1442: Donut Eve Granary

Have you ever dreamt something that you could not describe later? I suspect you have. And if so, you know how frustrating it is to try and articulate the dream (or nightmare) to someone else. "In the dream," you will say. "The world was going to end." But that won't convey how mysterious the dream felt, will it? Its brew of apocalyptic flavors can be said to surpass any sensory description. "And in the dream," you might add. "There were monsters trying to eat us." Only that doesn't suffice, does it? In such words, your dream sounds like a mere tawdry horror film; but in reality, it was considerably stranger. Your mind created, or appeared to create, a great myth of abstractions for those dreamed monsters. How can you hope to describe them? Your friend (or whoever is listening) did not dream it and was not there; and if they were not there, they will not understand. You are left in a lonely place.

I am of the opinion — perhaps an unusual one — that few human experiences are stranger nor sadder. I am not saying that a lost dream is observably more tragic than, say, a school shooting or a cancer diagnosis. But it is, you will admit, a different phenomenon. Millions have grieved, and do grieve still, at the terrible headlines which are to be found. But when you leave behind this dream-world of yours, who will remember it but yourself? You are alone, then — at best misunderstood, and perhaps even disbelieved. And that's partly the reason, I think, that we feel something dreadful when reflecting on our dream-lands. In the places we visit (and abandon) by night, I believe we are tasting one of many cold mysteries in the universe. How can we recall a character in a dream who, despite their supposed lack of reality, seemed like an older and truer friend than our real ones? Or how can the stories in these odd worlds (though they lasted for only an evening) leave such a lingering riddle in our hearts? It is as though, in some other web of reality, the story truly happened — and perhaps is happening still. When the dream is over, we carry that world in our souls; but we cannot assume that anyone else will understand it. They were not there, for the dream is ours. We are left in a lonely place.

At this point, you may assume I am writing a blog entry about dreams. But my real subject today is a certain kind of story, toward which the topic of dreams is merely a bridge. There is a type of story, you see, called the "Voyage and Return" — thus christened by a well-known scholarly text. Such stories have characters who enter a "rabbit hole" to another world, then (at the end of the story) arrive at home with only the experience to their credit. It is Alice venturing to Wonderland; Dorothy traveling to Oz; Bilbo Baggins climbing the Lonely Mountain, and returning home — alone. And you will notice that these stories, regardless of whether or not they actually concern dreams, end with the same, strange sip of loneliness. For who, but Alice, has seen Wonderland? And who, but Dorothy, knows about Oz? Can anyone relate with Bilbo's lonely journey? Entangled in this story, you'll notice, is that inability to describe a dream. It does not matter if dreams are mentioned or not; it is the very same principle. The hero is fated to be misunderstood, or possibly disbelieved. And by the end of the story, the experience is only a bittersweet keepsake in their conscience. Who can understand them?

I will admit to you that this kind of story — the Voyage and Return — is closer to my own heart, and much likelier to leave an emotional after-taste, than any other in the world. It possesses, I think, an unsettling magic that can be found nowhere else. Whereas I have observed that contemporary audiences are stirred by dystopian and apocalyptic works — that people (at large) are haunted, unnerved, and sentimentally rattled by depictions of plague, totalitarianism, or nuclear war — such, I confess, are my reactions to the Voyage and Return. When I engage with a well-told story of this nature, my emotions are dipped into very strange waters. I am haunted to the extent that my reflections follow me to bed — which, suffice it to say, suggests the nature of my own psychological palate. It is not, for me, the most puzzling notion in the universe that the Holocaust happened, nor that a kitten on TV has had an abusive owner; it is the most puzzling notion in the universe for me that, somehow, certain stories belong only to us. That, by virtue of those stories, we are made to be lonely.

I have often asked myself why the Voyage and Return affects me so. Bruno Bettelheim, who was a child psychologist, said that everyone has reasons for unconscious literary favoritism. I tend to agree, and I'll admit I often feel doomed to a misunderstood (and even disbelieved) existence. Many friends are inclined to think that I am nothing more than an "enigma”— and when I try to convey that I am much simpler than that, it follows of course that I am not to be believed. It was even Christopher Booker, I think, who suggested that romantic singleness is linked with the Voyage and Return — that in such stories is a kind of hero who hasn't yet found his "princess." For in the Voyage and Return, nothing is kept but the experience; if the dream-like adventure lets you find and keep your lover, then your fantasy was (in some respect) not truly left behind. In a way, then, the dream itself is the "princess" that one remembers and thirsts for: the truth and beauty of which you know yourself capable, but which others (outside the dream) think is only your imagination. For rejection is, in essence, to be told that your enterprising self-concept is but a vision of a false world; and such connections are, perhaps, some of the pertinent emotional roots. It is both Cincinnatus (of Rome) and the 1990 Cincinnati Reds: the bumpkin(s) who had all the power in the world for a moment, then returned quietly to their houses. The journey is theirs. It is not anyone else's.

If you are perplexed without a further example, it might interest you to know that my argument itself is the example — that when I explain how I prefer The Hobbit to The Lord of the Rings, for instance, the bewilderment in my listeners is palpable. "I don't understand how you could feel that way," someone might reply — to which I would answer, "Exactly." When I enjoy The Hobbit for the reasons described above, you are not here beside me. It is a lonely opinion to have, just as Bilbo is alone at the end of (and much throughout) his journey. "But The Hobbit was written for children!" someone will say. "A children's book cannot be more profound than a novel for adults!" But if I tried to explain the enchantment of fairy-tales — if I began talking about Christopher Booker, and Jungian psychology, and Bruno Bettelheim, and all the literature devoted to unpacking the deep-seated, archetypal power in those stories written for children — you would probably say, "I don't know what fiddle-faddle you're talking about now, Bill." To which, again, the reply is "Exactly." I cannot share what I have discovered. While I was in Oz, you were off in your living-room; and if you haven't visited this world, then how can I recreate it? It is trying to describe a dream. You were not there.

That is, likewise, why this entry might seem very pointless. If it is all clap-trap to you, then you should be able to see (ironically) the point I am making in the clearest light — that my thoughts are in a very lonely place, and that heroes with a similar problem will scratch some other-worldly itch of mine. But — on a more superficial level — perhaps I am making sense. I do not abandon the prospect of being a more understood, or more "believed," or much less lonely person in the future; but even after that, I don't suspect the Voyage and Return will ever leave my deepest emotional chambers. That is, perhaps, best demonstrated by the mere existence of the paragraphs above. Now whoever is reading, may your day be blessed.

Further Readings:
The Phantom Tollbooth, by Norton Juster: which executes the classic formula masterfully; Spirited Away, by Studio Ghibli: a non-western (and quite aesthetically pleasing) glance at this kind of narrative; Secret of Evermore and Majora's Mask: two excellent examples of how this story can be applied to console gaming; The Bear That Wasn't, by Chuck Jones (ten-minute short, available on YouTube): not the definitive "Voyage and Return" structure, but an extremely relevant glance at the concept of a disbelieved hero; The Love God? starring Don Knotts: arguably not a "Voyage and Return" at all, but a (wildly successful) comedic perspective toward the disbelieved hero.

1441: A Little Diced Juniper

Have you ever read a book (or watched a movie) that, in your opinion, drew some kind of romance out of nowhere? I imagine you have. And I'm not referring, necessarily, to a romance that was contrived or useless with relation to the work; I only mean romances that – good or bad – were very sudden in terms of their appearance. I'll give you what is, in my judgment, a good example: The Graduate, released in 1967 (three days after Dr. Dolittle, in point of fact). The movie starts with one romance & suddenly jumps to another, that latter one materializing around a character who was, before that point in the film, a pretty minor personage. Now you'll recall that I am not (here) criticizing the suddenness of that particular development. I am merely saying that some works – books, too, though at the moment I'm troubled to think of a good literary example – will take some relatively minor character, and then effect a romance around them with all the rapidity of a sneeze.

I've always wondered about that kind of writing. What is it meant to capture? – stylization? verisimilitude? some resemblance to Richard Gere's marriages? Well, who in the world knows. But to the point – while I won't claim that I am experiencing this thing right now (not at all), it is true that my mind is now preoccupied in a very sudden cyclone concerning

1. you. No, it's not romantic – if anyone said so, I would laugh until Dr. Pepper came out of my nose – but it has all that suddenness which baffles me in The Graduate or those books that I'm hard-pressed to recall. A book you might know, called Pride and Prejudice – that one not difficult to recall, on account of its inclusion on my M.A. exam – gives us, perhaps, an interesting analogue as to my present meditations on you. Suddenly I am questioning my assumptions about you, bending and scrutinizing them, wondering if I carved them myself in some artificial cave of dismissal or envy. No, life is not a book, however literary & cinematic our experiences can be; and to that end, you will realise that nothing presages some starry-eyed conclusion to these ruminations. But maybe I feel that, as it were, I am now in the pages of those awkward gearshifts I could never fathom. Is there not something strange and gentle about it? Is there not a little temptation to sympathize with your smile (which, suddenly, I am aware of), to notice those preoccupations of yours (which, not suddenly, everyone is aware of), and to ask myself (more suddenly than any of Richard Gere's marriages), Who in the heck are you? Why have I never had a real conversation with you? And can you tell a real conversation from a blue wahoo?

And there is flattery involved. Flattery that anyone – anyone – would think of these questions before I did. Before you did – a flattery of which, however small, I have proof beyond a reasonable doubt. Do you see what I mean? Or are you an idiot? Are you like those hackneyed kids in Christmas movies, who say to one another, Ah, Santy Claus ain't real! despite the fact that they exist in a universe where he clearly freaking is? Or do you have it in you to be a listener? A thinker? A homo sapiens? Hmmm?

. . .
Ugh. I read something recently, which said (paraphrased),
The sign of an intelligent person is this:
Being able to entertain an idea without accepting it.
I've accepted nothing, and neither do I ask you to. But maybe that's what these abrupt emotional plot-twists are about: entertaining ideas. Entertaining ideas, we might say, that might be entertaining themselves.
. . .
Bless the Lord

1440: Anti-Conic Inquest

Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.
–(often credited to) Eleanor Roosevelt

I dislike this quotation. I agree that great minds discuss ideas – that without what some people call over-analysis, we would lack a lot of important literature – and in fact, if anyone accused me of blogging about meaningless fluff (as they have before), I might use the first part of this quotation in my defense.  But I dislike the rest of the observation. All in all, I think that it is hypocritical; by saying Small minds discuss people, the speaker discusses people. Moreover, they seem to discuss people in the same gossipy fashion which they condemn – that is, belittling others to enact a see-saw effect on their own self-importance. It’s bad enough to ignore conversations which are both people-centered and constructive; but worse than that, I think, is how the quotation reeks with the sort of motives it wants to disparage. 

Fools think their own way is right, but the wise listen to others.
–Proverbs 12:15 (NLT)

If someone is older than me, then I should like to drink their insights. That is to say, I don’t expect to impress them so much as I expect to draw from them. But did you ever sense that someone was searching for your green spots? That, in a sense, your lesser age was being used as a weapon against you? I don’t mean that learning must be crammed into a certain cubby-hole – there is no situation I can picture, to be honest, which isn't fit for seeing wiser proposals tabled. But I am suggesting that teaching might work differently – that teaching can be more or less tasteful depending on what monster you’re dealing with. Maybe we should forget about somebody’s age until certain questions come above the water; or am I crazy for thinking so?

I don’t like the idea of something existing if I can’t get a copy of it.
–B. Jones

In its native context, this confession refers to the circulation (or lack thereof) of certain home video releases.  I find the quotation interesting, however, for what it broaches philosophically. Materialism, perhaps, is an attempt to stuff history into a ball; you can’t own the history of Hollywood cinema, but a shrink-wrapped movie will lend the illusion. Nor can anyone hang their life in a picture-frame, but some try and reflect it in a castle-sized house. And if poets and their love-songs can’t be jammed in a single box, at least we can pretend our spouse is that selfsame container. When push comes to shove (and vice versa), I don’t think materialistic people are actually interested in materials – what we collect is abstractions. Yes, we, for oftentimes this precarious philosophy seems to lie at the chewy center of my soul.

I’m very social indeed. It all depends on what you mean by social, doesn’t it? Social to me means talking to you . . . Or talking about how strange the world is. Being with people is nice. But I don’t think it’s social to get a bunch of people together and then not let them talk, do you?
–Clarisse McClellan (via Ray Bradbury)

One fad of which I am thoroughly tired is a widespread obsession with antisocial identities. Not only does my generation tend to collect as many antisocial labels as possible, but it also tries to peddle those labels on those who don’t identify with them (such as myself). The quotation above – taken from Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 – is a concise deconstruction of certain social misconceptions; we would need a Bible-sized volume for all the terms which have had their definitions likewise perverted. The volvocular issue of extrovert versus introvert is probably the easiest (if most utterly boring) example – what with a whole generation of chumps led to believe that the former means loud person and that the latter means quiet person. But do you know what the upshot of all these muddles is? It’s that honesty about social nuances is difficult. These antisocial gastropods want so desperately for you to be as antisocial as they are (so they won’t have to contend with perceived inferiority, I suppose), that any confession of social challenges gets your name slapped on their cheesy subscription list. Yes, there are those on this planet who would rather lie in water-beds than socialize; but far more than those water-bed types will encounter social difficulties. Can they comprehend that?

Make new friends, but keep the old; Those are silver, these are gold.
 –J. Parry

I’ve given you a disclaimer, then, that social difficulties do not signify an antisocial person. In turn, you’ll understand that the quotation above touches on a problem of mine.  Making new friends is a piece of Coca-Cola cake; pulling them into a tunnel of deep conversation isn’t much harder. As for cultivating regular chats, that depends on few enough variables to be called relatively simple. But what about getting invited to their wedding? That, loves, I cannot seem to do. Please know I’m not referring to literal wedding invitations; my track record on that object would be an odd thing to monitor indeed. Rather, I mean the kinds of relationships which wedding invitations symbolize: ones so far planted in the roots of consciousness, that nothing can spoil their fraternity from the outside. Whereas shrinking my contact with a certain friend may cause our bond to flounder, I feel that there are other people who, within five minutes of meeting one another, know that they’ve found their next groomsman or bridesmaid. So do you see what I mean about silver versus gold? But I’ll admit my brain could be spinning some very silly webs in this paragraph; this, too, is (possibly) schlock, a chasing after the wind.

like Moses and Jesus… they went threw a period in there life were it was just them and God and it made them stronger in the Lord
–M-----

I could have used parentheses to correct your grammar, love – but I didn’t. The quotation comes from a text of yours, and the errors (if you ask me) are part of what makes it so endearing. I think of these words when I am alone; I go to your error-ridden text rather than to Kafka or to Mother Teresa. But why? Is it because your words are especially trenchant? They – in my opinion – are not. But certainly they’re the very picture of sincerity. You’ll forgive me for sometimes wondering, love, whether your brain is well-oiled enough to blandish or deceive. But sometimes when I am frightfully lonely – and I am drawn out on the deserts of unmet needs, growing stronger in the Lord – you seem no less a compatriot in my journey than do Moses and Jesus themselves. Bless you.

And whoever is reading, God bless you too. He has given us a marvelous day.
–B. Hill

1439: Trenestheses

You have heard it said (especially in courtrooms) that some things must be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. But did you ever wonder why the word reasonable was so necessary in that formula? The answer, I think, is that there are two kinds of proof –proof beyond a reasonable doubt, and proof beyond a possible doubt; and the latter type of proof does not finally exist. We can prove nothing, you see, beyond a possible doubt. Not even the previous sentence! Even if a defendant is caught with blood on his hands (and his clothing shows a hundred DNA matches), there is still a possibility that he was elaborately framed. When a jury decides that he is guilty, then, they are not saying that elaborate frame-jobs are impossible. I think they are saying that, in this particular instance, they have little reason to believe in one.

The idea goes beyond courtrooms. Just as a guilty defendant might cook up a story about how he was elaborately framed, I might cook up a story about how Coca-Cola isn’t really a liquid. No matter how much evidence you chucked at me, you could never disprove my claim beyond a possible doubt; I could, after all, make up a whole ocean of schlock involving hyperspace dimensions and the varying laws of physics. You wouldn’t need to disprove my schlock in order to disbelieve it – you could merely decide that my evidence was moronic. You see, then, that evidence is not the same thing as proof. I have evidence that the moon is made of cheese – namely, what I have read in children’s books. I have evidence, too, that the moon is made of rock – namely, what I have read in NASA books. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that one claim is evidence and that the other is not; they are both evidence. But for most people, one is decidedly more convincing than the other.

Picture, then, the mathematical asymptote: the graph in which a line draws infinitely nearer to an axis, but never quite reaches it. That, in my opinion, is what knowledge is like. Just as the line never quite touches the axis, no one can quite prove anything at all. Between the line and the axis, there is always a gulf, and the gulf is always bridged by a combination of evidence and faith. Exempli gratia:

1. When you believe that Coca-Cola is a liquid, you bridge the gap with several metric tons of evidence, and a microscopic fraction of a teaspoon of faith.
2. When you believe that you will not be killed on your way to work tomorrow, you bridge the gap with a sizeable hill of evidence, and a small pocket-full of faith.
3. When you believe that Team A will defeat Team B in the Super Bowl (or World Cup), you bridge the gap with a fair bit of evidence, but still with a rather large portion of faith.
4. If you believe that Richard Gere is secretly an ambassador to Mars, you bridge the gap with very little evidence, and with a large tank-full of faith.

In turn, I think that everyone in the universe has beliefs. When it comes to the questions which are farther from the graphical axis – who should I vote for? what happens when we die? what constitutes good and evil? – I think there are two types of believing persons in the world: those who say ‘Wasn’t I lucky to be born with the correct belief!’ and those who catch themselves, and ask, ‘But aren’t the wrong ones thinking the exact same thing?’ And among those who would ask this unnerving question, there are two salient responses.

Door Number One
It is unpleasant to imagine that a deep conviction – whether it’s yours, or belongs to someone across the world – might actually be plum wrong. Door Number One, then, attempts to reconcile this dissonance by believing in relativity and subjectivity. They mutter to themselves that there is no objective truth – and that if Person A believes that pumpkins grow on trees while Person B doesn’t, then nobody loses; they both get to be right. Besides saying a word or two on whether or not pumpkins grow on trees, I think that the easiest way to debunk Door Number One is to realise how self-refuting it is. Anyone who would mutter to themselves, ‘There is no objective truth,’ obviously believes in at least one – namely, the one they just muttered. Door Number One, then, has never interested me.

Door Number Two
Despite how strange it is to realise that a deep conviction might be wrong, there is another way to soften the sting. That is to coat your personal conviction – what you believe is objectively correct – in a layer of respect for those who oppose it. You needn’t believe that they, too, are correct (or else you are still tempted by Door Number One), but you can at least honor that they, too, are living a meaningful journey, and are trying to bridge all the gulfs on their asymptote. Exempli gratia:

Have you ever seen a sick child – for instance, a young cancer patient – partake in the opening ceremony of a sporting event? In such instances (which have become rather common), the child will often wear their favorite player’s jersey, and will express his or her support for the home team. Only a colossal nincompoop would say to themselves, ‘Well then, anyone who doesn’t root for the home team is a monster!’ – since, after all, it wouldn’t be hard to find a cancer patient who was rooting for the opposite team, now would it? An even bigger idiot would say, ‘That kid is rooting for a team I hate, so his cancer isn’t real and I don’t care about him!’ It is quite obvious (at least, to most people) why these statements sound so darned idiotic: to root for a team, after all, is not to show contempt for the lives of others. Do you see, then, that judgment is not the same thing as disrespect? That it’s possible to disagree with a larger premise without showing contempt for someone’s concerns? As much as the idiots from my analogy may seem like dumb caricatures, they actually exist in political and ideological discussions – ‘the person in this political commercial is hurt and crying, so anyone who votes for (x) is a monster,’ or ‘the crying person told me to vote for (x), and I hate (x), so I can make fun of the crying person for being dumb and misguided.’ Do you see how foolish these sentiments are? Can you see, in turn, how judgment and respect don’t need to be in competition?

Some will never see; and the terrible effect, in my opinion, is that respect is treated as a competitive advantage. It’s suddenly difficult to admit that everyone needs respect – if, after all, we have to respect things which are unfamiliar, or things which are new, or things which are strange and unconventional, or even discomforting, and things which require us to examine ourselves, or also (on the other hand) things which scholars have never written about, which warrant no references in medical journals, and which hold no particular water in an audience of doctors, nor therapists, nor psychologists, nor sociologists, and which do not involve Death nor trauma (as my previous blog entry mentioned) – ‘if I must respect any of those,’ we ask ourselves. ‘What will be left for me?’ When really, the idea of respect as a limited resource – the last cookie on the plate, which only one person will ever get – is, in my opinion, total schlock. Once we admit that everyone possesses a story (and that each of them commands a helping of respect), we realise that the limitation of the resource existed only in our imaginations.

This riddle, I think, is what’s behind the so-called snowflake phenomenon. There is nothing (to my mind) problematic with the notion of personal uniqueness, nor with the expectation of gracious treatment; the illness, as it accords with my own perspective, is that everyone is scrambling to prove it. Please think of a restaurant. Is it typical to barge into a restaurant and explain passionately to the waiters how you possess a fully functional digestive system? No; by eschewing such a time-wasting procedure, in fact, you award yourself the opportunity to eat. Am I crazy to think that our interpersonal lives ought to be the same? That a mythical competition is what constricts us? Once you are unique by virtue of common knowledge (and not by virtue of a legal case to be argued before Judge Judy), I think you’ll become a little more selfless: a little more interested in eating, and not talking about eating – interested in seeing others and their strange snow-crystals, not your own.

Personality quizzes are symptomatic of the conflict, aren’t they? They’re another attempt, I think, to hang Christmas lights on one’s own inimitable qualities (and they are only one symptom, the rest of which couldn’t be stuffed into a dozen blog entries). Nevertheless I might conclude by visiting that age-old personality quiz staple, that question I intended to answer before falling into this rabbit-hole:

Are you a Big-Picture person? Or are you detail-oriented?

Were I trying to answer the question very quickly (and without being misleading), I would say that I am knee-deep in the detail-oriented marshes. If I could answer the question using a fuller cup of precision and honesty, however, I might say that I am detail-oriented on account of being a Big-Picture person. Have you ever seen a novel broken into bite-sized chapters, each chapter with a simple and elegant title? I adore that sort of organization. Or what about the conventional Dramatis Personae device? Where a stage-play provides a full list of characters beforehand, and in turn, breaks a boat-load of drama into an organized little skeleton? I get such a kick out of that. To see large things cut up into small things is, for whatever reason, a kind of literary ecstasy for me.

My response to conflicts and tragedies seems to follow the same pattern. When people are arguing about something great and terrible – or else grieving about some horrible thing on their hearts – I take comfort by visiting the small, indisputable details. I’ve set my alarm for 9:00 in the morning, right? Yes. Or, Greene is presently signed with the Billings Mustangs, right? Yes. Little details like that.

I don’t know. Maybe those kinds of details are missing from conflict. Maybe that’s why they feel so satisfying.

1438: Salient Cubic Inn

The following entry is almost like a mix-tape. Some of the paragraphs are entirely new, while others have been rescued from a file cabinet marked, Words Which I Wrote Once, But Didn’t Feel Like Publishing At The Time. The result, in my opinion, is almost like a darker, moodier version of a previous entry called ‘Super-Cola Dilemma’ – moodier, possibly, than any faithful portrait of the present. But if you may know anything, know that the jussive suggestion at the tail-end of the entry is seemingly being affirmed; and God bless you, whoever may be reading.

1.  I saw you cry once. It made me realise what a strange and bittersweet mythos you must possess – or to put it more simply, what a profound story you are living. The fact is, we all have stories of our own. Still, just as I would rather read a good novel than a book on how to repair a cuckoo clock, I think your personal quests are more captivating than mine. I hope you find this destination you’ve been thirsting for, but even then, must wonder whether I am seeking some vicarious scratching-of-the-itch through you, some sentimental reminder that not even our strangest goals are impossible. What can I do except support your every step? Bless you. Really. And may we all learn from the path which you are treading.

I feel confident that Death and trauma are shortcuts to sensitivity. Think of a time when someone hurt you – in particular, someone who did not realise the pain they had caused. Were you ever tempted, in emotional self-defense, to tell them some strange and outrageous lie? ‘Be easy on me; I’ve just been diagnosed with leukemia.’ Or, ‘Be easy on me; both of my parents have just died.’ Rest assured that I have never told one such lie (and I understand if you’re puzzled by how hyper-analytical, and indeed, hyper-hypothetical I am being), but I wonder whether I am the only one who’s thought of it. The pith of the temptation is that we want people to understand our pain. Should we say, ‘Hey, that hurt,’ or ‘Please listen to my side of the story,’ there is a decent chance (depending on the situation) that the other party will remain unconvinced. But throw Death in the mix, and they risk the label of ‘Monster’ by dismissing you. When all is said and done, of course, I doubt there are many of us who wish to exaggerate so egregiously. But what they wish instead (I suspect) is that you can see how real and delicate their hearts are. Besides Death and trauma, part of me wishes that there were a less dishonest, but no less immediate, pathway for such revelations – that what I feel is real, and that wherever I go, I am carrying a meaningful story behind me.

2. Something happened this week, and it involved you. I’m certain that calling it a ‘mystery’ would be melodramatic, but nevertheless, found myself composing (almost by accident) a small list of explanations to account for what had happened. To put it bluntly, I don’t want to believe you are arrogant. I don’t want to think you’re engaging in that most insidious of hypocrisies, that smug self-assurance that your needs are God-approved while mine are pitiable chump change. But whether or not this week is any indication, I fear that this Can-of-Worms is potentially very nasty; and part of me, consequently, wants never to open it. But the greatest risk in this paragraph is, without a doubt, trying to pass off my shapeless speculation as actual data. I’ve often pictured having a real conversation with you, but until then, what can I pretend to know?

Have you ever known someone who tried to find the greater sufferer of their insecurity? The question is strangely phrased, I admit – but here is an example which, I think, will help you see what I am asking. I know of a woman who weighs over three hundred pounds. But it is her habit, strangely enough, to degrade women whom she considers large, or overweight. Do you see what I mean? Someone who tries to find the greater sufferer of their insecurity? If you struggle with (x), you might be tempted to prey on other (x)-sufferers (at least, those whom you perceive as such), because if you have the power to identify the illness, then surely you aren’t ill with it. Right?

3. I suppose I’m disturbed by certain things you have implied. I’m disappointed that anyone (anyone) finds it so necessary to squelch what resources I possess. Why do I emphasize the word anyone? For the simple reason that, throughout our lives, some mischief-makers are to be expected. Were I to try and characterize my old, poisonous mindset (that which preceded a pivotal, and arguably, magical October in 2015), I might show a certain fondness for the term conspiratorial. It is harebrained, in other words, to think that a few hurtful mooks are representative of the entire world. Regardless, it can be disheartening that even one such mook exists – even one!! The next time you see me, love, you’ll have no idea that I ever thought of such things. What you do know, though, is your own affair.

As little as I wish to be conspiratorial, there is one hideous thing which I cannot deny: namely, that for no reason at all, the whole world despises the state of Ohio – and Ohio, in turn, must scrape and wrestle against the temptation to despise itself. I am not clawing for a silly metaphor, nor am I fumbling for a figure of speech, when earnestly I tell you the following: that no one can hear about my love for my State, and simultaneously keep a straight face. And while I don’t wish to drown again in those old, crooked beliefs, I suspect that some of my questions (in those second-person paragraphs above) could be answered with that self-same rule – that for no reason at all, you hate me. That I can tell you nothing of what I feel, unless I want to make you laugh. That I am, in your eyes, a being who is not a being – and that part of our quest, as a result, involves finding those who are not so easily deceived.

If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own

Do you think that I chose this path for myself? Do you think that I ever would? No; but the best response, of course, is to know that you are wrong. Just as wrong as you might be, perchance, if you said that I secretly wished I came from New York. I do not, loves – so little, in fact, that it might be you who secretly wishes I were fibbing. And as I try and fulfill what He has commanded, may God keep me smiling.

1437: The White Circle

You have heard it said, ‘When God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window.’ But I am engaged, presently, in a much more curious switcheroo than that – namely, that behind the closed door is something (seemingly) custom-made for me, and through the (blatantly) open window is something I don’t suspect belongs to me. Although it is likely that those sentences suffice, there is a certain degree of emphasis to be noted; the former element is as conspicuous as a messenger whose telegram corresponds to my address, though its inaccessibility is as evident as though it were blocked by steel bars. Likewise, the accessibility of the latter element is far more than plain, or obvious – it is as if a golden stairway were leading there, and (lest we haven’t enough cartoon clichés) many flashing neon Arrows were pointing at it.

It might be insensitive to associate that latter element with a trivial object; but I mean to say that my journey is painfully clear. This quest, this Life-Walk, this ‘Road to Cincinnati’ as I have sometimes called it, is taught to me in such a way that I seem to understand it. And the path behind the Open Window is, to put it simply (and to eschew the tedium of details), anything but Cincinnatian. Similarly, to that alleged understanding is owed my perception of Destiny behind the closed door. Words, signs, locations, events – all point to the characterization which I have assigned. But I suppose that alleged understanding is the key phrase. Do I really understand it? No, assuredly not. And maybe neither of these opportunities is ‘open’ at all, except arranged in such a way that they strengthen me: That is the trial. That is the Road to Cincinnati. That is what the Psalmist calls the Path of Life.

But. That’s just a guess. For the sake of rhyme, God bless.

1. Who would have guessed it? In the past, my blogs made mention of you; and I would have assumed, with such inexorable certainty, that the days of those entries had finished.
2. I would have guessed it. That is the answer. I would have written this scene, with quite an overwhelming majority of the details which we find – all except the one.

1436: Royal Octu Noelyn

In 2012, I made a rather large mistake. I met someone who was, by and large, a very normal and relatable representation of our human journeys, except assumed that this person was sufficiently advanced (sufficiently more intelligent, and beautiful, and well-equipped when compared with the larger Human Zoo) as to contain some kind of organic panacea, of which only an elite few could allege possession. In the past, I have heard claims that my blog(s) are vague, unclear, or enigmatic; and yet, you might be relieved of those enigmas once you recognize that, in some of those wistful paragraphs written to the non-clarified ‘You,’ it was that same foolish assumption that I was letting myself dip into. To that end, I mean to say that I am tempted today. I am tempted to fill this blog with more drooling and idolizing, with a paragraph that treats one person as though they were powerful enough to trample Emptiness under their shoe. Maybe you would recognize the words which are involved: statements commenting on a state of hypnosis after looking at someone, vaporous securities which issue from daydreams, or the ‘You’-shaped hole which rests somewhere in our cartoonish physiology. But I live in a different world now (0r in moments where I flounder, I still intend to) and that is not the physiology I will grant myself. Do you understand that no Human Action-Figure carries the keys to the universe? That we are all like Stretch Armstrong dolls, whose limbs can only stretch so far until all our substance has burst? Which leads me to say,

1. Despite how tempted I am to try and transcribe the ‘magic’ which surrounds you, I will say the following instead: You are given a beautiful journey, akin to mine, and akin to everyone else’s, and one in which I would not refrain myself from maintaining a healthy interest. You have your flaws, I am certain; and you will need to overcome particular struggles and monsters. But these trials assign you neither an advantage nor a disadvantage compared with the rest of us strugglers. Yes, you have beauty (likely, in as many realms as a Coca-Cola has bubbles), but that is no mystery. That is the beauty which was poured into all of us, and which serves as a blessing in each of our lives. And if it is enchanting to see the ‘magic’ which funnels through you, the sense of belonging (of which your very company seems to be a flashing neon advertisement), then know that my spirit possesses similar magic. Should this paragraph still seem overly poetic or cryptic, then let me try and stuff its message into forty simple words: Just because you are beautiful does not mean that we need to worship you. That beauty is no tormenting enigma; it is a beauty which God wires into each of us. And I will go near Him to find it.

What can I try and say in closing? Perhaps a comment on the layout of this webpage. Once this entry is published, all previous entries will be bumped down the page; and by virtue of that mechanic, the last of my pre-Turnaround blogs will vanish from the default screen. That is a good thing, and maybe (in all humility) as good of a symbol as I can end on. Whoever happens to be reading, bless you.