Category: Philosophy

The Motion Picture

Our widening eyes betray our excitement.  The air conditioner kicks on as we finish up our cereal.  It’s ten-thirty.  We’re going to go see a movie after she comes home from work.  We feel like framing the note she used to share this fact with us, and yet, somehow we know this wouldn’t be a strong enough commendation.  Instead, we re-read it a hundred times and blacken our fingertips as we vigorously review the showtimes in the day’s newspaper.

Scanning the areas she’s most likely to notice upon entrance, we clear the table of dishes, pick up a few pairs of shoes from the hallway, and make a few lines on the carpet with the vacuum.  It’s perfect.  Nothing will detour the event.

During the car ride, the escape begins.  Upon purchasing the tickets, we forget that an entire world exists outside the theater.  The pit stop before heading into the theater is where we last think about eating or drinking ever again.  The previews, the last time we consider looking any direction but forward.  The final removal of light marks the beginning of what we hope will never end.  Good-bye pain, good-bye disappointment, good-bye change, good-bye ambiguity, good-bye senselessness, good-bye sadness, good-bye despair.  Hello clarity, hello love, hello passion, hello happiness, hello resolution, hello caring, hello hope.

Hello hope.

Able-Bodied Writer

It was always there.  It was palpable.  The feeling in the room added pounds to the air–especially the energy coming from Emily.  She was smart, meaning she could read and write fine, but I guess she just didn’t want the attention.  I loved the attention, especially her attention, and I think I also liked that I was protecting her a bit.  So when the Sunday school teacher asked for volunteers to read the bible verse, my hand shot up quickest and highest.

And I was good at reading out loud, too.  It was easy for me to tell because it was such an inspect-able task.  Either the words came out right, or they didn’t.  Plus, my teacher said I read well.  Add to that the fact that everyone knew that Dan Rather—national news man—had no accent and grew up in Kansas where my life was unfolding, and it seemed like fate.

Clearly I had a gift.

This gift was mostly centered around reading out loud and participating in the churches youth activities when everyone else just wanted to chill out in the peanut gallery.  Everyone else was only there because their parents were doing whatever the adults did at church.

So how does my able body affect my writing, you ask?  Originating from a body with no physical limitations, my writing is at once full of hubris, and yet it’s been called endearing and humble.

For all I’ve achieved in life, and I’ve done great things, I can never escape the simple truth my life reveals with each passing day.  As much as I love, as much as I grow, and as much as I laugh, I hurt people, I am unkind, I am inconsiderate, I am mean, and I lie.  And I want to do these things.

Why?

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(Okay, “as much” might be a bit strong.)

The Future

I know I don’t want to fly anymore.  I try and I try to explain to well-intended people that flying in the Air Force was about serving my country in the best manner I could.  And Top Gun.  Nothing more.  It’s over.  I’d like to move on.

The office job was okay, but there wasn’t enough work.  In the Air Force–where you can’t get fired–taking it easy every once in a while (or as much as possible in my case) was nice and stress free.  In a civilian job, it torturous to not have enough to do.  And it kills my soul to pretend to be busy.  I can’t do it.  And I can’t do work whose value eludes me.

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There are scores and score of books written about working smarter, not harder.  Management guru Peter Drucker says something to the effect of “you can meet or you can work.”  People laud the man during meetings.  WTF, over?

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I know I can’t do salaried work.  It’s an abuse of the human spirit.

I love this blog, but I can’t see myself doing it for pay.  It’s mine right now.  Mine.  Money would change that.

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Today, at work,  a grown-ass woman said to me, “You guys threw away my chocolate bar.  I just went to Whole Foods and paid $6 for an organic chocolate bar.”  She expected me to give her $6.  I couldn’t stop thinking, “You spent $6 on a candy bar?  You could get an entire pizza for $6.  What moron would spend $6 on a chocolate bar and then leave it in the door of her car on top of a bunch of shit?”  I wouldn’t, and I didn’t give her the money.  It’s called an accident.  I’d go further and call it a missed life lesson.  Lucky for her, the proverb “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again” is still in effect.  The cashiers gave her the money.  Anything to please the customer.  What is wrong with the world?

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Most of my friends and family believe that each of us has a passion and that should be our work.  My passion is fun.  And my definition of work is quite the opposite of fun.  Where should I work?  Can anyone tell me how a guy like me should acquire money?

So what should I be doing?  Where should I work?

To Humanity or Not To Humanity

Those of you who left the world of academia long ago might be unaware that there is a debate raging about the humanities.  Are college students interested in majoring in the humanities?  Are they not?  Would they like to, but their practical mind says, “Don’t be a fool.  There are no jobs for humanities majors.”

My question is why is this debate even happening?  I suspect that students who major in vocational type degrees get their long-sought-after jobs and live happily ever after.  Just like students who major in the humanities or liberal arts degrees don’t get jobs related to their degree and live happily ever after.

There is some notion that accompanies attending college which goes something like, “If only we all do this right, we can achieve heaven on earth.”  Is that what we (humans) really think?

I say do what you want.  I wanted to get good grades and learn about why people behave they way they do.  So I majored in sociology.  Some people want to become very rich, so they major in fields that lend themselves to making money.  Other people want to paint, so they major in art.  I don’t see why this is a discussion.  Am I missing something?

I want to be the best that I can be.  Isn’t that enough?  Why do I have to conform to your utopia?  How about this:  You just do your best rather than worry about forecasting what will happen if nobody studies English or History anymore.  And I’ll do the same.  And then we’ll see what happens.

Amazing Girl-Child Lives Outside of Space and Time!

Her small size leads you to believe that you know all there is to know about her.

You are correct to discern that she cries a lot, talks a lot, can’t do math, can’t read, eats an incredible amount of food considering her weight, plays with toys, likes to be tucked in at night, asks to have her hand held if she’s not being carried, places a frightening level of trust in adults, and sometimes has accidents.

You’re also correct if you guess that she can’t carry on a conversation which furthers any agenda, she has a surprising stubbornness, her fantasy world is repetitious, and very few of her actions are original.  It is easy to see why people like her have lost their appeal.  They require attention.  They need help.  They listen; they believe; they mimic; they obey; they break; they depend on others; they spill their milk regularly.

What you might not notice is that she can’t tell time.  That’s right.  She doesn’t know what time is.  Not just what time of day it is, but she doesn’t have an awareness of time.  Can you remember what life was like before you knew what time was?  Probably not.  But maybe you can remember something about life before you used an alarm clock to remind you that your life was so important that you must stop resting.  Being around her–being around them–is the closest thing any of us will get to living without time again.

Without time 40 lbs never felt so light; repetitious stories never sounded so good; cleaning up spills never required less energy; soothing cries never seemed so desirable.  Without time raising a child never seemed so natural.

Men

An odd group, certainly.  The worst men make ritual disembowelment seem like the only sensible thing to do, while the best men…well the best men inspire us to become better men.

Like hitch hikers just dropped at a truck stop, we look around and evaluate the passing scene.  Too often we are surrounded by mediocre men.

As constant evaluators, we sometimes forget to report our findings.  This is undesirable and unproductive.  We can forge a better life through regular highlighting of qualities the best men put into practice.

To begin, they are flawed.  More to the point, they recognize they are flawed, and they do not hide it.

Next, they possess a humility that my own awesomeness seems unlikely to ever achieve.

They are genuine, or perhaps authentic works better.  You cannot catch them off guard.  They are who they are, no apologies, and who they are is worth noting.

They are well-read.  Life has seasons, of that there is no doubt.  But these men and television divorced a long time ago.

Lastly, for today, they are ready and willing to help, if we’ll only just ask.  By help, we mean nothing more than them choosing to spend their limited time on us.

Let us not forget, then, that even great men need encouragement.  Let us not forget that these men still exist in this world, feel its pressures, and are pulled daily by the temptation to give up.  Let us not forget to say thank you when their life enhances ours.

David:  Thank you.

Mars: Happy News…Sad News

Lockheed Martin just signed on to the Mars One mission.

Mars One has pushed the landing date to 2025, two years later than the original 2023.

The mission got legitimized and stigmatized in the same breath.  That’s life.

Still no news on who was chosen for round two.  They’re supposed to let people know yes or no by the end of the year.  What do you think?  I really wanted this group to have their stuff together, but that seems like it was asking a bit much at the moment.  Oh well.  That they have Lockheed Martin really does break the fall from the date sliding.

Cross your fingers for me being selected for round two.  Can you even imagine?

There’s Got To Be A Word For It

There’s got to be a word for it.  You know what I’m talking about.  You’re talking to a friend, and then they pull out their phone.  They peek at it, and then something on the screen captures their attention.  You keep talking, hoping they aren’t actually more involved with their phone than with you.  Then something in your voice triggers something in their brain to command their head to turn your direction.  The look they give next is what I’m thinking has to have a word.  The look which says, “Uh huh.  Yep, I’m listening.  I know you think I was looking at my phone instead of you, but you’re mistaken.  I was listening and can still listen even as I return to looking at my phone.  Promise.”

Oh.  I know.  The word is disrespect.

We all do it.  Let’s all stop doing it.

The only way to get there is together.

Do Your Job, Come Home Safe

“Music?  Where we going to music, daddy?”  

He constantly worked to perfect how early to tell her that they would be doing something a little special.  If he shared the news too early, there would eventually be tears when he confessed, “No, not yet.  We’re not going for three more hours.”  If not early at all, he felt like he was robbing her of anticipation’s joy.

One of the churches downtown was putting on a musical tribute to veterans.  He liked hearing the songs, and not usually being one to indulge in veteran events, he felt that, of all days, Veterans Day was an appropriate day to reminisce.

Taking her already extended hand in his, they moved from their car towards the small bottleneck of people.

Reality hit and hit hard.  The pair of them, his daughter and him, were among the youngest attendees–by decades.  Guiding her to the general area he wanted to sit, he let her choose the exact pew.  Taking their seats, he didn’t want to look around.  In front, there was not a single younger person.  The enormous sanctuary was far from full.  The choir was smaller than expected.  The brass section, even smaller.  And he couldn’t help but notice the age of the participants.  Maybe five out of the 50-ish musicians were under the age of 40.

He knew that the greatest generation was basically gone.  As a veteran of the Iraq war, he knew that Iraq and Afghanistan veterans couldn’t compete with Vietnam veterans regarding duration and intensity.  This knowledge carried a bit of shame.  He really wanted his efforts to have been necessary and valuable.  All signs pointed to the opposite.

Regardless, he also knew something more.  He knew what every veteran knows–that he was lucky.  And tied inexorably to this knowledge was the fact that some…were unlucky.  Moreover, there was no escaping the inner turmoil captured by the persistent yet unanswerable question.  “Why?”

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Support veterans.  They need it.