To Be God

Several years ago, when I was less wise and more raucous, I happened upon a box in the basement of my family home. The box was filled with papers, and had some Hebrew scrawling on the outside of it. Figuring it had something to do with the Jewish camp that my brother was working for at the time, I asked him about it.

He informed me that it was part of an activity that he had been doing at the camp. The campers, you see, were learning about “The Wailing Wall”, a monument of the fallen temple in Israel. Many Jews make the pilgrimage to Israel for the express purpose of visiting this last remaining vestige of their once great structure.

It is tradition, while at the wall, to write a message on a small piece of paper and insert it into one of the many crevices therein.

What that is supposed to accomplish is left entirely up to the person writing and inserting the message. I can say that I have put a message in the wall, but I can’t tell you that it meant anything to me when I did it, nor do I remember the contents of the message itself.

Some are likely partaking in the ritual for tradition’s sake, some may do so to personalize their trip to their home land. But, though it may not be pitched explicitly, this is prayer.

Ultimately, these messages are inserted into the wall in the hopes that some sort of higher power will listen to the writer. And so, people put down their requests, and oftentimes their thanks as well and gingerly search for a nook in the wall to place their hopes and dreams.

So what ends up happening to these bits of paper? Is there a god who witnesses them?

Well, for more reasons than one, I can’t speak for god.

I can speak for myself however.

Because the moment I found out what that box in the basement was, and what it contained, I descended onto it and devoured its contents.

I won’t make any claims that the initial intention here was fueled by anything but voyeurism. I am, after all, profoundly interested in what’s going on in people’s minds, behind what they present to the world.

The notes were cute, they were written by children after all. One asked for world peace by way of a princess revolution, another asked for there to please be no rootbeer popsicles for dessert that day because they looked like “doody sticks”.

But some, as you could probably guess, were heartbreaking. Requests to see a dead relative again, praying for their sick friends, that sort of thing.

The more I read them the more my enjoyment diminished. This quickly felt like something beyond myself. I felt responsible. It was suddenly my duty to read all of these notes.

I did. There were probably 200 or so and I read them all.

The notes were anonymous, for the most part. I’m sure I knew some of the kids who wrote them, but there were no recognizable names on these bits of paper.

Some of these kids had written down things I could have helped them with, but not knowing who they were made that rather impossible.

So I was stuck. Over the span of an hour or two, I had read all of these little bits of wishes. I didn’t know what to do with them. I wanted to share them with my friends, but when I brought it up and told them about what I had done, I was, without exception, chastised.

Was it really so bad for me to have done what I did?

I mean, yeah these notes weren’t written to me, they were written to god.

But was god going to read them?

I didn’t think so.

And you know, that just seemed unfair to me. These kids were told to write down something, put it in a box, and to address their letters by beginning them with “dear god”, they clearly wanted them to be read.

If I, despite my questionable motives, hadn’t read those letters, no one was going to!

That’s why the adrenaline from doing something that felt wrong at first, became something that felt like a duty soon after.

It was my job to witness these children’s hopes, dreams, and woes, because no one else was going to.

I couldn’t help them, I couldn’t rescue them, and I couldn’t give them what they asked for.

But, I laughed when they were funny, and cried when they were devastating.

I couldn’t give much else to these kids, but I was able to honor them and their efforts.

And isn’t that all we really want from god?

Do we really believe that there’s a man in the sky in charge of everything, judging us at our every move?

I think what most people want is far simpler. Prayer, for all its popularity boils down to the basic fulfillment of a simple desire.

People want to be heard.

Sometimes, the things people pray for are perhaps things they would never tell another person. Maybe, they’re afraid of stigmas or being unfairly judged by their peers.

But in reality, will they actually be judged by god?

Probably not.

And so, god becomes this save haven, a place where a person can experience the relief of unburdening themselves of their woes and admitting to a being devoid of criticism their deepest dreams and ambitions.

That’s why despite prayer not being something that has ever worked for me, I would never want to take it away from anyone.  

Instead, I stepped up.

Because when I read those notes and let the hopes, dreams, and gratitude of these children into my heart, I bore witness.

And isn’t that what it’s all about?

Want to be god? Go for it. It’s not that hard, really.

           

Traits That Matter

Kindness, intelligence, attractiveness. Wonderful things to have. That’s all a given though. Treat others how you want to be treated, study and learn skills, keep yourself physically presentable. Simple.

Not interesting.

Humility

Have you seen War Games? The real one, the one from the 80’s? It’s one of my favorite movies of all time, if you haven’t seen it, you owe it to yourself to give it a look. Anyway, in it there’s a brilliant computer programmer who has designed the ultimate form of artificial intelligence. A system that learns from its experiences. He creates a computer that plays games against people and develops its skill as it does so.

Quite an achievement, to be sure. But, the scientist laments that he never was able to get his system to learn the most important lesson of all; that of humility, that sometimes the only correct move is not to play.

One of the leading characters is puzzled by this, how could such a trait be positive? She asks for a further explanation. The scientist continues by asking her if she plays Tic-Tac-Toe. She, like any adult, answers no, because it’s a dumb game that always ends in a tie.

Exactly! Answers the professor.

Do you back down? How often? Are you always right?

We all think we’re right most of the time. When people get into arguments and debates, they both think they’re right. And even when the argument ends, they most likely still maintain that they're right. 

Can they both be right?

Of course not. But they'll damn well stand up, pound on their chests, and fight over their opinions.

There is a wonderful, beautiful, and empowering thing in shutting the fuck up on occasion and asking yourself “could I be wrong here?” Or, be even stronger and internalize! Say to yourself “I’m wrong here. Now how does that inform my present?”

If you’re always right, you’ll never learn anything, you’ll never improve, and then you’ll eventually always be wrong as the rest of the world surpasses you.

As a side note, do you really think you’ll be impressing anyone by being right when they’re wrong? While being right is valid, and you should be right when you are right… it can oftentimes lead to resentment. 

So when you’re caught, and you're wrong, and you realize it, try admitting defeat. The phrase “you know, maybe you’re right” simply isn’t something people are used to hearing. You'll be amazed at the faces you'll see when someone hears you say something like that.

Gratitude

God damn are you lucky. Yes you. How can I know you’re lucky? Maybe you are literally in last place of the power rankings of humanity. You’re still lucky.

We exist.

That’s already a miracle.

We are the product of millions of year of development. We are a sentient species that creates beauty just for the sake of it. You can read this, you are therefore a member of this species.

Can you really ask for much more?

Yeah, there are people who are more successful than you. And maybe those people are worse than you and maybe they don’t deserve what they have.

So what? You’re HERE. You’re living on one of the only habitable planets that we are aware of throughout millions and millions of square miles. A planet, by the way, that is spinning through space that you magically are stuck to. You aren’t being hunted, and you can cook anything you want to in a matter of minutes in a microwave.

If you’re reading this, you’ve got it good.

Be grateful for everything, because it’s all a damn miracle.

On a smaller scale; think about the one person you’re closest to, the one person who has your back and would take a bullet for you. Maybe you’re lucky enough to have more than one of those sorts of people, I know I do.

Take the time to tell those people that you love them. If that’s uncomfortable for you, find another way.

If you can’t remember the last time you’ve done something like that for those people, it’s been too long.

Grit

We aren’t defined by our successes. Successes propel us but they don’t have nearly as much to do with our character as our failures.

How do you get back up when you fall, or are faced with seemingly insurmountable difficulty or tragedy?

There are two ways to handle these situations. Own them, or be owned by them.

To be owned by them is to make yourself a victim. Being a victim is a choice. Horrible and tragic things may happen to you, but how you choose to define yourself in the face of such things is for you to decide. If you decide to be a victim you will likely find plenty of sympathy form your peers, and the expectations set upon you as a person will be lowered.

Is that what you want?

I don’t believe in victims, I believe in people. People are amazing, and every day I see someone surprise me with how they have chosen to handle an adverse situation.

Now, everyone’s scale is different. What may be 10 on my “Horrible Event Meter” may be a 3 on yours. 

When I say that football camp in the hot summer sun may have been one of the harder things I’ve ever had to deal with, I mean it. And because I have generally had a very positive life, it’s fair to say that my 10 is probably far less punchy than most.

Oh well, I got lucky. I have seen some tough situations though, some things I’d rather not get into here but would be happy to talk about with anyone who is curious. But I have had opportunities to label myself a victim.

Some suggest that the title of victim be modified to that of survivor.

I say fuck that.

Don’t include any title at all.

You’re a person, nothing can change that. You, with all of your strength, beauty, and imperfections comprise a person and regardless of what life throws at you, you can represent yourself in accordance to your own wishes.

Fail a test? Don’t be a failure. Study harder.

Lose a job? Don’t call your boss a dick. Take a look in the mirror and ask yourself why it happened.

Own your shit, or be owned by it.

____

I make no claim to own these traits myself. I am working on them however. Consider them, if you wish.

The Asshole In The Mirror

I can’t assess my optimism or demeanor fairly. I have said of myself that I am a positive person, I have also said of myself that, on the spectrum of care-free to intense, I tilt towards the former.

It’s come to my attention, especially recently, that my perception of who I thought I was may not align with how I am perceived by others.

I’m beginning to wonder about this as it relates to reality and truth.

I’ll start with a truth that perhaps I, and those who see me differently can probably all agree on. I have become more of a curmudgeon, and more intense as I have gotten older.

Why admit something like that? Why would I embrace the notion that I am becoming something of a spoilsport; a guy who punches holes in joy?

I’ll tell you why. I’m not punching the holes, I’m just noticing them.

My optimism has in fact grown with me as I’ve matured. It’s still very much alive. It’s alive in the love that I share for my friends and family; it’s alive when I hear an exciting new song, or see a movie that manages to move me; it’s alive when I see people all around me, from different walks of life, ignoring their irrelevant circumstances of birth and embracing one another in the name of joy, sorrow, and everything in between.

And then, of course there’s the tails to that head. The side of me that people don’t want at parties, the side of me that is responsible for having such a small circle of friends, and the side of me that makes dealing with most social interaction an unbearable chore. That’s the side that I’m proud of, because I believe it makes me special.

Here’s the deal. I do think everyone is special, but in order for that to be the case, we all have to be different. If we’re all special, and we can’t identify how, then we’re all special for the same bullshit and then none of us are special.

So yes, you who are reading this (thanks for that by the way). You’re special! Good job! Now figure out why!

For some, it’s obvious. Maybe you’re smart. Lord knows I’m not, and you probably aren’t either. Frankly, I can count on one hand the people I’ve met who I’d actually consider smart. Or maybe you’re creative, again certainly not me, and unfortunately (even though I’m sure you’ve been told otherwise) probably not you. Then there’s the hardworking, the funny, the beautiful etc. The list goes on and on, and I aint on it.

It took me awhile to figure it out, what makes me special, and now that I’m locked in on it, I think I’m ready to be the person I’ve been afraid to be.

I’m an asshole. I know that I am, I know that everyone knows it, I know that people call me it behind my back, and I so damn cool with it, because that’s what makes me special.

Being an asshole is a two-step process. First, you need the wherewithal to notice bullshit. I’ve had that down for quite a bit. You may have it too. But do you say something? Maybe, maybe not. I do. And it’s with that subtle utterance where I set myself apart.

Of course, no wants to hear it. We’re not interested in growing, or hearing about our negatives. We, as a society are currently riding the high self-esteem roller coaster, and guess what? It’s a shitty ride that goes nowhere.

But here I am; the asshole. The man who actually believes in you, and your potential, and respects you enough to tell you when you’re wrong. I claimed that I am optimistic in nature earlier in this post. I stand by that. I expect more from people than they are usually willing to show me. That, my dear reader, and not ceaseless cheer-leading is the truest and most valuable form of optimism. But who wants that?

And that’s what it boils down to, I am a man that is needed, but not wanted.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve forced myself into my current career path.

I’m a social worker who works with children and adolescents who have been sexually abused. Except for the few who know me, and I mean really know me, that has to confuse the hell out of people. 

It make sense, because I want what’s best for people. And the people who come to me are in that unfortunate state of need, and to return to a state where they can simply want is a goal, not necessarily a reality. That means that while I’m not busy stroking everyone else's ego over mediocrity, I’m in my clients' corners yelling and screaming at them to get back in the ring and not drop their right. When I work with a client, they get the straight dope from me. 

Guess what? It’s worked, every time. And I have worked with children who have seen and been through things that you are incredibly lucky to have never experienced.

I am careful with them, I am tactful with them, but we talk about the things that need to be talked about, and we work towards progress.

If they can do it, so can you.

Think my self-assessment is far reaching, inaccurate, and/or inappropriately aggrandizing? Do I just annoy the shit out of you? That’s totally cool and I understand. Let’s both do ourselves a favor and never talk to one another again.

Seriously, life is too damn short. You don’t need to be friends with everyone, you don’t need to like everyone, and you can even hate some people.

To those who still want to spend time with me, wonderful. I’ve been known to, on occasion be a decent guy to have around. I can crack jokes, I can be fun, and for the love of Batman, I’ll fucking care about you.

It’s just this asshole’s way.

Get To It, Dallas

I want to tell you about a good friend of mine. His name is Dallas.

Dallas is an unmotivated piece of shit. He has high aspirations of success and dreams of one day reaching out and touching the world in many different forms.

As he is now, he'll never get there. He's worthless. For every minute he spends working toward his ambition, he spends 20 more with his head up his ass or casually dropping in on the dreams of others as a mere observer.

I've had to be really tough on Dallas recently. No one else ever will be. You see, Dallas is a really sweet guy at heart. He never hurts anyone, he loves to laugh, and the company he keeps generally finds him to be amiable at worst and wonderful at best.

But I know Dallas better than that. I go back further with him than all of his other friends. There are some things that only I can say and do to Dallas.

I hit him yesterday.

It had to be done, and before you get carried away and call me crazy, I didn't physically hit him, it was more like a slap of reality.

I accused him of being a chronic time waster, of feeling good about a day that passes and not being filled with even one small achievement of which he could be proud, and perhaps the biggest accusation came when I told him that he's been lying to himself, and to me.

It was hard for him to hear, I felt the pain in his eyes as he was forced to face some of the harder truths he had been suppressing for so long.

That didn't stop me though. It couldn't. If I had come that far and I only left him feeling destroyed and defeated, what sort of friend would I be?

I kept on going. I listed for him all of the ways I've seen him waste time, the video games, the watching and re-watching of movies and shows, the gambling, and the hours he's spent in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what in the fuck he wanted to do with his life.

Because truthfully, he's always known.

Dallas wants to succeed, and fuck, he's capable of it.

If I didn't believe in him, I wouldn't have had that conversation. I would have let him drift through his life enjoying himself in his trivial indulgences.

But deep down, he aspires for more.

So I told him that everything must go. That he would need to remove from his life all of the things that he could not find pride in doing.

I should mention that this conversation started three months ago. Only recently did he start taking my advice.

It started with competitive video games. We recognized that his indulgence in those games gave him a false sense of accomplishment that was utterly intoxicating. You see, he'd get better at games, win more often, and his skill development in the games would translate into a false sense of self worth.

He recognized how virulent that was, and about two months ago, he cut it out of his life. He hasn't touched them since. I'm so damn proud of him.

Last night, he gave up recreational video games, as well as poker. He felt that, in the former, he was becoming too indulgent in the worlds created by others and not focusing on the worlds he intends to build. In the latter, he realized that, yet again, the competitive nature of the game and his recent upswing in skill and profit had inflated his sense of purpose and worth. But, as he aptly pointed out, the only people who knew of his triumph were the very people who were likely furious at him for taking their money.

He realized that was no way to spend his time.

I really hope that these new moves he has made stick as well as the one he made two months ago. I wish I could say that I have full confidence in him, but I don't. How could I? I've known him my whole life and despite how much I enjoy spending time with him, I've always been ashamed of him. He's been nothing but a disappointment.

I need Dallas to change. At this point in our lives, we're stuck with each other, and we both know it.  And while I've always been disappointed in Dallas, he's always looked up to me. The impetus of change, therefore, is on him.  

Well, I'm certainly rooting for him. We're just not here for that long, you know? Life is good, but it is short. When Dallas and I are both dead, and none of this matters, the minutes he has spent doing things that he was ashamed of doing won't necessarily be any better or worse than the minutes he has spent doing things that he can feel truly good about.

But right now, in this moment of life, it does matter. And when it stops mattering, we may as well both be dead before our mind turns cold.

Get to it, Dallas.

A Misheard Lyric

I love music. I also love lyrics. These two things are often argued to be separate entities, but I’ve never felt that way. Music is a large vehicle that carries different things on every one of its trips. While some can get into one of those vehicles without lyrics, it’s certainly not my typical preference. I listen carefully to lyrics, but even so, I’ll often mishear them. Now, this happens to all of us, and sometimes, we'll even swear our own versions are better than the intended original.

Whether or not that’s the case remains to be seen, however there’s something to be said for how we project our own philosophy onto content and how much things change when we do.  I’d like to share one of my favorite examples. I suggest that as you read my interpretation you pull up the full lyrics on your own to have side by side my take.

Song: Act Nice and Gentle, as performed by The Black Keys

Original Lyric: Act nice and gentle to me

Misheard as : Act nice, and gentlemanly

This is a very simple and overdone song lyric. The premise of the song is simple and you’ve heard it before.  The singer is addressing a significant other and assuring her that she doesn’t need to doll herself up, or provide him with anything more than being “nice and gentle”. The song was originally released by the Kinks in 1967, and at the time the concept was probably still not even close to novel.

Not a hurtful message, and definitely a positive one, but it’s been done better by others. See Billy Joel’s “Just The Way You Are” for a good example.

Anyway, take a look at the song from my misheard conception and that’s where you find some true originality and brilliance.

From my perspective the song certainly changes a lot. There are two possible interpretations that can derive from the shift of “gentle to me” to “gentlemanly”. The first of which, and the one that I don’t really prefer is that the singer is insisting that his significant other act more like a man in their relationship. In this case, the singer would be a chauvinist and would be relegating all of the negative behaviors he isn’t fond of to his significant other simply being a woman. So I don’t like that one.

The one I like is; the singer is a father and the song is being sung to his son. Suddenly, the song begins with a beautiful setting of a father sitting on his porch, maybe contemplatively smoking his pipe, while his wide eyed son is looking up at and taking in the wisdom.

The son isn’t old enough yet to resent the wisdom inherent to his father’s words. We know this because the song starts off with the father complaining about his son’s fancy clothes and that he doesn’t even know where he got them from. So now we know his mother has probably been taking the poor kid shopping, and likely spoiling him rotten. The father is playing the other end, just trying to keep his boy grounded. Unfortunately, his son soon begins to drift away.

In a couple of the later phrases we see the father complaining about the son’s false eye lashes. In the context of it being a son and not a dolled up woman, what we see is a father indicating that he is clearly losing touch with his son who appears to be in his adolescence and is acting like a damn fool. He’s likely “going punk” or something of that nature. The father is still insisting that he loves his boy and that he just wants to take him as he finds him, because his baby boy will always just be good enough for him. It’s a beautiful message, really. He’s still addressing his son, and really he just wants him to be a good man.

The song then comes to a close and it’s getting a little sadder, it ends with the repeating phrases “Come on baby, hold my hand. Come on baby, understand, you gotta, Act nice, act nice and gentlemanly.”

As far as I can imagine, there is really only one time an old school fella like this father would ask his son to hold his hand.

The father is dying. He no longer is making specific requests about his sons behavior, there is no time for that. Rather, he is simply requesting of his son that he holds his dying father’s hand. And, because the father is still a father, he must impart some last bit of wisdom, no judgment, no hate, just a simple message: Act nice and gentlemanly.

The original song lyrics are fine, mine are better. 

An Open Letter To My Protagonist

Dear Winston,

I have nothing but love for you. I hope that in whatever world you exist, you know and understand that.

My love for you is complete, it is total, it is unyielding. From the moment of your inception, scarcely a day goes by without me thinking of you.

As it stands now, you are unfinished, you are unrealized. Yes, I have begun the lengthy process of characterizing you, telling of your daring tales, and painting the pictures of your relationships, but I’m not done.

And I don’t know if I ever will be.

While you scratch a tally of the days into a jail cell wall of my mind, waiting to make your courageous escape, I fear that day may never come.

I am undisciplined. I want so badly for you to reach the audience you deserve, but I’m struggling with the work that it will take to get you there. I want you to know that every time I engage in one of the many leisurely activities I engage in, I’m thinking about you, and feeling horrible that I’m not working more towards you reaching your audience.

You are my first child. You are the first person that I've conceived. You started as a means to an end, a simple component of a greater entity. I had a story to write and you were going to be the vessel that took my audience to a predetermined destination.

But as I started writing the story, you quickly became more interesting than all of the other components. You became interesting Winston, because you see, I did a terrible thing, I gave you flaws.

I still feel guilty about it, but I know it was the right choice. I want people to care about you, and who would care about a perfect person? I had to do it, I really did. I had to at least try to make you relatable. You’re mine, you’re still my baby, but one day I began to realize, like most parents do, you will eventually leave me. If I do my job correctly, after all, you will be read by a large audience, not just me. I’ll need to let you leave the house.

I wouldn't be doing you any favors by coddling you with a perfect personality, flawless parents, and perfect relationships.

And not only that, horrible things are about to happen to you Winston. So far, it’s all been sunshine and roses. You’ve obtained incredible powers, everyone loves you, and you’re hanging out at summer camp. It’s not going to stay like that.

Kurt Vonnegut said that to be a good author one must be a sadist. That you have to expose your characters, no matter how much you may love them, to horrible things so that the audience may see what they are made of.

Now, I’m no Kurt Vonnegut, and I’m sorry he didn't create you, as he could have done you greater justice than me, but I’m not one to ignore the advice of my influences.

So, if I don’t finish the story, I apologize for you remaining an inmate of my mind, and if I do, I apologize for the imminent doom you are about to face.

I love you Winston, regardless of what occurs.

I needed you to know.

Lou

My New Wallet

New things bother me, they always have. A running joke in my family for quite a long time was an old wallet that I had and my refusal to replace it. It had been a pocket buddy of mine for about ten years and it showed its age.

It was tattered, frayed, discolored, and torn. 

I loved that wallet. It was an extension of myself, it carried more than just my money and cards. It carried my experiences. 

That wallet was in my pocket when I had my first kiss, it was in my pocket when I saw my first R rated movie, it was in my pocket when I flew out to Los Angeles with the wild hopes of becoming the most famous stand up comic in the world, and it was in my pocket when I returned home with my tail between my legs.

I didn't want to let it go. Its battle wounds reminded of all of the things I had endured while it was in my possession; the things that made me stronger, the things that made me better. 

Everything I had done, my wallet had done with me. It happily held some of the most important things in the world to me, and it never once complained after one of the many perilous journeys through the wash that I accidentally sent it on.

I've got a new wallet now. 

I've had it for about 2 months and I've hated using it. Every time I opened it up it didn't feel right.

But then, today happened.

First, I broke this wallet's washing machine cherry and sent it on its first sudsy journey. And then, just a few short hours ago I accidentally dropped it in a bowl I use for popcorn. Popcorn that I season with Old Bay.

And now, I'll happily call it my wallet. Because in reality, it was never about sharing an experience, it was about independent experiences. My old wallet didn't give a shit about my first kiss, it didn't care about any of that. It endured, in its own way, through the perils of being a wallet. That was enough for me.

I don't know what it says about me that I can't connect with someone or something that hasn't seem some shit, but that's just how it is for me. That's how it's always has been for me.

Maybe that's why I'm looking to be a trauma therapist some day. There's just something about the way we endure, as people, that I find to be truly remarkable.

You can bend us, you can tear us, you can run us through the wash, and though sometimes horrific, those things really end up just making us all more special and interesting in the end.

My new wallet is better than my old wallet. It's design is flawless, it is sleek and is made with superior material, but it wasn't until it showed me that it was capable of being knocked on its ass, and getting back up, that I was interested in it at all. 

The hand we're dealt with is bullshit, it never matters. Some of us get pocket rockets, and some of us get trash, the people who know what they're doing don't even need to look at their cards to make the right call. And really, the call they make is the only interesting part of the game.

My new wallet has some awesome new frays on its edges and it currently smells like the Chesapeake. God, I love my new wallet.