Mark W. Tiedemann's Blog, page 88

Dust Motes

Cleaning my office, which serves double duty as a guest room.  We have company coming in this weekend and that's always a good excuse to clean up.

So while I'm moving things around, listening to very loud music (Deep Purple, Who Do We Think We Are? which I think is one of the great underappreciated rock'n'roll albums of all time), thoughts are buzzing around my head.

Already this morning I posted a response to someone on a group discussing Science vs Religion—a topic fraught with the potential for all kinds of angsty in-your-face defensiveness—wherein I once more found myself in the position of turning an argument around on someone who had decided that I had insulted him by insisting on evidence and common sense and the practice of looking at alternative explanations that might undercut a cherished experience.  In this case, we were discussing ghosts.  When I pointed out that the described experience fit well with what is known as hypnogogic hallucination, I was summarily told that if I said that to the experiencer's face, I'd likely get a kick in the groin.  Hardly a mature response.

But then it went on to question why someone like me—a materialist—can't just stop being insulting by insisting that what people experience is explicable in material terms.  It never seems to occur to some people that every time they tell me that I need Jesus or that I'm bound for hell or that my life must be empty and meaningless because I don't believe in god, that they are being insulting to me.  Built into this level of religiosity is the automatic assumption that they're right and I'm wrong and that's the end of it.  They don't see this as hubris or arrogance because it comes from, they believe, an outside source—god or whatever—and that all they're doing is conveying the message.

Well, sorry.  We can all be arrogant on someone else's behalf and beg off the charge of arrogance because we're just the messenger.  Displacing responsibility for being rude and offensive is a handy dodge—oh, it's not me, it's The Lord's word!—but the fact remains, you choose to hand out the insult.  That you don't see it that way is forgivable until it has been pointed out to you how it's insulting.  After that, you're just being an ass about it.

This is not to say people can't discuss this without being insulting.  I have a few friends who are devout believers and we often bandy the philosophy without ever getting personal or insulting.  I have to say, though, that without those few people who are demonstrably intelligent about the subject, I would probably categorize all such folks as raving loonies with poor social skills.

To be fair, I know some atheists who just as offensive.  And while I can understand where it comes from, it never wins any points.

I try—and I'm only human, so lapses occur—ardently to deal with the subject, not the individual.  There does come a point when the question arises "Why do you believe this stuff?" and it does veer off into the personal.  But it's the ideas I criticize, not the people.

Unless by acting upon their beliefs they cause harm.  Then I get personal.  Boy, do I get personal!

Insulated religious communities, such as some of the splinter Mormon sects who practice polygamy, as far as I'm concerned, are deluded.  Not because they believe in god, but because they feel that belief gives them leave to treat certain people like shit.  Mainly women, whom they view as property.  These little pockets are, for all intents and purposes, little feudal kingdoms with one or a few men at the top dictating to the rest.  I understand the leaders well enough—no matter how they couch their justifications, they are power-hungry bigots who've figured out how to feed their addictions.  What I fail repeatedly to understand are all the others who follow them.  What drives someone to surrender their conscience, their will, their choices to be ruled over by a self-serving tyrant?  Unless they like the arrangement they have within the hierarchy, which then makes it just as self-serving to follow, and becomes collusive.  Because it's a top down, tiered society, and there always seems to be somebody lower down, ending finally with the women and the children, who end up having no say.  The ties that bind are like electrical lines dispersing power.

We're watching a wonderful thing happen in Egypt.  Democracy might break out in one of the most populous countries on the planet.  They have validated the dictum that people allow themselves to be ruled, that all the power a tyrant has is only what the people give him.  Ultimately, this is true.  The question is always, how abusive do things have to get before the people have had enough.

It's the next stage that's worrisome.  The Muslim Brotherhood is waiting in the wings, no doubt, for an opportunity to establish Sha'ria law.  Once that happens, democracy is done.  Sha'ria is autocratic, brooks no debate, and is not amenable to differences of opinion that stray too far—like, for instance, equal rights for women.

Yet to oppress the Muslim Brotherhood is also wrong.  That's part of what has ultimately undone Mubarak.  It's hard.  Even here we have to relearn that lesson periodically, that just because we disagree with someone and that someone is disagreeable, we don't have the right to suppress or oppress them.  It's more detrimental in the long run to force someone to shut up and any damage they can do by speaking their piece.

If Egypt transforms in the next year into a genuine secular democracy, then we may begin to see the entire Middle East take the same steps.  Iran would likely be the next one, and in that instance it would be a transformation 30 years overdue, since after ousting the Shah that's where they were heading.  Within a year, the clerics assumed full authority and democracy in any practical sense was gone.  They were able to do this because no one wanted to defy people speaking for god.  Once you hoist that banner, people get chary of challenging your authority, because they might be challenging god.

That is the harm in such beliefs.  I won't deny much good comes from religion, but in so many instances the tenets of religions have predisposed people to support autocracy, tyranny, and act counter to their own best interests.  The assumption that a given leader is speaking for god and therefore must be telling the truth or could not do anything against the good is naive.  By the time everyone figures out that he's just using the people's credulity to gain power, it can be too late.

None of which has any bearing on the truth of the basic assertions.  Whether there is a god or not has absolutely nothing to do with what I'm describing.  What it does have to do with is whether or not one is willing to set that aside in matters of public policy, wherein any use of religion often ends up being a cynical ploy to obtain power or enact laws that may not be for the best.

Anyway, such are the kinds of things that flit through my mind while I'm cleaning up.  Dust motes dancing over synapses. Time for another side of rock'n'roll.

Scene From A Frozen Moment

Winter is not my favorite time of year.  When I was a kid it was different.  Snow was fun (and we had a lot of it then—global warming deniers notwithstanding, a "normal" St. Louis winter used to begin with snow in mid December, between ten inches and two feet of it on the ground pretty much continually through the end of January, sometimes well into February; the last time we had something approximating a traditional St. Louis winter was maybe 1986) and I built snow forts and had snowball fights with the best of them.

Then I started driving and got a job.  Not so much fun anymore.

But despite my curmudgeonly resentment of precipitate winters like this one, I am forced to admit that there is great beauty to be found and the eponymous Winter Wonderland has marvels to offer.

Now, if only it didn't last so long…

Because Things Are Forgotten

This is a completely personal anecdote, so take it for what it's worth.  This is about a defining moment for me in my education as an egalitarian.

Equality is something we talk about, we assume to be the case for everyone, and never really question.  Here, it's the air we breathe.  It's not true.  We are not all equal.  And in spite of our all our lip service to the idea of equality under the law or the equality of opportunity, we all know, if we're honest, that we're still trying to get to that level.  Probably it's a function of how well we think our lives are at any given moment.  "If I'm doing all right, there's no problem.  What are those people over there complaining about?  I don't see anything wrong with my life."

Well.

This is about gender equality.  It's one of the most under-considered things in our present world. When I say that, what I mean is that here, in the West, where we have all but won that particular war, where it is normal to see women in roles that 50 years ago would have caused near-scandal, we have so normalized it that it has become a political topic for talking heads instead of a heartbreaking reality of barriers and stigma and sometimes death, as it is in many places still throughout the globe.

I saw a PBS special last week about early television and on it Angie Dickinson was talking about her series Police Woman.  Breakthrough television.  It had been the first dramatic tv show since the mid-60s to be headed by a female in prime time.  It was shortly before Charlie's Angels and a decade after both Honey West and The Girl From U.N.C.L.E.  During the interview, Dickinson commented that the feminists had been angry with her because she hadn't used the show as a statement for the cause.  She defended herself by declaring that she was feminine not a feminist—as if being a feminist were somehow a bad thing, a dirty word, a slur.

Which seems to be the case these days among a certain segment of women, many of them too young to remember what it was like when women couldn't do anything they wanted to.

Here's my belief—any system that works to stifle an individual's dreams and goals and sense of self simply because of a biological condition of being (gender, race, etc) is a system in need of reform at best, overturning at worst.  If you say to someone "You may not do this or that because you're (a) a girl, (b) the wrong color, or (c) differently abled that an assumed norm" then you are being a bigot.

Back in high school, I took a fancy one year to the idea of becoming an architect.  I took mechanical drawing one year, then the next architectural drawing.  I ended up dropping it.  But both classes were entirely male.  This was 1971 and 1972.  I didn't question it.  Probably like a lot of boys then, I kinda sorta had the notion that girls didn't do certain things because they didn't want to.  I don't know where I got that idea, but to my unformed mind it was the only thing that actually made sense to me.  The only reason I didn't do things was because I had no interest in them.  All the cultural referents supported this rather passive belief and I didn't question it.  Not really.  I'd already dismissed the idea that girls were incapable of doing the same things as boys because I'd been reading Heinlein and Schmitz, but that was science fiction and the future.  I hadn't made the connections yet.

I said both those classes were entirely male.  That's not quite true.  My architectural drawing class had one girl.  But I didn't know about her for nearly half of the first semester.

The classroom was a long room with four ranks of drafting tables, all facing the front and the chalkboard.  At the rear was a small room that probably had been a cloak room at one time but now acted as a supply room for the class and was also where the blueprint machine was set up.  Our class was taught by a Mr. Hoppe, who was a short, energetic man with an almost comic stentorian delivery that reminded me a bit of Don Adams.  He liked to roam the aisles, lecturing us about having something when we left high school that would "put folding money in your pocket!"  I liked him.  Everybody liked him.  He was about five-foot-four, dark hair, cleanshaven, with bifocals.

What I did not know was that he was teaching a female.  He had her set up in that utility room with her own drafting table.  I thought this was odd.  What, she didn't want to hang out with the rest of us?  Was she stuck up or something?

Then one evening I had to go to his classroom to drop off some paperwork, after school hours.  Mr. Hoppe wasn't there, but three other guys from the class were.  I heard them laughing from the utility room.  I went back and there they were, with this girl's work spread out.  One of them was sitting at the drafting table reworking some of the drawings while the other two were laughing at what he was doing.

What was he doing?  He was ruining her work.  This wasn't the equivalent of drawing a mustache on the Mona Lisa.  No, he was meticulously redoing her drawings and inserting mistakes.

Let me say right here that her work was superb.  I have a talent for drawing and a good imagination and I thought I would make a good architect, but there were some things that just made that unlikely.  One was neatness.  My drawings were generally a mess—smudged, bad lines.  The other was lack of patience, but that's a problem I have with everything.  But her work was pure art.  Clean, easy to read, detailed, just….beautiful.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I blurted out.

Two of them just stared at me, but the one doing the reworking said, "Teaching the bitch a lesson."

"You're gonna get her a bad grade," I said.  I still didn't get it.

"Yeah, well, she's got no business doing this."

And I still didn't get it.  I left and the next day I reported it to Mr. Hoppe.  All hell broke loose.  The three guys were booted from his class.  One of them—the one who'd been messing with her work—vowed to get even.  (He tried later, it didn't work.  It cost him a black eye and a sprained ankle.  This was during my physically fearless period and he frankly never saw what was coming when he called me out.)

This went on all the time, I found out.  Mr. Hoppe was delighted that someone had finally said something, because he told us all, that day, that this girl was his best student, he knew she wasn't making those boneheaded mistakes, but he'd never been able to catch the vandals.

He actually gave us a feminist lecture.  I didn't realize it at the time, but in retrospect it was.  Not because he was a feminist, I don't think, but because he respected ability above all else.  And she had it, he said, and we should be ashamed of ourselves if we thought it was right to stand in her way just because she was a girl.  He'd been forced to keep her out of the regular class room because time again she would not be left alone to do her work.  The "guys" always sabotaged what she did, either by flirting or by making fun of her or by insulting her.

I admit I was innocent.  I didn't understand this at all.  It completely overturned what I thought had been going on.  I mean, I knew a lot of girls who didn't want to do "guy things" and made a show of it, so it just didn't occur to me that it wasn't their choice.  That it wasn't always their choice.

What changed for me that day took years to fully manifest.  As I think back on it, there were a few other girls who had wanted to do certain things that girls "just didn't do."  I knew one who wanted to take shop. The whole school denied her access to the courses.  One girl I remember raging at the administration and then a week later announcing to us that she was transferring to a private school where she could pursue what she wanted.

Young women today have different experiences with the world, so often you find them raising their eyebrows at old-school feminists railing at some injustice.  An electric crawl goes up my back when I hear some young female proudly declare that she's not a feminist and would never be.  I know on some level they're equating it to fashion, that feminists don't dress well and never use make-up.  The superficiality of their reaction is probably based on something not much deeper.

It does get tiresome to listen to some old fart going on about how things used to be.  But I hope the old farts never stop.  How else are we to remember what we've gained?

My feminism eventually became a marrow-deep belief that we must treat each other like PEOPLE first, male and female maybe not quite second, but never let the gender distinction override our common humanity, and likewise with every other distinction you can name that makes no difference.  We all have dreams and ambitions and no one has a right to tell us we can't have them because we were born with the wrong equipment.

This personal reminiscence has been brought to you by a triggered memory.  Have a good day.

Blind Spots

It's almost sacrilege to admit to disliking certain things.  People who regard themselves as culturally aware, artistically sensitive, aesthetically sophisticated must occasionally find themselves faced with work that has such apparent popular appeal among those they consider simpatico which they frankly do not care for or do not understand or both.  Uttering their honest opinion can be the equivalent of farting in church.

So they suppress that opinion, perhaps nod politely and even go so far as to find some pseudo-intellectual way of understanding the thing disliked so they can at least be seen as trustworthy within their circles.  It really is a case of the Emperor's new suit.

I suppose what we're talking about is a blind spot.  Sometimes you just have a kind of aesthetic aphasia, you really can't see (or hear) what everyone else is so on about.  You could put it down to taste, but that's a mild word, connoting a kind of passive difference of opinion.  It fails to describe your true reaction or, more tellingly, the possible sham going on around certain artists.

Years ago I had a conversation with the artist Rick Berry, whose work I both admire and occasionally love, about one of my blind spots—Jackson Pollack.  I gave him my opinion, that this is crap masquerading as art because by now a lot of reputations have been built upon the propagation of the idea that this is somehow Great Art.  I look at a Pollack and I see squiggles.  I watch films of Pollack working and I see advanced fingerpainting in action.  I realize this is a kind of heresy and I've often received looks ranging from pity to revulsion for expressing this feeling.

Berry nodded.  He said he'd felt the same way for years.  Then one day, walking through a museum, past a Pollack, he glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye and ended up sitting in front of the painting for a couple of hours.  Since then, he's grown to love Pollack.  I asked him if he'd come to the conclusion that Pollack was, in fact, a great artist, and he said  "I don't know, but I know I like it."

That is unassailable.  It is absolutely personal, it is absolutely subjective, and has nothing to do with any universal qualities in a given piece of work or possessed by a particular artist.  I make a distinction myself between work I think is Good and work I simply like.  They are often the same, but occasionally I like something that I can in no way defend as good.

However, I sometimes wonder at the adulation poured on certain artists for work that is simply mediocre if not an outright scam.  Adulation that transcends the simple metric of "I like it" and goes on to become bodies of apologia, written by people who seem compelled to find a reason, a justification, for liking something that has little to recommend it except as an eccentric appeal.  These people start the avalanche that eventually becomes part of the liturgy of cultural in-group vetting.  To not think this or that is tremendous, brilliant, a work of genius is to be revealed as philistine, sub-par, suspect, common.

This morning I was reading an introduction to a collection of short fiction and the writer listed a string of what he considered geniuses in their fields as a way to place the author of the collection.  Interestingly, I found myself nodding at every name listed—but one. And I thought, what the hell is HE doing in this group?  John Cage.

I know he is the darling of a kind of avant-garde set, but come on.  It's noise.  He even admitted he was not very adept at actual music.  His "found" soundscapes, while occasionally interesting, lack, to my ear, even the virtue of clever arrangement.  It's cacophony, chaos, crap.  That it's frowned upon to point this out in certain groups does not make it less true.  I suspect that in this case it's not so much that I am failing to "get it" but that there actually isn't much there to get.

Other blind spots?  I already mentioned Pollack.  My opinion of Picasso has changed over the years.  He really was a very good, very talented artist, but frankly I think he became more a parody of himself over time and much of his work was a running joke, a game to see just how much the art world would take before it threw up its collective hands and declared the work garbage.  I find many of the abstract artists of the second half of the Twentieth Century tiresome.  Form has a function, after all, which is to make something comprehensible.  Breaking rules is all well and good but I think you should know the rules and be able to use them before telling the world that they should be dispensed with.

I've written about my aversion to certain musicians, but that really is a matter of taste—I just don't like the sound of certain voices, but that's not a criticism of what they're attempting to do.  (But I draw the line at Tom Waits—the man cannot sing, period.)  I categorically loathe Country, especially C & W, but again, that's taste.  I recognize ability, structure, form, etc, and can hear good musicianship—I just don't care for the genre.

But there are composers I've frankly never understood the appeal—Charles Ives.  Certainly a great deal of educated command of his medium, but to what end?  A precursor to Cage?  Noise.

The sculptor Richard Serra.  Please.  Rusted plates of iron arranged in clumsy assemblages and purported to be art?  If nothing else, it all looks unfinished, like work begun and abandoned.  But mostly, the art, I suspect, is in the selling.

In my own field, I will never understand the praise heaped on Kurt Vonnegut Jr.  I find him tedious and, frankly, insulting.  I do not read at a fifth grade level and I have never been able to get past the intrinsic condescension in his choice of style, which is to pitch his tone and vocabulary at that level.  He managed the feat of becoming a best-selling writer while ridiculing (a) the genre in which he began (science fiction) and (b) telling his audience how stupid they were.  The brilliance of his vision, of his stories, I can see in the films made from his novels, but they are not so wonderful to justify, in my mind, his approach, which undermines what he tried to do.  At least for me.

The blind spot that has gotten me the most negative reaction is one that I have had since I first saw the work.  Can't help it.  But when I say this, the reactions are often profound and sometimes horrified.  How can I say this?  How can I not see?  How can I fail to recognize the genius?  How can I not love that work?

Vincent Van Gogh.

To my eye, work done by a marginally talented four year old with fat crayons.  Sometimes the claimed brilliance of color looks flat and lifeless to me.  That he couldn't sell any it in his lifetime surprises me not at all.

But the industry that has been built on the corpse of this unfortunate man since strikes me as nothing less than the perfect flower of aesthetic cannibalism.  A marvelous job of selling has been done in the 121 years since his death.

(I've seen his early work, and his sketchbooks, and what I see is a man whose mental condition slowly robbed him of the skill and ability to do the work he should have done.  I like some of his early canvasses and he clearly had the skill, but the late period work which everyone praises leaves me thoroughly unmoved.)

Blind spots.  Maybe.  My other big one is poetry, which by and large has no affect on me.  Once in a while I hear a piece that strikes me as clever or moving, but the vast majority of poetry does not speak to me.

The thing that intrigues me, though, is this: the social phenomenon of elevating matters of taste to measures of status and worth.  By this mechanism, people become trapped in conditions where they feel unable to express what they really feel if it runs counter to the current vogue.

It is true that art should be free to myriad forms of expression and we should be free to enjoy any and all of them.  That something like the Paris Salon of the mid-19th Century ought not condemn artists to a purgatory of exclusion because they do something different.

But we should also be free to call nonsense nonsense, crap crap, and declare the Emperor naked and defrauded.

The above has been an expression of personal opinion.

Schools

I spotted this over at John Scalzi's Whatever and it brought back some memories.

A woman in Ohio has received a felony conviction for deceptively sending her kids to a school in a district where she didn't live.  Her father colluded in this.  The article linked doesn't go into the reasons she did what she did, but I can imagine some of them, and it would have entirely to do with quality of school experience.

Fifty years ago, my schooling experience—and I phrase it that way because I'm talking about much more than just what you learn in the classroom; it's a total package, going to socialization and self-image and the whole magilla that a lot of people condemning American public education, depending on their political slant, don't want to think about—was in the process of being thoroughly fucked up.  Had I not been an avid reader at an early ago outside of school…

Not knowing the particulars of the Ohio case, I'll just talk about mine.  I've detailed some of this before, but it's worth going over it again as a reminder.

My birthday is in October.  Back in the day, my mother dutifully tried to enroll me in school for the school year during which I would have been five.  But at the time of enrollment, I was only four.  They refused me.  "Bring him back next year," they told my mother, who tried, I imagine, valiantly to explain the problem, which was that I'd end up functionally a year behind.  But the district was adamant.  Bring him back when he is five.

So I had a whole year of not going to school when many of my friends were.  Not to worry, I didn't give that much of a damn.  I was pretty much a loner anyway, even then, because, for whatever reason, I didn't quite fit with everyone else.

The following September, we're back at the school, and this time they accepted me.  I entered kindergarten.

And six weeks later, when I turned six, they pulled me and five others who had the same calendrical malfunction out of kindergarten and moved us directly across the hall into first grade.

Our first grade teacher—I remember her vividly, a tallish Nordic blonde with a thin face and large, pale blue eyes—made it clear from the beginning that she regarded the six of us as a nuisance.  "Get with one of the others and catch up," she said.  "I'm not spending any time making up for you're not being here at the beginning of the year."

I could read already and, if I recall correctly, so could Debbie Blake, but the others?  Don't know.  I quickly became absorbed into my own problems, which became legion in my young mind.  Within a month I could honestly say that I hated school.

Not just the teacher and the sudden load of curricula which the six weeks of kindergarten had not prepared me, but the whole experience.  My new classmates made me feel slow and stupid and began a pattern of torment that last the next eight years.  My teacher, who apparently recognized that I was probably above average, began a round of parent-teacher meetings designed, I thought, to humiliate me—"he's a bright child but not performing up to his potential."  I just didn't understand.  And it didn't improve.  I suspect that nine months of kindergarten I should have gotten bore directly on the socialization I was now forced to "catch up" with in a couple of weeks.

My parents moved during my third grade year.  It put me in a new school district.  I actually had made no real friends to miss, so it was no big deal to me.  But.

The district line ran, apparently, down the center of my street, and that put me in the Grant School district instead of the Shenendoah district.  Shenendoah was four blocks away.  Grant was a mile and a half.  Grant—I did not know this at the time, but my parents did—had a bad reputation.  (Shenendoah soon would, but not yet.)  I was already obviously having trouble at school from bullying and such and my parents were reluctant to send me to a school, so far away, where the problems might be worse.

But also—and I didn't find this out until much later—my performance disappointed them and my dad, for one, thought I had a discipline problem.  Corporal punishment had been outlawed in the public school system.  Dad was a believer in the spanking.  My poor grades and lack of attention in class, he thought, were directly related to an inability on the part of the teachers to effectively discipline me.  So, public school was probably not where I belonged.

I was summarily enrolled in a private school, Emmaus Lutheran, about ten blocks away, and I entered the fray midway through third grade and there I stayed through eighth.

My performance did not improve. Nor was I ever spanked for poor discipline.  That, it turned out, was not the problem.  (The bullying soon resumed and continued.  Enough about that.)

I continued reading on my own and by a curious quirk of circumstance my dad began a long stretch of dinner table dialogues with me that can only be described as philosophical primers—my parents were lapsed Mormons, I was attending a Lutheran school, dad was determined I not swallow the party line whole, and we argued and debated our way through the rest of my grade school, all in an attempt to keep me from being brain washed.

My next school problem came my senior year of high school.  High school improved somewhat.  Because of the round of different teachers, my performance in one class did not poison it in another, and I could be selective about what I chose to pay attention to.  My grades went up because, frankly, I was more interested.  The bullying had stopped (although I had more fights my Freshman year than the previous two) and I began to acquire the armor of the loner who will not be messed with.

Roosevelt High School was what could best be described as a blue-collar industrial school.  It had been built and its traditions established when the expectation was that most of its graduates would end up driving trucks for Anheuser-Busch or going into some other local industry.  It was struggling to come to terms with a changed mission during the Sixties and hadn't quite succeeded.  I became deeply fascinated with photography.  They had no course in it.  I was already interested in writing, but the Journalism class was one year and only half a credit.  In other words, both my fields of interest were pretty much unsupported.

Senior year, I entered a work-study program which gave me a morning of class work and let me off to work part time in the afternoon.  My very first job ever, acquired over the summer, didn't survive past October.  I "contrived" to game the system to stay in the program and pretended to have a job.  I was also cutting a lot of classes and days that year—sheer, unadulterated boredom (plus I think I had mono that year, but since I never went to the doctor I can't say for sure, but it was pretty awful).  In any event, because I'd taken senior English in summer school (to avoid getting a particular teacher who would undoubtedly have flunked me for personal reasons) and because I had carried a larger course load (somehow) the previous year, I had more than enough credits to graduate that January, getting out early.  I plead lethargy for not having done it.  I'd finally gotten a situation where I didn't mind it so much and didn't have anything else to do.

But.  I answered a job ad at the state hospital in February.  It was for a photography trainee.  Note—this was 1973.  The job would have been under the resident photography at the hospital as an apprentice.  I would have been trained to do portraits, copy work, photomicrography, color lab work, the whole bit.  The guy loved me.  Saw my work, the interview went like a dream—and the starting pay was four dollars and hour.  Trust me, for an 18-year-old at the time, this was a fortune.

The only hitch was I didn't have my diploma.  I explained the academic situation and begged a grace period so I could get it, since I had fulfilled my qualifications.  I went back to school to do that and was told No.  I had not taken that option in the fall, I was stuck with completing the school year.

I begged.  Both of them.  The school wouldn't yield, the photographer refused to hire me, telling me that I really needed that diploma and that he'd be doing me a disservice by allowing me to quit school without it.

Bureaucracy.  I was, basically, fucked.

Who knows where that might have led?  A path cauterized.  I do not regret it.  I've had a ball living the life I've led.  But I still get incensed over schools standing on their petty rules at the expense of a child's educational experience.  It makes their bookkeeping easy and can often result in damaging the child's future.

Was the photographer right?  I have never been required to prove I graduated high school, anywhere, by anyone.  They take your word for it.  In my field, it was what you could do that mattered more than where you've been educated.

So I'm thinking this woman in Ohio was trying her best to meet some impossible requirements.  Depressed housing market (let's assume) and she couldn't sell her house in order to move, the job she had was where she lived, the school she wanted her children in was in another district…not to put to fine a point on it, but all the opponents of vouchers and charter schools should be aware that this is part of the reason a lot of people are looking at those options as agreeably as they do.

And just as a side note, sort of tangentially, consider that idiot governor in Texas recently pronouncing on what he sees as "frivolous" educational options.  To quote Governor Perry:

Well, there is a lot of fat to cut from our public schools, especially those in our biggest urban areas like Houston and Dallas. I am concerned that some the highly diverse Magnet public schools in this city are becoming hotbeds for liberalism. Do we really need free school bus service, Black History Month, Hispanic Heritage Month, Asian-Pacific Heritage Month, ESL, special needs and enrichment programs like music, art or math Olympiad? I think we should get back to the basics of the three Rs, reading writing and arithmetic. I mean when is the last time a 6th grade science fair project yielded a cure for a disease?

It doesn't work well, so let's fuck it up some more, shall we?  Take all the stuff that's worthwhile and cut it, so we can educate a bunch of truck drivers, processed food workers, and cheap laborers who can compete with illegal immigrants.  (I'm being sarcastic there, please note.)

You know what I would do if I were king?  I would change the entire school system to this: fund it at at least half the level of current military spending.  All schools would be open 24/7.  Kids could go at any time and find classes in session.  Kids could go to any school they chose (within reason).  I would also make all schools safe havens, staffed with paralegals, nurses, and law enforcement so kids from abusive homes could feel protected if they had to get out.  I would pay whatever it took to feed a child's imagination.  I would also extend that to make parents mandatorily involved and provide counseling for those parents who didn't know what the hell they were doing.  The schools would be geared entirely for the benefit of the children, not the parents, not local businesses, and certainly not the bureaucracy.  I would put advanced curricula in the primary schools.  A lot of kids might not "get it" but there will always be those who will catch on quickly, even kids from backgrounds most people might think unlikely.  But I would expose all these kids to meaty material from the get-go instead of waiting till they get to college—if they get to college, which for many of them might be too late.  I would bar all recruiters of any kind from the schools and I would bring in a regular round of professionals in as many fields as I could to do workshops.

That's what I would do if I were king.  We're nickle-and-diming out kids into stupidity and penalizing some parents who try to do the right thing for their children.  For every educational worker who pushes the envelope to improve the system, there seem to be a hundred know-nothings bitching about the cost and arguing over what's being taught.  This has got to stop.

Okay, end of rant. I feel marginally better.

A Little Bit About Writing

I've been nattering on about politics and related matters for a while now.  It's crazy-making because no matter how much sense you might make, or think you're making, there are a lot of people who basically say "I don't care, I want it my way!" and ignore everything else.

So I thought I'd talk about writing.

I've had a hell of a week in that regard.  Let me explain.

Many folks already know that I had a major (I thought) computer issue earlier this week.  It happened this way.  During the really cold months of winter, rather than turn on the space heater I have in my office, I move my writing upstairs, on a laptop.  The change of venue often kicks loose some ideas, it's a bit sunnier, and we save on the electric bill.  No real inconvenience, I basically save my work to a floppy (yes, a 3.5 inch floppy, Virginia, they are still made) and carry the floppy back downstairs to transfer the file to my main computer when the story is ready to either print out or submit, at which point I save it to the main hard drive and my handy external hard drive.  So a given file, in this scenario, is saved in four places.

Monday morning was a perfect storm, so to speak.  I'd been working on a novella for about three weeks, a major rewrite, with someone waiting for it, and I finished it Sunday.  Monday morning, early, I made a couple of last-minute grace note touches, saved the final to the floppy, then told the laptop to save it all to its hard drive.  I took the floppy downstairs for the transfer.

First problem.  Cannot open file.  The disc is corrupted.  I tried a couple of things, but no go.  So I grab a clean floppy, head back upstairs to make a new copy, only to find on arrival that the laptop is dead.  Inert.  A few pounds of useless plastic.

Now, this is an ancient laptop, as these things go.  It was a gift from a friend to begin with and I use it seldom, although I have written most of two whole novels on it.  (When our first dog, Kory, was dying, I wrote my one and only Terminator novel on it in the living room, next to her, to keep her company.  I know, multiple ironies in that.)  It wasn't new when I got it—it had Windows 95 on it—but it's had a cushy life and hasn't given me any trouble.  Till now.

Panic, as they say, ensued.  After several more attempts to open that damn file, I resorted to profanity and insane rage against a universe that seemed out to get me.

I posted my problem on Facebook and got the first of many bright glimmers.  People gave advice (although a lot of it centered around saving my work online, which requires technology I do not have with that particular laptop—it's not connected or, in any practical sense, connectable), condolences, etc.  (Thank you all again, it was very kind and I needed the chin up boost.)

A couple of friends called to offer their services.  Suggestions were made to call the Geek Squad.

I called the Geek Squad, but the $300.00 service call fee stymied me.  I simply don't have that kind of money just now to spend on spec, on a story that might not sell in the first place, etc.  And we are talking about one story.  Everything else was backed up.

One friend offered to unship the hard drive and see about transferring its contents to another P.C.  I was set to do this—I would have dropped it off tonight—when another friend called to discuss it and made a simple suggestion.  "Did you pull the battery?"

"It's been plugged into the wall all this time, what difference would that make?"

"Well, most laptops boot from the battery, even if they are hooked to AC.  Pull the battery and it might boot directly from AC."

I pulled the battery.  The thing came right back on.  Problem solved.  (Thanks again to Justin Olson.)

I have two typewriters in the house.  I have my original Remington Noiseless and I have an IBM Selectric, which needs minor repair (which I now intend to get).  I can go right back to the so-called stone age if I feel I must, even though more and more markets are going to strictly email submissions.  But on paper, typed out, I only have to worry about fire or flood to lose the manuscript.

However, I won't go that far yet.

So yesterday, I went back to the gym for the first time in two weeks (working steadily on that novella, in the groove, skipping all nonessential activity) and came home intending to get ready for the next story, and I get a rejection in the mail.  Snail mail, yes, from one of the few magazines still doing it the old fashioned way.  I had submitted the problem novella the day before, so I had made my goal of getting it finished and out the door before another rejection came in.

Now I am sitting here procrastinating by writing this.  I have a piece of fiction upstairs that has been through three complete drafts already and I am about to gut it totally and do it from a completely different character's point of view.  Why?  Because it hasn't been working.  It doesn't sing, it can't dance, even though all the parts are there.  It is not wonderful.

Two things when a story does this—either you have begun it in the wrong place or you are telling it from the wrong perspective.  The first is tactical.  The second is psychological.

The most dramatic approach to story includes telling it from the perspective of the one or ones who have the most to lose.  The ones who are in the greatest danger, the ones risking the most, the ones who by virtue of just showing up will be in the heart of the conflict because the conflict is theirs.  This is hard to do.  It's natural to avoid pain and discomfort and writers are no different, so often we pick a main character who is safe or at least safer than the others.  There's a comfort about this character not getting badly hurt.  But it makes for flaccid fiction.

So all week, given the mood I was in, I've been thinking about this story as it has been written and trying to find a way to make the main character really hurt.  And everything I come up with feels like artifice.

This morning I wrote the first line from the viewpoint of another character.  The one who really has the most to lose.

I then came here to write this, because I can already sense the knots I'm about to twist my psyche into writing about this guy.  And I'm avoiding—

What?  Pain?  Not mine.  His?  Well…

It's kind of like bungee jumping.  You know it's going to be exhilarating, but bringing yourself to take that first step can be very difficult.  Stepping off into nothing, trusting that the way down will bring you what you want—that's counter intuitive.  Hell, that's scary.

But once you step off…

Time to go back to the edge.

Ahistorical Nonsense

Representative Michelle Bachman is the national voice of The Tea Party.  Recently, in speaking to a group of Iowans, she made some claims about American history that would be laughable if they had not come from someone who likes to style herself an authority of Constitutional matters.  She claimed that the glory of our country is that color and language didn't matter, nor did class or parentage, that once people got here, "we were all the same."

Wishful thinking at best.  Certainly that was the idea behind the Declaration of Independence, with its grand opening phrases, but like all such ambitions, it took reality a long, long time to catch up—and it still hasn't.  The fact is, despite our stated political and social goals, immigrants have always had difficulty upon arriving here, some more than others, and those already here have always resented new arrivals.  And even for those who were already living here, equality was simply not a reality.  African slaves aside, women did not achieve equality until…well, some would say they're still trying to achieve it, but just for one metric, they didn't get the vote until 1921.  People who owned no property were barred from the vote for a good portion of the 19th Century and other barriers were put up here and there, time and again, such as literacy tests.  Anything to keep certain groups from being able to vote against the self-selected "true" Americans.

She went further, though, and suggested that slavery was an unfortunate holdover from colonial times and that the Founding Fathers "worked tirelessly until slavery was gone from the United States."  She cited John Quincey Adams, who was a staunch campaigner against slavery.  The problem, though, is that he was not a Founder.  He was the son of one.

The reality is that slavery was a deal breaker at the constitutional convention in Philadelphia.  Many of the delegates owned slaves and made it quite clear that any attempt to outlaw it would result in a No vote on any constitution.  A compromise was struck, putting the issue off for twenty years, and until then no one was allowed to even mention it on the floor of Congress.  (Interestingly, the British and others outlawed slavery and the slave trade in 1807, 56 years before we did.) This was violated by a group of Quakers who tried to force the issue in Congress in 1792 to angry denunciations and threats of secession. The Southern delegates were quite clear that slavery could not be eradicated without severely damaging their happiness and well-being.  It was openly remarked that slaves were needed for "work that white men simply won't do."

All of which flies in the face of Ms. Bachman's attempted revision of the Founding Fathers, many of whom were southern slaveholders.

We should be clear about these men who established a political system which has had consequences they could hardly imagine.  Some were brilliant, all were intelligent, and most incorporated a mix of heady idealism sparked by Enlightenment thinking and the hard practicality of men determined to get something out of life for themselves and their own.  It would be easy to portray some of them as opportunistic adventurers.  For instance, George Washington and others were all frustrated and hampered by British colonial policy which tried to keep the colonists from crossing the Appalachian Mountains into territory forbidden to them because of treaties the Crown had negotiated with native tribes.  Companies were assembled of American entrepreneurs to claim and sell land in the trans-Appalachian territories, the Ohio Valley, Kentucky, and even south of that—quite illegally per British law.  These men had money at stake in this and were going ahead to lay claims and make sales in spite of the British.  They stood to lose a great deal if they couldn't proceed with these land deals.  So it could be said as easily as anything else that the Revolutionary War was fought by these men to secure future profits.

This is reality.  Not all of it, by any means, but not to be dismissed either in some spiritual reimagining of the purity of purpose and overarching genius of the Founders.  In fact, it is no shame to say that everyone who fought against British rule here hoped to gain something, and not just the intangibles of liberty—which is not all that intangible in any case.  Taxation was the war cry and what is that?  Money.  Property.

People came to these shores hoping to find land, which they could neither find nor own in Europe.  This is a fact.  Here, in the so-called "wilderness", they thought they could do what their forebears had never had a chance to do—own something.  This meant independence.  This meant freedom.

But today, when the owning of things has a much changed meaning, freedom has a less concrete aspect.  It's all about principles and ideals and airy things with no material substance.  We're used to it here, you see.  Freedom isn't so connected to things for us because things are ours by birthright.  Or so it seems.

Many of the Founders were large estate-holders, plantation owners, businessmen.  Everything they had was on the line in the Revolution.  This is no small thing.  They risked tremendously for their dream.

But we should never forget that they were also men of their time and men of the world.  Maintaining institutions that put coin in their pockets was part of who they were and it is idiocy to imagine them otherwise.  We risk turning them into Apostles and overwriting the reality of our own history to make that time some sort of Avalon.  But things aren't like they were in the good ol' days…and they never were.

This urge to hagiography on the part of people like Bachman puzzles me.  Collectively, they have no problem dealing underhandedly with political opponents, pushing through legislation that will benefit the propertied at the expense of the poor, treating their enemies as harshly as possible, and yet they assert that the Founding Fathers were somehow not like that.  They admire the Founders, and somehow manage to juggle the contradictions in their own actions.  Maybe seeing the Founders as they were—people— would make their own actions simply ugly and make them accountable on their own, without the defense that they're trying to reestablish that Golden Age.

This is a real problem.  We cannot go forward unless we know where we've been, and we can't go forward honestly unless we're honest about where we came from.  Yes, this is a free country, but what does that mean in practice?  It means that we have set of standards we're trying to attain without adding constraint to personal actions.  But unconstrained, personal actions lead not only to explosions of entrepreneurship and leadership and justice and innovation, but also to brutality and open hypocrisy and bigotry and class strife.  You can't have one without the other, because people are not principles.

I think Michelle Bachman and her colleagues understand this perfectly well.  If they can convince people that they have fallen from a state of grace, then all the problems are the fault of the fallen, and all we have to do is put things back as they were. As they were included Robber Barons, slaveholders, political misogynists, racists.  If they can convince people that this was the state of grace, then they can carry the nation forward into a future of their conception, which will benefit them.  It would be their trans-Appalachian  enterprise.

I do not believe it is a coincidence that people like Bachman have also been at the center of the gutting of public education.  An ignorant public can be controlled.

She asked rhetorically if this was going to be the last free generation of Americans.  The torch of liberty has been passed from generation to generation and we may be the one that fails to pass it on.  She could be right.  If people don't start filling their minds with knowledge instead of spin, the Michelle Bachmans may well stop that torch being passed.

Arrogance

We all use words sometimes in ways not intended.  We don't, after all, have a dictionary to hand in every conversation and memory plays tricks, not to mention there is always some "drift" in common usage that's culturally-driven.  Often it's just sloppiness that becomes wired into daily use and when we go back to the dictionary it's occasionally a surprise to find out that what we thought a word meant isn't really what it means at all.

Sometimes, though, it's the right word applied to the wrong circumstance or a label correctly remembered but used for the wrong reason.

Arrogance is one of the biggies.  I looked it up this morning in the dictionary—the Websters Compact Desk Dictionary of the American Language, a book I've owned since about sixth grade.  It says:

"Arrogant—adj. [see ARROGATE], full of or due to unwarranted pride; haughty."

The telling word there, I think, is "unwarranted."  But that's not how the word is used usually.  Most often, we see it applied in situations where someone feels they have been put down by someone displaying an uncomfortable opinion, superior information, confidence, or making a general statement about things the user feels is intended as a personal judgment against them.  Manner is important, and anything short of self-deprecating kind of visible humility can be taken as sure sign of arrogance.  What is said is less important than whether it contradicts common prejudice or simply a personal belief, and in this situation the term becomes an ad hominem attack—the information being conveyed is thereby discounted because the person giving it is arrogant and therefore need not be listened to.

Often this is a tactic, a way to discount something disagreeable.  If the person talking can be made to appear self-serving or bullying or ignorant, what he or she says can be safely ignored because it doesn't actually mean anything.  It's a defensive posture, accusing someone of being arrogant.  It puts the emphasis on establishing something that has nothing to do with whatever debate brought the accusation about, wastes time, distracts, and often says more about the accuser than the accused.

The difficulty of defending one's self from a charge of arrogance is part of the reason it can be an effective dodge.  Now we're talking character references, examples of past behavior, and an endless definitional conversation about just what that means.  Is someone arrogant because they stand on principles, never bowing to counterarguments?  Maybe.  It depends on the issue and whether or not all that's being argued is an unsupported principle.  If, however, there is weight to the principled position, evidence, experience, associated support…if the principle is something that has been shown to work in action and not just a matter of opinion…

See the problem?  It's been used too often to derail legitimate dialogues about serious issues.  Take for instance education.  We're having a national debate among several states on a relatively low level about what to include in science curriculum (yes, I'm talking about evolution).  There is a faction opposed to its inclusion, and in order to get their way they have been forced to be devious—assertions that we should "teach the controversy"— which run aground on the fact that there is no controversy in the science, only in the politics.  But a tactic used repeatedly in public debate is, when a scientist, someone who knows the subject, states that something like Intelligent Design is not science, at some point a charge of arrogance is made.  "You scientists are so arrogant, you think you know everything."  Or some such phrase.

This, for the lay public, can be a huge distraction.  Because now the scientist has to defend against a personal attack, which has nothing to do with the merits of the argument.  What it is, basically, is an admission that the one making the accusation has run out of anything useful to say.

The fact is, a charge of arrogance is one of those things best left for historians or for private arguments.  it's interpersonal, complex, and irrelevant.  Someone can be arrogant as Napoleon and still be demonstrably wrong—or right.  More likely, the one making the charge is the one being arrogant, because they have assumed their rightness regardless of the elements of the argument, and have either not bothered to learn the details or have dismissed such details because they contradict a cherished belief.  Either way, they elevate their personal belief above all other factors and anyone who stands in the way of making that personal belief paramount must, a priori, be wrong.  And if they are wrong and still arguing their point, they must be arrogant.  Hmm.  Got a mirror?

Ultimately, the charge of arrogance is used by people who feel their own beliefs and opinions are not being given due respect.  They are, possibly, being ignored.  Or they feel they've been identified in a way they reject, even though their position may be as wrongheaded as a Flat Earther.

But, tempting as it is to then label such people themselves as arrogant, it serves no purpose to make the same countercharge.  Often, if arrogance is involved, it's "borrowed" arrogance.  It's not a personal arrogance, but an aspect of the opinion or belief they hold, and as such personal arrogance gets displaced onto the source.  Otherwise modest, humble people can come across as arrogant because they are not, by their lights, speaking for themselves, but for this set of ideas.

Which brings us right back to the pointlessness of the charge.  Recall the definition:

full of or due to unwarranted pride; haughty

The operative word is "unwarranted" and that leads us right back into the dialogue to determine what is unwarranted.  To do that, it's necessary to concentrate on the topic, not take side trips into personality.  We might all do well to bear that in mind.  We might get farther and understand more.  I believe most people are capable of understanding a lot more than they're given credit for—even what they believe themselves capable.

Of course, that may be an unwarranted assumption.  Is it arrogant of me then to think people can do better?

Words Don't Matter

The message being put forward, especially by the Right, in the aftermath of the shootings in Arizona, is that it is absurd to blame the rhetoric of violence and hatred for the actions of anyone, let alone Jared Lee Loughner.  Words don't matter.  The man is a loon, his actions cannot be laid at the feet of anyone else.  Taken far enough, by this reasoning he acted in complete isolation from all influences.  Maybe so.

But really—words don't matter?

In 1774, Goethe published his novel, The Sorrows of Young Werther, a seminal work in the so-called Sturm und Drang movement.  It was a bestseller.  Napoleon himself declared it an important work.  It is intensely romantic, in many ways Gothic, and it ends with a suicide.  The book had such an impact that it affected fashion, mood, language—and sparked a rash of suicides in imitation.  Many young corpses were found with copies of the book on the bodies.

But words don't matter.

Charles Dickens was so popular that upon arrival in New York for his American visit, throngs gathered on the docks demanding to know the fate of Little Nell.  They were so caught up in the narrative that they suffered true anxiety over her fate.

But words don't matter.

Salman Rushdie lived in hiding for years after publication of his novel The Satanic Verses because of the presumed blasphemy in the book.  He was under death threat for writing about something that is, in fact, recorded in history and mentioned in the Koran.

But words don't matter.

The oratory of Adolph Hitler spurred his country into a manic frenzy of conquest and murder and made many of his countrymen proud.  Later, many could recall little of what Hitler actually said, but whatever it was, they knew it was true.  He ordered them to burn books that might have presented an alternative argument, as most dictators ban anything written that might offer criticism of their programs.  It is vital to silence the opposition, more important sometimes than anything else.

But words don't matter.

For centuries the Catholic Church maintained an Index of forbidden books, books which they feared might turn people away from the church—which you would think, if they were right about being the only true church, could not happen.

But words don't matter.

Attempts to ban certain books from libraries are common.  Something in "those books" must, according to the arguments, be kept from people because it might do them harm.  Now we see an attempt to produce a new edition of a beloved classic with a certain word expurgated, because it is a hurtful word, and some people would like to erase history and pretend that word no longer exists.

But of course, words don't matter.

Abraham Lincoln, when he met Harriet Beecher Stowe, greeted her by saying  "So you're the little woman who wrote the book that started this great war."

But words, of course, don't matter.

People dedicated their lives to the cause of liberation, many after reading the Declaration of Independence, which has come to be almost a national prayer, more important to some than the constitution.  The Declaration of the Rights of Man led to the overthrow of a monarch and the subsequent bloodbath that was the French Revolution.

But we all know, words don't matter.

Daily the Supreme Court hears debate over laws and how they accord with the constitution, arguing constantly over what the words mean and what they intend and how they may be interpreted, and rights rise and fall accordingly.

Yet words don't matter.

How many times have we heard someone say "That book changed my life!"  How often has a book or a poem or a story brought us close to tears?  How many characters mean more to some people than the flesh-and-blood people in their lives?

Here's the uncomfortable truth.  When a set of words results in a good thing, no one takes offense, no one dismisses it as meaningless, no one shies away from taking credit if the words were theirs.  But when something bad results, suddenly words don't matter, we can't lay responsibility on the author or the text.  Under certain circumstances, we have laws that address the negative effects of certain words—we call them libel or slander.

The problem is that we're terrified that if we admit to the real power of words, someone might try to take them away from us, and we've all seen how that goes.  It's worse than the problems such actions would redress, because it shuts out the possibilities of dialogue, of wonder, of betterment, of beauty.  Which is why the solution to bad words is more good words.  Cast a wide net, gather in a multiplicity of words, taste them all.

If, as the Right claims, words don't matter, attempting to distance themselves from the consequences of something like Gabrielle Giffords' shooting, why do they hasten to label the shooter a liberal?  Why bring up what he has in his own library?  If words don't matter, it would be just as telling if he had nothing but a collection of old Archie comics and a set of Oxford Companions.  Words don't matter, so what if he has a copy of The Communist Manifesto?

If words do not matter, then we should be able to say anything and see no effect at all on anyone.  No one would get angry.  No one would get sad, or hurt, or embarrassed, or baffled.

But no one would be enlightened or delighted or assisted or reassured or inspired, either.

Can't have it both ways.  You can't take credit for words doing great things and then pretend they can't do bad things.

But the only way to counter the negative effect of certain words and not destroy ourselves is to listen to other words, better words, words that tell the truth, words that aim to educate.  The conversation must go on, but we have to listen.  But we also have to own up to our expectations and our understanding and acknowledge that if we seek to influence with our words, sometimes that influence will go awry.

Unless, of course, words really don't matter.  Then, what is it we're all doing?

Crazy Is As….

I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but bear with me.  A bit of confessional time.

It's no secret to anyone who knows me that I'm an atheist.  To put it simply, I basically grew up and got over it.  Religion, to me, is historically and psychologically interesting, but does not represent any kind of reality.  The world, the universe, what have you, just doesn't work that way, and for every example you can pull out of your hat of supposed "miracle" I can equal or better it with "shit happens" and just plain human synergy.  That anecdotal game can go on and on with neither side really running out of examples, leading no where, but just the fact that most miracles can be explained by mundane models suggests to me that the miracle is actually occurring inside the witnesses skulls.  (There's this new one that is the presumed basis for the rapid beatification of Pope John Paul II concerning a nun with Parkinson's Disease going into full remission two months after the Pope's death because she prayed to him.  Now, if I remember my Catholic history and so forth, a miracle that qualifies someone for sainthood is supposed to have taken place during the recipient's lifetime and he or she had to have been in some way directly involved.  This is clear evidence that the Catholic Church is undergoing a P.R. crisis and needs some new popular saints to bolster a flagging image.  The swift beatification of Mother Theresa is such a case, because anyone who really looked at the way she ran her organization would have to have serious doubts that this woman was "saintly" in any way, shape, or form—but she appears saintly.  Anyway.  Remission from disease happens all the time, just most of it never gets to the level of being considered a miracle—the human body is a dynamic system and we still have a lot to learn about it.)

The more complex answer is, that the more I learn the less I am able to suspend incredulity that anything like the cosmogony suggested by religions—any of them, and I stress here that I see no valid reason why any one should be given preference over any other—makes any sense given the evidence at hand.  Over time I saw religion as a strictly human enterprise, a kind of Swiss Army Knife approach to explaining the inexplicable that relied on fear and the human capacity to be amazed to instantiate a programmatic acceptance of authority-through-divinity.  Basically, it's a business.  Not always to make money, you understand, but always to exercise power.

So I walked away.  I became a student of history and an amateur appreciator of science and the more I see, read, and discover, the more I am convinced that religious acceptance is a pathology.  It has become so deeply wired into human culture, that it appears normal and functions often quite benignly.  It only becomes a problem when situations arise and questions are asked which religion is unsuited to deal with.

One of the great and, of late, underappreciated and often derided truly cool things about America is that we—you and I—don't have to put up with that crap.  We can walk away.

Now for most people, this translates into an easy freedom to change our stripes.  There are no legal or, often, social barriers to moving from, say, Catholicism to Presbyterianism.  Even among those two groups, eyebrows may rise, some tut-tuts may occur, but after an adjustment period, I imagine most folks even keep the same friends and might even go to each other's church socials.  (For some of the more aggressively evangelical religions, this gets a bit tougher, but the law does nothing about it*.)

For some of us, it means we can just stop believing what we regard as nonsense.

This morning I went to the grocery store.  At my checkout lane, the cashier and another employee were engaged in what I quickly understood as a religious discussion, but one of those that make even some mainstream believers reflexively wince.  The one was explaining how ardently she had been praying, while the cashier—clearly in the higher position of authority in this—was saying  "It doesn't matter how you pray, it's that the Enemy attacks.  You got to be aware that he's always there, attacking.  You can pray but you got to watch for the Enemy."

I paid and left without saying a word and, I hope, without my face betraying my reaction, which was "Oh, a couple of nuts."

Here's a test.  Next time any of these situations come up at a party or in casual conversation, see how you react in the first few moments.

"My cousin was abducted by aliens.  They ran all kinds of tests on her.  I wonder what it is they're looking for when they do that?"

"Oh, I never use traditional medicine. It's all poison, you know.  I trust homeopathy."

"There were at least two other shooters, one on the grassy knoll.  It was a CIA plot."

"The world is going to end in 2011, May, in fact."

"My astrologer said my stars are badly aligned for a move to a new job.  I hate where I'm at, but I don't want to make the same mistake twice."

Even if, within a minute, you recoup enough to either steer the conversation away from this or form some kind of cat's cradle response that allows you to see this in some way other than at face value, I would bet you thought, however briefly, "Oh no, one of them."

Which is interesting, because I realized that over the years my reaction to each and every one of these, plus the score more I didn't mention, has been identical to my reaction to someone who feels compelled to testify to me.  They are indulging a fantasy, basically, possibly one born out of a particular neurosis, and it is important for the maintenance of that fantasy that they co-opt others into supporting it.  Either by politely agreeing to the possibilities implicit in each world-view being presented, or by buying into their argument.  Either one lends credibility to their delusion, strengthens it, and reassures them that they are not, in fact, nuts.

To be sure, most of them likely aren't nuts.  Not in any clinical sense.  Nothing medication will address.  They are simply indulging the power of interpretation and organizing the world according to a set of precepts that allow them to navigate.  And for many, many people it works just fine.  In fact, at least in the case of religion, because these ideas are so entrenched, so much a part of what is generally called Culture, it works better than just fine, it is almost psychologically wholesome.

Except we seem to choose what level of it we're comfortable with.  I imagine even people with a regular religious component to their lives get uncomfortable when approached by some glassy-eyed evangelizer wanting to talk about their personal relationship with Jesus.  Because, I suspect, on some level we all know this isn't quite rational and the irrational troubles us.

Now, what I do—fiction writing—can be readily described as irrational.  I find it interesting that some splinter religions deride fiction as sinful.  It's competition, in a sense, an attraction to some other form of exactly the same pathology that doesn't have the same telos as religious fable.  And I will cop to the charge, that making stories up is not, by certain metrics, rational.  Humans are not wholly rational.  If we were, there likely would be no art of any kind.  What we are is aesthetic.  We are beings of the senses.  And what I do speaks directly to that.  As does music and painting and sculpture, and dance.

And religion.

What are all these depictions of the after life if not confabulations of the ideal sensual experience?  (And by sensual I do not mean sexual, although in some religions that is very much a part of the whole Paradisical aesthetic.)  It is the perfect embrace of the aesthetic, often without the filtering of the flesh, so to speak, which seems sometimes to transmit the signal incompletely or with unpleasant noise.

What I do in my head, though, when I create characters and world is very much like the whole architecture of a religion.  The difference is, I do not then say my characters are Out There walking around.  Their existence is in my head.  And I do it for a specific and limited reason.  I'm trying to share a given experience.  The experience is the totality of it, though.  (We have run into people, some of us, who have taken it the next step and so personified favorite characters that they really do think they live in the same world.  What, may I ask, is the difference between that and the whole acceptance of religious constructs, other than in the former case we see these people as slightly off-beam and in the latter just "normal" folks?)

I will stipulate here that I think, for many people, as individuals, religion provides a quality of experience that is therapeutic.  Whatever gets you through the night, as the song says.   And as such it is not my place to criticize anyone's choice of paradigms.  It's even clear that religion serves as a functional component in community activity.  What is communal identity but an agreed-upon way of seeing the world?  And agreement is the first step toward cooperation.  So on and so forth.

But I also suggest that most peoples' level of acceptance of religious claims is wholly conditional and contextual.  We can see this in the negative reaction to claims that, by some quite literal interpretations of religious codes, disasters and tragedies are the direct result of a failure to embrace a given claim.  New Orleans was swamped because we bar prayer in public schools.  9/11 happened because we tolerate homosexuality and some deity doesn't like that.  We know this is crazy talk.  But it's based on some of the same fundamental structures as the religion we may claim to believe.

So what does this, ultimately, have to do with the so-called real world?  Well, by this point you should pick up on where I'm going, but let me be perfectly blunt:  according to some religions, some people are second or third class citizens, not permitted to enjoy the same rights and privileges of the chosen.  This is the real world manifestation of a pathology that draws its authority from a delusion.  When it gets to that point, it's no longer harmless.  Or therapeutic.  As when someone tells you, basically, that there's nothing you can do, that no matter what your efforts may be, the Enemy is going to get you.  Consequently, you live a life constantly constrained by fear.

We only get one life on this planet.  It's a crime to have it wasted being afraid of boogymen and ghosts and feeling like crap because of something that probably never happened.  And, in some places, being forced to live your whole life severed from all the wonders of the world simply because of your genital arrangement.  This is not wholesome, not therapeutic, and not right.  Someone else's pathology should not limit your life.

I should wrap this up now.  If I continue, Vishnu may come down in his spaceship and abduct me and subject me to a severe audit with his E-meter.

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*Although, sometimes the boundaries blur.