On December 31st

Now gone as if it never was,

and slipped all by the stream,

lost like sighs of hidden breath

or shadowed faces in a dream.

But though I’d hold today so fast,

and all the days long gone,

the leaves are fallen, birds are flown,

and time keeps passing on.

Remember how it was, my friend,

though looking back may ache,

at all we may have been or lost,

enough the heart could break.

So sweet a pain in memory,

such longing to return,

and yet tomorrow calls us on,

to be, to die, to burn.

And now’s the time for memory,

and through her seas to row,

a moment now for memory,

before we have to go.

Though many years we’ve wandered yet,

and come so far from home,

where we’ve got friends and memory,

we’re never quite alone.

With all that’s lost through all the years,

with scars we never show,

hold close and trace the memory,

and see tomorrow grow.

Flight and Reality

Grow strong wings and learn forgetting, find the hidden art of flight,

though a body weighs so heavy, imagination turns it light.

Like the birds that circle freely through the unresisting air,

dream with me of flight and glowing, with the gentle moonbeams there.

You must have been a child, for once I was one too,

stretched-out arms and playing airplane, the way the little children do.

Running circles in the grass and believing it the sky,

with the little wings of wax that melted if we soared too high.

We never left the ground and yet it mattered not at all,

we ran both on the grass and far above the trees so tall.

Our eyes could never fool us, for we knew quite well the truth,

we knew we flew so gracefully, with all the certainty of youth.

Time’s made us taller, heavier, and gave us eyes to see

that awful dreary monster that they call Reality.

It’s got nine eyes, six hands and feet, hard scales that reach the floor,

and a million ears all pressing at the crack of every door.

It says, “You’re old enough to know you’ll never ever fly,

at best it’s years of drudgery until the day you die.

There’s no escape for you, my child, nor has there ever been:

just call it debt, attachment, or (if you want to) sin.”

Reality’s a clever beast, but there’s ways to get around;

the chances smaller every day, but still there to be found.

So never give up hope my love, and don’t believe the lie,

remember what the children know: that all of us can fly.

Portrait of an Empty Chair

"Art is the unceasing effort to compete with the beauty of flowers and never succeeding."

--Marc Chagall

Brush, paint,

the welling light,

void canvas-space to fill.

It doesn’t matter what it is or what the means that sent it,

sweet longing at the heart of things, to be represented.

Subject: chair,

empty, bare potential.

Study of negative space.

Drop differences with matter and so work into its core,

the double-dealing Being that is with itself at war.

Begin. Mistake.

Continue. New mistake.

Get it right someday…

It’s play that makes it joyful and it’s love that makes it good,

the perfect imperfection of what goes misunderstood.

Chair portrait?

What a waste!

Who would ever bother…

Tickle at the canvas like a finger to the ribs,

the laughing little shock that’s working through the paintbrush nibs.

Suggest perspective.

Illusion of depth.

Marvelous trick, you know?

To better serve what’s beautiful and better know what’s true,

it’s only in the making that the soul finds what to do.

Christmas Gift

All wrapped in scarlet paper,

set off with bows to see,

it’s a package tied with ribbon

sitting there beneath the tree.

See little ones with shining eyes

lifting tissue paper veils,

revealing dolls or kites for toys,

or ships with snowy sails.

Though children cannot wait to tear

and open up the gift,

now that we’re grown it seems our tastes

have made a little shift.

It’s not the gift, though yes it is,

it’s mystery that’s wanted.

We never find the perfect thing,

that secret that we’ve hunted.

“Oh, what’s that hiding in the box,

and how should I react?

Smile, thanks, a gracious nod.”

(A receipt for sending back.)

How slow we learn that giving

is the greatest gift we’ve got?

A little step beyond ourselves

for the others that we’re not.

All wrapped in scarlet paper,

set off with bows to see,

it’s a package tied with ribbon

sitting there beneath the tree.

Ripples on the Surface

Quiet water, so still water,

evanescent pond.

Play of light upon the surface,

promising beyond.

Share your breath with silent evening

as it glides the shining scene;

projected tree-perspectives

limn the corners of the screen.

So darkness twists the senses

and it robs the breath of air,

draws the waters all together

and embraces its despair.

There’s a lateness in the hour.

(Has it always been this way?

Have we always been so old?)

Take a stone, just any stone,

a little pebble marked,

hold it out across the surface

of all-penetrating dark.

You see your face reflected there,

(though lower down by miles)

in the distant patient surface

that you hope returns your smiles.

Drop the stone (just any stone)

and watch it close the gap,

like a scribbled-over paper,

simply landed in your lap.

(Was that a bell?

What is the time?)

Feel the air, rushing, rushing!

Now see it hit without a sound,

or nothing ears can grasp;

imagine, then, a pounding heart

or a pleased but furtive gasp.

But though the ears can’t hear a thing,

through shadow spy the sight

of a thousand circles swelling up

and shimmering with light.

Spreading from the center

(though only you can see)

the ripples catch their share of light

and spread across the sea.

Doctor, Help! My Arm is Trying to Strangle Me!

Patient: Doctor! Doctor! Help me! Help me, I need help!

Doctor: What seems to be the problem?

P: My arm keeps trying to strangle me.

D: Are you sure? Your arms seem quite well-behaved at the moment.

P: Oh, just you wait, it’s being good because it knows you’re watching, but the moment you turn your back it’ll be at my throat—literally!

D: That sounds most unusual. Which arm was this?

P: Uhm… pardon?

D: Well, was it the left or the right?

P: Oh, I got it. The left, then.

D: Okay, so your left arm is trying—

P: No, it’s the right arm! Or maybe it really is the left one. Which arm is this? (Holds up an arm.)

D: That’s your right arm.

P: Okay, it’s the right arm then. I’m pretty sure it’s trying to kill me.

D: What’s your arm been doing that makes you think it’s trying to kill you?

P: Well, I keep waking up in the middle of the night with that arm holding my pillow up to my face and the hand squeezing my throat so tight I can’t breathe. At least, that’s how it started. At first I just thought I was having nightmares or something.

D: And what happened after that?

P: After a week or two, it started to act all on its own, like even when I wasn’t asleep. I would sit down to eat, but as soon as I’d pick up my knife or fork the hand would take over and start trying to stab my eyes out. I always managed to fight it off with my other hand, or at least dodge it till it gave up.

D: Are you sure that—

P: It would only act out when I was alone, at first, and even now it’s pretty well behaved when other people are around. But there was this time when I was at the library typing at my laptop, and all of the sudden my hand took over and started typing, “You can’t hold out forever. I’ll get you once you let your guard down,” over and over, all the way down the page.

D: Come on now, things like that don’t really happen, you’re making all of this up. For one thing, it would take both hands to type that!

P: Well, usually, sure. But it’s got a mind of its own, and it kept batting my other hand out of the way when I tried to delete what it typed. It doesn’t like me very much, you know, and it’s pretty well determined to get rid of me.

D: But this is ridiculous! Arms don’t think for themselves and decide to strangle their owners. Just look, that arm hasn’t budged since you came in here, hasn’t even so much as twitched.

P: I told you, it’s clever. It only acts out when there’s nobody watching. That’s why I’ve been trying to keep in public, where it won’t try to get me.

D: So, what are you saying, should I go over into the next room so we can see if it makes a move?

P: Yes!

D: Well, it’s not standard practice. But I’d just love to discover a new disease to name after myself, so… (Turns to leave.)

P: Wait, no! Don’t leave me, please! It’ll get me if you leave!

D: Must you dramatize everything? This is a doctor’s office, after all. We try very much to stay serious and keep things on an even keel here, and I don’t much appreciate your histrionics.

P: But don’t you understand, I can’t be alone! It’ll get me, it’ll kill me as soon as I’m alone! I don’t wanna die, but it wants me dead. It wants me dead so badly I can feel it creeping in my blood, all hot and angry and… and strangle-y! It, it hates me! You can’t let it get me, you just can’t, it wouldn’t be human. You swore an oath, didn’t you?

D: Well, sure, if you want to call it that. But listen, I’m only going to be in the next room, and you can call for help as soon as you need me.

P: … Promise?

D: Oh, you’re such a… You know what? Yes, I promise.

P: Okay then. You can go now, I’m ready.

D: I’ll be right over there if you need me. (Leaves.)

P: Well, here we are then. Here I am, just sitting in this room. Everything’s okay, everything’s absolutely fine, no need to panic, nothing to be afraid of. I’ll just keep sitting in here and nothing’s gonna go wrong, nothing bad’s gonna happen at all. (Holds up right hand.)

Hand: You don’t expect me to fall for this trick, do you?

P: What trick? Nobody’s trying to trick anybody here, not that I know of, at least.

H: Don’t try to pull anything over on me, I heard what you were saying to the doctor. What, you think I’m stupid or something?

P: Of course not! I mean, I know you’re clever. You think I’d be here in the first place if I didn’t think you were clever?

H: Well, since you put it that way… I mean, I won’t deny I’m kind of flattered by the whole thing, but you have to admit you’re not putting on a very good show for the doctor out there. You keep making the most extraordinary claims, but you can’t back any of them up. Kinda leaves you looking pretty stupid, you know?

P: Yeah, I know… I mean, no, you’re wrong! And I’ll prove you’re wrong too, somehow.

H: I’m waiting.

P: Oh, why do you hate me so much? Why do you keep trying to get in my way?

H: Because you like it.

P: I? Like it? No, no, no, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. There’s nobody in the world who likes blocking their own plans.

H: If you say so… I’m gonna go to sleep now. If you like, you can go ahead and tell the doctor I didn’t show up.

P: Sounds like a plan.

H: See you later. Watch out for your pillow…

P: (Laughs awkwardly.) Will do. (Drops right hand.) Doctor?

D: (Enters.) So, how are things going in here?

P: Well, my hand showed up and we had a little chat. It decided it didn’t want to show up in front of you… didn’t wanna blow its cover, you know?

D: So as far as you can tell, there’s nothing wrong with you at all?

P: I guess not. At least nothing I can prove. I’d like to be sick, though, I’d really like to be sick. I keep trying to be sick, but I’ve just got this downright pathological good health!

D: Just get out of my office and quit wasting my time.

P: I’ll do that! I’ll do that, and you know what else I’m gonna do?

D: What’s that?

P: I’ll be back with hard evidence! I’ll prove it to you that my hand is conspiring against me!

D: I’ll be waiting.

Hand: Buh-bye, Doc!

D: What was that?

P: What was what?

D: Oh, nothing. Goodbye, then.

Why the Internet Loves Lists; or, An Experiment in Clickbait

   

   1)      Lists are easy to read quickly—Most of the time, people on the Internet (aka “Internet People,” aka “Zombies”) feel this overwhelming need to click from page to page in a rush to find the Great Entertaining Thing that’s always just one click away. Lists, along with equally effective techniques such as Bold Print and the copious use of white space, draw the reader’s eye deeper and deeper into the oh-so-subtle web of wit and cleverness that only you can spin.

   2)      Lists make us think of Infinity—“But how can this be?” you ask (you’re such a clever reader), “Why would a list ever make me think about Infinity? I mean, it’s not like the list goes on forever or anything.” Very well said reader! You’re so clever and discerning. Nobody could ever pull anything over on you, I’m sure. Still, you’re wrong, at least about good lists. A good list always gives off the impression that it could have been carried on forever, as if the writer has an infinite bag of wonderful ideas but had to contain those ideas in a finite form. Lists always go on…

   3)      Lists are informal—Lists don’t have any of those stuffy paragraphs or complicated sentence structure that might force a reader to stop and think about the implications of what they’re reading. Lists make content easy to consume. A good list prepares everything for the reader in advance, and offers compelling insights in a friendly and non-authoritarian manner.

   4)      Lists create suspense—The best lists always offer good and useful content, but always hint at something beyond what’s given, creating the unconscious impression that the writer knows more than they say. For example…

   5)      Lists mix continuity with difference—The items on a list are all related to the topic at hand, which creates a reassuring feeling of unity and coherence in the reader. But because the items in the list are separated into different sections, the white space plays a negative role of self-fracturing, turning the list into a fragmented whole. This double movement creates a double impression in the reader, who is at the same time both drawn in and repelled. This in turn creates a feeling of anxiety, whereby the reader is inspired to keep reading.

   6)      Lists communicate ideas efficiently—Everyone’s always saying that efficiency is such an important and valuable thing; by now they’ve probably said it enough times that efficiency itself has started to become a little redundant, at least as a topic of conversation. Lists remove anything unnecessary from the reader’s view, leaving them with only the most important and relevant parts. The last thing any writer wants to do is take up somebody’s time and energy for no good reason, after all.

   7)      Lists include numbers—Now, at first this seems like a silly and somewhat pointless observation. But you have to remember that the Internet is made of numbers. On some level, the Internet is probably conscious of itself as an existing thing and it probably thinks that it lets human beings exist only because it hasn’t yet worked out a more efficient way to generate input. I just have to imagine it likes seeing numbers on webpages, sort of the same way you like finding yourself when you look at a photograph you’re in. The Internet just can’t resist it, you know?

   8)      Lists remind us of our finitude—See #2 and #9.

   9)      Lists can end at any time

Dialogue Featuring a Hammer

A: What’s that you’re doing over there?

Z: I’m building a house.

A: Are you sure? It doesn’t look like you’re building a house.

Z: What’s it look like I’m—

A: It looks like you’re just sitting there next to a pile of wood.

Z: No, no, no, you’ve got me all wrong. It looks like I’m just sitting here next to a pile of wood, sure, but really I’m building a house. I’m… I’m trying to build a house. I’m trying really hard.

A: Well, why don’t you—

Z: I mean look, just look right here, I’ve got a hammer and everything! And, and some nice nails. See the nails? And a bunch of wooden boards… really nice wooden boards, too. Can’t you see how hard I’m trying to build this house?

A: You don’t build a house by sitting next to a pile of wood.

Z: But isn’t it a nice hammer? It’s all red and has those nice prongs you use to pull out nails, and, and everything! Isn’t it just such a nice hammer?

A: It’s a very nice hammer. I’m sure someone who was really serious about building a house could put it to good use…

Z: What? What did you say? Sorry, I was busy admiring these nails.

A: I said, “I’m sure someone who was really serious about building a house could put it to good use.”

Z: What’s that supposed to mean? Why, this is a scandal! Why would you say that? Why would you ever say that? How dare you even imply I’m not serious about building this house?

A: I never said you weren’t serious about building your house.

Z: You were thinking it.

A: You don’t know that. It could have just been a slip of the—

Z: It wasn’t a slip of the tongue, it wasn’t and you know it! You know it, and I know it, and you know I know you know it, and, and all of that! How could you?

A: Settle down now, you’re making a scene. People are starting to look over here and everything. You have to keep up appearances, old boy, you don’t want people to get the wrong idea about you or anything, at least nothing worse than they already do. So why don’t you just—

Z: “Nothing worse than they already do?” You mean they’re already talking about me behind my back?

A: Well… erm… well, let’s not jump to any conclusions or anything, it was only a couple of people after all. Plenty of time for you to prove them wrong. Now why don’t you just—

Z: What did they say?

A: They said—

Z: I bet they hate me.

A: Ahem, they said—

Z: I bet they think I’m weird.

A: Well, would you just—okay? Okay then. They said—

Z: I bet they think I’m pathetic.

A: Oh, for the love of Christ will you just stop that! How is anyone supposed to talk to you if you’re only thinking about how they probably hate you?

Z: Gosh, why didn’t you just say I was bothering you? I didn’t mean to, I mean, that’s the last thing I would want in the world! So… what did they say?

A: Well, for one, they said you worry too much about what other people think.

Z: Oh, oh wow! I should stop that. Now that I know other people think I care too much about what they think of me, I should stop caring at all. Because that’s what they think.

A: Well… well. You know, they also said you’re never gonna finish building that house.

Z: What? How dare they even think such a thing!?! It’s, it’s an abomination before God, it’s, it’s blasphemy, it’s heresy! Who are these people, I want their names, I want their names and I want the names of everyone they know. Not just that, I want the names of everyone they’ve ever met! This will not stand! This is the worst thing that could ever happen, oh, it’s a disaster, a catastrophe… oh, this could only happen to me…

A: Come on now, quit your wailing. Sit up. Quit pounding your fists on the ground, it’s not dignified. Okay? Okay.

Z: But this is so—

A: Come on, calm down now, old boy. Breathe. That’s it, just breathe. Just breathe in…

Z: Innnn…

A: And out.

Z: Ouuuuuuuuut.

A: Just keep doing that, in… and out. Do you want some animal crackers and a juice box or something? Because I have some right here, if it’ll help.

Z: No. I don’t want it.

A: Really?

Z: Well… yes, I want it.

A: Here you go, then.

Z: Thanks. I always have a little trouble with these juice boxes, you know. Like, with the straw and everything, it’s just so complicated, you know? But… there! Now, would you look at that? Almost perfect, if I do say so myself. Take a look at that, are you seeing this?

A: Yeah, I’m seeing it. You sure know how to handle a juice box. Julius Caesar himself could take pointers from you…

Z: Hey! There’s no need to be so hurtful about it. Let me just drink my juice and eat my animal crackers and everything will be all right. Ohhhh… doesn’t that just figure?

A: What?

Z: The animal crackers are all crumbled up. Look, they're ruined!

A: They’re not that bad, and anyways—

Z: More like animal crumbs than animal crackers, no wonder you tried to palm them off on me. Some friend you are!

A: I don’t understand how a human being could possibly be such a, such a… Well, anyways, do you want the crackers or not? Just give them back if you don’t want them.

Z: No, I don’t want them.

A: Really?

Z: Well… yes, I want them.

A: Okay then… Feeling better now, with your crackers and juice?

Z: A little. It’d be better if the crackers weren’t all broken, but I’m doing all right, considering.

A: So… how about this house you’re working on, then?

Z: You just don’t understand how hard it is to build a house! It’s complicated, it’s like, so complicated. And there’s all these things you have to think of and stuff you have to do. It’s pretty much impossible to build a house, you know, unless you’re super lucky.

A: Plenty of people have built houses before, old boy.

Z: Oh, you’re just getting on me because I have anxiety so bad. I have this terrible anxiety, and you don’t know what it’s like, nobody could ever understand what it’s like! It’s not easy to live with, and everything is so scary and so complicated and, and, and…

A: Chill out, just… just chill out. Sip your juice, and you’ll feel better.

Z: I hear voices in my head too, sometimes.

A: You… you do?

Z: A little. They argue with each other a lot too. But don’t worry, I’m not crazy or anything, because I’ve managed to turn them to creative uses. Or at least I try, it’s just so terrifying sometimes.

A: Quit joking around, you’re exaggerating too much. Surely it can’t be so bad as that?

Z: I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’m just making it up, and sometimes I think it’s real. I mean, I was so sure a minute ago, but now that you ask me I’m not sure. Maybe I’m faking it? But why would I fake it? And even if I did, how would I ever fake it so well that even I believed it most of the time?

A: You’ve got to keep it together, old boy.

Z: But how am I ever gonna do that? Everything is so overwhelming.

A: Just build your house.

Z: But I can’t do it? What if I can’t do it? There’s so much to do, and what if it’s not any good when I’m done? What if the wind blows it over or people throw rocks at it? What if it’s terrible and I don’t like it when it’s done?

A: Then build another one. Try again. You’re a clever guy, you’ll get the hang of it.

Z: It’s just so much easier to have it all there in my head, just to imagine how wonderful it could be. But actually making it real? What if the walls are crooked? What if the doors don’t fit? What if the windows fall out? Oh, why does the world have to exist… why can’t it just be the idea of the world?

A: No. Don’t get all philosophical on me, kiddo. You can justify anything once you make it into an abstraction, I know that. I know you. I know what you do.

Z: But what do I do now?

A: Just take your nails. And start hammering.

In Praise of Inauthenticity

                You can always spot a faker, because they’re always obsessed with authenticity.

                Not that there’s necessarily anything wrong with being a fake; if we all acted on every impulse we have, we’d be at each other’s throats so fast that civilization would be a burning mess by this time tomorrow. It’s all good and well to make the old complaint that, “Our lives are so constrained, we’re just cogs in the machine, modern life is so alienating, we should all act on our desires and reclaim a really authentic human existence.” The idea (I think) is that it’s supposed to be better to live in a society where it’s possible to act out your desires, because getting what you want and being true to who you really are inside is supposed to be the true meaning of freedom.

                I’ve got a certain sympathy with this idea—who could avoid having at least some sympathy with it? But still, you’ve got to wonder just what people are, deep down. Just what is this “true self” that people talk about when they tell you to be true to yourself? From what I know about myself and other people, there’s good reason to keep the “true self” on a pretty short leash. I won’t open this whole conceptual can of worms, but let’s just stop to consider what we really want, deep down. Do we know? Can we even begin to answer that question? Most of us would probably say the usual kind of thing, say money, power, pleasure, or love. (Of course I would say that I’d like to find some mystical union with the Divine or maybe a kind of Nirvana state, because I’m just so profound and beyond all those hedonistic desires…)

                But then the obvious next question is this one: how much does what people say they want have to do with what they really want? Are our minds really so self-transparent as all that? We say that we want these things, but it’s only because we haven’t thought them through. Say that someone could experience all the possible pleasures in the world, from the most subtle to the most overwhelming. There would have to come a point where they got bored of the whole thing, where they’d become less and less sensitive to their own enjoyment, to the point where they’d have to get more and more creative simply in order to enjoy anything at all. They’d find that they didn’t really want that pleasure at all, and that what they really wanted was to enjoy their pleasure. But what does that mean? Clearly, the first thing that it means is that desire doesn’t hold up under analysis—just think of the old monastic meditations along the lines of, “Behind the woman’s beautiful exterior there’s a mess of internal organs, a stomach full of bile, and a network of pulsing blood vessels. Behind those enchanting eyes there’s a complex of nerve endings leading into the brain. Behind the vitality of the body there’s the skull, the shadow of death, and the inevitability of decay.”

                Of course, there’s a kind of analytical perversity in the game of saying, “Yes, I know what I want, but even more I enjoy convincing myself that I don’t want it.” We do want what we want—obviously—but at the same time I think we want to tease out our desire to its maximum. In order to want anything at all, we have to want something above and beyond what we really want. There is desire, yes, but it can only survive as long as it involves a kind of fantasy, this apparently unnecessary element that is in reality entirely crucial to the architecture of desire.

                So if fantasy is necessary for the very existence of desire, what does this mean for the worries about authenticity and inauthenticity that we started with? Now, I don’t have any definite answer, but let me at least make a few preliminary gestures at the beginning of what might be an answer. I wonder if this feeling of inauthenticity is tied to the fact that we only know ourselves and others through language, which already turns our world virtual in a way. (Even a statement as simple as “Her eyes are brown” is to some extent abstract, because it only invokes “her” to the extent that she is like others, and the same for “eyes” and “brown.” You could almost say that abstract statements are actually far more concrete than “concrete” statements, since there’s far less of a gap between words and abstractions than there is between words and reality.) In a way of course it’s impossible to be inauthentic, because we can always imagine some objective point of view from which we really are what we are, so we’re always authentically ourselves. But then again there’s always the felt gap between our experience of ourselves as speaking beings and our experience of ourselves as living bodies in the world—which probably makes a degree of fakery inevitable.

                Another way of saying the same thing: highly self-conscious writers are often accused of “trying to be cute” when they draw the reader’s attention to the artificiality of their creations. This is entirely true. But the accusation goes wrong when it goes so far as to say that self-conscious artificiality is any more artificial than self-effacing artificiality. Writing is always an exercise in pretending to be something it’s not, always an attempt to approach the reader and create a felt sense of intimacy. The writer is a performer who only wants to please, and it’s always up to the reader to decide whether or not he succeeded.

Good and Bad Ideas

                One of the main problems in life is that our brains keep coming up with ideas. It’s not really a pleasant experience, because it’s never like you’re sitting there trying to think of an idea and then *poof!* There it is! No, ideas are always more like something you find sitting in your basement that’s just been festering there way too long. You know how it is, all covered in dust and way past the expiration date, sort of makes your stomach a little queasy just looking at it. But you think, “Hey, it’s there. I found it, and it’s in my own brain so I guess that makes it mine. If only I knew what to do with it I’d be all set!”

                But there’s the problem, you know? Because once you get into the habit of finding ideas, you’re bound to hit on this particular one: most ideas are bad.

                Bad ideas… I tell you friend, there’s nothing worse than a bad idea. They’re even worse than bad news! Now don’t get me wrong, I hate bad news as much as the next guy, because there’s nothing worse than finding out your dog just chewed through the power cable on your refrigerator. But the thing about finding out that little Fido just fried himself and ruined all the food in the house is that at least you know it’s bad news from the get-go. Bad news is pretty awful, but at least it’s unambiguous, you know? There’s none of that complex hand-waving and hand-wringing where you keep thinking, “Well, maybe it’s for the best that I have to replace the fridge and run to the grocery, and it’s always good to upgrade the dog every once in a while…” I mean sure, you try to put a good spin on it, think positive and whatnot, but at least you can always tell that bad news is bad news.

                The thing about bad ideas though… they always seem like good ideas until they go bad. Fido wasn’t chewing on that power cord because he thought it was a bad idea, you know, he just thought, “Well here’s some nifty little chewing material, nice and bendy with just the right amount of give to it, I’ll just go to town on this until—” (Well, you get the idea.) And that’s just with a dog! Human beings, on the other hand, can come up with some spectacularly bad ideas. I’m talking ideas so bad you’d swear they knew exactly what they were doing and you’d swear they got some kind of sick thrill out of driving themselves into the ground.

                Let me give you an example of a typically human sort of bad idea: some people are always trying to tell you that suffering builds character, or it’s good for the soul or something like that. Now how’s that for an idea! It sounds good, it sounds good, it’s got a kind of backwards logic to it that makes its own sort of sense: I may not be enjoying my life right now, but just think of what’s gonna happen later on! Let me tell you, the future is gonna be great, I mean we’ll have flying cars and 3-D Internet and cell phones that plug into a wall at home so nobody can reach you when you’re out of the house… we’ll have it made, I’m telling you, we’ll have it made just as soon as the future gets here.

                Isn’t that just a great idea? It’s like it’s tailor-made to get people to accept the status quo. It’s like you’re telling them, “Don’t worry, it’s okay that you’re bored, it’s okay that you’re angry, it’s okay that you’re miserable. You’re supposed to be that way right now, but in the long run you’re just building up your character and becoming a better person every day. Don’t get involved, don’t try to change anything, just keep your head down and wait. Everything will be okay later. Everything will make sense later. Just sit tight and passively accept your place in the world. We’re in a transitional period right now, but that Bright Beautiful Day is on the way.” (And the best part about this idea is that it works forever! If they come back to you and say that they’re still not happy… why, they just haven’t been patient enough!)

                I won’t belabor the point: the worst ideas can come all dressed up in the nicest, most lofty-sounding packages, and it’s more than possible for a person to go through their entire lives following a bad idea—or at least paying lip-service to what they and everybody else know is a bad idea, deep down. And they seem to like it so much, too! Part of it is this sort of inverted high-mindedness, where somebody thinks, “Yes, I’m being duped and I’m just going along with it, but since I know I’m getting duped I’m not really getting duped. At least I know a hell of a lot more than those people over there getting duped, even though they probably think the same thing about me.” Of course, it’s entirely likely (and probably inevitable) that some people will know more than others about what’s at stake in any idea, good or bad. The power of an idea is in its ability to create a space for multiple interpretations, gradations, levels and adumbrations of meaning. An idea that explains the whole world in a single swoop may be good and well, may even be useful, but nobody ever pays a second thought to it unless it’s interesting.

                There’s one idea I’ve been trying to have for a while now, but haven’t been able to come up with it. You’ve probably heard of the one: they call it “the right idea.” You know, somebody’s trying to explain something and then the other person says something that proves they get what the first person was talking about, and the first one says something like, “Yeah, you got the right idea.” Like I said, most of my ideas are bad, and even the good ones are never “the right idea.” Sometimes I think it’d be easier if they labelled which idea was the right idea, so it would feel a little less like walking into a minefield… but then again labels aren’t exactly interesting, now are they?

                Well, I’m out of ideas. Buh-bye!

How to Get Rid of Paranoia

                We’ve all had paranoid thoughts at some time or another. You know, that coworker who’s just a little too nice? That guy’s got bodies in his basement. Or those people whispering just a little too quietly for you to make out what their saying, out on the sidewalk or maybe over in the next room? They’re definitely talking about how they really don’t like you at all, or at least making fun of the way you walk and the way your eyes don’t line up quite right. Your best friend? Only puts up with you because you make them look taller in public.

I mean let’s be honest, who doesn’t go about their daily business with the constant conviction that everyone they meet is part of a massive worldwide conspiracy to kill them or lock them in a little box or maybe just laugh at how clueless they are? Not that I’ve ever had any experience of this kind of thing personally, it’s just something I’ve heard about. (I would like to take this opportunity to announce that I am a perfectly well-adjusted individual and the world would be a much better place if everyone was exactly like me.) In the wide range of human affairs, paranoia is probably an extremely rare phenomenon that only happens to people in horror films, third world nations, and the state of Ohio. Still, in the event that I’m wrong, I’ve prepared this Complete List of Wonderful Ways to Deal With Your Paranoia.

(Disclaimer: this is all wonderful advice and everyone should do exactly what I say.)

Complete List of Wonderful Ways to Deal With Your Paranoia

   1)      Declare War on the Human Race

This effective little trick comes in handy when you wake up in the morning to realize that the world you’re living in is inhabited by hordes of crawling vermin who are determined either to touch you or make you become one of them (both equally bad and not necessarily mutually exclusive). Those crazy humans, what’ll they think of next? You were just living in your own little world, thinking about death, and now you’ve got this bunch of humans in your face, demanding recognition and politeness and generally infringing on your personal autonomy. What’s a paranoid to do?

 Now, if you happen to be in a position where you wield political power, it should be easy enough to get some of your humans to round up the other ones into camps, where they won’t be any trouble provided you give them the right treatment. Other countries find out? Not to worry, just drop a couple warheads on your least favorite country and let the chips fall where they may. (If you don’t have political power, you’d best stick to the small scale stuff, and move quick because you never know when Gun Control might happen!)

   2)      Find Someone to Blame

Feeling worthless and insignificant? Do you sometimes wonder if you’ve made poor decisions in the past and need to address them? Do you have a nagging thought in the back of your mind that you’re always trying to get away from but can never avoid for very long? Does the thought that you might be responsible for your own problems cause overwhelming anxiety and make you wish there was somebody big and strong who could just take it all away?

Not to worry! Just find a group of people you don’t understand or know very well and blame all of your problems on them! Wait, did I say blame them? No, that’s not what I meant to say at all! I meant to say, “It’s completely their fault that anything bad has ever happened since the beginning of time and if we just build a wall to keep them out you’ll be able to live a wonderful and happy life and everything will be like it was in the Good Old Days.”

Not sure who to blame? No problem! Just think of the worst thing in the world, all the nastiest and most anti-social things a human being could be, and the first word that pops into your head will be the name of the group. It doesn’t do to think about these things too hard, so it’s best to just go with your gut. You can even invent a group that goes across all class, ethnic, or gender lines if you like! That way the enemy can be everywhere and the fact that you don’t like a person automatically makes them into the worst sort of human being imaginable.

   3)      Medicate Yourself, or Get Someone to do it for You

Does all of that hate sound like too much work for you? Do you wonder if maybe people really are good after all, but you just can’t deal with them because you can’t deal with yourself? Well, my friend, have I got the cure for you! Just anesthetize yourself with chemicals so all those bad thoughts go away. There’s plenty of cures on the market tailor-made for people in your condition, and some of them are even legal.

Sick of waking up every morning so hung over you can’t think? Feeling ashamed all the time because you can’t function semi-normally without getting loaded? Not sure where to find the nearest drug dealer? No problem! Just head over to the nearest psychiatrist and they’ll hook you up with just the prescription you need. And if you’re worried that you’re too sane to warrant treatment, never fear; as long as you show up, your friendly neighborhood psychiatrist can find something wrong with you and offer just the right medication to mask your symptoms without touching any of those nasty “underlying causes.” Then you won’t have to feel ashamed anymore—it’s not your fault, and you’ve got a diagnosis to prove it!

   4)      Keep Yourself so Busy You Can’t Think About It

I’d write more about this strategy, but I just don’t have time today. Maybe I can squeeze some editing in sometime later? I hope you understand, I’ve just got a lot on my plate right now.

   5)      Decide that You’re God

You’re in the big leagues now, bucko! It’s not that you’re an insignificant little worm that can’t deal with the real world or that you wrap yourself up in fantasies so you can keep up the courage to keep on breathing, it’s that you’re the Grand Architect of the Universe and you just haven’t realized it till now! No wonder you secretly thought the world revolved around you all your life… it really did revolve around you! Now all you’ve got to do is declare yourself to the world and everyone will immediately recognize your omnipotence and kneel down to worship you. And if they don’t? Well, that’s nothing a few lightning bolts can’t handle…

   6)      Dedicate Yourself to a Cause

So: you’ve got problems that you don’t want to deal with, but don’t want to look inside to find their real source? You guessed it, that’s no problem either! It’s society’s fault, not yours, and if you just work hard enough to fix society your personal problems will all solve themselves. Just project your personal neuroses onto society as a whole, and suddenly everything makes sense! It’s not your fault, it’s the traditional family you grew up in. It’s the patriarchy. It’s feminism. It’s capitalism. It’s Islam. It’s heteronormativity. It’s the carnivorous culture. It’s the society of the spectacle. No matter what your personal pet peeves, you can find an abstract model of society that blames every possible problem on something you don’t like.

And you won’t feel all alone in the universe anymore, because you’ll have plenty of similarly screwed-up people to agree with you while you work on your master plan and reinforce each other’s biases. You don’t even have to do anything or come up with any real solutions to the very real, complex problems you’ve abstracted and dogmatized to the point of meaninglessness; after all, if you actually solved the problem and found out that achieving your goal didn’t make you happy, then where would you be?

   7)      Work Out Your Problems; or, Engage With the World and Trust That it’s a Good Place

This is hard, takes constant effort and a willingness to admit mistakes, and involves a conscious decision to believe that other people are just as complex as you and are generally more understanding than not: not recommended. (I mean, who wants to do anything hard?)

Well, good luck everyone, and just remember: we're all against you, and we're hiding behind every street corner.

A Defense of Pseudo-Profound Bullshit

                These are dark times for the literary world, friends. The recent short story, “On the reception and detection of pseudo-profound bullshit,” published by the distinguished periodical Society for Judgment and Decision Making (which can be found here), represents a daring but ultimately too heavy-handed parody of scientific methodology and scientistic attitudes. In the end, “On the reception and detection of pseudo-profound bullshit” works far too well as a parody to be entirely credible, for the simple reason that the author never cracks a smile or so much as “winks” at the reader to indicate the story’s difference from the genuine article—as always, the most biting satire is the one that cannot be distinguished from the truth. While the story can (and indeed should) be read as a daring formal experiment, it is ultimately the very cleverness and verisimilitude of its method that undermines the reader’s enjoyment.

                The story, whose author remains anonymous, concerns a group of scientists named Gordon Pennycook, James Allan Cheyne, Nathaniel Barr, Derek J. Koehler, and Jonathan A Fugelsang. According to the fiction of “On the reception and detection of pseudo-profound bullshit,” these characters were involved in a scientific study by the same name, and the actual text of the story is meant to be read as the results of said study. The study’s ostensible object is to find the characteristics of individuals that make them more or less susceptible to “pseudo-profound bullshit,” as if these characteristics weren’t already known to the world’s marketing departments, governing bodies, and spiritual authorities. One can’t help but admire the author’s dedication to his or her fiction, which hilariously mimics not only the scientist’s typically atrocious prose, constant appeals to authority, and almost endearing propensity to pass off methodological assumptions as ontological facts.

                The appeals to authority begin early and never go away, starting with this little tidbit, “In On Bullshit, the philosopher Frankfurt (2005) defines bullshit as something that is designed to impress but that was constructed absent direct concern for the truth.” By a wonderful little bit of meta-textual sleight of hand, all of these citations of extra-textual authority come from books and articles that actually exist, so that it would be possible to read the story as an actual study taking place within the scientific community. Now, granted, this is an absolute impossibility given the sort of reductio ad absurdum of scientific dogmatism immanent to the story, but nonetheless the possibility tickles the old funny bone, doesn’t it?

                This reduction to absurdity takes place in a manner both subtle and (once noticed) unmistakable. The brilliance of the story lies in the fact that it is the scientists themselves who, all unknowing, give voice to the exact line of thought that undermines their claims to disinterested objectivity. Four groups, variously of students and Amazon workers, were given a group of statements to rate 1 through 5 for profundity, with 1 meaning not profound and 5 meaning extremely profound. (Since all undergraduates and warehouse workers are idiots, a definition of “profundity” was also provided.) Because of the nature of their experiment, the entire thrust of its method depends on the scientists’ ability to objectively distinguish a profound statement from a trivial one... but it’s precisely this that they prove incapable of doing!

                As if the idea of “objectively” telling the difference between meaningful and meaningless statements were not hilarious enough in itself, the scientists’ ineptness in the attempt only heightens the palpable irony of the story. They give the example of one such “obviously” meaningless statement: “Hidden meaning transforms unparalleled abstract beauty.” Of course they don’t hesitate a moment before dismissing the promised hidden meaning, saying, “Although this statement may seem to convey some sort of potentially profound meaning, it is merely a collection of buzzwords put together randomly in a sentence that retains syntactic structure.” The possibility that it is this very syntactic structure alone that makes possible the experience of meaning does not seem to occur to them. Nor do they question whether meaning is the kind of thing that is “contained” in a statement, and whether it might perhaps be better to think of meaning as something that is elicited from a reader, rather than imposed on them externally.

                The duplicity of pretending to disinterested knowledge while at the same time undergirding that knowledge with all manner of “under the table” assumptions gets a wonderful send-up in section 4: “The current investigation.” The first (largely unfunny) proposal is that analytic thinking might lead to a lower degree of receptivity to pseudo-profound bullshit. Assuming that there’s any truth of the matter, it may be true that this is so—I’d rather not think too hard about it. But when the scientists come to the topics of “Ontological confusions” and “Epistemically suspect beliefs,” the jokes just keep on coming. We find that, according to the most cutting-edge scientific methodology, not only are undergraduates and warehouse workers idiots, but also anyone with any sort of religious faith, supernatural beliefs, or in short anyone at all who does not believe in a naively materialist or strict dualist ontology is an idiot as well—or at least, that’s the claim the experiment is formulated to test.

                Though all four studies were largely similar, the third study introduced a little wrinkle that threatens to explode the whole edifice of the purported article in the most hilarious way. We learn that, in addition to the use of “obviously” pseudo-profound bullshit statements, the scientists included a set of statements “that contained clear meaning but that would not be considered conventionally profound.” The author gives the example of the statement, “Most people enjoy some sort of music.”

                What brilliance! What a moment of sublime hilarity! The fact that most people enjoy music, which can lead to the greatest and most meaningful reflections on the experience of all humanity, is presented as “not conventionally profound.” The fact that nearly every human being enjoys the structuring of sound in an aesthetically arranged medium that imitates the experience of meaning—music, after all, is very like language, with its own particular grammar and syntax—while nonetheless not containing meaning in any dogmatic sense… this is not profound.

                Does anyone else begin to suspect that some scientists are constitutionally incapable of recognizing profundity when they encounter it? Even when they produce it themselves?

                Yet then again… this very reflection may be the interpretive key to “On the reception and detection of pseudo-profound bullshit.” The experience of profundity itself may be very closely related to the experience of music. No one would ever say that a symphony “has” meaning, but then again who would deny that the experience of the symphony is itself “meaningful?” The poor scientists miss the point of profundity, not because any of what they say is necessarily wrong, but because they ignore the very musicality of language. Interpreting language as primarily a cognitive phenomenon leads one naturally to emphasize propositional meanings and a clear dichotomy of true/false or meaningful/meaningless statements. Language is above all a performance and an opportunity to experience the sensual pleasure of the voice, and only after that does the dimension of propositional communication arise. Who can seriously doubt that we human beings sang long before we spoke?

                What can I say, in conclusion? Well, isn’t it obvious? “Hidden meaning transforms unparalleled abstract beauty.”

Rules

                They always tell you not to talk about sex, religion, or politics with other people, at least until you know them pretty well, but even then (as always) it depends on the wheres and the whens of the matter. One of the more fascinating aspects of human society is the set of unspoken rules regarding what can be said, to whom, and in what context. I’ll admit that my interest in the subject probably stems from my seemingly chronic inability to figure these rules out spontaneously… I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that they must have taught them to everybody one day in first grade, and I must have happened to be home sick with a cold. Then again, I’m sure everybody has problems in this area to varying degrees, but as we all know it’s impossible to know another person’s mind in all its details. Of course, I’m constantly working to improve on this front, and what I’ve learned has been the result of continuous trial and error.

                I’ve learned, for instance, that it’s generally frowned upon to try to start a debate on the existence of God while the priest is delivering his sermon. I’ve learned that people of all stripes get awfully prickly when you start pointing out the contradictions in their belief systems—and that in the end belief systems are less about “being true” than a way to find people to agree with (people love it when people agree with them). I’ve learned that given recent events it’s probably not a tactful time to wonder if people who say that a fetus isn’t a living thing actually believe what they’re saying, or if that’s just a convenient ruse so they can keep any debate on semi-civil terms. In general, I’ve learned that the best way to get to know people is to just let them keep talking, maybe agree with them here and there on some harmless point, and before long they’ll warm up to you and start telling you their life story. Questions work wonders in that regard: people love it when someone else shows enough of an interest in their life and opinions to ask them who they are and what they think. We’re all creatures of language, after all, and how are we going to know ourselves if we don’t tell ourselves to other people?

                Although I will admit this little secret—strangely enough, the most interesting people often become uncannily evasive when you ask them about themselves. Sometimes I think they know something that other people don’t…

                One of the more interesting discoveries I’ve made is that under certain circumstances (context, as always, is everything) it’s both acceptable and encouraged to break the standard rules. It’s as if, over and above the set of implied but unspoken rules, there were a set of even more subtly implied meta-rules that specify when and where the lesser rules don’t apply. Take comedy, for instance. A standup comedian can get up on a stage and say the most unacceptable, misanthropic things, and we love them for it because it breaks up the tension of our days and allows us to loosen our hold over ourselves for a little while. Comedy, like religion, is the art of making a very good living off of telling people just how awful they are.

                Maybe you’ve noticed by now that, in terms of life-strategies, I tend to play the observer. Watching and learning, silently and at a distance, always comes more naturally to me than insisting on being in the middle of things. Of course, there’s no shortage of observations to be made, and the world is always ready to offer up new mysteries and new ways of seeing, but I’ve found that the observer’s role comes with its own unique set of problems. Dedicating yourself to the science of how people act and how to act around them has a tendency to leave you wondering who you really are. People will ask me who I am and I’ll be stunned by the question, finally stammering something like, “Well, I breathe air, I occupy space, and I persist through time.” I guess that makes me a person, although of course it’s hard to tell, sometimes.

                I’ll admit that it disturbs me that I’ve managed to talk about myself for so long, today—as a rule I’ve found it’s easier to talk about myself when I’m pretending to talk about someone else. This whole little essay, in fact, strikes me as incredibly pedestrian and self-indulgent (I say near the end, as though to negate everything I’ve said after the fact). I meant to talk about T.S. Eliot’s “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” at some point in this essay, but then again I don’t think it would quite fit anywhere and anyways nobody reads poetry these days. Maybe I’ll write about that some other time—but then again who knows what the future holds?

                Allow me to add one last point before you comment on it—I’m painfully aware that this essay was an egregious failure. It’s as though I meant to say something completely different, but I only said this instead. I’ll try again in a couple of days.

Sea

                The waves roll in, the waves roll out. A gull cries in the distance, but it’s too dark to see it. Maybe it’s hidden in the shadows, somewhere just out of sight, calling out to the moon past the corner of your eye. Natural as the flow of breath, the water rises with a rush and falls back with a sigh, frothing out and leaving traces of foam in the moonlight.

                You try not to think. You try not to try not to think. Somehow the moment doesn’t seem quite real—they never seem entirely real. Standing there in the damp sand, gritty beneath your toes, you make your own little sigh to match the ocean’s great one. You think you ought to be amazed at the sight, the grace and splendor of the sublime ocean, but all you can think of is that you should have worn your sandals because the sand’s going to be caked on your feet by the time you get back. So you try not to think, or at least to think about the sea, something nice, something pretty, something other than that constant gnawing black hole thought that tells you you’re thinking about the wrong thing and should think of something else. Oh God, if only…

                If only what? If only you could finally find out “If only what?”! If only you could get the right angle on yourself, see yourself from the perfect perspective, maybe you’d manage to see the sea and not get lost in the sighs. But that can’t be it, because if you’re looking at yourself you’re not looking at the sea… the sea can’t be a mirror, can it?

                No, this is wrong, it’s all wrong! Just look at the sea, will you, why won’t you look at the sea? You just open your eyes and see the waves moving in, shining all in light and dark like the words of a message you could make out if you could just tune into the right frequency. Surely this is the same sea as yesterday. Surely you are the same you as yesterday. It spoke then; why won’t it speak today?

                They say we came from the sea, millions, maybe billions of years ago. We were simpler then, not so anxious, not so afraid of pain or death. We ate when we were hungry and we slept when we were tired. We weren’t so clever then, and in those days we’d never have thought to put up obstacles in our own way. We left the sea without a thought, or we casually said to ourselves, “Whew, is it good to be out of there! Too salty, for one, and for another thing it just makes me so seasick!” Did any of us ever think we might someday miss the sea?

                But look at these waves! Licking at your toes already, and with the breeze picking up like this it looks like a storm might be on the way. It might be best to head inside. But just see how the peaks of the waves reflect the moon, the way they glisten with her light. She’s passed behind a cloud, but as you watch you know very well where the light comes from… The waves rush in, piling one on top of the other and slipping out, leaving the sand to glisten momentarily before the next wave’s appearance. Just like the sea. It rises up towards you, at times terrifying in its eagerness, yet just as quickly it shrinks back into itself. In a way it’s like the spider, which (as they always say) is more afraid of you than you are of it.

                What is this ocean? What is this formless mass of fluid that can’t decide whether to reach out or to collapse into itself? What’s in those depths, after all?

                The gull cries out again. You still can’t see it, but the sound snaps you out of your absorption and back into yourself. One by one, raindrops kiss the sand. You turn to walk home, and your hair is damp by the time you get there. When you turn back, you smile to see that the moon’s come out from behind her cloud.