Tagged: passion
The Last Transmission
“This is the last transmission we received sir,” General Moberly informed the President.
“Play it.”
Click
“I feel so immature, but if you must know, my last thoughts here are of the ending of the most recent War of the Worlds film. The one with TC. You know the part I’m talking about, right? The part when nature does what man couldn’t do. Yep, that’s what I’m thinking about right now. It’s kind of funny really. Three nine-month one-way trips to a distant planet. Three successful landings. And we’ve been here for six years, nearly thriving. All twelve of us. And now this.
“No, it’s not martians that are going to wipe us out. No, it’s not bacteria. No, it’s not a lack of supplies. What’s killing us is an asteroid that’s arriving in a few minutes. Of course, it’s not going to hit us directly. Instead of a nice clean death, we’re being told that we’ll see it, feel the Mars shake beneath our feet, and then within minutes the aftermath of debris and shock-wave will rip apart everything we’ve worked so hard to build. First, the dust will erode the domes, then our suits, then our skin, and finally our bones. Apparently the cosmos doesn’t like us humans squatting wherever we damn well please. Well, I say fuck the cosmos. Sorry ma. But whoever’s listening needs to know that everyone here knew the risks and is content with this end. Don’t stop exploring. You can’t let this change anything.
“Okay, this is it. Wow. It’s so bright. I didn’t expect it to be for another two-minutes. I’m sorry for everything! I don’t want to die!”
Click
“Is that it?” asked the President, “Everyone’s dead? The base is destroyed?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well, then. It seems to me there’s only one thing to do,” the President continued.
“What’s that sir?”
“We’re going to honor their wishes. Get me NASA. And schedule a press conference. We’re going to Mars.”
“Yes sir!”
“To Forgive Divine”
“But you know that there’s more to the quote than ‘to err is human’, right?” his friend pressed.
“Certainly. That’s the whole point. The full translation is “To err is human, to forgive divine.’ But it seems like forgiveness is a lost art. One mistake, one err, and you’re done. As the random soldier in Last of the Mohicans says, ‘And I will not live under that yoke.'”
“What am I? Chopped liver? Shit man, I’m still here.”
“I know you are. That’s because you’re my friend. You know how to forgive. You’re dee-vi-ine.”
“Whatever. You know what I meant. Are you done? I have stuff to do.”
Why I Write
Actions speak louder than words. I really want that to be true. I remain unconvinced.
Growing up in a Southern Baptist church and having a healthy competition in me, I really soaked up the power of the preacher. I memorized bible verses better than my peers, took pride in reading out loud better, prayed better, and spoke more. Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk–all in naïve earnestness. I walked the walk as well. It wasn’t a fear of hell, but more a genuine wish to show people it wasn’t that difficult to avoid sin as I understood it.
Of course I was sinning all the while (“making mistakes” if you heathens prefer).
Until I graduated from college I had never read for pleasure. Simply movies for me. And I was as evangelical about movies triumphing over books as I was about saving souls. Catch-22 fucked that all up. I fell in love with reading as quickly and madly as Yossarian fell in love with the chaplain. After the last word, I literally had the thought, “If this is how good reading can be, I wonder if there are other books like it?” Obviously, there were. One of them being Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. In that gem, there is a part about telling the truth to people vs. using flattery on people, and the point is listeners are awful picky about one while rather forgiving with the other. Given that I had the gift of gab, I made errors left and right that my listeners had no problem pointing out. My strong character and integrity-first approach to life seemed to bail me out of most situations when I strayed from the truth in large ways, but I slowly began to realize that writing might be a better outlet for my ideas than talking. With writing there is proofreading, and re-writing. As a writer (versus speaker), I have time on my side. So I started writing. This was 8 months ago.
There is something more, though. In the story that I tell myself to make sense of this crazy, crazy world there are some written words which have changed the world. Specifically, there are books that exposed how someone felt about life. Books that took courage. Upon publication, the reading public needn’t have said a word. They simply had to show their support through a purchase. And then life as we know it changed. I understand one of these moments to be the release of The Feminine Mystique. Within its pages, a woman wrote about an unnamed problem, that being women feeling unsatisfied as housewives, and it soon became clear she was right. I am shocked every time I contemplate that women back then could have been too ashamed to admit to each other how they were feeling about life. At the same time I am so hopeful. Consider what life might be like if enough of us shared ourselves via the written word. Maybe we could start doing this life we’re given better.
And so that is why I talk, and that is why I write. No one should have to live in shame. No one should be hiding behind social graces. For whatever reason I don’t mind if others find out I was wrong or stupid. It’s kind of exciting to me when it happens, as it is so rare.
In sum, I write first to reduce shame, second to reduce mistakes that happen when talking, and lastly, I write because people who read what I write tell me I write well and I am compelled to believe them.
Now you know.
Error In Yesterday’s Captain’s Log
Yesterday’s post, “White Hot Flame”, contained a copy of a back-and-forth between a fellow student and myself. The trouble, however, is that there was a typo. Where I wrote “Hey S-“, it should’ve simply read, “To Anyone Who Feels Like Reading At The Moment:”
Now, you might be wondering, “What’s the difference?” Well, I’m exceedingly happy to share the answer, the difference, with you here.
If I wrote that post to “S-“, who, like you and I, is a real live person struggling to find her way in this crazy, crazy world, it would have been an attack on her character. It would’ve have been an immature, undignified, and disrespectful personal attack. And I don’t do that. At least, I don’t do that to strangers. For someone to get me to deliberately and proudly sacrifice my character in an effort to attack theirs, well, that requires a special bond. To be specific, that requires the bond that only family can form.
But if the post was written “To Anyone Who Feels Like Reading At The Moment”, then it reveals itself for what it really was. It was a rant. And I’m allowed a rant.
See the difference?
So, a stranger wrote something that pissed me off, and I had a lot I wanted to say about it. Because I write a lot these days–because it was late and I didn’t have anyone to talk with about it–I wrote (typed up) what I had to say, and was quite pleased with how it turned out. So pleased in fact, that I wanted people to read it. I wrote something, and I wanted people to read it. At this point, no error has been committed–no attack. Posting what I wrote to the class discussion board, with S- as the addressee, is the mistake. That’s the moment my words transformed from “rant” to “attack”. I see that now.
Some of you who don’t know me personally might think this is all bullshit. That I’m backpedaling. You’d be mistaken. Just ask the people that do know me. To a man, they’ll confirm that my one true goal in life is to get you to love me as much as I love me. They’ll confirm that for a while I nurtured the goal by hoping that my smile would be enough to do the trick. When that didn’t work, I focused on my body. When that failed, I tried my voice. That I write to you now illustrates that while I’m 0-3 in my quest, I am not giving up.
Did I want S- to read my post? Yes. Because at least then I knew I had one reader. Did I want to attack S-? No.
So here I am, again writing. I’m exploring the feeling of remorse. Some of you might recognize these words as an apology. I can buy that. But for me, there is something more going on here. For me, this was a breakthrough. For me, this was growth.
Thanks Ma.
And thank You.
The only way to get there is together.
How To Avoid Capture (despite being an extremely eligible bachelor)
(If you’re short on time, skip to the bottom for numbered instructions.)
“So, guess what I just got?”
“I don’t know. What?”
“Tailored shirts. They’re great. Gone are the yards of fabric that hide my svelte figure.”
“Yeah, I actually heard the radio talk about how women like men who wear tailored clothes the other day. Though, I have to say it seems out of character that you’d do something like that. Did you have them done at the store? When did you even go shopping?”
“Oh, I didn’t get them done. My friend was going to throw some away, so I said I’d take them.”
“So, they’re not tailored…to you?”
Instructions for How To Stay Single
Step 1 — CROSSFIT for life.
Step 2 — WALK through Costco like a kid in a candy store.
Step 3 — ABSTAIN from soap.
Step 4 — TELL everyone you know about Steps 1- 3.
For Better Or Worse
If I knew one thing about weddings, it was that they had tremendous opportunities for speech giving. Never being one to care about the actual rules, when my sister was getting married, this would’ve been 2004-ish, I knew I wanted to feel the smooth, dry, cold handle of a microphone in my hand.
After getting the nod from my sister, I wrote a poem of sorts for the occasion. Having just finished a season of Russell Simmons’ Deaf Poetry Jam on HBO, I labeled myself a “Suburban Wordsmith.” Being proud of that title, I even began the reading by introducing myself as such.
I don’t remember how the moment was chosen, or who did the choosing, but I confidently held the microphone in my hand just before the DJ was scheduled to lift people out of their seats. I knocked everyone’s socks off with my little speech.
She cried.
I think he was happy that it moved her, though I also think it was lost on my brother-in-law (he’s an accountant). But the rest of everyone liked it, or at least they told me so. I should say, the rest of everyone under the age of 70. Given that it was my first time in a room of that size, all I was able to give the old folks was a longing for the days when people spoke loud enough to hear.
Today, the speech—I think—still sits on their dresser, framed in a very gaudy, tacky, but somehow fitting frame that is made up of textured flower heads, all very pastel.
I didn’t know it then, but I do now, that that moment should be counted as one of the most revealing moments of my life. To me, doing that was what any brother would do. But when I really sit back and think about the fact that, for fun, I wrote and delivered a speech that honored my sister at her wedding in very heartfelt ways, the truth is I don’t know too many people who do that. And the ones that would do that probably consider themselves wordsmiths as well. I used to think I did it because I cared more, or had a bigger heart. That sounds like vanity to me these days.
Flying by, the decade since has confirmed that for better or worse I am a writer.
Hot For Teacher
“She has to know, right?”
“I don’t know, man. Does she? Know what?”
“Know that her words are very flattering. Very, very flattering.”
“I mean, sure she’s your teacher and we’d all like to believe teachers are more aware than their students, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s thinking like you think she’s thinking.”
“I’m not saying I know how she’s thinking. I’m just saying that it has been a long time since anyone has said I’m fascinating, endearing, and an enigma.”
“Whoa, slow down buddy. She didn’t say you were fascinating, endearing and enigmatic. She said your writing was.”
“Hey, don’t ruin this moment for me.”
“Okay, okay.”
“So what do you think my next play should be?”
“All I know is that she’s your number one contender right now.”
“Think so?”
“Definitely.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“You said she reads your blog?”
“She said she does. She even used the word ‘wildly’ to describe an aspect of them. ‘Wildly’. I like that.”
“You told me that she said your blog was ‘wildly different’ than your discussion posts for class.”
“Like I said, ‘wildly’.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
I Heard That His Face Was Blue
“I heard that his face was blue.”
“I heard that he still had a faint pulse, so they tried CPR on him for a long time. It’s all about oxygen in the brain. Doesn’t matter if there’s a pulse if the brain’s been deprived of it for that long.”
Any teacher looking toward the boys during the passing period could tell by their enhanced self-awareness that none of them possessed tools capable of handling the news. As if bound by tacit consent, each of them did their part to keep the silence–the sadness–at bay.
“His parents were the first to see him in the tree early this morning. Can you imagine it?” the boy asked, almost forgetting to avoid silence. “Knowing that,” the boy stumbled to resume, “knowing that while you were sleeping in your bed, right outside your window your child was…” the boy couldn’t say it.
“I’ll tell you something. His brother, Josh, is probably the reason I began lifting weights,” another interrupted in an attempt to lighten the mood. Attentive and curious eyes rewarded his move. “Seriously. I remember in gym, in 7th or 8th grade, that a girl was in awe upon, at her request, seeing his flexed bicep. She had such a big smile.”
Their acceptance of a prolonged silence told him they were happy to hear more of this odd revelation.
“Yep. I remember going home and flexing. I was so ashamed. He wasn’t much stronger than me, but compared to the sphere sitting between his elbow and shoulder, mine was like a straw. In that moment, I knew what I had to do if I wanted a girl’s attention.”
They shook their heads in disbelief at his confession, so he continued.
“Of course, if we were to replay the situation today, he’d look puny. On that day the big difference between he and I was that he was flexing incorrectly, his arm bent all the way, while I was already using a more proper pose, arm bent at ninety degrees,” he modeled to an approving audience. Dropping his arm, he concluded, “But she didn’t know any of that. And without her, without that smile, I can’t say for sure that I would’ve ever picked up a weight.”
“Great story man,” one of them voiced, lighting laughter’s fuse.
“Give me a break! It’s just a memory I had,” he answered, smiling as they shuffled off to their classes.
Review of The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman
Timeless and universal.
I have a rule. Well, Ecclesiastes has a rule that I believe is true. It goes like this: “There is nothing new under the sun.” When it comes to “get rich quick” or “relationship” books, it is impossible for me to not use this standard. If a book claims that it has come up with a new way to make money or keep a relationship strong, then, generally, I discard it promptly. I just simply refuse to believe that mankind’s soul has changed in any appreciable way in our existence. That being said, Chapman’s The Five Love Languages: How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to Your Mate is nothing new. And that is good.
The book’s largest flaw is that it is a book. It really could have been a flyer; I’m picturing a large picture representing perfect bliss overlayed by a few sentences at the bottom. The sentences being something like this:
People express and feel love in different ways. It seems that there are five ways. They include physical touch, quality time, acts of service, gifts, and words of affirmation. Try to speak your partner’s language(s).
Really, though, I’m proud to say that there is an even more fun way to help you figure out your love language(s). How I like to think about these five languages is via one language: song. Want to know which language is yours using songs? Then continue reading.
To start, if you think Kevin Costner defeats Errol Flynn in the battle of Robin Hood’s, we all know the only reason this happened is because Errol didn’t have Bryan Adams’ classic ballad “Everything I Do (I do it for you)” to accompany his swashbuckling sword fights. And your choosing Kevin means that your language is likely “Acts of Service.”
On the other hand, if everyone in the room but you noticed that you sat up during Moulin Rouge as Ewan McGregor belted out “My gift is my saw-ong…” in tribute to Elton John’s unforgettable “Your Song“, your language might just be “Words of Affirmation”.
If it is impossible not to feel warm all over when somebody tells a story about the summer of 1991, the summer during which you recall hearing Extreme’s “More Than Words” on every radio station across the nation as you drove to the west coast to greet Gulf War One’s returning victors, then you’re only hurting yourself if you don’t own up to “Physical Touch” being your love language.
Next, and admittedly a bit of a stretch (but then again, it isn’t my language, so I wouldn’t identify with it. Am I right Gary?), but if the only time you feel like someone really gets you is each year at Christmastime, specifically each time Eartha Kitt’s “Santa Baby” is played, then your love language is “Gifts”.
Lastly, if you can finish, “Eeeiiff eye-ee-eye-ee-eye (breath) shu-uld stay…” without hesitation, there can only be one conclusion. Your love language is “Quality Time”. (That Costner is receiving two shout-outs is beyond me. By the way Ma, he’s looking great once again in an upcoming action flick “3 Days to Kill”. Check out the trailer by clicking here.)
In the end, the book only takes a night to read. Not that you need to anymore. You’re welcome.
****
*Chapman, Gary D. The Five Love Languages. Chicago: Northfield Pub., 1992. Print.
So I’m Not Allowed To Text Her Back?
“So I’m not allowed to text her back?”
“No!” they said in unison.
“Look. It sucks, okay? I know it does. But you screwed up. You sent her seven–that’s SEVEN–texts without her responding. You freaked her out. Then she stood you up–twice. The only way you’ll know she’s not just stringing you along is if you wait for her to really try to set up a date. If you answer her text now, you’re just playing into her crazy hands,” his friend explained.
“I just don’t get it. You don’t know how she talked, what she said. How does this make any sense? I only texted her that night because we had scheduled a phone call and she didn’t call and it was late. Explain to me how I am in the wrong for letting her know I was worried?” he said, still hurting.
“Listen. You’ve only talked to this girl for a few days. Days! It sounds like the situation looked promising, but the girl also sounds crazy. No one in their right mind talks to people how you tell me she talked to you. That she has stopped talking to you, taken together with the fact that her last text to you demonstrates she can’t tell what day she received a text on illustrates that something fishy is going on. You have to see that, don’t you?” his brother said, chiming in.
“I guess. It’s just that I’ve never really felt this way before. And her voice. If you could just hear her accent… I’m telling you, these things can’t be faked. I need to talk to her again. But you’re telling me I can’t. She texted me just now. Out of the blue. Doesn’t that mean something? I just don’t understand why I can’t text her back,” he cried out.
“You’re right. I don’t understand either. I don’t. I don’t understand the whole situation. I don’t understand women. What is the deal? I mean, we’re smart enough. We should be able to figure them out.”
The three single men were enveloped by a profound silence–a necessary silence if they were to hear the cracking of that sentiment’s foundation. Their smiles and laughter confirmed that they heard it indeed.
Captain’s Log 