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August 29, 2004
a cimarron story
The proud few of the Cimarron Christian Academy basketball team filed into the small men's bathroom just across the hall from the church sanctuary to change out of our sweaty gym uniforms into our school uniforms. It was crowded, and I hated undressing in front of my peers, so I managed to get into one of stalls for a modicum of privacy. After a quick glance at the top and bottom of the stall walls for any intruders, I unzipped my gym bag to get at my clothes.
On top of my clothes was a copy of Penthouse magazine, an edition that was a couple of years out of print. It was not mine; I had never seen it before. It took me a few seconds to realize just what it was, and to realize that I was potentially in Deep Shit. It was a setup, but had the pranksters notified any teachers or the principal? If they hadn't yet, would they?
There was only one thing to do. I grabbed the magazine, shoved open the stall door, leaving my gym bag where it lay on the floor of the bathroom. I pushed through my surprised peers, their leering, expectant faces turning to dismayed uncertainty as I left the bathroom. I turned right and strode down the hall to the principal's office. Entering without invitation, and startling both the principal and a second grade teacher in mid conversation, I marched up, plopped the magazine squarely on Ms. Jones' desk, and said, "Someone planted this in my gym bag." I crossed my arms, stood still and looked her directly in the eye, and waited for whatever fate would befall me, calm in the knowledge that I had done the right thing.
Only it didn't happen that way. Rewind back to the gym bag, to that awful moment when I realized I was potentially in Deep Shit. It's true that I contemplated doing exactly what I described above. In fact, in the weeks that followed, I revisited that scenario, revising and rehashing until my actions were perfect and admirable. But the fact is that I was terrified of Ms. Jones, and in that moment I decided it wasn't worth the risk to inform her of the situation. I put the magazine into the waterproof side pocket of my gym bag, resolving to quietly throw it away after school.
Ms. Jones presided over the most vicious peer group I have ever seen in my life. It was the closest to prison that I've ever been. We students were liberated every afternoon, but the dread we felt all through the day, and the knowledge that we had to go back every morning was mind-numbing. I can see now that it pushed down some of the finer instincts of my young manhood. I quickly learned I couldn't afford to come to the assistance of those less fortunate than myself: keep your head down, and your nose clean.
Ms. Jones did nothing to change this environment. In fact, she unwittingly encouraged it. When she couldn't find the culprit for some prank or infraction, she would line us all up outdoors, stalking back and forth, berating us one and all for not giving up the malefactor. Each of us knew that whatever punishment she handed down to us collectively would be nothing compared to the punishment later handed down to a rat. At any rate, most of us knew nothing about the crime de jour whatsoever. But it didn't matter. We all learned to remain silent before her. Thus she undermined her own position. By punishing the innocent many with the guilty few or one, she rammed home the message, You really cannot trust me. I am fundamentally no different from the peer group, I just happen to be the bully with the most power. I should have told her about that magazine, but I could not bring myself to trust her.
I did make good on my promise, though. Late at night I quietly slipped out of my uncle's slumbering house, the magazine now wrapped in a black plastic bag. I silently trotted a quarter mile to a nearby apartment complex, and slipped the magazine into an enormous dumpster. But that was three weeks later, after my informal crash course about the physiology of women, complete with its accompanying miseducation about male and female intimate relationships.
Today I am saddened to have been raised in a religion that was so God-fearing and so bombastic, that I never saw any option for dealing with such situations except to go it alone. It was a faith where perfection in Christ didn't mean imperfect people becoming perfect through Him, but rather it meant Stay inside the lines! Don't do the unthinkable! Don't dishonor us all by even asking about such things! No one was teaching us kids how to deal with our emotions and desires. What exactly is lust, and what is natural and proper? Anyone who couldn't naturally know the difference was obviously a person with darkened understanding. I didn't want to be that kind of reprobate. I wanted to do right, and to belong in the company of the righteous. And so in terror I concealed my attractions to women, the noble and the base desires together, and resolved to sort them all out on my own. And so I have, no thanks to Ms. Jones. It's taken a little longer than three weeks, but what an education. The biggest and most troubling lessen, and one I wish to God I could unlearn is that I am alone.
Posted by joel at 09:33 PM | Comments (14) | TrackBack
August 27, 2004
oedipus wrecks
Every day I see hurting people. They are dangerously close to me. First of all, I am hurt. Be honest with me, reader, and think about how you are hurt; because you are.
My family has discovered the bloggosphere, and we are using it to uncover ourselves before the world. What's even more cataclysmic is that we're using it to uncover ourselves to each other. All the uncovering reveals a generational rift to which we all, at one point or another, believed our family to be immune.
It is tempting to envy my brother-in-law for his formerly alcoholic father. His family has manifestly traveled from darkness into light. Relationships have improved. But I don't envy him, not simply because of the light my family has enjoyed all along, but because the darkness in relationships is something that all families share. I neither envy nor despise another person's doom, for I cannot understand it.
The truth is that we all travel through darkness and light. Our family's younger generation is dismayed at the darkness in our family's history, but our dismay reveals more about our expectations than it does about the darkness itself. It is no special darkness. Neither was our light particularly special either, although we children devoutly believed it was. We grew up among Christians who believed "This Thing We're In" was God's Special Deal for 20th century America. Revival would soon sweep the nation, if only every other kind of Christian would believe Our Report. It's difficult to parse the light and darkness even today as adults. As children, we just simply didn't manage it at all. We counted white to be light and black to be darkness, and were too young to recognize that something painted white in a dim room could be very black inside. Later we struggled (and still struggle) to comprehend how something very black inside could have patches of glorious light secreted away with itself. Even as a broken clock is right twice a day, so we children often respected the right things for the wrong reasons, and respected the wrong things for the noblest of reasons.
And I imagine that our parents failed to teach us to see clearly in a dim world because they have to work at seeing the light amid the darkness too. I'm sure I'm right; now that I am a parent myself, I can see that they themselves respected many right things for the wrong reasons. And they sometimes respected the wrong things for the noblest of reasons.
So the outrage of my generation reveals the persistence of our childish vision, and our childish expectations. If we are angry at our fathers, it is because we are still children. As children discovering our parents' darkness, we see them as fallen angels, perverse beings who could have and should have walked in the perfect light of the noonday sun. Surely they rejected the light, and, cursing it, plunged themselves and their little ones into darkness.
Have you remembered how you are hurt? If so, you have understood what it means to be a child. Now think of another person feeling what you feel. If you can do that you have moved to a middle stage between childhood and adulthood. But there is yet another stage: imagine that another person you love feels the hurt you feel, and imagine that you were the one to cause that pain. If you can do this final thing, and if it causes you to feel any amount of distress, then you have understood what it means to be a parent.
As middle-stage adolescents we start to form theories about why our parents walk in darkness. We look for mitigating factors in their childhoods; peering back two generations to see if Special Darkness lurks in our grandfathers' gloom. And it is tempting to accept whatever darkness we can find there as the fountainhead of the darkness we suffer today. We count ourselves generous to be so understanding of our parents' darkness.
But we don't know anything about our parents until we get a glimpse of the source of their biggest pain; to be the instrument of darkness wielded against their own children. This is Adam's legacy. Each new generation rises up against the tide of darkness, unfurling new flags, wielding new weapons, marching with new tactics. But the darkness takes down generation after generation after generation. And the worst wounds of the fighters are not the wounds of the dark horde of imps descending upon them, nor the wounds of their dearest friends, nor even the reproach of their own children. The worst wound of all is seeing, despite their best efforts, that the darkness came through them to afflict their children. That is the doom of all of us. Neither envy it nor despise it.
Posted by joel at 02:05 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
August 24, 2004
maybe my standards are too high
Hello, it's time for me to blog again. Trouble is, I'm too busy for you. With all my swirling priorities (sounds like an annoying banner ad: "nail down the priority for a cheapo prize!"), you got de-proiritized, and fell right off the Things-I-Did list. Not the things to do list, mind you, you still languish near the bottom of that one, albeit among some pretty august company.
It's hard for me to bring you medocre blogging. I can't seem to write unless I know I'm writing something Really Good. Today there is nothing Really Good on my mind to write about.
Really Good includes things like childhood bully experiences, or inspirational observations, or bizarre myths that collect collective gasps from my collection of familial and friendly readers.
But after obsessing over my stats today, I realized that many of you keep visiting my site, day after non-posting day. I feel guilty. I am thankful almost to tears that you keep visiting, but what have I done to deserve such a loyal following (besides being related to 65% of you)?
So I'm it's time to give it 110%. To never give hope. To get out there and sling down just exactly what's rolling around in my head today. Like this, for instance:
There once was a fellow from Yorktown
Who couldn't quite get the canned pork down
It was on the top shelf
So he said to himself
"Dang," and he yelled with an hideous ork sound.
See what I mean? I usually keep these "gems" to myself, but today I can't hide from you. I'm letting you see the horrible stew from which my finer work is born. Ooh, here comes another...
Roses are red, violets are blue
How many things rhyme with blue?
You like that? Another one's bubbling up:
Egg sprint puddleknuckle
Blargspie Blue
I should stick a cork in it
So says you.
Muddle dumplin', puddle glumplin'
Cartwheel Black
Hey, now, I'm your friend!
Don't attack!
Peanut butter, buckle weather
Sampan Green
Speakin' of the trolly waggle;
How've you been?
Snarktoot Bumpershoot
Gargoyle Red
Something in the paper said the
King is dead!
Watercooler office pooler
Snickerly white
Thirty wings o' buffalo
Is that right?
Port-a-culis crack-o-mullis
Burned Aqua.
Saw him at the Kwick-E-mart
With your Ma!
Quaiver beaver, monkey weaver
Sad Yellow.
No you didn't, take it back
Bad fellow!
There you have it. Me on an uninspired day. I got more. I could go on. But I also have a sense of decency, for Pete's sake.
Posted by joel at 10:00 AM | Comments (5) | TrackBack
August 19, 2004
expeditionary blogging
Next time we get together for a family reunion, we're going to use our blog names. We've got a big shindig coming this Christmas, and I think, in the interest of throwing off our distant relatives and acting like immature superhero wannabe's, we must hammer home our blog pride as obnoxiously as possible.
I can't wait to carve roast beast with ksra, el fid, chopper, mymo, mymo 2.0, HP and the UnBlogger. Me, I've already put my name on my blog, but I'm going to repeatedly insist that everyone call me chez (pronounce it like Shea, if you please). We will wear costumes that evoke the webalitic stylings of our various blogs, making the whole shebang remarkably like a trekkie convention.
We should each carry a small punch counter in our offhand. Whenever someone notices us, speaks to us, or comments on something we've said, we click the counter once. Be sure to bring lots of weird, odd or funny photos, and stick a new one on your lapel every day or so, just to keep people's interest. (My pictures won't be on my lapel, there are
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This will be so__much__fun! In our normal blogging lives, we have to wait for a fickle public to drop by and read us our fortunes. But at Christmas it'll be so cool because we'll be able to track our "readers" down, and drop our rhymes on a captive, loving audience! We can even solicit comments by tagging on a question like, "dontcha think?" Whatever their reaction, count it as a comment, even if it's just something like "Anonymous says: *rolls eyes*". It's all good. If you know what to look for, there's no way they can avoid commenting.
The only downside is the limited audience thing. It's a great opportunity to consolidate a small, loyal following with strong feelings about your project, but don't be surprised if the number of unique visitors to your "virtual blog" more or less plateaus this Christmas. If you really want to reach out to a wider audience, head over to Cracker Barrel, or cruise the malls. In your distinctive blog-inspired uniform, you're sure to catch people's interest, and by the time they realize they wish they hadn't spoken to you, it'll be too late. They'll have already commented.
As this type of "expeditionary blogging" catches on, I would not be in the least surprised to see the online blog go the way of the dinosaur. It's a great idea, dontcha think?
Posted by joel at 07:34 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
August 18, 2004
the myth of the white rabbit
There once was a rabbit named Balsamic who lived long, long ago. He was the most virile rabbit in The Valley of One Hundred Meadows. He had enough strength and energy to rut with all the does of his meadow, and then begin again, without stopping. He would snatch bunches of clover while he rutted, for he was so ardent that he hated to stop even long enough to eat. Soon his fame spread throughout the valley, and does from all the other meadows came to his glade, hoping for an encounter with this most spectacular rabbit. He once rutted with 700 does in a 36 hour period. 630 of them became pregnant with an average litter size of 12.2. Each baby rabbit from those litters was healthy, well behaved and a joy to its mother.
One morning, as Balsamic slid lazily from the back of his 37th conquest of the day, he glimpsed a flash of something white across the stream that ran through the meadow. He paused to chew on a blade of succulent grass, and stared at the spot where he had seen this strange apparition. Perhaps he would not have bothered to satisfy his curiosity before continuing his rounds, had not this strange glimpse been infused with something evocatively feminine.
He hopped down stream to the place where rabbits of that region were accustomed to crossing, and, having gained the other side, proceeded north to the place where he had glimpsed the mysterious flash of white. There was nothing there but a strange and powerful scent lingering in the breeze. The scent was like grass and sunshine, security and seduction rolled into a smell which both comforted and provoked him. He began to sniff around, hoping to pick up the scent of her trail, when suddenly, in the corner of his eye, he glimpsed that for which he was searching.
She gazed at him tranquilly. It seemed to Balsamic that she had arrived without arriving; she was suddenly simply there. She nibbled a dandelion leaf, still watching him as he approached her. As he came near, he smoothly snipped a delicious flower, which he dropped on the grass before her. Then he paused and just looked at her. She was gorgeous; more beautiful than he could have imagined. Her young and healthy teats were full of the sweetest milk, although she had never yet borne a litter. They leaked upon the grass where she passed by, leaving the smell of infancy, and comfort and nourishment. Her fur was snowy white, and her nose was the most delicate shade of pink that Balsamic had ever seen. It was the first time he had ever been transfixed by the sight of anything.
He paused, unsure, for the moment, of what to say. Then his renowned instincts returned. He sniffed provocatively, and said softly, "Rut?"
She acted as if he had not spoken, and sniffed at the flower he had dropped.
Balsamic tried several times to evoke a response from her, and each attempt was gradually more extravagant. Finally he delivered his cartwheel-tail-chasing-snort-dig dance, the gist of which clearly implied "I'm very strong, and I wish to give you a litter. Together we shall create a mighty warren of rabbits, whose names will be uttered by predators only in dread and loathing."
Whereupon, having never been refused such an offer, he squared himself off and pounced. She dodged, and he tumbled into a tree-trunk, smacking his head against a root. Dazed and bewildered, he clawed at the tree for a moment or two, as if trying to determine which end of it was the end of the white rabbit upon which he had hooked his intentions.
A soft laugh sounded behind him, and his head cleared as he turned to look at its source. The white rabbit was nibbling the flower he had dropped, and was evidently amused. He pounced again, this time with more success, but she sloughed him off adroitly, and hopped away several feet. He lunged at her again, and suddenly she was off like a shot, with a speed that astonished him. Balsamic determined at that moment that he must have her, whatever the effort involved.
He chased her back to the stream where she cleared the water without using the stepping stones. Balsamic was awe-struck. She watched him from the opposite shore, but as soon as he started to cross, she turned and fled once again. He chased her through the woods and over the rocks into the next meadow, and the next, and the next. She ran into a cave. The light of day was swallowed up by a grey twilight which soon became as dark as jet. He would have been utterly lost were it not for her lovely scent which made his brain race and compelled him onward. The scent led him back into the sunlight where he blinked in blazing blindness. He had to follow the white rabbit by scent for several more minutes until his eyes became accustomed to daylight again.
When he began to see clearly again, he realized she had led him into a part of the valley where he had never been before. Although the barren terrain offered little shelter from owls he redoubled his pace and raced after the white rabbit. She bounded ahead toward a rocky outcropping which rose out of the dry soil of the plateau. She disappeared around a boulder.
When Balsamic rounded the boulder he was startled to see that the chase had ended, for the white rabbit had run into a little box canyon, and there was no way for her to escape. She was panting heavily, but despite the dust on her coat, Balsamic was struck yet again by her astonishing beauty.
He paused, gasping for breath, exhausted from the pursuit. After breathing heavily for a moment, he began moving toward her again, this time more slowly. Suddenly she spoke.
Her voice was clear, like the cool air of the morning in late spring. He felt his ears were starved for the sound of it, and devoured the words before he could comprehend them.
"Balsamic, stop."
He obeyed without even thinking about it.
"You must know who I am before you can give me a litter."
Balsamic panted for a moment before answering, "You are the white rabbit."
"I am the Womb of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. If you enter into me, you will be changed forever. Your desires will themselves be consumed. Sweetest clover will be like sand in your mouth. Clearest water will taste like dust. Your heart will be heavy, and your thoughts consumed by longing. You will pace for hours at night without sleeping, and of your suffering there will be no surcease. The darkness of midnight will chase the sun from the sky above you, and the coldness of midwinter will blast you in the springtime."
"But I will have you."
"You will have all that I am."
"I must have you."
She seemed unsure of what to say. "You are certain of that?"
"I must have you."
She was silent. Finally she moved toward him, smoothly closing the distance between them in a single hop. The smell of her reawoke his exhausted brain, and he joined her in a whirlwind of confused exultation. Every detail of her rose before his senses until he was utterly swamped and swept away. He was unaware of space or time. His brain was rushing with blood. There was a pounding in his ears, and sparks began to swim before his eyes. A fierce pain began a growling he felt rather than heard from his loins, which grew into a maelstrom of excruciating desire. The dull pounding in his ears grew and filled his head, and became an ocean of hunger pulverizing the fragile shores of his mind. He felt that somewhere deep inside him, a craze of tiny fractures had begun to groan outward, until every fiber of his body was screaming like a million ravens.
And then, for the first time in his life, he felt gladness. It rushed through him, soaking instantly into every crack and chasm of his infant soul, surging through him, and filling him with its weight, until he could no longer bear it. His throat began to ache, and his tongue writhed in his mouth.
Suddenly, in clear, plain English, he said, "Oh, my God!"
Balsamic and the white rabbit continued for days and weeks. After several months, the white rabbit began to bear litters, even while their amorous conjugation continued apace. The young were fed by the white rabbit's miraculous milk, and they moved away beyond the edges of The Valley Of One Hundred Meadows. Balsamic and the white rabbit's bodies began to fade away, nonetheless, their lovemaking continued.
Gradually their offspring began to change; their bodies altered in shape, and they became ever more intelligent. Eventually their children became many other races of beings, such as Australopithecus, Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon. A final race was borne after 10,000 million years. This race was called Homo Sapiens, and this race sprang full grown from the womb of the white rabbit. As they were born, the white rabbit reached the height of her arousal, and she exploded into a billion billion pieces. Her cry went up like the scream of a hare, both anguished and ecstatic. Her cry wrenched the hearts of the daughters of Homo Sapiens, and they rushed out of their dwellings into the night air. Each shard of her being, as it fell to earth, was lodged into the soul of a daughter of Homo Sapiens.
When this happened, Balsamic was astonished, and stricken with grief. He wept with longing for his beloved, and began desperately to seek her out in the world, but because she was lodged into the soul of every daughter of Homo Sapiens, he could always catch the scent of her, but he could never find her. He knew no comfort or pleasure or solace. Finally, in wretched grief he cast himself from the edge of the sky down upon a mountain top. He was shattered into a billion billion pieces with a sound like a mighty clap of thunder. The sons of Homo Sapiens were awakened by this noise, and they rushed out of their tents to see what was the matter. Each shard of Balsamic's tortured soul, as it fell to earth, was lodged into the soul of a son of Homo Sapiens. From that day to this, Balsamic continues his desperate search for the beloved white rabbit.
Posted by joel at 12:23 AM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
August 17, 2004
squid mythology
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Posted by joel at 11:25 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
August 16, 2004
positive thinking: the anti-peeve
Everybody knows that positive thinking is better than a negative outlook. I should provide some facts and statistics on this, and studies done by Johns Hopkins U, but I won't because everybody knows this is true. Positive thinking is just better. Negative thinking is not as good. Positive...Negative. The words themselves almost tell the story.
But sometimes we have to think negatively, because things just, well, you know, they just suck. So what do you do? You can't always control the things that suck, and you can't go through life pretending they don't exist. How do you resolve these two apparently conflicting life forces?
The answer, my friends and gentle readers, is the anti-peeve. That's right. You may ask (go ahead, I'll wait), "what is an anti-peeve?" And I might answer, "What isn't an anti-peeve?" But I won't, because that sort of snide, negative response doesn't solve anything. So here it is: an anti-peeve is just the same observation, except flipped around and re-expressed in positive terms. For instance, I don't grouse about high gas prices anymore. No, instead I lean against my fender and observe (with a wry smile), "I just love how a year ago gas prices were way, WAY lower than they are today."
Another example; I don't complain about how bad my drivers' license photo looks. Instead I say, "I am just so pleased with how I looked on certain other days when I wasn't having my drivers' license photo taken. In fact, I'm thrilled, because I look better than that nearly all the time!"
The cool thing is that this method is as useful when things are going great as it is when they aren't so great. Whenever I win at card games, I always say, "I'm delighted that I finally won ONCE after playing with you damned card sharps for hours!"
Whenever you get an A in a particularly difficult class, you can say, "Oooh, now that's really going to bring up my average." If anyone is actually listening to you, continue, "Isn't it awesome how practically every other prof I've ever had isn't such a total ass?"
So get off your often not lazy duff, get out there, and starting using the anti-peeve. And when folks ask how it's working out, answer, "I just love how my life hasn't gotten any better, but now I'm thinking much more positively about how everything FREAKIN' BLOWS CHUNKS!" Be sure to smile sweetly afterward.
I know you'll soon find it's much easier to be positive when you think about your Pandora's Box of troubles in terms of anti-peeves. As for me, I know it's going to be wonderful to not have to hear everybody bitching and whining nonstop all day anymore.
Posted by joel at 08:12 PM | Comments (5) | TrackBack
August 12, 2004
bully for me
I sat on the ground and contemplated my dilemma. I could taste the dust in my mouth. My eyes were burning and watering. I looking up at my oppressor, the aptly named Brian Stinger, who had just decked me for the 19th time in as many minutes. At that moment I hated him as much as I had ever hated anyone in my 10 year old life.
Brian wasn't evil incarnate. I'd stayed overnight at his house a time or two, and had found, to my surprise, that he could be downright friendly. He seemed, on those occasions, to take me under his wing; he taught me the skills of his trade, such as throwing rocks at chickens, and skulking through the woods without detection. He even confided to me that he sometimes rolled up grass and smoked it out behind the barn. But back in the school yard, all former deals were off.
I decided to make a run for the enormous tractor tire laying on its side in the playground. I stood up and made ready to sprint. Wham! Down again. I sat dazed for a moment, processing the dust all over again, leaning on one hand, as I rested on one hip. I winced up at Brian, but couldn't see his expression. His head was backlit by the sun, the motes of dust crowning outward like the mane of a dark windago.
I don't know how the fight with Jasper Cross got started. In fact, we had no idea it was actually a fight. We thought it was play. Jasper was an immense sophomore with cat-like reflexes. We of the Triple Trouble Gang encountered him that day on the field of a battle royale already in progress. Half a dozen younger and smaller boys were repeatedly hurling themselves upon him, and he flung them off deftly, like a dark-skinned god of war. We were instantly infected by the mobthink, and joined the fray. I didn't feel anger or fear. Quite the opposite; it was a thrill to be bested by such a man.
But somehow the tale of that war didn't go down well in the history books, and we were summoned shortly after the glorious battle to the office of the school's superintendent. On the way to our doom, we Troublers quickly divided the impending tasks. "You do the walking," I pointed at Aaron, "You do the knocking," I said looking at Chris, "And I'll do the talking."
"I want to do the knocking," said Aaron. Chris thought everyone should talk for himself. We entered the office with the question unsettled.
I remember the superintendent solicited our separate versions, and that he listened carefully to each of the boys in the room. I don't remember what I said, but I remember trying to tell it truthfully, throwing our fate upon the mercy of the court. We didn't get the paddle that day.
Some how at this moment I arrived at a decision that many boys in countless school yards have had to make. It was time for this to stop. I looked at Brian again, this time to size him up, to check his posture, and his level of attention. And then I paused on the precipice of indecision.
I don't know what finally triggered my next move. Although my mind would later proudly own the action, it was, in truth, my body which made the final decision. Suddenly I was on my feet. Brian grinned again with expectation and started moving toward me. But his head began to turn to the side and a slight grimace of surprise crossed his face as I moved directly toward him. We closed the gap instantly, and I put my hands on his chest and shoved as hard as I could. Brian was brought up short, and stood still, slightly off balance for an instant. I immediately pressed my advantage, stepping in quickly, hooking my right leg behind his left, and shoving him again with all my strength.
He went down hard; I watched the familiar cloud of dust from a different perspective this time, and felt a flash of delight. I felt a strange kinship with this bully; I could see why he would enjoy this. But I did not dare linger and gloat. I had my freedom to secure, so I turned and rushed to the jungle gym, to join my unhelpful friends.
At the close of our recess I shuffled amid the throng of my jocund peers, jostling back into the school building. Inside the door the principal was waiting. She locked eyes with me, and then made a beeline for my ear, grasping it, nearly pulling it out of my head, it seemed. "Don't you ever let me catch you picking on another student!" she hissed fiercely. "Or we will have some real trouble."
And then she left me, disgraced, wounded and unheard. I remember the unfairness burned more than my ear. I confess I pitied myself at that moment. But the seeds of two important lessons had germinated.
First, a man must do what a man must do. I'm sorry, Mrs. Blue, that you didn't get to hear my story that day. My soul has no more worth than Brian Stingers', and he would also have benefited from your kindly attention that day. But I cannot regret setting him roughly down. It had to be done.
The second lesson is this: sometimes a right decision bears its own consequences. When you become a man, you accept it as the cost of doing business; don't waste time with self pity. Do the right thing, and accept your due with pride.
I'm not sorry I fought Jasper Cross either. It remains one of my gladdest memories. I just wish I'd told Jasper what I thought of him.
Posted by joel at 03:32 AM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
August 10, 2004
riddle
A river red,
A river white,
Side by side
flow through the night.
One flows East,
One flows West;
Nor ever meet,
Nor ever rest.
Posted by joel at 01:19 PM | Comments (9) | TrackBack
August 07, 2004
making space for everything
 the manual. |
Posted by joel at 07:31 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
August 06, 2004
everything part iv
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Posted by joel at 06:24 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
everything part iii
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Posted by joel at 06:06 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
subjective truth
"Isn't there something special, perhaps even divine, about the human soul?" interviewer Walter Isaacson asks Gates."His face suddenly becomes expressionless," writes Isaacson, "his squeaky voice turns toneless, and he folds his arms across his belly and vigorously rocks back and forth in a mannerism that has become so mimicked at Microsoft that a meeting there can resemble a round table of ecstatic rabbis."
"I don't have any evidence on that," answers Gates. "I don't have any evidence of that." -- Time Magazine, Jan. 13, 1996
The thesis I want to put forward is this: the greatest truth reaches us through apparently subjective channels. First, a couple of definitions to set this up:
sub•jec•tive adj. - a. Proceeding from or taking place in a person's mind rather than the external world: a subjective decision. b. Particular to a given person; personal: subjective experience.
ob•jec•tive adj. - a. Uninfluenced by emotions or personal prejudices: an objective critic. b. Based on observable phenomena; presented factually: an objective appraisal.
I'm no mystic, far from it. But instinctively we all accept that the stronger truths are subjective. We say things like, "a picture is worth a thousand words" because pictures have the power to translate us into a subjective experience much more eloquently and efficiently than human language can. We watch a political candidate talk about her voting record, career, military service and the unemployment rates in her home district, and we know that she's trying to tell us that she's reliable, experienced, and effective. All these objective factoids are meant to help us voters reach a rather subjective conclusion about the candidate.
Of course, objective communication is absolutely vital. It is a peculiar fact of the human condition that in our corporeal existence we are insulated from each other. We can feel any number of things about a loved one, but unless we find a way to express it in objectively observable ways, our loved one will not get the message. That box of chocolates or a dozen roses are provable factoids by which we hope our beloved will reach the rather subjective conclusion that we are smitten. An internal (read subjective) process in one person leaps the barrier of our separateness and sparks a corresponding internal process in another person. Objective communication is the sty we must use to get over the fence.
God, of course, is not inhibited by any such fences. He is a spirit, and a perfect communicator. His objective truths serve the cause of His greater truth, which seems subjective merely because it is personal, shared between Himself and each of us separately. What God communicates to us personally is often not reproducible in objective terms. When we try to tell our friends about an experience with God, we get that sinking, disappointed feeling that it's just not getting across. In fact, it sounds downright silly. This is not simply a matter of non-believers not understanding what it's like to encounter God. This awkwardness happens when we try to explain our experiences to other believers; people we feel should be of like mind. We feel they ought to understand; they may have had similar experiences themselves. But somehow the message was stamped "eyes only", and other sympathetic friends cannot read it. At best we can hope our friends have experienced the same frustration, and will relate to our dilemma.
To flip the situation around, it is tempting to assume another person's personal experience is subjective. That which cannot be measured or understood by outside parties must be merely subjective, that is to say it must be entirely internal. For example, I attend a Broadway musical with a friend, and leave rather put off by the whole experience. But my friend was profoundly moved, and is feeling emotional about it. I conclude that her experience was merely subjective, that it's all in her head. But is it? Have I truly investigated what happened to her during the course of the play, or have I just jumped to a conclusion? As a logician, if I conclude my friend is just being emotional because of some wholly internal experience, I'm assuming a lot. For one thing, I'm assuming there is no God who might be holding personal conversations with my friend.
On the other hand, when I see a woman weeping as she sends her only son off to war, I don't assume she's just working herself up. My intellect is satisfied; the circumstances offer a plausible explanation for her emotion. But a critical look at my understanding of what the mother is experiencing shows that while I conclude her grief may be reasonable, I still don't necessarily understand her grief in the subjective sense.
Of course, subjective channels can also be used to convey the biggest lies. The phrase "Lies, damned lies and statistics" must encompass both objective and subjective information. Just as objective statistics can be used to deceive, so can subjective experiences. Many Christians fall into the trap of assuming truth arrives from either one or the other; this is dangerous stuff. The objective truths we know act as reference points. Since we exist as discrete, isolated pockets of apparent subjectivity, we need objective truth to guide us to each other, and ultimately home. Objective truth is not the destination, nor even the road. It just provides reference points to get us there. The destination and the road are both personal. That is not to say they can be different for each person. It just means it's difficult for us to effectively compare notes. The goal is to arrive at the same location as Someone Else, while never ceasing to be ourselves. This is a dangerous pilgrimage, but the danger serves a purpose. The danger inherent in this natural world is there to insure that whatever we discover about God is not merely objective, but rather, subjective; that is to say, whatever we learn about God must be personal.
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August 05, 2004
meet 'neasy
This is the sweet potato I told you about.
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Posted by joel at 06:52 PM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
i do mean everything
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Posted by joel at 05:33 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
pictures of everything
I just bought a digital camera, and so you'll have to bear with me; for the next several days, I'll probably be taking pictures of EH-VREE-THING!!! First up, this dandelion. The hand model is my nine year old son.
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Posted by joel at 03:34 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
indecent proposal
I was recently approached by an old friend at the DoD. It happened in the usual way; I picked up my phone to make a phone call, and suddenly Vance was there, talking to me, just as if my phone had been ringing when I picked it up. Creepy, but you get used to it.
"Joel, ole buddy, how's every little thing?" Vance said, with his usual interest in minutiae.
"Hey, Vance," I replied, trying not to sound nonplussed, "I'll tell ya, things, right now, are fannn-tastic." This was, of course, a kind of signal. For some reason, Vance wants me to say "fannnn-tastic" whenever things are actually just fine. He arranged this signal years ago. I don't talk like that with anybody else. And frankly, I don't understand how the word "fannn-tastic" would throw of Al-Qaida, or even NASA, but oh well. I figure it's Vance's game, let the man work.
"I understand you've started a website."
Suddenly I had a sinking feeling. "Ah, yeah, about that, I hope you know I would never--"
"Of course I know," Vance interrupted. "You're good people, at least you always have been. Your July 30th I Am Job post nearly had the boss crapping his pants, but I managed to convince him that sometimes the best place to hide something is in plain view. Which got me to thinking."
Uh-oh.
"The Department needs someplace to stash problematic data. We feel your site is perfect."
There he goes with the euphemism-speak; The Department (as if DoD is the only one we could ever be talking about) and problematic data...wait a minute, did he-- "Wait a minute, Vance, you're not serious about this?"
"Eyes-only stuff, m'boy," he crowed. "Your site is perfect because nobody actually reads it."
I began to be a little offended. "Well, funny you should say that, Vance, because I've been working on promoting the site. I've improved the meta tags, submitted it to several blog search engines--"
"Negative."
"Huh?"
"Negatory."
"Vance, speak English."
"Negatious. No how, no way. Cease and desist immediately. Shut. It. Down."
"Not gonna happen Vance, this amounts to censorship, and circumvents my civil rights."
Vance was silent for a moment. I could almost hear the gears in his brain working. Finally he spoke up: "How many visitors you gettin'?"
"Yesterday I had twenty unique visitors."
Vance erupted into a roaring guffaw which showed his drill sergeant roots. "Twenty! I bet they were unique, every one of 'em! Figures you'd have a site that only the kooks read!" More uproarious laughter.
Now I really was offended. Many of my readers are family members, and therefore possibly as kooky as I. But I have other readers too, some of whom I know to be decent and reliable people. Some of them are even living in England, a country often remarked upon for its reliability.
"Frankly, Helbling, I don't see a problem, as long as things remain stable."
I audibly sighed. I hate when people do that, but I couldn't think of a better way to express my resignation and futile objection to this new development. "Ok, how will I receive the information?"
"Oh, don't worry about that, we'll just slip it in there."
"Of course."
"I was not here, this conversation did not happen," Vance intoned, and then suddenly I was listening to a fast dial tone.
As I hung up the phone, I was musing about all the good and bad times I'd been through with Vance. He'd saved my life countless times, and I'd pulled through a time or too for him. Like that time we were both undercover as crab fishermen, and he got lanyarded, and washed overboard, and I clipped 2000 feet of heavy gauge steel cable to the mizzen, and dove overboard after him. Vance had a son soon after that, and named him Phillip after me (he couldn't actually name him "Joel" because officially I don't have any connection to or knowledge of Vance).
So I guess I'll grant this, as a favor to Vance, for old times' sake. As if I had any choice.
Posted by joel at 10:07 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
August 04, 2004
odd tod tribute
If you haven't already checked out Odd Todd then go there first. Please, for the love of Pete, don't click on this audio blog before you expose yourself to Odd Todd. Errr...nevermind.
In this case, indigence is the sincerest form of flattery.
Posted by joel at 12:35 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
this concludes our broadcast day
It's 4:21am, and I'm heading for bed. I've just spent hours researching wholesalers, eBay businesses, affiliate marketing, eBook publishing and the 2005 Writers Market.
I stood up to go to bed, leaving Dido to seranade me down the hall, when I paused in the doorway of my stylishly burnt orange office, turned around and took a look. I wondered for the 50th time this week if I'll be able to keep my house, whether I'll be a failure at whatever the heck I finally figure out to do, and what it'll all mean to me and my son.
For some reason I can't put my finger on (er, on which I cannot my finger put) I know that it's going to be ok. This isn't life or death, or I'd probably worry about it less. It's not inconsequential or I wouldn't worry about it all. It's somewhere in between, in those grey rough moors where we seem to have so much trouble entrusting our fates to our Father.
This morning I have a better idea what I really want to do than I did a month ago. I still don't know how I'm going to pay my bills, but I know what I want to do. And that's worth something. Probably, in the end, it'll be worth everything. Good night, everybody.
Posted by joel at 04:36 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
August 03, 2004
sweet albert
Several months ago, I discovered "Sweet-N-Easy" microwave-ready sweet potatoes. You simply nuke this modern marvel in its "'FLAVOR-SAVER™' wrap for 7 minutes for oven-baked sweet potato taste." The label on this toothsome treat hastily assures us: "twiced washed, no preservatives."
The particular specimen which is the subject of my post sat in the cool darkness of my pantry for unknowable stretches of time. The danged thing sprouted, of course, and for a few weeks sent its cute little creepers blindly groping about the inside of its plastic shroud. And then one day, I opened my spud cabinet, and six inch pale pink slips reared up as if to say, "I am Ipomoea batatas! Bring me sunlight immediately!" At least I imagine that's what happened, because I can't remember why I carried the thing into my office and set it on my desk.
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It is the marvelous "Flavor Saver™" which has maintained my Sweet-N-Easy at the optimal 85-90% humidity, turning my sweet potato into a little biosphere, thus bestowing its longevity. Moisture retention is nearly 100%, with only minor shriveling on the end which sports the sprouts.
I've named him "Albert" after Albert Wada, president of Wada Farms Potatos, origin of my spud's odyssey. I don't know how long we can go on like this, Albert and I. All life is fleeting, and we doom ourselves to dispair when we try to hang onto the past. Amazingly, Albert himself has a word of wisdom for me: the final word on the inside of the label which Wada Farms has placed on this convenient repackaging of one of natures most convenient foods is simply the word "ENJOY!" And so I have.
Posted by joel at 12:15 PM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
August 02, 2004
squashing big corporations
Today I researched shopping cart programs and credit card processors. I'm leaning strongly toward commerce-cgi.com's script and 2checkout.com for cc processing. I'm also looking for product to sell, and am researching search engine optimization (SEO).
Apparently most major corporations are not spending a lot of money on SEO, so smaller companies that are willing to put in the effort and research to optimize their placement in the major search engines can outperform the big guys. One of the major ways to move up in the search engines' results is to have lots of inbound links from others' sites. So I'd like to take a moment to thank each of you who has linked to me from your website. You're the secret to my success. At least you will be, and don't think I won't forget it. Er...don't think for a minute that I will forget it, because I certainly will.
I'm also waiting with breath for my copy of the 2005 Writers' Market. That's right, I'm going to find some agents/publishers/magazines, and start pestering them. If I don't get published, at least we shall all have a few good laughs about it right here at chezJoel.com...won't we? Hello? Is anybody there?
Ok, so I need two things from you: 1) inbound links, and 2) I need you to read my posts, poems and articles. Mentioning me to your agent/publisher/magazine friends wouldn't hurt either. Hmmmm...what if I could get inbound links from agents', publishers' and magazines' websites? That would rock!
In case you wondered, yes, I did just down a 20 ounce iced latte (that's 3 shots of espresso), and I'm feeling a bit frenetic. I'll do you a favor and not post once I've settled down. It's more fun this way.
Posted by joel at 05:54 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
bolgri and the long day of squashing
Once upon a time, dear children, there was a bolgri. This bolgri was a completely ordinary sort of bolgri; just the sort you've become accustomed to seeing whilst riding the chube, or popping out for a bun, or having tea. There was nothing so very different about this bolgri at all, in fact, except for one very minor thing: this bolgri was unemployed. All day long the bolgri would muck about on the 'net, scrounging up "leads" (he was very fond of leads), or learning obscure computer languages, or concocting whoppers for his resume.
One very fine day (but not a particularly extraordinary day), the bolgri's telephone rang. He snapped out of his exhaustion-induced reverie, and gaped at the phone. Who do you suppose had rang him up? The caller id said "S. Colbert" which was not a name the bolgri recognized. The bolgri picked up the phone, and, in his politest bolgri voice, said, "Hello, a bolgri's residence. How may I assist you?"
"Hello, Mr. bolgri," said the voice on the other end of the line. "This is a job lead, making a collect call, will you accept the charges?"
The bolgri puzzled for a second. Normally he would be inclined to refuse the charges. But he knew, as any bolgri worth his potato starch rations knows, that a bolgri must spend money to make money. So he accepted the charges.
"Congratulations, Mr. bolgri, you now have a job!" said the job lead, in a slightly more personable tone. "When can you start?"
"Well," said the bolgri, "I suppose that rather depends on what it is you wish me to do."
"Oy!" said the job lead, sounding verifiably affable, "Squashing things of course! Can you start right away? We've a perfect ton of things to squash."
"I've never had a job where I was to squash things," said the bolgri, "What I mean to say is, I've squashed plenty, but only to please myself." The bolgri began to worry that he was running on, sounding uncertain, and likely to lose the job he'd already been offered. So he closed his bolgri mouth with a little snapping sound, like a very distant mousetrap, or like a honeybee being squashed by a flyswatter.
"Brilliant!" replied the job lead, in a chummy tone, "By the by, was that a honeybee being squashed by a fly swatter? Are you priming up for the job? Bravo, my dear bolgri, positively smashing! Oh dear me! I've made a funny! Bloody brilliant!"
So it was, that the bolgri of our story went off to his new job of squashing things. It was a good job; by turns exhilaratingly fun, and then funny, then the bolgri would grow somewhat tired, take a short break, and begin again. Sometimes he wondered to himself (whilst he busily squashed things, of course) whether he was actually cut out for squashing things at all. But, around three o'clock the job lead dropped by to see how the bolgri was doing, and he was so complimentary and so encouraging that the bolgri took heart, and began to think perhaps squashing things was just exactly the sort of thing he was suited for doing.
At the end of the very long day of squashing things, the bolgri set aside his custom fitted, state-of-the-art squashing equipment, and wearily (yet happily) trudged home. Although he was fairly knackered, he duly sat down before bedtime, and wrote in his journal a fluid yet concise account of his long day of squashing. And that is how this tale survives to this very day.
Posted by joel at 03:49 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
August 01, 2004
keeping the day job
My stint of unemployment is starting to make me nervous. I'm starting to think about other types of work...
Honest Work from Maddy Prior's Flesh & Blood album.
Posted by joel at 10:11 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack