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.

Stream -- People call me the wanderer.

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

People call me the wanderer. My hair is long and my clothes are warm. They're here for me when it's time for the wind to rise. It happens, sure as the tides, when the sky gives in to dusk. I see it. As I travel from town to town, I see it. I walk down the road and I say goodbye to the sun. The brush begins to sway, and there is a rustling in the trees. Then, the wind rises swiftly, a last gasp before the night takes the sunset. The colors dim, but I continue walking.

I remember my family. It had many parts, and it was not exclusive to biology: brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, children, friends, confidants, mentors and caregivers. Some members of my family were many of those things, some were only one, and sometimes certain members became none. Some were distant, some were close, but that was not proportional to their location, however near or far it may have been to me. Some came into my life only very briefly, others were there always. Some died. All were loved, in one way or another.

People call me the wanderer. My beard is full and my boots are sturdy. They keep me going where the road gets weary. It happens. No matter my disposition or the time of day, it happens. I continue on the road and I say goodbye to everything else. The night has taken over the sky and there is no moon tonight. The noise of city lights that I cannot see has blocked out the stars. Cars are long gone having taken their headlights with them. And this is a street of only stop signs, but even the color in them has faded. The wind is gone, but I continue walking.

I remember my lover. She had so many sides to her, and I guess that was both her greatest flaw and her greatest attribute. Her eyes had a hypnotic depth. They took me in and gave me comfort. I found safety there and I felt open. Her softness was enchanting. It eased my suffering and fueled my passion. I found liberation and it made me tender. Her smile was perfect and universally enjoyed. I saw it crack. Where I had one self, she had many. At long last, she was human. No matter the circumstance, however, she was loved. She is always loved. I love her.

I am the wanderer. My mind is healthy and my body is well-fed. And so, I walk on. My strides are measured. They are not always equal, but they are measured. Where I'm going is not a mystery and when I get there, I'll know. Right now, I have what I need: my thoughts and the night. I hope for the sun at dawn. That is all I have. The road continues in front of me, and soon I'll be between towns. Out on the two-lane road, I'll see its cracks and faded paint. I'll walk along the ditches and watch the lines of crops. I continue to walk, and I'll keep walking.

Stream -- Gifting her with music...

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

Gifting her with music was not my intent, and I still believe I did not do that. I did, however, want to hear the music in her, and I do believe I accomplished that. I'm excited, sitting here and waiting to hear her very first set ever, as I know what the small, intimate audience is about to receive. As her grandfather, I know she's had music from a young age, very young. As her friend, I have needed strongly to help her express that fully, and without obligation to me of any sort. Now, you could say I am her sponsor after these last months.

Hard to believe it was that long ago I gave Olivia her guitar. I didn't bother wrapping it. I sat in my apartment, awaiting her usual visit, and did a little tuning and then a little strumming in the darkened room. Liv knocked her unassuming knock and entered. "Hi Grandpa Oberon," she said. It was like her smile flipped the light switch. "Hello sweetheart," I said, "how bright you are. Come and sit with me." She didn't know what to think of the guitar. Liv knew I had the ability, but I don't think she expected me to bother anymore. She, herself, had played all her life and had plenty of friends to borrow guitars from, but it was never more than a hobby. I aimed to change that, or more accurately, give her the tools. She was thrilled.

Everything about Liv is sensible. Her clothing is usually standard, looks nice on her but nothing showy. She did well in school and got her college degree, and moved into a steady job. She has a nice group of friends that anybody's parents would love. The most risqué thing about her is the navel piercing (we don't mention anything to her folks about the tattoo above her shoulder blade... yet). Point being, at 23, she does and has done everything right in her life. Olivia does it the way I raised her mother to raise her. But she didn't have that damn guitar, and I wanted her to have that damn guitar, because she should have it. She always does the things people do, but then people didn't put the music in her.

And so, her visits consisted of drinking tea and chatting, strumming and songwriting, all with me. What a gift to an old man. I only asked her to do it the way she wanted without looking to my approval. Liv didn't need any training. Over the months, I saw something innate. When she finally told me of the gig, I was thrilled.

There is no dressing room here, just a private bathroom off the bar and kitchen. Liv is there, finishing up getting ready. I sit at a table off to the side but closest to the small stage. I have the guitar. The other tables are full and the beauty of the settings starts to set in. The only advice I gave to her was to wear comfortable shoes. So, when I hear the sound of her favorite $5 flip flops, I know she's coming to get the guitar. I turn round and see before me someone beautiful. She looks completely non-sensible, wearing a short lovely dress with hair and makeup done up, but there is that same smile. And the lights in the room go on.

She sits at the mic and says, "Hello, I'm Liv Oberon." She looks at me and winks... what a stage name. I'm swept up in the whole scene and I look forward to hearing her music.