A Measure of the Value of 'Life':

A Measure of the Value of 'Life':
and a personal understanding of how it's defined.

I would like to start off by saying that this will not be a "traditional" post that a lot of my readers (which seems to have grown exponentially in this last week - thank you) might have come to expect. I know a lot of you expect some prose akin to beatnik poets and philosophies on life that carry a bouquet of Kentucky Whiskey, but this isn't going to be one of those posts. Nowhere in here will you find cynicism of the world, or vulgarities of human behavior that inspire words of outcry. This is entirely different. This is a bit of a personal revelation, something I've come to understand about myself and the world I live in, that I would like to share. These moments don't happen often, but when they do, I know better than to ignore them.

I've always considered myself to be a very rich man, despite being a person of limited means. I've come to this conclusion based largely on the caliber of people I've been so fortunate to surround myself with, the quality of living to which I aspire -- and achieve -- but also, in arguably the most important way, by the measure and level of happiness that surrounds me. It seemed, at first, like such a small thing to be aware of, this ability to be happy, but I've noticed a disturbing trend as of late. I see less and less people in the world who are actually able to make such a claim and even fewer who seem to be telling the truth.

I couldn't help but wonder; Why? Is happiness such a difficult thing to find? Is it something that really requires such constant maintenance, like a lot of people would have you believe? I've never thought so. So what is it about happiness, which seems, to me, to be the real measure of value in life, that is so hard for everyone these days? Is it because it's attached to things? I didn't think so. I don't know many people who really attach happiness to material possessions, barring those of the sentimental nature of course. It was just that kind of thinking, those questions, and the sudden impact of sharing something with a particular (and very special) person, that prompted me to go outside, sit down in the rain, and cry for a minute.

I didn't cry because I was sad for all the people who weren't happy, or because it seemed so needlessly complicated to people. I didn't cry because I was sad, or frustrated. I cried because I understood something about myself that, really, I'd always known but never truly acknowledged: I'm a happy person. I'm not happy because of what happens to me in life, or because the world is turning. I'm not happy because of the death of a terrorist leader, or because of a person, place, or thing. Happiness is a choice and it's possible to make that choice without even thinking about it. Why? Because nobody needs to think about it.

What's to think about? We live in a beautiful world, we really do. Sure it's populated with; and this isn't meant to sound cynical so, please, bear with me for a moment, all manner of things that can inspire rage and sadness. Bad things do happen. They always will. People will come into your life, they will leave, & they will die. Catastrophes will happen, every day, all over the world. There's nothing we can do about these things. Nothing. Sure, they will stir sad feelings in us, they will incite anger, they will provoke feelings of a need for justice, for balance, and for karma, but does that make the whole world bad?

What about all the other things in the world? What about sunrises, laughter over steak dinners, the taste of a good beer on a warm evening in late Spring? What about the people you know, the family you've built? What about the sound of the ocean at night, gently lapping the shore, or that picturesque silence that comes with a heavy snow in winter? What about the feeling of wind on your face as you race down the freeway? What about the knowledge that, in every moment, you're alive to know you are? Why is it that these things, these moments, are so easily taken for granted?

Up until tonight, I always thought I'd given them their proper measure of respect. I lived in them, danced in them, reveled in all the things in life that, to me, made it great. Sure, I see a lot of things wrong in the world, but that doesn't make the sum total of it all bad. When I realized, all the sudden, that it was these moments and the people I'd shared them with that had made me, not only rich, but happy? I understood that I'd never really sat back to look at just how valuable they were to me. They are, and will always be, the lighthouse tended safely on the shore. I know, no matter how raw the seas get, how big the waves are, or how little energy I might feel like I have to keep swimming, that it will always be there -- silently encouraging me to keep going -- as if telling me that, if I can make it just a little bit further, life will be the best its ever been.

It will be better because we're alive to keep going -- and how bad can life, really be if that's the case? What of that first, morning, breath?  Isn't that a good enough reminder of how wonderful your day can be, no matter what happens? Whatever happened to you, before that very moment, you got through it. If you can be happy about that -- and why couldn't you be? -- then you've really figured out the difference between surviving life and living life. You've not only endured, but persevered. You've not only come and seen, but conquered everything that's come before. When you wake up in the morning, doesn't it seem you have a lot of reasons to be happy?

If you can start the day with that kind of thinking, there are some things I can promise you. Life will be brighter. Food will taste better. Air will be fresher. Everything you do will, somehow, be influenced by this decision to simply be. It was this understanding that really highlighted the real value of life. The ride isn't better because it's longer, it's not better because it's got more sights, or because it's faster. The ride is better because it's happy. Hold on to that, no matter where you go. Hold onto anything and anyone who can remind you of just what that feeling means, acknowledge and embrace those moments -- and, I promise you that you'll be rich beyond any measure.

Thank yourself for living. Thank those closest to you for sharing in it with you and never, ever, pass up a moment to experience all of those things in life.

Hic habitat felicitas - In vita; It's in every moment, waiting to be seen.

Old Home Movies..

Old Home Movies:
A dry mouthed symposium on optimism

Mother's day, 2011. I'd sat there, staring at the pages blankly for a large part of the morning, ever since the first rays of sun had tried, stubbornly, to push through the crowd of bleak clouds that hung over it like a latex mask. The sun came out, I grabbed a book, a couple cigarettes, and a bit of grapefruit. Nothing seemed terribly satisfactory and I was exhausted. Sleep had been eluding me for days and my head had been full of roving bands of barbaric thoughts all seeking to loot and plunder the recent treasures of my consciousness. I decided to try a glass of water, maybe even a Dr. Pepper, anything to give me some sense of real grounding in a world that, in every appearance, had gone and twisted itself absolutely sideways.

All this, still, seemed to no avail. My legions of active, positive, thinking did more to stave off the hordes. I'd always hated attrition conflicts too as there was no real, discernible, sense of victory. It was like a fifteen round fight that went to the judges. You still got to chalk it up as a win, but you didn't get that raw satisfaction of knowing you'd knocked your opponent out -- at least this time. I wasn't, entirely, sure what to do. I tried kicking off my socks, scattering the morning dew in bare feet, before kicking my legs up on patio chairs to smoke another cigarette. I decided to sit back, and simply see where the ride was headed; to get a grip on what exactly was going on. It was all about maintaining your focus and controlling this roller coaster high of intense heights and, seemingly, endless lows. It was the kind of feeling you might get from a heavy night of drinking, after spending six years in a dry spell. You could remember the old feelings well, but the deception of your tolerance, eventually, would leave you curled up over a bucket, trying to vomit out all the awful poison that somehow made its way into your body.

It was a lot like looking at an old home movie; the film, so dark and distorted, the camera jerking all over the place, and everything was all out of focus. The world had, somehow, slipped off its axis and left the rest of us listing to stay upright in our proper, evolutionary, position. At the same time? It was that same kind of thing that danced in through the trees like a lazy, summer wind. It was just warm enough to push a faint smile to the edges of your lips and really remind you that there were some things, even if it was only a few, that really were right in the world. I had the distinctive sense that, perhaps, I wasn't sorting out the vibrations right. Things had gotten all manner of intense, that was true, and nothing I did seemed to be getting things lined up. I'd been bitten by some kind of bug, an I just couldn't shake off its poison. Was that bad? It didn't feel entirely bad. It was some new, strange, kind of high. I'd handled a lot of highs in my time, so this should have been easy.

I just had to get a grip. Whatever was happening, whatever had happened, there was no stopping it now, so what was the point of all this senseless panic? I took a taste of history from my own lips with a languid sweep of the tongue and leaned back even further into my chair. I was determined to ride out this feeling, even if it turned my stomach upside down and filled my insides with all manner of fluttering and flapping creatures. What was it, exactly? What had happened? Was it simple fatigue? Exhaustion? Had I simply over-estimated what was going on? Could I even properly perceive events? Hell, I couldn't even sort it out. The whole thing had gotten lost in some thick, swampy, fog and I hadn't had the foresight to bring any kind of torch. All I had was a handful of questions and a small can of bug repellant.

Still, I couldn't argue that strange, surreal, sense of comfort that came rolling in like a faded jazz tune on a crisp, tropic, night. No matter what was going on, somewhere, tangled up all inside it, there was something good. I could almost hear it, that strange music, that seemed to come out of nowhere. It was distant at first, but present nevertheless; the kind of old horn that felt almost haunting when it first slid across your ears. It was the kind of sound that just seemed to get more comfortable though, the closer you got to it. The ragged rhythms petered out into slow melodies, the off-key notes became the gentle bass lines that stirred toes into a back and forth sway, it came floating in on a warm wind of jasmine and hope.

I could feel the violent surge in my stomach drop back to a dull whisper, and my mouth suddenly felt dry. My eyelids were heavy and my muscles groaned at the very notion of movement. I felt like some iron giant; that perhaps, in my tenure here in this chair, I had rusted solid and would never be able to move again. That, all things considered, didn't sound too bad -- as long as the music was still playing. I could survive on music, I was pretty sure; I'd always been a consumer of it anyway. Then it came again, that warm breeze. It was, oddly, out of place for this time of year, at that hour at the morning. It was warm and came rolling in from the south -- also abnormal for this time of year in Maine -- and, finding myself able to move again, I sat forward and lapped at it.

There have always been few things I considered "better" in the world than a warm, Southern, Summer's, breeze. It's the kind of thing the crawls inside your head like an old, home, movie, -- the good kind -- and gives you that very real sense of comfort; a knowledge that, no matter how raw the weather gets, everything will be all right in the end. I pushed myself out of the chair to follow it, my weary body groaning with a sudden command for sleep. I had the strange sense that it would be there; in that space between the worlds, where strange music and loud noise are often the same, where those distorted, home, movies find some sense of focus, that I'd find the cipher for this confusing fog -- and maybe a handful of torches to guide me home too.

It's these songs, these winds, that can be found anywhere. They can come in any shape, size, smile, laugh, or bit of affection. They can come in glasses, eyes, hands to hold, and words on a page. No matter how many layers they might, from time to time, be hidden in, they're there -- you've just got to close your eyes, stop looking so hard with your brain, and just listen to that slow, brass, sound. It'll guide you just about anywhere, as long as you've got the conviction to follow it, the dedication to ride out those strange and bizarre moments, and the ability to be satisfied with where ever it is you end up on the other side -- no matter what. Just remember, every once and awhile, you will have to sleep.


So, scatter morning dew from time to time, but don't neglect the art of dreaming either. It's there you can find all the things you might have never known you wanted.

Observations of the Mattel generation:

Observations of the Mattel Generation:  
And their, disingenuous, expectations.

May the 7th is a real, red letter, day in American History. It is the day the Germans finally surrendered to allied forces and, the less known fact, that it was the day we hung our nations first, recognized, serial killer. H.H. Holmes was a real monster of a man with all manner of perversions and intricate tricks for covering up his tracks. It seems almost excessive, looking back on it, that he went through such measures to cover up the things he'd done. Back then such atrocities were almost unthinkable on the American shores.

It was a time that was such a far cry from where we are now; a generation of youths raised on plastic models of perfection with the general idealism that we should all look the same on the outside, be the same depth, the same shape. We're all set to come in perfect little boxes, pre-accessorized with all manner of flexible trinkets and gadgets; our cars all pastel pink and never shedding so much as a drop of pollution. Our homes, now, are all the same rough shape, filled with the same, general things; big screen televisions, an orphan cousin form out of town, a medium sized, slightly shaggy dog, couches, chairs, and food that always looks perfect. It wouldn't be so bad if it all stopped there, but it's that kind of silicone thinking that's got the whole world warped and twisted around all manner of ideas.

Now, we're no longer taught to be content with the way we look or what we wear. It's a high priced auction with everyone selling off their unwanted parts in exchange for all manner of Barbie doll transformations. We've got to avoid the direct sun so we don't melt, so we duck inside tanning beds, giving ourselves a dose of artificial life in the vain hope that we can spring some life into the plastic under our skin. I've often watched this pattern go on and never quite understood where the infatuation with being so different from how we are, was so important.

It's always been, relatively, understood that the bar is set by common trends and television shows. Magazine advertisements become the benchmark for beauty and deodorant commercials show us the way all men should look an act. We should all ride white horses and motorcycles on the beach and all women should be lacquered in layer upon layer of paint in order to mean much of anything. There's nothing wrong with the people who choose to want these things, because they find them enjoyable. They're the same kind of people who want to dye their hair, get tattoos, piercings, and wear all manner of eclectic clothing -- even if the rest of the world tends not to look at them that way.

It's the people who feel like that's the way they have to be, that seem to be a problem. If there's a way you think you look better to yourself? By all means, look that way. The clothes on your back should matter no more to your station in the world than the color of your hair, the number of holes or pieces of art you put on your body, and so on. When you feel like your hair has to be a pristine shade of blonde, that you have to wear a certain shade of depending on the season, change your shoes with the same frequency, or that it's just not good enough if it's not 'all the rage'. That becomes the problem.

It's like all adults treat these bits like the way we did on Christmas toys from yesterdays. Everyone wants the new Tickle Me Elmo, or the new doll that everyone just has to have. If it's not new, or cutting edge, if it's not popular and unseen, it's suddenly not good enough. No one seems to be immune to this kind of conditioning either. Even the most sub of the subcultures carry the mentality with it. "Goths" across the country will stone you if they don't think you make the grade. Punks, skins, hip-hoppers, big boppers, beatniks, poets, and country fans are all the same. We all have preconceived standards that all all newcomers must be held to, and those who don't make the grade? They're cast out to the sea, into the pit, and left to fight for the leftover scraps they opt to cast down.

These notions aren't to be confused with opinions either. Everyone is entitled to what they like and what they don't. Some will like Industrial music, some won't. Others will like slender women with perfect blonde hair and a  high class sense of fashion. This, in principle, is absolutely fine. Not every ear is so suited to all the music of the world, not every palette will take to all the paint and colors, not every tongue will enjoy all the food there is to sample. Taste, though, should not be confused with these preconceptions about how one should be, all of it based on the teaching methods we have to offer.

We're not designed to be held to boxed standards of "decency" and when we keep on with that kind of, collagen faced, acting it's only natural that it becomes that much easier to lie. To live like that is to breed an environment that encourages dishonesty because, if you're not walking that fine line, you're going to be tossed off the bridge of the world and left forgotten if you do anything to the contrary. It's why we're so quick to look down on those of "unfortunate circumstance", the junkies of the world who were never taught any better; but just as quickly pick up rocks and stone the life out of anyone who makes the choice to do these things consciously. We can accept ignorance as an excuse for breaking the, Ken doll, customs -- but God help you if you don't have a reason not to know better.

It's why that brand of commercialized idealism is so insidious too. Everyone can look the same, but they all have to have your voice. No matter how you twist in, or in what funny little ways you give it an accent, you always recognize it as your own. It helps you identify with this way you're supposed to look, the things you're supposed to have, and the things you're supposed to do. All your vacations should be taken to beach houses or in expensive campers; all life should be rich in possession and, relatively, poor in people. What difference do people really make if you have things to replace them, after all? Slowly, but surely, this kind of thing has worn away at social values since its inception.

So, upon reflection of these behaviors of the "Mattel Generation" I have this to say: Be weary of what values you apply to everyone around you. That magnifying glass of perception we use on those around us can just as easily melt the plastic as it can shed light on the darkest of corners. Be aware of the standards you hold, and question them constantly. Be sure that they're yours and not those of whatever circle it is you choose to inhabit, and always be aware that looks fade in time but personalities are, generally, consistent. Even the most venomous of serpents can hide behind the most sculpted of features and so too can perfection be found in the most unlikely of places.

Surviving the Storm

Surviving the Storm:

And why that's just not good enough

The headlines these days are getting vicious. For a few months now, I've been sitting back to follow the story of the Sweat Lodge issue for a few months now, not really sure what I think of it. The hell bent pursuit of a better life, taken at the hands of a, well meaning, snake in the grass. Knowledge should never be forbidden, but always taken with a grain of responsibility. What is known can not be unknown, and the damage done can only be undone if it's not permanent. Creature comforts, after all, won't stave off the rabid gnawing of painful knowledge and will absolutely do nothing to stave off the pale horse Death tends to ride upon. Sitting down to think about it all, there was only one rational question: Why are we desperate to only survive the storm, that we push ourselves so far beyond the limits of what we can handle???

 

It's the people who look at it as a way of life that often get lost; too freaked out on altered states, high on the adrenaline fumes of stress and long hours. It's that kind of mental state that can lead to blind desperation, spinning the wheel absently and praying there's a shore out there somewhere. I can respect the principle of that kind of perseverance, but the application? It's that kind of thing that makes bare knuckle boxing with a rabid kangaroo seem almost sensible. It's looking for the illumination outside the walls, outside of who we are, of trying to fill self made holes with dirt from a foreign land. It's surviving the storm in pieces, and calling survival good enough.

A lot of people these days have deserted themselves on islands of their own making. They've built high and impenetrable walls, starved themselves of meat and swilling enough coconut milk to liquify their insides in a constant stream of filth and madness. They've become desperate, savage, raving fools -- bloodthirsty for meat and the sense of touch, unable to decide which it is they want more. They're shipwreck victims, the storm has passed them over, but the trauma of living in it has become too much. If you listen, real close, on a quiet night, you can hear them howling across the sea in a mad chorus of senseless babble. It's the kind of sound that sends shivers up your spine and puts a real fear of the sea into you.

It's these people who snap when the do find sand under their feet. Once well meaning, upstanding, member of society, these PTA board members now look like hunched over cannibals, rabid and frothing at the mouth. They've grown so out of touch with their fellows, so complacent to survive in the storm, that they've been weathered, degraded, and just plain rotten. The fruits of their labor have all spoiled and they've gotten drunk on fermented berries. They're wild, they're dangerous, they're unpredictable and, even if all these things make them exciting, they should be regarded with an air of caution and given some semblance of berth. 

 

It's good, from time to time, to chase that edge of existence, to find the high and narrow places that are out there, to know just how far you're willing to go. It's good to live to live, to hold nothing back for adventure, and to give your last at a chance for everything you've ever wanted. What makes no sense to me is that this attitude seems to be, as of late, all about simply surviving the firestorm of teeth and claws.  It no longer seems to be about moving through the hardships and wet roads. It seems to simply be about staying in them. This kind of fortitude training has it's place -- it's good to know just how hard and real it can get before you have to back out -- but it becomes a simple matter of attrition. No one can survive the waves forever, there's too many brutal things in the sea.

It's not good enough to simply survive the storm, not now, not ever. It takes too much gas, and there are too many things to go and do. When the storm hits and the seas rise to life like some old, vengeful, god, I find it's often best to put the throttle all the way forward, and rush headlong. Sailing straight through, cursing and swearing at anyone or anything that will try and stop you, waving your flag high and brandishing your sword were the same kind of ferocity -- it's the most efficient means of seeing the following dawn. The storm is a trial, it's not a way of life.

The sun will always rise on a tomorrow, and the storm will always pass -- as long as you don't follow it. There's nothing wrong with treading water, or seeking shelter on a deserted island if it gets to raw for you. The harm only comes in staying there, in trying to survive, rather than push through it. The rains will fall, the wind will make it sting, thunder will roar, lightening will crash. You can't avoid these things, Mother Nature won't let you. Trying to avoid them? Senseless. Trying to outrun them? Senseless. They'll find you, someday. You can count on it. Nothing, an I mean nothing, makes as little sense as sitting there, following the storm where ever it goes though.

Pick a direction, pick it randomly, and simply go. Take someone by the hand if you're lucky; grab yourself by the boot laces if you're not. Put your foot, your hand, whatever, on the gas and move. Kick your feet, swim like you've got a shark chasing you, but keep moving. To where or what end? To live, to life, to the pursuit of all things warm -- to better days filled with smiles, laughter. To hot meat, to strong drink, to sitting around the fire telling tales like the Vikings. To celebrate all the things you've seen, all the things you've done, and to do all the things you want to do.

Surviving is good, but it should never, ever, be good enough.

The problem with always being prepared
Because when you're looking for anything, you miss everything

Always be prepared they tell you, always. "You never know what might happen.." The adage goes. So be ready for anything, always be prepared, know your entrances and exits in case of fire and, for the love of god, if something does go wrong, you trample every godless heathen who would dare to stand between you and your life. I've never trusted anyone who has ever said these vicious and awful things. Why? That's simple; they haven't really lived. They've wasted countless hours turning over channel after channel of life, reverting to the primitive of cave man hunting - turning over every rock, in the hopes that dumb luck has seen to provide you with some kind of sustenance. Taking advice from these sloths makes about as much sense as using your own skull as an astray.

What does that even mean anyway, this 'be ready for everything'? How does that even work? It's a disadvantage of our evolution - we're not built like ants or to carry tons more than our weight. Piling everything you'd need to be ready for everything would break your legs, never mind snapping your sanity like a stick of celery. That's just foolish. Even if you do manage to pack it all on your back like some inverted Mongolian Horseman, you're not going to get very far, and you probably won't be able to see anything but what's down at your feet? What's the point of that? What's the point of only seeing the dirt, and the things you trample? You'd miss everything until you'd already steamrolled it and by then, well, it's just too late to stop.

It's why I've never done it, at least not the latter parts. Anything can happen, that's a given, and that's really the only knowledge we need, isn't it? Why be ready for every little thing that might happen? Even the best things ends up broken and dirty if you don't see it until you've stomped it into the dirt. So why?  Why live like there's something awful around every corner, only to end up in a blind panic of sobbing tears? What's the point? Could you really argue there is one? So, say anything can happen - good, it can. The world's full of all kinds of good things that can happen - if you let yourself see that. 

There's so much of it too, it's around nearly every damn corner. It comes in all shapes and sizes too. Huge, fat, surprises dropped in your lap, and you never know where they might come from. Sometimes they might come on the tail end of the worst storm cloud you've ever seen hanging over your road too. Sometimes, even, you've got to brave the hellish storm full bore, get struck by lightening, and come limping out the other side, just to dust yourself and see that there's something you want on the other side. It's not just people either. It could be anything - hence the point. It could be a candy bar, a perfectly mixed drink, a warm fire to sit beside, a new friend, a new sight, a new place, new words..anything.

It's the people who get too overloaded that miss all these things. None of us are immune to it from time to time, and there's nothing wrong with falling into those trudging steps through  the muck. The only tragedy comes when the decision is never made to leave. It's then we sink in a bog of hopelessness, our vision so clouded that we've, finally, lost sight of the lighthouse on the shore. It's a terrible, terrible, tragedy, the kind of thing you'd read about in small, boxed, headlines, somewhere in the middle of your newspaper. It's here in these shortened effigies of who we were is spelled out in pictures and tiny paragraphs; all our woes set out on the table in clever little dishes shaped like unknown objects.

I used to be one of these people. I know just what it's like to see all your passions go to waste and get rotted by indolence into some bitter vinegar. I know, all too well, about living a life filled with fantasies about people you never talked to, and the countless late night hours spent seeing their faces buried deep in your dreams. I lived this way for a long time. The only break in the pattern ever seemed to come when I'd push myself all the way to the edge -- only to cut my own ropes and sabotage the whole expedition into adventure. The only thing that finally broke it, once and for all, was the conscious decision that I had nothing to worry about at all. I never had. If I was light enough on my feet, I could avoid what I needed to avoid, and I wasn't so cramped with strain that all I could do was rest on the heels of exhaustion.

I used to worry about people would think of the strange behavior that rolled around inside my head like a toddler who was drunk on the feeling of sticking pennies in a light socket. I used to worry about the way my clothes looked to everyone. I used to worry about standing on ceremony for every stranger I ever saw. I still don't think there's anything wrong with evolving these characteristics into a mentality of sometimes using them. Worrying about everyone though, all the time though, is senseless. What's the point of walking through life, choking on a mask of your own dirty socks? It was just that kind of questioning that made me understand it just wasn't worth it. I could walk through my life, being me for the sake of being me - come sun or storm - or I could be damn sure I was too blind to properly appreciate the good things in front of me.

So, worry. It's sensible to worry about somethings. When you can see the storm ahead of time it would be irresponsible not to at least consider what you might need to bring to survive. You can't possibly be ready for anything all the time though. It's impractical. Stare forward, not down, enjoy the drive, the road, the scenery, take in the whole trip. Get the smell of wild, desert, wind in your hair. Enjoy the faint smells of Jasmine and the lingering warmth of warm winds; the kind that haunt your steps like an old, southern, melody drifting through the trees on a cloudless summer night. After all, there's just as much of life to see as there is to miss, and you only get one pass at it. There's no second trips, and the photo albums will only be filled with the pictures you have the ability to take.

For whom the Bell tolls in the Kingdom of Fear:

For whom the Bell tolls in the Kingdom of Fear:

And the big question of "What, or who, is next?"

I was standing in my kitchen when I heard the news, talking on the phone. I remember blinking in confusion, exchanging a few words with the female voice on the other end of the line, and heading outside for a cigarette. Osama Bin Laden was dead. I didn't, rightly, know how to process this kind of thing and my mind was already racing with some, very loud, thoughts. Among said thoughts was that, after ten years of work, we finally toppled the Monster that's been keeping us up at night. I remember saying something to the effect of "Well, that was odd" -- but this had nothing to do with the occasion at hand. I could only hope that now, after all these years, the stranglehold on this Kingdom of fear might relax and give us all, much needed, breath of fresh air.

I took some time to mull the whole thing over before begging to trudge through the flurry of news headlines on the matter. The headline of The Los Angeles Times reads: "Obama announces Osama bin Laden killed by U.S." Of course it did. It was everywhere and it was the news we'd all been waiting to hear for over a decade. I still wasn't sure what to think of it. He'd managed to evade U.S. forces for so long. I swallowed the thick knot of discontent in my throat and found myself thinking 'Maybe if we'd been looking for him in Pakistan instead of Iraq..', but I couldn't let that kind of thing linger for too long. It would just make the whole thing seem all the more weird.This whole thing was enough to drive me into a dizzy, foaming, mess and I knew I'd need some kind of oxygen if I was going to make it thought this the strange night ahead of me so I did what most Americans were doing -- I made a drink.

May 1st, 2011. It was the 58th anniversary of the day the first American, James Whittaker, had climbed Mount Everest, the day we announced Hitler had died, and, of course, it was Law Day. Now we could add the dead of bin Laden to that list of historical accomplishments that we'd made on this day in our time. I wasn't immune to the universal irony that came with these facts -- after all it's a big deal when you can claim to vanquish two of the greatest threats to freedom in the world on the same day. The American Bar association says "Law Day underscores how law and the legal process have contributed to the freedoms that all Americans share." The whole thing struck a raw and festering chord within me. Wasn't that what the news had been calling the toppling of a Government, the high cost of bodies we used to pay for it and all that was being, in the wrong country nevertheless, done? Hadn't we been hearing, all along, how this was the true enemy of Freedom in the world? I couldn't help but wonder "What now?"

I decided to reflect on the last ten years. We all knew, right from the moment the planes had come crashing into the Towers in New York City, that we'd have to punish someone. Old friends and allies alike would have to be scrutinized and no one was safe from the burning eye we'd now lit in the land. Everyone was a suspect in the Kingdom of Fear and Osama bin Laden was the biggest boogeyman of all. He was the puppet master behind everything that went bump in the night, the man behind the curtain, and we had only one, surefire, solution in terms of him and anyone who might have been anything like him: Violence.

It had been the same for Japanese Americans living here after the attack on Pearl Harbor. None were to be welcomed, none were to be forgiven, and none shown sympathy. Even after we dropped the big bombs, justice still wasn't done; even almost seventy years later, when the tsunami tore through the country, the cry was 'REVENGE!'. In 2001, it was every American of, middle eastern decent that became a target for the hate and rage of well meaning patriots and lovers of America. It was a savage time, and, of course, something had to be done about it. We couldn't stand this kind of pressure for too long and the Bush administration, for all their infinite wisdom, decided it was the time to act. 

The very notion that Osama bin Laden was the antithesis of 'All things American' had never sat well with me and neither did the 'War on Terrorism' that followed. It was a war that had been fought, and perpetrated on all fronts. We were bought and sold fear at home, told to shoot at it overseas, and the news had been littered with tiny reports of victories in and far off countries. Americans love war on television though; there's nothing like big missiles and the explosions of building by night vision to remind you that, at the end of the day, your freedom is being defended and your oil prices are being secured. It, like all wars, had would have the most dire of consequences, but that didn't matter. "Never mind the cost!" had become the mantra, "The vicious dogs must die!" 

Freedoms and securities are always the first things to drop after this kind of thing. Every dissonant voice on the telephone was suspect, every immigrant harbored a hidden agenda for violence, and every drug dealer was knowingly buying their supply from Al Queda dealers. We'd all become suspects of terrorism, none of us could be trusted, and we were all told it was time to get in line for the firing squad. None were to be given quarter, none were to be spared, and the ignorant minutemen were set loose with all the bricks and bombs they'd need to remind those fear mongers that their drug would never be welcome here -- even if everyone was swallowing it down with their meat and potatoes.

It didn't get any better from there either. From the derail to Iraq from Afghanistan and the endless, sandbox, quest for Weapons of Mass Destruction. We send all the good, red, white and blue, boys overseas with shovels to look for bombs; and when we didn't find them? Well, that just wasn't good enough. The great beast of war was fed only on victories, and if there were no bombs to blow up, we'd have to settle for something all new. Like Father like Son, it was Gulf War 2.0 and we were all willing to buy into the frenzy, feeding our love for war with the need for crude resources and the blood pumping race that could only come from an honest to goodness public hanging. Anything to take the focus off all this nonsense about torture and water boarding back home. We're Americans, god damn it, we're the good guys. We do no wrong, we never oppress, we never misjudge, and we're the bastions of all light and purity in the comedy world.

It was just this kind of thinking we continued to swallow, content to sweep any negative headline under the rug of victory and success in the middle east, if not the election of a new president -- there's nothing like having a landmark moment at home to take the focus off what's happening on the other side of the world -- and things things were quiet, for a time. The war frenzy had faded into a dull and listless sea of angry people. We'd finally caught on to the winds of garbage that had been blowing back across the ocean, but we had bigger problems now. Collapsing economies, banks that needed bailouts, skyrocketing unemployment rates, and the most dreaded and vicious best of all, recession.

These had become the new backlash effects of "Terrorism". We'd all been blindly fucked into stupidity. Those of us who hadn't taken up torches and pitchforks for the cause were just as guilty as those who'd fly planes into buildings. As more and more of us became discontent with the news on the screen, more and more had gone into hiding. We'd pulled the blankets over our own eyes and simply held our breath like children, hoping to scare away the boogeyman just this once. We sat inside and masturbated to commercials for cheeseburgers and steak, bought larger televisions, celebrated all the great things that made us American from the safety of our homes, and let everything go to pieces all around us.

For ten years we've been caught in the vice grip. Our passports have been denied and we've been trapped behind enemy lines in, what has been sometimes called, The Kingdom of Fear. We'd done little for ourselves, and it was just this kind of inaction that had turned us away from anything that might have been productive for any of us as a whole. Gas was too expensive, the world was full of terrorists, and nobody had any answers that could help with safety -- so, we did what had to be done. We started looking under every rock, in every cave and, finally, in every palace until we found the boogeyman. We put one in his brain, demanded the body, and ran off back home to tell everyone the good news; It's safe to go outside again.

What concerns me most about this whole thing is that we've all been taking the fear pill for quite awhile now, an I'm pretty sure most everyone -- and everything -- is addicted. Fear is good for America in a corporate sense, never mind the Military and political front. There are few things more motivating to people in this world than fear and war and it's, surprisingly easy, to combine the two and make yourself look good for a headline. I have no doubt that Osama bin Laden will be the next Elvis. We'll be seeing him everywhere across the country in the next twenty five years. He might put on weight or change the style of his lungee, and trim his beard, but tabloids will, never the less, be littered blurry snapshots of him taken on gas station security cameras.

Of course this is all only until a new Monster can be found, lurking somewhere out in the world. Until then we'll all be pacified by modern sitcoms and bad celebrity news, hovering about like a gangrenous mass of junkies waiting for the next, big, fear to come dropping out of the sky. It's conditioning, it's training and so, the question of us many of us are standing up to ask is: "... who will they train you all to fear now?" The bell may have tolled in the Kingdom of Fear and the dragon may be dead, but the Kings, Queens, Counts, Dukes, Lords, and Ladies of the lands aren't as foolish as we'd all like to think. I'd say "Don't Worry" -- but that really seems pointless until the withdrawals wear off. 

Until then we're all encouraged to drink whiskey, light fires, dance naked, and revel in our "victory". The votes have been counted, the scores have been tallied, and all the tapes have been reviewed. This game is over and we've won, earning us the right to celebrate the death of our "enemy" in these dark and twisted hours. Just remember -- figureheads come and go. We lock them under house arrest, drop bombs in their living rooms, and sometimes, just sometimes, you find them already dead and buried. That doesn't mean anything though, people won't believe it until they're gone and we've all been given the chance to line up and gnaw on their bones. 

They could be out there, anywhere in the world, just waiting to be reinvented -- I just wish we could have killed the fear, once and for all. Then, finally, maybe we'd have something to celebrate.

Mainlining Intolerance:

Mainlining Intolerance:
The new, social, drug that's all the rage

I'm sure you've all seen the news today and if not, I'm going to preface this entry with a couple of links for you. They are two articles that show two, very different, sides of the same coin; highlights of a social epidemic that - I feel - needs some serious addressing. They are, as follows: The Westboro Baptist Ass-Kicking & Suicide Pacts.

Where is it that we've gone so, hideously, far off course that these sort of events are even giving a breeding ground to happen? It's an abusive of civil liberties, a rape and plunder of rights, and a hard pointed look at just how twisted the system of values has become in this country. Children have always been cruel and unforgiving - this will probably never change - and one could argue it's the modern Agoge; a battle ground of harsh values designed to reinforce and strength the structure as a whole. It's unfortunate, but we all endure it. Does that make it right, or okay? Absolutely not, but it's not about to stop. We're living longer, living less, and offing ourselves at alarming rates. It's a modern, vampire, tragedy told all anew - none of us are Achilles, none of us are immortal, and even less of us are being given proper armor.

The problem seems to stem from an over saturation that deviance, of any kind, is an immoral cockroach that should be squashed. It's everywhere; magazines, television, even books aren't immune to it. They build the model of perfection to which we hold everything accountable - and it all becomes about perception. In Spartan times, the guidelines were simple - an no, that's not an argument for eugenics, merely a comparison- but now? Now we leave up to the beholder to determine that which should be stoned to death; and no longer do we hold the mandate that only he without Sin, should cast the first stone.

So where does the blame lie? Those parents of loss; the ones who have lost their young as casualties to a harsh and unforgiving environment, are often first to blame themselves. It's why, in part, I opted to highlight the article I did. The parents, by admission (though we never really know) seemed to be doing everything they could to teach the methods of perseverance, even providing the shield of anti-depressants to ward off any wayward strikes that got past a structured, bronze, shield. I cannot see the problem lying here. One could, if they so chose, consider this some modern model for Darwins theory - but this isn't weakness, or stupidity that's bringing these children to form pacts and hang themselves in their bedrooms. It's a loss of light, that bottomed out feeling where tomorrow seems just as black as today, and nothing in the world can ever triumph over such wicked and sinister hearts.

That, then, leaves the other side of the conflict to be considered. If the parental guideline for the wounded seems to be inadequate when faced against the growing horde of mongrel breeders; those who are more content to perpetrate acts of indolence and provision, then what do we do? Rather than provide the tools for diverse understandings and an appreciation of all colors, these facsimiles are simply dropping their kids off wherever, paying little to no mind to what it is they, do, or say. That, in an of itself, is bad enough, but what about lessons of causality; that for everything you do, you will cause a reaction? Whatever happened to teaching kids about the dangers of Karma, or even bringing out the boom stick of damnation? Whatever happened to the basic principles of teaching morality, of decency? Never mind right and wrong - that's all too easy to skew. Whatever happened to teaching people to be genuine and heartfelt?

I'm sure, if only because I want to be, that every parent does their best to teach these things to the youth in their early stages. What happens though, when the parents have been given the same, faulty, textbook model for how to behave? I'm not talking about just the abusive families either, or the ones you see trumpeted on Lifetime either. I'm talking about the ones who simply don't understand - or don't care enough - that the moral implications of their actions; as Parents are God in the eyes of Children, are tied inexorably to the behaviors of their children. It's this kind of moral flophouse that breeds the vicious cycle. Angry dogs are not taught that they should not bite, and we've enforced the idea that killing them is bad. Now the streets are overrun with vicious, foaming, beasts all looking for an outlet to turn their savage fangs dull - just so they can sleep at night.

The only, effective, way to combat this kind of thing is to, early on, begin the principle teachings of understanding and hope - two things we seem to have lost sight of in these fast and strange times. In the budding stages of growth, where the stone is heated raw and turned pliant by social pressures, every impact leaves an impression; every kind word turns a smooth surface, and every harsh jab leaves a marring scar upon the clay. It's in these times, when even the strongest of metal, the weakest of glass, is able to be bent and molded. It's in these times that action becomes pivotal, if not vital. If we don't, then aren't we responsible for the reprehensible behavior of tomorrows ignorance? We're the pushers of value, we decide what the lessons are worth, and how to put emphasis upon them. 

If we're willing to put billions into these wars on drugs, then it could be suggested that addressing this issue Mainlining Intolerance of could be considered paramount. It's killing more and more of our youth than anything else. Maybe you don't see it, because it's victims are all, still, walking. If you look real close though, they're out there. The signs aren't easy to see; the listless eyes the downcast stares, the silent breath of disillusionment that escapes with each, passing, headline - and these aren't destitute individuals peddling for change on the street corner either. These are your working class, you bankers, your lawyers, your doctors, your gas station attendants and your chefs; no one is immune, and everyone is forced to take a taste of it at some point or another. 

Some people hate it, it makes them violently ill and it seizes stiff, filling their veins with ice water. They're ill suited for the harsh and twisted sights the direct shot of intolerance provides and, at worst, they might stumble around slurring insensitive statements as a form of catharsis. These people are generally harmless once the initial effects of the drug wear off, generally just wallowing in self loathing for their behavior for a few weeks, and then all becomes right with the world again.  

Then you have the dangerous ones who love it, and it's these ones you have to watch out for in the dark. It's these people who drink up intolerance moonshine during prohibition. It's everywhere and they can't get enough of it. It gets them high in a way nothing else can, spouting off their own emotional madness as a way to suck some semblance of purpose into their, otherwise, dull and uneventful lives. They're emotional junkies, living on the adverse reaction they cause to the general populace, like a pack of Piranhas waiting for that first drop of blood to hit the water. It's then they'll surge forward in a violent frenzy, clawing and screaming at whatever mass it is they've chosen to target. They give no care or pause for injury either - it's how they spread; modern zombies spilling their own blood on the small prayer of keeping the infection alive.

They're a mindless horde, and there's really no stopping these culturally addled monsters either. They simply keep on as they always do, and will, running amok until something puts a stop to their heads - since most of them are already fairly heartless. There's little hope for a cure too, as the infection is insidious and has a habit of turning all reasonable and rational thought into something necrotic. The only real hope we have is education against the outbreak. We've got to make tomorrow better by teaching our youth to avoid, and to handle, those among them who will, inevitably, become bitten. 

That too, will not be enough. We need better drug education programs, teaching kids the dangers of sticking this strange, alien, substance, in our hearts. We need to show them traumatic videos, shocking Polaroids, live action footage from the front lines of war funerals; whatever it takes. It's got to be done, and it's got to be done soon. We all know it's out there, lurking, and it always has been - the difference is that we need to be aware of it, we need to study it, observe its habits, figure out how it procreates. We need to scan the halls of our history for its roots, and stamp out every modern resurgence of it like it's just another breed of smallpox. Still, as I sit here, spiraling through article after article, seeing bit by bit, and piece by piece fall away, I can't help by hear the echoing words of exterminator Bill Lee as he fell down the rabbit hole of his own insanity.

"America is not a young land. It is old and dirty, evil. Before the settlers, before the Indians, the evil is there, waiting."

Be weary of that evil, it waits, forever, to prey upon the pure landscape of an unscathed heart. It will turn it to solid stone in minutes, and leave no room for the growth that should come with time. It's what comprises every thread of rope we use to strangle out the hope for tomorrow - tasteless as that analogy might be. It's the evil of intolerance, of ignorance, that breeds a lack of compassion in the world and we simply cannot afford to keep feeding the beast like this - it's high time we lock it up, or defenestrate the bastard and fill it full of lead - putting it down like the old, tired, useless dog it is..

It's a pleasant thought, even if it's just a pipe dream.