Kids these days - on irony and loving what you love

This article in The Awl about embarrassment at one's previous taste in books makes me want to stab somebody. In case you're too goddamn lazy to click a link and skim a few paragraphs, the gist is they ask a bunch of moderately famous people what book they cringe to remember they loved.

My wife is friends with a couple of people who are like this. There's a constant stream of apology for enthusiasm and a winking cynicism towards even the most mundane of pronouncements, as if to stem the criticism they know they deserve for being so bold as to have an opinion about something. The problem with having an opinion, btw, is the inevitable retraction you have to issue when it turns out that your opinion was wrong, or that your tastes were underdeveloped, or that you were simply immature.

Wait! It turns out you never have to apologize for the things you love. The world is difficult enough without having to second-guess yourself for what you enjoy.

There are an entire section of people I know who do everything ironically, and I'm sick of it. I repudiate irony. And not in an ironic way, either. I renounce it. I deny it. Love what you love, please! Look with forgiveness upon the folly (if it indeed can be called folly) of your youth. We do not condemn the child who stumbles and weaves as he learns how to walk. We don't fault the kid who likes candy just because he can't appreciate a spicy chili, a good beer, or a stinky cheese.

Love is the only thing that really teaches us anything. What we enjoy in youth is a stepping stone to future pleasure and knowledge.

As John Crowley says, "What makes us happy, makes us wise." Don't miss the chance at wisdom by short-circuiting joy now.

Review of Chronic City, by Jonathan Lethem

No, really! What if it's all just a, you know, simulation, or whatever? Like The Matrix, right? So we're all just brains in a jar. I mean, how would you know?

Chronic City is aptly named, no coincidence, I'm sure. The characters spend almost their entire narrative life stoned out of their minds in an alternate reality Manhattan full of mysteries and strange phenomenon. Escaped tigers roam the streets, destroying buildings and (possibly) enacting the agenda of the powerful rich Mayor (modeled on Bloomberg), conspiracies seem to crop up at every turn, and the very fabric of reality is called into question. Just like you used to do in your dorm room between epic bong rips.

Chase Insteadman, a bland actor, almost aggressive in his deference, wanders through this buddy-movie of a book, learning a sort of pop-culture midrash from his new friend Perkus Tooth, and trying to find consolation as his fiancee, Janice Trumbull, languishes in orbit, trapped aboard a malfunctioning space station. The story of the lovers separated by an unbridgeable distance has captured the nation, distracting them from wars about which they no longer wish to read.

The love letters between Janice and Chase (all one way, since Chase isn't allowed to write back) provide the emotional center to this otherwise fuzzy, and fuzzy-headed, book. Lethem has an amazing way with a sentence, and his missives from the doomed station are poignant and beautiful (Janice calls herself Chase's "lostronaut"). But they aren't enough to give weight to a story that is essentially about the weightlessness of the artificially created worlds with which we pull the wool over our own eyes.

Ultimately, the shaggy dog story winds up connecting the dots and revealing the story beneath the surface, but there's such a lethargic movement to it that it's difficult to care. The stakes are too low.

The island of Manhattan, almost a character in itself, is well drawn and it's obvious that Lethem is working from a very detailed internal map, both of places and of ideas. Just what we're meant to gain from all the pop-culture and worlds within worlds is another thing entirely. Even though parts of it read with the obsessiveness and wackiness of Pynchon, there's very little of Pynchon's urgency in this book, nor is there the languid discursiveness of summer, urgent in it's desire to negate urgency. No, this book seems locked in stasis, a winter book, a letter from the coldest part of the year, where it seems impossible to believe that the ice and snow and darkness will ever end. That makes for a very particular kind of read. It's all good enough, and in places it's great, but it's so downbeat that it's hard to work up a lot of enthusiasm. It simulates, almost too well, the sensation of being just too stoned to care.

Old fashioned colors

A woman walks by in a coat the color of Pepto Bismol, with just a hint more red. "Puce" would probably be the technical term, if I were a visual artist or an interior decorator, or even if I weren't.

It's an old-fashioned color, the color of graceful porcelain roses on my grandmother's shelf. Mid-twentieth century middle brow elegance, harkening back even further, to pre-faded Edwardian kitsch.

Note to self - 3/15/12 (The Ides Edition)

iTunes courses for writers - Earlier this year, Apple unveiled iTunes U, a vast collection of free courses to download for Apple devices.

For when I'm feeling ambitious, and this fucking novel is finished. In an effort to let things flow, I write whatever comes into my head, and it completely derails what I thought the book was going to be about. For one thing, magic comes from erections, apparently. sigh. "Oh brain, why do you hate me?"

Brain says, "Fuck off. I'm working. You want beauty, truth, and some art-bullshit? Get yourself another brain. I wanna write about dicks."

"Fine."

"Yeah, it is fine. Go get me some kava."

We love to see our friends do well

Please check out my friend's triumph: his first so-called "professional" article in a national magazine. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, Rick Moe in Modern Drummer.

Enjoy!

Headstands and Trusting the Universe

Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth that ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.”
― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Head down, hands clasped, top of the head on the floor between the hands. Lift the hips and walk the feet in towards the head. A little further, almost too far, and the legs just rise into the air, seemingly on their own. Straighten the back and breathe.

Recently, I passed an important benchmark in my life. In 2011, after years of sporadic practice, I decided to dedicate myself more intensely to yoga. As part of Lent, I decided I would practice every day for the entire period from Ash Wednesday until Easter. Rather than denying myself something, which I had been wont to do for years, I decided to add something. Enriching rather than reducing, if you will.

Easter came and went, and even over forty short days, I noticed substantial results. My mood was more even, I was better able to cope with work anxiety, I was more socially relaxed, and the day-to-day discipline opened my eyes to what might be possible. So I kept doing it.

A few days ago, I passed 365 days of doing some form of yoga every day. I got on the mat every day for an entire year. Now, some days were more productive than others. There were injuries and the occasional sick day where I was only able to do a few small stretches or a relaxation exercise. Overall, though, I managed to do it everyday, no matter what.

This has had a lot of implications, both for my perception of discipline and what can be accomplished with consistent, focused effort, and for my overall mental health. The thing I noticed this morning, however, was one particular pose that had given me a lot of problems for a long time.

If you know anything about yoga, you probably know about some of the more popular poses: Downward Dog, Cobra, Warrior. One of the most impressive poses, however, is Headstand. Head on the ground, feet in the air, straight back, pillar of strength. Whether it's the inversion, or a natural fear of falling, many people, including myself, seem to be particularly wary of this one. There was a long period where I wondered if I would be able to do it at all.

Through a year's worth of consistent practice, I've gone from complete terror to mighty struggle to enthusiasm with the Headstand pose. It's now become, in many ways, the central focus of my practice. And as with any struggle, it's taught me a few things, the most important of which is trust.

In the beginning of my trying to do Headstand, I would lift myself up by might and main, arms trembling, fear singing in my stomach, legs swaying back and forth as I worked desperately to stay upright. I was terrified of falling, and every time I came out of the pose (fell out, more like, crashing to earth like a cut tree in a logging stand) it was with desperate relief.

Gradually, doing it almost every day, I came to learn some things. Things that, had I been practicing with a teacher, I might have learned quicker (though, given my history with authority figures, perhaps not). I learned that upper body strength is not the best way to do a headstand. Sure, you can lift yourself up, proverbial bootstrap style, wrenching your body into compliance, and keep yourself there through sheer willpower, overcoming your fear every time with brutal, bullying force, but that really isn't the best way to do it.

I found, after many months, that the only way through was to be afraid.

There comes a moment, every time I do Headstand, where I feel the pit of my stomach cry out in terror. I've put my hands down, my fingers interlocked, my head between them. I lift up my hips and walk my legs toward my head, and inevitably there comes the moment. Too far, too much! You're going to fall! You can't balance like this, you're going to break your neck, fall on your back, bust your spine! STOP!

And that is the moment, the exact moment, when the legs simply lift into the air, almost on their own. It isn't effortful, or hard; it is exactly what I am supposed to be doing right then. I engage my core strength, which I have built up over many months of work, and it is not a problem. I am upside down - stable, calm, breathing deeply. Small adjustments are made, but there is no panic, no fear of falling. I am simply doing what needs to be done in the moment to maintain my equilibrium. I am safe, and exactly where I need to be.

I come down the same way, engaging my core muscles and letting my legs come gently to the floor. I rest awhile face down in a fetal position (called "Child's pose"), and then move on to the next pose.

I've come to realize that the best things in my life have come about as a result of that same process. There comes a moment, in every creative endeavor (and I'm talking here not just about writing, or music, but about any action that I've taken in my life where something new is brought into being - whether it's my relationship with my wife, a new friendship, a new job) where the moment feels unsustainable. It seems completely impossible, and the abyss yawns beneath me. Terror rises in my gut, and I know I am doomed.

Suddenly, the moment passes, and I am in a different state, moved, almost effortlessly it seems, into a new way of being, of seeing. There is a natural momentum that assists us, a strength to which we add our strength that is not additive, but exponential. I'm not saying you have to believe in something, in anything. That's up to you. I'm just saying that without a willingness to attempt, to go too far, to possibly fall, that power will not aid us, and our own power is insufficient.

You may think you have committed, but until you've gone too far, you haven't gone far enough.

Part of it is our own fitness, the learning process that has come from failing, finding out what not to do. Another part is simply the way the world works - gravity, angular momentum, balance, inertia. It is, perhaps, mechanical, and can be calculated and simulated on a graph. But when I'm in the middle of it, working in concert with it, it feels nothing short of miraculous. It feels alive, not like I am doing it, or it is being done to me, but like I am a part of something that is more than I am on my own.

My life is changing. I let myself go too far, and find that there is something in me, and in the world, that lifts me up.

The Story of Angry Cat - part 2

When I moved to New York in 1996 in a spasm of ambition and romanticism from which I am only recently recovering, it was to go to school. No cats allowed in the dorms. I dropped her off at my sister’s to live, and didn’t look back for almost seven years.

This does not speak well to my character, I am aware.

In the meantime I graduated from school, got married, moved into a relatively decent apartment, and made enough money to think about taking care of an animal. Which is a good thing, as my sister, and her pets, had had enough. Honey got along with other animals about as well as she got along with people, that is to say, not very, and her continued presence at my sister’s house made trouble for all concerned. Not to mention the behavior problems of having been abandoned by the only person she really even sort of liked in the world. I still feel a stab of guilt when I think of how her very simple kitty brain dealt with knowing that she had a person, even if she only vaguely remembered him, and that he was gone.

After a conversation with my sister where she made it very clear that the cat was coming to live with me no matter what, I had her shipped from Las Vegas to Newark, a trip which, I’m convinced, almost killed her. She was packed into an airplane and flown for hours across the country in dry air. She was dehydrated, terrified, and exhausted when I finally picked her up at the cargo shipping section of the airport.

As I drove with her over the bridge to Newark airport, windows rolled up to block out the stench of the chemical plants, she climbed out of the container, stuck her head in my mouth to smell my breath, settled down on my chest, and began to purr contentedly.

And thus began our real relationship.

Her time away from me, and my time away from her, had given us both an opportunity to grow up a little. To call me a “late-bloomer” emotionally would be an understatement, but I had, in her absence, learned a little bit about putting someone else’s needs above my own. We began to get along, somewhat. She was still loud, and skittish, and touchy, afraid of her own shadow, and in all ways almost the opposite of a cat. But she could also be gruffly affectionate, sweet, and she seemed to have a genuine talent for being a stolid, loving presence when you felt sad. She was opinionated, picky, and had no problem sharing her disdain for whatever it was that had pissed her off today. It was a bit like living with a grumpy little old lady who never left the house, and who would occasionally express her displeasure by peeing in a corner.

I realized what a jerk I’d been for most of her life (not to mention much of mine), and I tried to make up for it by being as kind and gentle to her as I could. I gave her wet food, which she adored. I tried to play with her (which annoyed her) and gave her toys (which mostly confused her), and just generally tried to make her as comfortable as possible.

She was smart, had a huge personality, and was her own cat. I had her for another eight years, through a separation, a catastrophic move, a drug problem, a couple more bouts of religious mania, a divorce, and a remarriage. She started getting slower (but no less obnoxious), in the last year or so.

Then, seemingly overnight, her eye swelled up so that she looked like Popeye. At first, it was cute, and we rubbed it (which she liked), and made fun of her, called her “winky.” Then, we took her to the doctor, and they said, “Oh, that? Yeah, that’s cancer. She’s too old and little to operate on, so your best option is to keep her comfortable.” I’m paraphrasing, of course, as they were actually quite nice.

We pampered her as much that she would allow, and she still yelled and stalked around the house like she owned the place, so we held out hope that it might be an infected tooth. But it never really got better. And then, very quickly, it got much worse. Over the course of a day it went from “a little swollen and not really that uncomfortable” to “really, truly terrible and awful and pitiful to look at, and kind of painful.”

It was time, so we took her back to the doctor. They offered to take a clay impression of her paw, “You know, there’s a lot of kids in this neighborhood, so it’s mostly for them. But you could have it done too!” they hastily reassured us. We declined.

They gave her the first shot, to put her to sleep, and she settled on my lap for a moment, and then, for a moment, it was like she wanted to get down and take a walk, which we talked her out of pretty easily. She then lay down and began breathing deep and slow. The doctor discretely left the room, and we pet her, and cried. Her paws twitched as if she were walking, and we discussed where she might be dreaming she was, and if she was having a good time. Seeing her so relaxed, we seized the opportunity to touch her paws and her belly, and play with her tail, and stroke her fur, in ways that she would have deemed to be entirely inappropriate while she was awake. We laughed a little at the small irony: the only time she was ever really relaxed to be a cat, in the traditional sense, was when she was just about to be nothing at all.

After the doctor came back in, he injected her with a syringe full of purple liquid, and she breathed deeply, and then was still. And that was the end of her.

She was difficult, and ornery, and angry, and almost entirely humorless. I loved her very much, and she saw me through some very difficult times. She is exactly the cat I deserved, and I hope that, in the end, I had learned enough about being alive to be a good owner.

Because that’s really the thing. I needed to learn about being alive to be worth a damn to her. And, like most things in this life, it took me a long time to get it. I’m pretty dumb for being such a smart guy. Mostly it was learning to take things as they are, and trying to remember that others are more important than me. I’m still learning. I hope I’ll have it figured out by the time I see Honey again.