Joshua Daniel Cochran's Blog, page 2

Catalogue of the Mundane #70 Sandcastles

Sandcastles

Have you ever built a sandcastle? If not, stop reading this and go find a suitable beach to build a few. And since it may take several weeks to develop your own style and aesthetic, I suggest you act immediately and leave right away. Go now.

 

It’s impossible to argue that white sand is best… but listen, do not make the mistake of the Sons of Georgia Sandcastle Association (SGSA) and go making the dubious assertion that the shade of sands and their properties act as a metaphor for race relations &c. White sand is preferred because it is the most abundant for our purpose. Brown sands, usually composed of aggregates and crushed shell, are far too coarse for any but the most rudimentary constructions. And besides, the black sands of Kaua’I are said to be have the best sandcastling properties due to the association with the god Pele. That said, unless you’re in Hawaii, go find some white sand.

 

If you’ve never constructed a sandcastle, you might want to watch a few being made. This is one of those occasions when roles can be reversed, when adults can learn from children. Watch and observe a few kids and notice what they do. See how they fashion the sand into shapes that resemble structures? Good, now stop watching the children. They can’t teach you much more than that—they’re children after all. What do they know of tensile strength or the venerable rule of thirds? Nothing. Plus, it’s no longer socially acceptable to watch children at play, even if done in the name of science or nature.

 

Now you’re ready to begin sandcastling. Will you use small buckets designed and sold for the sole purpose of sandcastles by the vast sandcastle-construction industry, an industry that secretly supports the suppression of workers and a submissive role for women? I hope not. Will you use nothing but your own body and hands? If so, be ready for some sour disappointment… the human body has its limits. I suggest using discarded cups and other vessels that can serve the purpose just as well, and by recycling these objects for one more use you’re doing your part for the environment.

 

But what is all this talk of buckets and cups and vessels, you might ask, when I just want to build a sandcastle? Listen here– I know what I’m talking about and I’m trying to help. If you don’t want help, just walk away right now and go back to your bitter, sandcastleless life. Besides, why would you ask the question if you don’t want to know the answer? Asshole.

Anyway, the vessels are utilized in order to actually construct the structures of a sandcastle. Here’s how it works: fill up a cup or bucket or vessel with wet sand (preferably white, of course, though white sand turns a light brown when wet). Flip the vessel over, upside down, and then very gently lift up on the vessel. If you do this right, the sand holds the form of the vessel and stands on its own. Your first structure stands!

 

Okay, the basics are over. Now you’re ready for the Big Time. It’s very important to scout a suitable location; you don’t want to just go sandcastling all willy-nilly. You want to avoid high-traffic areas where people might be inclined to damage your sandcastle either inadvertently or with malice. Ideally, you want to construct slightly above the current tide line and in a relatively calm area. A bunch of screaming kids or a loud stereo blasting the latest canned pop song is not the best medium for the spiritual experience of constructing a sandcastle. And never ever build a sandcastle near another sandcastle because the temptation to compete against one another would be too great, and that’s just not what sandcastling is all about. (1)

 

 

Finishing elements to a sandcastle can include items and implements used to scrape away layers of formed sand, to add textures, to make indentations that resemble windows, to cut away unnecessary buttressing, or to mimic stone and brick lines. However, nothing can be added to a sandcastle that is not made of sand, or it fails to remain a sandcastle in the pure sense. If anything, a small stick with a paper flag may be inserted on top of the castle, but that’s about it.

 

Some people make other things out of sand at the beach, like a snake or the bust of a person or something like that. Such things are not sandcastles, nor should they ever be referred to as such.

 

When a person builds a sandcastle, it can be a mirror of the soul. Sandcastles can be lumpy, graceful, simple, ornate, efficient, or ludicrous… just like people. A sandcastle can reflect the inner self, but don’t be fooled by this maxim because it just doesn’t hold true for everybody. I once saw a beautiful young woman building a fantastically wondrous sandcastle and when I complemented her on her design, she told me to “fuck off” in a really mean way. And her breath stank really bad, like old milk and hobo sweat.

 

No matter how tempting it may seem, never try to incorporate a moat into your sandcastle design. This is an advanced technique and takes years and years to master. But if you don’t believe me, go ahead and try.

 

And just what is your motivation? Do you want to participate in the circle of life and create a sandcastle that will be destroyed before your very eyes by the rising tide? Do you desire to build a permanent sandcastle, one that will last forever and ever and ever? Well, good luck. In every society there are people that only get pleasure by destroying the work of others. Actually, these people compromise the majority in most societies. And they wait, watching your labor of love, and as soon as you’ve decided to move off and leave your creation for the night tide, they come out of hiding like jackals and slink toward your creation. Then, with the suddenness and might of a hundred camels, they kick at the sandcastle with all their might.

 

Did I mention it’s often funny to put a brick in the middle of your sandcastle?

(1) On vacation in San Carlos, Mexico, I once began constructing a sandcastle near a group of friends. Now, I’ll get into the philosophical strata of sandcastling in a moment, but suffice to say that I originally began the sandcastle with a quick destruction in mind. A friend of mine (who for the purposes of anonymity will be referred to as “Sarah”) decided to build a sandcastle too, but she began constructing hers less than six meters from my own! I tried my best to ignore her, and when I completed my sandcastle she was about halfway through the architectural diagrams flying through her tequila-addled brain. It was at this point that she declared a sandcastle-building competition which, due to the vast reservoirs of emotions entailed in sandcastling, should only be attempted by professionals. However, my friend’s sandcastle was clearly situated higher up the shore than my own (originally slated for immediate destruction). Needless to say, I’m still affected by that day: I watched my sandcastle dissolve in the rising tide while my one-time friend danced and laughed as her (vastly inferior) castle survived another twenty minutes. Though I never had any intention of competing, the effect of the competition is still embedded within my psyche and, even now as I write this, can feel my blood pressure rise at such a gross neglect of good taste, manners, and sound judgment.

Catalogue of the Mundane #43 The Toilet

The Toilet

For millennia, people have just squatted on the ground or over some sort of hole much like a cat or any other animal. Indeed, most of the world still does this for the most part, except those of us lucky enough to endure the wonder of the modern toilet.

Industrialized societies use things like toilets to prove just how advanced the really are. However, sitting on an apparatus to defecate can remove one from the pulse of life, from our more animal parts.

Many things have been flushed down toilets that shouldn’t have been. Keys, toys, kittens, tampons, tears, food, fetuses… the list is endless and growing every day. It’s important to realize the toilet is a place of damnation. When you flush something, it better be for good. Unfortunately, the toilet is limited. It can flush only small objects. However, a toilet can also flush away ethereal things like anger or fear. Just put it in and pull the handle and watch it vanish.

The longest anybody stayed on a toilet was eighteen weeks. Cassadra Blythe of Westbury England, stayed on an ancient but brightly painted Twyford toilet (the first one-piece design of a toilet) during the fall of 1946. Mrs. Blythe claims constipation as cause for her extended meditation, but family members have always thought otherwise and claim she was merely depressed over the marriage of her childhood love, Edmund Cheeks, to that tawdry Johnson woman.

 

Strange and often profound thoughts often come into our minds when sitting on a toilet. Einstein had some of his first revelations after a night of eating cheese and bread. Sonnets have been written, odes and epics. It is said that Immanual Kant could only think properly while on the toilet, that he came up with all his greatest ideas there and merely fleshed them out while properly clothed and sitting at his desk. The same was said of Aristotle, that he spent a third of every day sitting on a chamber pot. While there is much speculation on the thoughts that occur while defecating, perhaps it is a rather simple matter.

Look at the shape of a toilet, especially the bottom parts— the sensual curves, the sexy S-shape of the pee trap. Touch the smooth surface of a clean toilet—how cool and collected as if waiting.

Hugging a toilet when sick is a truly singular experience; it’s so strange to be so close to the apparatus, to have your face so near to where your ass usually is. You take on the perspective of your own anus. Notice the moist odor, the cool sides of the bowl–round like the hips of some motherly woman, smooth beneath your hands and so cool.

At least once a month, every individual should take a shit outside, beneath God and the Everything. When doing so, look up at the sky; if night, the heavens. Think about how you’re only alive for a little while and POOF, you’re gone and forgotten.

Catalogue of the Mundane #17 Elevators

 

Elevators

Elevators are transcendental apparatti, a temporary home between destinations, ever moving, purposeful and deliberate. Where is an elevator most truly at rest? When in motion.

The worst thing for an elevator is to have all its buttons pushed, perhaps by an errant child wishing to be mischievous, to exact his or her will upon the universe. But what these children don’t often realize is that their little fleshy fingers thwart necessity and determination, and participate in entropy and the destruction of All Things Good. Some of these children know this and do it anyway. When adults, they act very much the same.

Though the Romans didn’t have an elevator at Masada, they sure wish they did. But a ramp is not as good as an elevator. Case in point: When the elevator went out in his building last year, Jorge Castano of Chicago tried to build a ramp of boards and furniture from the alleyway to his third story apartment. Friends say he did this in jest, but the result was not so funny. Mr. Castano broke both his legs in the fall.

How many people have died in elevators? Thousands. How many have been conceived or born in elevators? Tens of thousands. The elevator is a place of life.

The elevator is a place of lust. Luis XV had a counterweight lift constructed at his apartment at Versailles in order to link his rooms with those of his mistress, the stunning Madame de Chateanrouge. They are rumored to be the first to have intercourse in an elevator.

There is much talk and speculation about sex in elevators, and how can we blame such talk? When the doors slide close so smoothly, how can we not think of skin? When hemmed in such squareness, how can we help but feel the roundness of our flesh? Most people, even the most reserved and dried up, feel a strange arousal in elevators. Our eyes search the hopeful bodies among us, and even if alone the hunger awakens. This is why elevators are often warm.

Tragedies still occur, of course. There are the amputations, the beheadings. The Chinese deliveryman trapped for three days between floors in a Manhattan apartment building lost his voice from screaming. Perhaps the people of the building wrote off his screams as normal screams, even though if you were to hear them you would be chilled to the bone. Around the second day, when his voice no longer worked and the elevator was filled with the smell of his own excretions, he made peace with his god and resigned himself to die. When the doors finally opened and the engineers stood before him with sheepish smiles, he didn’t even get up. He looked at them and said, “This going down.” But nobody understood him.

When elevators are very crowded, strange things can happen. Odors become amplified and people have been known to suddenly become very gassy. Angers can flare. Women, and some men, are often fondled against their will. And people in the back of the elevator always need to get out before people in front. Some say it just happens this way, but perhaps there is a reason.

When confronted with the choice between a screaming infant or a talkative old man, of 2,346 people polled, over 73% stated they would rather be stuck in the elevator with the infant.

In 1875, the Western Union Telegraph building in New York City clocked its elevators at speeds reaching one hundred miles per hour. After researching various possibilities of padding, harnessing, and other safety implications, they slowed the elevators to a more reasonable rate of ascension and descent. However, on weekends the operators would disconnect the regulators and race each other until the inevitable tragedy of 1879.

The French are known for many things, but few people know about their ground-breaking use of asspower. At the seacoast Abbey of Mont St. Michel, a treadmill hoisting machine was constructed in 1203 using four asses harnessed together. They used this primitive elevator to convey various staples, including the holy cheeses.

Some say the elevator is an attempt to reach unto the heavens, to defy God, to tempt fate, &c. But mostly the elevator is just for lazy people who don’t like stairs, for the transportation of cargo, and to ascend tall buildings. Without elevators, we would not have so many skyscrapers. Without elevators, the people living in skyscrapers, after walking up two hundred flights of stairs, would not come down very often. And if they forgot to pick up milk on the way home…

When the Otis Elevator Company invented the ‘signal control’ in 1924, attendants were no longer needed in elevators and many of these attendants, seeing that their usefulness and purpose in life had been usurped by mechanization, committed suicide.

There is much contention between Americans and the English over the terms ‘elevator’ and ‘lift.’ What both sides often don’t address is the fact that both words are flawed. These devices do not only elevate or lift things, but also descend and lower as well.

Awkward conversations often occur in elevators, conversations that would not, could not, happen under any other circumstance. The first such awkward conversation occurred in 233 B.C.E. when two slaves were suspended in a block and tackle contraption designed by the venerable Archimedes. While attempting to untangle the lines, the conversation went something like this: “So, the bread was not too hard last night at supper,” said the first slave. “No, no, the bread was just right,” said the second. There were a few moments of silence and they watched the lines being played with and noticed it might take a while. “I hope the bread is that good tonight,” said the first slave. But the second slave didn’t reply, even after they were moving again.

The next time you find yourself in an elevator, look at the people sharing the space with you. Know that their eyes show the same recognition of death as your own.

An Open Letter to Philip Roth, Douchebag

So it may be old news to some, but the author Philip Roth has quit writing. I just wanted to thank him.

Thank you, Mr. Roth, for not choking the world with another mediocre novel. But when I read in the Writer’s Chronicle that writing “cannot compete with the screen,” I decided to make good use of his novels.

I went through my home and found I had a copy of American Pastoral. I took the copy and, carefully, painstakingly, tore it to pieces and placed it in my compost heap (minus the cover, of course) amidst the piles of coffee grounds and fruit rinds. I felt this was the ideal place for Mr. Roth’s writing.

Why? Because he’s a coward. If you want to quit, fine. If you want to stop writing because you’ve expended all of your talents, of course. But to blame film?

Fiction operates on an entirely different level than film. Movies are passive experiences, for the most part. We witness what occurs on the screen. Certainly, we may be moved to tears or anger, but it is much like witnessing anything in real life. For example, if you see a man berating his wife with horrible words, you may feel disgust or anger, but you are just witnessing the event as an observer. Unless you decide to “get involved” in the situation, and no matter how much the experience may change you, your role is a passive one. You are watching actors on the stage.

Fiction, on the other hand, operates much differently. People who read books, as many scientific studies have shown, allow the reader to experience the story as participant. We go with Alice into the rabbit hole, we stand beside Odysseus in his journeys, we FEEL the story through Claudia’s eyes (in Toni Morrison‘s The Bluest Eye)… all the beauty and reality and horror of human experience.

So, Mr. Roth, I am glad that you’re hanging up your pen. Perhaps you’ll find fulfillment in, say, composting. Ashes to ashes, shit to shit.

As a writer and lover of fiction, though, I cannot accept someone of your stature blaming culture. Certainly, the majority of people prefer films to reading. But the majority of people prefer McDonald’s to quality food. If a world-renowned chef were to say, “I’m not going to cook anymore because so many people eat at McDonald’s,” I would say the same thing: Good fucking riddance.

So I go out to churn the compost from time to time and I’m happy to see the pages and words of Mr. Roth become indistinguishable from other organic wastes. Eventually, his book will become one with the earth, just as Mr. Roth himself… and his mark on this writer’s life will be to provide nutrients for my garden plants, just as his writings have provided nutrients to so many readers. I will eat of the vegetables that have eaten of Roth, and in this manner, I shall shit him out.

And this is what a coward deserves. I will never read another word of Mr. Roth’s, even if he were to pull a Michael Jordan with multiple comebacks, multiple “retirements.” You, sir, have done a great discredit to writers and the form of the novel. And for this, I hope more people take my lead and churn your writings into compost.

At least, that way, you WILL contribute somehow to the world, though not as a writer. Please do not give any more interviews. Please, please do not write another book. Please just die and let your writings fade into obscurity (Pulitzer prizes? Read The Known World if you want to see what the prestige of that award truly means… shite).

I look forward to a world without you, and your writings. If only you had stopped earlier, you may have spared us all a lot of mediocrity.

JDC

Why I’ll Vote for Obama: A Confession

So it has come to this.

 

The choice is clear. And in order to truly understand the dilemma the voter faces in the 2012 presidential race, we must come to terms with our surrender. We must confess.

Back in 2008, I reluctantly voted for Obama. Had John McCain not gone insane and driven further right than he’d ever been, had not chosen a complete national tragedy that is known as Sarah Palin, he would have got my vote even though I’m a lifetime democrat.

McCain would’ve gotten my vote because, for all the wonderfulness of having elected our first black president, I saw Obama as an empty suit. Lots of talk and damn fine rhetoric, but the American populace was an easy target after eight dark years of Bush administration policies that drove our country into the ground (while on fire). We were fish in a barrel, and Obama’s beautiful notions of change and redemption swept many away. I cried like a baby during his inauguration. Compare that to Bush’s second inauguration, when he was pelted with eggs while en route.

So when I saw people dancing in the streets and celebrating Obama’s win just like the little people in ding-dong the witch is dead, I was wary. And unfortunately, it turns out I was right.

Obama has been a mixed bag, that’s for certain. He has managed to piss off just about everyone from the far left to the far right. And while on first glance this may seem to show a weakness in character, I find it to be relevant. He’s making decisions, not just churning the wheel.

Bad aspects? He blew any chance of republican consensus and invigorated the tea party movement with his first year in office—pushing through “legacy” initiatives such as Obamacare that should have waited for his second term. He seemed to almost want to piss off the republicans, and this resulted in losing the senate and the ensuing republican stalemate that has hobbled our economy and country more than any president ever could by himself.

Good aspects? Far from an “apologetic” foreign policy, Obama has been hard when necessary, ordering a much needed troop surge in Afghanistan to the horror of most lefties, and increased old-school intelligence-gathering that Bush eschewed and increased 21st-century warfare with drone attacks that minimize troop engagement and probably accomplish more for less harm than any amount of goodwill-building exercise. And he actually works his ass off: President Bush spent 32% of his presidency on vacation. Obama’s economic policies are beginning to pay off, much like George H. W. Bush (his sound economic policies were just beginning to take hold when Clinton nabbed the election from him and got all the credit for the ensuing years of growth and stability). Finally, I just like Obama more. Even though I don’t always agree with him, he has taken a lot of shit and keeps on coming.

I confess: I’m voting for Obama. But I’m doing so because this is less a choice between a shit sandwich and a douchebag and more of a choice between right-leaning policies and left-leaning policies.

Mitt Romney claims he’ll create 12 million jobs his first four years. But that’s what just about every economist is predicting will happen if we stay on our current course. Both Romney and Obama will raise taxes here, cut them there. The only difference is to what and whom—with the republicans more libertarian in economic policy and favoring the wealthy as equals to the poor in the share of contributing to our common country.

Basically, I’m voting for Obama because he’s the better choice of the two. But make no mistake—there is little difference between. Romney will play with the economy and stir the coals of the Middle East. Obama will be a lame duck for four years, hobbled by the right’s continuing stall.

So I say, bring on the fiscal cliff and let’s finish the ride. I’m not one to switch horses midstream, and we’re much safer with Obama in a second term, than Romney in his first.

JDC

 

That Sucking Sound…

Ross Perot famously invoked gratuitous body noises while debating Clinton (irony, anyone?) on the issue of NAFTA. Boy, was Perot wrong on that one. NAFTA doesn’t suck… it blows.

The sucking sound of today is quite different. Another presidential election, another round of lies and half-truths, and yet another chance for each and every American citizen to have their individual votes nullified by the electoral college.

An archaic throwback to the founding of our nation, this indirect process of electing our leaders is an embarrassment to the so-called greatest democracy in the world.

A vote should count as just that–one vote. I don’t want my vote to be pooled with others, regionally, and then reapplied via a majority for that region.

It’s a stupid and skewed political process, to say the least.

But Americans keep smiling and voting, arguing with one another and making a scene without substance. Your vote? Pool it with the rest. For example, I live in Arizona… a state mostly composed of migrants from the Midwest (that great pool of intellect…) California escapees (mostly the terrible kind) and Mexicans of course. As a third-generation Arizonan, my vote is always nullified by the state majority of Republican wonkers. This is why Jeff Flake (what a perfect Dickensian name!) might beat Richard Carmona, a man of actual integrity. This is why Goddard lost to the moronic Jan Brewer. This is why Arizona goes red republican for every presidential race.

For anyone who has ever known, Arizona natives (regardless of race) are generally easy going. We’re Westerners. Fuck with us and we’ll shoot you, but other than that we’re mostly a calm, quiet type. The desert tends to make a person contemplative.

But the electoral college? It voids the individual vote so that the minority (democratic and native) voice is drowned in the majority (republican and non-native).

I just want to live in a country where I can vote for president. And unfortunately, I live in the United States of America. That isn’t about to happen anytime soon.

JDC

On Jihad and Fatwas

A lot has been made in the Muslim world about a crappy film made by idiots.

Such is not an excuse to act like idiots yourselves.

Really, can you imagine a crowd of Americans shouting “Death to Islam!” and burning the flags of Egypt, Pakistan, etc.? Just imagine the shitstorm of global hatred that would follow. Well, it’s difficult to imagine because it will never happen. Besides the fact that you look silly and rather pathetic in such misguided rage, it’s actually embarrassing to humanity. It reminds me of a film…

Monkey fight!

Is the wise person insulted when the insult comes from a fool? Besides, what would happen if we all burn flags and kill people whenever we’re insulted?

There would be very few flags and a lot of corpses.

The fanatics of the Muslim world are scary because, occasionally, rational and Godly Muslims listen to them. For support of this fact, look at the death and burning embers currently smoldering over a stupid film. Really? You get this pissed off over a really terrible film, made by a handful of dolts, intended to piss you off? What a bunch of suckers.

Faith is a personal affair. It is a relationship between you and God. Don’t let it spill outside the lines, please, and especially if it means doing harm to your fellow man.

Here in America, when we have idiots that promote hate and insult core beliefs, they are mocked and ignored and exposed for the louts that they are. Take the fools at Westboro Baptist Church. Do you see America embracing this small sliver of stupidity? Look at how our media and our people, as a whole, tear them apart. We stand united against incendiary zealots whose only intent is to sew discord.

Additionally, do you really think God, or any of His earthly messengers, would ever condone violence over someone mocking them? Really? Is God so pathetic that He cannot take a jibe now and then? Don’t you think Mohammed can fend for himself? He’s got nothing to complain about compared to Jesus, after all…. think of all those velvet paintings of the J-man with blond hair and blue eyes. If I was Jesus, those would piss me off to no end. I’d probably even descend from heaven and do some smiting.

Does Buddha get depressed when confused with the fatter, Budai? Would Ganesh incite all Hindus to murder in his name because he was ridiculed on The Simpsons? If I call the image below an image of Mohammed, will a Fatwa be issued against me?

I’ll take my chances.

aleakypen

Letters to New York, #19

Dear New York,

And so it is.

I wanted so much to tell you yesterday, but you were unresponsive. I woke to the sound of you leaving me, the door shutting and the tumblers of the deadlock clicking into place. Then you were aloof all day, as you have been. I know you ever more by mere memory.

Which is why, when I awoke today to a cold bedside and your pillow there beside me and undented, that I decided to tell you anyway. I’m leaving. There.

Got the call yesterday in the middle of a page… just tapping, tapping out the confused workings of my mind and BOOM, everything is different.

I wonder if you will come with me, New York. We could make a new family, a new metropolis in the desert. We could open an art gallery in downtown Tucson. I’ll print up some pamphlets (bilingual of course) and work on my novels, we’ll get you a studio for your hands to work our substance.

We all need a break from time to time. Aren’t you ready for a break from yourself? Wouldn’t it be lovely to stop your treading water and come to where there is no water at all?

Love,

J

Letters to New York, #18

Dear New York,

I know it might seem mundane for you, but my love is undying. Believe me. I tried to kill it, but just like Zombie Jesus, it came back.

There is nothing I would rather have in this world than you, New York. But it really takes two to tango. I tried it and fell down with my arms open, waiting for a partner that was not there.

Funny how, in all the love I’ve shown you, in all the words I’ve said to you in passion, you remember only the trifling things, you zero in and remember only the negative.

Like when I said that thing about being impressionable. I wasn’t talking about YOU if you reread the line (one line!), but was being very general. And it’s true, when we are hurt or limping or wounded, we are vulnerable, more willing to take any hand even if it’s wrong. I say this out of experience. Because, like you said, I was impressionable when I was wounded. It continues to be this way.

You speak about respect, as if I have none. You speak about time, as if I have none. We are only as simple as an equation if we allow ourselves to be. But you’re more than an equation, New York. And so am I.

I’ve been walking on air of late, thinking of blossoms and spring and rebirth and hope. Have you, New York?

Love,

J