Derek attacks the blank page like a serial killer attacking a victim. Every word is a blow. He wants to kill it. Kill the blankness of the page -- and if it has to be blood spattered all over the white, so be it. Killing empty space is no crime.
It doesn't matter what the words are. Strangely, Derek has always found the words take care of themselves. He's never had writer's block. Writing is a form of violent dreaming. He always has dreams (and thoughts, and feelings) so he always has words. He just puts his hands down on the paper and things come out. Later, he can shape them, sculpt the wounds in the paper.
The trouble with wounds is they're hard to line up into chapters. So Derek tends to write short pieces. And wounds can be unpleasant to look at, so he'll often write something, turn the page, and never go back. A finished story is finished. Trying to sell it, let alone read it again, is just a bad idea. Never return to the scene of the crime, he thinks. That is how they catch you.
There are volumes of murdered pages in his home. Some are hidden on shelves. Others are hidden in the hard drive of his computer. Still other victims are buried on the Internet.
Again, no one notices these are killings. It is not a crime to murder blank pages. Everyone does it. Everyone is killing empty space. When a woman walks through a room, her body murders emptiness. Even something as simple as a hand gesture can kill emptiness.
Sometimes, Derek thinks that maybe killing emptiness is wrong. Murdering blank pages is wrong. If only he could find a different way to write. If only there was a way to write that didn't kill the blankness, that kept it intact. Write white letters on white paper. Use invisible ink.
Imagine a novel of blank pages. Force a reader to stay on each page for thirty seconds. Force them to read an empty book as though it were a novel. Like monks sitting, meditating, staring at a blank wall -- but in book form. Would that be an experience of pure peace, or would it just be torture and stupidity?
For reasons Derek doesn't understand, the concept of writing blankness terrifies him. He meant it as a joke for himself, an intellectual gag, but he finds it genuinely frightening. It makes him think of the novels of Virginia Woolf. Derek hates her books. They are so empty and bland. Maybe, he thinks, she was writing blankness and emptiness.
When he was forced to read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, he felt like he was being forced to read an empty book. Stare at these blank pages. Read them. Process them.
Derek remembers nothing of the novel at all. None of it stuck. He just remembers cold, emptiness, blankness, nothing.
"I will keep killing the page," he thinks, and tries to think of this statement as a sort of passionate, angry, Hemingway statement. Bull fighting and violence and play. Fight Club. Wildness. Crazy fun.
But now that he's thought of it, he worries the blankness will creep into his words. And, in a way, he welcomes it. Somehow embracing at least a little nothingness feels like maturing, as a writer. And maybe it's empty space that joins chapter-wounds together into something as big as a novel.
Blank walls
demand
to be smeared
with shit.
Empty rooms
demand
to be cut
with gestures.
Blank pages
demand
to be soaked
in blood.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Comments are broken!
God damn it, the comments are broken. I'll ask the powers that be to fix them. I love comments.
Damn it.
Later...
Michelle fixed them. She is a genius.
Damn it.
Later...
Michelle fixed them. She is a genius.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The First Reality Is What One Can Swallow
...the infant wants to put [things] into its mouth. It was hunger, repeatedly disturbing the peacefulness of sleep, which compelled the recognition of the outside world. The experience of satiation, which first banished this tension, then became the model for the mastery of external stimuli in general.
The first reality is what one can swallow. Recognizing reality originally means to judge whether something helps to gain satisfaction or whether it raises tensions, whether one should swallow or spit it out. Taking-into-the-mouth or spitting-out is the basis for all perception, and in conditions of regression one can observe that in the unconscious all sense organs are conceived as mouth-like.
-- Fenichel, The Psychoanalytic Theory of Neurosis (1945)
Our eyes eat the world. Everything we see is chewed up and digested. It goes inside of us, becomes a part of us. And what is seen cannot be unseen, cannot be thrown up, undigested.
We don't get to choose what we eat. We're not in control. We'd like to think we're in control. Everyone wants to think they choose the menu. That's not how it works. What we perceive is what we eat. Everything goes inside of us. Everything.
We fill up. We bloat, ready to burst, fill up with all that we see, and we're still not satisfied. We're never warm and full and comforted. We eat more, and more.
Eyes are mouths. Ears are mouths. Hands. The nose. Every sense organ is constantly chewing and sucking at the world, taking it in. Making it a part of us.
You can't fight it. There's no fighting it. You were born a mouth. You suck on the world, trying to find some kind of comfort, some kind of satiation. It never happens. You will chew and suck and devour until the day you die, and you will never, ever be happy and full.
There's always more world to eat. Something else waits for us around the corner. We can't help but explore. We're curious mouths.
Sharp, stabbing, ripping teeth. Lips seeking out nipples and morsels of food. Think hyena mouths, with no hyena. We eat each other, digest each other, we're all cannibals. But no one dies. We can eat each other anew every day. Worse than vampires, worse than zombies. Worse than blowjobs and cunnilingus. Everyone is a mindless breast-feeding baby, instinctively rooting for some sort of nurturing, some kind of caring.
"You will feed me, whether you like it or not. I will drain all the fluid from you, until you're dry and dead."
There's no reason to feel guilty. They're doing the same thing to you. We feed off of each other like incestuous leeches.
Nothing can be done about it. We were born this way. Monstrous mouths and teeth and tongues, horrible pacmen roaming the earth, devouring everything. It's evolution. It's being an animal. Genetics. A biological curse.
Pretend you're cruelty free by being a vegetarian -- that won't help. Be careful not to step on ants -- so what? You can tear out all the teeth from all your mouths, and it won't do you any good. If you can see or smell or taste, you're eating the world.
When you move through space, you eat the air, the light. The sound of your steps eats the silence. Your eyes eat colour. You are a violent, stupid animal, with a cherry of consciousness on top. Just enough self-awareness to be horrified at your own existence. Just enough understanding to know what you are, unable to do anything about it.
The best we can hope for is enough sanity to eat smaller portions. No more cruelty than necessary. Swallow it down. Hold it in the belly. Keep it there, still, your stomach clenched like a fist. Call that momentarily held meal "my soul". See if that helps. I doubt it will.
If you have teeth, you need to chew. If you don't have teeth, you can still swallow. You could always swallow. From birth, onwards. You could always conquer the world, by swallowing it.
And then, eventually, the world swallows you.
The first reality is what one can swallow. Recognizing reality originally means to judge whether something helps to gain satisfaction or whether it raises tensions, whether one should swallow or spit it out. Taking-into-the-mouth or spitting-out is the basis for all perception, and in conditions of regression one can observe that in the unconscious all sense organs are conceived as mouth-like.
-- Fenichel, The Psychoanalytic Theory of Neurosis (1945)
Our eyes eat the world. Everything we see is chewed up and digested. It goes inside of us, becomes a part of us. And what is seen cannot be unseen, cannot be thrown up, undigested.
We don't get to choose what we eat. We're not in control. We'd like to think we're in control. Everyone wants to think they choose the menu. That's not how it works. What we perceive is what we eat. Everything goes inside of us. Everything.
We fill up. We bloat, ready to burst, fill up with all that we see, and we're still not satisfied. We're never warm and full and comforted. We eat more, and more.
Eyes are mouths. Ears are mouths. Hands. The nose. Every sense organ is constantly chewing and sucking at the world, taking it in. Making it a part of us.
You can't fight it. There's no fighting it. You were born a mouth. You suck on the world, trying to find some kind of comfort, some kind of satiation. It never happens. You will chew and suck and devour until the day you die, and you will never, ever be happy and full.
There's always more world to eat. Something else waits for us around the corner. We can't help but explore. We're curious mouths.
Sharp, stabbing, ripping teeth. Lips seeking out nipples and morsels of food. Think hyena mouths, with no hyena. We eat each other, digest each other, we're all cannibals. But no one dies. We can eat each other anew every day. Worse than vampires, worse than zombies. Worse than blowjobs and cunnilingus. Everyone is a mindless breast-feeding baby, instinctively rooting for some sort of nurturing, some kind of caring.
"You will feed me, whether you like it or not. I will drain all the fluid from you, until you're dry and dead."
There's no reason to feel guilty. They're doing the same thing to you. We feed off of each other like incestuous leeches.
Nothing can be done about it. We were born this way. Monstrous mouths and teeth and tongues, horrible pacmen roaming the earth, devouring everything. It's evolution. It's being an animal. Genetics. A biological curse.
Pretend you're cruelty free by being a vegetarian -- that won't help. Be careful not to step on ants -- so what? You can tear out all the teeth from all your mouths, and it won't do you any good. If you can see or smell or taste, you're eating the world.
When you move through space, you eat the air, the light. The sound of your steps eats the silence. Your eyes eat colour. You are a violent, stupid animal, with a cherry of consciousness on top. Just enough self-awareness to be horrified at your own existence. Just enough understanding to know what you are, unable to do anything about it.
The best we can hope for is enough sanity to eat smaller portions. No more cruelty than necessary. Swallow it down. Hold it in the belly. Keep it there, still, your stomach clenched like a fist. Call that momentarily held meal "my soul". See if that helps. I doubt it will.
If you have teeth, you need to chew. If you don't have teeth, you can still swallow. You could always swallow. From birth, onwards. You could always conquer the world, by swallowing it.
And then, eventually, the world swallows you.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
White Winged Crow
A crow with white wings lives in my neighbourhood. I want to be his friend. I want him to teach me how to speak crow, and tell me all the secrets of the crows in my city. Sitting up on the telephone wires, staring down at the people below. Flying over the city, screaming, "FUCK! FUCK!" in crow language. Eating dead things off the street, not caring who watches. Being crow. Feeling crow.
He could make me king of the crows. His white wings give him that power. Place a crown of pigeon bones on my head. Caw the right words in my ear. The other crows would bow before me. The white winged crow would sit on my shoulder. Royal advisor. Keeping me in line with crow beliefs. Counseling me proper, in crow etiquette and law.
King of crows is a title that comes with responsibility. Crows will come to me with their petty squabbles.
"I was in the backyard, watching the pie on the window sill, all ready to dive down, and then he comes along..."
"That's bullshit! I was there first! I was watching from the barn next door. I had dibs. He doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about..."
Judge Judy of the crows. In fact, Judge Judy might be crow royalty too. Every state, province, town -- hell, every neighbourhood might have a king or queen of crows. It's not like crows are organized. Or reasonable. Or sane.
Crows are crazy, dirty, wild. Bikers with wings. A group of them is called a "murder", but they call themselves an anarchy of crows. All flutter and strut and violence, black eyes against black feathers, staring like midget mob bosses. Everything is food, to them. And they don't care. Crows are hard. The only reason they don't have teeth is because they don't need them. They've got that beak, like a razor and a claw hammer in one.
As a crow king, I'll need to watch my back. Assassination attempts every afternoon. Crows are easily bored.
"Up for some regicide?"
"Sure. Why the fuck not?"
I'll need a cluster of semi-loyal crow underlings to protect me. My court of crows. Maybe outsource some work to owls, robins, and gulls. Crows aren't above hiring others to do their dirty work.
We'll set up our court in an empty warehouse by the river. The windows are gray with bird droppings. Our court jester is a mentally ill one legged ostrich we saved from a zoo. She hops around, the bells on her head ringing. Everyone pelts her with pebbles when she tells a bad joke.
"Never let them know you're human," the white winged crow whispers to me. "They'll stop listening you. All of them. They'll fly off, abandon you. Our kind, we don't hate humans. We just consider them beneath us. They drop the food we eat. Their cars kill the things we peck at on the road. So we need them. But we need them the same way you need wheat. No one really respects or cares about wheat."
Can't they tell I'm human? Isn't it obvious? And yet, somehow, it's not. Faking humanity for so long, it was easy to shake it off one day, become a king of crows. So many people, faking it. One day they wake up, drop their humanity on the bathroom floor like a dirty old bathrobe.
"Won't be needing this anymore. Off to better things."
And we humans fade out, become king of crows, queen of coyotes, knight of the chipmunks, lord emperor of the groundhogs. Plenty of opportunities everywhere you look, if you know how. Little colonies of animals even in the centre of the city. Last month I met the duchess of termites. It's considered the highest breach of protocol to say it, but she was a naked woman in her sixties.
We human royalty of animal worlds all have a silent pact -- never give anyone else away. Seeing as how we're all in vulnerable positions, it's an easy pact to keep.
All of this will be my life. Any day now. First thing I have to do, is talk the white winged crow down off his wire. Bring him down to street level. Have him sit on my shoulder. Become his friend. Once we're friends, it will all play out beautifully.
I need the proper lure. A bribe. Is he the sort of crow who collects shiny bits of metal? Fabrics of all different colours? Would he do it for a chunk of muffin that's just turning moldy? Blueberries, perhaps? What is it he wants?
It's a test. I can see that much. He's sitting up there, on the lamppost, looking down at me, waiting for me to figure it out. Once I find the key, once I prove myself worthy, we can get underway.
"Solve it. Solve my riddle. Solve the riddle of me, the white winged crow. Figure out what I want and give it to me. Then your life will change forever. You'll shed your humanity and live in an empty warehouse, a king of crows. It won't be an easy life, but it will be a life worth living."
***
(There really is a crow with white wings in my neighbourhood.)
He could make me king of the crows. His white wings give him that power. Place a crown of pigeon bones on my head. Caw the right words in my ear. The other crows would bow before me. The white winged crow would sit on my shoulder. Royal advisor. Keeping me in line with crow beliefs. Counseling me proper, in crow etiquette and law.
King of crows is a title that comes with responsibility. Crows will come to me with their petty squabbles.
"I was in the backyard, watching the pie on the window sill, all ready to dive down, and then he comes along..."
"That's bullshit! I was there first! I was watching from the barn next door. I had dibs. He doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about..."
Judge Judy of the crows. In fact, Judge Judy might be crow royalty too. Every state, province, town -- hell, every neighbourhood might have a king or queen of crows. It's not like crows are organized. Or reasonable. Or sane.
Crows are crazy, dirty, wild. Bikers with wings. A group of them is called a "murder", but they call themselves an anarchy of crows. All flutter and strut and violence, black eyes against black feathers, staring like midget mob bosses. Everything is food, to them. And they don't care. Crows are hard. The only reason they don't have teeth is because they don't need them. They've got that beak, like a razor and a claw hammer in one.
As a crow king, I'll need to watch my back. Assassination attempts every afternoon. Crows are easily bored.
"Up for some regicide?"
"Sure. Why the fuck not?"
I'll need a cluster of semi-loyal crow underlings to protect me. My court of crows. Maybe outsource some work to owls, robins, and gulls. Crows aren't above hiring others to do their dirty work.
We'll set up our court in an empty warehouse by the river. The windows are gray with bird droppings. Our court jester is a mentally ill one legged ostrich we saved from a zoo. She hops around, the bells on her head ringing. Everyone pelts her with pebbles when she tells a bad joke.
"Never let them know you're human," the white winged crow whispers to me. "They'll stop listening you. All of them. They'll fly off, abandon you. Our kind, we don't hate humans. We just consider them beneath us. They drop the food we eat. Their cars kill the things we peck at on the road. So we need them. But we need them the same way you need wheat. No one really respects or cares about wheat."
Can't they tell I'm human? Isn't it obvious? And yet, somehow, it's not. Faking humanity for so long, it was easy to shake it off one day, become a king of crows. So many people, faking it. One day they wake up, drop their humanity on the bathroom floor like a dirty old bathrobe.
"Won't be needing this anymore. Off to better things."
And we humans fade out, become king of crows, queen of coyotes, knight of the chipmunks, lord emperor of the groundhogs. Plenty of opportunities everywhere you look, if you know how. Little colonies of animals even in the centre of the city. Last month I met the duchess of termites. It's considered the highest breach of protocol to say it, but she was a naked woman in her sixties.
We human royalty of animal worlds all have a silent pact -- never give anyone else away. Seeing as how we're all in vulnerable positions, it's an easy pact to keep.
All of this will be my life. Any day now. First thing I have to do, is talk the white winged crow down off his wire. Bring him down to street level. Have him sit on my shoulder. Become his friend. Once we're friends, it will all play out beautifully.
I need the proper lure. A bribe. Is he the sort of crow who collects shiny bits of metal? Fabrics of all different colours? Would he do it for a chunk of muffin that's just turning moldy? Blueberries, perhaps? What is it he wants?
It's a test. I can see that much. He's sitting up there, on the lamppost, looking down at me, waiting for me to figure it out. Once I find the key, once I prove myself worthy, we can get underway.
"Solve it. Solve my riddle. Solve the riddle of me, the white winged crow. Figure out what I want and give it to me. Then your life will change forever. You'll shed your humanity and live in an empty warehouse, a king of crows. It won't be an easy life, but it will be a life worth living."
***
(There really is a crow with white wings in my neighbourhood.)
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Hunter
Young and ugly, with a shade of purple hiding behind the blue eyes. Tired. Maybe he's been drinking. Hard to say. A half smile on his face. The other half of it is a snarl. Have you ever seen someone pretending to be kidding but not kidding? Telling a joke but it's no joke?
"I hate you -- ha ha! Just teasing."
But not teasing. Evil, and pretending to take it back. But still evil.
When I was young, I saw a dead rabbit. It had jumped off a low ledge and landed on an icicle. The snow had melted, and the icicle was sticking up out of the ground like a knife buried in the dirt. The rabbit had jumped, landed on the point, and died instantly. It's a sight that has never left me. A meaningless, random death.
One second, a rabbit, running. The next, dead.
He's like this -- the man. The young, ugly man. Hard to tell if he's the rabbit or the icicle. He's one or the other.
I'm not entirely sure he's human. Some people, when you look at them, emit a vibration meant to comfort you. Just another human being. Just like you.
Only they're not. Maybe a zombie -- human shell with no inside, no thought, no soul. Or worse. A human shell with alien insides. Not alien, as in from outer space. Alien, as in not human. Beyond foreign. His own sort of rules and purpose. Playing a game no one else can comprehend.
For example, maybe every time he sees a red headed woman holding a yellow umbrella, he scores a point. His purpose is to get a high score. But it could be anything that gets him a point. A sound. A smell. An action. Every time he makes a child cry. Every time he smiles at a dying animal. Every time he sticks a fork into the back of an old woman's hand.
It could be any or all of these things. And he's half smiling, half snarling. He walks among us. His eyes, his vibration. Purple. Somehow the colour purple fits into it. He's all bruise. His blood, pooling under every inch of his skin. You can't see the bruise, but you can feel it. Looking at him, my empathy is activated. I can feel his all over bruise, even if he can't.
Icicle or rabbit? Either way, he's dangerous. About to die or about to kill. His footsteps are very soft. The concrete sidewalk seems to turn to rubber under his shoes. His lips, curling and uncurling -- snarl and smile and snarl and smile.
I'm afraid of him. I follow him. Into a diner. He sits and orders french fries. He doesn't eat them. Did this earn him a point?
He goes into the bathroom and writes something on the bathroom wall with a magic marker. Then he leaves the diner. I go into the bathroom and see the letters. They're still wet.
"Stop following me."
That's all. He never looked at me. He never said anything. There's absolutely no reason he should know I've been watching.
I worry he's the icicle. I worry I'm the rabbit. I decide to give this game up. I'm not entirely sure how I score points either. Maybe following him. Finding things out. Now I need to change the rules. Find a new game. Again.
I rub my hand over the wet letters on the bathroom wall and smear them into a black, blurry cloud.
"I hate you -- ha ha! Just teasing."
But not teasing. Evil, and pretending to take it back. But still evil.
When I was young, I saw a dead rabbit. It had jumped off a low ledge and landed on an icicle. The snow had melted, and the icicle was sticking up out of the ground like a knife buried in the dirt. The rabbit had jumped, landed on the point, and died instantly. It's a sight that has never left me. A meaningless, random death.
One second, a rabbit, running. The next, dead.
He's like this -- the man. The young, ugly man. Hard to tell if he's the rabbit or the icicle. He's one or the other.
I'm not entirely sure he's human. Some people, when you look at them, emit a vibration meant to comfort you. Just another human being. Just like you.
Only they're not. Maybe a zombie -- human shell with no inside, no thought, no soul. Or worse. A human shell with alien insides. Not alien, as in from outer space. Alien, as in not human. Beyond foreign. His own sort of rules and purpose. Playing a game no one else can comprehend.
For example, maybe every time he sees a red headed woman holding a yellow umbrella, he scores a point. His purpose is to get a high score. But it could be anything that gets him a point. A sound. A smell. An action. Every time he makes a child cry. Every time he smiles at a dying animal. Every time he sticks a fork into the back of an old woman's hand.
It could be any or all of these things. And he's half smiling, half snarling. He walks among us. His eyes, his vibration. Purple. Somehow the colour purple fits into it. He's all bruise. His blood, pooling under every inch of his skin. You can't see the bruise, but you can feel it. Looking at him, my empathy is activated. I can feel his all over bruise, even if he can't.
Icicle or rabbit? Either way, he's dangerous. About to die or about to kill. His footsteps are very soft. The concrete sidewalk seems to turn to rubber under his shoes. His lips, curling and uncurling -- snarl and smile and snarl and smile.
I'm afraid of him. I follow him. Into a diner. He sits and orders french fries. He doesn't eat them. Did this earn him a point?
He goes into the bathroom and writes something on the bathroom wall with a magic marker. Then he leaves the diner. I go into the bathroom and see the letters. They're still wet.
"Stop following me."
That's all. He never looked at me. He never said anything. There's absolutely no reason he should know I've been watching.
I worry he's the icicle. I worry I'm the rabbit. I decide to give this game up. I'm not entirely sure how I score points either. Maybe following him. Finding things out. Now I need to change the rules. Find a new game. Again.
I rub my hand over the wet letters on the bathroom wall and smear them into a black, blurry cloud.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Silence = Death
I'm sitting there, listening to Ed spewing bullshit, silently disagreeing with him. Actually telling Ed I disagree seems like too much effort. Ed will argue with me for hours, and I don't have the energy. So instead I think, "I don't agree with that, but I'll just wait until Ed talks about something else."
Of course Ed takes my silence to mean agreement. Which is fine. Who cares if Ed gets me wrong? Sure, it could make for complicated relations down the road, when he finds out I was just humouring him. So what?
Only now, the real horror of that situation strikes me -- on some level, listening politely while silently disagreeing isn't enough. Ed's ideas leak in. Ed's beliefs leak in. Years from now, sitting down and contemplating my beliefs, I'll find little crumbs of Ed scattered through my brain.
I asked a friend, "Is this really how people work? Is it just me? Am I crazy?"
She said it happens to her too -- particularly with her mother.
It could be a friend, a boss, some "expert". It could be anyone. But parents seem like the most obvious example. Growing up, they influence us in a billion different ways that never fully register. It takes a lot of insight and personal exploration to realize just how much of mom and dad's bullshit shaped who we are today. Beliefs and biases creep in, and we could not even know it.
I don't know that there's any way to prove my silent disagreement notion. Sure, there are studies on cognitive dissonance and all that. This feels different. It could explain how advertising works. Or how society unites as a whole. Maybe even how the Nazis got their death camps. It's not about force, and it's not entirely about authority.
It's about being polite, and silently judging, without taking any action. Maybe politely biting our tongues does more than just keep the peace. Maybe it lets other people's beliefs leak into our heads.
This is probably why we should yell at our television when it tells us something stupid. It stops the stupid at the door. Maybe a conversation is more than just talking. Maybe it's a telepathic rearranging of the furniture in our heads. If you let someone in, and rearrange the furniture, you're doing yourself a disservice.
You can't just think, "That couch shouldn't be against that wall. This woman is an idiot!"
It's your couch. Grab it, and put it back, or risk terrible feng shui in your own head.
At work, everyone is losing their minds about the H1N1 swine flu virus. Purell is everywhere. When I turn my computer on in the morning, I get a screen that gives me facts about the virus. (Washing my hands is supposed to save my life.) My boss tells me she's working on an emergency plan on the off chance we experience 100% staff off sick.
A coworker says to me, "Oh, thank goodness for Purell! When I leave the bathroom, I open the door with a paper towel. There are germs on the doorknob, you know. And why don't they have Purell in the servery rooms? That's where it should be."
I'm not letting this craziness in my head, I thought. And I'm going to politely disagree.
"You know, there are studies that say all this antibacterial soap and ooze is getting into the environment, killing off weaker bacteria, allowing the more serious stuff to take over. That's why some antibiotics aren't working any more. Purell is everywhere, and it might be doing us more harm than good."
To my surprise, she agreed with me. "That's what my pediatrician says. Soap and water is good enough. But what are you supposed to do when soap and water aren't available?"
We talked it out a little more after that. And I have to wonder -- is every conversation a struggle of some kind? That's an exaggeration, of course. But something about it feels right. The idea that silently disagreeing with people isn't enough. I need to speak my side, or lose something.
The meek won't inherit the earth. They'll be pushed to one side by the strong.
My coworker is germ phobic -- opening bathroom doors with paper towels. Maybe I'm conversation phobic -- afraid of the idea germs (memes) infecting me?
Only some memes deserve to be let in. Some thought diseases are fine. It's not about blocking all ideas from getting into my head -- just the ones I can immediately tell are not for me.
Of course Ed takes my silence to mean agreement. Which is fine. Who cares if Ed gets me wrong? Sure, it could make for complicated relations down the road, when he finds out I was just humouring him. So what?
Only now, the real horror of that situation strikes me -- on some level, listening politely while silently disagreeing isn't enough. Ed's ideas leak in. Ed's beliefs leak in. Years from now, sitting down and contemplating my beliefs, I'll find little crumbs of Ed scattered through my brain.
I asked a friend, "Is this really how people work? Is it just me? Am I crazy?"
She said it happens to her too -- particularly with her mother.
It could be a friend, a boss, some "expert". It could be anyone. But parents seem like the most obvious example. Growing up, they influence us in a billion different ways that never fully register. It takes a lot of insight and personal exploration to realize just how much of mom and dad's bullshit shaped who we are today. Beliefs and biases creep in, and we could not even know it.
I don't know that there's any way to prove my silent disagreement notion. Sure, there are studies on cognitive dissonance and all that. This feels different. It could explain how advertising works. Or how society unites as a whole. Maybe even how the Nazis got their death camps. It's not about force, and it's not entirely about authority.
It's about being polite, and silently judging, without taking any action. Maybe politely biting our tongues does more than just keep the peace. Maybe it lets other people's beliefs leak into our heads.
This is probably why we should yell at our television when it tells us something stupid. It stops the stupid at the door. Maybe a conversation is more than just talking. Maybe it's a telepathic rearranging of the furniture in our heads. If you let someone in, and rearrange the furniture, you're doing yourself a disservice.
You can't just think, "That couch shouldn't be against that wall. This woman is an idiot!"
It's your couch. Grab it, and put it back, or risk terrible feng shui in your own head.
At work, everyone is losing their minds about the H1N1 swine flu virus. Purell is everywhere. When I turn my computer on in the morning, I get a screen that gives me facts about the virus. (Washing my hands is supposed to save my life.) My boss tells me she's working on an emergency plan on the off chance we experience 100% staff off sick.
A coworker says to me, "Oh, thank goodness for Purell! When I leave the bathroom, I open the door with a paper towel. There are germs on the doorknob, you know. And why don't they have Purell in the servery rooms? That's where it should be."
I'm not letting this craziness in my head, I thought. And I'm going to politely disagree.
"You know, there are studies that say all this antibacterial soap and ooze is getting into the environment, killing off weaker bacteria, allowing the more serious stuff to take over. That's why some antibiotics aren't working any more. Purell is everywhere, and it might be doing us more harm than good."
To my surprise, she agreed with me. "That's what my pediatrician says. Soap and water is good enough. But what are you supposed to do when soap and water aren't available?"
We talked it out a little more after that. And I have to wonder -- is every conversation a struggle of some kind? That's an exaggeration, of course. But something about it feels right. The idea that silently disagreeing with people isn't enough. I need to speak my side, or lose something.
The meek won't inherit the earth. They'll be pushed to one side by the strong.
My coworker is germ phobic -- opening bathroom doors with paper towels. Maybe I'm conversation phobic -- afraid of the idea germs (memes) infecting me?
Only some memes deserve to be let in. Some thought diseases are fine. It's not about blocking all ideas from getting into my head -- just the ones I can immediately tell are not for me.
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