Watching The Polar Express yesterday on DVD, I was reminded of how much I love Santa Claus. The very idea of him, the image of him, the execution of the concept -- wonderful. Love the guy. (Loved that movie, too -- very dark and strange and magical and a little creepy and the type of movie I would have flipped for at age ten.) I'm still not entirely convinced that Santa is actually, certifiably, provably fake; I still think that somewhere between Norway and Finland his hideout waits for my detection. Who's to say that he isn't real, anyways?
When I was in Grade 6 we had to write a Christmas story for class, and I wrote this morbid little tale concerning a certain elf of Santa's who was pissed off at how hard he worked without receiving any credit whatsoever, so he shot down a couple of other elves and kidnapped Santa; I even providedillustrations for my readers' enjoyment, complete with jet-black uzis and maroon-red blood. My teacher wasn't pleased.
Not the usual Santa story, no, and not one I'd write now, but I still would like to write the ultimate, kickass Santa Claus story.
I'm serious.
Richard Christian Matheson, son of the great genre writer Richard Matheson (The Incredible Shrinking Man, Duel) had a neat little story in his short story collection Scars about a burnt-out, middle-age executive type who bumps into Santa himself at Club Med one July. Very touching and funny.
Personally, I'd like to write a novel about a burnt-out Santa himself. He would be fifty-five, sixty, as he eternally is. Hanging out in bars. Drinking too much. (If I turned it into a screenplay, I could see Gene Hackman playing my version of Santa.)
The thing is, I would like to write it totally straight and serious, as if this dude really existed. He would be full of guilt and self-loathing; here he is, living for generation after generation, and everybody's stopped believing in him. He's been co-opted by the media and the advertisers. Department stores cheapen what he represents, cloning him for the masses. He resents the fact that he's never been able to bring gifts to the Jews and the Hindus and the muslims. He mourns the disintegration of his North Pole empire. He's the ultimate overacheiver who's flatlined. Lost his mojo.
I'd go into his whole backstory -- how he became Santa, why he stayed Santa, why Mrs.Claus left him, the whole deal.
We all have our own crazy ideas, and mine is to write a novel about Santa.
Don't mock me. It will just give me the ammunition needed to write the ultimate realistic story of Santa's downfall and redemption, a Santa Claus for the new millenium for those who don't believe in him anymore.
I just might do it.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Saturday, March 05, 2005
BIN LADEN, TONY DANZA, GEORGE SOROS, AND THE LAW OF UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES
An article I read the other day raised an interesting point, namely that Osama Bin Laden, attempting to destroy (or at least seriously disrupt) western democratic systems, unintentionally set in motion a chain of events that had actually led to the opposite of his original goal -- thus, the Law of Unintentional Consequences once again comes into play.
In other words, Bin Laden and his deluded cronies seek to get payback against America for what they perceive as meddling in Middle East affairs. So what happens? America decides to meddle even MORE in Middle Eastern affairs, resulting in a wave of democratic movements stretching from Afghanistan to Iraq and Lebanon.
Not quite what Bin Laden had in mind.
I'd never thought of his before, at least in connection to 9/11. Puts a new slant on how to view global-international relations.
Bush certainly wasn't originally elected by proclaiming his desire to spread democracy; quite the opposite. And yet, because of one madman's malevolence (alliteration alert!), he's doing his best to spread the gospel according to Dubya.
We plan to do something to achieve A, and, instead of A, we get B, which turns out to be better than A, which makes us glad that we didn't actually get what we wanted.
You order the wrong drink by accident and get a tastier one than what you had wanted.
You mean to tape Fear Factor: The U.S.Senate, but end up taping The Tony Danza Show instead, and find yourself enjoying it anyway. (Though you would never admit it. And when did he get his own show, anyway? The weird thing about living abroad is you go home once a year and discover all these people who are famous to everyone but you, and the people you do know are popping up where you least expect them.) It makes me think of something George Soros, the billionaire/philanthropist often talks about. (I mean, it's not The Tony Danza Show that makes me think of George Soros, but the Law of Unintentional Consequences. Although, who knows, maybe George Soros watches Tony Danza every afternoon. It's possible. Stranger things have happened. The fact that Tony Danza has a talk show is one of them. )
Soros states that one of the prerequisites of a free and open society is not only the ability and responsibility to make our own decisions, but also the ability to recognize that what we decide could, in fact, be wrong. A notion of our own fallibility is necessary to maintaining a democratic order, or else we simply live day to day by our own unbudgeable convictions. (Is that a word, 'unbudgeable'? As in, 'won't move'? I don't think it is, but I'm feeling very vulnerable and inadequate right now because I watched this documentary called Spellbound last night, about the U.S. National Spelling Bee, and I saw all these twelve year old kids spell all these words that I've never even heard of, let alone be able to spell, and it reminded me of how I participated in a spelling bee in Grade 7, and I was doing all right, working my magic spelling mojo pretty suavely, until I got the word 'restaurant', which I started to spell r-e-s-t-e-r only to hear Kendra Thorne in the audience clap in glee because she knew I made a mistake, and her team was the other team, not mine, and the memory still digs deep, so now I'm continuously trying to expand my bloggatic vocabulary, but I don't think it's working.) Recognizing that we have the power to make our own choices, and that those choices may not always be the correct ones, is essential to an understanding of our own democratic limits and possibilities.
The Law of Unintented Consequences allows an escape clause to any worry you might have about accepting that responsibility, because who knows? Your screw-up could actually lead to better results than your successful follow-through.
So, don't fret about your decisions. Decide, see what happens, go from there. It may not be what you planned, but you could end up with green lights all the way down the road.
In other words, Bin Laden and his deluded cronies seek to get payback against America for what they perceive as meddling in Middle East affairs. So what happens? America decides to meddle even MORE in Middle Eastern affairs, resulting in a wave of democratic movements stretching from Afghanistan to Iraq and Lebanon.
Not quite what Bin Laden had in mind.
I'd never thought of his before, at least in connection to 9/11. Puts a new slant on how to view global-international relations.
Bush certainly wasn't originally elected by proclaiming his desire to spread democracy; quite the opposite. And yet, because of one madman's malevolence (alliteration alert!), he's doing his best to spread the gospel according to Dubya.
We plan to do something to achieve A, and, instead of A, we get B, which turns out to be better than A, which makes us glad that we didn't actually get what we wanted.
You order the wrong drink by accident and get a tastier one than what you had wanted.
You mean to tape Fear Factor: The U.S.Senate, but end up taping The Tony Danza Show instead, and find yourself enjoying it anyway. (Though you would never admit it. And when did he get his own show, anyway? The weird thing about living abroad is you go home once a year and discover all these people who are famous to everyone but you, and the people you do know are popping up where you least expect them.) It makes me think of something George Soros, the billionaire/philanthropist often talks about. (I mean, it's not The Tony Danza Show that makes me think of George Soros, but the Law of Unintentional Consequences. Although, who knows, maybe George Soros watches Tony Danza every afternoon. It's possible. Stranger things have happened. The fact that Tony Danza has a talk show is one of them. )
Soros states that one of the prerequisites of a free and open society is not only the ability and responsibility to make our own decisions, but also the ability to recognize that what we decide could, in fact, be wrong. A notion of our own fallibility is necessary to maintaining a democratic order, or else we simply live day to day by our own unbudgeable convictions. (Is that a word, 'unbudgeable'? As in, 'won't move'? I don't think it is, but I'm feeling very vulnerable and inadequate right now because I watched this documentary called Spellbound last night, about the U.S. National Spelling Bee, and I saw all these twelve year old kids spell all these words that I've never even heard of, let alone be able to spell, and it reminded me of how I participated in a spelling bee in Grade 7, and I was doing all right, working my magic spelling mojo pretty suavely, until I got the word 'restaurant', which I started to spell r-e-s-t-e-r only to hear Kendra Thorne in the audience clap in glee because she knew I made a mistake, and her team was the other team, not mine, and the memory still digs deep, so now I'm continuously trying to expand my bloggatic vocabulary, but I don't think it's working.) Recognizing that we have the power to make our own choices, and that those choices may not always be the correct ones, is essential to an understanding of our own democratic limits and possibilities.
The Law of Unintented Consequences allows an escape clause to any worry you might have about accepting that responsibility, because who knows? Your screw-up could actually lead to better results than your successful follow-through.
So, don't fret about your decisions. Decide, see what happens, go from there. It may not be what you planned, but you could end up with green lights all the way down the road.
Friday, March 04, 2005
SO, WHAT DO YOU THINK?
The weird thing about writing is that it forces you to constantly monitor your thoughts, translate them into words, and then figure out what they mean. (To you, and to others.)
Going through our daily lives, our thoughts come and go, drifting through our minds with a random, relentless rapidness (alliteration alert!) that would be almost comic if so many of them weren't so strange and unclassifiable; we usually don't stop and take stock of them. (Unless you're seriously into Buddhism, of course, where you can sit and chill in the lotus position, keeping mental score of what you think about all day long. Could be scary.)
We think something, then something else, then something else. That's what life is -- a succession of thoughts we try to grasp hold of, then clarify. I can be sitting here typing a post about writing, and suddenly I'm thinking about one of the teachers at my elementary school, Miss Watson, large and kind, calmly sitting in the centre of a circle while a group of kids shrieked their way through 'Kumbaya'. I wasn't planning on writing about her; wasn't thinking about her at all. But there it was, that blast from the past, and what does that mean? What neurons or photons or protons or whatever-they're-called are firing their synapses off in my brain? And what compels us to put them down in concrete form?
I think writing is like speech, which means it's freakin' bizarre, is what I'm saying. What goes on in her heads is somehow transferred to our fingers (tapping keys) and our lips (forming shapes). Out comes something approaching, hopefully, wisdom or insight or, most of the time, if we're lucky, comprehension.
And how much of these thoughts bopping around in our heads do we control? It's interesting, because I think, to a certain degree, we can control our emotions. (I just remembered that Jenn at www.1ljenn.blogspot.com had a similar post about controlling your emotions awhile back, I think, so maybe I'm unconsciously-and-now-consciously stealing her idea. Not a good thing to do from a future lawyer, I know, but...) If we are sad, we can pop a Jim Carrey movie into the DVD player. (If you think he's funny, of course.) If you're angry, you can try and think warm, soothing thoughts. If you're happy, you can think of even happier thoughts and continue in your state of bliss.
In other words, you can will your emotions; I do believe that. You can choose which emotions to have, at which time. (By no means is this easy, or always possible, but I think when we feel ourselves in a funk, we tend to dwell in that funk, make it our home, hang a mental sign on the door that says 'do not disturb'; when we are happy, we do what we can to stay happy.)
But thoughts?
Thoughts are formed by the colour of the sky and the song on the radio and the latch on the door that won't stay latched and the slow and steady trickle of snot that is sneaking its way down your nephew's face against his will and the sound of popcorn popping and the fact that your foot on the brake thankfully, one could say miraculously, pushed down just in time, right on time, avoiding the slightly annoying autistic kid crossing the road who would, otherwise, have been toast, buttered and jammed, and the myriad and multiple other things that control and contain and liberate us on a yearly, monthly, weekly, hourly, second-by second basis. (Not that that autistic kid was annoying because he was autistic, of course, but because of the fact that his mother always dresses him in a bright green coat that makes him look not like Green Lantern, which would be cool, but Kermit the Frog, which is decidedly uncool. And did you know that Sylvester Stallone has an autistic son? Close to my age, actually. And do you see how stupid and cracked my thoughts can get?!? Somebody stop me...)
All we can do is see what comes up and out of our heads, try to figure out what to do with them, and then see how they affect the (so-called) real world around us.
And hope they don't do any damage.
Going through our daily lives, our thoughts come and go, drifting through our minds with a random, relentless rapidness (alliteration alert!) that would be almost comic if so many of them weren't so strange and unclassifiable; we usually don't stop and take stock of them. (Unless you're seriously into Buddhism, of course, where you can sit and chill in the lotus position, keeping mental score of what you think about all day long. Could be scary.)
We think something, then something else, then something else. That's what life is -- a succession of thoughts we try to grasp hold of, then clarify. I can be sitting here typing a post about writing, and suddenly I'm thinking about one of the teachers at my elementary school, Miss Watson, large and kind, calmly sitting in the centre of a circle while a group of kids shrieked their way through 'Kumbaya'. I wasn't planning on writing about her; wasn't thinking about her at all. But there it was, that blast from the past, and what does that mean? What neurons or photons or protons or whatever-they're-called are firing their synapses off in my brain? And what compels us to put them down in concrete form?
I think writing is like speech, which means it's freakin' bizarre, is what I'm saying. What goes on in her heads is somehow transferred to our fingers (tapping keys) and our lips (forming shapes). Out comes something approaching, hopefully, wisdom or insight or, most of the time, if we're lucky, comprehension.
And how much of these thoughts bopping around in our heads do we control? It's interesting, because I think, to a certain degree, we can control our emotions. (I just remembered that Jenn at www.1ljenn.blogspot.com had a similar post about controlling your emotions awhile back, I think, so maybe I'm unconsciously-and-now-consciously stealing her idea. Not a good thing to do from a future lawyer, I know, but...) If we are sad, we can pop a Jim Carrey movie into the DVD player. (If you think he's funny, of course.) If you're angry, you can try and think warm, soothing thoughts. If you're happy, you can think of even happier thoughts and continue in your state of bliss.
In other words, you can will your emotions; I do believe that. You can choose which emotions to have, at which time. (By no means is this easy, or always possible, but I think when we feel ourselves in a funk, we tend to dwell in that funk, make it our home, hang a mental sign on the door that says 'do not disturb'; when we are happy, we do what we can to stay happy.)
But thoughts?
Thoughts are formed by the colour of the sky and the song on the radio and the latch on the door that won't stay latched and the slow and steady trickle of snot that is sneaking its way down your nephew's face against his will and the sound of popcorn popping and the fact that your foot on the brake thankfully, one could say miraculously, pushed down just in time, right on time, avoiding the slightly annoying autistic kid crossing the road who would, otherwise, have been toast, buttered and jammed, and the myriad and multiple other things that control and contain and liberate us on a yearly, monthly, weekly, hourly, second-by second basis. (Not that that autistic kid was annoying because he was autistic, of course, but because of the fact that his mother always dresses him in a bright green coat that makes him look not like Green Lantern, which would be cool, but Kermit the Frog, which is decidedly uncool. And did you know that Sylvester Stallone has an autistic son? Close to my age, actually. And do you see how stupid and cracked my thoughts can get?!? Somebody stop me...)
All we can do is see what comes up and out of our heads, try to figure out what to do with them, and then see how they affect the (so-called) real world around us.
And hope they don't do any damage.
THE C.I.A., DREW CAREY, POLITICS, ST.ELSEWHERE, AND WHAT TO SAY WHEN YOUR BOSS JUST... AIN'T... LISTENING TO YOU
"Oh, you hate your job? Why didn't you say so? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY, and they meet at the bar."
-- Drew Carey
The C.I.A. is America's elite intelligence service, conspiring and plotting and planning with some pretty shady characters in all corners of the globe, known for its covert, relentless attempts to achieve whatever it is that it wants to achieve, at whatever the cost -- so I was pretty surprised to see its new director, Porter J.Gross, basically whining about his new job in public.
The other day he gave a speech at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library, where he mentioned how he had to spend five hours a day simply preparing President Bush's daily security briefings; he also said: "The jobs I'm being asked to do, the five hats that I wear, are too much for this mortal." He went on to mention that he's not exactly sure what his duties are, given all of the new intelligence apparatuses that are now being established.
Doesn't this strike anyone else as supremely, possibly galactically, weird?
Bush thinks so -- he went to C.I.A. headquarters yesterday for some much-needed morale boosting and damage control.
Think about it. Put aside the fact that the C.I.A. has a pretty strong, secure image it has to uphold and maintain. Put aside the fact that its new director is basically saying he's stressed, overworked, can't handle it. Just think of it from the 'new job' angle -- can you imagine the CEO of McDonald's, Procter-Gamble or Toshiba reading a speech where he states, quite clearly, that the demands of the job are too much for him to handle. I've never heard of that, anywhere, by anyone. Is he shooting himself in the foot?
Maybe not.
Before travelling abroad, I was basically politically ignorant, but I now I try to follow what governments say and do, and why. (I'm usually wrong, but...) And I'm starting to think that politics is all about the signals you send. It's all about indirection.
So brand-new-CIA-director Gross says publicly, at a major event at a major institution, that his job sucks big time, and he's not sure what he's supposed to do, and what signal does that send to Dubya?
It says: We're in trouble here. Things aren't working. And if you aren't going to pay attention to me, I'm going to say this publicly, loud and clear, plain and simple. Maybe his whining was a ploy and a tactic; seems like it, anyways.
I just find this fascinating. (But I also found the final episode of St.Elsewhere fascinating, too, so there you go. The thing is, it actually was a really weird episode, because it turned out that the whole hospital, the whole series, for that matter, all took place in the imagination of a young autistic boy who stared for hours on end at a little shake-em-up-and-watch-the-snow-fall-Christmas-thingee that held a tiny building that looked exactly like the hospital. It was all a dream, the whole show. Haven't seen the series since I was a kid, but I remember liking it even then. Denzel Washington started out there. Canadian comedian Howie Mandel was suprisingly effective in a dramatic turn. But what the hell was that snow globe about, anyway?)
Politics is a big game that involves money, power and death. Assassinations. Coups. The media. Even fashion. (I'm serious. Imagine Laura Bush strolling out onto a stage dressed like Courtney Love. People would freak out. Actually, the same thing would happen if the opposite occurred, too, only there would probably be more beer involved. And crystal meth. Not that Laura doesn't partake in a little of both now and then.)
And sometimes, if your boss isn't listening well, all you have to do is give a speech.
And then call it a day, take Drew Carey's advice, and head on over to the bar. There'll be a lot of folks waiting for you.
-- Drew Carey
The C.I.A. is America's elite intelligence service, conspiring and plotting and planning with some pretty shady characters in all corners of the globe, known for its covert, relentless attempts to achieve whatever it is that it wants to achieve, at whatever the cost -- so I was pretty surprised to see its new director, Porter J.Gross, basically whining about his new job in public.
The other day he gave a speech at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library, where he mentioned how he had to spend five hours a day simply preparing President Bush's daily security briefings; he also said: "The jobs I'm being asked to do, the five hats that I wear, are too much for this mortal." He went on to mention that he's not exactly sure what his duties are, given all of the new intelligence apparatuses that are now being established.
Doesn't this strike anyone else as supremely, possibly galactically, weird?
Bush thinks so -- he went to C.I.A. headquarters yesterday for some much-needed morale boosting and damage control.
Think about it. Put aside the fact that the C.I.A. has a pretty strong, secure image it has to uphold and maintain. Put aside the fact that its new director is basically saying he's stressed, overworked, can't handle it. Just think of it from the 'new job' angle -- can you imagine the CEO of McDonald's, Procter-Gamble or Toshiba reading a speech where he states, quite clearly, that the demands of the job are too much for him to handle. I've never heard of that, anywhere, by anyone. Is he shooting himself in the foot?
Maybe not.
Before travelling abroad, I was basically politically ignorant, but I now I try to follow what governments say and do, and why. (I'm usually wrong, but...) And I'm starting to think that politics is all about the signals you send. It's all about indirection.
So brand-new-CIA-director Gross says publicly, at a major event at a major institution, that his job sucks big time, and he's not sure what he's supposed to do, and what signal does that send to Dubya?
It says: We're in trouble here. Things aren't working. And if you aren't going to pay attention to me, I'm going to say this publicly, loud and clear, plain and simple. Maybe his whining was a ploy and a tactic; seems like it, anyways.
I just find this fascinating. (But I also found the final episode of St.Elsewhere fascinating, too, so there you go. The thing is, it actually was a really weird episode, because it turned out that the whole hospital, the whole series, for that matter, all took place in the imagination of a young autistic boy who stared for hours on end at a little shake-em-up-and-watch-the-snow-fall-Christmas-thingee that held a tiny building that looked exactly like the hospital. It was all a dream, the whole show. Haven't seen the series since I was a kid, but I remember liking it even then. Denzel Washington started out there. Canadian comedian Howie Mandel was suprisingly effective in a dramatic turn. But what the hell was that snow globe about, anyway?)
Politics is a big game that involves money, power and death. Assassinations. Coups. The media. Even fashion. (I'm serious. Imagine Laura Bush strolling out onto a stage dressed like Courtney Love. People would freak out. Actually, the same thing would happen if the opposite occurred, too, only there would probably be more beer involved. And crystal meth. Not that Laura doesn't partake in a little of both now and then.)
And sometimes, if your boss isn't listening well, all you have to do is give a speech.
And then call it a day, take Drew Carey's advice, and head on over to the bar. There'll be a lot of folks waiting for you.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
IMAGINARY PATS ON THE BACK
When westerners come to third-world countries attempting to do what they think is good, and noble, and riteous, it is, instead, the worst form of ego-massage imaginable -- thinking that our mere presence is going to improve the lives of those who never asked for it to begin with.
True? False?
I don't know.
I'm asking because I watched the Oscar-winning documentary Born Into Brothels last night, and it depicts the lives of the children of prosititutes in Calcutta, the streets ofwhich looked not unlike Phnom Penh (from the little I saw of it in the film). These children are given the gift of cameras by a white Western woman, and they learn about art, each other, themselves. They shoot the world around them for our entertainment, so we can ooh and ahh and cry at their misery before seeing who's on Letterman.
Nice, right? Humanistic, in the best sense of the word?
I think so.
Although there's some criticism of the film for it's somewhat paternalistic (maternalistic?) nature: I, the western white man/woman, will come and help you, the poor, brown, helpless Asian. And you will thank me for it, and I will feel good.
That's what happens, and it's true -- you do feel good for helping those who need it.
Is that wrong?
I don't think so, necessarily, but I can see why detractors might think so. Are we just getting off on other's misery, and redeeming ourselves by doing what we think might help, imaginary pats on the backs all the way home?
There's no easy answer, I guess. Anytime anyone helps anybody else, there's always accusations of selfishness, which seem to me to be pretty much beside the point, anyways. Everything we do is selfish, even the goodwill we offer to others; in the end, we're looking to fulfill what we feel needs to fulfilled within ourselves. If others benefit, and we feel good, it's a two-for-the-price-of-one deal.
Perhaps it is only a movie designed for our entertainment and our own guilt. (That's the harsh, cynical way of approaching the subject -- not the way I particularly want to view it, but a valid view, I admit.) But by watching it you are able to enter a new round of empathy; and perhaps that same empathy, actualized, can benefit those around you. All art may be exploitive, but this kind of art could, if deeply felt, lead to action. And that can only be a good thing.
And yet, the anxieties linger. Most of the world is in a desperately wretched condition, poor and getting poorer, yet somehow still filled to bursting with the goodwill and generosity exhibited by the kids in the documentary, the kids I see on the streets every day, the kids who have nothing to give, but who still, more often than you'd think, offer even that to a passing stranger.
If we match our goodwill (backed with money, and resources, and expertise) with their goodwill (backed by only their honest intentions), then both sides gain, even if the inital intentions have more to do with our own internal needs than those we are helping. No?
True? False?
I don't know.
I'm asking because I watched the Oscar-winning documentary Born Into Brothels last night, and it depicts the lives of the children of prosititutes in Calcutta, the streets ofwhich looked not unlike Phnom Penh (from the little I saw of it in the film). These children are given the gift of cameras by a white Western woman, and they learn about art, each other, themselves. They shoot the world around them for our entertainment, so we can ooh and ahh and cry at their misery before seeing who's on Letterman.
Nice, right? Humanistic, in the best sense of the word?
I think so.
Although there's some criticism of the film for it's somewhat paternalistic (maternalistic?) nature: I, the western white man/woman, will come and help you, the poor, brown, helpless Asian. And you will thank me for it, and I will feel good.
That's what happens, and it's true -- you do feel good for helping those who need it.
Is that wrong?
I don't think so, necessarily, but I can see why detractors might think so. Are we just getting off on other's misery, and redeeming ourselves by doing what we think might help, imaginary pats on the backs all the way home?
There's no easy answer, I guess. Anytime anyone helps anybody else, there's always accusations of selfishness, which seem to me to be pretty much beside the point, anyways. Everything we do is selfish, even the goodwill we offer to others; in the end, we're looking to fulfill what we feel needs to fulfilled within ourselves. If others benefit, and we feel good, it's a two-for-the-price-of-one deal.
Perhaps it is only a movie designed for our entertainment and our own guilt. (That's the harsh, cynical way of approaching the subject -- not the way I particularly want to view it, but a valid view, I admit.) But by watching it you are able to enter a new round of empathy; and perhaps that same empathy, actualized, can benefit those around you. All art may be exploitive, but this kind of art could, if deeply felt, lead to action. And that can only be a good thing.
And yet, the anxieties linger. Most of the world is in a desperately wretched condition, poor and getting poorer, yet somehow still filled to bursting with the goodwill and generosity exhibited by the kids in the documentary, the kids I see on the streets every day, the kids who have nothing to give, but who still, more often than you'd think, offer even that to a passing stranger.
If we match our goodwill (backed with money, and resources, and expertise) with their goodwill (backed by only their honest intentions), then both sides gain, even if the inital intentions have more to do with our own internal needs than those we are helping. No?
THE FENCE STILL NEEDS PAINT, REGARDLESS
Identical twin brothers are taking a break from painting their father's fence. On the radio is another report about the latest clean-up efforts related to the tsunami.
ATHEIST: Further proof.
BELIEVER: What is?
ATHEIST: That there's no God.
BELIEVER: What's further proof?
ATHEIST: The radio. The tsunami. The, what is it now, two hundred thousand dead?
BELIEVER: So?
ATHEIST: What do you mean, 'so'? You honestly think, if there was a God, He'd let this happen?
BELIEVER: First of all, there is a God, and he didn't let anything happen. It happened. Period. End of story.
ATHEIST: Okay. Let's say you're right, God exists, He's a good guy, the whole deal. You're saying he didn't let this happen?
BELIEVER: Of course not.
ATHEIST: If he didn't, who did, then?
BELIEVER: Nobody. Weather's weather.
ATHEIST: God doesn't control the weather?
BELIEVER: No.
ATHEIST: Well, he made weather, didn't He?
BELIEVER: Of course.
ATHEIST: But he doesn't control it.
BELIEVER: No. You made your daughter, didn't you? Do you control everything she does?
A pause.
ATHEIST: You're pretty sure about all of this.
BELIEVER: I'm not, actually, but I have faith.
ATHEIST. Right. 'Faith'. Forgot about that. (Takes a swig of Coke). And where did you get that from again?
BELIEVER: My father. My family. The Bible.
ATHEIST: And how do you know the Bible tells the truth?
BELIEVER: Because it's the divine word of God, transcribed by man.
ATHEIST: So, God says it, man writes it.
BELIEVER: Not quite like that, but close enough.
ATHEIST: And how do you know this book is 'divine'?
BELIEVER: Because the Bible says it is.
ATHEIST: Wait. The Bible is the word of God. How do we know? Because the Bible says it is. Isn't that a kind of circular logic?
BELIEVER: Not at all. It's called faith.
ATHEIST: In other words, you've made a leap of faith that what the book says is true?
BELIEVER: Right.
ATHEIST: Even though there's no way to verify its' truth.
BELIEVER: Right.
ATHEIST: So I could say that I found a document that says a teapot is the centre of the universe, the creator of life, and, when questioned by non-believers, I can say: Hey, it may sound kooky, but it's a leap of faith.
BELIEVER: Well, I guess so, but I think you've been reading too much Richard Dawkins.
ATHEIST: You know Dawkins?
BELIEVER: Of course. Famous evolutionist. The Blind Watchmaker, amongst others.
ATHEIST: So you believe in evolution.
BELIEVER: Of course not.
ATHEIST: Why not?
BELIEVER: Well, I haven't dismissed it entirely. Proof of intelligent design, perhaps.
ATHEIST: So God designed everything, which is why almost 99 % of species that have ever lived have died out. Nice design job. Good job with the oceans, too.
BELIEVER: If you blame God for the tsunami, as I think you're still trying to do, you might as well blame Him for the door that you stubbed your toe against this morning.
ATHEIST: I do, actually. Or would, if I believed in Him.
BELIEVER: Why do YOU think I believe in God?
ATHEIST: I think it's because you were raised in a culture and family that stressed this belief. If you were in the Middle East, you'd probably be a Muslim. If you were in Cambodia, you'd be a Buddhist. Religion is geography and tradition, nothing more.
BELIEVER: As opposed to non-belief, which isn't influenced by geography or tradition at all, right? But let me ask you this: Don't you think atheism, as a 'theism', is a kind of belief system in and of itself?
ATHEIST: Yes. It's a belief in non-belief.
BELIEVER: That's a contradiction. So you think when we die, we die?
ATHEIST: Yes.
BELIEVER: There's nothing more?
ATHEIST: Right. I think the afterlife is something we've devised to get us through this life in one piece. Something that people could hang onto when they're own lives went awry. Like all the slaves in the American south, hanging onto heaven because they knew there would be no justice in this life.
BELIEVER: You don't think of heaven as a real place, then?
ATHEIST: Of course I do. I just think it's here, on earth. Everything is here, on earth. The slaves did find heaven, and it was called 'Canada'. You ever read a 'A Place Called Heaven', by Cecil Foster? African-Canadian writer. The Underground railroad took those slaves to heaven, and their God was Harriet Tubman. This is all we've got, the here and now, so we might as well just get on with it.
BELIEVER: You think Canada's heaven? You ever read about what happened to Japanese-Canadians in WWII? And did you know that Harriet Tubman lived for many years in St.Catharines, Ontario, the hometown of the dude who's writing this post?
ATHEIST: What do you mean, 'post'?
BELIEVER: You think we're conducting this conversation of our own free will? You think nobody up above is having a hand in what we're saying?
ATHEIST: I still don't get what you mean by 'post'.
BELIEVER: Forget it. Whether there is a God, or whether there isn't, our break time's over, and that fence still needs to be painted. Let's get to work.
ATHEIST: Further proof.
BELIEVER: What is?
ATHEIST: That there's no God.
BELIEVER: What's further proof?
ATHEIST: The radio. The tsunami. The, what is it now, two hundred thousand dead?
BELIEVER: So?
ATHEIST: What do you mean, 'so'? You honestly think, if there was a God, He'd let this happen?
BELIEVER: First of all, there is a God, and he didn't let anything happen. It happened. Period. End of story.
ATHEIST: Okay. Let's say you're right, God exists, He's a good guy, the whole deal. You're saying he didn't let this happen?
BELIEVER: Of course not.
ATHEIST: If he didn't, who did, then?
BELIEVER: Nobody. Weather's weather.
ATHEIST: God doesn't control the weather?
BELIEVER: No.
ATHEIST: Well, he made weather, didn't He?
BELIEVER: Of course.
ATHEIST: But he doesn't control it.
BELIEVER: No. You made your daughter, didn't you? Do you control everything she does?
A pause.
ATHEIST: You're pretty sure about all of this.
BELIEVER: I'm not, actually, but I have faith.
ATHEIST. Right. 'Faith'. Forgot about that. (Takes a swig of Coke). And where did you get that from again?
BELIEVER: My father. My family. The Bible.
ATHEIST: And how do you know the Bible tells the truth?
BELIEVER: Because it's the divine word of God, transcribed by man.
ATHEIST: So, God says it, man writes it.
BELIEVER: Not quite like that, but close enough.
ATHEIST: And how do you know this book is 'divine'?
BELIEVER: Because the Bible says it is.
ATHEIST: Wait. The Bible is the word of God. How do we know? Because the Bible says it is. Isn't that a kind of circular logic?
BELIEVER: Not at all. It's called faith.
ATHEIST: In other words, you've made a leap of faith that what the book says is true?
BELIEVER: Right.
ATHEIST: Even though there's no way to verify its' truth.
BELIEVER: Right.
ATHEIST: So I could say that I found a document that says a teapot is the centre of the universe, the creator of life, and, when questioned by non-believers, I can say: Hey, it may sound kooky, but it's a leap of faith.
BELIEVER: Well, I guess so, but I think you've been reading too much Richard Dawkins.
ATHEIST: You know Dawkins?
BELIEVER: Of course. Famous evolutionist. The Blind Watchmaker, amongst others.
ATHEIST: So you believe in evolution.
BELIEVER: Of course not.
ATHEIST: Why not?
BELIEVER: Well, I haven't dismissed it entirely. Proof of intelligent design, perhaps.
ATHEIST: So God designed everything, which is why almost 99 % of species that have ever lived have died out. Nice design job. Good job with the oceans, too.
BELIEVER: If you blame God for the tsunami, as I think you're still trying to do, you might as well blame Him for the door that you stubbed your toe against this morning.
ATHEIST: I do, actually. Or would, if I believed in Him.
BELIEVER: Why do YOU think I believe in God?
ATHEIST: I think it's because you were raised in a culture and family that stressed this belief. If you were in the Middle East, you'd probably be a Muslim. If you were in Cambodia, you'd be a Buddhist. Religion is geography and tradition, nothing more.
BELIEVER: As opposed to non-belief, which isn't influenced by geography or tradition at all, right? But let me ask you this: Don't you think atheism, as a 'theism', is a kind of belief system in and of itself?
ATHEIST: Yes. It's a belief in non-belief.
BELIEVER: That's a contradiction. So you think when we die, we die?
ATHEIST: Yes.
BELIEVER: There's nothing more?
ATHEIST: Right. I think the afterlife is something we've devised to get us through this life in one piece. Something that people could hang onto when they're own lives went awry. Like all the slaves in the American south, hanging onto heaven because they knew there would be no justice in this life.
BELIEVER: You don't think of heaven as a real place, then?
ATHEIST: Of course I do. I just think it's here, on earth. Everything is here, on earth. The slaves did find heaven, and it was called 'Canada'. You ever read a 'A Place Called Heaven', by Cecil Foster? African-Canadian writer. The Underground railroad took those slaves to heaven, and their God was Harriet Tubman. This is all we've got, the here and now, so we might as well just get on with it.
BELIEVER: You think Canada's heaven? You ever read about what happened to Japanese-Canadians in WWII? And did you know that Harriet Tubman lived for many years in St.Catharines, Ontario, the hometown of the dude who's writing this post?
ATHEIST: What do you mean, 'post'?
BELIEVER: You think we're conducting this conversation of our own free will? You think nobody up above is having a hand in what we're saying?
ATHEIST: I still don't get what you mean by 'post'.
BELIEVER: Forget it. Whether there is a God, or whether there isn't, our break time's over, and that fence still needs to be painted. Let's get to work.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
EVERYTHING I NEED TO KNOW ABOUT LIFE I LEARNED RUNNING CROSS-COUNTRY: A FORMER HIGH SCHOOL RUNNER'S RANT (AN ELEGY AND REBIRTH)
When I was fourteen and forced to take Phys Ed, my Grade 9 gym class had to run around the outdoor gravel track eight times (two miles, total), and, since I wasn't exactly sure that I'd be able to do it, I decided to run in the Blossom Festival Race down in Niagara Falls that my brother and father were already going to be competing in, just because it would be good training for me, for my gym class, and for my self-esteem.
I ended up running it with my friend from Fort Erie, Mike, and we actually did pretty good. Not top-ten, mind you, but okay. Decent. Respectable. (Meaning, we finished without puking -- always the barometer of success, in my opinion. In racing and in life.)
This was in May 0f 1990 (pre-Internet, pre-CSI, pre-Pauly Shore), and I ended up running all summer, just for the fun, the novelty, the exercise. It was something different than reading comic books and Stephen King and watching movies. It was a little bit of alternative exercise, this pounding on the pavement was, since hockey season finished around March and I usually didn't do jacksquat in the summer. I soon realized how, well, difficult it was, this running thing, this exercising-on-a-regular basis gig I suddenly had going on. (As Mallory's dim-witted boyfriend Nick said to Alex so eloquently on Family Ties, talking about school, but the sentiments of which apply equally to running: "It's a lot harder than sitting around doing nothing.") It took me out of myself and into the streets of my city. Initially, I thought that if I could just make it from the driveway of my house to my old elementary school (Pine Grove) and back, that would be something; that would be an accomplishment of Olympic proportions. That was my barometer, that two-mile jaunt.
I didn't talk about my running much, because my brother was a really good high school runner, and my dad had run a couple of marathons, and who I was I to talk, anyways?
Somewhere in the course of the summer I decided to go and run cross-country in the fall. My school didn't have much a team, being an arts-and-music school, but that was fine by me because I wasn't much of a runner, either.
At the starting line of my first race, I figured I had an advantage over all of those other guys; after all, I'd been running all summer. How hard could it be? I had heard from my brother who the top runners were; I figured, what the hell, I'll just try to keep with these dudes.
To express how clueless, ignorant and utterly over-my-head my fourteen year old self was is redundant.
But sometimes, as they say, ignorance is bliss.
Long story short -- I stayed with the front pack and ended up finishing in the top ten. My brother was stunned. He thought I'd just been bopping around all summer, jogging here and there. (Which I kind of was.) After that race, he realized that he'd have to be my coach.
In order to qualify for the Ontario cross-country championships, I had to finish in the top three in the qualifying race. Near the end of that race, at Queenston Heights, I was tired. Wiped. Finished. One of my brother's school's teammates was up ahead of me, in third. If I beat him, I would go to the provincial finals. As I ran, some anonymous supporter on the side of the course yelled out at me: "C'mon, you can catch that little guy!"
Sometimes, I wonder: Would I be where I am if not for that dude, if not for his random comment? Because he yelled at me, and I figured, what the hell, I'll try and catch the guy, and I did, and I finished third, and I went on to OFSAA, the provincial championships, were I finished 21st, I think, out of a field of a couple of hundred.
After that, I trained. My brother trained me. I ran outdoor track the next year, reaching the provincial finals in the 1500 metres and the 800 metres, and the next fall I won the Southern Ontario cross-country championships, made top-twenty in the all-provincials, then ran track the following spring, making it to the provincial finals for the 3000 metres, then ran cross-country the following fall for the final time, once again lucky enough to finish in the top-twenty.
That January I was in the middle of a race in Copps Coliseum in Hamilton, Ontario, when I felt a twinge in my leg, and I dropped out of the race, and that was that. I didn't run another high school race, cross-country or track, for the rest of high school. Injuries, rehab, the whole deal.
What a wild, chaotic blur those two and a half years were! At one point I tried to transfer from my high school to my brother's school, St.Catharines Collegiate, because they had a really stellar team, but I found out that if I transferred only for athletic purposes I would have to give up a year of eligibility; I wouldn't be able to run for a year. So that option went out the window. I had considered, too, trying to get a running scholarship to a school down in the States -- I'm sure somebody would have taken me. (One of my main rivals, Andy Bosak, got a scholarship in America and did really well down there.) That also went out the window when I was injured and missed my senior year.
Ah, the glory of the faded, has-been athlete, eh?
But not all was lost.
I ended up recovering and eventually running on the cross-country and track teams for York University during my junior year, which was a real highlight, a real joy, especially since I had trained so hard the year before but had been unable to run because I got a stress fracture in my right foot (the pain of which still lingers to this day.) It was nice to run just for fun, really; nice to be part of a team. (We did alright, too -- placing third at the Ontario finals, but not too well at the nationals in Montreal, or at least I didn't, anyways, finishing at the back of the pack.)
Oh, and incidentally, it was very, very instructive, being both a Creative Writing major and a member of the cross-country and track teams, because the smartest, craziest people I've ever met have been either writers or runners. I've found that elite runners are either straight-arrow honor roll students or complete kooks. (Same goes for writers, actually). To go and pound your brains out on the pavement is a little nuts; to sit and create imaginary worlds out of symbols on paper is also a little kooky. To be someone who does both is, well, interesting, if not recommended. Caused a kind of schism, actually, because I thought that you couldn't be both, a writer and a runner; that you had to choose. No wonder that I identified so much with the title character in John Irving's brilliant The World According to Garp. I was young enough to believe that life is either/or. Of course, I won't speak for my former teammate and Creative Writing alumnus Brian Gibson, who was a much better runner and writer than me, anyways -- check out www.bleedingdaylight.ca for more info...)
You never want to get somebody talking about their days as a high school or college athlete, because they'll never stop. (My apologies. Thank-you for your patience...) The achievements of our adolescent selves remain primal and authentic; they shaped who we are and what we do. And these benchmarks, however transitory they proved to be, were founded and forged via a mysterious alchemy of sweat and stamina, of cool autumn afternoons running through the wilderness and hot spring mornings sprinting around an oval circle. Maybe the resonance can be explained by the fact that, in the madhouse that is modern-day adolescence, athletics allow you to win. You can conquer, stand proud, clearly and unequivocably know where you are, if only for a day, if only for a moment. (The rest of life doesn't offer such certainty.)
Running has been a steady, constant benchmark since I was fourteen; it's taught me everything I know. How to transform myself, believe in myself, push past myself. How not to allow others to limit you or your perceptions of what you can do. It's allowed me to put on weight and then take it off. It's given me the ability to amaze myself again and again. It's spiritual, is what it is; it's redemptive.
Running's a lot like writing, actually. Every time you do it, it's different. You have an idea of where you're going, but you never know what's going to happen along the way, what detours will pop up. The more you do it, the better you get at it. The longer you stop doing it, the rustier you get. They're both internal odysseys that lead you back into the self.
When I run, I'm connected to that fourteen year old kid who was just starting out; when I write, I'm connected to the child who would watch Star Trek, then make up his own stories.
So, my fondest wish for you is: Run. Many people say that they've tried to do it before, and they're weak, they have no stamina, but the great secret of running is: nobody has stamina starting out. You do a little bit today. Two minutes. Then the next day you three minutes. If you do this for a month, you'll be at thirty minutes. And so on. It isn't easy -- no, I can't bullshit that -- but it is possible.
The greatest thing about running: You go from here to there. You go out, and you come back. Your route is clear and defined and visible, every step of the way. Within that simplicity lies the essence of life.
Believe it. Try it. Slap on some shoes. Open the door. Take a breath. Take a step.
You have the ability to amaze yourself.
I ended up running it with my friend from Fort Erie, Mike, and we actually did pretty good. Not top-ten, mind you, but okay. Decent. Respectable. (Meaning, we finished without puking -- always the barometer of success, in my opinion. In racing and in life.)
This was in May 0f 1990 (pre-Internet, pre-CSI, pre-Pauly Shore), and I ended up running all summer, just for the fun, the novelty, the exercise. It was something different than reading comic books and Stephen King and watching movies. It was a little bit of alternative exercise, this pounding on the pavement was, since hockey season finished around March and I usually didn't do jacksquat in the summer. I soon realized how, well, difficult it was, this running thing, this exercising-on-a-regular basis gig I suddenly had going on. (As Mallory's dim-witted boyfriend Nick said to Alex so eloquently on Family Ties, talking about school, but the sentiments of which apply equally to running: "It's a lot harder than sitting around doing nothing.") It took me out of myself and into the streets of my city. Initially, I thought that if I could just make it from the driveway of my house to my old elementary school (Pine Grove) and back, that would be something; that would be an accomplishment of Olympic proportions. That was my barometer, that two-mile jaunt.
I didn't talk about my running much, because my brother was a really good high school runner, and my dad had run a couple of marathons, and who I was I to talk, anyways?
Somewhere in the course of the summer I decided to go and run cross-country in the fall. My school didn't have much a team, being an arts-and-music school, but that was fine by me because I wasn't much of a runner, either.
At the starting line of my first race, I figured I had an advantage over all of those other guys; after all, I'd been running all summer. How hard could it be? I had heard from my brother who the top runners were; I figured, what the hell, I'll just try to keep with these dudes.
To express how clueless, ignorant and utterly over-my-head my fourteen year old self was is redundant.
But sometimes, as they say, ignorance is bliss.
Long story short -- I stayed with the front pack and ended up finishing in the top ten. My brother was stunned. He thought I'd just been bopping around all summer, jogging here and there. (Which I kind of was.) After that race, he realized that he'd have to be my coach.
In order to qualify for the Ontario cross-country championships, I had to finish in the top three in the qualifying race. Near the end of that race, at Queenston Heights, I was tired. Wiped. Finished. One of my brother's school's teammates was up ahead of me, in third. If I beat him, I would go to the provincial finals. As I ran, some anonymous supporter on the side of the course yelled out at me: "C'mon, you can catch that little guy!"
Sometimes, I wonder: Would I be where I am if not for that dude, if not for his random comment? Because he yelled at me, and I figured, what the hell, I'll try and catch the guy, and I did, and I finished third, and I went on to OFSAA, the provincial championships, were I finished 21st, I think, out of a field of a couple of hundred.
After that, I trained. My brother trained me. I ran outdoor track the next year, reaching the provincial finals in the 1500 metres and the 800 metres, and the next fall I won the Southern Ontario cross-country championships, made top-twenty in the all-provincials, then ran track the following spring, making it to the provincial finals for the 3000 metres, then ran cross-country the following fall for the final time, once again lucky enough to finish in the top-twenty.
That January I was in the middle of a race in Copps Coliseum in Hamilton, Ontario, when I felt a twinge in my leg, and I dropped out of the race, and that was that. I didn't run another high school race, cross-country or track, for the rest of high school. Injuries, rehab, the whole deal.
What a wild, chaotic blur those two and a half years were! At one point I tried to transfer from my high school to my brother's school, St.Catharines Collegiate, because they had a really stellar team, but I found out that if I transferred only for athletic purposes I would have to give up a year of eligibility; I wouldn't be able to run for a year. So that option went out the window. I had considered, too, trying to get a running scholarship to a school down in the States -- I'm sure somebody would have taken me. (One of my main rivals, Andy Bosak, got a scholarship in America and did really well down there.) That also went out the window when I was injured and missed my senior year.
Ah, the glory of the faded, has-been athlete, eh?
But not all was lost.
I ended up recovering and eventually running on the cross-country and track teams for York University during my junior year, which was a real highlight, a real joy, especially since I had trained so hard the year before but had been unable to run because I got a stress fracture in my right foot (the pain of which still lingers to this day.) It was nice to run just for fun, really; nice to be part of a team. (We did alright, too -- placing third at the Ontario finals, but not too well at the nationals in Montreal, or at least I didn't, anyways, finishing at the back of the pack.)
Oh, and incidentally, it was very, very instructive, being both a Creative Writing major and a member of the cross-country and track teams, because the smartest, craziest people I've ever met have been either writers or runners. I've found that elite runners are either straight-arrow honor roll students or complete kooks. (Same goes for writers, actually). To go and pound your brains out on the pavement is a little nuts; to sit and create imaginary worlds out of symbols on paper is also a little kooky. To be someone who does both is, well, interesting, if not recommended. Caused a kind of schism, actually, because I thought that you couldn't be both, a writer and a runner; that you had to choose. No wonder that I identified so much with the title character in John Irving's brilliant The World According to Garp. I was young enough to believe that life is either/or. Of course, I won't speak for my former teammate and Creative Writing alumnus Brian Gibson, who was a much better runner and writer than me, anyways -- check out www.bleedingdaylight.ca for more info...)
You never want to get somebody talking about their days as a high school or college athlete, because they'll never stop. (My apologies. Thank-you for your patience...) The achievements of our adolescent selves remain primal and authentic; they shaped who we are and what we do. And these benchmarks, however transitory they proved to be, were founded and forged via a mysterious alchemy of sweat and stamina, of cool autumn afternoons running through the wilderness and hot spring mornings sprinting around an oval circle. Maybe the resonance can be explained by the fact that, in the madhouse that is modern-day adolescence, athletics allow you to win. You can conquer, stand proud, clearly and unequivocably know where you are, if only for a day, if only for a moment. (The rest of life doesn't offer such certainty.)
Running has been a steady, constant benchmark since I was fourteen; it's taught me everything I know. How to transform myself, believe in myself, push past myself. How not to allow others to limit you or your perceptions of what you can do. It's allowed me to put on weight and then take it off. It's given me the ability to amaze myself again and again. It's spiritual, is what it is; it's redemptive.
Running's a lot like writing, actually. Every time you do it, it's different. You have an idea of where you're going, but you never know what's going to happen along the way, what detours will pop up. The more you do it, the better you get at it. The longer you stop doing it, the rustier you get. They're both internal odysseys that lead you back into the self.
When I run, I'm connected to that fourteen year old kid who was just starting out; when I write, I'm connected to the child who would watch Star Trek, then make up his own stories.
So, my fondest wish for you is: Run. Many people say that they've tried to do it before, and they're weak, they have no stamina, but the great secret of running is: nobody has stamina starting out. You do a little bit today. Two minutes. Then the next day you three minutes. If you do this for a month, you'll be at thirty minutes. And so on. It isn't easy -- no, I can't bullshit that -- but it is possible.
The greatest thing about running: You go from here to there. You go out, and you come back. Your route is clear and defined and visible, every step of the way. Within that simplicity lies the essence of life.
Believe it. Try it. Slap on some shoes. Open the door. Take a breath. Take a step.
You have the ability to amaze yourself.
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