Any who know me will tell you that I am an avid D&D player. D&D is of course, Dungeons and Dragons, a role-playing game originally published by TSR, and currently published by Wizards of the Coast. It is not the only role-playing system I have used, but it is so iconic that almost all of the role-playing games I have been involved in have been referred to as "D&D". The sole exception is the Star Wars RPG which is referred to as the Star Wars Game(s) though they are still noted as happening on "D&D night". This blog series will cover some of my memories of past games and my involvement with my biggest hobby.
First let me begin by saying that my love of Fantasy and my love of D&D are hopelessly intertwined but still very separate things. My love of Fantasy started with such influences as He-Man, Star Wars, and Saturday morning cartoons, not to mention C.S. Lewis, Tolkien, and Lloyd Alexander. My love of D&D started with a Nintendo Entertainment System.
We were living in Amarillo and I was about 8 at the time (give or take a year). My older brother Derrick had come to live with us (this is another story in itself, but the short version is he is my half brother who moved in with us when he turned 18 and his mother no longer had custody). Derrick got a job at a local video store which rented Nintendo Systems and games. We didn't own a Nintendo because my mother thought it was a waste of money (she was wrong) and was worried that my younger brother Daniel and I would vegetate in front of it if we had one instead of playing outside or reading (she was right). Several of my friends had Nintendos, including two families on our street, so I knew what I was missing. Unfortunately I was often cast as the observer because, hey, it wasn't my Nintendo. I used this injustice to lobby for a Millwee Nintendo, but the bill never made it to the floor as it was crushed time and time again by my unsympathetic mother. Derrick, to be kind to his much younger siblings, occasionally brought one of the rental Nintendos home for us to enjoy. He would always bring 2 games with it, and one day he brought home a game titled Simon's Quest.
Simon's Quest was the sequel to a game called Castlevania, and nobody I knew had it. I loved it. The premise is as follows: when defeating Dracula in the first game our hero Simon was cursed. Now he must gather Dracula's remains and resurrect him and defeat him once more to rid himself of his curse. The game remains one of my favorite video games to this day. It had a good story. It had puzzles. There were towns where people lied to you, and shops where you could buy better equipment. The more you played, the more powerful your character Simon became. It was amazing, and it also had most of the elements of a pen and paper RPG though I didn't know it at the time. I didn't beat the game although Derrick brought it home more than once. I can still remember the triumph when, years later and now a Nintendo owner, I finally beat it. At this point I have played the game through about a dozen times, and am over due for another.
We moved to Sugar Land in the fall of 1989 and I did not re-adjust well. My mother noticed a lack of friends and my unhappiness and that Christmas we got a Nintendo from Santa, with a suggestion from my Mom that I try to start a Nintendo Club. Again, my transition to Sugar Land and the effect of the Nintendo Club is for another blog, for my purposes here the important part is that I now owned a Nintendo. Simon's Quest was acquired and beaten as mentioned above, and I quickly began searching for similar games. Zelda, Dragon Warrior I and II, Metroid, Final Fantasy, all were devoured hungrily along with others. Simon's Quest had sparked an ember of interest that blazed into a roaring fire, and I began looking outside the world of Nintendo for my Fantasy game fix.
Sometime during my fifth grade year, I can't remember exactly, I discovered a book. My mother regularly took me and my brother to the library, we would cycle like clock-work through 3 or 4 different branches, and on one of our library trips --in a four sided rotating rack of mouldering paperbacks-- I found a book titled Dragons of Spring Dawning by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman. I had read some science fiction at this point, but most of my "fantasy" reading had been confined to the classics and mythology. Dragons of Spring Dawning was a surprise. There was reference to sex, and betrayal. Characters died seemingly meaningless deaths. The bad guys were evil. Not evil because the author told us so, but evil because the author showed us so. Even the victory seemed Pyrrhic. The book was the third in a trilogy and of course made references to events in the first 2 books which I had not read at the time. In a way it was fun for me, trying to figure out what had happened through hints and comments spread throughout the book. It turns out that this trilogy was (loosely) based on the notes from D&D campaign the authors had been in. It was also published under the label of Dragonlance, which was published by TSR, the publisher of D&D.
One day in the fifth grade I was over at my friend Matt's house attending his birthday party and he looked around and said, "Hey guys, want to play a computer game?" Now Matt had an Apple 2, and as far as I knew the only game for the Apple 2 was Oregon Trail. Doubt must have flitted across my face because he look at me and said, "Come on Jacob. It's like Dragonlance." Well, that sold me. A few minutes later the six of us were clustered around Matt's drab grey Apple 2 playing a game called Curse of the Azure Bonds. Azure Bonds was a computer game published by, wait for it, TSR and was basically Dungeons and Dragons rendered into computer code. You could create up to six characters, and everyone at the party created their own. It was meant to be a solo game; instead we gathered around Matt and instructed him what we wanted our personal bundle of pixels to do in a fight. It was an extremely slow and tedious way to play but I loved it. I felt an innate connection with my 30 or so pixels on the Apple 2 screen; both a sense of proud ownership and vague personality displacement. It was great. I was being picked on at school and never seemed to do anything right socially but here I was portraying a character that was killing monsters with a knife.
Maybe it was all those Saturday morning cartoons; maybe it my fascination with all things Star Wars. Maybe it was the books that I gravitated towards. A love of mythology and folklore that persists to this day. Whatever it was, that afternoon clustered around Matt's computer I felt right at home. And I knew that I had found something that I could excel at.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Every time I think I've hit rock bottom, someone throws me a shovel.
I am trying, have been trying to find a teaching job. Recently I found out that Austin High had an available opening in the Theater Dept. It turns out that the Head Theater teacher there was my theater teacher for my freshman year at Dulles High. I emailed him, letting him know what I've been up to and that I was interested. I got other people to put in good words for me too. Called in as many favors as I could, and then promised favors away. Anxiously I waited for a reply from him, or a call from the principal to interview. A week went by. Suddenly, the job posting was removed from the district's website. No phone call. No email. I'm crushed. The worst thing about it is that he didn't contact me. I didn't expect him to remember me, but with the effort I went through, and the "good words" that were supposedly put in on my behalf, you would at least expect a "sorry, he position's been filled email." Would have taken 2 seconds to write.
I have had such a struggle to make it even this far with my quest to have a teaching career that when I saw this posting I felt like the stars had aligned. This will be it I told myself. The reason why it's been so hard, the reason why no one will give me a shot is because I am supposed to have this position.
I am sick of red tape. I am sick of applying online. I am sick of being reduced to an applicant number. I'm sick of state requirements. I'm sick of rules and systems that assume that I am the lowest common denominator. I'm sick of feeling like my BA is worthless because I majored in Drama. I'm sick of watching people that I am smarter and better than get moved ahead of me because they have a piece of paper I don't. I'm sick of hearing why are you doing this? You obviously should be way beyond this. You are too amazing to be here. I'm sick of hearing wow you'd be perfect! Too bad you don't have <insert bullshit requirement>.
I was a long term biology sub at Kempner. The department head loved me. The staff had such respect for me that when the Honors Bio teach was absent, they got a sub for me instead so that I could supervise the Honors fetal pig dissection. An observing teacher, herself an honors bio teacher, was amazed at my grasp of the anatomy and my ability to direct the dissection. Guess what? I only had 1 high school biology course, and I barely passed (because I didn't apply myself). The science department head at Kempner desperately wants to hire me. To teach any science. She even offered me the honors physics classes. But she can't. Why not? Because they won't let me take the subject test to be certified. Why not? Because I don't have enough college hours in science. Well, I don't have any college hours in medieval weaponry, but I dare anyone to challenge my knowledge. My personal mythology library is more extensive than my former University's is, and by far. The example could go on, but I think I've expressed my view.
I am just so frustrated, and disappointed, and...
I'm supporting a family of four. I don't have time to go back to school, much less the money. I know I need to just pick myself up, and keep on going, and wait for that next opportunity. But right now, all I want to do is punch somebody in the face.
I have had such a struggle to make it even this far with my quest to have a teaching career that when I saw this posting I felt like the stars had aligned. This will be it I told myself. The reason why it's been so hard, the reason why no one will give me a shot is because I am supposed to have this position.
I am sick of red tape. I am sick of applying online. I am sick of being reduced to an applicant number. I'm sick of state requirements. I'm sick of rules and systems that assume that I am the lowest common denominator. I'm sick of feeling like my BA is worthless because I majored in Drama. I'm sick of watching people that I am smarter and better than get moved ahead of me because they have a piece of paper I don't. I'm sick of hearing why are you doing this? You obviously should be way beyond this. You are too amazing to be here. I'm sick of hearing wow you'd be perfect! Too bad you don't have <insert bullshit requirement>.
I was a long term biology sub at Kempner. The department head loved me. The staff had such respect for me that when the Honors Bio teach was absent, they got a sub for me instead so that I could supervise the Honors fetal pig dissection. An observing teacher, herself an honors bio teacher, was amazed at my grasp of the anatomy and my ability to direct the dissection. Guess what? I only had 1 high school biology course, and I barely passed (because I didn't apply myself). The science department head at Kempner desperately wants to hire me. To teach any science. She even offered me the honors physics classes. But she can't. Why not? Because they won't let me take the subject test to be certified. Why not? Because I don't have enough college hours in science. Well, I don't have any college hours in medieval weaponry, but I dare anyone to challenge my knowledge. My personal mythology library is more extensive than my former University's is, and by far. The example could go on, but I think I've expressed my view.
I am just so frustrated, and disappointed, and...
I'm supporting a family of four. I don't have time to go back to school, much less the money. I know I need to just pick myself up, and keep on going, and wait for that next opportunity. But right now, all I want to do is punch somebody in the face.
I'm an Ogre
Valerie: Stop being mean!
Jake: You were mean to me!
Valerie: Don't be mean to me when I'm mean to you!
Jake: ....
Jake: You were mean to me!
Valerie: Don't be mean to me when I'm mean to you!
Jake: ....
Friday, May 29, 2009
Bubba
Me: (to Jonah) Looking good bubba.
Val: Wait what? What did you call him?
Me: Huh?
Val: Our children are not "bubbas".
Me: I don't... what?
Val: Do not call our children "bubba". They are not "bubbas".
Me: I was being affectionate, not assigning a nick-name.
Val: Be affectionate with other words.
Me: Me calling our 21 month old son bubba casually once in the kitchen is not going to turn him into a fat unshaven hillbilly in greasy overalls.
Val: Yes. Yes it is. No "bubba". We have no "bubbas" here.
Val: Wait what? What did you call him?
Me: Huh?
Val: Our children are not "bubbas".
Me: I don't... what?
Val: Do not call our children "bubba". They are not "bubbas".
Me: I was being affectionate, not assigning a nick-name.
Val: Be affectionate with other words.
Me: Me calling our 21 month old son bubba casually once in the kitchen is not going to turn him into a fat unshaven hillbilly in greasy overalls.
Val: Yes. Yes it is. No "bubba". We have no "bubbas" here.
Cromanga-what?
Val: How the job hunt going?
Me: It's... going.
Val:
Me: It's going.
Val: You need to hunt. Hunt! You are a hunter, so hunt! Me, I'm a gatherer- I need to shop. Let me be a gatherer! Hunt!
Me: OOOOOOkaaaayyyyy....
Me: It's... going.
Val:
Me: It's going.
Val: You need to hunt. Hunt! You are a hunter, so hunt! Me, I'm a gatherer- I need to shop. Let me be a gatherer! Hunt!
Me: OOOOOOkaaaayyyyy....
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Dream Journal: Reoccuring Nightmare
As stated previously I rarely remember my dreams, to the point where I don't know if I even have dreams most nights. There is one dream that I remember clearly to this day however. It is a re-occurring nightmare that I have had three times in my life. The first two were when I was very young (roughly 4 and seven) and the most recent was when I was in college. It was exactly the same each time I dreamt it, and here is a description of it for prosperity. Like most dreams it is hard to describe completely. Even if it could be described fully the description still wouldn't be that scar, but it was very scary for me to experience. This is a nightmare, and one that affected me enough that I remember it clearly years later. But as nightmares often are, it hardly seems scary in the telling. For those of you who believe you have the knack of dream interpretation, dig in, and feel free to leave your hypothesis in comment form.
It is night, and there is a violent thunderstorm raging across the sky. I'm in an airport. This airport is on an island in the ocean, the whole island being a plateau with sheer rock face all around. The airport covers the top of the plateau, so that it seems that the outer walls of the airport turn to rock that descends into the sea. The sea is whipped into a fury, and waves rise up to crash against the airport in explosive slaps. I am inside in a large room where people come and go. The walls are completely glass windows streaked with a constant torrent of rain, and the dark view of the outside stands in sharp contrast to the floor and ceiling which are white. The storm and thunder are muted inside the building but strangely the people make no noise as they move around me, all in a hurry to be somewhere. I am young, about four years old (the age I was when I first had this dream I think) and I have been separated from my parents. I lost them, or they left me in the movements of the throng. I look around with a sense of displaced shock and then accept the fact that my parents are not around. I find myself staring at the window, watching with unease the flashes of lightning that reveal the violent rolling of the dark sea. To the people around, moving purposefully across the white floor, I seem to not exist. I am not an obstacle, point of interest, or out of place. Suddenly I am aware that I have some one's attention, I can feel the focus of their eyes between my shoulder blades. Slowly I turn from the window and gaze back into the milling people. As a few of the throng moved a man is revealed. While the other people have a washed out look to them -severely muted colors- this man is in full color. He is wearing a disheveled tan trench coat. He is staring right at me. He has reddish hair that at one time was combed back but now has untidy strands sticking out. His face is gaunt and he is so fair that his skin is almost transparent. When I say gaunt I don't mean skull like, but like there is not an ounce of wasted flesh on his head (If I had to cast this dream using actual celebrities I would use William Atherton who played Environmentalist Walter Peck in Ghostbusters). But the most striking, unnerving, and compelling feature are his eyes. He is slightly bug-eyed, they stand out of his face more than they sink beneath his brows, and neatly bloodshot- the veins are clearly defined without any redness of the whites. The center, the irises, seem to glow slightly with an inner light; not an actual glow but just a fierceness of color, that color being a swirling of red green and yellow. I am frozen by those eyes and a wave of fear chills me from the inside out. I think to myself his eyes are the color of madness. He extends his hand, beckoning me towards him and I get a sensation of wrongness from him; he is unnatural. The room is full off washed out people, constantly hurrying about all around us and yet there is a feeling of intimacy as if he and I are the only ones in the room. None of the others acknowledge him or me. He speaks, his voice sounds like granite shot through with neon, a baritone registered upward by insanity, and the pitch of his voice is unstable. His words are slow and drawn out, his mouth opens fully with each word, his lips never collapse to cover his teeth. He says, "There's something I want to show you." I know that whatever it is I don't want to see it, and I know I'm going with him. The dream shifts.
I am outside the airport. The storm that was muted inside the building rages around me in full fury, the wind and constant pounding of the waves is a constant cacophony that assaults my senses. Red haired madness man is there leading me, and behind me are two large broad shouldered men in dark clothes that I somehow know work for him. Their features are non-descript, cast in the darkness of the night. We are on a path that is cut out of the sides of the plateau, spiraling around it beneath the airport. I can see clearly, it is lit with the dark blue light of a cloudless night with a full moon in spite of the massive storm rending the heavens above me. We press on through the rain, leaning into the wind, feet gaining firm purchase on the packed dirt of the path. Occasionally a wave crests the side of the path drenching us further and pushing us up against the rock face. We continue on and eventually the path dead ends at a wooden shack made of old weathered ill-fitted boards. Red haired madness man turns to me, eyes burning, hair plastered down on his skull, rivulets of rain running off of his face. He reaches out a skinny hand and points to the shack's door and says, "In there"; his insane voice clearly audible through the roar of the storm. Slowly I move towards the shack. The door opens for me. Inside is a stone altar and I lock eyes with a glowing yellow skull sitting on top of it. Lightning flashes, there is an immense crack of thunder, and then...
I wake up.
It is night, and there is a violent thunderstorm raging across the sky. I'm in an airport. This airport is on an island in the ocean, the whole island being a plateau with sheer rock face all around. The airport covers the top of the plateau, so that it seems that the outer walls of the airport turn to rock that descends into the sea. The sea is whipped into a fury, and waves rise up to crash against the airport in explosive slaps. I am inside in a large room where people come and go. The walls are completely glass windows streaked with a constant torrent of rain, and the dark view of the outside stands in sharp contrast to the floor and ceiling which are white. The storm and thunder are muted inside the building but strangely the people make no noise as they move around me, all in a hurry to be somewhere. I am young, about four years old (the age I was when I first had this dream I think) and I have been separated from my parents. I lost them, or they left me in the movements of the throng. I look around with a sense of displaced shock and then accept the fact that my parents are not around. I find myself staring at the window, watching with unease the flashes of lightning that reveal the violent rolling of the dark sea. To the people around, moving purposefully across the white floor, I seem to not exist. I am not an obstacle, point of interest, or out of place. Suddenly I am aware that I have some one's attention, I can feel the focus of their eyes between my shoulder blades. Slowly I turn from the window and gaze back into the milling people. As a few of the throng moved a man is revealed. While the other people have a washed out look to them -severely muted colors- this man is in full color. He is wearing a disheveled tan trench coat. He is staring right at me. He has reddish hair that at one time was combed back but now has untidy strands sticking out. His face is gaunt and he is so fair that his skin is almost transparent. When I say gaunt I don't mean skull like, but like there is not an ounce of wasted flesh on his head (If I had to cast this dream using actual celebrities I would use William Atherton who played Environmentalist Walter Peck in Ghostbusters). But the most striking, unnerving, and compelling feature are his eyes. He is slightly bug-eyed, they stand out of his face more than they sink beneath his brows, and neatly bloodshot- the veins are clearly defined without any redness of the whites. The center, the irises, seem to glow slightly with an inner light; not an actual glow but just a fierceness of color, that color being a swirling of red green and yellow. I am frozen by those eyes and a wave of fear chills me from the inside out. I think to myself his eyes are the color of madness. He extends his hand, beckoning me towards him and I get a sensation of wrongness from him; he is unnatural. The room is full off washed out people, constantly hurrying about all around us and yet there is a feeling of intimacy as if he and I are the only ones in the room. None of the others acknowledge him or me. He speaks, his voice sounds like granite shot through with neon, a baritone registered upward by insanity, and the pitch of his voice is unstable. His words are slow and drawn out, his mouth opens fully with each word, his lips never collapse to cover his teeth. He says, "There's something I want to show you." I know that whatever it is I don't want to see it, and I know I'm going with him. The dream shifts.
I am outside the airport. The storm that was muted inside the building rages around me in full fury, the wind and constant pounding of the waves is a constant cacophony that assaults my senses. Red haired madness man is there leading me, and behind me are two large broad shouldered men in dark clothes that I somehow know work for him. Their features are non-descript, cast in the darkness of the night. We are on a path that is cut out of the sides of the plateau, spiraling around it beneath the airport. I can see clearly, it is lit with the dark blue light of a cloudless night with a full moon in spite of the massive storm rending the heavens above me. We press on through the rain, leaning into the wind, feet gaining firm purchase on the packed dirt of the path. Occasionally a wave crests the side of the path drenching us further and pushing us up against the rock face. We continue on and eventually the path dead ends at a wooden shack made of old weathered ill-fitted boards. Red haired madness man turns to me, eyes burning, hair plastered down on his skull, rivulets of rain running off of his face. He reaches out a skinny hand and points to the shack's door and says, "In there"; his insane voice clearly audible through the roar of the storm. Slowly I move towards the shack. The door opens for me. Inside is a stone altar and I lock eyes with a glowing yellow skull sitting on top of it. Lightning flashes, there is an immense crack of thunder, and then...
I wake up.
Dream Journal: Zombies
I so rarely remember anything about my dreams that I feel compelled to mention the stuff I do remember.
Last night's dream went like this:
Most of the world was turned into zombies. Not shambling undead thirsting for "braaaiiiinssss"; these zombies looked like people and moved like people except for 1) they relentlessly tried to infect the un-infected, 2) could infect you simply by touching you, and 3) the irises of their eyes were completely black. They did not seem to have high thinking, just ran around in search of the un-infected.
So the few survivors that my group was aware of were holed up in my paternal grandmother's house. In real life she is deceased, and the house in my dream was not her actual house, but according to dream logic it was and had always been her house. In short it felt like her house even though the floor plan and decorations were different.
So this group was only a handful of people, I wanna say eight but definitely less than twelve. We had some kind of barricade around the house. We also had a bunch of round black pellets, about the size of a coffee bean, that when you threw one at a zombie, it burst into a small thin black cloud roughly as big around as a basketball. The struck zombie would then fall over dead. No blood or explosion or anything, just kind of collapse and become inert. Part of the dream involved me defending the barricade but no more that five or six zombies would approach at a time.
I don't remember who was in my group specifically except my grandmother was one, and one was an amalgam of my son Jonah and my brother Daniel about the age of three or four. I remember having a conversation with one of the guys in the group who was having a spat with one of the girls, and explaining to him (from an authority position) that he had to make up because for all we knew this was it and nobody else was alive so we had all damn well better get along. This conversation implied that, while it hadn't happened yet, the group was going to have to split up into mating pairs at some point.
Then my grandmother had a big meal laid out on a table in the kitchen with a large bird (turkey?) as the main course, and we all sat at the table to eat. I remember thinking that Jonah/Daniel was asleep in his bed at that time. There was a new girl who had recently found the sanctuary of our group and she complained about the meal and I thought "really? The world may have ended and your complaining about a huge thanksgiving-esque meal?"
This dream had a yellow feel, and the events were tinted yellow. A good portion of it I had an observational view, i.e. I did not see through my eyes but saw it as a really intimate small theater stage view, though there were portions that were first person perspective.
And those are the details that I can remember about my dream.
Last night's dream went like this:
Most of the world was turned into zombies. Not shambling undead thirsting for "braaaiiiinssss"; these zombies looked like people and moved like people except for 1) they relentlessly tried to infect the un-infected, 2) could infect you simply by touching you, and 3) the irises of their eyes were completely black. They did not seem to have high thinking, just ran around in search of the un-infected.
So the few survivors that my group was aware of were holed up in my paternal grandmother's house. In real life she is deceased, and the house in my dream was not her actual house, but according to dream logic it was and had always been her house. In short it felt like her house even though the floor plan and decorations were different.
So this group was only a handful of people, I wanna say eight but definitely less than twelve. We had some kind of barricade around the house. We also had a bunch of round black pellets, about the size of a coffee bean, that when you threw one at a zombie, it burst into a small thin black cloud roughly as big around as a basketball. The struck zombie would then fall over dead. No blood or explosion or anything, just kind of collapse and become inert. Part of the dream involved me defending the barricade but no more that five or six zombies would approach at a time.
I don't remember who was in my group specifically except my grandmother was one, and one was an amalgam of my son Jonah and my brother Daniel about the age of three or four. I remember having a conversation with one of the guys in the group who was having a spat with one of the girls, and explaining to him (from an authority position) that he had to make up because for all we knew this was it and nobody else was alive so we had all damn well better get along. This conversation implied that, while it hadn't happened yet, the group was going to have to split up into mating pairs at some point.
Then my grandmother had a big meal laid out on a table in the kitchen with a large bird (turkey?) as the main course, and we all sat at the table to eat. I remember thinking that Jonah/Daniel was asleep in his bed at that time. There was a new girl who had recently found the sanctuary of our group and she complained about the meal and I thought "really? The world may have ended and your complaining about a huge thanksgiving-esque meal?"
This dream had a yellow feel, and the events were tinted yellow. A good portion of it I had an observational view, i.e. I did not see through my eyes but saw it as a really intimate small theater stage view, though there were portions that were first person perspective.
And those are the details that I can remember about my dream.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Far from Samurai
"The way of the Samurai is found in death." - The Hagakure
I first read the Hagakure after seeing the movie Ghost Dog, where it features a prominate role. Reading it was an enlightening experience. The above quote is the first sentence, and the one that stayed with me through the years since I read it. I find it an extremely calming idea, and not a week goes by where I don't quote it to myself at least once. I am not a fatalistic person by nature or by religion so the quote would seem to contradict my personality; but instead it forces a perception shift, my brain changes gears and -this is the calming part- drains my emotions away.
Let me explain.
To me this is a statement on the inevibility of conclusion, specifically the conclusion of life in death. Most of my fears, concerns, hopes, and beliefs in regards to death concern after death. I have died. What now? The first sentence of the Hagakure does not evoke these things for me because it does not address after death. It simply references death. What it means to me is that to be a Samurai one must accept what one cannot change or control, and focus on those aspects of life that one can control like dignity and honor.
In moments when I find myself getting frustrated, worked up, or otherwise emotionally agitated, I take a deep breath and think "The way of the Samurai is found in death." I focus on the words for a few seconds, ignoring all else, and I find myself calm and emotionally detached. It does not work all the time, but it works most of the time.
The obvious criticisms of this are 1) that's not how that passage is meant to be interpreted, in fact what Jake's saying doesn't exactly make sense with the text, 2) emotional detachment isn't neccesarily a good thing, and 3) Jake's crazy and thinks he's a mideval japanese warrior.
Number 1: Interpretation
When I first cracked open the Hagakure and read the first sentence I put the book down and spent the next hour thinking about it. It was just one of those things that resonated with me. As I read the book about every other paragraph I repeated the first sentence to help put what I was reading in the context of it's opening statement. I have found that in most philisophical works at some point the author summarizes the basis of the piece in one sentence (ex. - I think therefore I am). Once located this sentence can be used to frame my thinking as I absorb the author's words. Remember the kid's game Telephone? Everyone sits in a circle, and a whispered message is sent around the circle and the group compares the final version with the original version. In the case of the Hagakure I unknowingly played a game of Telephone with myself and lost. By the end of the book I was saying, "The way of the Samurai ends in death." This is obviously a different statement with a different meaning. The meaning of this final statement, "The way of the Samurai ends in death" literally sang in the recesses of my mind, whereas the original and correct statement, "the way of the Samurai is found in death" had simply made me thoughtful. After creating "ends in death", and interpreting at least the latter part of the Hagakure with it in mind, it was cemented in my head and now felt right whereas the correct statement felt wrong. When I realized what I had done I corrected the words but could not correct the meaning. So I say "found in death" but hear "ends in death."
Number 2: Emotional Detachment
Something I find myself struggling with from time to time is apathy. In a cerebral sense I know that I care or that something is important but I just can't muster the motivation to do anything. The reason that I cannot summon this motivation is that I just don't feel like it. The topic is emotionally dead to me. If we truly observe the situation however, it is revealed that when I feel unmotivated is always when I am dealing with something that creates a high amount of anxiety for me. We're out of money and I have to find a job. The medical bills need to be paid, but that leaves nothing for groceries. It is no coincidence that both of my examples have to do with money; lately (the past 2 years) most of my anxiety can be traced back to money issues. In these cases I get worked up and I worry and I get tense and then I'm lethargic. I know I need to deal with it ASAP, it's just that right now I just can't bring myself to do it. Suddenly we see the truth. This apathy is a defense mechanism. A coping tool my brain pulls out to keep from popping a valve. I would venture to say that this is not an uncommon problem, that most people out there feel that way at one time or another. Having all "been there" it makes perfect sense that a sense of emotional detachment would be viewed as a negative thing, because this type of emotional detachment, this apathy, is the first example that springs to mind.
The emotional detachment that focusing on "The way of the Samurai is found in death" brings to me is different however. This is a sense of calmness. When I choose to use this phrase for this purpose, usually I feel as if my brain is running screaming in forty directions at once. Focusing on the "way of the Samurai" phrase calms me down and makes me feel as if my brain is walking in one straight path. With this mental sensation comes an emotional detachment. I'm aware of my concerns, worries, and feeling I just don't access them. I don't neccesarily feel robotic, but I do find myself thinking in simple "If...Then" statements. The world is translated into symbolic logic. A = B. B does not = C. I have found this state of mind to be invaluable.
Number 3: Jake's crazy and thinks he's a mideval japanese warrior
Okay, so I'm a fantasy buff. Fantasy novels, fantasy video games, role playing games; I love it all. Since the games in particular allow you to choose a fantasy archetype to play, I feel it's worth noting that I gravitate towards warriors. Oh sure, I'll play the others: the wizard type, sneaky rogue type, holy man - they're all fun for me. But the ones I tend to identify with are the warriors. And yes, I'm geek enough that I own several swords; but I'm smart enough to know that I don't know how to use them. They're just cool to have. If someone breaks into the house I have an axe handle under the bed - I won't be reaching for my replica gladious or my dueling saber.
From a philosophy stand point where I find similarities between myself and Samurai, and a mideval european knight for that matter, is in having a code of honor. The honor ideas for the Samurai and knight are easy to find so I won't go into it here; instead I'll focus on my own ideas of honor as they apply to me. I go out of my way to avoid betraying anyone. I have never cheated on anyone I dated. While I can't say I have never cheated in games, I haven't since I have become an adult for certain, and don't remember ever cheating at any game in High School. Like anyone I tell the occasional lie, but I'm very picky about what I lie about and to whom. I keep my word. Anyone who knows me will tell you I seldom make promises, because 1) I feel that it devalues my standard statements, that the extra qualifyer of "I promise" becomes needed for belief, and 2) it almost physically hurts me to break a promise, even if it could not be helped. There is no "acts of God" clause when keeping a promise is concerned. I will do anything I can to avoid breaking a promise. Finally, I will go to bat for my friends. While I have a large amount of friends, there is a smaller number of good friends that I will go out of my way to support without any reasons needed.
I believe in consequences. Anything that you do, any action or inaction has consequences. Some of these consequences are good, and some are bad, but the world is full of cause and effect. And you should accept the consequences before you act (or choose not to act), even if the consequences turn out not to be what you thought they were. A = B. Sometimes I will do the wrong thing, and do it deliberately, but I only do so because I have considered the consequences and consider it worth it.
All of the things I have said resonate with the honorable warrior ideal. So no, I don't think I am a mideval Japanese warrior - but if I had lived in mideval Japan I probably would have been.
Having said all this, I'd like to talk about "cross vision". To my knowledge I have never really meditated. I have friends who meditate and endorse the benefits of it. The books I read are filled with characters who meditate and thus are better at whatever it is they are supposed to be good at. But I personally have never meditated to my knowledge, and would not know how to go about meditating in the first place. I guess the effect Hagakure sentence has on me would be the closest thing to it that I do. That and "cross vision".
"Cross vision" (it's not an actual thing, just how I'm choosing to describe it here) works like so: I focus on the image of a cross in my mind (I'm Christian and the cross shape is religious in this instance). While I can do this with my eyes closed most often I have my eyes open. The cross imagined is really a mental outline, not a solid or opaque object. Like a tracing of a cross. Then I look at the world, whatever is in my field of view, through the cross. When I do this my thoughts fall into place like Tetris blocks and I see the world in terms of logic and morality. There are a few problems with "cross vision". If I do it in the wrong mood, I can feel rightegeious while doing it, and not in a good way. Second, it only applies to the here and now. I can't seem to do it while playing memories in my head, or thinking about the future. It only seems to apply to my field of vision.
So there you go. More "insight" into how my "mind" works. Trust me you're a better person now.
I first read the Hagakure after seeing the movie Ghost Dog, where it features a prominate role. Reading it was an enlightening experience. The above quote is the first sentence, and the one that stayed with me through the years since I read it. I find it an extremely calming idea, and not a week goes by where I don't quote it to myself at least once. I am not a fatalistic person by nature or by religion so the quote would seem to contradict my personality; but instead it forces a perception shift, my brain changes gears and -this is the calming part- drains my emotions away.
Let me explain.
To me this is a statement on the inevibility of conclusion, specifically the conclusion of life in death. Most of my fears, concerns, hopes, and beliefs in regards to death concern after death. I have died. What now? The first sentence of the Hagakure does not evoke these things for me because it does not address after death. It simply references death. What it means to me is that to be a Samurai one must accept what one cannot change or control, and focus on those aspects of life that one can control like dignity and honor.
In moments when I find myself getting frustrated, worked up, or otherwise emotionally agitated, I take a deep breath and think "The way of the Samurai is found in death." I focus on the words for a few seconds, ignoring all else, and I find myself calm and emotionally detached. It does not work all the time, but it works most of the time.
The obvious criticisms of this are 1) that's not how that passage is meant to be interpreted, in fact what Jake's saying doesn't exactly make sense with the text, 2) emotional detachment isn't neccesarily a good thing, and 3) Jake's crazy and thinks he's a mideval japanese warrior.
Number 1: Interpretation
When I first cracked open the Hagakure and read the first sentence I put the book down and spent the next hour thinking about it. It was just one of those things that resonated with me. As I read the book about every other paragraph I repeated the first sentence to help put what I was reading in the context of it's opening statement. I have found that in most philisophical works at some point the author summarizes the basis of the piece in one sentence (ex. - I think therefore I am). Once located this sentence can be used to frame my thinking as I absorb the author's words. Remember the kid's game Telephone? Everyone sits in a circle, and a whispered message is sent around the circle and the group compares the final version with the original version. In the case of the Hagakure I unknowingly played a game of Telephone with myself and lost. By the end of the book I was saying, "The way of the Samurai ends in death." This is obviously a different statement with a different meaning. The meaning of this final statement, "The way of the Samurai ends in death" literally sang in the recesses of my mind, whereas the original and correct statement, "the way of the Samurai is found in death" had simply made me thoughtful. After creating "ends in death", and interpreting at least the latter part of the Hagakure with it in mind, it was cemented in my head and now felt right whereas the correct statement felt wrong. When I realized what I had done I corrected the words but could not correct the meaning. So I say "found in death" but hear "ends in death."
Number 2: Emotional Detachment
Something I find myself struggling with from time to time is apathy. In a cerebral sense I know that I care or that something is important but I just can't muster the motivation to do anything. The reason that I cannot summon this motivation is that I just don't feel like it. The topic is emotionally dead to me. If we truly observe the situation however, it is revealed that when I feel unmotivated is always when I am dealing with something that creates a high amount of anxiety for me. We're out of money and I have to find a job. The medical bills need to be paid, but that leaves nothing for groceries. It is no coincidence that both of my examples have to do with money; lately (the past 2 years) most of my anxiety can be traced back to money issues. In these cases I get worked up and I worry and I get tense and then I'm lethargic. I know I need to deal with it ASAP, it's just that right now I just can't bring myself to do it. Suddenly we see the truth. This apathy is a defense mechanism. A coping tool my brain pulls out to keep from popping a valve. I would venture to say that this is not an uncommon problem, that most people out there feel that way at one time or another. Having all "been there" it makes perfect sense that a sense of emotional detachment would be viewed as a negative thing, because this type of emotional detachment, this apathy, is the first example that springs to mind.
The emotional detachment that focusing on "The way of the Samurai is found in death" brings to me is different however. This is a sense of calmness. When I choose to use this phrase for this purpose, usually I feel as if my brain is running screaming in forty directions at once. Focusing on the "way of the Samurai" phrase calms me down and makes me feel as if my brain is walking in one straight path. With this mental sensation comes an emotional detachment. I'm aware of my concerns, worries, and feeling I just don't access them. I don't neccesarily feel robotic, but I do find myself thinking in simple "If...Then" statements. The world is translated into symbolic logic. A = B. B does not = C. I have found this state of mind to be invaluable.
Number 3: Jake's crazy and thinks he's a mideval japanese warrior
Okay, so I'm a fantasy buff. Fantasy novels, fantasy video games, role playing games; I love it all. Since the games in particular allow you to choose a fantasy archetype to play, I feel it's worth noting that I gravitate towards warriors. Oh sure, I'll play the others: the wizard type, sneaky rogue type, holy man - they're all fun for me. But the ones I tend to identify with are the warriors. And yes, I'm geek enough that I own several swords; but I'm smart enough to know that I don't know how to use them. They're just cool to have. If someone breaks into the house I have an axe handle under the bed - I won't be reaching for my replica gladious or my dueling saber.
From a philosophy stand point where I find similarities between myself and Samurai, and a mideval european knight for that matter, is in having a code of honor. The honor ideas for the Samurai and knight are easy to find so I won't go into it here; instead I'll focus on my own ideas of honor as they apply to me. I go out of my way to avoid betraying anyone. I have never cheated on anyone I dated. While I can't say I have never cheated in games, I haven't since I have become an adult for certain, and don't remember ever cheating at any game in High School. Like anyone I tell the occasional lie, but I'm very picky about what I lie about and to whom. I keep my word. Anyone who knows me will tell you I seldom make promises, because 1) I feel that it devalues my standard statements, that the extra qualifyer of "I promise" becomes needed for belief, and 2) it almost physically hurts me to break a promise, even if it could not be helped. There is no "acts of God" clause when keeping a promise is concerned. I will do anything I can to avoid breaking a promise. Finally, I will go to bat for my friends. While I have a large amount of friends, there is a smaller number of good friends that I will go out of my way to support without any reasons needed.
I believe in consequences. Anything that you do, any action or inaction has consequences. Some of these consequences are good, and some are bad, but the world is full of cause and effect. And you should accept the consequences before you act (or choose not to act), even if the consequences turn out not to be what you thought they were. A = B. Sometimes I will do the wrong thing, and do it deliberately, but I only do so because I have considered the consequences and consider it worth it.
All of the things I have said resonate with the honorable warrior ideal. So no, I don't think I am a mideval Japanese warrior - but if I had lived in mideval Japan I probably would have been.
Having said all this, I'd like to talk about "cross vision". To my knowledge I have never really meditated. I have friends who meditate and endorse the benefits of it. The books I read are filled with characters who meditate and thus are better at whatever it is they are supposed to be good at. But I personally have never meditated to my knowledge, and would not know how to go about meditating in the first place. I guess the effect Hagakure sentence has on me would be the closest thing to it that I do. That and "cross vision".
"Cross vision" (it's not an actual thing, just how I'm choosing to describe it here) works like so: I focus on the image of a cross in my mind (I'm Christian and the cross shape is religious in this instance). While I can do this with my eyes closed most often I have my eyes open. The cross imagined is really a mental outline, not a solid or opaque object. Like a tracing of a cross. Then I look at the world, whatever is in my field of view, through the cross. When I do this my thoughts fall into place like Tetris blocks and I see the world in terms of logic and morality. There are a few problems with "cross vision". If I do it in the wrong mood, I can feel rightegeious while doing it, and not in a good way. Second, it only applies to the here and now. I can't seem to do it while playing memories in my head, or thinking about the future. It only seems to apply to my field of vision.
So there you go. More "insight" into how my "mind" works. Trust me you're a better person now.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Thoughts on Original Sin
Originally posted on Facebook May 11, 2009
The Pastor at the Church I attend has started giving the congregation “Action Items” during his sermons. Basically it’s a broad task he wants us to do or think about between Sundays, presumably to encourage people to incorporate faith into their lives beyond just attending Sunday morning services. One of these “Action Items” (two weeks ago I think) was to do something uncomfortable on behalf of our faith. This blog is in response.
I have been accused occasionally of withholding my beliefs from people in the course of philosophical/theological discussions (From here on out I’m just going to call it theology. It always ends up being about morality or mortality when it’s philosophical, which in turn always takes us back to the question of God.). There is a lot of truth in this accusation. Basically the intention behind my questions and statements in these discussions is often to find out why the participant believes whatever they believe while revealing as few of my own beliefs as needed. Sometimes I’ll even play devil’s advocate and discuss from a position I don’t actually support in order to more fully understand what is being presented to me. Frequently I find myself most interested in the ideas I flat out disagree with. There are several reasons why I do this. First, I don’t want my opposite to modify what they are saying based on their perception of what I believe. Second, I don’t want my opposite to feel challenged. Often a simple statement is taken to mean “you’re wrong”. In a sample discussion, if my opposite states that they are Buddhist, and I follow by identifying myself as a Protestant Christian, the words “I’m a Protestant Christian” are not an attempt to invalidated Buddha and the 2500 years of tradition he inspired. I have simply made known the beliefs I subscribe to. The biggest reason behind my reluctance to boldly make statements of belief is by far the most embarrassing however. I’m loosely known by some for being “spiritually strong”, “wise”, or “smart”. And the truth is I’m just a big idiot.
My spiritual journey (please forgive the pop-psych term, it’s just an accurate way to describe it if a little hokey) has been an extremely organic process, which to use the journey metaphor has been less like the famous walk in the sand and more like stumbling through a forest at night. Every so often, just when I think I’m doing well, I break my face on a tree. Or, to describe it another way, though I am secure in my faith as a Christian I feel like a caveman in a modern day Caribbean resort. I know I’m in a wonderful place but if it’s not a rock or a stick I really don’t understand it. The worst part about all this is the “What was I thinking?” moments. You know what I’m talking about. You’re in a discussion, firmly defending a statement in spite of numerous appeals to your sanity, and then two days later you’re in the bathroom on the commode and intelligence finally catches up with you. One day you are stanch in you own cerebral superiority, the next you think the toilet paper is staring at you like you’re an autistic chimp in a Mensa conference. Not a pleasant feeling. There are few things in life as disheartening as appalled toilet paper. Or there is this wonderful conversation:
“Wait a minute. When we were talking two months ago, you said this. In fact you pretty much convinced me of it.”
“Wait, I said that?”
“Yeah, you did.”
“Oh yeah, I did. Yeah, I was wrong. Really really wrong.”
I have had to eat so much crow in my life I should publish a cook book.
To sum up this extremely longwinded introduction, I’m gonna spill some of my beliefs about Original Sin. I hope Mike will accept this as my something uncomfortable, because as I write this I feel a little uneasy about the exposed vulnerability that comes along with it.
Before I dive into my theories and arguments, I feel the need to identify some basic core beliefs that may (or may not) put my positions into perspective.
1) I believe the God originally described by the Hebrews is the only God, and the creator of all existence.
2) I believe that Jesus, in his time on Earth, was more than just an enlightened Rabbi, but had a divine aspect and his actions continue to affect us on a spiritual level.
3) I believe that Man as a species is imperfect, and the sole identifiable perfection is God.
I’m not asking my audience to believe in these three statements, in fact I suspect that some of you emphatically do not (and some of you don’t believe these statements went far enough), but from here on out this blog will be written with the assumption that these three things are facts that are understood.
The first thing I would like to express about Original Sin is my frustration with the conversation I have most frequently encountered: the literalness of the Apple Story. It seems that when most people wish to dive into the topic of Original Sin the foremost thing they wish to do is defend or detract the actual tangible historical existence of Adam, Eve, and a ridiculously nutritious apple (Gen 3). While I tend (I guess) to lean more towards the mythological interpretation and I’m willing to make allowances for the literal interpretation (leaving it open for possibility), the truth is I really don’t care. I find the discussion to be a pointless exercise because in my opinion, by engaging in this discussion, the participants are choosing to ignore the purpose of the story. It is my belief that the purpose of this story, and it’s presence in the Old Testament, is the presentation of the concept and theme of Original Sin. This has value regardless of the literalness of the story and should not be over shadowed by other details and interjected meanings. For example take the focus of Eve as downfall of humanity thereby associating the feminine gender with temptation and evil. I want to pay this idea only cursory attention, but I’d like to point out that in the Old Testament Eve is not described as tempting Adam into eating. It merely says she offers and he eats (Gen 3:6). No, the temptation described is that of the Serpent tempting Eve into eating, the Serpent being referred to as “he” and later being associated with Satan or the Devil, the penultimate personification of evil who I would like to add is also masculine (Gen 3:1-7). Ultimately, whether you choose to use this story to vilify the fairer sex or not, something everyone gets out of this story is that things changed for humanity once Adam and Eve tasted granny smith.
Okay, so having eaten the apple what are the consequences? God makes the serpent a snake, gives women birth pains, and man now has to work for his dinner (Gen 3:14-19). But what I’m interested in is the fact that the apple comes from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and that Adam and Eve have been told (before they have their famous afternoon snack) that if they eat of it they will die (Gen 2:17). Now at the end of this story, when God is kicking mankind out of Eden, he mentions that one of his motivations for doing so is to prevent them from nibbling at the Tree of Life and therefore gaining immortality (Gen 3:22-23). From this we can see that Adam and Eve are not immortal, have never been immortal, Apple of Knowledge or not, and were not intended to be immortal at this time. So why the threat of death, why is Adam told that if he tastes the Apple he will die? He clearly does not die as a consequence of his tasting the Apple and neither does Eve; instead he lives to a ripe old age of 930 before passing of presumably natural causes (Gen 5:5); a fact that comes as no surprise given her established mortality. I think instead the consequence of eating the Apple was knowledge of the fact that she was to die. It’s the awareness that her presence on earth was temporal that God warns her against.
So why is this knowledge an issue? One of the central questions that almost all religions are forced to deal with, and in some cases one could argue were created to deal with, is what happens when we die. Is it over? Do you just cease to be? For me nonexistence is a horrifying possibility, one that has kept me awake more than one night. As thinking self-aware creatures we want to believe that something comes next, that there is something after we die, a way for our cognation to continue. Faith provides an answer, an assurance that there is more. Unfortunately for many, myself among them, even in possession of strong faith there are moments of doubt. And the problem with doubt is that it’s corrosive to faith. And that is what I think God was warning against. Adam and Eve, mortal as they may have been, did not have the burden of the knowledge of their death. Because they did not have that burden they had no reason to question faith. No basis for challenging God. Of course, the fact that he is described as walking around with them in the Garden helps too. It’s kind of hard to question the existence of God when he’s standing right next to you.
So what else came about from the Apple? Genesis states that having eaten the Apple, Adam and Eve have knowledge of Good and Evil. As someone who loves learning new things at first glance this seems to be a benefit. Great, we know new things. The more I think about it however, the more I realize that this knowledge is not a benefit at all. I think it’s worth clarifying that the Apple did not grant free will. Adam and Eve were created with free will, or else they would not have been able to eat the Apple in the first place. No, what eating the Apple did is put free will into perspective. All of a sudden, Adam and Eve have the understanding that there is Good and there can be Evil. It’s the awareness that we have the ability to be wrong. There is now a qualifier attached to free will. Again what this does is introduce doubt. Having the understanding that any decision that you make could be incorrect destroys the stability of your world. All of a sudden you find yourself questioning you actions and your words. Did I do the right thing? Was that the right thing to say? This also leads us to question others. Can I believe him? Because there is still the possibility that he could be wrong. Not terribly upsetting when applied to a used car salesman, but when applied to a preacher, a father, or even worse the Apostle Paul, Moses, or Isaiah this possibility can be earth shattering. This is the Original Sin, the consequence: doubt. Where before there was no need to question, absolute confidence in the path we were on, now we call everything into question. The world becomes filled with maybes.
I believe in a universal morality. The world is black and white. The problem is, now that this sin, this doubt is part of humanity, we see grays. We have lost the ability to separate the blacks from the whites in our perception. This is our imperfection.
So how have we as mankind tried to deal with this imperfection? We demand proof. Show me where it says that in the Bible. No, no, you’re not pregnant until you pee on a stick and it changes color. Where is the mathematics that supports the existence of gluons? This desire for proof is understandable, even appropriate because we are fallible. People make mistakes, and unfortunately there is no shortage of people who will deliberately mislead others, so caution is a natural response. The problem is when this desire for proof extends into spiritual life. No, I can’t prove the existence of God with a slide-rule. I have no lab tested empirical evidence that Jesus walked on water. A great number of people react to this lack of empirical proof with dismissive skepticism. It’s very easy to state: there is no spiritual anything. Because we can’t make God jump through a hoop like a trained monkey he must not exist. It is interesting to me, as someone who believes in the existence of God, that dealing with people who take the dismissive skepticism route never causes me to question the existence God. You think it would. We’ve all been in situations where someone else’s doubt infects you. You’ve got the milk jug halfway to your lips (because cups are for sissies) and someone says, “What’s the expiration date on that milk?” and you freeze. It’s perfectly understandable. But when I’m confronted with someone who demands proof that God exists all I feel is frustration. It’s pretty easy for me to show someone that 2 + 2 does not equal 5. When they insist that 2 + 2 equals yellow I got nowhere to go with that.
In my time talking to intellectuals and idiots alike I have never run across a person who will deny that humanity is imperfect. Everybody can at least agree on that point. The problem usually comes with what that imperfection entails. By admitting that we are imperfect, we are admitting that not only do we have the ability to be wrong but we also have the inability to fully understand creation. We’re never going to get it all. There are aspects of reality that we can never know fully and in some cases at all. In spite of how we may evolve, or how powerful a computer or tool we create, or how long the collective has to ponder we will never have all the answers or all the questions. Ask any current astronomer why the universe is accelerating and chances are he’ll open his response with a sigh. As any physicist if the laws of quantum mechanics can be applied to pyramid building and he’ll more than likely throttle you. These are mysteries that we may resolve in the future but at some point we reach the boundaries of human capability. Outside of those boundaries, is God. We will never fully grasp the concept of God, it’s just too vast and on too many levels and in too many directions for use to get anything more than just a piece of the whole.
This limitation on humanity is not something that is easy for us to cope with. History and modern science is filled with examples of mankind balking its perceived limitations. We don’t have wings, but we decided we were going to fly. Sure enough that’s what we did. We are bound to the earth. At least up until we finally figure out rocket science, then we’re out to the moon baby. And when it comes to knowledge we follow the same path of determination. Why is the sky blue? I’m on it. I’m gonna get this figured out. Got it! It’s all about light and refraction. The difference is on the physical side we are willing to accept our limitations. We’re never going to build a device that lets us journey into and then out of a black hole. It’s not happening. Likewise we’re not heading to the center of the sun anytime soon. And you know what? We’re okay with that. Ask what was there before the Big Bang, or even what triggered the Big Bang, and you run into a limitation that’s a little harder to accept.
Unfortunately the easiest response to this knowledge limitation when applied to God is denial. Occam’s Razor buddy – God simply does not exist. To the people who have firmly made this decision there is no issue. To the people like me who have firmly rejected this decision there is no issue either. It’s those people in between. Those people who don’t want to accept this decision but quietly fear that it’s true. Doubt again proves to be our undoing. (By the way, take Occam’s Razor and go back to the Big Bang questions I mention. See? God’s around after all.)
Ultimately, based on the ramblings above, I believe that Original Sin boils down to the doubt brought about by our knowledge. With free will I believe we’ve always had the ability to turn away from God. Doubt gives us a reason, a motivation to do so. Because of this I wonder if the death that God warns Adam of in Genesis Chapter 2 is actually a spiritual death; creating the temptation to turn from God. We’ve all heard stories of tests of faith, and perhaps you as an individual have had an experience that you have identified as a test. A trial for what you believe. Like when Indiana Jones steps off the ledge towards the end of Last Crusade, just hoping that there is going to be something solid under his feet. Some of you have had moments like that. If it weren’t for doubt, there wouldn’t be a need for tests of faith. We would all just get it. For me personally, every moment is a test of faith. Every moment of my life no matter how dull or mundane calls me to put my faith in something I cannot control, something I cannot prove - God. I wish I could say that I passed all tests, but I don’t. Pass or fail though, I believe I’m on the right path. And I believe that simply being able to recognize that I failed a test of faith gives me hope that I’ll pass the next one.
That’s what I have to say. I know it was hardly complete or even fully explained, and I may have lost some of you on some sudden turns, but this was just intended to lay out some beliefs not serve as an example of sanity or coherence. Okay, let’s see if I met the criteria here: Uncomfortable to write – check. Written with the intention to share part of my relationship with God – check. Feel vulnerable and exposed by the end of it – check. Made an ass out of myself – double check. Made firm statements that I may completely reverse on in the future – check.
I’m not gonna apologize for my beliefs or for wanting to share them with you, but I will apologize if I came across as preachy or foaming at the mouth. Mine is an arrogance that is hard to conceal, but I try to make the effort.
The Pastor at the Church I attend has started giving the congregation “Action Items” during his sermons. Basically it’s a broad task he wants us to do or think about between Sundays, presumably to encourage people to incorporate faith into their lives beyond just attending Sunday morning services. One of these “Action Items” (two weeks ago I think) was to do something uncomfortable on behalf of our faith. This blog is in response.
I have been accused occasionally of withholding my beliefs from people in the course of philosophical/theological discussions (From here on out I’m just going to call it theology. It always ends up being about morality or mortality when it’s philosophical, which in turn always takes us back to the question of God.). There is a lot of truth in this accusation. Basically the intention behind my questions and statements in these discussions is often to find out why the participant believes whatever they believe while revealing as few of my own beliefs as needed. Sometimes I’ll even play devil’s advocate and discuss from a position I don’t actually support in order to more fully understand what is being presented to me. Frequently I find myself most interested in the ideas I flat out disagree with. There are several reasons why I do this. First, I don’t want my opposite to modify what they are saying based on their perception of what I believe. Second, I don’t want my opposite to feel challenged. Often a simple statement is taken to mean “you’re wrong”. In a sample discussion, if my opposite states that they are Buddhist, and I follow by identifying myself as a Protestant Christian, the words “I’m a Protestant Christian” are not an attempt to invalidated Buddha and the 2500 years of tradition he inspired. I have simply made known the beliefs I subscribe to. The biggest reason behind my reluctance to boldly make statements of belief is by far the most embarrassing however. I’m loosely known by some for being “spiritually strong”, “wise”, or “smart”. And the truth is I’m just a big idiot.
My spiritual journey (please forgive the pop-psych term, it’s just an accurate way to describe it if a little hokey) has been an extremely organic process, which to use the journey metaphor has been less like the famous walk in the sand and more like stumbling through a forest at night. Every so often, just when I think I’m doing well, I break my face on a tree. Or, to describe it another way, though I am secure in my faith as a Christian I feel like a caveman in a modern day Caribbean resort. I know I’m in a wonderful place but if it’s not a rock or a stick I really don’t understand it. The worst part about all this is the “What was I thinking?” moments. You know what I’m talking about. You’re in a discussion, firmly defending a statement in spite of numerous appeals to your sanity, and then two days later you’re in the bathroom on the commode and intelligence finally catches up with you. One day you are stanch in you own cerebral superiority, the next you think the toilet paper is staring at you like you’re an autistic chimp in a Mensa conference. Not a pleasant feeling. There are few things in life as disheartening as appalled toilet paper. Or there is this wonderful conversation:
“Wait a minute. When we were talking two months ago, you said this. In fact you pretty much convinced me of it.”
“Wait, I said that?”
“Yeah, you did.”
“Oh yeah, I did. Yeah, I was wrong. Really really wrong.”
I have had to eat so much crow in my life I should publish a cook book.
To sum up this extremely longwinded introduction, I’m gonna spill some of my beliefs about Original Sin. I hope Mike will accept this as my something uncomfortable, because as I write this I feel a little uneasy about the exposed vulnerability that comes along with it.
Before I dive into my theories and arguments, I feel the need to identify some basic core beliefs that may (or may not) put my positions into perspective.
1) I believe the God originally described by the Hebrews is the only God, and the creator of all existence.
2) I believe that Jesus, in his time on Earth, was more than just an enlightened Rabbi, but had a divine aspect and his actions continue to affect us on a spiritual level.
3) I believe that Man as a species is imperfect, and the sole identifiable perfection is God.
I’m not asking my audience to believe in these three statements, in fact I suspect that some of you emphatically do not (and some of you don’t believe these statements went far enough), but from here on out this blog will be written with the assumption that these three things are facts that are understood.
The first thing I would like to express about Original Sin is my frustration with the conversation I have most frequently encountered: the literalness of the Apple Story. It seems that when most people wish to dive into the topic of Original Sin the foremost thing they wish to do is defend or detract the actual tangible historical existence of Adam, Eve, and a ridiculously nutritious apple (Gen 3). While I tend (I guess) to lean more towards the mythological interpretation and I’m willing to make allowances for the literal interpretation (leaving it open for possibility), the truth is I really don’t care. I find the discussion to be a pointless exercise because in my opinion, by engaging in this discussion, the participants are choosing to ignore the purpose of the story. It is my belief that the purpose of this story, and it’s presence in the Old Testament, is the presentation of the concept and theme of Original Sin. This has value regardless of the literalness of the story and should not be over shadowed by other details and interjected meanings. For example take the focus of Eve as downfall of humanity thereby associating the feminine gender with temptation and evil. I want to pay this idea only cursory attention, but I’d like to point out that in the Old Testament Eve is not described as tempting Adam into eating. It merely says she offers and he eats (Gen 3:6). No, the temptation described is that of the Serpent tempting Eve into eating, the Serpent being referred to as “he” and later being associated with Satan or the Devil, the penultimate personification of evil who I would like to add is also masculine (Gen 3:1-7). Ultimately, whether you choose to use this story to vilify the fairer sex or not, something everyone gets out of this story is that things changed for humanity once Adam and Eve tasted granny smith.
Okay, so having eaten the apple what are the consequences? God makes the serpent a snake, gives women birth pains, and man now has to work for his dinner (Gen 3:14-19). But what I’m interested in is the fact that the apple comes from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and that Adam and Eve have been told (before they have their famous afternoon snack) that if they eat of it they will die (Gen 2:17). Now at the end of this story, when God is kicking mankind out of Eden, he mentions that one of his motivations for doing so is to prevent them from nibbling at the Tree of Life and therefore gaining immortality (Gen 3:22-23). From this we can see that Adam and Eve are not immortal, have never been immortal, Apple of Knowledge or not, and were not intended to be immortal at this time. So why the threat of death, why is Adam told that if he tastes the Apple he will die? He clearly does not die as a consequence of his tasting the Apple and neither does Eve; instead he lives to a ripe old age of 930 before passing of presumably natural causes (Gen 5:5); a fact that comes as no surprise given her established mortality. I think instead the consequence of eating the Apple was knowledge of the fact that she was to die. It’s the awareness that her presence on earth was temporal that God warns her against.
So why is this knowledge an issue? One of the central questions that almost all religions are forced to deal with, and in some cases one could argue were created to deal with, is what happens when we die. Is it over? Do you just cease to be? For me nonexistence is a horrifying possibility, one that has kept me awake more than one night. As thinking self-aware creatures we want to believe that something comes next, that there is something after we die, a way for our cognation to continue. Faith provides an answer, an assurance that there is more. Unfortunately for many, myself among them, even in possession of strong faith there are moments of doubt. And the problem with doubt is that it’s corrosive to faith. And that is what I think God was warning against. Adam and Eve, mortal as they may have been, did not have the burden of the knowledge of their death. Because they did not have that burden they had no reason to question faith. No basis for challenging God. Of course, the fact that he is described as walking around with them in the Garden helps too. It’s kind of hard to question the existence of God when he’s standing right next to you.
So what else came about from the Apple? Genesis states that having eaten the Apple, Adam and Eve have knowledge of Good and Evil. As someone who loves learning new things at first glance this seems to be a benefit. Great, we know new things. The more I think about it however, the more I realize that this knowledge is not a benefit at all. I think it’s worth clarifying that the Apple did not grant free will. Adam and Eve were created with free will, or else they would not have been able to eat the Apple in the first place. No, what eating the Apple did is put free will into perspective. All of a sudden, Adam and Eve have the understanding that there is Good and there can be Evil. It’s the awareness that we have the ability to be wrong. There is now a qualifier attached to free will. Again what this does is introduce doubt. Having the understanding that any decision that you make could be incorrect destroys the stability of your world. All of a sudden you find yourself questioning you actions and your words. Did I do the right thing? Was that the right thing to say? This also leads us to question others. Can I believe him? Because there is still the possibility that he could be wrong. Not terribly upsetting when applied to a used car salesman, but when applied to a preacher, a father, or even worse the Apostle Paul, Moses, or Isaiah this possibility can be earth shattering. This is the Original Sin, the consequence: doubt. Where before there was no need to question, absolute confidence in the path we were on, now we call everything into question. The world becomes filled with maybes.
I believe in a universal morality. The world is black and white. The problem is, now that this sin, this doubt is part of humanity, we see grays. We have lost the ability to separate the blacks from the whites in our perception. This is our imperfection.
So how have we as mankind tried to deal with this imperfection? We demand proof. Show me where it says that in the Bible. No, no, you’re not pregnant until you pee on a stick and it changes color. Where is the mathematics that supports the existence of gluons? This desire for proof is understandable, even appropriate because we are fallible. People make mistakes, and unfortunately there is no shortage of people who will deliberately mislead others, so caution is a natural response. The problem is when this desire for proof extends into spiritual life. No, I can’t prove the existence of God with a slide-rule. I have no lab tested empirical evidence that Jesus walked on water. A great number of people react to this lack of empirical proof with dismissive skepticism. It’s very easy to state: there is no spiritual anything. Because we can’t make God jump through a hoop like a trained monkey he must not exist. It is interesting to me, as someone who believes in the existence of God, that dealing with people who take the dismissive skepticism route never causes me to question the existence God. You think it would. We’ve all been in situations where someone else’s doubt infects you. You’ve got the milk jug halfway to your lips (because cups are for sissies) and someone says, “What’s the expiration date on that milk?” and you freeze. It’s perfectly understandable. But when I’m confronted with someone who demands proof that God exists all I feel is frustration. It’s pretty easy for me to show someone that 2 + 2 does not equal 5. When they insist that 2 + 2 equals yellow I got nowhere to go with that.
In my time talking to intellectuals and idiots alike I have never run across a person who will deny that humanity is imperfect. Everybody can at least agree on that point. The problem usually comes with what that imperfection entails. By admitting that we are imperfect, we are admitting that not only do we have the ability to be wrong but we also have the inability to fully understand creation. We’re never going to get it all. There are aspects of reality that we can never know fully and in some cases at all. In spite of how we may evolve, or how powerful a computer or tool we create, or how long the collective has to ponder we will never have all the answers or all the questions. Ask any current astronomer why the universe is accelerating and chances are he’ll open his response with a sigh. As any physicist if the laws of quantum mechanics can be applied to pyramid building and he’ll more than likely throttle you. These are mysteries that we may resolve in the future but at some point we reach the boundaries of human capability. Outside of those boundaries, is God. We will never fully grasp the concept of God, it’s just too vast and on too many levels and in too many directions for use to get anything more than just a piece of the whole.
This limitation on humanity is not something that is easy for us to cope with. History and modern science is filled with examples of mankind balking its perceived limitations. We don’t have wings, but we decided we were going to fly. Sure enough that’s what we did. We are bound to the earth. At least up until we finally figure out rocket science, then we’re out to the moon baby. And when it comes to knowledge we follow the same path of determination. Why is the sky blue? I’m on it. I’m gonna get this figured out. Got it! It’s all about light and refraction. The difference is on the physical side we are willing to accept our limitations. We’re never going to build a device that lets us journey into and then out of a black hole. It’s not happening. Likewise we’re not heading to the center of the sun anytime soon. And you know what? We’re okay with that. Ask what was there before the Big Bang, or even what triggered the Big Bang, and you run into a limitation that’s a little harder to accept.
Unfortunately the easiest response to this knowledge limitation when applied to God is denial. Occam’s Razor buddy – God simply does not exist. To the people who have firmly made this decision there is no issue. To the people like me who have firmly rejected this decision there is no issue either. It’s those people in between. Those people who don’t want to accept this decision but quietly fear that it’s true. Doubt again proves to be our undoing. (By the way, take Occam’s Razor and go back to the Big Bang questions I mention. See? God’s around after all.)
Ultimately, based on the ramblings above, I believe that Original Sin boils down to the doubt brought about by our knowledge. With free will I believe we’ve always had the ability to turn away from God. Doubt gives us a reason, a motivation to do so. Because of this I wonder if the death that God warns Adam of in Genesis Chapter 2 is actually a spiritual death; creating the temptation to turn from God. We’ve all heard stories of tests of faith, and perhaps you as an individual have had an experience that you have identified as a test. A trial for what you believe. Like when Indiana Jones steps off the ledge towards the end of Last Crusade, just hoping that there is going to be something solid under his feet. Some of you have had moments like that. If it weren’t for doubt, there wouldn’t be a need for tests of faith. We would all just get it. For me personally, every moment is a test of faith. Every moment of my life no matter how dull or mundane calls me to put my faith in something I cannot control, something I cannot prove - God. I wish I could say that I passed all tests, but I don’t. Pass or fail though, I believe I’m on the right path. And I believe that simply being able to recognize that I failed a test of faith gives me hope that I’ll pass the next one.
That’s what I have to say. I know it was hardly complete or even fully explained, and I may have lost some of you on some sudden turns, but this was just intended to lay out some beliefs not serve as an example of sanity or coherence. Okay, let’s see if I met the criteria here: Uncomfortable to write – check. Written with the intention to share part of my relationship with God – check. Feel vulnerable and exposed by the end of it – check. Made an ass out of myself – double check. Made firm statements that I may completely reverse on in the future – check.
I’m not gonna apologize for my beliefs or for wanting to share them with you, but I will apologize if I came across as preachy or foaming at the mouth. Mine is an arrogance that is hard to conceal, but I try to make the effort.
25 Things: Stupid Meme
Originally posted on Facebook February 5, 2009
1
My claim to fame at the age of 7 was biting the heads off of live cicada to the amazement of my peers. If you roll your tongue back in your mouth before biting you can't actually taste anything. The trick is to spit the head out before relaxing your tongue. Thank you, there will be another show at 11. Tip your waitress.
2
When I was younger I thought of myself (and believed I was viewed as) someone with strong leadership qualities. Somewhere along the way I think I lost that. Maybe it went away because skills no longer exercised are lost. Maybe my friends (old and new) just don't need to be led, and because it wasn't needed in my social life I let it atrophy in other aspects of my life as well. Eh. Maybe growing older doesn't always mean growing better.
3
Bureaucracy is the bane of my existence.
4
Contrary to my reputation as a (supposed) womanizer in college, I have always been blithely unaware of when a woman's interest in me is romantic instead of amicable. Luckily I'm happily married so this is no longer an issue.
5
If it weren't for spell check in Microsoft Word no one would ever be able to read anything I write. Including my name.
6
Correct spelling is the last bastion of the elitest nazi bastard.
7
I have never been able to do a cartwheel. Ever.
8
I have a significant hearing loss in both ears, and am supposed to be constantly wearing hearing aids. And should have been since the 8th grade. It's hereditary and degenerates overtime; my hearing is much worst now that when I was in high school. Still don't wear my aids tho.
9
I have always been a prolific reader and consequently I think in vocabulary that nobody really uses. This is incredibly embarrassing for me because 1) I was teased about it a lot in elementary school, and 2) I am horrible at pronunciation due to a) my hearing loss and b) nobody really uses these words anymore in common speech.
10
I live constantly in a semi-frustrated state because I cannot grasp that the world is not consistant. Examples - 1) pronunciation. Why can't the french have their own stinking alphabet? like -que. WE HAVE A "K" PEOPLE. If you want to have a "k" sound use a frickin letter K or at least spell it out k-a-y. Q-u-e makes a "qwa" sound as in quest. IT SHOULD ALWAYS MAKE A "QWA" SOUND. And another thing, if it's gonna be que = "kay" what the hell is with Albuquerque? Example 2) I tickle my son under his chin and he laughs. And then sometimes he doesn't. What the hell is with that? He should either NEVER laugh when I tickle under his chin, or ALWAYS laugh, even if he's bleeding profusely from both legs.
Okay, maybe I went a little overboard with number 10. I'm not always so rigid. It's just that sometimes my brain gets stuck in "A=B, B=C, therefore A=C" mode.
11
I daydream constantly. I've died millions of different deaths. I've been the hero, the villain, the flunky. I've slain dragons, solved crimes, and routed galatic armadas. I've seduced thousands and been seduced to boot. I've committed the most heinous of crimes and performed the most noble acts of self-sacrifice. So if it looks like I'm off in my own little world, rest assured there's nothing little about it.
12
From the age of 5 until sometime in middle school I wanted to be a preacher. Then I pursued a degree in acting. Now I'm focusing on achieving a career in teaching. Of all the careers and jobs I identified with and wanted and pursued, it never at any point occurred to me that my all time favorite job would be fatherhood. And the one that I am the most proud of.
13
There is an enjoyable and very publishable novel locked inside my skull.
14
There are probably publishable poems already written and collecting the electronic equivalent of dust on my harddrive.
15
When I read my wife will ask me something, causing me to look up from my book and respond. Then I return to my book and have to spend 5-30 seconds finding my place. Just as soon as I find where I left off Valerie will ask a follow up question. This cycle repeats until I put the book down because I have read the same sentence 40 billion times, been "reading" for half an hour, and not progress one single word in my book.
16
I re-read the same 15-20 books every year. They never get old.
17
My kids are almost too cute to be believed, and too mischievous for the condition of my heart and arteries.
18
I cannot remember the last time I cried for any reason other than cutting onions.19While my geekness is pretty obvious, I still tiptoe around the fact that I have played Dungeons and Dragons weekly for the past 15 years and counting. Likewise the exact amount of Magic the Gathering cards I own will most likely be a secret I take with me to the grave.
20
That being said, I am one of the best Dungeon Masters you are likely to meet. Modesty aside and all that.
21
I can't beleive I spent an hour and a half writing this stupid inconsequential list.
22
The words in my head come out much faster than I type. This causes me to leave out letters (the "this" at the beginning of this sentence was originally "tis") or accidently reverse them, forcing me to stop every five or so words and back up and correct.
23
Much to my wife's dismay I am very entrenched in linear thinking.
24
I'm more comfortable camping in the woods than I am pretty much anywhere else.
25
While I wrote this, as is my habit, I had a Microsoft Word doc open for the sole purpose of hiding my atrocious spelling. As I wrote a word that I knew I misspelled, I typed it in the Word doc and let spell check correct it for me. These are the words I had to spell check "bureaucracy, existence, exercised, blithely, embarrasssing, pronunciation, Albuquerque, heinous, pursued, occurred, publishable, equivalent, sentence, mischievous, and inconsequential." Atrocious I can spell without a second thought, but sentence I have to spell check (I keep wanting to spell it scentence). I tell you, the crosses I have to bear.
Anywho, there's my 25 thingys.
1
My claim to fame at the age of 7 was biting the heads off of live cicada to the amazement of my peers. If you roll your tongue back in your mouth before biting you can't actually taste anything. The trick is to spit the head out before relaxing your tongue. Thank you, there will be another show at 11. Tip your waitress.
2
When I was younger I thought of myself (and believed I was viewed as) someone with strong leadership qualities. Somewhere along the way I think I lost that. Maybe it went away because skills no longer exercised are lost. Maybe my friends (old and new) just don't need to be led, and because it wasn't needed in my social life I let it atrophy in other aspects of my life as well. Eh. Maybe growing older doesn't always mean growing better.
3
Bureaucracy is the bane of my existence.
4
Contrary to my reputation as a (supposed) womanizer in college, I have always been blithely unaware of when a woman's interest in me is romantic instead of amicable. Luckily I'm happily married so this is no longer an issue.
5
If it weren't for spell check in Microsoft Word no one would ever be able to read anything I write. Including my name.
6
Correct spelling is the last bastion of the elitest nazi bastard.
7
I have never been able to do a cartwheel. Ever.
8
I have a significant hearing loss in both ears, and am supposed to be constantly wearing hearing aids. And should have been since the 8th grade. It's hereditary and degenerates overtime; my hearing is much worst now that when I was in high school. Still don't wear my aids tho.
9
I have always been a prolific reader and consequently I think in vocabulary that nobody really uses. This is incredibly embarrassing for me because 1) I was teased about it a lot in elementary school, and 2) I am horrible at pronunciation due to a) my hearing loss and b) nobody really uses these words anymore in common speech.
10
I live constantly in a semi-frustrated state because I cannot grasp that the world is not consistant. Examples - 1) pronunciation. Why can't the french have their own stinking alphabet? like -que. WE HAVE A "K" PEOPLE. If you want to have a "k" sound use a frickin letter K or at least spell it out k-a-y. Q-u-e makes a "qwa" sound as in quest. IT SHOULD ALWAYS MAKE A "QWA" SOUND. And another thing, if it's gonna be que = "kay" what the hell is with Albuquerque? Example 2) I tickle my son under his chin and he laughs. And then sometimes he doesn't. What the hell is with that? He should either NEVER laugh when I tickle under his chin, or ALWAYS laugh, even if he's bleeding profusely from both legs.
Okay, maybe I went a little overboard with number 10. I'm not always so rigid. It's just that sometimes my brain gets stuck in "A=B, B=C, therefore A=C" mode.
11
I daydream constantly. I've died millions of different deaths. I've been the hero, the villain, the flunky. I've slain dragons, solved crimes, and routed galatic armadas. I've seduced thousands and been seduced to boot. I've committed the most heinous of crimes and performed the most noble acts of self-sacrifice. So if it looks like I'm off in my own little world, rest assured there's nothing little about it.
12
From the age of 5 until sometime in middle school I wanted to be a preacher. Then I pursued a degree in acting. Now I'm focusing on achieving a career in teaching. Of all the careers and jobs I identified with and wanted and pursued, it never at any point occurred to me that my all time favorite job would be fatherhood. And the one that I am the most proud of.
13
There is an enjoyable and very publishable novel locked inside my skull.
14
There are probably publishable poems already written and collecting the electronic equivalent of dust on my harddrive.
15
When I read my wife will ask me something, causing me to look up from my book and respond. Then I return to my book and have to spend 5-30 seconds finding my place. Just as soon as I find where I left off Valerie will ask a follow up question. This cycle repeats until I put the book down because I have read the same sentence 40 billion times, been "reading" for half an hour, and not progress one single word in my book.
16
I re-read the same 15-20 books every year. They never get old.
17
My kids are almost too cute to be believed, and too mischievous for the condition of my heart and arteries.
18
I cannot remember the last time I cried for any reason other than cutting onions.19While my geekness is pretty obvious, I still tiptoe around the fact that I have played Dungeons and Dragons weekly for the past 15 years and counting. Likewise the exact amount of Magic the Gathering cards I own will most likely be a secret I take with me to the grave.
20
That being said, I am one of the best Dungeon Masters you are likely to meet. Modesty aside and all that.
21
I can't beleive I spent an hour and a half writing this stupid inconsequential list.
22
The words in my head come out much faster than I type. This causes me to leave out letters (the "this" at the beginning of this sentence was originally "tis") or accidently reverse them, forcing me to stop every five or so words and back up and correct.
23
Much to my wife's dismay I am very entrenched in linear thinking.
24
I'm more comfortable camping in the woods than I am pretty much anywhere else.
25
While I wrote this, as is my habit, I had a Microsoft Word doc open for the sole purpose of hiding my atrocious spelling. As I wrote a word that I knew I misspelled, I typed it in the Word doc and let spell check correct it for me. These are the words I had to spell check "bureaucracy, existence, exercised, blithely, embarrasssing, pronunciation, Albuquerque, heinous, pursued, occurred, publishable, equivalent, sentence, mischievous, and inconsequential." Atrocious I can spell without a second thought, but sentence I have to spell check (I keep wanting to spell it scentence). I tell you, the crosses I have to bear.
Anywho, there's my 25 thingys.
Goodbye LA
Originally posted on myspace April 30, 2007
I've been told that one thing people admire about me is my courage to face life changes. People were skeptical when I chose Acting as my major. When I moved to LA. When I asked Val to marry me. When I decided with two friends to make a movie. When we announced Val was pregnant. When Val and I decided to buy a house. These are all scary events. They're scary because these are events and decisions that change your life. Moments you can't go back from. I am admired because I am perceived as taking them all in stride. Being able to gaze into the unknown. Well, not to dispel anyone's image of me, but I am extremely affected by these things. The worst is the moment I'm in right now. The moment right before the consequences hit, before the action. Where you can look at your life and see what you are giving up.
I'm leaving LA on Tuesday morning. I've had a social group that meets about once a week to play games. Mostly role-playing games but also the occasional board game. Tonight was my last one. My last game night in LA. It didn't really hit me until as I was walking out my friends Kate and Gen each gave me a big hug and told me how sad the moment was. All of a sudden it was a sad moment. Then Max shook my hand on the street afterward. My final parting with Max was a series of half-hearted reassurances that we would see each other again soon, but that final handshake was silent. No words were needed.
The drive home on the dark empty highway lit dimly by old streetlights was an emotional one. A drive of loss and sadness. Not the intense sadness you feel at the death of a loved one, but the dull regretful ache you feel when you realize your childhood is gone forever. That nostalgia is just faded memories that have lost their crispness. I've lived in my share of apartments and dorms. On that final day when I move out of each abode I look around at the empty room and the memories just come. I sit there for a moment and savor the bittersweetness of the memories I have of that home. Then I quietly walk out and shut the door behind me- and on that chapter of my life. Now I'm sitting next to the window looking out on Los Angeles at night with Elton John quietly playing in the background (Rocket Man), and right on cue the memories come.
I remember my apartment with Max. Sitting on the couch taking turns playing Final Fantasy X. Max and I sitting on the porch in wifebeaters drinking 40s on a Sunday morning. I remember playing cards at Chuck and Iris's with Sarah P (Sarah always won because she had Jesus on her side). I can remember standing ontop of the hill in Universal Studios at 2 in the morning with the wind whipping past my Securitas bomber jacket, looking out over the city. I remember Valerie coming to visit for the first time. Laughing at crude jokes from Brian and Jason on D&D night. Carving the wooden ring I proposed with. That first Christmas with Chris and Ben. Rehearsing the first (and only) Third Coast Theatre production at Kaiser Permanente. Endless hours pouring over script and footage with Ryan. Hurrying home from work to watch Alias and Scrubbs with Val. Crossing the border with Ryan, Sarah, and Val, almost passing out at the wheel from the horrible sunburn I picked up in Baja. Telling jokes to Lee while we built furniture for Bombay. Dancing with Jen, Jessie, and Linda Kuhlman at a country dance bar. Driving out into the mountains and lying in my truck bed with Deb and Sarah P, looking at the stars and talking about life. I've been here almost 4 years and I have so many memories. But my life here is over now. I have a new life waiting for me somewhere else. I won't look back, but I'll take a little piece of LA with me where ever I go.
I can't say I left my mark on this town but I hope I left my mark on some of its people. They left their mark on me.
I've been told that one thing people admire about me is my courage to face life changes. People were skeptical when I chose Acting as my major. When I moved to LA. When I asked Val to marry me. When I decided with two friends to make a movie. When we announced Val was pregnant. When Val and I decided to buy a house. These are all scary events. They're scary because these are events and decisions that change your life. Moments you can't go back from. I am admired because I am perceived as taking them all in stride. Being able to gaze into the unknown. Well, not to dispel anyone's image of me, but I am extremely affected by these things. The worst is the moment I'm in right now. The moment right before the consequences hit, before the action. Where you can look at your life and see what you are giving up.
I'm leaving LA on Tuesday morning. I've had a social group that meets about once a week to play games. Mostly role-playing games but also the occasional board game. Tonight was my last one. My last game night in LA. It didn't really hit me until as I was walking out my friends Kate and Gen each gave me a big hug and told me how sad the moment was. All of a sudden it was a sad moment. Then Max shook my hand on the street afterward. My final parting with Max was a series of half-hearted reassurances that we would see each other again soon, but that final handshake was silent. No words were needed.
The drive home on the dark empty highway lit dimly by old streetlights was an emotional one. A drive of loss and sadness. Not the intense sadness you feel at the death of a loved one, but the dull regretful ache you feel when you realize your childhood is gone forever. That nostalgia is just faded memories that have lost their crispness. I've lived in my share of apartments and dorms. On that final day when I move out of each abode I look around at the empty room and the memories just come. I sit there for a moment and savor the bittersweetness of the memories I have of that home. Then I quietly walk out and shut the door behind me- and on that chapter of my life. Now I'm sitting next to the window looking out on Los Angeles at night with Elton John quietly playing in the background (Rocket Man), and right on cue the memories come.
I remember my apartment with Max. Sitting on the couch taking turns playing Final Fantasy X. Max and I sitting on the porch in wifebeaters drinking 40s on a Sunday morning. I remember playing cards at Chuck and Iris's with Sarah P (Sarah always won because she had Jesus on her side). I can remember standing ontop of the hill in Universal Studios at 2 in the morning with the wind whipping past my Securitas bomber jacket, looking out over the city. I remember Valerie coming to visit for the first time. Laughing at crude jokes from Brian and Jason on D&D night. Carving the wooden ring I proposed with. That first Christmas with Chris and Ben. Rehearsing the first (and only) Third Coast Theatre production at Kaiser Permanente. Endless hours pouring over script and footage with Ryan. Hurrying home from work to watch Alias and Scrubbs with Val. Crossing the border with Ryan, Sarah, and Val, almost passing out at the wheel from the horrible sunburn I picked up in Baja. Telling jokes to Lee while we built furniture for Bombay. Dancing with Jen, Jessie, and Linda Kuhlman at a country dance bar. Driving out into the mountains and lying in my truck bed with Deb and Sarah P, looking at the stars and talking about life. I've been here almost 4 years and I have so many memories. But my life here is over now. I have a new life waiting for me somewhere else. I won't look back, but I'll take a little piece of LA with me where ever I go.
I can't say I left my mark on this town but I hope I left my mark on some of its people. They left their mark on me.
On Love
Originally posted on myspace January 18, 2006
With some urging from a co-worker, I decided to put down some of my thoughts on love in general and relationships in particular. While I had a decent dating career, and am now happily married, I cannot claim to be an expert nor am I offering my opinions as truth. My perspective is simply that: a perspective which is drawn solely from my personal experiences and from observing the experiences of those around me. So I leave it to the reader to decide what is wisdom and what is bullshit.
At the beginning of every relationship I look in the mirror, catch my eye, and say the following, “This is going to end. And it’s going to end badly.”
Women seem to think this is a horrible practice. I have yet to meet a girl who thought this was wise. For those of you who are curious, however, here is my reasoning. To begin: it’s true. Even if you fall madly in love get married and have a storybook life, someone has to die first. All things end, and the end of every relationship is a tragedy. In the above positive hypothetical a minor one, with triumph intermixed, but a tragedy none the less. Acknowledging this before the relationship begins is an enlightening and emancipating moment. Have you ever read the last chapter of a book first? And then read the book from start to finish? Or caught the end of a movie you have never seen before and later watched it in it’s entirety? Your focus changes. The destination is no longer important; it’s the journey that matters. I don’t wonder how the movie ends, I know how the movie ends, I’m much more interested in what happens along the way. So by understanding that my relationship with whoever is going to end at some point, I can take far more joy on a day to day basis. How many people do you know ruined their relationship because the question “Where is this going?” wandered through their brain? The question itself is natural and unavoidable. It poisons a relationship when the relationship becomes about the destination. And what the hell are you going to do when you get there? What the hell are you going to do? If the whole point of the relationship was to get to that one spot, when you get there you don’t have a relationship. And you have to start over with a new relationship, with the same person. And that just doesn’t work. The solution? “This is going to end. And it’s going to end badly.” Make the destination the end of the relationship, and try never to get there. So, one might ask, how does this play into my marriage? Directly. I’m going to lose my wife. She’ll die, or I’ll die, either way I’ve lost her. Everyday I look at her and know that I’m going to lose her. But I’ve got her now, and I’m damn well sure to make the most of it. And all of a sudden, some things aren’t important anymore. The petty fighting melts away. That is not to say that you shouldn’t prepare for the future. Val’s birthday is the seventh. If I don’t plan for it because I’m scared she’ll die tomorrow, and she dies on the eighth after the shittiest birthday she ever had well fuck me. And that’s why I think it’s a positive thing. Because I can make the most out of everyday with her.
Why do people date?
People date for two reasons. The first reason people date is to find out what they want. Because you don’t know. I didn’t know what I wanted in a girl in high school, or in college. I thought I did. I even got to date everything I thought I wanted a couple of times. And I didn’t want it. Oh it was great at the beginning, but it never lasted, sometimes not even past the first date. And if someone had told me at 16 what my ideal woman at 26 would be I would have laughed in derision. Because I didn’t know. Nobody knows. The only way to learn is to experience. Trial and error. Sometimes you realize what you’re doing (no more one legged strippers, and this time I mean it), some times you don’t. But ultimately with every relationship no matter how long or how short, you file away likes and dislikes. I don’t like a girl who snorts when she laughs, but I can bear it if it’s worth it. I can’t date a woman with a drinking problem. I just can’t. And so on and so forth.
The second reason people date is: Nobody’s Casanova the first time in the sack. Now it’s not really about sex, I just chose the most explicit example to illustrate my point. Like the first it’s about learning, but the subject manner is different. You have a huge fight with your girlfriend/boyfriend. You feel bad about the way you handled it. Three years and five girls/boys later you have a similar fight, but remembering the original, you react different. You want to date because when you wind up with the one you want to spend the rest of your life with, you want to be able to handle as many things as possible in what you feel is the correct manner. Moving into uncharted territory is unavoidable, but you can cut down on the frequency.
Anyone who throws a casual glance at my dating history will notice that I never stayed with one girl for very long (with two notable exceptions). This is because I’m a firm advocate of marriage. Some people don’t believe in marriage, and some do. Now I generally try to be fairly considerate of other’s opinions, and if the following statement offends you try to remember that I don’t often judge people in a public forum and the statement is not directed specifically to any individual(s) that I know.
People who don’t get married based on principle are cowards.
If you have said and believe any variation of “I don’t believe in marriage” or “I just don’t see the point of being married” then you’re a coward. You’re a coward because marriage is a finalization of a commitment; a commitment that’s meant to be permanent. And no matter what is said, or what rationalization and justification that is presented, the truth of it is that there is always a back door in a relationship that doesn’t involve marriage. That door is still there when you’re married, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to use when you’re not. Now, I’m not advocating hasty marriage by any means, but if you’re going to date a person for a length of time you should at least be open to the possibility. If you haven’t gotten married because you don’t know if so-and-so is the right person for God’s sake don’t get married.
So when should you start thinking about marriage?
If you’ve been dating the girl/guy for two years or more, marry her/him or leave her/him. Otherwise you’re just wasting your time. A friend of mine was in a relationship that lasted about 12 years. It ended badly, but she doesn’t regret dating him. She’s glad she dated him. But she wishes she could have 8 years of her life back and I bet he wants the same.
Where most people screw up love is by thinking about it. Love is a feeling, a state of being… it is not a thought. Don’t over analyze it.
Who should you marry?
Never marry for love. I would hope you are in love with the person you marry; love certainly is needed but love alone can not sustain a marriage. Marry someone you can spend the rest of your life with. Look at that person and say "ten years from now, if I don’t love you, can I live in the same room and be happy?" That’s what marriage is about. Love is only part of it. Yeah you need to love them, but you also need to be friends. If you can remove love and physical attraction and still want to spend the rest of your life with that person then you can and should marry that person.
And now, some of the questions I hear over and over again. Guess what? The answers don’t change.
“Is it supposed to be like this?”
It is like this. There’s no supposed to.
“What do you think I should do?”
You know what you should do. (and you do, everytime.)
“Why doesn’t he/she love me?”
Does it really matter why? It’s not going to change anything.
“Does he/she like me?”
Just ask them yourself. No matter what the answer you feel better and you know for sure.
“Do you think I’ve got a chance?”
Won’t know until you try. Go get ‘em tiger.
“I think we should talk.”
Wrong. Just act. Avoid talking whenever possible. Don’t tell ‘em you like ‘em, just kiss ‘em. Don’t ask ‘em if they’re free, ask them out. Don’t ask them to dance, grab that hand and drag towards the dance floor. Act act act. No talkie.
“Do you think it’s the right time?”
Are you asking out of consideration of them, or because you’re scared? The former: no. The latter: yes.
“Do you think I’ll find love?”
No. It’ll find you.
“Where do you think this relationships going?”
That’s never a real question. Just say what you want for God’s sake.
My final word: Love is like a house. The initial attraction, the “love at first sight”, the four years of friendship before you got drunk and woke up nude in the geraniums, it’s all just a foundation. It’s not really love, it’s just the beginning. Real love you build a brick at a time slowly over the years. And when you find it, there are no questions.
With some urging from a co-worker, I decided to put down some of my thoughts on love in general and relationships in particular. While I had a decent dating career, and am now happily married, I cannot claim to be an expert nor am I offering my opinions as truth. My perspective is simply that: a perspective which is drawn solely from my personal experiences and from observing the experiences of those around me. So I leave it to the reader to decide what is wisdom and what is bullshit.
At the beginning of every relationship I look in the mirror, catch my eye, and say the following, “This is going to end. And it’s going to end badly.”
Women seem to think this is a horrible practice. I have yet to meet a girl who thought this was wise. For those of you who are curious, however, here is my reasoning. To begin: it’s true. Even if you fall madly in love get married and have a storybook life, someone has to die first. All things end, and the end of every relationship is a tragedy. In the above positive hypothetical a minor one, with triumph intermixed, but a tragedy none the less. Acknowledging this before the relationship begins is an enlightening and emancipating moment. Have you ever read the last chapter of a book first? And then read the book from start to finish? Or caught the end of a movie you have never seen before and later watched it in it’s entirety? Your focus changes. The destination is no longer important; it’s the journey that matters. I don’t wonder how the movie ends, I know how the movie ends, I’m much more interested in what happens along the way. So by understanding that my relationship with whoever is going to end at some point, I can take far more joy on a day to day basis. How many people do you know ruined their relationship because the question “Where is this going?” wandered through their brain? The question itself is natural and unavoidable. It poisons a relationship when the relationship becomes about the destination. And what the hell are you going to do when you get there? What the hell are you going to do? If the whole point of the relationship was to get to that one spot, when you get there you don’t have a relationship. And you have to start over with a new relationship, with the same person. And that just doesn’t work. The solution? “This is going to end. And it’s going to end badly.” Make the destination the end of the relationship, and try never to get there. So, one might ask, how does this play into my marriage? Directly. I’m going to lose my wife. She’ll die, or I’ll die, either way I’ve lost her. Everyday I look at her and know that I’m going to lose her. But I’ve got her now, and I’m damn well sure to make the most of it. And all of a sudden, some things aren’t important anymore. The petty fighting melts away. That is not to say that you shouldn’t prepare for the future. Val’s birthday is the seventh. If I don’t plan for it because I’m scared she’ll die tomorrow, and she dies on the eighth after the shittiest birthday she ever had well fuck me. And that’s why I think it’s a positive thing. Because I can make the most out of everyday with her.
Why do people date?
People date for two reasons. The first reason people date is to find out what they want. Because you don’t know. I didn’t know what I wanted in a girl in high school, or in college. I thought I did. I even got to date everything I thought I wanted a couple of times. And I didn’t want it. Oh it was great at the beginning, but it never lasted, sometimes not even past the first date. And if someone had told me at 16 what my ideal woman at 26 would be I would have laughed in derision. Because I didn’t know. Nobody knows. The only way to learn is to experience. Trial and error. Sometimes you realize what you’re doing (no more one legged strippers, and this time I mean it), some times you don’t. But ultimately with every relationship no matter how long or how short, you file away likes and dislikes. I don’t like a girl who snorts when she laughs, but I can bear it if it’s worth it. I can’t date a woman with a drinking problem. I just can’t. And so on and so forth.
The second reason people date is: Nobody’s Casanova the first time in the sack. Now it’s not really about sex, I just chose the most explicit example to illustrate my point. Like the first it’s about learning, but the subject manner is different. You have a huge fight with your girlfriend/boyfriend. You feel bad about the way you handled it. Three years and five girls/boys later you have a similar fight, but remembering the original, you react different. You want to date because when you wind up with the one you want to spend the rest of your life with, you want to be able to handle as many things as possible in what you feel is the correct manner. Moving into uncharted territory is unavoidable, but you can cut down on the frequency.
Anyone who throws a casual glance at my dating history will notice that I never stayed with one girl for very long (with two notable exceptions). This is because I’m a firm advocate of marriage. Some people don’t believe in marriage, and some do. Now I generally try to be fairly considerate of other’s opinions, and if the following statement offends you try to remember that I don’t often judge people in a public forum and the statement is not directed specifically to any individual(s) that I know.
People who don’t get married based on principle are cowards.
If you have said and believe any variation of “I don’t believe in marriage” or “I just don’t see the point of being married” then you’re a coward. You’re a coward because marriage is a finalization of a commitment; a commitment that’s meant to be permanent. And no matter what is said, or what rationalization and justification that is presented, the truth of it is that there is always a back door in a relationship that doesn’t involve marriage. That door is still there when you’re married, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to use when you’re not. Now, I’m not advocating hasty marriage by any means, but if you’re going to date a person for a length of time you should at least be open to the possibility. If you haven’t gotten married because you don’t know if so-and-so is the right person for God’s sake don’t get married.
So when should you start thinking about marriage?
If you’ve been dating the girl/guy for two years or more, marry her/him or leave her/him. Otherwise you’re just wasting your time. A friend of mine was in a relationship that lasted about 12 years. It ended badly, but she doesn’t regret dating him. She’s glad she dated him. But she wishes she could have 8 years of her life back and I bet he wants the same.
Where most people screw up love is by thinking about it. Love is a feeling, a state of being… it is not a thought. Don’t over analyze it.
Who should you marry?
Never marry for love. I would hope you are in love with the person you marry; love certainly is needed but love alone can not sustain a marriage. Marry someone you can spend the rest of your life with. Look at that person and say "ten years from now, if I don’t love you, can I live in the same room and be happy?" That’s what marriage is about. Love is only part of it. Yeah you need to love them, but you also need to be friends. If you can remove love and physical attraction and still want to spend the rest of your life with that person then you can and should marry that person.
And now, some of the questions I hear over and over again. Guess what? The answers don’t change.
“Is it supposed to be like this?”
It is like this. There’s no supposed to.
“What do you think I should do?”
You know what you should do. (and you do, everytime.)
“Why doesn’t he/she love me?”
Does it really matter why? It’s not going to change anything.
“Does he/she like me?”
Just ask them yourself. No matter what the answer you feel better and you know for sure.
“Do you think I’ve got a chance?”
Won’t know until you try. Go get ‘em tiger.
“I think we should talk.”
Wrong. Just act. Avoid talking whenever possible. Don’t tell ‘em you like ‘em, just kiss ‘em. Don’t ask ‘em if they’re free, ask them out. Don’t ask them to dance, grab that hand and drag towards the dance floor. Act act act. No talkie.
“Do you think it’s the right time?”
Are you asking out of consideration of them, or because you’re scared? The former: no. The latter: yes.
“Do you think I’ll find love?”
No. It’ll find you.
“Where do you think this relationships going?”
That’s never a real question. Just say what you want for God’s sake.
My final word: Love is like a house. The initial attraction, the “love at first sight”, the four years of friendship before you got drunk and woke up nude in the geraniums, it’s all just a foundation. It’s not really love, it’s just the beginning. Real love you build a brick at a time slowly over the years. And when you find it, there are no questions.
Of Grandparents and Regrets
Originally posted on myspace December 30, 2005
I remember my maternal grandfather fondly. He and my grandmother lived in a large two story house in Magnolia Texas. The house was in the woods, recessed about fifty yards from the road and enclosed by pine trees. There was a porch that spanned the entire front of the house, and was also two story so that there was an upstairs porch over the lower one. My grandparents had it built in the sixties, but by the time I came around it felt ancient. The whole house was built out of dark thick heavy wood. The outside was painted a shade of green that was originally a sea-foam. Time and weather had darken some areas, lightened others so that the house looked like a moss covered hill that had the front carved away into a sheer face. The base of the porch was concrete as the foundation slab extended out. Hanging from the rafters of the porch was a chair. The chair was a black leather piece, with firm armrests. The legs were gone and it hung from chains about two and a half feet from the ground. Lining the wall of the house at its base was a collection of wooden and clay carvings. Mostly masks with pointed teeth and bulls with broken horns, this small audience of immobile watchers observed the forest with a fixed eye. Also hanging from the rafters of the porch were several hanging plants, a birdfeeder or two, and some wooden wind chimes. Wooden wind chimes do not ring, nor do they tingle; instead the give a hollow thunking noise. It was the only noise outside at my grandparents house. The wind didn’t rustle the leaves, but it teased the wooden wind chimes erratically. But for this, the woods were silent; still. In lighter moments the sound conjured a troop of gnomes dancing slowly in wooden shoes; in darker moments I envisioned a blind witch gliding through the forest gently rapping on trees with her cane, searching for the house and a meal of grandchild.
The front door of the house was a large solid wooden affair stained black. In the center was a pewter head of a Mayan priest, his earrings meeting under his chin to form a knocker. The interior of the house was carpeted in a brown shag, only slightly lighter than the wood paneling. The furniture was of wrought iron and dark wood in the style of Spanish missions. The fireplace was on the right as you entered the house. It was large and perpetually black with soot. The fire was kept going in the winter. My grandparents smoked constantly, and the house had a permanent haze that turned reality surreal. They went to Mexico frequently, and my grandmother had knickknacks and curios spread throughout the house of the most odd sort. A sleeping Mexican in a sombrero next to a dried lizard husk. Woody Woodpecker on top of a rattlesnake’s rattle. A stuffed crow. Pictures of matadors were everywhere, as were bulls. For a young boy it was creepy but thrilling. There always seemed to be closets unexplored, things unexamined. Curiosities for the curious. My grandfather sat in the swing/chair on the porch frequently. He was a bald man of medium height, perhaps 5’8” no more than 5’10”. The remaining hair that ringed his pate was still jet black and trimmed close. He was always clean-shaven though if I remember he had a horrible five o’clock shadow. Rotund in the middle, but by no means fat, he maintained an air of energy in spite of his careful movements. I remember his laugh the most. He always seemed to be laughing. He paid quite a bit of attention to me but never in a condescending way. He never spoke down to me, never changed his voice, spoke to me in the same manner he spoke to everyone adult or child. Most of my memories of him are from before the age of seven. He wore slacks and a white short-sleeved dress shirt. He always had a pen and his glasses case in his breast pocket. The swing out front was his chair, and his alone but he let me sit in it. Not once in all my memories did he show himself to be anything other than warm and loving. It wasn’t until later that I first heard the word alcoholic.
Jack Correu (my grandfather) was born in Laredo Texas, the son of Daniel Correu (my brother’s namesake). Daniel Correu was a doctor who came over from Mexico. My grandfather was extremely upset that he apparently had Mexican blood, and to his dying day thought his lineage was “tainted”. His brother, my great uncle Lawrence who officiated over my wedding, proved this to be false. Two brothers fled Spain for unknown reasons, although the family theory involves the priesthood. One went to South America, supposedly the reluctant priestly candidate, and the other settled in Cuba. He took a Cuban wife, and his son took a Cuban wife as well. This son took his wife to Mexico and had my great grandfather. Daniel Correu hopped the border into Texas and settled in Laredo. Uncle Lawrence went to Spain a few years back and found an old farm house called the Correu Farm. He was overjoyed to have traced his ancestors, and there the story of the Correus ends as far as my family is concerned. My grandfather grew up in Laredo, and went to war in World War 2. It is from his side of the family that I get my hearing loss, and he passed the hearing tests in the air force by bribing the officiators. I don’t know exactly what he did or what rank he held. For some reason I think he worked with or in bombers.
My grandmother was in the army. I don’t know if they met in the War or after. She was named Katherine Funkenhauser (Sp?) but everyone called her Kitty. She was born in Virginia but wound up in Texas after the War, suggesting that she met my grandfather during the War. I think I still have a great aunt or uncle in Virginia somewhere. I don’t know for sure, we had no interaction with my grandmother’s family that I’m aware of. My grandmother was a nurse stationed in Germany. The nurses got to ride in the back of transports, and the G.I.s walked in file behind. They had a small contingent of men that walked in front of the trucks and threw the bodies onto the side of the road, the reasoning being that it was unsanitary for the troops to walk through the muck after the transports had rolled over the bodies. One day while traveling down a dusty farm road in this manner, the distance sounds of gunfire could be heard. My Grandmother was frightened. Women, especially nurses, were not allowed to bear arms which caused her to be anxious at times. After hearing the gunfire she asked the G.I. walking behind the truck if he would get her a gun. He stripped a Ruger pistol off of a German officer lying beside the road and gave it to her. She kept it through the war, and gave it to me about ten years ago. I’ve still got it though my father keeps it for me.
It wasn’t the only memento she brought back. She also brought back a purple cloth covered with silver swastikas that she took from a Hitler Youth podium. And her notes. She was with the first medical group to enter into a concentration camp. I can’t remember which camp, but it was the third largest. She was asked to be a scribe and took notes while the captain of the liberating soldiers interrogated the Nazi Colonel who was in charge of the camp. She keep her notes. It’s chilling to read. Ten thousand dead by gas on Tuesday. Two thousand dead by firing squad on Wednesday. My mother brought the podium cloth and the notes to school when I was in the fifth grade, to give a lecture on World War 2. I had heard about WW2, read about it, and talked about it. But it wasn’t truly real until I heald that podium cloth in my hands. This was history. This was reality. It wasn’t in a book, wasn’t on TV, it wasn’t even in a museum behind a protective glass.
It was in my hands.
However they met, my grandparents had three kids. My mother, the oldest, and my Aunt Susan and my Uncle Jack. And my grandfather was an alcoholic. He would fly into drunken rages. He threw things. He was extremely verbally abusive. I don’t know if he was ever physically abusive, but I do know his kids were punished with the belt.
When my folks got married, my grandmother started bringing my grandfather over to my parents house when he was too drunk for her to control. It climaxed when she brought him and he was roaring drunk in the front yard on a Saturday, raving at the top of his lungs. My father, in a fury, flew out of the house and physically forced him into the car. My mother was terrified that dad was going to physically beat him. She told my grandmother that they weren’t welcome anymore. I don’t think my grandfather ever came back to the house. He certainly didn’t while I was alive. Interestingly enough, my father has never said a harsh word about my grandfather. Whatever his opinion is, he guards it around me and Daniel. The harshest thing I think he’s said was “Like all drunks, your grandfather could be an asshole.” He didn’t say it with vehemence. He just said it. For his part my grandfather loved my father enormously. He was so proud and fond of his son in law.
When I was just going into middle school my grandfather drank himself into such a stupor that he poisoned himself. Alcohol poisoning. When they revived him a good portion of his mind was gone. He took up residence in a nursing home and was bedridden for the remainer of his life. He had dementia. I saw him annually through the years. He reacted to Daniel at first, but we realized he thought my brother was his father. He lost the ability to speak. A year later he lost the ability to make noises, to vocalize. Then one day the last of his brain quietly gave up. He slipped into a coma. They fed him through a tube. From the moment he first went into the nursing home until the end my grandmother visited him every single day.
My grandmother loved me so much. She lived for the moments when I visited her. She would clip the crossword puzzles and the jokes from the kids section of the Houston Chronicle and save them for me. And I was a little indifferent. My dad’s parents gave me G.I. Joes. This grandma gave me bits of old newspaper. Everyday she clipped stuff she thought I would like. She went on walks in the woods and brought back skulls and teeth. Feathers she had found. She carefully placed them in tins or small cloth bags and saved them for me. Oh I was appreciative, but I just saw some junk. Interesting, but junk none the less. I never stopped to think about the time she put into those gifts. Or how alone she was, by herself in the woods in a moldering old house.
She visited my grandfather everyday. Sometimes twice a day. Before he lost the powers of speech, he interacted with her. For her he became lucid. And when he spoke to her, he knew her. Over the years she became confused. My Uncle Jack moved in with her. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. We would visit her, or mom would bring her out to us. She would sit quietly with a smile. One day in the middle of the conversation she looked at my brother and said, “You’re Daniel.” Then she looked upset. I realize we had all gone silent and she though she had said the wrong thing. Daniel reached out and took her hand and gave her a big warm smile and said, “Yes grandma. I am.” My mother tried to make it to the bathroom before she start crying. She failed.
My grandfather had been in a coma for ten years with no improvement. For that whole time he had been fed through a tube. After conferring with the doctors my mother began to ask her aunts, her uncles, and her siblings if it was time to let him go. They shied from the question, avoided it, and said they’d support mom whatever her decision. In the end, my mother all alone took the responsibly. She signed the papers. The feeding tube was removed. At the moment of action, in the nursing home, she turned to her mother and tried to explain what was about to happen and why. My grandmother cut her off, placed her hand on my mother’s, and said simply, “I understand.” It took my grandfather a month and a half to starve to death. The doctors said they had never seen a man with such vitality.
My mother knows she did the right thing. And in the back of her eyes in quite moments, you can see the price she paid for doing the right thing.
A couple of years ago I went to my mother and asked her about my grandfather. All my memories of him were of this loving warm man. A man with a jolly laugh. And all the stories I had heard painted him as an abusive alcoholic. So I asked my mom, did he have any good qualities? I was desperate to find that jolly laugh in the memories of another. To affirm my memories. To see if I had inherited any traits from him besides a taste for alcohol. My mother took a long pause. And then she began to talk. And the other half of the man, my grandfather, came into view. He was known for his honesty. He never cheated on anything, for any reason. He was never in debt his whole life. He never borrowed money. When he gave his word, he kept it, regardless of the consequences. He refused to participate in anything, including conversations, that he though was unjust. He had a firm personal code of honor that he refused to compromise. But most powerful of all, my mother said he had more capacity for love than any man she’d ever met. And that he loved me very much. My grandmother now moved into a nursing home. Mom put her in one close by her (my mother’s) house. Mom said she always asked about me. Slowly my grandmother’s health failed.
People talk about love. What is it? How do you know when you’re in love? And I am often accused of being unromantic, a cynic when it comes to love. Do you want to know what love really is? Because I’ve seen it. Love is fighting through dementia, love is somehow when you have lost even your identity, being able to look at some one and know I love you. When you know only one thing, not your name, not your past, not even how to speak, you know only one thing: I love this person. Being in love is never having nothing. Don’t talk to me about passion, about love at first sight, of feeling sad when someone’s gone. True love is about always having the ability to feel that love. Always.
My grandmother did not survive my grandfather long. She didn’t make it through the year.
I didn’t visit her once.
And now I never can.
I remember my maternal grandfather fondly. He and my grandmother lived in a large two story house in Magnolia Texas. The house was in the woods, recessed about fifty yards from the road and enclosed by pine trees. There was a porch that spanned the entire front of the house, and was also two story so that there was an upstairs porch over the lower one. My grandparents had it built in the sixties, but by the time I came around it felt ancient. The whole house was built out of dark thick heavy wood. The outside was painted a shade of green that was originally a sea-foam. Time and weather had darken some areas, lightened others so that the house looked like a moss covered hill that had the front carved away into a sheer face. The base of the porch was concrete as the foundation slab extended out. Hanging from the rafters of the porch was a chair. The chair was a black leather piece, with firm armrests. The legs were gone and it hung from chains about two and a half feet from the ground. Lining the wall of the house at its base was a collection of wooden and clay carvings. Mostly masks with pointed teeth and bulls with broken horns, this small audience of immobile watchers observed the forest with a fixed eye. Also hanging from the rafters of the porch were several hanging plants, a birdfeeder or two, and some wooden wind chimes. Wooden wind chimes do not ring, nor do they tingle; instead the give a hollow thunking noise. It was the only noise outside at my grandparents house. The wind didn’t rustle the leaves, but it teased the wooden wind chimes erratically. But for this, the woods were silent; still. In lighter moments the sound conjured a troop of gnomes dancing slowly in wooden shoes; in darker moments I envisioned a blind witch gliding through the forest gently rapping on trees with her cane, searching for the house and a meal of grandchild.
The front door of the house was a large solid wooden affair stained black. In the center was a pewter head of a Mayan priest, his earrings meeting under his chin to form a knocker. The interior of the house was carpeted in a brown shag, only slightly lighter than the wood paneling. The furniture was of wrought iron and dark wood in the style of Spanish missions. The fireplace was on the right as you entered the house. It was large and perpetually black with soot. The fire was kept going in the winter. My grandparents smoked constantly, and the house had a permanent haze that turned reality surreal. They went to Mexico frequently, and my grandmother had knickknacks and curios spread throughout the house of the most odd sort. A sleeping Mexican in a sombrero next to a dried lizard husk. Woody Woodpecker on top of a rattlesnake’s rattle. A stuffed crow. Pictures of matadors were everywhere, as were bulls. For a young boy it was creepy but thrilling. There always seemed to be closets unexplored, things unexamined. Curiosities for the curious. My grandfather sat in the swing/chair on the porch frequently. He was a bald man of medium height, perhaps 5’8” no more than 5’10”. The remaining hair that ringed his pate was still jet black and trimmed close. He was always clean-shaven though if I remember he had a horrible five o’clock shadow. Rotund in the middle, but by no means fat, he maintained an air of energy in spite of his careful movements. I remember his laugh the most. He always seemed to be laughing. He paid quite a bit of attention to me but never in a condescending way. He never spoke down to me, never changed his voice, spoke to me in the same manner he spoke to everyone adult or child. Most of my memories of him are from before the age of seven. He wore slacks and a white short-sleeved dress shirt. He always had a pen and his glasses case in his breast pocket. The swing out front was his chair, and his alone but he let me sit in it. Not once in all my memories did he show himself to be anything other than warm and loving. It wasn’t until later that I first heard the word alcoholic.
Jack Correu (my grandfather) was born in Laredo Texas, the son of Daniel Correu (my brother’s namesake). Daniel Correu was a doctor who came over from Mexico. My grandfather was extremely upset that he apparently had Mexican blood, and to his dying day thought his lineage was “tainted”. His brother, my great uncle Lawrence who officiated over my wedding, proved this to be false. Two brothers fled Spain for unknown reasons, although the family theory involves the priesthood. One went to South America, supposedly the reluctant priestly candidate, and the other settled in Cuba. He took a Cuban wife, and his son took a Cuban wife as well. This son took his wife to Mexico and had my great grandfather. Daniel Correu hopped the border into Texas and settled in Laredo. Uncle Lawrence went to Spain a few years back and found an old farm house called the Correu Farm. He was overjoyed to have traced his ancestors, and there the story of the Correus ends as far as my family is concerned. My grandfather grew up in Laredo, and went to war in World War 2. It is from his side of the family that I get my hearing loss, and he passed the hearing tests in the air force by bribing the officiators. I don’t know exactly what he did or what rank he held. For some reason I think he worked with or in bombers.
My grandmother was in the army. I don’t know if they met in the War or after. She was named Katherine Funkenhauser (Sp?) but everyone called her Kitty. She was born in Virginia but wound up in Texas after the War, suggesting that she met my grandfather during the War. I think I still have a great aunt or uncle in Virginia somewhere. I don’t know for sure, we had no interaction with my grandmother’s family that I’m aware of. My grandmother was a nurse stationed in Germany. The nurses got to ride in the back of transports, and the G.I.s walked in file behind. They had a small contingent of men that walked in front of the trucks and threw the bodies onto the side of the road, the reasoning being that it was unsanitary for the troops to walk through the muck after the transports had rolled over the bodies. One day while traveling down a dusty farm road in this manner, the distance sounds of gunfire could be heard. My Grandmother was frightened. Women, especially nurses, were not allowed to bear arms which caused her to be anxious at times. After hearing the gunfire she asked the G.I. walking behind the truck if he would get her a gun. He stripped a Ruger pistol off of a German officer lying beside the road and gave it to her. She kept it through the war, and gave it to me about ten years ago. I’ve still got it though my father keeps it for me.
It wasn’t the only memento she brought back. She also brought back a purple cloth covered with silver swastikas that she took from a Hitler Youth podium. And her notes. She was with the first medical group to enter into a concentration camp. I can’t remember which camp, but it was the third largest. She was asked to be a scribe and took notes while the captain of the liberating soldiers interrogated the Nazi Colonel who was in charge of the camp. She keep her notes. It’s chilling to read. Ten thousand dead by gas on Tuesday. Two thousand dead by firing squad on Wednesday. My mother brought the podium cloth and the notes to school when I was in the fifth grade, to give a lecture on World War 2. I had heard about WW2, read about it, and talked about it. But it wasn’t truly real until I heald that podium cloth in my hands. This was history. This was reality. It wasn’t in a book, wasn’t on TV, it wasn’t even in a museum behind a protective glass.
It was in my hands.
However they met, my grandparents had three kids. My mother, the oldest, and my Aunt Susan and my Uncle Jack. And my grandfather was an alcoholic. He would fly into drunken rages. He threw things. He was extremely verbally abusive. I don’t know if he was ever physically abusive, but I do know his kids were punished with the belt.
When my folks got married, my grandmother started bringing my grandfather over to my parents house when he was too drunk for her to control. It climaxed when she brought him and he was roaring drunk in the front yard on a Saturday, raving at the top of his lungs. My father, in a fury, flew out of the house and physically forced him into the car. My mother was terrified that dad was going to physically beat him. She told my grandmother that they weren’t welcome anymore. I don’t think my grandfather ever came back to the house. He certainly didn’t while I was alive. Interestingly enough, my father has never said a harsh word about my grandfather. Whatever his opinion is, he guards it around me and Daniel. The harshest thing I think he’s said was “Like all drunks, your grandfather could be an asshole.” He didn’t say it with vehemence. He just said it. For his part my grandfather loved my father enormously. He was so proud and fond of his son in law.
When I was just going into middle school my grandfather drank himself into such a stupor that he poisoned himself. Alcohol poisoning. When they revived him a good portion of his mind was gone. He took up residence in a nursing home and was bedridden for the remainer of his life. He had dementia. I saw him annually through the years. He reacted to Daniel at first, but we realized he thought my brother was his father. He lost the ability to speak. A year later he lost the ability to make noises, to vocalize. Then one day the last of his brain quietly gave up. He slipped into a coma. They fed him through a tube. From the moment he first went into the nursing home until the end my grandmother visited him every single day.
My grandmother loved me so much. She lived for the moments when I visited her. She would clip the crossword puzzles and the jokes from the kids section of the Houston Chronicle and save them for me. And I was a little indifferent. My dad’s parents gave me G.I. Joes. This grandma gave me bits of old newspaper. Everyday she clipped stuff she thought I would like. She went on walks in the woods and brought back skulls and teeth. Feathers she had found. She carefully placed them in tins or small cloth bags and saved them for me. Oh I was appreciative, but I just saw some junk. Interesting, but junk none the less. I never stopped to think about the time she put into those gifts. Or how alone she was, by herself in the woods in a moldering old house.
She visited my grandfather everyday. Sometimes twice a day. Before he lost the powers of speech, he interacted with her. For her he became lucid. And when he spoke to her, he knew her. Over the years she became confused. My Uncle Jack moved in with her. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. We would visit her, or mom would bring her out to us. She would sit quietly with a smile. One day in the middle of the conversation she looked at my brother and said, “You’re Daniel.” Then she looked upset. I realize we had all gone silent and she though she had said the wrong thing. Daniel reached out and took her hand and gave her a big warm smile and said, “Yes grandma. I am.” My mother tried to make it to the bathroom before she start crying. She failed.
My grandfather had been in a coma for ten years with no improvement. For that whole time he had been fed through a tube. After conferring with the doctors my mother began to ask her aunts, her uncles, and her siblings if it was time to let him go. They shied from the question, avoided it, and said they’d support mom whatever her decision. In the end, my mother all alone took the responsibly. She signed the papers. The feeding tube was removed. At the moment of action, in the nursing home, she turned to her mother and tried to explain what was about to happen and why. My grandmother cut her off, placed her hand on my mother’s, and said simply, “I understand.” It took my grandfather a month and a half to starve to death. The doctors said they had never seen a man with such vitality.
My mother knows she did the right thing. And in the back of her eyes in quite moments, you can see the price she paid for doing the right thing.
A couple of years ago I went to my mother and asked her about my grandfather. All my memories of him were of this loving warm man. A man with a jolly laugh. And all the stories I had heard painted him as an abusive alcoholic. So I asked my mom, did he have any good qualities? I was desperate to find that jolly laugh in the memories of another. To affirm my memories. To see if I had inherited any traits from him besides a taste for alcohol. My mother took a long pause. And then she began to talk. And the other half of the man, my grandfather, came into view. He was known for his honesty. He never cheated on anything, for any reason. He was never in debt his whole life. He never borrowed money. When he gave his word, he kept it, regardless of the consequences. He refused to participate in anything, including conversations, that he though was unjust. He had a firm personal code of honor that he refused to compromise. But most powerful of all, my mother said he had more capacity for love than any man she’d ever met. And that he loved me very much. My grandmother now moved into a nursing home. Mom put her in one close by her (my mother’s) house. Mom said she always asked about me. Slowly my grandmother’s health failed.
People talk about love. What is it? How do you know when you’re in love? And I am often accused of being unromantic, a cynic when it comes to love. Do you want to know what love really is? Because I’ve seen it. Love is fighting through dementia, love is somehow when you have lost even your identity, being able to look at some one and know I love you. When you know only one thing, not your name, not your past, not even how to speak, you know only one thing: I love this person. Being in love is never having nothing. Don’t talk to me about passion, about love at first sight, of feeling sad when someone’s gone. True love is about always having the ability to feel that love. Always.
My grandmother did not survive my grandfather long. She didn’t make it through the year.
I didn’t visit her once.
And now I never can.
Halloween
Originally posted on myspace October 30, 2005
The Gaelic Celts believe that they are the fourth race to occupy Ireland. When they came over (presumably from the mainland) they warred with the previous occupants who were a race of semi-immortals (do not die of old age but can be killed). This was a race that was steeped in mysticism and magic. Eventually the Gaels won driving the previous race, called the Sidhe (pronounced SCHEE as in banshee), into the nether world, a ghostly pace between earth and death which men visit sometimes in their dreams. Men made bargains with them, they stole children, etc.. The Sidhe became the origin of the goblins, leprechauns, brownies, elves, etc..
The entrances to the nether world could be found in stones and rings of mushrooms, but were most commonly attributed to old tree hollows and the recessions between large roots. Small hillocks were also thought to contain mystic doorways or portals to this nether world. These entrances were locked, sometimes from our side and sometimes from theirs. When certain conditions were met they would open for a time. Such conditions were spilling blood in a particular shape, singing a specific rhyme, or even touching the right place on the stone or tree. More people opened these doorways by accident or coincidence than by design. Sometimes this led the way for plagues or mischief makers, some times it provided the protagonist with rewards of success or riches. These random opening allowed some of the Sidhe to escape and they wanderer Ireland rewarding and punishing as their whims took them.
One night of the year however, all of the doorways, all the stones and hollows were open starting at twilight and ending with the first rays of the sun. On this night, supposedly the first night of the fourth full moon after the summer solstice by some accounts and the autumn equinox by others but generally accepted to be October 31st, the Sidhe rode out in force to take revenge on their surplanters by stealing the Gael's children. This was not an organized invasion, more like a mob. The Sidhe who chose to make themselves visible or were sympathetic to the Gaels would offer the owner of a home the option of "trick or treat", treat being an offering of peace and trick being the consequences of refusing. Some consequences were cows giving spoilt milk, chicken's refusing to lay eggs, strikes of lightning, illnesses, etc... Common treats were food or glasses of milk or ale. Trick or treat was an assumed thing, and the treats were left out on the porch. If no treat could be easily found it was assumed that a trick would occur.
The Sidhe who were completely evil went straight for the children. Parents who did not want their children kiddnapped dressed them up as goblins and ghouls to trick the Sidhe into thinking the children were fellow Sidhe. These children were left alone. As night deepened and people began to go to bed, or for those who wanted to scare away most of the "trick or treaters", pumpkins were placed in the home's windows. These pumpkins were hollowed out and carved with terrifying faces and lit from within by candles. These pumpkins were supposed to scare the Sidhe away and were thought to protect the home by trickery. They were called jack'olanterns, which directly means Jack of the lanterns but should mean lanterns for Jack, Jack being a common name for the Puck, a fairy or goblin held responsible for most of the horrible happenstances in Ireland. They called him Jack because that was the name which would not invite his attention. Jack was a fairly common name, so if one were to ask which Jack you were refering to you would reply Jack of the Lanterns, or he who we ward off with the pumpkin lanterns.
This night was called All Hollows Eve, or the evening where all the hollows were open. Time and evolution of language has turned it into Halloween.
There are other myths and events that tie into our holiday of Halloween, some from other cultures, but these are the origins of what is at the core of Halloween.
Just thought somebody might want to know.
The Gaelic Celts believe that they are the fourth race to occupy Ireland. When they came over (presumably from the mainland) they warred with the previous occupants who were a race of semi-immortals (do not die of old age but can be killed). This was a race that was steeped in mysticism and magic. Eventually the Gaels won driving the previous race, called the Sidhe (pronounced SCHEE as in banshee), into the nether world, a ghostly pace between earth and death which men visit sometimes in their dreams. Men made bargains with them, they stole children, etc.. The Sidhe became the origin of the goblins, leprechauns, brownies, elves, etc..
The entrances to the nether world could be found in stones and rings of mushrooms, but were most commonly attributed to old tree hollows and the recessions between large roots. Small hillocks were also thought to contain mystic doorways or portals to this nether world. These entrances were locked, sometimes from our side and sometimes from theirs. When certain conditions were met they would open for a time. Such conditions were spilling blood in a particular shape, singing a specific rhyme, or even touching the right place on the stone or tree. More people opened these doorways by accident or coincidence than by design. Sometimes this led the way for plagues or mischief makers, some times it provided the protagonist with rewards of success or riches. These random opening allowed some of the Sidhe to escape and they wanderer Ireland rewarding and punishing as their whims took them.
One night of the year however, all of the doorways, all the stones and hollows were open starting at twilight and ending with the first rays of the sun. On this night, supposedly the first night of the fourth full moon after the summer solstice by some accounts and the autumn equinox by others but generally accepted to be October 31st, the Sidhe rode out in force to take revenge on their surplanters by stealing the Gael's children. This was not an organized invasion, more like a mob. The Sidhe who chose to make themselves visible or were sympathetic to the Gaels would offer the owner of a home the option of "trick or treat", treat being an offering of peace and trick being the consequences of refusing. Some consequences were cows giving spoilt milk, chicken's refusing to lay eggs, strikes of lightning, illnesses, etc... Common treats were food or glasses of milk or ale. Trick or treat was an assumed thing, and the treats were left out on the porch. If no treat could be easily found it was assumed that a trick would occur.
The Sidhe who were completely evil went straight for the children. Parents who did not want their children kiddnapped dressed them up as goblins and ghouls to trick the Sidhe into thinking the children were fellow Sidhe. These children were left alone. As night deepened and people began to go to bed, or for those who wanted to scare away most of the "trick or treaters", pumpkins were placed in the home's windows. These pumpkins were hollowed out and carved with terrifying faces and lit from within by candles. These pumpkins were supposed to scare the Sidhe away and were thought to protect the home by trickery. They were called jack'olanterns, which directly means Jack of the lanterns but should mean lanterns for Jack, Jack being a common name for the Puck, a fairy or goblin held responsible for most of the horrible happenstances in Ireland. They called him Jack because that was the name which would not invite his attention. Jack was a fairly common name, so if one were to ask which Jack you were refering to you would reply Jack of the Lanterns, or he who we ward off with the pumpkin lanterns.
This night was called All Hollows Eve, or the evening where all the hollows were open. Time and evolution of language has turned it into Halloween.
There are other myths and events that tie into our holiday of Halloween, some from other cultures, but these are the origins of what is at the core of Halloween.
Just thought somebody might want to know.
Val's Brush with Nature
Originally posted on myspace September 23, 2005
This past weekend I had the opportunity to go camping in the high sierras, an opportunity I took with enthusiasm. So Saturday morning I set out with Val (my lovely wife), Johanna, and Max. After a five hour drive we arrived at the state park. Having tag teamed with Johanna, I was driving and I pulled us up to the entrance booth. It was a small tan shack occupied by an elderly woman who wore her uniform with pride. We exchanged brief pleasantries and I paid the entrance fee and was rewarded with a small bundle of papers. It was my receipt, a complementary map, and typical "don't litter, don't burn the place down, yes the bears will eat you" literature. As there were a few cars behind us, I only gave the papers a cursory glance and handed them over to Valerie.
Valerie didn't take them. I put the car in gear and gave the hand holding the papers a shake to get Val's attention. "Jake. Jake" Val said quietly. Frowning, trying to watch behind and in from as I began to pull away from the booth with one hand, I leaned over with the intention of putting the papers in her lap. Valerie screamed. Not a typical scream but a blood curdling I'm-getting-murdered-by-bigfoot-in-a-haunted-castle scream. Slamming on the breaks I looked over at my wife. Val looked as if she was trying to exit the car ass first through the keyhole. She had stood up, no mean feat in a car, and her eyes were as big as dinner plates while tears of terror streamed unchecked down her face. Perched on top of the papers in my hand was an immense black spider. I didn't actually see the spider, when the car screeched to a halt it bailed andwas lost in the depths of the vehicle. Val immediately jumped out of the car and hopped around in a circle crying hysterically. After a minute she composed herself, and got back in the car. To her credit the fact that it was still in the car somewhere did not phase her and we arrived at the campsite without further incident. She enjoyed the trip and was able to joke about her experience.
I love my girl.
This past weekend I had the opportunity to go camping in the high sierras, an opportunity I took with enthusiasm. So Saturday morning I set out with Val (my lovely wife), Johanna, and Max. After a five hour drive we arrived at the state park. Having tag teamed with Johanna, I was driving and I pulled us up to the entrance booth. It was a small tan shack occupied by an elderly woman who wore her uniform with pride. We exchanged brief pleasantries and I paid the entrance fee and was rewarded with a small bundle of papers. It was my receipt, a complementary map, and typical "don't litter, don't burn the place down, yes the bears will eat you" literature. As there were a few cars behind us, I only gave the papers a cursory glance and handed them over to Valerie.
Valerie didn't take them. I put the car in gear and gave the hand holding the papers a shake to get Val's attention. "Jake. Jake" Val said quietly. Frowning, trying to watch behind and in from as I began to pull away from the booth with one hand, I leaned over with the intention of putting the papers in her lap. Valerie screamed. Not a typical scream but a blood curdling I'm-getting-murdered-by-bigfoot-in-a-haunted-castle scream. Slamming on the breaks I looked over at my wife. Val looked as if she was trying to exit the car ass first through the keyhole. She had stood up, no mean feat in a car, and her eyes were as big as dinner plates while tears of terror streamed unchecked down her face. Perched on top of the papers in my hand was an immense black spider. I didn't actually see the spider, when the car screeched to a halt it bailed andwas lost in the depths of the vehicle. Val immediately jumped out of the car and hopped around in a circle crying hysterically. After a minute she composed herself, and got back in the car. To her credit the fact that it was still in the car somewhere did not phase her and we arrived at the campsite without further incident. She enjoyed the trip and was able to joke about her experience.
I love my girl.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Where were you?
Originally posted on myspace August 30, 2005
It was a relatively sunny September morning, and I was sleeping in as usual. Suddenly I was rudely awakened by my roommate. This was an odd occurance as Andrew (the roommate in question) and I rarely spoke. The two of us lived in a campus apartment just across the street from the dorms. While we got along well, we really had nothing in common and seldom took notice of the other beyond simple courtesies. He gently but urgently shook me awake. I threw a glance at the clock, normally I would not be rolling out of bed to stumble slovenly into class for another hour or two.
"You've got to see this Jake."
Sensing his mood, I arose without response, threw on token clothing, and followed him into the livingroom. The TV was on and a newscaster was screaming his report, but I didn't notice. My world was silent as I was captured by the image on the screen: an airplane hanging out the side of an office building. The World Trade Center to be exact. For a moment we two college boys with nothing in common felt a bond as we stared in shock. Not a word was spoken. Not a breath stirred.
I quietly left the room and got dressed. The ride was a short one and five minutes later my beat up old station wagon came to a rest on Jack street. I walked up to Misha's apartment and saw that the gang was already there. There were no smiles, no cheerful greetings for a friend, instead there was a silent acknowledgement as they met my gaze with wizened eyes. There were many there but I only remember the presence of a few: Chris, Morgan, Adam Bires. I don't remember if Justin was there, I'm sure he must have been. Chris and I sat in silence on the porch for a time, and when we talked it wasn't with anger or hate or worry, but with regret. The two of us mourned an era.
I remember Morgan because she empathized with our attackers, a stance many of us considered inappropriate at the time. But she wasn't being radical, or anti-establishment; she was merely reminding us that the opposition had a story, and that the majority of those who would recieve blame were blameless, that an entire culture would take the fall for a group. She had odd ideas about things, did Morgan, and her perspective was often viewed as bizarre. Maybe she intuitively saw what was to come. Maybe not.
I can remember being angry with her. She had spent the majority of her life in Africa and I was certain that she was so far removed from contiental American thinking that she could hardly be considered a citizen. She didn't understand what I felt, what I could feel in those around me. And in hindsight I truely don't know if she understood our grief, our terror. But I do know that she cared, that she was moved.
The day wore on and we all began to go our seperate ways. As Adam Bires walked out he stopped and clasp my hand. Adam has always had an air of tradgety about him. Few of his stories flatter himself, rather the contrary, and failure haunts him in his own mind to this day. And this man, this tragic man, clasped my hand on his way out and paused to meet my gaze. And a sad smile crept on his face. It was gone in an instant, but that instant was all I needed. It could only have come from a man like Adam Bires, a man who saw himself as tragic; a man who lived under a self-imposed cloud of guilt and failure. My world had been sent rocking, and Adam reached out and steadied it. With that one sad smile he said: tomorrow is another day.
It was a relatively sunny September morning, and I was sleeping in as usual. Suddenly I was rudely awakened by my roommate. This was an odd occurance as Andrew (the roommate in question) and I rarely spoke. The two of us lived in a campus apartment just across the street from the dorms. While we got along well, we really had nothing in common and seldom took notice of the other beyond simple courtesies. He gently but urgently shook me awake. I threw a glance at the clock, normally I would not be rolling out of bed to stumble slovenly into class for another hour or two.
"You've got to see this Jake."
Sensing his mood, I arose without response, threw on token clothing, and followed him into the livingroom. The TV was on and a newscaster was screaming his report, but I didn't notice. My world was silent as I was captured by the image on the screen: an airplane hanging out the side of an office building. The World Trade Center to be exact. For a moment we two college boys with nothing in common felt a bond as we stared in shock. Not a word was spoken. Not a breath stirred.
I quietly left the room and got dressed. The ride was a short one and five minutes later my beat up old station wagon came to a rest on Jack street. I walked up to Misha's apartment and saw that the gang was already there. There were no smiles, no cheerful greetings for a friend, instead there was a silent acknowledgement as they met my gaze with wizened eyes. There were many there but I only remember the presence of a few: Chris, Morgan, Adam Bires. I don't remember if Justin was there, I'm sure he must have been. Chris and I sat in silence on the porch for a time, and when we talked it wasn't with anger or hate or worry, but with regret. The two of us mourned an era.
I remember Morgan because she empathized with our attackers, a stance many of us considered inappropriate at the time. But she wasn't being radical, or anti-establishment; she was merely reminding us that the opposition had a story, and that the majority of those who would recieve blame were blameless, that an entire culture would take the fall for a group. She had odd ideas about things, did Morgan, and her perspective was often viewed as bizarre. Maybe she intuitively saw what was to come. Maybe not.
I can remember being angry with her. She had spent the majority of her life in Africa and I was certain that she was so far removed from contiental American thinking that she could hardly be considered a citizen. She didn't understand what I felt, what I could feel in those around me. And in hindsight I truely don't know if she understood our grief, our terror. But I do know that she cared, that she was moved.
The day wore on and we all began to go our seperate ways. As Adam Bires walked out he stopped and clasp my hand. Adam has always had an air of tradgety about him. Few of his stories flatter himself, rather the contrary, and failure haunts him in his own mind to this day. And this man, this tragic man, clasped my hand on his way out and paused to meet my gaze. And a sad smile crept on his face. It was gone in an instant, but that instant was all I needed. It could only have come from a man like Adam Bires, a man who saw himself as tragic; a man who lived under a self-imposed cloud of guilt and failure. My world had been sent rocking, and Adam reached out and steadied it. With that one sad smile he said: tomorrow is another day.
In idle conversation today, September 11th was brought up. The original topic was the current catastrophe, hurricane Katrina, and conversation had wandered about the calamities of the past decade until arriving at 9-11. A common question for my parents generation is "Where were you when you heard JFK had been shot?" So in eery tradition the same question has been oft posed to my generation concerning 9-11. And so it was today. When asked where I was on 9-11, I am proud to quietly repy:
In the company of friends.
Home Again Home Again Jiggity Jog
Originally posted on myspace August 23, 2005
So, I'm married now. To those of you who were at the wedding, thank you so much for attending. To those of you who were not: It broke my heart not to be able to invite everybody. Unfortunately the fire marshall had some crazy ideas about how many people could be in that one building, and Val has more family than Father Abraham. The whole experience was lovely, and thank god it's over.
Ladies if you want to cure cold feet just involve the groom in some wedding decisions. I promise by week two the only thought in his head will be "elope". I offered to Val's dad. He and I were in the back seat of his car and Val and her mother were riding up front. I turned to him and said, "By my count, you're going to spend about $##### dollars on this wedding." "That's about right" he said. "Tell you what," I rejoined, "if you pay me half now, in cash or check, we'll elope tommorrow." Mr. Father-In-Law's face split into a smile as he reached for his check book, and then he and I both noticed that the temperature had dropped about 60 degrees. I snuck a glance up front and met Val's eyes. Her look could have curdled cream. It was horrifying, but it spared me from seeing her mom who was radiating murderous intent. I don't know what that woman looked like in that instance, but Lord knows I'm a better man for having missed it. Needless to say, the wedding went as planned.
And it was wonderful. Everything we had hoped for. As was the honeymoon.
Now we're back in L.A., re-settling after a two-week absence. There's something odd about coming home. My parent's house always felt like home, no matter where I was living at the time. After the honeymoon, Val and I stayed at my parents for two nights before driving back to L.A.. And suddenly, it wasn't home any more. Our parents (both mine and Val's) treated us different. It was very subtle, I don't think they knew they were doing it, but there was a detachment there. Somehow our status changed in the eyes of our parents; maybe it was a new found respect of privacy, or a final nail in the coffin of our childhood. Whatever it was there was an unspoken cutting of ties, an air of "my work here is done". And in that realization, that turbulent groping for realignment of relationship between parents and children, I could not help but feel orphaned. Not in a negative way by any means, but suddenly my home, my place of security and being for that majority of my life wasn't mine anymore. It has become my parent's home, and I just a visitor, a stranger on familiar shores-- welcomed, accepted, but no longer belonging. Val tells me she feels the same way about her parent's home, and in that first night in Houston after the honeymoon we held each other and she cried softly in my arms as feelings of sadness tinted our new found joy.
The drive back was exhausting as we drove straight through the night, taking turns driving. It was with the relief of the weary that we stumbled into our Van Nuys apartment. As one we collapsed on the bed and Val said, "We're home." And laying there, dog tired, I realized she was right. This dingy apartment felt like home. And once more, it was ours; we had built it together, arranged the furniture, fixed the leaks, tiled the porch. Somehow, as we cast aside the strings of the old, the new, which had been there all along, was able to burst forth in it's own glory un-shadowed, un-challenged by wistful memory. I reached out my hand, finding hers amid the rumpled comforter, and clasp it tightly. "Yes", I said, "we're home."
So, I'm married now. To those of you who were at the wedding, thank you so much for attending. To those of you who were not: It broke my heart not to be able to invite everybody. Unfortunately the fire marshall had some crazy ideas about how many people could be in that one building, and Val has more family than Father Abraham. The whole experience was lovely, and thank god it's over.
Ladies if you want to cure cold feet just involve the groom in some wedding decisions. I promise by week two the only thought in his head will be "elope". I offered to Val's dad. He and I were in the back seat of his car and Val and her mother were riding up front. I turned to him and said, "By my count, you're going to spend about $##### dollars on this wedding." "That's about right" he said. "Tell you what," I rejoined, "if you pay me half now, in cash or check, we'll elope tommorrow." Mr. Father-In-Law's face split into a smile as he reached for his check book, and then he and I both noticed that the temperature had dropped about 60 degrees. I snuck a glance up front and met Val's eyes. Her look could have curdled cream. It was horrifying, but it spared me from seeing her mom who was radiating murderous intent. I don't know what that woman looked like in that instance, but Lord knows I'm a better man for having missed it. Needless to say, the wedding went as planned.
And it was wonderful. Everything we had hoped for. As was the honeymoon.
Now we're back in L.A., re-settling after a two-week absence. There's something odd about coming home. My parent's house always felt like home, no matter where I was living at the time. After the honeymoon, Val and I stayed at my parents for two nights before driving back to L.A.. And suddenly, it wasn't home any more. Our parents (both mine and Val's) treated us different. It was very subtle, I don't think they knew they were doing it, but there was a detachment there. Somehow our status changed in the eyes of our parents; maybe it was a new found respect of privacy, or a final nail in the coffin of our childhood. Whatever it was there was an unspoken cutting of ties, an air of "my work here is done". And in that realization, that turbulent groping for realignment of relationship between parents and children, I could not help but feel orphaned. Not in a negative way by any means, but suddenly my home, my place of security and being for that majority of my life wasn't mine anymore. It has become my parent's home, and I just a visitor, a stranger on familiar shores-- welcomed, accepted, but no longer belonging. Val tells me she feels the same way about her parent's home, and in that first night in Houston after the honeymoon we held each other and she cried softly in my arms as feelings of sadness tinted our new found joy.
The drive back was exhausting as we drove straight through the night, taking turns driving. It was with the relief of the weary that we stumbled into our Van Nuys apartment. As one we collapsed on the bed and Val said, "We're home." And laying there, dog tired, I realized she was right. This dingy apartment felt like home. And once more, it was ours; we had built it together, arranged the furniture, fixed the leaks, tiled the porch. Somehow, as we cast aside the strings of the old, the new, which had been there all along, was able to burst forth in it's own glory un-shadowed, un-challenged by wistful memory. I reached out my hand, finding hers amid the rumpled comforter, and clasp it tightly. "Yes", I said, "we're home."
Security Blanket
Originally posted on myspace August 22, 2005:
Everybody had an object of affection in their childhood. The most common is a stuffed animal of some kind, the teddy bear being the most recognizable from a traditional stand point although it has fallen into disuse with the passing of time and the influx of variety. My brother went the conservative route and was deeply attached to his stuffed bear. For my part I had a child's blanket, what is commonly referred to as a "security blanket" or a "silkie". Both he and I devoted considerable amount of affection to these objects. I don't know why some are more attached to these toys than others; we were raised in a very loving environment and never wanted for attention.
My blanket was made by my grandmother, a small frail woman with a wry sense of humor. I remember her most sitting in her rocking chair softly singing to herself, tiny wax paper hands tapping in rhythm. As a child she was something of a tomboy. The family lived on a farm in Louisianna, and her older brothers used to win money betting that their kid sister could out-shoot any challengers. No one would have guessed that those tiny wax paper hands were once a crack-shot with a 22. She died a few years back, quietly passing on in the night, my grandfather holding her hand. Her funeral was the second and last time I ever saw my father cry, his big bear body hunched over in the oak pew of the little white funeral home. Face in his hands, tears running down the back of his hand. My great uncle Ed, my grandmother's brother, sat next to my father with red eyes and the occasional suppressed sob wracking his body. Two towering boulders of men, reduced to mud by the quiet passing of a dried leaf. Meanwhile my grandfather stood over the proceedings with a calmness that I took comfort in. He had a firm handshake and warmth in his sad smile as he moved amoung the mourners. He was a twisted root of magnolia wood, browned and hunched by years of labor in the hot Louisianna sun. Where the boulders were reduced to mud, he floated. Only once did I see him falter, as he turned and walked away from the little white funeral home. A path he had walked many times before in good company, now he walked in solitude.
The blanket itself was patchwork and backed by that smooth soft material that such blankets are commonly made of. The material folded over the edges of the outermost patches, making a smooth edge for the blanket. While my brother Daniel was able to use his Teddy as a confidant, a companion, my blanket did not lend itself to personification instead being more of a force than a personality. My earliest memories are of lying down and running my hands along the edges of my blanket. By placing the edge in my palm, I was able to use my thub to feed the material through my hand; an action I find soothing even to this day. While it didn't have a personality, I drew strength from my blanket, taking courage in it's presence. It didn't speak to me and I didn't speak to it, but there was a sense of primal communication. Slowly as I grew older the blanket became an object of purity and demanded of me a certain morality of action. Once I was old enough to talk I found that I could not bring my self to lie in it's presence, not even by omission. Nor could I mistreat my brother as I was often wont to do. In sight of the blanket no wrongs went unnoticed, and suddenly all things fell into right and wrong, true and false.
By the time I had reached middle school I had set aside my toys as well as anything that I decided was childish as I was eager to advance to the psuedo-adultism that was teenager. My blanket however remained in my bed. I did not devote near as much attention to it, and I certainly did not drag it behind me everywhere I went as I had pre-elementary, but it remained at hand if only in my sleep. As I made my way into high school it was ignored but was still present in my room. I remember on one occasion my mother expressed concern, wondering if there was some sort of developmental deliquincy in my personality due to the fact that I still had my blanket. By now my brother's Teddy had been boxed away as friends replaced the stuffed toy's role as confidant and companion. I angrily rebuffed my mother, upset and offended. When she brought it up again though, some six months later, I uncerimoniously folded my blanket up, now a tattered rag due to years of loving abuse, and put it away in my closet. And there it stayed, ignored and avoided as I went about the business of becoming an adult.
The first time I saw my father cry was just after high school. In childhood I regarded my parents as parahuman. Slowly as I matured I recognized that my mother had flaws as well as strengths and my thinking gradually adjusted as my mother became more and more human in my perception. My father however remained a towering boulder. He had flaws, but his flaws seemed somehow titanic as if he were a Greek God. I could recognize his faults but somehow they failed to humanitize him, and he remained an Icon, as much of a symbol of manhood and fatherhood as a person. Until one lazy sunday morning at my parents house when my view of my father was shattered. I was home for the summer from my first year of college and was awoken suddenly by my mother. Her eyes full of concern she told me that she was worried about dad. I went downstairs and met him in the backyard where he was pacing about, clutching his chest. He told me he was having a pain in his chest, said it felt like an iron spike had been driven into him. My mother joined us and then insisted that dad call the nurse hotline that was on his insurance card. He agreed, which tells anyone who knows him that he was really hurting. Normally my father refuses to see or talk to doctors if he can avoid it. Now up until this point my father had only four emotions that I could discern: happy, angry, dissappointed, and proud. He walked away from my mother and I and had a muffled coversation with the nurse hotline. He came back to us with a steady expression on his face. "What did they say?" my mother asked. My father replied, "Well they said that I..." and my father cracked. His face contorted and tears ran un-checked down his cheeks. In between sobs he choked out that the nurse had told him that he needed to go to the hospital because he may be having a heart attack. I was shocked to the very core of my being as I realize that my dad was terrified. I had never even allowed for the possibility that my dad could be scared and all of a sudden here he was. Not a boulder, not a Greek God, not an Icon, but a man; a frail flawed, terrified man. My mother was afraid for him, but she went to him and did her best to comfort him. A voice unbidden sprang from my lips and I heard myself say, "Come on. We'll take dad's car." My parents got in the back seat together and I drove them to the hospital. I can remember thinking that I was taking care of my father. Where my whole life he had taken care of me-- in one instant our roles were reversed. He had good cause to be scared, heart disease runs in his family and only a few years before one of his favorite uncles was killed by a heat attack. But for me I had no foundation, and looked at the world from the eyes of one who is responsible, instead of one who is a responsibility. It was determined at the hospital that my father had a bad case of indigestion.
Several times over the years I would go into my closet, often looking for something or storing away, and I would chance upon my blanket. And every time as my eyes fell on it I would feel a twinge of guilt. Guilt for abandoning it, for leaving it to collect dust in a dark corner of my closet. But I had moved on, I had grown up, and the blanket stayed where it was.
I left the family homestead, the world of my friends, my past, my family behind and moved to L.A. Shortly after Val (now my wife) followed, and she and I began carving out a life together. Most things that I left behind had been shoved in my closet, and as my parents slowly absorbed what used to be my old room this became a problem. So an unspoken agreement was struck, and now everytime I return to Houston I throw some things away and bring some things back with me. On one such trip I rediscovered my blanket, neatly folded on the top-most shelf. I brought it back with me and now it resides in mine and Val's bed, or next to it. I'm no longer concerned with the trappings of adulthood and take no embarrassment from it's presence. But it no longer is a security blanket, and every time I touch it I have a bittersweet feeling of loss. Loss for my childhood, my innocence perhaps; for a period of my life where a simple piece of cloth could banish my fears and make me feel safe in all ways. On refection I have found that I have lost many security blankets as I go through life. And I've picked up new ones. I call my friends in Texas on a regular basis and we talk about our doings maintaining an illusion that we are still part of each others lives. And we are, just not to the extent that we were, and both sides struggle to pretend that I'm not out here, and they're not back there. I take comfort in the presence of my wife Val, in our conversations and the moments we share together. But it is a two-edged sword for she takes comfort from me as well, and a balance has to be maintained. I continue my escapism habits of reading, video games, and role-playing; they have served me well through most of my life. But this is a hollow safety, for reality constantly makes itself known no matter how far I retreat into fantasy. With each of these blankets comes apprehension, because I never lose sight of the fact that once gone, it can never be reclaimed.
Everybody had an object of affection in their childhood. The most common is a stuffed animal of some kind, the teddy bear being the most recognizable from a traditional stand point although it has fallen into disuse with the passing of time and the influx of variety. My brother went the conservative route and was deeply attached to his stuffed bear. For my part I had a child's blanket, what is commonly referred to as a "security blanket" or a "silkie". Both he and I devoted considerable amount of affection to these objects. I don't know why some are more attached to these toys than others; we were raised in a very loving environment and never wanted for attention.
My blanket was made by my grandmother, a small frail woman with a wry sense of humor. I remember her most sitting in her rocking chair softly singing to herself, tiny wax paper hands tapping in rhythm. As a child she was something of a tomboy. The family lived on a farm in Louisianna, and her older brothers used to win money betting that their kid sister could out-shoot any challengers. No one would have guessed that those tiny wax paper hands were once a crack-shot with a 22. She died a few years back, quietly passing on in the night, my grandfather holding her hand. Her funeral was the second and last time I ever saw my father cry, his big bear body hunched over in the oak pew of the little white funeral home. Face in his hands, tears running down the back of his hand. My great uncle Ed, my grandmother's brother, sat next to my father with red eyes and the occasional suppressed sob wracking his body. Two towering boulders of men, reduced to mud by the quiet passing of a dried leaf. Meanwhile my grandfather stood over the proceedings with a calmness that I took comfort in. He had a firm handshake and warmth in his sad smile as he moved amoung the mourners. He was a twisted root of magnolia wood, browned and hunched by years of labor in the hot Louisianna sun. Where the boulders were reduced to mud, he floated. Only once did I see him falter, as he turned and walked away from the little white funeral home. A path he had walked many times before in good company, now he walked in solitude.
The blanket itself was patchwork and backed by that smooth soft material that such blankets are commonly made of. The material folded over the edges of the outermost patches, making a smooth edge for the blanket. While my brother Daniel was able to use his Teddy as a confidant, a companion, my blanket did not lend itself to personification instead being more of a force than a personality. My earliest memories are of lying down and running my hands along the edges of my blanket. By placing the edge in my palm, I was able to use my thub to feed the material through my hand; an action I find soothing even to this day. While it didn't have a personality, I drew strength from my blanket, taking courage in it's presence. It didn't speak to me and I didn't speak to it, but there was a sense of primal communication. Slowly as I grew older the blanket became an object of purity and demanded of me a certain morality of action. Once I was old enough to talk I found that I could not bring my self to lie in it's presence, not even by omission. Nor could I mistreat my brother as I was often wont to do. In sight of the blanket no wrongs went unnoticed, and suddenly all things fell into right and wrong, true and false.
By the time I had reached middle school I had set aside my toys as well as anything that I decided was childish as I was eager to advance to the psuedo-adultism that was teenager. My blanket however remained in my bed. I did not devote near as much attention to it, and I certainly did not drag it behind me everywhere I went as I had pre-elementary, but it remained at hand if only in my sleep. As I made my way into high school it was ignored but was still present in my room. I remember on one occasion my mother expressed concern, wondering if there was some sort of developmental deliquincy in my personality due to the fact that I still had my blanket. By now my brother's Teddy had been boxed away as friends replaced the stuffed toy's role as confidant and companion. I angrily rebuffed my mother, upset and offended. When she brought it up again though, some six months later, I uncerimoniously folded my blanket up, now a tattered rag due to years of loving abuse, and put it away in my closet. And there it stayed, ignored and avoided as I went about the business of becoming an adult.
The first time I saw my father cry was just after high school. In childhood I regarded my parents as parahuman. Slowly as I matured I recognized that my mother had flaws as well as strengths and my thinking gradually adjusted as my mother became more and more human in my perception. My father however remained a towering boulder. He had flaws, but his flaws seemed somehow titanic as if he were a Greek God. I could recognize his faults but somehow they failed to humanitize him, and he remained an Icon, as much of a symbol of manhood and fatherhood as a person. Until one lazy sunday morning at my parents house when my view of my father was shattered. I was home for the summer from my first year of college and was awoken suddenly by my mother. Her eyes full of concern she told me that she was worried about dad. I went downstairs and met him in the backyard where he was pacing about, clutching his chest. He told me he was having a pain in his chest, said it felt like an iron spike had been driven into him. My mother joined us and then insisted that dad call the nurse hotline that was on his insurance card. He agreed, which tells anyone who knows him that he was really hurting. Normally my father refuses to see or talk to doctors if he can avoid it. Now up until this point my father had only four emotions that I could discern: happy, angry, dissappointed, and proud. He walked away from my mother and I and had a muffled coversation with the nurse hotline. He came back to us with a steady expression on his face. "What did they say?" my mother asked. My father replied, "Well they said that I..." and my father cracked. His face contorted and tears ran un-checked down his cheeks. In between sobs he choked out that the nurse had told him that he needed to go to the hospital because he may be having a heart attack. I was shocked to the very core of my being as I realize that my dad was terrified. I had never even allowed for the possibility that my dad could be scared and all of a sudden here he was. Not a boulder, not a Greek God, not an Icon, but a man; a frail flawed, terrified man. My mother was afraid for him, but she went to him and did her best to comfort him. A voice unbidden sprang from my lips and I heard myself say, "Come on. We'll take dad's car." My parents got in the back seat together and I drove them to the hospital. I can remember thinking that I was taking care of my father. Where my whole life he had taken care of me-- in one instant our roles were reversed. He had good cause to be scared, heart disease runs in his family and only a few years before one of his favorite uncles was killed by a heat attack. But for me I had no foundation, and looked at the world from the eyes of one who is responsible, instead of one who is a responsibility. It was determined at the hospital that my father had a bad case of indigestion.
Several times over the years I would go into my closet, often looking for something or storing away, and I would chance upon my blanket. And every time as my eyes fell on it I would feel a twinge of guilt. Guilt for abandoning it, for leaving it to collect dust in a dark corner of my closet. But I had moved on, I had grown up, and the blanket stayed where it was.
I left the family homestead, the world of my friends, my past, my family behind and moved to L.A. Shortly after Val (now my wife) followed, and she and I began carving out a life together. Most things that I left behind had been shoved in my closet, and as my parents slowly absorbed what used to be my old room this became a problem. So an unspoken agreement was struck, and now everytime I return to Houston I throw some things away and bring some things back with me. On one such trip I rediscovered my blanket, neatly folded on the top-most shelf. I brought it back with me and now it resides in mine and Val's bed, or next to it. I'm no longer concerned with the trappings of adulthood and take no embarrassment from it's presence. But it no longer is a security blanket, and every time I touch it I have a bittersweet feeling of loss. Loss for my childhood, my innocence perhaps; for a period of my life where a simple piece of cloth could banish my fears and make me feel safe in all ways. On refection I have found that I have lost many security blankets as I go through life. And I've picked up new ones. I call my friends in Texas on a regular basis and we talk about our doings maintaining an illusion that we are still part of each others lives. And we are, just not to the extent that we were, and both sides struggle to pretend that I'm not out here, and they're not back there. I take comfort in the presence of my wife Val, in our conversations and the moments we share together. But it is a two-edged sword for she takes comfort from me as well, and a balance has to be maintained. I continue my escapism habits of reading, video games, and role-playing; they have served me well through most of my life. But this is a hollow safety, for reality constantly makes itself known no matter how far I retreat into fantasy. With each of these blankets comes apprehension, because I never lose sight of the fact that once gone, it can never be reclaimed.
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