"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.