I Begin

Project Blog It

"I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death."
Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"


"Check it out, Check it in. Let me begin."

Lil' Nix, Off the Markov

"In the beginning. . . "

Genesis, Chapter 1


What does it mean, to me and to others, that I begin?

Now, this moment, this very moment, is a beginning, the perpetual possibility of a beginning. As we move forward, each second ticking away, we begin, and begin, and begin again, ever changing, ever new, ever refreshing.

And once begun, the beginning ends. It's a fleeting, ungraspable moment. Each beginning contains its own death and destruction, for once we have begun, we are no longer beginning.

What is perhaps the most interesting thing about beginning is the very decision to begin. The conscious thought that I must start. Whatever that starting is, the conscious "I" chooses to begin. It's a rich moment filled with total possibility and total promise. What will I begin? How will I begin?

Beginning is movement. It is change and advancement. It is dynamic. It is commitment and it is scary. It is also exhilarating and affirming. And, as Whitman says, let me begin again and again until my beginnings cease and I cease with them.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Pure and Utter Nonsense

Describe Your God

Project Blog It

"The silence of God is God."

Elie Wiesel

In moments of silence, moments of absolute peace, those rare moments when even the mind finds a place of stillness, he sometimes sensed that he could pass beyond the veil separating himself from god. In those moments, he felt he was close to the presence of god, perhaps as close as he could possibly get. Certainly as close as he had ever been.

He sometimes thought that god came to him in flashes—moments of personal perception when he recognized that unnamable presence in another, in an experience, in a feeling, in a thought, those moments when he’d sense the greatness of others, of times and experiences that touched his soul. Never two the same, never repeatable, yet always the same in and as god.

At one point, now it seems so long ago, he believed in a god of bibles and buildings, of prayers and practices. But he no longer believes in that god, in that kind of god. At times of doubt, he'd wonder when he lost his faith. At times of certainty and confidence, he believed he'd never lost his faith, but instead had transformed it, and been transformed by it.

God remained faceless, nameless, beyond the very nomenclature "god," for any attempt to define, describe, or pin down the term led down innumerable paths until he became lost. And yet, these twisting and turning paths, paths that defy retracing and mapping, would, at times, suddenly converge. But just as soon as they converged, just as soon as he thought he could reach out and find god, understand god, they would divide again into countless possibilities.

He wondered when god disappeared from bibles and buildings, prayers and practices. He wondered when he himself became god.



Please see companion pieces at:
Travel With Road Trip Girl
Crash Course

Fire Flower



Next week's prompt:

"I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death."
Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

Bliss

Project Blog It


Bliss is subjective. It's a deeply personal experience. An experience of utter contentment, of happiness, perhaps even of joy in the very moment of the experience itself.

There is a time during the night, long after the world seems to have quieted down. It's a time of deep darkness and stillness.

Bliss comes to me at this time. It comes when I wake during that deep darkness, in a moment of disorientation. It comes in that magic moment when I think I only have a few more minutes to rest before rising to start the day, and then glancing at the clock and realizing that there are a couple of hours left before the world around rises and expects me to do the same. It is that instant when, quite naturally, I roll to the other side of the bed, find my partner, and nestle like two spoons. It is in that moment, cuddled with my partner, that I feel safe. It is in that moment that I experience pure contentment. It is in that moment that I am free from the rest of the world, free from the needs and wants of others, free from the needs and wants of myself, free from my very self. In that moment, I am wholly present. In that moment, in the dark and silence of night, I find bliss.



Please visit the companion piece over at Travel With Road Trip Girl. In addition, Skajlab has written a piece on this week's topic at Crash Course, Daisy has over at Fire Flower, and Minerva has at Vox Minerva.


Next week's prompt: describe your god

The Politics of Writing. The Politics of Oooh Feeling Good

Project Blog It

We got the message

I heard it on the airwaves

The politicians

Are now "writers?"

With apologies to Paul Fishman and Re-Flex

What exactly constitutes the “politics of writing?” Sadly, long ago and far away, I wrote often about politics. But not the kind of politics currently in public conversation—US national politics about governing, domestic and foreign policy, and party differences as we head into this year’s major national election. Instead, I wrote about social, cultural, and philosophical politics: identity politics and the politics of identity, race politics and the politics of race, gender politics and the politics of gender, sexual politics and the politics of sexuality. Mind you, the elements in each of these binary pairings are not necessarily the same thing.

But what is the politics of writing? One can certainly write to be political, that is to engage in a politicized discourse about something. But such acts don't necessarily define the politics of writing. I am writing now. But what does that act mean? I am attempting to convey a set of thoughts via the written word to be read, at least by me. But it is not merely the attempt at conveying thoughts, because in that conveyance, I control the words and phrasing to convey those thoughts. Any writing is written for an audience, even if that audience is only the writer. I write in a particular way. I control my words and phrases, my very thoughts, with at least some understanding of who is to witness them. In this case, I write for an audience both known and unknown. Will that audience agree with me? Will it understand me? Do I care?

We expose ourselves via writing. But that exposure is always mediated by the conscious acts of the author and the context in which something gets written. I embrace the various levels of control at that same time that I attempt to freely open and present myself to the world. Ultimately, perhaps, the politics of writing, the politics of this writing, are the politics of self.


Please be sure to see the companion piece over at Travel With Road Trip Girl.

Next week's prompt: Bliss

Project Blog It

Road Trip Girl and I have begun a project in an attempt to get us out of the ruts that our lives have become. We're both creative, intelligent people (at least I like to think so, and I believe Road Trip Girl would agree). However, we both work highly demanding, stressful jobs, and we both have personalities that lead us to give those jobs all we have. The result is a huge personal cost. We've not made time for the things we truly love and for the things that have meaning for us.

In an attempt to move us back to a place of balance, and to try to jump start better introspection, thinking, and perhaps most importantly, creativity, Road Trip Girl and I have started Project Blog It. The rules are fairly simple. Every Friday we each make a post on our respective blogs: Travel With Road Trip Girl, and Shmonkey's Jungle. The posting is based on a prompt assigned by one of us in the week before posting day. There are really no other rules. Road Trip Girl and I can discuss our writing or not. We can brainstorm together or not. We can critique one another's writing or not. The point is to always post something on Friday, and to create a mutually supportive and encouraging situation that fosters the development of our individual writing skills.

Looking forward into the future from my position in the present, I think our weekly writings will be very diverse; sometimes creative fiction, sometimes creative non-fiction, sometimes personal, sometimes philosophical, sometimes academic, and all of the other possibilities in between. As long as we write and push beyond the narrow frames that have been imposed upon our lives and our minds by our environment.

We welcome you to stop by every Friday. Read both Travel With Road Trip Girl and Shmonkey's Jungle. See how each of us tackles a topic differently. Engage us by commenting, please. Consider joining our project by picking up the weekly prompt and making your own posting on Fridays.

Forty is Where it All Begins

So, I turned 40 back in January. The fact that I’ve hit this “landmark” birthday, entered a new decade of life, and officially hit middle age doesn’t phase me at all. In fact I embrace it. 40 was, and is a reason to celebrate. I’m proud of who I am and what I’ve accomplished. Yes, there is still so much more that I need and want to do, but right now, in this moment, at 40, I am happy.

2007 was a lousy year in many ways. Brain tumors, hormone problems, sick and dying family members, way too much stress—the list could go on. But I enter 2008 with great optimism. I set goals for myself in mid 2007 and I’ve achieved them. I reclaimed health, I lost 35 pounds. I’m eating healthier, exercising regularly, and living more fully.

To celebrate my birthday, I ran the 15K (9.3 miles) “Too Cold to Hold” race around White Rock Lake on 19 January. And it was “Too Cold to Hold.” The temperature was 28 degrees Fahrenheit. And those who know me, know that I’m not one to relish cold (not even cool) temperatures. I finished 15th out of 40 in my age group (then still the 35-39 group) and 112th overall out of 464 with a time of 1:17. Sorry, no picture.

Continuing with the celebration, on 9 February, I ran the Texas Half Marathon (13.1 miles). Now officially in the 40-45 age bracket, I finished 24th out of 45 (114 out of 510 overall). My time was 1:50. I was much prouder of this accomplishment than I expected to be. See below—this picture was taken about 2 minutes before the finish line. I look much worse than I felt—I was actually feeling pretty great!


The celebration of the new decade continues next month when Skajlab and I get to cross off our list one of our dream destinations when we visit Istanbul.

So, Who is this O(o)ther?

I certainly have opinions about graduate education and academic work in general. And let me state from the beginning, that is, acknowledge my positionality as it were, that I am a sometimes graduate student and a wannabe academic with strong ties to higher education. And let me also state that I am aware that my opinions likely vary from the wide range of opinions out there on the subject. All that being said, I want to put forth my stance on the purpose and goals of graduate education.

Graduate school is supposed to be about preparing students to enter the realm of academia as independent thinkers and scholars. Students should be introduced to the profession of intellectual work. They should be aided in the forging of their own paths into ideas and the creation of new ways of looking at the world and its artifacts, that is, the very creation of new knowledge.

My experience is from the area of liberal arts, but I believe my opinions and views are valid across the disciplines. That being said, within liberal arts, there are far too many texts, far too many ideas, and far too much knowledge for any one scholar to have a wholly comprehensive experience of those texts, ideas, and knowledge. Indeed, our training is not in the specific experience of a text or idea, but in the development of skills at interpretation, contextualization, and discourse between and around texts and ideas. A scholar properly trained should be able to engage in contextualizing, analyzing, and interpreting ideas and texts beyond his or her immediate experience. And I acknowledge here that the depth of skill at doing these things does vary with the range of experience. Nevertheless, a trained academic should be, must be, able to examine and evaluate ides outside of his or her immediate experience, and he or she should encourage the same from students.

It has recently come to my attention that an academic on the graduate faculty of a local public university has limited the range of texts and ideas that the students in his seminar can interrogate because the faculty member is unable to evaluate them not having direct experience of them. Furthermore, he has rejected ideas that he is simply ignorant of without trying to understand them or see how they relate to the larger discussions and themes of the course. This mode of “teaching” is wholly unacceptable. It is stifling and limits the ability of the students to develop their own ideas and voices, much less create a space for themselves within the academy. A curriculum, a syllabus, and a reading list for a graduate-level seminar is only a beginning, a framework for independent thought. It is not, and should not be, a box that student and teacher must remain trapped in. What would be the point?

I am furious that such and individual is on a graduate faculty, and I’m not sure I’d be any more comfortable if he were only on an undergraduate faculty. The students being forced to conform to his pre-defined, pre-determined way of thinking are some of the brightest and promising minds I’ve recently come in contact with. It is utterly unacceptable that bright students dedicated to intellectual work should be wasting time and energy in this seminar. The faculty member in this situation believes himself to be unqualified to evaluate ideas that stem from his curriculum but that also go beyond it. I suggest that this faculty member is not qualified to be on the faculty at all. His approach to graduate instruction does a disservice to his students, to the university, and to the academy at large.

Mourning

The pain of losing something so precious is nearly unbearable. But he deserved his peace.

Please see Skajlab.

The Bastards Not Leading the Blind

Yesterday, the Dallas Morning News published a story about a blind woman being abused by a Yellow Cab driver (read it here). As the story goes, the woman felt the driver had been driving too far and too long for where she wanted to go. When she asked the driver about the situation, he began to argue with her until she felt compelled to call 911. At that point, the driver let her out of the cab but didn’t tell her where she was.

Finally, a passer-by told her where she was and she was able to phone her sister for a pick up.

Yellow Cab’s response was to apologize to the woman, reprimand (but not fire) the driver, and offer the woman $100 in fare vouchers. According to Jack Bewley, co-owner of Yellow Cab, the cab company’s GPS system showed that the driver was never far from the woman.

I guess that’s supposed to make things OK—the loving and caring cabbie stayed nearby presumably to watch out for the woman’s safety. Mr. Bewley’s final word on the matter, “I think that we have done what we could to try to resolve the problem.”

I scream “bull shit!” This situation and its “resolution” are completely offensive and unacceptable. In a city with a piss poor public transportation system, how are handicapped people supposed to lead independent lives if they are at risk of being victimized not only by individual drivers but also by the organizations those drivers represent. In my opinion, the driver involved in this case should be fired and quite possibly charged with abuse. Yellow Cab owes this woman far more than $100 in vouchers and they owe all people in the North Texas area a far stronger statement regarding personal safety while using their services.

I can only imagine how utterly frightened and utterly humiliated this blind woman must have felt. I am pissed off about this story. I’m writing to Mr. Bewely and to Yellow Cab, and I would urge anyone in the North Texas area to do the same. In addition, while it is fairly rare that I take a cab in my home city, it is not unheard of. To that end, I will boycott Yellow Cab and urge others to do the same until Yellow Cab makes a more reasonable and appropriate response. Please partner with me in this boycott.

You can write to Yellow Cab via their website here.

Or at their mailing address:

1610 S Ervay St
Dallas, TX 75215

How I Spent Thanksgiving

Running the 8 mile Dallas Turkey Trot with 30,000 other people.

It was the best part of the day.

Time: 1:07
Pace: 8:27/mile
Position: 150 out of 332 (in my age/sex group who ran the 8 mile race)
Overall Position: 1274 out of 4239 (officially registered runners in the 8 mile race)

Next stop, Too Cold to Hold, 15K on 19 Jan. 2008

The Maddening Noise

Who would have thought that a typically noisy kid from a very noisy family, and whose sister is likely one of the loudest people on earth, would turn out to be so sensitive to noise.

We have new neighbors, and unfortunately they’re living directly above us. The quality of the people living at our rental property has made a dramatic drop in recent months since they announced the sale of the property, which will eventually be torn down for redevelopment into “exclusive” townhomes. Mind you we live in a beautiful property in a beautiful part of town. Our apartments are about 60 years old, but amazingly well-maintained and exuding tons of character that you can’t find anywhere else (hardwood floors, large wood-framed windows, common spaces and courtyards throughout the property, etc.). Once the property is finally closed for demolition, a conservative estimate of 90% of the current tenants will no longer be able to live in the neighborhood. But all of that is a discussion for another post.

Back to our new neighbors. They are some of the loudest people outside of my family that I’ve ever encountered. The main difference is that their noise production isn’t made with their voices as it is in my family.

Just last week, my head was vibrating with the sounds of power tools upstairs that were shaking my walls. It was 10:15 AM on Sunday. This was after the neighbors pruned the trees in the backyard at 7:30 AM dropping limbs onto the porch, the windows, and my plants. In itself the pruning of trees might not have been so bad had they not woken us up at 11:30 PM the night before by vacuuming their entire apartment. The nighttime penchant for vacuuming has already occurred on several occasions.

Yesterday afternoon we had to endure the thunderous sounds of a movie/tv/radio being broadcast through what must have been a high-tech surround sound stereo system. Again the walls vibrated. I understand the appeal of high-tech stereo surround sound, but I would appreciate it more if the entire building were not being surrounded by that sound. The four units in my building are all only 670 square feet after all. Who needs surround sound?

On a daily basis we get to listen to their nighttime television watching from their bedroom (directly above our bedroom)—usually until past 11:30 PM. Again, I have no problem with people’s individual habits. Good for them if they have multiple televisions that they like to watch at various times and from various places in their apartment. However, it sure would be nice if it weren’t a group activity.

We have tried to be patient; understanding that moving in a getting settled can take some time. We endured their late night move-in over several nights with furniture and boxes being moved in and thrown about the apt. into the late hours. We have been awakened on more than one occasion to the sounds of hammering and power screwdrivers being used after 10:30 PM.

And yes, we have spoke to them as we moved our plants off the porch to prevent their being further crushed by falling limbs. We have pounded on the walls and ceiling in the night hours when hammering and drilling were going on. When can we expect that this noise will let up? When can we expect that our new neighbors will learn what it means to be good neighbors. I certainly do not think our expectations are unreasonable.

Easing Into Middle Age

You know you're facing middle age when:

Two beers at happy hour is too much.

10:30 PM after happy hour is too late (or too late even when you didn't go to happy hour).

5:45 AM isn't too early, on any day of the week.

Sixteen Years

Sixteen years in the history of the universe are nothing—a mere blip in time, barely noticeable, and fairly insignificant.

Sixteen years in the lives of two people are just the opposite, constituting a significant portion of those lives no matter how old the individuals.

Sixteen years of personal history are marked with a whole range of life experience: pain, struggle, frustration, doubt, joy, happiness, contentment, passion, and much more.

Sixteen years in the lives of two people are a long time. And it has all been worth it.

Meet Aspasa

Folks,

My Daemon has been chosen. Do you agree? Take the quiz and we'll see.

It's only a few short questions regarding how you would assess my character. If you want to participate, you need to do so by 16 July 2007. Just follow the link below my Daemon.

What Passes for Professional Correspondence These Days

I received the following in my inbox this morning. All names have been changed to protect the guilty and irritating:

This woman is a total loser. Like a dead fish. I’ve met heard and have spoken with her before and after meeting and she’s only ever managed a cracked smile at best. Before I rang her, I rang AAA (Hoochi…) at the big UK engineering company WWW – that XXX committee member I met at the last user group. He was nice and said he remembered vaguely YYY being mentioned several months ago, but the committee hasn’t met for awhile. So I mentioned this to sour-sack-of-shit BBB when I rang her and she was pitiful in her response. “She” would appreciate that I didn’t contact committee members directly. Well “She” can f’ing piss off. Who the hell is she? She’s responded NOT AT ALL to us. And she didn’t even want to take my call today because she was in the middle of something. That always gets me. Don’t take the bleedin call if you are busy. And they were busy selecting a venue for the next user group (..so actually my call is well timed). Loser bureaucrat no body. Anyway, I was sales-slut cheerful and all that and said “oh it was coincidental – It was in fact a lead from a reseller”. Stupid woman. How does she know I’m not a friend of AAA or whatever. ANYWHO… In usual form, I’m not giving up. And in fact we do have ZZZ as a customer AND XXX likes us including CCC of XXX who spoke at their last stupid XXX user group. Whatever…… Just to share

Boredom

What is it about boredom that makes it a self-perpetuating experience? I am actually rarely bored, but sometimes, boredom sets in and I’m trapped. I always have books with me, the internet is nearly always available, I've got things to think about, and things to do, but when I hit the wall of boredom, nothing seems to free me.

Sitting here these past days, I’ve begun to realize in part where my experience of boredom comes from. These past days, I’ve felt trapped—waiting, serving, tolerating, enduring. When I feel stuck, having to endure interminable interruptions, I get bored. And then I get annoyed at the boredom and annoyed at myself for not being able to escape it, and perhaps even resentful of those whom I want to hold accountable for my boredom. Ultimately, and as a good Taoist, I really do believe that no one but myself is responsible for my boredom or my release from that boredom.

And that leads me to wonder if I really am a good Taoist if, despite my awareness of my own control of the situation, I am still unable to free myself from that boredom.

What do you think?

Hola Tacos!

When I was a kid, about 7 years old, I really wanted to try tacos. Being a kid from the upper mid-west, where black pepper is considered a “hot” spice, tacos were something exotic, a forbidden fruit to be partaken of only by those with strange tastes and experimental palates. I had no idea what tacos would taste like. I didn’t even know what was in a taco, but I knew that I wanted to have one.

My desire for what I then considered a magical Mexican food (actually, I’m not sure I knew tacos were Mexican at the time) got the best of me, and I began to beg my mother for tacos. This would be my upper mid-western mother who thinks black pepper is hot and who has a completely un-adventurous palate.

On a trip to the grocery store, I found an Ortega taco kit (the only taco kit available in the area) and presented it to her with even greater pleading, still having no idea what a taco consisted of. My mother’s response was, “I’m not making you tacos. You’ve never even had them and I’m not going to waste money on something you don’t know you like and probably won’t eat.” (Looking back this seems an odd argument coming from the woman who made me eat some of everything she put on the table and everything that made it to my plate. You’d think she’d just make me eat the tacos whether I liked them or not.)

Then it happened, before I even knew what I was getting into. I lied to her.

“Momma, I have had tacos before. And I LOVE them. Brad’s mom made them for us for lunch one time. I know I LOVE them and I REALLY want some. Please, momma. Can we have tacos?”

If my dad had been with us, the taco kit would never have made it to the cart, and I probably would have gotten in trouble for asking for something in the first place, but mom’s a softie at heart and she relented.

She had to read the instructions on the taco kit, not knowing herself what a taco consisted of. We picked up ground meat, lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese, but no salsa. I don’t think you could even buy salsa in Wisconsin in the seventies.

Later that week, after a bit more pleading, tacos made it onto the nightly dinner menu. I’m not sure how she managed to slip them in without my dad making a ruckus, but she did. I think he secretly must have sampled tacos at some restaurant over his lunch hour because he actually helped her prepare them by warming the shells in the oven. Mom chopped the lettuce and tomatoes, putting them into bowls on the table. She tore open a package of grated cheese (another taboo but much coveted item in the dairy state) and began to cook the meat. When she added the Ortega season packet to the hamburger, I had my first experience of what a Taco Bell must smell like.

Finally, dinner was ready. We all sat around the table, said Grace before we could touch anything (a hard and fast rule in our house), and then we got to assemble our tacos (half the fun as far as I’m concerned). And you know what? I really loved tacos. Unfortunately, and I suppose I should have expected it, mom did not. Future taco dinners were no easier to come by than the first. Each one was a negotiation: It’s my birthday. I’ve been a good boy. I got good grades.

It was until 10 years later, when my family moved to Texas, that mom began to like Mexican (or at least TexMex) food. She in fact LOVES TexMex food. I suspect it has something to do with the sheer amount of cheese that’s included in nearly every TexMex dish. Remember, she is from Wisconsin. Interestingly, even though she now loves Mexican food, she’s never learned to like tacos.

And I’ve never told her I lied about having them before she prepared them for me.

Where Oh Where Are My Fave Three?

When recently asked who the top three people from my past are that I'd like to get in touch with again, the following three came to mind almost instantly:

Daisy

Seema

Brant

If you folks are out there somewhere, give me a shout!

Who's on your Fave Three list?

It’s the Little Things

Happiness truly comes in small forms, and usually unexpectedly.

My happiness today was driving to the office in my car that was probably cleaner than it’s been since I bought it. It’s no secret that I loathe driving and hate the hassle of dealing with cars. The result is that I generally keep my car in very good running condition, but I never wash it or worry about cosmetic maintenance. It’s not worth my time, effort, or money.

Yesterday, however, I was surprised with a car spotlessly cleaned inside and out and complete with new hubcaps. I never would have done it, but it has made me very happy, and mostly because it was unexpected.

I’m off to lunch now to be happy in a warm sunny day with my clean car. Hope you find some happiness today too.

A Good Postmodern

Skajlab takes a view of writing and speech that only a “good postmodern” could espouse. Writing is betrayal. It contains its own suicidal death within its own birth. Once written, or spoken, that which is written or spoken is no more, eternally deferred a la Derrida. We can only approximate the reality we try to convey in our writing and speech, in our own articulation of ourselves. We can never really get there though. For once that utterance is made, once that word is written, the I doing the writing has escaped to places unknown. The beingness of ourselves, then, is in fact not being, but becoming—a process, a perpetual movement forward, a perpetual cycle of birthing, dying and being reborn.

The solace to be found then in being betrayed by one’s own words, one’s own image, one’s own mother, is the regenerative and reincarnative possibilities of language itself.