Answers…

Once upon a time I believed in science; ironically, I also believed everything my Methodist upbringing taught me. Now that I’m in the final decades of my lifespan I wonder about matters of fact and belief and realize that an abyss of misdirection and outright misinformation divides the two. I hope to make peace with both before I make the jump into whatever realm awaits after this gig called life.  

How many human beings are able to discern between belief and fact with utter clarity during childhood? Surely there are the rare few who are–I wasn’t one of them. I was, however, gifted with insatiable curiosity, so I asked a lot of questions (and didn’t always get a lot of answers). My acceptance system back then tended to default to the statements of individuals I perceived as more knowledgeable and experienced than I, so parents, teachers, ministers–anyone in positions of authority–clearly knew more, therefore, they had access to truth and spoke the truth. When I was very young, I couldn’t identify the conflicts between belief–which requires faith in something for which there is no proof, and fact–which is known and proven by actual experience or observation; I simply didn’t have sufficient life experience. After better than a half century’s life experience, those conflicts still bugger my quest for truth, and those who should be able to provide it aren’t necessarily forthcoming with it.

Back in the day when I believed with childish innocence that science would save humanity on all possible levels, pure research still existed. Great minds, compelled by the same curiosity which compelled mine, were able to investigate whatever interested them most, and I was envious of their ability to delve into questions I couldn’t begin to imagine. Over the years agendas not so friendly to human beings have reduced pure research to science-for-hire, and a lot of the hiring is by avaricious corporations and, worse still, the military. I cringe when I read about a new technological breakthrough because I’ve read too much fine print: who funded the research, who was in bed with whom before the funding was available, and who was most likely to benefit from the innovation. Inevitably, it comes down to money–whoever has the most, benefits the most.

So, today I have the internet as a tool to help find answers, but it still falls to me to discern the best out of countless potentially bad ones. Because a significant amount of material is user-generated, there isn’t always a way to verify contributors’ credentials and expertise. I’ve learned to consider most of what I read opinion until I have proof otherwise, and discovering proof is often a long, convoluted process.

I’m willing to do the homework, because truth matters to me and, at heart, my inner kid still has a lot of unanswered questions.

(To be continued.)

Why I do this crazy thing I do…

Why do writers write?

I don’t know an entirely satisfying answer to that question, but I have insights based upon the impact writing has had on my life…

In my experience of writing, it’s been as much a matter of compulsion as inclination. When an idea presents itself for expression, it’s seldom that I am able to step away and do something else. Imagine a physician, member of  law enforcement, or firefighter–all of whom at any time may be on call 24/7–and there you have an idea of how the process works for me. If a work of fiction beckons, from the very first word I slip into another universe in which I populate worlds with characters and circumstances which may, at any time, go off in directions contrary to what I had in mind. More than once, although I thought I knew where a story would go, the plot took an abrupt turn, leaving me wondering what the hell happened. Nearly every time, the story knew what it needed and I had to agree that its intentions for itself were better than mine; to this day, no one has explained to my satisfaction how that happens when I do this crazy thing I do.

The time of day is significant in the mix: I tend to do most of my work in the wee small hours and as the story progresses the dark of night gives way to the song of the first robin in the morning. When I finally disconnect from the story, there’s always a mild shock of reality when I look at the clock and realize how many hours have passed and how much experience transpired in my imagination in the  meantime. A part of me feels a kind of letdown not unlike that someone might feel upon returning home after an especially wonderful vacation. The truth is, I hate to say goodbye to a story upon its conclusion.   

It’s important that I mention the patient man who understands how my creative process works, still more important, that he knows how essential this is to who I am. I suspect that he sometimes feels he’s second near the top of a very short list in my life, and that may be true. He knows that when the story is done my attention will return to the real world and to him.                              

I’ve always loved how words work, how they possess the ability to inspire and influence human thought and action. To this day I don’t know where the ideas come from, nor how they filter through my nervous system, down to my fingers, and onto this screen as text. I only know that when I write, time falls away, leaving me alone in a universe alive with possibility and absolutely no limitations. I am at my best in all ways when I write, I feel most alive, and believe my best contribution to the human experience is through my writing.

Life experience has taught me to not only appreciate words for their purely expressive potential, but to also respect their power to move  human beings to all manner of purposes for good–or ill. All the great orators who have ever hoped to motivate groups of listeners had to understand at some level the rules of grammar and usage before they could do what they did, and you can bet a writer was involved at some point. I would loved to have been present as Martin Luther King, Jr. composed his “I have a dream” address, and as John F. Kennedy created his “Ask not what your country can do…” speech; did they ever struggle to find a perfect word only to be thwarted by writers block? Both great men began with profound ideas which sought expression; purpose compelled them, conscience guided them, integrity saw them though to completion, and words were the vehicle throughout.

Words’ meanings are both obvious and subtle, depending upon the reader’s mindfulness and expectations. Some words are, by general consensus, agreed to have emotional meanings ascribed: some good, some not-so. The latter instance accounts for the properties of vulgarity and obscenity. George Carlin, whom I continue to regard as one of the greatest observers of the human condition of all time, was able to shrug off the obligatory conventions of human communication and to point out its peculiarities and limitations. His signature standup routine about “The Seven Words You Can’t Say On Television” was very off-putting for me when I was younger; today I see the wisdom and insight of his reasoning, although I can’t honestly say I entirely agree. The point is, he had a grasp of the power of words on human reasoning and action, and exercised his freedom to express his observations.

As our planet teems with billions of human beings, each one with thoughts and life experience unique to them and the desire to communicate them, a smaller number harbors the desire to exert control over the activities of the rest, including the act of communication. The thought that anyone might attempt to restrain how I express my humanity through the written word is abhorrent and unacceptable to me, and such has been the lot of the writer from the beginning.

Words are powerful; they possess vital energy as surely as any other living thing does and for that reason must be treated with respect and discernment. As surely as they may elevate our imaginations and aspirations to the loftiest heights, they may just as easily lure and seduce us away from our better natures. I intend to never offer in writing anything which is counter to the compassionate advancement of our species, anything which is untruthful, deceitful, or misleading, and to always—always–write out of love.

I would rather my ability to write be taken away forever, should I ever do otherwise.

Back in the saddle again…

It’s been awhile.

I thought I’d burnt-out as far as blogging was concerned, but recent events in my life and a few dear souls (you know who you are) have nudged me back into this nasty little habit. A part of me feels a little tentative getting back into the swing, so please bear with me; this posting will be a bit random.

Several issues may make this a challenging experience: the computer from which this material originates is something of a dinosaur, the processor is ancient, the XP is getting wonky, and I have to get accustomed to the WordPress platform all over again. Just getting logged in so I can update this blog is a pain in the ass. I have a few other blogs here, and made the mistake of creating them under different accounts, each with different usernames and passwords. I’ve abandoned two editions of Happenstance, and the one which I am updating now still doesn’t feel like home yet, but this is where I’ve decided to settle and will give it my best shot.

The thing is, I’m not the same person since I abandoned ship and set Happenstance adrift; a part of me feels tremendous regret about that.  I remember Spaces when it was as golden as Camelot—before MSN “upgraded” it into oblivion—and recall the talented writers and good souls I interacted with on a regular basis. Happenstance represented a good time in my life, but life experience compels me to move past and move on. Another part of me wonders how different the dynamic will be in WordPress: the platform itself is a little more complicated than Spaces, but I suppose that will be less of an issue the more I use it. Then again, the fact that I’m using obsolete technology is going to slow me down…I’ll deal with it.

I used to post short stories and poetry back at Spaces; I don’t know if I can do that here. My intention is to make a living as a writer and I can’t justify giving my work away as I did back then. I may change my mind about that one; we’ll see.

My style of writing has gotten a little edgier, as a result of complicated times here in the US. I’d rather not get bogged-down in political rhetoric, but reserve the right to have my say as circumstances compel me. By the same token, I will delve into metaphysics as often as I feel the need; there’s a lot going on in the human experience and dialog needs to remain open in that venue—hopefully my readers will be willing to participate.

So, to Gel, Kim, Ronnie, and anyone else who shows up on my doorstep, welcome. May you always find something of interest here; I’ll do my best to make any time you spend here worthwhile.

It’s nearly 2:30 in the morning…I need to get this posted, then see if I can grab a couple hours’ sleep before a new day gets underway.

I wish you peace.

…so the other day i was thinking…

 margaret’s brain: y’know, you’re a writer; you should be writing, kid. what’s up with this writers block thing?

 Marge: I just don’t have anything to say that hasn’t been said before.

 margaret’s brain: that’s a cop-out and you know it.

 Marge: Wait a minute–I’m not crazy about being ragged-on by a figment of my imagination…
 
 
 
…so the other day I was thinking that it’s been months since I blogged about anything. Lord knows there’s enough craziness in the world to fire up an active imagination, but it takes a little discernment for a decent writer to settle on just a few upon which to expound. Imagination I’ve got–I’m full of it; discernment, not-so. It’s just not in me to ramble on about nothing in some obscure Seinfeldian way.

I should rephrase that.

I have been known to wax circuitous occasionally–BUT–I generally have a point to make and eventually get around to it, in my own time. You see, I’m passionately in love with the English language: the way words fit together–nouns, verbs, adjectives (my favorites), and suchlike–the way they mate with such wild abandon, then give birth to ideas both sublime and absurd. If I get verbose, it’s only because I have an infinity of thoughts to share, and a woefully finite amount of time to do so.

God…where does a person start???

Politicians (don’t get me started today…), the human condition (a neverending source of fascination for me), the extraordinary and banal events of the day, the glories of experience and subsequent hells to which we are all banished from time to time–all of these are brain food for me, yet I’ve been on an intellectual subsistence diet for months, and the blame falls entirely upon me.
 
 
 
margaret’s brain: so…you’re coming around, then?

Marge: I guess–if for no other reason than to get you off my fucking back.

margaret’s brain: watch the language, sister–and the attitude could use a break, too.

Marge: Nag…nag…nag… 

marge’s brain: you like to think you’re a tough cookie, but we both know better. lighten up. just be yourself. write what you know. if it’s meant to be, people will find this place and, my guess is, you’re going to find you’re not as alone in the universe as you think, kiddo.

Marge: So you think you know me, huh?

margaret’s brain: um..i’m your brain, margaret.

Marge: If I fall flat on my face it’s gonna be YOUR fault.

margaret’s brain: and if this sucker flies, you’re gonna love it. you know it.

Marge: You’re not gonna let this go, are you?

margaret’s brain: nope. hit “publish”, margaret.