"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.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)