On BNY Mellon Profiteering From Environmental Disaster

So I recently saw this absolutely horrifying TV ad, one breath-taking in its cheerful cynicism and opportunism.  It involves an investment company (it doesn't matter which one) outlining how global warming's catastrophic effects on Peruvian anchovie populations will in turn set off a horrific chain reaction that will drive up food prices across the globe.  But this ad is no mere environmental alarmist warning!  Oh, if only--no, this ad instead happily explains how this particular investment company uses this data to "identify innovative new investment possibilities" or some other collection of buzzwords staggering in its inhumanity.

Chew on that for a second: this investment company not only frankly admits that global warming will cause terrifying food shortages, but uses that data not to try and avoid such cataclysms, but instead to profit from it!  Note that their vaunted research endowments merely fund marine biologists to study Peruvian anchovies, not restore them (and with notepads underwater, no less!)--oh, they've worded their ad carefully, oh so carefully, covering all their legal bases, as though wording will save them! 

Meanwhile, global rises in food prices will lead to widespread famine, starvation, and civil unrest (as we are already seeing in the Arab world), and all this investment company can think of is how can I profit from this?!  I don't know what to find more galling: their frank indifference to the future suffering of millions if not billions, or their (sadly, probably correct) assumption that a mass television audience won't care, either.

I never thought I'd pine for climate change deniers, but this ad but proves again that honesty is useless if it's not married to some basic human decency.  For the sad truth is that this shameless investment company is completely honest and frank about the obvious and awful effects of global warming, but their ethical response to this data is only to figure out how to exploit it for their own gain.  My goodness, at least climate change deniers implicitly acknowledge through their denial that climate change would be awful for everyone if it were true. 

This ad is the gated-community mindset on a global scale: it's the wealthy's assumptions that they are somehow separate from the world around them, that they are in some manner above and disconnected from the surrounding world community, that they can stand back comfortably and safely from all the mayhem they have both helped create and continue to profit from (if this ad is any indicator).  It's a comforting illusion I suppose, but also a dangerous one. 

3 Nephi 1:9-14 and A Very Merry Wrestle-With-God Christmas

9 Now it came to pass that there was a day set apart by the unbelievers, that all those who believed in those traditions should be put to death except the sign should come to pass, which had been given by Samuel the prophet.

10 Now it came to pass that when Nephi, the son of Nephi, saw this wickedness of his people, his heart was exceedingly sorrowful.

11 And it came to pass that he went out and bowed himself down upon the earth, and cried mightily to his God in behalf of his people, yea, those who were about to be destroyed because of their faith in the tradition of their fathers.

12 And it came to pass that he cried mightily unto the Lord all that day; and behold, the voice of the Lord came unto him, saying:

13 Lift up your head and be of good cheer; for behold, the time is at hand, and on this night shall the sign be given, and on the morrow come I into the world, to show unto the world that I will fulfil all that which I have caused to be spoken by the mouth of my holy prophets.

14 Behold, I come unto my own, to fulfil all things which I have made known unto the children of men from the foundation of the world, and to do the will, both of the Father and of the Son—of the Father because of me, and of the Son because of my flesh. And behold, the time is at hand, and this night shall the sign be given.

Why did God force Nephi to wrestle all day in mighty prayer for the very thing that God was willing to give him all along?  I mean, 10,000 miles away, Mary's gotta carry that child the full 9 months to term, and barring her going into labor slightly premature or late, there's really not a lot either she or the Christ child can do to make sure he's born just in time to save from massacre a bunch of diasporic Israelites they know nothing about on the opposite side of the globe.

Clearly Heavenly Father had orchestrated the whole shebang down to the last far-flung detail--inspiring Augustus Caesar to announce the Roman census and tax just in time to ensure the baby is born in Bethlehem to fulfill prophecy, during the same time that religious tensions in Pre-Colombian America are coming to a breaking point, while also ensuring that the Immaculate Conception occurs just in time to resolve said crisis exactly 9 months later, while causing a nebula to either undergo cold fusion millions of years ago or some star to go nova, at just the right moment for its light to become visible from Earth's surface to the naked eye circa AD 1, and doubtless a million billion other variables we can't even comprehend--all to make sure that everything synchronizes across creation at just this right moment.

My point is, in retrospect, Nephi had nothing to worry about.  God could've told Nephi at any single moment to chill out, be of good cheer, don't worry about it, everything'll be fine.  So why did God make Nephi sweat it?

I of course don't know for sure, but my hunch is that God did it precisely to make Nephi wrestle for it!  Because in wrestling with God for assurance at his moment of most dire peril, Nephi grew closer to God than he ever had before.  I suspect that after Christ's birth, that God and Nephi had an understanding, a relationship, that they hadn't had before that day.

By way of further example, I think God wanted to bless Jacob and make him Israel all along--but he also knew Jacob wouldn't have the faith to become Israel till he'd wrestled with the Almighty all night long, so he forced the Patriarch Jacob to wrestle for the very blessing that God himself wanted to give him!  In like manner, God made Nephi son of Nephi wrestle for the blessing that God wanted to him all along, so that they would be closer as well.  God could've given Nephi the answer he wanted right from the start, and thus they would've had no closer relationship than between, say, us and an ATM.  But God wanted him and Nephi to be closer than that.

Remember that Christ came to this Earth to effect an Atonement (a William Tyndale word, meaning quite literally to make At-One, to join together), to reconcile us with God.  So how appropriate, perhaps, that God helped Nephi draw closer to God the very night of Christ's birth. 


My old guitar teacher in Idaho once said that D&C 4:4, "If ye have desires...ye are called" refers not just to missionary work, but to anything we feel desire to do, from learning guitar to our careers to our schooling, or to anything really.  If you have desires to do anything, then God has called you specifically to do it.  But as any athlete or musician can testify, you don't become good at something until you wrestle with it, with your instrument, with your opponent, with your own body, with yourself.

God has also arranged all things to work together for our good, and stands prepared to give us that which you most desperately desire I think, but he still wants us to wrestle for it, because we are his children, and he want us to have a closer relationship with him.  Merry Christmas.

15 And it came to pass that the words which came unto Nephi were fulfilled, according as they had been spoken; for behold, at the going down of the sun there was no darkness; and the people began to be astonished because there was no darkness when the night came...

 19 And it came to pass that there was no darkness in all that night, but it was as light as though it was mid-day. And it came to pass that the sun did rise in the morning again, according to its proper order; and they knew that it was the day that the Lord should be born, because of the sign which had been given.

20 And it had come to pass, yea, all things, every whit, according to the words of the prophets.

21 And it came to pass also that a new star did appear, according to the word.

30: The Big Gear Shift

Normally the older folks I know just smile indulgently on youngins like myself who bemoan how old we're feelin'.  Shoot, my own Aunt once called my Dad a "child" cause he was "only" 60.  Age is all just a matter of perspective I guess.

Except with 30, I've realized.  I hit the big 3-0 myself earlier this year, and even now it still feels like a car that's leaking transmission fluid making a gear shift in cold weather--lurching, jolting, heart-attack inducing, and slow to settle into the next stage.

And here's the thing--whenever I tell these aforementioned older folks how I feel like I'm still stuck between gears, I brace myself for them to just sort of snort and chuckle and say something reassuring like "yeah, I remember being that young..."

But then they don't.  To a man, they don't!  Instead, they nod solemnly and say, "Yep, that was a hard age for me, too."  And not even sarcastically.  They've even told me that turning 40, 50, 60, while certainly sobering milestones as well, still aren't as strange-feeling as 30.  Something about hitting 30 just throws you off-kilter.

So take heart, fellow 30-year-olds!  You are not alone.  You really are at the strangest age of all.  30 is the big gear shift.

On Cell-Phones: A Resolution for the Coming New Year

One of my growing pet peeves is when older folks complain about how "kids these days" are always fiddling on their smartphones, becoming anti-social and cutting themselves off from all the beauty of the world around them and etc. 

Look, here's the God's-honest-truth--it's not that kids are always on their phones, it's that they are always on their phones around you.  

Suddenly that re-frames the problem, doesn't it.

In my experience as both a teacher and a student, when kids are interested in what you have to say, then they will put away their phones, naturally, without compulsory means, without having to be asked.  Phones are actually not all that interesting; it's simply that they are more interesting than maybe what you are saying.  It's either stare at you in undisguised contempt at how bored you're making them a la Ferris Bueller's Day Off, or politely play with their phones instead. 

Therefore: I resolve in this coming New Year to strive to be more interesting than a smartphone.

The Physicality of Native American and Mormon Religious Experience

Last summer, a Navajo student approached me after class to get an absence excused.  She had to run back down to the reservation in Arizona, she explained, for some sort of emergency cleansing ritual for a cousin, of which the entire extended family needed to be present.   The cousin had been haunted by dark dreams of late, but the kicker was when a snake slithered by her cousin one day and whipped her ankle with its tail--a super-bad omen, all the more ominous in its physicality. "In Navajo religion, evil is, like, very literally, physically real," she explained--and hence only a very physical ceremony would cleanse her.

The student herself implied that, having lived most her life in Salt Lake City, she didn't totally buy into these rituals, that this was more of a family-duty sort of thing...but she also implied that she didn't totally disbelieve it, either.

Anyways, I excused the absence, but it remained on my mind, especially when I took a Native American Readings course this Fall semester.  The moment I saw that class listed, I knew I needed to take it--here I am an aspiring Post-Colonialist, looking abroad at Ireland and Latin-America and India et al, but here was regular Colonialism, right here in my own nation! Momaday, Silko, Welch, McNickle, Harjo, Ortiz, Erdrich--these are writers from the Reservations grappling with Colonialism in the present, in real time, in my own backyard, where there's nothing "Post" about it, and it behooves me to pay more attention to that.

But as the class progressed, my interests progressed from the academic to the personal.  My religious faith, you see, is peculiarly interested in Native Americans, for the Book of Mormon claims to provide at least a partial explanation for their origins; specifically, it purports them to be the decedents of diasporic Israelis from the ancient Babylonian invasion, brought to pre-Columbian America by the hand of God--that is, Mormons consider the Native Americans to be children of Prophets.

Hence, the aforementioned physicality of Native American religious experience deeply intrigues me, because of how literally physical Mormonism often is.  For example, we take James 5:14 quite literally: when we go in for healings, we place a small daub of real, literal olive oil on the subject's head before proceeding with the blessing.

We've been mocked for wearing ceremonial undergarments ("magic underwear" is a derogatory term, by the way), as well as for worshipping a literal, anthropomorphic God.  But then, much like Native Americans, having a figurative, abstract, distant God, one that is separate from this physical, tangible world, one that doesn't touch our skin or interact with our senses, bores us and doesn't make sense to us.

More examples: just before Joseph Smith had his first vision of God and Christ "in a pillar of light...above the brightness of the sun," he described being attacked by Satan thusly: "I was ready to sink into despair and abandon myself to destruction—not to an imaginary ruin, but to the power of some actual being from the unseen world, who had such marvelous power as I had never before felt in any being."  For both Joseph Smith and the Navajo, evil is something literal, physical, tangible, real, something that can touch us and harm us physically.  But then, in both traditions, good is also something physical, tangible, real--and hence in Mormonism, God is a literal, physical, exalted man who demonstrates our own potential.

From the poetry of Joy Harjo, I better understand the Native Americans belief in the thin permeability between this world and the next, in the multiplicity of worlds (not just possible worlds, but actual worlds), in the realness of spiritual impressions, in visions and dreams.  All these are also core parts of LDS doctrine that I fear I have not taken seriously enough.

Perhaps most significantly, for both Native Americans and Mormonism, salvation isn't just individual (as in Protestantism), but communal.   It didn't surprise me when that Navajo student told me her entire family needed to be at that cleansing ritual--for we are not saved individually, but with and through our families.  "He shall turn the hearts of the fathers to the children, and the children to the fathers," reads the only scripture to appear in all four volumes of the LDS canon, "lest I come and smite the earth with a curse."  Native American thought is the only other place I've encountered thus far that places such an emphasis on redemption through connection with one's family and ancestors.

For in Native American thought, our ancestors aren't just in our genes or "cultural heritage" or whatever, but literally there.  N. Scott Momady writes, "memory is in the blood," and that quite literally.  I think of how anytime I've displayed a sardonic sense of humor, my Dad has said I sound just like his Dad--a man who passed away while I was still in the womb; or how Victor Villanueva in Bootstraps hears his son who's never lived in his native Puerto Rico nor learned Spanish, call his toes "fingers of my feet"--dedos de pie, obeying the Spanish syntax of his ancestors.  Our ancestors may be more literally with us than we realize.

Simply put, this class in Native American readings has altered my own relationship with my own faith, with my ancestors, with myself, causing me to take more seriously things I hadn't before but probably should.  It's caused me to quit keeping the divine at arm's length, and to see it more, unironically, sincerely, in all that surrounds me.

Thomas Bingley and the Mystery of Santa: The Best Christmas Ever!

(A brief Yuletide yarn I wrote a few years back, one demonstrating how sometimes the melting snow dribbling down your underwear can be the warmest of all.  Merry Christmas etc)

“Brothers! Sisters! Neighborhood friends!” began Thomas Bingley, “I have not called you forth this day to our secret tree house fortress, asking you to brave the cold and the snow, to trifle with words, taking time from your precious Christmas break and hot chocolate and snow men and snowballs—

“I saw you throw that snowball at me!” cried Sally Jean from the back, “Don’t pretend you didn’t! I’m telling, I’m telling! Santa’s gonna leave a lump of coal in your stocking.”

“Sally, please!” said Thomas, “Your comments are more pertinent than you realize! For I have called you all here for an emergency meeting, to discuss recent discoveries of mine concerning this Santa Claus; I call you forth to propose to reveal a claim so shocking, that it threatens the very foundations of Christmas itself!”

A collective gasp filled the room. “Madness! Crazy talk!” shouted Joey Banks, standing up, “We’ve all seen Santa Claus! We’ve all sat on his lap at the mall! What, does this Thomas Bingley claim to have ridden in his sleigh? Has Thomas seen the North Pole? Peeped into his magic bag, perhaps? What more could this raver claim to know?”

“Please, Joey, my friend, I do not make my claims lightly!” said Thomas, raising his hands to quiet the crowd, “But my Mom and Dad long ago taught me that if something’s the truth, then the truth must be told—”

(“—like I’ll tell the truth about you hitting me with that snowball!” whined Sally Jean.)

“—And I have researched all this year long,” continued Thomas, ignoring Sally, “And what I’m about to tell you may shock you, may astonish you, may astound and enrage you! You may call me names, pelt me with snowballs, pour cold snow down my underpants—”

(“I’ll pour cold snow down your underpants, Thomas Bingley!” shouted Sally Jean again.)

“But, I beg of you all,” continued Thomas unabated, “to hold your judgment, until you have heard all I have to say, and the evidences I have brought forth!”

“Very well,” said Joey, sitting back down, “Proceed.”

Diplomatically, stoically, Thomas began: “It was last Christmas—morning, to be exact—when I tripped upon a most puzzling curiosity!  It was while I scooted my new toy fire truck across the living room floor, mind.  The wrapping paper wasn’t even off the floor yet, when there, I noticed it.

“Perhaps if I’d played with the toy airplane, instead—I’d have been looking at the ceiling, instead of the floor, and I’d be spared these obsessions, and lived on ignorantly in childlike bliss, but no! I was scooting around the fire truck, making the ‘whoo-whoo!’ with my mouth—”

(“—Get on with it Bingley!” shouted a voice in the back.)

“—When there I saw it; There, amongst the green wrapping papers for the gift from Santa, and the red wrapping paper for the gift from Mom and Dad, laying next to each other.  And even then, I may have though nothing of it, but that the tags were still attached to the ribbons, both reading ‘To Thomas,’ one reading ‘From Mom and Dad,’ and the other ‘From Santa,’ but—” (Here Thomas pulled two frayed tags out of the shoe box he was carrying) “—they were both written in the exact same hand writing!”

Another gasp filled the room.

“I pass these around for your collective consideration,” said Thomas, handing them to Alice Wilcox in the front. “Notice the same slanted ‘T’ on both, the perfectly round ‘Os,’ the same curved ‘S…’”

“Bingley, what the crap are you talking about?” said Billy Hansen, as they passed into his hands.

(“You said a bad word, I’m telling!” said Sally Jean.)

“Don’t you see how similar they look?” replied Thomas, “I even took a ruler and measured them—they’re exactly the same!”

“Bingley! Hello!” said Billy sarcastically, “Santa’s a grown up! Your Mom and Dad are grown-ups! Obviously this is all just grown up writing!”

“And I was of the same mind as yours,” replied Thomas, “And would have continued to push around my new toy red fire truck, but then I came across this!”

Another gasp filled the room, as Thomas pulled out another tag. “From my Aunt May!” declared Thomas, “And if you pay close attention to the flowing calligraphy of the cursive on said tag, you’ll notice that my Aunt May, who is an adult like my Mom and Dad and possibly even as old as Santa Claus himself, has different hand writing!”

The entire room leaned forward for a better look. Thomas again handed the tag to Alice to pass around the room. (“Thomas keeps giving the tags to Alice first!” yelled Sarah, “He must looove her! Thomas and Alice, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n—”  “Shut your pie hole Sally or I’ll hit you with a snowball, stupid face!” yelled back Billy).

“Wait, just what’s your angle, Bingley?” asked Joey skeptically, “Did you drag us up to your stupid tree fort to brag that your parents have the same hand-writing as Santa Claus?”

“Far from it, my friend,” replied Thomas somberly.

“Wait a minute, I know what you’re getting at, Bingley!” jumped in Billy, “You’re trying to tell us that your parents are Santa Claus, right? Ha! Stupid Bingley! Everyone knows Santa Claus lives at the North Pole, not here on Oak Street! Ha-ha, everyone laugh at stupid Thomas Bingley everyone, he thinks Santa lives on Oak Street!”

The room erupted in peels of laughter, yet Thomas remained standing, erect and quiet. When he failed to hide his face in shame as was requisite in such embarrassing situations, the audience fell quiet once more. When all was as silent as the falling snow outside, Thomas continued:

“Would that you were right, Billy,” continued Thomas, “And if I’d only made a mistaken assumption about Santa’s identity, in a Pepè le Pew-esque case of mistaken understanding, I’d have no reason to call you all here today. But no, my friends, the thought that began to haunt me was not one of questioning Santa’s true identity, but that of his very existence!”

The crowd sat silently, their brows furrowed in confusion. “Wait, Thomas, what are you talking about?” asked Alice.

(“Alice called Bingley by his first name, she must like him!” shouted Sally, “Alice and Thomas sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i—” “Shut your cake hole!” Billy shouted again, “I can’t hear!”)

“Consider!” declared Thomas, now pacing back and forth, “We learned in Mrs. Price’s class—” (“I was in Mrs. Williams class, not Mrs. Price!” shouted Sally.) “—in Mrs. Price’s class last year, we learned that there are nearly 7 billion people on the earth now. How does Santa get to them all?”

“He has a supersonic sled!” sneered Billy, “Duh! They do have supersonic jets, you know! I even saw them on TV.”

“But then how does he carry enough gifts for all of them?”

“He has a magical bag that creates whatever you pull out of it!” chimed in Joey, “We saw that in Ernest Saves Christmas! Besides, he only has to deliver to the kids, not the adults.”

“But we also learned how to use Google Earth in the school computer lab last year!” said Thomas, “Have you ever tried to Google Earth…the North Pole?”

“Duh, you couldn’t!” said Billy, “His workshop is in the dream world! We learned that from Miracle on 34th Street, remember? He-llo!”

“Perhaps,” said Thomas, “But also consider—”

“Per-haps?” came the small voice of Preston, Thomas’ younger brother, “Thomas, you’re not suggesting that…that…”

“Bear with me, just one more minute!” said Thomas, holding his hands up.

“But you seem to be saying…” continued Preston with downcast eyes.

“I do not make these claims lightly, as I’ve said!” said Thomas, “But I must prepare your minds first, or you will never accept for a moment the possibility I am about to suggest!”

“Suggest what, Bingley?” said Billy, “Get on with it!”

“Believe me, I considered all the things you’ve all just told me, countless times over!” continued Thomas, pacing, “And I tried to shake the idea that festered in my head, but I just couldn’t! For awhile I could just ignore it, enjoy my spring and summer breaks. But then came my birthday in October, you were all invited to it—”

They all murmured in assent.

“—And I got another gift from my Mom and Dad, with the exact same hand writing on the tag!” He produced another tag to pass around.

“Bingley, we’ve been over this—” began Joey again.

“The tag tore open afresh my mind like a tag torn from a mattress!” Thomas dramatically waved his arm in the air.

(“That’s illegal!” shouted Sally).

“Desperately, I tried to push it back out of my mind, convinced that though it be far easier for Mom and Dad to eat the cookies and drink the milk themselves, that that had to be surefire physical evidence for his existence, for Mom and Dad would never ever lie to me—”

“Lie?!” asked Alice, disconcerted, “Cookies? Wha—milk? Thomas, what on earth are you talking about?!”

“And then in early November I sat on Santa’s lap and he said ho-ho-ho, and I tugged at his beard and it didn’t come off and it eased my mind, I even got the picture taken with him, at the mall—” He produced the photo, passed it around starting with Alice.

“Yeah, yeah, we all got the same photo, Bingley,” said Billy, “What’s your—”

“Note well the date on it!” shouted Thomas, pointing.

“November 15th, yeah, I was with you that day,” said Joey.

“Well, one week later, we got the Christmas card from Uncle Matt in Springfield, with photos of his kids on Santa’s lap!” He likewise produced the photo.

“Oh, there’s where it went!” noted Preston, “Mom and Dad were wondering where that—”

“Notice the date on it!”

Billy let out a gasp. “It’s the same date!” he whispered.

“The same date!” enunciated Thomas. “Two Santas, two towns, two states apart, yet the same day giving photos!”

“So maybe there’s just some actors in a Santa suit!” remarked Joey, “I’m sure he’s too busy at the North Pole to visit every single mall in—”

“Believe me, my friend, I argued the same things to myself!” continued Thomas, “And I decided that if there was nothing to hide, than there was no harm of me searching, every last bit of the house, just to know…to know for sure…”

“Know for sure, what?” shouted Alice, “Thomas, you’re just not making any sense!”

Thomas gazed at her longingly a moment, then slowly reached into his shoebox, while saying, “One day Mom and Dad were out grocery shopping, and I went searching through the house, and at the top of Mom and Dad’s closet…”

“You’re not supposed to go in there!” shouted Preston.

“Well,” whispered Thomas, “I suppose I might as well show you!”

He whipped out a Polaroid photograph. (“You’re not supposed to have the camera!” said Preston.) The crowd leaned forward.

“Behold!” declared Thomas, “Presents! Not yet under the tree! And if you peer close enough, you’ll see one of them tagged ‘To: Thomas, from…Santa Claus!”

Abruptly Joey stood up, pointing an accusatory finger at Thomas. “This proves nothing, Bingley!” Joey shouted, “Maybe Santa FedEx’d them down early to save time! Maybe Santa delivered them early, if your parents promised not to give them early! Who are we to question the workings of Santa Claus, a man who lives at the top of the world? Maybe your parents knew you’d been such a bad boy they bought you presents themselves, and marked them from Santa, to save you the embarrassment! You always were a trouble-maker, Thomas Bingley! You’re probably right at the top of his naughty list! Indeed, how do we know you didn’t plant those presents yourself! Indeed, how—”

“The senses can indeed be fooled!” shouted Thomas, “The ventriloquist and the magician who did the school assembly last week taught us that! And certainly I doubted mine own eyes when I saw those presents on the top shelf! I considered that perhaps so much had this obsession burned in my brain that perchance it had warped my senses! And even when the Polaroid printed I believed it not! But the tags, the photos, the coincidences—it’s all too much, my friends and neighbors!”

(“I’m not your friend!” shouted Sally Jean.  “He didn’t say you were, moron!” shouted back Billy).

“But you’re right, Joey!” continued Thomas, “This all proves precisely nothing! Anything and everything you’ve suggested so far could plausibly negate my own theories! But, my friend, I have to know for certain, or I can never rest on Christmas Eve! Hence, I have devised a sure fire fool proof test, an experiment, whereby I can confirm, once and for all, either one way or the other, the existence of Santa Claus!”

“You’re playing with fire, Bingley!” shouted Joey, “You’re playing with fire! Santa gives to whom he wants! He alone decides! Beware, my friend, your very Christmas gifts be on the line!”

“I would be willing to wage even my very Christmas gifts to know the truth!” shouted back Thomas. Joey faltered backwards in shock; the audience gasped, wide-eyed at this blasphemy.

“Behold!” shouted Thomas, pulling an envelope from his shoe box, “I have mailed to the North Pole a second letter to Santa Claus!”

“A second?!” said Preston, “Why, he must be mad…”

“Identical to the first!” continued Thomas, “Save that this one has one extra item on it, revealed to neither Mom, Dad, nor the mall Santa! Only Santa, if he exists, and myself, know what this extra item be! If indeed Santa exists, then said item shall appear miraculously appear beneath the tree Christmas morning, as all of Santa’s presents do, and Santa Claus’s existence will be confirmed once and for all!”

“Thomas Bingley, would you listen to yourself?” said Alice, standing indignantly, “Doubting Santa’s existence? Testing Santa Claus? You’re like all those doubters all the Christmas movies warned us about! Where does it end, huh, Thomas Bingley? What else about Christmas will you doubt? Is there no caroling either, Thomas? Are there no gingerbread houses, Thomas, no candy canes, no lights, no trees, no snow outside, no sledding? Will you doubt the cookies half eaten, the milk half drunken? Will you begin to doubt your very senses, Thomas? Is there no hot chocolate, no nativity scenes? Is there no Christ child now then, Thomas? No angels appearing to the Shepherds? Is the Bible false Thomas? Is there no God now, Thomas, will you doubt the very existence of God?!”

“Enough of this heresy!” shouted Billy, rising to his feet, pulling at his hair, “Away with this Bingley! Pelt him with snowballs, shove ice and snow down his underpants!”

“UN-DER-PANTS! UN-DER-PANTS!” began the chant of the crowd.

“Hold off till Christmas morn!” pleaded Thomas, “Christmas morn, we shall see the truth! The truth, I say! Then, if I be proven wrong, you may ice mine undies to your hearts’ content!”

This placated the mob somewhat. “I hope, for your sake, Bingley, that it’s worth it,” said Joey, as they all quietly exited the tree fort, murmuring. None would look Thomas in the eye, not even Alice, though Sally stuck her tongue at him. Thomas stayed behind, to gather his tags and photos.
___
Christmas morning, Thomas Bingley moved quickly, methodically, quietly, through his gifts, tearing off the wrapping paper with a tenacity that belied his cold desperation. Each new box from Santa, either to him and his siblings, indeed matched the Polaroid he’d taken, for he’d stayed up studying it the night before till he passed out from sheer exhaustion. And indeed each box contained some gift that either he or his siblings had previously enumerated in his first Christmas gift.

It was with a mixture of elation and despair that Christmas morning that he opened his boxes, for any other Christmas he’d have been overjoyed to receive all the gifts on his list; but each new gift only confirmed his darkest suspicions. Deep down he’d hoped he was wrong, terribly wrong, that all of these boxes would be filled with only coal to punish his insolence (besides, he could at least cover those in snow and throw ‘em at Sally Jean). But no, he got exactly everything he asked for, which was the worst thing in the world for him.

Surrounded by all his new toys, Thomas Bingley sat in the corner, empty, despondent. While his younger siblings laughed in glee, he only chuckled with the despairing cackle of a man proven terribly right. He was a broken boy. He heaved a dejected sigh.

Yet, as he watched his younger siblings laugh in glee midst the flying wrapping paper, he considered that even if Santa was maybe not real in person, he was at least real in their hearts. “I must look at the bright side,” Thomas mused philosophically, “The presents are real, their happiness is real, and Mom and Dad’s love is real…maybe that’s all that matters, really, in the end…”

“Well, wait a sec there, son!” Dad suddenly boomed, “If mine eyes don’t deceive me, and I believe they don’t, methinks I spy just one extra Christmas gift Santa’s left for you, one that wasn’t on your list!”

“Huh—what?” Thomas’ eyes widened.

Opening up the closet door, Thomas’ Dad revealed a bike! And not just any bike, a 12’’ blue-and-silver Huffy Pro Thunder with training wheels and a bucket and streamers on the handle bars—just like the one he described in the second letter!

And sitting on the seat, a tag, reading simply, “To: Thomas. From…

“Santa Claus!”

“I knew it, I knew it!” said Preston, happily.

“I…I don’t believe…it…” soothed Thomas Bingley, as he slowly approached the bike like it was a sacred altar.
“What, my son, don’t you believe the evidence before your very eyes?” asked Thomas’ Dad jovially.

Later that morning, true to his word, Thomas Bingley allowed ice and snow to be shoved down his underpants by the neighborhood kids. But though the slush was freezing as it dribbled down his leg, his heart had never been warmer. It was the best Christmas ever!
THE END

Sufjan Stevens' Silver & Gold: This Christmas, Love Will Tear Us Apart Again!

Last year I set out on a quest to find Christmas music I don't hate, and succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.

I sought music that at once captured that seasonal sense of wonder and awe as only children seem to be able to experience anymore, while also critiquing the creeping mass of consumerism and self-righteousness that ruined it all in the first place.  For I'd grown weary of Bing Crosby and Mormon Tabernacle Choir Christmas covers; and my soul was oppressed by the likes of "The Forgotten Carols", Mannheim Steamroller, cheap supermarket Swing covers of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town", a capella "Little Drummer Boys", and all their ilk. No more, said I!  I was on a mission to redeem the season.

As such, I started with the counter-culture standards: John Lennon's anthemic "Happy X-mas (War is Over)", The Kinks' incendiary "Father Christmas", The Who's tongue-in-cheek "Christmas" (from Tommy).  (By contrast, Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmas Time" almost cancels out the White album).  I also collected Holiday EPs by Low and Joshua James, two artists who are as eager to explore the season's malaise as its euphoria--often at the same time.

Thus far, I'd only collected maybe an hour's worth of Christmas music I didn't hate.  Things were looking grim.  But then a true Christmas miracle happened:

I discovered Sufjan Stevens.

To say that Indie-darling Sufjan Stevens is obsessed with Christmas is to say the Pope is kinda Catholic; over the course of the millennium's first decade, Sufjan released not one, but ten separate Christmas EPs, then collected them all into not one, but two box-sets: 2006's Songs for Christmas and 2012's Silver and Gold (hey, just in time for my Christmas quest!  Coincidence?).  The ever-prolific Sufjan has released near as much Christmas music as he has "regular" music--in fact, I dare say that his "regular" releases are the sideshow, that in fact his true M.O., his raison d'etre, his calling, that for which he'll be best remembered (well, besides "Chicago"), is his music for Christmas, in all of its contradictions and messiness and agony and ecstasy.

And here I thought my relationship with Christmas was fraught!

Of the two box-sets, Songs for Christmas has been out longer, and thus has the bigger reputation.  His song "Hey Guys!  It's Christmas Time!" is now considered a classic in certain Indie quarters, and rightfully so.  But for my money, Silver and Gold is his masterpiece--and I don't say use that word lightly. 

Examples: whereas the "Silent Night" that kicks off Songs for Christmas is just a quick, calming, 40-second acoustic ditty, the "Silent Night" that begins Silver and Gold is this intense and quivering rendition with layered vocals, shimmering piano, and anxious guitar.  He has grown more confident in his song-writing powers.  The message is clear: Sufjan Stevens isn't just going to sing about Christmas anymore, or even for Christmas, no--he's now going to wrestle with Christmas at last and make it his own.

Another stark contrast: the "Joy to the World" on Songs for Christmas is a charming, but ultimately safe and generic acoustic number such as any Indie singer might churn out by December; but the "Joy to the World" on Silver and Gold transforms into this wild electronica experiment at 1:48, and even mashes in his own "Impossible Soul" chorus from The Age of Adz.  Again, on Silver and Gold, Sufjan no longer lets Christmas just happen to him, but makes Christmas his.

More examples: while "It's Christmas! Let's be Glad!" on Songs for Christmas plaintively pleads for Christmas to cheer him up for once, "Carol of St. Benjamin the Bearded One" on Silver and Gold takes Christmas by the throat.  Sufjan here uses Christmas to reflect on how "the things you want in life/you have to really need."  That is, on Silver and Gold, Sufjan uses Christmas not for diversion but to consider the terrible questions; Christmas for Sufjan isn't escapism anymore, but confrontation.

In that same vein, while most the tracks on Songs for Christmas are just a much needed breather from supermarket radio, "Barcarola (You Must Be a Christmas Tree)" by contrast is a bona fide epic.  It is a slow-burning build-up that uses the inevitable loss of the yearly Yuletide as a sublime meditation on the ephemerality of existence.  It isn't just one of Sufjan's best Christmas songs, but one of his best songs period.  It was at this point on Silver and Gold that I realized I'd stumbled onto something special.

Further highlights: the freewheeling, ecstatic "Christmas Woman" and slightly-unhinged "I Am Santa's Helper"; the extra lyrics interspersed into "Angels We Have Heard on High" ("Is it power and wealth you're after?" "The counting and commotion," "Where dreams become your greatest danger...") that I rank among the hymn's most inspired versions; the techno-turns of "Good King Wenceslas" (which segues into Prince's "Alphabet Street," of all things); his brooding, minor-chord rendition of "Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!"; his seemingly-straightforward "We Need A Little Christmas" that really foregrounds the song's inherent desperate lyrics: "Because I've grown a little meaner/grown a little colder/grown a little sadder/grown a little older..."

These selections can only give a scattered sampling of this dazzling boxset.  Really, I could write a dissertation on this album.  Contrasted against the dull uniformity of most easy-cash-in Christmas collections, Silver and Gold is a staggering roller-coaster of diversity and daring that saves the best for last: Sufjan caps off this tour de force years-in-the-making with a masterstroke that shouldn't work at all, but totally does, "Christmas Unicorn"

This song, by all rights, should just be campy, ridiculous, bloated, "so-bad-its-good," so-twee-it's-insufferable, etc; but that magnificent scoundrel Sufjan Stevens not only makes this song work, but transcend.  Sufjan's Christmas Unicorn is "a symbol for original sin," "a pagan heresy," "a tragical Catholic shrine," "a mythical mess," "a construct of your mind," "hysterically American," "a frantic shopper and a brave pill popper," and "I know you're just like me."  It doesn't take an English major to realize that Sufjan isn't describing a Christmas unicorn at all, but just Christmas itself--which in turn describes us.  The Unicorn is the fun-house mirror that distorts to reveal, and doesn't even have to distort that much.

"But it's alright," he still sings repeatedly, "I love you."  Because for everything that's absolutely wrong with Christmas--and for everything that Christmas reveals is wrong with us--our materialism, shallowness, selfishness, short-sightedness, hypocrisy, greed, etc--Sufjan still loves Christmas, warts and all, and that includes us.  God in all His infinite mercy could be singing "Christmas Unicorn": for He sent His Son that first Christmas specifically because He knew we are all terrible, awful, hypocritical, a bunch of unrepentant rapscallions--but it's alright, He loves us anyways.  Sufjan thoroughly understands the true meaning of Christmas, and all the awful implications that that entails.

And then for his coup de grace, Sufjan Stevens overlaps the extended chorus line of "Find the Christmas Unicorn" with the chorus from Joy Division's "Love Will Tear Us Apart Again."  This is a stroke of genius: for the love that brings us together will also tear us apart; the Christmas that enlivens us will also break our hearts; what we love most will most hurt us; what's born must die just as what dies must resurrect, and the great secret is that these are all causes not for mourning, but celebration!  Sufjan Stevens' great revelation here is that the purest, most perfect expression of the Spirit of Christmas was in a Joy Division song all along.

Such has been the transformative effect of Silver and Gold on me that my relationship with other Christmas music has even been redeemed.  I can now listen to Bing Crosby un-ironically again (albeit still in limited doses); the Mormon Tabernacle Choir blows my mind once more.  Low and Joshua James and John Lennon and The Kinks and Songs for Christmas are all part of my yearly Yuletide tradition now.  But it's Silver and Gold that I've been waiting for the most all year long.  Last year when I set out on a quest to find Christmas music I don't hate, I succeeded beyond my wildest dreams thanks to Sufjan.  I hope you've clicked on the links and enjoyed all these wonderful tracks.  This Christmas, Love will tear us apart again--but it's alright, I love you.
 

"What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?" Her Eyes Were In The Stars!

 Have you ever wondered, as the old Jimmy Ruffin song sings, "What becomes of the broken hearted?"  Do they mope around listening to old MoTown standards while binging on off-brand gellato?  Do they take long walks around city blocks with their trench-coat collars up and a quiet quiver on their lips?  Do they get hurtled across space and time by a malfunctioning hyperdrive into epic confrontation from the very memories they run from?
     As previously announced, I totally have an e-book now, one that answers all those very questions!  What's that?  Perhaps you would prefer to read a longer excerpt before you make your e-book purchase decisions?  A most just protestation.  In the excerpt below, taken near the novel's climax, our (anti?)-hero Jon Wilson has already experienced episodes as a U.S. soldier, a slave, a star-pilot in a Holy War, a Buddhist monk, a smuggler, a Dune-like Shield-warrior, and as a Medieval Knight; he has survived multiple Apocalypses that have sent mankind back to the stone-age so often that he's kinda used to it by now; he has seen his proper name go from being one of the commonest to one of the strangest in the galaxy; and not once, in all of his many travels across space and time, has he been allowed to forget the face of Tasha, his ex from college.  And now, while a horse-bound knight on a quest to slay a dragon, he abruptly finds himself in an ancient and automated space craft, one of the last still functioning in the galaxy...

Chapter 22: Paradise

When I opened my eyes again, I beheld the stars.

Looking around quickly, I found myself sitting in the transparent cockpit of some Nivkolan-era star-jet, shooting through the immensity of space, careening toward a bright red nebula that gradually filled my field of vision.

I shifted in my seat awkwardly in my bulky armor and sword and shield, and demanded loudly, “Where in Billiam’s name am I?”

“You are in an automated shuttle en route to Paradise,” came the computerized response.

In vain I searched for the source of the voice. “And what is Paradise?” I demanded once more.

“The most accurséd place in Heaven,” came the cryptic response.

I was swiftly recovering my instinctive memories as a pilot and a smuggler, but the bewildering reply, my clumsy armor, my sword and shield cluttering up the cock-pit, and the lack of controls upon which to rest my hands, left me baffled and frightened. I’ve often thought that if a man can just put his hands on something, something he can heft and handle, something to assure that he can hold, well, then he has something to hold, something to touch, and reassure himself, if that makes any sense.

The nebula itself was gorgeous (though I won’t tell you which it was lest you try to find that accursed place yourself), a sea of reds and pinks and lights swirling around me endlessly; and given my recent medieval state, it was in fact like the first time I’d ever seen one. I mean, I intellectually and dimly remembered hiding out in nebulae before, and even of being reminded of Tasha by them—but all those remembrances were like dreams now, déjà vu, images from a previous life dimly remembered, memories I’d always had but never had, like the photos of her that weren’t of her at all...

The shuttle flew confidently and with purpose, like it knew exactly where to go, avoiding the pulsars and radiation wells, the worst storms and the thickest gaseous fogs, and sweeping me past the most brilliant colors of that ocean of gas, as though giving the guided tour.

So overwhelmed was I by the Nebula’s staggering beauty that I didn’t notice it at first—a star, a sun really, fully formed and stable, hidden deep within the folds of the clouds. Gradually I became aware that we were on a direct course to that sun. I panicked a little, that this shuttle was going to plunge me directly into that sun, that I’d die alone, far away, unknown, forever frustrated in my quest. My clumsy armor clanked and clashed as I fidgeted futilely in that tiny cockpit hurtling me to my doom.

But before I could get too worked up, I saw it—a single Earth-class planet, a perfect grey sphere, in secure orbit around this star—and I intuitively understood that our approach vector was for that planet.

“So that’s Paradise?...” I said more to myself.

“Affirmative,” came the computer again.

There was no burning into the atmosphere as we entered Paradise’s sky. The atmosphere (itself grey) seemed to gently separate to let us in, without the least friction. Gentlest atmo-entry of my life, it actually soothed me. I peered out the cockpit, looking for cities, mountains, landscapes. I saw only grey.

The retro-rockets of the shuttle itself fired just as gently, and set me down so quietly it took me a second to realize we’d landed, for the grey was uniform. We came to rest on this perfectly flat grey plain. I was unsure what to do next, for the controls remained inaccessible to me, and even if I had control, my now-returning memories reminded me that there must be no atmosphere out there at all, and my armor was certainly in no shape to protect me. But as I silently debated what I should do next, without my asking, the cockpit opened and I briefly screamed and gasped for air …and gasped in perfectly breathable oxygen. I calmed somewhat after a couple breaths, and a ramp extended down out of the craft to my side. Seeing as I could still breath, I took that as my cue—I gathered my courage, composed myself like a true knight of Wessix, stepped onto that ramp and marched onto Paradise.

Now, when I say it was grey, I mean it was grey—not silver, but grey. The surface was grey, flat, no hills, no valleys, no seas, not even rocks or pebbles or dust—it was unnatural. The sun (such as it was) only filtered through dimly in a grayish light. The air itself was thick and grey, like a fog, but unlike fog, for it was very dry. Even cloudy days back in Seattle have a variety of shades of grey in ‘em, like a painter’s canvas, almost appearing as an impressionist work splashed across the sky. But by contrast, this grey was uniform, dull, and complete, more frightening than even cliffs or deserts—those at least have a reason for being, those at least make sense.

My sword and shield extended, I stepped forward slowly, carefully, tepidly. I tried to be all brave as a knight should, carrying myself with purpose and determination, but in short order it was just too much—the grey, the solitude, the empty nothing all around, the stillness—there wasn’t even a breeze—it was intolerable. I cried out at last, “What is this place?”

“Ah, brave Jon son of Wil!” came a cheerful voice, “I thought I recognized you.”

I swung around and there I saw (and you probably will never believe me) (hell, you probably don’t believe a word I’m saying now, anyways, so I might as well just run with it), none else than Haja Nivkola III standing there, in full uniform.

“Nivkola?...” My voice absolutely shook, I ain’t gonna lie.

“No, no, dear friend, though I’m flattered you think so,” the apparition said happily, “Lord Haja Nivkola III died long long ago, about the time of the, how’d the historians end up terming it? The Great Catastrophe, yes. Ages ago, really.”

“Then a gh…a gho…”

“What? Ha-ho! No, comrade, no, no ghost,” he laughed good-naturedly, “of course you can certainly be forgiven for considering the idea, though I suspect the ghosts that haunt you are of other than the spectral sort…

“My, my, my, a knight in shining armor,” he said smiling, examining me, “you certainly have carried on the heroic age in these dark times, haven’t you! Ooh, is that the sword I gave you?—”

I swung my blade at him. “Back, back!” I shouted, betraying my terror, “Enough! If you’re not Nivkola and you’re not a ghost, then just what the hell are you?”

“Oh, no need to be frightened, dear friend!” he said easily, still pacing around me, “You certainly have nothing to fear here…at least, not from Paradise itself…”

“No more of your riddles!” I shouted again, pointing my blade menacingly at him, my glare steady but my lips quivering.

Nivkola only laughed in that easy way of his. “Oh, dear Jon Son of Wil, you cannot slay me; I am you!”

Now I lowered my sword, not in fear but exasperation. “Dude, what the hell are you talking about?” I said, my old voice creeping back.

“Ho-ho, quite right, quite right! No more of my riddles, dear friend, you are right, I’ve had quite enough fun at your expense! One quick story, then all shall be clear,” he proceeded, pacing back and forth and lecturing like a college professor, as was his want, “To begin: The ability to bypass the Von Field was discovered almost the same time as its initial invention—in fact, it was discovered by my own scientists in fact. That is, the deconstruction of the field was built right into it, all along, something I suspect that you of all people can appreciate.

“You can rest assured that this fatal weakness was a closely guarded secret. Nevertheless, I knew as the People’s Forces swept across the galaxy, that the tyrants would work devilishly to uncover the Von Field’s weakness as well. Accordingly, I made silent preparations for that sad inevitability…

“As you are no doubt aware, the campaign for the Tian’zhu system was when we discovered that they had finally discovered our little secret for themselves. I think I honestly thought that if I surprised them with my own counter-measures (for surely they would assume that cheaply-produced swords and shields were all we possessed), then perhaps I might at last crush them decisively and usher in the new Paradisiacal age of mankind.

“Of course, I was wrong.

“As the Great Catastrophe spread, quickly, universally, uniformly across the inhabited galaxy, sending all worlds back to the stone-age, I finally abandoned my dream of universal paradise, and instead withdrew to my own personal one. I selected this most hidden planet to debut a technology I’d hoped to share with all mankind once the conquest was complete—that is, this, the utility cloud.”

“The what now?”

“Trillions upon trillions of nanobots,” he continued to lecture, “to the –nth magnitude and beyond, compose this cloud enveloping all of Planet Paradise. The nanobots utilize mental-interfaces, responding to all your thoughts, constructing from the sub-atomic level upward whatever your heart most longs after…”

“Wait, you mean this cloud will create…”

“Whatever you desire,” he finished my thought, “And I am your first desire, it appears. I am most flattered, I must confess!”

“What?”

“At the moment you exited that transport shuttle, what your mind, blank with fear, desired above all else to know was, and I quote: ‘what is this place,’ and the cloud gladly acquiesced by re-constructing its creator, to give the authoritative explanation. Dear friend, though I have been dead for centuries, I am as real and biological as yourself, made up of nano-bots organizing at the atomic level as atoms, molecules, chemicals, cells, tissue, organs, a fully functioning body, and voila! Nivkola, raised from the dead, at your service! Go ahead, poke me with your blade, test me out. Come, come now, don’t be shy,” I poked him I did, and honest-to-goodness blood poured onto my blade, “Ouch, ooh! Yes, you see there? That’s fresh blood now on your blade, is it not? The wound is even gushing and staining my uniform. And to think I just had this laundered...”

“Wa-wa-wait,” I interrupted, “If this utility cloud can re-create, well, anything…why not, you know, reproduce your own body and, you know…still be alive?”

“Ah, and here we come to crux of the problem,” sighed Nivkola, “And the reason why this truly be the most curséd place in heaven.

“I told you it reacts to your thoughts? My friend, we even took the severest pains to ensure that the utility cloud responded only to deliberate, conscious thoughts—none of these secret manifestations of the id or subconscious or nightmares whilst you sleep and other such sci-fi nonsense.

“Sadly, such is an over-reduction of the human psyche; the human mind is no monolith, but an ever-shifting composite, countless and contradictory in its manifestations. We individually are not one but many, brave Jon son of Wil, complex and self-refuting. We do not form multitudes, we are multitudes. Your deepest fears and despairs? There be nothing subconscious or even repressed in them, friend Jon; merely shuffled and reshuffled until they are lost in the manifold neuroses and discourses that swim around in the ocean of your mind. We focus on only this or that, we distract ourselves fiendishly, we run and we hide and we believe we have moved on my friend, but our hidden thoughts are still conscious—and in fact are not even all that hidden. Soon enough, if one is not careful, they are soon enough made apparent as well, and that full consciously. In fact, I believe only a month after I withdrew from the universe to live my life on Paradise, I was torn apart by wolves, set on fire by midgets, and run through by a rhinoceros.

“Well, they don’t have to be logical fears to be fears, now do they!

“All others I brought with me met similar fates. As such, a strict screening process was implemented (while we still could, before the Great Catastrophe was complete) to screen out those who might immigrate here. A very strict, disciplined focus, a severe single-mindedness—‘pure in heart and mind,’ if you will—is all that qualifies—or perhaps I should say is what must qualify—a man to enter Paradise.”

“You mean other planets have these shuttles, too?” I asked.

“A few, yes, and fewer still have been discovered, for we have hidden them with only cryptic instructions amongst the ruins of mankind, lest they be known by the world and either suffer similar horrific fates as we, or attempt to reproduce such an accursed tech on their own world, to the misery of many. Fewer still have passed the mind-scan, and fewer still have lived long at all once they arrive. In fact, to date, the only person to die of old age on Paradise has been a Buddhist monk from AnQing San, and he just sat and meditated on the flat grey plain all day; didn’t conceive a palace or harem of beautiful women or anything. He treated the illusions of the place as he apparently treated the illusions of all existence, I suppose! It appears that at the peak of human technology, the old adage is proven true at last: Paradise truly comes only from within.

“But then, you know something of that already, do you not, Jon Wilson?”

“Um…huh?”

“You passed the mind-scan,” he said, “Meaning you are either the most disciplined, focused man in the universe,” (here on cue Tasha screamed in my mind, “You’re distracted, Jon…”), “Or peculiarly tormented…

“…at least, tormented in such a fashion as to be considered benign. You have a very specific, very particular conception of what Paradise must look like, what must be granted you for it to be complete, to be happy at last, do you not, friend Jon Wilson?”

His eyes were searching mine. A thought was forming on the edge of my tongue, and I wouldn’t know what it was till I said it—but just as my lips began to move, Lord Haja Nivkola III himself leaned forward as though he would kiss me on my cheek, but instead whispered into my ear, “Go, my friend! She awaits you.”

And looking over my shoulder, slowly turning around, I saw no more grey, but blue...

(*Pst!  Are you the least bit curious to find out what comes next?  Do his deepest desires at last come true?  Does having all his dreams come true prove a curse?  Does Godot finally just pull up a chair at the dinner table, and might that be more terrifying than actually having to eternally wait?  Perhaps you'd like to purchase said e-book to find out!)

A Belated Response to "Marriage Is Not For You" and Other Such Nonsense

So there was that recent article going viral (like so many diseases), clogging up my facebook newsfeed, about how "Marriage is not for you."  The rather obvious bait-and-switch title makes the equally obvious point that in marriage, you should try to make your spouse happy.  I'm genuinely curious, did anyone really need to be told that?  When you love someone, don't you naturally try to make them happy?  He speaks against selfishness, he is preoccupied with selfishness, does he mayhaps struggle with selfishness himself?  (His aggressively self-aggrandizing "About" page would seem to so indicate).

This article feels like that wretched "How To Win Friends and Influence People," in that it reads like a text written by some Dexter-like sociopath who's trying to explain to other sociopaths how to mimic genuine human behavior.  What's that Mr. Carnegie, I should remember people's names and be interested in what they have to say?  You don't say! I regret to inform you that most people understand that intuitively--and most people make friends not to "influence" them, but because they enjoy their company.  Otherwise, they're not actually friends.

There are further, troubling problems with this "Marriage" article: I've known too many women (and men!) who've stayed in abusive relationships because they'd been guilted into thinking they were "selfish" if they couldn't "make it work", and articles like this will only exacerbate such toxic guilt; as my girlfriend pointed out, this article totally ignores childless couples, as though procreation were the only reason to marry; also, this brat is only writing at a year and a half out in marriage (most divorces peak at 5 years), so he's still in the honeymoon stage and really has nothing substantial to add to the discussion of marriage longevity (as though his middling, pedestrian prose didn't already give that away).

Frankly, arguments like these "Marriage Is Not For You" are as infuriating as the useless rhetoric of "hard work": all my life, I've been hammered at with many stale, Puritan axioms about how "hard work is it's own reward" and other such nonsense, as though working hard were intrinsically good.  Bah!  Hitler and Stalin were total work horses, but this did not sanctify the Holocaust or Holodomor, nor does it signify that they "earned" their dictatorships or the right to oppress others.  "I get to do what I want with my money cause I've worked hard for it!" is a fallacious, ridiculous argument I've heard far too often, often from the same sort of folks who wish to denigrate and oppress others less fortunate than they.  Hard work does not give you the right to look down on others!

"But if you want to accomplish anything worth accomplishing, you must work hard!" comes the reply.  You don't say, Captain Obvious!  Listen, when I sincerely believe in a cause, when I find meaning in what I do, then I will naturally work hard at it, without being told to or needing to be lectured.  It won't even feel like work.

In fact, when I'm complimented on my "hard work ethic," I'm actually insulted, as though the work was more important than the thing I believed in, as though I were some robotic drone that only found fulfillment in rote repetition and self-punishment.  If you need to lecture me on "the importance of hard work" to get me to do a task, then the task must not be very meaningful, and maybe shouldn't be done.

"Hard work" is not its own reward, meaningful work is!  The way to get people to work hard is not by telling them the importance of hard work, but by explaining why the task at hand matters!  What the super-majority of people crave is not work, but work that matters!  Real love will naturally engender selflessness; real meaning will naturally engender hard work.  If you have to force love or work, then it's obviously not real love, nor is it really meaningful work.  Quit putting the cart before the horse, it insults all our intelligences.

Adventures in E-Book Publishing

Guys!  I totally just published an e-book on Amazon!  It's called Her Eyes Were In The Stars and I couldn't be more proud of it!  Here's the link.

And here's the cover art! A dear old friend made it:

Artist is John Sheppard, and he's one of those graphic artists who goes to college not cause he needs the skills, but just to get the stupid piece of paper that proves how awesome he already is.  (He accepts commissions!)

Ah, but what's the book about, you ask?  Here's the Amazon book description:

"Have you ever taken entirely far longer than you would've strictly preferred to get over a lover? Jon Wilson takes centuries, as a malfunctioning hyperdrive hurtles him across space and time!

"The memory of Tasha, his ex, will both help and haunt him through multiple invasions, holy wars, and apocalypses; his heart-ache will be his one constant while a soldier, slave, monk, smuggler, and knight. He’ll forget her among the force-field legions of an interstellar heroic age, then seek her among the horse-bound knights of a new medieval era; all as Jon’s unwittingly guided to Paradise, the most accursed planet in the Heavens, for it is where all your dreams come true…"

In case you're still not enticed, here's the first page, to whet your appetite (more excerpts to follow):

When I dipt my eye into the future, far as human eye could see

Saw the Vision of the world and the wonder that would be

-Tennyson, Locksley Hall

This is not for you.

-MZD

Prologue

Her eyes were in the stars.

I told you once how hyperdrives work around gravity-wells and such, and therefore tend to take you to planets, even if you hyperjump at random.

Tend to.

This was not one of those times.

I floated in dead space, a million billion trillion miles from the nearest planet or the nearest star. I’d blown out the hyperdrive, which seemed appropriate enough—I’d intended to hyperjump till the end of time and the heat-death of the Universe, when all things would fail at last, but the engine failed long before then. Auxiliary power alone functioned, barely, maintaining only minimum life-support. The last light left on the console was a single faint, blinking point, signifying an automated distress call into the endless void of space.

Except that space is not void—if only. Tonouchi said the mystery of space is tremendous, and here I faced it directly, for the mystery is that there is no space at all. No, though I floated near no planets, no suns, yet all around were stars, everywhere stars, the totality of space shimmering with stars. Space is not empty but full, and you feel alone not in the emptiness but in the crowd of starlight. The music from the beginning of the universe, when the big bang was hardly the size of your fist, when the tones of the creation hymn vibrated from one end to the other in a nanosecond, this music still fills all of creation. My craft slowly rotated, round and round, agonizingly slowly, so I could see nothing but stars, in every direction, and her eyes were in all of them, every last single one.

The couple tears that now escaped my eyes floated in the air over me, and the immense view of stars was filtered only by the cloud my own freezing breath. Drifting in and out of conscience, I lifted my clotted arm, and began to trace out new constellations in the sky—

 Here’s what happened.

*Pst! Are you the least bit curious as to what happened? Here's that link again!

"I'm The New Sinatra": Notes on New York

"I'm the new Sinatra/And since I made it here/I can make it anywhere/Yeah they love me everywhere..."

Even for Jay-Z, these lines from his and Alicia Key's love letter to New York are an old-school throwback; they of course directly reference that Frank Sinatra standard, "If I can make it here/I can make it anywhere/It's up to you, New York, New York!"   Jay-Z's lines at once supersede Sinatra (he's accomplished what Sinatra only hopes for) and pays homage (Frankie Blue-Eyes is still the man he must compare himself against).

Though the two songs are separated by over 30 years, they both express that standard idealized vision of New York as fulcrum for all your hopes and dreams, the center of the world that has drawn immigrants from both home and abroad for over 200 years.  An old friend of mine even ran away to New York after graduation without a job prospect or even a place to stay, with hardly more than a savings account and a Bachelors degree, such was the city's Siren Call--and he was neither the first nor the last.

And like most idealized visions, I assumed that this was all just sentimental hogwash.  Far more accurate, I assumed, were songs like Jim Croce's "New York's Not My Home" or LCD Soundsystem's "New York I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down."  When friends excitedly gushed about their trips to New York, I only smiled politely and nodded, all while thinking, "That's OK I guess, but, you know, maybe you should actually try and get out of the country next time..." 

Part of it was that I had actually been to New York once, when I was  "15, awkward, and shy" (to paraphrase Morissey), and thus ill-equipped to first encounter the Big Apple.  By way of contrast, I've learned that here in Iowa, the Great Plains are considered ideal for "the very young and the very old."  The "very old" I can understand, as retirees seek to settle down somewhere quiet and calm; the "very young" I'm starting to get--teenagers frankly do not yet possess the cognitive ability to fully comprehend the sublime, to feel the life-force beyond consciousness.  Iowa, where you confront "the utter absence of the sublime," is perfect for young teens who prefer to be big fish in small ponds, where their fragile egos have room to wander. 

Thus, my teen-age visit to New York did not inspire me with its grandeur, but only left me feeling even more awkward, self-conscious, and gangly than usual.  What's more, I was with my family, in the middle of a long, ill-advised "National Lampoons" style drive across America, and by the time we reached the East-coast were already well on each others nerves; plus it was summer and hot and sweaty, and we kept getting lost on the Subway, and we only had one cramped day there, and Mom got a splitting head-ache, and by the end of the day was so grumpy that she straight-up, stone-cold, stared-down a New York cabbie trying to cut us off during Rush Hour (cause us Seattle-ites somehow stupidly forgot that Rush Hour is a thing??).  Suffice to say, my only memories of New York weren't exactly gushing.

Nevertheless, as I later met displaced New Yorkers across Puerto Rico, and as I not only survived but thrived in the endless expanses of Beijing, and as I easily navigated the Metros in Paris, London, Rome, and D.C., I couldn't help but wonder, in the back of my mind, how I would fare in New York if I were to visit again, now that I was a little older, a little more seasoned, a little more confident.  Not that New York was high on my list of things to do; when there's still so much of this wide world left to explore, visiting yet another U.S. city feels downright mundane.

But then start of this semester, a call for papers came for a Graduate Conference at CUNY, in Mid-Town Manhattan.  On a whim, I submitted my writing sample, figuring a paper about the Irish and the Puerto Ricans would be a good fit in New York. 

The paper was accepted.  But then I learned that the Iowa English Dept. doesn't fund travel for 1st year PhD students.  I applied for funding from another source, but it was taking them forever to get back to me.  Also, a professor had told all us 1st years to only do Graduate Conferences to get our feet wet, to otherwise only focus on legit academic conferences.  Moreover, I had just such a legit conference coming up in February, in Florida, and I reflected that I should really be saving up my money for that one instead.  I decided to be financially responsible and drop out of the conference last minute.

Then a funny thing happened: everyone--my friends, my girlfriend, my roommate, my professors, even the one who said to avoid Graduate Conferences--they all encouraged me to go, not cause it was a Conference, but cause it was in New York!  I was the one protesting that I should watch my money, while the most financially responsible people I know all responded, "Who cares?  It's New York!"

I made a Pro and Con list, and every sound reason was against this New York trip.  I frankly felt dumb even expending thought on it--it's just another big, loud, dirty, noisy city!  I only have a graduate stipend right now!  Of course I'm not going!  As recently as Tuesday night this week, I was firm in my decision to stay in Iowa this weekend. 

But then Tuesday night, I couldn't sleep.  This feeling kept bothering me--you need to go to New York is all it deigned to tell me.  Try as I might to reason with it, this feeling just wouldn't leave me alone.  Each time I thought of staying in Iowa, I felt reasonable but empty; each time I thought of New York, I felt insane but brimming with light.  These same sort of promptings have wound me up in Rexburg and most recently in Iowa before, so I was determined to ignore them for once, though deep down I knew I wouldn't.

For I've read enough Emerson and attended enough Sunday School lessons to know that one should never ignore persistent promptings like that; so finally, against my better judgment, but knowing that one can't place a price on peace of mind, I rolled out of bed, flipped open my laptop, and booked a last-minute flight to New York LaGuardia.

The plane seemed to circle the city in a guided tour of the night skyline, like I'd never seen the city before, such that I even got a full view of the Statue of Liberty far below.  The lady I sat next to was full-blooded Irish-American, and hence was deeply interested in my conference paper topic.  When she learned that I was raised in Washington and lived in Utah, she, this life-long Chicagoan, openly asked how I could possibly stand to live in the Mid-West after such beautiful states, and it was refreshing to give an honest answer for once.  We continued chatting amiably as we disembarked, when she offered to let me ride in the Taxi with her.  "You want to split the fair?" I offered.  "No, my company's paying for it, don't worry about it!" she said.  And that's how I scored a free taxi-ride into Manhatten.

When we were dropped off in front of her Hotel, I asked the doorman--who really was charmingly dressed in a full suit and military hat, like how I'd never assumed was a real thing--how far I was from Times Square.  He gave me directions in a dialect delightfully free of "r" sounds.  The kind lady even offered to have the Taxi take me to my hostel, but I already intuited, I already knew as I looked up at those sky-scrapers and around at the throngs of humanity, that part of why I was there is that I needed to walk those streets right that instant.  

I thanked her for her generosity as we shook hands.  I began wending my way through the intersections towards 49th Street and 6th Ave.   I plugged in my ear-buds, gave in to my most sentimental impulses and put on some Jay-Z and Frank Sinatra.  And I finally understood.

"These little town blues/are melting away..." "...These streets will make you feel brand-new/Big lights will inspire you..."  Actual New Yorkers are friggin' sick of these songs, but only because they already knew, and needed no one else to tell them. All my cynicism and my full knowledge of this place's crime-rates and homeless problems and outrageous costs-of-living were rendered moot.  I get it now I said to myself without even realizing it I get it.  New York.

Because of the CUNY Conference, I really didn't have time to do any proper sight-seeing, or do anything else really, but just walking these streets was enough--no, more than enough, it was exactly what I needed!  If nothing else comes of this trip, the mental-health-holiday was worth it (even that son-of-the-Midwest Kurt Vonnegut told a friend teaching at Iowa that "the corn fields get to you").  I think it's like my girlfriend who once interned in Manhattan said: in New York, everyone is there for the action, everybody is looking to do something--in short, I think she's saying that everyone there is alive.  You feel yourself amidst the life-force beyond consciousness.

Here's what stunned me the most about New York: the sudden realization that I could live here--maybe not my entire life, maybe for only a year or two--but I could belong here.  The feeling I immediately felt in New York was the same I'd immediately felt when I first arrived in Paris, in Florence, on Huang Shan when the cloud lifted, in Puerto Rico, and when I first arrived in Salt Lake City, that I've been frustrated to have never felt in Iowa City--that feeling that here is a place I could love forever, that here is the place, at this precise moment, that I need to be.  It was a feeling I'd forgotten how to have.

I certainly can't explain it.  It sounds like nonsense to say it aloud.  In fact, I'm not entirely sure that the trip happened; the all-too-brief experience was so surreal, that I'll have to check my pictures for proof that I didn't just dream it (though whether my photos or my memories are less reliable, I can't say).  It was like whatever the opposite of disillusionment is, like the reverse of a child finding out his favorite TV shows are just cheap sets played by actors.  I wrote once that visiting Paris was like finding out Middle-Earth actually exists, and they speak Elvish on the Subways there, and Minus Turreth is a real building, with an observation deck open to tourists, right in the heart of Metropolitan Rohan.  Similarly, New York is like a jaded adult learning that the Universes of his favorite shows are actually real places and the actors aren't acting.

New York is probably lethal to the naive, but rejuvenating to the brooding, and both for the same reason: the city gets you outside of yourself.  My anti-Consumerist self should've been repulsed by Times Square, but Alicia Keys was right--these streets will make you feel brand-new, big lights will inspire you.  The next time someone gushes to me about their recent trip to New York, I will respond with the proper gravity.  Here, we are all the new Sinatra.

Why Do You Take A Shower?

This philosophy major I met at a party once told me that you can tell a lot about a person by how they answer the question, "Why do you take a shower?" Viz: if one says, "To wash away the filth of the day," then one is very past-oriented, they look back a lot, they dwell on past mistakes and triumphs, they often reflect and meditate on what's been before--which can make one very contemplative, but also perhaps trapped in the past; if one says, "To look presentable," then one is future oriented, they are always looking ahead, planning out their life, considering the ramifications and consequences of all their actions--which can make one very responsible, but also perhaps paralyzed with anxiety, and maybe robs them of their ability to enjoy the moment; and if one says, "Because it feels good," then one is very present-oriented, one focuses on immediate sensation, and lives in the moment and sucks the marrow from the bones of life, for one is not held back by their past nor entrapped by the future--which can make one very lively, but also possibly hedonistic and irresponsible. 

(For the record, when this philosophy major asked why I take showers, I responded, "Cause it feels good."  Draw what conclusions you will).

I myself found that when I started each new semester, I could tell a lot about a student by how they answered the question, "Who's your favorite band?"  It didn't matter what they said, but how.  E.g. if some students said "I don't know, I guess I like a lot of...I don't know..." then I knew they were indecisive; if they some responded excitedly, then I knew they were passionate and opinionated; if they picked some obscure band, I knew they were trying to impress me; one time this guy said "Michael Buble" with a devilish grin, for he knew that was the least manly answer ever, which told me he was self-confident and contrarian.  None of these responses told me of the quality of their character or whether they were good or bad people, only of what their personalities were like.

I wonder what other questions you can ask to get an immediate read on people.

Aquabats are Super Rad

I've written at length before about how Low, despite their otherwise cryptic lyrics, is perhaps quintessentially LDS in their gorgeous slow-core aesthetic.  But of course, this quiet contemplation is only one facet of the LDS experience; "men are that they might have joy" says the Book of Mormon (as quoted by both faithful and antagonists alike), and for more of the joy that's supposed to be inherent in the LDS experience, I present the Aquabats' "Super Rad!"

"We were strangers/we were pilgrims/role models of the family man" begins the 2nd stanza, alluding to Hebrews 11:13--but the focus in this song isn't on the melancholy of being lost, but the sheer joy of adventure.  We are all wanderers, yes, but that shouldn't wear us down, but cheer us up!

"And if we die/before the battle's through..." is a direct allusion to the 4th verse of one of Mormondom's most venerated hymns, "Come, Come Ye Saints."  But now whenever 4th verse starts, I have to resist the urge to belt out instead, "Tell your Mom/Tell your Dad/We were Super Rad!"  Honestly, I maintain that such a lyric-change would not be out of place: "All is well" isn't supposed to be a confession of resignation, but of sheer joie de vivre!  When "all" is actually "well," you aren't sad and morose, but joyous, excited, you are super rad!  We maybe forget that too often--life can be hell, but that also makes life an adventure!

Really, I'll take any excuse to post Aquabats' Super Rad.

Robi Draco Rosa's Vagabundo

Some mood music for your Halloween season!

Robi Draco Rosa and Ricki Martin were both members of an '80s Puerto Rican boyband named "Menudo" (literally: "often," as in how frequently they swapped out new members each time a singer turned 16).   From their mutual origins in disposable teen pop, Martin went on to pursue success as an adult pop singer state-side, singing "Livin' La Vida Loca" and other such approximations of Latin pop-fluff that continues to linger on various Adult Contemporary radio stations.  Robi Draco Rosa, to put it mildly, took a decidedly different course.

When I was young missionary in Puerto Rico, trying to build relationships of trust with the local youth by discussing our favorite music, these Puerto Rican teens would in hushed, reverent tones share Robi Draco Rosa's 1996 album "Vagabundo."  We missionaries all quickly learned why--this is an album of haunting memory, fear of death, lost love, and sheer musical genius.  Other CDs I bought in Puerto Rico I got for primarily nostalgic reasons--but "Vagabundo" I got because it was just so awesome!

The misleadingly-entitled first track "Hablando de Amor" ("Speaking of Love") is a brief, minor-chord guitar number set against nocturnal noises, which sets the tone of haunting introspection that will pervade this entire album.

That quiet quickly gives way to the raging distorted guitar riffs of "Madre Tierra" ("Mother Earth") that lays down the gauntlet for new listeners; another post-Menudo pop-singer Draco Rosa is not!

"Llanto Subteraneo" ("Subterranean Weeping") calms things down again, but only slightly, with a menacing sense of dread waiting to erupt.  A subtle Spanish trumpet creeps in to enhance the tension, marking this rock album as uniquely Latino.

In the title-track "Vagabundo" ("Vagabond") he describes himself in a desert dying of thirst, with sand and scorpion, "tu y yo/en un mar de fuego/bajo el beso de la noche," "camino/camino," "trono sin rey/templo sin dios/un vagabundo" ("you and I/in an ocean of fire/under the kiss of the night," "I travel/I travel," "throne without king/temple without God/a vagabond").

"Penelope" seems to at last cheer things up, but only if you don't know the lyrics--it's a song about love lost, years after the fact, and waking up one morning only to remember her yet again.  How often have I found myself singing along to "Que lejos tu/que legos yo/los escombros de mi vida se deslizan con la lluvia/olvidando a Penelope..." ("How far are you/How far am I/the crumbs of my life dissolve with the rain/forgetting Penelope...").  Perhaps the only reason I know that "Naufragio" means "shipwreck" is from this song.

"Delirios" ("Deliriums") speeds things right back up, opening with a sound of panicked panting, then exploding into a whirlwind Punk riff of fury and angst.

"Para No Olvidar" ("To Not Forget") resembles a late-80s Metallica drudge, and gets straight to the core of this album's overriding obsession: the haunting fear of death. He wails "Morir es olvidar/sed olvidado" ("To die is to forget/be forgotten").  I learned how to conjugate command-form from this song.

"Blanca Mujer" ("White Woman") is a sad piano ballad about a heart-broken young man in New Orleans 1994, wanting to die, who is told by a mysterious, angelic White Woman that his time is not yet come.

"Vertigo," while not as rip-roaring as "Delirios," still captures that same level of dread.

Then comes what I think is the album's highpoint: "Vivir" ("To Live").  The song opens intriguingly with Chopin's “Concerto in D Minor," whose free-wheeling sense of wildness weirdly works as a perfect intro. Draco Rosa wonders if he lives only "por dejar mis huesos/y grabar mi nombre en un altar" ("to rest my bones/and record my name into an altar").  The key-signature changes, and then the Spanish trumpets barrel forward with passionate suffering--this is existential turmoil you can dance with your lover to.  He sings like only a Latino can, "Que bailen los dioses..." ("May the Gods dance...")  I first understood the meaning of the Spanish word "jamas" ("never forever") from this song.

"Brujeria" ("Witchcraft") is perhaps the most Halloween-appropriate song on this album; I don't think you even need to know Spanish to understand the fear that permeates it.

We then get this strange, intentionally half-formed little number called "La Flor del Frio" ("The Freezing Flower"), sung as though by a broken man banging halfheartedly at a bar piano.  

The grand finale is "Amantes Hasta el Fin" ("Lovers to the End"), and seems to form a resolution of sorts, as Draco Rosa describes two dead lovers in a marble sepulcher buried under water.  Did the tomb sink into the sea during an Earthquake? Or a volcano?  Or a shipwreck?  These questions, like all the other questions of death and mortality this album addresses, are left alone, left at peace, like these lovers beneath the waves; what matters more is that these two are finally together forever at last, "no mas lagrimas/no mas dolor" ("no more tears/no more pain") under the peace of the ocean, where they will never be separated again.

"Mientras Camino" ("As I Travel") ends the album as he began it, picking his guitar through the haunting voices of the wild.  

Seriously, this album is a masterpiece, and I don't use that term lightly. I give it a spin at least every October.  Enjoy!