Amoebas to God...and Beyond

The other night as I was trying to get to sleep, I was thinking about a book I read a year or so ago called The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. In it, he says that the reason humans seem so suited to their environment here on Earth is because we have evolved through time to fill this particular niche. But this niche is one of an infinite number of niches, and there are few others that humans would feel well designed to exist within. He goes on to say that, through our senses, we perceive the world a particular way because we have evolved to see and feel our world in this particular way. A rat or an insect or a cow views the world in a different way because evolution has given it a different viewpoint.

This idea, which makes sense to me, got me thinking about how I would view the world if, say, I was an ant, or even a virus or a paramecium. I assume that none of these creatures have any self awareness about the lives they lead. I suspect they're simply born, live their lives doing the things ants and viruses do, and then they're dead. They simply are until they aren't anymore. To the best of my knowledge, the same holds true for most higher level animals as well. We love our dogs and cats, and I think most of us would agree that our pets appear to possess emotions as well. But they also seem to lack a sense of self-awareness. They just do what they do. As far as I can tell, dogs and cats don't fret much more about what they're going to do with their lives than ants and viruses. As far as we know, humans are the only creature on Earth who are self-aware and have the capacity to make purposeful decisions about how to spend the time we're allotted to live, although I do suspect that certain animals like dolphins, elephants and chimps are probably a lot closer to having this ability than we suspect.

But my point is that humans appear to be the only species on Earth who possess the ability to not only shape our lives, but to also shape the world on which we live. As far as humans know, we are the most highly functioning creature in all the Universe. Many of us are even arrogant enough to believe that the entire Universe was created for our benefit. But I wonder how creatures like ants and viruses perceive the world. If they had the capacity for self-awareness and consciousness, would they believe they were masters of the Universe based on the incomplete observations of the world their limited viewpoints provided them? Would an ant be able to see a human for what it was, or would it believe it was some natural force that tended to wreak havoc on its ant existence? Would an ant go on to believe that in all the universe, as far as it could tell, there was nothing superior to an ant? An ant would likely believe it ruled the world, and quite possibly God Himself created all the universe for his benefit.

So perhaps we're not so different than this hypothetical ant in our observations of our world and the universe as a whole. Of course one could counter that ants don't have telescopes or microscopes or any of the science that humans have developed to understand our surroundings more accurately, but I think it's also true that just as an ant is limited in its understanding because of its antness, humans are similarly limited by their humanness. We can't comprehend what is beyond our comprehension. For example, if no one could see, how would people have any conception of sight? Doesn't it seem possible that some other sense exists out there somewhere that we cannot comprehend simply because we have no reference from which to understand it? When I was in college, I remember a professor once saying that it is impossible for anyone to imagine something that is totally different from everything we know because we cannot imagine anything that is foreign to our point of reference. We can imagine amalgams of things, but not of entirely new things.

Similarly, if there is something as much more advanced than us as we are to an ant, how would we have the ability to conceive of that thing's existence? To go a step further, perhaps that being which would seem godlike to us is still only another rung on the hierarchy. Perhaps there is something above it, and in turn another being still above that one. Perhaps it continues on ad infinitum like one of those Russian nesting dolls. Perhaps this applies in both directions as well. Maybe the lowest form of life we can conceive of--some single celled amoeba or something, is not the lowest sort of life form that exists. It is only the lowest that we are able to detect from our limited perspectives as humans.

Of course, all of these thoughts simply evoke more thoughts such as what is at the top of this theoretical hierarchy? Is it God after all? If so, it would likely mean that He was so far beyond our comprehension that we could not even begin to conceive of Him with the limited capacities of our human senses, and it seems laughable that this being would have even the slightest concern about our human affairs--no more than we would have for paramecium probably. Perhaps this being would possess the knowledge of why all this existence was put into motion in the first place. Maybe such a thing would be as simple as two plus two for Him, and He would be contemplating other mysteries that we could not even imagine to conceive of. And even writing about the simple-minded questions that I seek answers to as a human betrays my limited perspective as I can only contemplate questions through the limited means of my human perspective and intelligence.

It also occurs to me that pondering questions for which no answers exist is a bit pointless. Maybe I'd be better served to get to sleep so I could be a bit more alert in the morning times. But then I realize that even thinking this is a symptom of being human, and like any other creature here on Earth, I can do nothing but be what I am until I am no more.

Kookookachoo

            Walruses are wise and fearless...so I've heard!





I wanted a walrus disguise because walruses are wise and fearless. I didn't know how to make one so I searched on Craigslist for someone who could do the job. I found Frances Staciliski. She lived in Northern Minnesota. I called her.

"A walrus disguise, aye?" she said. "Why on Earth would you want to be a walrus?"

"My life is boring and sad. A walrus' life is better."

"Oh yeah? How do you figure?"

"That Beatles song says so. The one with kookookachoo."

"I don't care if you're crazy. How long do you want the tusks?"

"Foot and a half sounds about right. Pure ivory of course."

"Of course. Ten grand will cover it. Give me six months. Meet me here with the cash."


One hundred eighty-two days later I flew to Minneapolis. I rented a car and followed Ms. Staciliski's directions to a dirt road. In a blizzard, I made out the snowmobile she said would be there. I drove it ten miles through the woods. I was wondering if she'd led me on a wild goose chase for kicks when I had to slam on breaks to keep from crashing into her cabin. I was happy to see she'd cleared a path to the door. I walked right in. She was a blur until I got my goggles off and she'd placed a steaming cup in my hands.

She was ugly. Her nose was unnaturally long and two curly hairs jutted from her chin. She wasn't so much fat as lumpy. She wore a shawl that might have been sewn with camelhair in the middle ages. She looked like she'd stepped from the pages of Hansel and Gretel. Did I smell a stew cooking or a brew full of newts and babys' fingers?

"Show me the cash," she said. "And I'll show you the disguise."

I dug the Benjamins from my coat. She made them disappear in her shawl or the lumps beneath. She retrieved the costume from the brew. The tusks were sharp as daggers. It smelled like a walrus as much as looked like one. She dropped it at my feet. Steam poured from it in waves.

"Put it on," she said. "Or did you come all this way to gawk?"

I put it on.


The next thing I recall is lying on a piece of glacier ice in some place even more remote, cold, and snowy than Northern Minnesota. The disguise was more than I'd bargained for. It was warm and slippery, and flapping my flippers seemed so natural it was like I had no arms underneath. I was hungry, so I dove into the water to find fish. A moment later, I speared a salmon with a tusk and ate it raw. Delicious!

Later, sunning on the shore, and peering about the frozen wasteland around me, I wondered how I'd ever get out of this disguise. It was a good thing I didn't want to.

Frances Staciliski had earned her money. Kookookachoo!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r58pkRJTlTg

Christmases Past at the Brown House

Every Christmas, from the time I was born until my grandfather died when I was about eighteen, my mother's side of the family always got together at my grandparents' house in Tifton, Ga. To me, Christmas wasn't Christmas until then. Since that period of my life has ended, Christmas, for me. has never been the same. What made those get togethers special, I believe, more than anything else was the presence of my granddad. He was, as anyone who knew him could attest to, one of the most original people ever. He was well known in Tifton, and almost anyone who knew him described as quite a character, but also one of the kindest, most humorous, gentlest people they'd ever known. He seemed to relish the Christmas season.

One Christmas, he got his picture in the Tifton newspaper when he sat up a giant blow-up Santa Claus in a helicopter on his roof. Another year, I vaguely remember him dressing up in a Santa Claus suit and greeting me at the door when I arrived there with my mom and dad. That was a wondrous and confusing experience for me because I had no idea that it was my granddad under the suit, and in spite of the thrill of meeting Santa, I wondered where he had gone when I stepped in the house. When I learned later that it hadn't been the real Santa at all, but only my granddad playing the part, I seriously wondered if maybe Granddad was the real Santa after all. To me, they seemed to possess the same qualities.

On yet another Christmas, when I was five or six, he wrapped up a pair of shiny, white tap dance shoes for me. He told me I should put them on and begin practicing immediately because it was something that not many people could do. If I learned to tap dance, I'd be on the road to being rich and famous. Tap dancing was not something I was even remotely interested in, and I turned up my nose to them. For years and years, they sat unworn at the back of my closet. Writing this now, I wonder what would have happened if I'd taken him up on his offer. Maybe life as I know it would have been completely different.

Granny B. also made Christamases in Tifton special. She was actually my step-grandmother who my granddad married a few years after my mother's mother died. They got married the same year I was born. She was a retired school principal, and it was easy to see that side of her. She was as disciplined, refined, and exact a woman as you could ever hope to meet, but also equally sweet and kind. She treated all of us as if we were her family by blood.

For years, she always let the children in the family open a small gift upon our arrival to take the edge off our giddy anticipation of opening the real presents under the tree. One Christmas, I opened my introductory present with great anticipation to discover that it was a small wind-up turtle. From my expression, Granny B. could tell I was less than impressed with this gift, and being eleven years old, I didn't hold my tongue about it. "All it does is crawl," I said. "Shouldn't it do something more fun than just that?"

Every year after, Granny B., who always called me her "Junebug", told this story as if it were one of the most amusing incidents she'd ever witnessed. Granny B. lived into her nineties, outliving my Granddad by ten years or so, and she always displayed a commonsense, positive attitude towards life. I've always considered her and my granddad to be two of the best people I've ever known, and Christmas brought out the best in them.

My mother's two twin sisters, Gay and Kay were also there at Christmas. They were only sixteen years old when I was born, and they always made a huge fuss over me. For the first six years of my life, I was the only child present at these gatherings, and naturally the recipient of all the toys and attention. Gay and Kay were definitely two of my favorite people. They both had long, very straight, very blonde hair, and vivacious personalities. They always made me feel like the center of the Universe, and they tended to hold adult conversations in my presence. Flattered by their non-condescension, I always hung on their every word.

Even after my sister was born and my aunts got married and had children of their own, Christmas in Tifton continued to seem like the real Christmas to me. There was nothing really special about what we did there. All the usual things: dinner, presents, and singing Christmas carols in most years. It was just the feeling I had when I was there. To me, everyone always seemed so happy and enthusiastic at those gatherings. I don't ever remember any family squabbles or tension. Everyone seemed to genuinely like each other. It always seemed to be everything Christmas should be about.


But those days are over now. My grandfather and Granny B. both died over ten years ago and strangers have been living in the house they owned for just as long. Sometimes when I drive through Tifton, I go by their former house for old times' sake. It still seems wrong to me that people besides them should be living there. My grandparents are also not the only ones who are gone. My mother's side of the family seems to be unfairly singled out for tragedy as if they were cursed by some ancient gypsy. My mother died of breast cancer like her mother when she was thirty-six, and her twin sister Kay died of the same disease two years earlier when she was thirty-two. My granddad, who probably died of heartbreak as much as anything, passed away sitting in his house in his favorite recliner a little over a year after my mother died. All the deaths effectively ended Magical Christmases at the Browns' house forever.

But the last Christmas before Granny B. passed, she told all of us who were left that she really wanted the family to continue to get together at Christmas after she was gone. I think it's a testament to how much we  respected her that that has actually happened every Christmas since although we rarely speak to one another the rest of the year. In recent years, the reunions have seemed much more awkward than magical, and I sometimes wonder if there's any point to it at all.

It makes me sad to think about how much has changed about Christmas for me since I was young, and sometimes I think one of the main reasons I'd like to have children is to have the opportunity to make it magical again. When I was a child, I took those gatherings for granted and assumed the holiday would always seem as unthinkingly wonderful as I considered it to be then. But time marches forward and, at least in my case, cynicism follows. I've come to think that Christmas is really just an arbitrarily set date when we're also supposed to be joyously happy and go out and buy stuff for others and ourselves that will be set aside and forgotten once the new has worn off.

But when I was a kid who believed in Santa Claus and feeling all the Christmas joy and love in the world at my grandparents' house in Tifton, I didn't think that way, and sometimes I think that's a shame.

Working In the Hole

At Valdosta State Prison I work as a mental health counselor for the inmates "in the hole" or as it's more properly termed--the inmates who are housed in the isolation/segregation cells. There are a couple of ways they come to be here. About two thirds are there because of disciplinary reasons that can range from anything to assault on staff or other inmates to one of their favorite tricks of exposing themselves to female staff. The other third have placed themselves voluntarily because they do not feel safe in the general population. In a cell by yourself or with another inmate also housed on "protective custody" there's less chance of being stabbed with a shank or taking a shot to the head with a lock in a sock.

I'm charged with seeing all the inmates in segregation/isolation who are on the mental health caseload once a week. In J Building, where I work, there are usually between sixty and seventy inmates housed there in a given week. I walk around the building pretty much daily and speak to them through the door of their cell and if it's called for, I might have an officer take them out to see them in a cage where there's more privacy.

A typical interaction might go like this:

I knock on the cell door and open the door flap that is usually latched over the window of the cell.

"You guys doing okay?" I say. I peer inside and flip on their light. Usually the two inmates are lying in their bunks. Most of the time they don't want to be bothered to talk, but they've learned I won't leave them alone until they at least give me an indication they're alive.

"We're alright," they might say or they might flash me a peace sign or offer a thumbs up. If one is in a particularly surly mood they might say something like, "Get the Hell away from my door." When this happens I generally oblige them.

I always carry word puzzles like sudoku, crosswords, and word-finds to the hole with me and you would think they were as valuable as gold by the way the inmates beg for them. I also will sometimes throw in some literature about cognitive/behavioral therapy or something philosophical or thoughtful I've printed off online just in case they happen to be interested. I figure that if you're "in the hole" you have a lot of time to think and read if you choose to use it.

Another all too common interaction I have with the inmates in lockdown goes something like this:

I open the window flap and the inmate is standing in front of me either with a sheet tied around his neck or showing me a small piece of a razor blade.

"I can't take this shit any more," he says. "Get me out of here or I'm going to kill myself."

"Okay," I say. "Tell me exactly why you want to kill yourself."

"I already told you. Get me out of this room or I'll do something and then it's going to be on you. I ain't playing games."

But I've come to learn that they almost always are playing games. Generally it's the same group of inmates who engage in this kind of behavior. If I know the person and his pattern of behavior, I handle this situation much differently than if I don't. If I'm not familiar with him, I'll take the safe route. I'll immediately call one of the prison psychiatrists and tell them about the situation. The psychiatrist almost always orders that the inmate be placed in the crisis unit in a paper gown without any property that he might use to harm himself.

But the problem with this intervention is that in most cases the inmate does not genuinely want to harm himself at all, but is angling to be moved out of lockdown. Even though they're still restricted in the crisis unit, many of them prefer to be there for a number of reasons. They get to be in a cell by themselves there. They also have more contact with the female nurses, which is a strong motivation for many of them, and generally get a break from the rather oppressive environment that is endemic to being "in the hole".

It's not that I have any real objection to the inmate getting a break from his environment once in awhile, but there are only a limited number of crisis beds, and in my opinion, they should be saved for inmates with a genuine mental health related crisis rather than those who have learned to manipulate their environment by engaging in negative behaviors. It's always a judgment call and generally I'll still speak to the psychiatrist about it just so we're all on the same page, but if I think the inmate is pretty much just jerking my chain, I'll say something like: "Do you really want to kill yourself or are you just trying to get out of lockdown?"

Sometime they'll come clean at that point and admit that's exactly what they're trying to do. Other times they'll get angry that I've called their bluff and curse me up and down telling me how he's going to sue me, his family's going to sue me, and how I'm generally the most uncaring, horrible human being he's ever come into contact with. Or they might then claim that they are floridly psychotic. They are hearing the voice of their dead grandmother telling them to "go ahead and do it" or the walls are closing in on them and blood is pouring from them. What am I going to do about it?

In cases like these I'm generally less than impressed and I walk away. Mind you, I only do this is I'm completely confident the inmate's behavior is strictly manipulative. If I have the slightest suspicion that they're genuine, I take the appropriate measures. It's a fine line to walk sometimes but it's necessary. If every inmate who made bogus claims of suicidality were allowed to go to the crisis unit, the security officers would hate me and it would result in all kinds of chaos in the lockdown unit as the inmates would take advantage of my gullibility or chicken heartedness and constantly be claiming they were about to do themselves in.


The condition of many of the inmates in the hole is downright pitiful. There are some that stay locked down for over a year on protective custody or because they present particularly difficult disciplinary problems. They are allowed to stand outside in the "rec cages" outside the unit for up to an hour a day, but many choose not to even come out of their cells for that length of time. After such a long period of time existing behind a locked door you can see the color of their skin become more and more sallow and their general physical and mental well-being slowly deteriorate.

The inmates in lockdown often have all kinds of trouble getting basic things like clean clothing or a toothpaste at times. A prisoner there was recently punished by having all of his clothes and property removed for a day because he was screaming and kicking his door constantly while the warden was inspecting the unit. When asked why he was doing this, he said that he was just trying to get the warden's attention in hopes that he might be able to finally get some clean underwear from laundry.

Often when they speak to me through the crack in their door, their breath almost knocks me over, and there's no way it could be that bad if they were brushing their teeth at all regularly. Many tell me they don't brush because they can't get a toothbrush or they've run out of toothpaste, and haven't been able to get a new tube in months. There are certain inmates who also never take advantage of "shower call". They begin to exude a pungent odor after awhile that can be detected by my nose when I'm still two or three doors away from them. The lack of hygiene is also a factor in the constant problem of staph infections that is always present in the lockdown unit.

Speaking of a lack of hygiene, another one of the inmates' favorite tricks to force staff to pay attention to them is to flood the unit by jamming a shirt or a jumpsuit in their toilet, and then flushing it repeatedly until water flows under their door and throughout the entire unit. Once when I was there and this was occurring, I watched as several solid pieces of feces floated by my foot.

Speaking of feces, I am reminded of another occasion when I was sent to evaluate an irate inmate and found that he had spread this fragrant substance so thickly over his cell door window I couldn't see inside. Trying to hold my breath as I spoke, I asked him if he could kindly tell me why he was engaging in this behavior and could he take a moment to speak to me. This fellow did come to the door and with his finger, he traced the words FUCK YOU on the window. I saw through his letters that he was standing there naked and covered from head to toe in the stuff.

On yet another occasion, I was called to see a fellow and found him lying prone and naked on the concrete floor of the outside rec pen also covered from head to toe in his own feces. He began to tell me how aliens had invaded his body and the only way he could expel them was to cake his body in such a fashion as I now witnessed. In the midst of this explanation, another neighboring inmate's smart crack of some kind caused him to suddenly double over in laughter and lose his groove. When I accused him of faking, he said, "hey man just get me out of this hellhole alright?" Amused, but convinced the man was more actor than schizophrenic I left him to his devices.

Working in the lockdown unit on a daily basis as I have for over two years now has become a bit tiring and tedious and I often wonder if I'm really helping people at all by being there. It's certainly not a place conducive to accomplishing meaningful therapy. But on the plus side, it is always intriguing because you never know what's going to happen there and in some ways it's like taking a short walk to a third world country where an entirely different sub-culture exists. I also like to think that I do bring a little humanity to an inhumane place from time to time and do my best not to become jaded and insensitive in the process.


All in all, I suppose it's an interesting way to make a living.

To Write or Not to Write

When I was a kid, I loved to make up stories. I'd come up with tales off the top of my head about monsters, aliens, and magical creatures for my mother's entertainment. She seemed to enjoy hearing them and would tell me what an imaginative little boy I was for being able to think of such things. I loved to hear her praise and the more she praised me, the more stories I wanted to make up for her. I was in the first grade the first time I wrote one of my stories down for my mother's review, and she encouraged me to write down stories to my heart's content. I also began to notice that it wasn't just her praise that made me want to write stories. It was also the essence of the story itself that inspired me. I loved the act of bringing something to life that had not existed before I set my pencil to paper. It seemed like a magical process, and remains so to this day.

When I was in the second grade, I won a school-sponsored county wide contest for creative writing for a story I jotted down in about five minutes. The story was about a fat pig named Cloney who loved to eat jelly until he was warned by his friend Bony that the farmers were fattening him up with the jelly so they could make bacon out of him. With that revelation in mind, Cloney inspired his friend to help him invade the farmer's house, run the poor fellow out of town, and steal all his jelly.

I was doubly surprised to learn I'd won this contest because I had thought it was just an assignment from my teacher. I had no idea it would be entered into a contest.I reveled in the attention this award brought me from my teacher and the school in general. It made me feel like someone special, and caused me to identify myself as a writer. It seems to me that winning that award should have propelled me to making a career for myself as a writer. I should have written stories in a mad rush from that day to this. But that hasn't happened in spite of the fact that I still love writing stories as much as I did when I was a little kid, and that I take the craft of writing very seriously. Writing is one of my favorite things to do and an activity I consider almost sacred. In spite of this fact, at the ripe old age of thirty-eight, I still have not become the published writer I've dreamed my whole life of becoming.

I have had a few of my stories published on science fiction and horror fiction web sites, and have placed a lot of my writing on a site called fanstory.com, but overall I certainly don't have an impressive writing resume. I've never even completed a truly novel-length story although I have written some 150,000 plus words of one called The Legend of Dreaming Eagle. But I've abandoned that story recently because it reads so juvenile to me now although I haven't entirely given up on it. It's a story I've thought out so thoroughly in so much detail and the characters still seem very alive to me. It's just a matter of figuring out how to fix it up and being re-motivated to do so.

Getting discouraged and abandoning my work at certain points has become a pattern for me. Sometimes I think the idea that I could possibly write a story well enough to get an agent to represent me who would then be able to convince a publishing house to pay me for my writing seems like a far fetched dream, and that I'm deluding myself to believe otherwise. Every book I've read about writing declares in no uncertain terms that publishing a book is hard and that a writer should expect setback after setback before he experiences success, so who am I to believe I would be the exception to the rule--the one who was talented and dedicated enough to succeed where so many others did not? But on the other hand, I'm not always wowed by published books and rarely have the feeling that the quality of a book I'm reading would be beyond my ability to create.

I think the obstacles that have prevented me from fulfilling my writing potential are all within myself. I've always been a little embarrassed to even let people know that I write because it seems like a pompous statement somehow--like you're saying you're this dreamy person who claims to have this authoritative knowledge about the human condition or something. Then the person wants to know what you write, and then when you're forced to explain you write fiction and haven't published anything except for in a couple of obscure e-zines, I imagine people wonder how you even call yourself a writer with a straight face. But I do think a key for me in really becoming a writer would be able to make this statement with confidence and to not be so self conscious about revealing my work. I always feel like I want people who read my stories to feel the same passion for them that I do, and if they don't, I feel discouraged although I know logically that people's opinions about my writing should not matter so much, and that I, as much as anyone else, can benefit from constructive criticism. It's always a catch-22 for me. I want people to read my writing, but at the same time I feel very self-conscious about letting them. I've always felt that if I could actually publish something that would appear in a physical book, I would feel validated enough about my writing to be able to declare myself a writer without hesitation.

But I also realize that writing to get published is not the best reason to write. The best reason to write is for the story itself. I've come to discover that I have to keep this fact in mind if I'm going to write as regularly and with as much discipline as I should to accomplish my goals. I have to forget about writing for anyone but myself. If it sounds right and true for me, I should go with it, and if it doesn't, I should change it. I also have to remember that good writing is always about the story and the writing itself. It's really no different from when I was a little kid making up stories for my mother. I believe there are many unwritten magical stories residing in my imagination just waiting for me to let them out. I just have to have the faith and the discipline to let them be. Hopefully everything else will take care of itself, and if it doesn't--if I'm never the published writer I'd like to become, then at least I will have let stories come to be that would not have existed otherwise, and I believe there's something mystical and wonderful about that even if few people ever read my work and I know that the greatest failure would not be in failing to be published, but in failing to write at all. 

Walking The Razor's Edge

I've been thinking lately about how we all live on a razor's edge. It seems that our lives and our world are so fragile. One minute, we can be walking around relatively happy and satisfied, and then something can happen completely beyond our control to change everything. Right now, for example, things seem to be going okay for me. I'm happily married. I have an okay job that gives me enough money to get by. I have the freedom and time to pursue my writing to some degree. I have a few good friends and things are okay with my family. But I know that all of that could change so quickly. I could find out that I or someone I'm close to has a serious illness. Some natural disaster could come along and knock my whole life all kilter. I could have a car wreck, lose my job, or become the victim of a serious crime. There's really no limit to all the disasters that could befall me without the slightest warning, and knock me off the razor's edge I currently walk upon so complacently. And what's more, it's not a question of if this will happen, but when.

This is something I find myself thinking about often as I try to go to sleep at night. I often worry that if I become too happy I will jinx myself and cause something bad to happen. I wish I knew some kind of ancient Chinese secret or Jedi mind trick to keep everything bad away from my life. I don't want any part of it. I want things to stay good for me forever. But of course I know in my rational mind that it can't happen and that dreading a tragic, disruptive event occurring in my life is a little like dreading a workday Monday on a Sunday afternoon. I have no control over it coming. I only have control over how I will react when it does.

Of course I haven't been entirely insulated from tragedy in my life, and knowing what it's like probably contributes to my worry that it will come again. When I was fifteen, my mother died of cancer after a year long battle with it, and I can confidently say that it was the pivotal event of my life. I have no idea how my life would be different if it hadn't happened. I only know that it would be. I can also say that when it happened I certainly had no strategy in place regarding how to deal with it. I just kept going, and tried not to worry about it too much although there was no doubt it profoundly affected me regardless of how I tried to pretty much ignore it.

I wonder if I would do the same thing now in similar circumstances, or if growing older and more mature has given me the tools and the wisdom to deal with such events more ably. I don't know and hope I don't have to find out any time soon. I suppose that dealing with tragedy and suffering is traditionally the province of religion, and there's no doubt that it's given great comfort and relief to people throughout history although it seems that different religions have different ideas about the ways suffering should be dealt with. Buddhism and other Eastern religions, for example, teach that the root of all suffering is desire. We suffer because we desire what we can't have, and even satisfying our desires temporarily only leads to more desire and thus more suffering. Therefore a human is better served to quell his desires not by resisting them, but by accepting whatever comes without questioning.

I recall a story I heard somewhere about a Buddhist master who lived in a small, isolated hut in a remote region. One night, a thief breaks into his hut and steals all of the simple possessions that the Buddhist master owns. The master wakes up and catches the thief in the act. The thief is frightened and prepares himself for a fight, but instead the master removes his coat, hands it to the thief, and asks if there is anything else he can give him. Confused, the thief flees into the night. When he is gone, the master goes outside into the cold night, looks up at the moon, and smiles.

The lesson, of course, is that the thief could steal all the master's possessions, but he could not steal the inner peace the master possessed inside of himself. I think this same lesson is also illustrated in some of the teachings of Jesus such as when he tells us to turn the other cheek if we are slapped, and in instructing the rich young man to give all of his possessions to the poor. Jesus, like Buddha, seemed to believe that we did not need possessions or material things to make us rich because true richness only exists within, not without.

Also, the entire appeal of Christianity, it seems to me, is in the story of the horrible suffering that Jesus endures on the cross. The way He handles His pain and fear is what resonates so strongly with people in the world throughout time. It is the reason that Christianity has become one of the world's greatest religions. If Jesus had not suffered in his death, would people have been moved to the same extent? I don't think so.

But I notice an important difference between the Christian way of handling suffering and the Buddhist way when Jesus is resurrected. The resurrected Jesus has transcended the suffering that is such a constant part of the human condition. He no longer feels pain and is no longer at the mercy of the slings and arrows that all mankind is subject to. So, to me, this illustrates that the ultimate way a Christian gets through suffering is to endure it with the knowledge that something better and greater is waiting for us when this life of pain and sorrow is completed. This is in contrast to Eastern teachings which tell us to look inside of ourselves to relieve our suffering without any explicit promise of anything better after death. In some ways, this way of seeing things is more optimistic than the Western way which seems to say there is really nothing to be done to relieve our suffering in this life, but we can look beyond ourselves to a paradise in the next one.

As for me, I simply have no confidence that any afterlife exists at all. Perhaps it's a lack of faith on my part, but the idea of a Heaven or a Hell seems more like wishful thinking to me than anything that is real in the tangible sense of the word. Therefore, I am more inclined to look inside of myself in the here and now as a way to cope with the suffering and the hardships that none of us, as humans, are immune to, and I believe strongly that the way you view things that happen to you are much more important than the things themselves.

Having said that, I certainly am under no illusions that I have any idea of how I will handle real tragedy or misfortune if and when it comes to me. I suspect when it comes down to it, I'm not that much different than my fifteen-year old self who simply did the best he could to deal with a life changing tragedy the only way he knew how. So, in the meantime, I will enjoy the good life I currently have, and keep on walking the razor's edge as carefully as I am able.

A Feline Has His Say--Oliver James Speaks Out.

            The humans call me Oliver James or "Ollie" for short.

 
So Charlie the Human has kindly stepped aside today to allow me to blog for myself. It was really nice of him to loan me this forum, especially considering he has so very few regular readers--next to none that I know of. Maybe he thought I could give him a jump start. Kind of sad to be leaning on his pet cat for a popularity boost don't you think?

But I really shouldn't be so hard on him. He's got his flaws, but isn't a bad guy as people go. He's pretty good about keeping my food bowl filled, empties my litter box on a semi-regular basis, and picks up those pesky hairballs up when I cough them up without too much complaint. He's also got a soft lap and mad skills as a chin-scratcher. I could do without the guy forcing me into a pet carrier and driving me to the vet from time to time, but I think his heart's in the right place even there. The truth is I love my humans--Charlie and Maria. Without them, I might still be languishing in a shelter somewhere putting up with annoying kittens and horrible dogs.

But the reason I wanted to guest blog today isn't to prove that a cat can type and write coherent words, or to help my owner improve the popularity of his blog. What I want to do instead is set the record straight. To amuse themselves, my humans have invented this whole mythology about me based on nothing but their imaginations. I don't fully understand why they feel the need to contrive these fictions. Why can't they let a cat just be a cat? The truth is that I'm nothing more and nothing less. Admittedly, I have a few peculiarities. I prefer ice cubes to meat of any sort for example, and I do enjoy running to the door to greet my humans when they come home from work much as a canine might, but these are only personality quirks, and not evidence that I am somehow fundamentally different than the other millions of cats out there.

The humans come up with these stories off the top of their heads and then elaborate on them like they just discovered a new kind of catnip or something. I'm sure as soon as I refute these myths, they'll come up with fresh ones and I'll have to come back in a few months and try to salvage my reputation all over again. I do my best to curl up into a tighter ball in my sleeping place on top of the couch and pretend I don't hear these wild tales at all, but they still get to me sometimes in spite of my best efforts, prompting me to finally speak out today to let the truth be known.


First of all, you might have heard I'm quite the music fan, and that I especially enjoy progressive funk groups like TV on the Radio and Kings of Leon. I have nothing against these musicians and I'm sure they make great music, but the truth is that I have no special affinity for them. I'm greatly annoyed when the humans play their songs for my benefit and make a fuss over how much I'm supposedly enjoying them.

I want to take this opportunity to let the humans know that I am not enjoying it, and would rather snooze the day away than to ever hear a note of it again. In other words, Charlie, My Sex is NOT on Fire for that song. Do you understand me? And no, I don't care about a band full of nerdy looking black guys like TV on the Radio either even though the lead singer of that group does sound like a female in heat when he hits a high note. If you insist on making me listen to music, I'm much more partial to the cacophony of a shaking treat bag.

I also do not especially abhor the Mumord & Sons hit Little Lion Man as the humans claim. It's a catchy enough tune as far as I'm concerned although you have to admit it's a little overplayed and the way the guys in the band dress remind of those annoying air-condition repairmen that showed up at my house uninvited one day. Tried all day for a simple head scratch from one of those characters, and they tried to act like I didn't exist. Didn't care for the cut of their jibs at all. It's no wonder they grew up to have a job with their name on their shirt.

Speaking of names, the humans are also always wondering if I know mine. Of course I understand they refer to me as Oliver James based on a song they like by Fleet Foxes, and I do relate to the appropriateness of the lyrics as they apply to my situation:

Oliver James. 
Washed in the Rain. 
Nooo loooonger.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=41HarInmUxk

It's a pretty song I must admit. But what the humans don't understand about names is that their name for me is insignificant. Would I expect them to respond if I made up a name for them? Certainly I could make a distinctive cat noise up to represent each of them, but wouldn't I be guilty of a fair amount of arrogance if I started making such noises and expected them to come running whenever I did so? Coming when you're called is fine for dogs I suppose, but it's not for me. I've got a little more pride than that.

The humans have also perpetuated the myth that paints me as a sort of surly, contemptuous, cynical character. They get this idea because of my natural expressions. Sometimes I do look at them with an eye half open or with an are-you-serious smirk on my face, but this has nothing to do with feeling they are somehow clueless, exasperating, disgusting, or just plain stupid. Their interpretations of my expressions are completely false. It's just because I'm a cat, and that's how my face looks. I can't help it. I actually possess quite an angelic character, and am possibly the kindest, most tolerant kitty any of you have ever seen. If the humans were a little brighter and not quite as full of themselves, they would realize as much.

The last misconception I want to clear up is also the most ridiculous. Both of my humans have invented and discussed at great length my fictitious love for alpacas. The truth is that I was not aware that any such animal existed before they began the salacious rumor that I feel a strong sexual attraction for these creatures. Furthermore, they have accused me of being involved in an on again-off again, emotionally destructive relationship with an especially wooly and superficially charming alpaca called Albert. Apparently Albert and I have quite a torrid relationship. We can't live with each other, but simultaneously we can't stand to be apart.

Where did such an abominable idea come from may I ask?? As far as I can tell, alpacas are just goofy looking furry creatures that aren't too far removed from goats. If one ever appeared in my house, I'd crawl right under the bed and refuse to budge until the nasty thing had left.

Well...I say that, but I guess they are pretty cute from the photos the humans have shown me thinking that the mere sight of one would cause me to drool uncontrollably and preen in front of it or something. I'd prefer a glass of ice water and a couple of treats of course, but alpacas have a certain charm I suppose...

It occurs to me as I try to wrap this up before Charlie the computer hog gets too impatient that the reader might see my very ability to write this as proof that I am quite an extraordinary feline in spite of my protests to the contrary. Well maybe I am, and maybe there's quite a story of how I got this way as well. But I'm not telling any of you. A cat without its secrets isn't much of a cat. That's what my mama used to tell me back when we lived on that reservation in South Dakota with that old shaman...but that's already saying too much.

If you want to know how an ordinary cat like me learned to read, write, and express his thoughts so clearly to humans, you'll just have to use your imaginations...kind of like my humans do.