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| A Dream for a Good WeekendAfter a long weekend of smiles and excitement, I'm back in Florida. The midwest keeps me alive, but Florida is still killing me. When I come back I have nightmares.
I went to the gym to work out, but realized that I only had wool socks. What do I do? Take the socks off? Work out in winter socks? Either way, it'll be uncomfortable and embarrassing. Why did I wear wool socks anyway?
I missed winter this year. But I was always ready for it...
And I don't want anyone to find what's in my history. The fear overwhelms me. My laptop has encountered the most embarrassing pornography. But I can only sleep through it. Hope for the best.
I have a lot to hide. And nothing much to show for it.
Other dreams are lies. A pretty girl was selling robot dogs outside my window, so I took out a rifle and shot at the dogs until she went away. After all, she was a terrorist planning to kill or kidnap me.
Does anybody know where I stole that from? Winner receives five bucks and a personalized mix CD.
But yes, we're coming back home. On Thanksgiving evening, my good aunt, Heidi, shared such wisdom with me. She was excited for our adventure, but didn't let us lose our heads: "If things don't work out, you can just come back." Thank God for family. They know everything I refuse to know.
If you see my tail between my legs in Chicago, cut it off. You and I both know that I have no use for a tail, especially in the midwest.
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| The Stream of ConsciousnessIn retrospect, maybe he should have stayed at the fountain of youth, but after a few thousand years the young man wanted to try something new. He was thirsty for knowledge. And not the fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil either, that Garden of Eden had been known to give customers food poisoning.
No, what he wanted was a fresh stream of something pure. Youth had eventually lost all of its flavor, and he was ready to move on. Consciousness is what he needed, self-awareness and a constant flow. Splashing around like a bird in a bath has its moments, but every bird flies off eventually.
So off he flew, eastward. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he wasn’t worried about that. He just needed something new.
When he came to a stream, he lifted his hands above his head and jumped. He jumped up and down, and eventually jumped right in to the stream. He took large gulps and smiled. It tasted nothing like youth’s water. The taste was so different; he loved it.
He felt the stream tugging at him to go with it. Right away he understood that he could no longer stand in one spot, he had to move with the stream. Lying back in the water, he lifted his legs and began to flow down into an unknown destination. But still, he didn’t care where he was going. He had begun to taste knowledge in this stream, and he figured that once it deposited, he would be in an ocean of wisdom.
As he floated, he looked up into the sky. It was blue and cloudy, and reflected onto himself and the stream. All around were trees, and their leaves were green. Fruit would fall from them, and float on the water. Occasionally the man would eat the food, and over time grew large around the waist.
The longer he floated, the more he learned. He realized that nature is a beautiful thing, and that this stream brought just as much life as the fountain of youth. There was even more to experience in the stream, because the current brought him to different places around every bend.
But just as he grew tired of youth, he began to struggle through the stream. Tigers would occasionally jump into the stream with plans to kill the man, and more than once got close. Claws dug into his skin and left scars on his body. Sharp, pointy rocks occasionally scraped his back, causing the water to darken with his blood. There was danger in this stream, something he had not experienced in the fountain.
He did not like danger, but he hoped that since he was heading towards wisdom that his troubles might be worthwhile.
But the longer he went with the flow, the more he despised it. It always went wherever it wanted to go, and he had no choice in the matter. If it were up to him, this stream would flow with the same water that fills the fountain of youth. He became angry that this couldn’t be the case.
After floating for so long, he started to wonder if this stream was taking him to wisdom after all. The thought scared the man. He started to swim towards the shore, but couldn’t break free of the current. Every overhanging branch that he latched onto snapped. After a while, he realized that he would never reach the shore again, he had become a part of the current, and didn’t even have arms or legs anymore.
He drifted further. It was not pleasurable anymore but he kept silent about it. His body was of no use to him, but the stream would not let it go. He remembered the experiences he had in the stream, and how exciting some of them were at the time. He remembered his joy at the fountain of youth, and regretted ever leaving. He wondered how much longer he would drift, and if any new experiences would even interest him. But not long after, the current started to diminish. The stream became wider, and the trees became less and less. The water was deep now, and even if he wanted to he would not be able to touch its ground.
After a while, the old man could not see any trees. He was in the ocean, and was left alone with his memories. He wondered if he had arrived at wisdom, and wasn’t sure what the point of it was. There was so much that he could do with his experience, but in reality, there was nowhere to go.
He floated for a while longer, going in circles instead of any particular direction. A bird flew above him, high and free.
He gently put his head under the water, looked down at the darkness that was so far beneath his body. He never looked back at the sky again.
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| The Way to Properly DieEnvy the elderly, but only the evangelical old conservatives. They believe that truth is found in Christ alone, and that anybody who rejects this is wrong. They believe they are right, and that they have the answer. No longer troubled by life, they look forward to the blessing that is to come. To all those who have rejected the gospel, it is their loss. The old evangelicals have accepted, and so life will never be a waste.
To die without ever having wrestled with subjectivity, this is such bliss. To live 70 years and never feel the torment of knowing, there is no greater blessing. Inner turmoil to them is something to simply “get over.” Your grandfather believed that life was about going to work. He believed that as long as you have a job, life goes on. He didn’t care about your individuality; he didn’t even know what that word meant.
Your grandmother believed that Rush Limbaugh was a Christian, because he was a conservative. She never went to college, and didn’t know who Descartes was. There was so much storage space, never used. She never needed to find herself, because she was obviously just sitting right here in the chair.
They enjoyed Norman Rockwell and television, casserole and carpeting. They had more than two children. They dressed nicely for church on Sunday, and never missed a service in 50 years.
The things to dread are those things known. If you know the devil, rebuke him and raise your hands. If you know existentialism, live your life tormented and write ambiguous essays.
“Do not go gentle into that good night.”
As people grow older, they think about death. The grandparents look forward to heaven, and they have hope. But what about the young intellectual?. He has seen that not everyone is simply in a constant state of accepting or rejecting Jesus, but is trying his or her's hardest to find personal happiness and peace. The young intellectual is never in a hurry to get to heaven, he is not even interested in answers. But the old evangelicals are in a hurry, and have all of the answers.
“If you were to die today, do you know where you would go?” How can such a profound question have so much meaning for those that know nothing of philosophy and yet mean so little to the student of Martin Buber? The evangelical urgency of getting saved now...
And once the words have been said, you can forget about everything else. You’re safe. And the old evangelicals have peace in this. They are at peace, knowing that there is nothing more to know.
This peace of the old evangelicals is what the young intellectual simultaneously despises and desires. He knows that there is more to life than a prayer. He knows that there is profound mystery, and that no one solves it. He is troubled by the inherent mystery, but he refuses to give up. He is scared of suicide, even though he finds no meaning in the day. He is not scared of hell, however. The reason he continues is not clear to him, but in a murky world, it’s a fitting response. If the world doesn’t make sense, why should he?
When he grows older, does he abandon his intellect? Or does it abandon him? The cruelest death would be to hold the dread of meaningless existence for 70 years and never know a moment of peace. The peace that the old evangelicals have, they keep with them until their last breath and die with dignity.
He says, “but in all their urgency to get saved, they lose the urgency to live life in the present.” He is unaware that both urgencies are one in the same. In both cases, now is primary. Now is now.
Look at our tornadoes; they are beautiful women, curves of sex and death, dancing for our delight. In the middle, there is the most mystery and danger. This is where we cannot go, but we take the risk anyway. And we are killed.
The grandparents are in the basement, wondering why we take chances. They are avoiding the possibility of death. Were they not young before? Did they not ever hear of subjective truth? What about self-awareness? What about questions?
We have been children. We should remember this. We grew older and started asking questions, until we were so frightened by the questions that we burned all of our writings and cried out to God for mercy. When none came, we pretended that it did. We accepted Christ and told others about him. We watched sports and talked politics. We knew about hopelessness, and decided to call it Satan. We rebuked it. We ignored it. In the name of Jesus, we ignored. And when we died, it was the saddest day of our lives. We remembered playing in the forest when we were six, picking up frogs out of ponds, running away from the biggest spider in the world, falling in the dirt and crying over a bruised knee. Sit for a while, then run home where mom is there with a band-aid. Eventually, crying stops, and go back into the forest with clean clothes.
We thought of our first kiss. Of the high school friends that drove downtown in a car too small. Of the girl that sat so close to you in the back seat and the way she smelled. The conversation you had with her at the Chinese restaurant while the other guys made jokes. Spending the night with her when the night was over. And holding her hand in the morning.
We thought of the fourth of july. The firecrackers that cost too much but were worth it anyway. The blankets on the lawn. The night air. The stars.
We were sad as we remembered these things, because when we experienced them they were pure. Purity was lost when we started asking questions, and now we lay here dying, trying not to cry so as to make it worse for the family members surrounding us. But they know just as well as we do that this is a horrible moment, a moment worth crying about. We were once pure, but have become human.
All that gives me hope anymore is believing that my grandmother never thought the thoughts I think. She lived a simpler life, she lived in the suburbs and liked it. She played hymns on her piano and loved her grandchildren. She didn’t second-guess herself, she didn't doubt. I have to believe that she died happy. She believed in love, and wanted me to believe in it too. When she was proud of me, she actually was. She believed that I was accomplishing something. Her purity was never lost.
I have abandoned simplicity. The fence around me is made of holes. I will die by tornado. Nothing protects me anymore.
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| Introspective on SillinessI've said before that since we, humans, have the ability to do irrational things, then we should take full advantage of that and occasionally do irrational things. Animals can only act according to their instinct, and as much as we like to think that it's silly when a monkey smacks itself on the butt or when our dog growls at the refrigerator, they're just being animals. They're not acting silly, animals are totally in line with their nature. They could be acting playful, but they're not acting irrationally. Animals are not silly.
Humans, on the other hand, have this sick ability to do things that don't make any sense. In extreme cases, we go to war. But even in the day-to-day, we can do things that have no logical value whatsoever. I could crochet a non-functioning defribulator out of purple yarn. I could.
I went to the Salvador Dali Museum in St. Petersburg this weekend. What struck me about Dali's art was how his surrealism beheld more truth than one would gather from first glance. Tangible truth hid underneath a meaningless surface. Truth. Even if the image was irrational, it spoke no falsity. And he put great amounts of effort into his work, he wasn't just mindlessly painting whatever goofy images popped into his head. The bizarre images Dali created were a representation of truth, despite their irrational (absurd) appearance.
I've also been watching a lot of Monty Python lately. These british comedians were well aware of their silliness, and embraced it with dedication and passion. I laugh the hardest when the silliness has been tested and rehearsed. As impressive as good improvisation is, a scripted bit of silliness is something to marvel at.
One man comes into the store with his wife and says, "we'd like to buy a bed please" where there are two salesmen. Mr. Veritay says "our cheapest bed is 800 pounds" "800 pounds!?" the buyer exclaims. The other salesman, named Lambert, speaks up, "oh, you must realize, everything Mr. Veritay says must be divided by 10." The buyer goes along, "ah, so the bed is 80 pounds?" Mr. Veritay answers, "that's right 800 pounds." "and how wide is it?" "the width is 60 feet wide." "ah, and the length" "uhh, the length... Lambert? How long is the bed?" "It's two feet long." The buyer is surprised, "two feet long?" Mr. Veritay explains, "yes, you must multiply everything Lambert says by three. So when he says that the bed is two feet long, it is in fact 60 feet long." The buyer goes along, "ah yes, I see." Mr. Veritay then says, "Lambert, will you show these 20 good people the dog kennels please?" The buyer is surprised again, "wait, dog kennels?" Mr. Veritay explains, "oh yes, you have to say 'dog kennel' to Lambert, because if you say 'mattress,' he'll put a bag over his head." And it goes on like this.
It is not merely a random idea that works in one moment, but a construction of absurdity that Monty Python creates. They never break character, but are always rigidly devoted to their silliness.
I always hated it when Jimmy Fallon would laugh during his SNL skits. It revealed an unprofessional self-awareness, and actually brought down the value of the humor.
Silliness is a sort of virtue. A mediation that mustn't be overused, but a human strength that should never be undermined.
But the utmost example of ridiculousness is known by all: the real world.
If you've been alive long enough, you've realized that life doesn't make sense. We've tried to figure it out for as long as we can remember, but we still can't nail this shit down. Why do bad things happen to good people? What's the point of all this? Where did we come from and where are we going? All of these hilarious questions have occasionally been taken seriously, and as a result, we've seen science, religion and philosophy all take some valiant stabs at an inherently ridiculous task.
I'm now at a point at which I no longer want to figure things out. The world has proven itself to me, and I will not insult its intelligence by trying to develop a formula. If things don't make sense, then I am not going to forcefully try to make sense of them. That would be the height of foolishness.
Furthermore, I cannot let the absurdity of life get me down. Why would absurdity be something to take seriously anyway? The world doesn't want to be taken seriously, and I will respect its wishes.
Ecclesiastes still says it best:
"Go, eat your food with gladness, and drink your wine with a joyful heart, for it is now that God favors what you do. ...Enjoy life with your wife, whom you love, all the days of this meaningless life that God has given you under the sun--all your meaningless days. For this is our lot in life and in your toilsome labor under the sun."
And we're always trying to ignore this. We're always trying to make sense of life, trying to give meaning to a thing that is meaningless. Let's stop making sense for a moment and be silly. Let's embrace silliness today, and when we're asked "what is the meaning of life?" let's say, "bananas. in. pajamas."
And here's why we need to embrace silliness: enjoyment.
If you watch Monty Python, you'll notice that they're all just making up games. Whether it's word games, philosphy games or visual games, they're just creating their own rules and playing by them. They're not playing by the rules of the land, no, they've decided to mock those rules.
I mentioned earlier that humans go to war with each other, and that this a viscious extreme of human nature. We take our ability to do irrational things too far when we go to war with each other. If people sought virtuous silliness, there would still be competition amongst one another, but we wouldn't take things too far. When you think about it, tempered silliness is the explanation for sports. Let's just look at baseball.
One day, two men are walking through a forest. An argument occurs, and the men begin to fight each other. One man picks up a stick, another picks up a rock. This could result in further violence, but one of the men happens to be a silly person, and makes a suggestion, "wait just a minute here, before you throw that rock!" For whatever reason, the rock-holder refrains himself. The stick-holder goes on, "I want you to throw that rock at me. And I want to swing at it with my stick. If I miss the rock, I will surrender my position and you will win the argument. But if I hit the rock, I will run around in a circle." It was a very silly suggestion indeed. So the rock was hurled directly at the stick-holder, and was walloped back at the rock-holder. As soon as the stick-holder hit the rock, he started to run. Picking the rock back up, the rock-holder then chased the stick-holder in a circle around the forest. Once the rock-holder caught up with the stick-holder, they had forgotten what they were arguing about, and the rock-holder wanted to try his hand at hitting the rock with the stick. So they took turns. Throwing rocks at each other and hitting them with sticks, running around like idiots.
Oh, it was a silly sight to behold! But developed, this routine became America's favorite pasttime. And millions of people take it very, very seriously these days.
So go play sports. Tell some jokes. Create a work of art. These forms of tempered silliness and irrationality promote peace on earth.
I know that what I've written goes against everything that silliness stands for, but forgive me. I am immature and have not yet learned how to fully embrace the virtue of silliness myself. But I have a feeling that when I break free of this sensible nonsense (that is, the nonsensical thing actually being sensibility), you'll know it.
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| Unhappiness. Not Poetic.Has anyone ever felt real unhappiness? And I don't mean just disappointed that you didn't get into a certain school or something. The real hurt. Wondering why you wake up in the morning. This is the unhappiness that makes you feel like you never need to take a shower again. You don't have to brush your teeth. Oh it's a debilitating unhappiness. You don't want to eat anything. You don't want to watch TV or listen to music. You don't want to talk to anyone, and you don't want to go anywhere. You don't want to find out what to do next, because you don't care. This unhappiness that goes well beyond sadness. It even goes beyond depression. It's not a phase, it's a perpetual state of misery. You could exercise, but what's the point? You could go for a walk, but what good will that do? It's not even laziness, because you can remember what it's like to accomplish things, but when you're really unhappy you don't really feel the need to try anymore. When you're unhappy, the logical conclusion is giving up. Why would you go on if you're unhappy? Logically, you shouldn't. When you're happy, that's when life should continue.
For the first time in my life, I can say that I'm unhappy. I am confused, hurt, sad and frustrated. The only joy in my life is Jaclyn, and if it weren't for her I have no idea what I might be feeling right now. Jeez. At least I'm not lonely. I mean, loneliness would be my grim reaper right now.
But this is what it feels like. It feels like I'm an adult, I guess. I don't want anyone's sympathy and I don't want anything at all. I just want to find a dish of mold and have a staring contest.
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