Saturday, November 24, 2007
Everything
I want a world where everyone can voice his honest, raw opinion -- can create -- without being forced into submission. And, it would be nice to abolish the notion that murder and force are valid dialogs. That's all I want. That's the only thing I want. There, I said it.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Hard rain
"A hard rain's gonna fall means: something's gonna happen."
"Hard Rain is a desperate kind of song. ... Every line in it is actually the start of a whole song. But when I wrote it, I thought I wouldn't have enough time alive to write all those songs so I put all I could into this one." -- Bob Dylan.
It was written during the Cuban missile crisis of October 1962. Bob was 21.
I see it as a traveling song, a song of weathered youth on the cusp of action, a reminder that what we reap is what we sow and what happens next is up to you and I. If I had to pick a favorite song, this is it.
Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it,
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin',
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin',
I saw a white ladder all covered with water,
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin',
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin',
Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
"Hard Rain is a desperate kind of song. ... Every line in it is actually the start of a whole song. But when I wrote it, I thought I wouldn't have enough time alive to write all those songs so I put all I could into this one." -- Bob Dylan.
It was written during the Cuban missile crisis of October 1962. Bob was 21.
I see it as a traveling song, a song of weathered youth on the cusp of action, a reminder that what we reap is what we sow and what happens next is up to you and I. If I had to pick a favorite song, this is it.
Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it,
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin',
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin',
I saw a white ladder all covered with water,
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin',
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin',
Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Background noise
I feel as if I've written this one hundred times. I am at unease. I haven't laughed in weeks. I check my email; the universe gives me nothing new. Distract me, I say; keep me from answering these questions. There is silence, and there is no answer, that is what we know. This is revolting, and yet we are all here, alive. Show me inspiration, show me honesty, show me progress. Where is it? What do you see? Give me the answer, I'm done trying to figure it out. There is no answer, we say.
I can't think on Wednesdays. It's my favorite day; on the floor, there's only room for smiling, for small bouts of courage, and for saying yes, at least we're still here, tonight. I always come home. No messages. No answer.
I write by incandescent light. I wait. Challenge me. No, not that much. Entice me. Oh. Fine. Let's talk about the game again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Again, I wait. Where do we want to go? We're on the sea; at least the sun is out. You don't need your book, you know how it goes, you've read it before.
No messages. Tell me a joke that involves the president, our leader, our beacon, our representative, our selves. At what point do we give up. This isn't our country. These aren't our lives. Some day we'll learn. Some day I'll learn. Some day I'll be honest. I'll write. I'll share. Some day. Eight hours at work. Eight hours of a life. Not my life, I say. What a lie, what an easy path. Yet, I wait.
I can't think on Wednesdays. It's my favorite day; on the floor, there's only room for smiling, for small bouts of courage, and for saying yes, at least we're still here, tonight. I always come home. No messages. No answer.
I write by incandescent light. I wait. Challenge me. No, not that much. Entice me. Oh. Fine. Let's talk about the game again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Again, I wait. Where do we want to go? We're on the sea; at least the sun is out. You don't need your book, you know how it goes, you've read it before.
No messages. Tell me a joke that involves the president, our leader, our beacon, our representative, our selves. At what point do we give up. This isn't our country. These aren't our lives. Some day we'll learn. Some day I'll learn. Some day I'll be honest. I'll write. I'll share. Some day. Eight hours at work. Eight hours of a life. Not my life, I say. What a lie, what an easy path. Yet, I wait.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Unfinished.
Everything I write here has been said before. Even that. Even that. Imagine our plight 2,000 years from now; not only will everything have been written, but it will have been written eight times over; it will be searchable, hyper-linked to the others, and tagged by thousands of strangers with meanings you never intended. Let’s take a moment to be thankful for the arcane times we live in.
Now is when we can pretend to be unique from time to time, as we hide our flashes of brilliance from the world for fear of being too honest, too insane, as we balance upon the dull edge of what we call the brink, as the gods note the standard refrain. Now.
Now is when we can pretend to be unique from time to time, as we hide our flashes of brilliance from the world for fear of being too honest, too insane, as we balance upon the dull edge of what we call the brink, as the gods note the standard refrain. Now.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Anxiety
Encircled by a mix of good friends and strangers, I'm alone, standing in the middle of the room. The lights are warm; music is blasting, smiles all around, hands are clapping, "dance!" is shouted into the air. I'm supposed to be dancing, and everyone is watching to see what I'll do. My palms begin to sweat, my back slowly follows in suit; my pulse quickens and my throat tightens; I look down, flushed and embarrassed, and walk outside. "I can't dance."
That's never happened; but, seven months ago, it was my largest social fear. I wasn't someone who was meant to dance, I would tell myself. "Just do what comes natural," friends would say; standing around seemed natural to me, or simply bobbing my head -- perhaps groping a nearby companion would come to mind, but that's not polite, and so I refrained.
I used to dance all the time. I remember it well: I was five or maybe four or three. Couches created for the sole purpose of jumping upon were mine; Chicago was the band of the hour, sharing time with the Fame soundtrack; jumping, spinning, closed eyes, smiling. Stop. Switch. Embarrassment begins, expression ends. What if someone sees me? How horrifying. I'll sit for a while. Prom comes and goes; no, not for me.
There are some things people don't teach us early enough in life; but, to be fair to our elders and our peers, perhaps we're all still searching. After all, with the possibilities of the world before us, why else would we instruct our children to kill -- because we have it all figured out? Perhaps not.
In light of this, I propose an incomplete set of rules for life:
I like to watch it; it oscillates sometimes, or moves by chance. Without the force field, the fear would fall and shatter like a glass ball dropped from 327 feet, cutting into me, into me, forcing me to sit. Sometimes I hold it with both hands, shaking it like a snow globe to see what it will do. It spins and sways, gurgles, bubbles. I put it in my pocket, and it's light. It's mine.
After a short tango on Wednesday, I was told that I was becoming quite a good dancer. I said thank you. Another said she loves dancing with me. Hil-arious. Not that I disagree; in fact I love dancing with her, too; it's a riot, and we know it.
I started to swing in late June, out of obligation to my self; I wasn't going to die without having danced, first. A wedding in September -- surely an opportunity to dance -- merely provided the excuse to go through with it.
I had no idea what I was doing, but that's part of the point. You're with someone, on the floor, and that's all there is. You can't mess up; just have fun. Just dance.
That's never happened; but, seven months ago, it was my largest social fear. I wasn't someone who was meant to dance, I would tell myself. "Just do what comes natural," friends would say; standing around seemed natural to me, or simply bobbing my head -- perhaps groping a nearby companion would come to mind, but that's not polite, and so I refrained.
I used to dance all the time. I remember it well: I was five or maybe four or three. Couches created for the sole purpose of jumping upon were mine; Chicago was the band of the hour, sharing time with the Fame soundtrack; jumping, spinning, closed eyes, smiling. Stop. Switch. Embarrassment begins, expression ends. What if someone sees me? How horrifying. I'll sit for a while. Prom comes and goes; no, not for me.
There are some things people don't teach us early enough in life; but, to be fair to our elders and our peers, perhaps we're all still searching. After all, with the possibilities of the world before us, why else would we instruct our children to kill -- because we have it all figured out? Perhaps not.
In light of this, I propose an incomplete set of rules for life:
- Rules are for those who don't know what they're doing.
- If you have no fear then you're not a human being.
- There is a short list of things that matter. What happens on a dance floor isn't one of them.
- No one knows what one's doing.
- Expression is a duty, not a right.
- Don't worry about combining rules 1 and 4; just go with it.
I like to watch it; it oscillates sometimes, or moves by chance. Without the force field, the fear would fall and shatter like a glass ball dropped from 327 feet, cutting into me, into me, forcing me to sit. Sometimes I hold it with both hands, shaking it like a snow globe to see what it will do. It spins and sways, gurgles, bubbles. I put it in my pocket, and it's light. It's mine.
After a short tango on Wednesday, I was told that I was becoming quite a good dancer. I said thank you. Another said she loves dancing with me. Hil-arious. Not that I disagree; in fact I love dancing with her, too; it's a riot, and we know it.
I started to swing in late June, out of obligation to my self; I wasn't going to die without having danced, first. A wedding in September -- surely an opportunity to dance -- merely provided the excuse to go through with it.
I had no idea what I was doing, but that's part of the point. You're with someone, on the floor, and that's all there is. You can't mess up; just have fun. Just dance.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Energy
I'm teeming with potential at this moment. What do you want to do? Where do you want to go? Let's do it. Let's go. Let's fucking do something amazing and worthwhile, climbing out of this mud that we've been stuck in for years. These thoughts are fleeting, I know, but now they have a sense of permanence. I wish I could scream and all my passion would be conveyed -- a futile effort, likely.
We've given up everything, as if we held something at all. We're in China. Now what. The emptiness is there, the excitement of the moment gone, as we long nostalgically for yesterday, for what we felt in that moment. Daydreaming, we begin to sink again. There's a certain excitement about being homeless -- the feeling of being more alive; at least for a week. A warm bed is all we want, we say, to be happy, to keep us from the rain, hail, wind and loneliness. What better is it compared to what we have -- our passion and our courage, our lives.
Still, I am restless. If I think hard enough, there will be peace in the form of full-on, overwhelming life. As if this isn't life. As if there is something more real inside of me, trying (not very hard) to escape and exist. I hold on to the familiar, to my home, to my work, for no-more stronger a reason than why I like orange juice -- perhaps for a weaker reason.
Remember when we went to China? Wasn't it perfect?
The end of the world is near. It always is. Such are the times we live in, the same as our friends of the past have contemplated, have shared with their old friends. It's our turn to share what they've thought, through our mouths. Perhaps I love you. Perhaps it doesn't matter. Perhaps we're all that is beautiful in this world and poets of the future and poets of the past will write of us while clutching their hearts, cursing their useless pens.
Let's just keep singing.
We've given up everything, as if we held something at all. We're in China. Now what. The emptiness is there, the excitement of the moment gone, as we long nostalgically for yesterday, for what we felt in that moment. Daydreaming, we begin to sink again. There's a certain excitement about being homeless -- the feeling of being more alive; at least for a week. A warm bed is all we want, we say, to be happy, to keep us from the rain, hail, wind and loneliness. What better is it compared to what we have -- our passion and our courage, our lives.
Still, I am restless. If I think hard enough, there will be peace in the form of full-on, overwhelming life. As if this isn't life. As if there is something more real inside of me, trying (not very hard) to escape and exist. I hold on to the familiar, to my home, to my work, for no-more stronger a reason than why I like orange juice -- perhaps for a weaker reason.
Remember when we went to China? Wasn't it perfect?
The end of the world is near. It always is. Such are the times we live in, the same as our friends of the past have contemplated, have shared with their old friends. It's our turn to share what they've thought, through our mouths. Perhaps I love you. Perhaps it doesn't matter. Perhaps we're all that is beautiful in this world and poets of the future and poets of the past will write of us while clutching their hearts, cursing their useless pens.
Let's just keep singing.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Transparency
I believe the kindest thing you can do for a human being is to be honest with him. Be honest, be transparent and share your opinion. In my experience, people usually take honesty well -- they can handle it, despite my reservations. When I withhold honesty, it's because I don't trust my audience's judgment.
To paraphrase Camus, every dishonest act, every misleading or false opinion, over time, leads to death; in order to minimize the cruelty of this world, to refuse adding to the sum of all evil things, it is our duty to be honest.
I can write those words, and in most cases I believe in them. However, there are many times when I refuse to offer the truth, despite my conscious efforts to expose the truth. Ironically, this refusal occurs in my most-treasured relationships -- or, rather, in my relationships that are on the cusp between treasured and congenial. The word for that is cowardly, and today I am a coward.
In all cases, or if not all then most, once I open my mouth to speak, I am no longer a coward, before I even articulate my intent. In my view, this simple act of deciding to speak is the widest chasm to cross. It is also the most noble, the most courageous, and the most reasonable act. Although, I write this without justifiable reason; I take Camus' word for it -- a crime of philosophy, perhaps, but a practical starting point; Camus spent untold days grappling with such views, and it will take me untold more to form a basis upon which I can stand with my own novel (should I be so fortunate!) viewpoint.
I am committing such a non-transparent act in this mere blog entry. I am not mentioning a specific instance where I've been too cowardly to speak my mind. On the other hand, it is not my position to broadcast a person's name over the Internet (or upon whatever medium this is published in the future (ha!)). This blog is my own, and it is my public forum for associating thoughts with my name, but others' thoughts are their own, and they can decide whether they want to claim them by name. I am comfortable should you, dear reader, choose to broadcast my name in any honest fashion.
So, is there a limit to transparency? I'm forced to say yes, as evidenced by what I said above. However, this will eventually lead to death, apparently -- I don't see how. I can say for myself that I choose openness, that what encapsulates my thoughts is transparent, and that the curious need only to inquire. But, I believe everyone must make a similar choice for himself, and to choose openness for another human being is a way of force that I cannot justify (as force can so very rarely be justified).
But, when I am asked for my opinion, you will receive it, in kind. To sugarcoat it or make it politically correct is only to disrespect. At the same time, vulgarity and sarcasm are not the same as honesty; to be honest one must articulate unambiguously (which may involve ambiguity), and this takes many iterations and concentrated work. Because of this inherent difficulty, I hold it to be the greatest compliment one can give.
To paraphrase Camus, every dishonest act, every misleading or false opinion, over time, leads to death; in order to minimize the cruelty of this world, to refuse adding to the sum of all evil things, it is our duty to be honest.
I can write those words, and in most cases I believe in them. However, there are many times when I refuse to offer the truth, despite my conscious efforts to expose the truth. Ironically, this refusal occurs in my most-treasured relationships -- or, rather, in my relationships that are on the cusp between treasured and congenial. The word for that is cowardly, and today I am a coward.
In all cases, or if not all then most, once I open my mouth to speak, I am no longer a coward, before I even articulate my intent. In my view, this simple act of deciding to speak is the widest chasm to cross. It is also the most noble, the most courageous, and the most reasonable act. Although, I write this without justifiable reason; I take Camus' word for it -- a crime of philosophy, perhaps, but a practical starting point; Camus spent untold days grappling with such views, and it will take me untold more to form a basis upon which I can stand with my own novel (should I be so fortunate!) viewpoint.
I am committing such a non-transparent act in this mere blog entry. I am not mentioning a specific instance where I've been too cowardly to speak my mind. On the other hand, it is not my position to broadcast a person's name over the Internet (or upon whatever medium this is published in the future (ha!)). This blog is my own, and it is my public forum for associating thoughts with my name, but others' thoughts are their own, and they can decide whether they want to claim them by name. I am comfortable should you, dear reader, choose to broadcast my name in any honest fashion.
So, is there a limit to transparency? I'm forced to say yes, as evidenced by what I said above. However, this will eventually lead to death, apparently -- I don't see how. I can say for myself that I choose openness, that what encapsulates my thoughts is transparent, and that the curious need only to inquire. But, I believe everyone must make a similar choice for himself, and to choose openness for another human being is a way of force that I cannot justify (as force can so very rarely be justified).
But, when I am asked for my opinion, you will receive it, in kind. To sugarcoat it or make it politically correct is only to disrespect. At the same time, vulgarity and sarcasm are not the same as honesty; to be honest one must articulate unambiguously (which may involve ambiguity), and this takes many iterations and concentrated work. Because of this inherent difficulty, I hold it to be the greatest compliment one can give.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Can't think of a title
Creativity. "I am not creative." I'm not sure where that came from. I can recall as far back as first and second grade, regarding creativity.
In first grade, we had an assignment to make a drawing depicting what would happen if our heart were broken -- or what would cause our heart to be broken. I forget the occasion, but in the end we taped them up on our lockers, facing the known world. I told myself I knew well what the teacher had in mind -- we were supposed to conjure sketches of lost puppies, sick family members, and the like. I was uninspired by the assignment, so I took the question literally and stated, "If my heart were broken, I would be dead," and colored a picture of a cemetery -- I had seen a national cemetery from the Civil War on television, with its straight rows of crosses and stars of David, and that's what I drew.
In second grade, we were tasked with crafting a short story. It was to be at least a hand-written, grammar-school-lined page -- maybe more -- which was really long at the time. It could be on anything of our choosing. But, "I wasn't creative," so I said I couldn't come up with anything. After some prodding, I eventually wrote about some tigers and a waterfall, I believe, and, as a seven-year-old, considered the story trite and uninspiring. I probably got an A, which is usually what happened when I did anything in elementary school.
This pattern has continued through to the present day, and I think it is a manifestation of "I'm not good enough," my companion. What is creativity if not expression of opinion? It's saying, "this is where I stand, and this is how I'm expressing that stance." Creativity just happens as we exist. I have a history of believing my opinion has little -- if any -- worth. And as my position changes, as expression of opinion becomes a duty, creativity becomes possible -- or, more accurately, I recognize that creativity has always been there. When we are honest with ourselves, and when we share that without reservation or regret, we create works (and relationships) that perhaps remind us, with a greater clarity, why we love to live in the first place.
In first grade, we had an assignment to make a drawing depicting what would happen if our heart were broken -- or what would cause our heart to be broken. I forget the occasion, but in the end we taped them up on our lockers, facing the known world. I told myself I knew well what the teacher had in mind -- we were supposed to conjure sketches of lost puppies, sick family members, and the like. I was uninspired by the assignment, so I took the question literally and stated, "If my heart were broken, I would be dead," and colored a picture of a cemetery -- I had seen a national cemetery from the Civil War on television, with its straight rows of crosses and stars of David, and that's what I drew.
In second grade, we were tasked with crafting a short story. It was to be at least a hand-written, grammar-school-lined page -- maybe more -- which was really long at the time. It could be on anything of our choosing. But, "I wasn't creative," so I said I couldn't come up with anything. After some prodding, I eventually wrote about some tigers and a waterfall, I believe, and, as a seven-year-old, considered the story trite and uninspiring. I probably got an A, which is usually what happened when I did anything in elementary school.
This pattern has continued through to the present day, and I think it is a manifestation of "I'm not good enough," my companion. What is creativity if not expression of opinion? It's saying, "this is where I stand, and this is how I'm expressing that stance." Creativity just happens as we exist. I have a history of believing my opinion has little -- if any -- worth. And as my position changes, as expression of opinion becomes a duty, creativity becomes possible -- or, more accurately, I recognize that creativity has always been there. When we are honest with ourselves, and when we share that without reservation or regret, we create works (and relationships) that perhaps remind us, with a greater clarity, why we love to live in the first place.
Friday, July 13, 2007
An introduction
A friend of mine once wrote, "No great work has ever been based on hatred or contempt. On the contrary, there is not a single true work of art that has not in the end added to the inner freedom of each person who has known and loved it. Yes, that is the freedom I am extolling, and it is what helps me through life. An artist may make a success or a failure of his work. He may make a success or a failure of his life. But if he can tell himself that, finally, as a result of his long effort, he has eased or decreased the various forms of bondage weighing upon men, then in a sense he is justified and, to some extent, he can forgive himself."
I'll be the first to note I have little experience with the harshness of this world. I've never walked the streets in poverty, gone hungry for a day, hid from the State, nor been forced to fight for my own survival. It has been a privilege to be in the position to share my thoughts.
On the other hand, I have about 24 years of experience with what I would describe as the mental anguish of being human -- something I believe we all have in common. Recently, I've stumbled upon a few things which have, in some ways, cut my angst deeper than usual.
First, let me say that I'm not sure of anything -- my arguments in general are weak, without substantial backing aside from my intellect, experience and feel on how things are going -- which in themselves are not very substantial; however, I think I'm intelligent, and that is good enough for me at this time.
I've been reading a lot of writings by Albert Camus, lately. Since late April, I've read The Rebel in its entirety, most of Resistance, Rebellion, and Death, and his essay, The Myth of Sisyphus. I had my reasons for being propelled into these works, and I'll get into that later.
For those who consider the contradictions of this world – for instance, that man strives for justice while acting with bountiful injustice; or, that we exalt freedom and liberty while building up the State, promoting methods of torture, fear and lies – I highly recommend his work. It resonates with who I am as a human being, and helps me articulate – at least mentally – a reasonable view of this world and an approach to living in its contradiction.
If societal life is a continuous fight for plain language, honesty and creation – which I believe it to be, then you've just read my introduction.
I'll be the first to note I have little experience with the harshness of this world. I've never walked the streets in poverty, gone hungry for a day, hid from the State, nor been forced to fight for my own survival. It has been a privilege to be in the position to share my thoughts.
On the other hand, I have about 24 years of experience with what I would describe as the mental anguish of being human -- something I believe we all have in common. Recently, I've stumbled upon a few things which have, in some ways, cut my angst deeper than usual.
First, let me say that I'm not sure of anything -- my arguments in general are weak, without substantial backing aside from my intellect, experience and feel on how things are going -- which in themselves are not very substantial; however, I think I'm intelligent, and that is good enough for me at this time.
I've been reading a lot of writings by Albert Camus, lately. Since late April, I've read The Rebel in its entirety, most of Resistance, Rebellion, and Death, and his essay, The Myth of Sisyphus. I had my reasons for being propelled into these works, and I'll get into that later.
For those who consider the contradictions of this world – for instance, that man strives for justice while acting with bountiful injustice; or, that we exalt freedom and liberty while building up the State, promoting methods of torture, fear and lies – I highly recommend his work. It resonates with who I am as a human being, and helps me articulate – at least mentally – a reasonable view of this world and an approach to living in its contradiction.
If societal life is a continuous fight for plain language, honesty and creation – which I believe it to be, then you've just read my introduction.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Honesty and integrity
Today we look at the work 'agreement' I signed about 18 months ago with Artech Information Systems LLC, which I find to be deserving of contempt and scorn. Concisely, I see it as an attack on human dignity.
7. Exclusivity. During the term of this Agreement, Employee will devote his/her full-time to providing services exclusively as directed by Employer and shall not perform services for others.
8. Non-Performance of Services and Non-recruitment. During the term of this Agreement and for 18 months after the end of the employment relationship (whether Employer or Employee initiated the termination), Employee agrees that he/she shall not in any individual or representative capacity (e.g. as a principal, employer, stockholder, partner, agent, consultant, independent contractor, or employee): (a) directly or indirectly provide, solicit or advise another of the opportunity to provide, any services to a client where Employe previously provided services to the client on behalf of the Employer or was otherwise introduced through Employer; or (b) directly or indirectly, retain or solicit for Employee or for another party, the services of any of the Employer's employees or others introduced through the Employer. For purposes of this paragraph, "introduced through Employer" means where a client, employee, contractor, other individual came to the attention of Employee in any manner through Employer, "Client" includes any affiliates, customers or clients of the Client.
16. Breach. In the event of the Employee's breach of paragraphs 7, 8, 12, 13, or 14, Employee acknowledges and agrees that Employer will suffer irreparable harm and money damages would be an inadequate remedy, entitling Employer to seek injunctive relief. Employer's right to seek injunctive relief is without waiver or limitation to any other remedies Employer has at law or in equity.
17. Arbitation [sic]. Except for monetary claims of $5,000.00 or less, Employee explicitly agrees that any dispute in any manner related to Employee's employment with ARTECH, which the parties are unable to resolve through direct discussion, regardless of the kind or type of dispute (excluding claims for unemployment insurance, worker's compensation, or any matter within the jurisdiction of the Labor Commissioner), shall be exclusively subject to final and binding arbitration pursuant to the provisions of New Jersey Permanent Statutes section 2A:24-1, et seq. Employee agrees to submit all such disputes in writing, specifically requesting arbitration, to ARTECH within one year of termination of Employee's employment with ARTECH. Any failure to so request arbitration in a timely manner shall constitute a waiver of all rights to raise any claims, in any forum, arising out of any dispute that was subject to arbitration. The limitation period set forth in this paragraph shall not be subject to tolling, equitable or otherwise. Subch arbitration shall be held in Morristown, New Jersey.
EMPLOYEE AGREES AND UNDERSTAND [sic] THAT BY AGREEING TO THIS BINDING ARBITRATION PROVISION, EMPLOYEE VOLUNTARY [sic] SURRENDER THEIR RIGHTS TO CIVIL LITIGATION, A TRIAL BY JURY AND ANY ASSOCIATED RIGHTS OF APPEAL.
17. Other Provisions. This Agreement and any attached exhibits, represent the entire agreement of the parties and supersedes and terminates all prior agreements. Any modification of this Agreement must be in writing and signed by both parties. No waiver of any provision of this Agreement shall be effective unless it is in writing and signed by the waiving party; a waiver on any one occasion shall not be effective as a waiver on future occasions. This Agreement shall inure to the benefit of and shall be binding on the parties, the successors and assigns of Employer and the heirs and personal representatives of Employee. Employee may not assign his rights or obligations under this Agreement. Paragraphs 8, 12, and 14 shall survive termination. If any provision of this Agreement is determined to be unenforceable in whole or in part, all remaining provisions shall be given full effect to the extent possible without the unenforceable provision. This Agreement shall be governed by the laws of the State of New Jersey without regard to choice of law principles.
7. Exclusivity. During the term of this Agreement, Employee will devote his/her full-time to providing services exclusively as directed by Employer and shall not perform services for others.
8. Non-Performance of Services and Non-recruitment. During the term of this Agreement and for 18 months after the end of the employment relationship (whether Employer or Employee initiated the termination), Employee agrees that he/she shall not in any individual or representative capacity (e.g. as a principal, employer, stockholder, partner, agent, consultant, independent contractor, or employee): (a) directly or indirectly provide, solicit or advise another of the opportunity to provide, any services to a client where Employe previously provided services to the client on behalf of the Employer or was otherwise introduced through Employer; or (b) directly or indirectly, retain or solicit for Employee or for another party, the services of any of the Employer's employees or others introduced through the Employer. For purposes of this paragraph, "introduced through Employer" means where a client, employee, contractor, other individual came to the attention of Employee in any manner through Employer, "Client" includes any affiliates, customers or clients of the Client.
16. Breach. In the event of the Employee's breach of paragraphs 7, 8, 12, 13, or 14, Employee acknowledges and agrees that Employer will suffer irreparable harm and money damages would be an inadequate remedy, entitling Employer to seek injunctive relief. Employer's right to seek injunctive relief is without waiver or limitation to any other remedies Employer has at law or in equity.
17. Arbitation [sic]. Except for monetary claims of $5,000.00 or less, Employee explicitly agrees that any dispute in any manner related to Employee's employment with ARTECH, which the parties are unable to resolve through direct discussion, regardless of the kind or type of dispute (excluding claims for unemployment insurance, worker's compensation, or any matter within the jurisdiction of the Labor Commissioner), shall be exclusively subject to final and binding arbitration pursuant to the provisions of New Jersey Permanent Statutes section 2A:24-1, et seq. Employee agrees to submit all such disputes in writing, specifically requesting arbitration, to ARTECH within one year of termination of Employee's employment with ARTECH. Any failure to so request arbitration in a timely manner shall constitute a waiver of all rights to raise any claims, in any forum, arising out of any dispute that was subject to arbitration. The limitation period set forth in this paragraph shall not be subject to tolling, equitable or otherwise. Subch arbitration shall be held in Morristown, New Jersey.
EMPLOYEE AGREES AND UNDERSTAND [sic] THAT BY AGREEING TO THIS BINDING ARBITRATION PROVISION, EMPLOYEE VOLUNTARY [sic] SURRENDER THEIR RIGHTS TO CIVIL LITIGATION, A TRIAL BY JURY AND ANY ASSOCIATED RIGHTS OF APPEAL.
17. Other Provisions. This Agreement and any attached exhibits, represent the entire agreement of the parties and supersedes and terminates all prior agreements. Any modification of this Agreement must be in writing and signed by both parties. No waiver of any provision of this Agreement shall be effective unless it is in writing and signed by the waiving party; a waiver on any one occasion shall not be effective as a waiver on future occasions. This Agreement shall inure to the benefit of and shall be binding on the parties, the successors and assigns of Employer and the heirs and personal representatives of Employee. Employee may not assign his rights or obligations under this Agreement. Paragraphs 8, 12, and 14 shall survive termination. If any provision of this Agreement is determined to be unenforceable in whole or in part, all remaining provisions shall be given full effect to the extent possible without the unenforceable provision. This Agreement shall be governed by the laws of the State of New Jersey without regard to choice of law principles.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Semantics and syntax
"I'm not good enough." I'm going to explore what that means to me, today.
As long as I can recall, I've imposed limits on my actions which led to me refusing to pursue what I would consider to be worthwhile relationships.
Now, of course, as a person, I have to impose limits -- it's what we as people do to deal with the world; for instance, we can't fully describe the room we're in -- it would take an infinite amount of words to convey every last detail, down to the atoms and quarks and what they're doing. We're always imposing a limit on reality as we express it in thought. For me, the idea is to trace a frame around a part of reality, make it my own, and that is creation -- and within that creation is virtue and beauty. So, what does that have to do with anything?
Once we recognize that, we can recognize that we make the limits -- or, at least, acknowledge that there are indeed limits, that reality -- the world -- is larger than the limitations we place upon it, and that our perceptions through thought, while based in reality, do not express reality itself. I don't think that we can choose all of the limits; but, we can recognize that language is a limit, and we can choose some limits once we're aware that we have a choice.
What does this mean? Nothing, really. The world is still sitting silently as we struggle over semantics, freedom and justice. But is useful, I suppose, in approaching truth, which seems like a fun thing to do. Then again, my idea of fun is an intense, revolting, intellectual struggle for finding a resolution for the contradictions of history and man's condition. Today, anyway.
So here I am. And I seriously give a shit if a gorgeous, sharp woman would prefer to do something besides be enamored in my presence. Actually, what I tell myself, is that that will never happen -- that's "not for me." And I've been doing that since at least first grade, when I couldn't look into Cheryl's eyes, or talk to her, even, especially after I found out I liked her coloring style (with crayons), which I would go on to emulate for a few years. Obviously, I love it -- I've only been doing it for about 20 years. I'm doing it right now with at least two women, despite recognizing all of this mumbo jumbo, and I refuse to give it up.
My life is not in danger. I'm still alive, but in a reinforcing circle of "I'm not good enough." I get something out of the "sad story" -- aww, poor me. It's not just with women with whom I refuse to talk.
It's with everything: not being a 'safety' in 4th grade; not getting a 'best student award' in 5th grade; not good enough at baseball; 3rd-string basketball in middle school; only JV soccer in 10th grade; not being an eagle scout; not getting into National Honor Society; being voted 'most shy' in my senior class; not getting into MIT; not having enough money to go to Cornell; not getting a full scholarship at UB; not smart enough to write essays, voice my opinion, or be an articulate, outspoken leader; getting kicked out of the honors program at the university; friends I admired cutting ties against my wishes; not getting a job offer from Microsoft; my ex-girlfriend; more friends cutting ties. Clearly, "I'm not good enough."
"I'll show them: I'm awesome; I'll be rich." Who gives a shit? Becoming a millionaire in America as a software engineer is easy, anyway. Billionaire? Ok, that's harder, but why bother? Say you have a billion dollars -- what the hell for. I only need about $12,000 / year to live. Do I really need to be more "free" than that? As if we're free under the State in the first place. What will I have created? And why is creation and production so important?
So, we have a give and take between justice and freedom. If you are completely free, you have the ability to do things that aren't just -- like, kill people; if you are completely just in every aspect, you have no real choice; either extreme isn't very attractive to me. So, pick your place on the line. Moderation is the answer, apparently, according to Camus.
I'm not good enough to figure all this out right now. "How's that going for you?" I'm hungry. Time for breakfast. I've never been better.
As long as I can recall, I've imposed limits on my actions which led to me refusing to pursue what I would consider to be worthwhile relationships.
Now, of course, as a person, I have to impose limits -- it's what we as people do to deal with the world; for instance, we can't fully describe the room we're in -- it would take an infinite amount of words to convey every last detail, down to the atoms and quarks and what they're doing. We're always imposing a limit on reality as we express it in thought. For me, the idea is to trace a frame around a part of reality, make it my own, and that is creation -- and within that creation is virtue and beauty. So, what does that have to do with anything?
Once we recognize that, we can recognize that we make the limits -- or, at least, acknowledge that there are indeed limits, that reality -- the world -- is larger than the limitations we place upon it, and that our perceptions through thought, while based in reality, do not express reality itself. I don't think that we can choose all of the limits; but, we can recognize that language is a limit, and we can choose some limits once we're aware that we have a choice.
What does this mean? Nothing, really. The world is still sitting silently as we struggle over semantics, freedom and justice. But is useful, I suppose, in approaching truth, which seems like a fun thing to do. Then again, my idea of fun is an intense, revolting, intellectual struggle for finding a resolution for the contradictions of history and man's condition. Today, anyway.
So here I am. And I seriously give a shit if a gorgeous, sharp woman would prefer to do something besides be enamored in my presence. Actually, what I tell myself, is that that will never happen -- that's "not for me." And I've been doing that since at least first grade, when I couldn't look into Cheryl's eyes, or talk to her, even, especially after I found out I liked her coloring style (with crayons), which I would go on to emulate for a few years. Obviously, I love it -- I've only been doing it for about 20 years. I'm doing it right now with at least two women, despite recognizing all of this mumbo jumbo, and I refuse to give it up.
My life is not in danger. I'm still alive, but in a reinforcing circle of "I'm not good enough." I get something out of the "sad story" -- aww, poor me. It's not just with women with whom I refuse to talk.
It's with everything: not being a 'safety' in 4th grade; not getting a 'best student award' in 5th grade; not good enough at baseball; 3rd-string basketball in middle school; only JV soccer in 10th grade; not being an eagle scout; not getting into National Honor Society; being voted 'most shy' in my senior class; not getting into MIT; not having enough money to go to Cornell; not getting a full scholarship at UB; not smart enough to write essays, voice my opinion, or be an articulate, outspoken leader; getting kicked out of the honors program at the university; friends I admired cutting ties against my wishes; not getting a job offer from Microsoft; my ex-girlfriend; more friends cutting ties. Clearly, "I'm not good enough."
"I'll show them: I'm awesome; I'll be rich." Who gives a shit? Becoming a millionaire in America as a software engineer is easy, anyway. Billionaire? Ok, that's harder, but why bother? Say you have a billion dollars -- what the hell for. I only need about $12,000 / year to live. Do I really need to be more "free" than that? As if we're free under the State in the first place. What will I have created? And why is creation and production so important?
So, we have a give and take between justice and freedom. If you are completely free, you have the ability to do things that aren't just -- like, kill people; if you are completely just in every aspect, you have no real choice; either extreme isn't very attractive to me. So, pick your place on the line. Moderation is the answer, apparently, according to Camus.
I'm not good enough to figure all this out right now. "How's that going for you?" I'm hungry. Time for breakfast. I've never been better.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Before I move to Zurich
A great person once wrote, "If we just share all the precious, bottled up passions inside us that we all hold so close, too scared to reveal and expose to the light, for fear of what-have-you, then people will say, 'You know, that's exactly how I feel,' and things will be good."
I thought, "There's some truth to that," and I started writing. So, here's what's on my mind, today:
I think diamonds and cars are a waste of money. I think people take sex and pornography far, far too seriously.
I think if you cook half your meals, refrain from purchasing any food in a bag or box, and buy local first and organic second, you'll live a lot better. I think it's a good idea to exercise eight hours per week.
I think people can and should use the Internet and computer software to organize socially and politically for change. I think most people think they are too busy to do anything about important issues, such as race, gender, pollution and education; I think most people lie to themselves every day and fall for it. I think 10% of the world finishes what they set out to do; those 10% are in charge.
I think Libertarian politics should be applied on a federal level. I think Green politics should be applied on a local and state level. I think people should have a choice on all levels. I think equal opportunity for advancement should be the government's only goal; everything comes from there.
I think if instead of race, people were to work the problem of poverty, the problem of race would solve itself. I think we are all uncertain of ourselves during many times of our lives, and those who are not have not experienced enough.
I think most things today are not hard in the United States. I think we're lucky, to live here and now. I think the people before us accrued an enormous amount of knowledge, and we should take advantage of it. I think we have an enormous responsibility to help the rest of the world -- the 5.7 billion other people -- be in a position to make their own decisions, like us, without fear of disease, drought, starvation or attack.
I think violence is a symptom of absolute failure.
I think we are the only cause of our problems, today, here. I think there is a lot of work to do in our own town. I think educating our selves, our elders, our siblings and our children should be the utmost. I think treating our towns as if we will live here for the next million years is a good idea. I think it's healthy to know you're going to die in about 50 years. I think humility is important.
I think candor and trust are the only way to go. I think writing on the weekend is important. I think playing sports is a good social activity. I think we are easily impressed upon by others, subconsciously.
I think the great leaders and writers of the past were just people, like you and I. I think Shakespeare and Plato were men; I think it's important to remember that. I think great music should have something to say.
I think reading is important. I think self-reflection is helpful; I think after a while you just have to try it. I think if you focus on yourself, and you act upon your passions, dreams and ideals, everything else will follow.
I think the benefits of wind power, recycling, reusing, voting, being active in politics, bicycling, and reducing poisons in the home are so obvious and elemental, I almost forgot to include them here.
I think traveling should involve a lot of walking, a few maps and train tickets, a relaxed attitude, and not a lot of fancy hotels.
I think tickling is overrated. I think moaning during sex is a good idea. I think everyone should get themselves off as often as they'd like.
I think it's good to not take yourself too seriously. I think I've written enough.
I thought, "There's some truth to that," and I started writing. So, here's what's on my mind, today:
I think diamonds and cars are a waste of money. I think people take sex and pornography far, far too seriously.
I think if you cook half your meals, refrain from purchasing any food in a bag or box, and buy local first and organic second, you'll live a lot better. I think it's a good idea to exercise eight hours per week.
I think people can and should use the Internet and computer software to organize socially and politically for change. I think most people think they are too busy to do anything about important issues, such as race, gender, pollution and education; I think most people lie to themselves every day and fall for it. I think 10% of the world finishes what they set out to do; those 10% are in charge.
I think Libertarian politics should be applied on a federal level. I think Green politics should be applied on a local and state level. I think people should have a choice on all levels. I think equal opportunity for advancement should be the government's only goal; everything comes from there.
I think if instead of race, people were to work the problem of poverty, the problem of race would solve itself. I think we are all uncertain of ourselves during many times of our lives, and those who are not have not experienced enough.
I think most things today are not hard in the United States. I think we're lucky, to live here and now. I think the people before us accrued an enormous amount of knowledge, and we should take advantage of it. I think we have an enormous responsibility to help the rest of the world -- the 5.7 billion other people -- be in a position to make their own decisions, like us, without fear of disease, drought, starvation or attack.
I think violence is a symptom of absolute failure.
I think we are the only cause of our problems, today, here. I think there is a lot of work to do in our own town. I think educating our selves, our elders, our siblings and our children should be the utmost. I think treating our towns as if we will live here for the next million years is a good idea. I think it's healthy to know you're going to die in about 50 years. I think humility is important.
I think candor and trust are the only way to go. I think writing on the weekend is important. I think playing sports is a good social activity. I think we are easily impressed upon by others, subconsciously.
I think the great leaders and writers of the past were just people, like you and I. I think Shakespeare and Plato were men; I think it's important to remember that. I think great music should have something to say.
I think reading is important. I think self-reflection is helpful; I think after a while you just have to try it. I think if you focus on yourself, and you act upon your passions, dreams and ideals, everything else will follow.
I think the benefits of wind power, recycling, reusing, voting, being active in politics, bicycling, and reducing poisons in the home are so obvious and elemental, I almost forgot to include them here.
I think traveling should involve a lot of walking, a few maps and train tickets, a relaxed attitude, and not a lot of fancy hotels.
I think tickling is overrated. I think moaning during sex is a good idea. I think everyone should get themselves off as often as they'd like.
I think it's good to not take yourself too seriously. I think I've written enough.
Saturday, March 3, 2007
Winter Bicycle Clothing
I've learned a few things while commuting by bike in Corvallis, Oregon: Biking in the cold and rain can be quite enjoyable, thanks to nylon and polyester. With three layers, I'm more comfortable with temperatures in the high 30s / low 40s than I am during the summer.Base layer: I love my Patagonia "baselayer" -- their term for long underwear; I use their Capilene 3 long-sleeve shirt and "pants." They're warm and thin, very comfortable clothing while sweating, and they help me cool down very quickly. Air cuts through them easily. As the term baselayer implies, you'll probably want to put something over these; I do.
Middle layer: Any sweatshirt will do. This layer is what gets dirtiest, as your sweat goes into it, and some water will get to it.
Jacket: I use a simple, non-breathable nylon bicycle jacket, made by J&G, an Oregon company. Costing about $40, it's good, but not perfect. It's great at stopping the wind, which is very important, and you will stay dry, for the most part (which I will explain). The fleece around the neck is a nice touch, and the cut of the jacket (with extra-long arms and back) works well for biking. If I had to choose again, I'd probably go for a more-upscale jacket, which runs about $135.
There are two downsides to the cheaper jacket: 1) There is no fabric covering the zipper, and your shirt will get wet (under the zipper) if it's raining at a good pace, and 2) You will get hot during longer / harder rides, as water vapor can't easily escape; it's probably not much fun when it's warm out, like in the 70s. The underarm zippers, which I thought were a gimmick while I was shopping, do keep me significantly more comfortable when they are open -- and water doesn't usually find its way in there, so I leave them unzipped.
Pants: Polyester / nylon "exercise" pants work great when it's not raining. Combined with the baselayer above, I stay warm, but never hot. When it's raining, I use rain pants. Again, I went with a cheaper, non-breathable pair, but I would recommend going with a more-expensive, breathable pant -- $80 at the local cycle shop. Every pair of rain pants I've seen is designed to easily put on while you're wearing shoes, which is useful; they also roll up small, so I keep them in my panniers (bags).
Hat: Every piece of clothing is important, but you'll never find me on my bike in the winter without a winter hat. It keeps my ears warm and my hair dry. My hat is acrylic; I suppose any will work.
Gloves: My gloves are waterproof, windproof and breathable. About $25. I'm not sure what the "waterproof" is supposed to mean, exactly. I think it means there is some waterproof fabric somewhere on the glove, but your hands will get wet with time; however, they do stay warm. The fleece on the top is nice for wiping your nose; it may be gross, but it is nice and necessary. Like most gloves, they take a while to dry out.
Shoes: I use regular sneakers. This is a bad idea if you're not comfortable with your feet slipping from time to time. They will get beat up from the rain and general dirt that gets kicked up from the road, but they work fine. As long as you avoid storming through large puddles, your feet will stay reasonably dry; if you do decide to go through puddles, your feet will be soaked.
I've shopped for shoe covers / something for my feet, but everything I've found looks incredibly lame / excessive / expensive for short trips around town. Before Burley only made "the world's finest child trailers," they apparently made some good rain gear, including shoe covers, but they don't make those anymore.
I don't know it all, but like I said before, I think every piece is important. Expect to spend a bit of money -- probably more than you'd prefer (you can easily hit $350 before the day is done) -- but you might be surprised at how fun it is to stay out in the rain and the cold with the proper clothing.
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