I think the greatest obstacle to my motivation and accomplishment is confidence. Perhaps overconfidence. It stems from a competitive inclination and quickly becomes an inhibition. I'm a great lover of competition, and yet I struggle mightily with correcting myself when I'm not actually "losing". In those situations where the conditions for victory remain obfuscated by circumstance or the object or opposition against which the game is played is enigmatic. And those situations where my opponent lies within myself - those I always lose. The problem is, once I've acquired some semblance of inertia, even I cannot easily gainsay my own inclination. It isn't impossible, but so much more difficult without outside motive.
When I must practice to better myself, yet without any relative comparison, I fail. I'm overconfident in my abilities and fail in the daily follow-through. One of my most difficult problems with my competitive spirit was that once I knew that I could win, I moved on. Once winning was technically within my grasp, everything else was academic. I knew I could do it; those that mattered understood I was the stronger competitor. That was my youth - never an opponent worth beating.
Except myself.
And now, forcing myself to maintain rigor, to daily accomplish various rituals of living and life, I struggle. What competitive urge forces me to eat a certain amount, exercise just so, or write a certain quantity? The competition rests in the long haul and the terms of ambiguous.
Another of my competitive angsts was in chance. I disliked games of chance and sometimes even games of dull strategem. I loved the knowledge games. Games that possessed not only a breadth of opportunity, but a depth of decision. But life contains its own fair share of frustrating chance, or seeming chance. Why does one child get cancer, and another fly free? Why does one get born into poverty and another wealth? Why does this curmudgeon survive into longevity and this kindly soul find an early grave?
The dice feels weighted against good sometimes, or most ostensibly so when those miseries occur. And the hard part for me is deciding to struggle against myself when I know that my future seems somewhat contrived and chancy rather than directed. There are too many variables.
I used to play a game with myself. I would ask myself impossible statistic questions like: "I wonder who is both the fastest, shortest, and most stylish person on this field?" The problem with questions like these is the weighting of the variables. Is "fastest" the most important? What if the fastest is also the tallest? Or the least stylish? How do you diagram that out? Even one of those seems so arbitrary and subjective. That's how life feels, except with more variables. Each person has a say in my destiny, and so does the spontaneity of factors too invisible for me to ascertain: genetics, environment, and so on.
With all this, how does one maintain motivation towards an uncertain end? It feels like that line in Annie Hall about why Alvie was not doing his homework. "Because the universe is expanding, and eventually everything is going to collapse" was the (inexact) response. That can be how it feels - a bit fatalistic. But then you can so easily get stuck in the rut of doing nothing at all, which is worse, sometimes, than mistakenly taking a wrong step. At least you can learn from a wrong step. And all this is really just a bit of rambling sophistry, but it's interesting to think about those tiny obstacles and factors that stagnate us like flies in honey. When we are our biggest enemy, who will lift us free? I think that's question answers so many others. You can tell a lot about a person by who will lend them a hand, and how many kindnesses come when the dice lands poorly.
Speculative Dreaming
Artful musings percolating along neural seams: a river, a breeze, a whisper of fancy in dreams.
Monday, December 7, 2015
Monday, August 24, 2015
LGBTQ in the Church (a meeting on a minute)
Is this Spirit here? Or just high spirits?
Does the Spirit split two ways? Is it a river or a hurricane? Every "leading" eddies and suffocates - which side holds the sense of truth?
How is it possible to exist so divided and so compelled and spirit-filled within the unified body? Is it possible not to? Can we? Do we?
Does anyone know, with shadowless certainty, the Truth? Or even one Truth? In such a multifaceted view, both sides tossing out vindictives and dismissives at the brick-wall-minds of the other side.
The "other side" doesn't value diversity or discussion, acceptance and unity, love, grace, or forgiveness.
Or the "other side" exists in shallow theology, being biblically naive, sitting with sinners, misrepresenting a "holy" God and wholly disregarding a depth of tradition and wisdom and practice of faith.
What middle ground between the spectrum of hell and bigotry? When it's either damnation or discrimination. Where are the enlightened sophists who have risen above the sheeple in middling belief and sit in the golden means of compromise? Surely these possess some Gnosticism worth being? But everyone is so obnoxiously right sometimes, or humbly condescending. Where are the patient listeners? The quiet dialectic?
Does the Spirit split two ways? Is it a river or a hurricane? Every "leading" eddies and suffocates - which side holds the sense of truth?
How is it possible to exist so divided and so compelled and spirit-filled within the unified body? Is it possible not to? Can we? Do we?
Does anyone know, with shadowless certainty, the Truth? Or even one Truth? In such a multifaceted view, both sides tossing out vindictives and dismissives at the brick-wall-minds of the other side.
The "other side" doesn't value diversity or discussion, acceptance and unity, love, grace, or forgiveness.
Or the "other side" exists in shallow theology, being biblically naive, sitting with sinners, misrepresenting a "holy" God and wholly disregarding a depth of tradition and wisdom and practice of faith.
What middle ground between the spectrum of hell and bigotry? When it's either damnation or discrimination. Where are the enlightened sophists who have risen above the sheeple in middling belief and sit in the golden means of compromise? Surely these possess some Gnosticism worth being? But everyone is so obnoxiously right sometimes, or humbly condescending. Where are the patient listeners? The quiet dialectic?
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Spectrum of Life
A lot happens in a year, a month, even a day.
I’m married, and I was not.
Arguments regarding LGBT in the church community.
Legal suits in town against the yearly meeting of friends.
I’ve been surprised how quickly people rear up with opinions
like king cobras. Beliefs on wedding timing and relationship mantra, or
arguments against persons – all with such violent strikes. Less than the
content of the arguments, the entitlement and anger with which people defend
their beliefs can be appalling. And frightening.
Not that such a righteous anger is always wrong. Au
contraire, a righteous anger is often warranted. The scary portion is the
direction of the anger targeted towards persons rather than ideas. Rarely is
hate an agreeable ideal. Rarely is vindictiveness a moral imperative. It’s that
same quality of person that stands outside an abortion clinic killing doctors
in the name of Christ (or any higher cause).
I haven’t written in forever, and my first is somewhat
angry, itself. Shoot. And that’s what I’ve noticed. Anger begets only anger.
I think what’s been a joy to see in the passing weeks is
that the flipside is also, often, true. Generosity, grace, and mercy often
beget similar reactive replies. More than all of the miserable actions, more
than all of the hatred and anger and angst of an uncertain people, the
generosity and kindness of those loving persons in my community sticks with me.
At the wedding, people jumped into
action to help, even without being asked. Whether it was pushing tables
outside, organizing books, or grabbing Ems and I a bite to eat, people leapt
into action. I couldn’t help but smile. It’s reminded me of all those times I’ve
had the opportunity to help my friends, and how it’s never a chore, but a great
blessing to be that servant. I remember how lucky I felt getting to look after
a friend following a surgery (dental) and just hang out and make sure
everything was okay should anything need doing. I feel similarly blessed
helping each of my friends when they have to move (packing, and lifting) even
if I’m the least qualified person for the task (have you seen these biceps? Most
people’s ankles are bigger). I honestly
love it. And that’s what fills me with so much joy. When Ems and I wrote our
prayer for the day, we hoped that the day might be filled with joy, and that
that joy would be an evident reminder of our beliefs and hopes and joys. Our
wedding was.
I hold these two great
scenes in balance, teetering forwards and backwards into each. The anger
that bubbles up in reply to such, and the grace I force myself to remember,
having been shown so extravagantly where joy is begat. These weeks have
travelled fast, and are filled with great and weighty feelings, spanning a
sea-wide spectrum of emotions. But I’m happy. I’m joyful; full of joy. There
are heartbreaks, and there are moments so perfect I’m brought to tears.
I’m thankful for this and my community. In sickness and in
health, in joy and in sorrow, I’m married to it in my spirit and I love it. I’m
learning a lot about community and belief through my marriage already, and I’m
only getting started.
Here’s to many more such days, weeks, and years. Here’s to
life.
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
On the Road (with help from Tolkien)
The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.
I find that as I edit and struggle with the beast of writing I've set to tackle, I consider the road the
script and I have journeyed upon. It's like any life progression, physical, spiritual, or emotional, filled with pit stops and potholes, rivers and rolling roads. Sometimes we stop, sometimes we go, and often we find we've gone nowhere at all, yet progressed forever far.
Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.
This is it, Tolkien. It can sound so glamorous. Who tells the stories of blistered feet and damp days? We remember clearer the glories and summits along the way, rather than the sorry days burdened by sun or rain. And then telling tales like this, remembering the sorrows stronger than those. It's a temporal relativity masquerade: in summer, you remember the fireplace, the christmas dinner, the snowmen and snow days; in winter, you remember the green, being outdoors, walks and warmth and sun. But in both you forget the miseries, sometimes, and so it is with the cruelty of editing and writing for me, this week. It sounds glamorous, but I'm stuck in the ruts of a broken railroad. I believe the story is without value, knowing the pacing is poor, the dialogue dismal, the progression pathetic (puns intended), even though I simultaneously understand its meaningfulness to me.
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.
I find that as I edit and struggle with the beast of writing I've set to tackle, I consider the road the
script and I have journeyed upon. It's like any life progression, physical, spiritual, or emotional, filled with pit stops and potholes, rivers and rolling roads. Sometimes we stop, sometimes we go, and often we find we've gone nowhere at all, yet progressed forever far.
Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.
This is it, Tolkien. It can sound so glamorous. Who tells the stories of blistered feet and damp days? We remember clearer the glories and summits along the way, rather than the sorry days burdened by sun or rain. And then telling tales like this, remembering the sorrows stronger than those. It's a temporal relativity masquerade: in summer, you remember the fireplace, the christmas dinner, the snowmen and snow days; in winter, you remember the green, being outdoors, walks and warmth and sun. But in both you forget the miseries, sometimes, and so it is with the cruelty of editing and writing for me, this week. It sounds glamorous, but I'm stuck in the ruts of a broken railroad. I believe the story is without value, knowing the pacing is poor, the dialogue dismal, the progression pathetic (puns intended), even though I simultaneously understand its meaningfulness to me.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Boundaries of Words
I haven't written in a little while. It's a busy season. Though the failure isn't entirely due to a lack of writing material as I've actually been doing a good deal of writing (or at least editing). I'm writing a story for the Writers of the Future seasonal competition, and editing my story into something worth reading has been a nightmare. I constantly get stuck in a state of being over-pretentious in my writing, elitist without the prerequisite technique to back up that sort of egotistical behavior.
I have several major problems with my writing, and one of my gravest is that I like writing in a pretentious manner sometimes. One of my recent stories began thus:
I have several major problems with my writing, and one of my gravest is that I like writing in a pretentious manner sometimes. One of my recent stories began thus:
There is something sinister in
infinity, and magnificent. The stars cease their winking charade and stare:
cold, incessant, pitiless in eternal surround. Space is not a sea in
which we float amongst the heavens, but a hole, an absence, crushing ever
inwards. The fragile veil between us and without: beautiful; the journey
into the void: fraught.
Lost
stared vacantly behind as his home, all their homes, receded into a glowing
point in space. He didn’t know why, but
watching the vods of their departure made him feel… something. Maudlin? Solemn? It was getting more difficult to do that
these days: feel. The echoing thrum and
whirr of magical machinery whined behind Lost as a counterpoint to the numbing
silence of the stars. The control room
faintly glowed with nurturing light, a laughable counterfeit sun, while overhead,
a glass dome glimpsed into forever as the vessel glided through space.
Of course it is pretentious. Of course it doesn't flow well. And this is still an early draft (the NaNo I worked on this recent November past), but that is often a disclaimer for those who dislike the style (most people) even though I have a secret fascination with it. And my recent story is no different. I can't get it to flow; I can't get it to read like a story because I struggle with wanting it to read like a story. I adore puns and elitist easter eggs, and filled my mythical tale with them, but I eschew simplicity too often. We live in an age where the most read books are young-adult books, and the demographic that is reading them is 35-55. But I find those books shallow. Not out of necessity, and they are not all shallow reads, but because the target requires an easy, limited diction and imagery.
I like rules, but I also like to press the boundaries of words and find out just how far I can stretch meanings and interpretations. So I'm editing, and fighting mostly against myself and my innate tendency to be obtuse.
Sunday, February 15, 2015
The Wastelands
A lot of our favorite philosophies, theologies, ideologies
arrive as rebellious retaliation of the previous generation’s values. In
theology, this often looks like a pendulum of: God is love, God is justice; in
culture we are working towards an equilibrium of personal value for all human
persons: women, non-white racial opportunity, civil rights options for those
with varying sexual preferences, though cultural mindset moves slowly, pushing
against a mountainous inertia of bigotry; and our ideologies often gag on war
most following a bloodthirsty example, and most feast on imperialism after a
brief spat of peace.
This swing has tempered a little as the freight of the
internet wakes by, leaving only the opinions and arguments of anonymous
naysayers and the burnt-road pathways of those waging new battles – it’s a
graveyard, a haunted cathedral, a thousand lasers flying through empty space,
never touching. And everyone, opinions or no, wants that flare-up-high of
attention, that brief, orgasmic stardom, that glimmer of disgust, anger, joy,
or reaction and then out like magnesium, blinding and then gone.
But if you want something lasting, what then? If your
appetite is larger than immediate and next, how to whet the sacred hungers? More
than many, my life seesaws on a balance, not merely camping on gluttony, but
swinging between fasting and feasting. It’s not bipolar, but a antsy flailing
for balance, as I stand on the barrel of life and roll down the whitewater
rapids.
And happiness can be a drug. Until you’ve found it, you
cannot imagine the addiction, the drag, the earnest importance of
more,more,more. In the same way running releases endorphins, as sex releases
oxytocin and endorphins, as every drug inhibits or multiplies enzymes and
neurotransmitters, a fluctuating, dramatic instability of reality. Everything
we intake alters internal physiology to some extent, whether it’s food,
sunlight, touch, or sound.
Happiness is strange in that I can’t remember a time I
rebounded from it. A cause of happiness might unsettle me if I’m rebelling from
the ideologies behind it, and I may even be disgusted by my happiness at
gluttony, sloth, or pride at certain times, but from the happiness itself I
rarely find myself aghast. I never think, “I wish I had less cause for smiling
today” or “today was depressing and I hope tomorrow is a real downer.”
I don’t believe many people truly seek sorrow in permanence,
though such people exist. Why? For the same two-second spotlight? For a
sympathetic touch or love in passing? There are always reasons. But those are
not my shoes. Today, I’m happy. I don’t want to pendulate, or seesaw, or whip
back into any other place; I like this one, and here I’ll stay.
Was I always happy? I believe I might have been. But I haven’t
found the endless bounds yet.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Imagining Worlds (Part Deux)
Let’s imagine another world. In
our first, we imagined a world where innocents were protected, shielded by
spiritual firewalls from harm beyond their ken. That world has trouble with
variables as collateral damage might affect a community where the target was
one evil individual. You cannot lose a finger without hurting the whole. In
that way, bad things might happen to innocents by proxy: a mother losing a son,
a community losing an individual.
That
world struggled to maintain a sense of fairness while still allowing room for
free will. It’s a tragic element of humanity that free will precipitates ill
and not good will. But there are other options of worlds that might offer a
greater sense of fairness.
In
our new world, good is defined in a similar fashion as the last, as that which
increases life and encourages well-being, family, friendship, kindness, and
love. Instead of spiritual firewalls surrounding the righteous (of varying
degrees of good), we’re going to assault the core of evil. There are a couple
of methods for this: evildoers are unable to consider/contemplate/actuate
anything that might affect an innocent. If an evildoer tries to hurt, even by
collateral, an innocent, something (god, nature, physical etc) prevents the
evil from occurring.
Some
examples: a man tries to set fire to his own house overnight because of
depression. The fire either cannot start if there are innocents in the house,
or everyone notices immediately and his attempt is thwarted. Possibly his wife
wakes up and removes the children from the house. The trick here is: what if
the husband dies? That is collateral and hurts those innocent children a great
deal. What if the house does burn down? How are the children and wife protected
from that sort of evil? Is the burning of the house prevented in general?
This
actually causes a lot of problems within this world at large. Things such as
bombs, guns, and weaponry in general could scarcely exist because the
possibility for collateral is too great. Also, we run into a similar problem of
definitions: is only greater harm prevented and what or who defines greater
harm? If an innocent child is incredibly close to their great grandfather,
closer even than to their parents, and that relative dies of old age gently in
their sleep, that might still cause traumatic pain for a young child. Nothing
of great evil occurred, only the natural flow of life. Is the argument here
that the child should learn of death? Perhaps death isn’t a great evil, or only
in some cases. Maybe we claim that no evil here occurred at all, only sadness,
and sadness is necessary and good in some instances. But it is hard wishing
sadness of any sort on a child.
Let’s consider other
examples. A father is a poor worker, either from laziness or injury, and is
removed from his job. The entire family is affected and possibly short on food.
A teenager is tired of life and wishes
to end it, poised on the brink of a bridge over dark, turbulent waters – how will
his lover feel, his family? How are they affected? A bright new prodigy for
sports breaks his ankle and misses a draft; a mother who cannot support her
children births triplets instead of a single child; a little child crosses the
road when his mother isn’t looking; a father and mother don’t get along, and a
messy divorce tears up their children; a teenager gets pregnant due to choices
made, but what of the child? Whose life is sacrificed for whose life chances? Just
read the news. A million things occur every day that aren’t necessarily evil in
intent, but precurse negative outcomes. A simple sickness, a misstep, a series
of events that elicits shame, a feeling of negativity – countless pieces of
this puzzle that is mankind, and no man is an island.
There was an
experiment done by Japanese scientists regarding negativity. A bunch of individuals
were told to direct negative emotions at water or ice, and the scientists
compared the molecular structure of the water with positive feelings and
noticed distinct differences. Our emotions are not isolated within us. One of
the great causes for depression and sorrow is loneliness, but our existence
never affects only ourselves. But if lightning strikes a tight mob of people
holding hands, more than one person will feel the surge of electricity. We find
ourselves in a difficult place of limiting actions for everyone due to
collateral evil. I couldn’t jump off a
mountain, but not from fear, but due to the horror and trauma it might cause
those innocents near to me.
What about a
perfect world? Where none of these things mattered? We consider it a breach of
free will, but what if evil was impossible? It’s not a breach of free will that
I cannot fly, because my limbs don’t support that behavior. What if our human
bodies didn’t support evil?
There used to be
an argument against the existence of a god based on omnipotence: “can god
create a rock so heavy he cannot lift it?” The counterargument usually explains
that such a rock cannot be created since it is against the nature of rocks to
exist at such a capacity. In the same way, god cannot create a square circle
because geometrically that is nonsense. If
our bodies could not support any action of evil or malign behavior, the
behaviors would not be missed. Seeing birds fly, I might wistfully imagine
myself flying, but I don’t actually miss the behaviors because I, myself, have
never flown. If evil did not exist, would we miss the opportunity to behave in
such a manner?
We enter into a
strange theoretical landscape with a perfect world. Is there death? Is there
sickness? Is there natural disaster? It is interesting to imagine the status of
such a universe and all of the differences that must exist. If there is no
death, is there reproduction? There wouldn’t be a need for reproduction beyond
a certain point. And is there no bacteria or parasitic organisms? Fungus feast
off of detritus, bacteria endlessly splitting without death, animals living an
eternity – would the world find itself soon overcrowded with a burgeoning of
life? Where would the resources for all this life come from? I suppose from
inorganic matter and perhaps the fruit of trees, though when the earth lost its
savory richness, what then? A perfect world seems to thrive on a different
chemistry. It’s almost unfathomable from the vantage point of a world where
everything seems based on little deaths.
But is it
plausible? I don’t know. I suppose it seems almost elvish and surreal, where
each seeming day might be an aeon and each eternity a day. There wouldn’t be
any need for reproduction, really, and merely an endless feasting of Epicurean
proportions.
Yet
in the end, all of these worlds are hypothetical. We could have a perfect
world, though we might not know what that entails. The problem is, a lot of us
like to keep our imperfect world, but we want those innocents to be untouched.
It’s hard, because there is no such possible world. I did, actually, imagine
another world, similar to the first two. What if we imagined a world where only
the most extreme of innocents was protected while the rest were on their own?
In a sense, this world is like an rpg where someone who has just created their
character is invincible for several hours until they get their character under
control. Is this viable? I’ll leave this open for thought. I imagine at some
point it falters under the same stresses of our other worlds.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)