleased with how easily he turned the whole tragic affair into a philosophical one.
He imagines the earth wrapping around him, his body becoming thin and embedded, and he begins to relax his muscles as it all becomes very near, the whistling becoming increased, and the mountain view becoming out of sight. He thinks about the terrain, and tries to picture it without trees. A parking lot. A desert. An ocean. A pile of feathers.

To the ordinary wild porcupine, the grass is gentle and high, and the soil is agreeably moist. It easily absorbs the creature’s small footprints as it pads and sniffs it’s way through the sweet smelling forest, looking for whatever it is that porcupines look for.

Some kind of small bug, I would imagine.