Something Like Life

Ok, so I am now officially scared out of my mind.

A day at google brought me to a local writer’s crit group about a week ago. So, on a whim I decided to email the leader to find out more info about it. We’ve been emailing back and forth for the past week and there is a meeting on Thursday, of which I said I’d attend.

Great…a chance to meet some fellow writer’s over a good cup of a coffee. That doesn’t frighten me.

What DOES frighten me (beyond belief) is sharing my work with real, live people. You see, the beauty of the internet is that I can sit here and hound the hell out of my keyboard everyday for you fine folks knowing that you’ll never be able to look me in the eye and tell me that I suck hard. Rejection and criticism isn’t so bad when it’s a bunch of rag tag writer’s strewn together over the world wide web tossing words around on their computer screens.

In real life, however, with real flesh and blood people who can sit across from you and tell you that your work sucks (or is fantastic!), it’s  a little scary. I have no idea why I can handle criticism on the net like it’s nothing but the idea of real people from my own local area reading my work scares the bejesus out of me.

I mark it as a growing experience. A chance to branch out and make my work more “real”. So, I am forcing myself to do it, but I am doing so kicking and screaming.

Perhaps it’s because my writing has been my personal shrink for the past several years. Perhaps it’s because I have kept my craft to “private” forms. I realize that my family found my old blog and hence I’ve already had “real” people reading my work, but they never talked a whole lot about it other than to tell me that they thought I was good.

But the purpose of THIS group is “critique”, which means a focus on the NEGATIVE aspects of the pieces we write. So it’s going to be a bit different.

The meeting is going to be a “write in”, where we all get together and write together. That will be weird for me too because I am not used to writing with a group. As I’ve said, my writing has always been a “private” thing for me. The only “public” aspect about it has been the posts I’ve made on the net, but again, it’s to a bunch of people that I’ll likely never meet. And even of the one’s I HAVE met, or plan to meet, they aren’t local.

I don’t know if that makes a damn bit of sense or not, but let’s just say it’s a little scary to think about. I suppose it’s a necessary evil…a hurdle with which I need to cross at least once to get more comfortable with the idea of writing for a real live audience who can stare me in the eyes and let me know exactly what they think.

Not to devalue you, my precious, precious readers. But if you don’t get my point, I’m not sure I can explain it any other way.

Perhaps I need a good Paxil drip.

Me: How you been little buddy?

My son: Fine

Me: What you been doing?

*silence*

Me: You been playing your game?

My son: *shakes head yes*

Me: You been taking care of A?

My son: *shakes head no*

Me: You haven’t? Poor A. You been spending time at maw-maw’s?

My son: *shakes head yes*

Me: You been happy?

My son: Daddy?

Me: Yeah?

My son: Do you have to work?

Me: No, not tonight.

My son: You don’t have to work?

Me: No buddy. I only work during the day.

My son: Why’d you get rid of your old house?

*pause* *sigh*

Me: Because I couldn’t afford it anymore.

My son: Did you get rid of it because it was old?

Me: No, I just couldn’t afford it anymore, bud.

My son: Why do you like your new house?

Me: Because it’s bad as shit.

My son: Don’t say that, that’s a bad word, Daddy.

Me: *laughs* I know. I’m always putting trash in your guys’ heads. Pure garbage.

My son: *smiles* Are you going to get a new house when this one gets old?

Me: Yeah. I hope to get a new house for you guys someday.

My son: You aren’t leaving?

Me: No, little buddy, I’m not going anywhere.

My son: Why are ya?

Me: Because I like ya.

My daughter: Daddy! Daddy! I poop! I poop!

Me: *sigh* Mama said there’d be days like this….

I’m losing focus on why I created this blog. My opinions on issues tend to seep through, so for that, I refuse to apologize. So, allow me to get back on track.

As I posted several weeks ago, I committed to doing the NaNoWriMo challenge  (on my own–the official one is in November) for the month of April. So, for the past 23 days, I have been scrambling like a madman to throw words onto the page.

I wanted to comment on a couple of things that this challenge has taught me, though, before I go into where I stand right now. The first thing that this challenge has taught me is how to push through procrastination and realize that the story ideas themself do not run out, but the motivation does. I feel like I am strengthening my “motivation muscles” by FORCING myself to write a little bit everyday–no matter how much it is.

The second thing I have realized is just how unnervingly fun it is to write without worrying about grammar or sentence structure or audience. It’s been a blast and the story that I have woven so far has been a LOT of fun. There is a joy to writing for the sheer love of writing. There is a joy to punching out a first draft without worrying about tidying things up or re-reading what I have written. There is also a lot of joy in seeing where the story goes. I certainly had no idea that some of things I have written would end up in my story. The story truly IS telling itself, and that is so cool to me. I’m just the messenger. The lackey. The go-to typist.

The final thing that I have learned is that if you set a goal–a concrete goal–you can get so much more accomplished than to, say, set a TIME to write everyday. What I mean is, that in the past I have always said “I will write for X amount of hours per week”. That was my goal. But that goal doesn’t really allow for anything of substance. In fact, that goal usually led to me sitting in front of a blank word document staring at the cursor. But by setting a word count goal of 50,000 words, it really gives me something more “concrete” to work towards. I doubt I will set my goals that high after this month, but when I DO set goals from now on, it will be in the form of word count–not time.

So where do I stand? Today is the 23rd and I am at 30,476 words. With Courier New Font, double spaced, and font size of 12, that gets me 152 pages in a Word Document. At my original goal of 1700 words per day (to reach 50K in 30 days), I SHOULD be at 39,100 words right now…so I am about 9000 words short of where I should be.

I have exactly one week to reach 50K. It’s not impossible to reach. I have kept pace enough that the goal is still very well attainable (if I work hard). So it’s time to pick up the pace…save face…it’s a race and there ain’t no room for no on in second place!

I’d love to type more, but I hear the page calling me to come finish what I started.

I gotta gotta go go. Peace.

This post will read like a poorly done remake of “Dorf on Golf”.

The inspiration of this post will come from this article: http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2008/03/22/ann_bauer/index.html?source=rss&aim=/mwt/feature

And by the time you are finished, you will either shed tears of sadness or joy or cry out at your computer screen in disgust or rage. What you do will determine what you believe. What you believe will determine the way you live. The way you live will determine where you will spend “eternity”–whether it be in some slice of heaven just over yonder hilltop or burning in a fiery pit of molten lava. The choice, I assert, is up to you.

I’ve spent a lot of time writing about God–or making light of him for a laugh. I’ve spent a lot of time running from God–or the concept of him masked in biblical robes. I’ve spent a lot of time THINKING about God–where I never disrespect “him” and I am always serious. I have no conclusion. I have no answers for you today. Just words smeared across your computer screen like grease and more unfathomable confusion. So, let me tell you what I believe, and I’ll leave the rest up to you.

First of all, let me comment on the link I posted. The essay is a mother’s thoughts about her autistic son and the small journey that took place from the moment he began to hear God’s voice. My first thoughts were “The poor kid is not only autistic, but now he is venturing into another favorite disorder: schizofrenia.” By the way, I highly doubt that I spelled that right, so just roll with it, ok?

Then I read on and started realizing that my diagnosis was probably correct because as time went on, the poor kid (who is not a “kid” per se as he was in his teens) began hearing other voices. I also made note of the absurd thinking of a woman (good ole misogyny at work here) when she asked her alcoholic husband if they should take him to a psychiatrist. His answer, of course, was to “leave him alone” and “Maybe he really DOES hear God, who are we to say?” The absurdity is that her husband, whom she later divorced, was never around, emotionally abusive, and an alocholic, and yet a silly statement like that made her love him.

But let’s not dwell on that. Let’s talk more about “God”. Throughout the ages, people have claimed to hear God’s voice. People have been put to death because of their undying faith in someone in which they had never seen. God is so wrapped up in our society and our humanity that to untangle ourselves from a belief in him is impossible. Like him or not, believe in him or not, he is here to stay and there is nothing you can do about it. That’s the bad news for  you atheists out there who get ever so disgruntled at the thought of religious people believing in an invisible man who sits in the sky and watches us. You have created ridiculous beliefs to counter the belief in God (somehow thinking you have made some sort of sarcastic statement) such as the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Good work, by the way. I absolutely adore the Flying Spaghetti Monster and I am seriously considering giving my live over to the works of his noodley appendages.

Then there are those of you out there who believe that God exists in us–or rather in NATURE which transcends to us. You believe that the “power” of God exists in and through us and that God is not some old man in the sky with a beard and a staff, but rather he is an energy and a power that flows through the human spirit.

These are all well and great beliefs. I respect all of them (like the good little politically correct misogynist that I am) in a “I respect the fact that the sandwich you are eating is yours and not mine, so I can’t have it” kind of way. You are a grown ass person with grown ass beliefs–assert them and be happy. The only beliefs I don’t respect are those rooted in anger–such as our good friends the atheists whose disbelief in God is only rooted in the fact that someone in church has wronged them at some point. If you find yourself believing something because you are angry at the opposing viewpoint, then you really do need to reinventory your life and face your issues. Get over it. People can be scum sometimes. Just because the church has treated you like shit, doesn’t mean that God doesn’t exist. Just because you are angry at the arrogance of christians or the terror brought on us by muslims, doesn’t mean that God is not a loving God or that Mohammed wasn’t a great prophet.

Or what about the Buddhist beliefs that stand for all that is good and right and beautiful in the world. If you’ve ever taken the time to look at what the Buddhists beliefs, you will probably find that they are the most selfless and beautiful of all religious beliefs. There is no “give and take” with Buddhism. It’s about being and existing and coming full circle to the good that I believe is inherent in all people.

There are a lot of beliefs out there. There are a lot of misguided people out there using religion as a tool for their autrocities. There are a lot of tainted, bitter, and angry people walking the planet today who seethe at the idea of religion because at some point in their lives religious ignorance and narrow-viewed religious people have hurt, abused, neglected, or ignored them. Let me break out my violin and play you a little song.

Let me tell you what I believe–in a nutshell with syrup and ice cream surrounding it’s nutty goodness. I believe that God is exists–I have never wavered in this belief. Not once in my life have I ever abandoned the idea that God exists. I have abandoned the idea that the bible is the infallible word or God. I have cursed God on ocassion. I have temped God. I have told God to go fuck himself. I have made fun of him, pushed him away, and ignored him. I am not a good person. But in everything I do, in everything that has happened to me, I have always held tight to the belief that there is a God and he exists. That’s all I claim to know. Nothing else.

I have no idea if he loves me or not. I have no idea if the God of the bible is the one true God or if Jesus Christ was his son. I have no idea if he even watches us or meddles in the affairs of men. But I believe he exists. I call him a “he” for simplified reasons (cause I know you feminists hate the idea that we give God a penis and a set of testicles and a good dose of testorone). I could call him a “she”, but that would be too feministic and creepy for my tastes–me being a misogynist and all.

The one truth–the one reason–that I can never and will never shake my belief in a higher power all stems from Aristotle’s “First Cause” Arguement. If you don’t know what that is, I suggest you google it and read about it. Some would accuse me of using “God of the gaps” theory to base my belief in a God, but then again God by any other name is still God isn’t he?

I also believe in doing good. I believe in putting something back. I believe that while we are here (whether it be one lifetime or many) that we are all here to learn how to be good and to do good in the face of extreme horror, mayhem, and disgust. You ask why bad things happen to good people? My answer is that bad things happen to ALL people and that we are all here to learn from those bad things and how to rise above those bad things and do good for the greater good of mankind.

I believe that God exists among us. Does he talk to us? I have no idea, but I believe that the “spirit” or the “energy” of God is out there and that by praying, meditating, dreaming, sleeping, whatever you tap into that energy and it can weave what we would call miracles. Is it always effective? No. Does it happen because we pray? No. The “miracles” I am talking about are miracles in your OWN life. Sorry, but I don’t think that praying that God will heal your sick uncle means shit. I also don’t believe God will help you get that new job. He wants you to get the fuck up off your ass and change your OWN life. And in the quiet times and in the moments when you are alone, those are the moments that you tap this “power” by emptying yourself out. No, I don’t believe that you have to keep telling yourself that you are scum and a sinner and a loser. In fact, I believe you should tell yourself the opposite–and BELIEVE it (thanks Dove for that one–if you read this).

Finally, I believe that there is choice AND there is fate. They coexist. The events of your life are such that they brought you to this spot today–to read my blog–not by accident, but rather through fate and that there are some coincidences that are just too great to be “coincidences”. But at the core of all fate, we are granted individual choices in our lives to make our life the way we want it–by tapping that “power” through meditation or (for the christians) prayer.

Does God speak to us? Who knows? Why do we care? But that’s my beliefs as they stand today. They could change as time goes on because I don’t claim to know everything.

I do know one thing…the Flying Spaghetti Monster pwns your soul. Worship him and you will have pasta blessings in your life.

God. He is there. This much I know is true. This much I believe.

So, I have decided that I would like to start collecting movie posters and I am going to plaster them all over the walls of my bedroom.

I have found one in particular that is like the greatest poster ever, but it is so flipping expensive. I’m too poor to be paying $80 a pop for a movie poster. So, I searched the internet and tried to find it cheaper. The cheapest I can find this particular poster is $30. I need someone who can find it for about $10.

Can you do it?

The Poster:

This message will self-destruct in five seconds.

POOF!

Look at the two of you dancing that way
Lost in the moment and each others face
So much in love your alone in this place
Like there’s nobody else in the world
I was enough for her not long ago
I was her number one
She told me so
And she still means the world to me
Just so you know
So be careful when you hold my girl
Time changes everything
Life must go on
And I’m not gonna stand in your way

But I loved her first and I held her first
And a place in my heart will always be hers
From the first breath she breathed
When she first smiled at me
I knew the love of a father runs deep
And I prayed that she’d find you someday
But it still hard to give her away
I loved her first

How could that beautiful women with you
Be the same freckle face kid that I knew
The one that I read all those fairy tales to
And tucked into bed all those nights
And I knew the first time I saw you with her
It was only a matter of time

But I loved her first and I held her first
And a place in my heart will always be hers
From the first breath she breathed
When she first smiled at me
I knew the love of a father runs deep
And I prayed that she’d find you someday
But its still hard to give her away
I loved her first

From the first breath she breathed
When she first smiled at me
I knew the love of a father runs deep
Someday you might know what I’m going through
When a miracle smiles up at you
I loved her first

–Heartland, from the Album “I Loved Her First

I think Lewis Black’s bit on “Candy Corn” describes my interaction with McDonald’s quite well. Specifically, the part where he talks about how every year at Halloween he finds himself staring down at a bowl of candy corn thinking “Ooh! Candy Corn! I think I’ll have a bite.” And every year the same thing happens–he reaches into the bowl and takes a bite and everytime he spits it out and shouts:

“THIS TASTES LIKE SHIT!”

I would describe that fanatically insane curiosity as the same curiosity that drives me to go to McDonald’s every once in a blue moon. I can’t explain why I do it, I just know that I do. Everytime I give in to that curiosity (best known for “killing the cat”), I find myself left unsatisfied and feeling worse than a two-bit crackwhore in rehab.

Anyway, I was at McDonald’s the other day and I didn’t have the time to go inside and sit down (who does?) so I went through the drive-thru. As I was looking at the menu (why?), I noticed that there was a little square ad on the menu board that said the following:

“The New Juicer Chicken”

But underneath of that it had the cost of the value meal–which was about $5.00. After a few seconds the order taker came on with their spiel thanking me for “choosing” McDonalds. She asked me if she could take my order and I said:

“Uh, yeah, could I get the New Juicer Chicken Value meal please? Coke to drink.”

“Sure. Will that be a number 5, 6, or 7?”

“I’m sorry? No I don’t want those. I want the New Juicier Chicken meal.”

So she repeated, “Do you want a 5, 6, or 7 sir?”

At this point I was getting pretty annoyed. After a few more rounds of confusion,  a guy came on the speaker and asked me the same damned question.

So, I said, “Look. You have a sign out here that says ‘The New Juicier Chicken’ meal and it’s for $5.00. I want THAT please.”

After a brief pause, the man came back on and said: “Sir, I know about the ad. But the ad applies to ALL of the chicken meals–the 5, 6, and 7.”

Suddenly it struck me. It wasn’t a new sandwich. They had upgraded their chicken. Here I was arguing with the order taker because I was thinking it was a new juicy chicken sandwich (and I of course LOVE juice) and I REFUSED to eat their old nasty DRY chicken. I wanted the juice. I love the juice. I just didn’t realize that they had improved their chicken to include ALL meals as part of the juice.

I sheepishly ordered the number 5 and drove around and noticed as I paid them that they were stifling back laughter the entire time. I felt like a fool and I got the fuck out of there as soon as I could–laughing at myself.

The sandwich tasted like candy corn.

Never forget there is a God above us.

I’m noticing a wave of interesting responses surrounding that post. Sometimes my humor goes a little over the top. Sometimes my posts get dripped with so much sarcasm that it’s easy to misconstrue what I am saying. So let me break it down and address something that keeps popping up (one in the comments here and some comments on another site) because of that post.

First of all, can I ask how many of you understand what “satire” is? This is actually good because it applies to writing. If you don’t understand what satire is I won’t bore you with a dictionary definition. You can go to dictionary.com (God’s gift to mere mortals) and read the definition. I, instead, will give you a clearer example of what Satire means by telling you a story.

*****

The story is about a man named Pecker. Now, Pecker’s father sent him out to get some wood–but Pecker didn’t want to get wood. So, instead of getting wood, Pecker devised a plan. Pecker would get his younger brother Peter to get some wood. Peter didn’t want to get wood either, but he was afraid of Pecker, so he told Pecker he would get the wood for him. He calls George Bush and says “Hey George! Do you got wood?” And, of course, George Bush has wood. George Bush has luscious, wonderous wood. You could pitch a tent near George Bush’s wood and keep warm.

So George Bush sent wood to Peter and Peter told Pecker that wood was coming. Pecker slapped Peter in the face because it wasn’t wood that they needed. They had wood. What they really needed was to get the wood in the house. Pecker was mad, but he finally decided that the best way to get wood was to put his head out the window and yell for the first person who came by.

Well, after waiting for about ten minutes, an older man came by.

“Hey Old Man!” Pecker yelled. “Hey old man, can you get wood?”

The old man yelled back up. “Sorry young sir, but I can’t get wood today. I didn’t take my pills!”

Humph, Pecker thought. He waited a few more minutes and noticed a young woman walking by.

So he called out, “Hey young lady! Can you get wood?”

The lady looked up at him and said: “No sir! I can’t get wood. For I don’t have what it takes to get wood. I can only receive wood.”

Damn! Pecker thought again. But he wasn’t going to give up.

Finally, an armless, legless man can drifting by in a wheelchair pulled by a dog. Pecker thought about it and then figured, what the hell?

“Hey you there! Yeah you! Can you get wood?”

The man looked up at Pecker and said, “Young man, wood is all I got. I will get you your wood.”

So Pecker rested easy. The moral of the story here is that George Bush has wood but doesn’t use it, old men can’t get wood, women take wood, and armless, legless men can’t masturbate.

*****

Understand? I’m not stupid. Nor am I arrogant enough to actually believe that if God exists he actually came down and opened my car door for me while people are starving in Africa, women are getting raped, and children beaten. I was making use of the lowest and oldest form of wit–satire and sarcasm.

Why would I do such a thing?

Because I have wood.

I am undertaking a huge task.

In an attempt to start living more for the moment and letting go of the past, I have decided that it’s time to clean and delete old emails. So, when I say “huge”, you probably have no idea just HOW huge this is. The reason it is so huge is because, in order to delete them, I have to read them “one last time”. lol

Right now I’m in reading mode. I’ve got a LOT of stuff chucked away into little folders. What’s funny is I don’t know WHY I save them. I never read them. They are just there cluttering up my email in neat little folders in case I ever DO want to read them someday.

The idea hit me when I was unpacking my stuff in my new place. I noticed I had a box full of “memories” from my ex-wife and I sat down and asked myself WHY I was dragging this stuff from place to place. I used to reason that my kids would like to see this stuff someday, but, honestly, I don’t know if I’d want them reading some of the letters she wrote me or that I wrote her. Some things might be better left to mystery.

I made a joke post a long time ago, in a blog far far away, that I was going to have a huge bonfire. I’m starting to think that maybe I SHOULD have said bonfire. I suppose I could keep a few things here and there from the past, but there is something freeing about being able to let go of the past enough to put it where it belongs. Why am I dragging all this stuff from house to house? Why am I filling up my email with old letters and such that I never read?

It’s time to get rid of them. I keep talking about rebuilding the foundations of my life so that they don’t crumble like they did before, but if I allow anything from my past to remain, it may be a weak spot. I’m not getting rid of every little thing, but I AM whittling it down to the bare essentials. As far as emails, however, they are gone. I’m deleting them all and starting fresh.

The interesting thing I am finding from reading these emails is how different I sound at each “stage” of my life in the replies. Hindsight truly is 20/20 and I keep thinking of how I would reply to this stuff given what I know now. It’s interesting to toy with, but it’s also a reminder that the past belongs where it is. Leave it alone and learn from it.

So, oh great universe, wash over me and cleanse me like only you know how. Break out the sacrificial robes for I will be laying my lamb at your feet. I will chant great and wonderous things. I will breath wonderful breaths. I will eat hot dogs over your illustrious flame and cherish the past where it is most cherished–in my memory.