Hopeless

A few years ago, I was able to visit Yankee Stadium, before it became the overpriced collection of luxury boxes that it is today.  And when there, you have to experience certain things.  You go to the back of the park and you meander around the monuments.  You get as close to touching the field as possible.  And you enjoy a New York hotdog, Kosher if you prefer, in what was one of baseball’s last true sanctuaries.  After completing the checklist, I wandered back toward my seat, passing, as it seemed, dozens of gates to various sections of the park.  And inside one of the gates, I saw something that I had never seen before, and most likely will never see again.  Inside a little tomb-sized corridor around the 3^rd baseline, a handful of fully robed monks kneeled in prayer for their beloved pin-stripe crusaders.  They adjourned with an “Amen,” and a smattering of high-fives, before pulling their robes back and descending the stairs to their seats. 

I tell this story not to romanticize the game that I love – it is romantic enough, I believe.  I tell this story to ask, quite seriously, what faith’s role should be in our lives.  As I mentioned in my last theologically themed post “Godless,” I have some considerable problems with the tradition of prayer and where it belongs.  Let us delve into some more suggestive skepticism. 

I have no issue with prayer itself, or the confession of one’s “sins” or faults, and I encourage all of those whose lives are filled with faith to pray to whomever they see fit.  My beliefs tend to consider it a lost art.  And as I mentioned before, I find it selfish to expect the leader of the universe to concentrate on my problems that admittedly play no part in the global balance.  But a priest will tell you otherwise, a rabbi or a minister, and I have no credentials to argue with their opinions of the act.  But I do find the role of faith to be contradictory, at best, in the lives of some people who seem to focus soundly on it’s glow.

For example, Terry Schiavo, who I hope you remember from the news, was a case of a vegetated woman and a man who felt desire to move on with his life.  She could not recover, the doctors deemed it so, and yet the aspect of faith helped to keep her on assisted living equipment for many years after her accident.  God would take her when it was her time, or would heal her in a miraculous moment, or so the argument became from right-wing punditry and panelists, and “do-gooders” of the faith.  But if this whole woman’s life balanced on the idea of faith, the idea of a hand reaching down to determine her fate, then why did they ever bother to save her in the first place?  Why were machines used to keep her alive?  Why were meds administered daily?  And where, when all is said and done, does faith really lie in matters of health concern, injury, or death? 

There are people in the world that don’t believe in medical advancement, and would never dream to use it to save themselves from even the worst possibilities of death.  To be honest, I admire them, and their commitment to their faith.  Meanwhile, the majority of our society would beg to argue that God gave us these developments as a gift to preserve more human lives.  This is, again, a compelling argument.  But I further this idea by suggesting that God gave us many developments, including the element of personal choice, and yet some we deem as good ideas, others become bad.  The choice to pull Ms. Schiavo’s plug could be seen as a gift from God.  This is never the argument.  No, such choices will be seen as the outcome of Eve’s failure in the Garden of Eden, the loss of paradise, and the rise of evil in all choices of our lives.  And yet again, the fight between logic and faith begins to show its teeth, and most of us remain on the sidelines.

A friend of mine, who is now a tremendously outspoken follower of all things Christ, tried to explain to me the role of facts in comparison to faith.  To paraphrase slightly, (my memory is at its worst, it seems,) he told me that sometimes facts have to take a backseat to faith, which is the highest truth of them all.  At the time I took it as a quite profound statement, but he scurried out the door before I realized how ridiculous it really was.  I can believe the sky is red – shout it from every single mountain – but the fact remains that on the finest days of spring and fall alike, the sky will always be its most distinct shade of baby blue.  And where education is encouraging us to answer all of the unanswered, I find it almost insulting that religion remains consistent in their solution: If you don’t know the answer…God did it.

For all the cracks that science is trying to figure out, our religious institutions have already filled them with their own thick compound of theological concrete: God.  And how does this challenge us as intelligent beings to understand how the world works?  It doesn’t.  And in matters of evolution, which still has its detractors, why is it so hard to say, “This is a product of God.  So the Bible was a metaphor, full of wonderful parables for life, but the facts are here and solid, and evolution is for real.  But evolution came from somewhere.  And I’ll believe it came from God.”  This is rarely a theory from anyone, from either side of the debate, and it seems like a logical one to me.   But instead, God becomes a product in too many cases, where he should be at his most important role: a beginning.  But again, it’s all my theory, and you’re more than willing to shoot it down.

And here we find ourselves overwhelmed with the miracles of faith.  People can cite faith as the reason their father made it out of the car wreck alive, or in even more trivial instances, the reason why they received an A on the last exam.  In the minds of some, it’s never a matter of medicine, practice, study, coincidence, hard work, or dare I say, luck.  It’s a miracle, or it’s due to their prayers, or the faith that they have spread through their lives.  Another friend of mine made a beautiful point about prayer and it’s overall benefit: You may be praying to nothing or no one, but the energy you’re building can’t be a bad thing.  It’s another idea to shuffle into the “I don’t know” box, but it’s also worth a thought.

A few weeks ago, I made a comment somewhere on the world wide web that suggested that atheistic athletes don’t exist.  I was happy, no, ECSTATIC, to have someone correct me with a little factoid that I had previously not known: Lance Armstrong, considered by many to be the world’s finest athlete and the pinnacle of strength, determination, and concentration, has rejected the idea of faith.  It was one tiny point in my favor when I think about the hundreds of athletes that praise God for answering their prayers in time of achievement, but never mention their disappointment in the holy spirit when they fail.  Armstong’s efforts reaffirm my notion that self-reliance is not only an option, but one that you can always be proud to practice.  God can be part of all our lives, but we must be willing to work for ourselves if we intend to strike it big.

I don’t like the compliment “Christ-follower.”  I’ve heard it used too often lately to showcase the best traits of newfound friends.  “He is a great Christ-follower.”  This shouldn’t mean anything to the majority of us, really.  This is, again, to assume that your beliefs are correct, and the only ones worth mentioning.  This also says nothing of the personality of your friend.  And far too often I find myself in the middle of God mentioning contests, where the person that relates to Christianity the most is suddenly the best example of the holy way.  I know a great many atheists who lack all forms of faith and burden themselves with less moral failures than your average “great Christ-follower.”  Does faith now determine your friendship?  Are you not allowed to open your mind?  And are all other options blasphemous in comparison to your system of beliefs?  All for faith?

The Bible’s greatest example of faith lies in the story of Abraham, asked by God to sacrifice his only son, luckily stopped right before the slaughter of Isaac.  I bring about my final point with sincerity: people hear voices every day, and I remind you that murders happen every year based on the premise of the voice that told them to do it.  Children are drown in bathtubs, spouses are stabbed through the heart, all from the notion of a voice inside their mind.  Are these matters of faith?  The Son of Sam from NYC claimed that his neighbor’s dog, (later morphed into the devil,) was telling him to kill innocent victims.  We think these people are crazy.  I don’t argue that they are.  But we admire those who hear the word of God, and often accept their words as direct corollaries of divinity.  Are schizophrenics lonely prophets?  Are men of God lying when they preach?  It seems these voices would happen for a reason – is it God?  I do not know.

I’ll finalize this lengthy argument, for your sake, and for mine.  Is faith enough to be the ship to carry your decisions?  One final point, (this time I mean it,) and I’m done: Hitler thought it was.  Faith was enough to convince him that the Jews were not fit for life, and he worshipped the same God that most of us do.  A Christian God.  The Bible’s God.  The God that shines for so many every day.  He was not a pagan, nor follower of some strained sect, but a God-fearing Christian of prototype: a believer.  And I ask you, one more time – is faith the lone consideration for your life?

The Love Song of J. Alessandro Grimm

A small boy served whole on a bed of rice,
For four star generals and Congressmen, their only vice
To descend like vultures on the flesh of a howling nymph.
I’ll take away the plates and knives,
Through a twisted tunnel of bee-hives,
Finding shelter behind a box twelve feet high,
Where I can wither up and die,
Or at least forget about the dreams that once seemed real,
Lipstick, high-heels,
And love-drunk allowances of faith,
Eventual sighs of drawn “Why not?”
And the mind begins to rot.

In the room women come and go,
Powdered noses.  Is it blow?

Someone rubs their smooth tan legs against my own,
The smooth tan legs that bend around my own,
Swallowing the space between us,
Like a black hole full of martinis.
Let’s go to a shotgun room beneath the stairs,
Someone died here once, I heard,
But that was long ago, I promise,
Now be quiet – not a word.

And indeed there is no time,
For lovesick legs that crawl beneath the table,
Rubbing against what it finds.
There is no time, there is no time
To arrange your face for the faces of the neighbors,
There is no time to drink yourself to death,
Not with tomorrow’s schedule,
That needs all of your attention without whiskey on your breath.
There’s time to fall asleep, it’s true.
And time to slaughter all your friends,
Swim to the surface, catch the bends,
And shrug as if you knew.

In the room women come and go,
Powdered noses.  Is it blow?

Then again, there is no time
To ask forgiveness, please forgive me,
Yawns at noon on a pouring Wednesday,
A knife through all the bills to pay.
[He never sees us anymore! – What is he doing in there?]
Lounging, loathing, all in underwear,
The jail-cell retreat of a slumbering bear,
That’s exactly what I’m doing in here.
Can I ask
To hold a child?
But it’s Friday, there’s no time
To be giggling and wiggling on the floor with a child.

Yet under twenty, I’ve seen what the world has to give: -
It’s the passion of people, never otherworldly powers,
That ask me to measure life in terms of awkward morning showers,
Awkward because I make it so.
My neighbors smoke cigarettes in bed.
Sometimes they think I’m dead.

But I have seen every eye there is to see -
Disappointed children, (are they dreams?) and vagrants crossing streets,
I have no change, not even pockets,
And they stab me with their raging eyes
That have abandoned all the confines of their once endearing sockets,
And I always let them win.
Sometimes they think I’m dead.

And the arms, yes arms! I know them well!
Having fallen to my sides for many years, next to my thighs,
I can say with much conviction they are only worth a strong “good-bye”
To who, I do not know.
Did I ever seem to show?
To show that I had someone to wave for, exclusively.
Or do they all think that I’m dead.
Or should I might as well be dead.

I should note, it’s not a serious thought, just a hard-boiled observation,
I’ve seen from every angered lover when I drag the smile across my teeth
That says, quite simply, did you think you could keep me forever?

I should have been an egg.
The kind you eat, not watch grow old.

And the moon seems to mock me through the broken windows,
Stroking the sides of my cheek,
Asking kindly, “Why so bleak?”
But then chortling with the sun, trading blows.
After I wipe the shame from my lonely chest,
Do I dare to grow up?  Is that best?
No one left to ask, sometimes it seems, except the record player in my dreams,
And I’ve seen my fate as the balding dictator,
I can’t help but laugh at the thought that later,
I’ll be attached to someone else.  I’ll have money in a bank.
But I’ll always hate the way teeth look when I smile.

And I can spend every waking hour
Trying to fix all the things unfixed,
And nix all the ideas gone un-nixed
But it’s easier to critique yourself,
To decide your fate without realization of health,
To make dreams that you can wrap your mitts around.
To strangle the life out of strange wishes,
To say, “I am here for more than amusement,
But for what I can not say.  I can not say.”
Go back to sleep, with morals bent,
And remember: “That’s not what I meant to say.”
“Never what I meant to say.”

Would it have been worth it, after all,
Worth the time I spend in space,
Floating circles round myself and plotting missiles to my brain,
Inside my bed, inside my oven, inside my narrow shower,
-It could be at any hour-
And it would still never make sense, inside your house, or even mine,
I leave a trail of bloody thoughts in a perfect dotted line.
Would it have been worth all my while,
To grab a phone or write a letter,
To a mystic woman of the false time,
And say, “My thoughts sounded better.”
“That not what I meant to say.”

Yes! I am a prophet! The likes of which have not been seen!
…Because I can’t prove it.  But you can’t prove I’m not.
And when found naked in the parking lot,
I have my alibi.  And the giggles.  And probably my boots.
The earth is mini
When compared to my mind
My voice is tinny
When compared to your grind.
The grind that always tells me you know what you’re doing now.

And then I rot… What a lengthy rot…
The optimistic people pleaser, like other habits, I’m now not.

Shall I jump out of the window? Can I wear flowers in my hair?
I shall ravage grey back-alleys with the vengeance of a bear.
Or will I?  There’s the giggles.  Do you even care?

I don’t think you’re supposed to care.

You have so much on your own porcelain plate
Which sits on a table far away from mine
I’ve noticed while I drink water, you drink wine.

I notice, to be honest, for I’ve been trying awfully hard
To drown myself in massive glasses, massive glasses, one by one,
But while you drink from just one glass, you also have so much more fun.

-Jericho
 

Godless

People have a love-hate relationship with questions.  In my experience, I have come to find that people are absolutely fascinated by questions that are seemingly impossible to answer: the meaning of life, the presence of a God, how life itself began, but are also incredibly hesitant to ask questions of immediate importance: how do I write off certain items on my taxes, who do I ask about how the bus system works, and what number should I dial for erectile dysfunction assistance?  To be fair, I think the last question has been adequately covered, and hopefully in the near future, we can move on.

It’s a rainy day outside, and this kind of atmosphere seems to encourage only the deepest of analytical thought, including those aforementioned impossible questions.  Recently, and for once by my own hand, I have had a great number of Christians dancing in and out my life, all of which are unique and interesting in their own way, with the patience of saints for “lost souls” like myself.  And every time we sit at a meal, or share a bench near the garden, I hope that a little bit of my curiosity rubs off on them.  Because regardless of what you think, there should always be room for questions.

To get the necessary background information out of the way, I’d like to address my current condition.  It’s a condition because it’s temporary, always subject to change, although I hope you will withhold the denotation of the word.  It’s certainly not a sickness, nor a subtle state of mind, and condition is the only word in my internal database that can cover its broad spread.  I do, indeed, despite the beliefs of my larger social circle, believe in a higher power, or a God, that deserves his well-earned props.  At the same time, I’m a deist, a vague denomination reserved for the intellectuals among us that need a cloak to hide their faith.  Jefferson, Madison, Franklin, all deists, because of the same reason that I am as well: There’s not a lot of proof to establish a God, let’s be honest, but there’s also not a lot of proof to the contrary.

So someone created the “clockmaker God,” who did his wonderful deeds millions of years ago, and now we have the responsibility of maintaining ourselves.  Evolution is a work of the original being, and we have witnessed it play out as the FACT that it is today.  Furthermore, there’s no need for prayer, because we are a self-reliant world.  Our original father gave us all the skills we need to live to some sort of potential, and we no longer have to ask for divine intervention.  Even if we did, which is what most profound Christians believe, I find it rude to burden a creator with my current problems, no matter how large they may be in my life.  The death of a loved one, the illness of a child, the desperation for something more – all may seem monumental to our lives, but to the big guy, let’s be real.  Minimal – simply minimal. 

And when I proposed such a theory to my mother, a delightful person to talk of such things with (unless you abandon the idea of a God – WATCH OUT!) she gave me a very relevant question: Why is it that patients in hospitals who receive their amount of prayers have a tendency to get better, or at least more often than others?  A potent question, no doubt.  But as a man who has abandoned miracles, I gave her a solid rebuttal: patients with windows that exhibit trees also have a tendency to get better, far quicker, and with better rates than those who don’t.  Are trees now simply miracles?  Perhaps you think so, and you’re entitled to believe it.  But I remain firm in my beliefs for the power of positive energy, another form of self-reliance, as a tool in remaining alive. 

I hope that you don’t feel bogged down in such thoughts, for I want you to keep up with my trail.  Because a number of questions can arise from my thoughts, including why are we here at all?  And the easiest answer, (and one that gets abandoned too quickly by fundamentalists and non-believers alike,) is I don’t know.  I don’t know.  And to be honest, neither do you.  Yet, we are so self-absorbed as to think that we know what is right, what is wrong, and all in between.  And moreover, we seem to think what we believe is right enough to convert, to preach, and to drag others through; all of which you have the right to do.  So, I try not to convert.  I suggest.

And I suggest some odd questions for the sake of pure curiosity, designed to stir concept and thought.  Where is the true morality in claiming that you can receive forgiveness for all your sins, through a simple request to the son of the Lord.  Could salvation truly be this easy?  When Jeffrey Dahmer went to prison following his years of cannibalism, he became a devout Christian.  And when asked whether he would ascend to heaven, his personal chaplain was stupefied to find that the majority of the Christian community prayed he would not.  But by the principles of his own beliefs, the man said that he would, and the backlash made him question his faith.

And suddenly, more recently, the concept of hell has been washed from the minds of some believers.  Now, I hate to focus purely on Christianity, but my knowledge of other dogmas is less than impressive, and I rely purely on a word-of-mouth system.  My problem with this is why ever be concerned when you know that there is only one destination.  On the other hand, my friend Ashley Fowler brought up an equally valid point: is the concept of hell in itself not a joke – the only incentive to be good, as opposed to burning in flames?  Food for thought, so I hope, food for thought.

And finally, let’s quickly tackle “morality.”  “Morality” and “Religion” are not synonyms.  If you follow Evangelical scandal, you would know this.  The common misconception is that “Godless” means “immoral,” and it’s just not the case, although I fall into neither category.  Studies have shown that atheists commit less crime than the religious, are less likely to cheat on their spouses, and have overall healthier lives.  Is it because they have no one to simply ask of for forgiveness, and must rely on their own wits and decisions to survive?  Perhaps.  But the notion that morality must be achieved through the church is one that I would like to see squashed.  Morality is a personal choice, truly a matter of ethics, which asks the individual to decide what is right.  We agree on most things, murder, rape and the like, but others remain matters of individual choice.  Who created morality, or deviance, or right?  Quite frankly, the powerful, but it’s a topic for another day.

For personal reasons, I’d like to explain that I do not dismiss Christianity.  Faith is powerful, undoubtedly, and I don’t intend to disrupt your own.  I have serious issues with organized religion, (not a cop out to play the religious fence,) and think that ignorance has plagued the institution for too long.  Evolution is a fact.  Society has moved on.  And the church, churches, or otherwise need to keep up with a world that has shifted it’s morals, (notice, I did not say lost them,) as opposed to promoting bigotry and division.  I read a friend’s notes on religion quite frequently, and admire her faith in the most genuine form, but I can not agree with the necessity for walls, nor the spread of a “salvation” that picks some and leaves others.  Your mission in life can not be a giant test to gain as many followers as possible; that’s a game show.  I would hope that your God has bigger dreams than a contest between faiths.  I’d like to believe mine does.

So what do I believe we are here for?  The hidden meaning of life?  To open our minds to new levels?  To simply worship our master of sky?  To destroy the barriers between us to create a new world of harmony, happiness, and more?  I’d like to say the last one is the glorious discovery, but the answer remains the same: I don’t know.  And unless you and the big guy, or spirit, or the spaghetti apparition are having secret meetings behind everyone’s backs – neither do you.  Believe what you believe.  Have faith in what you have faith in.  But I beg of you to never dismiss the skepticism of a friend of colleague.  After all, you may be wrong, and when whatever apocalypse you believe in comes crashing into our lives, you’re going to need a friend.  And hopefully one of them was right.

Spoiled Milk

After she read this much, Madeleine said, “How could you write such things about me?” and wept in a way I could not bear.
            “It’s only writing,” I said.  “It’s not what I feel about you.  I’m not a good enough writer to say what I really feel.”  I hated her, however, for making me disavow my writing.
                                  -Norman Mailer, “Tough Guys Don’t Dance”

 Once again, I can thank an author for putting words into print that my mind still fails to articulate.  That quote up there, right above us, is exactly how my writing has found its current plateau.  I’m simply not a good enough writer to say what I really feel, or worse yet, am too afraid to even try.  And if there has ever been a field that demands honesty through production, it certainly isn’t accounting or medicine, but writing, plainly said.  The problem now arises: how to make a career out of something you’ve been faking the entire time.  And the fright that suddenly sweeps over me as I realize that’s the most honest thing I’ve said in years. 

Babies and the Beast

I’m sitting next to a little girl in Memorial Union, no older than three, and she’s quite curious as to what I am doing.  She only speaks Spanish, so I can’t exactly explain to her how important this time wasting session is to me, but it doesn’t matter to her.  She’s content to run circles around my table, stop, then stare, giggle and run back to her dad.  She keeps whispering things to him and pointing at me, and he leans back and laughs.  I think it has become obvious that I don’t speak Spanish, and they have taken complete advantage of it.  But I don’t mind.  Ignorance is bliss.  And the little girl is so cute that it doesn’t matter if she thinks I’m a monster – and she doesn’t seem to mind sitting next to one.

I’ve had a lot of comments on appearance lately, some I take with pride and others with some resentment.  My friend Derek tries to convince me to shave my beard every time I see him.  He says it is disgusting.  On the other hand, my friend Shea says she prefers it to my bald-face, which could also be seen as somewhat of an insult.  When I meet people for the first time, I often hear, “I’ve seen you around.  You’re hard to miss,” and depending on their tone, I can take that as a tribute to my ruggedly crisp appearance, or my unsightly weight problem.

What I find most interesting is the reaction I get from strangers.  I had to watch a film for my Deviant Sociology class that was based on the idea of “tough guise,” as in, the way that men try to portray themselves as intimidating and/or rough.  As the narrator ran through the examples, I couldn’t help but notice that I fit a lot of the criteria for the perception of the “tough guise.”  This is further exemplified by the fact that people tend to shy away from me, sometimes even flustered to talk to me when necessary, such as at checkout counters or class engagements.  What a shame, I think to myself, but then carry on with my day.

But when it comes to little kids, I don’t get the same reaction at all.  Anytime I’m around a bunch of children, I always end up with two or three of them peeking over the tabletop at me.  I’ll smile, and then they’ll smile, and then they’ll run away and giggle.  They’ll bring me things, like paper towels, that I don’t need, but take.  Some of them tug at my beard and laugh, and I don’t mind – they’re 4 for Christ’s sake, and their little chubby hands can’t do anymore damage to me than I have already done to myself. And they all seem so happy to be serving me that I worry I’ll develop some human-child-slave complex.  Then they’ll go talk to their parents, who grab them by the arm and take them somewhere else.  But they always wave as they’re being dragged against their will against the rough floral carpet.  And that’s all I can really ask for.  A little wave.

Angry Rant #94830. (There’s Genitalia Involved.)

I’d like to quickly address something that doesn’t pertain to the majority of the population.  But like most things that pick away at my stable mental frame, this issue seems to pop up more and more as I wind my way through blogs and especially left-wing “pop” pieces.  It’s simply a word, friends, but a word that for one reason or another sticks out like a sore thumb in every pompous and inexperienced participation of formative writing.  “Alas.”

It has this connotation of drama: “I tried to save the blue-eyed puppy, but alas, I could not.”  If used in jest, it can be quite amusing, satirizing the most melodramatic situations with a touch of woeful humor.  But the vast majority of uses are for the simple purpose of filling space, and to branch one thought to another.  That fucking puppy and your inability to save it.  And as I look at it, with eyes raging with fury, I can clearly see that my sentence carries much more drama without looking ridiculously desperate in an attempt to seem worldly.  “I tried to save that fucking puppy, but I couldn’t fucking do it.”  That’s how a person speaks.  That’s how the words come out.  And while not particularly classy in execution, it has an honesty that you cannot seem to comprehend.

The fuel to this fire?  I found that a person I know got a writing job, and having known them for several years and never realizing they had any talent with the text, I naturally dove into their portfolio of work.  They currently write about vaginas, which is far beside the point, but if there is a topic that needs the word “alas” LESS than vaginas, I would surely like to hear it.  There’s no humor.  There’s no irony.  It’s used with blind infatuation for the perceived fanciness of the word, with complete ignorance to the ridiculousness of it’s entire presentation.  I challenge you to find a sentence that deserves the word “alas” in reference to your lady parts, or in contrast, to the lady parts that probably avoid you.  I can only deduce such information considering you are still reading this blog.

So I make this plea to all of the aspiring writers out there, especially women, with all the care in my heart that I can muster: leave alas alone.  And I specifically point out women, because you already have so much going against you.  I hope I’m not the first one to mention that you have greater mountains to climb in terms of professional respect, and I send my finest wishes for all of your future endeavors, but I will take all of those wishes back with one sighting of the word alas.  And in turn, I promise to you, dear reader, that if you find an alas inside a complete work of mine, I will not only take full responsibility, but will try to compensate for my literary sins.  It’s the least I can do.

Alex Denison.

Roadkill Has Its Seasons, Just Like Anything.

(I won’t lie to you: I’m busy.  I have a couple books to read tonight, and I don’t have a lot of time to spend on meaningless babblings that grab around 4 readers a day.  But don’t fret, my beautiful handful of devotees!  Tomorrow is another day.  However, I would like to share this with you.  Nick Cave is one of the best lyricists of all time, and yet I venture to guess none of you know of his work, or furthermore, don’t care.  But I keep trying to press him upon you.  I mentioned this little piece on my radio show a couple weeks ago, and I hope you can pull it into the correct context.  It speaks volumes about the cultural shift that is happening beneath our feet, with much greater linguistic dexterity than I could ever provide.  Please read it, and consider what is happening around us at the moment.  Left vs. Right.  Wrong vs. Right?  So on and so forth.  Enjoy your hell-storm.)

We’ve laid the cables and the wires

We’ve split the wood and stoked

the fires

We’ve lit our town so there is no

Place for crime to hide

Our little church is painted white

And in the safety of the night

We all go quiet as a mouse

For the word is out

God is in the house

No cause for worry now

God is in the house

 

Moral sneaks in the White House

Computer geeks in the school house

Drug freaks in the crack house

We don’t have that stuff here

We have a tiny little Force

But we need them of course

For the kittens in the trees

And at night we are on our knees

As quiet as a mouse

For God is in the house

God is in the house

And no one’s left in doubt

God is in the house

 

Homos roaming the streets in packs

Queer bashers with tyre-jacks

Lesbian counter-attacks

That stuff is for the big cities

Our town is very pretty

We have a pretty little square

We have a woman for a mayor

Our policy is firm but fair

Now that God is in the house

God is in the house

Any day now He’ll come out

God is in the house

 

Well-meaning little therapists

Goose-stepping twelve-stepping Tetotalitarianists

The tipsy, the reeling and the drop down pissed

We got no time for that stuff here

Zero crime and no fear

We’ve bred all our kittens white

So you can see them in the night

And at night we’re on our knees

As quiet as a mouse

Since the word got out

From the North down to the South

For no-one’s left in doubt

There’s no fear about

If we all hold hands and very quietly shout

Hallelujah!

God is in the house

Oh I wish He would come out

God is in the house

 

Losing the Marbles.

A knife, some matches, and the Holy Bible.  These are typical answers when asked what items would be necessary to survive on a deserted island.  It’s one of those middle-school ice breaker type games that later evolves into a question of logic and ethics as a we grow older.  What do we really need?  Some people think logically, and try to formulate the best means for strategic survival.  These people choose knives and matches.  Others turn immediately to faith as their guiding beacon, and will rely on the words of the good book to make it through the dark.  A few jokers choose a boat.

The question that truly needs to be asked has nothing to do with desert islands, knives, or religion, but remains purely ethical in nature.  What is it that we need to lead happy and fulfilling lives?  The problem is, I know what most of the responses would be: A wonderful partner, children, and the satisfaction that you have lived your life the way it deserves to be lived.   I, however, also know what the reality of the world expects: a nice car, a big house, lots of accessories in the kitchens and shelves full of tools in the garage.  Don’t worry, little troopers.  I don’t blame you.   As a matter of fact, I don’t know who to blame for the standards that have been presented as “successful,” or rather the entire basis for the American Dream.  That’s a conundrum you can mull over inside your own minds; mine is already full.

Does a husband or wife make you happy?  Or does providing for them equate in your success?  The same applies for children, because how happy can you be with a family that feels let down, and a situation that exposes you as a failure in the eyes of the average American taxpayer.  The same taxpayer that stands next to you as you pump your gas.  The same taxpayer that you see at the local baseball game.  The same taxpayer that drops his cans off at your recycling center.  They’re all going to laugh at you, Henry.  They’re all going to laugh at you.

Consider this: A nice new Lexus would make you happy, and it would impress the neighbors, too.   Your faulty bedroom presence can get some support from the investment in the garage.  Your kids will be proud to be dropped off in that shiny new sedan, and your boss will ask you to pick him up from the airport.  Hell, now you are the boss.  The boss of your domain.  No, I take it back, you’re the real boss, you killed the old boss, and no one cares.  Just look at that glowing Lexus.  You call the shots, you make the shots, and you decide who to shoot.  It’s not from true love, you wild-eyed fool, it’s from tangible success that can be written down on paper with dollar signs in front.   Your success is a Kelly Blue-Book estimate, and you are living large.  Low miles, all style, and a perfectly stiffened collar.  Divorce your wife – she’s pulling you down!  And your kids aren’t worth a damn anyway.  You turn a sandwich into a banquet.  You turn a banquet into a lifestyle. Look at that fucking car!  And only 6 more years of payments, and it’s all yours, my friend.  You deserve it!  Call your doctor – You’re the doctor.  He’s your nurse.  No kinky stuff.  Take that stethoscope and listen to your heart.  It’s not a beat, it’s a ca-ching, and your thumbs are permanently up.  And when you drive over that cliff in San Fernando valley, those thumbs will be last thing the world ever sees from you, Henry.  You’ve got it made in the shade, and we all know it.  Even totaled, it’s an awe-worthy vehicle. 

Friends.  Come live with me.  In the barracks of a tiny Alaskan town on the coastline.  I won’t have a lot.  You won’t have a lot.  And we’ll be rooming with convicted felons.  It’s an adventure, if nothing else.  We’ll can fish for cash, as though we need it.  And at night we’ll buy a bottle off an Eskimo and dip our toes in a placid stream.  Maybe we’ll steal a bike.  Your girlfriend is an alcoholic.  Mine is made of wood.  But they don’t complain, and we can leave them if they do.  You like to read the Bible, I like to read the Times, and every once in a while we read a pamphlet for a summer fishing tour.  Give me 3 years of your time, and we’ll just rough it.  Give me 5 years, and you’ll never want to leave.  And after that, we can come back to the real world and buy our cars and water filters and fall asleep to the hum of traffic, but for me that can all wait for just a while.  Bernie in the next bunk over has a canteen full of gin.  He did 16 years for robbery, but he swears he’s a changed man.  I won’t ask any questions, and we can have some, too.  Does that sound like the worst thing in the world? 

Does that sound like the worst thing in the world?

I Need You, America. Do You Need Me?

I’ve become a big fan of The New York Times recent fascination with drink.  They call their series of blog entries “Proof,” and they vary from scathing criticisms of alcoholism to touching stories of authors raised on the bottle.  All of the articles are effective in their message, and I’m often left wondering whether I could survive in the literary world without some kind of serious addiction, or whether the literary world would survive without their organizational anchors: the sober and the clean.  Unfortunately, these writers go without the legions of superfans that emulate all of their works.  I’m not sure I could survive without a fan base of some sort. 

Every writer has some kind of impairment, whether it be physical or mental.  Addiction seems to be the best example of the former, while the latter opens up an entirely separate collection of doors.  Self-importance, egomania, and a handful of sticky complexes have helped to shape some of the most revered authors of all time.  But the most overwhelming symptom seen in the catalogues of fine writers is the element of pride.  Pride in what they are doing.  Pride in what they are saying.  The untamable belief that their words are a gift to the masses, and to ignore them would be ignorant.  To condone them would be sin.  And as to which is truly worse in the literary world becomes the subject for debate. 

This, however, is the reason that I know I can be a writer, an author, a journalist, or the likes.  My words all make perfect sense to me.   I ran into an old classmate over my last break, and she asked what I was majoring in.  I told her journalism, and she said, “That makes perfect sense.  I used to try and read your writing, but you use too big of words, and I have better things to do.”  I give her credit for the effort, and I give her the middle finger after that.  There’s no reason to be defensive over the gibberish that I’ve been spilling out for 5+ years, yet I feel some kind of obligation to be heard, or understood.  As though my combinations of words say much more than the average pamphlet. 

But at this point, I’m looking for a challenge.  And I can no longer challenge myself.  I’d like to get back into humor, but I’m a terrible judge for what the masses like to swallow.  I picked up an internship for the summer at a country music station, and I cringe to think about the moral dilemmas that are sure to come about, (“I will NOT play Toby Keith, sir, but I know you’ll thank me later.”) So I ask of you, dear reader, should you make it this far down the page, to suggest some things you’d LIKE to read, and I’d be happy to work from there.  I’ve done a pretty decent job updating every day, so the more you suggest, the more we both get out of it. 

Send in your suggestions.  I mull over comments much more than I should.  And I promise that your suggestions will be tackled in some way. 

Alexander Denison, P.h.D.

If It Didn’t Shine For You So Often, Would You Forget the Moon?

I don’t like to be sentimental.  I have 19 years under my belt of being every thing but sentimental, from hysterical to downright pathetic, and nearly all possibilities in between.   Accompanied by failure and false imprisonment, sentimentality floats near the top of my list of fears, I find, for good reason.  It’s been a belief of mine for some time that people generally don’t care about you, the real you, until you’re dead and gone.  As soon as you kick the bucket, suddenly everyone becomes an expert on your emotional depth.  For every funeral I’ve attended, I could pinpoint a dozen lies presented for the sake of the spectators, family, and friends.  I honestly don’t believe the deceased would appreciate it. My sister was not happy with her last days on earth.  My father was not a compassionate man to work for.  My uncle is certainly not going to heaven.  And had they been able to make one last farewell at the pulpit, they would have made sure everyone knew about it.

A continuing, and depressing, element to my recent writing has been the realization of growing older.  Since I was a toddler in cowboy boots, I dreamed of waking up one day at the age of thirty-five.  Established, married, and successful, with very little consideration for the possibility of any alternative.  Some nights I still fall asleep with the same hopes in mind, wishing I’ll wake up next to a yawning brunette in a silk nightgown, my suit already laid out for work, and the kids running through their morning routine of four-second teeth brushing and Froot Loops.  It’s my one little wish for Americana, and nothing more.  But every morning I crawl out of my collapsing twin mattress and high step over an obstacle course of pizza boxes, sometimes hoping I’ll trip and split my head on the ironing board so I don’t have to leave my apartment.  I’d just crawl into a ball on the floor forever.  But then I remember I have a paper due on Wednesday, my cable bill is already a day late, and the Cubs play at six.  I never hit that ironing board. 

And amongst all of these little daily nudges lingers the ever remaining tragedy that I can’t remember being young.  What a devastating thought for a student under twenty.  Sometimes I wonder whether its simply an issue of having anything to remember, but that’s certainly not the case.  My only memories are artificial ones, supplemented by the help of a video camera my father bought when I was still sporting a bowl-cut.  Every cowboy hat and fake moustache, every bubbly Christmas morning.  And my dad’s hearty, shaking laugh that provided the soundtrack to every scene.  He never stepped in front of the camera.  Now, his face fades a bit more every day, from the towering torso of my entire world, to a distant bearded silhouette.   Its only a matter of time before he becomes “Postmaster Denison,” the same bald authoritarian stiff that the world saw.  I share most of the same pictures with his beloved Burlington ‘Hawk Eye’. His old thick-rimmed glasses and the charcoal colored suit.  A pile of letters on a maple roll-top desk.  A concerned glance and a genuine slide-rule typewriter.

But he didn’t come to my baseball games in a suit.  He wore a t-shirt and a tattered old cap.  He didn’t read behind a desk.  He stacked his books next to his recliner.  And he never wrote me anything on a typewriter.  He scribbled notes for me with a pen he stole from an Atlantic City hotel.  They all eluded film.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll smash the nine o’clock alarm and rub my puffy, stubborn eyes.  I’ll roll off of my mattress and survey my vast domain.  Hop scotch over the Dominos boxes that have been here for weeks towards the hanging bathroom mirror.  And on the way back to the center of the room, I’ll glance at the ironing board.  It slicks the wrinkles out of clothing.  It could slick the wrinkles out of everything.   But I’ve never been one to do things the easy way.  My dad used to call me “the mule”.  And when I get home tomorrow night, I’ll fall asleep to the same ideas I always drift away to: That drowsy brunette wife.  That impatient tailored suit.  And those damned ungrateful kids.  But for the hell of it, I’m going to get in some pictures with bed-head and a smile, a cocktail and a crossword puzzle.  Because honestly: you just never know.