I have long been an advocate of loving people without limitations, knowing that even the hardest of hearts has a crack somewhere in its frame. I really have always believed that, the idea that there is good in everyone, that people of every background and culture, whatever its atmospheric dilemma or challenge, has some modicum of love within them. I have pressed that point in conversation, preached it to friends who felt vitriole and angst for others. My solution was the ever popular "love wins out". Despite the events of this previous week, which felt both Godless and harrowing, I still feel that way. But, I will admit, I felt tested, tested like Job in the Bible and tested like the old man in Hemingways The Old Man And The Sea.
I don't like being tested. I never did well with tests in school. The timing, the memorization, it all made the work at hand feel forced. I never felt like I learned anything. Whatever I have learned came from reading books, books by smart people, people who also hated taking tests. Those people went on to write books that tested the testers, bucked the system, took a swing at the status quo. For them, the test was life, the biggest of them all, a test with an unknown time limit and a million ways to screw up.
This past week, I was reminded that life is "the test". And its a complicated test, where you're being asked to answer different questions at various intervals.The question for me, this go round, was could I truly embody my own principle of loving everyone? Could I rise above the easy way out, to hate passionately?
The answer is yes and no. At some point this week, a complete stranger threw a wrench into mine and my families life, a wrench that none of us expected or saw coming. It wasn't personal. It was thrown by a desperate, selfish individual who took advantage of a situation that presented itself to them. In the process, I and my wife have felt like prisoners in our own home, afraid of venturing outside the walls that usually mean safety and solace. For a typically positive person who has no trouble holding back their anger, I became something I can't stand this week, an angry man. I resented the situation we were put in. I resented that it was brought upon us by no wrong doing of our own. That resentment grew, blossoming into something ugly and grotesque. It eventually became hate, pure, unadulterated hate for someone I did not know from Adam. This hate pushed me to a dark place, a place I'm not used to going, where everyone and everything annoyed me. I lashed out at friends, at family. I went to bed a few nights clinching my fists. I felt helpless.
I woke up this morning with a feeling of sadness that seemed to come from nowhere, just a pit of exhausted rage that had faded to solemn regret. There's a Metallica song titled "Wasting My Hate". I think that's what happened. I hated someone so hard that it died. It went from hate to mild indifference. I went from "I hope you get hit by a car" to "I don't care if you get hit by a car". I'm working, as I type this, to get to "I hope you almost get hit by a car and it teaches you a lesson". I realized that hating this person did not make me feel better. It made me feel worse. It made me resentful when I should feel thankful, thankful' for badass parents that raised me well, for excellent friends that have been there for me, thankful for my amazing, incredible wife who has stood by me and given me so much to be joyful about. I began to feel sorry for this person, for whatever befell them prior to this situation that has made them so selfish and delirious. They have a story too, a story I don't know. It scares me to think their place in life is a direct result of someones down fall or issue. That makes me realize that, as much as I want to be angry, I have to see things from another lens. I have to assume that their selfishness is not self taught but learned. I have to forgive them a little bit....for my sake.
I'm not telling you this is easy. It's tough. There's no part of me that likes this person. I still want to see them taught a lesson, to see them pay for the damage they've done. But I no longer want it to ruin them, to destroy their life. I've found myself hoping that, through this, maybe they see their attitude, their disease of the mind, for what it is. I've found myself hoping they get their life together and find something worth living for. I really do.
So yes I have hated and no, it didn't win out over love.
From here, I just want this ordeal to be over. I just want peace.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Saturday, May 5, 2012
What I've Been Watching Lately....The Annual TV Rundown
Twice or so yearly, I document my current stable of consistently watched television shows.
Here you go.....
Game Of Thrones: Epic, very adult take on the fantasy element. It's like somebody took Lord Of The Rings and added more Old Testament grit to it, unreliable protagonists , incest, decapitations and...well...dragons. I finished the first season in about three days. It's worth the time spent online matching characters with their names. Watch it expecting to be shocked....and impressed.
Madmen: I never tire of Don Drapers slow, agonizing descent into misery. This show is so consistent, so well written and acted, it sort of becomes an extension of your life...except everyone on the show has less shame than the people in your own life whom you thought shameless. If The Sopranos is the best show in television history, Madmen just may be the smartest.
True Blood: It's trashy, surface level emotive...and me and my wife have been addicted from episode one. It's mindless entertainment written very well by the great Alan Ball (Six Feet Under, American Beauty). There's blood, pretty people and....more blood. Leave your brain at the door.
The Big Bang Theory: My wife recently convinced me to start watching this. I begrudgingly sat down, awaiting the onset of yawns and eye rolls to come. Instead, I found myself laughing like hell. It's genuinely one of the funniest sitcom's since Seinfeld. It's glorious. Sheldon is probably the second or third greatest cable television character ever dreamed up.
Swamp People: There's something about ass backwards Cajun people shooting alligators and speaking mumbo jumbo for an hour that keeps me glued to the screen. I don't have a reason why. I just wind up watching the entire episode, wondering quietly if the alligators are ever going to win.
Mob Wives: I generally hate reality shows. Reality shows about women are even worse. Nothing annoys me worse than a room full of obnoxious, self obsessed chicks. This little hellion, though, is a different entity altogether. These girls are connected...by blood, by marriage to the mafia. Needless to say, my years as a fan of gangster movies and extensive useless research into the history of the mob persuaded me to check it out. It's vile, its ugly, its ruthless...and its awesome. There's no scripted drama here. These chicks are hot bloodied tigers, full of vitriole and angst. They scratch, claw and cuss their way into your home. The best part is the fact that I loathe all of them. I can watch the show laughing at their stupidity and their botched plastic surgery because, truth be told.....they're horrible human beings.
Deep Space Nine: I like Star Trek. I had never seen Deep Space Nine. So far, so good.
Batman: The Animated Series: Bought the box set, took me back to being eight years old on Tuesday nights. The animation, dark storylines and epic soundtrack made this, in my book, the best animated series of all time.
Charlie Rose: Great interviews.
Bill Dance's Fishing Show: It has a strange likability. Plus, he's such a jackass.
The Daily Show: They don't think Obama's doing so hot....neither do I. It works.
Diners, Drive Ins And Dives: Guy's pretty rad. It sucks to watch him eat all that good food when all you have at the house is Colby Cheeze Its.
Time Lifes Disco Classics Infomercial: Every night, I can pass out to this without fear of needing to watch it.
Here you go.....
Game Of Thrones: Epic, very adult take on the fantasy element. It's like somebody took Lord Of The Rings and added more Old Testament grit to it, unreliable protagonists , incest, decapitations and...well...dragons. I finished the first season in about three days. It's worth the time spent online matching characters with their names. Watch it expecting to be shocked....and impressed.
Madmen: I never tire of Don Drapers slow, agonizing descent into misery. This show is so consistent, so well written and acted, it sort of becomes an extension of your life...except everyone on the show has less shame than the people in your own life whom you thought shameless. If The Sopranos is the best show in television history, Madmen just may be the smartest.
True Blood: It's trashy, surface level emotive...and me and my wife have been addicted from episode one. It's mindless entertainment written very well by the great Alan Ball (Six Feet Under, American Beauty). There's blood, pretty people and....more blood. Leave your brain at the door.
The Big Bang Theory: My wife recently convinced me to start watching this. I begrudgingly sat down, awaiting the onset of yawns and eye rolls to come. Instead, I found myself laughing like hell. It's genuinely one of the funniest sitcom's since Seinfeld. It's glorious. Sheldon is probably the second or third greatest cable television character ever dreamed up.
Swamp People: There's something about ass backwards Cajun people shooting alligators and speaking mumbo jumbo for an hour that keeps me glued to the screen. I don't have a reason why. I just wind up watching the entire episode, wondering quietly if the alligators are ever going to win.
Mob Wives: I generally hate reality shows. Reality shows about women are even worse. Nothing annoys me worse than a room full of obnoxious, self obsessed chicks. This little hellion, though, is a different entity altogether. These girls are connected...by blood, by marriage to the mafia. Needless to say, my years as a fan of gangster movies and extensive useless research into the history of the mob persuaded me to check it out. It's vile, its ugly, its ruthless...and its awesome. There's no scripted drama here. These chicks are hot bloodied tigers, full of vitriole and angst. They scratch, claw and cuss their way into your home. The best part is the fact that I loathe all of them. I can watch the show laughing at their stupidity and their botched plastic surgery because, truth be told.....they're horrible human beings.
Deep Space Nine: I like Star Trek. I had never seen Deep Space Nine. So far, so good.
Batman: The Animated Series: Bought the box set, took me back to being eight years old on Tuesday nights. The animation, dark storylines and epic soundtrack made this, in my book, the best animated series of all time.
Charlie Rose: Great interviews.
Bill Dance's Fishing Show: It has a strange likability. Plus, he's such a jackass.
The Daily Show: They don't think Obama's doing so hot....neither do I. It works.
Diners, Drive Ins And Dives: Guy's pretty rad. It sucks to watch him eat all that good food when all you have at the house is Colby Cheeze Its.
Time Lifes Disco Classics Infomercial: Every night, I can pass out to this without fear of needing to watch it.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
What Does It Mean.....
Don't ask questions....just read the following...and interpret.
Theres this man, pushing eighty and looking it. He's been a citizen, a patron, a father, a husband and a believer. Those roles are all he has, all he will leave behind, definitions of external worth as seen by his society. His life, the endless string of disappointments, successes, close calls and what ifs, stands to be over quite soon, assuming his pack a day habit has been quietly whittling away at the lungs behind his rib cage. Who knows? Who rightly cares?
Tomorrow, nothing is happening, nothing of definition. For him, if something must occur, it need be worthy of defining as monumental, even in a fractional way. Considering today's events, which amounted to nothing, it is safe to assume tomorrows happenings will follow similar structure. He's quite alright with that. It means he doesn't have to put his shoes on..or his pants. He can keep his Notre Dame boxers on, as well as the wife beater he hasn't changed in two days.
Comfort, for a man in his twilight hour, is key. The routine is what keeps hims sane. There's a wonderful succession of television shows to view from sun up to all hours of the deep night. He'll sleep in waves, stirring at the same times to catch the tail end of Law And Order or half of 60 Minutes. The idea is to sleep, watch TV and remember to eat some of the cereal he sends his neighbor out for once a week. It's some generic stuff, a store brand flake of banal description. It's not that he likes it. It's that he just doesn't care.
That's not all he doesn't care about. If you were to visit him, and you never would, you'd notice the dining room table, which he doesn't use, is covered in unopened mail. None of its bills or coupons. His bills get paid by the military. Coupons are for queers, or so he says. No, this mail is from people who love him, who miss him. They write notes, send Christmas cards, birthday gifts, invitations to weddings. He always pulls the envelopes from his mail box and carefully alphabetizes them by each childs name...Ron, Sue, Jill and Jane. The boy is a soldier. The girls are all hairdressers.
He doesn't like salons. He gets buzz cuts from barber shops that still advertise a "close shave". The men who cut his hair are near his age, all a tad heavier and more jovial than he. They watch Fox News on a muted screen and chew tooth picks as they lather shaving cream on the necks of other aging, disheveled American men. The conversations he has with them, when he goes every two weeks, are narrowed to football, politics and car engines. Outside of these talking points, the only semi-breached subject is wives. His is dead, so he doesn't have to say a thing...which pleases him.
His day is something of a revelation. If he times it right, the shows on his flat screen segue into one another ever so gently, meaning he doesn't have to be alone with his thoughts. That's what its all about...keeping the thoughts out of his head.
When he dies, no one will find him for a week. He'll be stiff. They'll close the casket for sure. Some people will cry, a eulogy built on hyperbole will be read. Then people will crowd into the church hall and eat fried chicken with green beans and mashed potatoes. Amongst them, a couple with hold hands, knowing they've created life..and soon...very soon...it will begin again.
Theres this man, pushing eighty and looking it. He's been a citizen, a patron, a father, a husband and a believer. Those roles are all he has, all he will leave behind, definitions of external worth as seen by his society. His life, the endless string of disappointments, successes, close calls and what ifs, stands to be over quite soon, assuming his pack a day habit has been quietly whittling away at the lungs behind his rib cage. Who knows? Who rightly cares?
Tomorrow, nothing is happening, nothing of definition. For him, if something must occur, it need be worthy of defining as monumental, even in a fractional way. Considering today's events, which amounted to nothing, it is safe to assume tomorrows happenings will follow similar structure. He's quite alright with that. It means he doesn't have to put his shoes on..or his pants. He can keep his Notre Dame boxers on, as well as the wife beater he hasn't changed in two days.
Comfort, for a man in his twilight hour, is key. The routine is what keeps hims sane. There's a wonderful succession of television shows to view from sun up to all hours of the deep night. He'll sleep in waves, stirring at the same times to catch the tail end of Law And Order or half of 60 Minutes. The idea is to sleep, watch TV and remember to eat some of the cereal he sends his neighbor out for once a week. It's some generic stuff, a store brand flake of banal description. It's not that he likes it. It's that he just doesn't care.
That's not all he doesn't care about. If you were to visit him, and you never would, you'd notice the dining room table, which he doesn't use, is covered in unopened mail. None of its bills or coupons. His bills get paid by the military. Coupons are for queers, or so he says. No, this mail is from people who love him, who miss him. They write notes, send Christmas cards, birthday gifts, invitations to weddings. He always pulls the envelopes from his mail box and carefully alphabetizes them by each childs name...Ron, Sue, Jill and Jane. The boy is a soldier. The girls are all hairdressers.
He doesn't like salons. He gets buzz cuts from barber shops that still advertise a "close shave". The men who cut his hair are near his age, all a tad heavier and more jovial than he. They watch Fox News on a muted screen and chew tooth picks as they lather shaving cream on the necks of other aging, disheveled American men. The conversations he has with them, when he goes every two weeks, are narrowed to football, politics and car engines. Outside of these talking points, the only semi-breached subject is wives. His is dead, so he doesn't have to say a thing...which pleases him.
His day is something of a revelation. If he times it right, the shows on his flat screen segue into one another ever so gently, meaning he doesn't have to be alone with his thoughts. That's what its all about...keeping the thoughts out of his head.
When he dies, no one will find him for a week. He'll be stiff. They'll close the casket for sure. Some people will cry, a eulogy built on hyperbole will be read. Then people will crowd into the church hall and eat fried chicken with green beans and mashed potatoes. Amongst them, a couple with hold hands, knowing they've created life..and soon...very soon...it will begin again.
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