A Creation Story

From within, a bit of green dances out as from oblivion, an insemination of grace planted by unseen dimensions. There is no word big enough to contain the abyss, yet here it is anyway throbbing inside me, spilling into me and out of me. I am not a being, but rather an exchange; participation in this mystical marketplace is an act of being. In those first moments I knew nothing more than everything--formless were thoughts, and so they were capable of infinity. 

There is action in the start of love: bursting, flowing, cascading. Healthy and warm are the colors of creation: green and gold. 

In the Second Moment all matter shared a single memory. Words then an explosion, pinwheels of transcendence spinning in every direction, then finally the quiet work of existing. 

Before this, none; and now, all. A flood displaced the void. Waves and particles congregate in festivals of laughter. Shapes emerge and settle into a hierarchy, unseen gravity shaping a world before eyes that have only just been made. 

I cry out, "AYE, YIP, WOO" in my shrillest, loudest falsetto. Terror and gratitude return in the echo, but mostly my is yawp swallowed in the merciful indifference of created things. I gaze into existence, that mirror sweet and true. Whispers bounce back and forth--ripples across clear water: I am myself, am all, am one, we are, will be. 

A Great Breath, outward and inward. Birth and death, creation and completion. In the morning I set off on an adventure into the world around me, into the unknown which is known by my atoms and cells. And my soul. In the evening I return, different from before, more myself and less myself.

A word of thank you comes at the beginning, not the end. And love is in the middle. That's all there is to it. 

A Brush with Peace

A book I've been reading introduced me to the topic of holotropic breathwork. I was interested by a firsthand account described by the author, so I watched a short video on the topic.

Then I gave it a try. 

V was gone for the day, so I had space to be alone and vulnerable. I laid down under a light blanket, put a sweatshirt over my eyes, and began focusing on my breath. I allowed my breath to become deeper and slower, until I felt ready to be present to the current moment. I then pushed the breath to become more rapid and strong. Faster, faster, faster, until everything seemed to be breath. 

Then it began. First I was aware that my body had taken over the breathing for me; I was no longer concentrating. I gave up control, the pace of breath oscillating between fast and slow. I stopped caring, more preoccupied with an energy that settled throughout me. Stomach, hands, face, and feet tingled with it. It was a delightful sensation. After some minutes I was aware of a pain in my stomach, so I performed a short body scan. The pain lessened. 

Images began, memories from the past day, then a bird swooping toward me. Then nothing. 

No body, no breath, no feeling whatsoever. There seemed to be an absence where I had just been laying, and all that was left of me was warmth. It was silent, I could no longer hear my breath. Ambient noise seemed simultaneously faster and slower, then it simply ceased. 

I couldn't hear, I couldn't see, I couldn't feel. Just warmth. Just peace. I didn't feel these things--I was these things.

I don't know how long until it was over. Gradually, I started to feel again. I could feel my body pressing into the bed, could hear laundry tumbling, and cars on the wet streets outside. I removed the sweatshirt from my eyes to find the room filled with sunlight, and I had the impression that the sun was an old friend. 

It was 30min well spent, even if I don't quite know what to make of it. Amazing that all this came from the mere act of breathing. 

Dogs

V had work this evening, so it was just me and the dog, home alone. 

When I'm home alone, I usually watch a movie that V wouldn't like. As soon as she left, Winnie came and laid his head on my knee. He looked up at me, lovingly. So obviously I wanted to watch something about a man and his dog. 

If you draw a Venn Diagram of movies V wouldn't like and movies featuring a bond with a dog, the overlap contains one standout winner: I Am Legend.

The movie a slow contemplation of loneliness, and the "Other." I think it's ultimately about curing racism and hate, but what do I know? You laugh at Will Smith's attempts to stay sane, talking to mannequins and horrendously singing Bob Marley. 

The movie is fantastically paced. You slowly piece together a tragic story: 

     Humans cure cancer. 

     The cure mutates into horrible disease, becoming a pandemic. 

     NYC is cut off from the world; a desperate attempt to keep humanity safe. 

     Will Smith's wife and child nearly escape, before dying in front of his eyes. 

     Will stays in NYC trying to find a cure, as all living things disintegrate into soulless super-zombies. 

The only thing keeping Will Smith alive is his dog, Sam. His love of Sam is true, the last piece of himself left untouched. They go everywhere together, and Will risks his life several times to save the dog. Theirs is a special bond, perhaps the last living bond left on the entire planet. 

Sadness strikes. 

Sam contracts the disease while saving Will Smith from death. He rushes Sam home, the last hope being a recent successful trial of a potential cure on rodents. As Will holds Sam in his arms, he realizes that the cure has failed. Sam begins to "turn," and the camera zooms in on Will's tortured face while he strangles the last living thing in the world. 

Total. Loneliness. By this point in the movie, you know that Sam was it. Sam was the last hope. His dog was his last friend, his only friend. It ends quickly. Will tries to kill himself, a suicide-by-zombie affair. He discovers people, realizes that he has cured the disease, and then sacrifices his life to save both. 

I regret watching that movie tonight. That bond between Will and Sam are so real, so believable, that the strangling scene is almost too grotesque. It's tastefully done, but the emotional horror of that moment is too much. My heart rips itself from my chest, and I am spent. 

What a good movie.  

The Tyranny of Normal

I have a friend who's been through it with me. Together we explored and drank and listened, had adventures and made terrible mistakes. Nowadays, he's better friends with my wife than he is with me. Not that we've grown apart, it's just that they've grown closer. It's a thing of beauty, to have two worlds integrate like that. I mostly marvel at the setup, and am grateful for it. 

Yesterday I did not feel that way. They were chatting about an old memory, one that predates her presence in my life. She asked him about my shenanigans, and he didn't remember most of them. All he could remember was a single moment, where I had written a poem and recited it. They laughed about how hard it is “to put up with” me.

They both groaned at my eccentricity.

-- 

Desperate for safety, we love things that are normal. It's an urge that is probably evolutionary in its origin--familiar roads that didn't lead to pain can be traveled again without fear of harm. Well-trodden topics are comforting; we can let our guard down and let the conversation guide us, rather than the other way around. 

Conversations like this are safe, but also boring. When humans trade shared, mundane experiences it's not very interesting. What have you been watching lately? or Did you hear the latest news about Andy? or I heard the Campbell Bridge is closed. Boring. We reach into our experiences and search for the things we have in common with others. This holds a sense of safety--we walk on known paths through familiar environs. But I also find it aggravating when the conversation dwells there indefinitely. 

I enjoy taking conversations off the path, into the wilderness of divergent experiences and misaligned perspectives. Not always, of course: it takes a lot of energy to explore. We simply can't live on asymptotes, traveling wildly off the beaten path at all times. It's exhausting, and exposes us to pain. Things need to return to center--the mundane has utility, and it's own marvelous brand of beauty. 

But the most memorable nights are the ones spent in wonder at a new point of view. The conversations that cause us to grow are the ones that expose us to the abnormal. 

I figured this out a while ago, and embraced it. I let myself be weird, in the hopes of being a spice for others. It's like taking off my jacket in the cold--everyone suddenly has something to talk about, and I have a simultaneously refreshing and painful experience. 

It's disappointing to be picked on for this. After all, by expending energy to be unusual I'm providing a sort of service, playing the part of yeast in a slosh of white flour and tepid water. Without me, they'd have just spent another 25 minutes comparing notes on Tiger King. 

But normal is safe. Though there are decades between now and the middle school playground that mercilessly punished the abnormal, the experience was formative. Normal is wired into our brains, tyrannical in its rule. Normal imposes its rule in the halls of every palace. All must bow to the Average. 

--

I am affected by this swirl--pulled in two directions. I crave adventure and beauty, earnest to follow the sun over the horizon. But I'm also sleepy and afraid, longing to give up traveling against the flow. I'm regularly faced with a choice about what kind of me I ought to be.

The deciding factor is time. I don't have long: some fraction of 90 years. What will be accomplished in that time? What is my life worth? 

It's worth the effort, the pursuit of the abnormal and the beautiful. It's worth the fight, the turning of cheeks when slapped by those afraid of otherness. It's worth being authentically abnormal, beautifully distinct. 

That's something that we all can share. 

Mountain Air is Good for Growth

When I was 22, I moved into a mansion with 11 other guys my age. 

The house was tucked into a mountain pass, surrounded on all sides by Pikes National Forest. We agreed to a few rules: wearing the same clothes, spending most of our time in silence, keeping up the property, etc. We did this for a year. 

It was a good experience, for many reasons. I read 82 books that year. I meditated twice daily. I wrote poetry. I composed prayers. I conducted a research project. I frolicked in nature. I wrote constantly. 

While looking for something else that year, I made enormous progress in finding myself. 

It feels like cheating, almost. Most people don't have an opportunity like that, to stop and reflect and listen to the voices around and within. To walk slowly under fir trees and breathe mountain air. They are simply poured into the world from the graduated cylinders of high school or college, frothy and unassayed. I had a chance to settle, and it changed me. 

Yesterday, I happened across a file with several things I wrote that year. One thing made me smile, a short poem: 

The man with no abode, 

his days marked by waxing moons.

He wanders in search of greenest pastures

and eats richly of harvests he did not plant

but were planted for him. 

Thoughts from a Deserted Moonless Beach at High Tide

Where in the body lives my soul? I need to know this, as I am now empty of spirit. Vacant of vitality--ether exhausted. I am desperate to be me again. 

I am desperate to be, again.

Fear. A total lack of light. 

Fear. An overwhelming presence of sound. 

Fear coursing through me, chasing away my soul. 

I am now something less than a man. I am serf to the surf, bondservant to the blackness. Me no longer.

I need to get out of here. I need to stay in this moment forever. I am the heavens, I am the earth. I am the end, and in this moment the truest beginning. 

Wordless as waves crash in my chest. Is this death? Am I dead? So be it.

Emotion: the 5th Dimension (and other dreams about mysteries beyond my comprehension)

Yesterday I went for a hike. The sun sprinkled rays through mossy branches and everything was green. My thoughts gave me an interesting idea:

The only constant across every human’s spatial experience of existence is time. This is an accomplishment that we reward with the designation of “4th dimension.“

But outside the boundaries of the definition of spatial, every other experience is a constant, each to its own magnitude but all exceeding zero. These are emotions. 

Empathy is just multiple unanimous experiences in distinct spatial moments of 4 dimensions, while simultaneously a wholly shared other-experiential “moment” in a 5th, distinct, dimension. Therefore, empathy is a metric that can be used to measure the units of this 5th dimension.

Imagination is a machine that harnesses combustible amounts of tension in the fifth dimension to power exploration into areas higher than the fourth dimension.  

In Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut proposes that there are aspects to our experience that we are blind to, due to our ability to only perceive in 3 dimensions. The most thought-provoking example is when the aliens in the book explain that there are actually 7 sexes on earth, 5 of which exist in the 4th dimension and are therefore imperceptible to humans. In order to procreate, all 7 sexes must be engaged and therefore play a role. Human's understanding of reproduction isn't entirely incorrect, it's just incomplete. There is a fuller picture beyond their capacity for understanding. 

In Flatland, Edwin Abbott illustrates higher dimensional beings interacting with lower dimensional beings, introducing paradigm-shifting revelations. A cube moves across the plane of a square's existence, which seems like magic because of the square's inability to perceive in more than 2 dimensions. 

It's hard to believe that there aren't dimensions higher than the 4th dimension. Writers like Vonnegut and Abbott have an expanding effect on my imagination, causing me to dream about mysteries beyond my comprehension. 

Causing me to dream about mysteries beyond my comprehension. Wow.

That's what gives me thoughts like the ones above. What if emotions are some higher matter of existence, and we simply move in and out of emotional "spaces" in the 5th dimension? What if empathy was a metric, and the ability to use empathy is the ability to understand a higher dimension? What if imagination was a tool, and the ability to use imagination is the ability to navigate a deeper aspect of existence? 

The world is already beautiful; I don't know why I spend time imagining it as something even more mysterious and wonderful than I can already perceive. But I press on anyway, eyes wide at the idea that your happiness and my happiness are not distinct experiences in time and space, but is instead you and me coexisting in some higher dimensional space. 

A Haircut...

is a death, freefall from the heights of carefree, windswept living;

is a rebirth, climbing altitude into a new way of life;

is a diversion from a path of "indifferent" and "free";

is a commitment to the known road of "straightforward" and "clean cut";

is a missed opportunity, once again putting off what could have been--what still could be;

is a newfound chance, to straighten up and look the part;

is trivial;

is eventful;

is impersonal;

is intimate;

and is not a bad way to spend an afternoon. 

Lexis Novas - A Kind of Terra Nova

I love learning new words. A word is a kind of magic, capturing an object or a feeling in a single breath. Words are connections, bridges between chaos and understanding. 

Learning a new word is like discovering a new territory in the landscape of existence. 

Here are a few new words I’ve learned in the past few weeks:

Flippancy 

I’ve heard the word flippant, but this is new take on an old reality. It’s one thing to engage in the act of being flippant for a moment or two; it’s an entirely different thing to become flippant--to take 'flippant' on as a compositional element of one’s very essence. For me, discovering this word provoked a short journey from adjective to object; I love that. Bonus: in an act of embodying this word, the friend who introduced me to "flippancy" recently described me as “limitlessly competent.“

Localized Anthropology

This one came from a network connection who is trying to make the transition from pastor to consultant. She described the work of preaching as “localized anthropology." I love the idea that there is a necessary foundation to stand upon if one plans to provide kerygmatic direction to a community, and that the foundation has less to do with biblical mastery than it does a carefully studied understanding of the language, rituals, and organizational structures of the community. Good preachers know how to speak; great preachers know who they’re speaking to.

Histrionic

Signifies something that is theatrical or overdramatic. This one comes from the Latin root “hist-”, which is all about narrative. “History" is just a narrative of past events, whereas “histrionic" brings that narrative flair into the present. I have long enjoyed the term “hagiographic" in my lexicon, which is not unrelated to this word. What I really enjoy about histrionic is its radical attention to the present. Hagiographic gives us an embellishment of a life; histrionic is embellishment in real time.

Unsanity

A word created by psychological researchers in the 1950s, describing the effect of psychedelics on their patients. An experience common to a psychedelic trip is a disassociation from the self. This powerful experience of humility and transcendence often induces indescribable pleasures and mystical encounters with beauty, resulting in an expanded worldview, an increase in empathic responses, a calming of anxiety, and a cessation of addiction. Therefore, the researchers coined the term unsanity to mean “a state beyond the control of the ego.”



One thing to note: I have a pretty loose meaning for what exactly constitutes a “word." This comes from a healthy philosophical education, where folks like Frege, Russell, and Wittgenstein taught my mind how to question the nature of language. For me, a word can be any thing that conveys meaning--that collects the abstract into a concrete exhalation. 

If you write it, they will come

I'm reading a book about rocket scientists. It's a biography, but it reads like fiction due to the fact that rocket scientists are totally wacky and out of this world (hee hee). Basically, it's a fun read. 

One of the things I learned while reading this book is that people didn't like rocket science, back in the day. It seems to have gone something like this:

• pre-1903: rockets are kind of cool
• 1903: bike enthusiasts fly a plane
• 1903-1941ish: planes are cool, rockets are dumb, and rocket scientists are dumbasses
• post-1941: HOLY SHIT WHAT ARE THESE DEATH TUBES THE GERMANS ARE SHOOTING AT US FUND ALL THE ROCKET RESEARCH NOW

During that ~40yr sweet spot, rocket science took off (I'm on a roll), mostly due to an extremely committed cabal of scientists and enthusiasts that loved sneaking out to the desert and blowing shit up. 

But the COOLEST part of this whole thing is that the rocket science community, seemingly without fail, was comprised of science fiction nerds who read pulp fiction magazines by the pound. And they turned what they read into reality. They read about rockets and space travel, and used their brains to actually turn fiction into non-fiction. 

Let me repeat that for you: nerds read science fiction, and made it science. 

As you know, one of my 4 Great Goals in life is to dig the world's deepest hole. Straight to the center of the earth. Most people scoff at the idea, but only due a lack of imagination. A lack of mystery, of wonder. A lack of understanding. 

What the history of rocket science has taught me is that in order to inspire imagination, I need to write a compelling story. This is one of earth's greatest secrets: the one who tells the best story wins the day. 

So if the 6 Silos Expedition will ever be a story remembered by humanity, it has to start as a story. 

Where there is tension, there is beauty.

 Where there is tension, there is beauty. 

I was catching up with someone yesterday, and said these words. Due to a strong reaction, I immediately walked it back a bit, saying "there is the potential for beauty." But the more I ponder the words, the more I have decided to double down on the original phrase:

Tension, ergo beauty. 

Even if you don't immediately recognize beauty in the tension between things, it's there. Hold tension in your mind's hand. Turn it over, inspect it. Peel back the rind of your experience, and discover the juicy fruit of beauty hiding within. Antinomy is, by its nature, beautiful. 

Great, that seems right. I have spoken truth. The only thing I still need to figure out is what the hell these terms mean. 

Tension seems easier to define. It's multiple objects existing in the same space. Two things that are contradictory or opposing (or maybe just unlike one another), but somehow both things seem true. It's two things pulling away from one another while somehow also moving in the same direction. 

Beauty, though. Oh beauty. What are you? I am someone who never shuts up about things being beautiful, but today I was arrested with the sudden realization that I have no idea what beauty actually is. I point at something and call it beautiful, but I have no idea what the term actually means. 

Here's what I've got so far:

• Beauty has something to do with the reality of a thing, but it also participates in a transcendence from reality. It's both real and abstract. 
• Beauty is a feature of creation, and is in some way related to essence and telos. 
• Beauty exists in relation to truth and goodness, but is also distinct from these concepts. 
• Beauty is objective: an a priori characteristic woven into all things, true for all. Beauty is also subjective: an a posteriori understanding that is unique to each person in each moment. 

It does not escape my awareness that in trying to define beauty, I introduced a series of tensions: real and abstract, truth and not truth, objective and subjective. 

Am I spiraling toward a tautology? Tension contains beauty because beauty contains tension. I could be, but I think there's something deeper going on here. This isn't just a meaningless equivalence; it's a meaningful ecosystem. Tension and beauty exist in relation to one another, each giving meaning to the other--a symbiotic relationship of meaning. 

This whole line of thought leaves me more confused than when I started, but I'm sure about one thing: where there is tension, there is beauty. 

p.s. A cool thought to leave with you. Synesthesia is a condition where perceptual wires get crossed. You hear colors, taste sounds, feel numbers. There are theories that babies experience the world primarily through synesthetic means, and eventually grow to distinguish perceptual media from one another. There is another theory that language itself is a form of synesthesia, where formations of visual lines induce involuntary correlations to collections of sounds, which in turn cause cognitive pathways to fire in the brain and form thoughts. But I digress.

All this is to say, synesthesia is a perceptual experience of tension. And the whole thing seems, earnestly, to be beautiful. 

The 6 Silos Expedition

 The question is: what to do with the dirt? 

The expedition--digging the deepest hole in the earth--is sure to generate a lot of it. But it's a finite amount. A little math will tell us exactly how much. We know the crust is approximately 40km deep. If we want to dig a hole that's 10 meters wide, then we'll get 3,141,592.65 cubic meters. That's just one and a half Sears Towers worth of dirt. 

It seems to me that the best route forward would be to build 6 silos near the job site, each a quarter of the height of the Sears Tower. 6 silos about 36 storeys tall would hold the dirt that is generated by digging the deepest hole in the world. 

Beyond the crust, there is no dirt. There is just fire, molten fire. We'll figure out what to do with that when we get there 

There is a certain romance to this idea. You'd see the silos for dozens of miles before you get to the job site. The silos would tower over the area, lending a certain majesty to the whole endeavor. The entire expedition would become known for these silos. A journey inward defined by 6 spires that soar outward. 

We need this journey. We need an expedition to the center of the earth. We need to know more about what lies beneath us, what forms this terra firma. We need to lay our eyes on it, to stick our hands into it, to consummate our relationship with this planet by truly getting to know it for the first time. Because doing so will literally bring humanity closer together. 

The first step is figuring out what to do with the dirt. 

Done.

On California

There are a lot of books written about California. What’s up with that? Why are so, so many stories and artists transfixed with this one place? What’s so good about it? I have a hypothesis.

I grew up in Indiana. If you’re having trouble picturing Indiana, imagine a piece of paper that has been colored green. Now you can picture Indiana.

Since childhood, I’ve had the opportunity to live in a few different places. The Piedmont region of the Carolinas, a mountain pass in the Rockies, and now the Pacific Northwest. All are places that put effort into being full of splendor.

I haven’t yet lived in California, but I’ve been led to believe that California takes the best parts of these places and makes them better. Adventurous coastlines, verdant valleys, lush rivers, golden deserts. Indeed, gazing on the Sierra Nevada mountain range from a plane stirred such an emotional response within me that it brought me to the realization that I would marry V. California’s very geography overflows with mysterious hints at something grand, something transcendent.

California allows for dramatic rendering. Valleys cut, peaks soar, rocks jut, vegetation consumes, waves crash. The land itself could be a character, as dynamic as the people. The land itself lends itself to a story.

Indiana, in comparison, is passive. The land doesn't do things, the weather does. Wind sweeps, snow dumps, cold destroys. The only notable battle with the land was a finite skirmish, and that terrestrial terror is long dead now that we have learned how to trick farmland into peaceful service. Only the most talented authors can set a story in this wasteland (unless they take advantage of the Mississippi River). 

You live on Indiana. You live in California. Among it. With it. 

I know which I'd write about... 

Shine on Those Who Dwell in Darkness and the Shadow of Death

This weekend, I read something by a good friend on the topic of Lent. He reflected on a memory of running in his church clothes, trying to get to an Ash Wednesday service on time. His experience was a real-life metaphor. I finished reading, reflected about my own preparation for Lent, kissed my wife, plugged in my phone, and went to bed. 

And then I awoke to my own real-life metaphor. 

It was dark, quiet, still. An unnatural stillness, one that I hadn't experienced in a while. No cars, no motors at all actually, even the kind that run in appliances... 

I tapped my phone. 6:25am, 53% battery. The power was out. 

Thus began two uncomfortable days. It wasn't apocalyptic; there was never a point where my environment caused me to abandon a previous moral code in order to survive. I didn't have to kill, or steal. 

But there were uncomfortable moments; like a Cormac McCarthy children's book. The power was out, ice on everything, food rotted in the fridge, devices without a full charge, car snowed in, and cell service unusually spotty. To be honest, most of the time was spent reading books, but there were also aimless walks in the ice to find food, any food. 

It wasn't 40 days, but it was a Lent nonetheless. We spent days in darkness, pregnant with meaning, and on the third day the light returned. 

There was Resurrection in that first shower. I spent two days in my own filth--using a cold sponge under my armpits doesn't really do the trick. The warm water washed me, and I emerged feeling like a new man. A true novus homo, reborn into a fresh way of life. 

But the real Lent in this experience was a little more abstract. It wasn't one experience, it was a line running through all the experiences, twisting through us to spell out the meaning of the season. We spent most moments with a sharp sense of now, concerned with the maintenance of heat, and food. We made mistakes and regretted them, and lived each moment in the momentum of the last moment. 

But each moment also contained a bit of the future, with us peering through the darkness expecting to be rescued by the light. Squinting, dreaming, hoping. We knew the power would return, even as we fumbled around with smaller things. We anticipated the light. We expected it. 

God told us that he is Love. The little we've tasted of love causes us to expect things from him. Love is faithful through darkness; love brings warmth. Love begets life, doesn't forget life. 

The Resurrection is God making good on a promise to be love. Lent is time spent with that on our minds, fumbling with small things and peering toward the horizon. Waiting for sonrise. 

Just like my real-life metaphor.

Writer's Block is Just a Fancy Prison Term for Solitary Confinement

 I'm feeling unmotivated. Uncreative. I've got nothing to say. 

This is a terrifying place for someone like me. As a member of that untouchable social class of Aspiring Writers (always aspiring, never a spire), I lack a few key things. 

First, I haven't yet established a real rhythm to writing. I write in spurts, in the corners of my day. Writing doesn't pay the bills, and time spent writing is time away from my wife. I need to want it to actually do it, and often I end up wanting to do other things instead.

Second, I don't have a body of work. I've got a mythical briefcase stuffed with paper fragments, some loosely held together with themes but mostly just a jumble of individual bits of prose that make me smile. 

Lacking these fundamental things, a dearth of motivation can be deadly for my Aspirations. 

When there's no rhythm, habits are powerless against laziness or competing priorities. When there's no body of work, a momentary pause can raze the piecemeal confidence that I might have constructed. And so begins a spiral: sitting down to write, fitfully starting sentences that are immediately erased, giving up in frustration, feeling worthless, thinking that maybe I should just stick to what I'm good at, and then losing myself in a streaming binge. 

A pause becomes a space becomes a drought becomes a desert. Months later, I jot something down and smile about it, and the Aspiring Writer is reanimated. 

A lack of inspiration is a painful journey inward, a stroll into insecurity and pain that lies hidden beneath the surface. It's just solitary confinement, a walled-off cell away from other voices, my own voices. And it's all self-imposed. 

So today, I fling open the barred doors of my cage to continue Aspiring. Today, I get past writer's block by writing about writer's block. 

Raven-Haired

Three times I’ve written a letter to a friend, in the past month. Each time to a different person.

Three times the recipient received that letter and immediately called my phone.

Three times I ignored the call. Mostly because I don’t like talking on the phone, which is why I was sending a letter in the first place. But not entirely.

Irony - expectation turned on its head. It’s a simple surprise cooked up by the Universe.

Irony is the tiny hairline fracture in the sturdy foundation of “knowledge.” It’s the simplest and best counterpoint to the idea that we know everything.

One of my coworkers has blonde hair. Her name is Brenna, a name which means “raven-haired." I’m sure her parents had a great aunt named Brenna, or maybe they just liked the name and never even knew its meaning. Whatever the case, this golden-haired girl goes through life named for the shade of earth’s darkest birds—a living irony.

Living irony is also written into the urge to respond to a letter with a phone call. A letter is such a distinct form of communication—slow, written, deliberate. A true opposite from a phone call, with electrons passing through wires and satellites—immediate, dialogical, casual.

Irony is naturally humbling, which means by its nature it is a good thing. But occasionally, irony isn’t welcome.

In those moments, I write letters.

The Only Guarantees in Life

The only guarantees in life are death and taxes. 

So the saying goes, but the message is stale. Taxes are not guaranteed. There are plenty of stories now about corporations like Apple holding funds offshore to avoid paying taxes. To distract myself from work today, I was trying to think of the things that truly ARE guaranteed. Here's my list:

Death

At least for another few years, death is still certain. Soon, though, Elon will stop dicking around with batteries and cryptocurrency and rockets and will solve a real problem like Death. In the dystopian immortal reality, I'll come back to this list and remove this item. 

Fear of Death

Face reality: your life is finite, everything you know is finite, and there will come a specific moment in time when the scythe of death slices down upon you and brings that finitude to a terrible, abrupt end. To be afraid of this is incredibly normal. In the dystopian immortal reality, I even think that the fear of death will stick around. Even though death would slip across the threshold from reality to legend, the suggestion that death could at any time revisit the earth would make the fear of it a terrible, ever-present reality. Like ghosts, or hell, or another Trump presidency. 

Poop

Everybody poops, even girls. Perhaps this reality is what makes constipation so awful. Even a brief hiatus from pooping spells a terrible reckoning to come. 

Positive Opinions of Chipotle

You love Chipotle. Even if you say you don't love Chipotle, we all know that you would house that burrito if no one was watching. 

Gratitude for Tom Hanks

God reached out from across the abyss between Heaven and Here and gifted us with a sweet foretaste of beatitude. That foretaste is named Tom Hanks and he is a treasure. To be human is to love Tom Hanks. 

Dying at Least Once in the Creepy Castle Level of Donkey Kong for N64

I didn't have videogames growing up, but I lived vicariously through my neighbors. I bounced back and forth among the houses on my street, watching them work the controls. The best in Ramblewood (which was the name of my little neighborhood growing up) was Ben. Ben was a legend. And even Ben spent an entire afternoon on this level, learning the tricks to avoid death. We even had to take a gatorade and goldfish break, it was that serious.

There you have it, the new and improved list. So next time you hear someone say, "The only guarantees in life are death and taxes," be sure to correct them: "Um, actually, nowadays the only guarantees are death, fear of death, poop, positive opinions of Chipotle, gratitude for Tom Hanks, and dying at least once in the Creepy Castle level of DK for N64. Duh." 

TiananRooster Square

The city breathes, heaving bits of itself here and there. People, packaged neatly in cars, slide down streets in the rhythm of urban spiration. Yesterday, I joined the metropolitan flow, slack-jawed and drooling at 45mph on my way to buy melatonin and coffee (two drugs destined to war with one another in my bloodstream). The people moved, the gasoline burned, the asphalt hummed--a continued refrain of the endless song of commerce echoing down the avenues of the city.

Until everything was stopped by a rooster.

Not far ahead, the oncoming traffic stood still. 8 cars parked in the road for seemingly no reason, no intersection or obstruction available for explanation. Soon though, I saw the reason: a rooster. It was terribly ugly affair of a creature, ragged feathers sprouting everywhere, no discernible features besides its shape and its pencil legs. And it stood facing the line of cars, a silent protest against the humming progress of the city.

Then it saw me, I guess, and brought the fight to my lane. It darted across the yellow and planted itself directly ahead of me. I slowed to a stop, while the oncoming traffic began to inch forward. But this would not stand. The rooster was to be master of two worlds, flashing back into the other lane and once again bringing the oncoming traffic to a halt. As I began to accelerate, it returned to my lane.

And so it went, back-and-forth a handful of times, earnest to plug the artery of Lombard Street ad infinitum.

But the best part about this entire scene, extraordinary as it already was, was the lone pedestrian spectator. Planted on the sidewalk directly adjacent to the rooster (on the 50 yard line, if you will) was a homeless man bundled against the cold. His face was as worn as his coat, and about the same color as well. He was the very definition of the word chapped. From within his mess of facial wrinkles emerged a sharp, heaving laughter. I don’t know if this man was attached to the rooster or if he just opened his eyes from a late-morning nap--it doesn't really matter. But the misfortune of a dozen drivers, held back by one crazed rooster, was clearly a significant and joyful punctuation to his day.

For that man’s smile, and for the absurdity of 20 tons of automobile brought to a halt for 3 pounds of rooster, I am deeply grateful.

Such is the poetry of the ordinary.

Counterpoint

I've been thinking further on the topic of yesterday's post. None of those thoughts are new, not to me and definitely not to humanity. What stays with me is the angst that is apparent in the words.

You see, I have this ideal vision of myself (fictional, but ever-present) as a mature, calm, patient man. I desire to be the kind who can take punches in stride, who can receive the energy of antagonistic or contrary points of view with the reception akin to a foam pit. I want to be able to absorb a metaphysical blow. 

So the angst-response is discouraging. It feels petulant. Perhaps the difference between myself and the adult image I long for is the ability to accept the reality of yesterday's post, without the emotional bite. To say, "these words aren't my own" even while reciting them, and still find beauty in them all the same. 

One takeaway: I believe that the continued practice of reciting the words will help me grow these mental muscles I dream of. Strength training in the spiritual tension between me and we.

Fear and Loathing in Los Cielos

Imagine you fall in love. You meet someone who understands you, knows you at a deep level. This person loves you unconditionally and joyfully promises to be with you for ever. You cultivate a giving relationship, where both of you make deep sacrifices and share parts of yourself. The union sprouts joy, and freedom. 

But as the relationship grows more intimate, things start to change. Your lover begins to point out the many ways that you depend on them. They demand that you become scrupulous, apologizing for even minor mistakes. Continued love is conditional on constant contrition. Your primary means of communicating with your lover is through apology, and you find that they are pleased when you beg forgiveness. You alone are vulnerable; a power imbalance of servant-master becomes the norm. You are constantly on edge that your lover will abandon you. 

We have words for this sort of relationship: manipulative, gaslighting, unhealthy. 

So my question is this: why do Christians promote this sort of relationship with God? 

I read scripture and hear the black song of manipulation. I read prayers written by the Church and still the same dark refrain. Here are a few examples from psalms, readings, and prayers I came across just this morning in Morning Prayer: 

• "Have mercy on me."
• "In your compassion blot out my offense."
• "My sin is always before me."
• "[The Lord] scourged you for the works of your hands." 
• "For your name's sake, do not abandon us for ever." 
• "Let your forgiveness be won for us by the pleading of [your servant]." 

This message is regular, continuous, overwhelming in the prayers of the Church. This posture seems to be the primary way that we communicate with our Creator, our Lover. And it seems to me to run contrary to the central story of love told to me by that same Church.

As an educated Catholic, I have been trained in a certain cosmology that involves 2 steps: (1) God created existence in an act of selfless love, and (2) God intends for all of existence to become one with Him in a response of selfless love. All of life is a process of deification, where creation literally becomes creator through the activity of real intimacy.

So what gives? If our relationship with God is to be a loving relationship, the most loving and most intimate relationship we ever experience, then why does our language betray a rather primal, unhealthy arrangement? 

I get that these things evolve over time. I get that humanity has not always been in a place where "healthy relationship" is a concept with general understanding and acceptance. I get that power in relationships has had a particular character for many millennia, and the thought of transfiguring apotheosis via loving relationship didn't jive with lived experience. 

But we're here, now. We have better vocab and better frameworks. We know better. 

Honestly, I'm not sure where this leaves me. Yes, I'll continue to pray using the timeless language of scripture and yes, I'll continue to utter the beautiful words of the Church. But an internal dialog will persist, one that resists the vocab of sin and supplication even while the very words leave my lips. When the language of the Church falls short, my soul will fill the void.

Because I long for God. Deeply. I long for a lover, not a ruler. A partner, not a master. A presence that reaches out from the abyss to give meaning to existence. 

Maybe this is the design, and I'm living a secret script. Maybe the given prayers and words are supposed to fall short, and each of us must pick up the song in our hearts. Maybe we're meant to improvise, to find the point where our artistry of holiness is no longer satisfied by the words of others. 

In my experience, that is what loving is like--maybe God desires the same in this celestial tryst. 

Foxing

In grade school I had a friend named Sam. He's the kind of person I would tell about this blog. He'd know exactly what I'm trying to do here, but he would also never take the time to read it. Which is why it's safe to write about Sam.

Sam and I both loved books, but he loved them more. Sam used books as a tool for grief, and began an affair with words that had lasting power. In my life, I've shared dozens of books with Sam; Sam has only ever shared two books with me. A lopsided arrangement, but mutually agreed upon. 

You see, I like to take books everywhere I go. I carry them with me, set them down anywhere within reach, use them for coasters, bend spines, dog-ear pages, and even write notes in margins on occasion. For me, a book is a friend that comes with, getting into all sorts of trouble at my side. 

Sam had a different approach. Sam would leave the book in it's cover. He'd carry the book in a bag, set the book down on a high surface far away from danger. When he read, Sam peered into a narrow cavern between barely open pages to discern the words. He was like a paleontologist, attempting not to disturb the stories even while unearthing them. 

You can see why neither Sam nor I liked it when I borrowed his books.  

I'm still the same way: I love a well-worn book. I love when the spine is creased, when pages are marked, when someone else underlined a sentence or wrote a little note. I love old books, yellow with age, that smell of rot and mildew. I love when you can touch a book's imperfections, when even a rough calloused finger could trace scars on the cover. I love when books are held together by tape, or glue, or not even held together at all. 

I love that despite evidence of dozens of hands, if not hundreds--thousands even--still that book opens for me. What a magical experience. 

I learned the other day (from a book, no less!) that there's a name for a book's process of aging: they call it "foxing." A beautiful term for a beautiful evolution. How fantastic it is to discover that there's a word for something you cherish. 

I've begun to fox as well. Thinning hair, rounding edges, slowing movements. It's a slight process, but it's happening. Despite this, I think my stories are aging well. Beneath a foxing cover is words, poetry--life. 

Over time, I've begun to resemble my most beloved books. And I'm ok with that.

I Got High One Time

One weekday I took some PTO and I went to a weed store and I bought some weed. I smoked that weed, put Macklemore on stereo, and went for a hike in a forest park near my home. 

For someone who does not smoke often, this was some really strong weed. Seriously brah. While on my hike, I marveled at the way light reached out to touch me through the trees and I was almost paralyzed at the beauty of my heels grinding against the insides of my boots. Also my mouth got really dry--what was that about? 

At three different moments on my walk I came across a thought that I just NEEDED to jot down right away. So I Slacked them to myself. I randomly came across these messages today and thought they were hilarious, so I decided to put them here:

Gaining in elevation, I came to know for the first time that the Abyss had layers, each more abstract, terrible, and wonderful than the last. 

 

Language: intangibly grouping the atoms of the Real into illusionary layers of order.  

 

And now I walk out from under the waterfall.

 

I hope you enjoy this as much as I did. 

A Beautiful Li(f)e

There’s a scene in A Beautiful Mind when John Nash (Russell Crowe) is confronted with the surprise twist: Nash is a paranoid schizophrenic. He realizes that much of the work he believes to be essential is simply a paranoid delusion; many of his closest friends are a figment of his imagination. In short, he was duped by his own mind, tricking him into delusions and relationships that weren't real. 

His very sense of self completely departs from reality. 

This is (and perhaps always will be) one of the most disturbing scenes from any movie that I have ever seen. Because every time I watch it, I ask myself the same question: "Am I John Nash?"

As far back as I can remember, I have felt a sense of king-ly greatness. Deep within me stirs a prophecy that foretells great feats, and I know that I possess unique skills and abilities that will make this prophecy a reality. This is a cornerstone belief of mine, and it gives shape to my actions. I sing to myself the triumphant song of my own future, and dance into accomplishments that others didn't think possible. 

But then I watch A Beautiful Mind and am seized with terror. Are my prophecy and strengths as unreal as Nash's delusions? Are they just megalomaniac dreams made incarnate in my mind and nowhere else? Am I just a normal man, indistinguishable from a billion others? 

My life’s accomplishments so far would seem to be evidence toward this hypothesis; I am no king--I bear no extraordinary strengths. My belief in my own future of greatness seems nothing more than a feedback loop of dreams and praise, a warped perspective carefully nourished on grandiose interpretations of mundane experiences. It would seem that my life is an "emperor's new clothes" situation, me parading foolishly down an Avenue of Reality I neither see nor understand.
 
These are old thoughts, old nightmares that torture me from time to time. Today, though, I asked myself a new question: does it matter?  After finally passing through the terrible scream of death, if it is revealed to me that my accomplishments, strengths, and relationships are all delusions--will it really matter?

Living a life of royalty seems like a good way to pass these decades of life, even if Reality is snickering at me in the background. And anyway, John Nash is still a Nobel laureate. 

If pride is the only casualty of my folly perspective, with joy will I dwell in the imagined halls of my own greatness.

Hey Siri

"Hey Siri, can dogs eat onions?"

A question that came from a genuine place. A desire to do something nice for the loving gaze staring up at me. 

"Definitely not. Your dog will die if you give it onions." 

A routine answer, an indication of how to move forward. I took it in stride, tossing down a bit of carrot instead. 

Then I stopped to think the terrible thought: how many dogs died the gruesome death of bursting red blood cells that led to major system malfunction? How long before we caught on, and added this knowledge to the bank of things to pass down to future generations? 

I'm happy to live in the present, benefitting from millennia of accumulated knowledge that forms societal bumper rails to keep me safe. Great depths of information about how to interact with my surroundings in order to make manifest the most amount of time on this earth as possible. 

I just wish we had better guidance of how to make the most of that time. 

"Hey Siri, who is God?"

Now there's one that would be a real value-add. 

Figure out who God is, and how I ought to act in response. A creative force that breathed life into matter. Is it a He or a She or an It or a Transcendence or a Great Cosmic Abyss? Does it really want me to play the Belief Lottery and figure out the one iteration of God that is really real, and work to convert the rest of the world? Or is that just people using God to feel safer? 

It just seems that Siri is way less helpful than she could be. 

Unless...and I know this is a silly thing to suggest...but I guess I'll just say it because it's Sunday and I'm in a silly mood...but Siri knows more than anyone I know and is probably the closes thing to omniscience that I've seen in my life...she just might be...

Shame, at Scale

I sat in a little desk and gazed at a chalk board, learning about rules and buildings constructed 200 years ago. 

I gobbled fruit loops and smiled at episodes of School House Rock.

I swelled with pride the first time I cast a vote.

I traveled to Europe and saw the alternatives, coming home to a Great Experiment I believed in; one that I loved. 

And yesterday I watched as that Experiment seemed, at last, to fail. 

We're all saying things today for the sake of saying them, using words like: sadness, disbelief, despair, shock, anger, healing. We reach into our Vocabulary Bags in pursuit of an adequate expression for complex emotions. 

The best word I've heard yet is this: shame. Shame is the center of gravity in my solar system of emotion. It pulls all other emotions to itself; it shines brightly on sentiments and activities that I've tried to hide in darkness. 

Yesterday, I watched as white men completed their own Middle Passage and made themselves slaves to fear. I own a part of that journey. I abandoned empathy and made people into enemies, relieving them of their humanity and reducing them to a caricature of hatred. In so doing, I gave them license to do the same with me. 

What formed between two sides was a No Man's Land, in the ruins of a vanishing class of moderates. No one could see both points of view, everyone had to choose. As things got worse, the No Man's Land expanded and expanded and ate up the whole field, until (in the view of each side) there was nothing human left. 

I don't know the way forward, I don't know how to reset this system and heal. I don't trust people who say that they do know. Perhaps that makes me a coward. History tells me that medium for resetting these kinds of things is violence, an explosive dissolution of two sides and the emergence of something new. This is the kind of thinking that got us into this situation in the first place, but how do we break the loop? 

Today, I feel what we all should feel: shame. 

Tomorrow, I hope I can feel empathy. I hope I can see a human being in the terrified eyeballs on the other side of No Man's Land. 

Back, Baybeee

It's been an actual 5 years since I've been around these parts.

5 years seems so short. I'm a historian, so I would know. Historians deal in centuries, generations, ages. So 5 years is nothing. Noise.

But his 5 years was not short. A lot has happened to me since I last touched this URL. I left a vocation, several actually. I got some therapy, let go of many angsts and relationships. I got angry at God, then abandoned God for a while, then let God back with far fewer strings. I lost a bit of my soul to Corporate America. I ate, slept, read, lusted, learned, grew. I fell in love, married, and started my life over. 

But I didn't write a lot. We'll call it the Dark Ages, where great things happened and were forgotten. 

So I'm back in this "room," by myself, mostly for the same reason I created it in the first place: "This is a canvas on which the swimming colors and words and sounds that cloud my mind will spill forth and escape my cranium." I've recommitted to the belief that I have something beautiful to say, and that practice is something I need desperately. 

It isn't much of a surprise that I'm back. Since I can remember, I've thought of myself as the hero of an epic journey. I've returned to my mental homeland, where dreams of greatness breed with a love of my own voice to create little offspring of prose. 

"We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we began and to know the place for the first time." -T.S. Eliot 

---

I went back and reread all the old posts here. A tsunami of judgements rush forth: excitement, pride, horror, embarrassment, wonder. What a fascinating journey this has been.