Lord, why am I on your list? Who etched my name into the book of life? Surely that was not my hand. I never touched that quill. My hand would have faltered, my fingers burnt. But, this script so solid and secure, is this the handwriting of God?
Oh that I would be your mad prophet, walking through the streets, pouring scalding rains of truth into the hearts of all within earshot. Men would hate me, but I would not care. I would be pure passion, holy strength, completely consumed by sacred tongues of fire.
Oh that I would be your lone hermit, secluded from the world of sin and hate, completely alone to ponder your glory. I would be a paradigm of peace and serenity. My every waking moment would be an outcry of love. My every breath, a preparation of eternity.
But instead I am this... thing. Not a prophet, not a hermit, not a missionary, not a priest, not a preacher, not an apostle, not a saint, not a martyr. What is this strange costume? What mask should I wear? Do you really expect me to go on stage naked? That doesn't seem appropriate.
You know, I think she could've saved my soul. If only situations had been different. But, that's probably an exaggeration. I guess I'll never know.
Whatever this is that you have for me, it's hard, difficult in so many ways. But, I have to believe it's worth it (said Jonah from the fish's gut). Who knows, maybe at the end of this whole thing I'll get a view of the fireworks from a hilltop in the shade.
It's over, it's over (my son, it's just begun). Why does everything always have to be in circles?
Monday, May 24, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
The Bizarro Scale
I've mentioned before my belief that inside of me, and perhaps everyone, there is a zombie - a creature of appetite, lust, hunger, and pure selfishness. I've also hinted at my belief that I must be Superman. If someone is falling, I must catch them. If someone is hurting, I must heal them. I know that this mentality has issues and can cause problems, but that's not what this is about.
If I contain within my ribcage both a zombie and Superman, and yet I am one and not two, then who I am? Answer: Bizarro.
For those of you unacquainted with Bizarro, he's an unsuccessful attempt at cloning Superman done by Lex Luthor. Bizarro does everything backwards. When he shows up, he says "Goodbye" and when he leaves, he says "Hello." Remember when you were five and you thought how cool a "backwards day" would be? Bizarro celebrates backwards day 24/7. You might recognize the concept from a famous Seinfeld episode. He means well, but he's pretty stupid, also obsessed with being just like superman.
Okay, so here's my thought. If I desire to abandon enlightenment dualism and try to become a fully integrated person, then I need to find a way to account for the two categories of self that I seem to have created. It's not like I switch back and forth between completely zombie and completely Superman. There is a bit of a continuum. I have deemed this the Bizarro Scale, or the Bizarro Spectrum. I haven't decided yet. Either way, it's the BS.
It's a 100 point scale.
100 means I'm completely Superman. Last son of Krypton, god-like powers, messiah complex, the whole shebang.
On a 100 kind of day, I may be seen running around with a cape and winking at pretty girls, especially if they work for a newspaper of some kind.
50 puts me squarely in Bizarro world. I am neither zombie nor Superman, I am both. This is a very strange place to be, and I am often confused, not unlike Bizarro himself.
On a 50 day, I will probably be seen meandering around with my mouth partially open. My comments will probably make no sense, and I could frighten people by saying goodbye to everyone I run into on campus.
A 0 means I'm in full on zombie mode. I am pure appitite and a little bit of bitterness (all zombies are bitter about not being allowed to be alive anymore).
It would be good to avoid me at times like these. I will either try to make out with you, or insult you for my personal enjoyment. Also, if start muttering to myself, you may want to find something to protect your brain, just in case.
Today has been a 20.
If I contain within my ribcage both a zombie and Superman, and yet I am one and not two, then who I am? Answer: Bizarro.
For those of you unacquainted with Bizarro, he's an unsuccessful attempt at cloning Superman done by Lex Luthor. Bizarro does everything backwards. When he shows up, he says "Goodbye" and when he leaves, he says "Hello." Remember when you were five and you thought how cool a "backwards day" would be? Bizarro celebrates backwards day 24/7. You might recognize the concept from a famous Seinfeld episode. He means well, but he's pretty stupid, also obsessed with being just like superman.
Okay, so here's my thought. If I desire to abandon enlightenment dualism and try to become a fully integrated person, then I need to find a way to account for the two categories of self that I seem to have created. It's not like I switch back and forth between completely zombie and completely Superman. There is a bit of a continuum. I have deemed this the Bizarro Scale, or the Bizarro Spectrum. I haven't decided yet. Either way, it's the BS.
It's a 100 point scale.
On a 100 kind of day, I may be seen running around with a cape and winking at pretty girls, especially if they work for a newspaper of some kind.
On a 50 day, I will probably be seen meandering around with my mouth partially open. My comments will probably make no sense, and I could frighten people by saying goodbye to everyone I run into on campus.
It would be good to avoid me at times like these. I will either try to make out with you, or insult you for my personal enjoyment. Also, if start muttering to myself, you may want to find something to protect your brain, just in case.
Today has been a 20.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Three Brothers
Three brothers stand on the top of a little hill 10 minutes outside of a small town in Oregon.
The oldest brother, in a white hoodie and sandals, inhales from the hash pipe without coughing. He berates the youngest brother for his stupidity and relates his personal tale of woe. "I was an opiate addict for about three months. Did heroin for a week straight and then off and on. But, I'm done with that shit now."
The youngest brother, face freshly shaved and slightly swollen, explains himself. "I didn't fall off my long-board. I was rolling and I chewed my face. I took two blue pistols." Blue pistols are usually cut with meth. He doesn't know that yet. "I was so detached today that I spent all day playing video games."
The middle brother, cigarettes in one pocket and Altoids in the other, tries to come up with something to say. "I might spend another few years in school. One of my professors thinks my project could publish. That could pay for grad school if I do it right. Hell, I could even get a PhD. Fucking weird shit."
They don't have much to say to each other on the drive back. The veteran, the academic, and the hapless hedonist. They sit in silence, trying to bridge the gap between their disparate worlds. They won't succeed. Not for a long time.
Family, right?
The oldest brother, in a white hoodie and sandals, inhales from the hash pipe without coughing. He berates the youngest brother for his stupidity and relates his personal tale of woe. "I was an opiate addict for about three months. Did heroin for a week straight and then off and on. But, I'm done with that shit now."
The youngest brother, face freshly shaved and slightly swollen, explains himself. "I didn't fall off my long-board. I was rolling and I chewed my face. I took two blue pistols." Blue pistols are usually cut with meth. He doesn't know that yet. "I was so detached today that I spent all day playing video games."
The middle brother, cigarettes in one pocket and Altoids in the other, tries to come up with something to say. "I might spend another few years in school. One of my professors thinks my project could publish. That could pay for grad school if I do it right. Hell, I could even get a PhD. Fucking weird shit."
They don't have much to say to each other on the drive back. The veteran, the academic, and the hapless hedonist. They sit in silence, trying to bridge the gap between their disparate worlds. They won't succeed. Not for a long time.
Family, right?
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Metaphysical Fantasy Fiction for Postmodern Psychologists
This story doesn't take place here.
There is a tiny island floating in a weightless world. All around this island, up, down, left, right, there are small clouds of light, like tangles of Christmas lights viewed from a distance. They represent the entire spectrum of color, but this (evening? morning?) moment they give of an emergent amber glow that would remind one of a sunset, had they ever seen one.
A being floats amongst the clouds. It has never seen a sunset for Itself, but is now reminded of them none the less. It has a body similar to a human, but It is airy, ethereal, and sexless. It is floating gently on the currents of this strange ocean, in between the crossfading clouds of color. It is the gardener, and It tends Its garden well.
It floats up to one of the clouds, a tiny swarm of pink fireflies transitioning into orange. Gently, carefully It reaches into the cloud and pulls out a single speck of light no bigger than one of the grains of sand that make up Its island home. It holds the speck up to It's eye and inspects it for flaws. This one has many flaws, but looks to be promising regardless.
It crushes the speck between Its fingers and finds Itself floating through a living room circa 1994, somewhere in Minnesota. Immediately the flaws are apparent. Only a few of the picture frames have anything distinguishable in them, and there are whole sections of the room that simply do not exist. But, it is still a good specimen. The focus of the room sharpens around the figure of a man, mid-twenties, sitting on a couch surrounded by four children. He is reading aloud in Czech from a large family Bible. The passage is Luke chapter two. Yes, this is a good one.
The room dissipates and It is floating once more in the ocean of memory. The speck reforms itself in It's hand and It returns the speck to its home in the cloud. It continues floating, allowing the current to carry It, but never straying too far from the island. It has been doing this work for a very long time, and It is very good at it.
It floats past two clouds exchanging lights. The tiny flashing points rush between them like a minuscule freeway. These two get along well. Further on there is a cloud that floats between others, taking lights from every cloud it passes. It follows this little thief, and It wonders if this is something that begs intervention. But, the thieving cloud stops next to two smaller clouds and begins to fade through colors rapidly. It jettisons points of light, injecting them into the smaller clouds, which then absorb the colors into their own spectrum. There is no need for weeding here. Storytellers are crucial to keeping the ecosystem vibrant, and ensuring that the spectrums in one particular area are generally aligned.
It continues floating and stops next to a lop-sided cloud. There is a place inside of this cloud that will not light. It has seen this before, sometimes this requires action, but first It will explore. It reaches into the cloud and grabs a handful of the faulty lights. It squeezes them between Its fist.
Pain. Fear. No. Please.
These can remain unlit. The cloud will survive longer without them. It considers pruning for a moment, but then again, sometimes these darkened specks are re-lit later on and blended into the other colors. Some of the brightest clouds have become such by reincorporating these dark places. It decides to leave the unlit mass in the cloud and hope for improvement.
It turns away now, back to the island. It lights on the island's sand and rests for a moment, gazing at the eternal light show that is Its world, Its home, Its charge. It rises again, and floats toward the center of the small land mass. Barely visible in the center of the island, there is a sprout. The sprout is green, is alive. It reaches down and pats the sand around the sprout's roots, smiling to Itself. Its little living thing is growing up.
There is a rustling sound coming from the ocean. It turns and looks for the source. There, just a few yards away, four clouds are clustering around a large one. It flies to the cluster of clouds, watching, waiting for It's moment. The large cloud is ripe, and the other clouds know this. They are all huddled around, receiving as many lights as the large cloud is able to expel. The large cloud flickers a couple times, fades to a dim glow, and goes out. The other clouds stay for a moment, but soon they turn to one another. The exchange lights and colors that one received from the large, ripe cloud but others didn't. In this way, the spectrum of the ripe cloud will never be lost.
It waits until the other clouds have mostly moved on. Then, it begins to scoop the dead cloud into Its arms. It carries the cloud back to the island and alights near to the sprout. It is lucky to have found a ripe one so close. It places the cloud at the base of the sprout and pats it down firm. It then places Its palms flat on the sand around the sprout and presses. The lights from the ripe cloud shine brilliantly, and then begin to fade out around the edges. The sprout in the middle begins to glow faintly as the light of the dead cloud is absorbed. It swears that It could almost see the sprout growing these past few feedings.
It takes a moment to revel in Its little sprout, the hope of the future. Then, It returns to the currents of the vast ocean of memory.
There is a tiny island floating in a weightless world. All around this island, up, down, left, right, there are small clouds of light, like tangles of Christmas lights viewed from a distance. They represent the entire spectrum of color, but this (evening? morning?) moment they give of an emergent amber glow that would remind one of a sunset, had they ever seen one.
A being floats amongst the clouds. It has never seen a sunset for Itself, but is now reminded of them none the less. It has a body similar to a human, but It is airy, ethereal, and sexless. It is floating gently on the currents of this strange ocean, in between the crossfading clouds of color. It is the gardener, and It tends Its garden well.
It floats up to one of the clouds, a tiny swarm of pink fireflies transitioning into orange. Gently, carefully It reaches into the cloud and pulls out a single speck of light no bigger than one of the grains of sand that make up Its island home. It holds the speck up to It's eye and inspects it for flaws. This one has many flaws, but looks to be promising regardless.
It crushes the speck between Its fingers and finds Itself floating through a living room circa 1994, somewhere in Minnesota. Immediately the flaws are apparent. Only a few of the picture frames have anything distinguishable in them, and there are whole sections of the room that simply do not exist. But, it is still a good specimen. The focus of the room sharpens around the figure of a man, mid-twenties, sitting on a couch surrounded by four children. He is reading aloud in Czech from a large family Bible. The passage is Luke chapter two. Yes, this is a good one.
The room dissipates and It is floating once more in the ocean of memory. The speck reforms itself in It's hand and It returns the speck to its home in the cloud. It continues floating, allowing the current to carry It, but never straying too far from the island. It has been doing this work for a very long time, and It is very good at it.
It floats past two clouds exchanging lights. The tiny flashing points rush between them like a minuscule freeway. These two get along well. Further on there is a cloud that floats between others, taking lights from every cloud it passes. It follows this little thief, and It wonders if this is something that begs intervention. But, the thieving cloud stops next to two smaller clouds and begins to fade through colors rapidly. It jettisons points of light, injecting them into the smaller clouds, which then absorb the colors into their own spectrum. There is no need for weeding here. Storytellers are crucial to keeping the ecosystem vibrant, and ensuring that the spectrums in one particular area are generally aligned.
It continues floating and stops next to a lop-sided cloud. There is a place inside of this cloud that will not light. It has seen this before, sometimes this requires action, but first It will explore. It reaches into the cloud and grabs a handful of the faulty lights. It squeezes them between Its fist.
Pain. Fear. No. Please.
These can remain unlit. The cloud will survive longer without them. It considers pruning for a moment, but then again, sometimes these darkened specks are re-lit later on and blended into the other colors. Some of the brightest clouds have become such by reincorporating these dark places. It decides to leave the unlit mass in the cloud and hope for improvement.
It turns away now, back to the island. It lights on the island's sand and rests for a moment, gazing at the eternal light show that is Its world, Its home, Its charge. It rises again, and floats toward the center of the small land mass. Barely visible in the center of the island, there is a sprout. The sprout is green, is alive. It reaches down and pats the sand around the sprout's roots, smiling to Itself. Its little living thing is growing up.
There is a rustling sound coming from the ocean. It turns and looks for the source. There, just a few yards away, four clouds are clustering around a large one. It flies to the cluster of clouds, watching, waiting for It's moment. The large cloud is ripe, and the other clouds know this. They are all huddled around, receiving as many lights as the large cloud is able to expel. The large cloud flickers a couple times, fades to a dim glow, and goes out. The other clouds stay for a moment, but soon they turn to one another. The exchange lights and colors that one received from the large, ripe cloud but others didn't. In this way, the spectrum of the ripe cloud will never be lost.
It waits until the other clouds have mostly moved on. Then, it begins to scoop the dead cloud into Its arms. It carries the cloud back to the island and alights near to the sprout. It is lucky to have found a ripe one so close. It places the cloud at the base of the sprout and pats it down firm. It then places Its palms flat on the sand around the sprout and presses. The lights from the ripe cloud shine brilliantly, and then begin to fade out around the edges. The sprout in the middle begins to glow faintly as the light of the dead cloud is absorbed. It swears that It could almost see the sprout growing these past few feedings.
It takes a moment to revel in Its little sprout, the hope of the future. Then, It returns to the currents of the vast ocean of memory.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
I Still Don't Get It
Today, I was walking through a semi-sketchy part of Ballard. Down the road, I could see a homeless man walking around in a parking lot. Pretty soon, it became apparent that our paths would cross. I don't know if it was something about his body language, or if I'm just an entitled dick with classism issues, but I was really not looking forward to crossing this guy's path. He was very dirty, and he was shaking as he walked around, taking these little shuffling steps.
As I got closer, he stopped at a bench near the sidewalk that had ashtrays on either side of it. He sifted through each of the ashtrays looking for something smokable. I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out my cigarettes, and handed one to him. I asked him if he needed a light, and he shook his head. I kept on walking.
I honestly don't even know if I made eye-contact with the guy before handing him the cigarette. He didn't say anything to me, and he was so shaky that what I took to be him shaking his head "No, I don't need a light" could very well have been him just standing there. The silence and speed of the transaction kinda bothers me. He may have just been too out of it to really respond. But, it was almost like the second he saw that pack of cigarettes he knew what was coming. Benefactor extends token. I accept token. Benefactor offers secondary token. I refuse. Benefactor leaves. It was like we were both following some kind of script, and neither of us were all too happy about our roles.
This wasn't one of the homeless guys who panhandles, either. This guy had a mental illness, or maybe he was coming down from something, or maybe he was getting up on something. My money is on mental illness. His face and hands were layered with dirt, and even though I walked by pretty quickly, the smell was still there. I didn't stay with him long enough to get a very good look at his face, but his beard was scraggly and dirty, and he looked old. I don't remember the look in his eyes, but they were blue.
This is the reason that this is even worth thinking about. When I was first walking in the general direction of this guy, I dreaded the very thought of physical proximity. I didn't see him as a person; I saw him as a potential threat. But then, when he was sifting through those ashtrays, I felt pity. He still wasn't another human being to me, though. Now, he was just a pitiful spectacle that I felt sorry for. I didn't give him a cigarette out of the kindness of my heart. I did it because he was just so damn pathetic.
So, what do I offer this person in need? Do I walk up to him and help him find a place to stay and take a shower? Do I take him to the 7-11 that is literally one block away and buy him some food? Do I even pray for the guy? No. I walk up to him and offer him a bit of mutual bondage, and I don't even light it for him.
I don't know his name. I don't know how old he is. I don't even know what his voice sounds like. I didn't give him the time. I just kept walking. But, to be honest, I don't know if I really could've done anything else.
As I got closer, he stopped at a bench near the sidewalk that had ashtrays on either side of it. He sifted through each of the ashtrays looking for something smokable. I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out my cigarettes, and handed one to him. I asked him if he needed a light, and he shook his head. I kept on walking.
I honestly don't even know if I made eye-contact with the guy before handing him the cigarette. He didn't say anything to me, and he was so shaky that what I took to be him shaking his head "No, I don't need a light" could very well have been him just standing there. The silence and speed of the transaction kinda bothers me. He may have just been too out of it to really respond. But, it was almost like the second he saw that pack of cigarettes he knew what was coming. Benefactor extends token. I accept token. Benefactor offers secondary token. I refuse. Benefactor leaves. It was like we were both following some kind of script, and neither of us were all too happy about our roles.
This wasn't one of the homeless guys who panhandles, either. This guy had a mental illness, or maybe he was coming down from something, or maybe he was getting up on something. My money is on mental illness. His face and hands were layered with dirt, and even though I walked by pretty quickly, the smell was still there. I didn't stay with him long enough to get a very good look at his face, but his beard was scraggly and dirty, and he looked old. I don't remember the look in his eyes, but they were blue.
This is the reason that this is even worth thinking about. When I was first walking in the general direction of this guy, I dreaded the very thought of physical proximity. I didn't see him as a person; I saw him as a potential threat. But then, when he was sifting through those ashtrays, I felt pity. He still wasn't another human being to me, though. Now, he was just a pitiful spectacle that I felt sorry for. I didn't give him a cigarette out of the kindness of my heart. I did it because he was just so damn pathetic.
So, what do I offer this person in need? Do I walk up to him and help him find a place to stay and take a shower? Do I take him to the 7-11 that is literally one block away and buy him some food? Do I even pray for the guy? No. I walk up to him and offer him a bit of mutual bondage, and I don't even light it for him.
I don't know his name. I don't know how old he is. I don't even know what his voice sounds like. I didn't give him the time. I just kept walking. But, to be honest, I don't know if I really could've done anything else.
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