It’s funny, I think, how life is always just barely easy enough to live, just barely not too hard. I’m astounded, sometimes, at just how much a person is really capable of enduring, of overcoming. There’s just so much potential tucked into the clever corners of the human mind that it’s no wonder some people have been able to achieve and devise such amazing and awe-inspiring things as riddle human history.
We shy away from hardship, and flinch when it comes near, but after the storm passes and the trial is over, the weaker elements have been scorched from out the crucible and those more ingenious faces of the soul are forced from their hidden places. It is our suffering that makes us stronger, as the benefit of exercise comes from the rebuilding of muscle tissues torn down and destroyed by exertion, and the benefit of education comes from the painful tedium of study and unabashed contemplation.
It’s not that horrible things happen to people because they deserve them, but so that they have an opportunity to prove their strength to themselves in forcing life to go on. We’ve all had moments of perfect darkness when it seemed to us as though our lives were over and that there was nothing left of the world we wanted to live in, but before long it dawned on us that that world had never truly existed, and before it ever could we had to do something to bring it about. The darkest depths of hopelessness can be liberating, the sensation of complete impotence very empowering. Enlightening, at the very least, to see the world looking up from the bottom and understand just how little control anyone has over their lives and what happens in them, enslaved always by the version of reality they were born into and taught to perceive and to follow along with…
Ethnocentrism. We have a word for it, and we know what it means, but that doesn’t keep us from believing that our way is still the best way, doesn’t keep us from falling into the same misconception that has afflicted every great civilization to come along before us. But every great civilization sees its zenith, and is quickly humbled by the instructive rod of history in the making.
Hardship comes inevitably and to everyone, a mask of disaster and fear pulled over the winking face of opportunity and change, revolution and growth. I see the coming troubles as the fever that will burn the disease from our society, not as a herald of the apocalypse or the early rumblings of the next World War—I have higher hopes for us. There’s a lot going wrong in the world right now, and there always has been, and though it seems as though there’s more problems than there’s ever been before I feel as though we’re the closest we’ve ever been to really solving things for everybody. The answers, as always, are just locked away in our heads somewhere. We only need to get at them.
“I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones." -- Albert Einstein
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Novacaine - A Short Story
As Brian turned the key forcefully and creaked open the door to his place, he sighed in exasperation at being greeted by the same old sight: a cluttered one-bedroom apartment, with a tiny crumb-covered kitchen, its floor stained by beer, coffee and neglect. There were cracks and smudges from careless hands and fists on the walls, which Brian supposed might have, at one point, been white, but have since seen so many tenants, landlords, and years in general that they grew tired of keeping up appearances and reverted to a sickly pale yellow, something like the color of an old smoker’s teeth.
But he made the best of it, he felt. He still had all his hip-hop posters and pin-ups, stolen street signs and a Raiders flag from when he was in high school that he used to try and cover up the filthy walls as they grinned cruelly at him. The kitchen linoleum was just as ugly, or at least he remembered it being just as ugly. Dusty footprints, smeared spots, and bits of discarded then trampled food had blended in and become part of its hideously dated original pattern. Whether this made it easier on the eyes or not, ever since Brian had moved in his renovations had at least made the linoleum easier to ignore.
He hated his carpet the most; it was a filthy, tangled mess of pea green shag. For the first month, Brian couldn’t help but feel like he needed to be wearing bellbottoms to walk on it, or at least buy some circular sunglasses and grow a set of ridiculous lamb-chop sideburns. He snorted in amusement at the thought, and settled on a more preferable solution for his carpet problem. After a few weeks of torturous deliberation, and some trial runs of the method, Brian decided to hide the green monstrosity underneath a nice solid layer of his shit.
He killed two birds with one stone here, a fact he noted quite smugly. Not only was the abominable carpet invisible to him, but now that he had established his new system of self-organization, he discovered that he no longer needed to procrastinate shopping for shelves or a dresser. They would have taken up so much of his space, really, that he was glad to no longer need them.
Brian slammed his door shut behind him, reaching back without looking to turn the deadbolt with a bit more force and haste than would seem necessary to anyone else. He was irritated, definitely, though unsure why. It wasn’t the sea of dirty clothing, candy wrappers, and other assorted shit that stretched out before him; he had long since grown accustomed to that, as he had to the questionable hue of the walls and the collage of stains on the kitchen floor.
Though oddly enough he still resented that green carpet, the peeling linoleum, and the walls themselves. Inexplicable, he thought, and so shrugged away his realization of this resentment, dismissing it as one of his many quirks not worth worrying about. But the agitation remained… hanging around him like three days worth of body odor, making him wrinkle his nose in disgust at anything he saw. Brian shot his glare to every corner of his home, running his eyes over the entire picture of his life, taking it in.
Since when has life been lived like this? a tiny squeak of a voice challenged from the very back of his mind.
Brian suddenly realized he had been standing still, slack jawed and staring around his apartment aimlessly, taking deep, labored breaths through his whistling nostrils. He shook himself, reproachfully banishing whatever had been paralyzing him in front of his door. “What the fuck am I looking at,” he muttered to himself, “it’s not like I see this every damn day or something.” His frustration clearly remained, like the unwanted boy in a circle of friends, persistently trying to get his attention in spite of his attempts to ignore it.
It wouldn’t be a problem much longer, he knew, whatever the problem really was. Brian knew exactly how to deal with things like this, and he fully intended to take thye necessary steps immediately. He picked up a toppled plastic lawn chair from a pile of clothes and scratched CD’s and set it in front of his kitchen counter deliberately.
Before sitting, he had a thought and went back to that pile, rifling frantically through his carefully filed CD collection before finding and blowing the dust off of his only Tool album. Triumphantly, he straightened his posture and strode to his stereo like a war hero.
Jesus Christ, did he love that stereo. He’d had the central deck for years and years, but over time had spent hundreds of dollars to give it its chest-high speakers and glass-bending subwoofer. The amplifier alone had cost half a month’s pay, but Brian knew it was worth it. Whatever makes me happy, he figured. He put the CD in, pressed play and started to walk back towards the kitchen. After a furious bass line chopped around, alluding to the possibility of guitar and drums but disregarding any sense of rhythm or tempo, Brian was forced to turn back with a snort. “Fucking CD, fucking scratches,” he growled, “making this damn shit skip. Fucking waste of my money…” He returned to the stereo controls, skipped the track and was pleased to discover that the second one played fine. “So, you decided to behave, huh?” he asked the stereo, or maybe the CD, he was unsure. Either way, it must have been guilted into doing the right thing. “Don’t do that to me, I need you on my side, okay?” he continued, half jokingly.
He didn’t find it at all funny, and wondered for whose benefit he even attempted the joke. “Just… keep playing,” he muttered, putting out an arm commandingly to the deck, “I don’t want to have to speak to you about this again.” God, why couldn’t he stop?
With a snort, Brian turned and finally returned to the kitchen. Plopping down into the flimsy plastic chair, he seized a long-expired Target gift card from the counter and used it to scrape the crumbs and dust off of one small corner of its surface. In the act, he found that he merely dropped most of them into his own lap, and pursed his lips in further frustration as he brushed them off his pants. He set the card down.
Alright, here we are, he told himself smilingly. His mouth practically watered as his left hand plunged into his pocket, searching around furiously. His fingers pushed past the Leatherman, around the cigarettes and the lighter before he felt them touch his prize. Exhilaration was filling him already, widening his eyes and rushing blood up to his head in overwhelming excitement. He’d been waiting for days now…
Then Brian heard a set of knuckles rap three times harshly against his door. He jumped nervously, rushed to his feet and scanned around his room for anything he wouldn’t want strangers seeing, taking a second to stop the music. Also, he crammed his precious little package back into the very bottom of his pocket; it was a matter of habit by this time, a natural reflex.
He cautiously approached the door and put his eye to the peephole. Staring back at him through the fisheye were the grinning faces of Chuck and Ginsu. God damn it all, he thought. It was almost as if they could smell it through the door.
Chuck could only be described as a big ass motherfucker. He was something like six five, just under 250 pounds, and had a smile big enough to match. Chuck was a white boy, like Brian, and a little too jolly, but still got a lot of credit around town. He had been walking their social circles for nearly a decade, much longer than either Ginsu or Brian. Brian always wondered what might have happened to Chuck if he had gotten involved in sports in high school instead, took up football and spent his time that way like all the other big kids in their grade. Not really much use to wondering, though.
Ginsu must have been the exact opposite of Chuck. He was a scrawny and belligerent little Mexican bastard with way more energy than Brian felt any human had a right to. His real name was Emilio or something similar, but for whatever reason Ginsu hated the sound of “Emilio” like all get out, and threw tantrums whenever he heard it. One time, as Brian had witnessed, Ginsu even got violent with a complete stranger who was only addressing his own friend, whom happened to be named Emilio. How he got the nickname “Ginsu” Brian couldn’t even guess, and had never really cared enough to ask.
He watched as Ginsu raised his fist with some irritation of his own and slammed it against the door three more times. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Come on, fucker! Open up, we know you’re in there! Chuck saw you walking in.”
Brian swore internally and, knowing that he had to let them in, he counted to three and put a tired face on to make it seem as though a nap were responsible for his delay. He turned the lock and swung the door open slowly, squinting into the hallway light. “Oh, hey guys,” he greeted them softly, trying to appear sleepy.
“Whassup, boy,” Ginsu said with his same too-happy smile and slapped Brian on the shoulder familiarly, though a little too hard, Brian thought. “Can we come in?”
“Yeah, sure,” Brian invited reluctantly, rubbing his eyes exhaustedly and stepping out of the doorway to let them in.
“Thanks, homeboy. Oh, and cut the shit. We know kids like you never sleep.” He nudged Chuck and gave him a glance, spurring him to laugh at Ginsu’s little joke.
Brian ignored this as he led them in, making sure Ginsu locked the door behind him. He flung himself onto his bed, settled in a little and looked up at his friends. “So what’s the story guys? You hear any good news?”
The two of them obviously intended for it to be a fairly long visit, because Ginsu tramped straight through all the shit on the floor to grab the lawn chair from the counter and set it down facing the bed. Chuck gingerly toed his way nearer and carefully cleared a spot on the floor to sit. Ginsu’s eyes were twinkling as he bared his teeth, “Why, yeah. Actually, we did hear some good news.” He turned his smile towards Chuck, who barely shifted to show his assent. Ginsu looked back to Brian and nodded his head towards him incriminatingly. “How ‘bout you, boss? You got any news?”
Fucking shit, Brian thought, I can’t believe these bastards picked right now to hit me up. He shook his head in mock sadness. “No, man. I got nothing on my end,” he lied smoothly. Brian knew he had few talents, but lying was definitely one of them.
“Oh, yeah? Hmmm… that’s a real shame,” Ginsu said, putting on a falsely serious expression and nodded patronizingly. “A damn shame. Ain’t it Chuck?” This time Chuck seemed more reluctant to respond, and started looking a little uncomfortable.
“How’s that? I thought you guys said you found some.”
“Oh, we have, sort of,” Ginsu said reassuringly. “Don’t you worry about us, man. We got something on the way.” He rested his leg on his knee and leaned way back, throwing his hands up behind his head and almost fully reclining with a satisfied look. “But you, man? No news on your end, huh?” Brian shook his head in confirmation, beginning to get annoyed by the persistence. Ginsu breathed deeply and nodded, staring at the ceiling and faking bemusement. “That really does suck bro. See, me an’ Chuck—“ he gestured to his companion, “—found us some shit, but it’s really just enough for us two, you know.” He held his hands up and pinched his lips together, trying to look regretful, “Sorry.”
Brian was struck very suddenly at how weird this situation was. Why the hell would Ginsu drop by just to tell him there wasn’t enough to share? If that were really the case, he and Chuck would’ve just gone straight to one of their homes and done it, right? Ginsu was kind of freaking him out, but to be fair Ginsu always did that. What he didn’t get was why Chuck would look so anxious; he was in a familiar setting, among friends, so he ought to be as relaxed and amiable as ever. What was wrong with this picture?
“That’s alright, bro,” Brian ventured tentatively, “You know how it goes, a man needs what he needs.” Unsure what game he was playing, he looked Ginsu squarely in his smiling eyes and shrugged resignedly. “Am I right or am I right?”
For the first time that night, Ginsu’s grin broke as he paused, a slight expression of shock on his face. His look turned more thoughtful for a moment, and then the old Ginsu front was back with an uproarious laugh. “Yeah, right man?” He tapped Chuck and looked at him endearingly, “Right? Hahaha… shit Brian. You never told me you was such a philosopher.” He seemed way, way too amused by Brian’s response, which made Brian feel even weirder. He got even more excited and slapped his hands together, rubbing them eagerly and leaning in towards Brian. “C’mon, Socrates, you got any more heavy wisdom to lay on us or what?” He was the only one laughing at how far he took the joke. Chuck was gazing distractedly into an empty corner.
Things were getting a bit too freaky for Brian, who decided to stop playing whatever game was up. He interrupted Ginsu’s laughter abruptly, “Hey! So what’s up, Ginsu? What you wanna be hanging around me for? It sounds like you guys got your own score right?” He changed to a more reproachful tone, “Did you guys just come to tease me about it or what? ‘Cause that’s not cool, man, waving it under my nose like that.”
“Whoa! Whoa there, killer! Slow down!” Ginsu responded, putting his hands up defensively. “We’re just shooting the breeze with our homeboy. What’s wrong with that?” He leaned back again, settling in comfortably, and reached up to the top of his head to push it to either side, cracking the vertebrae in his neck sickeningly. Then he put on a serious look and placed his hands in his lap. “Besides, we haven’t necessarily scored yet. It’s definitely on its way, but me n’ Chuck have got some errands to run in the meantime, you know? We got shit to do.”
“Well, yeah, man. We all got shit to do—“
“There he goes again! All philosophizing and shit… tell us another platypus, Plato!” Ginsu interrupted. All that pent up energy of his was beginning to seethe to the surface, and the smile was twisting halfway into a sneer. Brian noted this, and recognized something dangerous was afoot with the guy; it would be best not to correct him and say "platitude," he figured. Chuck still wouldn’t return his gaze.
“—But what are you guys doing sitting around here shooting the breeze if you’re so busy? I don’t want to hold you up, guys. Don’t feel delayed on my account.” Brian was struggling to keep a tremor out of his voice. Damn, it was hard to still sound friendly with all this shit going on, and Brian didn’t even really know what shit was going on.
Ginsu laughed the hardest he had all day, clapping as if Brian were Richard Pryor on stage. He gathered himself, sniffed, and started nodding happily, “You know, I appreciate that, Brian. I really do. What a nice gesture, really. Don’t you think, Chuck?” he asked as he looked once more at his towering companion.
Chuck squirmed in his spot on the floor, and looked up with an expression of contorted anguish on his face, “Look, Ginsu, I don’t know about—“
But Ginsu cut him off, glaring back at Brian gleefully, “So very generous of you, Brian. A lovely gesture, lovely.” His smile became somewhat distracted and whimsical, “So I think we will get on about our business. You know, we wouldn’t want to hold up any of your important plans, would we?”
“Look, man, it’s not that I mind I was just asking—“
“Oh, no, of course. I wouldn’t take any offense to you, Brian. You know that. It’s just…” he gave Brian a significant look and perhaps the wickedest grin he had ever seen, “…aren’t you the slightest bit curious of what we’re up to today? Don’t you want to ask your old friends how they’ve been, what they’ve been up to, what other old friends they ran into and all that?”
Brian was still confused, but the tension in the air was growing clearer and clearer to him. Some dangerous shit was up, and Brian had no idea why. Chuck still looked like he wanted to say something, but was just biting his lip agitatedly. “Well, yeah, Ginsu. Sure I wanna hear about you day, it’s just I barely got home and I had a rough day and I was looking forward to just crashing for a few hours.”
“Oh, yes. Of course you were,” Ginsu said in that same mocking way, “and I’m really sorry to hold you up. I just wanted to tell you about our day.” His grin grew sinister, “Crazy day we’ve had, me n’ this guy,” he waved to Chuck again, who averted his eyes again.
“Oh, yeah?” Brian sighed, hoping that whatever game this was it would be over with soon. Maybe Ginsu was just having one of his episodes and that’s what was weirding him out so much. Maybe if he just played along a little longer and let Ginsu talk himself out, he would be satisfied and finally leave. “I guess I got time for that,” he conceded, sitting up straighter on the edge of his bed. “Tell me about your day, man.”
“Well,” Ginsu began, smugly arranging himself as if he were reading a story aloud to children, “me n’ Chuck were out doing business as usual, just innocently being ourselves and looking for some good news, right?” Brian nodded, hoping the story wouldn’t take long to tell. “And you couldn’t have guessed it, but we ran into a common acquaintance while we were out and about. It was really such a pleasant surprise to see him, such a dear old friend as he is, and so the three of us sat down and had a nice, long conversation. Fascinating conversationalist, this fellow. He had the two of us absolutely enraptured, and we just talked and talked and talked…”
It was clear to Brian that Ginsu was drawing thee whole thing out as much as possible, so he jumped in, “Who was it you ran into?”
Ginsu shook himself out of his story with a look of mock surprise on his face. “Huh?”
“Who was it? Who did you run into today?”
Ginsu pretended to be taken aback, and looked down contemplatively as if troubled. “Oh, dear, did I forget to mention who it was? How rude of me to withhold that.” He set the full force of his glare on Brian, all smiles vanished from his face, “It was none other than your old pal Dominic!”
Shit! Brian’s mind began racing. How could that be what this is all about? Fuck! These were his friends, they barely even knew Dominic. Godammit! He knew he shouldn’t have tried pulling that stupid shit that morning. Cunt-ass Bitch! Everyone knew that stealing product from guys like Dominic meant trouble, it’s just—the Fucking Shit!—it’s just he was hurting for the cash and couldn’t afford to spend it. Damn! A man’s gotta eat, he reassured himself. A man’s gotta get high, too. Pussy-ass Bitch! Fucking shithead motherfucker!
“And boy, did Dominic have an interesting story to tell us. Didn’t he, Chuck?”
Chuck may have finally gathered the courage to speak, but didn’t get the chance before Brian broke back in, “So is that what the fuck this is all about? Huh? Did that fucking asshole Dominic send you after me, and you did? Is that what’s going on here, you’re coming because you think you wanna collect on your own friends?”
“Now, now, slow down, big guy. We’re not coming by here to shake down a friend. You know I would never do that,” he said softly, pressing his palm to his chest and looking hurt, “never! Me and Chuck here would never do anything that would hurt a friend.”
“Alright, just fucking stop it, Ginsu,” Chuck finally burst out. “This ain’t cool, man. It ain’t worth it, and I don’t even know why I agreed to it.” He stood up to his full height and glared down at Ginsu reproachfully, “I don’t know why you did either.”
There was nothing smiley about Ginsu anymore, whose entire body was tensed as he leapt to his feet also, a vein visibly pulsating from his forehead. “Oh, but you did agree to it, bitch,” he spat furiously. “So you gonna back out on your word like the fucking pussy cracker that you are, is that it?”
Brian started edging further back on his mattress. He was getting a very bad feeling about everything, and wanted to get closer to the 9 millimeter he had tucked beneath his raggedy pillow. “Back out on what, Chuck?”
The giant looked apologetically over at Brian. “Sorry, Brian. We ran into Dominic, like he said, and Dominic told us that you stole some shit from ‘im. Well, Dominic goes off sayin’ how nobody makes no fool of him and whatever. He’s pissed, man, and he told us he’d give us an eight ball each plus whatever you still had if we—“ he paused and looked shamefully to the floor, “—if we came and…” He seemed unable to continue, looking fiercely down at Ginsu with a furrowed brow and a sulky lip.
“What the fuck, Ginsu? You wouldn’t hurt a friend, huh?” Brian was indulging his fury now, surprised at how good it felt. Some of that frustration from earlier was working its way out too.
“Fuck you, bitch!” he sneered, “You and your fucking ‘no news today fellas!’ routine!” He spat on the floor, or rather tried to, because the phlegm fell on a tattered old comic book instead. “You had that cocaine the whole fucking time, and you were lying to us through your fucking teeth about it! If we were friends, maybe you would have busted me a line, no? Or at least been honest, said there wasn’t enough to share like I said.”
“Man, you were playing a sick fucking game that whole damn time, and I knew it. You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that Ginsu?” He shook his head, “Shit, Chuck, what’s up with you guys today?” Chuck once again averted his eyes, clearly sorry. “In any case,” Brian went on, “I think you guys need to get the fuck out. A least for now, Chuck,” he said aside.
Fires lit up in Ginsu’s eyes and he laughed insanely. “Uh-uh, homeboy,” he growled, baring as many of his teeth as he could. (It occurred to Brian that maybe Ginsu didn’t even know what a real smile was for.) “I’m not going nowhere without my shit, bitch!” He made like he was going to come at Brian, but Chuck grabbed his shoulder.
“I said that was enough, Ginsu. We ain’t gonna do this shit, and that’s just it.”
Ginsu’s expression never changed, and he barely looked away from Brian. “Maybe you ain’t,” he said, reaching towards his belt and lifting his shirt slightly. “But I fucking do what I want!”
Chuck couldn’t see Ginsu’s wandering hand, but it was clear enough to Brian, who was almost too shocked by what he saw to shout, “Look out, Chuck!”
The warning must have just barely been too late. Brian saw sunlight through the window flashing off the blade of the knife as Ginsu swung it in a graceless arc, bringing it just over his own head as he plunged it with finality into Chuck’s chest.
Dear God, what’s going on?
Ginsu struggled to pull his knife back out as Chuck stared down at his own chest incredulously. He wore a wide-eyed, almost childlike look of astonishment, his mouth gaping open and laboriously drawing breath. He was barely moved by all of Ginsu’s efforts to recover the knife; his chest was holding onto the blade like a vice.
Ginsu was paying Chuck little mind, trying to drag his entire giant body, knife and all, towards Brian. A droplet of blood appeared on Chuck’s bottom lip, and quivered for a moment before Chuck’s entire face finally contorted in rage, shaking the tremulous droplet off and down onto Ginsu’s distracted head.
Brian had already dived towards his pillow, scrambling to get his gun out from under it. Things hat gotten way out of hand, he knew. God damn it, had things gotten out of hand. His fingers finally found their way around the handle of the 9mm, and he whipped around, holding it shakily aloft just in time to see Chuck’s final act.
He drew one last, furious breath, and growled through a mouth full of spattering blood, “You can suck my dick Emilio!” before wrapping his enormous hands around the smaller man’s neck and squeezing.
Chuck died that way, knife still buried in his chest, locked in a deadly embrace with a man who was his friend that morning. Ginsu—Emilio— had given up on getting the knife back and was now fighting against the hands wrung tight around his neck, gasping and spitting, turning redder as his eyes popped farther and farther out. Brian watched in appalled shock as the crazy little man shook and squirmed, punching and kicking with all his might trying to get away. But nothing could shake Chuck’s grip, and soon Emilio stopped his flailing, and his gasps grew quieter, and stopped. The ghastly pair swayed ominously, almost as if dancing, before collapsing in a disgusting heap, landing right on top of his stereo and smashing it to pieces, sending splinters and useless electronic innards flying everywhere.
Brian dropped the gun in amazement. What in hell had just happened? Shit, had the world gone crazy on him or something? He was breathing heavily, staring blindly at the incomprehensible mess in his apartment, and felt saliva begin to gather threateningly in his mouth. He put a hand to his lips and thought of rushing to the bathroom, but his feet were rooted in place, so he just fell to his knees, went forwards on his hands, and vomited right onto the old, grease-stained vest he had once stolen from his prep school.
Well, what are you going to do now?
Brian coughed and spat miserably, looking up at the motionless forms of Chuck and Emilio. He sniffed, took a deep breath, got slowly to his feet and walked slowly towards the kitchen counter, grabbing the cheap white chair along the way.
He set it deliberately on the spotted linoleum floor, reached for the Target gift card and began fishing through his pocket, pushing aside his Leatherman, and then his cigarettes, and then his lighter before finally discovering that tiny little knotted corner of plastic bag filled with a few spoonfuls of cocaine.
But he made the best of it, he felt. He still had all his hip-hop posters and pin-ups, stolen street signs and a Raiders flag from when he was in high school that he used to try and cover up the filthy walls as they grinned cruelly at him. The kitchen linoleum was just as ugly, or at least he remembered it being just as ugly. Dusty footprints, smeared spots, and bits of discarded then trampled food had blended in and become part of its hideously dated original pattern. Whether this made it easier on the eyes or not, ever since Brian had moved in his renovations had at least made the linoleum easier to ignore.
He hated his carpet the most; it was a filthy, tangled mess of pea green shag. For the first month, Brian couldn’t help but feel like he needed to be wearing bellbottoms to walk on it, or at least buy some circular sunglasses and grow a set of ridiculous lamb-chop sideburns. He snorted in amusement at the thought, and settled on a more preferable solution for his carpet problem. After a few weeks of torturous deliberation, and some trial runs of the method, Brian decided to hide the green monstrosity underneath a nice solid layer of his shit.
He killed two birds with one stone here, a fact he noted quite smugly. Not only was the abominable carpet invisible to him, but now that he had established his new system of self-organization, he discovered that he no longer needed to procrastinate shopping for shelves or a dresser. They would have taken up so much of his space, really, that he was glad to no longer need them.
Brian slammed his door shut behind him, reaching back without looking to turn the deadbolt with a bit more force and haste than would seem necessary to anyone else. He was irritated, definitely, though unsure why. It wasn’t the sea of dirty clothing, candy wrappers, and other assorted shit that stretched out before him; he had long since grown accustomed to that, as he had to the questionable hue of the walls and the collage of stains on the kitchen floor.
Though oddly enough he still resented that green carpet, the peeling linoleum, and the walls themselves. Inexplicable, he thought, and so shrugged away his realization of this resentment, dismissing it as one of his many quirks not worth worrying about. But the agitation remained… hanging around him like three days worth of body odor, making him wrinkle his nose in disgust at anything he saw. Brian shot his glare to every corner of his home, running his eyes over the entire picture of his life, taking it in.
Since when has life been lived like this? a tiny squeak of a voice challenged from the very back of his mind.
Brian suddenly realized he had been standing still, slack jawed and staring around his apartment aimlessly, taking deep, labored breaths through his whistling nostrils. He shook himself, reproachfully banishing whatever had been paralyzing him in front of his door. “What the fuck am I looking at,” he muttered to himself, “it’s not like I see this every damn day or something.” His frustration clearly remained, like the unwanted boy in a circle of friends, persistently trying to get his attention in spite of his attempts to ignore it.
It wouldn’t be a problem much longer, he knew, whatever the problem really was. Brian knew exactly how to deal with things like this, and he fully intended to take thye necessary steps immediately. He picked up a toppled plastic lawn chair from a pile of clothes and scratched CD’s and set it in front of his kitchen counter deliberately.
Before sitting, he had a thought and went back to that pile, rifling frantically through his carefully filed CD collection before finding and blowing the dust off of his only Tool album. Triumphantly, he straightened his posture and strode to his stereo like a war hero.
Jesus Christ, did he love that stereo. He’d had the central deck for years and years, but over time had spent hundreds of dollars to give it its chest-high speakers and glass-bending subwoofer. The amplifier alone had cost half a month’s pay, but Brian knew it was worth it. Whatever makes me happy, he figured. He put the CD in, pressed play and started to walk back towards the kitchen. After a furious bass line chopped around, alluding to the possibility of guitar and drums but disregarding any sense of rhythm or tempo, Brian was forced to turn back with a snort. “Fucking CD, fucking scratches,” he growled, “making this damn shit skip. Fucking waste of my money…” He returned to the stereo controls, skipped the track and was pleased to discover that the second one played fine. “So, you decided to behave, huh?” he asked the stereo, or maybe the CD, he was unsure. Either way, it must have been guilted into doing the right thing. “Don’t do that to me, I need you on my side, okay?” he continued, half jokingly.
He didn’t find it at all funny, and wondered for whose benefit he even attempted the joke. “Just… keep playing,” he muttered, putting out an arm commandingly to the deck, “I don’t want to have to speak to you about this again.” God, why couldn’t he stop?
With a snort, Brian turned and finally returned to the kitchen. Plopping down into the flimsy plastic chair, he seized a long-expired Target gift card from the counter and used it to scrape the crumbs and dust off of one small corner of its surface. In the act, he found that he merely dropped most of them into his own lap, and pursed his lips in further frustration as he brushed them off his pants. He set the card down.
Alright, here we are, he told himself smilingly. His mouth practically watered as his left hand plunged into his pocket, searching around furiously. His fingers pushed past the Leatherman, around the cigarettes and the lighter before he felt them touch his prize. Exhilaration was filling him already, widening his eyes and rushing blood up to his head in overwhelming excitement. He’d been waiting for days now…
Then Brian heard a set of knuckles rap three times harshly against his door. He jumped nervously, rushed to his feet and scanned around his room for anything he wouldn’t want strangers seeing, taking a second to stop the music. Also, he crammed his precious little package back into the very bottom of his pocket; it was a matter of habit by this time, a natural reflex.
He cautiously approached the door and put his eye to the peephole. Staring back at him through the fisheye were the grinning faces of Chuck and Ginsu. God damn it all, he thought. It was almost as if they could smell it through the door.
Chuck could only be described as a big ass motherfucker. He was something like six five, just under 250 pounds, and had a smile big enough to match. Chuck was a white boy, like Brian, and a little too jolly, but still got a lot of credit around town. He had been walking their social circles for nearly a decade, much longer than either Ginsu or Brian. Brian always wondered what might have happened to Chuck if he had gotten involved in sports in high school instead, took up football and spent his time that way like all the other big kids in their grade. Not really much use to wondering, though.
Ginsu must have been the exact opposite of Chuck. He was a scrawny and belligerent little Mexican bastard with way more energy than Brian felt any human had a right to. His real name was Emilio or something similar, but for whatever reason Ginsu hated the sound of “Emilio” like all get out, and threw tantrums whenever he heard it. One time, as Brian had witnessed, Ginsu even got violent with a complete stranger who was only addressing his own friend, whom happened to be named Emilio. How he got the nickname “Ginsu” Brian couldn’t even guess, and had never really cared enough to ask.
He watched as Ginsu raised his fist with some irritation of his own and slammed it against the door three more times. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Come on, fucker! Open up, we know you’re in there! Chuck saw you walking in.”
Brian swore internally and, knowing that he had to let them in, he counted to three and put a tired face on to make it seem as though a nap were responsible for his delay. He turned the lock and swung the door open slowly, squinting into the hallway light. “Oh, hey guys,” he greeted them softly, trying to appear sleepy.
“Whassup, boy,” Ginsu said with his same too-happy smile and slapped Brian on the shoulder familiarly, though a little too hard, Brian thought. “Can we come in?”
“Yeah, sure,” Brian invited reluctantly, rubbing his eyes exhaustedly and stepping out of the doorway to let them in.
“Thanks, homeboy. Oh, and cut the shit. We know kids like you never sleep.” He nudged Chuck and gave him a glance, spurring him to laugh at Ginsu’s little joke.
Brian ignored this as he led them in, making sure Ginsu locked the door behind him. He flung himself onto his bed, settled in a little and looked up at his friends. “So what’s the story guys? You hear any good news?”
The two of them obviously intended for it to be a fairly long visit, because Ginsu tramped straight through all the shit on the floor to grab the lawn chair from the counter and set it down facing the bed. Chuck gingerly toed his way nearer and carefully cleared a spot on the floor to sit. Ginsu’s eyes were twinkling as he bared his teeth, “Why, yeah. Actually, we did hear some good news.” He turned his smile towards Chuck, who barely shifted to show his assent. Ginsu looked back to Brian and nodded his head towards him incriminatingly. “How ‘bout you, boss? You got any news?”
Fucking shit, Brian thought, I can’t believe these bastards picked right now to hit me up. He shook his head in mock sadness. “No, man. I got nothing on my end,” he lied smoothly. Brian knew he had few talents, but lying was definitely one of them.
“Oh, yeah? Hmmm… that’s a real shame,” Ginsu said, putting on a falsely serious expression and nodded patronizingly. “A damn shame. Ain’t it Chuck?” This time Chuck seemed more reluctant to respond, and started looking a little uncomfortable.
“How’s that? I thought you guys said you found some.”
“Oh, we have, sort of,” Ginsu said reassuringly. “Don’t you worry about us, man. We got something on the way.” He rested his leg on his knee and leaned way back, throwing his hands up behind his head and almost fully reclining with a satisfied look. “But you, man? No news on your end, huh?” Brian shook his head in confirmation, beginning to get annoyed by the persistence. Ginsu breathed deeply and nodded, staring at the ceiling and faking bemusement. “That really does suck bro. See, me an’ Chuck—“ he gestured to his companion, “—found us some shit, but it’s really just enough for us two, you know.” He held his hands up and pinched his lips together, trying to look regretful, “Sorry.”
Brian was struck very suddenly at how weird this situation was. Why the hell would Ginsu drop by just to tell him there wasn’t enough to share? If that were really the case, he and Chuck would’ve just gone straight to one of their homes and done it, right? Ginsu was kind of freaking him out, but to be fair Ginsu always did that. What he didn’t get was why Chuck would look so anxious; he was in a familiar setting, among friends, so he ought to be as relaxed and amiable as ever. What was wrong with this picture?
“That’s alright, bro,” Brian ventured tentatively, “You know how it goes, a man needs what he needs.” Unsure what game he was playing, he looked Ginsu squarely in his smiling eyes and shrugged resignedly. “Am I right or am I right?”
For the first time that night, Ginsu’s grin broke as he paused, a slight expression of shock on his face. His look turned more thoughtful for a moment, and then the old Ginsu front was back with an uproarious laugh. “Yeah, right man?” He tapped Chuck and looked at him endearingly, “Right? Hahaha… shit Brian. You never told me you was such a philosopher.” He seemed way, way too amused by Brian’s response, which made Brian feel even weirder. He got even more excited and slapped his hands together, rubbing them eagerly and leaning in towards Brian. “C’mon, Socrates, you got any more heavy wisdom to lay on us or what?” He was the only one laughing at how far he took the joke. Chuck was gazing distractedly into an empty corner.
Things were getting a bit too freaky for Brian, who decided to stop playing whatever game was up. He interrupted Ginsu’s laughter abruptly, “Hey! So what’s up, Ginsu? What you wanna be hanging around me for? It sounds like you guys got your own score right?” He changed to a more reproachful tone, “Did you guys just come to tease me about it or what? ‘Cause that’s not cool, man, waving it under my nose like that.”
“Whoa! Whoa there, killer! Slow down!” Ginsu responded, putting his hands up defensively. “We’re just shooting the breeze with our homeboy. What’s wrong with that?” He leaned back again, settling in comfortably, and reached up to the top of his head to push it to either side, cracking the vertebrae in his neck sickeningly. Then he put on a serious look and placed his hands in his lap. “Besides, we haven’t necessarily scored yet. It’s definitely on its way, but me n’ Chuck have got some errands to run in the meantime, you know? We got shit to do.”
“Well, yeah, man. We all got shit to do—“
“There he goes again! All philosophizing and shit… tell us another platypus, Plato!” Ginsu interrupted. All that pent up energy of his was beginning to seethe to the surface, and the smile was twisting halfway into a sneer. Brian noted this, and recognized something dangerous was afoot with the guy; it would be best not to correct him and say "platitude," he figured. Chuck still wouldn’t return his gaze.
“—But what are you guys doing sitting around here shooting the breeze if you’re so busy? I don’t want to hold you up, guys. Don’t feel delayed on my account.” Brian was struggling to keep a tremor out of his voice. Damn, it was hard to still sound friendly with all this shit going on, and Brian didn’t even really know what shit was going on.
Ginsu laughed the hardest he had all day, clapping as if Brian were Richard Pryor on stage. He gathered himself, sniffed, and started nodding happily, “You know, I appreciate that, Brian. I really do. What a nice gesture, really. Don’t you think, Chuck?” he asked as he looked once more at his towering companion.
Chuck squirmed in his spot on the floor, and looked up with an expression of contorted anguish on his face, “Look, Ginsu, I don’t know about—“
But Ginsu cut him off, glaring back at Brian gleefully, “So very generous of you, Brian. A lovely gesture, lovely.” His smile became somewhat distracted and whimsical, “So I think we will get on about our business. You know, we wouldn’t want to hold up any of your important plans, would we?”
“Look, man, it’s not that I mind I was just asking—“
“Oh, no, of course. I wouldn’t take any offense to you, Brian. You know that. It’s just…” he gave Brian a significant look and perhaps the wickedest grin he had ever seen, “…aren’t you the slightest bit curious of what we’re up to today? Don’t you want to ask your old friends how they’ve been, what they’ve been up to, what other old friends they ran into and all that?”
Brian was still confused, but the tension in the air was growing clearer and clearer to him. Some dangerous shit was up, and Brian had no idea why. Chuck still looked like he wanted to say something, but was just biting his lip agitatedly. “Well, yeah, Ginsu. Sure I wanna hear about you day, it’s just I barely got home and I had a rough day and I was looking forward to just crashing for a few hours.”
“Oh, yes. Of course you were,” Ginsu said in that same mocking way, “and I’m really sorry to hold you up. I just wanted to tell you about our day.” His grin grew sinister, “Crazy day we’ve had, me n’ this guy,” he waved to Chuck again, who averted his eyes again.
“Oh, yeah?” Brian sighed, hoping that whatever game this was it would be over with soon. Maybe Ginsu was just having one of his episodes and that’s what was weirding him out so much. Maybe if he just played along a little longer and let Ginsu talk himself out, he would be satisfied and finally leave. “I guess I got time for that,” he conceded, sitting up straighter on the edge of his bed. “Tell me about your day, man.”
“Well,” Ginsu began, smugly arranging himself as if he were reading a story aloud to children, “me n’ Chuck were out doing business as usual, just innocently being ourselves and looking for some good news, right?” Brian nodded, hoping the story wouldn’t take long to tell. “And you couldn’t have guessed it, but we ran into a common acquaintance while we were out and about. It was really such a pleasant surprise to see him, such a dear old friend as he is, and so the three of us sat down and had a nice, long conversation. Fascinating conversationalist, this fellow. He had the two of us absolutely enraptured, and we just talked and talked and talked…”
It was clear to Brian that Ginsu was drawing thee whole thing out as much as possible, so he jumped in, “Who was it you ran into?”
Ginsu shook himself out of his story with a look of mock surprise on his face. “Huh?”
“Who was it? Who did you run into today?”
Ginsu pretended to be taken aback, and looked down contemplatively as if troubled. “Oh, dear, did I forget to mention who it was? How rude of me to withhold that.” He set the full force of his glare on Brian, all smiles vanished from his face, “It was none other than your old pal Dominic!”
Shit! Brian’s mind began racing. How could that be what this is all about? Fuck! These were his friends, they barely even knew Dominic. Godammit! He knew he shouldn’t have tried pulling that stupid shit that morning. Cunt-ass Bitch! Everyone knew that stealing product from guys like Dominic meant trouble, it’s just—the Fucking Shit!—it’s just he was hurting for the cash and couldn’t afford to spend it. Damn! A man’s gotta eat, he reassured himself. A man’s gotta get high, too. Pussy-ass Bitch! Fucking shithead motherfucker!
“And boy, did Dominic have an interesting story to tell us. Didn’t he, Chuck?”
Chuck may have finally gathered the courage to speak, but didn’t get the chance before Brian broke back in, “So is that what the fuck this is all about? Huh? Did that fucking asshole Dominic send you after me, and you did? Is that what’s going on here, you’re coming because you think you wanna collect on your own friends?”
“Now, now, slow down, big guy. We’re not coming by here to shake down a friend. You know I would never do that,” he said softly, pressing his palm to his chest and looking hurt, “never! Me and Chuck here would never do anything that would hurt a friend.”
“Alright, just fucking stop it, Ginsu,” Chuck finally burst out. “This ain’t cool, man. It ain’t worth it, and I don’t even know why I agreed to it.” He stood up to his full height and glared down at Ginsu reproachfully, “I don’t know why you did either.”
There was nothing smiley about Ginsu anymore, whose entire body was tensed as he leapt to his feet also, a vein visibly pulsating from his forehead. “Oh, but you did agree to it, bitch,” he spat furiously. “So you gonna back out on your word like the fucking pussy cracker that you are, is that it?”
Brian started edging further back on his mattress. He was getting a very bad feeling about everything, and wanted to get closer to the 9 millimeter he had tucked beneath his raggedy pillow. “Back out on what, Chuck?”
The giant looked apologetically over at Brian. “Sorry, Brian. We ran into Dominic, like he said, and Dominic told us that you stole some shit from ‘im. Well, Dominic goes off sayin’ how nobody makes no fool of him and whatever. He’s pissed, man, and he told us he’d give us an eight ball each plus whatever you still had if we—“ he paused and looked shamefully to the floor, “—if we came and…” He seemed unable to continue, looking fiercely down at Ginsu with a furrowed brow and a sulky lip.
“What the fuck, Ginsu? You wouldn’t hurt a friend, huh?” Brian was indulging his fury now, surprised at how good it felt. Some of that frustration from earlier was working its way out too.
“Fuck you, bitch!” he sneered, “You and your fucking ‘no news today fellas!’ routine!” He spat on the floor, or rather tried to, because the phlegm fell on a tattered old comic book instead. “You had that cocaine the whole fucking time, and you were lying to us through your fucking teeth about it! If we were friends, maybe you would have busted me a line, no? Or at least been honest, said there wasn’t enough to share like I said.”
“Man, you were playing a sick fucking game that whole damn time, and I knew it. You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that Ginsu?” He shook his head, “Shit, Chuck, what’s up with you guys today?” Chuck once again averted his eyes, clearly sorry. “In any case,” Brian went on, “I think you guys need to get the fuck out. A least for now, Chuck,” he said aside.
Fires lit up in Ginsu’s eyes and he laughed insanely. “Uh-uh, homeboy,” he growled, baring as many of his teeth as he could. (It occurred to Brian that maybe Ginsu didn’t even know what a real smile was for.) “I’m not going nowhere without my shit, bitch!” He made like he was going to come at Brian, but Chuck grabbed his shoulder.
“I said that was enough, Ginsu. We ain’t gonna do this shit, and that’s just it.”
Ginsu’s expression never changed, and he barely looked away from Brian. “Maybe you ain’t,” he said, reaching towards his belt and lifting his shirt slightly. “But I fucking do what I want!”
Chuck couldn’t see Ginsu’s wandering hand, but it was clear enough to Brian, who was almost too shocked by what he saw to shout, “Look out, Chuck!”
The warning must have just barely been too late. Brian saw sunlight through the window flashing off the blade of the knife as Ginsu swung it in a graceless arc, bringing it just over his own head as he plunged it with finality into Chuck’s chest.
Dear God, what’s going on?
Ginsu struggled to pull his knife back out as Chuck stared down at his own chest incredulously. He wore a wide-eyed, almost childlike look of astonishment, his mouth gaping open and laboriously drawing breath. He was barely moved by all of Ginsu’s efforts to recover the knife; his chest was holding onto the blade like a vice.
Ginsu was paying Chuck little mind, trying to drag his entire giant body, knife and all, towards Brian. A droplet of blood appeared on Chuck’s bottom lip, and quivered for a moment before Chuck’s entire face finally contorted in rage, shaking the tremulous droplet off and down onto Ginsu’s distracted head.
Brian had already dived towards his pillow, scrambling to get his gun out from under it. Things hat gotten way out of hand, he knew. God damn it, had things gotten out of hand. His fingers finally found their way around the handle of the 9mm, and he whipped around, holding it shakily aloft just in time to see Chuck’s final act.
He drew one last, furious breath, and growled through a mouth full of spattering blood, “You can suck my dick Emilio!” before wrapping his enormous hands around the smaller man’s neck and squeezing.
Chuck died that way, knife still buried in his chest, locked in a deadly embrace with a man who was his friend that morning. Ginsu—Emilio— had given up on getting the knife back and was now fighting against the hands wrung tight around his neck, gasping and spitting, turning redder as his eyes popped farther and farther out. Brian watched in appalled shock as the crazy little man shook and squirmed, punching and kicking with all his might trying to get away. But nothing could shake Chuck’s grip, and soon Emilio stopped his flailing, and his gasps grew quieter, and stopped. The ghastly pair swayed ominously, almost as if dancing, before collapsing in a disgusting heap, landing right on top of his stereo and smashing it to pieces, sending splinters and useless electronic innards flying everywhere.
Brian dropped the gun in amazement. What in hell had just happened? Shit, had the world gone crazy on him or something? He was breathing heavily, staring blindly at the incomprehensible mess in his apartment, and felt saliva begin to gather threateningly in his mouth. He put a hand to his lips and thought of rushing to the bathroom, but his feet were rooted in place, so he just fell to his knees, went forwards on his hands, and vomited right onto the old, grease-stained vest he had once stolen from his prep school.
Well, what are you going to do now?
Brian coughed and spat miserably, looking up at the motionless forms of Chuck and Emilio. He sniffed, took a deep breath, got slowly to his feet and walked slowly towards the kitchen counter, grabbing the cheap white chair along the way.
He set it deliberately on the spotted linoleum floor, reached for the Target gift card and began fishing through his pocket, pushing aside his Leatherman, and then his cigarettes, and then his lighter before finally discovering that tiny little knotted corner of plastic bag filled with a few spoonfuls of cocaine.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
God Shuffled His Feet
The existence of God is something that has been disputed ever since it emerged as a concept. What is both frustrating and undeniably convenient is the fact that the existence of a Judeo-Christian God-like entity is impossible either to prove or disprove, despite the tireless efforts of Nietzsche and Fénelon. Actually, the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster was established solely to point out this fact, and to demonstrate that our all-too-precious faith can be placed unshakeably in anything, however absurd.
But if we take a step outside of our Western enculturation and look at God differently, thinking of him in a more Eastern, mystical sense, we are confronted with the curiously familiar idea of Brahman, or the divine transcendental ground of all being, time, matter, energy, and space. Brahman encompasses the entirety of everything, and the invisible systems through which they work. What is convenient about Brahman is that it does exist, it absolutely has to, nihilism and solipsism aside. The existence of Brahman is impossible to disprove (except possible for Zeno), and descriptions of it in Hindu scriptures ring bells of “the First and the Last” and “Alpha and Omega.”
What I’m getting at here is a loosened definition of God—no two people can entirely agree on their conceptions of God as it is. Sure, we can all cling to the idol of God we shaped in our minds as children, a shaky image of a smiling, fatherly divine face that the infantile find comforting. But this is a mental security blanket, I think, and detrimental to one’s spirituality. How can you truly know God if the God you think you know is different from the God your priest thinks he knows?
But God as Brahman, and not as a man-like entity, or a paradoxical trinity… Brahman can only be one thing, and if God is not Brahman then God at the very least is contained within Brahman, being a part of existence. But would this not make God a subordinate being to Brahman, and go against the definition of God?
Brahman definitely exists, if anything does. God might exist, but if he truly adheres to the expectations of Judeo-Christian tradition than he exists as a being inferior to the universe itself. Brahman is the universe itself, and therefore the best candidate for Godhood.
There’s just so much about the God I grew up with that I don’t really get. Certain Christian sects believe that God made man “in his own image.” Aside from the fact that we’re clearly not Gods, I have to ask why God would make chimpanzees 98% in his own image? And then continue to stratify the genetics of the primates further and further from his own, filling in the remainder of their genetic code with animal DNA, which so closely resembles God DNA… I just find it unlikely that this is the case.
As I find it unlikely that God is sitting atop a cloud keeping a log of all of our sins and good deeds. What I do find likely is that the scribes of antiquity, much like the writers of today, felt an urge for an artistic flourish and indulged it in clever metaphors, hyperbole, and, most importantly, personification. God is the personification of nature, the makeshift explanation for phenomena which science has yet to enlighten. Moses was a smart and influential man in his time, and when his contemporaries asked him to explain things, he did the best he could as a poet to inform them. Thus we have the Creation story, an elegantly crafted poetic explanation for where life came from.
Was Moses a prophet, and did God speak to him? Whichever definition you use for God, the answer is a resounding yes. In the sense of God as Brahman, God speaks to all of us, all the time; prophets are merely those who listen. Moses saw an imperfect world and decided to take action—he was blessed both with capability and with wisdom, and combined these traits to liberate Israel. God commanded him to only in the sense that Moses himself recognized what was right and wrong in the situation through what had been shown to him, and felt he had to take action.
If the Judeo-Christian God exists, and he manifested himself to Moses in a burning bush (a thought amusing to potheads, especially since Hindus just on the other side of Mesopotamia were consuming cannabis ritualistically for spiritual enlightenment) and truly showed to him visions of the Creation, which Moses reproduced in the Bible’s record as infallible fact and truth, then half of the findings of science and archaeology in the past 400 years would have to be bullshit, and our human sense of logic overwhelmingly fallible.
But if we assume that we are not idiots and that sense makes sense, and re-examine the situation with God being Brahman, hypothetically, then we are left with a little more wiggle room. God blessed Moses with a capable mind and a sense of duty: seeing manifest in reality (the face of God) a need for action, Moses took action. Being a man of wisdom and faith, he did so claiming an authority higher than his own, an unchallengable one.
Just what Moses’ concept of God was I can’t be sure. I know that our dear grandfather Abraham was very much onto something when he made the leap from idolatry to monotheism: the oneness and unity of God is central to Brahmanism, which developed in the Indus Valley shortly before Abraham’s covenant was made. Now, just what took place between Abraham and God is impossible to know, especially considering that neither one ever existed for sure. Couldn’t it be possible that Moses took some artistic license with what happened?
It’s not unheard of, at that time. Poets and storytellers were definitely emerging as a central aspect of people’s histories and cultures—The Epic of Gilgamesh was written 200 years before the Torah, and do we doubt that either one enjoys a certain amount of embellishment?
But if we take a step outside of our Western enculturation and look at God differently, thinking of him in a more Eastern, mystical sense, we are confronted with the curiously familiar idea of Brahman, or the divine transcendental ground of all being, time, matter, energy, and space. Brahman encompasses the entirety of everything, and the invisible systems through which they work. What is convenient about Brahman is that it does exist, it absolutely has to, nihilism and solipsism aside. The existence of Brahman is impossible to disprove (except possible for Zeno), and descriptions of it in Hindu scriptures ring bells of “the First and the Last” and “Alpha and Omega.”
What I’m getting at here is a loosened definition of God—no two people can entirely agree on their conceptions of God as it is. Sure, we can all cling to the idol of God we shaped in our minds as children, a shaky image of a smiling, fatherly divine face that the infantile find comforting. But this is a mental security blanket, I think, and detrimental to one’s spirituality. How can you truly know God if the God you think you know is different from the God your priest thinks he knows?
But God as Brahman, and not as a man-like entity, or a paradoxical trinity… Brahman can only be one thing, and if God is not Brahman then God at the very least is contained within Brahman, being a part of existence. But would this not make God a subordinate being to Brahman, and go against the definition of God?
Brahman definitely exists, if anything does. God might exist, but if he truly adheres to the expectations of Judeo-Christian tradition than he exists as a being inferior to the universe itself. Brahman is the universe itself, and therefore the best candidate for Godhood.
There’s just so much about the God I grew up with that I don’t really get. Certain Christian sects believe that God made man “in his own image.” Aside from the fact that we’re clearly not Gods, I have to ask why God would make chimpanzees 98% in his own image? And then continue to stratify the genetics of the primates further and further from his own, filling in the remainder of their genetic code with animal DNA, which so closely resembles God DNA… I just find it unlikely that this is the case.
As I find it unlikely that God is sitting atop a cloud keeping a log of all of our sins and good deeds. What I do find likely is that the scribes of antiquity, much like the writers of today, felt an urge for an artistic flourish and indulged it in clever metaphors, hyperbole, and, most importantly, personification. God is the personification of nature, the makeshift explanation for phenomena which science has yet to enlighten. Moses was a smart and influential man in his time, and when his contemporaries asked him to explain things, he did the best he could as a poet to inform them. Thus we have the Creation story, an elegantly crafted poetic explanation for where life came from.
Was Moses a prophet, and did God speak to him? Whichever definition you use for God, the answer is a resounding yes. In the sense of God as Brahman, God speaks to all of us, all the time; prophets are merely those who listen. Moses saw an imperfect world and decided to take action—he was blessed both with capability and with wisdom, and combined these traits to liberate Israel. God commanded him to only in the sense that Moses himself recognized what was right and wrong in the situation through what had been shown to him, and felt he had to take action.
If the Judeo-Christian God exists, and he manifested himself to Moses in a burning bush (a thought amusing to potheads, especially since Hindus just on the other side of Mesopotamia were consuming cannabis ritualistically for spiritual enlightenment) and truly showed to him visions of the Creation, which Moses reproduced in the Bible’s record as infallible fact and truth, then half of the findings of science and archaeology in the past 400 years would have to be bullshit, and our human sense of logic overwhelmingly fallible.
But if we assume that we are not idiots and that sense makes sense, and re-examine the situation with God being Brahman, hypothetically, then we are left with a little more wiggle room. God blessed Moses with a capable mind and a sense of duty: seeing manifest in reality (the face of God) a need for action, Moses took action. Being a man of wisdom and faith, he did so claiming an authority higher than his own, an unchallengable one.
Just what Moses’ concept of God was I can’t be sure. I know that our dear grandfather Abraham was very much onto something when he made the leap from idolatry to monotheism: the oneness and unity of God is central to Brahmanism, which developed in the Indus Valley shortly before Abraham’s covenant was made. Now, just what took place between Abraham and God is impossible to know, especially considering that neither one ever existed for sure. Couldn’t it be possible that Moses took some artistic license with what happened?
It’s not unheard of, at that time. Poets and storytellers were definitely emerging as a central aspect of people’s histories and cultures—The Epic of Gilgamesh was written 200 years before the Torah, and do we doubt that either one enjoys a certain amount of embellishment?
Friday, May 16, 2008
From Soundgarden to the Moody Blues
I’ve fell on black days, as Chris Cornell might say; my sun has set and left me in the shadow of its absence wondering, and pondering. Dawn is inevitable but far off, and our sundials give no comfort at night. When will it come? The night has just begun, and yet it feels as old as God himself, decrepit and staggering but eternal in all memory, reaching back to the image of what was before all reality became this instant. Memory, memory: when did the sun set? What things I’ve yet to suffer in the moonlight, trials borne witness and jury by an army of stars, what awaits the watchful this night? Herculean tasks to endure for the sake of seeing the sun again, and a life’s work to set about.
What secrets are uttered in the holy, frightful night, however shaken loose by stark, momentous transfiguration of the eyes, are the most sanctified of scriptures, the most sincere of confessions.
Let nighttime come! the braver, or rather bolder, men will say. What they forget is that the depth of each man’s sunset is suited to his nocturne capacity for blindness, and that night hits hardest those with the insight to lose. Perhaps the sunset treats you kindly, keeps you from the deeper blackness and leaves your knowledge of the darker places shallow. But this is rare, and most of us have suffered hardship enough to realize what it truly means, and how lucky we truly are.
Isn’t life strange? I always say that life is a trip. And, being myself somewhat of a drug addict, I mean that with entirely psychedelic connotations. The events, emotions, lessons, and just general nature of life, especially life as a human, are all incredibly trippy to me. Just to think of how many coincidences have historically and prehistorically occurred so that things are the way they are, and work the way they work, is amazingly striking, as are the many different forms and expressions that human life has taken throughout the course of its cultural explorations.
And whether you are a Hindu or a Buddhist or whatever, most people seem to agree that there is inherent in the universe a karmic mechanism that brings to people their just desserts. And things actually do tend to work out for what some may call “karma,” but what’s trippy is that it is just the nature of life that people attract trouble appropriate to their flaws, which is why karma works. So it is that the greedy receive no charity, and the brutal no mercy. Call it karma or God or life itself, I think it’s just the way things happen.
The purpose of the trouble is educational, of course, something sent to the individual from the universal as a message declaring one’s incongruities with the natural course. Usually people recognize poor actions as “mistakes” and “bad karma” as lessons, but if they ignore these things and continue indulging their flaws and vices the upshot of their attitudes will grow more and more severe.
So the question is this: What have I done? What flaw have I blinded myself to and nurtured, bringing about this dreary nightfall? What must I learn, and what must I change?
What secrets are uttered in the holy, frightful night, however shaken loose by stark, momentous transfiguration of the eyes, are the most sanctified of scriptures, the most sincere of confessions.
Let nighttime come! the braver, or rather bolder, men will say. What they forget is that the depth of each man’s sunset is suited to his nocturne capacity for blindness, and that night hits hardest those with the insight to lose. Perhaps the sunset treats you kindly, keeps you from the deeper blackness and leaves your knowledge of the darker places shallow. But this is rare, and most of us have suffered hardship enough to realize what it truly means, and how lucky we truly are.
Isn’t life strange? I always say that life is a trip. And, being myself somewhat of a drug addict, I mean that with entirely psychedelic connotations. The events, emotions, lessons, and just general nature of life, especially life as a human, are all incredibly trippy to me. Just to think of how many coincidences have historically and prehistorically occurred so that things are the way they are, and work the way they work, is amazingly striking, as are the many different forms and expressions that human life has taken throughout the course of its cultural explorations.
And whether you are a Hindu or a Buddhist or whatever, most people seem to agree that there is inherent in the universe a karmic mechanism that brings to people their just desserts. And things actually do tend to work out for what some may call “karma,” but what’s trippy is that it is just the nature of life that people attract trouble appropriate to their flaws, which is why karma works. So it is that the greedy receive no charity, and the brutal no mercy. Call it karma or God or life itself, I think it’s just the way things happen.
The purpose of the trouble is educational, of course, something sent to the individual from the universal as a message declaring one’s incongruities with the natural course. Usually people recognize poor actions as “mistakes” and “bad karma” as lessons, but if they ignore these things and continue indulging their flaws and vices the upshot of their attitudes will grow more and more severe.
So the question is this: What have I done? What flaw have I blinded myself to and nurtured, bringing about this dreary nightfall? What must I learn, and what must I change?
Friday, May 9, 2008
Censorship, Lennon, and Rap
FUCK CENSORSHIP.
That’s right, FUCK CENSORSHIP!
There is nothing dangerous about an idea. There is nothing evil about a word. Censorship is a weapon of tyranny, and its only goal is ignorance. If we truly seek to enlighten, then no word, thought, or phrase can be forbidden us.
People speak fearfully of iconoclasts because they ask questions about the essential nature of things. They insist in the most bothersome fashion on pointing out hypocrisies and injustices whenever they see them, regardless of how long they have been established as tradition. What people see in this, and what they are so spooked by, is the label of CHANGE blatantly hung round the curious heckler’s neck. It goes without saying that change can be good, but that doesn’t mean that most people still don’t hate the thought of it. “Why would you ask questions like that? Life is good enough and you want to compromise it all over that?” These people are forgetting a crucial fact, and that is that the truth thrives under scrutiny, always.
If our government had things going right and were really doing their jobs, there would be no question the American public couldn’t ask. So many things are senselessly labeled “top secret” by our government that we, as taxpayers and citizens, deserve to be aware of; of course, big brother takes it upon himself to “protect” us from the petty details of illegal wiretapping and water-board torture. “National Security” is the popular excuse of the time, and it’s a hell of a good one. God only knows what natural rights we’ll have confiscated next for the sake of “National Security.”
Just look at the lengths the government will go to, and for what? A goddamn Beatle, and Nixon thought he was a threat to “National Security.” Wiretapped, deported, and shot, all for writing “Give Peace a Chance.”
And you know what? It doesn’t surprise me one bit.
Let’s look at Tupac Shakur. At the time he was making music, members of the legislation were appalled at the content of his lyrics, and indeed with the entire genre of “gangsta rap.” The contents of these songs were unacceptable, they would insist, and disgusting. They treated gangsta rap as if it were the cause of black crime, when really it is the other way around. The cause of black crime is legislators fucking up and not fixing it, but since this is not as loud as rap music is in the public sphere these congressmen catch a lucky break in being able to point a finger at Tupac and say, “He is dangerous. His actions are propagating criminal activity, and his ideas are upsetting the social order of things.” Really, they are trying to distract us from the fact that “social order” has become a myth, and that they grow fat and affluent while would-be criminals struggle and starve.
Gangsta rap arose from a culture of economic survivors, processed through a hell of the US government’s design: the ghetto. I’m white myself, and I swear to God it’s a white man’s fault that a place as horrible as a ghetto even exists in America, and definitely a white man’s fault that all the ghettos are filled with black people. It’s a fucked up situation, and everybody knows it, but no one is willing to do anything about it. So what happened in the ghettos? People endured it.
The harsh realities and ugly truths that old white men find so offensive in rap music are the upshots of their societal neglect, coming back in the form of eloquent, angry poets to let them know, “This is what we have to live with, and it’s so bad that you can barely stand to even hear about it.”
That’s right, FUCK CENSORSHIP!
There is nothing dangerous about an idea. There is nothing evil about a word. Censorship is a weapon of tyranny, and its only goal is ignorance. If we truly seek to enlighten, then no word, thought, or phrase can be forbidden us.
People speak fearfully of iconoclasts because they ask questions about the essential nature of things. They insist in the most bothersome fashion on pointing out hypocrisies and injustices whenever they see them, regardless of how long they have been established as tradition. What people see in this, and what they are so spooked by, is the label of CHANGE blatantly hung round the curious heckler’s neck. It goes without saying that change can be good, but that doesn’t mean that most people still don’t hate the thought of it. “Why would you ask questions like that? Life is good enough and you want to compromise it all over that?” These people are forgetting a crucial fact, and that is that the truth thrives under scrutiny, always.
If our government had things going right and were really doing their jobs, there would be no question the American public couldn’t ask. So many things are senselessly labeled “top secret” by our government that we, as taxpayers and citizens, deserve to be aware of; of course, big brother takes it upon himself to “protect” us from the petty details of illegal wiretapping and water-board torture. “National Security” is the popular excuse of the time, and it’s a hell of a good one. God only knows what natural rights we’ll have confiscated next for the sake of “National Security.”
Just look at the lengths the government will go to, and for what? A goddamn Beatle, and Nixon thought he was a threat to “National Security.” Wiretapped, deported, and shot, all for writing “Give Peace a Chance.”
And you know what? It doesn’t surprise me one bit.
Let’s look at Tupac Shakur. At the time he was making music, members of the legislation were appalled at the content of his lyrics, and indeed with the entire genre of “gangsta rap.” The contents of these songs were unacceptable, they would insist, and disgusting. They treated gangsta rap as if it were the cause of black crime, when really it is the other way around. The cause of black crime is legislators fucking up and not fixing it, but since this is not as loud as rap music is in the public sphere these congressmen catch a lucky break in being able to point a finger at Tupac and say, “He is dangerous. His actions are propagating criminal activity, and his ideas are upsetting the social order of things.” Really, they are trying to distract us from the fact that “social order” has become a myth, and that they grow fat and affluent while would-be criminals struggle and starve.
Gangsta rap arose from a culture of economic survivors, processed through a hell of the US government’s design: the ghetto. I’m white myself, and I swear to God it’s a white man’s fault that a place as horrible as a ghetto even exists in America, and definitely a white man’s fault that all the ghettos are filled with black people. It’s a fucked up situation, and everybody knows it, but no one is willing to do anything about it. So what happened in the ghettos? People endured it.
The harsh realities and ugly truths that old white men find so offensive in rap music are the upshots of their societal neglect, coming back in the form of eloquent, angry poets to let them know, “This is what we have to live with, and it’s so bad that you can barely stand to even hear about it.”
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