Life (what to do with it)

The massacre in Connecticut -- like its precedents in Arizona, California, Colorado, Illinois, and Virigina -- bring back into public consciousness the desperate love of life that makes humans unique on this blue world. A lunatic armed with both malice and weapons rains down murder upon society and we collectively remember the idiom that, "you don't know what you've got until it's gone."

I wanted to avoid news reports in the aftermath of this most recent event. I listen to NPR several hours a day, so staying away from it posed a real challenge.... which I failed, listening to stories delivered in the conditional tense. This breaks my heart. Survivors -- which those of us who know of this event and continue to breathe surely are -- told of wanted futures. Especially from the youngest, who are always so impatient for the future. And here is life at its most easiest to identify.

Anyway, I'm glad for the failure because this event -- and the responses that came afterwards -- illuminated a contradiction at the centre of my existence that I better need to understand.

I confront death nearly every day. Not in a dramatic sort of way that doctors, police, or soldiers witness. Rather, I see it in the mirror in in my mind. Every day I confront my own death. Sometimes it's one sentence amidst the mundane internal dialogue ("wouldn't it be easier to die?"). Those are the better days because I can acknowledge its appearance, check that box, and get on with the day. Other times, it manifests like a physical force. I dread those days because I feel like a puppet.

And I feel certain that life is short.

People often describe suicides as "selfish." The survivors frame the act as one that refutes the power of love, the power of life, and the power of people. Suicides, in this context, receive a scorn that one rarely (if ever) applies to other manners of death. The suicide elevated their own needs above the needs of others: in other words, suicide sits at the apex of narcissism by depriving the world of one's own existence. I used to sympathise, if not downright agree, with this conclusion. I used this philosophical framework as a tool for pulling myself out of suicidal feelings. Pride, I believed, comes out one's accomplishments; however, suicide was a mundane accomplishment that most anyone could achieve, like tying one's shoes. It's so easy to die that I placed it outside the proud field. I no longer feel this way.  Pride comes out of what one can accomplish given the circumstances. If bathing is a goal within the conspiring circumstances of suicide, then be proud to achieve it. If one can survive twenty-four hours despite the conspiracy of annihilation, then be proud to achieve it.

My aunt reminded me, during a particularly difficult time, that lots of people love me. She reminded me that I have a wonderful dog, wonderful friends, and live much more comfortably than many others. I couldn't argue against her exercise in clarity but nor could I ignore the personal truth that all of that great stuff isn't enough. Great pain comes from the realisation that all of the love in the world cannot make one want to continue living.

Nietzche wrote that meaning of life is that it ends. I would add that the question of "how" life ends lies at the centre of human philosophy. Or, at least mine. Maybe suicide is not the fulfillment of the desire for death -- what the Greeks call thanatos -- but rather the acknowledgement that it arrives. Perhaps the suicidal do not want to die; rather, they see death on the horizon and feel powerless to stop its arrival.

On the radio, I heard people speak of the dead in terms of their anticipated future. This breaks my heart because the future belongs to the living. People want life. People expect life to continue. I want life and I hope that it will continue. But, I feel certain that life is short. Sometimes, the future might as well be Neptune. 

Other times, the future is tomorrow. I hope, and look forward, to seeing it.

What the hell?

My brother Derrick used my iTunes account a few years ago. I gave him my old original iPhone with instructions to be careful buying anything via iTunes because my debit card was tied to that phone/iTunes account. He would pay me back for whatever purchases he made so I didn't think much of it until today.

I downloaded the new iTunes 11 last night and began playing with it this morning. I noticed that it showed songs "in the cloud," which was odd since I didn't know any of my library existed out there. Indeed!  The music that Derrick bought years ago survives in the iCloud. Now, in my iTunes library, I see such musical masterpieces as composed by Chris Brown, Nickelback, and Paramore (along with assortment of other crap). How about that! Well, I had a spare 30 seconds to kill so deleted said crap.

DELETE ALL THE CRAP. 

Hello, handsome!

I forgot (for three years) that Google owns Blogger.

Helping, I guess?

My mom needs a ride to the doctor.
My life could be easier if my mom could access transportation and services.
My.

I watched Mike Bouman pour ingredients -- salt, baking powder?, stuff -- into two bowls that could also be buckets. He dipped a spoon into a box of some powdery stuff, lifted it a few inches, used his finger to remove the excess, and dropped the powdery stuff into a bowl. While standing at the prep desk, he consulted a cookbook and knocked out a rhythm with his knuckles on the table top.

I wonder what song was on his mind.

Ryu tries to understand your problem.

Stop learning, start speaking.

I read a website that argues against nearly every method of learning/using the Spanish language. The author poo-poo's intercambio as the fail-proof method of improvement. His argument went in two directions: one, that a learner is inclined to 'listen' rather than 'use' the language (perhaps, I gather out of anxiety of embarrassment); two, that the learner assumes the intercambio as a silver-bullet to fluency. I fell into both of these categories. More the second as of late than the first. The first, fear of embarrassment, exists more so in the formative language years. I recall with horror my getting lost in the monastery of El Escorial earlier this year, unable to form the words to describe my predicament. Now, on home turf and after a decade of exposure, the fear is gone. Now, I want much more to impress. The second reason, the assumption that intercambio is a panacea, is one to which I certainly "fell victim." I know nearly no one with whom I can use the language. It seemed (seems) fair to presume that using a language -- like any skill -- keeps and develops the mastery of such. I'm not sure why the author concludes this, but it does bring an mount of space for relief. His suggestion to abandon verb tables gets my whole-hearted applause. He advocates that one should treat verb conjugations as separate, distinct words rather than iterations of the infinitive. For example: sé and saben mean two different things in a sentence, so treat them as such. This works for me! Especially salient are the modismos created from tener, hacer and echar. Moreover, the best advice that I read - and that oft-repeated by teachers - is to it every day but not an hour. No, much more than sixty minutes. Throw out the idea that one needs/should take "breaks" from Spanish. Can a native English speaker take a "break" from English? Nope. This makes one hell of a lot of sense. I might revise the motivational scrawl at my office desk from una hora todos los días to una hora a la oficina sino mucho más en casa. This hours are mind to find and exploit. ¡Viva castellano!

Wishlist

I wrote this in the written journal. I forgot, then, to write the date.

I wish that I would meet someone that I respect.
I wish that someone would expect more form me.
I wish that I would accomplish something beautiful.
I wish that I would jettison the conditioning of accepting other people's values.
I wish that my actual courage matched the desired.
I wish that I could remember.
I wish that I could better hold a conversation.
I wish that I didn't mind being 32.
I wish that I didn't mind being single.
I wish that I had a talent.
I wish that I were somebody else.
I wish that I could better manage confrontation.
I will remove the attendance policy from the syllabus.
I removed Twitter from the iPhone/iPad.
I will finish reading 'Franny and Zooey' this afternoon.
I will remember that First World problems are still problems.

Redux

Steven and I broke up. Last Saturday, whilst awaiting the Apocalypse, Jessie and I sat that the bar at Butch's enjoying conversation with the bartender (also named Steve). I shared the breakup story with Jessie. He latched onto what hitherto seemed to me the most innocuous detail: Steven's academic elitism. "He threw Michigan State into your face? Not Harvard or Chicago?" This pleasantly derailed my narrative train. Jessie concluded that "you deserve better than that."

I should point out that Jessie and I are not friends. Our relationship is best described as acquaintances. This distinction is not a petty one; though, I welcome a change towards the former. It struck me that we seemed to enjoy the others' company in a neutral setting that's not Lemonjellos. Perhaps he and I will get to know the other more? I also notice that the company of friends and others: Mike, Darcy, mom, Jessie, LJs, brings a lot more peace than any time spent with Steven. Lesson learned. What other lessons learned?

No compromises regarding Ryu. Ryu lives in my house. Nobody changes Ryu's routine (absent a medical reason). Someone doesn't like Ryu on the bed, then let them go home at night. Ryu sleeps wherever he wants.

Someone privileges merchandise over people, let them be alone with their nice things.

If someone cannot be happy where they are, let them be alone and unhappy.

If someone cannot speak with respect to the downtrodden, the homeless, the poor, then let them enjoy alone the sound of their own arrogance.

Doomsday Prophet

I saw yesterday a street prophet. He wore a brown sack-cloth. He held a home-made sign: REPENT! The End Is Near!

Jessie and I, along with the passive involvement of Mark and Emily, watched the 21st century John the Baptist - tall with long, wild grey hair - walk along College Avenue. He then walked into the carpark behind the Brewery. He stood near a vehicle we couldn't yet see. We watched him pull the sack-cloth robes over his head. A startling transformation: from preacher to Gap-clothed hippie. He stowed the warning sign. My fellow patrons on the patio took guesses as to what vehicle the man drove. We were delighted to see him reverse from the space and into view to reveal an orange Jeep Wrangler. "Maybe he needs it to navigate the soon-to-be-wasted terrain?" someone wondered. As we watched the cargo-shorted prophet maneuver his 4x4 into the street, we saw then the cherry to top the narrative: a plush viking hat (replete with concave horns) adorning the Wrangler's dashboard. The patio laughed. The herald of the Lord's pending doom must have heard us. He turned to give us a little grin. "He might accidentally get Rapture'd to Valhalla." "Do you think that he's a Minnesota Vikings fan?" Another of our peanut gallery wondered to whom this man prayed: Odin or Favre?