I Was Thinking...

I've been jolted back into the world of blogging, it seems, thanks to a good friend's recent decision to launch herself into the world of internet words. I admit that I'm cheating a little, because I'm going to steal her thoughts and add on to them with my own. You can see her original post here. She begins with a quoted ad that's really a poem about thoughts and the importance of thinking them. We all think; whether our thoughts are average, subconscious, grandiose, or just plain bizarre. Some people argue that the capacity to think is what makes us humans distinctly different from all the other species of the world. I have no idea if that's true or not, but thinking is a pretty incredible thing.

I often have conversations with myself in my head. Or I have conversations with other people. I recite poetry, sing songs, compose fiction, yell at myself, curse others, obsessively repeat words or phrases that strike my fancy, and count my breaths. I see pictures, hear voices, remember past events. A teacher once told me she thought I did a lot of living in my head. It's true. My head is a sounding board for real life. Before I say anything, write anything, or do anything, I think it through first. (And if I don't, I usually regret it almost immediately.) Sometimes my brain is so wired I can't sleep at night. At times I wish I could just shut it off and stop thinking for a while. But overall, I love to think.

Some of my most productive thinking takes place in my bed late at night when I should be falling asleep. That's when I come up with solutions to life's problems, stories that need to be written, conversations that must be had. It's dark and quiet and there are no distractions to lure my thoughts away from where they should be. (This post is being written as I lie in bed.) Another place I do a lot of thinking is in the car when I'm driving. My most creative thoughts come through then, which is unfortunate, because most of them then disappear before I have the chance to write them down.

My brain is also supercharged by theatre and concerts. After watching (or better yet, performing) I feel like I can do anything I want. I can write that novel or play. I could change the world for the better. I'm not sure exactly what it is about performance that charges me so powerfully, but my brain churns out the thoughts left and right in the hour or two after a performance. It's a creative high that is really quite impossible to describe, but one of the most extraordinary experiences I've ever had. If it wasn't 2 a.m., I might do a better job of explaining, but as it is, my brain is slowing down bit by bit.

I wonder, though, where do you do your best thinking? And what charges your brain?

Insomnia

It’s a dream, this life. A dream of the morning, a half-awake dream. There is something more, something clearer and sharper and more real, but the heavy comfort of sleep prevents a full recognition and understanding of the real life just a step away. And so we live on the edge, on the brink of consciousness, too overcome by the fluffy, cottony dream world to care much about what there really is, what there is meant to be just beyond our waking (dreaming?) reality.

There is something so much more important beyond oneself. Those brief moments when I realize, “This is me, I am living and alive and doing these things.” What does it all mean? What is the point? There has to be a reason I survived. Those are moments of truth, and more than that, of hope. Hope for the future, that I will break out of the dream and accomplish something, realize something, do something. Something that is more important than the day-to-day antics we busy ourselves with and consider so important. They aren’t, really. What is important is the other being, the being that can only be channeled randomly, unexpectedly, saying, “This is me. I’m alive and I’m doing these things. Why? I should be…”

But then the channel ends, and there is only this dream world, and it’s too comforting, too suffocatingly soft to leave room for anything else. Maybe that’s all there is, after all. Maybe that’s all there’s meant to be.


***

The words wouldn’t come anymore. They stuttered, faltered. Never the right word. Gone was the vocabulary, the vernacular; no living-walking-breathing dictionary. Not anymore. Writing was no longer an outlet for that which could never be expressed in spoken word. The brain-to-finger connection as faulty as that to the mouth, the vocal chords. Stutters, stops, painful pauses, disruptions. No clear thoughts nothing perfect anymore. So much to get out that it doesn’t know how to come. Fitful, fretful, in bursts. Not fluid. Gone are Flannery and James, no more to be found. Too much work writing, not enough for her. Words and thoughts like sloughed-off hair and soap scum and toothpaste down the bathroom sink. Rigid and dougy and clunky. Like play-doh or clay. Rigid, unbudging. Only blown out in chunks in unidentifiable shrapnel, word-shrapnel. Sharp and stinging and bludgeoning. No flowers or purple patches, just word shit. Use enough drain-o, write long enough, push out enough of the crap until the words start flowing more smoothly, with only a few chunks here and there a rush of words at once. But then more liquid, smooth, wet, words flowing out, just a few flakes here and there, nothing more of the rot and harried stabs at words that blocked the tunnel, the tube, that channel to the fingers. Finally, at last, the words flow smoothly, unobstructed, effortlessly. And once again the brain-world is right, and that is all that matters.

Reflections on Anger

Anger. You know, that tightness that starts with a lurch of the stomach and claws its way up your chest. The glinting eyes, pursed lips, and flared nostrils. Hands that ball into fists, fingernails digging into fleshy palm. The lump in your throat that prohibits you from talking, because you know if you do, you'll spray a vulgar, biting venom that's best left locked in a leak-proof box somewhere near your kidneys.

I hate being angry. I just really, really don't like it. Luckily, I don't get angry easily. There are only a few times in my life that I can remember being really, truly angry to the point where I burst and spewed that venom like a wild banchee. My brothers used to be able to make me angry to the point of screaming, slamming doors, and sobbing in my room for an hour. (The biggest problem is that they both enjoy the sport of argumentation. Me...not so much.) The only other time I remember getting that angry was in high school. I was sitting at the lunch table with a group of friends who I had come to realize talked behind each other's backs incessantly. One of them said something (jokingly) to another one's face, and I blew up. "CAN'T YOU GUYS JUST BE NICE TO EACH OTHER FOR A CHANGE?!?" I proceeded to get up from the table and stalk away, leaving behind a very shocked group of teenagers. ("Have you ever heard Laura yell before?" "No way, not like that." "Wow. What's up with her? She never gets mad.") I ate lunch in the band room instrument storage closet that day.

Up until last week, that was the last time I remember being really angry over something. To be honest, I knew that this fit of anger was coming. I had felt the annoyances and frustrations building up for months. I had hoped to contain it as just that, though: a feeling of annoyance and frustration, but not full-blown anger. But then something happened that just threw all inhibitions to the wind, and I got angry. I won't go into details, since this is a public forum, but basically I had had enough of a certain person's complete lack of responsibility and consideration for other people. This individual continually put things off and avoided problems they had created, causing issues for everyone around them and never bothering to say, "Hey, I'm sorry. My bad, I should have done that sooner." Instead, this person just blamed everything on other people (read: me). It wasn't the incident itself that so upset me. It was absence of any sort of consideration of other people's time, feelings, and schedules, as well as blatant lies told to cover up their fault.

But I digress. I got angry. I didn't blow up this time, as that would have been inappropriate given the circumstances, but I did fume. Everyone else who saw me knew I was spitting mad and stayed far away. I vented to family and friends, and eventually got over it. But one thing kept running through my mind: I really hate being angry.

I like to think of myself as a very laid back, easy-going kind of girl. It takes a lot to phase me to the point of agitation, and I get along with just about everyone. So if you succeed in getting me angry (other than my brothers, because that's just a sibling's prerogative {huh, never knew that had two "r"s}), you had to have done something pretty extensively anger-worthy. I don't like the unbalanced, irrational feeling of being angry. I think there's probably a good reason the word "mad" has a double entendre: anger often leads to a feeling of insanity. And that's just no fun. Also, getting angry accomplishes nothing. A friend told me today that a little anger is a good thing, because it protects your sense of injustice, which is an important aspect of anyone's well-being: no one wants to be a pushover doormat. While I see her point, I think frustration can take care of that, without resorting to full-blown anger. Anger will only lead to regrets. (Crimes of passion, anyone?)

So I guess my point to all of this is it's important to stay happy and calm. Anger is pointless and makes you feel bad. Whatever caused the anger in the first place will dissipate with a positive attitude and a relativity check. (In the long run, does it really matter that this person thinks my shirt is ugly?)

Stay happy, friends.

Robin Hood Ethics

When you're young, ethical behavior was black and white: stealing - bad; God - good; swearing - bad; helping others - good; homosexuality - bad; church - good; abortion - bad; priests - good. Our elders tell us what is bad and what is good, and we believe them. Because they are our elders, so of course they're right. We take it all for face value and move on with our lives.

But what happens when our brains develop enough to where we can begin thinking for ourselves? When "Robin Hood" ethics take over: when stealing from the rich and giving it to those who have nothing might not be so bad after all? What happens when your friends and cousin are gay? When your brothers and best friends don't go to church? When your teachers and those you look up to don't believe in God and priests are caught doing horrible things? Suddenly we no longer have our black-and-white childhood to fall back on. Everything is a varied shade of gray: some things still almost completely black and others mostly white, but nothing is absolute in its ethical standing, and more often than not, things are a dreary, confusing shade of gray, right in the middle of black and white, bad and good. What do we do then?

For some people this moment never seems to come. They continue on with their childhood ethics system, either because they are miraculously blessed with immediate communication with God or because their system was never tested or they just blind themselves to the tests and obstinately insist that they are right and there is no need to even think about where they may be wrong. In some ways I envy these people. I miss knowing right away what is right and what is wrong. When people ask me what I believe, I'd like to be able to tell them: A is good, B is bad, C is unspeakable. But I can't, because the fact is I don't know what I believe, and it's all Robin Hood's fault.

He's made me think about things. He's introduced me to different viewpoints and new ideas; different ways of thinking. And some of them make a whole lot of sense, even though they are sometimes polar opposites of what I was raised to think in my black and white world. Jewish law says abortion is not only legal, but sometimes it is legally mandated. Because the Jews believe that life begins with the first breath, since Adam was created when God breathed the breath of life into him. So until that baby is born, it is important, but not as important as the mother's life, because she is already breathing. So if the mother's life is in jeopardy, the pregnancy must be terminated, according to Jewish law. In general, I agree that abortion is bad. But sometimes, there may be circumstances where it is necessary, or at least something to consider. What if a single mother with three children is raped, and giving birth to the rapist's child will result in complications that will kill her, sending her three living children into a fatally flawed foster care system which will turn them out at the age of 18 to fend for themselves, perhaps even before they've graduated from high school? Are the unborn baby's rights greater than those of the mother and her three children?

To some extent, I can see the importance of bringing the abortion debate into politics, even though it is a largely moral issue. If you believe that personhood begins at conception, then it is important to stand up for the unborn child's rights. I am not denying that, and to some extent I sympathize with it. But things like homosexuality--whether you believe it's right or wrong, it's not hurting anyone. What happened to Jesus's teaching: "Let the one among you who is free from sin throw the first stone." If it is a sin, (and I'm not convinced it is, personally), then that is between that person and God. But what about the sanctity of marriage and the family, some people ask. I don't know. I'm not that worried about it. Maybe I should be, but I'm not. I think that within the Church, it isn't an issue. They will never allow gay marriage (and I'm not saying they should, either.) But as far as homosexuals having the same rights and privileges in the political world, I see no harm.

I guess the moral (no pun intended) of all of this, is that I am helplessly lost and confused about what is right and what is wrong. I have some convictions, but they are far from concrete.  And actually, I'm not sure that I would have it any other way. Because despite the confusion and frustration, I think it is generally a good thing to be open to different ideas and ways of thinking. Once you're "sure" about something, you fall into the closed-minded ways that allowed slavery and other racially or socio-economically motivated injustices to take such widespread control of today's societies. I hope I never fall into that trap.

And yet, I wish I knew where I stood. Is it wrong to be too open minded? Am I overcompensating for my uncertainties and "sinning" in ways that I should know better than to do? Am I becoming too defensive and closed minded against the Church, when I really only want to remain a little bit distanced, a little bit unsure? Has Robin Hood taken too complete a hold on my ethics, to the point where I'm sliding too far the other way? Am I a God-forsaken liberal Commie, as I've been told? I like to think I'm not. But really, who knows?

Bulldozing the Way

Today at Mass, our deacon gave a homily geared toward the children in attendance. It was about advent and preparing for Jesus to come; pretty typical for this time of year. The interesting thing to me is that it was the best homily I have heard in a very long time. It was very basic and simple. It was based on the gospel. It was devoid of politics and guilt trips for money. It was about God.

Surprisingly, this kind of homily seems to be less and less common. I think one of the reasons I have become so wary of the church and religion is because any more it seems like merely a vehicle for political propaganda, at least in the U.S. When our priest told us a year ago that, while the church would not tell us who to vote for, we should bear in mind that abortion is murder and therefore voting for someone not set on abolishing abortion would be a terrible sin, I about walked out of the church. It's not that I believe abortion is a good thing; I don't. I think it's pretty awful. But I also think the millions of people dying in Darfur, Guinea, and many other African and Middle Eastern nations is pretty awful too. I think it's pretty awful that millions of people in America die because they are denied health care. There are many things happening in this world that are pretty terrible. So why would I choose just one group to care about and ignore all the rest? Is that really the Christian thing to do?

It seems to me that the church has been a little too focused on using their power to convince or coerce me into voting a particular way on one or two issues, and ignoring what they're really supposed to be doing for the congregation: teaching us about Jesus and God and his love for us. And that is precisely what the deacon did today. He told us John the Baptist was the bulldozer, who "made straight and clear the path of God." I love that image. And he says that John was a living sacrament. And each one of us are too, because "Christ" means "anointed one," and each one of us was anointed at baptism. So we have to make clear the path for others. We have to do the right things so others will follow our lead.

And the things we are supposed to do have nothing to do with politics. We should help other people. We shouldn't argue with each other. We should love each other, because God loves us. He loves us more than anything else in the world, because he made each one of us absolutely unique and special. Now that's the kind of religion I'm interested in: loving each other and treating others how God would want us to. It was a refreshing sermon, and it gave me hope once again, that maybe there is something to this religion thing. But it also reminded me once again, that my faith is a personal thing, and I won't let any organized religion get in the way of that, no matter how well-intentioned they claim to be.

The Little Things

I came across a website today that made my day. It's called mylifeisg.com, and it's basically a compilation of (supposedly) true anecdotes about why various people's lives are great. Most of them were sappy, and some of them were silly:

"OMG i'm 13 and just got a boyfriend today! I luv him forever! MLIG!"

But amazingly, a lot of them were truly uplifting. The ones that caught my eye the most were those that talked about how a friend or stranger's simple smile or other action made their day, sometimes preventing them from seriously harming themselves. It brought to my attention how important it is to be a friendly, welcoming person. You never know what a person is going through inside. Some people are incredibly good actors, pretending that they're fine when in reality they're a step away from swallowing a handful of pills or pulling a trigger. It happens everywhere. I have friends who have been suicidal in the past. I have friends who are still scarily close to that place. These are wonderful people with so much to give the world. They just need to be told that, reminded of that. Shown a smile and given a random hug.

I read a story a long time ago in a Chicken Soup book about a boy who saw a classmate he barely knew struggling to walk home under a pile of books. When the classmate dropped them, he stopped to help him out, smiling and befriending him. They became best friends. At their high school graduation, the friend who had struggled home that day gave a speech. He told how he had been carrying home all of the contents of his locker that night because he had planned to kill himself, and he didn't want his mom to have to do it. The kindness and friendship he had been shown had changed his mind, and he had decided to live.

I guess the moral of all of this is that I've made a pact with myself to be as friendly a person as I can, to everyone. I urge others to do the same. Smile at the grocery store checkout person. Wave when you pass someone on the street. Compliment someone. Obviously you don't want to take it too far--stalking is generally frowned upon by society--but little things can make all of the difference. This world needs more love, so do your part. Smile.

I'm Watching You

Halloween is here, and I'm watching you. Yes, it's what I do--watch people; observe situations; listen to what's happening around me. I always have, and I imagine (and hope) I will continue to do so. They say it's the quiet ones you have to look out for. I'm here to tell you that it's true.

I don't talk much, and people often think that means I'm not involved in what's going on around me, I'm not paying attention. But my ears are always open, and so are my eyes. I pick up on little things. I often know when two people are romantically interested in each other before it's public knowledge. I can usually tell when someone is annoyed by another person or dislikes them, just by observing their body language and tone of voice. I pay attention to these things, and then I use them in my writing. Not specific people, of course, just characteristics and mannerisms.

I also find that people tend to speak freely around me. Maybe they forget I'm there, or maybe they just don't see me as a threat because I "don't talk." And they're right, in a way. I won't typically talk about things that I overhear. I don't like gossip, and I try hard to avoid it." My favorite example of this is an art class I was in during my tenth grade year of high school. I was placed at a table with three upperclassmen, known for partying and doing drugs, etc. I knew about every party that happened. I just sat there quietly, working on my projects, and amused myself by listening unobtrusively to every thing that they talked about. They certainly weren't bothering to hide it from me. I knew about it the day there were rumors of random backpack searches and one of them hid her pot stash in a plant in the back of the art room.

I often wonder if I should have told someone about all of these things that I overheard in that class. But the truth is I don't think it ever really hit me that they actually did have parties with drinking and drugs. That whole culture was completely foreign to me. (I was a nerd, remember?) Sure, I heard them talking about it, but I never thought it was a reality, for some reason. I suppose regardless of my thinking back then, it's too late to do anything about it now, anyway.

Besides, talking about what I hear would break the "Quiet Person Code." If that happens, I would lose my cover. People would stop talking freely around me. And that would make my life so much more boring. I love observing people, learning about them--why they act a certain way, how they handle different situations, etc. It's fun.

And, of course, it lends itself to a great supply of fodder for my creative soul.