The things around us are not what they appear to be. Whether carpet or furniture, socks or fingernails, the items we touch and feel and use every daily are, at root, merely stardust. Things such as skin and bones are useful to us – without them, we would get sick easily and die quickly; things such as shoes and coats are also useful – they allow us to inhabit regions and climates we otherwise couldn't; at root, however, everything in existence today, on this Earth, is made up of solar energy and solar material trapped and stored by plants, animals, and our little world's gravity well.
It is boring to think about this type of thing, about how blood and hair, brains and tendons, are all made up of ashes and dust. Sometimes, however, when I feel the pull of pride, I remind myself of this body's simple, basic components. This helps me to stay humble. In the end, everything reverts to its natural state. In the end, the worthwhile efforts are those that result in love. Change is good – it keeps things from running afoul of time's indifference. Change points of view with me, then; let us seek wavelengths of thought different from those to which we have become accustomed, and free ourselves from the needs and wants we think necessary. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
31 December 2012
28 December 2012
ravens & NOTW
Recently, while riding my bicycle into town, I was passed by a pickup-truck driven by a lone individual. Affixed to the back of this man's vehicle were two stickers, one reading, “Ravens – Relentless,” the other, “NOTW.” It will not shock this blog's regular readers that I am lamenting the idiocy of the loose affiliation of non-Earth-bound religious fanatics who see themselves as being Not Of This World (NOTW), but so many of them live here that I find it hard to resist.
Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary from 1961 defines relentless as, “Mercilessly harsh, stern.” If one can glean anything from the teachings of Yeshua (also known as Iesu, or Jesus, the Christians' primary god), it is that one should be – always, and without fail – compassionate, honorable, and loving toward others, and that one should treat them as one would like to be treated. This ancient wise man encouraged his followers to be merciful and generous persons whose only wish it was to serve the lowly, to assist the meek, and to give aid to the disenfranchised. In the Christians' bible, one of the only times that Yeshua acted in a truly harsh or stern fashion was when he drove the money-changers out of temple by whipping them with chains in a brazen (but unsuccessful) attempt to rid faith of the sickness of finance. The compassionate individual cares for the Earth and for Nature; he wishes to shelter and to promote the growing and the teeming things, no matter their size, shape, or color; the last thing that the true believer in the message of Yeshua would do would be to drive himself around the countryside in a two-ton vehicle at high speed (burning crude oil and mowing crushing clouds of insects against the front of his car), or to live in such as way as to be dependent on driving. The last thing he would do would be to allow himself to become so enamored of a simple game that he would go out and purchase a sticker for his car instead of using that money to support a starving neighbor or save a dying species. A true believer in Yeshua's message would not to spend his time watching, discussing, or thinking about the intricate details of such a decidedly earth-bound and petty thing as American football – the true believer would spend his time musing about how best to uplift the poor, help the needy, promote the downtrodden, and live in such a way as to cause as little negative impact as possible to the health of this our only planet.
To attempt to love Iesu, football, and pickup-trucks at the same time is akin to trying to walk while sitting and standing. Please, dear friend, remember Yeshua's lessons of humility and mercy, and cast aside the creeping doubt that hides within relentless and unbridled passion.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary from 1961 defines relentless as, “Mercilessly harsh, stern.” If one can glean anything from the teachings of Yeshua (also known as Iesu, or Jesus, the Christians' primary god), it is that one should be – always, and without fail – compassionate, honorable, and loving toward others, and that one should treat them as one would like to be treated. This ancient wise man encouraged his followers to be merciful and generous persons whose only wish it was to serve the lowly, to assist the meek, and to give aid to the disenfranchised. In the Christians' bible, one of the only times that Yeshua acted in a truly harsh or stern fashion was when he drove the money-changers out of temple by whipping them with chains in a brazen (but unsuccessful) attempt to rid faith of the sickness of finance. The compassionate individual cares for the Earth and for Nature; he wishes to shelter and to promote the growing and the teeming things, no matter their size, shape, or color; the last thing that the true believer in the message of Yeshua would do would be to drive himself around the countryside in a two-ton vehicle at high speed (burning crude oil and mowing crushing clouds of insects against the front of his car), or to live in such as way as to be dependent on driving. The last thing he would do would be to allow himself to become so enamored of a simple game that he would go out and purchase a sticker for his car instead of using that money to support a starving neighbor or save a dying species. A true believer in Yeshua's message would not to spend his time watching, discussing, or thinking about the intricate details of such a decidedly earth-bound and petty thing as American football – the true believer would spend his time musing about how best to uplift the poor, help the needy, promote the downtrodden, and live in such a way as to cause as little negative impact as possible to the health of this our only planet.
To attempt to love Iesu, football, and pickup-trucks at the same time is akin to trying to walk while sitting and standing. Please, dear friend, remember Yeshua's lessons of humility and mercy, and cast aside the creeping doubt that hides within relentless and unbridled passion.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
26 December 2012
on the sickness
As the year 2012 draws to a close and flurries of snow fall fitfully from the darkened skies, the sickness that plagued me this past week now infects a half-dozen others. I cannot help but blame myself, in part, for getting them sick: my self inflicted quarantine was too short, and my desire to be in their company was too strong, for me to have effectively denied the disease access to additional hosts. It has been years since I felt so ill that I had to skip work; I shall remember this sickness fondly.
The character of the disease included infection of the sinuses and bronchial tubes, which then produced steady amounts of thick, tenacious mucus. I also suffered from weariness, confusion, and decreased appetite. Such was my inability to think clearly that I resorted to editing and posting old texts instead of writing new ones. (I was not surprised to find that many of my previous blogposts were riddled with grammatical and contextual errors, which has lowered my already low opinion of my abilities.)
As the malaise abates and my faculties begin to spin back up to speed, I welcome the opportunity to reappraise the routines and habits I formed this past year. With a bit of foresight and a lot of luck, I may just change them for the better. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
The character of the disease included infection of the sinuses and bronchial tubes, which then produced steady amounts of thick, tenacious mucus. I also suffered from weariness, confusion, and decreased appetite. Such was my inability to think clearly that I resorted to editing and posting old texts instead of writing new ones. (I was not surprised to find that many of my previous blogposts were riddled with grammatical and contextual errors, which has lowered my already low opinion of my abilities.)
As the malaise abates and my faculties begin to spin back up to speed, I welcome the opportunity to reappraise the routines and habits I formed this past year. With a bit of foresight and a lot of luck, I may just change them for the better. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
25 December 2012
in Herodotus's footsteps
Many thousands of years ago, at the dawn of mankind, a man traveled to the far corners of his world, talking to people and writing down what he heard. He spoke with paupers and kings, with priestesses and butchers, with generals and prisoners of war, taking note of their tales in a book he would call, simply, the Histories. We know not exactly why he did these things, but Herodotus, by leaving his comfortable and familiar surroundings and striking off for places spoken of only of myth, began a tradition that continues to this day. Sometimes, we travel for leisure; other times, we travel in hopes of experiencing things new and exciting; and, often, we travel in order to enrich our own lives and the lives of others. Regardless, however, of why we travel, the fact remains that we seem to enjoy traveling, and that, when we do it, we do it with hearts filled with radiant and bursting joy.
Whether it is by foot, sail, or swiftly-speeding airship, humans are always on the move. It matters little if the journey is for work or play – every time we strike off for points distant and unknown, we walk in the footsteps of Herodotus, the vagabond's spiritual father (and the modern travel-writer's humble, knowing patron). Often, our experiences abroad – the ride on that ramshackle ferry in muggy Thailand, the taxi driver in wintry Basel who returned our lost wallet, the week-long search for fine rooibos in sunny South African – enrich our lives with memory-glimpses of color, sound, and smells that have the power to transport us body and mind back in time to these, our private, special moments.
The world is a vastly shrinking place, no more full yet no less exciting than during the time of old man Herodotus, he who wandered so famously. So strike out, dear friend, on a journey of your own, and remember to keep track of your experiences, because maybe, just maybe, somebody will want to read them some day.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
Whether it is by foot, sail, or swiftly-speeding airship, humans are always on the move. It matters little if the journey is for work or play – every time we strike off for points distant and unknown, we walk in the footsteps of Herodotus, the vagabond's spiritual father (and the modern travel-writer's humble, knowing patron). Often, our experiences abroad – the ride on that ramshackle ferry in muggy Thailand, the taxi driver in wintry Basel who returned our lost wallet, the week-long search for fine rooibos in sunny South African – enrich our lives with memory-glimpses of color, sound, and smells that have the power to transport us body and mind back in time to these, our private, special moments.
The world is a vastly shrinking place, no more full yet no less exciting than during the time of old man Herodotus, he who wandered so famously. So strike out, dear friend, on a journey of your own, and remember to keep track of your experiences, because maybe, just maybe, somebody will want to read them some day.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
21 December 2012
dollar store commies
As of these last few months of 2012, millions of American citizens are directly supporting the People's Republic of China, our country's primary economic competitor and one of the sole remaining bastions of the socialistic world-view. Every day, Americans support communism in the People's Republic of China; by demanding rock-bottom prices in cities great and small – from the rolling central plains to the rugged western coastline – countless numbers of red-blooded, patriotic Ynki contribute directly to the ascending might of the Middle Kingdom.
Dollar stores, which sell products ranging from shower curtains to miniature cast-resin busts of zebras, stand at the forefront of the Chinese invasion of, and its dominance over, the American economy. Purchasing an item that reads “Made In China” funnels funds directly into the rapidly growing Chinese economy (where most of the consumer items sold in dollar stores are made) rather than into the pockets of producers based in these United States. From the 1980s onward, the capitalistic oligarchy has taken for itself great portions of America's wealth saw an opportunity to further line their pockets, destroying the manufacturing economy in this country by shifting manufacturing capacity to foreign countries. As hundreds of thousands of our fellow citizens lost their manufacturing jobs, they had few options than to buy the cheapest products in order to survive; they turned to dollar stores, thereby supporting the very system that had swallowed up their jobs in the first place. The capitalistic oligarchy effectively enslaved the American consumer to the whims of foreign nations by shifting production overseas to special economic zones that are, in everything but name, slave camps.
I welcome our Chinese masters, and greet them cordially by saying Ni-Hao-Ma. As a Son of the American Revolution and a descendant of the Mayflower Pilgrims, my blood runs deep in this land. However, I am not blindly patriotic, nor am I inextricably tied to our prevailing economic model, Me-First Capitalism. In fact, I find our prevailing economic model – in which the fruits of the labor of an entire people are re-directed into the a pockets of but a few corporate officers – deeply and intrinsically un-American. I am personally boycotting dollar stores (and, by extension, Walmart, Target, and the rest of the big-box stores), not to harm the Chinese economy but in quiet mourning for our lost manufacturing economy. Join me if you wish, but know that this choice requires paying a bit more money for everyday goods, a sacrifice that rewards itself with feelings of pride and patriotic fervor. Remember – if you aren't buying products made exclusively in the U.S.A, you are party responsible for the gutting of the American manufacturing economy, for the demise of our middle class, for our slipping military hegemony, and for the Chinese government continuing to purchase significant portions of our national debt. In the long run, shopping at dollar stores will not have a positive economic impact on your personal finances, but it will certainly boost the profits of the plutocrats who sold us out to the commies. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
Dollar stores, which sell products ranging from shower curtains to miniature cast-resin busts of zebras, stand at the forefront of the Chinese invasion of, and its dominance over, the American economy. Purchasing an item that reads “Made In China” funnels funds directly into the rapidly growing Chinese economy (where most of the consumer items sold in dollar stores are made) rather than into the pockets of producers based in these United States. From the 1980s onward, the capitalistic oligarchy has taken for itself great portions of America's wealth saw an opportunity to further line their pockets, destroying the manufacturing economy in this country by shifting manufacturing capacity to foreign countries. As hundreds of thousands of our fellow citizens lost their manufacturing jobs, they had few options than to buy the cheapest products in order to survive; they turned to dollar stores, thereby supporting the very system that had swallowed up their jobs in the first place. The capitalistic oligarchy effectively enslaved the American consumer to the whims of foreign nations by shifting production overseas to special economic zones that are, in everything but name, slave camps.
I welcome our Chinese masters, and greet them cordially by saying Ni-Hao-Ma. As a Son of the American Revolution and a descendant of the Mayflower Pilgrims, my blood runs deep in this land. However, I am not blindly patriotic, nor am I inextricably tied to our prevailing economic model, Me-First Capitalism. In fact, I find our prevailing economic model – in which the fruits of the labor of an entire people are re-directed into the a pockets of but a few corporate officers – deeply and intrinsically un-American. I am personally boycotting dollar stores (and, by extension, Walmart, Target, and the rest of the big-box stores), not to harm the Chinese economy but in quiet mourning for our lost manufacturing economy. Join me if you wish, but know that this choice requires paying a bit more money for everyday goods, a sacrifice that rewards itself with feelings of pride and patriotic fervor. Remember – if you aren't buying products made exclusively in the U.S.A, you are party responsible for the gutting of the American manufacturing economy, for the demise of our middle class, for our slipping military hegemony, and for the Chinese government continuing to purchase significant portions of our national debt. In the long run, shopping at dollar stores will not have a positive economic impact on your personal finances, but it will certainly boost the profits of the plutocrats who sold us out to the commies. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
19 December 2012
on graffitos' patroness
For all of their differences in style of clothing, method of address, performance under fire, gait while walking, and ability to tolerate bullshit, street artists share one thing in common: a life-long love for the dandelion (and for kicking off their white, fluffy, puff-ball-like heads). As an individual who spends his time altering the appearance of things that everyone else seems to be ignoring, the graffiti-writer will – should the opportunity present itself – run wildly into a field of dandelions just to decapitate as many of them as he can, as quickly as possible. The dandelion requires just this sort of action to deliver her seeds to the Shifting Winds of Fortune; she gains of the graffito's destructive tendencies; thus, she is his goddess, his flower-patroness.
場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit
Beyond the symbiotic interdependency of dandelion with graffito, the two also share other traits, albeit ones perhaps less obvious to the casual observer. Both are loathed by the population in general, the flower for its tendency to grow nearly anywhere regardless of efforts to keep it out, the artist for his tendency to access most any imaginable surface – regardless of perimeter fencing, guard, closed-circuit television camera, or watchdog. Both are loved by a small but growing group that keeps its opinions to itself and enjoys beauty wherever beauty should arise. Dandelions grow in neglected, contaminated, and otherwise ignored places (gutters, trash heaps, empty lots) where little else can gain foothold; street art is applied to neglected, contaminated, and otherwise ignored places (alleyways, abandoned buildings, concrete highway embankments) where few people venture. Cities hire squads of individuals, outfit them with brushes and paint-buckets, and send them out to paint over great patches of well-executed works of art, thus providing the graffito with fresh canvas upon which to erect new works and encouraging him to pursue his Happiness upon surfaces always harder and as a rule more dangerous to reach. Cities treat the dandelion similarly: it is sprayed with poison, assaulted with shovels, dug under the soil, weeded, treated, and burned, all to little avail - a cheerful and resilient little blossom, it will re-appear during the next growing season in larger numbers and with deeper and more tenacious roots.
It is as hard to catch a vandal in the act of applying his craft as it is to catch a dandelion in the act of colonizing new terrain. Both street art and dandelions improve the human condition freely and without ado, bringing beauty to the world without seeking thanks or a by-your-leave. Street art covers and enlivens surfaces that just a day before had been blank concrete walls, and dandelions appear just as suddenly, shining yellow faces enlivening lawns that just a day before had been mono-cultured swaths of grass devoid of Nature's abundance. We, the Self Directed Urban Beautification Specialists (SDUBS) of America, ask the inhabitants of Terra to search for beauty in all places, to pursue Happiness with us by blanketing the urban and the natural environments with bright and vibrant colors, to rejoice in the sudden appearance of beauty in places forgotten and forlorn, and to remember to honor our common goddess, the dandelion, by kicking as many of her puff-balls as we possible can. Stay on your toes out there, dear friend, and may you be filled always with divine breath.
It is as hard to catch a vandal in the act of applying his craft as it is to catch a dandelion in the act of colonizing new terrain. Both street art and dandelions improve the human condition freely and without ado, bringing beauty to the world without seeking thanks or a by-your-leave. Street art covers and enlivens surfaces that just a day before had been blank concrete walls, and dandelions appear just as suddenly, shining yellow faces enlivening lawns that just a day before had been mono-cultured swaths of grass devoid of Nature's abundance. We, the Self Directed Urban Beautification Specialists (SDUBS) of America, ask the inhabitants of Terra to search for beauty in all places, to pursue Happiness with us by blanketing the urban and the natural environments with bright and vibrant colors, to rejoice in the sudden appearance of beauty in places forgotten and forlorn, and to remember to honor our common goddess, the dandelion, by kicking as many of her puff-balls as we possible can. Stay on your toes out there, dear friend, and may you be filled always with divine breath.
場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit
17 December 2012
on breaking routine II
As with most things in life, one's daily routines become boring and nasty if allowed to calcify due to too much repetition and too little critical self-examination. Let us take, for example, writing, which this poor whorphan has been doing six mornings a week for the past six months, a routine which, due to extenuating circumstance, was shattered last week. Instead of writing in the mornings after having worked for an hour in the yard and eaten a light breakfast, this worthless author spent that time performing yard work at someone else's house, whereupon he would bicycle over to his seasonal job and work there until evening.
After returning home from his paying job well after dark, he would feed himself again, stoke a wood-fire, and spin up his netbook, finally getting around to his daily EBOS, or Entire Battery Operating Session, nearly twelve hours late. (EBOS generally lasts two hours.) Creativity, however, is a different animal at night than it is in the morning – the brain's chemistry does not work the same after a full day's work as it does after an hour out in the pre-dawn cold sawing wood with an authentic Swedish military handsaw.
And now, the same persons who were paying this mendicant to do their yard work have decided to skip town for a few days and have him watch their dog, a neurotic bitch whose primary redeeming factor is that she likes to go for long walks. Walking the dog is no problem; doing yard work is no problem; but staying at their house for five days while they go on a cat-sitting staycation at their son's house an hour away puts him, this author, within arm's reach of all the sweets and other goodies that elderly persons like to keep on hand. And so this greedy fucker's stomach is in knots because he ate a pound of York peppermint patties last night while lying on the couch and drinking one can of ginger ale after the next, to excess. Such behavior concerns the responsible part of whorphan's soul because eating massive quantities of sugar bodes ill for the digestive tract, for the kidneys and liver, and for his ability to lead a life devoid of the sugar disease. He likes to stay at home – even though it is cold enough there that he must at times don a pair of long-johns – because, at home, his food stores are limited and he does not have quick access to nearly limitless quantities of candies, sweets, snacks, or pre-made foodstuffs. Discipline is not his strong suite, and so he keeps himself on track by avoiding temptation altogether and sticking to routine, which, of late, has been far easier said than done. Sigh.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
After returning home from his paying job well after dark, he would feed himself again, stoke a wood-fire, and spin up his netbook, finally getting around to his daily EBOS, or Entire Battery Operating Session, nearly twelve hours late. (EBOS generally lasts two hours.) Creativity, however, is a different animal at night than it is in the morning – the brain's chemistry does not work the same after a full day's work as it does after an hour out in the pre-dawn cold sawing wood with an authentic Swedish military handsaw.
And now, the same persons who were paying this mendicant to do their yard work have decided to skip town for a few days and have him watch their dog, a neurotic bitch whose primary redeeming factor is that she likes to go for long walks. Walking the dog is no problem; doing yard work is no problem; but staying at their house for five days while they go on a cat-sitting staycation at their son's house an hour away puts him, this author, within arm's reach of all the sweets and other goodies that elderly persons like to keep on hand. And so this greedy fucker's stomach is in knots because he ate a pound of York peppermint patties last night while lying on the couch and drinking one can of ginger ale after the next, to excess. Such behavior concerns the responsible part of whorphan's soul because eating massive quantities of sugar bodes ill for the digestive tract, for the kidneys and liver, and for his ability to lead a life devoid of the sugar disease. He likes to stay at home – even though it is cold enough there that he must at times don a pair of long-johns – because, at home, his food stores are limited and he does not have quick access to nearly limitless quantities of candies, sweets, snacks, or pre-made foodstuffs. Discipline is not his strong suite, and so he keeps himself on track by avoiding temptation altogether and sticking to routine, which, of late, has been far easier said than done. Sigh.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
14 December 2012
the accusative you
A specter is haunting the tongue of the modern English speaker – that shadowy, pervasive, accusative You! Upon listening closely to how people speak – especially to persons who are inebriated, or speaking passionately – one will soon understand I am talking about. And if one should find oneself being interviewed or facing the opportunity of speaking on a topic with which one is familiar, the first thing one is likely to do is to begin using You in the accusative form. (I do not even know if the usage to which I refer is called the accusative, but I think it sounds best.) What the deuce am I talking about? Well, here goes.
Imagine a friend is talking about a driver who cut him off while he had been driving home from work. “Why the fuck did you do that!” he will likely scream, his hands thrusting forward in supplicating fashion, his shoulders hunched and his eyebrows climbing. “How could you be so stupid as to pull out in front of me when I clearly had the right of way and too much momentum to stop within a safe distance?” In all likelihood, he will be making eye-contact with and pointing to the person to whom he is speaking, even though that person neither cut him off nor compelled the offender – the third party – to pull out in front of him. More likely than not, this agitated friend will proceed to draw analogies to other instances in the recent past when he felt slighted, offended, overlooked, or wronged; he will begin to whine about this policy decision or that stupid regulation, saying things such as “Why would you build a road here when over there is better” or “You're not going to get those guys to end their uranium enrichment program using sanctions alone.” And all this time, there will be a tiny little voice sounding in the head of the person listening patiently to his friend – less a voice, actually, than a deep, subconscious Knowing – that wants to grab the friend by the scruff of his neck, shake him, and say to him, “You fucking asshole! I didn't do these things – I didn't cut you off or enrich that uranium or pass that bill or tell that girl to dump you! Yes, yes, I know that you – and I'm talking to you directly, not to a fictitious third party who cannot hear you speaking – I know that you are talking about someone else, and I know that I'm supposed to understand this and not take your accusative tone and pointing fingers and rising anger personally, that I am supposed to remember that you use You when talking about Them even though you should be using They, Them, of Those Guys. Deep down, I know these things, but still, bro, come on, be disciplined when speaking.”
Yes, discipline – discipline is what is lacking in our society, as well as the patience to choose our words carefully and to think before we speak. It is not hard to acquire these things: all it takes is a bit less time spent watching television and a bit more time – starting with fifteen minutes each day – spent reading something such as The Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White. (This book is available in any public library worth its salt.) I am convinced that the surest way to mend the tattered remnants of fair Liberty's cloak, that the quickest way to regain mutual respect for one other, is to stop using the accusative You when we are speaking about people who are not present. For too long have we unwittingly taken responsibility for the actions of other people; for too long have we unknowingly allowed ourselves to be blamed for the shortcomings, failures, and mistakes of people we have likely never met. Speech is one of our most powerful weapons; words are weightier than the sharpest sword; and the sooner we learn to use these tools wisely, the better off we all shall be. Check your tongue and mark my writing, or all too soon we're back to fighting. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
Imagine a friend is talking about a driver who cut him off while he had been driving home from work. “Why the fuck did you do that!” he will likely scream, his hands thrusting forward in supplicating fashion, his shoulders hunched and his eyebrows climbing. “How could you be so stupid as to pull out in front of me when I clearly had the right of way and too much momentum to stop within a safe distance?” In all likelihood, he will be making eye-contact with and pointing to the person to whom he is speaking, even though that person neither cut him off nor compelled the offender – the third party – to pull out in front of him. More likely than not, this agitated friend will proceed to draw analogies to other instances in the recent past when he felt slighted, offended, overlooked, or wronged; he will begin to whine about this policy decision or that stupid regulation, saying things such as “Why would you build a road here when over there is better” or “You're not going to get those guys to end their uranium enrichment program using sanctions alone.” And all this time, there will be a tiny little voice sounding in the head of the person listening patiently to his friend – less a voice, actually, than a deep, subconscious Knowing – that wants to grab the friend by the scruff of his neck, shake him, and say to him, “You fucking asshole! I didn't do these things – I didn't cut you off or enrich that uranium or pass that bill or tell that girl to dump you! Yes, yes, I know that you – and I'm talking to you directly, not to a fictitious third party who cannot hear you speaking – I know that you are talking about someone else, and I know that I'm supposed to understand this and not take your accusative tone and pointing fingers and rising anger personally, that I am supposed to remember that you use You when talking about Them even though you should be using They, Them, of Those Guys. Deep down, I know these things, but still, bro, come on, be disciplined when speaking.”
Yes, discipline – discipline is what is lacking in our society, as well as the patience to choose our words carefully and to think before we speak. It is not hard to acquire these things: all it takes is a bit less time spent watching television and a bit more time – starting with fifteen minutes each day – spent reading something such as The Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White. (This book is available in any public library worth its salt.) I am convinced that the surest way to mend the tattered remnants of fair Liberty's cloak, that the quickest way to regain mutual respect for one other, is to stop using the accusative You when we are speaking about people who are not present. For too long have we unwittingly taken responsibility for the actions of other people; for too long have we unknowingly allowed ourselves to be blamed for the shortcomings, failures, and mistakes of people we have likely never met. Speech is one of our most powerful weapons; words are weightier than the sharpest sword; and the sooner we learn to use these tools wisely, the better off we all shall be. Check your tongue and mark my writing, or all too soon we're back to fighting. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
12 December 2012
on self education
The modus operandi of many Americans I meet seems to be one of prideful ignorance. Rather than keeping their mouths shut on topics about which they know nothing, they will loudly proclaim their lack of knowledge and attempt to reduce their self-inflicted embarrassment by making eye contact with everyone present while laughing too hard and for too long. On the one hand, this destroys the flow of conversation amongst people-in-the-know; on the other hand, though, in some cases the ignorant party can learn something so that next time he might be a bit less clueless. (I believe that the 24-hour news cycle and its endless array of body-less blabbermouths has helped to convince people in this society that constant talking is a good thing; it is not, as it all too often keeps the mind from figuring things out, on its own, in peaceful contemplation.)
And yet here I sit, in this cold but sunny room, contributing to society's messiness by lamenting the fact that other people lament their lack of knowledge. What a confused mind I have, and what a high horse I ride. No amount of writing or blogging will change peoples' behavior; they do what they think is best for themselves because that is what everyone else is doing and if they don't, they feel like they might be missing out. And what, really, is the harm in someone voicing their curiosity and showing interest in things foreign to them, and strange? Perhaps they do it to stroke the egos of the people who have already taken the time to educate themselves about topics not directly related to their daily doings.
A few days ago, some graffiti came through on the tumblrbot, an image of a saying sprayed neatly onto a wall, which was: silence is better than bullshit. This is a simple yet powerful lesson. Over the last few months, I have attempted often to stick to this rule, only to fail in my effort to mind my own affairs when asked by other people what it is I do for a living, how my siblings are, or why I tie one of my pants-legs back with an reflective elastic cuff. Sometimes, I manage to keep quiet, but other times I let the words flow only to find myself saying more than I wanted to say and wishing that I were not expected to reveal the details of my personal business. In contemporary American society, individuals who sit quietly while in the company of others, who avoid constantly spilling their guts or gleefully joining in the boorish fun of tearing apart anything that anyone else says or does or implies, these persons are viewed as strange; they are soon avoided, mocked, and ostracized; they are, however, the very individuals who understand the crucial importance of inner peace and spiritual contentedness, who are continuously jettisoning extraneous belongings, feelings of honor or pride, and letting go of the last vestiges of this passings world. With that, I shall, for now, merge back into silence, and cease with this bullshit. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
And yet here I sit, in this cold but sunny room, contributing to society's messiness by lamenting the fact that other people lament their lack of knowledge. What a confused mind I have, and what a high horse I ride. No amount of writing or blogging will change peoples' behavior; they do what they think is best for themselves because that is what everyone else is doing and if they don't, they feel like they might be missing out. And what, really, is the harm in someone voicing their curiosity and showing interest in things foreign to them, and strange? Perhaps they do it to stroke the egos of the people who have already taken the time to educate themselves about topics not directly related to their daily doings.
A few days ago, some graffiti came through on the tumblrbot, an image of a saying sprayed neatly onto a wall, which was: silence is better than bullshit. This is a simple yet powerful lesson. Over the last few months, I have attempted often to stick to this rule, only to fail in my effort to mind my own affairs when asked by other people what it is I do for a living, how my siblings are, or why I tie one of my pants-legs back with an reflective elastic cuff. Sometimes, I manage to keep quiet, but other times I let the words flow only to find myself saying more than I wanted to say and wishing that I were not expected to reveal the details of my personal business. In contemporary American society, individuals who sit quietly while in the company of others, who avoid constantly spilling their guts or gleefully joining in the boorish fun of tearing apart anything that anyone else says or does or implies, these persons are viewed as strange; they are soon avoided, mocked, and ostracized; they are, however, the very individuals who understand the crucial importance of inner peace and spiritual contentedness, who are continuously jettisoning extraneous belongings, feelings of honor or pride, and letting go of the last vestiges of this passings world. With that, I shall, for now, merge back into silence, and cease with this bullshit. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
10 December 2012
on slaying buffers
In my experience, among the most surefire ways to ruin something is to speak about it. Over the past several months, I have been instituting certain changes to my long-standing routines, adjusting quantities and methods of food intake, modes of transportation, views on sleep, frequency of spending time with others, and attitudes toward small-talk and similar forms of casual conversation. Along the way, I keep running into brick walls put up – I suspect – by the various strata of my ego. To a degree, I recognize these buffers as screens I had erected in the past to try to protect myself from or provide treatment for emotional damage. (True to the nature of such things, these buffers now cause more harm than good, instead of lessening past hurt increasing present confusion and frustration.) Curiously enough, I can sometimes remember vividly the reason and justification for having erected a barrier, the moment it went up solidly embedded in deep memory, tactile, olfactory, and auditory sensations flooding back to transport me all but bodily to the situation in which I had been injured originally.
At times, these sensations are so strong that I find myself re-justifying the buffers' existence, convincing myself anew that they must stay in place, that the potential for additional damage resulting from their removal would be greater than the benefits gained from taking them down. Sometimes, I allow the ego that rules a given buffer to keep it in place; other times, I am able to widen the cracks that have been made in my emotional Maginot Line by time and shifting circumstance and sidestep the now-superfluous protections or even break them down fully, states of mind long kept dormant coming quickly back to life in the sudden brilliance of unbuffered exposure to life's perpetual risks. As far as examples of these barriers go, my often excessive and usually compulsive consumption of food is more serious and frequent than the rest. If I am not careful, I will overeat, become too full to think clearly, and punish myself for hours – silently and continuously – for not only consuming more than my allotted daily ration of, say, oatmeal, but also for giving in to the urge to do so. The very act of over-consuming seems to serve as a buffer against subtle, massive emotional states that then tend to recede back into the shadows once I surrender to the urge to feed
What all of this building up and tearing down of buffers comes down to, I think, is a propensity for self-abuse that more often than not originates in the act of consuming substances in hopes that they will change the modes and frequencies of my thinking: imagining that things will be better after a few beers, alcohol only makes me sad and robs me of the ability to control my destiny; hoping that the tricky leaf will change the contours of my soul forever, it instead tethers me for but a few hours to an artificial view of things, after which I find myself justifying bad behaviors such as overeating and sloth with greater ease and less consternation. In all, I find that my recent attempts to lead a more productive and healthy life have been bearing fruit, although I'm not quite sure how long this period of fluctuation normally lasts. As it goes with most such things, I suspect my ability to control my own actions will wax and wane as my behaviors settle into their new channels and I – at some point, somehow – dedicate myself fully to a happy life devoid of selfishness, discontentment, and desire. Until then I shall try to adhere to the lessons of Ana Forrest, who urges us to replace admonition with acceptance, self-loathing with self-love, and the damaging behaviors with ones that bring us comfort, and joy. Onward, then, and tally-ho. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
At times, these sensations are so strong that I find myself re-justifying the buffers' existence, convincing myself anew that they must stay in place, that the potential for additional damage resulting from their removal would be greater than the benefits gained from taking them down. Sometimes, I allow the ego that rules a given buffer to keep it in place; other times, I am able to widen the cracks that have been made in my emotional Maginot Line by time and shifting circumstance and sidestep the now-superfluous protections or even break them down fully, states of mind long kept dormant coming quickly back to life in the sudden brilliance of unbuffered exposure to life's perpetual risks. As far as examples of these barriers go, my often excessive and usually compulsive consumption of food is more serious and frequent than the rest. If I am not careful, I will overeat, become too full to think clearly, and punish myself for hours – silently and continuously – for not only consuming more than my allotted daily ration of, say, oatmeal, but also for giving in to the urge to do so. The very act of over-consuming seems to serve as a buffer against subtle, massive emotional states that then tend to recede back into the shadows once I surrender to the urge to feed
What all of this building up and tearing down of buffers comes down to, I think, is a propensity for self-abuse that more often than not originates in the act of consuming substances in hopes that they will change the modes and frequencies of my thinking: imagining that things will be better after a few beers, alcohol only makes me sad and robs me of the ability to control my destiny; hoping that the tricky leaf will change the contours of my soul forever, it instead tethers me for but a few hours to an artificial view of things, after which I find myself justifying bad behaviors such as overeating and sloth with greater ease and less consternation. In all, I find that my recent attempts to lead a more productive and healthy life have been bearing fruit, although I'm not quite sure how long this period of fluctuation normally lasts. As it goes with most such things, I suspect my ability to control my own actions will wax and wane as my behaviors settle into their new channels and I – at some point, somehow – dedicate myself fully to a happy life devoid of selfishness, discontentment, and desire. Until then I shall try to adhere to the lessons of Ana Forrest, who urges us to replace admonition with acceptance, self-loathing with self-love, and the damaging behaviors with ones that bring us comfort, and joy. Onward, then, and tally-ho. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
07 December 2012
front yard manger
As soon as my neighbors had taken down their cheap, little Chinese-made flag sets showing pumpkins and corn, scarecrows and bounty, mangers began to appear. Some were outlines of figures cut from plywood and painted a uniform color, mostly white; others were elaborate scenes with electric lighting, hovering angels, quality clothes on life-like figures, and real hay strewn about. As I am no longer a Christian but was raised by a pair of them, one of whom was clergy, I know that there are at least four different tellings of Jesus' birth myth, each one wholly different from the next, each one with different players, places, and progressions. I also know that some of the stories don't mention a manger at all and that others don't speak of beasts of burden, that, in general, there is in fact little uniformity and therefore much room for interpretation most everywhere one might care to look in the Christians' bible.
What I struggle to understand is why people feel the need to haul a bunch of props out of storage and hammer them into their lawns, year after year, time and time again, and why they then read the same stories over and over, boredom and mischief spreading like wildfire amongst any assembled youth, the lack of personal progress or group ingenuity glaring and obvious to anyone who might care to see it. We Americans go to market and buy fresh fruits and vegetables to eat, not old and stale ones; we overhaul and streamline our business processes constantly, allowing exhausted methods and worn-out ideas to fade into obscurity so that better ones might take their place; and yet we cling to highly stylized and professionally-commercialized versions of a religion that – due to its inherent absurdity and tendency to promote mistrust for and violence against All Things Strange or Unusual – should have been jettisoned from the annals of history during our all-too-short Age Of Enlightenment. The lessons of that age, however, appear to have been fallen before the idea that we are to search for salvation in the mouths of our preachers rather than in the stillness that comes when the animal and the human spirits are unified within.
The people who erect elaborate mangers depicting mythical scenes from the brutal past (young Mary and her husband Joseph were, after all, fleeing systematic infanticide) probably think of themselves as good Christians. In reality, however they rely heavily on the magic of modern technology for much of their comfort and success, on telephones and motor-vehicles, on paved roads and postal services, on well-pumps and central heating, on electrical lighting and printed books, on Constitutions and charters, and on no one else reminding them of the hypocrisy of their living fat and happy lives in air- and rain-tight houses with a car for each inhabitant parked in the driveway while most people on Earth shiver and starve. At least some neighbors merely staple yard upon blinking yard of seizure-inducing lights to their homes' gables and window-frames without making any sort of religious statement, wasting the output of coal-fired electrical plants on garish light-shows, pouring out our precious fossil resources merely on secular, non-partisan attempts to celebrate this, the Season of Excess. I, for one, shall refrain from celebrating an unassisted birth held in a grimy sty, and stick to bitching about those persons who do. Oh, brother, how stupid can I be. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
What I struggle to understand is why people feel the need to haul a bunch of props out of storage and hammer them into their lawns, year after year, time and time again, and why they then read the same stories over and over, boredom and mischief spreading like wildfire amongst any assembled youth, the lack of personal progress or group ingenuity glaring and obvious to anyone who might care to see it. We Americans go to market and buy fresh fruits and vegetables to eat, not old and stale ones; we overhaul and streamline our business processes constantly, allowing exhausted methods and worn-out ideas to fade into obscurity so that better ones might take their place; and yet we cling to highly stylized and professionally-commercialized versions of a religion that – due to its inherent absurdity and tendency to promote mistrust for and violence against All Things Strange or Unusual – should have been jettisoned from the annals of history during our all-too-short Age Of Enlightenment. The lessons of that age, however, appear to have been fallen before the idea that we are to search for salvation in the mouths of our preachers rather than in the stillness that comes when the animal and the human spirits are unified within.
The people who erect elaborate mangers depicting mythical scenes from the brutal past (young Mary and her husband Joseph were, after all, fleeing systematic infanticide) probably think of themselves as good Christians. In reality, however they rely heavily on the magic of modern technology for much of their comfort and success, on telephones and motor-vehicles, on paved roads and postal services, on well-pumps and central heating, on electrical lighting and printed books, on Constitutions and charters, and on no one else reminding them of the hypocrisy of their living fat and happy lives in air- and rain-tight houses with a car for each inhabitant parked in the driveway while most people on Earth shiver and starve. At least some neighbors merely staple yard upon blinking yard of seizure-inducing lights to their homes' gables and window-frames without making any sort of religious statement, wasting the output of coal-fired electrical plants on garish light-shows, pouring out our precious fossil resources merely on secular, non-partisan attempts to celebrate this, the Season of Excess. I, for one, shall refrain from celebrating an unassisted birth held in a grimy sty, and stick to bitching about those persons who do. Oh, brother, how stupid can I be. Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
05 December 2012
on cleaning clothes
I no longer use a washing-machine powered by electricity. Instead, I have developed a series of buckets in which I clean my clothes, a system that works fairly well. To start, I fill up an old cat litter bucket – one that is clean, squat, and wider than the average contractor's bucket – with the clothes I wish to wash, a dollop of detergent, and water. Usually, I allow this brew to sit for many hours out on the deck so that the soap and water can impregnate the fibers and make cleaning easier. Such long soakings (which make up phase 1) work fine in summer; in winter, however, they find me cleaning my clothes in the evenings, the cold and the dark conspiring with the dirty, frigid water in which my garments have been sitting to make for a miserable task. Now, I process a load in one go, the wash and the rinse cycles following one another closely rather than being spaced out over an entire day.
I agitate the clothes in the squat bucket by poking one side down with a long bamboo pole (a broomstick will also work during this, phase 2), forcing the items down on one side, which pushes them up on the other and allows me to mash the garments thoroughly. After I see a particular shirt or item for the third or fourth time, I put aside my stick and drop a skinnier bucket into the squat one (skinnier in that its bottom goes all the way down to the bottom of the wider bucket), this one with many holes drilled into its bottom and sides. I sit on the top of the skinner bucket, thus forcing the water from the clothes using my own weight. Once I am satisfied with this rudimentary straining, I take the skinnier bucket back out and resume poking at the clothes with my poker, rotating them around and around until they seem well agitated. (The water at this point will be oily, brownish, and filled with tiny particles of sweat, skin, and dirt.) I usually agitate and strain at least three times before dumping out what water I can and moving on to phase 3.
Phase 3 involves putting the skinnier bucket back into the squat bucket but then flipping both over together so that the water runs out. Then, I sit on the bottom of the squat bucket, using my own weight to strain the clothes against the skinnier bucket (which, again, has holes drilled into its bottom and sides). This forces much of the remaining water out of the clothes; I get even more out by rocking back and forth and by shifting position on the bottom of the squat bucket, which allows trapped pockets of water to escape onto the wooden deck, which must be swept off afterward to keep it from rotting quite so quickly. I generally give the clothes a visual check at this point, and a close smelling, to see if they need a third rinse or if the are clean enough to move on to phase 4. This last phase involves taking the wet items from the squat bucket and hanging them up to dry on my clothes-spider, a retractable hanger that perches at the edge of the deck far enough from the house so that the water dripping from the clothes does not seep into the foundation or moisten the siding. I usually leave the clothes there to drip their remaining moisture onto the grass; if I am lucky, they get an additional from the rain. Once the clothes are mostly dry, I move them to lines under the roof of the upper, front porch, where they are allowed to dry fully before being taken in, folded, and put away.
Cleaning clothes in the manner described above takes more time than with an electrical washing-machine; it uses virtually no electricity, however, it is all but silent, and it provides the washer with a good upper-body workout. The cost for the buckets, soap, and poker is less than $20, but the ability to wash one's clothes – without electricity or undue physical strain – is nearly priceless. Regain a slice of independence through honest effort! Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
I agitate the clothes in the squat bucket by poking one side down with a long bamboo pole (a broomstick will also work during this, phase 2), forcing the items down on one side, which pushes them up on the other and allows me to mash the garments thoroughly. After I see a particular shirt or item for the third or fourth time, I put aside my stick and drop a skinnier bucket into the squat one (skinnier in that its bottom goes all the way down to the bottom of the wider bucket), this one with many holes drilled into its bottom and sides. I sit on the top of the skinner bucket, thus forcing the water from the clothes using my own weight. Once I am satisfied with this rudimentary straining, I take the skinnier bucket back out and resume poking at the clothes with my poker, rotating them around and around until they seem well agitated. (The water at this point will be oily, brownish, and filled with tiny particles of sweat, skin, and dirt.) I usually agitate and strain at least three times before dumping out what water I can and moving on to phase 3.
Phase 3 involves putting the skinnier bucket back into the squat bucket but then flipping both over together so that the water runs out. Then, I sit on the bottom of the squat bucket, using my own weight to strain the clothes against the skinnier bucket (which, again, has holes drilled into its bottom and sides). This forces much of the remaining water out of the clothes; I get even more out by rocking back and forth and by shifting position on the bottom of the squat bucket, which allows trapped pockets of water to escape onto the wooden deck, which must be swept off afterward to keep it from rotting quite so quickly. I generally give the clothes a visual check at this point, and a close smelling, to see if they need a third rinse or if the are clean enough to move on to phase 4. This last phase involves taking the wet items from the squat bucket and hanging them up to dry on my clothes-spider, a retractable hanger that perches at the edge of the deck far enough from the house so that the water dripping from the clothes does not seep into the foundation or moisten the siding. I usually leave the clothes there to drip their remaining moisture onto the grass; if I am lucky, they get an additional from the rain. Once the clothes are mostly dry, I move them to lines under the roof of the upper, front porch, where they are allowed to dry fully before being taken in, folded, and put away.
Cleaning clothes in the manner described above takes more time than with an electrical washing-machine; it uses virtually no electricity, however, it is all but silent, and it provides the washer with a good upper-body workout. The cost for the buckets, soap, and poker is less than $20, but the ability to wash one's clothes – without electricity or undue physical strain – is nearly priceless. Regain a slice of independence through honest effort! Mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
03 December 2012
a bodily apology
I apologize to my body for the harm I caused it last night. Ignoring the consequences of swilling whiskey directly from a plastic bottle and sacrificing an entire Sunday's productivity and happiness for a few short hours of booze-addled fun, I sit here now, today, in a cold but sunny room, trying to write through a cloudy mind and a thumping heart. My dear kidneys, my beloved liver, my darling lymphatic system, I am sorry for what I have done; I shall not drink to excess again anytime soon.
It was only a few years ago that I did this regularly, that I would spend a majority of nights swimming in a bottle and a majority of days lost among the consequences. How did I manage to have survived that time? How did I allow myself to surrender so fully to the tractor-beam of that foul tincture that is the Sauce? Such is my confusion today that I cannot even think of something worthwhile to write about; such is my worthlessness that I have resorted to musing about a hangover instead of addressing a tougher and meatier issue. On an average day, my writing casts few ripples; instead of having an impact, it sits ignored and passed over on a poorly-named and foolish blog, the fruits of my labor unremunerated, unseen, unimportant. Today, however, I am happy that only a handful of people read these words; this time, my prose is so useless that I debate even soiling my already-tarnished image with this short and fault-ridden content.
Fortunately, however, it is now Monday, and this mortal coil has had a change to rest and recuperate. The ill effects of Saturday night's debauchery have fled before the combined onslaught of a thick fall stew, copious amounts of fluids, and an early bedtime. Oh, if my friends' drug of choice were something other than booze, and if I had but the willpower to say No, sooner, who knows – I might have actually done some good on my one, free day. Oh well; mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
It was only a few years ago that I did this regularly, that I would spend a majority of nights swimming in a bottle and a majority of days lost among the consequences. How did I manage to have survived that time? How did I allow myself to surrender so fully to the tractor-beam of that foul tincture that is the Sauce? Such is my confusion today that I cannot even think of something worthwhile to write about; such is my worthlessness that I have resorted to musing about a hangover instead of addressing a tougher and meatier issue. On an average day, my writing casts few ripples; instead of having an impact, it sits ignored and passed over on a poorly-named and foolish blog, the fruits of my labor unremunerated, unseen, unimportant. Today, however, I am happy that only a handful of people read these words; this time, my prose is so useless that I debate even soiling my already-tarnished image with this short and fault-ridden content.
Fortunately, however, it is now Monday, and this mortal coil has had a change to rest and recuperate. The ill effects of Saturday night's debauchery have fled before the combined onslaught of a thick fall stew, copious amounts of fluids, and an early bedtime. Oh, if my friends' drug of choice were something other than booze, and if I had but the willpower to say No, sooner, who knows – I might have actually done some good on my one, free day. Oh well; mahalo.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
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