The Wind that Shakes the Office Building

Here's a physical challenge for you:

Grab a pencil and a piece of paper. Go ahead I'll wait.

Great. Now draw two triangles, one on top the other. The first triangle should have one corner pointed straight up. The second should have one corner pointed straight down. Shade in what you've drawn.

If asked, you'd probably say that you just drew a star, and you'd be right. But you wouldn't be totally right, because you haven't just drawn a star. While putting pencil to paper, you've actually created two things: a star and the space that isn't the star. The un-star. The non-star.

You have no choice but to do so, but we rarely think about the act of drawing something as the act of drawing two things. We rarely think about the negative space that is created by changing a blank piece of paper with a few pencil marks. But there it is. You've created a delineation. An image that's nothing but star, and its recursive image thats everything but star.

In art, the two images are called the figure (the star) and the ground (the empty space).

Now the mental challenge: think back to the last time you had to make a decision. It can be as simple as ordering water at a restaurant or as complex and meaningful as asking your girlfriend to marry you. The action that you took, and every action you've ever taken in fact, is just like putting the pencil to that paper. You've created something intentionally and created something else unintentionally, but unavoidably.

Unfortunately, real life isn't as simple as a blank sheet of paper. There are way too many moving parts. So when you make a decision, you might not just be creating two things, but three or four or nineteen hundred. It's difficult to imagine. Which is precisely why we tend not to think in those terms.

Let's say for example that you choose to head West to LA (to make yourself a star). In that instant, you are defining yourself and defining the environment you're in at the same time. You remove yourself from a place - which changes it. You add yourself to a new city - which changes it. And if you're ego wasn't large enough by then, realize that your actions directly define the world around you based on your presence.

You have no choice but to do two things at once. The most important thing to remember is that while you believe you are creating something beautiful, you may also be creating something negative at the same time. The only way to do that, is to not think only of the star you're creating as the artwork - but to focus on the entire sheet of paper. Start to see every action as drawing that star, and the world around you - your entire life - as the sheet of paper, and you'll be on the right track.

Now stop doodling, and go outside. There's a ton of cool stuff to do out there.

A Kite With No Wind

Outside, the mild rain is building its way up to a downpour. Thin nylon and cardboard caps are getting soaked steadily as several hundred graduates are piled on top of each other waiting for a keynote speaker to finish so they can hear their name being called. On the face, it seems like the worst possible cost/benefit analysis - three hours in the rain for twenty seconds worth of excitement. No matter the pompous nature of the event, or what anyone else says, there's a good chance that you and your parents are there just to hear your name and watch you walk across the stage with your diploma in hand.

Inside, a group of parents, friends and siblings who keep nodding off are watching the ceremony on closed circuit television. Everyone is just slightly damp, and there's not enough seats for everyone, but it's warm and the sound quality is pretty solid. From my spot standing in the corner, I can barely make out what's happening on the screen because of the angle I'm at, but I imagine it's a stuff white guy trying to look impressive and talking about the road of life. Open doors. New paths. Exciting times. He folds the last page of his speech and thanks the audience, and as he moves away from the microphone a strange thing happens: The people in my room start clapping.

They start clapping with abandon.

People are applauding a screen. They are applauding the flattened image of a man being displayed in a remote location. They are clapping at the sound waves coming through speakers several hundred feet away from the man's actual voice. At once, this seems both natural and unusual.

After all, what is the purpose of clapping? I venture to say that it's to show appreciation to a performer. Thus, it seems that, to be meaningful, a speaker should be able to hear the applause. If a speaker isn't aware of his applause, does it even matter to him?

I caught a glimpse of this feeling a while back when a friend and I were asked to perform a slam poetry piece for another friend's video project. Instead of delivering the words to a small crowd of coffee shop kids, the rumble of espresso machines and shuffling feet in the background, the occasional clap or holler coming from the sides - we were speaking into a camera on a sound stage. It was empty. It felt alien, like there was a lack of energy. What was worse was, I couldn't tell if we'd done well or done terribly because there were no boos or claps. There was just silence - no feedback. I imagine that if the man on the stage hadn't had a live audience, he wouldn't have felt nearly as comfortable as he did. And still, I'm guessing he doesn't even realize that there were more crowds clapping for him far off in the distance.

There's another side to clapping though - it's for the audience. In theater, the curtain call is really important because it allows the audience to give thanks to the performer. It's a two-way street. We get to show how much we liked something, and the performer gets that ego-shining praise. We all win. We all feel good about ourselves.

So what happens when the performer doesn't get the benefit of the applause?

Despite the speaker not being able to hear the applause (and, thus, it not really mattering), the audience still clapped because it was a natural response. We clap when speakers are done. Whether they are there or not. We feel good about ourselves, somehow engaged in the process of the performance, it reminds us that we're there.

I spent the entire graduation not clapping. I didn't even clap for my friend when she crossed the stage. It was arbitrary anyway. Her knowledge of the clapping, to me, was all that mattered, and since she couldn't know one way or the other, I chose not to. Plus, I'll admit it seemed silly to me to clap at a screen - an object that is part of the performance, but not actively engaged in it. I would have been applauding an inanimate object.

There are organizations out there that will swindle you out of your money. They are charity organizations that thrive on getting small and large donations utilizing a selling point of emotion while only delivering a fraction of your dollar to the people they claim to help.

A person calls, tells you they need money for children with cancer, and you gladly give $100. That $100 is split up so that $5.00 is given to the research, and $95.00 is given to the call center and the company for operating costs. It's criminal.

But I think of it in exactly the same terms as clapping at a screen. Applauding an image that isn't there.

The audience applauding feels incredible about itself because it's doing something good, something that comes naturally. But what they are doing doesn't really matter on the other end. We hide the fact that what we're doing doesn't matter so that we can enjoy and revel in the task of responding and appreciating the performer. If the solicitor told you that almost none of your money would actually go to charity, you wouldn't give any, so it's important that you believe what you're doing is good. That you're being a saint. And that's what the company is selling you - an easy chance to be a saint.

The audience applauding an image is engaged in an automated response that is rendered hollow by the technology we have. It really does not matter whether they clap or not. Not to anyone it should matter to - namely the speaker.

We will have to confront the oddities and ethical questions that technology brings along. We'll also get to note the weird behavior we see when people are faced with technology and don't have a socially normal response to give it (some people clapped, others awkwardly looked around before clapping and some refused to clap altogether). But now, we have to confront the ethical questions about doing the right thing in a meaningful way. It feels great to give money to charity, but if the money isn't being put to use, you're not doing anything meaningfully or actively good. You just think you are.

How many things in your life seem ethical and meaningful until you investigate further? We live in a time now where doing the right thing is becoming easier and easier. You can pick up Ethos Water at Starbuck's and pretend to be helping water conservation in third world countries. You can give your credit card number to someone who calls you and pretend to fund Leukemia research. You can add a facebook application that says you're reducing carbon emissions.

It all feels really good, but in the end, are you just applauding yourself or can the speaker hear you?

I challenge you to be heard.

This Weakness

Just picture it.

You're lying on a beach, a light sweat struggling to form on your skin as the same breeze that's pushing a sailboat on the horizon along brushes over you.

You're inundated with an erupting crowd, standing at the free-throw line about to sink two buckets to bring your team within striking distance of the win. The net swishes once, twice. Your heart keeps pounding.

You're sitting relaxed in an office with a woman asking you questions, and you're nailing all of them. You know by the time you shake her hand and walk out, she'll be convinced that hiring you is the best option for her company.

Visualization is powerful. Within ourselves, we have a unique power to place our bodies in a different situation than the one we're presently in. We can even trick ourselves into having sense experiences that we're not having - that's how strong our imaginations are. You can smell the salt-sea air, you can hear the flash of cameras, you can hear the woman's voice.

Apparently it's also a strong tool for achieving goals. When you have a goal in mind, you're supposed to visualize yourself achieving it. Somehow, by seeing yourself doing it either 1) You believe that it is possible (or inevitable even) or 2) You become familiar with the sensual experience of achieving that goal which makes it easier to confront.

It's not uncommon to imagine what a job interview will be like. Or what taking a test will feel like. Almost every guy I know has practiced what he'll say to ask a girl out before actually getting in the same room with her. All of this gives us the most information possible so that we can go through with striving for a goal.

I wonder if we do this with ethics, though.

It seems obvious to want to see yourself achieving goals. It's a physical action, so the imagination can take over with ease. But what about envisioning yourself as the best possible ethical version of you? Do we walk through scenarios where we'll have to make a moral decision and choose the right path?

I'll take the most vivid example. Say, for a moment, that your moral code requires that you emulate another historical figure because that historical figure is the embodiment of perfection. Since emulating that person, and thus, acting ethically, is a goal (albeit an occasionally inactive one) it seems like someone would benefit from sitting down, closing their eyes, and imagining reaching that goal.

I see this breaking down into two parts - one easy and one more abstract. The first would be an active goal, like imagining yourself confronted with a lost wallet, finding the person's contact information, and returning it. By envisioning this, you should be able to recognize the situation and "repeat your actions" so to speak if and when the situation occurs in real life. You will have practiced being ethical in the imaginary world as a means to be ethical in the real one.

The second is more difficult, and that stems from imagining yourself as "being like" something or someone. Since the act of being is passive and active, imagining this is a little harder. But that, to me, seems to make it even more desirable to try to imagine. If it's more difficult a thing to imagine, wouldn't it follow that it would also be more difficult a thing to achieve in the real world? Taking the time to imagine such a thing could only help in truly emulating, truly being like an ethical figure that's worthy of striving for.

As for me, I'm headed back to the beach.

Who Isn't on First?

For whatever reason, the trick of implanting writing devices into a story makes it better. We believe that a story is more intelligent, has more depth, or has some great meaning when the writer uses - what are essentially - tricks.

Take a minute and think of three or four of your favorite movies or books. At some point in the story, there's a solid chance that the main character - the lovable rogue bucking the system, proving that heart wins out over money, handsomely wooing the young object of his love - there's a solid chance that a puppy or kitten shows him affection.

This is one of my favorite tricks. You denote which character the audience is supposed to love by having an innocent being - like a dog or cat or baby - show him a lot of love. Usually, the owner will note how unusual it is for their normally distant (or fussy) pet (or child) to be so sweet to a stranger. This let's us know that the main character is 1) naturally lovable 2) unique and 3) probably has bacon in his pocket.

This is one of my favorite tricks because of how easy it is and how prevalent in literature it is. It also works in reverse. You can easily show an audience your bad guy by having a really lovable pet growl and snarl at him. Or bite him in the trousers. Because that's telling and hilarious at the same time. Especially if he's wearing heart-covered boxers.

This got me thinking about the important we place on symbols and signifiers, the common ones anyway. I soon realized that I could make a heroic statement about almost any inanimate object.

The key here is that inanimate objects have no real ethical value - they don't commit acts of moral sin or acts of moral heroism. They can't, because they aren't living or cogent or active. But we can make it seem that way.

Some inanimate objects deserving of medals:

The Shoe: Steadfast and supportive, the shoe is always there when I need it. Reliable to a fault, it selflessly protects me from the elements - things that might harm me like rain puddles and errant nails. Even if I lose my temper and throw my shoe across the room, it never faults, never attacks me back, and always stays right where I leave it to be used again the next day.

The Computer Speaker - Without the incredibly versatile speaker, life would be a much more silent, dismal place. It fills the room with just the right amount of glorious music for me to enjoy without irritating the neighbors, and it even lets me know what actors are saying in movies. It, too, can be thrown across the room without retaliation.

The Fancy Feather Boa That My Friend Wore To This One Halloween Party - More than just a costume accessory, the boa became an icon for the night. It embodied the idea of the party, and idea that we could change ourselves for just one evening and grow into the realm of possibilities. That boa was soft and gentle, always willing to be close by in case it needed to comfort you. What's more, it was unselfish with its talents, allowing that comfort to be used by anyone who wanted to partake. Plus, it looked great.

It seems obvious that most good things we can say about inanimate objects involve inaction or defense. Since they can't do anything on their own, we have to bring them to life ourselves or notice the traits that they possess as something more than what they are.

But it's not hard. We essentially give human traits to these objects and they become more than objects - they become symbols or metaphors. We have to put that meaning into them, though. They don't come with it already installed. Thus, we could place almost any meaning into almost any object.

Obviously, the next step is to note that we can do that with humans as well. We can shape the meaning of our existence in almost any way. We can define ourselves beyond our usefulness or our skills our traits. We can inject meaning and symbolism into who we are or who are friends are or into the villains into our lives. This notion has a ton of implications about the roles we end up playing in life.

Of course, the obvious exception to the rule is The Brave Little Toaster - an inanimate object that actually is brave and little and, I think, is going on a journey to find its mother or something.

Which reminds me: call your mother. It's almost mother's day.

The Deeds are Left to Purchase

Is opportunity as good as having an actual experience?

I sat down and really thought about whether or not I'd be alright if I heard the news that the Mona Lisa had been burned. On the universal sentiment of great art being destroyed and the collective humanity lessened, sure, I'd feel sad. But on a personal level, I realized I didn't actually care.

I suppose that makes me heartless, but the key is a matter of experience. I will most likely never see the Mona Lisa. Therefore, I have no vested personal interest in whether it exists in the future or solely in the past. I'm sure there are plenty of manifest qualities about the Mona Lisa - perhaps my life is affected in some way that I can't directly connect, but affected nonetheless. On the whole, though, my life is unchanged whether the Mona Lisa is still in the Louvre available for viewing or reduced to ash.

My position comes from my not equating opportunity with experience. I can see a logical argument to contradict my personal feelings by saying that the "possibility of seeing the Mona Lisa" is as good or almost as important as "seeing the Mona Lisa". For example, let's say we were talking about economic growth instead of art. Isn't the opportunity to make as much money as possible better than not having the opportunity at all?

This, of course, is the American Dream.

Some quick problems with the dream of opportunity:

1) In order to equate possibility with the experience, I would also have to equate opportunity with failure. After all, without a guarantee of success - which opportunity doesn't have - it is as likely that I will succeed as that I will fail. Thus, there's no inherent value to opportunity that makes it as significant as experience.

2) There's reasonable doubt to claim that opportunity (or possibility) does not exist. It certainly doesn't follow from common sense, but there is also nothing in the way of proof that shows that possibility or true free will exist. In fact, there is also equally strong evidence that the world is predetermined (a thought that follows well with religion and with something like monism).

Of course there is a gut response to opportunity. It's obvious to me that living in the United States is better than living in Communist Russia. At least the chance exists to create a good life for myself. So then, what does opportunity really mean?

I suppose I'm starting to form "opportunity" into two types: Soft Opportunity and Hard Opportunity.

Soft Opportunity can come from the mere existence of an object or goal - The Mona Lisa exists, therefore I could go see it.

Hard Opportunity speaks to the mechanics of actually being able to do something - The Mona Lisa exists, I have the funds for air travel, the museum where its housed will be open, I can withstand the lines, I have eyesight, therefore I could go see it.

The reason I feel compelled to delineate between the two is because opportunity on its own means very little. Or, at least, there is a difference between real opportunity and perceived opportunity. I would argue, quite liberally, that the American Dream doesn't actually exist for many citizens. The fact that they live in the United States does nothing to make that "opportunity to make life good" exist in any real form in their lives. Because there are other factors that go into whether an opportunity can be utilized beyond the opportunities existence.

Therefore, since I (at the current moment and at no perceivable time in the future) have the funds to travel to France - it matters very little to me whether the Mona Lisa exists or has been sprayed with acid.

I'm getting back into how things affect us in the micro and macro, and this seems like an extreme view to take, but I still have to question what role a painting I will never see plays in my life. Still thinking, is the key phrase.

Red Sky in the Morning

The reason that there's a calm before a storm is because the way in which a storm draws energy from the air. When I was younger, the best surfing always happened during hurricane season in the gulf. The sky would be lit, the waves would be clean and monstrous, and there wouldn't be a raindrop in sight.

That's because all the rain was being called elsewhere. A swirling mass of energy (mostly electricity) was pulling all the moisture out of the air from miles and miles away. The magnetic attraction of the electron molecules was strong enough to force surrounding energy to leave its current state and head for where the collective was. That's also why the eye of a hurricane is so calm - all the energy moves so quickly in a circular motion that a focal point, a pivot point is created so that the motion throws all matter and energy outward from the center, leaving the center completely still.

I haven't had a thought in weeks. Not a real one anyway. Everything I write seems to be just a little forced, and that's because I haven't really been thinking. When I am, the flow takes over and everything fits together (even if it's all one big run-on sentence). Lately, everything is just rehashed versions of previous thoughts.

So I'm wondering if my brain is on a little vacation. A spring slump. Maybe it's needed elsewhere or maybe I haven't really had anything to think about. Maybe it's because I've been paying too much attention to the Presidential race, and there hasn't been any real substantive news in a while.

There's two feelings that come with this sort of thing, and I think we've all experienced them:

1) Boredom - it seems like we should be thinking and learning and growing and doing, but something internal just isn't working right. So we sit. And sitting around seems to be all we're up for.

2) Listlessness - the feeling, an itch, that we're wasting time and need to get moving because there's a world out there to save.

Is there a way to combat these feelings? Or do we have to wait for some natural changeover to happen inside us so we can get on with progression?

So far I haven't found a cure for not thinking. It bothers me though. I'm so used to analyzing and delving deeper into everything - I'm even analyzing the fact that I haven't been analyzing everything.

I take it as a natural flow of events - there has to be some down time for everything. So maybe I should just embrace the lack of mental stimulation and watch more television, sit around doing nothing for a while, find some zen in the whole situation.

But I only get this way, usually, for one reason. And it's a major one.

It means something big is on the horizon. I can't quite make it out, but I know it's there.

The Different Sin

This is going to be fairly adult, so if you're younger than 100, you should probably leave the room. As some of you may know, this is also a personal topic for me.

We're at a turning point in our history. It's been growing for some time, but has finally reached a dull roar so loud that both sides of the argument cannot be ignored for much longer. Fairly soon, a tipping point will come and a decision will have to be made. For some, it is an almost unforgivable sin (more on that in a bit) and for others, it is a natural way of life. Thus, complete social and ethical discordance.

Homosexuality is viewed as a different type of sin altogether. Of course, God doesn't see it that way (since he views all sin equally) and I don't (because I don't believe it's unethical). This statement, to me, seems at the heart of why people cannot reconcile its existence in life or in our culture. It leads to this question: why is homosexuality viewed so differently?

I have several theories.

1) People view homosexuality as a "constant sin" - one that is always being committed if an individual simply by living. Concordantly, other sings are only committed from time to time and exist only within that moment. Once the sin is absolved, it disappears, and the person lives sin-free until the next act of ethical attrition. Thus, homosexuality is seen as a way of life - a choice that is mutually exclusive from living a religiously sanctioned life. Thus, it is far different, more concrete than lying occasionally.

2) Homosexuality is a sin of the Old Testament (in Xtianity). It is not a part of the Ten Commandments (also OT) and not mentioned after the New Covenant. It is listed as an abomination, though, and must be against the Lord's way. Treating like the Big Ten is difficult to figure out since it exists in a complete different context of the Bible. It is also not given a specific mode of absolution like other sins.

3) Homosexuality was first viewed as a social ill. Many people see homosexuality as immoral, gross, disgusting or sinful before they ever pick up a Bible. They are taught this in a social strata (granted, one that may be bolstered by the Biblical view). A person finds a dislike for homosexuality and supports that view with scripture instead of learning through scripture that it is wrong and applying that world view to reality.

And now, some responses (to myself.)

1) All sin is constant sin. We're getting into territory of action and thought here - as sin begins in the heart (or the mind) and is often acted upon. Homosexuality seems constant because it is a lifestyle, but so is lying, cheating, stealing. As humans, we are wretched waste that isn't deserving of grace - we are conditioned to be self-interested, to ensure our own survival, and that comes into conflict with every moral structure there is. We are programmed to want to lie if we have to, to steal resources if needed, and we often act on those urges, but mostly they live inside us. If we are not respecting our parents, or have had a falling out with them and failed to reconcile it, we are living in constant sin. If we walk through life with amassing wealth or power as a goal, we are living in constant sin. It is easy to see why the act of lying is seen as a one-shot while being homosexual is a constant state. But it is only because we view lying as a single act - "you committed the act of lying" v. "you are a homosexual". One is passive, the other active. We should, perhaps, view lying as a constant state - "you are a liar." v. "you engaged in homosexual sex".

There is a problem with intentions. The argument is that homosexuals aren't actively trying to stop sinning (as, apparently, that's necessary to be a follower). Unfortunately, speaking to intention is a difficult moral road I'm hesitant to walk down. I don't know what's in the heart of a liar - whether he's actively trying to stop lying all the time. Or any sinner for that matter. Some sins are more secretive, though, harder to see. Homosexuality happens to be easy to spot, and is judged because of it.

By scripture, we are all sinners even if we aren't constantly sinning. I see a good argument for viewing lying much in the same way most people in society view homosexuality.

2. Not knowing how to respond to homosexuality is a major problem, because it appears that people treat it as if the New Covenant never happened. Drawing ethics from the Old Testament is a dangerous game for several reasons. First, it's completely culturally obsolete. The laws are too specific to matter in our world now (most of them anyway). Secondly, homosexuality is cherry-picked because it is still culturally relevant. The Old Testament also explains the best way to go about trading slaves, stoning people to death if they eat pork and parading women who adulterate into the town square to be publicly ridiculed. We see no cultural relevance in these (even though adultery and that sinful, sinful pork still exist). Homosexuality isn't substantively mentioned in the New Testament, so arguing against it religiously because very tricky business.

3. This leads directly into my third concept - I argue that people have a problem with homosexuality and look to the Bible to support their belief. This, religiously, seems backward from how moral education works. We do not decide on what's wrong and choose scripture to support our idea. We look to scripture to tell us what is wrong and how to deal with it. It also seems foolish to take an arbitrary human construct and bolster it with scripture. If tomorrow, we culturally decided that all people who eat seafood with scales on it shouldn't be allowed to marry - we'd be able to find scriptural support. I go into hyperbole here, but only because it seems absurd to punish someone for doing such a thing even though there was a time in history when humans (with the same foibles as you and me) punished people for just that crime. An analogy: If existence is a building, the Bible is meant to be the cornerstone, not a decoration. It is meant to guide life, not give strength to how you already view it. I'm not sure what a critical reading of the book would yield, but it is clearly not cut and dry when it comes to homosexuality. Ancient Jews were, but they were also down with slavery.

That also leads me into a question of whether we can ethically outgrow certain parts of the Bible, but I'll leave that for another time. Maybe another time in twenty years or so.

I believe for these reasons that we treat the sin of homosexuality as different than all other sins. In fact, I see no sin that is treated quite like it, reviled with such vitriol that entire social movements are wagered against the people that practice it. How wonderful a place this world might be if half the effort and hatred put into stopping this apparent social ill was put into ending lying or murder.

I think the sun might come out right around then.

Workin' in a Coal Mine

What is it that we don't know?

There's this old story that may or may not be true about an old woman who lived in the same house all her life, opting not to leave it at all for the last decade. Oddly enough, she lived to be 103, so the local newspaper would send reporters to her to get quotes and ask about how to live that long. She became a fluff piece, a feel good news story or blurb that comes at the tail end of a nightly broadcast. What was the secret of her longevity? Of course she didn't know. She just lived healthy and smiled a lot. But among the horde of local reporters that came to see her over the few years she lived pass 100, one finally asked her if there was anything she regretted.

She said that she'd never been sailing.

I always thought the answer was sort of mysterious and romantic. Mostly because as the reported delved on, it was revealed that she hadn't really done anything in her life at all. She'd never really left her city, never moved, stuck to a fairly regular routine and knew very little about the outside world or its consequences. That she would pick sailing as a dream seemed naive and genius at the same time.

As I was thinking about this story yesterday, it dawned on me that the woman represents two fears in life. She represents the unknown - being unaware of a large amount of what life has to offer, it was unclear as to why she had never experienced simple things like sailing or what it might have been like for her to do so. She represents death - as much as reporters tried to paint her as a picture of solid living and health, the truth was that she was a morbid curiosity. People were fascinated less in that she'd lived that long, and more with the fact that she hadn't died. When framed that way, it becomes clear that the focus was on her old age as an anomaly, reminding us that we're not going to make it nearly as far as she did.

Death is the ultimate unknown. We are afraid of it because it means non-existence. And all we've ever known is existence. We're not sure how to not exist.

But ultimately, death is a necessary thing, a part of life, and it's easy to celebrate the concept in the macro. But when it applies to us or our friends, it's desperately depressing. We try to deny that it will happen to us, we look beyond death for some kind of solace, or we accept it as a fact and try to find some humanity in it.

I tend to find it life affirming. What better proof of there that we are actually alive then the existence of an opposite state? "I think therefore I am" should be replaced by "I die therefore I am". It guarantees that we exist.

Nothing affects us so deeply that we know nothing about. It's about loss, peace, pain, disappearance, forgiveness, release, memory, family, friends, anger, laughter, despair.

It is all these things - a funeral is as much about a mother laying flowers on a child's casket as it is about a friend smiling through tears as he remembers the time his friend did a back flip off a balcony in front of the whole school. It's as much about pain as it is not feeling anymore pain. It's as much a part of life as life itself.

Some cultures celebrate death and revere it. Some religions worship it.

The most frequent question I get involving atheism is whether I am afraid of death. I can't say that I am. I don't understand death, and it's certainly been unkind to me so far, but I believe people mean my own death. Although I fear losing the people I love, I don't mind the idea of death for me because I see it as an ending. I also realize there was a time that I existed where I had no consciousness and that there was a time before I existed that I have know experience with.

In that sense, I'm no more afraid of death than I am of the 1960s.

I know that life is to be feared more than death. I fear ending up like that old woman who has never sailed (and never got to) more than I do not existing. Life, after all, is the longest thing I'll ever do.

To Serve Man

I think how you read a cookbook can be very telling.

For some people, it is a guidebook - giving them a host of possible temperatures and measurements that they use as a starting point only to end up adding paprika and subtracting squash, heating the oven to 375 degrees instead of 350 just to try to get it a bit more crispy. It's cooking as jazz improvisation. For others, it's about adhering strictly to the numbers and letters. It's about exactitude. Cooking as classical piano solo. Striving for perfection by following the rules as closely as possible.

I fail to see any real qualitative way to say which is better, but if ethics were applied, it's conceivable that there is a "best way" to cook. A correct way.

I suppose the main difference I see in the two methods is that the first, playing fast and loose, focuses on the cooking experience itself. It runs the risk of making a bad product, but the process is liberating and artful. The second method focuses on the time-tested result. Following steps A, B and C will yield a perfect meal every time. The process itself is strict and tiresome, but devoted.

Can you already see where I'm going with this?

I wonder if any religious text can or should be viewed as a guidebook or as a rulebook. I'm assuming that you can't view one as both at the same time. I'm also assuming that no religious text is inerrant - (I feel fairly safe in that assumption since Genesis contains two different creation accounts and, by definition, nothing self-contradictory can be inerrant. There are also examples for every major religious text).

My question is an important one I think, because I feel like we never question the way in which we use our religious texts. If they are to be the force of morality in our world, exactly how are they to act as such?

The Bible can be seen as a guidebook - that is, a general method of heading in the right direction - because it is extremely vague. It speaks of lofty ideals without detail and offers an incredible amount of subjective material, the proof of which is easy to see with hundreds of sects with differing opinions have sprung up since the first Pope existed. We disagree on the meaning of the Bible. Ergo, even if it is infallible, it is still subject to one's ability to interpret it.

The Bible can also be seen as a rulebook - that is, an exact prescription for living a moral life based on guidelines - because it has, well, rules. It speaks of exact scenarios and gives a reasoned method for dealing with them in the way that the Eternal Being would want you to. Breaking the rules also has a specific means of reconciliation.

I like to see it as a guidebook (perhaps because I like listening to classical but I like playing jazz) because of one major issue. I fail to see how a document can claim to be a rulebook if it doesn't cover every possible ethical scenario. To be fair, I fail to see how any book can live up to this measure, but a cookbook doesn't need to include every recipe in order to be a cookbook. A book purporting to be the ultimate in how to live an ethical life should include unquestioning rules for living.

Since the Bible is of the past, it fails that criteria. For example, it gives down-to-the-letter instructions for sacrificing a goat, but says nothing about how one should conduct herself while using the Internet. As a rulebook it lacks these specific instructions.

Imagine the Bible as a computer that answers your questions. If it were to claim it could give the right answer for every ethical situation, as a religious text should be able to provide, it would be sorely lacking. I might ask it, " Bible, if someone disrespects me in a public internet forum, what is the right way to contact them to rectify the situation - through email or by phone?" The computer might respond, "Answer not found."

But what's so critical about having exact answers for every possible scenario? Because the Good Life (as ethics dictates) is about the best way to live in even the small details. Theoretically, there is a correct or best way to brush your teeth. I don't require anything that strict, but I do see a need for more direct answers for modern day ethical problems. As we drift further and further into the future, the time of the Bible will begin to look more and more alien. Harder to relate to. Thus, when used strictly as a rulebook, it will become almost complete obsolete. For example, no one will need to know the proper way of bartering for a slave, but the Bible will still be there, offering up its silent advice on the matter despite the lack of anyone asking.

As a guide, it works marvelously. That's why I almost think the entire book could be erased, leaving only the word, "Love".

It would represent what the book is (as a noun) and a command of what you should do in life (as a verb). I imagine, it would also include a sweet saxophone solo.

It's about focus - following a rulebook is about doing the right things in order to reach a certain goal while following a guidebook is about taking a winding path to reach the same goal, not knowing sometimes if the path you're on is correct, but finding comfort in knowing that at least you're headed in the right direction.

Or maybe I've just never been one for being told what to do. Sorry Miss Manners.

The Continuation of Last Night

Is there a difference between using a calculator to solve an equation and using your brain?

As a quick experiment, I want you to try to find the sum of 19, 27, 48 and 291 only using your brain. It took me eleven seconds to figure that out. With a calculator, it took me three. I'm not sure anyone would argue that a calculator isn't a helpful tool. As an extension of our own intelligence, it speeds up the process. It is not our brain, but it is still a tool that the brain can use in order to help itself function quicker, more efficiently, and to store more memory.

After all, a calculator is pretty harmless. We've been using them for decades - I've never been to school without one - so we feel comfortable using them. Computers are in the same realm. They are powerful machines that work beyond our brains. Now, not only can I find out the answer to a complex garble of equations in an instant, I can also find out who won the 1956 World Series and what a 'geoduck' is fairly quickly.

With computers, we are entering a broad age of instant knowledge. It's not such the case (yet) that we can download instructions on how to fly a plane directly into our brain, but we have a massive stockpile of information at our fingertips. And not many seem that freaked out, yet.

But let's change the question a bit:

What if the calculator you're using was in your mind?

Is there something wrong with taking a tool like a calculator and implanting it directly into the brain? Barring any physiological problems, it seems like there is little difference between punching keys with your fingers to add four numbers and simply thinking out the answer at a greater speed.

If the objection is that we would be artificially enhancing our bodies, I would counter by saying we already do that with tools. Man can run only as fast as 23 miles per hour, but we can travel much faster in a car. We lack the ability to fly physically, but we can do so by boarding a plane. I'm not exactly sure when Bishop Berkeley was born, but I can find out really quickly by using the internet. 1685, by the way.

I would also contend that I now know when Bishop Berkeley was born. I'm just housing the information on the internet, not in my brain. This may go a little far, since I could also argue that I "know" everything that's on the internet. Instead of being able to access it directly, I have to get to a computer to "remember" what I "know", but the information is almost as at my fingertips than as if it were stored in some memory cell in my brain somewhere.

I suppose the main problem is one of infiltration. We like our tools to be external. I can always throw my calculator in the drawer and forget about it, but I wouldn't be able to if it were hardwired into my brain. Although, I doubt most people with pace makers, with stints, with artificial heart valves or with cochlear implants mind having technology directly implanted into their bodies.

So what, if any, is the ethical problem with incorporating technology into our brains?

AC/DC

I'm a negative person.

I don't mean that in the bad way. Although, I've noticed that it can head in bad directions when it's not really monitored well. And part of me doesn't think I can turn it off. It's just that - I have the talent of seeing problems with things that most people can't see until they use hindsight. I point out potentially harmful situations, hurdles and roadblocks for plans and goals. I also see little reason to offer solutions since I'm not just pointing out the obvious. But, living completely in the negative on someone else's plans (or even your own) has its down side.

I have to wonder if it's so simple to place people into the two distinct camps. We do it in our storytelling - good v. evil is the most common theme out there. In the two basic story modes (Two Dogs, One Bone and The Hero's Journey) you have conflict that arises from a genuinely good person being pitted against a genuinely bad one.

Luckily, I think that we're starting to move away from how simple that is and to see stories with complex characters - good people that have bad traits and vice versa. Of course, from this thought, I'll segue into the most natural location: foreign policy.

If we really are inundated and influenced by media, it's a good thing that the types of stories we have are evolving. If we start seeing our characters as multi-dimensional, can we start seeing ourselves that way? Our friends? Our enemies?

Up to this point, our national history has reflected our stories in that inexorable way that art infiltrates life. Our wars are fought with evil enemies - Nazis, Communists, Terrorists. We find genuinely bad people to fight in order to play the genuinely good role. I imagine in some small part, this view of the world has been bolstered or encouraged by our art - our movies mostly. Millions of young people pile into a movie theater to see a Middle Eastern man play a terrorist hijacking a plane. They see incredible racial stereotypes and cultural discontinuities. They see these for one reason, and I think it has little to do with racism and more to do with the structure of our stories. There's no room for dynamic characters - only room for flat ones, people that represent something.

So we never learn about the terrorist's struggle back home, his family life, his remarkable traits, the better angels of his nature. Likewise, we never see the dashing hero's faults and flaws.

If this art has affected our racial opinions or our ideas about foreign countries, then it seems logical that the complication of that art will lead to better cultural understanding. Seeing more diverse people playing deeper, more rounded characters might give us sympathy to a different lifestyle. And it can extend to our personal experiences and to our dealings with other major countries.

Likewise, the proliferation of the internet, specifically its ability to connect us to other people can do nothing but shape our minds in a more global way. The thought here is that if someone can chat with another person in China, their view of the Chinese becomes more humanistic. It's not necessarily more real, or less racist, but it becomes more complex and more human.

Some contact will reinforce stereotypes, but in the broader sense of the worst consequences of foreign policy - having a friend in Iran makes it harder for me to want to bomb that country. For fear of her safety or because I have personal knowledge that good people are there.

Complex art and intricate characters make us think. And I still don't know of situations where thinking more is a bad thing.

Here's to getting to know one another.

Accidental Sin

Two stories:

Yesterday, Richard Kelly walked into a store and robbed it. He threatened the store clerk and the patrons with a gun, asked for the money in the register, and sped off into the night with dollar bills flying loose from his brown paper bag.

When he was caught, he was charged with assault with a deadly weapon and armed robbery. But it just so happened that there was a young woman in the store at the time with an infant, so he was also charged with child endangerment - a crime that falls under the realm of child abuse - adding a particularly heinous dimension to his act and a few more years onto his jail time.

Last week, a group of high schoolers decided to ramp up their torment of a fellow classmate by beating her up, throwing her in a car and taking her to a house where they continued to verbally abuse her. After the young girl complained to police, the group was brought in and charged with assault and battery. But one small word added to their indictment - when the young girl was placed into the car, she asked to be let go, and one of her assailants said, "No", and pushed her back into the vehicle. Because of that small word and that act, the charge of kidnapping was added to the list.

I try to imagine the mindset of these people before they commit their crimes. We so often try to look at crime as some extenuating circumstance, a random act that came about from passion or from a failure to think things through logically. We forget how many crimes are done with forethought. With planning.

So I think of Richard Kelly in his apartment, cleaning his gun and going over his plans just one more time in his head. He knows when he'll strike, the route he'll take, and what he plans to say to the store clerk in order to speed the process up as fast as possible. He might have been methodical about this or might have been completely haphazard.

But it was only by chance that a woman was there with her child. This is something he could not and did not take into consideration, and it's something that destroyed any chance of leniency from a jury and will most likely add several years onto his sentence.

Isn't it always the crimes we don't mean to commit that get us in the end?

For the high schoolers, their deed was incredible. It's truly disgusting. They must have gotten together to plan it, probably a ring leader egging the others on, convincing them it was a good idea to jump this young girl. But something happened in the heat of the moment that they didn't plan on and didn't know could exacerbate an already growing list of violent crimes. Kidnapping. Unlawful imprisonment. In fact, if the district attorney felt like throwing the kitchen sink at them, he could at least try for a few counts of obstruction of justice since they threatened the young girl with more violence if she told the cops. I imagine doing so took a great amount of courage.

There's a third story here. One that you and I have. A time in our lives when we planned something, meant to do something or say something, but we failed to plan for that random occurrence that either kept it from being effective or made matters worse. I doubt even of us have had the occasion to plan a crime - except for me - but we certainly commit crimes on a daily basis. Whether it's as simple as not fulfilling a promise or saying the wrong thing to a friend. Maybe not calling your mother on mother's day or waiting until the last minute to file taxes. Maybe it's speeding or drinking one more beer than we really should have. Nothing that's going to throw us into a cement cell somewhere, but an act that we won't feel good about the next morning.

And it's usually something small that makes it worse. Something we didn't plan for.

I imagine we all have stories like that.

This Fragile Piece of Paper

Where do the ideals of freedom come from?

We have that sweet little document resting in a bulletproof case at the Archives that tells us that we have rights. Freedoms. Of course, those rights and freedoms exist without the document. The document itself just points it all out for us in ink.

So where do the rights come from? Where do they stem from?

Growing up in the United States, we seem to think of this issue as an undebatable. We don't even question them. It makes sense. Why question something that's so advantageous for us? I'm guessing the only reason is because I like throwing everything into question.

The concept of things we owe has been floating around, and it naturally comes to - what are we owed without earning it? And why?

One has to wonder if their has to be a Creator in order for these rights to be bestowed upon us. It makes sense - for something to be given, there must be an entity to give it.

In fact, I find it difficult to find a strong argument for human rights without a Creator. One is even mentioned in the document that points out our rights.

One argument, I think, is to say that the rights aren't a natural birthright, but a manifestation of how we've evolved as humans. We've come to a certain point in our history where we believe we deserve these rights, and simply because we believe (and therefore demand them) we deserve them. A self-fulfilling manifesto of sorts.

Of course, it's not the case that these basic human rights have to be granted. There are cases all of over the world where people aren't given these rights. What's more, it's only one mindset - there are people that don't think they way Americans do, don't think that there are basic human freedoms granted to us simply because we're born and exist.

I don't think the argument comes close to fully explaining the existence of human rights, but I don't see a problem in calling into question whether they really exist outside the human social construct or if they are intractable and unalienable rights like our country's founding document claims.

And if they do exist outside of us, what are they exactly, and what are their limits? And why are we owed them?

Upfront Costs

Alexander Pruss has a great question in mind.

"Suppose I have a transtemporal communicator. In the morning I come across a note from the future: "Alex: Send George a check for $100 per the promise of February 16, 2043. Best wishes, Alex". Maybe I really would be bound?"

I reprint it here without its preceding context because I feel like it stands alone fairly well. A simple question without a simple answer. Essentially, if you had the ability to communicate with your future self, are you bound to the promises that your future self makes?

I've spoken before about change - specifically finding it odd that I can't remember what my goals were at 18 years old and the absurdity of sticking to an ideal made at that age. So, unsurprisingly, I am of the camp that you're not bound to the promises made by a future-you.

My reasoning: because it's a different person.

We are constantly changing. Cell death and growth, hairstyles, desires. Even our DNA is being re-written from time to time by retro-viruses. Nothing is sacred apparently. But apart from physical changes and mental changes that occur so slowly that we don't really notice - there is a drastic, noticeable difference between who were are today and who were were a year ago, who we'll be in ten years, and who will be lying on our death bed.

From our perspective, time always lurches forward, but one has to question whether it exists at all or whether it's really "moving in one direction". And if the directionality of it is actually neutral, you'd be just as bound to fulfill a promise you made in the future as one that you made in the past.

I propose this complication, though:

Since we change so much throughout the course of a lifetime, it's possible that the Scott Of the Future (SOF) might become immoral! He might join a gang, a cult, start selling drugs, become a contract killer, or a Republican. Who knows what life events could set SOF down this path, but it's possible.

So let's say that Scott of the Future calls me on the time-phone and tells me that he (we, us, I?) owes $1,000 to a local gang leader who will use the money to buy weapons that he'll then use to murder several rival gang members. Am I ethically bound to the promises I make? Or to the general ethics of not funding murder?

Pruss's original post with the question is here. He uses the situation to question the asymmetry or symmetry of time, and I'm afraid I'm looking at it more morally. Go figure.

I suppose there are a ton of good questions that arise from being able to communicate with your future-self - could you avoid disasters? change the course of time with information? - but I think an important one just to wonder what it would be like to sit down with yourself at 50 to see the person you've become.

What would you tell yourself? What if you got to meet yourself at 16? How hard would you slap some sense into them? Would it be like meeting a stranger?

I feel like this fits perfectly into my recent mindset of questioning what we are owed. What we should expect to get out of life and out of our friends. What we owe ourselves is just an interesting twist on that idea. But it's an important one. And one I haven't quite figured out yet.

Commision for Breathing

The most frequent question I get regarding couch surfing is whether I get paid or not. After all, I let a stranger crash on my couch for a few nights - I'm bound to be earning something, right?

The answer is yes and no.

I'd love to paint a shining picture of philanthropy where rainbow-colored puppies follow me and my surfer around DC, checking out national monuments and getting free ice cream. That's just a bit off. Of course I don't get any money for hosting, but I'd be lying if I said there were only intrinsic perks. From time to time, I'll have dinner paid for or something of that nature - my cover charge, a round of drinks. The key is that I don't walk into the situation expecting it, and I've learned something because of it.

You should keep your expectations low.

That may sound negative, but I think it's a wonderful thing. Life is uncontrollable, so having specific expectations about what someone will be like or what someone will do really hampers the actuality of a relationship. It places shackles on a person before you even meet. Once you spend a solid amount of time with them, it's easy to get impressions and create expectations then, but I find that I struggle with placing them on people ahead of time. It makes things a lot easier to deny how complex a person is.

I started thinking about the concept of being paid when it comes to other things in life. As a basic law of physics, there's a reaction to every action - and that's where payment comes from at its core. An action it taken, and it is given its due. Some people call this karma - watching it supposedly ebb and flow in the long term, but I prefer to think of it more simply than that. Or maybe more complex - I see bad deeds rewarded positively and negatively, and I see good deeds rewarded the same way. Karma dictates that the bad comes to the bad and the good comes to the good.

So if we get paid, I have to wonder how much say we have in our own life salary and what type of compensation we should be asking for. If you could be paid anything for living your life - monetary, realistic, animal, vegetable, mineral, abstract concept - what would it be? What should it be?

Let's Stifle it Down

Life wouldn't be this difficult if there weren't any people around. I've had these thoughts all my life about what the world would be like without anyone else on the planet to keep me company. I don't think I get as depressed about it as I'm supposed to.

I look at all of these books and films about some guy being the last man on earth and the perils he goes through.

Probably the best Twilight Zone episode of all time involves a man that only wants to read, but his job and his wife keep him from his passion. When an atomic bomb goes off and he survives, he wanders the destroyed city until he finds a library. With the rest of time on his hands to read all the books in a library, he settles down to live passionately. Until his glasses break, rendering him blind.

His last words - There was time now.

It's a great message. One that continually comes up, and should on a daily basis. Why waste another minute not living passionately? Doing what you love?

The answer: people.

They get in the way. Let's face it. They constantly destroy plans, want without compromise, create rules and social structures that deny freedom and art, insist that you do things their way, scoff at you when you tell them how you really feel, what you really dream of, what you'd like to sculpt yourself into.

People are the worst.

And yet without them, without some semblance of structure that they bring, the dynamic array of options they present - life would be much blander. After all, who would write all those books for us to read? Who would stay up until four in the morning with us talking about nothing at all? What would really shape our personalities and our philosophies?

It makes me wonder - even knowing that people are a powerful concept - if there's anything else in life that's so detestable, yet so sublime and necessary. Is there something that causes us such dissatisfaction from time to time that we still desperately need? Is there something that almost always lets us down that we can't live without?

Despite my romanticism of living alone on the planet, I find myself addicted to people. Or maybe I'm just addicted to frustration. And traffic.

The First of April

You'd imagine this would be my favorite holiday, but it really isn't. I've already rallied enough against the idea of holidays in the first place - I don't think I'd need to rail too much more on the concept of playing a joke on someone when they know it's coming.

My friends and I really never played April Fools jokes on each other - I think it's because we spent the other 364 days of the year harassing each other. And because we're lazy. I did pull one on my parents a few years ago that continues to be my favorite small-investment prank so far.

My senior year of college, I called my parents on April One while I was out with some friends eating lunch. My mother answered, and I told her that she should get my father in on the conversation as well. I then proceeded to tell them that because of some struggling I was doing with an exit-course, I wasn't going to be able to graduate on time. I wouldn't walk the stage in May. I had done everything I could with this class, but I had just gotten word that it was a mathematical impossibility for me pass it.

Graduation, like I'm sure for most, was a giant deal. My grandparents were coming into town from Arkansas along with my second-cousins (who had partially, and graciously funded my books while I was studying), and now all of that was ruined because I couldn't keep my head above water in a class within my major.

My favorite part was the level-headedness of my mother's response. I think sometimes that pranks are simple practice tests for bad news, litmus tests for how someone reacts to the unfortunate. My mother passed. She told me that all we could do was talk to the professor, look into taking the course over the summer and walking in August. The worst case scenario would be having to take it in the fall and walking in December. Of course, all of this was a major deal because of the investment that college is. I doubt seriously that my parents would feel any iota of shame if their son had spent an extra semester in school or 5 or 6 extra even. But it costs a lot. And we were hyper-aware of that.

I figured that was enough torture, so I told them both it was a joke. A great April Fools joke. They were obviously relieved.

I can think of nothing better to spend my time on than humor. It's a great psychological study. It shows what we fear, what we hope for, what shocks us. It's a study in humanity without fences. When someone is laughing, they are completely vulnerable. You can't hide yourself or put up a wall against something funny - whether you're on the giving or receiving end of the joke.

If you want to know who someone is, prepare them to laugh.

Fascination

How we see things is crucial.

Over the weekend, I got to spend time with a really old friend of mine that I care about very deeply. She, her brother, and her friend came and surfed my couch, and then I hung out with them at her grandparents house in Virginia where I became the couch surfer. In the usual rounds of catching up and getting to know new friends, she kept wanting to take pictures. I, of course, made fun of her for it and mentioned that I hated being in pictures.

On a side note, I'm not sure why I see a need to make fun of something like taking pictures. I think it's a really great thing. I suppose I just need to find something about everyone that I can tease them about. What that says about me, I'm not sure.

Somewhere along the way, I mentioned that I see everyday life as a story, people as characters, conversations as dialog. I can never really turn that off or step back from viewing the world as it would be written down. I think, perhaps, that's why I read so deeply into everything or see meaning in things that should simply be commonplace. She responded that she saw the world through a camera lens. Everyday events became snapshots, memories were captured in frames.

It got me thinking about the way everyone views the world. I mean this literally - not about our viewpoints or opinions - but on how we mechanically see things. What colors the way we are able to see the world? Is it our art? Or language? Will a painter think of life as a blank canvas the way I see it as a scene from a book? Will a business man see the world as opportunity costs and efficiency scales?

Moving beyond occupation, do our core beliefs structure the world differently for all of us? I imagine that our motives and aspirations can clog up the works.

While living in Los Angeles, I noted that a lot of the people were interested in making connections that would benefit themselves in some way, but the manner in which they went about it was always focused on people. Here in DC, it seems like those niceties are thrown out the window in favor for blatant business card swapping. People meet people to use them for personal gain. Maybe some people in DC view other humans as purely business connections - devoid of any real humanity beyond helping them advance in their careers.

Certainly, there are some men and women out there that see members of the opposite gender as targets instead of people. There are many ways that we flatten the image of a person down to a concept or goal. I'm sure we do the same for most everything in life.

I would say that we need to start seeing people as people - but I'm not even sure what that means exactly.

The only thing I'm capable of doing at this point is questioning how I see the world and why. What mechanical things influence my eyesight, what goals I have that blur my standard vision.

2008: A New Odyssey

Yesterday a man that was very close to me passed away. So it goes. He was very close to me although I never met him and he never met me. I find that fascinating, although it's nothing really new, that a person that lives across the world can have such an impact on another person without ever speaking to them or seeing them.

Arthur C. Clarke was one of the pioneers of science fiction as we know it. He was a man of endless humanity that had an incredible gift for writing. Most are probably at least familiar with 2001: A Space Odyssey, but he wrote over 30 novels and a large amount of essays concerning mankind and technology. Like any great sci-fi writer, his interest was in people and the things they create. He's also one of the reasons you can talk on a cell phone or watch satellite television. The man was a genius, but he had a great sense of self and of humor. After failing to patent his telecommunications technology, he wrote a short essay entitled, "How I lost a billion dollars in my spare time".

Most people see the entire genre of science fiction as geeky escapism. People that were born too early - people that long for a generation where flying cars and jet packs exist. But at it's core, it's fundamentally philosophical. It asks the key questions about life as we know it now while predicting how life might be as we will know it. If done well, it forces the reader to ask hard questions about his or her life and the way in which they live. It also challenges people to look beyond the ordinary. One of Clarke's famous rules of discovery was, "The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible."

I think that's an incredible mantra to live by - not just with technology, but with our human spirit, our talents, our love. It challenges us to reach beyond what we are to see what we might become.

On an interesting note, technology proliferation doubles every 11 years or so. Computers are faster, have more memory. To prove how constantly amazing we are, I'll leave you with this developing story: technology now exists that allows for voiceless communication.

At a recent expo, a company called Audeo exhibited a band that is worn around the neck. This band receives the muscular impulses of the vocal box and transmits them through a bluetooth capable cell phone. Thus, the person wearing it doesn't have to speak, they only have to think of what they are going to say and allow the brain to shift their vocal chords - the band creates the sound and sends it to the listener.

The program only knows a few hundred words right now, but that will change. It will progress, and soon, you could be having a conversation with someone on the other side of the world without even speaking. You could ride public transit or be in the car with friends and speak privately to someone else without others hearing your side of the conversation. I'm not sure that it has profound meaning for our society, but it's incredibly cool and could potentially be helpful.

I think Clarke would have been proud.

The future was three years ago.

Slacker Hell

The mid-90s was a great era for movies from a slacker generation that wanted to define itself by being as messed up as possible, but still worthy of love. Thus, many of them ended with two or three people huddled together crying, speaking in lilting voices about how they were terrible and vile and different and rebels, but everything was gonna be okay.

This sort of sentiment doesn't really exist in movies that much anymore, although it pops up from time to time in indie films. Of course, the mainstream version of this is the rag-tag bunch of misfits that ends up prevailing against the wealthier, more organized little league team. Proof that individuality is more important than status.

However, I'm starting to wonder if that sort of thing is alright in real life.

From time to time I see situations cropped up where members of my generation throw up their hands and accept that certain things about their lives are messed up. While I understand that outside forces are impossible to control, it seems odd to completely acquiesce when things aren't easy. Let alone to embrace troubles or issues as "being individualistic". You've shaved your head, won't speak to your parents and are thinking about moving in with your 50-year-old manager, but things are okay, because you're an individual. And you can't break the cycle.

Does that mean that we're all damaged goods?

Some of you might not relate to this, but I imagine we've all had things in our lives that profoundly changed us for better or worse - things that galvanized and adulterated us into maturity. Things that were, in the 90s way of putting things, really messed up, man. But from time to time we'll have to question how deeply those events affected us. Let's put me on the couch really quickly.

My brother was diagnosed with a fatal illness when I was 7. From then on, my parents devoted a large amount of time caring for him which left me without a lot of parental attention. I ambled through middle school, becoming suicidal at one point because I had exactly zero friends, failed at mostly everything in my life and was ridiculed openly when I succeeded. I decided to survive because it would have destroyed my family - especially my mother - to add to their plate. In high school, my pendulum swung to the other side, renouncing my religion, experimenting with drugs and acting like a general pompous ass to the opposite gender.During those years I skated, went to punk shows, played in a band and got high a decent bit of the time - I also did this while being an able student, holding down several jobs, acting as Senior Class President and being generally liked by teachers and parents alike. During my senior year, my brother died, and my close friends felt like I never dealt with it directly. These were my formative years.

I agree that there is nothing that bad in my history - especially compared to others' - but even still, I never feel like my life is careening out of control or that I don't have a decent handle with dealing with my past.

A friend of mine told me that she never speaks with her ex-boyfriends. I asked her whether she felt like that was healthy or if they still had an impact on her life because she hadn't reconciled comfortably with them. She didn't really know.

On one hand, the films of the 1990s are rubbish - a group of people that will be cradling each other once a week when the next person's nervous breakdown comes, never really dealing with their issues, always seeking consolation in their uniqueness while masking how alone that makes them.

On the other hand, it makes a strident point - that no matter how low life brings you, you deserve love.

And even though I think we should all be working toward a sense of comfortable normalcy (whatever that may be for each of us), I still see being huddled in a corner, crying, surrounded by our friends as a fundamental right that we can take advantage of from time to time. Just don't be too counter culture about it or it'll end up on film.

And Everything's Gonna Be Alright

When Bob Dylan took the stage for the first time with electric guitars, he was booed. The crowd screamed that he'd abandoned his folk roots. They thought he'd sold out. The same thing happens all over the music business, which seems especially keen on the concept. I've often wondered what makes for the right environment for a large group to so quickly resort to selling out (or believing someone else has). A large amount of money at stake. An amount of fame. Certainly the film industry has these things. Actors, though, don't have something that musicians have - a feel of autonomy, a feel of rebellion. Musicians are individuals trying to tell a story despite a world that wants to be mainstreamed. Actors are part of a vast machine, a network that creates a film to entertain and to return profits. In short, actors can't sell out, because they don't have any credibility to sell. Musicians, for some reason, seem like they do. They come from a garage and struggle desperately to make it to the top - only when they get there, men in suits are trying to change them in order to make more money. And we romanticize this.

The truth is far less admirable.

The idea of selling out focuses on someone with core values that decides to abandon them in hopes of money or fame. Mostly just the money though. It's assumed that someone with a unique voice and message would stifle it in order to fall in line with what works, what's boring and tested, and what makes loads of cash.

That's probably why I've never really believed that it exists.

For me, a person who thinks pragmatically, the concept of selling out seems absurd. It's an arbitrary human construct, usually used by elitists to argue a point that no one really cares about. In order to buy into it, you have to think several things:

1) That making money is a bad thing. Basic economics tells us that making money does not prevent others from having money, it just makes more money. I can see nothing wrong with this.

2) That making money somehow negates artistic intent. This may have stronger merit as an argument if the artist significantly changes himself/herself for the sole purpose of becoming more accessible. However, it's difficult to gauge intentions - with Dylan, he was trying out a new sound, and no one now would call him a sell out.

3) You have to believe that art is not subjective.

3b) Since art is not subjective, you also must believe that what you like is the best.

We're getting into strange territory here, but it's often true that people value something so subjective as factually based. Music is the perhaps the king of all arts with regards to this because it's so easily accessible. Everyone can become an expert on it almost immediately. So people tend to think that their opinion is fact. You will never find more heated arguments about something that can't be proven correct or incorrect as you will when you claim not to like someone's favorite band.

As many times as I've said proudly that The Beatles are the greatest band in history, I know that it's just not even provable. It's subjective. Someone who thinks Bob Dylan or Glen Miller Orchestra or Slipknot is the best band ever has just as much merit to their personal opinion as I do. You can argue who has sold more albums, influenced other bands, who's sold out more shows - all factual, numbers-based things with clear winners - but "the best" is an opinion. And opinions can't be facts.

So why is corporate art not considered true art? Why are artists that seek large amounts of money deemed sell outs? Or artists that give in to a corporate scheme not legitimized?

Because elitists are wrong. To believe that art cannot be profitable or simply beautiful or merely entertaining is to limit art in a way that's unsettling. It also makes me wonder whether elitists aren't selling out - just in a different way. Not to money, but to an image. I have to question whether certain people like certain obscure bands because they make good music or because listening to them provides the listener with a false sense of superiority. Do they listen to the bands because of their art or because another elitist told them that liking them means you have good taste?

All of this to say - selling out is moving into a different world, away from art. It's moving into the realm of ideas. People are talking about those who work with others as selling out. A politician tries to reach across the aisle to work on compromise and she's suddenly a sell out, because someone willing to fix problems and seek a common ground solution isn't fully dedicated to the cause. Giving an inch means your willing to forfeit just a little of your zealotry in order to seek progress. Because sides are so polarized that you only have two options for opinions. Trying to see the other side of an argument is heresy. Trying to work with the enemy is grounds for crucifixion.

And image is more important than practicality.

How you're seen is so much more viable than the things you accomplish. If you're not trying to appear that way all the time, if your focus changes or your goals shift - you're a sell out.

Childlike

I think this is going too far.

I couldn't tell you why I'm so opinionated about defining things, but I fear that it's a major liability in our culture. The two-part problem is that we believe we are allowed to define things (including ourselves) and that we clearly do not have the capability to do it accurately.

It's become a cliche for almost any actor in Hollywood or famous entity to talk about defining themselves, wanting to be the sole master of entering their name and status into the cultural dictionary for people to read, but not to interpret. That's fine. I try to be sympathetic toward actors and their concepts - especially after working in production and watching them get treated like puppets.

Unfortunately, I feel like this idea has spread over into the mainstream the same way that "self-esteem" did and it is having a hard time fitting in with what actual reality is like. There is an exactitude to definitions. As flexible as the language is, there are limitations to every word as to what it is and isn't. That's, basically, the entire reason for definitions in the first place - to set boundaries and make communication easier.

So in way, we don't get to define much. I can't approach a tree and decide that it's not a tree. There's a force outside of me that is untouchable, that I can't tamper with. My calling a tree a ferret, does not make it a ferret. It makes me an idiot.

But don't we tend to try to define ourselves on a daily basis? Try to nail down exactly who we are as we project onto other people? I feel like I do from time to time, and I've seen others do it. I imagine it's because it's easier than changing. Twisting a word is easier than twisting yourself.

For example, a friend of mine told me that she enjoys kissing guys and girls but "would never define herself as bisexual". And there the two-part problem lies. My friend thinks she can define herself but doesn't have the capability to do so. My question for her was, "Then what would you call yourself?"

I've often decried the fear of being defined. It is one of my largest fears, the idea that I could be placed inside a box, inside a handy set of words that defines the totality of my being. It's pretty frightening. What if all that you are could be summed up in a sentence? A few words?

This is why I hate moving. It is the worst activity that humans have to undertake. First, there is the physical demand of lifting, carrying and depositing your heavy boxes and furniture into a truck and then repeating the process once you arrive at your new place. Second, you have to inventory your life. You are forced to mentally box yourself up, all that you have, into nice packages. I think we can see how small our lives are when we box everything up and place it in the center of our living room. Staring at your belongings crammed neatly into a rental truck makes you wonder if that's all there is to you, to life. And, damn, it's still so heavy. A burden.

So we avoid defining ourselves clearly. We want to keep it nebulous just in case someone comes close to pinning us down. Especially when it comes down to things that make us ashamed. I drink every night, but I would never define myself as an alcoholic. I'm spiritual, but I wouldn't define myself as religious. I've hurt others, but I would never define myself as a bad person. I kiss girls, but I wouldn't define myself as a lesbian.

Those labels are ready-made. They are outside of us. And, even if we are allowed to define ourselves, it wouldn't be through words, it would be through actions. And others aren't prohibited from weighing in, either.

I tend to think that things are never as complicated as we make them out to be. Relationships are one of those things - and it's become easier to be vague about them. There's strangers, acquaintances, friends, close friends, family, and dating relationships. And the lines aren't all that blurry. If we look up these terms in the dictionary, they don't have a question mark or the phrase 'to be determined' next to them. But we all like to blur the lines. At least I do. Are we dating? Sort of. We're friends, but we like each other. And we go out. But we're not really "dating". It's complicated.

All this talk about words is starting to make me think that they're the ones tripping us up. Instead of worrying so much about what the right definition is for ourselves, for our relationships, we should just focus on what we're doing. And own up to it. There's a certain amount of denial that defining yourself entails - it's a situation where we don't fully embrace who we are. We try to supplant who we are with words, with caveats, with exceptions to the rule. I guess my big question is this:

What's so wrong with embracing who you are?

I mean, I would define myself as someone who has embraced who he is, but it's complicated.

Stealing from Klosterman 8

Q:

You begin watching a new television series, and you immediately find yourself strongly relating to one of the supporting characters. You've never before experienced a TV character that seems so similar to yourself; this fictional person dresses, behaves and talks exactly like you. And - slowly, over the course of several episodes - the similarity grows spooky; on two separate occasions, the character recounts personal anecdotes that happened in your real life. The actor portraying this character begins mimicking your mannerisms. In at least three different episodes, the character's dialog quotes things that you have said (verbatim) during casual conversation.

You become convinced that this is neither coincidence nor mental illness: somehow, this character is being actively based on your life. The show's writers generally depict the "you" character in a positive manner, but - as far as you can tell - you don't know anyone involved in the show's production or creation. It's totally inexplicable.

You have two friends who also watch this show. One of them is certain that your theory is correct and that (somehow) the character is, in fact, based on your life. She tells you to get a lawyer. The second friend concedes that many of the similarities are amazing, but that the whole notion is ridiculous, impossible, and egocentric. He tells you to see a therapist.

How do you respond to this situation? Do you do anything?

A:

This happens to me on a daily basis actually, and so far, I haven't done anything about it. I'm not sure why there would be any reason to. I know it would be really freaky, and it might even be mildly concerning, but it's not like bodily harm is going to come to me. I'm not sure how I could even get any money out the situation - maybe I'm reading to realistically into this situation, but how would I prove in a court of law that the character had done things or said things exactly as I already had? Against high-priced copyright attorneys? I don't think so.

Now, it would be over the line if they started predicting the future for the character - moved beyond things that I had done and started doing things that I, then, mimicked in real life. Art imitating life is safe. Life imitating art can be dangerous - especially if the character got some terrible, but hilarious, sit-com disease. I would be concerned that those things would happen.

Instead of seeing differences in actions and character, I would see things to come, and the self-fulfilling prophecy would turn me into that character. A subtle turn. Then, the show might sue me. And I'd lose. Big time. Against high-priced attorneys.

Or what if the character had all of my traits, plus one really annoying one? Like a nasty laugh or the refusal to remove shoes when laying on a couch? Are they trying to tell me something? Seriously, you'd tell me if there was something in my teeth, right?

Now I'm paranoid.

Onus

Despite my best intentions, I've become a planner.

I wasn't always this way. Growing up, the day could just as easily been spent on the beach or in the library. Waking up, I never really knew what was in store for me, and I tended to just go with the flow. This was the sort of mentality that you had to have growing up in a beach town. Especially one where the surf report could make or break your afternoon.

Meanwhile, I was steadily being pumped full of potential. I've always thought that if you start out with more than a speck of talent, the people around you will fill you up with the idea of brilliance so fast that you have choice but to become capable. Destined for big things. People start with a small amount of potential, and the rest is artificially implanted.

Along the way, I got an ego. A big one. A particularly dangerous one because it was based on my ability to figure people out quickly. I could read them, know their goals, fears and methods in a short amount of time. I say particularly dangerous because it allowed me the means to manipulate people.

I've looked for a lighter phrase than that. I can't find one.

It seems that just by knowing how to get certain reactions out of people, you instantly become sinister. Even the most well-meaning thing is diluted by the fact that you don't have to wonder whether the person can be persuaded. You know exactly what to say and do to make them jump to your side. Having that knowledge means that you lack a certain innocence about the whole process.

It occurred to me that there's something I haven't heard talked about ever in regards to ethics: living without an agenda.

My adolescent surfer brain loves the idea - no plans, no rules, etc. There's certainly freedom in it. But the harder part of it would be to enter into every relationship with zero expectations. This is something I struggle with, especially with girls, but it's something that I've recently come to admire so strongly that I almost have no other choice but to adhere to it. I'm being naturally drawn to it. I'm reverting back to my teenage self where meeting someone new meant I could either have a new friend or not, and the outcome didn't make me break a sweat. I wasn't caught up in impressing or looking into the future of this person. I was a blank slate ready to be written on, and if the person chose not to pick up the pen, I was no worse off for it.

During college, I was devastated if people didn't pick up the pen. I questioned what was wrong with me, why I wasn't getting affirmation, why life was so terrible and cruel. See, the flip-side to being able to read people is being wrong about them. And it happens enough to shake your confidence. Without expectations, there's nothing to throw you off your game.

Because there is no game.

Your not playing with another person. Instead, you're just standing with them alone in a field tossing the ball around and chatting about how nice the sunset looks. And it's pretty much impossible to be disappointed by a sunset.

It's also much easier to wait for someone to show you what to expect from them than to place the burden on them with a handshake.

The Sextant

I'm willing to admit that I've never been that great at navigating.

For one, I usually write down the directions to a place in the vaguest possible way, using symbols and abbreviating street names. Forget about even jotting down the miles between each turn. It seems so frivolous to me - to know exactly how far down the next street you're looking for is.

And yet without knowing how far you have to go, you're just looking around trying to spot your destination - not really keeping your eyes on the road.

I remember in my third or fourth week in Los Angeles, I wanted to go to Pink's Hot Dogs to try one of their historic, iconic dogs. The place has been open before the invention of agriculture and catered (and still does) to the big stars of the day. Since I was still in tourist mode, I really wanted to soak in LA culture - and this is just another part of it.

So I set out from my place with some poorly written directions and headed out. I hit La Brea just off 3rd and started making my way through traffic north toward Hollywood Blvd. Pink's is a smaller building, sort of hard to see, but their sign is large and memorable. Still, I didn't see it. I had been driving for several blocks and I felt totally lost. I still didn't know the city well, my directions were lousy and it should have been just up ahead on the left. I should have been, I thought, always just on the next block. But it wasn't, and I was starting to get worried that I had gone too far.

It may seem like worry is an odd reaction to not seeing a hot dog stand, but if you've ever driven in LA, you understand that having to turn around or find an alternate way to get to where you're going, especially when you've only been there a month, is like being asked to parallel park a monster truck into a teacup.

The worry spread. It grew and locked in on my whole body until I was convinced that I had passed it - that I had gone too far. The feeling was so real, and I had so convinced myself that it was true, that I made the decision to turn around. I just needed the right street and a little access to pull around and head back down La Brea.

And then I spotted it. Just a block ahead on the left.

This is a really common story in my life. Maybe because I write terrible directions, maybe because it's just human nature, but it seems that at the very moment I give up hope, I find what I'm looking for.

Jolly Old

"If you bring forth what is inside you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is inside you, what you bring forth will destroy you."

Throughout college I groaned whenever people would talk about finding themselves. I remember a particularly aggravating instance in a coffee shop known as Common Grounds, where this guy Jeff told me that he really felt like he was finding out who he was because of college. He really felt this connection to his classes, he was being challenged and he thought that his real personality was shining through finally. He blathered on and on about this for sometime while I feigned interest and wondered why all coffee shops have to be named using a caffeinated play on words.

You may find me unfeeling about this brand of self-revelation, but it's because I just don't buy it. I don't buy the concept that who we are is something decided outside of us. That who we are is some sort of present, offered up on a silver platter for us to either accept or deny. If the real me is deep inside waiting to be found, who is the person that's doing the searching?

Maybe I'm splitting hairs about a cliche - of course what my friend really means is that he's exploring worldly options and figuring out what sort of things attract him the most. He's really finding the world, not finding himself. Jeff was a philosopher major though, so every week he had found a new version of himself - attempting to find the middle path in January and then striving to become an ubermensch in April.

I had another illuminating conversation with a close friend of mine about changing focus in life - the idea that what you find important might not be that important. I suggested he shift his focus a bit if he was unhappy, and responded that he didn't think it was in his nature. As if who he was was an inescapable fact, never to be changed. His nature was a ball and chain, some albatross slung around his neck for him to endure.

The problem is, I can't really prove them wrong.

I suppose it's because it's an uphill battle against what we're naturally inclined to do. A certain way of life is just easier for us to handle, even when it comes with pain and baggage. But should inertia be the only reason we remain the way we are?

The quote I listed above is from a wise man who has been quoted all over the place. I'm not sure why, but this quote concomitantly gives me hope and irritates me. It speaks of an infinite optimism, that if we just look inside ourselves, what we live for will bring us great joy. But the part about what's inside me bothers me. Maybe it speaks to a larger problem I have with religion, a lack of control, the idea that who I am is predetermined. It also seems to mix metaphors - telling me to work against my nature and to seek my true one. To battle uphill to find what comes easiest to me.

Depending on how you believe, the author of the quote is either Jesus Christ or his nephew Thomas pretending that it was Jesus Christ in a futile attempt to be featured in The Bible.

The quote does have a great impact, I think, though. In either case, it's a matter of what we produce that destroys us. It doesn't speak at all about what we bottle up inside. It seems to claim that, no matter what, we cannot help but produce things. They can be a dirty look at someone who we know spoke ill of us, a lack of action when an old lady needs help across the street, a kind word for a friend with a problem, or a phone call home to your mother because you know she misses you. Whether we act or do not, we produce something. We communicate what we're really about. What's inside of us.

I just hope that I have more control of shaping what that is.

Shining Right Above You

Here's the thing: people aren't going to like you.

Most of our lives are going to be spent battling uphill to make sure that people enjoy us or to maintain connections with people that do. For some reason or another, most people I meet have their default set at distrust. Maybe it's because we've all been hurt too many times before or maybe we're afraid of laying ourselves bare for another human. It might even be that a relationship might sound like too much work to endure. But we have to.

Most art in my mind is a process of being embedded with other people and retreating to collect your thoughts on it all. There's a long list of artists who have said this in much clearer or more poetic ways. I think that it rings true with artists because they are so in tune with judging society. It's their job to reflect what's going on, and in order to do that, one must keep one's eyes open at all times.

Sometimes I find myself thinking in plot lines and dialog.

One thing I struggle with is being on the wrong side of it, though. Apologizing has never been my strong suit, but then again, who is really good at it? As you can probably tell, I screwed up recently, which is why the idea of being out of favor is on my mind. But it's led me to an even greater question about friendship.

How many fights have you had with your friends? I can only remember a few. It speaks to the even flow of my relationships with certain people. We seem to get along without effort. I'm not sure what that says about them. After all, we're supposed to define ourselves by struggle. Don't we grow in our relationships after a fight? Isn't reconciliation a sign of maturity? And in order to have that, you have to have something to reconcile.

The greater question on my mind now is how deep that struggle should be.

The first night I met my friend James, he and I clicked instantly. We've been that way ever since. I honestly can't remember a real fight we've had. I can't remember a single time that one of us slighted the other. Our friendship has been effortless. We've driven to see each other, kept in phone conversations, and I've bothered him while he's in law school classes, but it's never been what I consider work to remain his friend.

The summer after junior year of college, I was sitting on the beach having my first fight ever with my best friend Anand. We were in Corpus during a break, seeing each other for the first time in semesters and decided to watch Closer. We saw the movie with different eyes, but it wasn't that we disagreed with each other that mattered. It was how we spoke to each other. We didn't give each other any room to breathe, any leverage in the argument. We cooled off and decided to drive to the beach with some beer and cigarettes - a perfect remedy.

Only, we didn't really talk until the fight started. That tension that rests between two people was keeping our tongues hostage. I don't remember anything about the fight itself, except afterward I was worried that we weren't friends anymore. It seems childish now (we never really lose that childish view of getting friends) but we'd never fought before. I wanted to know what it meant. I wanted to know if we'd changed irrevocably. I wanted to feel like we were perfect again, but I knew that we'd crossed a certain threshold and couldn't go back.

He took a drag and said calmly, "No, we'll be alright."

There was something in the reassurance of his voice. He was so confident that it didn't matter. We had grown in different directions, but he knew, somehow, that things were going to be fine. I imagine he'd seen the future of us playing checkers on a porch in our late 120s, he spoke so plainly.

And I believed him.

I bring all this up not to be auto-biographical, but because I think they are all common moments to us, to friends. Some friendships are easy, some are hard. Nothing groundbreaking there.

But when do you know when to give up? When is it just too much work to earn the privilege of calling yourself 'friend'?