Through Child Lens

While discussing the difference between religion and spirituality, my nine-year-old asked me a profoundly philosophical question: “If Heaven is paradise, with nothing bad in it… how can anyone appreciate it, and know that it’s good?” Several weeks removed from that afternoon, her question still hangs with me. The fact is we define reality indirectly, by comparing objects, experience, and events to their opposites. We know “up,” because we understand “down.” Good as it relates to bad, pleasure to pain, hot to cold, and so on. Therefore, in order to comprehend or appreciate Heaven, one must simultaneously experience Hell. A condition wholly unattainable while one exists in a state of blissful paradise. Essentially, the concept of Heaven through its own design negates itself.

This theory has been brought to you courtesy of my daughter; “The Sage.”

Spring Renewal Brings Academic Uncertainty

There is something very unique about strolling through a university campus as classes are letting out. The flow of people every which way, the sidewalks bustling with a youthful energy that while befitting a Spring day, is never out of place in the realm of academia regardless of season. Miles removed from any substantial urban center, universities stand as cultural meccas, drawing to them the brightest minds in the most diverse packages. So much promise. All the opportunity in the world within arms reach. On days like this, I have occasion to ask myself whether or not I'll be able to break free of her spell come graduation day.

Several years ago, I chose to pursue a career in Computer Programming. While sifting through the requisite weeds of the degree, I encountered a Composition professor by the name of Dennis Heinrichson. The man changed my life in a way that no other instructor has, and it was largely because of my time spent with Dennis, and my exposure to his class that I discovered that my true calling was to write. With a slight shift to the left; breath held and fingers crossed, I disposed of the programming and immersed myself in Professional Writing instead, certain that my true path had finally revealed itself.

That was two years ago. I am no longer attending community college, and have since migrated to the university. My writing has improved in that time, and I've even had a short story published. This blog in a way, has become a monument to my desire to write and as March 31st fast approaches I realize that it has been two years since it's inception. But the story does not end there, nor does my ongoing ambivalent affair with mistress academia. This semester I've had the privilege of encountering yet another master of the craft, someone through which I clearly imagine myself, thirty years hence.

This morning while waiting for my daughter's bus to arrive, she mentioned a project that she was involved with at school that would require her to speak in front of the class. She went on to express her misgivings regarding public speaking, and explained that doing so caused her to feel uneasy. I tried to console her by linking to my own experience, and assuring her that everyone feels that way to some extent, even her old Dad. Truth be told, there is nothing I would like more than to pursue a degree in Philosophy and spend the remainder of my days whiling away the hours scribbling obscure interpretations of this condition we dub "life." Only problem is, we all need a 9 to 5, and where Philosophy is concerned, that translates into one thing: teaching.

So it is that when you take a love of writing, and a penchant for philosophy; factoring against it a general disdain (if not complete loathing) for public oration... well you end up with a Professional Writing major I suppose. Which makes today's synchronic conundrum all the more funky. Yes, I am getting there in a round about way, hang in there and you will soon be rewarded with the point of this ramble. Having seen Sage onto the bus, I climbed into the Jeep, and made off for my own days curriculum.

While sitting there half awake waiting for class to begin, Dr. Goodson (the aforementioned turbo prof.) came over, and sitting down next to me asked what my major was. To which I replied Professional Writing. This caused the man to wince. He asked why. I elaborated. Again, a wince. Having had enough of his subtle cringes, I decided to inquire what his interest was in regards to. He told me that my essay The Underside of Urbane was very well written, and wondered if there was anyway that I would consider switching my major to English, and that he would like me to join his masters program. He layed it on pretty thick.

He explained that the English Department was an aging group, due in part to the lack of young people interested in teaching it. He shared with me his frustration that a large portion of the English Dept. faculty are not native born speakers of the language, because American/NW European interest is systemically waning. He went on to say that it was frustrating to discover people such as myself, and later learn that we have no interest whatsoever in a professorship, and even less enthusiasm for teaching English.

I was flattered, but didn't really know how to respond. It's one thing to arrive at the personal conclusion that you have no business instructing others, but an entirely different animal when you are confronted by a professor whom you respect, and he suggests that you do; as if your destiny is somehow wrapped up in the notion.

I'll admit, I entertained the idea for a bit. That's just not me though. Or is it?

Another Casualty of War

Last night, I received the nightmarish news. It was my brother on the phone calling to tell me that a childhood friend of ours has descended into Meth addiction, and is currently nowhere to be found. He went on to explain how "S" had returned from his tour of duty in Iraq, where he was stationed with the Marines, and had been experiencing PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). Apparently veteran affairs didn't give two craps about him, and he was not offered any exit counseling or therapy. Thrown to the dogs "S" picked up Crystal Meth as a means of coping.

First his wife left him, and then he was barred from visiting his children. Eventually he lost his job, his house, ... everything. His last known whereabouts was at a shelter run by Veteran Affairs, but he has since gone missing. His teeth are falling out, his skin is covered with self inflicted sores, and he's become a full-blown paranoid delusional. Word is, last family member to pay him a visit had the misfortune of using his bathroom, and as they exited the room they were met at the door with "S" shoving a handgun in their face while screaming 'I told you not to flush the toilet!!'

From Tim's perspective, "S" is like a brother. After the State slapped our parents with the neglect suit, which eventually led to Tim's emancipation, the two of them were inseparable. For those two boys, life on the street at the tender age of 14 bred a level of codependence akin to the bonds developed through warfare. Tim now feels it's his responsibility to track down "S" and try to save him. The call last night was more or less a plea for assistance in that endeavor. I love my brother dearly, and I have a great deal of respect for "S," but I don't know what to do.

I spent the better portion of the day researching methamphetamine addiction and it's effects, yet I feel no closer to understanding this than when I first began. The man is armed and dangerous, and judging by his physical deterioration, on the brink of death; indicating that his addiction is severely advanced. Odds are, if we do find him, he won't be receptive to anything that we have to say because he will no longer view us as equals, (not having been subjected to the war), and as anyone who's studied social psych will attest, that's what is necessary for any true communication to occur under duress.

It's been a very long time since I've felt this conflicted. Fuck this war and the lives that are being destroyed by it.