The Trampoline

You find yourself aloft; in the air with gravity pulling you down, down, down, quickly and without mercy. And there is a brief joy before the fear of falling arrests you and pulls your eyes and spirit down to view your fall. Below, you see only blackness in an instant. Are there edges? There are edges but they won’t help you. You are falling. Fear fills your lungs, blood rushes to muscles for futile flexes and actions. But you land and it is soft and curves to you, fits you, tensions you and holds you at the bottom of a pendulum for as long as you both are permitted before, before, before you are thrown again into the air to reach an apex you will also hold as long as you are permitted. You are not permitted to not fall and rise; fall and rise you must. Fall and rise you will. Others crowd the trampoline, thrown onto it just like you. Fall and rise they must. You are not alone. The conditions are finite, there are bounds and there are edges, the means for survival are limited. Do what you must for fall and rise you must. Make way make room, over the edges spills the possibility of the impossibility like the organic from the inorganic, like the consciousness that devours fate; the choice that renders no future choices. You have been secreting time rising and falling, projecting a future in the context of your past falls and risings. The bounds the edges are the light beyond the blackness of one sort to another.  Joys and fears inform your future; both joys and fears certainly not one or the other. This existence (or is it life?) won’t admit a forced dichotomy. How long has it been? The rising and the falling? Avoiding the edges by recognizing them? How discrete how fractured how contiguous? The edge nears and that horrible birth made the edge real from the moment of one birth and all births. Over the edge you will spill and neither rise nor fall but neither rise nor fall you must. Your ownmost possibility which cannot be outstripped of neither falling nor rising awaits; you know it. You see it and feel it you projected the final projection. The rising and the falling went where? To nothing? You may despair and you may holler “love, love, love!” and let the words spill over the edges but you may not rise and you may not fall and your voice will quiet and meekly grow hoarse and go absolutely, darkly, sweetly… with relief…silent.

Empathy 101

“What the hell makes you think you are capable of empathy!? What makes you think you can somehow step into the shoes of another? You think your life experience has been so broad and so deep that you can step into the shoes of another? How pretentious to the point of pathetic! Disgraceful! You should be ashamed of yourself.” He scowled at the head of the class, pacing back and forth jerking his head and torso about pausing only to stare into the eyes of a student for effect.

“But aren’t we here to learn how to empathize?” came out a voice with equal parts trepidation and confidence.

“Learn to empathize, learn to empathize, learn, llllleeeaaarrrnnn to empathize! Jesus Christ! What are you doing here? Did you learn to be genuine!? Did you? Answer me! Joe Pesci help me they want to learn to empathize! I think we need a break; I think you need to think about what you’ve done here. Yep you need a grown up time out. Go home, just go home and cogitate, put on Yanni or whatever it is you people listen to and think about your actions and their consequences. You better come here next class ready to empathize your asses off. You are going to be stepping into some filthy shoes, shoes that don’t fit, that make you uncomfortable, shoes too tight, too wide, shoes with no heels, shoes with blood all over them, with guilt inside, shoes that hold manipulators and abusers, the abused and manipulated… and you are going to climb inside and walk a mile…and don’t come in here next class talking about sympathizing; I’ll throw yer ass outta my class quicker than you can say DSM IV. So go home, get outta my sight.”

“Aren’t you going to give us a syllabus?”

Rich In The Junk

It was a wasteland of filth and scum with intermittent bouts of rusty metal and oily puddles; and it was cold and damp such that no fire would warm bones or skin. The place caused a subconscious drive to avoid avoid avoid, at all costs, even politeness.  But between the bars and grime, overlooking the weeds and heaps he stood, proud as a new father caressing his grimy baby with a love few will ever know. He couldn’t understand why it bothered others to the point of disgust; it was all matter, in different forms, in different places, different patterns. If they could just stand it for five minutes they might see a way through the maze. He wondered why was it noble to have the soil in your hands as a farmer or love the iconic shots of construction workers grasping tool and material but low, the junkyard and me are seen as scummy. 

He wore overalls with grease all over them. He had grease under every fingernail. He smoked. He coughed. He wore a greasy ball cap over greasy hair under a flaky scalp. He chewed tobacco when he didn’t smoke and his teeth had turned an ingratiating orange.  Like owners who come to resemble their pets, he came to resemble a junkyard, disparaged parts to some and inexpensive saviors to others. 

And he was smart. He made a fortune. For he had the ability to see different things; he had the ability and/or willingness to see the patterns in junk, to see the money in junk, to see the ability to house the junk and sell the junk and move the junk, make space for the junk. So, turn your back he thought, look away, raise your nose, don’t get your hands dirty, I can always wash my hands and when they are clean, I can get them dirty again handling all my junk money.

Thoughts on Every Love Story is a Ghost Story by D.T. Max

I have been trying to get this in for a while but in my defense, my wife and I had our second child just as I was finishing the book. (I took the book to the hospital one day.)

The book is a completely thorough look into the life of David Foster Wallace (DFW). I can remember commenting one night to my wife in bed that it has been as if I have been next to DFW his entire life. Now of course the upshot is that DFW took his life and of course, usually only fans will want to read a bio but this does not mean that the book isn't well written. It is. And one strength is that Max doesn't try to write like Wallace (who could you quip?), instead opting for fewer flourishes and mostly nourishment. Consider DFW's philosophy thesis at Amherst as a prime example.

So given such a well written bio, we can focus on the life of DFW and what a life. Now I studied philosophy and can remember, I believe while studying Spinoza's pantheism, one question reared it's head more than once: Can you have the good without the bad? And with some of these artists like DFW that have an expanse of intellect and ability with profound depth attached; can they produce without the, for lack of a better word, madness? Could they have and create greatness without the suffering?

Now please understand that when it comes to drugs, I consider myself a libertarian, but a libertarian who is fully appreciative of the dangers of addiction. One wonders what DFW would have been like had he not began smoking marijuana at such a young age? Is the research complete on what marijuana does to a brain before it is fully cooked?

In his writing, Max also opened up some doors for me in regard to Infinite Jest. As a reader just getting into postmodernism, Max helped me put into context some of the angles of Infinite Jest.

Some surprises during the book were learning of DFW's philandering and promiscuity and his dedication to teaching though he knew teaching was often a cost to writing. Probably a favorite moment while reading this book was busting into laughter in bed while reading of DFW pulling a student out of class and telling him (paraphrasing here) that was one of the most collective dick suckings I've ever witnessed. But it was clear he went above and beyond for his students and I admire that, especially from someone so gifted.

Be careful, you are what you love, no? Is this the spirit of Infinite Jest and DFW? Is writing to help us battle loneliness? Maybe DFW was always lonely because so few brains processed the way his did and when he put the pen to the paper he was able to be "matched" in some sense.

One last random thing I thought of while reading this book. It is clear that readers have to "earn" Infinite Jest and that while supremely gifted, DFW still "earned" it; what with grades, teaching, and his dedication to writing. So why wasn't he attracted to jazz music? Maybe he carried his loathing of writer types from Amherst just a little too far. Maybe, he could have been "matched" listening to a little Miles and Coltrane?

Maybe?

To Everything Turn Turn Turn

ACT I

You are seated alone in a dark room. The chair is simple wood. In front of you are two screens, behind you two projectors. You have died.

The projectors sound to life, a sound from old movies, of movies being shown as a wheel turn. The movie is of your life. The same picture shows on both screens. Identical.

God’s voice (or is it Leibnitz’s voice?) says:

On the left screen is your life movie where you made all the choices, where you have free will. On the right screen is your life movie from the moment I created everything. Though I saw everything you would do before you ever existed, you were free to choose.

ACT II

You watch your life movie. Your chair swivels to the right and a light pervades a previous darkness. Two new  screens appear. On one screen is your life movie from your eyes out. On the other screen is your life movie eyes on you.

God’s voice (or is it Leibnitz’s voice?) says:

On the left side is your monad, prefect in actuality, without passivity. On the right are the monads of those that knew you, their monads prefect in actuality, without passivity. The two never interact. To interact requires passivity. I cannot create a perfect thing that is passive; you contained the interactions with other monads from the moment I created everything and they contained your monad from the moment of creation.

ACT III

Your chair swivels further again to the right and a light pervades another darkness. In front of you is only one screen. You watch your life movie. You are murdered.

God’s voice (or is it Leibnitz’s voice?) says:

Your murder was the best of all possible worlds. I cannot create a non-perfect world. From the moment I created everything you would be murdered and it would be the best of all possible worlds. Though you winced at your murder, this too was the best of all possible worlds. Your perspective, perfect from the moment of creation, because of not in spite of its ignorance and desire, perfect from the moment of creation, cannot see perfection, though this is perfection. Your murder is for the best.

ACT IV

You are sad and it is perfect. Your chair swivels to the right again, back to where it began, and a darkness pervades a light. And it is perfect.

Family Fugue

He wrote to her often and often cried when he did; So much so that the tears would soak the paper. The salt in the tears grounded him away from his pain but to his reality. He often tore up the letters agreeing with himself that crying was its own reward – the letter need not be received by her. 

He figured that she never read the letters anyway. She probably just put them right into the trash. He thought she might return to sender but knew this would not hurt him as much as not knowing.

                Dear Rochelle,

My sheets ache for you, I ache for you. Our dog, yes the one we got together and named BeeBee aches for you. Back to the sheets. They ache for you because you aren’t laying on them (or is it lying; I miss your grammar lessons!) If only you would come back and lay on the sheets. Then I could be happy and make you ligonberry pancakes again. Remember the time we went to Ikea and imitated that Seinfeld episode? How can you not miss that enough to come back to me? BeeBee can’t be happy without you feeding her the way you do. I can’t be happy because you are with him now. What is so special about him? Ask yourself if his sheets ache. I bet they don’t. I bet he can’t make a pancake to save his life. I know he’s successful and good looking but he won’t love you the way I do. He won’t let you embarrass him at a pet store the way I would. Why on earth would you throw a lizard on me inside a pet store? You know about my gecko phobia! But I only love you more. He’ll never do that for you.

Anyway, have to go now, BeeBee needs walked and I have to run out and get a new hot rock for the gecko. Probably going to run me about 20 bucks!

Love you, waiting.

P.S., please let me know you are getting these letters.

P.S.S., did you watch the Benny Hill discs I sent to you?

Rochelle was a newly engaged woman in her mid to late twenties who suffered bouts of identity loss. Some call them dissociative fugues. Correction, Rochelle, only suffered one bout of identity loss. It was during this loss, or dissociative fugue, where she wound up in northern Minnesota with no memory of who she was or how she got there. Open bus doors and there she is: Rochelle in Minnesota. She met him at the diner by the bus stop and he was more smitten than a kitten with new mittens. Her glazed over look and buttery paranoia rubbed him just the right way. Like a massage with wet rice bags. Who knows where she slept (or, maybe once, bathed) that first week but her disheveled, odorous reappearance at the diner only sealed his fate. Love at first fugue. Though she never said much he fell harder than a Motley Crue groupie; During Motley Crue’s heyday of course. Her rants about ice fishing and periodic losses of consciousness and loss of consciousnesses only endeared her more. So she didn’t talk much, so she was inappropriate with elders and children, maybe she couldn’t hold a job or help with chores, and maybe she was confused about up and down and lacked proprioceptivity after 8pm, she was his and he was going to keep her.

One day Rochelle found herself in the Emergency Room for trying to steal a bag lady’s bag and suffered a broken nose to rival an underdog on the undercard. She then found herself with a psychiatrist; what after a conversation about ice fishing from the water with the nurse. She then found herself on a “ward” of certain sorts that provided certain medications that might help one that suffers from fugues, musical or otherwise. Rochelle got better and discovered who she was. She called home:

                Mom, it’s Rochelle.

                Oh my god honey, are you alright? Where are you?

                I’m ok and I’m in Minnesota.

Well you aren’t ok if you are in Minnesota. Those people like winter. What have they done to you?

I had a fugue Mom, a dissociative fugue. 

What the hell is that? Are you mad at us for something? A fugue??? Do you mean you blew a fuse? You are mad aren’t you? Are you mad we made you retake that psychology class? Honey repeating a course you’ve done poorly in is the best way to raise your GPA quickly. Your father and I just want what is best for you. Is this why you fused in Minnesota? Honey we want you to come back home; you don’t have to retake the class if you don’t want to. Why can’t you fuse here where we don’t have winter? You can fuse in your room right? Is this some sort of new thing, this fusing? Maybe I’m getting old but I don’t know why a person has to go where it is cold to fuse. I mean it seems to me you need heat to fuse. I didn’t major in chemistry but I know a little something about fusing and you need heat to do it…

Mom, mom, mom, MOM!!! I’ll be on a bus today and I’ll be home next week.

Oh goodie goodie gum drops! What should I do so you can fuse here?

Bye mom. Tell Dad I’m ok.

               

She left Minnesota, went home to Florida, put her fugue behind her and met a lovely young man in her psychology class –Abnormal Psych, her parents didn’t make her retake Intro. 

He kept writing letters to Rochelle -Rochelle from Lake City Minnesota. Same first name same last name. Rochelle from Lake City Minnesota has been trying to explain to her boyfriend, who intercepted the first letter, that she “don’t freakin’ know anyone from Lake City and that even if I did, it wouldn’t be this dipshit.”