Occupy Sesame Street

Let's get one thing straight: I love Oscar the Grouch. And his friend Wormie. Not a fan of Big Bird at all.

One one hand I agree that PBS could be self-funded, but then so could a lot of things that are aimed at providing even-handed children's education. Reality is, when commercial interests come into play -- think Nestlé for example -- the important stuff is lost amongst the fluffy money-grabbing shallowness. Kids are easily brainwashed at this age.

I am thankful that I did grow up with PBS and Sesame Street, but I do think the preservation is a kind of nostalgia. New(ish) programmes like Dora the Explorer and Bob the Builder do have an even hand between education and entertainment, I find. My niece and nephew are now too old for those shows, so I can't relate to today's toddlers. Which I am immensely thankful!

The money the US government gives to PBS and other such "old school" things (like auto manufacturer General Motors) is minuscule compared to the amount for the US military funding. Sure, you could say the military funding also funds interesting medical research on telemedicine, remote monitoring, and robust field diagnostic equipment but creating problems (i.e. conflicts) just so you can test equipment is so so very horrible and the worst kind of human experimentation. The young men and women "volunteer" for this. I say it's brainwashing to a whole different level.

Ah, those in power abusing those not. That's what it's all about. What about fighting for those who can't fight for themselves? Why aren't we protecting the disadvantaged/ disenfranchised, the minorities, the children and the elderly? What happened to liberty and justice for all?

I've been thinking a lot about the messages behind "A Few Good Men", the 1992 movie about two Marines who did something that was so "anti-Marine" because that is what their commanding officer ordered, the so-called "Code Red". Is this attitude of Col. Jessop still prevalent in the US military psyche today? I think so.

Love this part: "You can't handle the truth!"

Jack Nicholson and Oscar the Grouch in one post, eh? Quite a miracle.

"You're goddamn right I did!"

Faulkner and Me: warning Long Post!

This week’s post touches on William Faulkner, and what I, as a hopeful author, can stand to learn from him and his critique. As you can see in the right hand panel, the “Book Quiz” puts me as “The Sound and the Fury”, one of Faulkner’s classics. In six short questions, the Quiz figured this out.

The odd thing is, well… on one hand -- it sounds a bit like a horoscope, too broad and too whimsical to be true -- on the other hand -- it fits me a bit too closely and is a bit eerie. The Quiz had a question whether I considered myself concise. I am the opposite of concise really, most of the time. What irks me then, is that “They” (the critics) say Faulkner is long-winded and verbose. But how did he manage to write short stories? Are they lacking or wanting of else somehow? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

I did some thinking and research on this Faulkner book and how I can place it within context of my journey. I distinctly remember the cover (shown on the right) and that at least I borrowed it from the library at one point in my teenage years. Perhaps, it was even the “next” book to read in the library book club. I think that’s more likely, as I only have wisps of memory of the well-lit basement room where we had the club readings, and the boy I secretly liked was also there. However, when I read the plot lines of “The Sound and the Fury” on various sites, it seems that I never actually got around to reading it. Hmm.

The Book Quiz seemed true to the general sense of the plot and the background from the story. The title may come from the famous “Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow” quote from Shakespeare's MacBeth (here’s the link). Nevertheless, this Quiz result made me challenge myself because although I might be poorly understood and conflicted, I don’t intend to “signify nothing” when whatever here is done. No one does. It ties me back to the belief that “No man [one] is a failure who has Friends” the written message from Clarence to George Bailey….anyway we’ll save that thought for another time.

Instead of reading “The Sound and the Fury” for this week (it is long ☺ ), I’ve opted to read a Faulkner short story. (Since my goal is now to focus on short story, and I’ve been told many times that I am long-winded in my writing).

My task was to read “That Evening Sun” by William Faulkner, and break it down, answer a few questions. It’s not easy to critique a story without context. (You can find some here.)

However, I can say that the story was short in the sense it left me wondering so much, what really happened here. It takes you back to the title, sort of that twilight time where nothing is really clear. Page wise, the story is long -- mainly because dialogue was used extensively -- the children talked, showing their naivety, the conversations between the adults, showing that they were talking around the children, never really addressing what was happening.

In the anthology I have, Faulkner’s story was a whopping 22 pages, compared with seven pages for another American writer, E.A. Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death”, which is classic concise prose with little dialogue. Overall, I wasn’t really drawn into the Faulkner story, but it passed the time, waiting for dinner to finish cooking. I was distracted by language used, and didn’t quite “get it”, what the author was trying to convey, other than a snapshot of a small Mississippi town some time in the early 1920’s.

Upon re-reading and with my dissection tools, I do like the quick slight-of-hand tactic of “fifteen years ago” to even further distance the indifference to the plight and presumed irrationality of the main character. I understand more how the language of the story is real and comes about from the context -- the time frame the story was written versus my own 21st century view. I can’t readily agree with it being the best story about the tensions and problems in Mississippi, as it tackles it from a distance, rather than head on. But, perhaps that is what’s special and unique about Faulkner. He is able to take this rather touchy subject and show it in a softer new light -- through the dialogue of children -- without losing the main point of the snapshot. That could be what makes the piece more timeless and readable. The indifference that the Whites showed the Blacks in this time period in America remains clear.

Yes, I’d like to write about some touchy subjects, and what I find is myself holding back. But if I can find that angle, that somehow takes that sharpness off for the reader, then I can write about these taboos and still show my snapshot. That’s important, and the more important lesson from Faulkner -- to keep writing the truth.

Next week: some house-keeping with a list of magazines that I want to query and try to get my stories published there.

Word Count: 865

St. Teresa

Christian mythology and saints weave in and out of life here, and we are steeped in its history.

Other mythological people -- larger than life musicians and artists -- arise from the same dust. It's important to note that the culture of the normal (non-mythological people) is also skewed the other way. Elvis today is a mythology. He and his patron saints rise and in Graceland, whereas the rest of the state is mired in poverty, prejudice and pride.

What other mythologies are there? Stories larger than life? Arching and encompassing generations, mythologies like the Greeks, the Norse, Romans, the Moors (Alhambra anyone?), the Arabians... each of today's culture seems to be swirling around on mythologies, still in this 21st century. Americans have the myth of the Wild West, of Babe the Blue Ox and Paul Bunyon, of Jesse James, not very old, but still fuzzy around the edges and larger than life.

Can we break the myth cycle? No, I don't think so. As individuals yes, okay maybe. Those brave souls that create their own mythology around them. Michael Jackson (brave and crazy)... oh all those artists we love and adore have some dis/reality aura surrounding them, the truth of their extraordinary lives... that they could have been mundane just like us. If not for something. What was that something? Belief? Faith? Talent? Hard Work? All of the Above?

Society needs its myths, its legends and stories. They wrap around us like down comforters, warm and fluffy and soft. The pain of life requires these stories, of birth and madness and death. We march on. We evolve ever so slowly.

St. Teresa -- I'll work for your love. Recently, I dreamed of my very first college roommate Teresa. She started out as a Econ major just like me. Just like me, she was lost in a sea of thoughts and men and socializing and studying. Who did we want to be? We lost touch after the first year, she moved to another floor and I was too absorbed in myself and my shit as usual. Senior year, I see she became a accomplished artist and was having a show in the University library. I remember her happy bright smiling face, her bouncy curly hair pulled back, her friends all around her, supporting her. Her parents in the background looking very proud. Teresa then had All of the Above. Where is she now??

facts and misinformation

This one piece, of a totally unrelated article by Tim Jones Chicago Tribune correspondent, piqued my interest:

"Brendan Nyhan, a political scientist at Duke University, said the Internet's role in forming public opinion is gaining strength. WorldNetDaily, for instance, has one of the faster-growing audiences on the Internet, up 62 percent in the past year, according to Hitwise.

Nyhan co-wrote a study this year that said journalists' attempts to correct misinformation is unlikely to sway public perceptions because many people want to believe the misperception.

"People often have a strong bias for believing the evidence they want to believe and disbelieving what they don't believe," Nyhan said. "There is less of a sense that we all have a common set of facts we can agree on. There's a polarization, and we can't even agree on the basic factual assumptions to have a debate.""

Yeah, facts are not just facts. I think that is the main cause of miscommunication and disagreements. People can't even agree on assumptions. In math, if you can't agree on the basic assumptions the conclusions of two different solutions are considered completely uncomparable. Yer... life imitates art, or the other way around?

The Truth is just a good theory... debate is meaningless with idiots and morons anyway, so what is the point? People will believe only what they want to in the end, regardless of the Truth.

the end

You know those movies where the world as we know it is destroyed and only a handful of people are still alive? We watched one recently with Dennis Quaid as the leading guy--get this--a climatologist who predicts the coming of the Ice Age and well, it happens in 6-8 days. Doh!

But I love these stories for some reason. I think mostly because of the fight for survival and the reduction of all those icky, nasty issues (race, gender, rich, poor, religious, young, old, healthy or not) to how humans really care for each other / or not. What really matters is life, and not the status quo. Sure, there are gonna be stupid survivors too, but for the most part the cold or plague or what ever will have killed off most of them. The survivors are an enrichment of the intelligent, but not necessarily morally intelligent? Hmm.

I think about those movies or stories, and I think -- well, which character am I? Of course I am a survivor! I don't die right away. Perhaps the plague one would not be my favorite way to go. Let's say for the Dennis Quaid Ice Age movie, I think I would be like the wifey doctor, who would stay behind to make sure the leukemia kid stayed brave and got out safely. She wasn't one on the "battlefield" but she was doing the right things to protect what she could. Innocence. Life. For another day.

While I'd like to think I'd make a great contemplative, solitary, or urban hermit, I enjoy the time I do have with my friends too much and want more than just simple introspection. But being the crazy overworked heroine is also not my game. Engaging my dear Readers is important to me -- getting that "telepathic conversation" going and the truth in my head out on to the page. It's hard work that I am willing to do. Yeah. Telepathy... I am putting thoughts in your head... heh heh heh... subliminal messages to get you to ... oh buy my stories and books.... heh heh heh.

Okay, that wasn't very subliminal. :-) Is there still hope for me?? Yes!!

one little observation for today

"Man is a credulous animal, and must believe something; in the absence of good grounds for belief, he will be satisfied with bad ones." -- Bertrand Russell

This morning, for about 5-10 minutes, my mind was racing. I couldn't believe that my field could tolerate such "shoddy" products. Ah, but then, I wasn't out to change it.

That's what's different now. I am no longer gonna try to save the world. I just want to do what I am told to do, get paid, and forget about it. There's consulting and there's consulting. But you have to know when it's not worth trying to improve a "shoddy" product. If the market will bear it, then that's just the way it is. That's me being satisfied with a bad ground for belief that my work is acceptable. I am not gonna put out a better product, I don't even want to try. The market's too busy and swamped and old school to expect better.

So with my creative writing, the only one I am out to save, is me. I ain't gonna change the world. Well, at least I am not setting out to do that. If it happens, that's great. But that is not what this re-invention is all about. I want to save me. Not anyone else. I can't forget about it too long. Creation is more than being told what to do (mechanics of writing), more than getting paid, it's intangible. The sum is worth more than its parts.

That's why it has to be perfect at some point. I must believe something. It might as well be me. I am truth, my version. I am perfection, as I see it. The "good grounds" in my belief in myself will make me "healthier, wealthier and wise" in ways how I define it. I don't care how the market is at the moment. I just want to finish and finish it perfect.

OK, have a great weekend and see you on Monday!!

Deeper Why: Get curious about it (warning! Long Post!)

One of the more interesting Whys I've had to deal with since about last November - March had to do with:

Why I Don't Care about my clients and paying jobs and its corollary Why I DO Care about myself and (non-paying as of yet) creative writing.

For my paying jobs, I think I fall into the category of "I care, but I don't really CARE" -- about the details, the minutiae, the politics and pandering, the how things get done, so-called "stupid things" -- I only care that they do get done in a timely manner (on my terms preferably). And so much of my previous day job was client hand holding and communications on these soft details, not necessarily on the content and science. At some point, I stopped caring about the content as well because I didn't see the point of "do-or-die". Forest for trees and all that. I know and still appreciate that my late work means that someone else down the "production line" has to bust their ass too. There are things / mentalities as "not enough too late", a progression of "too much too late" and "too little too late". I assume the ideal is "just enough on time" but everyone expects "perfection / too much on time".

So for my non-paying jobs, why should it be different? I think the difference is that I have an attitude that it is never too late to "fix" anything about myself, whether it is my health, or my writing. I have lots to improve in both areas. Time doesn't seem to enter into the equation. Of course it does in reality, but the goals are flexible and malleable. Dreams aren't fixed and hard-wired, do or die kind of situations. I am not part of a production line! I want to enjoy life and have fun!

The evidence and the jury is still out about whether is is ever actually too late to fix something about your health. There is natural variance also that confounds such studies. I mean, they say in general after the age of 25, your body starts declining - metabolism slows down, bones lubrication / regeneration of cells slow down, cell proliferation and growth slows down or stops... It's like a permanent recession :-) but you can change the slope of recession if you act sooner than later. But perhaps its like smoking cessation, for every year you stop your risk of developing a smoking-related disease goes dramatically down. Perhaps you can say it's too late when you are 85, but is it still too late when you are 75? When you are 65? When you are 55? When you are 45? When you are 35? Everything else equal, I'd say no to all these questions. It just gets harder to get to where you want to go.

But on the other hand, with jumping out of the fire (science communications) into the pot of creative writing, I felt that if I didn't really try now, I'd never know and would regret it later. I was starting to feel like while working full-time, it was starting to get too late for me. I have a few stories in me that have to get out, for my own good. And that made me stop and care about it. Yes, some how my writing and health has got to be linked. And interestingly enough, popular writers will say that readers don't care about the minutiae, the language and all the editing details. But these writers couldn't have got there with out them. And of course, all writers will say that writing for them is a kind of therapy... comforting. The idea of creating a world, a universe, giving birth to characters and people interacting with places and things... well in a way being a writer is like playing God. Your version of the truth.

Although it is not exactly do or die for me, the dichotomous WHYs above created such a strong feeling that I had to intervene and make a choice.

In summary, caring to me means, in order of importance:

1. being passionate and enthusiastic
2. doing a good job (according to myself)
3. having an understanding and compassion for others' needs
4. listening, open and actively seeking feedback from others if I am not doing a good job according to them

I note well that 1 and 2 are self-oriented, whereas 3 and 4 are not. Perhaps when I was in my previous day job, that's what really caused the conflict as I shifted priorities and my sense of caring. In the end I was no longer passionate and enthusiastic, for a myriad of reasons, and felt I wasn't doing a good job. Without 1 and 2, I could not do 3 and 4.

So if this is to be the life I choose, on my own terms, I really have to have 1 and 2, and be committed to exemplify them each day. One day at a time.

Damn, I have to finish some work for a client... distractions, distractions, distractions. I have to get rid of them!! They get in the way of my passion and enthusiasm and ability to do a good job in my creative writing...

....well, slowly, I do need a bit of cash now and then... :-/ schucks.

When the heart falters

By all means follow your heart. But what happens when your heart falters and you lose a bit of faith? When you feel like quitting and giving up?

What keeps me from giving up is that I don't want to be like "them" again. You know who "they" are -- the naysayers, the truth haters, the rich war mongers who get richer from preying on poor souls who believe they have no choice, no hope, the "Shytan" -- I will go on. "They" will not win in my heart, in my lifetime. I will not quit. I won't walk out a loser. Someday I will walk out of here again.

That little voice that says no no you can't, you've got to beat that guy. To a pulp.

There is no problem that can't be solved or appeased. Work hard. Try harder. Work harder. Don't give up. Read, write, work. Love what you do, do what you love. Don't settle, and have faith that the connections will be made. You are exactly where you are supposed to be. Believe in yourself!

Fearless living

It’s been well said that cowards die many times before their deaths (originally from Shakespeare, Julius Caesar (II, ii, 32-37)). Julius Caesar did not fear death on the Ides of March.

I want to be valiant, I want to be fearless. I wish and pray for these things everyday. I do not fear my physical death, it is this other metaphorical death that I am worried about. Am I really alive here, writing?? I think the answer's yes.

I think it was a brave thing to do, to quit my job and change careers from a moderate stage in my previous career. But some days are worse than others. I do not have a death wish, so does that automatically make me a coward or not? What is the source of the cowardly death?

"everything dies baby that's a fact
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back"
--Bruce Springsteen, Atlantic City

So if we take these two quotes together, does that mean cowards have another chance to come back and fight again, to try to be valiant the next round?

Yes, but they have to metaphorically die first, for their initial cowardice. Love, dreams, ambitions can die only due to not enough courage/faith. Truth is, that is all it takes - courage (i.e. to do the hard work) and faith, not money or a big fancy car (unless that is your dream or ambition I guess), house or novel technology.

Maybe someday, it comes back. How pray tell? Motivation, inspiration, imagination, or sheer will? I like imagination, I have a vivid one... :-)

Good things come slowly

Yeah, writing is a lot of work, and it goes fairly slow most of the time. Discipline is my driver, and I hope my muse (moose?) will find me in my office at a scheduled hour. But good things take a long time to mix, knead, rise and bake like a yummy good loaf of bread. Really good things come slowly, my friend reminded me today.

The greatest thing to come out of this process so far is the feeling that I am more patient with myself. And that is a very helpful thing in this business.

Now the trick will be to be patient with others... ha ha ha... but I think I was better with others (at least publicly!) than with myself. Good relationships also take considerable time to grow and develop. Sometimes I overlook this fact, this truth, and miss key opportunities.

Ah, then the Great Big Moose in the Sky says, well, perhaps you just were not ready for those opportunities, the timing was not right for you, the environment, etc.

Then I say to my dear Moose: I want to be 15 and have that perfect storm again -- where things culminate to the point that I am getting stories done and accepted, and rejected too, because I look forward to learning from my rejections!!! I won't f*@% it up this time...

The Woman with Half a Smile: Part 3

Coping: On and Off Sick Leave

After her boyfriend left for work in the still early March morning of wintry darkness, the weary now half frowning woman dragged herself out of the shuttered bedroom. Somehow she managed to fall asleep last night in her clothes, she must have been really tired, she grumbled. She only vaguely remembered her boyfriend stopping to put eye cream in her bad eye this morning. She felt her face, the eye patch was still there. Sighing heavily, she noisily padded over to the living room in her pink slippers, not paying attention to where the cats were. Thankfully they managed to avoid her steps. They sensed she wasn't to be toyed with this morning.

Her computer, with its pulsing soft white standby light and mirror-like screen, beckoned to her. She patted it sadly as if it was a forelorn lost puppy, unable to find its owner and go play. Doctor's orders, she said and then briefly stopped to wonder if she really said it out loud. The past two days were somewhat challenging -- she didn't feel good enough to go out to meet or call on friends, but she was trying to keep herself busy by NOT watching tv, reading, working on the computer -- so she sometimes talked to herself out loud. She felt like she was going a little batty being alone in the apartment with only two cats, stewing in her own juices.

This morning, she had to go to the eye doctor by herself. Should be an adventure she drudged. In the afternoon she scheduled a hair cut appointment as a reward. Getting going in the morning, however, still proved to be hard for her, half paralyzed face or not, older and wiser or not. She made herself a breakfast of cold cereal and soy milk and checked that the cats had enough food. She went back in to the living room and plopped on the sofa, pushing the sensible cats off. She ate and stared at the dormant tv.

After finishing the cereal and leaving the rest of the milk, placing the bowl on the floor for the cats, she finally got up to raise the blinds in the living room. Sideways and driving, blotchy white flecks flew past the window and collected on the railing of her balcony and last year's dead plants. She took a deep breath, and completely inside, smiled; this was the first snow she had seen all winter. Even with one good eye, she could enjoy the sight of the lightly frosted trees on the other side of the street, the white capped cars down below. She stepped out on to the balcony, still in her thick pink slippers and let the small sharp ice pieces hit her face. It felt good, but it was cold! Refreshed after a few seconds, she scurried back in and started to get ready for the rest of the day. Quickly she thought, as even the public transportation might be slow and caught off guard by the white surprise. When she finally was ready to leave the apartment, she caught the sight of her two cats ardently watching the sky and the snow, from the safe warm distance of the window ledge. Heartened and refreshed, the new events helped remind her that she was still blessed with so much.

When she came home after the day's appointments, she called her boyfriend. In the end, it was a good day, she relayed to him, even though she was dragging in the morning. He laughed and tried to tell her how sleepy and grumpy she was this morning while he was trying to get her up and out. Nevertheless, he would be home soon, and she hoped he liked her new haircut and color. The patch was still there but somehow she minded less today. With the images in her head from the morning's snow over the city and the silhouettes of her ponderous cats looking on, she couldn't help but smile a nice reddish beet purple feeling all over and inside. She started to prepare dinner, and was glad to be on the way to being fine.

The following week, she was back at work, half days. The doctor had asked her to take it easy as the strain on her eyes was significant, as she was really using only her good eye to see on the computer and read. Her left eye did not completely close yet, and the patch would have to stay on another week, at least. Her eye at least felt less dry and itchy. The alternative to the patch would not have worked for her, she was squeamish about eye drops and every half hour would be impossible!

She started to feel small twitches or ghosts in her muscles on the left side of her face. Things were progressing slowly, but the woman with half a smile on the outside knew now that, however physically she might look, she could always be smiling inside. No one could take that away from her, she knew what she knew now so thoroughly and believed it. Only she could make herself better now. She would think positively no matter the circumstances. Only the good stuff from now on, she thought happily.

After a strange week of not working at all, to working only 50%, she was actually glad she had Bell's Palsy when she did. Her clients didn't seem to mind and her work colleagues seemed also happy to take up the slack. The illness made her job of handing over all her projects actually much easier and faster -- perhaps painful, like ripping off a bandage -- but it was necessary.

The truth sometimes does hurt, and she knew that quitting was the right thing to do to be true to herself. She just needed an extra push to remind her how blessed she was already with or without gainful employment. The Palsy did that. Strange but true. she thought, as she sent out her last good bye email. She stopped by her boss's office and recounted her outstanding projects and to whom she left in charge, as well as how she was coping with the facial paralysis. A few more doctor's appointments, neurologist, and eye doctors, physiotherapy, but no, still no definite cause could be found. That's okay, she smiled as plainly as she could to her unbelieving boss, as somethings happen for a reason even if we don't understand what those reasons are. We go on and survive and thrive, that's life.

That's life!