caveat emptor

Criticism and Confusatron

Have you ever been James Fenimore Cooper to someone else's Mark Twain? That would suck. I would hate to have someone tear into the details of everything I've ever written. Nevertheless, if you've not read Mark Twain's criticism of James Fenimore Cooper, called Fenimore Cooper's Literary Offenses, you should. It's hilarious.

Last night I went to see my favorite band, Confusatron, at the Black Dog. They've been playing there every Thursday night as a regular gig for several years. I was there when they first formed at The Coffee Haus and played together for the first time out on the sidewalk on Houston Street between Third and Fourth. They've decided to take a break from their Thursday night gig for a while, so last night was the end of an era of sorts. I had to be there, and I was so glad I was. The show was great.

That's about it. I'm too busy to write well today. Maybe next week.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

I consider it considerate.

People are so diverse and different. It's astonishing sometimes. Very often I will hear people sincerely express opinions that I find incredible or appalling. One doesn't have to espouse every idea one hears, but I believe with conviction that one benefits from exercising consideration and evaluation of new ideas. Some are easy to dismiss, requiring little thought. Many have some merit, but are found lacking in the balance when the scales are fully loaded. Closed-mindedness to new ideas rarely yields any result of value.

A native American hunter shoots an arrow straight into the air, for no reason. It never comes down. Ever. Eventually, the hunter stops watching for it and continues with the hunt, though the curiosity weighs heavily on the hunter's mind for many years.

The people that get to me, the people I find hardest to respect, are the blatantly selfish. I feel such disdain for people who aren't interested enough in right or wrong to even discuss the ramifications of an action or decision. Even worse are those who will discuss, can come to the correct reasonable conclusions, but then brush off the conclusions with something like, "That's their problem. I'm watching out for me."

A baby sea turtle has emerged from an egg and struggled out onto the sand, exposed and vulnerable. Instictively, the turtle knows which direction to go. The long, dangerous journey begins.

Then there are skewed perspectives or dysfunctional aesthetics. "I think the death of one puppy is more tragic than a hundred human deaths, because puppies are innocent." I am not a violent man, so I just nod and smile.

A small shadow approaches the turtle across the smooth sand near the shore. Far above, a sea bird is plummeting toward the turtle. The turtle does not know this, and continues its slow march.

It's no good to worry too much about the people with whom we disagree. The world is big, and there is much to do. It takes many different types of people to get all the jobs done. We take the good with the bad, and we are always guaranteed plenty of work for tomorrow.

The bird slams into the sand, an arrow piercing its neck, as the turtle slips quietly into the lapping water.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

These Dreams

I have a couple of recurring dreams.

In one, I'm Quasimodo. I'm sweeping the floor of the cathedral and listening to an anachronistic Black Eyed Peas album on an anachronistic iPod. As I sweep, I bounce to the beat and sing, softly, "My hump, my hump. My hump, my hump, my hump."

In another, I'm a track and field official overseeing a large track meet. To inspire the runners, I decide to play the theme song from "Chariots of Fire" over the PA system during the final race. I realize what a mistake it is when all the runners leave the blocks in slow motion except the two from The Saint Levias School for the Deaf, who win handily.

These dreams haunt me. I know they mean something, but I can't break the code.

And what about you? Any recurring dreams, real or fabricated?

Later. Love.

Curves, Flats and My Finger

I'm sure there is a spline equation that could capture the ideal curve of a woman, though this is, no doubt, highly subjective. For me, there is a set of proportions that are pleasing even if a woman is heavier than average. There are certain curves that, within certain thresholds, become more appealing if a woman is larger than the typical professional marketing mannequins. I wonder how much variation there is in the mechanisms of human male aesthetics. There is variation, that is clear, but there do seem to be controlling heuristics, rules of thumb.

These ideas, however, are neither here nor there. This morning I left the house and discovered, after about ten feet, that I had a flat tire. I've never had a flat tire in my little Scion xB before, so I had to figure out where they hid all the tire-changing accoutrements. In the process of retrieving the jack from under the driver's seat, I sliced my left index finger on the jagged metal egde of the jack-base. I immediately started to recite poetry loudly, as people will do when they hurt themselves in such manners.

Everything turned out okay. The donut spare tire was installed. I drove to my friendly neighborhood tire store. I spent $400. Now I have four new tires and my donut is back with the junk in my trunk. (I bet that last phrase means something funny in hip-hop vernacular, but I have no idea what that might be).

My point is this: If I sound a little funny, it's because I'm typing without using my left index finger.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

Quantum Soul

He showed me a newspaper article he had clipped. I read it. It said, basically, that scientists had discovered, using powerful telescopes and examining the microwave background, that the universe may have expanded to its current size in an instant, in less than a second. I'm not sure how they discovered this. I've examined the microwave background myself and all I discovered were the tiny remnant food crumbs from the little bangs that happen when you reheat leftovers.

"Oh," I said. "So, what does that mean to you?" I was certain, since he was a very religious man, that this supported some point of theology for him.

"This affirms the notion of God creating the universe in an instant," he said. "It's very exciting that, the more they look at things, science seems to be falling in line with scripture."

What I said was, "Oh," and I left it at that. What I wanted to say was, "Does it really matter what science says about religion? Ultimately, you should, and do, believe what you believe in spite of science. If they come out tomorrow and change their minds, saying there's no way the universe was created in an instant - and someone undoubtedly will - you won't believe them. You'll assume they're wrong. To grant them credence when they agree with you and deny it when they don't is intellectually dishonest. Why not just admit that, in truth, you don't give a damn what they think."

But, I didn't. I just said, "oh."

Meanwhile, in a dirty living room somewhere in the third world, a young prodigy, pouring through old science books from the local library, has just discovered the grand unified theory physicists are seeking. It has come to him like an epiphany, like a bolt from the blue. He wonders whether it is a message from God or simply the accord of synapses synapsing together. It doesn't matter, because petty thieves will murder him this afternoon on the way to the university. They'll dig less than two dollars from his pocket and  throw him, along with his secret, into a ditch. His soul will fly from that dingy town out to its destiny, and he will soon forget whatever regrets he has.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

Running Away with Your Foot in Your Mouth

Those things that make you cringe. Those things you remember and shudder. Why did I do that? What was I thinking? I'm not talking about bad decisions. I'm not talking about, "Why did I marry that drummer with the crack addiction? Besides rhythm and eyeliner application skills, he had no remdeeming qualities whatsoever." I'm talking about embarrassment. I'm talking about the looking stupid and the saying dumb things. I'm talking about the humiliation.

Back when I was a minister, I used to perform various functions at the church in which I was raised. I would lead music, or lead prayer, or give announcements, or do whatever I was asked to do. One day, I was leading prayer. There was, at this time, a new member in the church. I don't remember his name, so I'll call him Mike. Mike had recently become a Christian after discovering that he had some terminal disease, the exact nature of which escapes me at this time. Due to a complication from this disease, Mike was going to have his leg amputated in the coming week. Naturally, we were praying for him. I swear to you, this is true. I cringe whenever I hear it in my head. I could have said any number of things in my prayer, but I didn't. I said, "Lord, we give you thanks for Mike's newfound faith this morning, knowing that, because of this faith, Mike will have something to stand on during the difficult times ahead."

There are others, some too painful to mention. And what about you? What's the dumbest thing you ever said?

Later. Love.

There is only do.

Anyone can be famous. Fame is nothing. Many people are famous to the detriment of their lives. Be kind. Be friendly. Be content. Be effective. Be able to sit quietly and be at peace with the voice in your own head. Be any of these things, but forget about being famous.

How many people wake up and walk away from positions of power? If you need it, if you feel like you'll be lost without it, if the thought of losing it gives you pangs of desperation in the pit of your stomach, where is the power? When you let it go and just do what you can do with the passion of your blood and bones and with the full fervor of your mind, that old joy comes back. You can put your head on the pillow at night, remember what you accomplished today and know what you hope to accomplish tomorrow.

The best you can do is to do something. It's a kind of fitful madness to want the end without the means. Nameless affection with no object. Famous for being famous. Wealth without value. Baseless self esteem. A want to be or a want to have but no want to do. It's a kind of fitful madness.

I was once asked to help clean a house that had been flooded when torrential rain swelled a neighboring creek. Before the flood, the house had been a disheveled mess, with junk and clothes and garbage covering almost every inch of the floor. When the flood came in, this junk was covered with thick, smelly mud. Upon entering the house, I was overwhelmed with the magnitude of the job at hand. I was paralyzed, and could not begin. My wife and mother, who were also there, came into the house, took some cleaning supplies, went to back corners, and started to clean. It wasn't long before the corners were clean and they were moving across the room. Taking their example, I went to another corner. Forgetting the big picture, I started to clean what was in front of me. Together, the we cleaned the entire house. There is no replacement for working at the obvious task at hand. Actively working on the obvious task at hand is almost always the real answer, however hard we try to avoid it or strategize it away.

I'm a little teapot, short and stout. Here is my handle. Here is my spout. When I get all steamed up, then I shout. Just tip me over and pour me out.

It's pretty simple, really.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

When It Rains

Drought or deluge. Fires or floods. Our relationship with water in North Texas tends toward hyperbole. Until recently we were so dry that fires were springing up and burning thousands of acres. Over the past three days we've received almost ten inches of hard rain, causing floods.

But, we're all well here at the White house. Lots of water, but no floods. Wet weeds went wild while we whiled away the hours indoors. Chuck paddled the wheelbarrow around the trampoline for fun. Soccer games were cancelled. Jennifer, our oldest but smallest Bichon, ran to the back door and barked at the thunder about a hundred times, but she's such a small dog that I don't think the storm was intimidated.

A good rain is, well, good. We needed a good spring cleaning to wash away the last debris of the old solstice and make way for the new equinox. As a child, I loved playing in the rain. I even wrote a little poem about it several months ago. See:

it's just water. it won't kill you.

feel the breeze
warm
on my neck
and the rain
nice
on my face
and my hair
sticks
to my cheeks
and my socks
squish
in my shoes
and my jeans
cling
to my legs
and the street
runs
like a stream
and we all
splash
and we laugh

Thank you all so much for your kind wishes on our anniversary last Thursday. We had a lovely time, no doubt in part for the warm, good energy you sent our way.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

Fifteen Years Ago Today

Morning, 2:00 AM	Three of the groomsmen and I were in a terrible car accident. A Chevy Silverado pickup with a sleeping drunk at the wheel totaled the Chevette in which we were riding back from my impromptu Bachelor party. Somehow, we all escaped without injury, but I was so freaked out that I just had to come and see you. I stayed with you last night.
Morning, Early	You kick me out of the house. I go to the church.
Morning, Later	A blur of activity
Morning, Later	You come down the aisle. You're beautiful. I sing the song I wrote for you.
Afternoon	The reception is beautiful. There are so many people. The food is great, especially that chocolate cake.
Aftermoon, Later	The reception is coming to an end. Your brother decides that the cards on the gifts might have money in them we can use for our trip. He removes all the cards and gives them to us. Later, we will have no idea who gave us which gift, so we'll have to send out really general thank you notes.
Afternoon, Later	We go back to your mother's house to change clothes. You have about five pounds of birdseed in your hair and cleavage.
Early Evening	We set out for Estes Park, Colorado for our wonderful honeymoon.
Three Hours Later	We realize you've not brought your purse, which contains all our money. We drive back home.
Three Hours Later	We spend our first night in our little apartment. We'll leave for Colorado in the morning.
A Few Days Later	We decide sex in the hottub in the cabin sounds like a better idea than it actually is.
Ten Days After the Wedding	River is conceived
One Month After the Wedding	I lose my job on the same day you discover River.
The Next Fifteen Years	A blur of activity and children.
Fifteen Years Later	Everything turns out just fine.

We were twenty, with no money and no plan and no business getting married. I made $8,000 the first year. I knew from the beginning, though, that everything would be just fine. And it's been better than fine, it's been wonderful.

Susan, our reservations are at 7:30 PM. Wear anything you want, you make anything look beautiful and sexy. I look forward to dinner with you, and to the continued blur of activity and children for the next fifteen years and more. I love you very much. Happy fifteenth anniversary.

Déjà Vu IV

Being busy, I'm posting an oldie. Sorry. Don't hate me because I'm dutiful.

---

Said to Simon (Originally posted at cogito on February, 2005)

Dear Simon,

By the time you read this, I will be gone. Your book is on the kitchen counter, and the door is open. I guess, in hindsight, saying the door is open on a note on the door is a bad idea. Damn. I can’t change it either. I’ve promised myself to be more free as a writer, like Jack Kerouac. I’ve made a pact with myself that I’ll never go back and change what I wrote. The first time is perfect. The first time is real.

Well, having said all that, I’ll append: I left your book on the kitchen counter. If it’s not there anymore someone came through the open door and stole it. If that happens, I apologize. We make these sacrifices -- for our art. I’ll buy you a new one (if I come into any money).

Oh crap. I just reread that first line (which is something else I said I wouldn’t do any more). It sounds really ominous, doesn’t it. “By the time you read this I will be gone.” Don’t worry, I’m not diving under the train or anything. I had to go to a poetry slam downtown. I’m considering reading a piece I wrote yesterday. I may not though. The recitations there are all of a certain ilk. They’re like rap that doesn’t rhyme. Like boring rap that brings you down. My piece is pretty traditional. It’s a prose poem, just a bit of reflection with an absurd twist.

Anyway, I’m rambling. Kerouac may disagree, but I think this note could use a once over. It completely fails as a quick door note. It reads more like a journal entry -- or a letter to a friend. A very patient friend.

Well, I need to go. Hope your book is still here. Lock the door when you leave, if you would. Feel free to keep this note for posterity. After reading it again, I actually like it a little. It works for me on some level. You may find it a little talky or a little slow. I can see that too, I guess, but it’s a hell of a lot better than the first draft.

Later.

---

That's it. Hope you like it. I think it's a little funny.

And how are you today?

Later. Love.

Of Mice and Mentalism

When I use my notebook computer in coffee shops and other spots out of the office, I like to have a normal, hand-held, optical mouse and a mouse pad. I like the optical mouse, and the mouse pad, because these make the mouse much easier to move around, especially with the mind. The square touch pad on many notbook computers today is okay, unless you're going to do a lot of drag-and-drop (which I do when I'm programming). It is impossible, however, to use one of these touch pads with your mind. Touch pads, I believe, work on some principle of electrical conduction. I believe this because I've noticed that you cannot activiate them with foreign objects, like pencils. You must use your finger. The beam of force generated by the adept telekinetic mind must not conduct electricity in the appropriate way, because I can press very hard - so hard that I can see the indentation moving across the surface of the pad - but the mouse pointer never moves.

I've begun to wonder if there might be some way adjust the physical properties of my telekinetic beam so that it can more closely emulate a human finger, but I've not looked into it seriously. The truth is, whether I use my hand or my mind, I prefer a regular mouse. I guess I'm just a traditionalist. Give me a good, old-fashioned USB optical mouse any day.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Thank You

You know, I've never properly thanked you people for the difference you've made in my life. When I first started blogging, I was a little messed up. Like a lot of people, I started this blog mainly in the hopes of meeting people on the Internet, arranging meetings with them in person, and then murdering them. It seemed like the thing to do at the time.

Now that I know you, though, and I see what great people you are, I realize that I could never, and would never want to, hurt any of you. I've realized over the past few months that my ruse has become my reality. I have truly become this character that I created to fool all of you.

So, thank you. You've made me a better man. If I ever do make arrangements to meet with you, you can rest assured that I will not murder you. And this isn't just a part of my plot to lull you into my confidence so that I can, in fact, murder you. I'm really not going to. I swear.

And how are you today?

Later. Love.

Complex Trajectory

Once, when I was a kid, I took it upon myself to try to draw, on a large piece of paper, the line of the moon's orbit around the sun. This is not simple, because the moon does not orbit the earth on the plane of the ecliptic, the moon's orbit is not perfectly round, but varies at its apogee and perigee, and the moon does not really orbit the Earth. The moon and the Earth both orbit around a center of mass, called a barycentre, which is located about 4,700 kilometers from Earth's core (about 3/4 of the way from the core to the surface). The Earth, therefore, in addition to rotating counter-clockwise (if viewed from the "north") around its axis and orbiting counter-clockwise around the sun, also orbits a point inside of itself (this orbit is also counter-clockwise). This creates what is called a "wobble".

Once every ten thousand years, these motions all coalesce in a sudden surge in a certain random location on the Earth's surface. If a person happened to be standing in that location, they would be shot like a rocket away from the Earth and out into deep space. Be careful, therefore. Be alert.

I eventually despaired of the drawing project, realizing that it was too complicated and would require, if the subleties were to be shown correctly, a very larger piece of paper indeed (about 90 feet by 100 feet). On a piece of paper that size, the entire envelope of the "wave" that represented the orbit of the moon would have been about an inch.

As I was driving to work today, I thought about how roads control what we see and what we don't see in our modern method of transportation. A place to which there are no roads is rarely seen by anyone. That's where I'd like to be most of the time.

Can you feel the rotation, the orbit and the wobble? Find north. Close your eyes. Think counter-clockwise. Be Foucault's Pendulum. Can you feel it?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

And the Oscar Goes To...

As most of you probably know by now, I was, once again, snubbed by the Academy this year. No Oscar for Scott. Every year I tune in and watch them give away the little gold statues to various people who have done various things well throughout the previous year. Every year I wonder, "Should I go? Should I be there in person, just in case I win?" I never go, however, because I know I couldn't handle the pressure of the red carpet. I would cry if Joan Rivers insulted my outfit on television. So I sit at home and watch and wonder, "Will they pick me this year? I wonder what category I'll win?"

For the past several years I've always figured I might win Best Director. I've been a Director of various departments at two different companies for quite a while. Ang Lee won, not me. He directs movies. I have to admit, he is pretty good. I loved Sense and Sensibility and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Still, I'm pretty good too. Maybe next year.

I apologize to any of you who tuned in to the show in case I won. I feel like I've let you down. Let's not give up hope, though. There's always next year.

I shouldn't be so self-centered, though. What about you guys? Did any of you win this year?

Later. Love.

P.S. - I posted a couple of new short posts on my cogito writing site. Check them out, if you'd like. Thanks for stopping by.

Ambition and Motivation

Yesterday I told someone that ambition is a key differentiator between humans and other animals. I think there is truth to this. I remember reading Daniel Quinn's thoughts on this topic a few years ago. He saw human ambition as a negative thing, a thing that destroys and consumes.

Sometimes life feels like a whirlwind in the brain, like a maelstrom or cyclone. You know you can get to the eye, where it is calm, and you can live there. There, in the middle, the relatively short and manageable list of the things you really need to do sits, a single sheet of paper lying loose on a table in the center of a storm. You could go to that calm place, if you just tried. You've been there, many times, but never for long.

Some people would tell you to medicate yourself, and they may be right. That cold dread of blank chemical stares, of empty eyes and scars on shaved heads that look like the stitches of a baseball. What if you're erased? What if you're trapped, like that tiger in the cage? How could you do that to yourself? These are all nightmare scenarios, paranoia and fear. You don't want to risk this mundane nightmare, however, when you know you can get to that center. You get there on a regular basis.

"It's been a while," he says. You don't reply.

You wonder again if you're battling your own ambition. What do you want to do? Those things on that paper, you're good at those things, right? You enjoy those things, right? You've always enjoyed those things.

Lazy. That's what you are. Everyone wants to sit and talk and draw pictures and write stories. Everyone does. Guess what? You can't. You've got responsibilities. Get to work.

Now you're standing there, tense with effort, in the calm center. Adjusting your glasses, you peer down at the paper. "Turn in your expense reports," it says. You've got the receipts in a folder on your desk. You can easily do this. Coffee would help.

Coffee cup in hand, you dive head-first back into the storm. It will take you almost a week to get back from the coffee pot.

"You can't medicate yourself into a round hole," he says. "There are square holes, you know." You don't reply. "Eventually someone will give the list to someone else, you know," he says.

You start to write a poem about how you've never been able to motivate yourself with fear. No one will know this is what the poem is about.

---

Hello, friends. Can you relate? How are you?

Later. Love.

Caught

I'm sketching him for two reasons. First of all, he's being still. This is important. I'm not one of those sketch artists who can take a mental snapshot and draw from that. I need the subject to remain largely unchanged. Secondly, there are the lines of his face. He is a tall old black man. He's dignified and sober looking, with his glasses perched low on his nose as he reads his book. His hair is not as short as many black men wear their hair today. It has a little length, and it is grey at the temples. He has the facial lines of a man who has smiled a lot and frowned a lot, and is probably good at both, though he's doing neither at the moment.

Oops. He's seen me. I look down, noncommittally, shading a little here and there. Soon, however, I've exhausted my mental store of information, so I have to either abandon the sketch or look again. Casually, using only my eyes, I glance over. He's looking down. I make note of the shape of his left eyebrow, and look back at the page. The memory doesn't last long. When I'm sketching, I typically glance at the subject every three or four seconds. I glance back. Still reading. I take in the eyebrow again, shaping it wiith light strokes of the pencil. Another look, the pencil still in motion.

He's caught me. Eye to eye. Before I can look away, he smiles. I feel a little emarrassed, like an intruder. He deliberately closes his book, picks up his empty coffee cup and stands. He approaches me.

"Do I get to see?" he asks. He has a voice like a professor. I smile and turn the sketch pad for him to see. I'm about ninety percent done. "Hey, that's pretty good."

"Thanks," I say, "it's a hobby."

"Well, you're good at it." Thankfully, he turns to leave.

"Have a nice day," I say.

"You too, Picasso." He doesn't look back. He tosses the cup in the can by the door and walks out.

The bad ones are when they want you to keep going. I turn the page on another unfinished sketch, one of many.

---

Hello, friends. Sorry I've not been about. How are you?

Later. Love.

Sing

Having been raised a Pentecostal in the American south, I can sing all the suffering of the human condition and the passion of a heart on fire into a song. I know how to close my eyes, clench my fists, tilt my head and let my soul howl to the heavens. I am grateful for this.

There is no substitute for honesty and sincerity. I am not moved by your distracted, half-hearted exercise of training and technique. You can go to hell. You have to make yourself believe, if only for the length of the song, or you won't convince anyone else.

Tolkien's god created the world through song. Sing like that.

Hello, everyone. Tell me something good.

Later. Love.

Death in the California Rain

I've been in Sacramento, California for a few days. My mother is one of four sisters. Three of them moved from San Bernardino, California to Fort Worth, Texas with their parents (my grandparents) in the mid-sixties. The oldest sister, Ginger, was already grown with two sons, so she stayed in California. Ginger died last week, so I accompanied my mother and her two remaining sisters, all of whom still live in Fort Worth, Texas, to Sacramento for the funeral. We spent five days there.

As we walked away from my Aunt Ginger's grave on that rainy Monday afternoon, I looked back and saw an old black man in a black suit, black hat and black sunglasses standing by the grave. This is true. He wasn't a part of our funeral party, and I'm not sure when he approached. He was standing there like a man waiting for someone, glancing casually around as the rain came down on him. He was in no hurry. He was still there when we drove by the grave on the way out.

I knew who he was, and why he was waiting. He was waiting for us to leave, so he could start his work. His job, I believe, is to walk with the dead as they start their journey. His job is to show them the road and make sure they know where to go. I don't think you can always see him, but sometimes you can.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

P.S. - I posted a a mystery of sorts on my cogito writing site. It's called Intrigue. Check it out, if you'd like. Thanks for stopping by.