I suppose one reason I began self identifying as a liberal is because Eddie Vedder is awesome. I was fifteen, hormonal, and totally into the Seattle scene when I first started exploring political and philosophical thought outside of that which I was raised with. Who are the good guys? Who are the bad guys? Of course I would frame the liberal/conservative divide in such a fashion: keep in mind, it would be another year before my Spiderman subscription would expire.
On the one hand you had a bunch of old white guys with neat televangelist hair and expensive suits. They were talking about the degradation of our (read: W.A.S.P.) culture and family values, and there was an unpleasant hue of racism and sanctimony hanging over their speech.
On the other hand you had the cool guys. The entertainment guys (appealing conservatives are hard to find in the entertainment industry): George Carlin. Bill Maher. Eddie Vedder. They bucked the status quo and called conservatives out on their hypocrisy and apparent cultural fascism. Plus, Eddie Vedder could sing like a madman. I’d like to see Newt Gingrich pull off ‘Yellow Ledbetter’.
Unfortunately, a lot of the thought underlying many of the current ‘liberal’ positions is as incomprehensible as the lyrics to that classic Pearl Jam tune.
The liberal position is one that advocates the virtual enslavement of illegal immigrants. The humane position, although it is often not voiced in this fashion, is to help make Mexico a viable economic power through strategic trade and aid, and also to make Mexico a more welcoming place to Mexicans by aiding the Mexican organizations that seek to curtail crime. Forcing poor people to brave hazardous conditions for slave wages is not a compassionate option.
The reasonable choice on the energy front is to go nuclear, go wind, go water, go ethanol, go electric, and yes, to drill. Drill in ANWR and off shore. There have been all kinds of advancements in drilling technology that will assure the environment will receive minimal damage, but will allow us (the most humanitarian nation in the world) to maintain our power-player status. Also on the environmental front, stop opposing CCS. If carbon emission is the problem, devices that reabsorb carbon from the atmosphere make all kinds of sense.
Timelines in Iraq are a bad idea. The surge has worked. Those of us who opposed it need to admit that. The best solution to the situation in Iraq is to follow a pragmatic strategy based on conditions on the ground. It was a mistake to invade, but we’re there now. If we leave, all kinds of people are going to die. Remember, we’re still in Germany.
There are more: breaching Pakistan’s border in a search for Osama Bin Laden is foolish. Tax cuts help businesses and families trying to pull themselves out of the lower classes. Making trade between ourselves and South American countries more seamless is the height of neighborliness. School vouchers enable families with less desirable options a chance to offer their children a better learning environment. Healthcare savings accounts for citizens is a much better solution to our healthcare difficulties than handing the system over to the federal government.
I’ve been a reliable left/libertarian voter as long as I’ve been able to vote. I support gay marriage, arts funding, and the public school system. I was opposed to going into Iraq, and I support reasonable gun laws. I am a conservationist. I oppose the patriot act, and support social safety nets, such as social security and welfare. I am against the death penalty, and for decriminalization of marijuana. I believe in a strict separation of church and state, and oppose the teaching of creationism in science class. I also publicly applauded the Supreme Court’s recent ruling that allowed Gitmo detainees to have access to our court system.
But I am finding it hard to rally to the call of our left wing gurus. Many Obama supporters come off as glassy-eyed revivalists. Al Gore doesn’t seem far away from seeking to have those who question man’s role in global warming committed, or put in prison. Hugo Chavez is an opposition-silencing dictator. Jesse Jackson is talking about cutting people’s nuts off.
The world doesn’t need to be protected from liberals or conservatives. The world needs to be protected from radicals on all spectrums whose endgame is of the convert,kill, or silence model.
All of the radicals--at least the ones we need to worry about--seem to be on the left this time around. John McCain isn’t a true believer like George Bush. He’s a clumsy opportunist in some ways, but he’s also a pragmatist. He’s got a record of consensus building. He was a member (to the fury of many on the right) of the gang of fourteen. His policies on healthcare are moderate, and he has a relatively liberal environmental policy.
A vote for John McCain is a vote more or less for the status quo; not necessarily the best option, but better than socialism, and definitely better than joining Obama‘s personality cult.
There has to be balance in society. Balance between government and corporations, and balance between left and right. With an apparent democratic tide rolling in in ‘09, McCain is the moderate's choice. He may not be bringing sexy back, but at least he seems to be aware that he is a man applying for a job, rather than a man recruiting fishers of men.
*UPDATE*
I am voting for Barack Obama. According to the madman posting above, McCain is the moderate choice. Maybe I am not such a moderate as I thought. Because I was turned off by the borderline worshipfulness of some of Obama's supporters at the time I wrote this post, I blocked out McCain's steadily increasing & cynical pandering to the right. The fervor some on the right feel for Palin has eclipsed and equalized what disturbed me about the enthusiasm of many Obama supporters. She's brought the wingnuts to the party. I still like John McCain, and hope he has a good retirement. The debates have shown me that Obama is the person with the temperament to lead our nation, not McCain. Obama's solution to the forclosure crisis is actually more conservative than McCain's. Obama has (reluctantly) expressed a willingness to explore drilling, and has a far safer healthcare option than McCain. I still support school vouchers, but find myself more in-line with Obama on the economy, immigration, foreign policy, and social issues. The two candidates aren't that different, but Obama seems to be the safer option at this point.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
Can You See Heaven?
Abby took this picture with her cell phone camera, through my dirty windshield. It was much prettier in real life. We had just gotten home after spending a nice day doing family things, and she pointed out the sky to me, and when I looked, I was blown away. I had spent the whole day looking at my kids, looking at little things that they wanted to show me, things they'd found on the ground; rocks,bottle caps, centipedes.I had spent the day counting the freckles on my wife's neck. After a day of looking close at small (important) things, looking at that huge sky took my words away. The picture doesn't do it justice.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
the genius
The Genius has gained so much understanding that there is no one alive who is capable of comforting him. He knows there are people who are perfectly serene; some through a deficiency in understanding, others through what is generically called ‘enlightenment’. The genius would accept either of these methods to happiness willingly, were someone able to convey their essences to him in a language that didn‘t sound to him like :
1. a peacock plucking out it‘s own back feathers.
2. an engagement ring in the garbage disposal.
3. a herring being swept up in the claws of a grizzly bear.
4. an overfull zit, rocketing itself onto the surface of a mirror.
1. a peacock plucking out it‘s own back feathers.
2. an engagement ring in the garbage disposal.
3. a herring being swept up in the claws of a grizzly bear.
4. an overfull zit, rocketing itself onto the surface of a mirror.
^
Since no one can comfort The Genius, he just stares out the rain specked window in his study. His sits in a comfortable red leather chair, and looks at the wet blue grass, the streaked gray shed, and the absorbent brown fence in his backyard.
It is always raining in the genius’s mind. When he’s standing in his kitchen, talking to his wife--who herself only has one small way that she can connect with him on such a high plain--he sees rain. Sometimes it pours, and her hair and shirt are soaked, and he can clearly see the outline of her plain cotton bra and her unserious bellybutton . Sometimes the rain just tinkles, just a small bout of heavenly whizzing. He can hear it chink against the tile, and it sounds with an echo in the deep set sink.
Once, when the genius was in the throes of desperation and willing to toss experience and reason to the wind, he went to see the world’s most renowned Psychotherapist in a small gray flat in Switzerland. The flat overlooked a gray field, a small pond, and a medium sized wooden shack that probably held lawn equipment.
The Eminent Psychotherapist began the session fully aware that he was, indeed, taking The Genius himself down the road less traveled, and so proceeded with deft attention, erudition and care. By mid-session somehow things had gone upside down, and the Genius found himself lecturing the Eminent Psychotherapist (mouth agape, upturned palms supporting his soft chin), on the fundamentals of String Theory.
The Genius has since abandoned all hope of seeing full remission of the Great Descending Haze in his lifetime.
One thing will occasionally lift the influence of that golden demon/will swat the black-eyed dog with cold newsprint:
A casual human touch. A brush of fingers through his graying hair. A hip-bump on the subway car from a careless stranger, or two hands reaching for the same dropped object at once, colliding.
The touches work best when they are accidental.
An accidental human touch--now and again--will appease the insidious beast of woe, and will allay the dull ache that accompanies The Genius through the flak-starred night of his bleakest desolation.
Sometimes the rain smells sweet.
Since no one can comfort The Genius, he just stares out the rain specked window in his study. His sits in a comfortable red leather chair, and looks at the wet blue grass, the streaked gray shed, and the absorbent brown fence in his backyard.
It is always raining in the genius’s mind. When he’s standing in his kitchen, talking to his wife--who herself only has one small way that she can connect with him on such a high plain--he sees rain. Sometimes it pours, and her hair and shirt are soaked, and he can clearly see the outline of her plain cotton bra and her unserious bellybutton . Sometimes the rain just tinkles, just a small bout of heavenly whizzing. He can hear it chink against the tile, and it sounds with an echo in the deep set sink.
Once, when the genius was in the throes of desperation and willing to toss experience and reason to the wind, he went to see the world’s most renowned Psychotherapist in a small gray flat in Switzerland. The flat overlooked a gray field, a small pond, and a medium sized wooden shack that probably held lawn equipment.
The Eminent Psychotherapist began the session fully aware that he was, indeed, taking The Genius himself down the road less traveled, and so proceeded with deft attention, erudition and care. By mid-session somehow things had gone upside down, and the Genius found himself lecturing the Eminent Psychotherapist (mouth agape, upturned palms supporting his soft chin), on the fundamentals of String Theory.
The Genius has since abandoned all hope of seeing full remission of the Great Descending Haze in his lifetime.
One thing will occasionally lift the influence of that golden demon/will swat the black-eyed dog with cold newsprint:
A casual human touch. A brush of fingers through his graying hair. A hip-bump on the subway car from a careless stranger, or two hands reaching for the same dropped object at once, colliding.
The touches work best when they are accidental.
An accidental human touch--now and again--will appease the insidious beast of woe, and will allay the dull ache that accompanies The Genius through the flak-starred night of his bleakest desolation.
Sometimes the rain smells sweet.
Monday, July 14, 2008
How We Spend Our Friday Nights
the flesh cooked so soft
barely clings to the bone
hanging like a stranded climber
like a man with a drink
Alone in a room full of people.
(you wonder if the man with the tray
will notice that this is the third kabob
you have swiped).
your pocket is full of mini-javelins.
she is talking,
swaying to the music--
a dull thump of bass
in the background--
and her cheeks are pink
from how many glasses
of pinot.
you smell the smoke in the air
men are playing pool in the next room
you were a child once
at parties like this.
you were upstairs in your room
and you would sneak out after waiting
and you would watch all of the adults
naked, out of their skins.
they talked to each other so desperately:
hoping to find god
On the comet tail
of every Tic-Tac coated breath.
barely clings to the bone
hanging like a stranded climber
like a man with a drink
Alone in a room full of people.
(you wonder if the man with the tray
will notice that this is the third kabob
you have swiped).
your pocket is full of mini-javelins.
she is talking,
swaying to the music--
a dull thump of bass
in the background--
and her cheeks are pink
from how many glasses
of pinot.
you smell the smoke in the air
men are playing pool in the next room
you were a child once
at parties like this.
you were upstairs in your room
and you would sneak out after waiting
and you would watch all of the adults
naked, out of their skins.
they talked to each other so desperately:
hoping to find god
On the comet tail
of every Tic-Tac coated breath.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
from so simple a beginning
One of the best pieces of advice I've ever received regarding time management was given to me by a UC psych. professor named Kenneth Ghee.
He told my class that every morning he goes into the bathroom, takes a colored notecard from a box he keeps there, and writes down five things he would like to accomplish throughout the day. He checks the list periodically throughout the day to see if he's on track, and then at the end of the day he sits down with a pencil, checks off the things on his list that he accomplished, and circles the ones he didn't: then he asks himself why he may have failed at accomplishing the circled items.
I knew this was good advice when I heard it, but I didn't institute it in my own life until a couple of weeks ago. Brother, let me tell you. It has revolutionized my productivity.
I've always had time management issues. I used to make these huge, multi-paged 'change my life' type charts that I would follow for a day and then forget. The notecard system has worked for me because it is easy, does not involve managing my whole day into a strict militaristic regimen, and allows me to keep track of my progress. Also, by whittling down the list of daily objectives, I discover what is really important to me.
The feeling of having spent a day productively has lifted my mood considerably.
A bad mood can be reflective as much or more of a bad diet and/or lack of exercise as it can be of deep psychological issues. Guilt about certain sexual thoughts and actions probably reflects more about the society you live in than God's righteous anger. The human chin may be a simple biproduct of the evolutionary development of other neighboring aspects,and may have no particular adaptable aspect of its own. Dick Cheney may simply just be an evil man: Dr. Phil can't reach everyone.
Lots of things are simple, in spite of my periodic desire and expectation for them not to be. Sometimes it is hard for me to wrap my mind around a simpler solution because in many cases I have trained myself to 'go deep' on so many things. I don't know if this stems from reading so many works on psychoanalysis, or because I have been rewarded with an increased understanding so many times by my willingness to take apart and analyze. The fact that writing things down on a stupid note card can make my life so much easier, or that going for a daily jog can dispel the deepest, darkest existential funk, is astounding.
No Spencer, God hasn't left you in a meaningless world of cruelty and despair. You just need a cup of coffee.
Sometimes simple explanations mystify and humble me.
He told my class that every morning he goes into the bathroom, takes a colored notecard from a box he keeps there, and writes down five things he would like to accomplish throughout the day. He checks the list periodically throughout the day to see if he's on track, and then at the end of the day he sits down with a pencil, checks off the things on his list that he accomplished, and circles the ones he didn't: then he asks himself why he may have failed at accomplishing the circled items.
I knew this was good advice when I heard it, but I didn't institute it in my own life until a couple of weeks ago. Brother, let me tell you. It has revolutionized my productivity.
I've always had time management issues. I used to make these huge, multi-paged 'change my life' type charts that I would follow for a day and then forget. The notecard system has worked for me because it is easy, does not involve managing my whole day into a strict militaristic regimen, and allows me to keep track of my progress. Also, by whittling down the list of daily objectives, I discover what is really important to me.
The feeling of having spent a day productively has lifted my mood considerably.
A bad mood can be reflective as much or more of a bad diet and/or lack of exercise as it can be of deep psychological issues. Guilt about certain sexual thoughts and actions probably reflects more about the society you live in than God's righteous anger. The human chin may be a simple biproduct of the evolutionary development of other neighboring aspects,and may have no particular adaptable aspect of its own. Dick Cheney may simply just be an evil man: Dr. Phil can't reach everyone.
Lots of things are simple, in spite of my periodic desire and expectation for them not to be. Sometimes it is hard for me to wrap my mind around a simpler solution because in many cases I have trained myself to 'go deep' on so many things. I don't know if this stems from reading so many works on psychoanalysis, or because I have been rewarded with an increased understanding so many times by my willingness to take apart and analyze. The fact that writing things down on a stupid note card can make my life so much easier, or that going for a daily jog can dispel the deepest, darkest existential funk, is astounding.
No Spencer, God hasn't left you in a meaningless world of cruelty and despair. You just need a cup of coffee.
Sometimes simple explanations mystify and humble me.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
cutting the grass, and a eulogy for a refrigerator
I.
When I cut the grass, this is what I do: I take two beers from the fridge and put them in the freezer. We have a hill in my backyard, and I use an old mulch mower, so it can take awhile sometimes. Usually by the time I’ve finished, the beers are nice and frosty. Not just frosty, but nice and frosty.
Today when I was cutting the backyard I noticed my youngest son watching me out of the bedroom window. When he realized that I saw him he smiled. I waved at him, and he waved back, and I thought, I could get used to this.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
II.
Our refrigerator died a slow death. It was a good death, and we all had time to prepare for the end.
Sure there was a point where it couldn't freeze ice cubes anymore, and sure, we had to put the milk in the freezer to keep it slightly cold. But right up to the end it was still humming along, and whenever you opened the door the light came on.
Although we didn't spend alot of time with fridge--we just bought the house in December--we are reassured to know that its time was time well spent. It may not have always been everything we could've wanted, but it took care of the previous owner's perishable goods for quite a long time: that's no small feat.
So, wherever fridges go when they die, we hope it's a better place. We hope it's in a a place where the Ben and Jerry's can bend a spoon, and the Stout beers and chilled wines are respectively stout and chilled.
We also earnestly hope that no friend of Punky Brewster's is ever trapped inside of the old fridge while playing a game of hide and seek with friends. Things often don't turn out in real life the way they do in 80's sitcoms.
amen.
When I cut the grass, this is what I do: I take two beers from the fridge and put them in the freezer. We have a hill in my backyard, and I use an old mulch mower, so it can take awhile sometimes. Usually by the time I’ve finished, the beers are nice and frosty. Not just frosty, but nice and frosty.
Today when I was cutting the backyard I noticed my youngest son watching me out of the bedroom window. When he realized that I saw him he smiled. I waved at him, and he waved back, and I thought, I could get used to this.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
II.
Our refrigerator died a slow death. It was a good death, and we all had time to prepare for the end.
Sure there was a point where it couldn't freeze ice cubes anymore, and sure, we had to put the milk in the freezer to keep it slightly cold. But right up to the end it was still humming along, and whenever you opened the door the light came on.
Although we didn't spend alot of time with fridge--we just bought the house in December--we are reassured to know that its time was time well spent. It may not have always been everything we could've wanted, but it took care of the previous owner's perishable goods for quite a long time: that's no small feat.
So, wherever fridges go when they die, we hope it's a better place. We hope it's in a a place where the Ben and Jerry's can bend a spoon, and the Stout beers and chilled wines are respectively stout and chilled.
We also earnestly hope that no friend of Punky Brewster's is ever trapped inside of the old fridge while playing a game of hide and seek with friends. Things often don't turn out in real life the way they do in 80's sitcoms.
amen.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
4th of July
"It is necessary to the happiness of man, that he be mentally faithful to himself. Infidelity does not consist in believing, or in disbelieving; it consists in professing to believe what he does not believe." Thomas Paine, From The Age Of Reason.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
The Ebert Ethic
You don't go to a Roger Ebert review looking for a generic overview of a movie to see if it's worth seeing or not. True, the whole thumbs up/thumbs down dynamic was created to serve this basic premise, but it's not what's good about Ebert's writing.
What Roger Ebert brings to his reviews is a humane worldview, intellect, humor, and an admirable desire to judge a film by the standards it establishes for itself. If the equation doesn't add up in our world, that's alright, so long as it stays consistent throughout the course of the work.
I've been reading Ebert's reviews for years, and I just started reading his blog, which is available on his main site. It's a good look behind the scenes. I was appreciative of this post , that he wrote about a correspondance he had with one of the blog's regular commentors. In it he talks about the power of affirmation and redemption in film, and a few of the films he has seen that have best represented these qualities.
I'm not sure if there's a critic out there who has the cheeks to fill this guy's chair when he decides it's time to exit the theater.
Monday, June 23, 2008
George Carlin
I always kind of felt that George Carlin’s M.O. was to tear down silly taboos and conceits that separated people from one another, as well as to give voice to some less than flattering impulses and inclinations that exist within all of us. He was a unifier, in that he gave people an excuse to laugh at themselves with each other. With some taboos and conceits, I would compare him to a dog playing with a baby rabbit. It’s true that the gist of his intent was fun, but just as the baby rabbit will usually turn up dead after such rough play, so (often) would the taboo or conceit in Carlin's hands.
^
More important than these things, George Carlin was funny: "Why do they lock gas station bathrooms? Are they afraid someone's going to sneak in and clean them?".
^
If we had a ladder big enough, I would volunteer to retrieve his soul off the roof, if only for one more HBO special.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Intelligent Design relying on 'Intellectual Welfare'
^
Ken Miller was on Science Friday last week to talk about creationism being taught in school. His point is well taken overall, and his claim that I.D. supporters using the court system to mandate the teaching of I.D.--along with a forced discussion of the "strengths and weaknesses" of evolution theory--is tantamount to intellectual welfare. click here to listen.
A good way of gratifying both sides of this argument might be to include some kind of history of religion and/or bible as literature class as free elective options in high schools.
Maybe a current events curriculum could look into the controversy over the issue, and could weigh the validity of each argument as well as hold open debate on the subject. But what do I know?
Ken Miller was on Science Friday last week to talk about creationism being taught in school. His point is well taken overall, and his claim that I.D. supporters using the court system to mandate the teaching of I.D.--along with a forced discussion of the "strengths and weaknesses" of evolution theory--is tantamount to intellectual welfare. click here to listen.
A good way of gratifying both sides of this argument might be to include some kind of history of religion and/or bible as literature class as free elective options in high schools.
Maybe a current events curriculum could look into the controversy over the issue, and could weigh the validity of each argument as well as hold open debate on the subject. But what do I know?
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
two reasons to be proud to be an American...
R. Kelley was acquitted, and the Supreme Court overruled the Bush Administration on Guantanamo Bay.
Regarding R. Kelley, it is good to know that the phrase ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ can still be literally interpreted in a climate that leans towards the guilty until proven innocent motif. It is common knowledge--at least common gossip--that Kelley has a penchant for under aged girls. Kelley is also bombastic, rich, shamelessly flashy, and hard to separate from the R. Kelley portrayed in the Dave Chapelle parody. He’s not a sympathetic character. Yet still he was let go. Not because he was innocent: there was a reasonable doubt in the mind of the jurors that he was, indeed, the man in the video. In a culture that enjoys stark blacks and whites, this is hopeful news.
Even a guy like R. Kelley can get a fair trial in the U.S.A.
And the U.S. Supreme Court overruled the Bush Administration on Guantanamo Bay Detainees. They now have access to our federal court system. This is good for a few reasons: 1) it restores to the United States the role of trailblazer on the issue of human rights. Conservatives angered by the court’s decision often argue that no other Democracy in the world has such a policy as this. Damn straight. We are raising the bar for the rest of the world with this ruling, and pulling the rug out from beneath extremists throughout the world who would paint us as torturing, inhumane thugs. 2) The ruling will also increase transparency, which has been a problem with this administration. Not only will the rest of the world see that America is making moves to retake it’s rightful place as the shining city on the hill for the rest of the world, perhaps some of the doubters here at home will see it to.
Many conservatives in this country tout globalization because of the potential it creates for trade and the export of capitalism. The tongue-in-cheek foreign policy notion that no country with a McDonalds will bomb another country with a McDonalds is also often employed to show that such unrestricted commerce will unify the world. I agree with this, and think it is in vein that liberals try to resist it. Instead of resisting globalization, we have to make certain that we're not only exporting double-cheeseburgers, but human rights as well. Everywhere there is a factory in the developing world, there should be a union. Corporations should be held accountable for the way they use the resources of the countries that they operate in, and other governments need to see such forward looking decisions from prominent countries like the U.S. as the Supreme court ruling on Guantanamo bay.
By allowing these detainees access to our court systems as opposed to trying them in opaque military tribunals, we will hopefully set standards that will lead to accepted norms of treatment similar to those established by the Geneva convention. The detainees are going to be tried regardless, and the A.C.L.U. is going to be buzzing around any such proceedings anyway. If everything has been operating as above board as the administration has claimed, they should be more than happy to comply with the ruling and to put the naysayers in their places. After all, as long as there is a curtain, anyone can speculate as to what is behind it.
Regarding R. Kelley, it is good to know that the phrase ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ can still be literally interpreted in a climate that leans towards the guilty until proven innocent motif. It is common knowledge--at least common gossip--that Kelley has a penchant for under aged girls. Kelley is also bombastic, rich, shamelessly flashy, and hard to separate from the R. Kelley portrayed in the Dave Chapelle parody. He’s not a sympathetic character. Yet still he was let go. Not because he was innocent: there was a reasonable doubt in the mind of the jurors that he was, indeed, the man in the video. In a culture that enjoys stark blacks and whites, this is hopeful news.
Even a guy like R. Kelley can get a fair trial in the U.S.A.
And the U.S. Supreme Court overruled the Bush Administration on Guantanamo Bay Detainees. They now have access to our federal court system. This is good for a few reasons: 1) it restores to the United States the role of trailblazer on the issue of human rights. Conservatives angered by the court’s decision often argue that no other Democracy in the world has such a policy as this. Damn straight. We are raising the bar for the rest of the world with this ruling, and pulling the rug out from beneath extremists throughout the world who would paint us as torturing, inhumane thugs. 2) The ruling will also increase transparency, which has been a problem with this administration. Not only will the rest of the world see that America is making moves to retake it’s rightful place as the shining city on the hill for the rest of the world, perhaps some of the doubters here at home will see it to.
Many conservatives in this country tout globalization because of the potential it creates for trade and the export of capitalism. The tongue-in-cheek foreign policy notion that no country with a McDonalds will bomb another country with a McDonalds is also often employed to show that such unrestricted commerce will unify the world. I agree with this, and think it is in vein that liberals try to resist it. Instead of resisting globalization, we have to make certain that we're not only exporting double-cheeseburgers, but human rights as well. Everywhere there is a factory in the developing world, there should be a union. Corporations should be held accountable for the way they use the resources of the countries that they operate in, and other governments need to see such forward looking decisions from prominent countries like the U.S. as the Supreme court ruling on Guantanamo bay.
By allowing these detainees access to our court systems as opposed to trying them in opaque military tribunals, we will hopefully set standards that will lead to accepted norms of treatment similar to those established by the Geneva convention. The detainees are going to be tried regardless, and the A.C.L.U. is going to be buzzing around any such proceedings anyway. If everything has been operating as above board as the administration has claimed, they should be more than happy to comply with the ruling and to put the naysayers in their places. After all, as long as there is a curtain, anyone can speculate as to what is behind it.
Friday, June 13, 2008
I don't know how fathers did it...
My kids ask me all kinds of questions that I don't know the answer to. Thank Zeus for Wikipedia. How did dads answer the barrage of questions kids ask before the invention of that great, democratic encyclopedia? Sure, some people know alot of stuff, and sure, there were encyclopedias before the internet, but who had a complete encyclopedia? No one in my neighborhood. My family only had the Brittanica for the letter H, and I memorized it. I can tell you all about Harvard, Hatian Death Cults, and Herbert Hoover, but I'm going to need to look up pretty much everything else. I get the feeling that before wikipedia, Dad's were flinging the b.s. fast and furious:
Kid: Why is the sky blue dad?
Dad: I dunno son, God's pen exploded in his pocket.
Kid: Oh.
No wonder kids end up questioning authority.
I am so happy for wikipedia. My sons are always asking these random questions that I can't give them a certain answer for. Example: Dad, what do badgers eat?
Thanks to wikipedia I can tell him that they're omnivores, and that they eat mostly squirrels, a variety of rats, pocket gophers*, sunflower seeds, bees, and honeycombs. Also thanks to wikipedia, I'll be able to inform my boys (when they are older) that koalas have bifurcated penises.
It's a brave new world, but it's one we can survive with a wireless connection.
^
*what the hell is a pocket gopher?
Kid: Why is the sky blue dad?
Dad: I dunno son, God's pen exploded in his pocket.
Kid: Oh.
No wonder kids end up questioning authority.
I am so happy for wikipedia. My sons are always asking these random questions that I can't give them a certain answer for. Example: Dad, what do badgers eat?
Thanks to wikipedia I can tell him that they're omnivores, and that they eat mostly squirrels, a variety of rats, pocket gophers*, sunflower seeds, bees, and honeycombs. Also thanks to wikipedia, I'll be able to inform my boys (when they are older) that koalas have bifurcated penises.
It's a brave new world, but it's one we can survive with a wireless connection.
^
*what the hell is a pocket gopher?
You've Got A Map
Norman Mailer has this sort-of vague notion about what he calls The Authority of the Senses that I think deserves consideration. He says essentially that we must honor--if not always succumb to--our own personal navigational senses. As an aperitif to a consideration of this, G.K. Chesterton was of the mind that the reason things feel good or are appealing to us is because there is something reflective of God in that thing. While we might be advised to take into consideration that Chesterton toppled around somewhere near four-hundred pounds (there‘s apparently more of God to be found in the second pint of beer than there is in the first), we can at least enjoy the idea of Norman Mailer echoing G.K. Chesterton.
We can respect the laws of society in concept and form and still be prepared to shirk them when they come into conflict our own senses. This doesn‘t make us bad, or anarchists. After all, it’s our rationales that lead us to endorse one worldview over another, and to create certain cognitive shortcuts that free up our mental processes to keep our individual ships afloat. As much as we might like, we can’t be skeptics all the time. A lot of the time we’re going to have to adhere to that little aesthetic evolutionary/godly voice that seems to nudge us in one way or the other.
By accepting the authority of the senses, we allow ourselves the freedom to bypass the collective reason of social norms and laws, and to occasionally bypass our own norms and laws. Sure, there are cold hard facts, but a lot of life is derivative of these, or even in spite of these. The facts may be one thing, but what we derive from them as pertains to meaning and application is something else entirely. To acknowledge that we may need to diverge from the main road from time to time is merely a practical observation. This should not be a cause of guilt. To deviate from the rule is like swimming a little ways from the boat when you’re out on the lake. Sometimes it can even be like swimming away from the boat when it’s sinking.
It is always advisable to weigh individualistic vision against the punishments assigned to those who violate societal norms. We’re social creatures, and isolation isn’t adaptable. It might not be worth losing your girlfriend because you insist on wearing hats made of lettuce, but it might be worth losing your liberty to stand against an unjust law.
The Authority of the Senses idea can apply to any moral situation. You can generally trust the combination of your intellect, will, instinct, and emotion, to give you some semblance of a best option in most circumstances. You are aware to varying degrees of your personal shortcoming, and it is incumbent upon you to take them into account when making decisions. After weighing all of these different factors (often in a split second instance) you can reasonably deduce what the best thing to do would be, even if you are not guaranteed to do it. The written law or received wisdom can only serve as an option: a path that has been tread before.
This blog has been a perfect example of what I’m talking about. I found a familiar and friendly idea [human free agency] expressed by Norman Mailer in a novel way [the authority of the senses]. Instead of reviewing the idea as I had planned [in Mailer’s context] I put it in my own, and took it far away from the meaning he proscribed. I rode this wave here, and when the tide rolls back out, I’ll either die in the sun or grow a prehensile tail and climb a tree.
We can respect the laws of society in concept and form and still be prepared to shirk them when they come into conflict our own senses. This doesn‘t make us bad, or anarchists. After all, it’s our rationales that lead us to endorse one worldview over another, and to create certain cognitive shortcuts that free up our mental processes to keep our individual ships afloat. As much as we might like, we can’t be skeptics all the time. A lot of the time we’re going to have to adhere to that little aesthetic evolutionary/godly voice that seems to nudge us in one way or the other.
By accepting the authority of the senses, we allow ourselves the freedom to bypass the collective reason of social norms and laws, and to occasionally bypass our own norms and laws. Sure, there are cold hard facts, but a lot of life is derivative of these, or even in spite of these. The facts may be one thing, but what we derive from them as pertains to meaning and application is something else entirely. To acknowledge that we may need to diverge from the main road from time to time is merely a practical observation. This should not be a cause of guilt. To deviate from the rule is like swimming a little ways from the boat when you’re out on the lake. Sometimes it can even be like swimming away from the boat when it’s sinking.
It is always advisable to weigh individualistic vision against the punishments assigned to those who violate societal norms. We’re social creatures, and isolation isn’t adaptable. It might not be worth losing your girlfriend because you insist on wearing hats made of lettuce, but it might be worth losing your liberty to stand against an unjust law.
The Authority of the Senses idea can apply to any moral situation. You can generally trust the combination of your intellect, will, instinct, and emotion, to give you some semblance of a best option in most circumstances. You are aware to varying degrees of your personal shortcoming, and it is incumbent upon you to take them into account when making decisions. After weighing all of these different factors (often in a split second instance) you can reasonably deduce what the best thing to do would be, even if you are not guaranteed to do it. The written law or received wisdom can only serve as an option: a path that has been tread before.
This blog has been a perfect example of what I’m talking about. I found a familiar and friendly idea [human free agency] expressed by Norman Mailer in a novel way [the authority of the senses]. Instead of reviewing the idea as I had planned [in Mailer’s context] I put it in my own, and took it far away from the meaning he proscribed. I rode this wave here, and when the tide rolls back out, I’ll either die in the sun or grow a prehensile tail and climb a tree.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Lawnmower Season
It is almost time to cut the grass in the tri-state area. People are turning their furnaces down across the land, some are turning them off completely, and opening windows.
The snow is melting, the icicles are making pleasant dripping sounds as they plop onto the front porch and echo across the hardwood floors inside. The birds are back chirping at their feeders, and people are thinking, this is the year I’m going to plant a yucca tree in the garden.
The winter gets long in the suburbs of Cincinnati. People go to museums and movies and functions at churches and schools. They watch Dancing With the Stars, and hope to see someone trip that atheist magician. People long to go outside, get something from the shed. Have a picnic. People become Russian existentialists in the winter, sword-fighting the despair with absinthe spoons.
In the spring, and in an election season to boot, things come alive. Your neighbors--the pasty looking people you now see emerging from their long winter naps--are happy to see you. They will wave their arms at you, and you will wave your arms too. You learned how to greet people this way when you were very small.
Soon, the people will be out, buzzing their grasses in unison, getting any strays or hard to reach clumps with the weed-whacker. It’s an election season, so the yards will be political signs requesting that you Vote No on Issue 10, Vote No on Higher Taxes. Issue ten of course being the school levy.
Pretty soon, it will be time for iced-tea and Frisbee golf. People will be taking walks around the neighborhood, examining the season’s landscaping. Little kids will be riding their bikes and getting scraped kneecaps, and there will be lots of fishing.
In the suburbs, we know that if the angels of the apocalypse choose the first day of spring to blow their horns, we can drown out the noise with the sound of our lawnmowers.
Originally Appeared at Eyeshot
The snow is melting, the icicles are making pleasant dripping sounds as they plop onto the front porch and echo across the hardwood floors inside. The birds are back chirping at their feeders, and people are thinking, this is the year I’m going to plant a yucca tree in the garden.
The winter gets long in the suburbs of Cincinnati. People go to museums and movies and functions at churches and schools. They watch Dancing With the Stars, and hope to see someone trip that atheist magician. People long to go outside, get something from the shed. Have a picnic. People become Russian existentialists in the winter, sword-fighting the despair with absinthe spoons.
In the spring, and in an election season to boot, things come alive. Your neighbors--the pasty looking people you now see emerging from their long winter naps--are happy to see you. They will wave their arms at you, and you will wave your arms too. You learned how to greet people this way when you were very small.
Soon, the people will be out, buzzing their grasses in unison, getting any strays or hard to reach clumps with the weed-whacker. It’s an election season, so the yards will be political signs requesting that you Vote No on Issue 10, Vote No on Higher Taxes. Issue ten of course being the school levy.
Pretty soon, it will be time for iced-tea and Frisbee golf. People will be taking walks around the neighborhood, examining the season’s landscaping. Little kids will be riding their bikes and getting scraped kneecaps, and there will be lots of fishing.
In the suburbs, we know that if the angels of the apocalypse choose the first day of spring to blow their horns, we can drown out the noise with the sound of our lawnmowers.
Originally Appeared at Eyeshot
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
an excerpt from my interview with stanislav calhoun
S: Mr. Calhoun. Thanks for calling back.
C: Glad to be here.
S: So, the idea of this discussion is to run through your early public career, and hopefully come to some conclusions about your impact on the overall culture.
C: That's easy. I didn't have an impact.
S:...You got your start in FDR's administration, correct?
C: Well, I was a professor first. A public intellectual for awhile. Freelance. That was after I was fired from Princeton. But, yes, that's right. I was a…peripheral figure in the Brain Trust. No president before Roosevelt has reached out to academics in quite the same way,
S: He brought you in as he was rolling out the New Deal.
C: That's right. I was the head of an arm of the WPA. The whole point of the WPA was, essentially, to create jobs for people who'd lost everything during the depression; There was the famous program for laborers; one man digs a hole, the other fills it in...It even extended to writers. They had writers going around the country collecting slave narratives, writing travel books. It was a spectacular program.
S: And what was your function exactly?
C: I was in charge of creating a program for displaced philosophers.
S: Really? I've never heard of that. Was it difficult to find something to suit our nation's out of work philosophers?
C: Well, manual labor was out. Right from the start. They didn't have the temperament for collecting data or surveying...And meanwhile, these poor guys were wandering the country, offering musings on the nature of Beauty for soup coupons. It was tough. way...At least insofar as shaping public policy is concerned, is what I mean to say.
S: What did you come up with?
C: Actually, the suggestion that we ended up with was suggested by an undergraduate. I forget his name, but great work. Really.So the program we ended up with was this: One philosopher postulates an existential abyss, and the next philosopher jumps into it.
S:How'd it go?
C: Well, we pitched it to Roosevelt, and he loved it. But it was about that time that those fascists in the American Liberty League started throwing a hissy, so the program got cut before we could really launch it.
S: That's a shame.
C: Yes, but look at it this way: If the program didn't get cut, our coffee shops would be understaffed, and pizza joints all across the country would be going through a temp agency to get their drivers. So, you know. Things sort themselves out sometimes.
S: Mr. Calhoun, one final question before we close this interview. Do you call yourself an optimist?
C: Only when I can't find my glasses.
C: Glad to be here.
S: So, the idea of this discussion is to run through your early public career, and hopefully come to some conclusions about your impact on the overall culture.
C: That's easy. I didn't have an impact.
S:...You got your start in FDR's administration, correct?
C: Well, I was a professor first. A public intellectual for awhile. Freelance. That was after I was fired from Princeton. But, yes, that's right. I was a…peripheral figure in the Brain Trust. No president before Roosevelt has reached out to academics in quite the same way,
S: He brought you in as he was rolling out the New Deal.
C: That's right. I was the head of an arm of the WPA. The whole point of the WPA was, essentially, to create jobs for people who'd lost everything during the depression; There was the famous program for laborers; one man digs a hole, the other fills it in...It even extended to writers. They had writers going around the country collecting slave narratives, writing travel books. It was a spectacular program.
S: And what was your function exactly?
C: I was in charge of creating a program for displaced philosophers.
S: Really? I've never heard of that. Was it difficult to find something to suit our nation's out of work philosophers?
C: Well, manual labor was out. Right from the start. They didn't have the temperament for collecting data or surveying...And meanwhile, these poor guys were wandering the country, offering musings on the nature of Beauty for soup coupons. It was tough. way...At least insofar as shaping public policy is concerned, is what I mean to say.
S: What did you come up with?
C: Actually, the suggestion that we ended up with was suggested by an undergraduate. I forget his name, but great work. Really.So the program we ended up with was this: One philosopher postulates an existential abyss, and the next philosopher jumps into it.
S:How'd it go?
C: Well, we pitched it to Roosevelt, and he loved it. But it was about that time that those fascists in the American Liberty League started throwing a hissy, so the program got cut before we could really launch it.
S: That's a shame.
C: Yes, but look at it this way: If the program didn't get cut, our coffee shops would be understaffed, and pizza joints all across the country would be going through a temp agency to get their drivers. So, you know. Things sort themselves out sometimes.
S: Mr. Calhoun, one final question before we close this interview. Do you call yourself an optimist?
C: Only when I can't find my glasses.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Pebbles
I took my two year old son for a walk around the block today. He stopped to look at every pebble on the road. Normally I would encourage him to keep moving, but today I let him take his time. His little practice of examining all of these little stones as if they were these great things really touched me. He would show me the ones he really liked.
How wonderful, to be in awe of a pebble.
We just went around the block, which isn't far, but it took nearly an hour. When we got home both of our pockets were stuffed with all of the interesting things he had accumulated on our trip.
How wonderful, to be in awe of a pebble.
We just went around the block, which isn't far, but it took nearly an hour. When we got home both of our pockets were stuffed with all of the interesting things he had accumulated on our trip.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Procession, 2 a.m.
After thrashing about in the covers for thirty minutes, Carson Pulley gave up on sleep after his wife made one of her infamous harrumphs. It was a noise that registered as deeply perturbing with Carson. Worse than crunching popcorn. Worse than the sound of breaking bone.
So he got out of bed and went to the kitchen and cut himself a slice of strawberry cake. The clock said 1:55am. The cake was gooey and moist. He poured a glass of milk and took a drink, topping off immediately, then put the carton back in the fridge. He made short work of the cake.
They had been using a fan to sleep for years, starting when they were a young couple living in his parent’s basement . The fan drowned out the sounds of shoes creaking across the kitchen floor above. When they moved into their first apartment, they used it to contend with the Latin music that seeped through their papier-mâché walls, and then, after they had bought their home, they found they couldn’t sleep without it. There was such a thing as too quiet now; every settling floorboard, every time the air conditioner kicked on, every time one of their two cats scratched near it’s collar in the middle of the night--jingling it’s nametag--they’d wake up. They even brought their fan with them when they would travel. But now it was dead, and as dependant as they were on the thing, they didn’t have a back up. It never occurred to either of them. Carson intended to go to Wal-Mart on Friday after he got paid and pick up a new one.
He finished off his milk and walked out onto the front porch. The cold, dewy air woke him as it splashed in his face. His bare feet came alive atop the cool wooden slats. He leaned his arm against the rail, and looked up at the deep blue sky, and then over the beaded grass of his front yard and down Main Street. One of the benefits of living in the center of town was being able to see all of the empty benches and deserted storefronts after everyone had gone home. Their little town went for a kind of rustic motif, and it was really charming at a time like this.
He was watching the little flags attached to the street lamps flap lazily in the early morning breeze, and taking deep, slow gulps of the morning air when something caught his eye. He squinted, and tilted his head towards the horizon. There were people coming up the hill.
Soon they were marching past his house. He could see them clearly now. They wore ragged clothes, and were creamy whites and light blues in skin color. There were a few children who skipped and lagged here and there, but mostly, it was an orderly procession. Pausing only to consider his attire--he was in a pink Donald Duck t-shirt and Mr. Potato Head pajama pants--he walked towards the troop, filled with unabashed curiosity. This kind of bravura was unusual to him.
Carson walked up to a fat man in a white tuxedo. His face was white, and there were small light green bags under his eyes. He had a moustache, and was balding. His clothes looked wet, and every step he took, his boots went Squash.
“Excuse me.” Carson said.
“Yes?” Said the man, not turning his head to see who he was speaking to.
“Are you the dead?” Carson said.
“Yes.” Replied the man.
“Oh, wow.” Said Carson. There was a moment of silence as he seemed to digest this news, and then, “But it’s two am.”
“Right.” Said the man. His voice had a little bit of a gurglely quality to it.
“But the witching hour is at midnight, right?” asked Carson.
“It was.” Said the man. “But we had to move it a couple years back. Too many gawkers were showing up. This is a solemn procession of course.”
‘Right.” Said Carson. And then realizing himself added, “Oh, sorry.”
“No worries.” Said the man. “One’s no trouble. One block.”
When he said this, Carson turned back suddenly. His house was a sprint behind him.
“Why are you marching?” He asked the dead man.
“Because we once lived, and don’t care to haunt.” Said the man, who had clearly drowned or been drowned.
“What do you mean?” Asked Carson.
“When you die” Said the man, “And if you are of a certain type--and aren’t malicious in any way--you’ll walk until the end of time; constrained only by the boundaries of the town or city you lived in.”
“What do you mean by ‘A certain type’?” Asked Carson.
“Not a member of Grace Baptist Church in Lebanon Ohio.” Said the man.
“What happens to the people who go to that Church?” Asked Carson.
“They go to heaven.” Said the man.
“And everyone else is doomed to walk the Earth until the end of time?” Said Carson, incredulous.
“Yes. Two blocks.”
“That’s terribly particular. Most of the population isn’t Baptist.”
“Most of the population doesn’t live in Lebanon Ohio either.”
“So all of the world’s dead walk the street at two am every morning?”
“With hemispheric time-semantics taken into account, yes. There are more dead walking the streets at two am than there are living sleeping in the houses they pass.” Said the man. “Three blocks.”
Carson turned around. His house was far out of sight. They were a couple of blocks from the end of town.
“What happens when you reach the edge of the town?” He asked.
“We return to our rest.” Said the drowned man.
Carson nodded his head, and thought quietly for a moment. “So, you drowned?”
“Yes.”
“How did it happen?”
“Boating accident.”
“Was it peaceful?”
“No. I was drowning.”
“Oh. I heard it could be peaceful.”
“I wonder how they would know.”
“Right. Good point.”
“Four blocks.”
“What about people who work third shift?”
“What do you mean?”
“Doesn’t it disturb them to see you?”
“Third shift usually starts at midnight. Part of the reason we switched.”
“What about cigarette smokers?”
“They’re half asleep anyway. The living are very self absorbed. Five blocks.”
“Hm.” Said Carson. He thought for a moment. The sky had changed in the time he had been walking with the dead from deep blue, to a lighter shade. Now there were little pink wisps becoming illuminated in the sky, and around the horizon line he could see a golden aura lighting up some of the businesses in the distance. Carson suddenly felt tired again, and decided he had walked with the dead long enough.
“Six blocks.” Said the drowned man.
“Why do you count the blocks, by the way?” Asked Carson.
“Regulation. We have to warn the living.” Said the drowned man.
“Warn them about what?” Asked Carson, feeling something odd crawl up his spine.
“About the block rule.” Said the Dead man. “When a Living person walks six blocks with the 2 am procession, they become forever bound to it’s ranks.” The troop stopped walking. All turned their dead, spider webbed eyes on Carson. He shrunk beneath their gaze, and then began to walk backwards. He was stopped by what felt like a spongy wall.
“Am I dead now?” He said, his pitch rising.
The drowned man shrugged. “Not sure what exactly to call it, but it is what it is.”
“Isn’t there some way to appeal?”
The drowned man shook his head.
“I thought you said you weren’t malicious?” Carson said.
“I’m not.” Said the dead man. “Just apathetic.”
Carson put his hands on his face. He rubbed them across his stubble, then through his hair. He looked at the numbers around him. As the sun came up, they began to slowly disappear into the haze. If he was dreaming, it was the realest dream he’d ever had.
“ I thought you said there was another option.” Carson said to the drowned man as he felt himself beginning to disappear under the sunlight.
“We’re a long way from Lebanon Ohio.” Said the dead man, disappearing too.
“No, the other option.” Said Carson.
The dead man, now barely a mist, raised an eyebrow.
When Mrs. Pulley woke up, the fan in her bedroom was running.
So he got out of bed and went to the kitchen and cut himself a slice of strawberry cake. The clock said 1:55am. The cake was gooey and moist. He poured a glass of milk and took a drink, topping off immediately, then put the carton back in the fridge. He made short work of the cake.
They had been using a fan to sleep for years, starting when they were a young couple living in his parent’s basement . The fan drowned out the sounds of shoes creaking across the kitchen floor above. When they moved into their first apartment, they used it to contend with the Latin music that seeped through their papier-mâché walls, and then, after they had bought their home, they found they couldn’t sleep without it. There was such a thing as too quiet now; every settling floorboard, every time the air conditioner kicked on, every time one of their two cats scratched near it’s collar in the middle of the night--jingling it’s nametag--they’d wake up. They even brought their fan with them when they would travel. But now it was dead, and as dependant as they were on the thing, they didn’t have a back up. It never occurred to either of them. Carson intended to go to Wal-Mart on Friday after he got paid and pick up a new one.
He finished off his milk and walked out onto the front porch. The cold, dewy air woke him as it splashed in his face. His bare feet came alive atop the cool wooden slats. He leaned his arm against the rail, and looked up at the deep blue sky, and then over the beaded grass of his front yard and down Main Street. One of the benefits of living in the center of town was being able to see all of the empty benches and deserted storefronts after everyone had gone home. Their little town went for a kind of rustic motif, and it was really charming at a time like this.
He was watching the little flags attached to the street lamps flap lazily in the early morning breeze, and taking deep, slow gulps of the morning air when something caught his eye. He squinted, and tilted his head towards the horizon. There were people coming up the hill.
Soon they were marching past his house. He could see them clearly now. They wore ragged clothes, and were creamy whites and light blues in skin color. There were a few children who skipped and lagged here and there, but mostly, it was an orderly procession. Pausing only to consider his attire--he was in a pink Donald Duck t-shirt and Mr. Potato Head pajama pants--he walked towards the troop, filled with unabashed curiosity. This kind of bravura was unusual to him.
Carson walked up to a fat man in a white tuxedo. His face was white, and there were small light green bags under his eyes. He had a moustache, and was balding. His clothes looked wet, and every step he took, his boots went Squash.
“Excuse me.” Carson said.
“Yes?” Said the man, not turning his head to see who he was speaking to.
“Are you the dead?” Carson said.
“Yes.” Replied the man.
“Oh, wow.” Said Carson. There was a moment of silence as he seemed to digest this news, and then, “But it’s two am.”
“Right.” Said the man. His voice had a little bit of a gurglely quality to it.
“But the witching hour is at midnight, right?” asked Carson.
“It was.” Said the man. “But we had to move it a couple years back. Too many gawkers were showing up. This is a solemn procession of course.”
‘Right.” Said Carson. And then realizing himself added, “Oh, sorry.”
“No worries.” Said the man. “One’s no trouble. One block.”
When he said this, Carson turned back suddenly. His house was a sprint behind him.
“Why are you marching?” He asked the dead man.
“Because we once lived, and don’t care to haunt.” Said the man, who had clearly drowned or been drowned.
“What do you mean?” Asked Carson.
“When you die” Said the man, “And if you are of a certain type--and aren’t malicious in any way--you’ll walk until the end of time; constrained only by the boundaries of the town or city you lived in.”
“What do you mean by ‘A certain type’?” Asked Carson.
“Not a member of Grace Baptist Church in Lebanon Ohio.” Said the man.
“What happens to the people who go to that Church?” Asked Carson.
“They go to heaven.” Said the man.
“And everyone else is doomed to walk the Earth until the end of time?” Said Carson, incredulous.
“Yes. Two blocks.”
“That’s terribly particular. Most of the population isn’t Baptist.”
“Most of the population doesn’t live in Lebanon Ohio either.”
“So all of the world’s dead walk the street at two am every morning?”
“With hemispheric time-semantics taken into account, yes. There are more dead walking the streets at two am than there are living sleeping in the houses they pass.” Said the man. “Three blocks.”
Carson turned around. His house was far out of sight. They were a couple of blocks from the end of town.
“What happens when you reach the edge of the town?” He asked.
“We return to our rest.” Said the drowned man.
Carson nodded his head, and thought quietly for a moment. “So, you drowned?”
“Yes.”
“How did it happen?”
“Boating accident.”
“Was it peaceful?”
“No. I was drowning.”
“Oh. I heard it could be peaceful.”
“I wonder how they would know.”
“Right. Good point.”
“Four blocks.”
“What about people who work third shift?”
“What do you mean?”
“Doesn’t it disturb them to see you?”
“Third shift usually starts at midnight. Part of the reason we switched.”
“What about cigarette smokers?”
“They’re half asleep anyway. The living are very self absorbed. Five blocks.”
“Hm.” Said Carson. He thought for a moment. The sky had changed in the time he had been walking with the dead from deep blue, to a lighter shade. Now there were little pink wisps becoming illuminated in the sky, and around the horizon line he could see a golden aura lighting up some of the businesses in the distance. Carson suddenly felt tired again, and decided he had walked with the dead long enough.
“Six blocks.” Said the drowned man.
“Why do you count the blocks, by the way?” Asked Carson.
“Regulation. We have to warn the living.” Said the drowned man.
“Warn them about what?” Asked Carson, feeling something odd crawl up his spine.
“About the block rule.” Said the Dead man. “When a Living person walks six blocks with the 2 am procession, they become forever bound to it’s ranks.” The troop stopped walking. All turned their dead, spider webbed eyes on Carson. He shrunk beneath their gaze, and then began to walk backwards. He was stopped by what felt like a spongy wall.
“Am I dead now?” He said, his pitch rising.
The drowned man shrugged. “Not sure what exactly to call it, but it is what it is.”
“Isn’t there some way to appeal?”
The drowned man shook his head.
“I thought you said you weren’t malicious?” Carson said.
“I’m not.” Said the dead man. “Just apathetic.”
Carson put his hands on his face. He rubbed them across his stubble, then through his hair. He looked at the numbers around him. As the sun came up, they began to slowly disappear into the haze. If he was dreaming, it was the realest dream he’d ever had.
“ I thought you said there was another option.” Carson said to the drowned man as he felt himself beginning to disappear under the sunlight.
“We’re a long way from Lebanon Ohio.” Said the dead man, disappearing too.
“No, the other option.” Said Carson.
The dead man, now barely a mist, raised an eyebrow.
When Mrs. Pulley woke up, the fan in her bedroom was running.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Indiana Jones
In a way, Indiana Jones gave me my first idea of what 'being a man' should look like: Intellectual, but not in an in-your-face kind of way. Individualistic and stubborn. Adventurous, vaguely atheistic, and possessing a kind of rolling gallows humor. And (of course) sporting a fedora and a whip.
The most important people in my life and I are very excited about the new Indy movie. The other day my brother said to me, "This is the only movie I've ever wanted to see that I know won't let me down. I'll like it no matter what." I knew exactly what he meant. "With Indiana Jones," I said, "It's not so much a matter of whether it's good or bad, as it is a matter of getting to see Indy in action one more time." As Roger Ebert ended his right-on review of the new movie, "I can say that if you liked the other Indiana Jones movies, you will like this one, and that if you did not, there is no talking to you.". It's like that.
Upon asking the people at the local Toys-R-Us why they thought they were selling out of Indiana Jones merchandise so fast,the clerk reported to my brother--without missing a beat--that they sold the toys mainly to twenty to thirty something males, often with kids who would've rather picked up some cool Speed Racer action figures, but eventually caved to their father's sales pitch that Indiana Jones was way cooler than Speed Racer.
Indiana Jones is way cooler than Speed Racer.
I don't know what Indiana Jones means to my generation, or what it is that makes his character so resonant in our culture. I'm not a sociologist. I can't even say that I really want to know, if there's anything to know at all.
Whatever the case is, I'm excited about the movie. I'm going to let my son take the day off of school tomorrow so he can go and watch the midnight showing with me tonight. He can miss a day of school for Indiana Jones.
You have to have priorities in this life.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
life.
A poem of mine entitled Life, is available for viewing here, at Litsnack.
Litsnack is one of the most satisfying, unpretensious online lit-mags in business right now. Their m.o. is to publish small writing with big content (poetry:1-35 lines, and Microfiction:50-500 words). If you're a creative type who can adhere to those scant restrictions, you should submit. Even if you don't submit, you should definitely check them out.
Litsnack is one of the most satisfying, unpretensious online lit-mags in business right now. Their m.o. is to publish small writing with big content (poetry:1-35 lines, and Microfiction:50-500 words). If you're a creative type who can adhere to those scant restrictions, you should submit. Even if you don't submit, you should definitely check them out.
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