Tagged: Writing

Blog. How Else Will You Learn What You Like?

Hi there!  My name is Pete Peterson.  I’m a 22 year old college dropout and have been blogging for a week now.  I’m so excited because I already have 15 followers, and none of them are my family or previous friends.  How cool is that?

I guess I should have known that people would follow my blog.  I write well and my posts are funny, smart, clever, dramatic, creative, and most importantly they display–albeit sometimes unconsciously–my desire to make money blogging.

I guess this last trait is really the one that has captured most of my follower’s attention.  I never would have believed how many people know how to make money blogging.  The best part is that they are very helpful.  They’re willing to almost give away the secret.  I know better though, than to expect anyone to give away their golden goose.  It does make sense, then, that they would require a nominal fee to learn the really good stuff.  I’m happy to pay it because I really do want to make money blogging.

We’re all the same, my followers and I.  That’s how I learned that I love to travel.  All of my willing-to-teach-others-how-to-make-money-blogging followers love to travel.  Truthfully, I have never left the home town I grew up in, which is just outside Big City, USA.  Just the same, I figure if all my followers love to travel, I must love to travel.

I can imagine it now.  Endless beaches against a backdrop of snowcapped mountains.  Large trees all around with even larger leaves.  There’s probably fit young women at these locations as well.  With no crummy 9-5 job to worry about, I could finally start wearing my 80s style tank tops every day, or maybe I’d wear no shirt at all.  I’d probably choose to wear sunglasses most of the time, even if it didn’t make sense.  I think I’d also begin to post pictures of myself too.  I’d make sure to always have water in the background somewhere.  I think that would be classy.  Yep, I’m going to love traveling.

It’s exciting, I’ll tell you that.  It’s so exciting, in fact, that I’d like to invite you to follow my blog.  Do you love to travel?  Do you know how to make money blogging?  Then follow me!  The only way to get there is together.

How To Live Uncensored

(If you’re short on time, skip to the bottom for numbered instructions.)

A professor of mine recently led a classroom discussion on censorship.  I am embarrassed, therefore compelled, to admit that this is a hot-button issue for me.  I cannot stand censorship.  Why should one human being have power over what another human being is exposed to?

Just the same, I can surely see the other side of the story.  Wait, no I can’t.  What is the problem again?  Has there ever been any data to support that uncensored living is problematic?  Sure, there seems to be well established correlations between those who watch violence and those who perpetrate it, and the like.  But causal?

There has to be an identifiable problem before we can start solving it!  What is the problem?!

So this got me thinking.  What, even, is censorship?

Censorship definitions refer us back to the word ‘censor’, which is a noun.  By noun, we mean a person, place or thing.  In this case, a censor is clearly a person.  This is extremely important to the following philosophizing or interpretation of life.  (Why is it important to spell out that a censor is a person?  Because as free and alive men and women, we should want to live uncensored.  Since we don’t right now, we need to know what that would even look like.)  So a censor is another person.  This makes sense because fundamentally censorship really can’t be imposed on oneself.  By definition, a censor is someone who views/hears/reads something, deems it objectionable and then suppresses it.  If I view/hear/read something, I can’t reverse that.  I can’t censor myself.  So we’ve learned something:  The minimum number of humans required to bring forth the concept of censorship is two.

Why is this important?  Because now we’re getting to the heart of the concept.  There must be two people in order for one person to act as a censor.

Furthermore, it seems to me that censorship deals exclusively in the realm of surprise.  As in, people clamor for censorship when they’ve been surprised.  Or the well-intended censor believes if he doesn’t act, the audience will be unpleasantly surprised.  Are you with me?  Taking a page out of history, picture this: a well-tailored family sits down to watch the Ed Sullivan show.  Everything is as it should be.  Then, surprise!  A man humps the air!  This isn’t what they were expecting at all.  Oh, boy.  What are they ever to do?

Well, what did happen?  What did they do?  Maybe some turned off the TV.  Maybe others wrote letters.  Maybe others discussed it.  Maybe others ignored it.

Could the surprise have been avoided?  YES!  Most definitely.  When in history did adult men and women give other adult men and women control over their life in the way that those parents did with TV?  As if there was something inherently congenial about what was broadcast on TV?  “There was up until that point…”, you say?  Well then, lesson learned.

What lesson?  Don’t believe there is another living person worthy of control over your life.

The good news is, the information age is here.  Not a single human being alive should be surprised by what they see or hear.  If you value the freedom you have, and want even more of it, you’ll recognize this as a good thing.  If censorship is inherently about limiting surprise, and surprise is coming to an end, the end of censorship is therefore near.  Without the ability to be surprised, individuals have regained some of the control they gave up with the advent of TV and other forms of mass communication.  And anytime we as individuals gain back control, it is a victory for freedom.

Censorship is about controlling life in the present to promote a desired future.  Am I being clear?  The thing being censored must really exist in order to be censored.  Something not yet real cannot be censored.   For example, whether fiction or non-fiction, censored violence is still violence.  It still was brought forth into reality.  How foolish are we to expect that life, inherently full of unknowns, should have a moment where we can for sure know the future?  How did people ever make it to this, “Alright children…  For the next short while, we are all going to stare at this optical illusion.  Unlike the rest of the day, we should be totally safe from surprises.  You see, there are men and women behind the scenes making sure that nothing we don’t expect will happen.”  Are you kidding me?

For me, the burden of proof is on the censor.   What is he trying to protect?  I hope to have shown his answer is irrelevant.  It isn’t about protecting.  It is about control.  Why does he want control?  Because ‘he’-the censor and ‘he’-the individual calling for censorship don’t know how to live in the present.  They are captivated by the notion of the future.  They only know how to live in such a way that demonstrates their denial of the present.  They simply put up with the present, in hopes for a better future.  If they’re children, we need to teach them.  If they are adults, they should be embarrassed.

Ask yourself, “Do I want a better future?” or “Do I want to live life?”  They are not the same thing.

Instructions for How To Live Uncensored:

Step 1– Stop believing you can influence the future.

Step 2- Understand that there is only one step.

 

Last Night.

I could see them clear as day, but it wasn’t his eyes.  It wasn’t one feature.  While menacing, his eyes weren’t what caused me to not look to my right.  Or to my left.  Or down the ladder.  Or in my child’s room.  His eyes weren’t what caused me to turn on the lights in the bathroom, which I never did at this early hour.

The thing you must fully internalize about my relation to my family members is that I have worn them down over the years.  They used to put up a fight, but beginning as early as high school, their resolve weakened.

“Sure.  Whatever you say.  Can we just not argue about it?” had become their standard response.

On this night, I wanted to play with the Ouiji Board.  That’s not quite true.  I could care less about the Ouiji Board, it’s foolish.  What I wanted was to make my mom, dad, older sister and younger brother uncomfortable.  I wanted to see them squirm.

My brother had that same bone in his body, so we went first.  The joy of playing a Ouiji Board with others comes from the fact that everyone wants to believe that you’re telling the truth when you convincingly declare that you’re not moving the planchette.

“Oh, come on.  I saw your fingers extend!” could be heard from the peanut gallery.

“I swear I did not move it!” I responded.  “What you saw was me trying to not break contact with it.  It’s the difference between action and reaction.”

“Fine,” my sister conceded with a voice that betrayed her hope I was telling the truth.

Upon turning down the lights in the basement, the general mood in the room began to shift in my favor.  My brother and I made sure that we offered no more than a good tease.  Soon my sister wanted a turn.

I didn’t lose ground, but I didn’t gain much either.  As a neutral participant, she proved a difficult partner.  She lacked the intention of causing our parents fright, but her skepticism wasn’t perfect either.

My mom, never one to turn down a challenge, now wanted a turn.  Despite bringing me in to this world, she had a capacity to revert to childlike wonder in a moment.  I was in full control now.  We asked our questions, the board answered them.  My brother even flashed me a questioning look as if to ask, “You’re still just playing with us, right?”

My lying eyes bedded down his fear.  My own fear, on the other hand was growing.

The truth was, I was no longer controlling the game.  When I am afraid I usually want to cry.  Right then, I had to muster all my energy to not begin to cry.  Out of nowhere, a remarkable thought came to me, “Is my mom cool enough to turn the tables and fool me?”

I wanted the answer to be true.  The thought was at least intriguing enough to hold back my tears.  But there was still one more player.

You must understand that my father was literally an altar boy as a child.  Only people who have a first-degree connection to an altar boy can really understand what this means.  No matter what books he’s read, no matter what life experiences he’s had, no matter how hard he may try to convince you otherwise, he is a believer through and through.  And believers don’t fuck with evil.  Suffice it to say, he didn’t want to play.

Fear became an ancient memory; I couldn’t even remember tears as my resolve to accomplish my mission was renewed.

“Dad.  For real.  It’s just a game.  What are you afraid of?  If you really get scared…I don’t know… just call on Jesus to help you.  Isn’t he supposed to rush down in your defense?”

I could tell that I pushed just hard enough, so I stopped.  Just because he was a believer, didn’t mean he wasn’t still a man.

Mano y Mano.  Father v. Son.  I couldn’t help but feel pride.  Yet again, I got everyone to do what they didn’t want to do.  I had wore them down.  They were so weak.  Discreetly, as the board spoke to us, I gave my brother a quick smile which he replied in kind.

It was a singular feeling.  A light pressure against my fingertips.  I figured my dad must be moving it towards me.  I released any tension in my fingers.  The feeling did not go away.  The planchette would not release my fingers any more than the board would release the planchette.  My brother’s expression released my tears.  My dad’s terrifying scream is what woke me.

Awake, I did not want to open my eyes.  Exhilarated, I had to.  Moments like these did not give themselves to me very often.  Moments where I was awake only in the strictest medical sense.  Darkness and fear still remained.  A chance to test my manhood.  Laying motionless, I hoped to ally the windows dim predawn light to my purpose.  I turned my head to the right and opened my eyes.  Shuddering with fear, I saw him beside me.

“This can’t be,” I thought.

Hoping that evil can only see motion, I laid perfectly still except for my widening eyes.  Finally more light.  Looking back now, I can’t blame the stuffed pink penguin my daughter had left in the bed yesterday morning for shedding a tear.  I doubt poor Pingu had ever imagined the depth to which a man’s vocabulary would dive upon realizing he’s a fool.