Monday, November 24, 2003

I Set the Trap & Become the Beast

    Was it a careless step? A reckless jaunt?
    Was it the trapper's clever skills at work,
    out-planning what was never more than here?

    The trapped animal doesn't hate the man
    who set the iron jaws, or curse its luck,
    or think "this is the end". It never stops
    to feel these things. Maybe the pain's too great,
    maybe it never valued free movement
    until the trap's teeth tore into its leg
    & isn't ready now to start abstract
    thoughts when it needs every shred of strength
    to break the grip that holds it fast & leaves
    it prey to things unheeded in times past.

    It's funny, now, with its blood showing on
    the snow like poppies in the summer sun,
    it needs to move past present time & clear
    the here from now. It must plan what comes next
    take deliberate actions, or else it dies;
    but it's vague fear, real pain, the endless moment
    etched in muscle & timed by gnawing teeth
    that wins. & so the beast will either die
    or limp, at best, into a crippled future
    with bitter blood still fresh on its red tongue.

Thursday, November 20, 2003

Rememeber, Steve, I speak as someone raised in a church that demanded everything, but felt an outsider my whole life. So with my limited imagination I project the lack of "place" I had within that structure with the lack of "place" I had outside onto Matilda. So I slipped through the cracks & lived poorly in two worlds. No one should be split in two. So, Matilda is free to choose. She goes to our local Luthern Sunday School & believes in Jesus. What has worried me lately, though, is the wishy-washy stance I take is put up against the self-assured stance of the devout that fill her life. If she chooses as an adult (or close enough) to join a church I don't believe in, that will be her business. I just don't want her to be filled with propoganda at a young impressionable age until an actual choice isn't possible, or comes after much difficulty. I tend to remember my advice to a certain friend was, "if your heart tells you it's right, then you have to listen." That's true of everything in life.

I felt an unrestrainable need to respond to some of what you posted. And as I can't restrain, I won't.

“So she said, "Isn't that funny. He goes to church now & you don't." Followed immediately by, "Does he know you don't?" When I said he did, she said with what I imagined as tinges of amazement, "& he's still coming?" As if I'd become less human, or despicable by changing my beliefs.”

I was not there, but they way it is written there are many different readings. For instance, it could be read that she believes you were instrumental in my joining the church and now that you left, it is shocking that I would go (the way you see a woman convert and then leace when thy get engaged to their Mormon boyfriend who later jilts them). Alternatively, it could mean that as brilliant as you are as, she is amazed that anyone would disagree with you :-)

“The idea of a principled withdrawal from "the Church" is a foreign notion.”

As you pointed out, the scriptures (such as Moroni 10:4) essentially say that if you are an honest seeker of truth, you would reach the same conclusion as any Mormon and stay part of the church. Thus, one who believes the BOM has little choice, but to question a withdrawal of the church. I fully know that the logic I used is analogous to the “Jesus loves me this I know, because the good book tells me so” logical fallacy, but to a believer who has already presumed the truth of the beliefs as an axiom, this logic makes sense.

“Mormons in general believe so wholeheartedly in the Truth of their religion”

With the exception of a few wishy-washy individuals like myself who are somewhat scared of the faith they feel, and thus seek to constantly question it and themselves.

“I hated disappointing her. God knows they face rejection everyday, behind nearly every door they knock on & I was sorry I contributed to her portion today.”

Random question: Did you hate disappointing her more than you would have hated disappointing an encyclopedia saleman that had called? If, so why?

“I am lukewarm”

I am lukewarm. I am a lukewarm person.

By the way I think it is cool that you still think about religious issues. I think people should periodically assess all their beliefs and things they hold as true even if those beliefs are a lack of belief.

“But I don't want her tangled up with any religion that demands you sacrifice so much in this life on the promise of rewards in the next.”

I understand this urge. My father did not wish me to be an alcoholic, join the army, or become an accountant as he wished better for me than the “mistakes” he made. There is a bit of sacrifice in many religions, but it is not just a taking away. Religion and faith are very important for people to have and I for one would not wish my children to be devoid of them regardless of what it was in. There are people I know who make belief in God, the divine, and an afterlife, the substrate upon which the build their lives. It has enriches their lives more than anything else could. With all honesty, I would gladly give up everything I have merely for the opportunity of knowing with a 100% surety that God and an afterworld exist. I’d give it up just for the knowledge and not for what any change in my ultimate fate. The life of the zealot is a great life indeed for it in infused with a sense of purpose, faith, and a belief in something greater than self (some how this seems slightly different than just fate).

I could probably try to come up with some profound tie about how you don’t want Matilda to join the church comes from the same source as you mothers wish that you would rejoin the church. However, you can probably come up with this link already. Whether the juxtaposition of yourself in her place, leads to a fuller understanding of your mother and her wants for you I suppose is a question you no doubt have already answered.

About the “demanding so much “ paragraph, I wanted to find a quote By Joseph Smith which is something to the effect of “a religion that does not demand everything of its believers cannot inspire adequate faith for…”. Sadly I can’t remember or find it. But it is quite a thought.

So should I not ask you for a ride to church Sunday ;-)

“girls give up everything to raise a family”

I suspect many get a sense of meaning from this “spirit crushing” activity. Perhaps more since they are part of a faith that focuses and praises such action.

I love your description of Owen. Without meeting him, I feel I know what he looks like. Ok I guess I have also seen a couple pictures of him, but it really was a great description. That is also a cute description of him with the shaving episode. It is nice to have someone smile at you when you get home. That is why I always go to Walmart (a block from home), before going home. That way I get to talk to greeter. I don’t get that at home (Dave and I have very different schedules).

Matilda sounds precocious (I just wanted to use that word).

It is amazing how a sight or smell can water long dormant seeds of thought. The way you felt about the Pakastani heart breaker is something I occasionally deal with. 4 of the women I have loved most, I am still friends with and every once in a while a long ago feeling will rise to the surface.

“Drunks' faces have very intimate relationships with pavement. They seem irresistibly attracted to each other. I often look at the drunks”

Nice passage. It is very reminiscent of how Steinbeck portrayed a drunk in a book I just read. I have always been interested in the mythical drunk. They inhabit a story land and I have often heard tell of such creatures even living amongst us, but I do not see them. As I drive from Fair Oaks to Fair Lakes I think I catch a glimpse of one before he darts away. Of the people I have known, not one is a drunk. Even my father who was an inveterate alcoholic was not a drunk. Where do they come from. Do they sprout from the ground where once dragon teeth had been sown?

“Is it possible to interact with the world in a healthy way?”

Yes. I know some who do. I even feel that I do. I interact with the world as a rafter interacts with the water. I pass through it on a nice, serene journey. Others with more passion and spirit than I, eat the marrow from the bones of life. This too is healthy.

By the way, I do hide and shelter myself, and choose to experience the part of the world I like. Yet it is a conscious choice and suits me well (in so far as I like my life and seem more content than most). As far as what you said about the blog, I still hide in that. Things of great import often don’t show up while the mundane appears instead. I don’t post about relationships and girls I date (at least not much). I don’t post about some of my big hopes and dreams. I don’t post about religion or politics much. I have talked about church but am not sure I have ever used the word Mormon though of course those who are initiated and thus accepting surely know I am one. I to some extend hide my love of math and science as I wish not to bore others to tears.

SURPRISED BY THOUGHTS UNSPOKEN, SPOKE AT LAST

When I told my mother that Steve had converted to Mormonism, it was as an aside that might give her a connection to him that wasn't there before. But instead I caught a peek of what she thinks about me.

I've told myself that my mother must not mind where I'm at these days because she doesn't hassle me with religion. I assumed this because she'd not very good holding her peace or letting things go. (Nor am I for that matter.) So she said, "Isn't that funny. He goes to church now & you don't." Followed immediately by, "Does he know you don't?" When I said he did, she said with what I imagined as tinges of amazement, "& he's still coming?" As if I'd become less human, or despicable by changing my beliefs.


SINCERE MISUNDERSTANDINGS

"And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost." -Moroni 10:4

& that's the problem dealing with both my family & Melina's. The idea of a principled withdrawal from "the Church" is a foreign notion. Our lapse of belief must be caused by folly, error, or weakness of the flesh. Mormons in general believe so wholeheartedly in the Truth of their religion that not receiving an affirmative answer to Moroni's challenge (above) is seen not as God's failing, but as the person who goes answerless or receives an answer contrary to Mormon beliefs.

I can understand this, but it is very discouraging to know that I am looked at in this way by my mother. Not that religion is the only area of off-limits conversation. There's really little we can talk about. Once an opinion takes root in my mother, I doubt anything could shake it. & for the most part I disagree with about everything she believes. & when we do agree, it is almost never for the same reasons.


THE PAST COMES CALLING

I'd probably have let this all go, but this morning I received a call that put me in a sad mood.

Last night, coming home with Melina after she splurged on clothes (good for her!), I saw two "sister" missionaries get on our bus. I wondered if they were on their way to our home, since they were definitely Lauttasaari-bound. But they got off near the Myllylä's home (Harri being the Bishop of the local ward), which I took for their destination. But their appearance was a foreshadowing of the morrow.

This morning Sister Olson (the one of the pair whose nametag I'd read the night before) calls me asking if they could visit us next week. My abrupt "No" left her sounding deflated and discouraged. I could hear her Utah accent signal disappointment. I apologized briefly, but affirmed my "no" before hanging up.

I was left with a bad taste in my mouth. I hated disappointing her. God knows they face rejection everyday, behind nearly every door they knock on & I was sorry I contributed to her portion today. But I don't want to be bothered by them. There is nothing they can say that will make me see the error of my ways. My choices were made deliberately. I listened to my heart & mind. It would waste everyone's time to sit as strangers discussing things so personal (he says, not missing the irony of the context in which these words are offered). Not to mention that discussion and words mean nothing in the search for god & enlightenment.


RELIGIOUS POT LUCK

"I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot: I would thou wert cold or hot.
So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of my mouth. " -Revelations 3:15-16


Hearing testimonies & what others think can spark in you feelings that make sense, but you need to bring something to the table. Not everyone is as lucky as Paul on his way to Damascus. But there, too, he brought his hatred & efforts to destroy the young church to the table.

I guess I'm getting spewed, cause I am lukewarm. I have somewhere my impressions of holy inspiration & I remember it as being quite good. I'll post it when I can find it. The upshot was that to doubt the inspiration of others undercuts the validatity of your own.

By the way, looking for that verse from Revelations turned up this Bible website that seems pretty killer. With Greek and glossary for every verse. My Greek is just good enough to get by with a little glossary help. I need some practice. (I just noticed the "How to witness to Mormons" link, completely unintended. I was looking at textual content only!)



SURPRISED BY WHAT'S DOWN THERE

So while I think I harbor little resentment against my Mormon upbringing, I've come to realize I don't want Matilda to ever become one. So, do I have more of a problem with it than I'll admit? Maybe. But I don't want her tangled up with any religion that demands you sacrifice so much in this life on the promise of rewards in the next. I just can't believe it's worth that. Two floors below us lives a 7th Day Adventist family who would be weird without their religious views. But they told Matilda once that "Rock music" was evil & you shouldn't listen to it. I reacted surprisingly fiercely to that. Matilda, too, saw the silliness of such strictures. I don't want her dancing to such narrow ideas.

Also, I do believe that Mormon girls' spirits are crushed as much as they are buoyed by their beliefs. How many intelligent, ambitious, girls give up everything to raise a family? Lots & lots. Maybe it matters & maybe it doesn't, but it's up to the individual to decide that. Those that push on through & choose to pursue a career face subtle condemnation. Matilda's cousin Samuel just turned twelve & Matilda knows he "got the priesthood", even if she doesn't know what that means. She knows it is important, marking a major life step in the religion. Innocently, she made a logical conclusion saying about Samuel's fourteen year old sister, "Amalia already has the priesthood." She was surprised to find out Amalia could never have it.

These things are Mormon specific, because that is where my experience comes from, but they illustrate the problems of all organized religion. How the individual relates to church & God is completely up to the person's own heart. Mine is just too rigid. (The perfectionist in me peeks through, thouh I bet you didn't think he was there.)

In my heart- well, later...

Love is all it takes.

7 January 2002

Owen

Rapid changes make it difficult to say much. Listing his accomplishments is one way, but these little triumphs are fairly one-dimensional. Nevertheless:

Nearly five months old he is a mammoth of a boy, the Woolless Mammoth. Weighing in at over eighteen pounds, Owen has a bulging buddha belly, chubby cherub cheeks, and thick sausage-like limbs. His light brown hair barely hides his round head, and his skin is supple and smooth, expect his red cheeks which have dried in the winter air. Once slate gray eyes are changing to dark brown, but which shade they'll end up as is anyone's guess.

Though bulky, he is not moribund like other large babies I've seen. He stands with our help, rolls, and scoots, but hasn't figured out how to put these things to good use. Particularly scooting. A few times, after tremendous effort, he's managed to scoot an inch or two towards a toy or kitchen utensil of some sort. But he gives up before he makes it, feeling the more practical solution is to scream in frustration, until we slide the desired object to him. No doubt, I will soon curse his mobility as he gets into thing after thing.

However impressive (or not) these physical description are, Owen's most amazing features are not visible. Unless you count his bright clear eyes that continually soak up information. He looks intelligent. Smiling often, mostly calm, he exhibits immense curiousity. When holding him you need to be careful nothing gets within his reach you don't want him to have. His arms dart at everything, trying to pick up and taste them. His cousin, eight weeks older, does not seem nearly so "grabby". Lately he has learn to alter his voice to better fit his mood. Last week he found out he could screech delight. Watching him grow is amazing.

Matilda

Matilda is Matilda. She is smart and curious. Her body is tall and compact, her limbs are muscular and long. Her feet and hands are huge. Her hand was nearly as large as Mary Haber's.

Owen has taken his toll on her. Though she showers him with sometimes overly rambuctious attention, the strains of becoming an "older sister" clearly show. I can't tell what has caused the biggest change, getting older, the stress of moving to Finland, or the radical disruption to our family structure, but I think the last affects her the most. Before Owen she relished the "big girl" label. She wanted to dress herself and exhibit her independence. Now she wants to be babied, asking us to help her with things not long ago she routinely did herself. For example, taking off her pants is now beyond her. She gets them down around her ankles and asks to have them pulled off. Knowing she can do it herself, we refuse. After flopping around like a fish on land for a minute or two she eventually kicks free of them. That is, if we don't get sick of the pantomime first and take them off for her. I am not sure which is better. I don't want her to feel left out, but we can't let her be a baby.

Other than that, she is constantly making new connections, learning things, for better or worse, from friends, and just being a kid. She likes to watch the news and hear what is going on around her. I know she eavesdrops on Melina and my conversations, sometimes asking from another room for us to say it again. She has a tough row to hoe. I wouldn't want to grow up over again. But she is sensitive and cautious, wise and foolish. I think she will do fine.

7 Feb 2002

Certain moments make parenthood all worthwhile. I forget this constantly as I wrap myself in the daily grind.

Last week I shaved my beard from its previous bushy eminence. Owen has not seen my chin for a good part of his life and watched quietly as I did the work. When it was done he laughed and smiled stroking my naked face with his hand. Clearly he thought it was a great joke that I now had no beard. For the next couple of days he would stroke my face anytime I held him, as if looking for the hair he loved to pull. Now he is used to the novelty, soon tiring of the familiar.

Actually, it is nice coming home from work knowing that Owen will give me a big grin when he first sees me. Matilda is often wrapped up with her friends and sometimes says hello or comes for a hug. More often she just keeps playing and says nothing until I initiate the hello.

Posting these things is like ripping open my heart. Except I want to do it.

4 October 2001

Her nyloned calves like shimmering sausage
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

THREE OBSERVATIONS

1.
We went to Cafe Strindberg the other day to have some coffee. Ordinary conversation ensued over pastry and espresso. Matilda prattled on, as she always does. In the brief lulls of prattle, Melina interjected some gloomy thought. I gloomily answered and interposed my own gloomy thoughts. Everything was normal. Then I noticed two tables away was a person who looked like my high school love, HH, a.k.a the Pakistani Heart Crusher. I doubt it was her. It really doesn't matter. Ten years is a long time to be over someone, to be sitting at a table with wife and kids and over a high school flame. But I was filled the memory of how powerfully I felt for her a decade ago. And her or not, I trembled inside. I wanted to know, but was afraid to ask. I even imaged the lady with her was an aunt I'd seen once. I could hear fragments of their conversation. The Hina-look-a-like had an American accent, her companion some other. My thoughts scattered and I couldn't concentrate. Words swirled around me, memories and feelings long since buried jumped up and down my spine. How shockingly close the past remains. How strange things can be retrieved so vividly, so easily. How shocking to find myself here, when once I was there.

2.
5.30pm, bus 20 was filling with people leaving work. Only half the front door was open, since the driver was resting in parts unknown. I had to wait outside with Owen and his stroller until the driver could open the sidedoors for me. Early in the wait, a woman carrying a blue wicker chair, complete with cushions, tried to enter the half open front door. The chair didn't fit. She tried it many different ways. Sideways, legs first, back first. Nothing worked. I watched her closely. She had such a pleading earnest look. I laugh a bit to myself, but she noticed me doing it. She stopped and waited for the driver. As we waited, the bus became crowded. Worried, she often looked around for the driver. Eventually we both got on. During the trip we stood near each other, standing by the side door. She kept meeting my eyes and seemed to ask why I'd laughed. The whole thing amused me. The bus filled to capacity, but she had her chair. There we were, going forward with all our stuff, with everything we decided to carry along with us. At every stop she moved the chair for those leaving the bus. At my stop, I left her and her chair. I'll never know why she was moving it or where it ended up.

3.
On bus 66A, homeward. A teenage boy sat on the aisle seat of our bench, immediately behind the side door. At one stop a woman with a stroller tried to get in. She had one daughter and a son in the stroller. Though people were coming down the aisle, past the struggling woman, none even looked at her, much less offered to help. I wondered why she had not asked for help herself. Women often make a general plea for help when no one offers. I tried to move past the boy blocking me to help, but he did not understand my physical gesture. As I began to ask him to move, the woman managed to get the stroller up the steps onto bus. So I remained silent. She spoke French to her children. She spoke French on her cell phone when it rang. Perhaps she didn't know how to ask for help in Finnish. Somewhere along the line a drunk got on the bus. A professional drunk, there was nothing occasional about his condition. His reek filled my nose and I looked at him. His face was slightly irregular, but it was hard to say what was out of place. Maybe his eyes didn't line up quite right. His nose had been broken and healed askew, and he had the common scars of a drunk. Drunks' faces have very intimate relationships with pavement. They seem irresitably attracted to each other. I often look at the drunks. They live in some distant world that I cannot reach. But they have not given up the world, so much as given in to addiction. Their eyes are usually vacuous. Empty globes emitting nothing, seeing nothing further than their bottle and alcohol rattled thoughts. But his were different. His eyes seemed to plead for help, to wish he was not drunk. But he could not help himself. I saw the bottle stuck in his inside pocket. The kind of hooch one step up from rubbing alcohol. While I looked at him, his loose tobacco pounch fell from his pocket. No one said anything to him, though many watched it drop. I watched the others silence before I was decided to say something. But before I could point it out the French lady left her seat, picked it up and gave it to him with a kind smile. He seemed touched by her action. I was touched by her humane look, the gentle way she handed him the tobacco. Unaided in her need, she willingly helped the drunk. I've thought about the man. I am what I am due to random circumstance. What credit can I take for how I am? Will Power, Free Will, these things are fine ideals, but how much can we trust them? And for maybe the first time I felt true empathy. I have a very dogmatic view of empathy. I rigorously consider how my actions affect others in everything I do, but I felt in my heart for the first time a moral equivilency with a drunk. Is this true? Are we capable of good and bad, right and wrong, or are we automaton acting out our program?

This one strikes me as the most personal one yet. Forgive me. As is usual with me, I focus too much on the wrong side of the coin. But this is just another rendition of my basic error and folly.

4 March 2002

Matilda is a star.

I am confident she can do whatever she wants, but afraid she'll let things stand in her way. She is so smart, quickly sees the weak link in arguments and runs with it. But though she sees the weak link, she isn't old enough to know what to do with it, or understand our explanations. (I am not sure our explanations are always genuous, either.)

She's lazy and will try to get away with as little a possible. At the same time, when she is interested in something, she doesn't settle for half measures. I guess she needs to grow into herself. She needs to look and see the strong brave kid that doesn't hesitate to leave her parents for weekends, is matter of fact about the world around her, and looks forward to being on her own. Too often she is cowed by stupid fears, refusing to go to a friends house because their Jack Russell jumps up on her, or running terrified from the shower when it's time to rinse the shampoo from her hair. The way she howls and bucks, you'd think she turns to dust if water gets in her eyes.

Are we all this amalgam of personality? Conflicting characteristics showing up at different and irrational times? Melina expresses her relationship with the world with angst and anxiety. I do it with anger. Matilda does it with fear. The difference is her age. Perhaps the fear will pass, but what will replace it?

Is it possible to interact with the world in a healthy way?

J.ponders.

M. is anxious.

Dave watches.

Mary tries so hard, she's all stretched out inside.

E. appears together, but is terrified. He also appears completely sober after he drinks a lot and then surprises you with his id-less comments.

Steve hides. He negates his own charms and strengths behind retorts. (This is perhaps outdated? Nash Equilibrium is certainly not hiding or retorts, or perhaps we speak of other things to hide our deepest feelings. -LJH)

Melina, as I said, is anxious, angstful. She compares herself with the titans of our collective mythology and wonders why she doesn't stack up. If she would not put so much pressure on herself, she'd be happier. But she doesn't listen to me. She thinks I don't understand her, and she is partly right. I don't understand why she is like she is. But I know how she is. I know what will upset her, I know what will make her happy. I know what I can expect from her and what is unrealistic. Little she does surprises me. Little she refuses surprises me.

(She probably knows me just as well. What can I do that will surprise her for the good? How can I step out of myself and make her glad I am her husband? How can I make that step a part of myself?)

What is success? Asked many times and many ways, but always relevent.

I write poems. Good or bad, they are the product of my restless mind. Sometimes I think they are good, and I am happy. Sometimes they are hideously bad, hollow, pompous, pointless, or too pointed. But I don't despair here. I just stop writing until the feeling passes. I am not better or worse according to my poetry. I am the "REAL THING". I am the judge, not the judgment. I act upon the poems, they do not act upon me. They are elucidations of me, of my thoughts and feelings.

I strive for perfection. Why? Here is my great downfall.

5 March 2002

Do you look to yourself for happiness?

You say:
"It's in there somewhere, isn't it? I'll find it, if I just keep looking."

But the search is in vain. Your light of human reason is a mere tool, your churning emotions are reactions to conditions surrounding you. Where would you have picked up joy? Is it a birthright? A gift from a benevolent god?

Happiness is no man's birthright. But everyone is capable of it. Just as everyone can catch a cold or feel the warmth of sunshine. It is a matter of learning/finding a place in the world and how to deal with its everchanging manifestations.

Two scenerios:

1) Winter's dark is passing. The chain of gray day after bleak gray day is broken by a soft spring sun. You sit on a park bench, eyes closed, face to the sun, feeling the bright warmth, seeing red through your closed eyelids. It feels good. You are momentarily happy.

2) August and the sun glares down from a muggy sky. If you go out at all, say to watch the kids at the park, you find the shade of a tree to hide from the sun's brutal rays. Where is the happiness the sun stirred only a season ago?

Definitions:

Soul - Name for intellectual and emotional processes within a body. It is who and what we are, the resident of our body. Everything not directly physical, even though physical sources may produce certain emotions (i.e., adrenalin, pheramones , drugs, etc..)

Body - Our physical body. It's unclear where the line is drawn between body and soul.

Ourself - Our united soul and body.

World - Everything outside of ourselves.

Mood - The cumulative result of intellectual and emotional activity within a body. The interaction of soul and world. Reactions such as happy, sad, confused, etc. produce that mood.

God - Did you actually think I would define this? Well, I give it a shot anyway: The concept of something good. The ultimate good. A label, a hope that things can be better, etc. If it sounds a little Anselm-ish, it is. When I first read his ontological proof of God, I snickered and payed it scant attention. But it is sound, if not especially real. Do things have to be True to have meaning? Can't little fudges here and there make things better?

16 October 2003

Too narrow by far, drawing in the circle will only make you brittle & prone to fail. You must be broad to survive, so all of nature can carry you. I succeed when the sun rises. I am the 8 tram that leaves Salmisaari on time. Successful & part of the whole chain of "what goes right."

I am the drunk, thief, & whore. I am the negligent parent, immoral priest. I am the bitter dispute & violent disagreement.

I am the wafer thin awareness of all there is to be.


17 October 2003

Right now, on moss I've never seen mushrooms
are pushing up, or dying, being picked,
are absent, & all this happens without
plan, assignment, purpose. It happens as
it is. Can I ask more of it? Feel more
for it? Sure, but...


27 October 2003

2am & 7-11's standard lighting
comforts me

Better still the hotdogs
sweating on rollers
that promise a sure bet
at a $1.69

Hours from now, illegals will gather
nearby
to taste the day's uncertainty

Waiting for a chance
& a dog
__________________________________

meet day with a hatchet
& night with eyes-a-glower

30 September 2003

A path deep in the forest leads no where.
It begins as one spot, tenaciously
winds through silent birch, shimmering white beneath
a harvest moon. It goes, but gets no where
until, after hills, swamps, it peters out
somewhere as no where as it all began.

No other road, path, or branch crosses it.
Few ever see its tumbled stones & few
care how steep cliffs & deep rivers mark it.
& how silent noontime feels beneath its eaves.
_______________________________________


All roads connect
(except the one you're on).

_______________________________________


Washed up at 29
he took the rain
& made it one w/ his heart

How often I've watched these clouds
move like stately ships
across the puny shores of me.



2 October 2003

Everything slowed down & the asphalt rose up taking him by the collar like his father used to do. & for one minute he felt safe, sheltered in memories of a time when he was safe, back before growing up & before the booze, too. Back before the same loving father asked him not to call anymore & his shy mother topped even her previous silence with death's absolute stillness. Back before things became complicated; back to when right & wrong were just words & one got you dessert while the other didn't.

If only it could go on like this, (on & on & on), he would be happy. But it didn't last, of course. It never did. Too many other memories intruded on this calm & he had nothing to fight them off with.

"Forget it, forget it," he chanted to himself. But still his daughter smiled & her eyes were full of trust. Her clear blue eyes looking at him, unstained by doubt, not knowing the strength of his weakness...

Reality broke into his trip down memory lane & he noticed the rain soaking him & felt gravel pressing into his cheek. He dragged himself up & moved into a doorway out of the rain & watched the city move. A tram rumbled by, a middle-aged woman in a pink rain coat passed without a second glance, without a first. He's as good as invisible. He might as well be running naked through a forest.

But somehow in not seeing him, the pink lady lessens her own reality. She becomes less than she was or could be. She cuts all extreme events from her life & becomes the fine pencil point that breaks if pressed too hard. Easier to write with, but somehow less...

When what you are breaks down, you'd better have another option to fall back on.
So he watches her pass by & she becomes a part of his day, a hazy shadow on his mind. He says:

"When the booze stops, visions start. I see those I've let down. So keep drinking, friend, & when the money's gone, beg, borrow, & steal your way to the next bottle.

"Now this is fine. Why not suicide? Why keep at it night & day? Why the struggles & guilt? If I had any decency, I'd be dead. That's for sure. No self-respect, either. So why keep it up? Grow all gray haired and bleary eyed?

"Habit, I suppose. Like a walk to no where that's a long way off. Just one foot in front of the other, over & over, until it seems like it's gotta be that way. So it's one bottle after another from groggy morning to senseless night.

"I don't add much to life, that's certain. But I didn't way back when, when I went to work every day. When I was a 'productive citizen'.

"Maybe I'm just this world's canvas. The background for all this to keep on going..."

I think there may be some secret lurkers out there. I hope there are...

I disagree about needing to not believe in the Big Crunch for that. If fact, the Big Crunch is the "reset" method I can most understand, setting up the universal matter for a new Big Bang and another of the Vast possibilities out there.

The biggest problem I have with Dennett's book ("Darwin's Dangerous Idea") is the hostile tone he takes when people want to preserve God and such in their scientific outlook. But I guess that is the purpose of the book, to show that even commited scientist have not fully understood the implications of their theory. He comes down hard on Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, for instance.

Curiously, the site I link to mentions Stephen Jay Gould as violently protecting the Darwinian faith against Teilhard, but Dennett spends a whole chapter explaining how Gould in particular doesn't understand the full implications of Darwian thinking.

The darwin thing might be true is you believe in infinite time, but don't believe in steady states, that space is a continuum, infinite breath in the universe, free will, god, destiny, the soul, theheat death of the universe, the big crunch or any finite limitation on the universe's state, etc.

As far as Hillel quotes, I have always loved "If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am not for others, what am I? And if not now, when?". There was a section of the sedur my family used that talked about this.

I like the wet hands piece a lot. The others were also quite interesting. I am glad you are posting these.

For what it is worth I have also embarked converting paper notes into blog form. I keep these at Link Deleted . The thoughts are far less well formed than yours (mostly just there to trigger a rememberance in my mind) and hence I haven't let anyone know about the blog till now. Also interspersed with my thoughts is some personal info (please disregard), numbers I need to remember (it is a dull blog what can I say), quotes that struck me, and other dull stuff. Somewhere along the way I plan to follow up on the thoughts and story ideas I have here, but it hasn't happened so far.

By the way is it only you and I here or is a secret lurker present? Hello ... hello ... hello.Can anybody hear me ... hear me ... hear me? Echo echo echo.

Wednesday, November 19, 2003

15 October 2003

[at unawares]
These feelings are just passing dreams, they come unlooked for & leave like water through cupped fingers.

I've cupped my dreams
in fingers fast
& now I've only got wet hands...

The context in which this was written is not clear from the text, itself. I'd recently read a section of Darwin's Dangerous Idea that raised the possiblity that since the number of potential universes is a finite (though VAST) number taking place in infinite time, all possible combinations will eventually be played out. This struck me as strange since it means also that this scenerio will also be played again...

10 October 2003

We live in a delusional world. Whereas once our visions were holy or evil, now they are mundane. We feel so safe that now we project our morality & sentiment onto tigers & bears. In time, we'll learn different.


Since all men will get their
shot at being Hitler or Stalin,
the Buddha or Christ
what does it say
about being?


Whereas now I write shit
I will someday be Shakespeare
__________________________________

It matters not a whit because it's here & now, & then won't be until all this is gone. Does anything ever change, does anything remain? Will you still seem as fresh, or the fruit as sweet? & if it isn't, will I not eat it? Or would other treats be found? Does this change the moral dynamic?

What good is choice when someday this house will burn down again? What good is right & wrong when nothing will stop a future you being bad? When universes cycle through again & again...

All that matters in the end are the direct consequences of those actions. I try to choose right because my conscience demands it. Whereas now I partake of beer & wine purely, there was a time I did it impurely, contrarily to the principles of right & wrong I was raised with. It was not until I'd freed myself from those bonds that I could do the same action, in the same way, but without fault. A deadened conscience? An altered understanding? Future generations will marvel at my daily malice, no doubt, as they develop new, untold, sensibilities that I now don't possess. Perhaps PETA is already an example of this, if their ideas become mainstream...

Can I make a timeless code of ethical behavior?

Can I make one to last even my lifetime? Certainly not on a microlevel, unless my sensiblilities & mind numb & I cease growing. But on a macrolevel we still live with codes that are hundreds or even thousands of years old. For all I know, some may stem from evolutionary processes millions of years ago.

I like, for instance, Hillel's version of the Golden Rule:

"That which is despicable to you, do not do to your fellow, this is the whole Torah, and the rest is commentary, go and learn it."


But my interpretation of it changes over time.

I've decided to begin posting things from the random bits of paper and notebooks that swarm about me. I am surrounded by vague thoughts and tiny bits of lines that I write and keep and sometimes even use later in other things. I'm not saying it's worthwhile doing (certainly not saying it's worth your time reading), but it sure demonstrates the workings of my mind. And this whole blog's purpose is a presentation of minds, or mind (as is mostly, & understandably, the case).

It's unfortunate that I can't post the little drawings that often decorate the paper, they're often the better part of the work. You may have noticed that some of this stuff is already cropping up here. This is merely an expansion (and declaration) of a previously implemented policy.

Now (or rather then):

22 September 2003

Besides the practical nuts & bolts economic issues slipping out of control, I feel like my mind is as restless & unsettled as leaves in a windstorm. There's a pretty swirl of color, potential breakthroughs everyday, but instead I feel utterly blocked, confused. Like I've forgotten nearly everything I'e ever known. Lucid thoughts (especially my own) come as shocks!

If only I could write those stories... If only I could write a sonnet...

Trapped in the prison of expectation; wanting to do good, but not knowing what it is; wanting the clarity of belief (the touchstone of all judgement), but unable to work out what it could be... I've spent nights waiting for enlightenment & dull mornings treading meaningless streets certain that somewhere some glimpse of the city would let me understand. Some whole picture would illuminate my entire life...

& then I turn to personal pleasures...



23 September 2003

Their matted hides & reeking breath
oh, the beasts are on the prowl
they take

Bold - but when you hear
"Beast" you think those things
But when you hear:
lithe beast, dancing through dark mindways
you fear the oddest ducks
from morning kiss to great
news about a friend long gone.

Musky beasts
vague beasts lumbering throuh syrupy syrup

sweet money days

& monkey brains

these crates carry baggage from the war
(the inner conflict of right vs. right,
a mincing dialog of moral quibbles,
this is okay when, but only if, & done so)
more often we beat sunny days
w/ the devastation of marked hopes
if only I had dog-days dumber



24 September 2003

I am as One should Be

gather the fruits to plant
a garden

draw the wood buckets from
the well

set peace with peace & take
warning from pain

I am as Be should One



Early November 2003

The mossy graves stand ready
to receive their gifts this day

Tight pants, messy hair
& candles as timeless as the stone

Sunday, November 16, 2003

"My program will soon be used in most of the shops I go to for my daily bread."

That is very, very cool. I have made dozens of websites and programs, but I have never gotten to use any of them. Perhaps that is for the best in my case as poorly coded systems frusterate me (especially the self-checkout lines at grocery stores).

"But more than busy I've been completely stressed out. The limits of my technical abilities have shown in these efforts."

You are a brilliant and adaptable man, with years of experience in the IT arena. I have no doubt you can handle any new challange and the project will be a success. Also don't worry about not having the IT background. After STJ, I took some computer classes and it was really nothing eath shattering. The stuff you are working on sounds very cool.

Thursday, November 13, 2003

Beer by Moonlight

The dipper's handle swirled,
Mars plunged towards the sea,

Saturn remained anonymous
though it sparked
beside the moon.

I wonder how I managed home.
Spruce limbs & steep drops
made every step feel like
that last moment before...



Edison's Magic Toy

I managed home
through spruce & cliff

trusting the moon to light my way.

Before electric lamps
dulled the city sky,

the stars
ministered
the lonely,

advised
the lovesick.

What does that bulb have to say?

Wednesday, November 12, 2003

I've been working with the Fujitsu B-PAD for the past month, trying to get our software to run smoothly for a pilot project starting this week. I knew it was a new device, but the other day I was surprised to notice the device's serial number: "80". So short, so sweet.

I haven't been very communicative lately, and when I have, it's been veiled or just silly. I hope to correct that, but time still isn't my friend. I've been busy at work, with our new VB.Net (for Compact Framework) version of the my software, plus this major project I've got going into piloting stage for a major customer. It was made worse since they are piloting three different devices and each has its own problems. My program will soon be used in most of the shops I go to for my daily bread. But more than busy I've been completely stressed out. The limits of my technical abilities have shown in these efforts. I have too little theoretical background to work as well as I should. What I do now is a far cry from the monkey coding that went on at Harper West, where we used boring oldish technology that had the kinks worked, by and large. Now I'm using a new language, on new devices, implementing new operating systems and almost nothing is worked out completely. A couple of weeks ago I was reading example code in c++ (which I don't know) and writing a wrapper for some DLLs in c# (which I didn't know a lick of to begin with), and felt stupid as rock through out. Luckily, things are looking up and everything is coming together, but for a while there I began to wonder what kind of fraud of a programmer I was. There's still a lot of work on the horizon. My program is a pretty hot commodity for us right now.

I'll say more...

Monday, November 03, 2003

    Maybe Moses
    in the parking lot
    explained why
    the baubles lie,
    but when he hiked
    Mt. Sinai
    they wandered in to shop.