I Do Not Smell Good Textures

This afternoon's thesis reading in Mankato was fun. All three readings were good, but as predicted, Kassie's was great. She read a story she wrote after she handed in her thesis, and it was hysterical and voicy and strange--like all of Kassie's stories. And like Kassie, for that matter. One of her characters, a Moldovan girl named Tatiana, actually said, "I do not smell good textures." I'm sure it was funnier in person than it is here, because of the voices Kassie was using, but it's had me chuckling since we got back.

After the story, Diana turned around and whispered, "I forgot how much I love Kassie." It really was great.

The party afterward was at Terry Davis's place, and it was the typical party at Terry's: a ton of food, about seven coolers of beer, a table full of margarita-fixins, and too many people to fit in the house. Good thing he has a couple of sizable porches. It was good to see familiar faces again. Diana, Terry, Kassie, Nick Healy, Ed Micus, Nate, Phil, Reed, Nicole. It was great to be among writers. Man, I miss that atmosphere.

But then we left, drove home in the dusk. Saw deer grazing in St. Peter and along the Minnesota River. Now we're home, and I think I need to write for a bit before going to bed. I haven't felt this peaceful in a long time. Good things are accumulating.

One of the Few Public People I Admire

Most people have heard of Pat Tillman, the guy who gave up millions in the NFL to serve in the military, and who ultimately died in a case of friendly fire in Afghanistan. There isn't much more to say. This guy felt enough for his country that he would enlist out of the blue to fight the fight. Hard to criticize someone who's willing to die for what they believe (the matter of how to regard those willing to kill for their beliefs, especially if combined with the aforementioned, is a little dodgier), and this guy gave up a lot with no provocation. Kudos to him. One of the truly worthy was killed.

The facts around Tillman's death have been contested from the start, but they take on a new importance with the disclosures by the man he saved right before three American bullets tore up his skull. I'm disgusted that these people are still considered vets. That the government has obfuscated both fronts to the extent where we don't know what the hell is happening. Other than we are not getting Osama.

This was in the Afghanistan theater, where I think the real war is being fought, or was before Dubya screwed up the entire Middle East. Real soldiers fighting the right cause, and one of the signature figures got pegged by a friendly.

Nice.

How I Spend My Days

Last night I gave my notice at Book Store. My day job, at Book Distributor, is in desperate need of my overtime services, and since an overtime hour at BD is roughly equal (in earning terms) to three hours at BS, this is a no-brainer. I'll be giving up 15 hours a week in order to work 10 hours a week of overtime. I'll make double the extra money by committing only 2/3 the extra time. Yay for me.

So my evenings and weekends will be freer in two weeks. That will help in cleaning, packing, planning the move, and such. Plus, I have a story moving along nicely. Diana and Jess have already seen a draft of it (Remember the "I" of the storm? It's not like that anymore.), and I figure by the time I'm ready to show it to humans school will be out and my teacher-friends may be willing and able to look at it.

I feel calm the last few days. Life is moving in a discernable direction, and I'm hopeful. I'm getting emails with ultrasounds for friends' pregnancies and news that other friends' S.O.'s will be coming to town for the initiation ceremony. I have concrete plans to visit Mankato, and I'm writing. Damn. What else is there?

Michele graduates in a couple of weeks, and once school ends she will be where she's wanted to be for a couple years. The weather is warm.
You're right. This post is way too positive. We will shortly return to our regularly scheduled negativity.

This was an interesting quiz...

You scored as Buddhism. Your beliefs most closely resemble those of Buddhism. Do more research on Buddhism and possibly consider becoming Buddhist, if you are not already. In Buddhism, there are Four Noble Truths: (1) Life is suffering. (2) All suffering is caused by ignorance of the nature of reality and the craving, attachment, and grasping that result from such ignorance. (3) Suffering can be ended by overcoming ignorance and attachment. (4) The path to the suppression of suffering is the Noble Eightfold Path, which consists of right views, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right-mindedness, and right contemplation. These eight are usually divided into three categories that base the Buddhist faith: morality, wisdom, and samadhi, or concentration. In Buddhism, there is no hierarchy, nor caste system; the Buddha taught that one's spiritual worth is not based on birth. Buddhism 83% Satanism 83% atheism 75% agnosticism 54% Judaism 50% Paganism 42% Islam 33% Christianity 17% Hinduism 13% Which religion is the right one for you? (new version) created with QuizFarm.com

Really? I scored that high for Satanism? Higher than for atheism? Weird. The way the questions were going, I thought the answer would be, "Alright, smartass. You're trying to look like a godless heathen."

Edit: the margins are goofy on the insert, but I don't know how to fix that. Sorry.

The God Wars

Last night I got in a bit of a theological debate. Normally I like that kind of thing, but last night I was working, and I had other duties, so I couldn't really commit to the discussion.

My conversational counterpart was a co-worker, a woman a couple years older than me who went to college, majored in religious studies. This is the kind of person I like to discuss religion with: mature, informed, and confident. Unfortunately, her studies didn't prepare her very well for a conversation with a nonbeliver who was well informed.

She said, "You say you were raised Lutheran, but it didn't take. What do you mean?"

So I explained to her that I had no hostility toward religion, but I had never experienced anything that would lead me to believe that a god exists--the Judeo-Christian one or any other.

She said, "You're here, aren't you?" As though that should alleviate all my concerns. I existed, and that should prove the existence not only of a supreme being, but of the one she endorsed. As though I had never thought this thing through, and that was the key to my finding common sense.

I said, "That's true whether there's a god or not."

Then she rambled about having children and how complex their little lives are. She said, "I just know that in order to be as complex as we are, someone needed to design us." Note the heavy reliance on emotional appeal here. Oh, aren't children miracles?

Bleh.

I said, "Suppose we're so complex we require a creator. Is that then a rule that complex things require a more complex creator? If it is, you haven't proven God. You've either subordinated him or you've rendered him useless. If God is so complex he needs a more complex designer, too. If complex things require designers, that is." Okay, that was a paraphrase.

I keep saying, I'm not hostile to religion. I just wish someone would try to present me with reasons I should believe, rather than insist I believe.

I'll cover the belief-as-choice fallacy later.

Heading to 'Kato ( I Think)

I feel bad, because I keep meaning to make the trip to Mankato, for Good Thunder, for Jess's visits, for Writer's Bloc, and for thesis readings. I haven't gone there even once since graduation day last spring. I don't like that.

I really only have one more chance to get there this school year, and that's on Saturday the 28th. That's fortunate, because Kassie's doing her reading that afternoon, and she's one of the holdovers from my class. (I don't know if Nicole or JJ ever got around to reading yet.) I'm anxious to see her read. She's a great writer, and a total space cadet. (And Sly's cousin's wife.) And she's a lot of fun. I'm guessing her reading will be good.

Plus, I get to go to Mankato and harass people.

I'm wrong.

Already I've discovered a misconception about our future. Even though the school Michele will be attending is the University of Oklahoma, they call it OU--not UO as I did in my previous post.

Apparently, dyslexia is a statewide problem.

Things Have Changed

Today sure is a mixed bag. Woke up this morning to find out that Kurt Vonnegut died yesterday. A few weeks ago he fell in his apartment and whacked that amazing brain of his, and yesterday that brain stopped throwing sparks. It's sad. Vonnegut has been one of my heroes for decades. Everyone knows Slaughterhouse-Five, and Cat's Cradle and Breakfast of Champions are pretty well known, too. My favorite Vonnegut novel, though, is Deadeye Dick. His nonfiction books--Timequake, God Bless you, Dr. Kervorkian, etc.--are good reading, too. I may have to read Kervorkian in the next couple of days. I need a good dose of gentle skepticism and absurd humor.

On the bright side of life (always look there), we finally have a pretty good idea of where we'll be next year.

Yep. Michele got an email last night informing her that an offer from the University of Oklahoma is in the mail. Acceptance at last. She got a teaching assistantship that pays $16,000 (double what I got in Mankato) and may get a chance to teach during the summer. There are a few colleges in the area that I'll badger to see if they could use my services, but I guess I'm not too picky. Yet.

This could be a bit of culture shock. It's a red state in the bible belt. Lots of country music. I'm thinking this situation is perfect for gathering essay material.

Anyway, Michele finally had something go her way. I'm glad. I'm going to have to practice saying "Dr. Benesh."

And maybe I can worm my way into the UO philosophy department. Heh.

HPHCBTCTTPIWJ2.0*

*Happy Pagan Holiday Co-opted by the Christians to Trick Pagans into Worshipping Jahweh 2.0

Sorry. These holidays do it to me every time.

If you're offended by sacrilege or don't like the sight of cinematic blood'n'guts, don't look at this picture. Otherwise, enjoy yourself. It's teh funnay.

Have fun with the chocolate and the eggs and the rabbits. And thank the pagans for them.

The Guilt That Keeps on Giving

Michael Jackson and Prince should still be slaves!

Shocked? Yeah, me too. When I heard the skinny white kid say that on the school bus one morning in 1981, my mouth fell open. I was surprised, and embarrassed, and angry. I was surprised because it was a horrible thing to say. I was angry because the black girl two seats away, the only black kid in the neighborhood, sat silent and looked him in the eye, her face completely blank. And I was embarrassed because the skinny white kid who said that was me.

A couple of weeks ago my mom picked up copies of Barack Obama’s books. After she finished reading Dreams from my Father she told me I had to read it. Said it was interesting and compelling, and that once I started reading I wouldn’t want to stop. So I started to read it and found that she was right. The memoir is well-written, thoughtful, insightful, and teaches me things. I liked Obama before I started reading this book, but now I realize he’s the antithesis of the current administration. A thoughtful human being who wants to help others, reminiscent of the late Paul Wellstone, who was one of only a handful of politicians I’ve been able to respect.

One of the reasons I admire this book is Obama’s willingness to explore—even expose—unflattering events from his past, actions he took that reflect poorly on him at that time in his life. He discloses drug use, pettiness, and selfishness. What redeems him are his responses to these events, his willingness to admit fault and learn from them.

He talks about being the new kid in his school, how he had no friends and a funny name. He describes his isolation. There was another black kid in class, a quiet, isolated girl named Coretta. They didn’t talk until one day on the playground, when they spontaneously started chasing each other around the yard, which led to tackling, which led to wrestling.

Which led to taunts of “Coretta’s got a boyfriend!”

Obama’s reaction was cruel. He not only denied Coretta as a girlfriend (what ten-year-old wouldn’t?), but (literally) pushed her away and yelled at her, told her to stay away from him. She ran, and they never talked again. Obama admits to the cruelty, and its inclusion in his memoir twenty-five years later speaks to how it haunts him. I like to think that this awareness makes him a better person, but I fear selfishness might motivate my belief.

Reading this anecdote reminded me of that bus ride in 1981. I was in much the same position then as Obama had been. We’d moved back to Minnesota two years earlier, and the friends I made right away had recently cast me out. As a group, they decided I was no longer one of them, and they embarrassed me whenever they could, they spread rumors about me. In a couple more years I’d find more friends, better friends. The friends I made in 1983 are the guys I still consider my best friends, but for those two lonely years in between I was on my own. None of that should be taken as attempted justification for the events of that day on the bus—there is no way to justify that—but to identify one of the reasons why it happened.

I never had the guts to sit in the back of the bus, but I wanted to be a part of that rowdiness, the easy bickering, the early attempts at pack dominance that characterize boys finding adolescence. I didn’t have any friends, but I also didn’t get in fights, didn’t hate anyone. I was a complete neutral. One day, that day, I decided to inject myself in the banter. I didn’t want to be anonymous anymore. I wanted to have friends and a reputation.

Music was a constant subject of loud debate, and in our middle-class white neighborhood hard rock and heavy metal were what most kids listened to. Debates about whether Led Zeppelin was better than Judas Priest, or AC/DC better than Van Halen were common. Pop music was scorned, especially “femmy” artists like Michael Jackson and Prince, with their high voices and mincing dance moves. (That heavy metal would move in a “femmy” direction we couldn’t predict at the time, and wouldn’t realize even while it was happening.)

So that morning, while the back of the bus burbled with another inane debate the subject turned to how bad pop music was, and I saw my chance.

“Michael Jackson and Prince should still be slaves!”

My talent for saying outrageous things didn’t really develop until my early adulthood, but it must have started with this outburst. It came without forethought, its only object to ingratiate me to those who had expressed similar (though not reprehensible) opinions.

I don’t even know if anyone laughed, or if the intended audience heard it. As soon as my mouth closed on that last syllable I saw “Coretta,” her caramel-colored face without expression, her dark eyes setting the image, branding me dismissed. Blood pounded in my neck and my face felt heavy. For the next few minutes, after Coretta turned her back to me, I made a number of connections. Slavery wasn’t just a concept we learned about in history class—actual people had been slaves. People like Coretta. Michael Jackson and Prince weren’t just celebrities and images—they were also people. I suddenly understood the horror of what I’d said—that just because I didn’t like their music—no, that just because I wanted to proclaim a dislike of their music in order to impress a bunch of preteens—Michael Jackson and Prince, and by extension Coretta, should be property instead of people.

Holy shit. Had I really said that? I went through a number of mental exercises then. I didn’t really mean all black people should be slaves, just those two. I certainly didn’t mean Coretta should be a slave. I liked her. And I didn’t really think Michael Jackson and Prince should be slaves. I was just trying to be funny. But none of that was true. It wasn’t false, either, but I couldn’t claim any intention toward what I said. I just didn’t think.

If either of my parents had heard me say that they would have killed me. And in those minutes, as the bus jounced along toward school, I would have rather been dead than sitting there facing my stupidity.

The thing is, while we weren’t friends, Coretta and I got along fine. I even felt a sort of affinity with her because two years earlier we had both been new students in the school, and we sat at the same table in Mrs. Borken’s class. She was quiet and seemed more mature than the rest of us. She never got squirrelly or obnoxious. She was probably the most decent human being on the bus. And she never even looked at me after that day.

I think of this every once in a while. The Obama book was almost a direct hit on the disgust I still feel for myself twenty-five years later. And that’s why I don’t entirely trust my admiration for Obama’s memoir. It’s possible that my inclination to see his reflections as a sign he is a better human being than he was that day, that he’s better precisely because of that day, is a subconscious attempt to elevate myself. I want to be better than what I presented in 1981. I hope I am.

Still Waiting . . .

One reason I haven't been posting here much lately is that there really isn't anything new to say. Some of the specifics have changed, but the situation remains the same. The key factor in all this stagnation is the lack of word from grad schools. We're still waiting for word from the University of Oklahoma and the University of Minnesota Astronomy department. Michele seems to have written off the U of M, but until we hear we don't know for sure. The wait, though, is killing me.

Every time I talk to my mom on the phone she says, "Are you okay? You sound down." And she's right. I am down. Of course I'm down. All I need is a couple of little letters saying "yeah" or "nay," and I can start thinking forward. I can plan a way out of these two soul-deadening jobs I'm working; we can think of places to live where our lives will fit in the building, where we won't trip on something every time we turn around; Michele can stop worrying about feeling like a mooch. (She could stop that anyway, but she won't listen to me). So every day we check the mail, dig through the credit card offers and ads for gutter installation, and find nothing. And I know then that I'll spend another day at work with my mind on a story or an essay, and then I'll come home with my brain in space, and I'll stare at the computer screen until I have to go to the other job, where the rest of my good sense bleeds away until I stumble home, hollow, unable to sleep and too tired to care.

Any day now, things will change.