West Virginia Death Train

When I think of the Appalachian roots I inherit from my mother's side of the family, a few things pop into mind. Train tracks. twisty, windy mountainous roads, a particularly raucous, book of Revelations Jesus, and hard times.

When I say hard times, I don't mean 'having a bad day' hard times, I mean coal miner lore hard times. Trouble with the police. Trouble with alcohol. Disease, bad luck, poverty, suicide. That kind of hard times.

I don't know how accurate this impression is, because I haven't visited Matewan West Virginia much in my life, but these are the images I took away from family stories I overheard as a child. Maybe it says more about me that I fixated on the most morbid stories--Ghost stories, tales of demonic possession, disturbing suicides--but that's how it is. The soundtrack to the family history that exists in my mind could be done by Bonnie Prince Billy or Nick Cave.

My grandmother is not a hopeful woman. She comes from West Virginia, and she has always had something of an air of inevitable doom about her. She is a woman who doesn't expect the other shoe to drop; she knows it will drop. And wait just a minute, that guy might have three feet, and thus three shoes. Maybe four shoes!

One of my favorite past times when I was a kid was to read the book of Revelations and scare the holy hell out of myself. I would draw crosses on the door frames of my room to protect it from demonic infiltrators--I must have mixed my religion heavily with the many monster movies I enjoyed--and would phrase my prayers very carefully to protect all in my family from demonic calamity.

The god of my childhood was a frightful being, and the devil was a consistent enemy I had to be ever vigilant against. As the song I sang in a church Christmas pageant one year stated:

"Satan is my enemy,
daily he gets after me.
Like a hungry lion he
Wants to gobble me up
and swallow me!"

Not only were demons really floating about the place, and Jesus ever present with his big rule book and punitive black sharpie (to mark up my soul when I sinned), there were black folks out there who were up to something. I wasn't sure what, but I knew it wasn't good. Black folks and liberals who hated America and wanted to burn flags. No wonder I found my way into the arms of H.P. Lovecraft; how could I not identify with horror stories that suggested other, terrible worlds, and were infused with a pronounced fear of 'the other'? Lovecraft's work is animated by a deep fear and a feeling of cosmic smallness that is completely familiar to me, and still resonates.

Of course, these are just my impressions. I have many kind, gentle family members that still live in West Virginia. They don't seem to be possessed by the same demons that I perceived to be the natural aura of those who live in those areas, and--as far as I know--are neither particularly racist nor overly fearful. Real or not, this is part of my mind's landscape; and if I am to continue to grow as a human being, I am going to need to learn how to traverse it.

Doubt and Faith: Halves of the Same Wheel

True beliefs express themselves in action alone. Transitory beliefs express themselves in debate, argument, cognitive dissonance, and faith. Thus, most of our beliefs are subject to change.

We don't debate gravity. Gravity is a true belief. We do debate politics and religion, because--as much as we may hate it--we have doubts about these things.

Doubt and faith must always accompany one another. Faith is the working through of a desired belief. We must practice faith in respect to transitory beliefs that we wish to transform into true beliefs.

Doubt is not something to be eschewed; where there is doubt there is faith, and faith is the animating force of our intellectual and spiritual life. As Schopenhauer noted, we only notice where the shoe pinches; doubt is a bastard of a pinch. Doubt makes us vital, and provides sustenance to our faith.

Do We Choose Our Beliefs?

Steve Perry asks:

Hey Spencer,

           Where do you get the idea that we do not choose our beliefs?

Steve

My answer:

Beliefs are formed at a preconscious level, and seem to be tied up in the region of the brain (ventromedial prefrontal cortex) that pertains most to sense of self. Beliefs can change, but only as the sense of self is altered by the environment and new information. We're incapable of changing our minds simply based on new information; the new information also has to relate in some preconscious way to our survival instinct. A good example is this: on a conscious level, I know there are no ghosts in my house. On an instinctual, preconscious level, however, there may be a stronger subconscious belief that will present itself after I've watched The Exorcist at one o clock in the morning and am home alone.

Within any given context individuals only have so many variations of things that they can believe and ways they can behave. We are capable of changing these ways, but external factors have to be conducive to such changes, and must apply enough internal pressure to create the impetus for change.

My definition of faith is derived from this understanding. It is the desire to attain or preserve a belief that is in flux by creating an environment that is conducive to the creation or preservation of that belief. True beliefs do not require such safeguarding and reinforcing. My belief in gravity requires no assistance. Gravity is consistent in almost every Earthbound environment. My belief in Marxism, however, does require a certain amount of reinforcement, because there is enough historical evidence and contrary opinion out there to force me to entertain doubts about it. The same goes for my atheism: it has to be something I consider on a conscious level. It too requires reinforcement. As does your religious faith and political ideas.

At least that's my understanding. We can also probably get into a discussion about free will, but I'm in much shallower territory there.

A More Accurate Definition of Faith

We have no control over what we believe. As the famous quotation goes, "you can do what you want, but, you can't want what you want". What we believe takes no effort. It is not dependent upon science or reason or willpower or anything. It just is. A more accurate definition of faith would be 'the process of trying to believe or not believe what one does or does not believe'. Faith is struggle. It is intellectual and spiritual effort to change an internal state of mind and soul. In a sense, faith is the only active state of mental or spiritual being. Yesterday I posted the following update to Facebook: In light of the above definition, it may be more appropriate when discussing one's move from religion to use the phrase 'my faith has lost', rather than 'I have lost my faith'.

Yesterday, I posted the following statement to my Facebook page:

"I struggle with my attitude towards religious people. On the one hand, I am very sympathetic to those who use their holy texts as motivation to do good, or to just hang on in a world that can be very tough. On the other hand, I become furious when I read or listen to most theology or apologetics. I'd like to be able to live in peace with my religious brothers and sisters, but the rising indignation I feel when wading through religious thought is tough to ignore."

I am at a point in my atheism where faith is completely inactive. At first it was active--I think--because in my heart of hearts I wanted someone to convince me I was wrong in jettisoning religion.

Now I am one with my unbelief and feel no stress about the belief of others. I feel--having once had belief myself--I can empathize with it. I can also understand it from a sociopolitical and psychological perspective. That's why mere belief doesn't bother me. How can I be bothered by something that is beyond someone's control?

I am still, however, bothered by the public reasoning people put forth for their religious faith, and by other conclusions that assumes the truth of their faith. They are intrusive. They are arguments by people who are trying to bolster their own waning or uncertain belief, either by propagandizing themselves or by convincing others to buy into their mythmaking in the hopes that there is truth in numbers.

There are certain things I have faith in, and certain ideas I hope to promulgate, so I have to understand the mechanics of what is going on here, too. But I do feel obligated to confront faulty thinking and corrosive conclusions wherever they appear. This will probably remain one of my vices.

Marx's Body Count

Aflutter by my Marxist ties,

Mass graves and gulags swarmed his head

But Karl Marx needs no alibis

For Stalin and Mao’s many dead.

Unless in his spare time he killed

Whores or orphans or old salesmen,

It wasn’t blood but wine he spilled,

And did all of his killing with his pen.

Don’t sweat my presence on picket lines

Or cry as I recite ‘Aubade’

Marx is as guilty of Stalin’s crimes

As Jesus was for the crusades.

The Most Rational Decision

First of all, I am researching suicide for my next book. I have to say that, because when friends and family notice you are writing, reading, and talking a lot about suicide, they get a little concerned. I am not planning to kill myself; at least not until the last season of Mad Men is over.

One of the texts I am revisiting for research is Albert Camus' Myth of Sisyphus. It was a big deal to me in high school, although I didn't totally understand it. A few things that Camus assert or eludes to in this work is that, in a way, suicide is the most rational decision. Life is devoid of natural meaning, thus the most rational answer to a world of that nature is to kill yourself. However, Camus does not endorse suicide. Rather, he suggests that we embrace the absurd by revolting against this natural conclusion by living. He suggests that really, we only begin to live once we realize life is meaningless, but choose to continue living anyway. We must, he suggests, make our passions our path, and recognize the humor of being a sentient, meaning-seeking creature in an unthinking, meaningless universe.

Camus has an interesting take, but it misses the issue of mental health, which is one of the major underlying contributors to suicide. The blackness of depression is not a close relative of absurd recognition. It is a closer relative to a cancer eating away at the brain of its victim.

But people manufacture stories that explain suicide: survivors and victims alike do this. They have to, because humans need stories, and survivors want answers. So by his own logic, Camus' reasons for and against are just as good as any other story we tell ourselves, but I would caution people about accepting that extreme suffering must be a natural companion to life. There is something of the dialectic in Camus' reasoning, and--while suffering will no doubt come--it is not the necessary mainstay of life. Struggle, however, is the necessary mainstay of life, and it manifests itself in friction created by struggling--or 'revolt' as Camus puts it--between the acceptance of the emptiness of all things and the queer human desire for narrative.

The only reason I didn't start smoking in High School is that I realized I would never look as cool with a cigarette in my mouth as Albert Camus.

Otis

He died while I was in my mid twenties, but up until about three or four years before his death, I viewed my maternal grandfather as an angry, disconnected, somewhat silly man. My only pleasant early memories of him are that he occasionally blew cigarette smoke into a bubble wand for us in his backyard. Other than that, he watched T.V., yelled at us for leaving half empty cans of Coca Cola around the house, and hated junk mail with a transcendent passion.

He was not the fun grandfather. The fun grandfather--a person who was and still is wonderfully supportive and engaged with me to this day--is my paternal grandfather.

But something changed when my son was born; because we were a poor, young couple who couldn't afford daycare, my grandmother agreed to watch our son while we went out and worked for virtually minimum wage. During that period, the craggy exterior of my grandfather softened, and he embraced our son with all of his heart. He loved my son with all of his heart, and I learned to love him in return for the love he gave to my son. He would call and ask us if his little buddy could come over and play on the days my grandparents weren't watching him. He was always purchasing little stuffed animals and toys for him, and made a ritual out of walking to the mailbox--that receptacle of the hated junk mail--with him. It was very cute to see them walk together.

My grandfather died of heart problems while my son was very young, but I am so glad they got to know each other, and I am so grateful that I got to see that side of my grandfather. Otis stands as my evidence that people are capable of growth. His relationship with my son is also my evidence that grace is real.

Recently I posted on my Facebook page that I believe humans between the ages of twenty and thirty and over the age of sixty are the ones who have the most promise; between twenty and thirty because of sheer propulsion, and over sixty because--if they haven't been hardened and made bitter by life--they have accumulated so much wisdom, and abandoned so much pointless ambition. My grandfather exemplified this truth.

On Suicide Logic

I will never shoot myself. It's too messy, and leaves a traumatic scene for the person who finds you; likewise hanging and jumping from a considerable height. I will never poison myself, because it seems very uncomfortable, and the success of the endeavor is doubtful. I would consider drowning, if only I were able to be unconscious during the process, and out far enough into a large body of water to assure I would not wash up on the shore bloated and covered in sea stuff. The only scenarios in which I can see myself committing this act are if I became feeble enough to require constant caring for, or found myself in a state of chronic suffering that could not be assuaged.

Although we all think about it from time to time, we do not talk about suicide in our culture; that's why there is an increasing amount of it. I think there are good reasons to commit suicide. I also think there are understandable reasons to commit suicide. Most suicides fall into the 'understandable' category, but suicide logic is not healthy logic. Often, a suicidal person suffers from untreated or mistreated mental health issues and/or drug and alcohol abuse. These suicides are missing the full picture, and that's a tragedy.

We do not talk about suicide enough in our culture, so I'm going to talk about it. In the coming weeks I would like to use this blog to explore the reasons people choose suicide--maybe 'are compelled towards' is more accurate--and to see if maybe there are better reasons not to kill yourself available to a suicidal person weighing the pros and cons of that irreversible decision.

In a piece I wrote earlier this month entitled 'H.P. Lovecraft Furnishes Us With a Good Reason Not to Commit Suicide', I quoted the weird author on his decision not to kill himself in the face of the ultimate meaninglessness of life:

"And yet certain elements--notably scientific curiosity and a sense of world drama--held me back. Much in the universe baffled me, yet I knew I could pry the answer out of books if I lived and studied longer. Geology, for example. Just how did these ancient sediments and stratifications get crystallized and upheaved into granite peaks? Geography--just what would Scott and Shackleton and Borchgrevink find in the great white Antarctic or their next expeditions...which I could--if I wished--live to see described?"

Curiosity was enough of a carrot to keep him from hanging himself from the stick of nihilism.

And there are so many other reasons to commit to life instead of death in a world where there is no inherent meaning. We get to construct our own meaning. There are people to love. There are things to accomplish.

To a mind in a deep depression, I know all of the things I mentioned above seem horribly patronizing, almost to the point of parody. All I can do for a person in deep depression is to listen to them if they wish to talk, and to guide them towards appropriate treatment. To a person teetering in between places--and maybe even to a person in an extreme depressed state--having thought about suicide with an un-depressed mind and spirit may create a healthier context for them when they are in the darkness. William Styron talks about how he was budged out of his intention to commit suicide by hearing a song sung on a video tape one night as he sat in his living room contemplating his ultimate demise.

There are many other stories of people being saved and saving themselves from the brink of suicide. So let's mine those stories, and let's talk about our own stories openly and honestly. Repressed things only get uglier and angrier the more we do not talk about them. It's time to let suicide out of the bag and see what it looks like in the light of day.

Reviews I Wish I Had Gotten For My Book

“Jesus was the word made flesh: This book is the flesh made word. All you other writers can stop now. Spencer Troxell has won writing.” – The New Yorker

“We just finished reading our son’s book, and it turns out he was right about everything the whole time.”

–Spencer’s Parents

“After reading this book, we’re convinced that our daughter and grandchildren are in good hands. Also, it turns out Spencer was right about everything this whole time!” –Spencer’s Mother and Father-in-law

“Gahhh! It burns! No…not the razors! We never should have treated Spencer so badly! We were wrong! Oh no! Not the flesh eating worms! Gahh….” – Various Enemies, Naysayers, and Just Plain Jerks.

Get a copy of the book that these (and so many more!) imaginary reviewers are raving about here.

It Is Finished.

Get your copy of EVERYTHING IN THE MEDICINE CABINET HAS EXPIRED right here.

I'm pretty proud of it. These are my best pieces of writing, and Andrew Wood's illustrations are phenomenal. Get yerself a copy already.

From the introduction, by Christian Thompson:

"This collection of essays comes to you from the mind of a gentleman who was willing to burn through the walls of bramble that made up his illusions in an (oftentimes painful) pursuit of survival, truth, and humanity. What results is an on going series of engagements of the heart and mind that were written specifically for us (the “dear readers” that I hope he never refers to us as).

It is here that you will find camaraderie among the underdogs of our culture that knit together like the fabric of a humanist flag. The pieces written are often like letters to old friends and have a way of offering an open hand to the reader while simultaneously challenging us. As we delve into the medicine cabinet, we’ll find reflections of illness, a strong stance for justice, and the sweetness of honesty and truth.

And it’s kinda funny. That too."

Get yerself a copy already.

E-Mail to the American Worker

(co-written with David Troxell)

Comrades!

Just kidding. I know that kind of language scares the shit out of you. In 1918, Lenin wrote his ‘Letter to the American Worker’ encouraging her to eschew the oppressive yoke of capitalism. I know that language scares you too, but Lenin was on to something.

Let me ask you a few questions:

Do you think it’s fair that you work as hard as you do, as long as you do, and for as little as you do, to create commodities via means of production that you do not own, all for the profit of your employer, who reaps the lion’s share of your yield without lifting a finger?

Do you think it’s just that you have been made to hate the concept of work, that thing which should give mankind her greatest sense of purpose? Do you think it is healthy that you invest so much time at such a hated activity which is so ill-suited to your natural talents that you seek to escape not only work in your ‘down time’, but--in a way--life itself?

Do you think it is right that the richest one percent--the owners of our society--are able to afford the best healthcare, best education, and best leisure (in the truest sense of the word), while allowing you only just enough freedom to create more workers for the work force (like some kind of factory farm animal), enough healthcare to keep you well enough to not die, and enough education to keep you intelligent enough to believe the lie of our capitalist system, and just comfortable enough to keep you from engaging in open revolt?

Lenin spoke of the oppression created by imperialism. Thankfully, we no longer  live in a world where imperialism is so prevalent. The unfortunate aspect of this is that it has been replaced with something not quite as tangible; neocolonialism has put shackles on all but the world’s wealthy. It has created a system of debt designed to enslave all that it can, with the bait of making your life better instead of living a life of perpetual poverty. It lures the lower and middle class in with the promise of a better life somewhere in the not so far off future if only we would transform ourselves into the thimble on the global monopoly board. To creatively paraphrase John Steinbeck: in a world increasingly infected with the capitalist virus, the poor see themselves as temporarily embarrassed millionaires.

But it is a soulless business to be the thimble, and we have been reduced to escapism. We no longer define ourselves. Instead, we are defined by our yield. By the numbers of threads we stitch. By the amount of milk that is drained from our udders. We do not own the thread, and we do not even own our own udders! Our ability to self define through work has been stripped of us. They are turning us into automatons.  Rather than following our passions and self actualizing the way that the artist has proved man capable of doing, we are reduced to limiting and dulling the pain. With drink. With T.V. With drugs and passionless sex. We only know where the shoe pinches, and we seek to  anesthetize ourselves so we don’t notice the pinch. Has it ever occurred to us that maybe we might look into wearing a different type of shoe?  Capitalism disconnects us from what makes us human--we are alienated.

In the capitalist system, your worth is determined by how much you own. This is not an appropriate means for determining the worth of a living being; this is not the way to judge something that thinks and feels. This is how you judge a piece of machinery--a lifeless chunk of metal used to fulfill someone else’s ends.

There is a better path, comrades. We dare not say its name out loud, because the only thing more blasphemous than questioning a person’s faith in America is questioning the social structure.

This social structure is rotten. The boards are warped, the carpet is louse-ridden, and the pipes are fully corroded. It’s time to knock the structure down.

What we build in its place will be up to you.

Respectfully,

David & Spencer Troxell

Suggested Reading:

‘Why Marx Was Right’, by Terry Eagleton

‘Letter To the American Worker’, by V.I. Lenin

H.P. Lovecraft Furnishes Us With a Good Reason Not To Commit Suicide

It may seem strange to most people that one would need a reason not to commit suicide, but there are those of us out there who need one. To some, knowing that the self checkout lane is open is actually a consolation. Hunter S. Thompson said "If I didn't know I could commit suicide at any moment, life would be unbearable". Of course, there are many reasons not to kill yourself. ' This Too Shall Pass' is the protective motto of those traversing the Territory of the blackest mind. The transitory nature of everything is reason enough to see if you can ride it out when it comes to depressed states, mixed states, and plain old bad luck.

Far be it from me to suggest such a thing is easy. As a person with manic depression, I understand how the poisoned mind can laugh at our stoic bearings. Far be it from me also to suggest that there is anything inherently evil, selfish, or wrong about suicide. Sometimes, suicide is in fact a reasonable choice. Some choose to end their lives rather than experience prolonged pain and suffering connected to a chronic illness. I understand this choice, and would probably choose it for myself if it ever seemed necessary. Also, suicide is often committed by people with mental health issues, such as myself. They do this while in the grips of a disease, and faulting a person who kills themselves in such a state is akin to faulting a person with a heart disorder for dying of a heart attack.

One of the ways people such as myself manage to survive is to remind ourselves of the transitory nature of our suffering. Another is to participate in therapy or counseling. Another is to take medication that is appropriate to our illness, exercise, eat healthy, and get good rest. Another way that has benefited me is to seek out folks who share my experience and struggle, and to empathize with them and learn from their hard won wisdom (all wisdom is hard won, isn't it?).

That brings me to the excerpt I wanted to share with you. I am a huge H.P. Lovecraft fan. I love his stories, but what I am coming to love even more than his stories are his letters. He was a great letter writer, and in the below excerpt he talks about a time he seriously considered suicide, and how he navigated his way back out of it:

"How easy it would be to wade out among the rushes and lie face down in the warm water till oblivion came. There would be a certain gurgling or choking unpleasantness at first--but it would soon be over. Then the long, peaceful night of non-existence..."

But something held him up:

"And yet certain elements--notably scientific curiosity and a sense of world drama--held me back. Much in the universe baffled me, yet I knew I could pry the answer out of books if I lived and studied longer. Geology, for example. Just how did these ancient sediments and stratifications get crystallized and upheaved into granite peaks? Geography--just what would Scott and Shackleton and Borchgrevink find in the great white Antarctic or their next expeditions...which I could--if I wished--live to see described?"

Lovecraft goes through questions about history, Africa, Mathematics, and other intellectual curiosities that he would miss out on if he snuffed himself out, ultimately concluding,

"So in the end I decided to postpone my exit till the following summer. I would do a little curiosity-satisfying at first; filling certain gaps of scientific and historical knowledge, and attaining a greater sense of completeness before merging with the infinite blackness."

after finding himself engaged in life to a much greater degree on this path of postponement--starting up an old newsletter, finding more questions at the ends of questions answered--he decided to grant himself another extension:

"Possibly I would wait til '06 before making my exit...one could drown in '06 just as well as in '05 or '04!'

Questions of life and death and meaning popped up over and over again in Lovecraft's life--he kept a cyanide pill on his person at all times just in case 'it ever got too much'--but he found his way through that particular darkness with the aid of curiosity.

Curiosity is a fine reason to go on living. I had just discovered Billy Collins a little bit before the suicide of a dear friend several years back, and was very excited to share it with him the next time he was in town. Before I had a chance to do that, he had jumped off an overpass in Tennessee. Not far after all of the other assorted kinds of thoughts a person has after receiving such news, it occurred to me that my friend would never get to experience Billy Collins. My friend--a highly intelligent, clever, soulful person--had missed out on something I was pretty sure he would have liked.

I am always discovering new things. Life is about change and possibility, and who knows what is waiting for us in the future? It's a compelling reason to stick around.

*

This essay will appear in my book 'Everything In the Medicine Cabinet Has Expired', to be released on Friday, May 3rd.

*

I Have Made a Book!

Pretty fucking excited about the book I have coming out on May 3rd. It's a collection of essays, stories, and status updates that were originally posted on this blog and other places, plus some new content that I think is pretty good. Andrew Wood is illustrating it, and Christian Thompson will be writing the introduction. Here's the cover, by Andrew Wood:

It will cost around 11 bucks. You should buy a copy. May 3rd. Check back here at that date for a link.

Substance Abuse & Mental Illness: A Match Made In Hell

I have a degree in psychology, and have worked in the human services for 6 years if you count the 2 years I spent volunteering at Hospice. My current job--at a homeless shelter--puts me in contact with folks who have mental illness and substance abuse issues (often both) frequently.

In spite of my education, and in spite of my experience, I only have two years of sobriety, and received a diagnosis of Bipolar II within the past year. You would think my education and experience would have helped me address these concerns earlier, but no such luck. My experience with mental illness and substance abuse (which I talk about in more depth here and here) fits a very common pattern with other folks who struggle with the same issues. As clever and unique as I often think I am, I fell into the same trap so many other people fall into all the time.

Our bodies naturally seek remedies for what ails us. Not doctors ourselves--and very often even if we are doctors--we seek medication that is available to us. Mental illness often contributes to substance abuse, and substance abuse worsens mental illness in the long run. It's a vicious cycle.

I am so glad to have my sobriety, and so thankful that I was able to find whatever courage I could to face up to my mental illness. With a combination of talk therapy and medication, the support of loved ones, and my continuing education and experience, I hope to stay in this pretty-good-place for as long as possible.

And I want more people to look at the roots of their substance abuse. I want more people with mental illness to find the courage to seek help. There is no shame in having mental illness, and there is no shame in being in recovery. In fact, it takes bravery to address both of those issues. If it wasn't for the examples made by so many people I admire in facing up to these problems, I don't know if I'd be able to find the strength in myself to do the same.

There is a lot of stigma attached to mental illness and substance abuse. Only by talking openly about these problems, and by honestly evaluating our own issues, can we make any progress on them as a society, and individually. If you are so inclined, share your story. If you suspect you might have these same problems, reach out to someone. You still have so much life to live, and so much to offer.

Many Americans Don't Understand Freedom

Again and again I hear Americans--especially of the conservative bent--talk about freedom as if it is an either/or proposition; "Homosexuals should be free to marry", or "the government cannot infringe upon our freedom to own guns", or "we should have the freedom to drive any kind of car we would like", and on and on.

The thing many folks don't understand is that whenever a person or population endorses one freedom, they are denying another one. Take our examples one by one: to allow homosexuals to marry, the freedom of bigots to force their subjective moral choices upon our culture is infringed upon. When a government does not regulate gun ownership, the freedom of citizens to live in communities without automatic and semi-automatic weapons is infringed upon. The freedom to drive any kind of car you like--with whatever mode of propulsion--infringes upon your freedom to breathe clean air.

There is no such thing as a free society. The libertarian worldview is truly a fantasy. Every freedom granted to a population or person comes with a freedom denied. What needs to be decided is what the underlying philosophy of the freedoms afforded a population are. A totally free society is not possible, but a just society is.

It is an infringement on the freedom of the wealthy to accumulate and horde wealth to re-distribute that wealth. It is an infringement on the freedom of those whom the wealthy exploit to accumulate and horde their wealth to self determine and self actualize by not re-distributing the wealth concentrated amongst such a small percentage of our population.

The question we have to ask ourselves is 'Why should we grant freedom in one area in this scenario and not the other?'

My personal operating philosophy when it comes to supporting certain freedoms and opposing others are as follows: I support freedoms that promote equality, justice, and human potential. I oppose freedoms that cause harm to others while unfairly benefiting a specific empowered group. I support freedoms that allow individuals to self actualize, and oppose freedoms that cause individuals to stagnate.

I'm sure there are other aspects to my personal view of how freedoms should be allocated, but that's a good snapshot of my personal metric.

We should all have such a metric, and should all understand that when you're talking about freedom, you're not just talking about positives and negatives. With each positive comes a negative, and vice versa.

Stories We Tell Ourselves

I usually check Facebook first thing in the morning. The theme today was pretty religious.

People were asking for prayers. People were quoting bible verses and discussing the deeper aspects of being a believer. My first feeling when seeing Christians putting a public and philosophical spin on their personal psychodrama is condescension. I'm not proud of it, but that's the case. I don't feel any condescension towards people who ask for prayers for urgent situations, because I understand the feeling of free-fall. I understand and respect the humility it takes to ask for help, in whatever way you know how.

My second thought was about how romantic it was to believe that there were powers and principalities conspiring against me, and against mankind. My soul was a prime target in a holy land war, and I was, in my small way, very important. It's flattering to believe that there is a demonic plan to damn you to hell. It's flattering to think that someone--especially someone so powerful--thinks about you that much. It's also reassuring, and flattering, to believe that the almighty God has a special plan for you, and that he is equally interested in your soul, and the fate of mankind in general.

Then I started thinking about the political stories we tell ourselves. There are some grand political dramas being played out in the lives of individuals all over the world, at least in their minds. I am not exempt: not long after I realized that religion provided me with an important purpose-narrative, I began to study and appreciate humanistic Marxism, and its sweeping narrative of the ebb and flow of history, and the obtainable victory of societal self actualization and freedom from all kinds of insidious slavery. Coincidence? Maybe not so much.

We tell ourselves all of these stories. They give our lives a grand scope. How true are the stories we tell ourselves? We can't all be right. We certainly can't all be right all the way across the board, however we might like to be.

I wonder how close to the actual fact of the matter we can allow ourselves to get and still live a meaningful life. I wonder who came closest? Is there an ideology out there that strips away enough of the fiction--however beautiful and invigorating--and still manages to preserve a certain amount of majesty?

I don't know. It's pretty early in the morning.

Recent Status Updates

4/10: Waking up in the morning is like getting renewed for another season. I hope i don't live long enough to jump the shark, on the other hand, i'd hate to get canceled during a cliffhanger. Whatever the case, i am looking forward to my episode with the harlem globetrotters.

4/9:  I miss being bored. When you're a kid, you're bored all the time because you haven't accumulated enough ideas and opinions to keep yourself entertained. You're in a state of accumulation as a kid. If you do things right, you should have enough shit in your head by the time you hit your mid-thirties to not need to listen to the radio on a 30 minute car ride. You should have seen, heard, experienced, and imagined enough stuff to occupy yourself for an indefinite amount of time. I think that's why I miss being bored, because some of the shit you collect in your head as you approach adulthood can pretty horrible.

4/9:  Life is weird.

4/8:  I also wanted to tell you this this morning: I usually like to wake up to the sound of burde chirping outside my window, but this morning there is some bird outside screaming his balls off. It's not exactly a crow sound, but it's pretty close.I'm like, find somewhere else to sing, bro.

4/8:  I've caught myself calling my sons 'bro' a bunch of times lately. I don't know where that is coming from, but I know I should probably stop it before it spreads.

4/7:  I owe all of my success in life to Satan.

4/6:  I am raising money for a Satanic competitor to the 'Upward' Christian-youth sports organisation. Obviously, it will be called 'Downward': Anybody want to donate?

4/6:  Some people who love me tell me I'm not fat, but the notches on my belt have never lied to me.
 Margaret Thatcher dies only a few days after Roger Ebert: coincidence, or is it Biggie and Tupac all over again?

4/6:  my little brother is applying for case management jobs. I am proud of him for going into such an honorable field, and jealous of the agency that will get to have him on their team.

4/5:  Open up all of the windows in your bedroom, strip down to your underwear, and take a nap on top of the covers with your feet at the head of your bed and your head at the foot of your bed. That's what weather like this is good for.

4/5:  Bummed out about rick warren's son. Public understanding of mental illness is so bad. We have to find better ways to help each other.

4/5:  I am 32 years old and I still feel like I barely know anything. I expected age to bring things like wisdom and understanding; not only do I have an increasing awareness of how little I actually do understand, my deficiencies are increasingly apparent. Life conspires to humble me.

4/5:  Unfortunate headline at The Drudge Report: "Bloomberg Fingers Cuomo".

4/4:  If you put your kid on a leash, i hate you.

4/4:  It's not the crazy people who are dangerous; it's the sane people. Crazy can explode, but sane is a slow, gray, persistent poison. It slays with mediocrity, and it takes a lifetime.

4/3:  It's hard to be cynical with a two year old around. Apropos of nothing, langston just said, 'i like rainbows. Do you like rainbows, dada?'. I said yes.

4/3:  Of all the horrible things mankind has spawned, bronies have to be the most unsettling.

Finding My Religion

Writing is the closest thing to a religious rite that I will ever have. Whatever pain is the shadow part of my creativity and enthusiasm for life is worth it, because the thrill of pulling an idea out of the ether and transcribing it the best you can with the tools of your medium is the greatest feeling in the world.

What is even greater is to realize that the ether is inside of you, not outside. In the past, artists have prayed to gods and muses and attempted all manner of voodoo to summon creative spirits to them, because they too were addicts of the creative process. Like all addicts, however, they look for the pusher. There are plenty of people who will be glad to sell you a product that they promise will facilitate your creation, but it's just another product off the cart, and will probably make your dick go limp in the long run.

The ether is inside of you, and it's exciting to feel something new percolating. I feel bad for all of the artists who have killed themselves because they couldn't bare the ebb and flow of the disease anymore; there are long spells of suffering, and they can seem like they will never end, but they do end. When that new epiphany comes to you, it's like you had never been alive at all before you had realized it. What is even more exciting is when you're not sure exactly what is going to come out, but you feel it moving inside of you; you see connections and themes. You see ingredients to the recipe, but have no idea what they go together to make.

For example: I have been possessed by the concept of destructive beauty, or finding beauty in destruction or destruction in beauty, or maybe beauty in spite of destruction. Maybe the theme that I am looking for is the coexistence of the two. In various mediums, the thing occurs to me again and again.

It started when I saw this photo of a bunch of children goofing around in the wake of a car bomb in Northern Ireland:

Then this video by Capital Cities, which pairs joyful images of dancing with the horrors of war and tragedy.

Then I watched the Movie 'The Life of Pi' with my family which conveys my theme quite explicity.

And I notice it everywhere: In Cincinnati, the city where I work, developers are making Over The Rhine--an impoverished area--much more beautiful in a certain respect. They're refurbishing buildings, bringing in new businesses, and have recreated Washington Park into an area that is much more comfortable and attractive. As they do this, however, they're threatening to drive the area's poor into neighboring Price Hill. They are homogenizing the population, and displacing important human services. The new park is very pretty, but gentrification is very ugly.

President Obama is a hope to many, and a breath of fresh air. His election marks an important cultural milestone for our country. He has a beautiful family that can serve as a model for all American families, and he has brought many young people and disenfranchised minorities into the political system. On the other hand, his drones amass civilian casualties in foreign countries with abandon. What does the Pakistani father of a son killed as collateral damage in a drone strike think of President Obama and his beautiful family and progressive policies?

And so it goes. I see the Yin and the Yang everywhere. It makes me very upset at times, but also brings a certain sense of order along with it.

I don't know what these different elements are going to form themselves into in the ether that is inside of me. Maybe the stew will be completely unedible. Who knows? Who cares. I am just a humble pot. I am most alive when I am hot.

I've discovered my religion. If you haven't already, I hope that someday you discover yours.

It's Okay To Need Jesus

This morning, John Loftus posted the following image to his Facebook page:

It's a thought I'm familiar with, and have hitherto been sympathetic to--I guess I'm still sympathetic to it--but I don't think I agree with it anymore.

This idea misses something that I think I also missed until I began working at the shelter I now work at. People--like that asshole Rick Warren--who state that people need God to be good, and state that if they did not have God they would not be good, are not good people. Belief in God does not make them good. Even with a belief in God, they are still inherently assholes. There are others, however--like a lot of folks who live and volunteer in my shelter--who are inherently good (they don't actually 'need' God to be good), who seem to use their religion as a vehicle for their goodness, or use religion as a source of strength to keep themselves afloat, and to keep themselves chugging along. It would be great if the people in the first category would see that it is perfectly possible to do good without their religion, but what business of mine is it to interfere with that? When it comes to the second group--those who use Jesus or Allah or whatever to find the strength to survive in this world--I have completely softened my view. In fact, I may have liquified.

There is a huge difference between someone who says 'If it weren't for God, I would be a serial killer', and someone who says, 'this world throws a lot of shit at me, and other people are hard to trust. Thank God for Jesus'. I believe Rick Warren when he says he'd be out doing all kinds of horrid things if he didn't have Jesus looking over his shoulder. In fact, who even knows what kind of horrid things Rick Warren gets up to? He's certainly said some horrid things. Personally, I wouldn't put anything past the dude. With the second guy, I am in heavy agreement; the world does throw a lot of shit at a person. Other people are very hard to trust. Shit, I'm not always very trustworthy. Wouldn't it be nice if there was some transcendent good guy out there somewhere who's love for us was guaranteed, and who would never sell us out for some kind of real or perceived political or economic advantage?

I know there's no God, and I hope for a day when belief in gods and demons are chucked in the cultural waste bin, but I never hope for a day when the kind of people we serve at our shelter are deprived of whatever they need to get themselves sober, get their mental illnesses treated, help them believe there is a chance in this society for someone who has not always made the best decisions and lacks the kind of personal resources it may take to bounce back from those not-the-best-decisions.

That day is far into the future, though, and I'm not inclined to look down on people who find the strength--however they do it--to make it in this scary, unpredictable, and unjust world that we live in. I believe that heaven and hell are a carrot and stick that mankind has cooked up--an opiate that keeps the masses hoping for a more just world on the other side of this veil of tears--but I don't think that's what a belief in some kind of god always amounts to.

People need to believe in themselves. We need others to believe in us, too. People need human sources of strength, and where there are none to be found, we will invent them.

So maybe if we hope for a day when gods and devils and fairies and goblins are a thing of the past, maybe we should step up for each others and ourselves, and become the people we need to be. If we don't want others to have to rely on imaginary friends to get them through the day, maybe we should try to be real friends to each other, and ourselves?

It's a much harder road, and will be very long in the making, but it is worth the effort, and will be much longer-lasting than simply shaming people out of their faith.