Huh. Forgot this was here

It might be time to dust off this part of the internet.

Dispatches from Nowhere 03.03.06

I love language. I love the beauty of it. I like how a well-written word can transport the reader to a new world, or how it can impart a new understanding, or simply leave you breathless.

However, loving words means understanding their dark side.

Words hurt.

Sometimes our words need to hurt. There are times that the words we say must be hard. Sometimes we have to say the things that no one wants to hear. Sometimes, the words are uncomfortable and cause the people listening to turn away. Does that mean we have to be initially harsh in choosing our words? Of course not. We still claim to be a civil society.

One of the interesting things about learning a new language is the deeper understanding of the impact words can have. How you translate a particular character or word can change the tone and meaning of an entire passage. A simple mistranslation can incite riots, cause a fatwa to be pronounced, or create an international incident. By not being careful with what we say or how we choose to say it can be the cause of a fight between lovers, end a friendship, or be the cause for termination from a job. Misspoken words, intentional or otherwise, can damage a child, a spouse, or another loved one. The wrong words from a teacher can destroy any self-confidence a student might have in their own abilities.

Language is our most powerful tool. With it we can spin a story, one that speaks to each generation. To borrow a turn of phrase from Dave Eggars, we can create “a heartbreaking work of staggering genius”.

Or,

We can destroy a child, our own or someone else’s.

Every time I get mad, I catch myself yelling. The more I catch myself, the more I try and stop the impulse to yell. The more I try, the better it gets. It takes work. I have to remember that my words can hurt or heal. I have to remember that every word I speak shapes the future and how much I want that future to be bright.

Dispatches from Nowhere 03.01.06

I think it was C.S. Lewis that wrote that pain is God's megaphone.

For the record, I do not believe he was talking about an impacted wisdom tooth. That being said, pain does have a magnificent focusing effect. For example, the more my jaw hurts, the more detailed my work becomes. The more detailed the work is, the less I pay attention to the muscles that are clenching my jaw shut.

I get more done when focused like this. I write more. I work more. I do more. I do all of this because it distracts me from the pain. Maybe I am just looking to get through the physical pain that is bringing tears to my eyes.

But, that really isn't the point. I‘m thinking about something more. The pain we feel as we are reshaped by everyday events, the pain that represents the scouring away of the unnecessary parts of our being, is a necessary pain.

Pain isn’t a bad thing, contrary to what we might want to believe. Someone tells me that pain is not part of growing. The ads tell me that my pain is not normal, that I am not normal and I should find new ways to kill the pain. I’m not talking about pills, not directly anyway. I’m not saying don’t take painkillers. I’m not saying don’t manage chronic pain. I am saying that I want to know what it is causing the pain.

I want to know and remember the underlying cause, because without that knowledge, we would not know how to distinguish between what is good or bad.

Maybe I should not call it pain. Maybe I am talking about a winnowing of the soul. Maybe it is a need to do something more than just sit and watch. I register it as pain because to me, change is painful. Change breaks my routines and shakes me out of my comfort zones. It makes me act in ways that I find unpleasant.

I don’t want to change. Left to my own devices, I would sit and pursue my own pleasures, my own desires. Not all of my desires are negative. But left unchecked they will consume me. There is more to me than just my animal desires. I want to grow to be more than I am.

If we are not growing, we are dying. A stasis position can only be held for a short period of time. Everyday we are faced with a choice. As we wither our minds, our bodies, and our souls, we make a choice. We can choose the embrace the change and accept the pain that is inherent to it, or we can choose to die.

Dispatches from Nowhere 02.23.06

Communication irritates me.

More to the point, if you are going to call me an asshole, call me one for the right reasons.

I want clarity in my discussions. I worry that I have not made my self clear enough, and not clearly articulating my point of view, the questions was trying to ask get lost. I don't like not knowing. I question everything I write, these dispatches, fiction, poetry, to the term papers I turn in. Everything goes through the same process.

The only way I can continue to grow is to constantly question and reevaluate my positions. I admit freely when I am wrong. I accept responsibility for the things I have said. It is the adult thing to do.

I read a comment by Michelle Malkin recently where she defended her "pull no punches" position of not adding disclaimers to everything she writes. I don't know how I feel about that. I understand her position; I just don’t know that I agree with it. I want clarity over controversy. I want any controversial statement that I make to be understood on its own merits, not because someone has misinterpreted my position and the resulting backlash has become a new problem.

I am not afraid of controversy. I would just rather that it not overwhelm rational discussion.

Enough. My contrition is complete.

I heard on the news this morning that there is a push by some Internet companies to provide "Lexus lanes" to sites that pay for the service. If you are unfamiliar with the idea, I’ll summarize. For those sites that paid the fee, their content would be served first; it would always load, and load quickly. The rest of poor schlebs would be left in the cold.

One of the great things about the Internet is that it levels the playing field. Anyone, from a large multi-national corporation to a one dude sitting around in his pajamas, will have their content served equally and prejudice. It is truly "free" (as in freedom, not free beer). All content is served neutrally, as it should be. If these companies have their way, this will be a thing of the past.

I know what the argument is. They are not removing access to content, just changing how it is served and how people access it. But that is sort of the point. Here is a scenario, the next great innovator, the next Google, comes along and because of the pay for content access policy of the internet providers, they fail because no one ever finds them. They are never first on any search engine, no matter how many hits they get. The system, as it is currently running, is almost purely based on merit. Those sites that provide the correct content and have the most hits rise to the top. There are ways to game the system, but in the long run, they almost always fail.

There is some talk of the government getting involved to regulate the providers, to keep them from adopting this model. I don't know that I like that idea either. (I know. I'm never satisfied.) More regulation invariably leads to confusion and poor service. If the quotes I heard this morning were right, it would take only five of the major providers to adopt the “Lexus Lane” concept to destroy the “free” Internet. Is there anywhere else that we are all equal left?

What can be done? What I would like to see is a breaking of the broadband monopolies. Much like they have in Europe where broadband is closer to ubiquitous and less expensive. I would like to see competition and a free market allowed to decide what we, as consumers would like.

I’ve been called a dreamer before. This would not be the first time.

A final thought.

When you are on your cell phone, remember that unless you are in your car or a private room, people can hear you. It is not polite to call your boyfriend a “lying fucker” where other people can hear you. Some things should remain private.

Dispatched from Nowhere 02.21.06

Some days are better than others.

Creativity, as a mistress, is a fickle bitch. She dances in when she feels like it, dallies with me a while and then leaves me cold and alone. Somewhere in “On Writing” Stephen King said that creativity is about 5 percent inspiration and 95 percent hard work. I don't recall the exact quote. I've been hearing the same adage for years, usually sounding more like “10 percent inspiration 90 percent perspiration" or some other thing.

What I like is when the perspiration doesn’t feel like work. It just feels good. I like it when the music or words just flow from my fingers. They might not always be the right ones, but I can always (and do) edit. Sometimes, I can barely keep up with what is going on in my brain. Other times, it feels like pulling teeth to write a decent sentence.

This is not unusual. We all feel like this. Creation is hard work. That is what makes it rewarding.

Anyway.

There is an interesting interview on Salon with the author of the book "Eye for an Eye". They discuss "honor" or "revenge" based base societies and how they dealt with justice i.e. "an Eye for and Eye". They discuss how God is in the Old Testament and St Paul’s advice about your enemies ("If your enemy is thirsty, give him a drink").

You know the drill. If some one hates you, kill them with kindness. Not only are you a better person for it, but it frustrates the hell out of them. To quote the author of the book "Forgiveness itself is a hostile move that says, "You don't matter enough for me to go whack you."" Really, the feed your enemy stuff is the same stuff my mom told me as a kid. I don't think I ever managed to achieve that ideal state of mind. It was always a lot more immediately satisfying to just hit the bastard. That might just be me.

Anyway, back to the discussion at hand.

The author of the book brings up an interesting point about victims rights groups.

In the article he said:

"People like to dismiss these victim's rights groups as a bunch of crazed, vengeful, red state lunatics. I think they could be on to some deep moral sense that the wronged party has been undervalued in our fastidious concern not to undervalue the dignity of the wrongdoer. I think we may be in a zero-sum game here. Any anxious dignity you might confer on the wrongdoer is subtracted from the victim. Unless you find a way of making that up, victims and their kin will feel forgotten or undervalued. They're not getting the price right."


His argument is that only after setting a fair compensation for loss can there be peace.

What an interesting idea.

I have read a lot more about Islam in the news than I have in a while. There have been the protests (some peaceful, mostly violent) over the Muhammad cartoons and, more recently, over the decision to allow an Arab country (specifically The United Arab Emirates) take over management of the ports in New York and New Jersey, Baltimore, Philadelphia, New Orleans and Miami. For once, I agree with the talking heads and the politicians. This is a bad idea. I don’t think that control of those ports should be out sourced. Some things need to stay home. Manufacture of missile components, fighter jets, anything relating to national security. You know, the little things.


So, how do we feel about "revenge"? We cried for it after Pearl Harbor. How do we feel about Japan now? Do we still hate them for Pearl Harbor? Did they "pay" for their attack? Do we feel that Hiroshima and Nagasaki made us even? How do we feel about “justice”? We cried for justice and revenge after 9/11. How do we feel about the Arab world? Has enough time passed for them to achieve the same position Japan has now? Macarthur was rebuilding Japan for seven years after the war. Just a thought.

Port and border control is about national security. Should we be out sourcing port management to a foreign company who interests may not coincide with our own? I am inclined to think not.

I’m sure there is someone that disagrees with me. However, you can’t have national security by allowing items and access to be controlled by a foreign party. I don’t care what the president’s puppets say.

Edit. 02.23.06

Because there may have been some confusion regarding my position, I will now clarify.

When I found out that port management had been outsourced to a European country, my response was and is the same. Any issue and/ or item relating to National Security should not be outsourced, regardless of the nationality (African, Arab, Chinese, European, Japanese, insert nationality here) of the contract recipient.

Dispatches from Nowhere 02.17.06

Nothing here is mine.

I don’t possess anything. Rather, my possessions own me. Big deal. This isn’t news. We all end up being owned by our possessions. But to what end? Do we need that garbage we accumulate? Does this stuff become the means by which we define ourselves?

I’ve been attempting to clean my house for a while now. Each time I start cleaning, I become more ruthless in what I throw away. Catalogs and newspapers are the first to go. The next items to go are articles I wanted to read and school papers from years ago. I have stacks of magazines that I want to read and books piled up everywhere that are calling my name. I won’t even start on the state of my desk. For a guy that is reasonably fastidious about where he eats, how he dresses and his personal hygiene, my house looks like a bomb hit it.

At work, I periodically clean and organize my desk to restore sanity to my workspace. I am constantly organizing my laptop hard drive to be able to find the stuff I store on it. Recently, I started going through my bookshelves to get rid of those books I am unlikely to read again. I have made a first pass through the pile of old school papers and catalogs that cram the space next to my desk. I threw out most of the stack of magazines that was threatening to collapse and crush anything in its path. It is a slow process, but one that is allowing me to reclaim some of my space, even if I am just going to fill it up again with new things.

So why is it that I cannot manage to organize my house? I admit to being a slob. I hate the process of cleaning. It is hard, dirty work and it rarely qualifies as fun. I’d rather read a book, write, play guitar, play with the kids, or do anything other than clean. I don’t know why I hold on to these things. It is just stuff that clutters up my house.

There is some level of pain involved in cleaning and straightening. Maybe I am a packrat and letting go of these things is tantamount to cutting myself free of the safety bindings and stepping on the tight rope.

The interesting thing is that once I have cleaned and organized and put my house in order, I always feel better about it. It is satisfying. Once I have finally convinced myself to let go of those things that are holding me back, I clean and it is glorious. The rooms are swept and vacuumed, the books are on their shelves, the counters are clean and the trash is bagged and outside the house.

And it lasts a while. Then, slowly, the books start to pile up again, the dust starts to cover the surfaces and the desk clutter takes over. Once again, I find myself having to clean the same rooms over. I deal with the same piles of crap. Except, this is new crap. It is mixed with the old crap that survived the last purge.

Nothing here is mine. All this crap is temporary, so why do I continue to hold on to it? Why can’t I let it go and find release?


I know, at this point you are wondering why you are still reading this. More to the point, you are saying “There is more to life than stuff. Just throw it out and move on. Quit whining.”

I see your point. After all, they are just things. I can let them go, right?

Maybe I’m not really talking about my house.

The old adage, "Truth hurts" is often accurate. It is usually the truth that we don't want to hear, that we need to hear the most.

Yeah. Nothing here is mine. Keep telling your self that. One day, it might even be true.

Dispatches from Nowhere 02.15.06

Baby, I’m sorry. I know I’m late and I missed Valentines Day. I was working.

I know. I say that all the time. But it’s true. No, I’m not writing somewhere else. I wouldn’t go behind your back like that. I respect you too much to treat you that way.

So what was I doing if I wasn’t writing somewhere else? I was working for the Spotsylvania sheriffs office. I was helping bust a prostitution ring.

Give me some sugar baby. Yeah, that’s right.

Let’s get to work.

So what is love?

I know. How typical of a question can you ask on Valentine's Day?

I should be up here ranting about the commercialization of love and the way the particular holiday is used by card, chocolate and confections manufacturers, lingerie boutiques, and every other business as a way of boosting the bottom line in the otherwise slow month of February.

You know what though? I can't be bitter about this exercise in commercial overdrive that claims to celebrate the affairs of the heart. I have lost all my "indy" cred. I have a steady date.

So, what is love?

Remember that initial infatuation that you felt when you first met? That warm fuzzy feeling wherein you can't think about anything other than that person and how nice they smell and how soft their lips are. New relationships have “The Glow". You know what I am talking about. The other person can do no wrong, you never fight, you never fart, all the little quirks are endearing instead of irritating and you fuck like monkeys on meth.

Well, maybe not meth. But you still have wild animal sex.

That lasts for, what?

Three weeks?

Three months?

Somewhere along the journey you realize that you might have let one slip and those quirky little habits that you found endearing are really annoying. You have your first fight and your first bout of makeup sex. You find out that he likes eggs in the morning and you are really just want coffee and a bagel.

So you move from infatuation to “I like this person a lot” and you spend more time together. You stay in for dinner, go out to meet each other’s friends, maybe take in a play or a concert. You go for long walks on the beach and talk about your hopes, your dreams and begin to open up emotionally a little bit just to see if the other person is there with you. If you are still in college, you hold each other’s hair and try and avoid the splash back of the thunder-chunder. Then you have wild monkey sex.

You spend more time together and fight some more. This is normal. You are encroaching on each other’s boundaries. Like all boundaries, there is war when they need to be readjusted. So you fight and adjust and you fight and adjust. Then you meet the family.

Could anything be more terrifying? A new set of parent to judge you and you have to live up to their expectations, of which you have no idea what they are? That just isn’t fair. You feel nervous. You can’t eat. You keep asking yourself “what happens if they don’t like me?” Don’t worry about it. They will love you. You are charming and lovely.

The parents do love you and now you are shopping for sweaters together and you wonder why you were ever worried about parents at all. It is way more trouble to find a sweater that fits and goes with the awesome jeans you just got on sale.

Then it hits you. Your stomach drops and the floor feels wobbly under your feet. It feels sort of like a semi-truck crashing at full speed into one of these gravel-braking pits you occasionally see on the side of the road. It is the realization that you might have feelings that could, very possibly, be classified as love.

Maybe.

OH GOD. What do you do now?

You don’t want to be the first one that says it. You don’t want to make everything all weird. What is they don’t feel the same way? You like the wild monkey sex and would miss it if it went away. Then, one day, it just happens.

I know. You didn’t mean to. It just sort of slipped out. You meant to say “Could you pass the orange juice?” and it came out “I love you”.

It took ten whole minutes to clean up the orange juice.

Is that love?

Is it the realization that you don’t want this person to go away? Do you find that when you think about the future, this person is there? Well, Nine years in and I still feel this way. I wonder how I got lucky enough to have some that supports me and helps me clean up the orange juice, and the cereal, and the toys and and and the list goes on.

It is not all a bed of roses. Sometimes, I don’t feel the warm fuzzy feelings that people seem to associate with love. Sometimes it feels more like a hanging out with my very best friend than a "relationship". Sometimes we fight. Sometimes we have those little moments of "The Glow" that remind us of why it is that we first got together. We still have wild monkey sex. Maybe not as often as we might like, but sometimes it happens.

For me, it boils down to this: I can’t imagine a future with out her next to me. I don’t know that it gets any simpler than that.than that.