verbosity and internal editors

I wish I could learn to lower my expectations for writing. I tend to write nothing, or far too much. I need a good editor, instead of the evil one who cuts off writings before I even start to type.

Maybe then I could avoid going a month without posting to my blog.

Grr.

For mid-morning snack I had a chocolate chip scone type thing from a glass jar on my desk that somebody gave me last week. It was rather crunchy but quite good. The person who gave it to me may have called it a biscotti. Which would match the bad Vanilla Biscotti flavored coffee I just managed to finish.

antidisestablishmentarianism

I used to think I was a radical. Those of you who know me may already be laughing. I am aware that I tend to come across as one of the gentlest, softest people on the planet.

But inside there were always this dissatisfaction with the world. My Myers-Briggs type suggests that I have the tendency to analyze everything, and the flexibility to chuck just about anything when a better solution presents itself. This description feels about right. I have always prided myself on my intellectual and emotional flexibility: being able to see things from a different point of view is one of my favorite attributes. It helps me to solve problems that may seem insurmountable, it helps me sympathize with people who others find irredeemable, and it helps me find interesting things in texts that others might find boring or obvious (though it also leads to congenital problems, like indecisiveness, wishy-washytude, and distractibility).

This flexibility leads me in radical directions. I consider lots of options, and I am frequently tempted to want to change things. Or to change everything. Or at least to push at the edges of things.

But as I get older, I become more and more convinced of two things that moderate my radical inclinations:
1. Nobody knows anything.
2. Civilization is one generation away from utter barbarism.

Number One suggests that contrived solutions or proposed changes often carry hidden costs and consequences that can upset all sorts of things. Number Two suggests that what we do as a society matters very much, because I (as a wimpy guy who likes electricity and words) prefer civilization to barbarism. I want civility and public works and healthy institutions to grow stronger, and this takes careful effort to make the culture and the society healthy, and to pass healthy habits along to our children.

Thus, I find myself a conservative radical. I still am dissatisfied with almost every institution I see, and I want to change them all, but only in small amounts. My younger self wanted to upset the whole apple cart and tear apart every institution. Presently I want to change absolutely everything in the world by about half a degree each.

I am coming to see my calling here on earth as one of preserving and encouraging what is healthy. I want to be a cultural gardener. Pruning and weeding out what is unhealthy, encouraging what works. And what little influence I have over people I can use to make tiny little changes of emphasis, concern, and degree. That is probably all we can hope to accomplish without permanently damaging things. But that is the best way to tend an organic, living thing like a culture or a family or a society or a person.

Radical changes are sometimes necessary, but radical surgery should be the last option. Careful, attentive tweaking is what I intend to do. Unfortunately, I tend to be lousy at long-term, ongoing maintenance.

I haven’t had lunch yet today. Breakfast was a couple of slices of jelly toast with butter, and half a slice of jelly toast (no butter) that was left over by my son. And coffee: freshly ground quite stale Folger’s Vanilla Biscotti beans. I’m going to throw away the rest of the bag.

still waters run deep

This morning I finished Russell Banks' novel Cloudsplitter, which I picked up after reading Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson. Both books deal with the "Kansas wars" of the pre-civil war era, with the figure of John Brown looming large.

As a recent immigrant to the Midwest, I had always underestimated this area. This is a place where the people are nice, sure, but not very interesting, right? And this is a place where not much has ever happened, as far as I had heard. The very definition of "flyover country" to jet-setters from the coasts.

Yet these books tell another story. While Gilead has characters who share this unsymphathetic view of the Midwest (a boring place to leave as quickly as possible), the total picture from the books is one of a region that formerly spilled over with violent struggle and moral courage. These were the first battlegrounds of the fight to free the slaves.

And today's solid, stubborn, self-denying residents of the region (the people that Garrison Keillor makes fun of all the time) turn out to be the descendents of moral heroes whose same traits were essential in changing this country. And people don't know the history of it. Not even the residents know their history.

In my previous home state, Texas, school children are required to study the history of the state, often in ugly self-serving anti-revisionist versions of history that celebrate the smug capitalist white folks who greedily broke the terms of their contracts to get better land deals, while demonizing or ignoring the native population, the people and government of Mexico (which was OUR history--just ask "Six Flags") and African-Americans.

Meanwhile, the people I asked about local history around here seemed to buy the consensus of the world that nothing much had ever happened here.

I had already come to respect the creativity, intelligence, and general kindness of the people here. But now, as I learn the historical significance for our country's greatest moral struggle in its history, I see just how interesting a place I have come to live.

Somebody pinch me. I never thought I would find this region interesting.

Today for lunch I had two KFC Snackers: one original (with great gobs of remarkably peppery and vinegary dressing) and one with cheese sauce. It was yummy, but I wish I had gotten a side instead of one of the sandwiches. I ate light because I had a late and huge breakfast, many snacks at work, and was anticipating an early supper. Not a bad lunch for $2.18.

I dare you to eat that

When I was a late pre-teen, I considered myself a troubled youth. I had all these questions about life and the universe that none of my peers seemed to have. I took all sorts of things more seriously than the people around me. So I decided I was probably crazy.

(If only Gnarls Barkley had been around then!)

So I asked my neighbor friend if I was crazy, and together we developed a test. We called it my crazy test. He would suggest things that you would have to be crazy to do, and I would see if I was willing to do them. For example, I jumped off the roof of the shed by his house. And stared at the sun. And other vaguely self-destructive benign things.

But my favorite challenges were the food challenges. We anticipated Survivor by years. I was frequently challenged to eat gross things. Dirt. Worms. Pillbugs. Dog and cat food. (Gaines burgers were my favorite, but Milk Bone biscuits would help clean my teeth.)

Our tests were never conclusive. I wouldn't find out definitively that I was crazy for years. It finally came as a bit of a relief.

But to this day, I am a bit of a daredevil. Only when it comes to ideas and food, though. I am a chicken when it comes to physical danger or amusement park rides or starting new projects. But I'll try almost anything to eat.

Once, shortly after I moved to this town, I went with some work colleagues to a Chinese buffet. They had prominent signs on the wall claiming that they had passed their health inspections, which is never a good sign. Apparently some time ago they had been shut down for numerous violations of the health code.

Anyway, the food seemed fine, and I was enjoying the variety of things on the buffet. But on the dessert line I noticed a bowl of strange little white globes floating in some sort of syrup. The balls were veined and resembled nothing more than little floating blind eyeballs. So when the waitress came to our table I asked what they were.

"Chinese Leech," she replied, with a concerned look.

Well, this meant that I had to try it. My table mates did not share my reaction. But I went and got a couple and popped them in my mouth. It was surprisingly sweet, with a nice crunchy texture, but a little slippery at the same time. Only after eating a couple did I realize that she meant to say "leeks." And then I wasn't nearly as interested.

So the other day when I heard about Frog's Eye Salad, I had to try it. Turns out to taste not much different from tapioca pudding, but crunchier. (I've always wanted to see what a tapioca tree looks like.) It's some sort of quasi-jello salad made with some small round pasta. The lady at my table claimed the recipe is on the box for Acine di'Pepe.

Anyway, food experimentation was a big part of my (limited) sense of cosmopolitanism. I used to feel proud that I had eaten Ethiopian food, Thai food, and plenty of local stuff wherever I visited. But these days I mostly cook and eat relatively tame stuff.

Today's lunch, for instance, was the perfectly pleasing but rather ordinary Ham and Cheese omelet from Perkins, with hash browns, coffee (lots of cream and sugar), and three pancakes. Also, three kinds of syrup--apricot, blueberry, and maple--one on each cake, but all layered together. This meal brings back great memories from my schooling in the Midwest.

non-judgment day

On my first post from February 23, I don't think I represented the movie "What Dreams May Come" very well. What I like about its imaginary world is the way it posits an afterlife that seems less judgmental than most.

Most of the movie takes place in an afterlife world--it's neither the traditional heaven or the traditional hell. For one thing, movement between the nice parts and the awful parts is possible. For another thing, God (or any sort of authority figure) seems almost as absent as in our own world.

But what is most interesting to me is how this movie about the afterlife sidesteps an issue that has always troubled me: God the perfect judge. How do you reconcile God's perfect justice with God's loving mercy and the fact (in most afterlife scenarios) that everybody has to be assigned some place that is definite, fixed, and eternal? Which categories supercede others? Does my past as a murderer mean that I go with all the murderers, despite all my charity work with kids? Is there some perfect solution for distributing every person to an appropriate assignment, even with a more subtle system than the binary heaven or hell?

Well, says this movie, the assignment is simply that you, basically, continue to be who you were. If you were fixated on visual impressions, you'll have a beautiful afterlife. If you were a dog, heaven will have a lot of smells. And more to the point, if you surrounded yourself with people, you'll find heaven well populated. If you cut yourself off from people in this world, the afterlife will be lonely. Whether this feels like punishment or a blessing is open to interpretation.

This seems to (partially) get God off the hook for being arbitrary in judgment. You simply are punished or blessed with who you have proven yourself to be. This also leaves open the room for further improvement. Maybe there will be further levels later once you have gotten over the baggage from this existence (like in "Defending Your Life" or Hinduism).

Ultimately, this movie shows a vision of the afterlife as an exaggerated version of this life. Which is why I think it has much more to say about life now than about the future. You are in hell now if you make it so. You are in heaven now if you are truly connected with what is eternal. So why say anything at all about what dreams may come?

Today's lunch continued the leftover extravaganza. More reheated pork roast with the vegetables it came with and saltines. Diet coke to drink, and a peanut butter chocolate chip granola bar for dessert.

statement of purpose

A friend once told me that what would save me would be my writing. (Evidently this guy never heard of that fellow Jesus.) Writing has always been important to me, an indispensible clarifier of my thinking, a fulfillment of my creative impulses, and the source of my pride. But very often, I don't do it. I hide my lamp under a bushel and don't write anything.

Usually this is attributable to a lack of time, to perfectionism, to procrastination, to the desire to clarify or research my thoughts further before I set them down or commit to them.

I have always admired the writers of blogs. They seem more comfortable with themselves than I usually perceive myself to be. In any case, they are comfortable enough to write something without a crippling sense of self-indulgence. But I have never known how to stick with one. How can I write something so loose without becoming terribly self-conscious of my failings?

So when a friend's blog began naming some of the Commmandments of the Blogosphere, my interest was piqued. Her pet peeves include blogs that claim to be "random musings." She further claims that others object to folks writing about what they had for lunch as the penultimate example of self-indulgence in blog writing. (It's too bad I don't have a cat at present.)

This blog exists so that I write. Its purpose is to remove the stumbling blocks that keep me from writing.

What if, therefore, I were to inoculate myself against self-indulgence by plunging into it? Shamelessly write about my random musings and what I had for lunch. Then, by contrast, anything else I write seems relatively cogent and applicable.

Therefore, every main post (I reserve the right to make short comments that do not fit the formula) must include two parts: some random, (more or less) ignorant musing, and then a list of what I had for lunch. If I post multiple times a day, I may write about other meals as well.

So here I am. Here we are. I encourage commenters to be self-indulgent as well, albeit nice. Commenters are encouraged, but not required, to write about what they had for lunch.

Today's lunch was more leftovers: roast beef made in a slow cooker with vegetables. It was rather gravy-y, so I crushed cheap saltines into it. Water on the side, and two Whoppers candies.

narwhal

I recently hallucinated or read that scientists have finally discovered the purpose of the narwhal's horn. This unicorn of the sea does not use its long pointy appendage for combat. It's more like a giant whisker. Or antenna. The tusk is full of sensitive nerve endings that enable it to experience a world of sensation that no other creature is aware of.

What is it like to feel the pulsations of movement in the water so minutely that you can navigate towards or away from other creatures by sound? And what would it feel like to have a clear sense of temperature at any time, so that you could tell differential currents and levels of the water? Who knows what the experience is like? All we know is that the narwhal can sense things of which we have no idea. And this odd, unique tusk is the window to this world.

Today for lunch I had a board meeting, with chicken salad sandwich, coffee, creamy vegetable rice soup, yellow crusty cake with chocolate frosting and yellow filling, and water.