No one wants to get killed I guess

So I promised to try again tomorrow, which has magically become today but in eleven minutes will become tomorrow; otherwise known as the day after. And I can already see that this is going to be a hopeless pool of drivel to be deleted or just never posted.

Whatever I wanted to say yesterday and put off until today - I don't remember what it was. And now there are nine minutes remaining.

I watched a Netflix flick called Kindergarten Teacher and it started a little tame I thought but then snuck up on me and grabbed me by the nuts toward the end. One of those well-crafted character pieces that really resonated. Great film if you're blessed with empathy. If you totally don't get it that's okay. You're probably just one of those empathy-starved monsters that seem to be arising more and more often in society. Or maybe I'm just one of those people getting really good at spotting them. Anyway don't worry about it. It's fine to be a monster. Monster is just a label. Don't worry about it. You're as entitled to life as anything. It's not your fault that society was built with the lame assumption that everyone has empathy. Sometimes I have seen myself as a sort of vampire assistant who falls in love with a person starved of empathy (it's a real pattern) and I know how to help them fake it and make life better for them but we never get to that point because I'm too scared to talk about that subject with them. Insulting a person without empathy - well - that might get you killed. Who knows?

Cheers

Egotistical?

I was thinking about empathy and was suddenly surprised I had not considered something before: That the development of this capacity to generate feelings spawned by another person's experience and not our own - should hardly be surprising; that this capacity and the capacity to appreciate our own experience may in fact be nearly - or else exactly - the same thing.

Identity is a strange thing and largely warped from illusion. I must wonder if feeling something for our own self is (at least for empaths) in fact just empathy - because a human being is not a solitary party. The conscious and extinctive minds are not the same thing and are (I'm inclined to say "in fact") so obviously separate that they must communicate (or more likely eavesdrop) in dreams. 

We do know for fact that the brain is a collection of agencies which lack a stable hierarchy. They have to send communications back and forth.

I know that when I feel strong emotions (good, bad or neither precisely) in regards to my own experience it feels very much like an empathetic experience because I rarely feel much liability if any. It's merely the context which moves me.

I mentioned this to the Eloquent Potter - that I wondered if empathy and attached feelings were in essence the same thing and he seemed to agree. He claimed that empathy was in fact egotistical in nature. I see the point. Common empaths are not psychics. We don't actually feel another's feelings. We feel our own but which are stimulated by the ponderance of another's experience as we interpret it, no matter how close or far we are from the mark.

"Egotistical" sounds like a harsh criticism when I think of some empaths. One dear friend who identifies as such seems never to look down on those she empathizes with but in fact seems to suffer for her gift often more than the actual sufferer does. In fact there are infrequent occasions where I will withhold from her my own unfortunate experience because I feel certain she will hurt for it much more than I am! I'm talking about Dog Whisperer and I freely name her because credit is due. I know she is sincere in her empathetic offerings. She regularly handles her own suffering as well as that of others with generous grace and aplomb. There's a good soul in that woman and I hope she knows it.

Ganges Delta Blues

Tell Biden we don't need another pipeline at an extraordinary expense to the biosphere

Better than okay

“Are you okay?”

In the days between the Liaison’s death and his funeral, many people asked this of me. Many were writers who were inspired by him or were grateful for his excellent leadership or grateful for the individual personal help he gave them at times. Everyone knew he was special. These writers I refer to, who asked me, “are you okay?” are ones who did not often see him outside of November NaNoWriMo but who knew that I did, and assumed I had some closer relationship to him than they did.

I don’t necessarily know that I did.

It’s interesting, this specific gesture of concern which we typically offer. Are you okay?

We might be genuinely concerned or we might feel it’s appropriate or expected of us to express concern, or some combination. We might not even know for sure the composition of our own motive. It might just be a habit to some degree. I suspect in this case that most of them were genuinely concerned, or at least just genuinely wanted to express something. When we’re confronted with something resembling a tragedy we feel moved to be useful somehow. By expressing concern we either gain the opportunity to be helpful (depending on the response) or else we can at least check off the box that says I tried. Either way, in our effort to be comforting we have comforted ourselves; assured ourselves that we have done what we could.

I don’t mean to be cynical by this. I too would be inclined to offer these words in many such circumstances, and I feel that my associates here are sincere.

What is interesting is that I am very much okay. I have been in tears at times; perhaps most so in sick boy’s embrace who was weeping very intensely at the time. Thus I did likewise, much out of empathy.

Empathy is at play almost any time I shed tears; which I do often but rarely out of personal sadness; indeed almost never from personal sadness. I cry for the reason that all people cry: intense emotion. That most people associate tears with sadness is because sadness is the emotion most people find themselves experiencing most intensely. This is a troubling reflection on our society. I tend to experience most intensely other emotions altogether, which I am grateful for.

I am well aware that death is no tragedy. Only failure of life is a tragedy; one hugely present in this too-often shallow consumer society. Death too often marks the deadline where the FAIL stamp comes crashing down. But not in this case. There may indeed be many deeper experiences in which the Liaison had yet to find opportunity. But what he did with his time was so much worth celebrating. Within his own limits he expanded very much is influence and his own spirit. And he spent his time very well, serving what he loved and serving others.

Am I okay? Yes. I am more than okay.

In the case of the Liaison’s passing I mostly cried out of -- what? Not despair; that’s for certain. Can I define what it was? something in the realms of love and joy and inspiration? I was emotionally moved out of celebration! I witnessed how much he meant to people. I witnessed one of the most meaningful achievements in life; that of improving the lives of others. Truly: I cried from the beauty of it.

100 Must-See Films! -- Brad Pitt

“I'm one of those people you hate because of genetics. It's the truth.”

“You shouldn't speak until you know what you're talking about. That's why I get uncomfortable with interviews. Reporters ask me what I feel China should do about Tibet. Who cares what I think China should do? I'm a fucking actor! They hand me a script. I act. I'm here for entertainment. Basically, when you whittle everything away, I'm a grown man who puts on makeup.”

“There are no secrets in our house. We tell the kids, "Mom and Dad are going off to kiss."

- Brad Pitt

5. Babel (2006, Mexico, France, USA)

Brad Pitt, Cate Blanchett, Adriana Barraza. Rinko Kikuchi, Gael Garcia Bernal

In a world where peace and well-being are so functionally possible but where societies are fractured by the polarization of classes and then turned against each other out of imaginary fears, we are each never more than two wrong steps away from internal desperation or desperate outward circumstances. This film is a masterpiece for its compassionate illustration of such victims. Utterly gripping. Utterly compelling. As a thoughtful viewer your empathy will be stretched to the breaking point but in the safe hands of brilliant director Alejandro González Iñárritu (Biutiful, Amores Perros, The Revenant).

Beautiful performances by Pitt and the very dedicated Adriana Barraza who gained 35 pounds for the nanny role and refused to give way to a double in the dessert scenes, carrying 7-year-old Elle Fanning in her own arms despite a history of heart attacks.

The film took eleven major awards including Oscar for best score and received nods for dozens more.

Writer: Guillermo Arriaga (Amores Perros)

Director: Alejandro González Iñárritu (21 Grams)

Budget: $25,000,000

IMDB rating: 7.5

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=chNzbahOn_w

6. Burn After Reading (2008, USA, UK, France)

George Clooney, Frances McDormand, Brad Pitt, John Malkovich, Richard Jenkins, Tilda Swinton

This is a sort of madcap spy caper where the spy element never fully gets off the ground thanks to the universal incompetence of the entire roster of half-wit characters, all tripping over themselves in their greed and ignorance; each boldly portrayed by a stellar cast. The writing of quirky ding-bat characters is one of the Coen brothers’ specialties which was very apparent in Fargo and Raising Arizona but fully celebrated here.

According to Daniel Fierman of Entertainment Weekly, Pitt said of the script: “I don’t know how I’m going to play this part. The character is such a complete idiot!”

Said Joel Coen after a pause: “You’ll be fine.” 

That such superstars as Pitt and Clooney allow themselves to be idiocized in this way and deliver such strong unique performances to boot, is testament to the Coens’ mastery of this art. The result is so constantly funny in such a subtle and stylish way that you can watch this movie any number of times and never stop chuckling – as long as you have a compatible sense of humour and an appreciation for a lot of appropriately-utilized foul language.

Here’s an early scene where two health club employees (Pitt and McDormand), attempt to negotiate a price for the return of a misplaced data CD which they believe contains highly-classified CIA documents. The government agent is hoarse because he was just awakened in the middle of the night. The idiot takes this as a queue and whispers back, presumably because he thinks that this is what spies do;  an example of the Coens’ clever brand of dumb:

Writer/Directors: Ethan Coen, Joel Coen (Fargo, The Big Lebowski)

Budget: $37,000,000

IMDB rating: 7.0

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N99kv6ojn48

7. The Tree of Life (2011, USA)

Brad Pitt, Jessica Chastain, Hunter McCracken, Sean Penn, Tye Sheridan, Laramie Eppler

This film attempts, I believe, to tell what could be a simple story: the dynamics and consequences of father-son/family relationships; primarily unfortunate ones, but from a far greater context than usual; from a truly universal perspective. The result is a beautiful, graceful film with a sacred feel, full of rich subtlety from which thoughtful viewers may perceive their own messages; derive their own insights. For me, it all worked. It sent my head into marvelous gentle vantages. From there the characters, so real, could not be perceived as good guys and bad guys but only as a tribe of imperfect pitiable struggling creatures, each eternally lovable.

Critics have called the film “mad and magnificent” and an “unashamedly epic reflection on love and loss." Roger Ebert said of it: “a film of vast ambition and deep humility,” and in 2012 named it among his 10 best films of all time.

Young Jack (voice over): “Where were You? You let a boy die. You let anything happen. Why should I be good… when You aren't?”

Writer/Director: Terrence Malick (The Thin Red Line)

Budget: $32,000,000

IMDB rating: 6.7

Trailer:

Short List:

Moneyball (2011, USA) Brad Pitt, Jonah Hill, Philip Seymour Hoffman

Se7en (1995, USA) Brad Pitt, Morgan Freeman

ablaze /əˈblāz/

From Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. The father lies on the ground, apparently dying:

You have to carry the fire.

I don’t know how to.

Yes you do.

Is it real? The fire?

Yes it is.

Where is it? I don’t know where it is.

Yes you do. It's inside you. It was always there. I can see it.

I don’t have the novel with me presently. I pulled this quote off the internet. And no one has neglected to copy quotations or dialogue attribution because there are none. The writing is so utterly precise that the usual aids are not required.

If I correctly recall, this is the father’s response when the boy hints that he wishes to go with his father into death. And perhaps that would have been a mercy, for both of them and for the reader too, to grant that wish, but the father is a true hero. Despite his magnificent love for his son he is delivering him (he hopes), just like the flame from the expired Olympiad to the new, to a new humanity; the improbable rebirth. The new garden of Eden perhaps.

The old humanity exists in the sparsest numbers, their last puny cannibalistic soulless inhuman hurrah in a world gray and crumbling, barren of resources. But the boy is a rare innocent; a singular beacon of empathy; a last spark of humanity if you will, and recently they spotted something in the water; some tiny living thing: the only hint that the planet has not quite entirely died; that such a garden might still be possible. If not for that sighting I think they would have chosen to die together.

Yeah, I’ve blogged about this book a few times already but it is so hugely important. It’s hard to find a novel so relevant as this. On a linear level, this scene tore me to pieces. He is sending the boy on alone, with no food, no destination and little hope. But it moves me tremendously on another level. The book addresses the question of species mortality linearly and also as a microcosm and then metaphorically too!

It is so clear to me that this scene is exactly where we are headed; that this critical juncture is coming and relatively soon. It doesn’t matter to me what form it takes. We are hopelessly, inexorably aiding and abetting all the forms. It doesn’t matter because it is in our DNA: a hopeless genetic formula; a formula with no contingency for a future.

We are, most of us, 99.9% instinct robots. It is so magnificently easy to not see that; to assume we are something better, and some few are better, and for some of us, there is hope to be better as we’ve grasped the functionality if only we would employ it. But human societies have only ever existed as slave systems and we are no exception. The corporate-political-religious-military-greed system has us in a stranglehold and all our innocents are delivered into that prison on the conveyor belt that is formal education. I don’t say these words with the carelessness or bravado that writers typically do in this society. I have studied this intently for a long time. I could write a set of encyclopaedias about it. Actually I have begun that very process and the project has swiftly grown into a monster and makes a fool of me. If only I could learn how to talk about it effectively in plain English.

For now I am working much harder than usual to get my shit together: to save this softening mind and softening body (last chance?) in order to join the fight more effectively. I know a thing or two about the miracle of empathy; that DNA antidote, which few do, and there is nothing left for me to do but join that fight. Nothing else interests me.

Perhaps we will somehow not arrive at that moment; that last-chance last spark of humanity, with the odds stacked against us. Perhaps all our little fights in their various forms, will somehow prevail and democracies will come real and humans will rediscover the difference between intelligence and sound-bites and choose intelligence. Perhaps we don’t have to come to the edge of the cliff. Yes, humanity only arrived here on planet Minerva thanks to miracles. Perhaps we have one left, as vain as that hope looks from here. Like Stephen Hawking said:

Where there is life there is hope.

McCarthy’s father character seemed to think so. “We’ve always been lucky,” he told his son, trying to convince the boy to go on without him. “You’ll be lucky again.”

Love and Loss

April A-to-Z: must-read books

The Screaming Room (1987)

By Barbara Peabody

USA

A superior novelist has a good sense of the emotional landscape of their work and takes the reader on a balanced ride, alternately building then dissipating tensions. This book is instead a roller coaster with far more downs than ups. There is no balance here because this was not written by a superior novelist, but by an inexperienced writer; a mother whose child has succumbed to AIDS. This is in fact her diary.

This happened some years ago, when AIDS was new to North America, not well understood, and generally received as a death sentence. The story is told with fearless explicit honesty.

I grew to love these people and was deeply hurt by their experience. For a couple weeks after reading it I had to regularly remind myself that I had not actually known these people; that they were not counted among my friends and loved ones. And yet, I will never forget them.

Nothing I can say could oversell this book’s impact. It’s emotionally devastating; so much that perhaps I should not even recommend it. And yet I do and without hesitation. For all the hurt there is a great reward which is hard to express. I think my capacity for empathy was greatly nurtured from this experience and that is a precious thing in a world that needs so much more of it would we survive this species' reckless adolescence.

This is a must-read book for anyone with a heart.

F is for Family

April A-to-Z: must-read books

A Wolf at the Table (2008)

By Augusten Burroughs

(1965-) Pennsylvania

This is a memoir concerning a father-son relationship. How odd then, the cover image: a fork, curled like a claw, bathed in red light. And the peculiar mood at the outset. A reader is inclined to think they’ve stumbled on a werewolf tale. I was skeptical at first, that this was genuine autobiography.

But of course there are men of extreme personalities in the world, and why shouldn’t some of them have been fathers? And why wouldn’t the son of such a man, growing up in strange circumstances, be inclined toward the inwardness, escape and contemplation which would serve him in, and propel him toward, the art of writing.

This book was deeply compelling as it triggered much empathy in me, and it’s conclusion, so subtle but so powerful.

This book is a must-read for anyone who can shed a tear for another, and be grateful for that.

A passage:

   I pulled on the hem of his jacket, his sleeve. I grabbed his cold fingers and yanked them. I said, “Pick me up, pick me up!” Melting snow fell from his cap onto my neck and slid down my back, and this made me screech and laugh and jump in place. My father winced and complained, “Hush, that sound hurts my ears.”

   “Pick me up!” He never did but I said it anyway.

   “Damn it son, please.”

   “I backed away, still fidgeting and twitching with excitement. “Okay,” I said, and allowed him to walk into the house unmolested. Was he heading for the kitchen? Or the living room? I ran ahead of him, tearing across the floor. I made it to his destination long before he did. I hopped in place, up and down, up and down. I just could not stand it!

   Finally, when he reached the kitchen or the dining room table, I hugged him. And then those arms of his slid down between us, prying me away.

   It made me giggle. “You’re tickling me!” I shouted.

   I always managed to hang on a little bit longer.

   I always won!

   It was our game and I loved it. Me against the armsandhands to get to him, his solid core part, the middle, the him.

Happiness

Happiness is a neat idea. In a society where reputation is everything - even money is just a ledger of reputation if you think about it - and people are conditioned to judge themselves through the eye of the other instead of looking inward, I think a lot of people are playing a game. They believe themselves happy as long as they are succeeding in selling the image that they are happy.

I think a lot of people who kind of know they're not happy are at least content to interpret they're on a path to happiness or are at least fighting to get on that path. Of course the joke's on them if the things this society holds dear turn out to be charades.

I know I feel happy when I put my arms around someone beautiful - whether beautiful (by my appraisal) inwardly or outwardly or both. I know I'm happy with a steak on my plate and red wine in my glass; happier still when they get in my mouth - as long as I manage not to think of the cow, that is, otherwise I feel the guilt I deserve. And that's not bragging. The sinner who knows better is the worst sinner.

But there are things that trump happiness and here it gets hard to explain. Because when I start talking about freedom, harmony, peace and joy - that's where I imagine people stop listening. Because it sounds like religion or it sounds like people selling snake oil or it sounds like I'm deluded. But there are things I know well and I really wish more people would know more of them along with me.

Earth is a paradise and humans are magnificent with the rare (or unique) ability to evolve beyond the natural death-state of the universe. That alone gives us incredible joy which I experience regularly. But that miraculous evolution depends on the power of a healthy consciousness; one not fooled by the instinctive mind, and that is so very hard to find. Because consciousness is a new evolution. It's in its infancy by universal standards. It's power is a baby-power but we don't realize that. Because our conscious self is the only self we know, it feels like everything to us. It is our totality, and this illusion - of our baby consciousness being a master brain - is the chief illusion which stems all others. And all these illusions separate us from the joy of our existence. They hold us prisoner. We don't know ourselves. Our master brain is a stranger to us and we barely know it exists. Our master brain can not trust our baby consciousness by handing over the steering wheel. Our master brain can not trust our baby consciousness to adhere to our all-powerful survival instincts which almost all normal human activity can be easily logically mapped to.

I had to be courageous and patient and strong (qualities not easy for me to access) for a long time in order to decipher the truth of myself and to grow comfortable with it, and the rewards are magnificent. My master brain has witnessed the intentional (far from perfect or complete) evolution of my consciousness and has surrendered some degree of control.  Those things we call sins - the simple manifestations of survival (domination) instinct have been diminished to varying degrees. One of them obviously remains strong unfortunately (gluttony - its no secret) and another remains somewhat relevant though diminished (lust if you must know) and I have little doubt I might defeat them if I were to dedicate enough effort to it but... I'm not ready and may never be. That's a subject for another time.

As killer instincts are diminished, beautiful things happen. Illusions fall apart and reality is much more graspable and this reality - lo and behold - is the paradise. And it's so transparent how some religions refer to it and it really is a lovely joke how these religions over the centuries have misguidedly strayed from whatever beautiful poetic enlightenment either inspired them or was manipulated by them to their ends (the former I hope) and painted this paradise of reality as some place in the clouds you go to after you die. It is such a sad insanity really. To think you must die to find paradise when in fact  it is a mental journey you must take, one which in fact feels like a rebirth. The memory of my former self is growing more alien to me all the time.

When illusions fall the societal ills that are born of illusions fall with them:

depression
lonesomeness
embarrassment
jealousy
anger
guilt
anxiety
sadness
insult
suspicion (not skepticism)
betrayal
impatience...

I know there are many more on the list though they don't come immediately to mind - probably because I haven't experienced them, at all or but in small measure, for a long time now.

The result is freedom in many forms: freedom from so many ills and from circumstances dictating one's feelings. The result is joy. The result is clarity and strength of mind and desire for (and easy access to) integrity, honesty and generosity. The result is death to the eye of the other; falling out of the reputation game and being motivated only by your own courageous examination of yourself.

The result for me is lovingness; loving motivation instead of selfish motivation. The hitch is - will lovingness be the result for anyone who follows a similar path? That I can't be sure of just now. I don't even have a theory currently - how to figure that out. It isn't really on my to-do list.

There was a time in my life - years - where I suffered so much of these usual societal ills, which people sadly pass off as the normal (okay), unavoidable (wrong) side-effects of living, that I would routinely feel unease; a mild foreboding during solitary moments - usually when driving, and sometimes this unease would come over me in a vague way and I would have to poke around in my head for a moment to remember what thing or things were going on to feel bad about. And sometimes there was nothing bad going on and I would realize that I was only feeling vaguely bad out of habit: sad but a relief.

In more recent times I would find myself driving and forgetting why I felt so happy; an anticipation, and searching my brain, I would realize that there was nothing special going on to be delighted about; that it was just my habit to feel good. A very happy realization each occasion and not a disappointment!

These days I'm much accustomed to feeling good. It never surprises me anymore. I do still feel a full range of emotions but many of them are confined to moments of empathy. I will feel your sadness or your anger or your anxiety because my empathy touches you at your state of perception; not my own.

And I know that there are opportunities for me to feel better still. If I could rectify my self-inflicted health issues, sleep issues, energy level issues and thus productivity issues, I could accomplish more usefulness.

And maybe even evolve a little more: knock those remaining "sins" down a little.

NaNoWriMo Necessity

So I'm deeply embedded in National Novel Writing Month of course and statistically doing well: at about 34,400 words at the half-way point. The goal is 50,000 but I'm just about on pace for my secret goal of 70,000.

One of the many interesting ways I've changed, which I attribute to the poetic lifestyle, is the lack of power first impressions hold over me. My lack of need to compartmentalize, my welcoming of complexity and greater capacity for forgiveness are surely a part of it.

A certain NaNo associate did not rub me the right way upon our first introduction - which was through internet forum. I think it's safe to assume that the intentions behind his initial overtures were not what I interpreted. Ah, the flaws of human communication.

Now that he has declared the intention to depart from NaNo, overwhelmed by other needs, I found myself wishing he would stay.

A well-intended writer made the sensible suggestions that real life is more important than NaNo and he should return to the novel when the time is right. I'm always mildly terrified by anyone who uses the phrase "real life" but I got over it, and offered this response:

Not looking for a debate but I think it's only fair you hear from the other side of the coin: Creativity is as vital to the real world as anything. In fact I suggest it is paramount given that creativity is the only significant thing uniquely human and that it is an integral and inseparable component of that very evolutionary branch which brings us consciousness, empathy and love. Without this, I can not see human life having a point or being worth living, other than as a kind of parasite. Anyone who can't devote an hour a day to creativity and only be slave to survival necessity (or the garish things we perceive as necessity) for 23 hours a day or less, in such a privileged recreation-based society as ours - spoiled to the point of perversity - is in a truly dire state! And for those who choose such an arrangement permanently - I have no hope for them. I can't imagine how they'll ever find any legitimate joy, rather than chase artificial happinesses to unending disappointment.

So I hope that you'll re-examine the math - or else solve enough of your current dilemmas soon that you'll be back to creating - in time for NaNo or for afterwards. And if a favor or two would help you quickly return to this state of grace I have eluded to (!!) please don't hesitate to ask - seriously.

Whatever happens, I am adamantly determined to maintain the writing habit permanently and to stay as connected as possible with this group between Novembers and it would be great to see you at any time!    

I'm walking a mile in HER shoes

Yeah, I really don't like the idea of violence against women - or children or men for that matter. They're my top three kinds of violence I dislike. So I'm joining a protest against domestic abuse and helping to raise a few bucks for a shelter called Gillian's Place. It was Skeeter Willis' idea and it made too much sense to turn down. Plus the best part is - I get to wear high heels.

I'm thinking of throwing in a nice sunhat and boa but I don't know if that would be in the proper spirit.

If you want to make a donation, I wouldn't say no:
https://gilliansplace.akaraisin.com/pledge/Participant/Home.aspx?seid=9149&mid=9&pid=1873884

The ultimate horror

Lately I've been re-watching all my favourite holocaust films - somehow favourite feels like the wrong word; perhaps, in this case, most disturbing is better. These films tend to all blend together in my mind and it's a good time to try to sort them out as I endeavor to put together a review of essential films (of all genres) based on my own priorities and idiosyncrasies. Given my devotion to the art of storytelling and that I've watched at least two thousand movies in my days, I'll dare consider myself a bit qualified in this regard. Perhaps the April 2014 A-Z Blogging challenge will be the venue for the review. Or perhaps not until April 2015. There's a fair amount of research to do.

So I just watched Sophie's Choice which I hadn't seen in many years and I was really struck by Meryl Streep's performance. Incredible acting. Amazing, I thought.

In grade eight my best friend at the time was penning swastikas everywhere, for no particular reason as far as I was aware. I didn't know anything about the symbol. I'd certainly heard of Nazism but didn't connect it to the icon. So I drew one on my arm in pen; a goofy temp tattoo of sorts. Our teacher observed this, and addressed the class with a factual impromptu lesson on the swastika symbol and how it was a hurtful thing for some people and I immediately dispensed with my decoration. Shortly thereafter we read The Diary of Anne Frank and then devoted a long series of lessons to holocaust material. Whether this was all a response, or coincidentally the planned curriculum I don't know. I always assumed the latter.

The subject has haunted me in various forms ever since.

I have been able to wrap my head around the whole phenomena much better over the last few years but still - the sheer volume of cruelty and suffering can be - just too much to contemplate. Especially seeing images of children in concentration camps, waiting to die. It's devastating to me. Something disconnects, like an emergency shut-off switch, and I can't properly think about it.

So even though I fully understand that humans are natural born killers and it makes perfect sense to me and that the basic manifestations which made up the Jewish holocaust are still happening all over the world, though not at such an alarming concentration as far as we observe, there remains this overwhelming quality.

The DVD-extra documentary, however, offers these words from director Alan J. Pakula, and I was deeply touched by them. I was comforted in a way:

"One of the struggles of art, in dealing with the holocaust is that the reality exceeds the capacity of the imagination. Had it not really happened, no novelist, writer, thinker could have ever touched this experience without somehow exceeding any bounds of the capacity for art."

What a cruel trick; the name of this film. One will initially assume the choice is that between the two men; two lovers. But if you subscribe to the idea that there is not one holocaust story, but six million holocaust stories, then is there possibly one more horrific than this?

Pakula goes on to say: "I always believed the holocaust was an expression in the extreme of what is common to the mainstream of western society, which therefore makes it important, if not essential, for us to grapple with."

I totally get that. It's why I keep grappling.

W is for Walking

Various communities serve as venues for my walking for exercise - and invariably - for contemplation.

Blocks are short; the routes plentiful. There is always some new permutation; a couple rows of modest houses which I have not set eyes upon prior.

I see peeling paint; a roof slumping with age. I see the first struggling stalks of perrennial plants in sparse gardens; dandelion flowers; a bicycle hastily abandoned on a lawn; a truck with giant after-market tires straddling an oil stain at the rear of a wrinkled driveway.

Residents are unseen yet some version of them; some spirit of them are filling my head. I sense them. They are confused and frustrated with endless circumstances that refuse to go their way, and bitter over spouses and others who refuse to be who they were supposed to be. There are tears on pillows, swallowed rage, hidden shame, things stuffed into drawers and under beds. I sense the jealousies and insecurities; the outrage at perceived injustices and imagined insults; their malformed guilt battered by the heavy tools of rationalization. I feel their fading hopes; concealed love; dreams abandoned almost unnoticed; their precious things slowly, clumsily crushed in desperation.

I feel the malaise of the lost; the disconnected; the blind; whole lives every bit as real as mine. Will the shock of that revelation ever diminish?

It is nothing psychic of course. It is only imagination, but yet it can not be inaccurate. These hard symptoms of the matrix of society, though so unnecessary, are all here in some configuration or another, flowing and pulsing behind faces made of windows and doors, while pity and affection swell in my throat and behind my eyes.


I laugh for the dirty window pane hiding the love within.
- Bruce Cockburn

RSA Animate - The Empathic Civilisation

Though, to my lasting regret, the excellent Skeeter Willis declines to leave much writing here, he has at least sent us this little jewel. There is much I would applaud here and much I would be skeptical about. I am inclined perhaps to break this down into areas and comment on them in separate posts. We'll see about that. In the mean time I would suggest that this is some good testimony as far as getting us thinking about some very critical subjects.

More later.

Julie, Julia, Me and You

The writing life is a constant bout of amnesia. Each time I return to it after too long an absence I am shocked to discover how joyful it is; how rewarding.

How is it that I keep forgetting how integral writing is to my vitality? Each time the habit derails upon collision with a busy schedule or laziness or a pursuit of some addiction (but really, always some combination of those things), how quickly I forget that writing is my truest companion. Then we're reunited finally and yet again the blank page surprises me, revealing that only here upon this endless white field am I - at home.

And just as this certain knowledge is repeatedly stolen from my wretched consciousness, so is this piece: That the thoughts which spur me to write at any given time are never the meat of the story but only the doorway. Always as I struggle to convert those thoughts to meaningful words, so the real questions emerge and the real ideas follow.

These twin crimes constantly dull the urge to write and I dare not suggest their origin - because I am not a poet of enough merit to slander those ancients before me by denouncing the beast or the pit, nor am I scientist enough to test the tale of genetic sub-code; of a dedication to species, not self, lying at the heart of the master non-consciousness. As I strive to acquire discipline, my only weapon against that ruling force (as mirrored in the messages of poets and Buddhists), I go against the interests of speciesism; I pervert our ruthless core programming.

Yet I sense with almost certainty that both claims, poetic and scientific, are versions of the same truth but written in different languages.

I look at my neighbors and they show me no indication of awareness of this harsh reality. They seem only to circle this great monopoly board that we dare label life and seem only to see through the eyes of their token. They seem to skitter in a constant panic on the surface of life, like those squat little waterbugs. Do they ever stop and peer below?

You have to slow down to see beneath things. But that is what art is all about, isn't it? Literature, music, theatre, film and the visual arts. They are reflection. They are components of real life but rearranged and concentrated. In them we seek to understand the nature of humanity by looking at our communal selves through other perspectives.

Of course there is an endless swarm of "false art." The bulk of action movie material for instance, which is fast and shallow and appeases the dedicated surface-skimmers by speeding them faster and faster along the surface. "What happens next!" is the constant question, never "What is really happening?." And the answer is bullets and fast cars. Things that appease the base instincts but at least let you explore them in the safety of the cinema; not on the streets.

But for those occasions when we bear a little courage; a little bit of respect for our innate complexity of mind, there is the literary fiction and its counterparts in film and other mediums, there is that patient contemplation; that exploration of fragile human diverseness. Here our empathy is awakened and we become someone else for a while and we laugh with them and we hurt for them and we feel connected and we get just a little closer to understanding ourselves and our kind; an infinitely greater adventure, I suggest, than any bank heist.

I just watched Julie and Julia, a true-ish film about a couple of writers with a passion for food (How could I possibly relate?). I quite liked it. Meryl Streep's performance was of Oscar quality in my humble opinion and Amy Adams was perfectly cast. I shed a couple tears in places where no man should be expected to and not because anyone got cancer or anything, but because the human spirit is miraculous and fragile and because it is at once inspiring and pitiable to watch - nay feel - someone clinging to their dreams.

Empathy. I feel it is at the core of our imagination, our creativity, our love. our connectedness. It is the hinge upon which the human being's unique evolution swings. I am in stunned awe of it.