Linking.

Confession: I've recently been blogging elsewhere. I thought, in the interest of consolidation (sort of), I should link here to that blog. It's the Chicago Tribune "Voice of the People" blog that exists, as far as I can tell, for the purpose of responding to letters to the editor. Which is what my posts were. Responses. Essays, you might say. So do not expect poetry (though I like to think they have a certain flare).

About two weeks ago, a woman from my hometown wrote a letter to the editor in response to an op-ed piece that denounced our military's "Don't ask, Don't tell" policy regarding gay soldiers. You'll find her letter if you scroll to the top of the page. Then, to read the responses in order, scroll all the way to the bottom and read upward. Scattered throughout, you'll find three back-and-forth response rounds between me and her (if you care to look, that is).

A change of pace from what I generally offer here, but I thought it might be of interest. It is to me, anyway.

Here's the link.

Enjoy. (Or not.) And feel free to comment -- there or here.

UPDATE: My blogalogue adversary fired another volley (though the ammunition seemed to be blanks). I've sent in my response, but judging from past experience I don't think it will be posted until sometime Monday. Keep checking there or here for updates (if you care) (if you really care, I'll email you my response) (if I know you) (or if I don't, actually).

Short, but sweet.

Finally.

The deodorant thing isn't working. Something's not right. It keeps getting detoured and sidetracked and broken down and then chased around by maniacal cannibals in the woods (anyone see Wrong Turn? Eliza Dushku? Anyone? Anyone? Buehler?). But I'll keep at it.

To tide you over. Since I know I've had oh so many of you at the edges of your seats for so long. Something old. From sophomore spring. But with a new title.

Enjoy. (Or not. Up to you.)

An aperitif.

Something about deodorant will be forthcoming soon.

But in the meantime: something old. Circa 2002. And revisited a bit since then.

And. As the style is not entirely my own. I should note: This stems from a writing prompt -- an imitation of the short shorts of Thomas Bernhard's Voice Imitator.

As commissioned, but untitled.

I'm not sure how to present this.

Except to say. I'm pretty certain this will not be its final draft. But I'm also pretty certain its final draft won't come anytime soon. Its roots are too many, I'm too attached to its petals, and its metaphors got mixed up and missed the boat.

Feel free to comment.

Feel free to suggest titles, too -- I'm leaning toward "Upon imagining several lived moments, and others."

A tribute [, which takes precedence].

Thanks to those who responded to the last post. The highest vote-getter was number 6. And whatever comes of those words will be here next. But for now...

I took a fiction workshop in college. We did writing exercises in class. For one session, the instructor had us bring in our favorite book. The exercise that week was simply to copy out, word for word, its opening page. And then to continue on our own, to see where that took us.

What follows is the first page of a favorite book from a favorite author. It also happens to be the entire first chapter. See where it takes you.

*****

THE DAY THE WORLD ENDED

Call me Jonah. My parents did, or nearly did. They called me John.

Jonah--John--if I had been a Sam, I would have been a Jonah still--not because I have been unlucky for others, but because somebody or something has compelled me to be certain places at certain times, without fail. Conveyances and motives, both conventional and bizarre, have been provided. And, according to plan, at each appointed second, at each appointed place this Jonah was there.

Listen:

When I was a younger man--two wives ago, 250,000 cigarettes ago, 3,000 quarts of booze ago...

When I was a much younger man, I began to collect material for a book to be called The Day the World Ended.

The book was to be factual.

The book was to be an account of what important Americans had done on the day when the first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, Japan.

It was to be a Christian book. I was a Christian then.

I am a Bokononist now.

I would have been a Bokononist then, if there had been anyone to teach me the bittersweet lies of Bokonon. But Bokononism was unknown beyond the gravel beaches and coral knives that ring this little island in the Caribbean Sea, the Republic of San Lorenzo.

We Bokononists believe that humanity is organized into teams, teams that do God's Will without ever discovering what they are doing. Such a team is called a karass by Bokonon, and the instrument, the kan-kan, that brought me into my own particular karass was the book I never finished, the book to be called The Day the World Ended.

*****

So it goes.

And.

If the accident will, freethinker.

Audience participation.

So. I have this list. It's a list of things I want to write about. Briefly. Like blog posts. Some of them fit together and some of them don't.

I also have another list of sorts. It's more like a collection. A collection of fragments. Bits worth revisiting.

I've included some items from both lists below.

I know there are only a few of you out there who read this blog at all regularly. But I wonder if you might comment on which you'd like to see expanded. And then I'll do my best to oblige.

So, here, then, is my offering.

(1) Deoderant.
(2) The number '9.'
(3) I dream, on occasion, of tragedy. [a beginning to something, i think]
(4) The concept of 'play.'
(5) The word 'interesting.'
(6) we sat with a crossword and/ she inked words i was unsure of--/ soon, i took the pen from her and/ as my correction marred the puzzle/ she said: you can still make me cry sometimes. [an ending to something, i think]
(7) The letter 'e.'
(8) Milk.

And with that, I await responses. Do your damnedest.

New and, I think, improved.

I don't know what I am. I don't know if I am or not.

Getting this out there.

I'm interested in religion. I think it's important to try to understand religious worldviews -- philosophically, because they purport to solve conundrums; psychologically, because they so often seem to satisfy a deep human need; and pragmatically, because so many people subscribe to them.

I find discussions of religion thought-provoking and exciting. Sometimes to the point of my friends' nausea. Or their irritation, depending on the friend. Because during those conversations, I tend to criticize modern, monotheistic religion.

But on occasion, the conversation continues until I reveal myself to be not entirely dismissive of modern monotheism. And it is, inevitably, at that point that my friend will sit back and say: Wait...Explain to me what you think. And though I try, I never satisfy myself; so I imagine there is no way my friend could be satisfied.

So. Here. I try to explain my thoughts on religion. Some of them at least. A very few of them, really. But here it is.

I find modern, monotheistic religion to be too unreasonable. I find it to be too unchanging. I find it to be too dogmatic. I find it to be too often intolerant.

I realize I'm painting with enormously broad strokes at the moment. I realize there are modern monotheistic religions that are more and less tolerant, more and less flexible, more and less adaptive, more and less self-critical.

Still, I'm not sure even the best modern monotheism has to offer is enough.

I realize, too, the virtues of many modern monotheistic religions. I acknowledge their positive moral teachings. I acknowledge the good work many people do in the names of their gods and their faiths.

Still, I'm not sure even the aggregate of the good produced is enough.

Enough, of course, to tip the balance away from the bad. And that is not a cheap shot. I'm not only referring to the Crusades, or the asinine hatred of gay people, or the horror of so-called honor killings. Those things were and are terrible.

But I mean to implicate something deeper. Something prior. Worldview. Think: What precipitates these terrible ends?

It is, it seems to me, a question of first principles. But, surprisingly, not so much what they are (because, to an important degree, that reality seems a function of what follows this next semicolon); rather, where we set out to look for them. Where we should look for them.

So. Where? Well. I am unwilling to submit to a single book; a single tradition; a single set of normative statements written millenia ago; the edicts of a single set of ordained anybodies; or the fiats of any one man, no matter how infallible he claims to be. I will not be colonized by the conquistadors of any "one true god."

But if monotheism is imperialism in religion, as has been said, then is polytheism liberation? An open polytheistic system, maybe? Paganism? It seems somewhat appealing. Wicca? Attractive in some respects. Hinduism? Buddhism? They have their moments as well.

Perhaps liberation is pantheism. It seems nice in many ways.

Perhaps an adamant agnosticism -- not doubt incorporated into faith, as is sometimes prescribed for monotheists with desires to be tolerant; but doubt as faith, faith in doubt.

Perhaps simple atheism.

Ultimately, I'm drawn to deontology, but not deities. Not for belief. For guidance, perhaps. But from all of them, every one, everyone's.

Religious teachings, moral philosophy and ethics, psychology and history, politics and friends, sight and conversation, novels and poems and paintings -- these can provide me my first principles. I will do my best to hash them out -- right and wrong, duty and responsibility and justice, interpersonal values. I will do my best to resolve my conflicts. And if occasionally, momentarily, I contradict myself -- then very well. I am large, as it's been said: I contain multitudes.

And for the "why are we here, and what happens when we aren't anymore" questions that seem of such importance to modern monotheists: I suppose I just don't much care about the answers. Or, more accurately, I think the questions are silly.

As I meet more and more people who truly enjoy working with numbers, the idea that there is one fundamental meaning of life seems less and less probable. Why are we here? The answer has to be limitless. If the governing metaphor of first principles is a common foundation, then the meaning of my life is what I build upon that base, and what I want to build but do not. And the meaning of your life is what you choose to build.

Our individual piles of bricks take shape over time. And while each hopefully gains a clarity of design and a desirable uniqueness, it cannot but be true that our edifices are strengthened and enhanced through interconnection.

And finally, then, it is interconnection that makes the second question silly, its answer obvious. What happens when we are no longer here? Other people remember us -- what we did, what we didn't do, what we said, what we never told, and how we made them feel.

A brief throwback post.

Apparently the porn industry, innovative as always, is dealing with high definition issues sooner than is Hollywood. And HDTV is proving to be something of a mixed blessing for these leviathans of lust (giants of the jerkoff? pharaohs of facials? titans of tinsel tassles?).

Opponents suggest high definition porn might not be what the doctor ordered (presumably on pay-per-view). Regular definition might be more flattering, these people suggest. (These are, I would think, the same pooh-poohers of authenticity who insist on turning the lights off.)

Proponents argue the high definition images allow viewers to feel even more a part of the action. (Notably, this is really the same argument made for HD Hollywood movies and HD sports broadcasts. Has a bit of a different feel to it here though.)

Still, even the champions of HD don't want pure reality. Using makeup, plastic surgery, new camera angles, and editing software (as well as the occasional switching of positions), these forward-looking (there's a joke there somewhere) porn magnates are taking regular purchasers of hard-core pornography closer to sex than they've ever been before (or, for many of them, ever will be), without losing the desired idealism to reality's highly-defined imperfections.

But as technology continues to improve, the cellulite and pimple problems will get worse. It will be up to these pioneers of...let's just leave it at pioneers...it will be up to them to make sure society's porn remains palatable.

In other news, a Cambodian woman has been reunited with her father after getting lost in the jungle at age eight and living as a wild animal for nineteen years. He identified her by her scars. And a man in Minneapolis has for the moment survived a sixteen-story fall out of a hotel window that ended with what I must assume was a hard landing on a first-floor overhang.

I suppose we all have our little problems.

All right stop, collaborate, and listen.

Written in class one day in 2003.

See, folks. Religion was bouncing around even before CJHS.

Stultifying suburbia, or, Stuck in the middle with you.

I like the Gilmore girls.

I discovered them last year on ABC Family. They were on every day. Twice. 10am and 4pm. The 10am show was the same as the previous day's 4pm show. (Or the 4pm show was a preview of the next day's 10am show. But then the glass would be half-full of distinction without any difference.) It didn't matter much -- I was at work during both showings. But I had a dvr last year. So I taped the 4pm episodes and watched them each night. (Or in mini-marathons on the weekends.) I caught up rather quickly that way. I think I've seen most every episode at this point.

I don't watch the current season. The original writers are gone now. And the dialogue is less quick and witty, the drama less biting and more sappy, the characters less tortured, more lovestruck, and seemingly stupider.

All that is to say: I don't defend the current season. I would, in the past, if pressed, defend the previous seasons. Not in that I would argue it wasn't a ridiculous, soap opera-y, Dawson's Creek reincarnate. I would just suggest that the dialogue was quick and witty, the drama was biting, and the characters were smart, rational, and tortured.

And then. Given that squinty-eyed, eyebrow-lowering quizzical look in response. I would shrug and wander away, either with my feet or with a change in topic.

But the shrug was never just a shrug. (No shrug is. Much like cigars. Despite what you may have heard.) The shrug hid what no one quite understood. The shrug disguised what you noticed when you first started reading this, but passed off as a missed shift key and a miscued pronoun:

I like the Gilmore girls. I like them.

Their show, I think, is (was) worth defending. Somewhat meekly. But I like them. I like their lives.

Lorelai struck out on her own and didn't give a damn what people wanted from her. What people expected of her. She raised an intelligent, funny, sarcastic daughter. They have best friends and movie nights. They live in a small town. They meet in the gazebo in the town square. They eat all their meals in a diner. They play their roles.

There's still something romantic about small town life. The closeness of individuals. The acceptance of anonymity in the face of the world. The drawing in of boundaries. Knowledge of next moves.

I expect my borders will continue to expand. And my next moves will never be so clear. City life is different. And I like it. I like it better, I think. More gritty and thought-provoking.

But the refreshing and thoughtful gets me sometimes. So I love Jeff Daniels and Charlize Theron in Trial and Error. I daydream occasionally about the witness protection program. I spend a week or two when I can in the various East Coast halcyon homesteads of a best friend raised with rural sagacity. I dreamt of two idyllic years writing at Sarah Lawrence.

And I picture myself in Stars Hollow. A troubadour for our romantic inclinations.

There is a passage through the darkness and the mist.

I found myself thinking about time.

I'd awoken with no idea of the hour. But I didn't know that at the time. So I wasn't thinking yet. The thinking (despite the limitations of our past tense) came later.

But. Then. (Upon awaking.) There was only wondering.

The immediate reaction to such wondering (in fact, really, the concurrent reaction) is to ask yourself (without ever, of course, actually asking yourself) what you can intuit.

My intuition was confused. The way I felt (so often so accurate) was no help at all. Truth be told, the way I felt was part of the problem. I was (warning: understatement approaching) hung over, and quite possibly still a bit drunk.

So it was. So be it. Plan B. I struggled to open my eyes, struggled against the contacts that had turned to double-sided suction cups (if you can imagine that) in the night.

I looked at the VCR display.

But. My VCR--the only clock I can see from my bed--was fucking with me.

Of course, I didn't know that at the time. No. At the time, I assumed it was right.

6:55 AM it blinked. (Looking at it now, the time doesn't blink. It must have been me that was blinking. It also doesn't say 'AM.' But that, at least, it seemed safe to assume.)

6:55. (More accurate.)

Anyway. I had no clue when exactly I'd put myself to bed, but I knew I wasn't ready to wake up. So I rolled over and fell back asleep. I believe I also moaned aloud. And clutched a pillow to my chest. (Those may seem unimportant details. They seem so to me. But there's no telling, really, what a reader might read into. Or. I suppose. There is only the telling.)

Then I woke up. (Again. It wasn't a dream. This isn't one of those.)

This time, I didn't attempt to feel the hour. I did, however, feel less full of tequila and beer, and more full of urine. I looked at the VCR clock (which was, of course, still fucking with me).

8:15. I stood up slowly, giving my head ample time to follow. It came less begrudgingly than I'd thought it would. On the way to the bathroom, I noted the clock on the stove.

10:15. I peed. As I stood in front of the toilet, I noted the clock next to the sink.

10:15. This time it surprised me. I took a double take and almost peed on the floor. (Almost.)

I washed my hands (two hours was only so surprising). I re-checked the stove. Checked the microwave. (10:15.) Lay back down in bed and turned to the TV Guide channel.

9:15. And I remembered. Daylight Savings Time. And somehow the VCR got confused. (I understood. We can only expect so much from each other.)

So it was 9:15. Despite the 8:15 and 10:15s surrounding me.

I'd awoken into involuntary uncertainty, between two points on an artificial human spectrum. Like a corpse forced to weigh the pros and cons of heaven and hell.

I rolled over, moaned aloud, clutched a pillow to my chest. And then I got up.

I spent 5 minutes resetting all my clocks. Tv. VCR. Stove. Microwave. Bathroom.

My phone and computer had reset themselves. Lucky bastards, I thought.

And then. I shut off the tv. I opened the windowshades. I turned on music. James Taylor's "Shed a Little Light" came on. (Actually, Jimmy Buffet's "Get Drunk and Screw" came on. And then Bon Jovi's "Bad Medicine." And then "Shed a Little Light." But it was still shuffle's doing.)

I listened. And heard.

And. I found myself thinking: about time.

Cropping something old. And then changing it completely.

I have no lid upon my head, but if I did, you could look inside and see what's on my mind.

The title of the last post was an orphan. A bit without a form. Without development.

So I tried to start with it.

But I've been having trouble writing here. (Hence the posting of old stuff.) So it didn't go anywhere. Or. Anywhere lengthy.

So. I now have more orphans. More bits for development. Mostly, because of the prophecy, about religion.

These are them. As I wrote them.

*****

In place of leaves/ we should burn/ pages and pages of prophecy.

Written around the time a friend of mine killed himself. The end of 2004.

From 2003.

I wrote this for a rally I didn't attend. Or. As it's been said. I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now.

[Clicking on it should bring it up larger. Apologies. But it being small was the only simple way to keep its formal integrity.]

This is me, without my hair.

It has been a relatively recent revelation for me that I tend, perhaps more than others (perhaps only because I do it on paper), to romanticize my past. I re-present it. I create characters. For myself and for others. The truth is in it all somewhere, more or less buried. And that is the essay I will always be writing.

This is something recent. It's an excerpt of something unfinished. And it is, itself, unfinished. It's probably in need of revision. I can't tell yet. Though, I should note, melodrama is part of the topic -- so at least some of the melodrama you find will probably remain.

*****

I’d tried desperately to avoid falling in love with this girl. I’d refused to say it aloud. I would find myself thinking it, almost verbalizing, with my mouth in her hair and my leg thrown over hers in a way that seemed utterly unique to the harmonizing contours of our bodies. And I would stop myself. I would not let myself speak the words. I’d thought (it seems so silly now) that would be enough. Enough of a wall.

It wasn’t.

And then because of that—because of all the willful stoppage—when I finally let the words emerge (and still, it was only in writing, at first, that I allowed myself to do it then), it was, for me, a culmination. It was a climax. This was, I was thinking, consciously or not, the zenith of something.

(Despite the break-up we’d rationally made official two weeks earlier.)

(Despite the outward awareness that this was a redundant ending (emphasis to no avail, in the end), and not the holding pattern of sorts I somewhere deeply imagined it to be.)

(Despite the rest of the words I’d written, listing the reasons I was glad for her sake she was leaving – not lies at all, but truths impugned.)

Then, for me, finally: Here was the moment.

Her tears—the suddenly sad kind (though due to nostalgia, I now recognize)—told me her eyes had immediately scrolled to the final line. Those three words. But she read, too, my listed reasons. And then, “I love you too.” She said it back. And then my tears came. And it was exactly as, I thought, it should have been. Two star-crossed lovers, I was thinking, torn apart by circumstance. How unbelievably sad. Forget the months of repressing feeling, attempting not to feel. How unbelievably sad. Forget the supposed indiscretion. How unbelievably sad. These two people were losing each other and neither of them wanted it that way. How unbelievably sad. I thought.

How unbelievably sad.

Because if my “I love you” was a peak finally crested, hers was a valley. Mine was a “Look! See what I can say to you after all this time!” And hers was simply an “Of course.” Of course she loved me. We’d known each other five years, spent countless hours lying in each other’s arms, finally dated for eight months, living together most weekends. Of course she loved me.

But her love for me was, then, unexceptional. While my love for her had grown extraordinary.

So what I heard from her then was what fit with my own feelings – the same love despite tragedy I’d finally acknowledged myself. When what she’d spoken was truly love despite failure. For her, she still loved me, but we’d failed.