WonderBlog

Next week I will be in HELSINKI!

I am very very excited. I will not be there long, but I want to breathe the air and look at the streets.

I have been reading, and have almost completed, the finnish national legend:
KALEVALA

This story rocks my world. I love these kind of stories, where magic things happen and heros run around doing things.

I am sad to discover how wretchedly the women are treated in this story. But so much of it is so overwhelmingly stupendous that I forgive them.

The story was told. It was told for hundreds of years. Someone finally wrote it down in the middle 1800s. This guy went around finland trying to capture all the pieces of the story, and finally found the last piece in the mouth of a very old storyteller. The old man was really old (did I already say that..?) and the story gatherer was very relieved to get all the last pieces.

Once the guy published the Kalevala, Finland exploded with happiness. They are STILL not over it...In fact, the country started it's own independence because of this awesome book.

It is a deep and wide thing, this story. And I will have the story in my head as I walk the streets of Helsinki. I think the streets might very well be named after the heros in the book.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 05:53 PM | Permalink

It is a constantly running train of thought, but here lately it’s been on my mind—the difference between men and women.

I love men. And I love being a woman. It seems to me that these two, when done right, are very complementary.

I know Chris and I work together very well. We have great love and respect for one another, and we manage to do really well on the various projects and entertainments we take up.

There are other men I have known on the job, who I can really click with, who give me respect and collegial affection. I’ve love working with them and miss them terribly when I’ve had to move on.

What is it that men and women give each other? It’s so much more than just procreation. We are broader than that. What, really, do we need each other for?

Of course, need is relative. Do I NEED to go to the gym and work out in the morning? Not really. NEED is for survival. Food, shelter, air.

But perhaps I am too stoic. Perhaps, for the time being, I can count the survival as a given, and set the bottom standard a little above DEATH.

About 8 years ago, I came to the conclusion that it is best not to need anyone for anything. That I am responsible for myself and myself alone. I wanted to be independent and able to get whatever I needed. I didn’t want to have to wait for someone else to get me what I needed.

It turns out I was very able. I pushed my abilities and pruned my wants appropriate to my circumstances. I learned how to be independent and not need things.

But that opened up other questions.

During our first year, while trying to figure all that out, I asked Chris, “If we don’t need each other, what will keep us together?”

He really didn’t understand the question, but he answered: “We will love each other.”

At the time, it was hard for me to understand how he would stay—how could I be sure?—if he wasn’t dependent on me in some way. He should need me.

I’ve learned a lot from trusting his love.

It turns out that instead of being dependent on someone, you can value them highly. In the same way that you would be unwilling to part with an object of value and beauty, you would be unwilling to part with a person of high value and beauty.
And knowing what I value in him, I can try to foster those same things in myself. When I look at myself honestly, I can see that I am of high value. And I can feel confident that he would want to be with this good stuff that is me.

Okay, that’s the micro. What’s the macro? What do men and women need from each other? What desirable thing is it that we are particularly suited to give to each other?

Earlier this summer, I had that highly annoying conversation with a co-worker. You know the one.

“Men and women cannot be friends, because men only want to sleep with the woman.”

Basically, this argument means that men have no use for any part of a woman except…well, you know what I mean.

He brought it up, because I’d met someone who I thought was interesting but who obviously was attracted to me. I’d hoped that he might get over it and be a friend.

“OH no,” co-worker said. “Let me tell you something about men: they never want to be your friend.”

I brought up examples and hypothetical situations. It was a slow day, and we were getting into it. But he was adamant. Friendship was impossible.

I threw this back at him, “So what you’re saying is, while I want to be friends with a guy, he has no interest in my conversation or friendship. Since I am nothing to him, the only thing I’m going to get out of interactions is whatever entertainment I can create….So I should be the biggest possible bitch so that I can get maximum entertainment value.”

The rest of the guys were laughing, but he wouldn’t back down. “I’m telling you, guys do not want to be friends. Ever.”

Well, that made me depressed for a few days afterwards. Upon reflection, I took away two things:

Guys who have that conversation with females are hoping for something. Note to self: avoid that sort of discussion. It’s just an excuse for guys to talk about sex. I thought I had learned that lesson my first year in college, but I guess I forgot. Or hoped that maturity was more widespread than it is.

Also:
Guys who hold that belief have no clue what to do with the huge amorphous feelings they have about women.
Women are highly desirable, but barely understood. The desire they feel is so scary, they try to cover they metaphorical nakedness with this little insufficient scrap called “sex.”

If they have an answer, they can stop asking the question. It matters little that the answer is wrong (or at the least, insufficient). They can put to rest the discomfort of their ignorance with it.

So that leads to another question. What is it that women give men?

I once knew this guy. He was a friend of my ex. He was the most misogynistic young man (~26) I have ever met. He literally had no interest in anything I had to say. I was a woman, and did not count.

It was kind of stunning to realize this. He was never rude, but he treated me as if I were his friend's cat--simply not a source of intelligence.

He had been dating a 16 year-old (get this, ASIAN). Typical stereo-type. How much more controlling can you be? It was a half-step removed from a mail-order bride. He got married her when she told him he’d gotten her pregnant.

I’d never met her, even though we knew this guy for years while they were dating.

Long story short, after baby boy was almost 2, turned out that wifey had had a boyfriend they whole time and the child was his. She left Mr. Misogynist. He was devastated.

During this bad time, after his wife and erst-while son had left him, he called to talk to my (then) husband. When I told him I was the only one home, he wanted to talk.

I thought he had brought this disaster on himself somewhat, but I felt bad for him. I knew he was hurting.

But the amazing thing is, he wanted to talk to ME.
ME.
The woman he had no use for. The female who might as well have stayed in the kitchen and walked three steps behind for all he cared.

He really wanted to talk to me. He really really wanted to hear words from a kind female. That was all. We talked about small things for maybe 45 minutes.

He needed what I had. He needed womanhood.

I don’t know the boundaries of what masculinity and femininity are. I suspect they are not hard and fast.

But we need each other. And we need each other to be strong and independent in order to receive the good stuff from each other. I think that if we could learn to work together like that, the whole world would change and be beautiful.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:49 AM | Permalink

Hmmm...thoughts are floating around in my head today.

On the way in to work, I listened to Instapundit's podcast on Marriage and Caste. Ms. Hymowitz has a lot to say, and talks about how marriage is a very valued institution in America.

She also mentions that in the 50s, people got married even younger than ever before. Younger than now, that's for sure. My best research says ladies got married at age 20, on average.

Now...about the 50s...I spent this week sick at home in my cute house.

That house that I love so much and am renovating to look modern, just like the time period it was built, in 1950.

It is staggering, how much was changing in the 50s. They talk about the 60s being a time of revolution, but that was just the people catching up with...well...everything!

okay, the teens and 20s were wild and crazy and full of ideas and wealth. Yes, the wealth and ideas were churned by the Great War, what we now call world war one. Hopelessness, the Flu that killed almost anyone that was left standing after the trenches were abandoned.

Meaning? God? What did that mean to anyone at those times? Wild and free to be...wild and free.

But then the depression knocked the wind out of everyone. Resources? Invention? Everyone was too busy making sure they could eat.

Well, Hitler came along and saved us all by being as evil as anyone could be. Hooray! Let's fight him. Let's everybody fight him.

And in doing so, the economy got back on it feet. There was fighting to be done. And work to be done at home, Rosie. There are ships to put together, and enough work for even the ladies to have paying jobs.

They worked, and they worked together. Everyone sacrificed for a reason. We won the war, evil was smashed and the world was once again as it should be.

But all the pressure that the century had put on people up to that point exploded into the 50s.

It's hard for me to understand how modern the Modern age of 1950 was. How very very much had changed as how fast.

I was researching paint. They said that there were colors that were invented for the first time, because they had the chemical know-how then. That the pinks and pastels and bright colors finally got to be used.

The war had rationed even colors.

And the depression...well, that was entirely in Black and White. Like Fred and Ginger.

Refrigerators and washing machines. And those incredible cars! Modern and sleek and dreamy.

And what did people want to do with this beautiful new world of promise?

they wanted to get married. and live in little houses with a yard and a garage.

and as soon as possible, thank you very much.

We look back at these stories. Ozzie and Harriet. Leave it to Beaver.

I've always thought of them as traditional. But they were not. They were very very modern.

which is kinda blowing my mind right now.

On the other hand, why not have a cute little family in a safe little house that has every comfort in it? In so many ways, isn't that the pinnacle of what we could wish for?

Not the 60s kids, though. They had to tear it down. They wished for anything but.

maybe because they already had it.

Hmmm......

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:48 AM | Permalink

a tufa on modernism and marriage

Hmmm...thoughts are floating around in my head today.

On the way in to work, I listened to Instapundit's podcast on Marriage and Caste. Ms. Hymowitz has a lot to say, and talks about how marriage is a very valued institution in America.

She also mentions that in the 50s, people got married even younger than ever before. Younger than now, that's for sure. My best research says ladies got married at age 20, on average.

Now...about the 50s...I spent this week sick at home in my cute house.

That house that I love so much and am renovating to look modern, just like the time period it was built, in 1950.

It is staggering, how much was changing in the 50s. They talk about the 60s being a time of revolution, but that was just the people catching up with...well...everything!

okay, the teens and 20s were wild and crazy and full of ideas and wealth. Yes, the wealth and ideas were churned by the Great War, what we now call world war one. Hopelessness, the Flu that killed almost anyone that was left standing after the trenches were abandoned.

Meaning? God? What did that mean to anyone at those times? Wild and free to be...wild and free.

But then the depression knocked the wind out of everyone. Resources? Invention? Everyone was too busy making sure they could eat.

Well, Hitler came along and saved us all by being as evil as anyone could be. Hooray! Let's fight him. Let's everybody fight him.

And in doing so, the economy got back on it feet. There was fighting to be done. And work to be done at home, Rosie. There are ships to put together, and enough work for even the ladies to have paying jobs.

They worked, and they worked together. Everyone sacrificed for a reason. We won the war, evil was smashed and the world was once again as it should be.

But all the pressure that the century had put on people up to that point exploded into the 50s.

It's hard for me to understand how modern the Modern age of 1950 was. How very very much had changed as how fast.

I was researching paint. They said that there were colors that were invented for the first time, because they had the chemical know-how then. That the pinks and pastels and bright colors finally got to be used.

The war had rationed even colors.

And the depression...well, that was entirely in Black and White. Like Fred and Ginger.

Refrigerators and washing machines. And those incredible cars! Modern and sleek and dreamy.

And what did people want to do with this beautiful new world of promise?

they wanted to get married. and live in little houses with a yard and a garage.

and as soon as possible, thank you very much.

We look back at these stories. Ozzie and Harriet. Leave it to Beaver.

I've always thought of them as traditional. But they were not. They were very very modern.

which is kinda blowing my mind right now.

On the other hand, why not have a cute little family in a safe little house that has every comfort in it? In so many ways, isn't that the pinnacle of what we could wish for?

Not the 60s kids, though. They had to tear it down. They wished for anything but.

maybe because they already had it.

Hmmm......

Posted by Murphy Horner at 09:47 AM | Permalink

Never enough

Not so long ago, I came to the conclusion that I am a deeply unsatisfied person. Almost at any given moment, I am thinking of how that moment could be better. How I could be doing something, being something, or experiencing something higher.

I usually consider it my own fault—that I am not organized enough to be the best self I can be. Or perhaps I am lazy and slothful. And St. Paul’s words echo in my mind: the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do [Romans 7:19]

I never get around to doing what I want to do, but all the shit I say I will stop doing—that’s what I end up being very faithful with.

For these and many other reasons, I figured out that I am just an unsatisfied person. This will not change, and I had better find a way of living with it.

I don’t mean that I don’t have things I enjoy. There are also the exciting and exceptional moments of action that absorb my total attention. Sometimes I get in the zone while writing; very very often when I am dancing I am utterly taken away, and sometimes a project can fill me and satisfy me well.

But those are rare and precious moments. For all the other moments, I am wishing for the higher thing—the greater, the more.

I was trying to explain this to Chris. The explanation went somewhat awry, since he is a sweet and wonderful man who wants me to be happy. For him, it is not a good thing for me to be unsatisfied. It is a problem, and must be fixed.

We are both interested in my happiness—he even more than I. But this new understanding I had about my nature seemed both under and over the stuff of “happiness.” Metaphysical realities are not so susceptible to temporal fixes.

But what was it I had really discovered? What did I mean by all this? Maybe it is really a personal problem, something that pills or prayer would fix.

Maybe it was all in my head.

But then I read this from John Stuart Mill:

It is indisputable that the being whose capacities of enjoyment are low, has the greatest chance of having them fully satisfied; and a highly endowed being will always feel that any happiness which he can look for, as the world is constituted, is imperfect.

But he can learn to bear its imperfections, if they are at all bearable; and they will not make him envy the being who is indeed unconscious of the imperfections, but only because he feels not at all the good which those imperfections qualify.

It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question. The other party to the comparison knows both sides.

Mill, no fool, got it! I discovered my dissatisfaction on my own, but I am not on my own in the feeling.

AND I am a “highly endowed being.” I’ll take that.

Of course, I am also required with my endowments, to bear all the imperfections I so keenly perceive. That brings my mind back to the Bible, this time the red letters of Jesus’s words:
For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more. [Luke 12:48]

I guess the Endower of my gifts would have a right to require me to do something with them.

And I would not have it any other way. I want to be and make the best of myself that I can.

I’ll just have to find a way to bear my imperfections.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 09:43 AM | Permalink

I love to cook.

I don't get much of a chance to do it, because I always thought I was the only one who would eat what I ate. Chris is very finicky, to my thinking. He doesn't appreciate the experimental.

But this is Thanksgiving, and officially the time to cook and bake. I've been longing to make a pie for weeks now. A good pie is a glorious thing. In fact, I had expressed my longing for piemaing at work and the we all had talked about favorite pies. Rhubarb was a favorite, and also very tart fruit pies. I told them of my walnut pie, which is a regional innovation.

However, our cupboards were bare, and we had to go shopping.

"We have to stock up. Lots of things will be on sale." I told Chris.

"I think you're wrong. I don't rememer things being on sale for Thanksgiving."

"YOU are wrong. I know for sure that things will be on sale. The will have the buy-one-get-one-free sale on things like sugar and flour."

Chris thought that stocking up on sugar and flour was a bad idea. He hardly ever uses flour.

In the store, I was checking on the sugar and flour prices, but he was scoping out the mixes. He has a thing for Betty Crocker. He likes to look at all the pictures of delcious things and think about eating them. He does the same with the dessert menu at restaurants. But the fact is, he seldom eats them.

There were a lot of mixes on sale. He came back over to the cart with a mix for cinnamon coffee cake.

"Baby, you don't need a mix for coffee cake! That's very easy to make. I could make you one, if you really want one."

"But.." he looked at the picture on the package. "It wouldn't have cinnamon."

He's adorable.

So back at the house, I had some baking projects to do.

To my dismay, I had misplaced my holy cooking book, "The Joy of Cooking." I know it's here somewhere, but I can't find it.

Well, no problem. I have the internet! Coffee cakes should be easy to find.

It turns out that internet recipes for cinnamon coffee cakes favor ingredients like sour cream, buttermilk and apples. Didn't pick those up at the store. They also like nuts, which is anathema for my sweetheart. THIS at least I have learned in our time together.It took me into page three of the search results to find an appropriate recipe.

When I mixed it up, and I make twice as much streusel as they called for, because I love Chris and he loves streusel. I made him watch as I sprinkled the streusel on, so he could appreciate what I was doing.

It came out pretty good.

Of course, while the cake was baking, I began to work on the pie.

Pies are a glorious food. Really and truly. On the whole, they are ridiculously simple to make. Except for the crust. But many people choose to have a premade crust, so that takes care of that.

If you ever want to impress someone with cooking skills you don't think you have, make a pie with a premade crust. Pies are only a half a tick more difficult than instant pudding. I mean, geez! You just mix up about 4 ingredients, pour it into a pie crust and cook it. WAY easy.

But, I am not satisfied with premade crusts. I want a little challenge in all this. I want to master the crust.

The last pie I made was lemon meringue, last december. And the crust was too tough.

I hoped to do better with this iternation. I wanted to use my grandmother's pie crust recipe.

My grandmother died during the holidays of 1995. Mom was called to the hospital before she died, and she asked me to come with her. We were able to be with Grandma in her last few days.

I had not grown up near my grandmother. I just didn't know her that well.

But after she had passed we were eating holiday leftovers at my aunt's house, . I was munching on this key lime cheesecake pie.

I exclaimed: "This crust is really good!"

My cousin, who had always grown up around my grandmother, looked at me incredulously. "Yeah," she said, "That's grandma's pie crust. Didn't you know she was famous for her crust?"

Yes, actually, I had heard that. But, I'd never had a chance to taste it. It was only a posthuous pie that let me know.

So, I looked up grandma's pie crust recipe. It was a very different concept from the recipe of the former failed crust attempt.

I mixed up a walnut pie, using the recipe on the back of the Karo syrup bottle. I made two changes:
1. I used walnuts instead of pecans
2. I splashed in a little brandy. Brandy is very yummy.

Walnut pie was introduced to my family by my sister-in-law Karen. Her grandmother's best friend had a walnut tree in the front yard. As Karen said, "That's a lot of walnuts. You come up with as many ways to use walnuts as you can. Therefore: Walnut pie."

But I like it for it's own sake. Plus, Walnus are cheaper than pecans. And it's unusual, so it makes me feel cool and creative.

Karen always used the half walnuts, but one year I could only find chopped walnuts for sale, and I like how that ended up looking. So now I always use the chopped walnuts.

Here, dear readers, is the resultant pie:

Now, that was not enough. I wanted to make cranberry sauce for the dinner. My brother Mark is an excellent cooker of cranberry sauce. Therefore, I am sad when we must resort to canned cranberry sauce.

HOWEVER. Chris's grandmother has a doctor's injunction against seeds. But, I thought...I can strain out the seeds an make a cranberry jelly, instead of a cranberry sauce.

All I have to do is cook up the cranberries and then strain them through a cloth to get the juice and keep the seeds out.

I love cooking fresh cranberries. The skins POP when they are boiling. It's cool.

Straining the pulp was a bit harder than I thought. Probably because I was impatient and did not wait for the cranberry mush to cool. This is what it looked like when I was done:

That's the strained part, not the jelly part. The jelly part is jelling in the fridge. It may need to be put back on the stove with some cornstarch. We'll see.

But that was what I did all night. I love to cook, but I'm pretty tired after that.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:42 AM | Permalink

Every woman has a mirror

Every woman has a magic mirror in her heart. In it, she can see foggy images that others don’t see. She can see her family her friends, and the wider world in that mirror.

She will share her visions with the man in her life. For him, to believe what she sees takes faith.

If he doubts, it infects her and the mirror gets even foggier. And she may need to fight him to find her mirror again.

But if he can find that faith, her vision grows stronger. She can believe and be strong and wise. Both of them will be blessed.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:41 AM | Permalink

Ask to the Answer

Okay, i thought of what I want to write about. It's disorganized, but let me see if I can explain it.

"Open-Minded" used to be a popular phrase. I don't hear it as much as I used to, but certainly, "Closed-Minded" is a well-established bad thing.

I am seeing more and more the stance that used to connote open-minded as being a closed minded one.

I met a woman at a social event, and she worked with gangster kids. This caught my interest right away. 'Tell me more about that. I am astonished at the lack of attention given to helping kids stay out of gangs.'

She was surprised at my interest. "What do you want to know?"

I said that I thought we needed to ask until we got an answer. That we should not stop and be satisfied with the bad situation that our children are in.

She was taken with that idea. To ask until you find an answer. But she wasn't sure you could ever find an answer. In any question, really.

She had a good point. What happens when you find the answer? Are there questions with no answers?

I believe no. There are no questions without answers.

But then, like the hitchhiker's guide tells us, are you sure you are asking the right question?

Often, the answer to a question will be another question. And when you reach that the question/answer to the question, have you made progress?

I believe yes. I believe that as we sincerely question, even if our questions result in more questions, the understanding broadens. And when we understand we can do more or better than we have before.

I like people who question. I like it when people ask. But I have noticed there are people who ask, but do not believe in the answer. Not that they think the answer isn't correct, but the deny the premise of an 'answer's existence.

They enjoy questions, but only for their own sake. No answers required, or, indeed, allowed. These clever people can deflect any proposed answer with reasons to deny it.

It is as if they wish only to maintain the integrity of the perfect unanswerability of the question.

They stick tot their question until a new more intrigiung question presents itself. Sometimes, this question is what I would call and ANSWER to the first question. But, they don't think of it that way.

I am interested in asking to the answer. Questions are TOOLS to me, not toys.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:38 AM | Permalink

My boring life

The fact is, I find my life mostly unexciting. I do rather ordinary things and I am not very interesting. So, I don’t necessarily talk about what I’m doing, because even I don’t find it interesting.

This is a problem for me. Really it is. Because when it comes time to say something, to give an account of myself when someone poses the questions “How are you?” or even “What’s new?”—I am at a loss.

How am I? About the way I was yesterday, the previous day in my unexciting life. Nothing of any significance is new.

So, I end up saying something inane and leaving the question-poser disappointed. Yes, I know they only ask because their life is also without excitement. They are asking in the hope that I would have something to bring to the table, some appetizer of excitement to share.

Nope. I hate to disappoint, but I got nothin’.

Yesterday was a particularly uneventful day. I came home with very boring ambitions. I wanted to eat dinner, exercise and deposit some checks in the bank. Maybe putter into a little housecleaning. I wanted to be sure to charge up my Ipod since I had neglected to do so the day before.

The mind boggles at such humdrummery.

I wasn’t hungry right away, so I got a jump-start on the puttering. I put the Ipod to charge and began righting the housekeeping wrongs of the weekend.

Order and cleanliness emerged shyly in places they usually were not invited to. Good news! Even better, the Ipod was charging faster than I had hoped, so I got to putter wearing the ‘pod.

I was listening to podcasts. Podcasters are enviable to me—people with cleverness and gumption, with something to say, something worth capturing and distributing. I listened and envied and puttered.

Then mom called. No more podcasts, but I got to tell her about the cool stuff I had been hearing. I told her about my despair of being dull as dirt.

Mom had called, because she herself was doing something uninteresting. She had lots of copying to do at school, and just wanted someone to entertain her. I guess I got to be her live podcast.

Well, she had a lot of copying to do with an uncooperative machine, and I had a lot of things to tell her about my boring life, and the artistic poverty of my blog.

“Oh honey! You are an excellent writer! I love reading what you say on your website!”

This is very nice to hear, and adds considerably to my enjoyment of this phone call. But to be realistic, she is my mother. She has to say that. The compliment has a short half-life.

Nevertheless, I spent too long on the phone to my mother. When I hung up I was very hungry. And I still had to get to the ATM! Not to mention working out.

I was rushing now. Grab the checks. Find my shoes. I’m hungry! I am not in the mood for this!

“The library books are overdue. Can you return them?” Chris asks politely.

I’m in a hurry. I’m hungry and I have things I need to finish. “No.”

“It’s right next to the bank. You can do it.” The needle had moved from polite request into the indignant/whine zone.

“Fine!” I snagged the books, hopped into my shoes, crabbier than ever. I shouldn’t have talked on the phone so long! Did I have a pen? I would need it for the deposit slip.

I get into my car. Well, at least the radio is playing something I like. But it’s dark and I can’t remember exactly where the bank is. It’s somewhere on this street. I’ll find it eventually.

Just past the railroad tracks, the car shrieks.

FWEEE! A picture that looks like an inkwell sprung a leak—a gusher of newfound Texas Tea…Oh crap. Something is wrong with my oil.

I don’t want to deal with this! I am not stopping. I’m going to the bank. I’m going to deposit all this stuff and go home and eat.

Where is that bank anyway? It’s got to be here somewhere. I will figure this out, look up this German symbol of an inkwell with a geyser, but only after I reach the bank.

But then I have to yell at myself. Oh great, so now you are going to ruin your car just because you are pissy and don’t want to return library books. Is a seized engine worth this?

FWEEEEE!!!

I answer myself, I’ll do whatever I please and I don’t feel like talking. Where is that stupid bank? I thought it was here.

There was a bank there, but the wrong one. I pulled in anyway and turned off the car and the radio. At that point, the inkwell geyser blinked off.

WHAT?! The car light had been screaming at me, telling me something is wrong, and then just goes silent, like "never mind, you’re busy, I didn’t mean it...”

Don’t toy with me! Either there is an inkwell oil geyser happening or not. Them’s fighting words round here. I pulled over for you, car, and now you want nothing to do with it? I don’t’ think so!

I turned on the radio again. I’m not losing my good tunes for this passive aggressive car. I got the manual out of the glove compartment.

I’ve been through this before. The alarm documentation is not intuitive. It’s not even in the index under ‘alarm’. After flipping back and forth for a while, enough time for the tunes to segue into commercials, I discover that my windshield wiper fluid is low.

I’m certainly glad I stopped.

I drove around and finally found the right bank. There is a line at the ATM. But maybe that's just as well, because I need to add up the total of the checks. No calculator. Well, I should know how to add and carry.

I wonder what they would do if you got it wrong? I mean, is it no big deal, or do you only get so many chances from your bank? You could get some kind of notice.
“Dear Bank member:
After received your third addition failure we are rescinding your ATM deposit privileges.”

That would be very humiliating.

Or worse, maybe they would think you did it on purpose! I know of a girl who was dating this guy. He would deposit empty envelopes to withdraw money out of his account that wasn’t there. He needed the money because he was a crack head. They broke up, thank god. I should call her.

I triple checked the math on this deposit—I’m pretty sure I got it right. And at least that is done. Now to the library.

It is so dark out; I can’t see any signs. Geez, I’ve lived here almost a year. When will I figure out where I am?

I fall back on my strategy of starting one direction and going somewhere until you are there. It worked, and I found the library. I know the distance from the bank to the library was shorter than the drive I took, but I got there, so who cares and leave me alone.

I found a parking space quick. I jumped out, leaving my door open and my purse inside. I grabbed the library books and my keys in my hand. There’s the drop box. Pull it down; in they go. Be careful not to drop the keys in the drop box!

I wonder what would happen if I had dropped the keys in? I wonder what I would do? Good thing I had left the car door open. I could get to my purse and cell phone to call Chris to come help me.

Would the library people come and open the library to get me my keys? Claremont is small and very Mayberry, but I don’t think they are that Mayberry. I would have to wait for them to open in the morning. Well, afternoon. They open at 1.

But I would be okay, because Chris would come get me and there is a spare key to the car and to my house. I’d be okay. The only key I don’t have spares for are the work keys.

Oh man! That would be terrible. I couldn’t get into work. I would have to call there and say I would not be in because I had dropped my keys in the library drop box. That would be beyond embarrassing.

I could just say I was sick. I would have to lie. Call in with a cough or something. There has been a cold going around. I could make it convincing.

I have never called in sick when I wasn’t sick, but I know people that do. Why do we have to do that? Why are we forced to lie? Why must we come up with some story? Why can’t we just be given respect? I mean, we should just be allowed to say, “I will not be able to come in today” and leave it at that. That would have some dignity.

But my keys were in my hand, so I drove home. I knew my way home from the library.

I made some soup and sat down to talk to Chris. I told him about my boring unexciting life, and about all the enviable podcasters and bloggers who are so far above me in importance and relevance.

He was kind and acted interested.

Dammit. I didn’t get to workout.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:37 AM | Permalink

Jesus, Buddha, Cold Mountain, and the suffering and salvation of stories

There are times when thoughts come together like objects, and bump against each other. I want to share this thought-object group with you.

I am finishing Buddha by Karen Armstrong. It's a book on CD.

And I just finished Cold Mountain by Charles frazier, read by the author.

First, I would like to say, both of these books were much easier to take as being read to me. I would have found the book about Buddha not such a page turner, but I did want to hear about the enlightened one, so having it 'pushed' at me suited.

And Cold Mountain...well...First, I have seen the movie, which was a good movie, but it was so sad.

But beggars can't be choosers, when it comes to my little library and it's collection of books on tape. I took it.

The book is a masterpiece. The recording of the author reading his book is a masterpiece. I have high standards for books, and this one exceeded my expectations dramatically.

Wow. And wow again. The words. His phrasing and timing. I didn't know it was the author reading it until I sat down to write this post. I continually thought that the reader was perfect for the work, little did I know how perfect. Authors are not always the best ones to read their work, but this one was.

Now, it would have been an excellent read. I loved his writing.

But remember, I saw the movie. I knew the ending. The book, however, was so much richer than the movie. So very many things happened, and so many ponderances took place. It was a leisurely story.

I forgot about the ending, and was enjoying the journey. I was enjoying the way he said 'of' and the old-fashioned-to-the-point-of-ancient phrases he used. They seemed deeply rooted in the time.

But the end of the book got closer. And I couldn't help remembering the end of the movie.

And I couldn't help but hope it would end different. At times I hit stop. I couldn't face that lilted voice telling me what happened next.

I cried sheets of tears fully through the last two cassettes. I remember thinking again that I was glad to be listening to the story. I wouldn't have been able to read the words through my crying.

What a powerful story.

Next thought-object:

In Buddha Karen Armstrong had talked about Siddartha's journey to enlightenment. Siddartha is Buddha's pre-enlightened name, if you didn't know. I didn't know.

He was born Siddartha, and the Brahmin prophesied that he would achieve enlightenment. Either that or be the King of the Universe. Buddha's Dad prefferred Siddartha to be King of the Universe rather than just a boring old enlightened one.

Siddartha, however, chose the path of enlightenment. And when I say "chose" I mean to say he leaned into it. He didn't just meander along and WHOOPS--fall into enlightenment. He worked really hard at it, and sacrificed a lot to get it.

Ms. Armstrong said something that stuck with me about Buddha's road to enlightenment:

Siddartha was totally and completely sure he would achieve it. He had no doubt, he had utter faith, that enlightenment was a destination that existed and he would get there.

She mused for a little bit about what might have happened if he had given up. No Buddhist monks, no marvelous Buddhist scripture, what a loss, she seemed to say. Buddha knew the end of his story: Enlightenment. It was just a matter keeping going until he got there.

Now, I am not Buddhist. I know very little about Buddhism, but from what I've learned, it does not quite appeal to me. It does not fit the world I see around me, and although I would be pleased to learn more about the philosophies of the Buddha, I am a Christian to my core.

It was interesting to hear that Buddha is not supposed to be a god. Literally, he's "The guy who figured it out"--how to avoid suffering and pain. In his world view, and according to Buddhist thought, there are gods and he is not one of them. He is actually better than a god, because the gods need him to help THEM figure it out.

Now, that's a mind-bender to a mono-theist like me. Whoa. It made me think about the nature of Christ.

Next thought-object:

So, Christ is God. And Christ is Man. That's a mind-blower for anybody.

What knife could separate the God from the Man? According to orthodox philosophy, he totally God and totally Man. Which doesn't answer anything at all, really.

Easter is coming up, you know. It's Passion week for most of America. Passion, also known as suffering. Just the sort of thing that Buddha was trying to avoid.

Jesus did not avoid His suffering. In fact, He walked right into it. The whole story of the crucifixion is how He gunned for the cross.

Which part was doing that? The man part? I have always tended to think that it was the God part that gave Him the character to do it, but the man part was the body that they tortured.

But, comparing the story of Buddha to the story of Christ put it in a new light.

How confident was Jesus that everything would turn out okay? Did He ever wonder if He was nuts-a faltering of confidence? Did he have a little voice in His head saying, " 'Son of God'--give me a break! Who are you kidding?"

What was the nature of Christ's faith? Buddha had faith in his story; he believed he would reach enlightenment.

Did Jesus have such faith? It is human to falter. In my experience, it is the nature of faith to include faltering. Part of the mustard seed that is faith includes the part that doesn't quite believe. The part that doesn't believe but does it anyway.

Was that how Jesus had faith?

While I was listening to the end of Cold Mountain, and crying and wishing-wishing-that it would end differently, I thought about suffering. All the suffering that Inman and Ada has been through, and the whole country suffered in the Civil War. All they had struggled and suffered for...why did the story have to end that way? I wanted so badly for it to end another way.

And I remembered Christ in the garden of Gethsemane. He suffered terror and dread, a suffering before the physical suffering. Sweating blood in his pain, he asked God the Father if there was another way for the story to end. He really wanted a different ending.

O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me

He knows what's coming. He knows he's going to be tortured and killed. But does he know the rest? Does he have confidence that He will be the saving of all mankind? What if He didn't know? What if all He knew was that God said he had to suffer and die?

Suffering and dying is the state of all humans. Suffering and dying doesn't require godhood. God could require me to sacrifice my life, and I can only hope I would do as he demands. It is possible that He would enable me to do it. It is certain, though, that if I died for some noble purpose it would not result in the redemtion of all creation.

In Jesus's case, though, it did. My life doesn't have the currency of Christ's.

But that doesn't mean He knew that. Perhaps He knew no more than I know. That the bigger story of suffering, pain and death is in God's hands and He works it all to good.

Jesus suffered so much in His death. And every step along the way, He could have stopped it.

I think about that, and how much I wanted to stop the sad suffering end of Cold Mountain.

Jesus didn't stop his end. Because He believed in the story. I don't know how much He knew of the story. I don't know how much _I_ know of the story. But in this case, in this story, I know it works out with perfect justice, symmetry and beauty. It's the story that God is telling, and it's a story about Him.

Me, and my experiences with suffering and beauty, is only a story inside the big story.

The story, not even a real story in the sense of historical fact, of Cold Mountain is an experience of suffering and beauty and justice because it lines up with the big story, the way the world works, the way God works.

God is the original storyteller. It makes me feel humble to put my spun stories inside of His.

Believe in the stories. That is saving faith.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:34 AM | Permalink

What just happened, lady?

[All quotes taken from Diving Deep and Surfacing by Carol P. Christ]

Walking through a store, three beautiful ladies shopping. My friends and I stop to admire some boots. One friend says:

"I have fat calves. Boots never fit me right."

"Me too!" I say.

The third woman says quietly, "Boots never fit me right either. But...why do we all assume that we are fat? Why don't we just say they make the boots too small?"

We stare at her, amazed at her wisdom.

Instead of recognizeing their own experiences, giving names to their feelings, and celebrating their perceptions of the world, women have often suppressed and denied them. When the stories a women reads or hears do not validate what she feels or thinks, she is confused. She may wonder if her feelings are wrong. She may even deny to herself that she feels what she feels.

I spend a huge amount of time between the pages of a book. This has been true as long as I could read.

When I was a teenager, I began to write poetry. It occurred to me that nearly all the writers I loved to read were male. The obvious conclusion was that men had greater talent at writing, that females simply were unable to produce strings of beautiful words.

Men were, categorically, better writers than women.

This did not seem in keeping with my assesment of the young men I know. According to the evidence, these boys must be capable of producing poetry and metaphor to an even greater extent than myself.

I watched them, waiting for jewels to drop out of their mouths. But the only thing I heard was re-telling of last night's movie rental, or TV show.

Hmm. No precious nuggets there. Perhaps their poetic talents were private. I approached them straight out, taking a survey of my aquaintances:

"Do you ever write poetry?"

To my surprise, almost all of them said they did. Of course, I didn't ask and they did not offer to share their efforts with me. But I was sure that their poetry must be far superior to my feeble efforts.

Women have lived in the interstices between their own vaguely understood experience and the shaping given to experience by the stories of men. The dialectic between experience and shaping experience through storytelling has not been in women's hands.

A grieving and battered woman sits with her parents. She is on the cusp of a tragic choice. Weary and toneless, she speaks to her mother and father:

"I have told you how it's been. You know the story. I have tried all I can try. He won't listen. He won't change. I cannot stay with the way things are. I will have to divorce him."

Her father answers, "You are too emotional right now to make that decision."

She lifts her heavy head to stare at him. After a moment, she turns to her mother. "Do I sound emotional to you?"

Hesitantly, the mother replies: "No. But what your father means is..."

In a very real sense, there is no experience without stories... Stories give shape to experience, experience gives rise to stories. At least this is how it is for those who have had the freedom to tell their own stories, to shape their lives in accord with their experience. But this has not usually been the case for women. Indeed, there is a very real sense in which the seeming paradoxical statement "Women have not experienced their own experience" is true.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:28 AM | Permalink

Valley of the Shadows

Fight the powers that be! I'm talking about non-conformity!

But I'll tell you the truth I'd like to be an undercover non-conformist. A little conformity is a comforting thing. Enough to get through the door.

'Cause I always think I'm a little off. Not quite like all the other non-conformists. As if I am unaware of the three sheets of toilet paper dragging off my shoe.

Somehow, if I start talking about what's on my mind, people give me a blank stare and say, "Whatever."

But I've got the floor, and you don't, so I'm going to speak my mind.

I got this new job. And I've moved to a new place. Okay, I’ll be honest I bought a house--one that June Cleaver would be proud of, with a lemon tree in the front and roses on the side.

This freaks me out a little. Because I do not want to wear a twin set and eat off the kitchen floor. I want to be that creative artist type that stays up all night drinking and toking with their other creative friends and being REAL.

Isn't that what the L.A. life is all about? Except I don’t' drink much and I don't like drugs. And I get really sleepy around nine thirty, so no one would hang out with me.

I guess that's the life in West L.A. I live on the East East of L.A., and I am just like everyone else here. We get up early and speed to beat the sunrise, speed to the screeching halt of the bumper in front driving 5, 20, 10, stop and then start again with the miles per hour for the hour or the hour and a half that it takes to finally stop at the parking lot and the padded cell walls of the cubicle.

It's not so bad. I like mornings. And maybe this is the real L.A. after all. Maybe you crazies from the West are going to crash and burn back to where you came from while we east enders drop the grains of sand into our 401Ks 'til our time runs out, the mortgage is paid or we retire--whichever happens last.

Maybe this is the real L.A. Los Angeles is full of Valleys, did you know? Any dip between these many hills is a valley.

Quite honestly, I love my commute. I drive a short jaunt on the 10, exit left and downshift my manual transmission down to 3rd so I can power up the crest of the 57. Below me, just at sunrise, the North Horizon is a range of green tree and gray rock mountains, which, when hit by the slant light of dawn, get pink or orange or purple mountain majesties.

This is the San Gabriel Valley. Yes, the Holy Angel Gabriel, the mouthpiece of God. And I hear it every morning, the messenger of God proclaiming that I am redeemed.

But that is the second valley of my daily journey. I had to climb to enter the Angel's valley. I asked around and discovered that I live in Pomona Valley. Pomona is the name chosen for this place when it had few houses and more fruit trees. Pomona is the Goddess of the harvest. I dwell in the Valley of the Goddess. Which is most excellent, because I am the Queen of Pretty Things. It's a long story, but I've been the Queen of Pretty Things for almost seven years now, a position which carries a lot of responsibility. As the Queen, I am pleased to find my dominions in the Valley of the Goddess.

As to be greeted by the Valley of Voice of God, traveling through it every day to the very end. I know it is the very end of the San Gabriel Valley, because my cube window faces a big Rock. The rock is part of a mountain, and where there is a mountain, on the other side is a Valley. This valley is well known: the San Fernando Valley.

Fernando...OOooo Fernando...ABBA? This is the Valley of the Dancing Queen.

I travel there less frequently. I suppose that's just as well.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:19 AM | Permalink

Naming Conventions

I met Chris for dinner after I went to the bank about some of our money matters. We were catching up on each other's day:

"The guy at the bank kept calling you my husband. I told him you weren't..."

"Old habits die hard."

"I guess 'significant other' hasn't quite caught on. It's kind of formal, anyway."

"What would you want them to call me?"

I smiled adoringly at him. "You would be my 'old man'."

"Oh right. Then would they call you my 'old lady'?"

"I prefer to be your 'queen'....I guess they could call you my 'prince charming'."

Chris got that funny look on his face, the look that means his funny bone is clicking into place. "...do you think that if a real royal family, and you had a son...?"

"NO!" I said. "That's not allowed."

"Why not? there could be a prince charming the first..."

"No, it's against the rules."

"What rules? If you were King, you could do what you wanted."

"You could not! The same rules that let you be King would dictate what sort of names you could use to name the princes."

"...and then he would grow up to be King Charming..."

My turn now. "Of course if it were an Emperor...maybe in China..."

"The Ming Dynasty?"

"Yeah...Emperor Char Ming."

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:18 AM | Permalink

Talking and Listening-- The Art of Conversation by Benedetta Craveri, translated from the Italian by Teresa Waugh

There was a time when formal conversation was a highly respected and desirable art. For the rich upper class with nothing better to do than entertain themselves with their own exclusive company, being interesting, inoffensive and, if you can manage it, witty, seemed just about the epitome of human grace.

The period of the salon it was, an era described in The Age of Conversation by Benedetta Craveri, translated from the Italian by Teresa Waugh. My heart squeezes with envy at the thought of those drawing rooms. There is a reason they called that time the age of enlightenment. Conversation is one of the very best ways to learn anything. To be exposed to new ideas and perspectives.

America was born during the enlightenment. Interestingly, the age of conversation and enlightenment was a thing that suggested its own demise. America’s crazy ideas spelled the end of the upper class. The concept of a class who did not need to produce anything but conversation was rejected by the conversations that ensued.

America had work to do. America, and everywhere, had projects to start and research to do and the world to change. They did not have time to merely sit and converse. That has continued forward to this day.

But that didn’t mean the conversations had become unnecessary. Humans need to talk. They need to clear their psychic buffers and build on half conceived ideas. I think it might be nearly as essential as sleep.

It might be time to take a page from those salons again. Craveri writes “talent for listening was more appreciated than one for speaking. Exquisite courtesy restrained vehemence and prevented quarrels.”

I, for one, would like to prevent quarrels. World peace would be a little closer, if we take this idea as true, if listening could have that effect.

There are two people who have been working on this exact issue. I don’t know if they have read Craveri’s book, but Bill and Liz have taken a chunk of their lives to bike around the U.S. and wear a sign that says:

Talk to Me

These guys knock my socks off. I first heard about them on “This American Life”, the “Say Anything” episode. Bill and Liz sat on a busy Manhattan street holding their sign. People just came up and talked to them about anything.

Imagine my shock and delight to actually see with my own eyes these two fabulous people at the Los Angeles Book Fair last year. They sat with their sign and I walked over and talked to them!

I asked them about TAL, what they thought of Ira Glass, and barely restrained myself from asking for their autograph. They did, however, ask for mine, and my email address.

They surprised me with their sweetness. They really seemed sincere and interested in what people had to say. How could people maintain that kind of interest after so long?

I really wanted to get them to talk to me, actually. I thought they were fascinating. When I told them where I lived (Glendale), Liz told me she was part Armenian and had promised to go visit Glendale on their trip(Glendale’s population is more than 50% Armenian). I recommended some busy spots and a bus line to take to get there.

I tore myself away, at last. These guys are so great! I can barely get my mind around what they have chosen to do. I asked them about what was “next”, what they wanted to make of their experiences. They seemed not to have concrete plans.

In some ways, I think that’s good. Commercializing their endeavor could ruin the integrity of it, and they seemed to be so sincere.

I got an email from them. They have circled the lower 48 states on their bikes with their sign. Check out their website: http://www.nyctalktome.com

Ponder this, my friends. What does it mean to really listen?

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:15 AM | Permalink

Deja Vu

I sleep hard, but sometimes I dream things. Things that haven’t happened yet. Sometimes I remember them, wonder about the dream. Then I go on my way and forget them.

Until they come true. They call it déjà vu. But I know I dreamed it. Stupid, everyday, unimportant things. Like looking for a notebook when someone is walking down a hall towards me. Or holding a conversation, when in the middle I realize I know exactly the next thing I am going to say. I would step into the now that had already happened months ago, years ago, in my dream.

It feels like a spell; I am split in two. The me who dreamed the conversation, or should I say, the me in the dream from the past, was fully engaged in what she was saying.

But the present me, the one living in the event which had already taken place, became distracted by the memory of the present.

How do I dream these future scenes?

How could I possibly see what hadn’t happened yet? What let me see the future? And why such irrelevant ordinary scenes from the future?

This makes me wonder how time works. Am I in time? Like I am in the universe? Or am in time like a fish in water?

A fish can jump out of water. Leap up high and dive back in.

For that matter, am I traveling through my life like a fish through a stream? Where the direction is laid out, only I can't see far enough ahead to know that the biggest choices I have are whether to swim on the left side or the right.

Or maybe I am the stream. Maybe I am flowing for the first time. Perhaps my journey from the heights to the sea is unmarked. I, the water, flow because I must, but minute by second by future moment the way is chosen. Each obstacle changes the whole course. Over that pebble, pool below that hill, rapids here, waterfall there. Something new under the sun.

My dream moments might be telling me something. Who knows which moment is the decisive one? What choice is the fulcrum for an irreversible direction? Is some extra-temporal being trying to draw attention to the unnoticed as the start of some fork in the road?

But if that’s so, what am I supposed to do with this?

When the spell of a dreamed scene comes over me, and I am split between the layers of the dream memory and the identical present, I shift.

If the dream turned right, I go straight.

Who knows what’s at stake? Nothing? Everything?

But illusion, delusion or otherwise, I choose where to plant my feet.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 09:10 AM | Permalink

Where's your pride?

Sticks and stones will break your bones
but names will never hurt you

...that's a crock of bull...Names are extremely painful. All kinds of words can conspire to hit you in the middle and throb.

Each person has a sense of themselves. I am not the only one to have a way that I wish to be seen, a presentation of myself projected to others. I want to be seen as clever, or funny, or good-looking. All three even.

But when others poke a hole in my bubble, when they dash my polished surface... They could show me up as stupid. Or not laugh at my jokes. Or something much more embarrassing.

Something that makes me feel like everything about me is undesirable and even despised.

Uhhll. That's a horrible feeling.

I want to be loved. I want to be accepted and cherished.

That doesn't always happen. There are times when I am very NOT.

It's ironic, because I know that I am not always desirable and lovable. I live with me every day. I know my flaws.

Then again, it is especially painful when I hear from others about a flaw I was unaware of. How withering to learn that they outfit I thought so cute has a big hole in it. Or the speech habit I thought endearing was percieved as condescending.

It's a sick, skin-crawling self-loathing feeling. It's the sort of feeling I want to be rid of as soon as possible, but it lingers.

I remember one particular embarrassing moment. I was in a new town, and had been embraced in a new friendship--possibly romantic!--which was all the more exciting because there was no one else vying for my attention.

He had loaned me his guitar, a great trust, and told me where he lived so I could return it after a while.

It seemed appropriate to me to bring it back after a few weeks. Still warm from his attention, and not wanted the friendship to fade away, I followed the directions he had given me to his apartment, where his lived with his family. I brought the guitar back, hoping for a little visit.

I came to the door and was greeted with a wall of hostility. His sister left me in the hall, and went to get her brother. He took his time. When he finally came out he asked why I had come.

To return the guitar.

He looked down at the guitar and took it from me at last. Then he said I should not have come.

I left as soon as I could. I was mortified. I felt like a bug that narrowly escaped death, only because I would have soiled the shoes it would take to squish me.

I was reeling. I wanted to find some comfort somewhere. But I had no one I could go to. I wanted to have some friend--someone!--tell me, "hey, don't listen to them. You're okay."

But I was new to the town, and I had no way of communicating with any of my old friends. It was all me. And I felt like a pimple on the butt of the world.

That part of me that stays on the side tried to think of something. Some way to comfort myself. I began to realize that the thing that was hurting was my pride.

What is Pride? "... it's not a hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man..."

And yet it can be hurt. Was it important? or was this pain like the hiccups, something uncomfortable that was not serious and would pass?

Pride...Pride is the original sin. Lucifer was proud and he screwed everything up.

In that case, pride SHOULD be hurt. Pride should be ignored, torn down, attacked. It was a good thing to have my pride damaged. I should be humble, not proud.

And yet...There is another meaning of pride. Pride in opposition to shame. I will not be ashamed. If I am ashamed, it means I have done something wrong. Something shameful.

But if I am proud, I am proud of myself, I am living right. I should strive to be proud of my work. I should preserve my pride.

How can this be? Two things that mean the opposite.

Here is how I have determined the difference:

For the false, destructive pride, the source comes from external things. If I am proud of what I did not create, what I did not work for, then this is false. If I take pride in my appearance, my status or how people regard me, then that's wrong.

But if the source of my pride comes from my own work, and the affirmation comes from myself, then it is good pride. Yes, I should work hard and take pride in my work. I should be careful to be honest and have integrity. I can be proud of that integrity, but my pride can be an internal affirmation. I don't need to broadcast my good deeds, it is enough to know them myself.

A shameful pride would be trumpeted and draw from other peoples' opinion.

But a humble pride would be quiet and only need affirmation from oneself.

That is basically the litmus test. And it places my pride, my self-worth, inside my sphere of control. I don't need anyone else's opinions to know.

I can hold my own with pride.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 09:02 AM | Permalink

It's your Duty to uphold tradition

Once of the things that parents must do when raising their children is give them a sense of right and wrong, and a sense of the values of their culture.

This is important! If kids are not guided and molded, how can society maintain its vital traditions?

Parents, I say to you now, it is your DUTY to take your children trick or treating. Haloween depends upon it.

In years past, there were hordes of costumed waifs parading down the block after dark. It has slowed! It is merely a trickle when once it was a mighty flood.

But we, the childless members of society depend on the children to uphold the tradition. Where would we be if the children abandon Halloween?

Do not go only to the businesses and the malls to gather candy! Fie on you, you parents who deem it convenient or 'safe' to do so!

No, we depend on the children to provide us with a reason to buy large quantities of our favorite candies.

It is your DUTY, parents and children, even if you don't feel like it. Even if you don't like candy or aren't allowed to eat it.

You are the carriers of the torch. If you do not pass it forward, we are lost.

Can you imagine the grim future, the barren and dry future of an America with no more halloween? No sweets, no costumes, no flirting with evil or badness?

Let it not be so! Keep halloween thriving! Dress your children and yourselves!

It is your unhallowed duty.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 08:58 AM | Permalink

a decade

America...since...Gosh, I don't know...But we started to think in decades.

The 50s...the 60s...the 70s...the 80s...

The 80s are coming back, don't you know?

But, what's up with the arbitrary emphasis on the '0'? the 80 to the 90. Or the 1950 to the 1960.

We have an extra zero now, and we hardly know what to do with it. We don't have a cute term for the now...The fifties, the eighties, the nineties...and two thousand five...or worse, two thousand and five.

We're kind of drifting until we get to call it the teens. Then it's back on solid ground, the twenties, the thirties and the forties.

But at this moment, we are half way. 2005.

And for me, that concludes my own personal decade. On October 15, 1995 I flew from the Anchorage airport to Sacramento California.

My first decade of California living has passed.

I have a geeky reason for remembering that it was 1995. That was when it went from Windows 3.11 to Windows 95

A big year, to be sure. And the decade that followed has been justly monumental. I am so happy to be where I am and to have the skills that I have.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 08:56 AM | Permalink

limitations

You know, I have had quite a year. SO MUCH has changed. I quit one job, neary completed writing a book, remodeled my condo, bought a new home, and got a new and better job.

All in the space of six months.

I am in the throes of moving. And I am trying hard to understand the nature of my new job, which is not readily apparent.

And I am frustrated at how slowly the writing of my book and the settling into the new house is going.

But...

I am coming to terms with my own limitations. I think that is something I took away from my last [hideous] job.

It turns out I cannot do everything. At the very least, I cannot do everything AT ONCE.

And there is nothing wrong with that.

I hope I am learning to have a little patience with myself. Some things just take time. There is no way around it.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 01:08 AM | Permalink

How to have an open-minded discussion regarding deeply held convictions

1. Always remember the purpose of the conversation is the exchange of ideas and experiences. The point of the conversation is to hear others' point of view and to share your own.

2. Kindness and respect should be the mental stance throughout. If another person is listening to your convictions, they are doing you a kindness. If they are sharing their own convictions, you are receiving the reflected light of their revealed truth. Respect is appropriate at such times, and indeed, necessary for the exchange to occur.

3. Be secure in your own convictions. Do not be needy, asking for affirmation during the conversation. If what you think it true, no one needs to tell you so. You should not try to convince the other person to agree with you.

4. Ask questions and listen to the answers.

5. If you don't understand something someone is saying, ask them to clarify: "When you said X, I'm not sure what you meant. Can you explain?"

6. Don't press too hard for explanations. New ideas may take some time to get your mind around. By pressing too hard for evidence, you may cause them to feel defensive.

7. Should your conversation partner be persistent in trying to get affirmation from you when you don't feel in agreement, do not answer insincerely. A soft answer, for example "I really need to think about that, I can't answer right now" might help to get past the sticking point

8. If you begin to feel angry, disrespected or cornered during the discussion, try to direct the conversation toward a less sensitive area.

9. If your conversation partner expresses a racist, sexist, or violent idea, SPEAK OUT. If you let such ideas go unchallenged, you are lending support by your silence. Say something like, "I heard what you just said, and I disagree. Every person deserves respect as a part of our shared humanity." If violence is mentioned, say, "It's really not right to hurt anyone. There are better ways to handle the situation."

10. If you feel close to responding in anger or otherwise behaving unkindly, excuse yourself. Try saying "This conversation is bringing up a lot of feelings for me. I really can't keep talking about this. I'm sorry. Excuse me." Abandoning the conversation is much better than hurting someone.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 01:04 AM | Permalink

Not from around here

I need to talk for a little bit about where I come from.

I come from Alaska. I did not live in the absolute wilderness, but then again, the wilderness is never far from anywhere in my motherland. Moose wander through the streets, and the streets are literally ice for many months of the years.

The brand-new subdivision that I lived in as a teenager was virgin forest. I mean to say, a lawn was something of a futile absurdity. It made much more sense to leave the trees and bushes alone, and 99% percent of the homes in our area left their acre+ lots in their natural state.

We had a natural well that gave us water. It was 'hard' water which meant that the minerals coated our bathtub and left a funny taste when we drank it.

We lived outside a munincipality, the only police where the state troopers and they were seldom seen.

There was a lake full of fish a half mile a way, and our front window showed us a forest reserve that stretched for hundreds of miles long. We liked to pick berries and mushrooms there in the summer.

My parents drove to Alaska. They went their twice from their motherland in the golden rolling hills of California. First, in the 60s before Alaska was a state. Then again, for much longer, in 1972. During the new year's party, Mom went into labor and produced me in a now-defunct Anchorage Hospital.

Now I live in the golden rolling hills of California. And only very recently, I realized:

Mom and Dad thought Alaska was exotic.

I never never never thought it was exotic. It was home, with all the boringness and familiarity that means. But for them, it was almost like living in a foreign country. It was exciting and new and unexpected almost every day.

Now, Mom and Dad live in Sacramento. They talk a lot about remembering different places around there. Things are the same for them. Things are a lot like how they left them when they went away. Not exactly, time takes its toll, but enough the same for them to remember.

But me, I feel like California is a very exotic place. With its short snowless mountains and lush vegetation, fruit trees and warm nights, its population density and freeways, California never quite fits. It's always not home.

Not to say I ever want to live in Alaska. I am a permanent ex-patriate.

But I chafe at the expectations. I demand to know "WHY?" and resent every rule or expectation as irrational and irrelevant.

When I bought my condo, as part of the forest's graveyard of paperwork required, I was given the Rules of the Condo Association. Chris read them with me.

"WHAT?! I can't put my bike on the balcony."

"No Pool parties? Who do they think they are?"

"No dog over 40 pounds? Why is that their business? IF I want a dog, it's my problem."

Every rule was an imposition. I was buying the home, I should be able to do whatever wherever I wanted. Every rule made me suspicious.

Chris told me, "That's the price you pay to live in a condo with other people. If you had your own home, you could do what you wanted."

I signed, muttering and rebelling, but I signed.

Now, I am looking to buy a home! HOoray! I can paint the outside, I can have a BIG dog, I can put my bike wherever I like and all the rules are gone.

Chris and I are buying it together, so, he wants to live in his hometown Claremont. A little tiny city that gives me the jeebies. Back to that in a moment.

We've picked a house, made an offer, and are waiting. Chris was telling me what to expect from his home town.

"Claremont does not allow parking in the street overnight. Between 2 am and 6 am, you can't be on the street without a temporary permit."

What is this? WHAT?! THEY ARE PUTTING RULES ON ME AGAIN.

See, I am feeling crowded about this already. This town is full of all kinds of customs and ways of doing things. Where I come from, independence is prized and conformity is despised. There is no set way that everyone should be or do.

And yet, this little city has all sort of rules and permit requirements.

But here's the creepy part that gives me the jeebies:
Everyone from there or associated with that city, thinks that the city is great. They all say what a nice place it is, how wonderful it is for kids and for creative types. It is a college town after all.

And even more than that, everyone I've met from there is excruciatingly nice. I mean it! They are smart, and kind, and usually benignly humorous.

Is anyone else hearing the jeebie music in the background? I'll admit, I'm probably scarred by too many church youth groups. They specialize in niceness, while holding the dagger hidden until your back is exposed.

But I'm uneasily assured of the Claremont niceness. I mean, Chris is more Claremont than anyone, and I've been in daily observation of him for more than 5 years. He remains nice.

I just am afraid I will tresspass on the customs or BBQ the sacred cows of this little town of Trees and PhDs. I know there are all these expectation that I am oblivious to, like being colorblind. And I value my independence. I cherish my non-conformity.

They expect me to wash my car whenever dirt is visible on it. Hey, where I come from, you are ahead of the curve if both headlights are working. What do they expect from me?

They will expect lawn maintenance. Lawns! And if there are weeds, I would have to pull them up. I've never had anything to do with a lawn. I will probably fail at this.

I could offer lots of advice on removing a car after it's high-centered on a snow burm. But that is not useful in my exotic new home.

I recognize, intellectually, that with all these people crowded together on paved streets and highways, some rules are needed. But I don't like it. Rules feel categorically repellent.

It will take some time. I'm not from here.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 11:02 AM | Permalink

what were they thinking?

I remember learning about church history in my protestant church school. The time line went something like this:

God created the earth
God picked Abraham to father the jews and be the chosen people who wrote down what he said
God send Jesus to die and save everybody from the mess humanity had gotten into
The disciples became the apostles, started the church and wrote the new testament
Martin Luther wrote the 95 theses

Sometime after I learned history that didn't come from born-again-authored textbooks, I realized that things had happened in the church between the first century and the 15th.

The protestant revisionist history had the catholic church sort of erased. As if, before the "real" church, the protestant one, there had been this big empty dark spot.

As I learned more I realized, that's not true. There were all kinds of things happening, acts of faith and struggles. There were hundreds of years that the faith was preserved by the faithful. I was kind of surprised to realize that.

Now, from 1917 to 1991, communism was in charge of Russia. It was a totalitarian government, and here in the Democracy-loving west, we saw them as gray and robotic. They produced propaganda, and their biggest newspaper was called TRUTH, and they made it the truth by stamping out any other voices.

But I found this amazing book in a used book store: Writers in Russia: 1917-1978
This book explains what the writers were thinking. It talks about how they were excited and embraced the Revolution. That at first, they were inspired and producted good writing regarding their hopes and dreams for the new order.

And then, well, things got funky. All the intelligentsia revolutionaries had envisioned a utopia, a place where everyone would have everything they needed and be free to create.

As it turned out, people sort of had what they needed but they were less and less free to create.

But creative people will create. Their creativity compels them. And what things were happening behind that iron curtain?

THe official story was lockstep uniformity. But unofficially, the Russian people were as hungry for beautiful culture as ever.

This book tells of a really healthy underground publishing community. They would sent out the stories, the poetry, type up multiple copies and mail them out like chain letters. In this way, one officially unpublished poet was once able to pack out a soccer stadium to hear him read his poems.

PACKED OUT A STADIUM FOR POETRY.

I remember how we would hear of the strength of the first century Christian. HOw they were so vitallly involved with their faith. They went to their death in the jaws of lions.

The lack of something makes it so much more precious. THe lack of freedom makes the desire for it unbearable.

Here, we have so much freedom. And what do we do with it? We hardly know what to do with it. We are dilletantes with our freedom of speech. Toying with it...Childishly experimenting.

And yet, would we have it any other way? Freedom means contempt. I can toss off the most foolish nonsense with my power of speech, because it is free. Free is not important, doesn't require any thought.

The Soviet writers were not automatons. They had truth that tortured them to be told. THey had the highest of formalism to deal with. Leave iambic pentameter aside, try working within the bounds of a capricious and murderous dictator. Stalin was no joke.

And yet, they did it. They worked and crafted and wrote. What an amazing history. It's blowing my mind to get a glimpse of all these creative minds struggling with their surrounding and how to express themselves.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 02:59 AM | Permalink

Psuedo Patrician Non-Humanitarians

I've been really mulling this one over for a while.

Things have come to a pass. I have questions about why certain political choices are being made,and the voices I am hearing from media outlets are almost exclusive liberal voices.

I am trying to follow the tangled thread. Here are some of the things that concern me:

Health Care
Cost of Living
Whether jobs will be available
How much stuff costs
Being fair to everyone
Taking good care of natural resources

These seem really basic to life enjoyment. I have to live, I have to pay for stuff, I have to have a job to pay for said stuff. I think that we have to be fair to everyone, because it's the right thing to do. Plus, if we aren't fair, they will exact revenge.

And we have to take care of natural resources, like the EARTH for a big example, because I have to look at it when I am not working or shopping for stuff. And I like the earth. It's where I keep my stuff (okay, that's a quote from The Tick).

If we take care of the stuff that keeps my list of concerns taken care of, we're doing okay.

Alright. So who pays for Health care to keep me living? In the USA, insurance companies do. That's really really convoluted. I mean, at one point in history, Doctors used to take their knowledge and think of a way to cure the person, and then they would take money or some trade item from the person they were treating. That was the end of that.

Now, getting your tonsils out takes huge statistical charts and indexes to pay for. Whoa. That's strange and weird. But that's really what we are living with.

The people that pay the insurance companies to pay the bills for our medical needs are:
the employers, i.e. Large Corporations

Mostly, that's true. Some individuals can pay the premiums themselves, if they want. The governmentactsd as a safety net, that picks up the slack sometimes for those who don't have an employer to pay.

That's how we do it in the US. In Europe, the government picks up the tab for the whole bill. It's called socialized medicine. And socialized medicine has a whole host of problems, such as lowered quality of care and restaints on compensation for the professionals who are therefore unmotivated to innovate and invent such needed things as new cures.
Socialized medicine is not the best way to do it. But neither is our way. Both of us are figuring out what to do next.

But things being the way they are, Large corporations are the biggest customers of the health insurance companies who control the health care in america.

So, when you are dealing with health care, it's really a lot about large corporate interests.

Large corporate interests = the Republican party

right? well, maybe.

But the democrats are the ones who are always bringing up health care concerns. And they are full of speeches about how new programs can be funded by new taxes that will be paid for by big business or 'the rich.'

But, if the democrats expect to milk the corporate cow, it would seem to require checking that the cow is well fed. If we learned nothing from the stock crash of 2000 it's that businesses are quite apt to fail.

Interestingly, the democrats are for 'equality' too. That is what they seem to talk about a lot. I hear a lot about people being underpriviliged. Or people being minorities or poor. Sometimes, they even talk about people being oppressed.

These are pretty big words. The conservatives tend to say things like "Idiots" and "Morons" about the liberals. Not very helpful, just to oversimplify into name-calling.

But the liberals voices seem to forget where their bread is buttered. I have listened for a long time, and I can see that their basic idea is to take money from rich people and from big business in the form of taxes and redistribute it (through government branches) to 'the less fortunate'.

That bothers me. This country has a high regard for independence, and we seem to be setting up a structure whereby people become dependent on the government, that thing that NO ONE, conservative or liberal, trusts.

It seems to be better to take obtacles out of people's way and let them do what they feel like doing.

I like the idea of compassion that the democrats supposedly espouse. I'd like to be a democrat and help out where help is needed.

But this constant talk of 'the less fortunate' seems to place those speaking on a superior plane than the others. Sure, they may be speaking about compassion, but there are ways of giving help without stripping the recipients of their dignity. But the speechers raise themselves by referring to others in a one-down position. It's as if they are attempting to become patrician by designating all others as plebian. But it is smoke and mirror. We do hold to the truth that all people are created equal.

It is non-humanitarian to create a system of whereby people become dependent for their basic needs. That's infanticizing the 'less fortunate.'

So, I have a bad taste in my mouth for these psuedo patrician non-humanitarian democrats. I know there may be plenty of truly compassionate charitable people who work hard to help the less fortunate, but the loudest voices in the democratic party (at least those around me in liberal LA) are terrible examples.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 08:55 PM | Permalink