I've Frequently Not Written Blogs...

When I promised a post on hyperbole by the weekend, I may have been exaggerating slightly... Between family visits, medications, and laziness, I haven't worked it into an actual post yet.

When I was in high school, I once didn't write a report about the Count of Monte Cristo. In fact, I've frequently not written reports about the Count of Monte Cristo (Eeeoooh!). Lets try this again, sans Rosencrantz...

In my senior year, I read the book, The Count of Monte Cristo. It's my favorite book. I outlined a report for school about futility of revenge and the incredible concept of hope. I wanted the last words of my report to be the final words of the book, "all human wisdom is contained in these two words: wait and hope." Those are epic words, beautiful words.

I wrote the first paragraph of my report. I wrote it about twenty times. I kept deleting it and rewriting it until I was so frustrated I could no longer work on it. When Mrs. Cooney collected everyone's book reports, I told her I tried but couldn't write more than a paragraph. I told her I would take the failing grade (which, in my infinite capacity for procrastination, was hardly without precedent). She looked at me for a long time, and said, "Do you think you're so hard on yourself because your dad is a writer?" And my heart sank.

She was, of course, entirely wrong. I was hard on myself because my dad AND my brother were really good writers. So there! Justin used to write great short stories all the time. One of the best presents I got for my birthday was a TMNT fan fiction he wrote me when I was little. He got a scholarship to study the Classics at Phoenix College. Then he dropped out because he was working full time, and, let's face it: he was studying Latin.

I was not a great writer. I was the artist. I could draw. Justin was the writer. Dad was the poet. Trying to delve into their domain was difficult. I felt forced to find perfection in the heavy-laden head of a fountain pen. I mean, keyboard, technically, I guess. Just pretend I'm scribing ye ole missive from somewhere in the late 17th century and make it work. It's poetical.

I ended up working for a month on that book report after school in her classroom. I think I managed to get three or four paragraphs finished by the end (The end being expulsion from high school for bad grades; which was sort of the exact opposite of ironic: more of a cause and effect). I never finished the report, but I learned something about myself, and I struggled through the anxiety of it. I always respected Mrs. Cooney for giving me that chance. Eventually, I even began to find my voice, my sarcastic, insane voice. And look where that got us.

Struggling on my current post reminds me of that feeling. Nothing comes together. Everything is a hazy cloud of information that I grasp only to have it slip away in gentle wisps of futility. I have a point to make, something interesting, but I can't formulate the concept correctly. So I get anxious. And I procrastinate.

We all have our burdens. The Count was betrayed by all his friends and imprisoned while they stole everything he loved. I have minor writer's block. It's perfectly equivalent. Shut up!

I'll finish it eventually. Until then, all human wisdom is contained in these two words: wait and hope!

4 A.M.

It's 4am. 3rd day on new medications. I was actually sacked out in bed by 11pm, completely exhausted. I laid there for hours slowly growing more and more hyper. Then my cat suddenly went from sleeping soundly at my side to randomly attacking an imaginary cricket by my pillow. I know it was an imaginary cricket, because he chased a real cricket two nights ago near my bed. I think this was PTSD because last time the cricket jumped at his face when I was trying to kill it. He sat and stared at it, apparently so overcome by shock he was unable to care that the stupid bug he was hunting for over an hour was suddenly in his clutches. Of course, this time, I didn't know his bug was imaginary. So I spent ten minutes searching my bed, clothes, and hair for signs of a bug's life. I was Ripley in Alien. Except she was calmer and more collected. Now I've abandoned the search, not to mention the concept of sleep, and I'm up listening to music, playing games, and updating my blog... Blaise is conked out on the bed again as though none of this happened.

This happened the last time I was on this type of med. Sleeplessness, I mean. Not my cat hallucinating crickets. The doctor said it's an activation effect, and it will go away in time. I actually dig the med. High energy, helps me function... It's just that I can't sleep much, and I'm always way too close to hypo mania. We flirt. It's cute. It probably doesn't help that every med I'm taking is in complete flux. I'm off one med, weening off a second, and starting in on two more. In two months, I'll probably be going off another.

I've been working on a blog about words and hyperbole. It's a mess of garbled thoughts at the moment, like I just picked up two dozen random post-it notes off the floor and declared them my Pensees. I'm hoping to organize it this weekend and post it. Actually, I was hoping to do it tonight, but instead I laughed hysterically at my optimism and posted this random update instead.

Story Time!

Okay, so, story time! This is the introduction to the superhero I've been developing. I don't know how much more of the story I'll write on the blog, if anything. It'll probably depend on the reception. So here you go:

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    Audey Galant crouched upon the rooftop. She felt the cool night air upon her face. Her teeth chattered as the wind picked up, and it whistled through the elms and blew through her long cape, lifting it in short, lively billows. It was nearly time.

    She had been planning out the route for some time. The merely circuitous observation of a town was not of much use unless she took the crime rates into consideration. She had watched the evening news for weeks, taking notes on the location of every mugging, every violent crime. As the only vigilante superhero in Troublefree, she had to make the best use of her time on patrol. It felt strange to her that she was the only hero, and she wondered briefly if the name of the town had anything to do with it. She made a mental note to talk to the city founders about changing the name.

    After tonight, she knew the world would take notice of the town. Everyone would know the name of Troublefree, and they would know how it was protected, how it was a place of justice.

    Audey thought about the last few weeks. She knew the value of keeping her identity secret, and had not let on, even to her best friend, about her newly manifested powers. She could not put the people around her in danger. No one could know. It tore her apart to lie to those she loved, but that was the burden she had been given. It was the burden she freely bore. With her powers came responsibilities. That was her mantra. Her code. And so she had lived life like she always had, she had eaten her cereal, walked to school, socialized, studied. She was the every-teen. No one suspected. No one could have. Audey was the essence of normality.

    Yet, every evening, Audey raced to her room, shut her door, and immersed herself within another life. It was a slow process, but one that excited her. Designing a uniform. Choosing a name. Developing the proper tools to become the city's protector. And that is what she was. She would become the face of Troublefree. She would stand between the forces of evil and those they would attempt to intimidate and bully. It was who she was, at her core, it was that spark that defined her very being. She was the embodiment of justice and retribution, the protector of the innocent.



    Audey breathed deeply. The night air had begun to chap her lips. She made another mental note for an addition to her costume: A utility belt with a pocket for chapstick. But tonight, her first stop was the supermarket. Two days ago, there had been a purse snatching in the parking lot. A street light had burned out, and the elderly victim never had a chance. According to her report to the local newscaster the next day, the man had made off with about $20. The supermarket changed the light bulb soon afterward. The supermarket perhaps would not be the site of Audey's greatest victory, and perhaps she would not have bothered at all, but she refused to ignore the plight of any victim, and she had an errand to run. Besides, she only had recently aquired her powers, and she knew better than to push her power of flight to the limits on the first run. She had read enough comics in preparation to know the consequences of such recklessness.

    Audey smiled, and whispered quietly, "I'm off to the supermarket pick up some milk... and some JUSTICE!" Her hand curled into a dramatic fist as she gazed across the cityscape. It was finally time to let loose. It was time for her first flight as protector of Troublefree.

    The initial feeling was indescribable, the weightlessness of her body, and the wind parting across her body as she shot through the night sky. She felt a freedom and excitement she had never experienced before. The power of flight was more beautiful than she imagined.

    The ground shook as she landed suddenly in a heap. The thought passed through her mind that this was the part she should have practiced more. Trying to control the full weight of her falling body was not as easy as she had expected. She moaned softly.

    A light suddenly shot on from behind her. She wasn't sure how far she had made it. A few blocks, certainly. She hadn't anticipated her speed. It seemed to be someone's front yard.

    "Audey, is that you?"

    "Mom?"

    "Did you... did you just jump off the roof?"

    "No, mom, I... I mean, who are you? I'm not Audey. I'm the Lady of the Evening!"

    "What?!"

    "I am the Voice of Justice in a world struck dumb!"

    "Are you okay? Why are you wearing one of my sheets on your back?"

    "I AM JUSTICE GIRL!!!"

    "I think your arm is broken."

    "Ouch! Don't touch it, mom! ...I mean, random lady. Whom I don't know."

    "I'm getting your brother to drive you to the emergency room. Maxfield!"

    Max almost died laughing as he approached.

    "Shut up, dufus! It's not funny."

    "It's hilarious! What are you doing, Audey?"

    "I'm not Audey, I'm Justice Girl... Audey doesn't wear goggles. Also, I have a cape."

    "Oh, that's awesome!" Max scooped up his little sister in his arms almost effortlessly. She quivered as the movement shot spasms through her arm and back.

    "I can't believe it didn't work." Audey whispered under her breath as she steeled herself against the pain in her arm. The physical pain was nothing to her. What hurt was the failure. This time, she had been so sure of herself. Somewhere out there, in the cold, heartless darkness, another old lady was having her purse stolen. Another $20 was going to fund the operation of another underground criminal syndicate or to purchase another stockpile of nuclear weapons. And Audey was once again powerless to stop it...

The Meaning of 'Quixotic' Is, Um, Quixotic...

The Meaning of 'Quixotic' Is, Um, Quixotic...

    My current blog title is 'Practically Quixotic.' It's an oxymoron, like jumbo shrimp or Apple tech support. It will probably change. I mean, my blog title will probably change, not Apple tech support. Either way, the proper definition of quixotic is "resembling Don Quixote."

    So who is Don Quixote? No clue. Haven't read the book. I really want to, but I've never actually gotten around to it. I'm still working on Hitchens' "Mortality" to discuss it with my dad, and a reread of Stoker's "Dracula" for my cousin's book club.

    But Quixote seems cool. If I could be any character from literature, without hesitation I would be the Count of Monte Cristo. But if I couldn't be him, Quixote would be a cool second choice. He is one of the most noble, chivalrous, and romantic characters in all of literature. Is it his fault he has poor eyesight? No. Sure, his sword may have been hitting against windmills, but he was attacking giants! And that's awesome. There may be no need for Don Quixote's valiance, there may be no giants or dragons, no damsels to be rescued, he may just be causing more problems and present himself as an utter fool to those around him, but that doesn't diminish who he is or what he is doing. He is a man who brashly charges a field of giants, ready to protect all he holds dear no matter what the cost.

    So, that is what quixotic means. Brave, bold, brash, daring, and romantic. Also, foolish, unrealistic, useless, unnecessary, impractical. Also, random note, his name literally means "hip" or "thigh." So, he may not have been very practical, but he's still pretty hip.

I read a book!

    I recently read A First-Rate Madness, by Nassir Ghaemi. It talks about the 'madness' of leaders and the mental illness inherent to greatness. It is a fascinating book. It talks about the mania which leads to resiliency through suffering and a creative thought and vision, and the depression which leads to realistic understanding of problems and empathy toward those around us. It speaks specifically to bi-polar disorder, and more specifically toward bi-polar with a manic baseline.

    That may be why I'm screwed. I don't have a manic baseline to my insanity. My insanity is only second-rate. I don't have enough drive, enough vision, or enough energy to be great. It seems like a lot of work. I've probably had the right vision or inspiration to become great, but then I probably got sidetracked by wanting to understand lightsabers better and spent 3 months reading online about the force and which lightsaber style to use in countering blaster fire, as well as replaying every Star Wars video game in my collection. Although, that likely led to a idea for a Star Wars movie or book that could have lead to my greatness being revealed, except then I started obsessing over something else. Like contemplating infinity. Cantor spent a lifetime on that and drove himself insane through his obsession. I lasted for 3 weeks. Or may I tried again to understand the Higgs-Boson. Or I took another stab at reading the monastics. Or all the Batman comics (Because, say what you will, Damian is the coolest Robin. I shall not be convinced otherwise.).

    What was I talking about again? Oh, right. So, apparently, I'm easily distracted. I'm also easily bored. Most importantly, I lack that beautiful spark of delusional self-importance that can only come from a truly noble mania. A manic mind can assume an entire country's full and unwaivering support should they decide to suddenly run for president and lead the world through the next World War. Possibly, because the world recognizes him as Napoleon. In contrast, a depressed and anxious mind might have difficultly assuming their best friend's loyalty if, say, they took the last slice of pizza when there was a possibility that someone else may possibly have wanted it, as well. They would feel the glares of two thousand eyes upon them, and a thousand minds thinking, "How dare they? There might have been some person who wanted that! I mean, obviously, he's a person, too, but, you know, like, a real person!" Which is kind of an odd thing for a thousand minds to suddenly think at once, let alone voice in a single universal internal monologue without preemptively memorizing that exact wording or having an extertal queue to begin, like someone suddenly inexplicably counting down from three, but then nothing happens after '1' except everyone glaring and thinking the same thought at the same time. All of which would take more planning than anyone would bother with, possibly because it's over a slice of pizza.

    For the record, I understand that I'm a real person. Most of the time. Although, the next time I take a slice of pizza, if someone just said, "3, 2, 1," then everyone glared at me, I'm pretty sure I'd freak out. Of course, I think most people would. Except for manic people. They would interpret the glares as looks of shining admiration, which is my point. I don't have the self confidence to believe that people look to me with admiration and want to follow me. Naive self-importance to the point of self-deception often seems a necessary trait of leadership.

    But, depression has it's place, as well. Like I said, I've read the monastics. I know how many beans makes five. There is a beauty to self-loathing which transends itself into selflessness and other-centeredness. One's lack of esteem for himself can create an amazing love for others, and inspire those around him. The problem is, depression is uniquely paradoxical insofar as it is a self-hatred that is entirely self-obsessed. That should probably be restated more clearly. Probably by someone who is more intelligent than me. Sufficed to say, obsessing over whether you're making other people hate you is a more self-centered activity than it sounds. Pounding that into a form that just wants to love and help and bring peace and happiness is a tricky proposition at best. It also doesn't pay well.

    I don't know how to do that. I did learn one thing over the years. Somewhere in my fear and anxiety, my depression and self-loathing, I learned that hiding it only destroy me, made it harder to go on. So, I attempted something different. I tried to become an open book. If someone asked, I would answer. If someone should know, I would confess. I'm bi-polar. I'm ADD. I have social anxiety. I suck at this. I discovered something. If people are shocked, its because they are surprised how open I am and how well I deal with it, and they see me in a more positive light. They ask questions in order to understand, they make accommedations to help me cope, or they do something else: confess. It turns out, I'm not the only screwed up person in the world. It is the most incredible thing in the world. To be inferior, to be screwed up, to have to confess your lack of strength... and see someone's face light up. Because they are screwed up, inferior, and they lack strength, but they were too ashamed to admit it to anyone before. Maybe it wasn't even them. Maybe it was a child, a spouse, or a friend. Suddenly, we are connected in a strange and powerful way. We know each other and trust each other in a way we never could have before. Weakness is exposed, and there is no shame.

    So, if I get the chance to be great, to become a leader, it will be for that reason. Not because I am arrogant and self-important (although I quite proudly do have my moments), but it will be because I lack strength and am willing to admit it to those around me and let them know me and know my heart.

    But, how many people become leaders? It can't be many. Ten percent? Statistically, that would make 9 followers per leader. Not exactly enough followers to raise up a nation. They could probably start up a small business... No, likely, I'll never be a leader. I'll never become great. In fact, my depression will probably immobilize me. I'll never actually be able to focus. I'll continue to stay in my room as an immature version of a monastic hermit because social anxiety constantly pushes me toward a painful agoraphobic solitude. That is the hard one to confess.

    So, the point. We come to you at last. What is a first-rate madness? Not everyone with bi-polar gets to be Winston Churchill or Abraham Lincoln. Most will never even have a chance. Those who may have a chance at greatness will likely have that potential robbed from them by the same disease that offered it. Likely, I won't even get the chance to become mediocre or second-rate. And that is truly maddening. But, it's not the point. The point is that my madness still shares the same qualities that made those men great. I still have the creativity, the realism, the empathy... and the resiliency. I can still live my life and make an impact. I can accomplish interesting and amazing things, whether they are great or not.

Why do we demand justice?

Why do we demand justice?

(This is from a Facebook note I wrote a while back)

One more article in a string of a hundred. Was Mubarak's life sentence justice, or did he get off too easy? After so many lives have been destroyed, is it justice to allow him to live? Whether it is John Edwards, Dharun Ravi, George Zimmerman, Casey Anthony, or OJ Simpson, we scream out for justice to be served. We see people we know to be guilty walk away with minimal punishment, and we want more. We want to see them locked away forever, hurt, destroyed, for them to feel what they made their victims feel. And we see the most terrible men alive fall, broken or dead, and we rejoice. Osama Bin Laden, Mubarak, Hitler. We rejoice that justice is finally served.

So let me say this as strongly as I can. We are not asking for justice. We are a lynch mob demanding the death of the guilty and innocent alike. It cruelty, barbarism, and the ultimate form of injustice.

First, let me say: we do not know who is guilty. Let me repeat that. We do not know who is guilty. We build the narrative in our minds of how things must have played out. We take into account the evidence... perhaps. But we aren't involved. We do not have the information that the police have. We do not see through the eyes of the victim. We do not enter the mind of the perpetrator to see his motives, his fears, his desires. We simply build a worst case scenario in our minds and demand justice for the victim by attacking the person who we decided must be guilty of the crime.

We say we punish to give justice to the victim. There is no justice for the victim. Whether through murder, rape, or abuse, the person has been forever altered. There is no way to balance the scales. There is only destruction. We cannot punish the accused however the victim or the victim's family want, we need impartiality. We need sobriety. Not revenge. And we should have the utmost respect for the person we give the job of passing judgment. It is a horrible responsibility. We should never be frivolous. We should sentence people to life or death as a last resort: if we find the person so much a danger to society that the only way to prevent another tragedy is to ensure the person no longer has access to society. And we should weep every time this happens. It is a statement of the human condition, our own failings, the failings of our society, that we see no way for another human being to be redeemed.

Osama Bin Laden was such a case. He was actively involved in trying to kill Americans. He had to be killed to prevent more deaths, I do not doubt that for a second. However, when I saw Americans gathering at the capitol, cheering, rejoicing, partying... my heart sank. To watch people delight in death, for any reason, is horrid. It brought to mind the meditation by John Donne:

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

Osama Bin Laden's death diminished me. The hope for his redemption was gone. His ability to turn himself and his followers to peace was abandoned. Those who loved him (and there are those that truly loved him, for right or wrong reasons) are left to suffer. Death is chaos, destruction, evil. It is not something to celebrate as though the world is suddenly a brighter place. The world is darker. Destruction and death took the place of mercy and life.

Matthew 7 says, "“Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you." This should scare the crap out of all of us. If you claim to be a Christian, if you claim that Christ's blood was shed for you to be purified from your sins, to bring you from death to life, from darkness to light, from justice to grace, you should have a 7 word mantra that you repeat to yourself over and over through every moment of your life: Grace. Grace. Grace. Grace. Grace. Grace. Grace.