Who is the tool?

My (relatively) new domestic arrangement has exposed me to habits and patterns that sometimes confound me. For instance, my roommates have the capacity to be entertained by television shows that I’ve never considered viable sources of amusement. I’ve seen things that have shocked me with the most banal and ridiculous examples of human behavior. I had no idea that both cable and network programming had reached its current depths. Neither would I have expected intelligent viewers to settle for the poor quality product put in front of them.

Still, I’ve been told repeatedly throughout my life that folks value escapism, and apparently the more mind-numbing it is, the better it satisfies the singular need of the audience. Certainly the choices made in my household illustrate that point. The MTV music awards prove to be a meaningless and contrived spectacle, meant to appeal to the lowest common denominator. Reality shows offer insipid dialog, loathsome personalities, and situations that would strain credibility if penned by a scriptwriter for (even) the dullest of dramas. And consumers are meant to laugh at the most cliché jokes of today’s so-called sitcoms.

If I’m in the room when the idiot box is on, it’s sometimes impossible to ignore. As a result, I’ve learned that L.A. is still filled with self-absorbed, sub-human, empty shells that cynical producers put forth as fascinating subjects of study. I find it all insulting to the social condition. But obviously there are plenty that disagree. So I make my best attempt to find something redeeming about whatever’s on. Otherwise my hatred for my fellow man will know no bounds. Most of the time I’m thwarted in my efforts.

Yesterday I discovered “Tool Academy”. The set-up for this show is a supposed nationwide search for the ultimate “bad boy’. Unsuspecting dolts audition for a competition that will identify the “Alpha Males” of America. But within the first (or so) episode they realize that a trick has been played on them. Their girlfriends have submitted them for consideration as the worst mates in the nation. And all the video footage that they willingly had shot of themselves mouthing off and bragging becomes evidentiary material. They get to sit beside their disconsolate honeys as the very worst parts of their personas are displayed for a live crowd and America at large.

To add insult to injury, the creators of “Tool Academy” have enlisted the aid of an imperious relationship counselor with a distinguished British accent apparently meant to mask the vast level of stupidity the proceedings represent. And so it goes- a parade of self-delusion, an awesome lack of common sense, and a cavalcade of absolute nonsense. Is it representative of the quality of intimate pairings of the populace? If it is, then evolution has truly reversed itself, and our species must soon inevitably cede to another classification of animal. Our citizens are literally retarded, emotionally and otherwise.

Could it be that this show actually serves some sort of useful purpose other than the empty calories derived from the titillation of digesting extreme obnoxiousness? Is it a useful guide in what to avoid in dealing with your significant other? Perhaps some unfortunate viewers will see reflections of their own lives in the hapless guys and gals onscreen. I suppose if even a single woman decides to dump her misbehaving man after noting his resemblance to one of these buffoon contestants, then some redemption for its existence might be proven. Yet it’s easy to counter that anyone who has chosen to invite the presence of such a creature into her life deserves the burden of its continued presence.

On Intention.

Y’all listen up, because I’ve been thinking a lot about the subject of this post. I’ve noticed a distinct lack of attention to intentionality in words and deeds. I’m not simply throwing stones against the glass either. I’m not exempting myself from this characterization. It’s just that there’s a rash of reactionary response flowing out of the collective consciousness, and it’s starting to chafe a bit. I believe that a lot of people are finding themselves doing things without due prior consideration. I understand all about blowing in the wind and blooming where one’s planted, but I think that there are appropriate places to use those approaches and others where a different strategy might be in order.

I’m not trying to dictate terms, or offer advice, or come off as judgmental. What I’m proposing is only a suggestion- take a moment to breathe and center yourself before you make that next rash move. Truth is consequence and results are inevitable. You are having a palpable effect on the rest of us, whether you realize it or not. So simply consider whether you are being authentic to yourself. Be rational, but don’t discount your emotions. There is a lot at stake.

Choose every word carefully unless you are in the space where you can trust your intuition. And remember what we’ve learned about climate change. I’m not talking about this phenomenon at a global level, but rather a personal one. You may believe that you have figured yourself out. Perhaps you think that you have completed yourself. But if so, try to remember that you are merely playing catch-up. There’s nothing wrong with learning from the past. However… you are only doomed to repeat it if you make the decision to do so, whether or not you are doing it consciously or reflectively. And even then, it will be an imperfect recapitulation because the universe has since rearranged itself.

My truth is that we are about to see a paradigm shift. There is too much happening around us to believe otherwise. Feel free to embrace your fear as long as you need to. Material attachment is a difficult thing to contend with, especially when you’ve used it to form your identity. If you want to move on, you might as well dance. If you handicap yourself, you shouldn’t be in the business of blame. Be on the lookout for your insecurities, and find someone you love to talk to about them. I believe that together, we can transcend our current consensual reality. But intention is necessary.

When I Was No More Than a Child.

Perhaps I'm a wee bit obsessive-compulsive. Or maybe it's more proper to say that at least one of my multiple personalities is. I think that is one of the great joys of keeping the parts of myself ambivalently integrated. I can indulge the little idiosyncrasies that are aching to find their expression. If I repress them, they are going to show their faces anyway. So I might as well allow them conscious revelation, so to speak. That way I don't get anxious about their appearance. They don't blindside me. But I'm getting off on a tangent, and I know that I have something specific to talk about today. For those of you looking for a point, I want to assure you that there is one. Just be patient, and happy that I enjoy a bit of symmetry in my structure.

Not too long ago, my good friend R. and I were hanging out and talking in a nonlinear fashion and he made an interesting offhand(?) comment pertaining to whatever the momentary subject was and it resonated in waves like the proverbial butterfly wings. He said that there really wasn't much difference between a training in art and one in psychology. I found that particularly insightful and specifically relevant to my life. When I was an undergraduate in college, I ended up being a psychology major around the time I was starting junior year. I had one of those epiphanies that seen to quite commonly occur in youth. I realized that I didn't know what the fuck I was going to do upon graduation.

You see, when I left my hometown and my family I came as far away as I dared... all the way across this great commonwealth. My parents had told me that I could attend any in-state school with public funding, and when I looked at the map... the University of Pittsburgh really stood out. So we planned a visit- my first to this fine city. It was one of those gray days that seems to shadow the region's reputation... especially among those that have never been here. I can't say I was particularly trained in the art of observance at the time, and this deficit marked my experience. I decided that I would never come to a place like that for college. It was industrial and Gothic, and I had no idea what that meant.

Months later I failed to get into the main campus of Penn State University. At the time I didn't realize it, but this was incredibly fortuitous. Because Pitt was the rival of that Sunday Blue Law school. I was westbound and running with the sun. In retrospect I mark that as one of the very first substantial crossroads of my life I ever arrived at. And I've been thankful for the path I chose. For a few years I couldn't shake the stink of the East, but one summer I discovered the magic of the 'Burgh, and merged into its rivers. Getting back to the main thread, I'm grateful that I didn't have a fuckin' clue that fateful junior year at Pitt. Because I added up all my credits to see what I would major in (I had been promised a four-year sponsorship), and Psychology won out.

I suppose that I could look back at that time and believe that my spirit and/or intuition was guiding me. When I was completing my fourth year (yes, I finished my B.S. right on time), I knew I had nowhere clear to go. And I stayed and entered graduate school for psychology in education (that was the only seemingly functional masters degree offered for my chosen content). It was there that I really began thinking about individual personalities. For quite some time I matched them with the characters I knew... always externalizing those templates. It's only now (over a decade later) that I'm beginning to truly understand that they were always part of my self. It's a refreshing awakening.

What Color is Your Parachute?

Unlike many late thirty-somethings that might be ashamed to admit it, I'll proudly admit that I played Dungeons and Dragons as a kid. I liked it. It was fun. Sometimes I get tempted to ask my friend who still plays if they are short a player. The only reason I don't is because I have a lot on my plate. Otherwise I would. I mean it. I would like to say that I was a nerd when I started playing, but the sad truth is that I was too self-conscious to qualify for that category. However, my brother made the grade. He was older by sixteen months, and had a group of like-minded friends who he played with often. When I got old enough (around 10 or 11) they let me join in. I was a temperamental little-shit, and I'm surprised in retrospect that I was tolerated by them.

Well, those type of parties ended when I revealed my true alignment. One day we were playing at my brother's friend-DY's house. I was having a good time from what I remember, and I really enjoyed looking at DY's exotic fish tanks (I guess technically they were probably his father's tanks). They really had an incredible collection. Sure, they had quite a few fresh water aquariums. That's easy enough. Not much work required with them. But there were some bad-assed salt water tanks too, and those require dutiful maintenance. And I think that anyone who puts that kind of effort into their passion appreciate when someone else expresses a likewise interest. DY knew I was impressed.

I don't know exactly how it came up through the course of the day, but I think DY wanted to leave an additional impression on me. So he suggested that we take a break and go out and play in the backyard. He had this idea that he'd like us to kick a flaming tennis ball through the grass. He went out to the garage and showed us how we could douse the thing with gasoline and then he lit it on up. For awhile it was just a bit of mischievous (but harmless) fun. But I guess I needed more edge, because the final time it was directed at me I intentionally booted the thing into the 11-foot-hedge that bordered the back of the yard. You'd be surprised how fast that flame grew. As we watched, the tip of the flames started to lick the telephone wires.

Naturally DY was in a state of panic. He was actually fairly "with it" for a 13 or 14-year-old kid. As much as he hated to do it, he knew what had to be done. Perhaps there was a hose somewhere that could have been hooked up to an outside faucet, but there was also a corresponding sense of imminence as those bushes burned. DY showed what can only be described as an awful logic, and he ran into the house and came out with an aquarium. I never found out whether it was fresh water or not. He dumped it, fish and all, at the base of the flame. Unfortunately he knew that wouldn't be sufficient and he ended up making several return trips. I knew it must have been painful because he was crying in motion.

What did I do during this time? I only found out later from DY, during one of the very last times he ever spoke to me. Apparently I stood and stared in mesmerized stillness, watching the fire lick up the flora (and the fauna as well, after a bit). This in itself could have probably been easily explained. However, what I did next (I guess) was over the top. I started laughing... rather maniacally. What was funny about that scene? In retrospect I have no idea. Later, when DY let me know what he thought of me, I guess I must have been pretty sad. I was effectively excommunicated from hanging out with my brother's friends from then on. At that point I guess they realize that art and life are inseparable. Just like the characters I played, I was (and perhaps still am) 'chaotic neutral'.

Affairs of the stomach.

Today I took the opportunity to research the word "norovirus". I had plenty of time to learn about this viral affliction because I'm suffering from the very symptoms the classification describes. In fact I've had multiple bouts of suffering in the last six months that fall neatly under this category. This is, I believe, a function of Baby E. being in daycare. I recently described his "home-away-from-home" as a Petri Dish, and I feel it was an apt way to explain its effects- both on my son and my entire family. I can only hope that my body's immune system will develop some lasting resistances to the contagions that cause the norovirus. I've certainly had plenty of exposure to them.

Anyway, I also had a chance to read the paper for the first time in months. I generally don't make any effort to look at the local dailies, but cabin fever will do wonders for one's curiosity about the external world. So I quickly scanned the front page "news" items about the horrid state of the economy, and the nation's current prognosis. None of that was especially novel or insightful, and I found myself digging deeper and engaging page two. Here I discovered a particularly compelling story that seemed somehow appropriate to my current condition. I can't say I've ever experienced anything exactly like I read there, but still I can't help feeling like its somehow reflective of what's been happening in my stomach.

Apparently the actual event that precipitated the news coverage happened last August. It only reached our local outlets once again because of a "not guilty" plea registered in court by the perpetrator of a singularly heinous act. Vincent Li has apparently retracted his previous admission, which involved taking responsibility for the beheading and cannibalization of a 22-year old carnival worker on a Greyhound bus heading to Winnipeg, Manitoba. According to Li's account, God commanded him to kill Tim McClean because the victim was a "force of evil", who would have come back to life had he not been dissected. The defense psychiatrist in the case is arguing that Li is a schizophrenic who was not "criminally responsible" for his actions.

The tale is a particularly grisly one. According to the accounts of fellow passengers, Li began stabbing McClean in what appeared to be a random fashion, as the victim was snoozing and listening to headphones. The bus pulled over and all the non-combatants began hastily exiting the bus. At that point McClean tried to escape through a window and Li attempted to escape through the front, only to be stopped when the closing door caught his arm. Reportedly enraged by being trapped, Li extricated himself and proceeded to decapitate McClean, before finally depositing the head in plain view on the driver's seat for the edification of the witnesses outside the bus.

When police finally arrived at the scene and arrested Li, they discovered a plastic bag containing body parts in his pocket. Upon examination of the grisly scene, investigators were unable to locate McClean's eyes and approximately one-third of his heart, and thus came to the conclusion that Li had employed cannibalism as a means of disposal. This little touch introduces a particularly disquieting element into the event. I'm not suggesting that there aren't a lot of other disturbing things about this tragedy, but the fact that this guy was able to engage in his abhorrent feast while a little crowd of onlookers gazed on haplessly... that frankly astounds me. I can't presume to speculate on the quality of that experience, but I can say that reading about it is a bit sickening.

The only thing we have to fear...

I know that many of you are afraid of what's coming. You think things are going to get bad around here. Maybe a bit of perspective can help:


Do You Realize?

Don't get it in my eye...

Today is "Ash Wednesday", the observation day for a ritual that has always (quite frankly) freaked me out. It's easy to wonder why folks would want to walk around with the residue of ashes on their foreheads, especially when it is applied to make the sign of a long-past sacrifice. That in itself speaks to the mystery of our modern condition. So many people venerate a symbol of capital punishment. But this wasn't just any execution, was it? This brand represents the material death of a figure that many people now consider their savior. This is a puzzle that you can unravel to expose a chain of associations that stretches to infinity. Still, I think it's important to take a step back and think about it all pragmatically.

This day kicks off Lent, a period of abstinence that ends on Easter, which brings about the symbolic return of the aforementioned savior. This resurrection (if you will) marks the official formation of "the Church". But that's getting ahead of ourselves. The essential question is, "Why celebrate the death on Earth of a righteous man, condemned for others' sins, and made to suffer agonies that are ironically referred to as 'The Passion'?" It kind of sets a precedent for a society built upon obliteration. The historical Jesus is said to have performed many miracles before meeting his end at the age of 33 (?)... imagine what he might have done if he had lived to a ripe old age.

If The Christ could turn water into wine by his early 30's, think about the wondrous tricks he could have performed in "middle age". Perhaps he could have written his own books instead of having his followers (many of whom had never even met him) do it for him. We can only imagine that Word made flesh. Yet that wouldn't have suited the narrative. His public demise was necessary as an instrument of control for all of those who lived in his midst. People needed to learn to atone for their indulgences. What would you have done with a man who made folks aware that they were already part of "God"? That's way too empowering for the flock- better a dead shepherd than a liberator, right?

Now we are told that a "Day of Reckoning" is at hand. We will all have our turn to be judged. However, we won't be evaluated based upon our Earthly deeds. "Our Father" will determine our fealty to the message. Did Jesus die for you? Was his agony on that cross necessary to cleanse you of your "sin" (never mind if it is sufficient, because that's an entirely different subject)? Can you get a pass that easily? Today you will see lots of people who believe that they can. Their foreheads will be marked quite conspicuously. They'll make a concerted effort not to eat meat on Fridays, or they'll quit looking at porn, or make some other kind of great sacrifice. This will signify their awareness of the "need for redemption".

Anyway... it's all very strange in a mytho-poetical way. I only have the vaguest recollections of all of this ritualized behavior. I suppose that the faithful line up in front of the proxy (or priest, minister, and/or pastor) to be blessed with the charred remains of year-old palm leaves. This all sounds shamanic to me. There are certainly pre-historical antecedents for this type of behavior. But even more bizarre is the addition of "Oil of the Catechumens" to the ashy mix. What is it and what's with it? A "catechumen" is someone who is undergoing preparation to be baptized. At least that's what Wikipedia says. Yet I can't for the life of me figure out what the oil is made out of, or made from*. It's another mystery.


* Besides olive oil... that much I could find out.

Nice to Meet Me!

I've often had enough hubris to honestly desire that I had several clones, so that I could see and do everything I have ever wanted to. It's an obviously ludicrous proposition for a number of reasons. First of all, the technology isn't available to the middle class. In fact one can make a damn good argument that it never will be. If all of a sudden millions of Americans could go out to the local strip mall medical facility and purchase (at a reasonable rate) a few body doubles, then this would be an inordinately overcrowded nation. Sure... a lot of beloved pets could find their second lives, and of course people (especially the more religious) would be suspicious (as they are with most innovation), but eventually their collective resistance would wear down.

There would be an abundance of folks on the streets, and that would necessarily mean a surplus of the type of assholes I already wish would somehow disappear (in a very humane way, naturally, with very little suffering). It's one thing to have to face the prospect of preparing for, and bringing to birth, another human being. However, what if one didn't have to worry about the messy aspects of carrying an unborn child? There would be no morning sickness, nor swelling, nor all the rest of the stuff that's currently included to make women (and their partners) second guess their momentous decisions. It would simply be a matter of saving up the money, and filling out a bit of paperwork.

Obviously the government would have to get involved. There's simply no way around that in a society in this modern age. There are already so many financial choices that seem impulsive and uninformed. Just look at the McMansions that suburbanites purchased during the housing boom that are now the focus of foreclosures. The target to be cloned would certainly have to assume some responsibility for their new facsimile. Especially if the clones in question started out as infants. But you see, this is where my entire scenario breaks down. Because scientists wouldn't be offering you the choice. They couldn't actually clone the YOU that is you right now. It would be a tabla rasa, so to speak, unsullied by your own personal experiences.

However, let's assume for the purpose of hijinks that they could actually create an exact replica of you, the way you exist in this present. I know you'd be at least a little tempted. Maybe you could treat the newly created being as a shadow, and make him/her work two jobs, giving you a healthy percentage of his/her total earnings. But sooner or later some activists would get together some pesky little group to step on all your fun. They'd be marching and protesting about "clone rights", and exploitation of the "clone class". Still this is another alternative reality that is unlikely, as far as I can determine from imaging what my own clone would be like. He would be trying to figure out a way to put the clone label on me, and reverse the charges.

It really is a nightmare when I think about it. What if my double figured out a way to be better than me, despite the contrived similarities in experience and genome? That wouldn't be good for my self-esteem. What if my wife decided that she liked him better? There would have to be some serious negotiations to make sure that the situation worked out for my benefit. Of course I couldn't rely on my current powers of manipulation, as my clone would already know all of those tricks. Could I work with myself, if that self was manifest in a separate body? I think that's the ultimate question that needs to be answered. It would be a shame if I somehow wasted an opportunity like that.

The Absurdity of a Late Lunch.

Wednesday was the first time I ever ate cheese fries and chili dogs in an examination room at a gynecologist's office. Is that hard to believe? Maybe so, but it happened. Before you start wondering, I'll explain right off the bat that there wasn't any particular emergency. I could have stayed at home with E. (daycare was closed), but M. didn't want to drive on the icy roads, such as they were. So we all got bundled up for a cross-town jaunt to a hospital complex I had never even noticed. I can't say I was specifically enthused about going, yet it did make a certain kind of sense to have me behind the wheel. The main problem was my hunger, as I had chosen not to eat before we left. I had taken an early walk instead.

After we made it to the destination and found parking in the indoor garage, and checked in with the receptionist, I sat down and realized that I needed something to eat. The doctors were at lunch and we anticipated that it might be awhile before M. was in for her appointment. It was easily apparent that I was going to be cranky until I had something in my stomach. I got the go-ahead from M., and I didn't waste any time getting underway. I stepped outside onto Federal Street and looked for an eatery. I passed a fried fish-and-chips place, and decided quickly against stopping with the foresight that it would have been an alimentary disaster. The last thing I needed was to be sick for a couple more days.

Next I was tempted by a delectable image on an advertisement in the window of the Pizza Hut. Who knew that they now offered macaroni-and-cheese with REAL bacon? Unfortunately, after a quick surveillance, I realized that there was nowhere to sit while waiting for an order. Plus I had no idea what the hell else I could get to go along with the the mac-and-cheese. I don't like that chain pizza. My quandary deepened as I ran out of options on the "institutional" side of the street. I'd have to venture across Federal St. to the ramshackle independent "eateries" on the degraded side. Even getting over there was a bit of a hassle, with the rain and the sleet and the ice. I hit the opposite curb and skirted an open pit in the sidewalk.

There were four joints lined up in a row, as if the crumbling strip they inhabited meant to serve as a desperate bulwark against the corporate onslaught of homogenized "progress". And I felt a tiny bit guilty about my skepticism as I passed each in turn. These were the hauntings of the "Old North Side", their habitués presenting vague possibilities of danger in their poverty and "otherness". But surely employees at the hospital frequented these places as well? They looked dirty and unkempt under the gloom of the Pittsburgh winter. My appetite dictated that I make a quick choice and throw the weight of a potentially foolhardy confidence behind the search. As you already know, I chose a hot dog shop.

Ironically there were two businesses in that cluster that served hot dogs as the main attraction. My decision was based upon the way that the words "Steve's New York Style Hot Dogs" were painted on the window. They had a cleanly rendered traditional script that I found inviting. The cook was a young man of few words, and he was assisted by an older woman that spoke on the phone in alternating languages. The two worked methodically, and the food was simply prepared. How bad could it be? After what seemed like ten minutes, I grabbed my bagged lunch and went back to join M. in the waiting room. I had just set the messy conglomeration of junk on my lap when the nurse called us in. I managed to avoid spilling stuff everywhere.

Because I don't have enough to do...

If you checked into Serendipity this past weekend hoping to see a post, I heartily apologize. And I'm almost (but not quite) embarrassed to explain to you the reason for that neglect. I joined a rather infamous "social networking" site early Friday morning (and by morning I mean Thursday night). I was gifted with a block of free time that I had not expected, and going out on "The-Day-That-Wasn't-a-Day-Until-It-Was"- Eve just wasn't compelling. So I found myself in front of the computer wondering what to kill some time with. Several of my friends had recently told me about their involvement with the aforementioned time-suck, and although I was warned against it, I gave into my lesser Gods and registered my own page.

I don't know if I opened Pandora's Box or plugged into a nodal web of useful and fun association, and I'm sure I won't be able to make that call for some unspecified period- but I can report having been drawn in by its novelty. Like most other people who have found themselves on this particular site, I never realized I had so many "friends". Don't get me wrong... I'm pleased. After all, I am a bit of an egoist. Let me bathe in a wave of validation at high tide. I recognize the forces that exist that make it recede in due course. I also realize that this process leaves all sorts of detritus washed up along the shoreline. It makes me think of folks bringing that shit home with them and trying to hear the sounds of the surf.

Anyway, enough of the flowery pseudo-poetics... the truth is that I have gotten the chance to touch base with people I haven't seen or talked to in years. That's worth something. Now if it actually results in a face-to-face with one of my old friends, then the effort will have been worth it. I've never bought into this kind of thing before. My eminently wise friend refers to this platform as "trite-book", and I can understand why. One part of me doesn't give a fuck what you are having for dinner. On the other hand maybe I can get you to send me some leftovers. I also believe this could be an effective way to get the word out about local events. We'll see. I'm not sure that people have realized the full capabilities of this crazy machine.

What I haven't given much thought to is what kind of information is being sold to sponsors of this operation. I don't understand the income streams with these online applications. No doubt the individual who invented this specific network is now very wealthy. But by what means? Alternatively, I get a kick out of imagining government agents trying to get useful data out of analyzing who is connected with who. There's no obvious ranking system to identify those relationships that are deeper or more meaningful than others. The guy you used to see at the corner bar fifteen years ago is interchangeable with your bestest friend. What does it actually mean that someone is on your list?

Ultimately this is one more tool with which to negotiate our increasingly complex existences. The purpose we attribute to it is internally generated. All the technology and access in the world will not be wholly sufficient in providing the depth and creativity necessary to make the difference in our lives. It can be the writing on the wall, or the piss in the pot, depending on our orientation. And finally, maybe it's nothing so novel at all. Perhaps this is just one more effort at tribalism... not that it's necessarily a "bad" thing. Sometimes it's nice to know who is on our "side", even if it such a superficial gesture.

A Comment About "Going Dark".

One thing I have tried to avoid on Serendipity is self-referential navel-gazing. After all, that path leads to a morass of post-modern ennui and irony. Yet after a long absence that has been the longest in the entire history of this blog, I feel a bit of an obligation to comment on the break. For an extended time I have been jarred from my everyday routine. Please don't imagine that this was a result of some tragedy or anxious upheaval. Actually it's been a lot of fun. But about a week ago I decided that it was more important to limit my obligations and impositions, and simply concentrate on direct experience for a bit. It took a lot for me to break my everyday pattern of writing and posting.

I still believe in the "examined life". As each night and day passed, there were plenty of topics and subjects I could have written about. I felt like I was letting people down by not stopping to put my reflections into words, but the truth is that such a feeling would never have compelled me to break my silence. Ultimately I do all of this for myself. So I had to decide to make the conscious effort to let things go. I even stopped taking my daily walks Whenever I felt pulled by caprice to redirect my attentions, I did so. It was a bit surprising to discover how much I resisted doing it. My habits have become so interwoven into my life that I often had the sensation of becoming completely unmoored.

Somehow the structure of this project has been simultaneously empowering and constricting. On one hand, I believe the organization of my thoughts has made me much more effective in accomplishing my goals. Yet I know that I have chosen to limit my opportunities for "serendipity" by making myself sit in front of the computer and type these signifying symbols in a five-paragraph framework. When I'm scratching this shit out on my keyboard, I'm closing myself off to outside experience- however temporary my self-imposed removal from the present may be. There must be a limit to the benefits I get from the process. And unless I step away for a bit, I'll never see them clearly.

So in every way I can imagine, I was on vacation for awhile. I went more places and talked to more people than I would have thought possible had I made a point of adhering to my regular schedule. Meanwhile, I know for a fact that some regular readers of this blog wondered if I was alright. My answer is unequivocal- I was doing great. I grabbed at the chance to see my carefully constructed perspective unravel just a bit, and I'm happy with having made that decision. But at the same time I realized the great benefit of participating in this activity. No doubt there were worthwhile topics and questions I could have focused on that will be lost to the erosion of memory.

However, if I hadn't prioritized direct experience, I wouldn't have been exposed to a lot of these thoughts at all. The reality is that we spend a lot of time balancing our external lives with our internal perspectives. We often don't realize we're engaged in that eternal conundrum, so we do things that make no real sense at all... to anybody. I suppose that's the great meaning we can all find in the holidays. They break up our regular rhythms, and give us a different mirror to stare into. It's exceptionally easy to think that we are the sum of our parts, but I suspect that they don't really convey the totality of ourselves. I hope you had a similar chance to step outside yourself, and if you didn't... that you will soon.

The Stuff of Dreams.

We are now several weeks into the President-Elect's administration. Doesn't that sound exceptionally weird? This is the first time in my experience that a newly-elected executive seems like the head of state a full two months before officially assuming office. When Clinton was in his last months, I remember people dreading his departure. No doubt that had much to do with the fact that the 2000 election was contested, and it wasn't clear who Clinton's replacement would be. A lot of folks certainly had a bad feeling about the idea of another Bush in office. Still I think few had any idea just how disastrous his first term would be. Anyway, there is a wide consensus that it's a good thing he's leaving.

I feel entitled to a couple of months of self-delusion. Can't I simply bask in the dream that we will be put back on a brighter path? Actually, the answer seems to be a resounding "No"! Despite the impression I have of Barack Obama as a resourceful and thoughtful man, if I'm really honest with myself, I have to realize that the problems are almost incomprehensibly vast. The economy is tanking, and the fed is "injecting" so much additional currency into the system that it will almost certainly overdose. This is a paradigm shift. After 9-11 we were promised that "the nation will never be the same again". I think that might have been overstated at the time, but it became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Every time I consider the trillions of dollars that our government is spending to forestall the greatest crash in US history, I get that much more sick to my stomach. How could anyone have a plan to help us escape the mess? It appears that the best we can hope for is to reassure foreign investors that the entire edifice isn't built on a pile of shit and wishes. How long can we fool the rest of the world? If we are successful at this task for another few years, what are the chances that we will correct our course in the interim? Perhaps the essential human flaw comes down to a limited perspective at the core of our beings. It doesn't seem like foresight is an essentially well-developed quality of mankind. Nobody really wants to suffer for a better future.

The only thing I can do for a break is to let my cultural obsessions overcome my political ones. I need to distract myself (if only for a bit) for the sake of my own sanity and health. I promise that I won't let it go on too long, as that would mean I'm only contributing to another fundamental problem within our populace. But I feel like I deserve it. So I'm spending more time reading a book about the history of millenarian thought, with a special focus on Judeo-Christian traditions. If you're not aware of this theme, I would describe it in very simplistic terms as a belief that the world is coming to an end, and the accompanying concern with the details surrounding preparation for, and the significance of, Armageddon. If you are still unclear about the subject, have a look at the Biblical Book of Revelations as a reference point.

I'm aware of the irony of my choice. Why would I feel like turning to this type of stuff for the purpose of escapism? The answer may sound contradictory. I think that "escapism" is the appropriate descriptor for the application of imagination to "apocalypse". For as long as history has been recorded, there have been thinkers dreaming up "The End". Interestingly, they tend to twist it around into an ultimately positive scenario. Sure, you've got to go through hellish tribulations, but if you are able to come out the other side, you are in for a treat of 1000 years of peace and happiness. You see, the truth of the matter is that there is no escape. Society is (and always will be) as flawed as the individuals that make it up. Embrace that reality, and rely on dreams only whenever you find them absolutely necessary to get by.

Naomi Wolf's Coup.

A friend of mine sent along a video for me to watch yesterday. It featured Naomi Wolf, a "Third Wave Feminist", who famously accused Howard Bloom of sexual harrassment (decades after the fact) and called Al Gore a "beta male" when she was supposedly working on his campaign. Her latest book is called The End of America, and it concerns her formulation of ten steps that a nation can take to assume control of its citizens' lives. Apparently she studied Hitler and Mussolini, and their rise to power, and came up with a step-by-step "how to" guide on fascism. Obviously she makes the point that the United States is well on its way to replicating the conditions that she describes.

There is no doubt that the Bush Administration has taken a number of extraordinary steps to consolidate the power of its executive office. Using Wolf's words, they have indeed "invoked a terrifying internal and external enemy", "created secret prisons where torture takes place", "set up an internal surveillance system", and "engaged in arbitrary detention and release". Her argument that the cabal behind the president is ramping up its efforts to clamp down on our essential freedoms is therefore somewhat persuasive. Her concerns are certainly not unjustified given the prologue of the last eight years. Where she begins to lose me, however, is when she claims that a coup has already taken place in the United States, and calls upon her listeners to find a local district attorney who will arrest President Bush.

Her argument involves the suspension of the long held principle of posse comitatus. For those not familiar with the concept, it was firmly entrenched as the citizenry's protection after Reconstruction. In basic terms, the statute generally "prohibits federal military personnel and units of the United States National Guard under federal authority from acting in a law enforcement capacity within the United States, except where expressly authorized by the Constitution or Congress" (link). The problem is that Bush/Cheney and Co. eroded this crucial check on their power by attaching a rider in the Defense Reauthorization Bill of 2007. While Congress tried to redress that overstep in 2008, Bush issued a signing statement which basically demonstrated that he wasn't that concerned with prudent governmental limits.

There have been two events in recent weeks that have set off Naomi Wolf's internal alarms. The first was actually what seemed to be a minor indiscretion committed on the floor of the US House of Representatives. Congressman Brad Sherman (D-CA) cited unspecified sources who reportedly told him that there would be an imposition of martial law if the bailout bill was not passed (he ended up voting "no"). The second omen was the announcement of the deployment of the 3rd Infantry's 1st Brigade Combat Team within the borders of the United States "as an on-call federal response force for natural or manmade emergencies and disasters, including terrorist attacks." The mission is expected to be a permanent one.

While the presence of a 3000-troop strength active military unit in the homeland is indeed disturbing, it's difficult for me to make the logical leap that this deployment means that a military coup is officially underway. It doesn't seem like enough men to subdue any potential insurrection should the election be cancelled. Still the potential uses of the force are a bit worrisome- "they may be called upon to help with civil unrest and crowd control or to deal with potentially horrific scenarios such as massive poisoning and chaos in response to a chemical, biological, radiological, nuclear or high-yield explosive, or CBRNE, attack." On one hand it does seem understandably proactive for the federal government to prepare for a bit of back-up during this particularly tumultuous election cycle. But alternatively, it reinforces a vague paranoia that seems to be spreading amongst the populace.

Bigfoot Found in Southern Freezer!

Y'know, I think it might be worthwhile to take a few minutes and clear up a matter of increasing confusion. Many people who know me appear to be under a mistaken impression, and in the interest of frank exposition, I feel I should set them straight. Just because I attended a Bigfoot Convention a few years back does not mean I am a true believer. It doesn't even mean that I am convinced of the possibility that this large hairy humanoid creature exists. Furthermore, when I wear my t-shirt advertising the PA Bigfoot Society, I'm not trying to reinforce any particular position. This animal may or may not be stalking our backwoods. I've never seen one myself, so it would be disingenuous for me to attempt to claim any authority on the matter.

I guess wearing the shirt has contributed to the perception that I am some kind of fanatic on the topic. Perhaps I resemble a number of distinguished cryptozoologists. But the truth is that I have no more affinity for Bigfoot than I do for Chupacabra, the Jersey Devil, or the Loch Ness Monster. I love the possibility of them equally. Yet I've been singled out by a number of my friends. I have received a plethora of e-mail messages linking to the latest news regarding a correctional officer and a cop who claim to have discovered the corpse of a Bigfoot. Rick Dyer and Matthew Whitton reportedly stumbled on their find while on a hunting trip in Georgia some time ago. They tried to garner press attention immediately after, but were unsuccessful.

Now Whitton and Dyer have hooked up with Tom Biscardi and Searching for Bigfoot. Biscardi is a former Las Vegas promoter who has appeared as an "expert" with George Noory on Coast to Coast. He knows his audience and he's rolled out such finds before, only to later admit that he had been scammed. Still he plunges on, organizing expeditions to trap and capture a live Bigfoot in Northern California. He's been doing this since 1971, inspired by a 1967 viewing of the infamous Roger Patterson footage on the Johnny Carson show. Regardless of how much skepticism he inspires, his attitude seems irrepressible. I found the following Biscardi quote on his web page:

"There are two types of people, one finds a way,... one finds an excuse. I am the type of person who goes over, under, and around or through any obstacle that stands in my way!!! I can.. I will... I am going to!!! When the going gets tough, the tough get going! Every day and every way by the grace of God I am getting better and better!! I feel happy... I feel healthy... I feel terrific! After all, the mark of a person is not how far he runs from his problems, but how well he meets, faces and deals with those problems. That is truly the mark of a real human being. I can... I will... and I am going to succeed today!!!"

In the face of such enthusiasm, can we really afford to doubt such a man? After all, he has at least 5 confirmed sightings of Bigfoot to his credit. And he seems to be taking Whitton and Dyer pretty seriously. We can only imagine what his thoughts were when the erstwhile adventurers opened their outdoor freezer to expose the hulking carcass of a (decapitated?) 7 foot, 7 inch monster. Maybe he felt that his forbearance in the face of mockery and derision had finally paid off. Or perhaps columns of figures representing potential profits from the find ran through his head. Either way Biscardi and company promise that they will be presenting the results of DNA analysis soon. They've got several Russian scientists working on the case as I write. Long live the legend!

Extreme Motherhood.

Due to the absence of a decent independent coffeehouse in my neighborhood, I am forced to sate my caffeine jones at a corporate shop. Luckily the people that work the counter are sticklers for detail. They really seem to make a commitment to serving quality product. They are helpful, courteous, and make an effort to remember what each and every regular prefers. Every day they affix a daily horoscope to the mini-counter from which you pick up your finished drink. Another added touch is the daily trivia question. The stakes aren't very high, but it's a nice extra. If you answer correctly you get ten cents off your order. I have a weakness for trivia, and I can often elicit a laugh with an irreverent answer. Occasionally I take away something to think about for awhile after I leave.

Such was the case today. The query was, "What is the record for the most children born to a mother?" Of course this was a timely question for me. I'm aware of women who have had more than ten screaming whelps over the course of a lifetime. I figured that the typical human female has about 30-40 years to deliver kids. With this in mind, I gave an irrationally low number for my answer. I guess I was affected by the empathy I have accumulated for M. while going through this process together for the first time. It's easy to want a few children, but altogether a different reality when you consider the work that goes into bearing them. Anyway I guessed that eighteen was an inordinately high number, and was (therefore) probably a reasonable assumption.

I was actually a bit amazed to learn just how far off the correct answer I was. The barista told me that a woman had actually borne 69 offspring. I immediately wondered how this was possible, given the the limitations of individual fertility. Obviously I figured there must have been multiple births. Well, they didn't have more details for me at the shop, and so I resolved to Google the case when I got home. Indeed, between the years of 1725 and 1765, the first wife of Russian Feodor Vassilyev got pregnant 27 times. There were 16 pairs of twins, seven groups of triplets, and four sets of quadruplets. Amazingly, 67 of these children survived past infancy. The striking thing about this feat is that her first name is nowhere on record. If that's not an example of the crassest sort of gender injustice, then I truly don't understand sexism.

Naturally I view this little factoid with a bit of skepticism. Surely the story is apocryphal? This couple was said to be among the peasant population of a little town called Shuya. How is it that such humble people were able to afford to feed that large a brood? Shouldn't there have been folktales and songs written about that woman? The only thing I could find out about her, besides the location and number of her children, is that she was the first wife of Feodor Vassilyev. I don't know for sure, but I would assume that she likely died from the strain on her body. Anyway, she certainly left a legacy. Imagine facing the prospect of marrying into that obligation. Perhaps our man Feodor felt a bit overwhelmed. But how was he able to convince his second wife to share his burden? And then... did the new couple have more kids? The logistics of such a family are mind-boggling.

As shocking as that whole tale is, it doesn't compare to another case I read about while researching "extreme motherhood". This one is particularly disturbing. On May 14th, 1939, the Peruvian Lina Medina gave birth to to a six pound boy named Gerardo (after the doctor that delivered him). Lina was five years, seven months old at the time. When she first started showing her pregnancy, it was believed that she had an abdominal tumor. She was seven months into term before they diagnosed her true condition. As one might expect, the new born was delivered via c-section. Apparently her period came first at 8 months of age, and she had prominently developed breasts at age four (signs of "precocious puberty"). Although her father was initially arrested for rape and incest, and later released for lack of evidence, the biological source of the sperm that impregnated Lina was never identified.

The Code.

Years ago, when I was under the heady influences of my college days, I used to have a strange recurring vision. It was if I was walking on the very edge of a parabola of light. On one side of me was the blackest darkness and on the other was sheer pure energy. I felt as if it was my personal journey to walk the edge between the two. This didn't feel like a transient preoccupation, but rather an eternal path.

This conception became my visual representation of reality. I devised a symbol to represent my orientation. It was the Yin Yang symbol with the chaos symbol (with eight arrows pointing out from its center) superimposed on top of it. To me its interpretation had to do with the resolution (or maybe revocation) of dichotomies. Since that time I have tended to reject absolutes of any kind. I have become an essentially relativistic thinker, with all that entails. The acceptance of this became a form of commitment.

In the intervening years I have found the perpetual reinforcement of this fundamental position. The art projects that I've worked on have incorporated this understanding. My approach to politics, relationships and morality has followed suit. In some ways, it has even seemed like a spiritual enterprise. Although I rarely express it as such, many of the discussions I have with people reflect the basic nature of this.

If there is one single key to understanding who I am, it has to do with the approach I am trying to describe here. I try to synthesize what seem to be apparent opposites. The binary code does not exist, because the concept of "0" (zero) has no true reflection in our reality. Therefore very little of what we experience has any finite parameters. Even the street address of my house reflects my orientation. And so does the formulation of the pseudonym I write under on my blog, which is at once arbitrary yet eerily prescient.

It should come as no surprise that I live very separate lives between work and home. Somewhere in the composite space of those two milieus lies my contemporary existence. Certainly one often bleeds over into the other. But as much as possible I try to introduce a measure of distinction. This becomes difficult because I work with many people in a very public occupation. I have no intention of letting that bleed obviously over into this blog. The freedom of expression that makes continuing this particular project possible requires anonymity, while at the same time exposure gives it purpose. Therefore I ask readers to seek out the space between the lines, for that is the place to which I seek to draw attention.

Major events in both my public and private lives now tempt me to upset the careful balance I've tried to maintain on this space. Yet these preoccupations cannot be given free rein to reveal themselves. It's not the appropriate forum. This internal contradiction makes me understand the allure of split personality. However I understand that such a condition betrays totality. So I ask your forbearance as I continue to seek the proper balance.

Not Everything People Do Is Rational.

There are some things in life that simply don't make sense. No matter how you piece the different elements together, they fail to deliver any real cohesive meaning.

For instance, my sister-in-law invited me over to her house, and led me into an unused room to show me a phenomena that had her absolutely baffled. Apparently she lived in the same place formerly occupied by Pittsburgh Penguins defenseman Darius Kasparitis (who moved on to play with a club in another city). But what had her confused were the number of holes that were dug into the floor on one side of the room, against the wall. In each one of these, there rested the type of shoebox that clearly once held women's shoes (at least that was my impression).

My sister-in-law paused after she used her hands to dig out the dirt from the sides, freeing just one of the boxes. She looked at me wordlessly, and then removed the lid. She passed the open box to me to have a look. Inside were three chicken wings. More properly they were mini-drumsticks that had been eaten... eaten in the way that people commonly eat drumstick wings. They were taken down to the bone in the center, and the top and bottom of the wings still held the skin and cartilage, and other things not easily consumed. But the weird thing was that they appeared as if they had been hermetically sealed into the containers as recently as an hour ago. They were not discolored (as far as wings are concerned) and there was no mold clinging to the remains. As far as I remember, they had no real scent.

We continued to dig out box after box, with the exact same results. What was truly wierd in retrospect was that my sister-in-law seemed to know what to expect in each of them, as if she had dug those boxes up previously. I never questioned that in the moment, but the floor had seemed smooth and undisturbed. Maybe the whole scenario was just too surreal for me to think through things logically. After several repeats with the wing bones, my sister-in-law paused for dramatic effect with a new box. She looked at me knowingly, and took the lid off- only to expose a steaming hot dog in its bun, resting in and covered by a bath of thick meaty chili. I don't eat chili dogs regularly, because they tend to produce a lot of acid that tears into my stomach lining, making me very sick. But for some reason... this box of piping hot junk food made me hungry.

Some times it's best not to look into things too deeply. Why had Darius Kasparitis buried his mostly-eaten chicken wings into the floor? Why had he then continued to make chili dogs, only to bury them alongside the boxes with the wings? Why did my sister-in-law buy a house that had one bedroom with a dirt floor? There may be no adequate answers to any of these questions. Not everything people do is rational.

And so when I was sitting in the bar last night with a friend, it wasn't unusual for us to be puzzling over the beliefs and voting habits of many of our fellow Americans. Why is it that so many people ignore the impending signs of doom, and continue through their routines, blissfully unaware that humanity has caused possibly irreparable damage to the environment? Furthermore, why don't the people who have real power in our country act to remedy the situation? Perhaps those power brokers are truly too attached to the short-term profits they make from the current energy paradigm. But we might expect that people who have reached those positions in society were at one time particularly able to manage the formation of a long-term plan for success.

Even so, it should have been clear to the majority of ordinary voters that re-electing George W. Bush would not benefit them. One would assume that people would act according to the dictates of understanding of their own enlightened self-interest. Was the administration truly that effective in its manipulation of mass perception? Was the media complicit, and if so- why?

It doesn't make any sense to bury food (whether eaten or not) in the dirt of your bedroom floor. Similarly, very few people have benefited from the years Bush has been president. Sometimes people do irrational things, and we have to accept our own inability to fathom why they do them. Because otherwise we may go mad.