Apropos of blogging

When viewing my or anyone else's blog, there's an option to click the "Next Blog" button at the top. This will lead on a never-ending stream of blogs. One after the other. One person's attempts to validate his or life through documentation and publishing on the internet. I found it interesting how many of the blogs were run by women. Maybe it's not that surprising. Many of them were "mommy blogs" documenting their child's trips to the pumpkin patch or commenting on how funny or clever they can be. All of which I, and most people without kids, find extremely boring.

But why the need to share with the world. I watched a TED talk on our ever-present existence on the Internet. Particularly, what will happen to all of this content that we disperse into the digital cosmos after we die. This particular speaker suggested that in the future, we may be able to compile all of the tweets, facebook and blog posts and create a digitized version of ourselves that can interact with surviving friends and family members. You would be interacting with what the collection of random thoughts that I decide to post. The computer would anticipate my most likely responses based on the data from my on-line personae.

I write on this blog because writing is a discipline. I read and wrote and synthesized so much information in college. I had discussion with and interacted with people way smarter than me on a daily basis. This blog is a way for me to keep in the discipline or writing. Why do other people write on blogs? Who is reading all of these. I could spend a lifetime hitting the "Next Blog" button and never reach the end of the endless stream of people's daily thoughts, poems, pictures and personal anecdotes.

What's the point of attempting to document one's life as it occurs for the world to read? Tweets are now archived in the Library of Congress. But who would ever want to read some 200 million tweets that people post everyday? It would take you ten years to read all of the tweets posted in a single day. Would this provide you with a snapshot of what the entire tweeting world was doing and thinking in that one particular moment in history? I take time out of my day, often passing time at stoplights or during my lunch break at work, reading tweets. This lets me catch up on news and weather, sometimes a comedian will make me laugh or I'll find out some bit of news about a band I follow. But what will these tweets, blog posts and facebook updates look like in the future? Will anyone care?

In the future, instead of reading all the tweets anyone had ever written, there will probably be a timeline of trending topics by region around the world illustrating the important topics of the day. On January 20, 2012, there will be a speck with "Etta James" on it, indicating that people were talking about her death on Twitter that day. Of all the thousands of people that posted emotional or clever tweets about the soul singer that day, a point in a graph will be all that is left. So why do we do it? Why do we want to be a part of the endless, global, digital conversation that is the social networking world? Proof that we existed? Proof that we were clever and wanted the world to know it?

Our ancestors felt the same way we do. They painted pictures of what they were doing on the walls of caves. Given that they were nomadic hunter/gatherers, they weren't hanging a picture in their respective houses. They were documenting a part of their lives that was very important to them. "Look how clever I am! I killed an animal with a spear!" They painted it, left their signature, often a hand print, then moved on. Is this the equivalent of a tweet or a facebook post? I guess the need to leave a trace has always been there. Of course, not every member of "early man" felt like cave tweeting, just like not everyone today feels the need to Check In on Four Square or post a picture every time their baby does exactly what everybody else's baby does and pretend that it's somehow unique. Perhaps a few insecure artists afraid of disappearing into the void posted these pictures on cave walls to secure his place in the eternal cloud of data.

Carl Sagan

My brother gave me a book for Christmas by Carl Sagan. It's called "A Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark." Much of the book describes the skeptical viewpoint of extra-terrestrial abduction stories and why they have been so common in America in the last 60-70 years. A majority of the abductees describe very similar experiences. The story is so well-worn at this point that it seems contrived rather than shocking or horrifying. The person is asleep and remembers waking up feeling paralyzed. They sense a presence in their room and often see some glowing face or body hovering or near their beds. They remember levitating, being taken into a vessel and examined by several other alien-like bodies. Most often, they report their genitalia being manipulated or examined. They wake up not sure if what they remembered actually happened, sometimes with identifying marks on their bodies.

It's strange that, as I read page after page of debunked story and theory, I got chills thinking about it. I know that none of it is true, but the thought still affects me somehow. I've never had a dream or occurrence in which anything like an alien abduction happened. So why this eerie feeling? Perhaps it's not aliens that creep me out, its the fact that these people are so convinced that it actually happened that is disturbing. I've always been creeped out by the thought of mental institutions. There's something very unnerving about a collection of humanity that operates on such a different brain function than the rest of us. They're trapped inside their malfunctioning brains, haunted by synopses gone haywire, sending mixed signals and disconnected thoughts at all times of the waking day. There's always been a fear that I would be in a similar state. Having thoughts but unable to communicate. Living in perpetual fear of the voices in my head or what my brain is capable of conjuring if it stopped working properly. Living like an unattached shell of a person while all the frightening, horrible images I've encountered during my lifetime spin, unfiltered through my thoughts. My imagination left only to its own devices without reality to ground it.

The fact that there are so many reported cases is disturbing. Obviously, the thousands of reported abductions did not actually occur. What's disturbing are the sheer number of people who have reported alien abductions and the multitudes who believe that they occurred. Sagan found this equally disturbing and feared for the stability of the country. If so many people are willing to believe in alien abductions, faith-healers, psychic powers, UFOs, Jesus, angels, demons, the devil, etc. how can we progress as an enlightened people? The alien abduction story has been told over the centuries with different abductors playing basically the same role. At first it was demons, then incubi and succubi, then fairies, or angels or any other supernatural being that visited people in the night and took them away. What's strange is how, through the centuries, the abductee reports being sexually molested in some way. Sometimes claiming that they were impregnated by demon or alien sperm.

This sounds crazy to me, but so many people believe it. So many people will believe anything as long as it fits in their already-existing mind set. "I prayed to Jesus and I got better" is a common claim. So few people say "I prayed to Jesus and it got worse" which is more likely the case. So what compels people to believe in all this? Sagan writes that it's the lack of a skeptical mind and culture that exalts the supernatural. We're raised to believe in supernatural beings that do all sorts of favors for us. The tooth fairy takes are discarded teeth and rewards us monetarily. Santa Claus rewards good behavior with gifts once a year. The Easter Bunny....not quite clear on his story, but the fact is, he sneaks into your house and gives you Easter-related gifts including dyed hard-boiled eggs. Strangely enough, we're all okay as children with the idea of supernatural being breaking into our house, monitoring our moral and dental behaviors and giving us gifts. Why wouldn't we believe that aliens watch over us, have access to our house and can take us away in the night and do with us what they please?

We are indoctrinated with the supernatural and the sublime from birth and parents who teach their children to be rational and to be skeptical of all things are thought of as not letting their kids have any fun. Imagine if we spent half the time teaching children science as we do teaching the story of Christmas. The message of that story can be grasped after a single telling and yet, we are told the story every year at Christmas. The birth of Christ was miraculous and humble and he went on to do great things after being born in a barn. However, the story of the monk Gregor Mendel persistently breeding pea plants so that certain traits would appear is taught maybe once or twice in an academic career.

What happened to the Age of Enlightenment? We live in an age where information is more readily available than at any other time in history. So why are we still so in the dark? Sagan believes that people are beginning to view science as some evil force that's out to ruin people's livelihoods and religions. People fear and often hate scientists and atheists. They represent a threat to their religions and their deeply-held beliefs. They are content to believe that supernatural, heavenly beings manipulate their lives. Angels saved them from a car crash, the devil led their son to drugs, God wanted me to go to Wal-Mart. Is it easier to be a puppet of divinity than to have control over one's own life? If America is in a self-imposed dark-age where God is in control and their are agents of Satan around every corner, how are we to compete in a secular, industrialized world? People are willing to blame almost anything for the dumbing down of America, but most likely, it's religion.

Sagan has changed my views on the existence of extra-terrestrial life. Mostly through mere statistics. There's no proof, but it is more statistically likely that there is life on other planets than not. Out of 400 billion stars each with possibly 10-15 planets on each, each planet composed of roughly the same organic compounds that exist on earth, at least one of them has bred some sort of life form. I'm still not sold on whether or not that life has the capacity for intellectual thought, but I can't rule it out as a possibility. I will say this: It is far more likely that intelligent beings on other planets exist than God.

I worry that when I finally have my own classroom, I will be frustrated by the indoctrinated beliefs of the students and of the ignorance of the other teachers. I've been working in schools for a while now, and I am often shocked at things that teachers say. The majority go to church, rarely read any new literature in their respective fields, seem to care very little about what they are charged with teaching and bring up the divine in casual conversation. Perhaps all of the more-informed teachers eat alone in their classrooms poring over scientific journals or reading up on the newest developments in the Modern Language Association. Perhaps I am judging the many by the few. I for one would and often do eat lunch in my classroom, avoiding the tea-time gossip that passes between the people we trust to educate our children. More, now than ever, I feel the need to teach and to enlighten and inspire. I may end up teaching English, but mostly, I will teach children and young adults how to be free thinkers and to never accept what is sold to them without first researching and investigating the facts.

Thank you Dr. Sagan for inspiring and charging my proverbial battery. Perhaps we shall receive a message from you in the not-to-distant future via radiotelescope. 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, 31, 37, 39....

day 2

Day two of writing begins with a story of blissful sleep. I can't remember the last time I slept as well as I did last night. Even after watching a scary movie called "Insidious," which left me genuinely chilled, I slept soundly. So soundly that I woke up to my alarm and turned it off, thinking I'll just close my eyes for a few more minutes and hold Alicia close to my body then get up and start the day. I woke up at 7:40 which is what time I normally leave for work. I got dressed and Alicia helped me make breakfast and get out the door in record time.

The only reason I need to get to work exactly on time is to be there when one of my students gets off the bus. It's our daily routine and, although I'm confident he could make it to the classroom on his own, I need to be there, if only to keep appearances with the administration. Strangely, when I pulled onto Orange Avenue on a red light right turn, I almost hit a purple Scion, the same car that Alicia drives. I was listening to Panda Bear which makes for good chill out music and reminds me of living in Germany and coming home to visit for Christmas. It does not necessarily make for good driving music. It's strange how when following your own routine, others seem to fit in with that routine. I see the same handicapped bus pulling onto Elm about the same time as me. I often see a purple Chevy Nova in Vinton. There's also a tall black man walking an Irish Setter near Fallon Park Elementary every morning. The same people doing the same thing at the same time every morning.

I drank my hazelnut coffee and everything seemed to be better. I would get to work. I would feel greasy all day having not showered, but at least I wouldn't have dog vomit on my pants like I did the day before. I got to work at a little past eight and stood at the bus drop off to wait for the student. His bus was late. Really late. All of that rushing and stress for nothing. Working in Special Ed can be rewarding, but can also be incredibly frustrating and boring. The students need so much more time to do anything you want them to, and you often have to keep reminding yourself to not give up. You have to remember that there is a point to what you are doing, even though at the end of the day, it may not make a difference. They'll never be able to tell their parents what they learned or did that day. The most important part of their education is that they show up everyday. Do they make progress? Do they learn new things? It's almost impossible to tell. Some things they were able to do one day are completely absent a week later. Their behavior is erratic and unpredictable. And sometimes it feels like us teachers lie to ourselves. We tell ourselves that we are in control and that our words make an impact, but they are immune to consequence, impulse control or deeper emotions like shame and embarassment.

An opportunity came up in the form of a homebound instructor position. I jumped on it as soon as I saw the e-mail. Working with a fifth grade student at home for four hours a week. Actual teaching, actual instruction, actual conversation with a cognitive student. I miss working with regular ed students. I've been away from it for so long that sometimes I feel like a special ed student. Unable to effectively communicate, struggling to make connections with peers and forgetting what I have learned from day to day. Special ed students and teachers are the ignored, the overlooked, the pitied. I can relate to our students in so many ways. I don't pity them anymore. I relate to their isolation and I am often jealous of their blissfull ignorance. Their problems are miniscule, they smile more and get high on the little joys that life can offer. While I feel guilty for my idolatry, they seem revel in sitting in one place without concern or awareness of anything other than the present.

I do pity their parents who have to live with the impending reality of their graduation from high school at the age of 21, at which time, the duties of the state to care for them, to look after them 8 hours a day and to feed them 2 meals a day will be lifted and the burden, financially and otherwise will lay solely on them. They may pass them on to a live-in care facility, but then the financial burden becomes frighteningly high. They will never be able to live on their own or take care of themselves. Their parents will die, but the burden of their children will carry on for years after.

Alicia once told me that she won't feel ready to have children until she knows that she could love and care for a special needs child. It's a frightening thought at any age. Is anyone ever ready?

jump start the blog!

Forgiven me blogger, it's been one year, two months since my last post. I have sinned. I have taken my writing for granted. Cheated on the solace and clarity it can bring in exchange for drinks, streaming internet tv, and hundreds of other distractions, most significantly, a girlfriend. She encouraged me to start writing again. Even if it's just a little bit every day, on here or unpublished, I'm going to write more. Fuck it.

I just had a dream where I was in a college dorm and I was making out with Alicia while we were both wearing suits made of Cap'n Crunch cereal. We were eating each others suits and getting really into it. It was strange. It was if the food were sex. I can't remember any sex actually happening, but the eating was intercourse.

I haven't dreamed about the lake house in a while. My dreams have been so sporadic as my sleep has been diminished lately. It's hard to dream while drunk. The alcohol prevents you from passing the threshold into deep sleep where dreaming occurs. If I dream at all after drinking, it will happen later in the morning after the effects of the alcohol have worn off and even then, they are spare and unfulfilling. But I needed it to fall asleep. I needed it to slip away. To see how far I could fall off the face of the earth if only for a few hours, to not think anymore, to not obsess, to not feel dread.

--He woke up with the ritualistic confusion and pain that had become commonplace since the break began. His thoughts turned immediately to her. The same cycle of thought that had challenged his sleep earlier that morning. The other hotel guests were leaving their rooms and slamming their doors disaffectedly as they squinted into the late December morning, bags in hand. He curled back into the sheets and blankets and wanted so much to not feel this way. His lungs hurt from too many cigarettes and although he did not have a hangover, the sleepless night made the back of his eyes hurt.

Half a bottle of Jim Beam stood suspended in the bucket of melted ice on the bed side table. Enough clothes lay strewn around the room to give the illusion of home, although they would be packed away and all traces of his stay would be erased by the Indian couple that come to clean the room. He started thinking about what he did last night. Check in, first drink, tv, second drink, cigarette, third drink, swig from the bottle, cigarette. At that point he was having fun. Reverting back to those first few drunks as a teenager when it made you feel light-headed and careless. When, by the simple act of drinking, you could shave just a few years off your life when things could be funny without being ironic and you could act silly without feeling uncool.

He laughed to himself when he had realized what he had done after the nth drink of whiskey from the complimentary styrofoam coffee cups. He laughed at the dirtiness of it, the sheer vileness of the act. Few things he had ever conjured felt so wrong, and yet, had felt so natural when he did it.

He drifted off for the briefest flash and another door slammed and he was awake again. Those few minutes felt more refreshing than the entire night's sleep. He rolled out of bed and walked into the bathroom to take a piss. The hotel had ceiling tiles like they had in elementary school. The kind with the metal bars holding them up from which teacher hung paper jack-o-lanterns in the fall and colorful kites in the spring. He thought about poking them up just see if anyone had hidden anything elicit up there. A gun, drugs, a bag of money. He stood on the edge of the tub and lifted the tile and shards of insulation fell out, so he let it alone and just assumed that all that shit was up there anyway. He made a pot of coffee from the single-serve unit by the sink. He sat down and lit a cigarette and thought about turning on the tv, but knew it would all be shit, so he just sat there and made the effort to smoke and drink the watery coffee.

He thought about what it meant to drink alone. It's not so much drinking, but slowly digging yourself into the hole that will become sleep. There's nobody around to keep you on your toes, no reason to stay cogent with arguments with yourself. So alcohol does what it's meant to do, depresses your nervous system until there's nothing left to do but let it power down.

He opened the night stand drawer and pulled out the Gideon's Bible. It looked sad and mangled in a way. The pages were wrinkled so the front cover bowed out a little and the ink that covered the outside of the pages was splotchy. This confirmed it. He had done what he had talked about for years now. He opened to the book of Luke and the pages pulled together in clumps. The paper was so thin that his semen had drifted through the pages of all the way back to Lamentations. He closed the book and put it back in the drawer with a hint of guilt. He shook it off and lit another cigarette.