2008

The New Year will start with a bit of fun for me, but then it will get really difficult. My new beginning will be an emotional one. I'm calling the 4th as the anniversary of my lung collapse. I first felt the chest pain on that day. That is followed by the one-year mark of the opening of "13" and I'm still very proud of that. Then, I'll have the capper. I will be a whole year removed from the collapse diagnosis on the 8th and the reinflation procedure on the 9th. It's going to be a vulnerable time for me, although I have no qualms about admitting that. The fear of something like that happening again is still alive in me. Even in my most positive frame of mind, I anticipate reliving those feelings once again.

As 2007 comes to a close, I feel like I am positioned for a great year coming up despite the year I had. My health has turned a corner and I feel like I have at least found the road to recovery on the map. When I deal with a health issue, all I need is to be comfortable with the treatment and plan of attack. I feel very confident as soon as I have that. That has been true of my current concerns as well. The good news as of now is that not only do I have good mental confidence, but I also have physical confidence based on how my body is responding.

Creatively, it has been some time since I have been this inspired to write. I have about five solid ideas running concurrently in my head day in and day out. Ideas, of course, are wonderful. But this isn't an IBM advert, and I won't get paid to ideate. I might get paid to write. Now, it's a simple matter of discipline, research, and continued health improvement. I've got Joseph Campbell and his Power of Myth. I've got three world-class doctors and a couple of excellent nurses. The discipline is up to me. Uh Oh.

I actually do participate in the time-honored tradition of making New Year's resolutions. Usually, I also participate in the time-honored tradition of breaking New Year's resolutions. I'm going to try something new this year. I'm going to maintain my past resolutions, but define them more specifically so they can actually be, you know, accomplished. I want to always be in the middle of a book, but this year I resolve to read for at least one hour each week. I'm going to write every day, but this year I'll do this by planning the time to write at least two sentences per day. I need to make quicker, more lasting decisions and that will be achieved by making at least one choice each day based purely on instinct. I have other, more private, resolutions I have made and I hope to accomplish them in the same way.

Enjoy celebrating on New Year's Eve. It doesn't usually live up to expectations, but we can still have fun nonetheless, right? Take a couple aspirin when you get up the next day and watch the Rose Parade. I've always kept a special place in my heart for the Tournament. And I can't wait for the last Trojan win of the season in the Rose Bowl.

Happy New Year!

Let's get together and feel all right

I write often about pain & suffering, brokenness, and dealing with adversity. They are major facts of life that fit into this amazing universe of ours. They provide a lot of artistic inspiration and that's obvious if you consider how popular drama has been for centuries. However, there's something to be said for feeling good.

Physical and emotional happiness and pleasure are nice. They feel good. In particular, they make enduring through adverse situations worth it. Happiness and pleasure actually would not feel as good without those adverse situations. Philosophically speaking, neither side can exist without the other. Knowing that fact helps me to get through my suffering and it allows me to appreciate those moments, experiences, and people that give me pleasure and make me happy.

There are many things that make me feel the happiest, that give me the most pleasure. Certain foods -- like DoubleDouble's, Tommy chili burgers, and Pie & Burger burgers, or chocolate milkshakes from Carrows -- are like a slice of heaven. I also appreciate the experience of a cold Sam Adams, a tasty hors d'oeuvres, and a Trojan victory in sports.

Because of my interests in art and philosophy, I'm really into aesthetics. Beyond a simple male biological level, I truly appreciate the feminine form, and I enjoy seeing it in a beautiful woman or in a piece of abstract art that possesses those qualities: symmetry, proportion, smooth transitions, and an emphasis on the curve over the angle.

What I enjoy the most is spending time with the people I love. Family is very important in my life and, for sure, I truly treasure my nieces and nephews, who are all under the age of 5. It is a real treat to see the excitement in their eyes and listen to them talk and hear their ideas. It is amazing to see a zeal that is completely innocent (well, almost completely). I love every chance I get to talk with them, and watch movies, and play. Watching children grow and learn as each minute passes makes me very happy.

I'm also lucky enough to have several friends that I love as well. My close friends from high school and college are now my brothers. It's hardly ever stated, but the chance to get together and reminisce is one we always enjoy. Another pleasure I get is from other special friends and the opportunity to spend time alone with them.

Those are just a few of the things that give me pleasure. As nice as each individual one may be, the best is combining them, so that I can watch sports with my family, or spend time with a beautiful woman, or share food & drink with my closest friends. All of these are experiences that make me feel good.

I believe that they show the role happiness plays in spirituality. My focus is usually on being the bigger person and doing the right thing instead of doing the thing that is good for me. I agree with that, of course. However, it's also important never to forget that it's both right and good for me to be happy. My soul needs me to feel good. It's sort of like a spiritual vacation, and those are never bad. I've always thought that a pleasurable experience gives my spirit a chance to recharge before the next crisis.

I hope that everyone gets a chance during the holiday season to sit back and enjoy the pleasure of it, allow themselves to be happy, even for a moment. Even better, let's get together and feel all right. Vacation is there for a reason. Let us be with our loved ones and recharge for the coming year. May you all feel good now and throughout this next year.

From my tradition to yours... Merry Christmas!

The Greatest Gift

"The capacity to give one's attention to a sufferer is a very rare and difficult thing; it is almost a miracle, it is a miracle." -- Simone Weil

The greatest gift is a miracle. It's an expression of some part of yourself that you give to someone else. The thing you give to that person is very nearly beside the point. It's just the means by which the transfer of you to the other person takes place. By you, I mean your essence, a piece of your spirit.

In reality, the materials we give to each other can get in the way. As much as we like our stuff, and we do, believe me, I have stuff and I like stuff, using stuff as a gift only works when it complements our purpose, rather than deflecting it. What does genuine gift-giving try to accomplish? Well, I want the person on the receiving end of my gift to know how I feel about them. In some way, large or small, I want to grow together with that person.

I want to create an understanding. I want to strengthen our connection.

Sometimes, however, a material gift does get in our way, deflecting us from our purpose. Because of that, I feel that no material gift, regardless of how pure or thoughtful or amazing it is, can be considered the greatest. The greatest gift cuts out the middleman. Rather than a simple expression, the greatest thing you can give is yourself.

Giving yourself means giving your attention to someone. In the context of the greatest gift, attention means something beyond its common meaning. It usually is social contact, chitchatting, and simple interaction. This kind of attention can be given easily and can easily be insincere. Giving your true attention to someone is much more complex than that. It is important to really devote yourself to that person in your experience of them. It is not easy. It takes spiritual energy to be attentive to the spiritual needs of someone else.

Listen.

Be with the other person. That's what it's really all about. The greatest gift between two people is a coming together.

The greatest gift in appearance would be quite commonplace: a dad playing football with his son, a teacher tutoring her student after hours, a priest counseling one of the troubled faithful, a doctor & nurse treating a patient, best friends reminiscing, two lovers in bed. These are all basic examples with matter-of-fact explanations. They don't have to be instances of the greatest gift. Parenting, teaching, ministry, medicine, friendship, and sex can just be what they are. Then again, that's only looking at the appearance, and the greatest gift is all about essence. The identity of a thing is derived from its essence.

Care (again, remember the truer definition of the term) is crucial in determining when a miracle of interpersonal exchange is happening. That decides the intentions of the gift-giver. Anything can be done physically, denying the spiritual element in whole or in part. The greatest gift is given with full integrity because only the two people involved can decide to believe that it is sincere, and only the giver can know for sure if it is.

We are all sufferers. That is part of being human. When you give yourself, when you give genuine, true attention to someone who is suffering, that is a miracle. Devotion, listening, and truly being with someone... those things create a spiritual connection. And that allows the father to show his love to his son feeling too much stress. This kind of giving lets the teacher spend some quality time with her student who might feel lost. It gives the priest a chance to really guide someone in crisis. Devoted medical professionals finally get to care for the person as a whole. Best friends can really listen to each other and see where they are in their lives. And, being together allows two lovers to find acceptance in a physical act of love.

These are the greatest gifts. These are miracles.

Letter to the Coliseum Commission

To the members of the Coliseum Commission,

My name is J. T. Murphy. I am a Writer who attended the University of Southern California, and I owe the school immensely for its boost to my career and my character. I send this letter on behalf of the Trojan football program and Director of Athletics, Michael L. Garrett. I am concerned about our beloved Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum.

The stadium needs complete replacement of facilities, across the board. Concessions have not been commensurate with the services offered at all modern athletic sites. Restrooms are inadequate, to say the least, especially with the Trojans being as popular as they are today. The media systems are grossly inadequate, including the video and sound systems and the scoreboards. They must be replaced with state-of-the-art systems that are easily obtainable.

The Coliseum is a prestigious landmark and it is a shame that the structure on which it is built has been allowed to deteriorate to its current state. Stairs, walkways, and infrastructure are all made of concrete, and they need significant repair. All seats must be replaced. Currently, access to this stadium is inefficient and safety is a concern. Elevators and escalators are needed to improve this, as well as a reconfiguration of the entry gates.

Mike Garrett informed me that the University asked to participate in the decisions affecting a stadium that has primarily served as the home of its football program for over 80 years. He stated that the University requested opportunities to control more of the Coliseum's revenue, that is in fact generated by the Trojan football program, in order to offset the cost to the school of repairing the stadium. In exchange, USC is prepared to spend $100 million of the budget of the Athletics Department on all the necessary renovations. Also, USC could guarantee a much more active Coliseum year-round, beyond home football games.

This offer was rejected. I cannot fathom the reason. USC has asked for changes to the Coliseum. USC has asked to pay for them, and to make sure they are made properly and efficiently. The NFL has stated time and time again that they will not do this. Taxpayers should not be asked to do this. USC, however, wants to take action in all facets. The University has a vested interest in the advancement and upkeep of the Coliseum. The University can ensure the success of using the stadium for entertainment purposes, given its active student body. Nothing would change for the Coliseum Commission, aside from a significant increase in revenue.

Please allow USC to be more than a tenant. Let the school direct and fund the renovation and repair of the Coliseum in concert with the Coliseum Commission, the city, the county, and the state. At the same time, give this fine University control of more of the stadium's revenue to balance the expenses of refurbishment.

When each one of us came to the community at USC, we learned about The Trojan. Let me tell you, it is more than a nickname for our sports teams. The people that really buy into the Trojan Family, including me, become Trojans themselves. It is the reason USC has stayed with the Coliseum all these years, while other teams have come and gone. It is the reason we have such a remarkable relationship with our surrounding neighborhoods, and the financial data is there to back it up. Home games bring $5 million each fall to the local economy. Each year, $4 billion from USC goes into it.

We want to remain in the Coliseum. We want to tailgate on University Park, and visit Heritage Hall, and witness Step Off. We want to see the Spirit of Troy take the field before kickoff and fill our hearts with drumbeats. We want to see the lighting of the Olympic Torch precede another Trojan victory. We want those memories to remain the same.

There is another side to being a Trojan. It involves being strong in the face of something unpleasant. That is what we are prepared to do. If we have to, we will deal with our team playing home games in the Rose Bowl. That is not an empty threat. We may not like it, but the students, alumni, and fans will do what we must in order to help the football program.

I implore the Coliseum Commission to reconsider its position. USC's offer is advantageous. However, the current course on which these negotiations have been set is detrimental to the Commission. A few seasons of Trojan home games in the Rose Bowl and public opinion may swell beyond simply supporting USC.

The calls for the University to own the Coliseum outright may grow in number and strength.

Team-Building: the Spartan Phalanx in 300

"Young men, fight shield to shield and never succumb to panic or miserable flight, but steel the heart in your chests with magnificence and courage."
-- Tyrtaeus, The War Songs of Tyrtaeus

The Greek phalanx was first developed in the 8th century B.C. and lasted as the primary mode of battle for 4 centuries until the Roman legion began to take shape. The phalanx was defeated, once and for all, at the Battle of Pydna in 160 B.C.

The disposition of the forces was such that the effectiveness of the
phalanx depended on the execution: how well the soldiers could maintain the formation in combat, and how well they could stand their ground in the heat of battle. The opponent was not the main enemy of the phalanx. Fear was the enemy. The conventional wisdom of the time was that the side that was more disciplined and more courageous would win. The Greek word dynamis, which means "will to fight", expressed the desire that kept the soldiers in formation. In many cases, one side would flee before they could be engaged by the side with the greater will.

The formation was organized with soldiers lined up very closely to one another in ranks with their shields locked together. An individual soldier carried his shield, called an aspis, on his left arm, protecting not himself but the soldier to his left. He used his right arm to attack with his spear, called a doru, or sword, called a xiphos. Spearmen projected their spears over the outermost rank of shields. Essentially, the phalanx was a massive spear-and-shield wall. The deciding factor was determined by which side could knock the other off balance, tactically speaking. Battles were won when one army's vulnerable right side (carrying spears) overpowered the opposing army's protected left side (carrying shields).

In Sparta, the shield was symbolic. It represented the subordination of the individual soldier to his unit as well as the integral part he played in its success. This was his solemn responsibility to his brothers in arms. During the mid 5th century B.C., the Spartans replaced family-based shield designs with the letter lambda, which stood for Laconia, or Lacedaemon. The lambda is used anachronistically in the film, 300. The film is mostly an artistic exaggeration of the events surrounding and including the Battle of Thermopylae, which occurred in 480 B.C.

Possibly the greatest recorded last stand in history, the battle featured 300 Spartans, backed by around 7,000 other Greek allies, against the massive imperial army of Xerxes, King of Persia, which consisted of at least 100,000 troops. The film version of this battle is excellent when viewed as a portrayal of the spirit and emotion surrounding it, rather than a factual record, which it is not. However, the hyperbole works in almost every case. Xerxes was not an androgynous seven-footer but he was insane. According to Greek historian Herodotus, after an unsuccessful attempt to cross the Hellespont strait, Xerxes had the water itself whipped 300 times.

More to the point, the decision by the filmmakers to include in the main battle only the 300 Spartans was very wise. The essential emphasis on the point that these men had only each other to rely on makes this film a great one for team-building. We have scene after scene of our red tunic clad, sacred shield wielding heroes facing off against what appears to be a billion of the nastiest, ugliest enemy soldiers one can imagine.

None of this would have been possible without the phalanx. The characters in the film break the formation technically, which is unrealistic but required for the excitement factor. However, what is more important is that they never break the duties and principles they hold so dear. Everything that is involved in maximizing the effectiveness of the Spartan phalanx also makes for the best kind of team.

Ultimately, the 300 were defeated. But they never vacated the solemn responsibility they had for one another and they never abandoned the courage, the discipline, and the dynamis required to fight. Protect the team, win or lose... that's exactly what they did. Despite the loss at Thermopylae, the Athenian victory at Marathon in 490 B.C. is an example of the success of the formation against a superior opponent. 10,000 Athenians decisively defeated 26,000 Persians.

How I Deal with Pain

Pain sucks, and there's no way around it. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, I have a very high pain tolerance level. On one hand, that means that it takes a lot of suffering to knock me down. On the other, that means that it takes a lot of suffering to knock me down. The good news about having high pain tolerance is that I have developed several ways to cope. Most of them are pretty standard and logical, but it's always cool for me to think about the mentality that goes into dealing with pain.

Pain is divided into two classes for me. The first class is just your garden-variety pain. It's the kind of stuff everybody deals with on a daily basis. I'm actually a pretty big wuss when it comes to this class. In this instance, I'll usually be vocal about anything. I call it, "expressing my pain." I figure that because I have to use up so much energy for the real pain, I'm entitled to be a sissy over the sissy stuff. The second class is big-time, emotion draining pain. This is the stuff that requires my game face. Besides medication, the best, most effective method for fighting pain is meditative breathing.

A lot of the stuff I face happens in a medical setting. Controlled breathing is good for everyone involved. If you aren't used to managing such a situation, it's easy to panic, which makes things really hard on the medical professionals. If you panic, they have to stop what they're doing and that prolongs the entire process. Falling into a good rhythm of breathing goes a long way toward ensuring that I will stay calm. Then, it's difficult to explain, but I try to exist purely and completely within the moment of each breath. I direct all my energy toward each inhalation and exhalation. I think of myself in no other context but that present moment. Literally by living from moment to moment, I can break up the experience of pain into smaller, more manageable bits. It's quite a meditative process which is why I call it meditative breathing.

Certain kinds of music are very helpful. It has to have an especially rhythmic quality to it. Obviously, there are certain genres that are more conducive to rhythmic music, but the genre doesn't matter in reality if the song I'm listening to has the type of richness and repetition I need. Using music for pain management comes from the same place, essentially, as the meditative breathing. Listening to the right music requires less energy, however, so it's very useful when I'm tired. I can be a little more passive and, in some ways, a little more relaxed. This allows me to just "be" in the moment and focus on the experience of each tiny movement of music.

Humor is extremely valuable, especially in a more social setting, although still a medical one. If I'm laughing or joking about whatever it is I'm going through, it gets minimized mentally for me and becomes easier to manage. I usually can compartmentalize the pain and allow myself to be distracted by jokes. Those who know my sense of humor can also use it to gauge how I'm feeling. Sometimes, I can feel the anxiety of the other people around me, the medical people not working on me and my loved ones, and that makes it worse. Humor allows me to be engaged with them about something else and that relieves a little of the tension, usually enough for what I need.

The last thing about coping with pain is realizing that these personal methods are not enough to deal with everything. The physical portion of this fact means acknowledging that a painkiller regimen is necessary. Finding the right balance on that front took me a year and a half, but once I had it down, that part of it became very easy. Emotionally, I've accepted that I need to depend on those I love to help get me through the rest.

Stream -- It Finally Feels like Fall...

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

It finally feels like Fall when the sun, lower in the sky, shines in my eyes. The sun's rays are on my window throughout the day. At this time of year, I get the best of both worlds from that light.

It is bright in my eyes around midday. It narrows my vision. It has a tunneling effect on my focus. Everything around the light, on the periphery, darkens and blurs. All that is left is me and the light, the light and I. As I learn how to confront it properly, the other little things are a little more visible. I can see the shapes of the leaves and branches through which the light shines. This is an intense feeling which is also sparse. By that, I mean that everything is centered around the one entity of light, even when I try to see other things.

Now, the sun prepares to set. The intensity I felt before is gone, replaced by a softer light. The light is in such a place that it no longer shines through the leaves and branches. Instead, it shines on them and reflects off of them. It affects my vision, once again, but in a different way. Not only is the light softer, it is also warmer, in color and feel. I feel more contemplative in this light. I see more colors and think about more things.

The absence of light provides another perspective. The sun goes down faster in Fall. When it does, I have time to consider it as a whole. Light is active and moving, dynamic and present, during the day. It has a body, in a way, and that is really what I interact with each moment I see it. At night, I'm interacting with an idea, the soul of the light. Light loses its appearance but never its essence. This allows me to consider the whole.

On the next day, the process begins again. I feel as if the Fall gives me a continual set of chances to realize my current place. This is the time to take stock and acknowledge the need to renew certain things, and change others. Then I'm able to look back on the previous year with nostalgia as well as prepare for the coming one.

Fit In, Standout!

Everybody is somebody. Nobody is nobody.
-- Taj Mahal

I was listening to a greatest hits album of Taj Mahal's and this line from his song, called "Everybody Is Somebody," got me thinking. This statement is true whether a person makes use of what it means or not. Being somebody is based on potential. We all have this ability inside even though many people choose, or are encouraged, not to achieve Somebody status. It's all about individuality.

Psychologically, we tend towards classifying things. Because of the way we fit into nature, physically, it is advantageous to do so. We need to be able to quickly and instinctually identify everything we encounter. Where is danger... where is safety... what hurts... what feels good... who can I trust... who is a threat... how does this work? We do this by classifying. In this way, no, each special snowflake is not unique. Making those snap decisions is integral for survival, but it's not too hot when it comes to interpersonal relationships, on whatever scale they occur.

People are much more complex than the systems that make up their bodies. There are often huge differences between two seemingly similar individuals, and there are always slight variations. Even small genetic or environmental factors can drastically affect a person's development. And every person has had all manner of experiences that could show the reasons behind their choices. The interesting thing is that the ways in which everybody is similar help to explain why appreciating their individuality is so important. The key way is that each person possesses free will. Excluding obvious exceptions, everyone chooses freely what they believe and what they do. Yes, there are genetic traits and environmental stresses and encouragement or discouragement from other people. In the end, however, those are merely explanations for why a choice is made. They are not determinants.

It's easier to go with the natural tendency, simplify things, and classify individuals into groups. Indeed, it's so easy that a vast number of people live their lives doing just that. I just did it, myself! The problem is that it leads to a group mentality, both inwardly and outwardly. Ironically, if we stop appreciating our differences on a personal level and de-emphasize the individual, we end up promoting groupthink within and group judgment without. The focus, socially, then becomes our communal differences which tend to be more divisive and inflammatory.

Another bit of irony, here, comes when our society takes individuality to its unhealthy extreme: exalting celebrity. When I write of this, I don't mean the typical People Magazine "What's My Favorite Actor Up To?" articles that women love (there's some more classifying for you). Exalting celebrity means first poring over the minutia of the life of a famous person. It's the worst kind of vicarious living. Then, it means placing an undeserved importance on the words and deeds of all famous people. There is a clear distinction to be made between appreciating the qualities of an individual and placing them on a pedestal. Exalting celebrity is as bad, or worse, than a group mentality because it says essentially that nobody is somebody except for a select, illogical few.

There is clearly a happy medium between groupthink and undue individual glorification. I know I have to catch myself occasionally and remember that the people I see and hear are their own people, when it comes down to it. There are several portions of society today that could also stand to do that, inwardly and outwardly. I also realize that emphasizing individuality has its own drawbacks. It's always important to check that ego upstairs. I don't think I have all the answers, but I do believe that it's a good start to stop viewing identity based on how a person looks or where their ancestors lived. Each individual I know has a lot more in common with me than either of us does with our ancestors. Of course, many people already know this, but you know what they say about assumptions.

Update

Things are looking up. My health has been coming along, and I continue to grow in my confidence in the healing process. It seems that all the measures I've taken are doing a job. And, I'm quite sure that I've gotten enough inspiration for my writing from the medical world for the time being, although apparently it's the medical world's decision as to when it will stop inspiring me.

The most personal thing I'll tell you is also the best news of this blog entry. I now have 11 days without doctors! I'm hoping to really treat this like a vacation. Obviously, I plan to live it up like my plane is going down.

The USC Trojans almost had to do that as well. They had a bumpy start to the big weekend. I'm really excited for this year's installment of one of the very best rivalries in all of sports. Experts always say you can throw out the records when USC and Notre Dame compete against each other. I think that's true, so I'm excited for a great game.

If you've been following the college football season, you'll know that the Trojans have had some trouble as of late. I'm hoping that the importance of this week will get them firing on all cylinders and that they come out firing. The only thing I will predict is a big game from Joe "Cool" McKnight.

Until next time... Fight On! Beat the Irish!

Song Series: "Prayer for the Dying" by Seal

This is one of my favorite songs by Seal and simply just one of my favorite songs. It is right down my alley as far as the theme and spirit the song conveys. You could argue that the reason I like it so much is because it is so similar to my worldview, however I like to think that this is one of those songs in particular that have informed on my worldview. Seal, himself, has called "Prayer for the Dying" a celebration of life more than a mourning of death. The song can be found on Seal's self-titled 1994 album. I first heard it in 1996 and I still love it to this day.

This song is quite philosophical. In the first few lines, it immediately identifies the problem it is confronting and, almost as quickly, provides the solution to that problem. First is the issue of the problem of life. "Fearless people/Careless needle/Harsh words spoken/And lives are broken." Working backwards, it is clear that coping with brokenness (sound familiar?) is certainly a struggle. Seal attributes that to a breakdown in personal relationships. He often uses the imagery of a needle & drugs as a symbol for the high we get from love. The seemingly odd inclusion of "fearless" leads me to believe that there is a suggestion that misplaced emotion leads to the breakdown in personal relationships which makes coping with brokenness such a struggle.

Then, Seal arrives at a solution. The most important theme in this song is faith. "Forceful aging/Help me I'm fading/Heaven's waiting/It's time to move on." The first half of this quote says, essentially, that there is no time to lose. The problem can be fixed, and every person can fix it, but they need to start immediately. Next is one of the deeper, multiple-meaning points in the song. First, the listener is reassured in the expected way: move on, don't be afraid, Heaven will be there. There's more to it, however, as you consider that because heaven is waiting, that means it is not here now. That solution is up to us. Life is not waiting, and therefore it's time to move on, literally move, now. The motivation is obvious as is the need for faith in yourself, the last piece is faith in others.

"I may not know what you're going through/But time is the space between me and you." Despite the undercurrent of urgency present, this is another reassuring line. This line is the solution to having faith in others. Essentially, the only external thing that really separates two people is ignorance, and ignorance is removed quite simply by taking the time to remove it. Everything else involved in having faith in other people is literally within the control of the individual.

"I just don't know what's got into me." This is the second most important quote of the song, and the key is in the word, "know." Seal does not, and cannot, know what's got into him but he believes something has. He feels it. This is spirit, that thing which moves him toward faith. And just in case the idea of faith hasn't yet dawned on the listener, he hits you several times with this line: "Hold on, say yes, while people say no."

Now, the most important line: "Life carries on... when nothing else matters, when nothing else matters." To me personally, this quote is extraordinary and would probably require my whole life story and philosophy written down and analyzed for me to convey the extent of the quote's meaning. However, a very superficial interpretation is that when you have everything, life carries on, and yet when you have nothing, life still carries on. So, life is moved by nothing but itself. When everything falls away, if you're lost or suffering, you are still left with your life, and it carries on. Faith says that this should be a comfort. Finally, Seal ends the song with one last thought. "It's just a prayer for the dying... for the dying." This takes us back to the solution of the problem stated at the beginning. The dying refers to us all as, after all, life carries on until it's over. And that's a beautiful thing.

Unfortunately, the demands of radio edits and music videos means that the most important line of the song is not included, but here is the video nonetheless:

Decisions Decisions

I have a hard time making decisions. Then again, I don't. I struggled with deciding how to go about this very blog entry. I know that, currently, I'm very confident in myself, and when I'm certain instinctively that I'm making the right choice, I feel as if I almost made the choice before I even knew about it. So, it really isn't about the decision itself. The problem is that I'm so analytical. I consider that a strength, and I'm proud of it, and I think it's a huge contributor to my work. However, it makes decision-making difficult at times. I go about it by collecting pieces of information about the various potential choices until one of them tips the scales. That way, I feel like I can't not make that choice. But then I start analyzing the analysis and I end up not being able to decide if that particular piece of information does, in fact, tip the scales.

Dilemmas are easy for me. A dilemma is a choice between two outcomes, neither of which will be very positive for the chooser. Ultimately, one choice is slightly less bad, or less painful, or has a greater potential for "going down in a blaze of glory" and it presents itself quite quickly if I can quiet my mind long enough. The choice between two good outcomes is considerably more difficult. I always end up wanting to try out both of them, even if that consists of going with Door #1 for five seconds and then changing my mind to Door #2. I'll always wonder, though, if I'm having as good a time as I could have. The real decisions, of course, are the toughest.

I'm confident enough in myself today to know that I can make snap decisions if I'm pressed. And maybe it makes me a better decision-maker to be able to see all sides and to know that the choice I'm making is difficult. Would it be worse to make a grave decision quickly without knowing its gravity?

This is where being so self-analytical comes in handy. I'm always thinking about my position in life: where I came from, where I am, and where I'm going. After I collect all the information and mentally play out the scenarios in my head, I ask myself one, last important question. Will I be better, worse, or the same if I do this? I do it if the answer is better, I don't if the answer is worse, and if the answer is the same, I ask one, last not-so-important question.

Will this be a pain in the ass or not?

The Trojan

Sports and in particular college football, with the pageantry and tradition everyone has grown accustomed to, often serve as a reminder of a time long ago, the time of gladiators. However, the beauty of college football is that it also relates to the modern struggles of everyday life. The ideals that allow an athlete to excel in competition, to meet challenges head-on, and to be the very best, are alive in all of us. They center around the virtue of achieving success the right way, and doing it the right way is the most important part. Success without adversity is not success at all. And so, we uncover a key to football excellence which just so happens to be a key to living life: adversity must be overcome.

There is a team that has drawn many admirers due to that very ability, the ability to overcome adversity. In fact, the team was so named many decades ago because of that ability. The team represents a family and an institution centered around a university that I, personally, was drawn to for my undergraduate education. This team is represented by a figure himself defined by five qualities: faithful, scholarly, skillful, courageous, and ambitious. He is The Trojan. He represents the Men of Troy, who wear the colors and play each week for the University of Southern California. It may seem odd that I choose this week to write about this team but, in my mind, it is entirely appropriate.

Faithful. Everything begins with faith, and that starts with faith in yourself. You wouldn't be where you are today if you didn't believe in your ability and way of doing things. No matter where you intend to go, you can't get there without faith in others. USC's Trojan Family is like any other, and we each need to trust some member in our family as a mentor. The mentor then needs to trust us with the freedom to put wisdom into action. If you can't make it alone, you can only make it by trusting others. By nature, trust has no guarantee, and that's why it's called being faithful.

Scholarly. If you have faith in yourself and others, you have a good foundation for success in the face of adversity, whenever it may come. The next step is effectively channeling that faith into your way of life. This is done through scholarly work. Being a scholar is not defined by studying for class, watching game film, or time on the practice field. It's how you do those things. It's not just about repetition. It's about practicing excellence, repeatedly doing the right thing the right way. Scholarly work is defined by the habit of excellence.

Skillful. In order to be in a position to use your talents successfully, you need faith and the scholarly habit of excellence. A good teacher identifies your talents and shows you methods to grow those talents to their fullest. You must trust that, and repeatedly practice those methods the right way, through any adversity. Two roads open up when you are skillful. One road is easy because it blends in and doesn't lead anywhere, it requires no effort and there is no cost. The other road is considerably more difficult because it leads everywhere, and only you can ultimately know if you're headed in the right direction. The costs are significant and it takes every ounce of effort to make actual skills match their potential.

Courageous. If you have faith, if you are scholarly, and if you put the proper effort into your skills, then courage matters. When you think about competition, in some way there's always someone out there whose situation is better than yours and someone whose situation is worse. Heart is what separates you. Heart is defined by being positive in the face of adversity, finding the good in every single situation no matter how terrible, and by never giving up. In the end, it's not about technicalities or quick fixes. Whether it's another player, an injury, or a problem in your everyday life, it's about lining up across from your opponent and taking him on, man versus man. Courage is in the act, not the result.

Ambitious. You cannot have the ambition to achieve a successful result without the courage to put your faith, your scholarship, and your skills into action. Ambition is about rising above, and these things give you the proper foundation with which to do that. Being ambitious requires you to take all of these things and do them to the best of your ability. It's not the only way to win, but it's the only way to be successful. It's the only way to do things better than they've ever been done. This is the final key to adversity. Overcoming adversity is not always about besting the thing that threatens you. It's about knowing in your heart that you did everything -- you had faith, you practiced, you nurtured your skills, you had heart -- everything you possibly could to fight, and keep fighting, adversity itself.

It's ironic that a team's best chance to win is by shifting the focus from "win at all costs" to "win the right way." The team that displays the five qualities of The Trojan in a loss is more successful than the team that wins without them. And yet, in reality, the five qualities give the team its best chance to win! This is also true in our everyday lives. Not every hardship or negative situation will go away, and the success is not in making them go away. The success is in how we respond to them. Will I despair and be pessimistic because things are just too hard for me? Or, will I be positive and find the good and never give up despite the odds? Adversity comes down to the concept of "Fight On." It's a concept I truly believe in, and one that began with past USC Trojans fighting on regardless of the score. It has continued to be represented by Trojans of the present, fighting on all manner of injury and hardship, on and off the field, athlete or not. It will always be represented by The Trojan.

Snow in South Pasadena

"Grams, this is so cool," he said, at least five times. I was able to get up and spend some time with my nephew and niece the other day. We invited my sister-in-law to bring them over because there was a commercial being shot, no doubt, for the Christmas season. It was snowing, in a way, in South Pasadena. My four-year-old nephew was in heaven.

There were trucks galore, all kinds of equipment, and it was really cool for him to see the two houses dressed up for Christmas. There were two or three cherry pickers that he really spent a lot of time watching, although when he first heard about coming over, he was worried because we had no cherry trees. His eyes lit up when we pointed out that the driver was all the way up in the basket, moving his vehicle down the street. Soon my nephew saw how the production used the cherry pickers as they took up cameras for various shots and air hoses to help spray out the snow. "Uncle Jon," he said, "this is awesome."

I think back to what a magical time it was for me when I was four. When I watch my nephew, I'm amazed by how much a boy at that age understands, and I know it was probably the same for me. It was the age I asked my godfather if he "remembered when we were fishermen" and I do not doubt his assessment of my consciousness, if you will. A four-year-old knows many things, and in some ways, appreciates more things than older people do. More things are special and cool and awesome. There is still magic. One thing that is true, especially for this nephew, is that they know when they are given responsibility and they treat it responsibly.

At eight years old, I actually played in a commercial. It was nothing like the one we watched together the other day, though. We gathered on the porch, my niece and nephew, their mother, their grandparents, and even their uncle. We ate while the production was set up, and while my nephew ran around and observed like the foreman of a construction site. Of course, my niece behaved and ate like a prim and proper young lady, or maybe it was because she's still young enough for the high chair and had no escape. My nephew was more of a challenge, but I gave him his props once he got a whole helping of applesauce down. And at last, the biggest treat, the biggest desert besides the candy corn, he got to walk down the street and stand by the directors. I hope he gave his seal of approval. He certainly gave it to us.

"Grams, this is so cool."

Endurance

Note: This is a long one.

There are many kinds of endurance in life. The one I needed when my lung collapsed was very different from some other ones I've needed. It started with a complete drop in my spirits the moment I was diagnosed. I'll never forget it. I was somewhat concerned going in, just considering the fact that the chest pain I was experiencing had lasted for about a week. But I was concerned in the way you think, "I really should get this thing checked out and fixed." I had no idea what I was in for, but I recognized it the instant I saw the x-ray results. My heart dropped.

With as much experience with medical situations as I have had, I could almost say I have an amateur background in medicine. I can make educated guesses about the causes of symptoms I have or other people tell me about. Most medical professionals, when they meet me, also recognize that they can speak intelligently (as far as medicine goes) with me about whatever condition they are treating. Most especially, I have had enough x-rays that I can recognize basic and/or obvious issues pretty quickly. That was the case with my pneumothorax. I saw this steeply angled black triangle going diagonal from the top of my chest to my lower right side. Well, guess what, black in the middle of an x-ray is bad.

I remember sort of sinking my head back, almost before the doctor gave his diagnosis. Since I'd never heard of the technical term, pneumothorax, it gave me a moment of what was ultimately false hope when he said so matter-of-factly, "Oh yeah, he has a pneumothorax." Then he pointed it out, to be sure, and said, "Your right lung is completely collapsed." Even though, I have a good amount of basic medical knowledge, there are some areas that concern my health where fear overtakes thinking through the situation logically. Critical respiratory issues are one of those areas.

The tears were hard to restrain when the diagnosis hit home. I had a real mix of emotions at the time. I wanted to simply panic, but my stronger side held that in check because I think I knew deep down that the best thing I could do was listen to the doctor and prepare for whatever treatment was to come. Honestly, nothing could have prepared me. The doctor told me what he needed to, so I would understand the procedure, but nothing more, so I wouldn't go running for the hills.

Even not being fully aware of the pain I would endure, I was really scared. It's funny the different responses to fear people have. My reaction was to e-mail a lady friend of mine to whom I was close and hope for her support, even if it was just by knowing she would read it the next day. Thinking back, there are many reasons I chose her, but mostly it was because I assumed she could handle the bad news in its unresolved form. How presumptuous of me! And it was at the time, but the nice thing about hindsight is that now I know she was the perfect choice. Indeed, she wrote to me that night, comforting me, and telling me she was there. It was something crucial to hold on to during the following day with the procedure looming.

I awoke the next morning too early, naturally, and quickly got dressed and into the chair. My routine at the time was to take my morning medicine and then put on the breathing machine for an hour to make me comfortable. So I did that. Problem was, I had some bad pressure in my head and legs. Stress. Since we had to get to the hospital so early, I was only able to take half the time on the breather. The shortness of breath amped up the pain. Then it was time to get in the car.

It was cold. I remember vividly how freezing I felt when I got in the car. It was so, so cold. Of course, I asked for some heat but I barely began warming by the time I arrived at the hospital and had to get out. The rest of the ride I spent focused on breathing, both to compensate for the shortness and as meditation to fight the pain. This ride was way too short.

As much as I wanted the ride to take as long as possible, the wait I went through once I actually arrived at radiology was agonizing. At that point, when there was no escape, I just wanted to get it over with. I was still in terrible pain, hunched over and waiting for the key parts of my working lung to open up, and afraid. They called my name, and immediately that stuff meant nothing, well, except for the afraid part. There was just no way I would be mentally prepared in time.

I remember one of the office workers who takes care of registration coming in the radiology room and putting on my bracelet, and then the nurse who made the comment I'll never forget. To all the radiology nurses out there, please don't ever say this to a patient asking about the pain of having a lung reinflated: "Most patients describe it as annoying." Wow. Really didn't know how to take that one, so I disregarded it and focused on getting on the table & making sure I was as comfortable as possible. Amazing how little that mattered. After I got settled, I had to be alone except for the nurses and doctor. I was too disoriented to worry about that, and now I'm glad that no one stayed to watch the procedure.

There was this giant active x-ray machine over me, about 6 inches from my face. I'm lucky that I don't get claustrophobic, but I certainly felt like I was in it, in this thing 'til the end, and there was nothing I could do about it. The radiologist walked in, ready to go, and introduced himself. He rubbed some freezing cold alcohol on me and then marked a blue dot way over on the side of my right pectoral between two ribs. A lovely target. Then he put a sterile blue field over the area that actually sort of covered my face. It was disorienting, but looking back, it was good to be blocked from the vision of what the radiologist was doing. Last was the almost completely useless local anesthetic that could not possibly reach the area that needed it most. Then came the main event.

I felt the needle slide in the very superficial flesh, knowing I could take that. But then it met some stiff resistance: the chest wall. He said, "Okay here we go." As good a job he did, that innocent sentence struck the most fear into me. Before I could ask him what he was talking about, I felt him push really hard, I heard a pop, and there was a lightning strike. I knew then why God created the word, “fuck,” and I used that wisdom many times. Luckily, since I couldn't breathe, I couldn't say anything very loud. Soon, I was appealing to God directly. That was the worst pain in my life. I could not imagine being stabbed for real. The needle took a chest tube in with it so that the air in my chest cavity could be sucked out. It felt like a sumo wrestler sitting on my chest, and the pain was so, so unbearable as the lung re-expanded. Finally, the nurse asked if she could give me morphine. I answered, "Yes," almost before she finished asking me the question. First, the drugs brought me back to sanity and then I could actually feel good later when I was resting in an actual hospital bed.

Unfortunately, that is not the end as it I ended up requiring a hospital stay. But that is a different kind of endurance. And a morphine vacation is a much better way to end the day.

Stream -- Old Man Troubadour

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

We sat on the grassy hill under the tree that overlooked the beach several hundred yards away. Close by behind us, the hill sloped gently down to the quiet road. We were close enough to the ocean to hear its rhythmic sounds and smell its sea breeze. We were far enough away to sense the rest of our surroundings. We hoped to hear the familiar sound of strumming guitar strings soon.

Her nickname was Hula, and she was beautiful. She was exotic and yet somehow familiar, always, and that's why I loved her. She was what I wanted... not what I thought I wanted. I had never seen eyes like hers before. They were dark, and her hair was dark, and her skin was a smooth brown, and her face invited you in only to sting you with her bright smile.

She wouldn't want anyone to know my nickname. But she said I was strong, probably stronger than I can say, and I was sure that's why she loved me. I had a lot of spirit and it reflected in my face. My age, my knowledge, my wisdom, I guess, showed in my eyes. And that's how she put it. I'd agree and, as an extension, say I had a lot more to learn.

That's when the old man troubadour surprised us. He was new to our routine, only having been around for about a week. We so enjoyed hearing first the music and then seeing the man behind it. The old man was always strumming something new and yet in that short time, each bit of music sounded like a part of a master piece. That day there was silence. He awoke us from the hypnotic ocean view. He still had his guitar, but it was strapped on his back. "Hello there lass and laddy," he called.

I turned to be greeted by his joyous smile. "There's our troubadour," I said with a good-natured laugh. The old man looked to Hula and asked, "And how are we today, sister?" As I motioned him to come and sit with us, she said, "We're doing great! How are you?" He breathed in deeply through his nose, exhaled and said, "'Tis a wonderful day!" While I certainly agreed, it felt different, perhaps melancholy, without his song. At the same time, however, it was quite possibly one of the most beautiful days of the year to observe.

Rather than wondering, I asked him. "Will you not play a song today? I see your guitar there, friend." The old man had a great sense of humor. He looked back at me playfully, as if thinking *Well, look who thinks he's the boss*. He said, "Indeed, brother, my guitar carries me everywhere, but you're right, I'll not play it today." Hula was miffed somewhat and rhetorically asked, "What will we do with no music today?" Old man troubadour was standing up, looking at the sea, when she said this. He seemed confused by it and sort of stared back. Then he smiled as he walked back toward the road. We went with him to say goodbye.

"My friends," he said, "I play the music almost every day."

"And what about today?"

Then he spoke his goodbye:

"Today, lass and laddy, today I listen to the music."

Leaving the walls of Troy

After six years at the University of Southern California, this will be the first in which I am no longer associated with that institution's undergraduate education. I had an amazing experience there, and the beauty of USC is that the thing they call the Trojan Family is real. I have found there is a vast, and generous, network of Trojans and people associated with USC in some way who are willing to be of help to me and other people in many capacities. This type of network means that I am not ending my time as a Trojan or my association with the University, though I have concluded my technical education. I have many fond memories of that education.

I began as a broadcast journalism major, bright eyed and bushy tailed. For me, as a freshman, that really didn't mean very much. It took about a year of core classes before I was able to take a course at the Annenberg school. Ultimately, I ended up leaving the school and the major, but as one of many hundreds of students, every day I attended, I was treated like the next big thing in journalism. I had a wonderful adviser named Annie who guided me through the three and a half years I was registered there. She was technically the broadcast adviser, but even when I got mysteriously dosed with some common sense and switched to print journalism, she stayed with me. I worked with Jabari, the print adviser, a little and he was a great, big, friendly guy. Annie and I, however, had a great rapport.

In the fall semester of my fourth year, I took the course that was called the Newswriting Module. Essentially, it consisted of the three core writing classes, one each for broadcast, print, and online. In reality it is a brilliant set up by Annenberg to train students for what is a dwindling job market. It became clear a week or two into the semester that my limitations would put limitations on me in these courses without some assistance. Before hand, I didn't see any obstacles and neither did Annenberg, but there were obstacles. USC has another fantastic department called Disability Services & Programs (DSP) that facilitates notetaking, test taking, et al., for students with both physical and learning disabilities. In the blink of an eye, Annie was on the phone with the head of DSP setting up interdepartmental (six syllables -- and they say we don't go to class) meetings to get me what I needed.

So, I met with Annie, Jabari, my three newswriting profs, the head of DSP, the head of the Annenberg IT, and probably a couple bigwigs way beyond my pay grade. To someone more accustomed to professional expenses and problem-solving, this wasn't that big a deal. To me, I was very positively astounded at the speed, planning, and expense to which these people and the school went for me. They hooked me up with three Annenberg students for notetakers and an empty office and computer for in-class projects equipped with the mouse and microphone I needed to get my work done. That semester went great, and I do still believe the quality of my writing made all that work worth it. Unfortunately, I repaid those efforts by changing majors!

Annenberg's wise move to make students capable in any form of journalism (which I agree with) ultimately hurt me as a pure writer. The next semester would have been the Reporting Module and I would have been responsible for $625 worth of equipment to take to an assigned city to cover news there. It was double the work of newswriting, and the work had a minimal amount of writing involved. I was, expectedly, hesitant to disappoint all the people who had worked so hard for me, but they would have done that for any student and Annie always treated me like she wanted what was best for me. She pushed minors and double majors all the time, but she never pushed me.

That, at last, led me to the Creative Writing major and it has really been off to the races since then. And I certainly owe much of my success in this brand of writing to a few of the people who make up that great Trojan Family.

He may leave the walls of Troy, but he takes a piece of her in his heart, and leaves a piece of his heart behind.

My Year in Review (Part Two)

Note: I move into my next year Sunday, when I turn 24. Here are my thoughts as one year impacts the next.

As I begin to look forward, it is important for me to internalize those lessons I've learned over the past year. I'm not sure there's really any sort of process which will allow me to do that, but I think a simple awareness that those lessons are important is all that is necessary.

Some of the lessons a person might take from my friend Chuck's death are age-old lessons, and ones that I am already intimately familiar with. The fragility of life, appreciating each day, time being so fleeting, trying not to waste life on the negatives, those are things that I already know, but it never hurts to have them reconfirmed. Or better yet, it always hurts and that's why they need to be reconfirmed.

The other lessons are most certainly not cookie-cutter optimism, but they are real, and true optimism for me is about taking a realistic fact of life and applying it to myself in a positive way. Death doesn't wait for someone even if they are important, or young, or have things to do. That doesn't make loss any easier. Dealing with it, in fact or in potential, is a constant struggle. But it tells me that it's not worth individual stress. It's out of my control, and if I can let go of that, I think about all the other things in life that I can let go. There is positivity in the finality of death. It brings many realizations. The hard part is keeping those realizations vivid in mind when everyday life begins to take its toll. If I can do that, maybe I won't be scared to tell this person how I feel or maybe I won't find reasons not to do this thing I want to do. That's a liberating feeling.

I will take my lessons into the next year. I expect to continue prioritizing my quality of life and continue doing things the way that is right for me. Knowing now that it's not so simple as just supporting or not supporting myself emotionally, I can trust others with my burdens. I can trust that my strength is, in fact, a source of love. Continuing on, I'll use that source of love in the depth I feel it for others. My meaning of life is simple: to love, to be loved, and to do what I love.

Being able to step back from a situation and observe it from many sides has always been a skill of mine. I also feel I have a talent for self-analysis, and as I grow older, I find I can do more than just spot my weaknesses or areas I need to improve. At this point in my life, I find myself able to see my strengths and not only that, but I can be confident in those talents. I know I can write. When I combine that with my other abilities, the path through which I should take my writing becomes clear. After some conversations and some deep thinking, I have learned how to make this blog part of an active writing project. I'm certainly excited to begin writing my story, which is what I'll be doing now and then.

My new year begins Sunday. I plan to officially end my education at USC by writing a letter to the administration that did so much for me, and to the people I owe a great deal of appreciation. I plan to appreciate, and enjoy and love, all the loved ones that fill up my life. And I plan to begin writing the stories that have made me who I am.

My Year in Review (Part One)

Note: my 24th year is drawing to a close and will end on my 24th birthday, Sunday. I've decided to take a look back today in Part One.

There's no way around it: it has been a long, hard year for me. Like I've always said, I'm a positive guy, but even I have to admit that I faced a lot of negatives. You might say it was a rebuilding year, if I may use a sports analogy. The negatives will follow me into the next year in many ways, but I still foresee the significant shift that hopefully comes with each new year. First, however, I take stock.

I lost my dear friend, Chuck, about a month after my last birthday. He was my long-time orthopedic doctor who did my spinal fusion, recommended me to USC, and was really a stalwart ally. He "got" my sense of humor and used it in each of the many times I had to go see him to assess my condition. To this day, I still sometimes feel like it's vulgar to use him for some sort of lesson, but then I think that we are always learning and the best teachers are those people we meet who become our friends. I think about my spinal fusion surgery. One of the things I wrote after Chuck died was that if you had to have a scar like the one I did, you would be lucky to have one this beautiful. I said it in a mostly facetious manner, but if I had to take away a lesson it would be what I wrote, and I have Chuck to thank for that.

Some months later, thankfully after the USC Trojans demolished Michigan in the Rose Bowl, my right lung collapsed. The pain of the reinflation procedure was quite literally the worst in my life. There is no other way I can put it than to say, I felt messed up after that. I'm used to feeling vulnerable as there is a continual process of accepting certain realities. But the fear of that happening again, of that pain and that vulnerability, will be with me for a long time. I did a lot of growing up that day, as I think about it. I didn't have anyone there to comfort me during the procedure, but in this case I was glad. It's difficult to explain beyond that.

The hospital stay that followed was difficult. However, it reconfirmed in me the belief that the way I go about my life and the way I approach things is right for me. I wouldn't have gotten through that without my m.o., and the fact that it has worked and continues to do so says a lot to me. While I got through the hospital stay, the hospital stay, unfortunately, got through me. I had a nice little souvenir called a wound care situation with which I was left. This one is testing my endurance, but I have much precedent in the way of battles won, therefore I take comfort in the fact that I will soon turn a corner.

There were many worrisome events, but what I found in direct proportion to that stress & tension was the depth of love from my loved ones. Mentally and emotionally, I have always been a self-starter and more so, a self supporter. I was probably so effective at that because I didn't have that ability physically. This was a year, however, where I needed my loved ones. I really really needed support from the outside-in. I received that support, many times over. My family took on many burdens and made sure I was well taken care of. My nieces and nephews came over to play and watch movies. The visits from my friends were numerous and heartfelt. Some friends helped me find entertainment. Another showed me that my strength was a source of love. I noticed, as well, that my love for others deepened and in many cases, did so in a way that many people will not know or understand.

This year marked the end of my education at USC. While I was sad to say goodbye to the yearly life force I found there, to many of the people I met, and to the wonderful educators, it also marked the beginning of my foray into professional writing. I was so fortunate to work with Jason and feel so indebted to the people involved (all of them). Especially considering the fact that I finished the project before any health concerns began, of course it was right under the wire, I feel very lucky. Soon after that, I began this very weblog which has very effectively kept me connected to my writing.

The Modern Gladiator

Often, I find that the search for an applicable mythology, hero, or symbol is better served by accepting current trends. Our warriors, our adventures, our quests are not lost. They always exist in essence. Modern society mostly finds them in spirit, but there are still places where they exist in form, as well. One of these is something I like to call the Modern Gladiator: the athlete. We resist many natural things these days, and yet we still yearn for purity in our athletics. We enjoy seeing the physical form at its height. We encourage our athletes to push themselves, and nature itself, to the limit.

Athletics even offers a physical nirvana that cannot be explained or really understood, but it can be felt by the athlete and seen by spectators. This is called the Zone. An athlete who achieves this state is said to be "in the zone". They reach a heightened awareness as time slows down. Their skill sets become near-perfect. Sports fans have witnessed basketball stars make shot after shot for a stretch, as if unconscious. Every so often, a baseball pitcher goes nine innings with flawless control and wins a perfect game. My favorite is the running back who takes hit after hit but refuses to go down, or whose speed visually shifts gears as he disregards oncoming tacklers.

In fact, the modern gladiator is best exemplified in the American college football player. This young man is the titan of our age. He is the biggest, the fastest, and the strongest of us. He is the greatest physical specimen that can be seen. He can carry a 265 pound frame 40 yards in four-and-a-half seconds, or, at 210 pounds, it can take him less than 10 seconds to run a hundred meters.

Even considering all this, he is more than physics and biology. Surely he has aspirations for success based on all the hard work over the years. But something more than that must drive him. He represents an institution. At the college, fellow students, alumni, faculty, administrators, and all the members of the community that is his school support him and depend on him. He represents a program. His team has fielded many of the greats that were considered legends long before he was even born. He has a standard to live up to, from those who have gone before him, and one to bear, for those still to come. His teammates stand by his side for years and he owes them the best of himself. His coach teaches and trains and mentors as he owes each gladiator the same. The gladiator, in turn, must honor that. He represents all these things: city, institution, program, community, family. He represents himself.

Those things matter, but then they don't. Something even more must drive him. Excellence. Competition. Pursuit. He has the week to practice and make ready for the moment of truth when he simply must reach his peak, and play. When game day comes, only his best will do. The locker room is a sanctuary, simultaneously a place of peace and tension. He cannot achieve what he is here to achieve in this... safety. His ankles are taped expertly and his cleats are laced. Sometimes, other areas need taping: wrists, knees, or fingers. Braces, rubber sleeves, and other support systems required by past scars are applied. His armor is next. The major pieces are his shell & shoulder pads, his jersey, and his helmet. Trainers prepare his body for battle. Coaches prepare his mind. The gladiator looks into the eyes of his teammates, some blackened by warpaint.

The fire is team wide. Coach delivers his final pregame speech. They jump and chant together. They leave sanctuary in unison and march down some kind of tunnel. As they approach the field the gladiator hears his marching band, which has preceded his team into the hostile environment. The roar of an opposing institution overtakes the familiar music. There are gladiators on the other side, too. And their fans are united against him, flying the colors of the opposition. Blue, green, orange... he only really sees one color: red.

Everything has come to this moment. All his time and energy, and all his effort. Every defeat and every victory has led him here. In reality, it has taken him forever to get here. His mind is focused on one thing, however.

Eternity begins at kickoff.

Stream -- Julian still held a romantic idea...

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

Julian still held a romantic idea of anything related to a boating lifestyle. Often, he would go to one of his favorite food places and take his order over to the harbor, to eat lunch. He liked being among the boats. Average sized sailing vessels were his favorite: nothing really big enough to make a statement, that was a statement of its own. Every part of the ship had a use, and yet it was still primarily used for pleasure. It's bright white color when viewed from afar on a windy, choppy, dark blue ocean day was like a beacon, but up close, on the harbor, you could see that each boat had its own experiences and shares of highs and lows.

The food, of course, attracted the seabirds, and that reminded him of those chartered fishing boats. All souls would congregate aft. The music would be playing, comfortably audible. In his mind, he heard Santana or Bob Marley. The smells of fresh fish and clean, salt air were pungent. Usually, they would cook up the first of the white sea bass that was caught, and Julian could taste the meat with just a little butter and lemon. He loved thinking about how the undulations of passing waves became second nature, and then lasted beyond the fishing trip itself, even onto dry land. His favorite was the deep blue, far as the eye could see, going into the horizon. He enjoyed feeling lost in that environment.

The seabirds were most interested in the smells and tastes, as they were on the harbor. Seagulls would creep up cautiously, to see what Julian would do. These ones weren't too pushy, so he could could eat in peace. Sometimes a pelican would fly overhead low and slow. The bird would force itself to drag against the wind long enough to check the goings-on. Then it would flap its wings and move on, presumably to the open ocean.

Julian knew he loved the sea life, in one way or another. He often thought of that day at that house. He sat in a gazebo-like structure on the rock seawall. It was low tide on a blustery day and without that structure around him, he would have been very cold. The water was dark, dark blue but was being broken up constantly by white caps out past the breakers. He just stared into the water and thought about absolutely nothing. He was mesmerized by the rhythmic movement and just knew he belonged exactly where he was. Then he saw a moving white cap that initially broke his concentration.

When he made the object the focus of his concentration, he knew exactly what it was. He recognized the beacon immediately. Julian knew he was witnessing another part of its experience, a high, a low, maybe both. It was a bright white, average sized sailing vessel. He could tell it was captained by someone who was serious about boating. Someone interested in recreation might use the motor on a day like this. This was a serious sailor's day. This sailboat was sailing. Julian watched intently. From this vantage point, the boat almost ambled across the sea, taking each wave as it passed. He was sure this happened for the captain as well, but he also knew, relatively speaking, that boat was moving. The bright white ship created a bright white trail in the choppy ocean. Long after the captain had moved on, Julian watched that trail sink back into the deep blue.

Broken

Update for Thursday, September 6, 2007: I'm very pleased with how this entry turned out, so I've decided to leave it up for today as well. Until next week... hope you enjoy.

All people feel broken at certain points during their lives. To not feel broken is to lie to oneself or to live a terribly safe, sterile existence. I believe being broken is one of the fundamental aspects of life. On its face, it is not something I take comfort in, but I've grown to respect the fact that it should be acknowledged and accepted. Again, this realization doesn't make anything easier. Quite frankly, it is just one of the sucky things you learn about growing up. However, if each one of us did not break in some way, there would be many things in our lives we would not need and thus many things we would not have.

There are many ways to be broken. People make poor decisions or have lapses in judgment or possess character flaws, and those in turn affect reputation. Many live under strained financial situations or find themselves jobless, which hurts stable finances. Others suffer in health. Mentally or physically, they could have lifelong issues from birth or freak accidents or late developing diseases. Even more people see relationships with loved ones end or change. Tons of people face some or all of the issues I've mentioned, others face only one, and some face other issues I didn't list. For other people, the simple knowledge of living the aforementioned safe, sterile existence is what breaks them.

In all these situations, a piece or all of a person is broken. Time assures us that they will never be the same. And often, they cannot be fixed, in whole or in part. What do we do with these broken pieces? In a way, the broken pieces add up to a life. As a group, we respond to this suffering, this brokenness, in two ways.

The oft quoted teaching that suffering brings about compassion is true, in my experience. One way we respond to being broken is through communal means. The compassion from a person's surrounding community can be crucial in their response. This includes friends, family, organizations, churches, charities, and schools. If I may be naïvely optimistic for a moment, we as a society even have compassion-based careers. Nurses & doctors, teachers, and even holy men are just a few examples. All of these communal support systems originate from one group: our loved ones. That is precisely what the communal response to suffering does. It allows us, more fully, to love and be loved.

There is another type of response to brokenness, and that is through personal means. You can pick your own "struggle-through-adversity" cliché. They all apply. You learn a lot about yourself when you stare down that barrel. All the mentoring in the world can only provide you with the tools for character building, actual character can only be made by you. Your personal response to your own suffering is the best means to that end. Again, brokenness provides a vehicle. In the case of the personal response, it allows us to see who we are and to build ourselves into what we want to be.

Although the broken pieces often cannot be fixed, we can still heal. There will be scars and baggage left along the way, but ultimately one of the main things life is about is the cycle of brokenness, response, and healing. It is a struggle with many twists and turns, and no positive guarantees, but it has to be. It certainly is not always the way we want, but the personal and communal responses help us heal and some way, somehow, we move on.

This healing can hopefully help our situations. If a relationship ends, perhaps healing helps us to understand why. If it changes, healing allows us to grow and find a new role and accept that. For those with health concerns, maybe healing is reflected in an improvement of the condition. Maybe it isn't, and instead we find a way to make peace with it. As far as character goes, healing gives us a direct path to making ourselves better. None of these processes is easy. All of it involves the awareness that parts of growing up suck. However, I know I wouldn't have any of the things I have without my personal response to brokenness and the support of the people who love me & the people I love.

It's a wonderfully awful, amazing, dangerous, down-and-dirty, beautiful, exciting, suffering-riddled, shitty, character-building, pleasure-filled, painful, lovely life!


Editor's note: sorry for another posting delay. Please send any questions, comments, or suggestions to Southern California Edison.

See you on the other side?

A man's property is his to do with as he pleases, right? Apparently not. Historical commissions, permits, housing committees, and lawsuits say otherwise. Government, by its nature, possesses a continually growing sense of entitlement in terms of its ability to tell people what to do. However, I see it becoming overridingly personal. There seems to be this idea developing among the individuals who make up citizens' governing bodies. They are now asserting governmental power based on how they are made to feel.

Want to paint the outside of your house? Better use soothing, muted colors in case the mayor drives by. You never know if she has an excitable personality. Want to put in a swimming pool? You ought to invite Joe Councilman over for a barbecue. His parents never cooked out when he was a kid. Better try for his good side before he finds out on his own and gets jealous.

Rest assured, the issue is freedom on and over property, not other people. We're talking about "it's for your own good whether you like it or not (and it just so happens to be in my best interests)" control by strangers who spend your money. Soon, they'll be telling you what lightbulbs you can put in your lamps.

Strangers telling you what to do behind the closed doors of your home; what could be more egregious? What could be more personal?

Well, at least one thing is. If you want a say so in the fate of your immortal soul, please, do yourself a favor and don't die in China. At the very least, contact the American Embassy if you plan on a long stay. Perhaps you can get a head start on the paperwork. After all, you don't want to end up in Siberia when you reincarnate.

Check the link. I'm dead serious... ha! Stay classy.

Stream -- A Special Air

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

Sitting on the patio of the bar and lounge outside of the fancy hotel, he ordered one of his favorite drinks. There was no reason for it, and it probably wasn't an appropriate drink for the season. It was cold, and he was glad to be next to the gas heater. It doesn't matter how you feel, he thought, you always sit on the patio. The girl brought him the Gin & Tonic. Sapphire, of course.

She was attractive enough. He could find something beautiful in any woman if he tried, and especially if he knew her. He knew this girl. The trick, however, was not having to try, and he already had that. So he wasn't interested in anything. He reminded himself that that wasn't what this place was all about. Contemplation was key.

He sipped the gin and enjoyed it. It was a good one. He felt uplifted. The place began to take over as he stared over the balcony into the darkened garden. It had hardly any lights on it, so nothing attracted his attention apart from the stars along the horizon. He liked it that way. Later, he was thinking about his childhood, his memories and the stories of others, and he knew his thoughts would soon return to that seminal event in his development.

"Tom, remember when we were fishermen?" He said that to his godfather when he was no older than four years old, as they sat on the porch of his beach house staring into the glimmering ocean before them. Call it a kid being a kid, call it a vivid imagination. Call it bullshit. It was meaningless. Most people would think that. But not Tom. Tom always said he was convinced of its truth.

At that moment, on that patio, he understood what Tom meant all these years and he knew why his godfather was right. Hell, it gave him reason to consider reincarnation. That wasn't quite it, however. There was more to it: a special air about it. That was it. A special air. Like certain places he visited and certain people he met. Certain words in certain books also had a special air. In fact, many things did. The patio did. As much as he knew it was there, however, it was still beyond his grasp, like his question so many years ago. He was glad that his godfather was convinced of its truth. That was good enough for him. It gave him hope, and that was all he needed.

He took his last sip of the gin, and that's when he noticed the old man sitting at the table by the doorway of the lounge. He had a glass of dark whiskey in his left hand and a big cigar in his right. The smoke curled up from it, into the night. The man had a warmth about him. It was the smiling eyes. Having paid for the gin, plus tip, he got up and headed towards the lounge in order to leave the hotel. He walked towards the old man, and noticed the gray, wrinkled, smiling one put the whiskey down on his table. As he passed, the old man reached up and touched him kindly on the forearm.

The warmth and happiness in the old man's eyes was unfailing. Yet, he looked at him with deep intensity and spoke sincerely. "Bless you." He nodded appreciatively to the old man.

"Thank you," he said, "that honestly means a lot to me." He was just as sincere.

Then the old man asked rhetorically, "So you know what it's all about then, don't you?"

What is art, anyway?

I am not sure what it is, myself. I know that it's not even agreed upon in a fundamental way. Many people I respect have said art is inherently political. I think art should be apolitcal. Art ascends and transcends at its best, and I think very lowly of politics. I do, however, admit that my opinion of art is not yet streamlined or refined. These thoughts are just the beginning. It seems that more modern movements in both art and aesthetics have phased out the importance of Beauty while redefining themselves. I'm not sure this is correct. It seems to me that Beauty has been connected to that which is gratifying, always pleasing to the aesthetic sense, and the absence of pain of any sort. Perhaps Beauty should be redefined.

I learned and agreed with the holes in the structure of truth-traditional beauty. But I don't think that the truth-beauty structure must be completely abandoned, especially if beauty is reconsidered. Music is full of ranges that interchange moments of harmony with moments of dissonance. Dissonance, taken alone, is depressing, but harmony, unbroken, is boring. The piece of music is complete for the listener when taken as a whole. It is the entire spectrum of dissonance and harmony combined that lends beauty to music. Let us apply this idea to all of art.

Beauty does not culminate in the pleasure of an idea or aesthetic. It does so arriving at some greater truth. It brings about awareness and realization. This can't happen with a one-sided view of only goodness, pleasure, and conventional forms. There must be a more complete version that also includes pain & suffering, difference, and challenge within the broader picture. With that, there is at least a greater appreciation or greater understanding of that which is pleasing. Beyond that, it may also inspire new forms and new ideas. This is Beauty. If this is correct, then art & aesthetics can be described once again as pursuits of beauty, which is the awareness and realization of some greater truth. And so, we have art. Or at the very least, that is my idea of my art.

Song Series: "Sentimental Guy" by Ben Folds

This song comes from Ben Folds' solo album Songs for Silverman, which was released in 2005. The album itself is very good, as its songs loosely tell the story of a man's life. It begins with an old man having a "paradigm arrest" as Ben puts it, and goes on to describe adolescence & growing up. Then, the album features a look at religion, love and loss and new love, fathering a child, the death of a friend, nostalgia, and it finally points to the end of the man's life. It really contains palpable emotion conveyed through Ben's usual quirky and ironic sense of humor, although this one is a little more serious.

Sentimental Guy -- click the preceding to hear the song -- is most obviously about the ways age can affect or even limit our sentimentality. Lyrics are available here.

It is clear that the main character of the song is far removed in time from one of his past lives, perhaps childhood. The death of an individual or individuals from this past life brings about reflection. This may be an actual death, but I like to read deeper and think of it as the death of their relationship to the main character. The relationship certainly occurred early in his development, as he sings, "Little things you said or did are part of me, come out from time to time/Probably no one I know now would notice."

Thematically, the song is about nostalgia. The chorus is probably the most simple and yet most effective (isn't it always?) of the entire album. It is a one line lyric: "I never thought so much could change," and it blends into a piano melody that can only be described as nostalgic in my mind. The melody also refers to the way Ben sings "... I used to be a sentimental guy" in other parts of the song. These interpretations are confirmed near the end of the song with the final verse.

The last verse tells us what the main character is doing, where he is, and why he's singing this song. "People talkin' and I'm watching/As flashes of their faces go black and white/And fade to yellow in a box in an attic". Sitting in the attic looking at old pictures is pretty far from unsentimental. His lament that it's a shame he doesn't miss anyone or anything seems to me to be a function of necessity. That life has faded to yellow, and while nostalgia can be very good, it can also hold you back if you are unable to let go.

This song presents some difficult truths about growing up, and yet it never takes from me that life-is-beautiful feeling I always have. There is certainly a desensitized feeling about certain things that can come with the experience of age. However, there are ways to maintain that sentimentality, and even the main character here does it. The awareness itself is sentimental and that is displayed through the simple fact of singing the song. More importantly, there is the warning that he is haunted by the "left unsaid". I think we all have things we think and do not say. The danger here is if we fail to say those things during the times in which we possess the sentimentality to say them, we may lose the chance or the ability to do so forever. Someone kind enough to give us that heads up sounds like a pretty sentimental guy to me.

"John from Cincinnati", cancelled?

Some words in support of the HBO series, "John from Cincinnati". This is/was another fine work from David Milch, of "Deadwood" and "NYPD Blue" fame. I have become a huge fan of his and highly recommend anything he does. Watching one of his shows is like entering a literary world. Indeed, he was an English professor at Yale for a time.

Weird, hard-to-follow, confusing, brilliant, heartwarming, common, yet epic; these are just a few of the ways I would describe the show. With almost any other creator, one would begin to doubt the worthiness, and perhaps the coherence, of a story like this. With David Milch at the helm, it is easy to trust in the story. You can analyze the characters and read in to every line. David Milch has a plan.

In the first, and very likely only, season of the show, we observe the events that occur upon the arrival of John Monad, a mysterious but benevolent being, over 10 days in Imperial Beach, California. He has a tremendously positive, for the most part, effect on the Yost Family. The family consists of three generations of extraordinary surfers. The patriarch Mitch and his son Butchie were both pros until taken out of the sport by a knee injury and a heroin addiction, respectively, Shaun is Butchie's teenage son but he was raised by his grandparents. He just might be the best surfer in the family. Then there are Cissy and Kai, who watch over the Yost men. John influences these characters and many more including the notable Bill Jacks, who is portrayed superbly by Ed O'Neill.

The cancellation of the series may prove to be one of the worst decisions HBO has made in recent times. In the coming weeks, the movement to save John Monad and his show will need your help. There are already petitions and other organized online events coming together. Be on the lookout for an intriguing web site or two. Let's give David Milch the time he needs to produce another high-quality piece. Let's make that miracle!

The Matrix, Myth, and Me

"Myth is the secret opening through which the inexhaustible energies of the cosmos pour into human manifestation..." -- Joseph Campbell

I'm about to start reading my new book, The Matrix and Philosophy, and I thought I'd give an insight into a subject that fascinates me in all aspects of my life: myth. I use "myth" here in the academic sense, not the common sense which connotes a story that is fake. There is at least some sort of truth in every way that I use "myth". I find myself drawn to mythology and, in particular, the hero's journey. This applies especially to the messianic figure. These things are a pleasure to see in fiction, no matter the medium, and I feel compelled in some way to include mythology in my own work. Beyond that, however, there are also applications toward everyday living in the real world.

I always had a general affinity for mythic tales and stories told on an epic scale. In fact, The Matrix trilogy is one of my all-time favorites. I find myself to be one of the few people who loved the second and third installments as much as the first. Fortunately, a couple of years ago I found this Essays Collection written by someone who loved The Matrix as much as I did. Even better was the fact that he had a much deeper and more detailed understanding of the philosophical, mythological, and religious concepts & symbolism prevalent throughout the films. I highly recommend his essays, but I suggest an extra cup of coffee or two before reading. It is certainly an impressive synthesis of many of the world's cultures into one grand story.

Through these essays, I was introduced to Joseph Campbell who wrote Hero with a Thousand Faces. He also had a famous interview broadcast on PBS called The Power of Myth. Campbell is most famous for describing the hero's journey, which appears in some way or another across many cultures.

The more I've learned and read, the more enthusiastic I have become. I think it is definitely common to have the need to feel like we are doing something important. I always wanted my writing to feel like it could be something greater than the sum of its parts. Myth is where I get that feeling. So I resolved to fit into some kind of mythic framework. There are many ways to do this, and I expect it to come about naturally. I look forward both to writing straightforward about mythology but also to exploring how common, everyday life can also apply.

JT, the matrix has you.

Stream -- I watched a long conversation.

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

I watched a long conversation. It was on my walk through the woods. I saw the hawk speaking to the bright blue sky while the songbirds sang to the trees. I heard the sounds of the wind dancing with the leaves, and then I went down to the waterline to see the fish interpret the river's currents. I found a comfy looking tree trunk that had the right combination of sun and shade, and I sat down. I closed my eyes.

My heart rate began to quicken. I could feel my face turning red. I got hot. It became difficult to breathe. I moved back in time. I saw the nurse. She had the needle in her hand. I was at the hospital. Chemo.

I opened my eyes, and breathed a slow, relaxed sigh of relief at the sight of the bright blue sky. Not so long ago, these walks, these experiences were only dreams. Now, they were my reality. But there was a downside. I wouldn't trade what I had for anything, but a trade did occur. My old reality took up residence in my new dreams. These walks were my solution, and they may still be, but they require something difficult. I closed my eyes again.

I grew exhausted as I found myself in that gloomy examination room. I felt awful, like shit, like I couldn't help but be blunt. I was cold. I was freezing. Looking down at my hand, I saw that the IV was good to go. At this stage, it didn't matter where they put the needle, it didn't matter what kind of an artisan the nurse was, when that sucker went in, I suffered. Both hands were bruised. They felt tender and arthritic and only one person could touch them: Candy, the RN. She was the best. I learned the dream of nature from her. She was an artisan.

This day, I was in no condition to picture the trees and the birds and the sky on my own. I kept looking up at the IV bag, watching every drop of poison enter my body. It was something I could feel, like little bits of pain adding up to one big ordeal of suffering. Eventually, I dropped my head back and the tears came. But today I had Candy.

She had a healthy attractive face, a dark complexion, and hair of a wonderfully colorful brown. I won't forget telling her about my recent trip to the ER, when a nurse there gave my hand a hematoma. She jokingly fainted against my arm, her soft hair brushing against me, as if to say that a good nurse would never do that. Now, here she was, her smooth hands holding mine, talking my spirit into another nature walk.

I stood at the edge of the water. I could see the hawk rising high. He quickly finished what he was saying and went into a swift dive out of the sky. Decisive. My eyes followed him until the horizon of trees entered between us. I walked as close to the water as possible and knelt down. Placing my hands into the river, I felt connected to the fish, and watched as they chose a path through the water and followed it closely. I brought some of the fresh water out with my hands and up to my face. I splashed it on. The amazing thing while all of this was going on was that the breeze continued to move, and the songbirds continued to sing.

I knew what I had to do.