Is Understanding the Lack of American Success at Roland Garros the Key to Solving Our Cultural Apathy?

Couldn't resist commenting on this article I just saw on the front page of ESPN.com . The attention getting question went like this

The French Open starts Sunday and yet, for fans of U.S. players, it almost seems as if the tournament is over before it begins. Why is it Americans no longer are willing to get their hands dirty?

Ummm...I think it would help to maybe acknowledge that this affliction is not limited to American tennis players. (Of course, it was ESPN..but still...) This is just another instance of our societal sickness. Let's look at the war in Iraq. (What a seamless transition!) First of all, we were sheltered by our government and told to go on living in the manner we had become accustomed: consume, consume, consume. Now it's debatable whether or not the war in Iraq is capable of being won using a military strategy, but it is less debatable that the public support waned as soon as it got the least bit costly. Interestingly, the same people who criticized George H.W. Bush for allowing Saddam to stay in power following his retreat from Kuwait, now criticize George W. Bush for agreeing with their position. What changed? Say what you will about lack of WMD's, impossibility of democracy, or poor planning and execution, but removing Saddam still achieved the humanitarian victory which was called for by those who currently criticize the war. People are dying now, but the hope is that, in retrospect, their lives will have been lost in the natural birthing pains of democracy. My goal is not to support or lampoon the war. I happen to think the war was probably doomed from the start, at least with respect to the publicly articulated goals, but it was a sticky situation: diplomacy and deterrence had wrought the Taliban, Saddam's Iraq, and 9/11. My point is to show that there is no consistency of principles among those who scream the loudest, the standard by which we usually have discourse. If there is one consistency, it is in people's tendency to waver and choose the most convenienent path that asks the least of them. Another interesting situation is in Darfur. Many of the same people who supported the overthrow of Saddam in 1991 wish for the United States to enter Darfur and end the genocide. How long would their support last once 5000 Americans died? Any action in Darfur would almost have to be through the UN and that requires Chinese support which is unlikely since they depend on Sudan for oil and oppose interventionist policies .

We are the kind of people that memorize without learning, act without thinking, and live without a self-defined purpose. We don't want anything to break the threshold of our pampered existence. We take the easy over the hard, the superficial over the deep, and relax on our couch enjoying the latest American Idol finale. In the words of Chuck Klosterman, we are killing ourselves to live. In a way, it doesn't matter if the terrorists follow us home or not. We're dead either way.

I feel like quoting Nietzsche from "Thus Spake Zarathustra"

Just see these superfluous ones! They steal the works of the inventors and the treasures of the wise. Culture, they call their theft - and everything becometh sickness and trouble unto them!


Just see these superfluous ones! Sick are they always; they vomit their bile and call it a newspaper. They devour one another, and cannot even digest themselves.


Just see these superfluous ones! Wealth they acquire and become poorer thereby. Power they seek for, and above all, the lever of power, much money - these impotent ones!


See them clamber, these nimble apes! They clamber over one another, and thus scuffle into the mud and the abyss.

A Radiohead Influenced Philosophical Excursion (Not an Uncommon Event)

Thom Yorke keeps insisting to me that "just 'cause you feel it, doesn't mean it's there", but I can't get it through my thick fucking skull into my brain. (linky link to live version of There There)

This is the exact problem of the human condition: emotions, unregulated by reason, masquerade as truth. We think because we experience a particular feeling that it necessarily exists out in the world, outside of our mind; but this is often not the case. There are plenty of ways this could occur, but for the average human being the main environment is interpersonal relationships. This is a place full of fog and cliffs in every direction. I feel like I'm wrong nearly all the time. Every time I fall it is completely shocking, it's like I act with no body of previous experience to reflect on. That's alright, I think. Yeah, life is easier when we base the future on the past, but it seems this ease is also problematic.

To use Hume's example, I am not suggesting that one should doubt the sun will rise tomorrow in the face of all empirical knowledge. The assumption that the sun will rise again every morning permeats our existence. How would we live our lives if we doubted tomorrow's existence? For me, that is right up there with Nietzche's Eternal Recurrence of the Same (we should live our life as if we would be repeating the same exact life course for eternity) and Sartre's thought that the ethical life can be found by the individual in the question of universalization (What would be the effect of everyone acting as I act?) I guess a criticism of my question might be that it borders on the cliched "live today, like you're gonna die tomorrow." I think this is a fair point, however, it doesn't detract from the power of my statement in view of human being's lack of urgency. We are here for a limited amount of time and are blessed by nature with the ability to be aware of it. Shouldn't that be a propulsion for people to live well? An 'ought' does not an 'is' or 'must' make. Ideally, this would be case but if we're honestly trying to give an accurate picture of human behavior, it is far too idealistic. It assumes that people have enough self-knowledge to know when they are bullshitting, rationalizing, entering the spin zone, whatever you want to call it. Inside our own minds the craziest shit can seem to be true, and the next day we can believe the exact opposite! It is not easy.

Should convenience ever be involved in major discussions? When choosing which Jewel to go to, this is a perfect standard. If both Jewels are equal in everything else of value, then it's a no brainer: pick the most convenient location. And that's fine. There is no reason to waste time here with meaningless analysis. If everything is equal, most people will choose the closer store. But what about in matters of interpersonal relations or substantial life decisions? Should we do whatever is easiest, ignoring voices imploring us to explore a more difficult course of change? The answer has nothing to do with these questions. We should do what we think is right without regard for ease or difficulty. How do we decide the right course? (Hint: There's no formula) And how is this related to where I started with misleading emotions?

Oh yeah. Emotion must obey Reason. See Aristotle's Ethics.

There seems to be also another irrational element in the soul -- one which in a sense, however, shares in a rational principle. For we praise the rational principle of the continent man and of the incontinent, and the part of their soul that has such a principle, since it urges them aright and towards the best objects; but there is found in them also another element naturally opposed to the rational principle, which fights against and resists that principle. For exactly as paralysed limbs when we intend to move them to the right turn on the contrary to the left, so is it with the soul; the impulses of incontinent people move in contrary directions. But while in the body we see that which moves astray, in the soul we do not. No doubt, however, we must none the less suppose that in the soul too there is something contrary to the rational principle, resisting and opposing it. In what sense it is distinct from the other elements does not concern us. Now even this seems to have a share in a rational principle, as we said; at any rate in the continent man it obeys the rational principle and presumably in the temperate and brave man it is still more obedient; for in him it speaks, on all matters, with the same voice as the rational principle.

Therefore the irrational element also appears to be two-fold. For the vegetative element in no way shares in a rational principle, but the appetitive and in general the desiring element in a sense shares in it, in so far as it listens to and obeys it; this is the sense in which we speak of 'taking account' of one's father or one's friends, not that in which we speak of 'accounting for a mathematical property. That the irrational element is in some sense persuaded by a rational principle is indicated also by the giving of advice and by all reproof and exhortation. And if this element also must be said to have a rational principle, that which has a rational principle (as well as that which has not) will be twofold, one subdivision having it in the strict sense and in itself, and the other having a tendency to obey as one does one's father.

The First Night

Last night, I was smoking a cigarette in the parking lot of my hotel, sitting on a partition. The next day held quite a bit of power but it was ambiguous: triumph or tragedy? I was unpacking the possibilities of various hypothetical scenarios when I looked straight out, over the edge of the wall, and became quite still with rapture. The moon was obviously in its crescent stage but it was out of focus; its color and form blurred chaotically with the squinting of my eyes. I sat there for half a minute with my mind motionless.

The shape in the sky appeared progressively brighter and closer. From my seat around the tires, this was certainly not the moon anymore. If not the moon, then what? Is this an asteroid science has somehow missed? Am I losing my fucking mind? Is it full blown dementia from here on out? I rushed forward to the railing. I needed resolution. What was this unidentified, amorphous object, floating in space, hurtling itself closer and closer to the moment when it would be the cause of my death?

I looked out above the now visible interstate and saw a dark mass of clouds floating quickly over my head, conforming my perception of the moon to its own will.

Hey, 'Just for Men', Find a Tailpipe and Suck...

(...to paraphrase the great Bill Hicks.)

Is "Just for Men" serious with this ad? Is there really a strong link between hair turning gray and being fired? Well, apparently they think so. I guess that's the way of the corporate world.

"Will people still see me as a valuable player? Is my career going down?:

This is a superb example of irrational marketing playing on the fears of the consumer. It can only exist in a superficial society like our own where emotions rule over reason. Men probably do equate graying hair with aging, loss of virility, or power, but this thought is not founded. There is no real link between gray hair and any of those possibilities. It just happens to have that social connotation. A correlation is not a cause. But the fact does remain that the thought exists within the minds of men, it's real to them. Maybe it is because emotion is allowed to reign over reason, or maybe there is some other cause, a natural insecurity. Either way, this ad capitalizes on that fear.

The underlying thought here is that man, at his essence, is a rational, emotional animal who must use the former to regulate the latter. They are both equally capable of expressing man's excellence, but emotion must obey reason for the simple fact that it provides some sort of filter on the world. Without reason, emotion rules without purpose. Reason provides direction to emotion. That's the basic thought I'm working from. So, man has this inherent battle. If we take it from birth, it would seem intuitively correct to say that the conflict would exist regardless of any environmental influence. Which way is it leaning at birth? I have no idea. That's probably a genetic issue. Ok. It doesn't really matter though if there are predispositions in either direction. It's either pretty even or skewed. How each of these capacities are nurtured determines the extent to which we move from potential to actual. It's the defining question of our existence. Not determined by some book but revealed simply by looking at the basic capabilities which separate us from the rest of nature. It's our consciousness reflecting on its own cause. I can't think of anything more natural.

Bringing this back to the Just for Men ad, is it in our best interest as a species to provide environmental influences which stack the deck against reason?

But Steve maybe it is true that people will judge your competency based on the color of your hair? In this case, wouldn't it be perfectly appropriate, and even ethical, to impart this message to consumers?

Nice try, and way to divert the conversation to ethics, but it doesn't matter if it is a true reflection of human behavior. All that matters is that the ad plays directly to the emotionally thinking consumer; there is no evidence, only rhetoric. It's not as if there is some strict rule banning gray hair. If this did exist, then the thought process resulting in the decision to use hair coloring would be reasonable and not driven by emotion since it would be grounded in the desired end of keeping one's job.

If there is such widespread discrimination against graying hair maybe we need a special interest group protecting the rights of men with gray, charcoal, and white hair. Better yet, and the facetious part is over, we need a special interest group protecting all of humanity. That would seem to defy the rules governing special interest groups, though. Namely, that the emphasis is on our unified capacity for reason, emotion, self-awareness, and community, but, not focused on the segmentation and splintering of society according to our beliefs or historical and genetic differences.

There is very little questioning today, aside from mostly partisan political discussion. Everything is just accepted as the best possible scenario. We are so goddamned content. We're Rip van Fucking Winkle. Ahhh..the joy of modernity. (Deep exhale of exasperation) I'm very underwhelmed by these "great" things man has done. Yes, I think technological advancement and recreational time are absolutely essential for a successful civilization, and we have some cool toys. And, of course there have been significant strides towards true freedom for every individual. It's this paradigm of Consumerism that has me worried. We love the meaningless.

I've been asking myself some variation of this question for the past few years: Isn't there more to human freedom than the ability to purchase? Or for that matter the disgusting attempts by individuals making others an instrument to their will. It makes me sick the way our freedom is squandered. We are complicit in our obsolescence, but our blame is small. By the time we are able to pick up the pen and start really directing our own lives, there are major blows to perception of the world like middle and high school. It's very difficult for well nurtured children to go through high school and not become affected by their infected classmates. Speaking from personal experience, my view of human nature was completely destroyed. Ruined my life. But you adjust (one of the two facts of life, along with death) with the aid of reason and move on, learning.

We need to maximize everything that promotes learning and minimize anything that injures it. There are enough obstacles as it is. Nature poses the same evolutionary question to us that the Greeks and Romans faced 2,000 years ago: Towards what end is our reason directed? The way we deal with our capacity for rationality determines the ultimate fate of our species. Can we agree on this? Can we at least talk about it a little?

This I Believe: On Writing

Language is communicated in two ways: through the vibrations of vocal cords, or speech, and the physical, written form of transferring ideas from abstract to concrete.

I write to better understand my world. I write to harness a vague emotion or thought process, and convert it into a more universal format, speculating on possible consequences and questions. I write to better understand my understanding. I write to express the beauty and ugliness ever present in the human experience.

I believe that conversation is important. We are naturally social beings and it is a prerequisite for any success within our representative democracy that honest, open, and rational discourse exist among the citizens. Writing lays the foundation for solid self-knowledge which, in turn, slicks the wheels for ethical interpersonal communication.

Most speech has two or more participants; there is usually at least one listener. There is always a shot clock, a very finite, immediate amount of time to develop an appropriate response. In writing, this is not the case. It is mostly a contemplative, solitary activity with temporal pressures coming not from the immediate presence of another but from Death, deadlines, or inner discipline. Decreased immediacy in this case means increased time. Increased time allows for tighter editing. Many opportunities to alter, fix, and refine pave the road to a more objective truth. The writer strives to provide the most authentic and complete view of the world as possible.

I write to better understand myself, those around me, and the world we all co-habitat. It isn’t easy or immediately clear, but I believe that The Most Complete Human exercises his capacity to write for writing as such and to further test and determine any weak or limited areas that can be improved in the name of the whole. The sum of all the individual parts should be quite a bit less than the work as a singular, unified whole. Each sentence should add meaning and value. Each sentence should work towards the same end, the same end that ignited action in the first place: the expression of truth.

Whether it’s to change a paradigm and get in the way or if it is a more aesthetic need to express Beauty, I feel a propulsion to write that is painful to ignore and difficult to begin. I believe that I write for the same reasons I think, love, and live: because I have to. I believe that writing is an ethical imperative.

The Misanthropic Humanitarian, or, A Double Murder in Late 21st Century Los Angeles, or, We are All Red

He stood over their lukewarm, dead bodies. His eyes laughed in an ironic, bittersweet way. But to look at him, his face revealed nothing.

They lay before him – the “Movie Star” and the “Fugly Bitch”. “Society calls you this,” he said aloud, walking around them slowly, conversationally. “You each wore your own crown of thorns, your own shame: you both felt the pain of judgment. You each wanted the same things. I will show you to them.”

He worked for four hours. It had to be immaculate. He had no joie de vivre save the small sense of happiness when his aspirations of perfection really did result with everything in its right place.

The man removed the skin, and cleaned up the area, leaving only the clean, red muscle.

He looked down at them and spoke once again. “Man is an animal that hopes for both too much and too little. We are drowning in the baby pool of our possibilities. This will not change anything.”

Violently, he dropped to his knees, filled with self-hatred and love. He cried out, “Where was it? Where was progress? Some feeling that people were who they seemed. That they didn’t just cultivate the most pragmatic persona possible. That there was unity and not discord…Emily! I’ll be with you soon, honey. If there is something…You were the only real human connection I ever felt…it’s tragic that tragedy is so indiscriminate...” He collapsed in a ball and wept. He felt sadness.

“FREEDOM! Psssh.” He sat up and leaned against the side of one of the gurneys. “A means of expressing disagreement or justification without any personal accountability.” He rallied a bit. Equilibrium. He walked steadily around his work room. Confidence. He smiled, flashing what he knew others to experience as his “winning smile”. Deception is a bitch, he mused.

Hamlet burst into his consciousness and said, “What a piece of work is man..” and faded out. He didn’t finish the rest. Maybe he was too tired. Maybe he never meant the rest. The man roared with laughter. He enjoyed the sword of double, triple, quadruple edges, even as it broke his soul for the last time.

He looked from the canvas to the gurneys back to the canvas. “Is this senseless? Or is this the greatest act of humanity I am capable of?”

CLICK. The tape recorder stopped loudly and the man’s voice was no longer heard. His words hovered in the air. Homeless. For a time? Forever?

The two detectives looked at each other and then, once again, at the tableau-d landscape before them. Two female bodies. Leaned up against one another, like they were laying out, relaxing at the beach. Stripped of their skin’s identity, reduced to the dead-though-throbbing red of their muscle. The woman on the left read Milton’s “Paradise Lost.” The other’s head was inclined to the ceiling, a beautiful counterfeit of Michelangelo’s Garden of Eden from the Sistine Chapel.

In the next room, the man swung from side to side. His body limp. His neck broken. Dostoevsky’s Ridiculous Man lay open on the table, waiting for an introduction.

Three Weeks Later

A Thought Train:

Happiness to pain to enjoyable pain? I don’t know but that seems to be my progression. It is truly as if the pain I feel has always been the most real thing, the landscape on which all other events take place. I don’t know what it indicates: my lack of success or that pain really is more real than pleasure.

She is a new landscape and a new canvas. The possibilities escape my understanding and I am unaware. She destroys the whole goddamn paradigm with a look. Again and again she does this. ‘Flourishing’, that’s the word. In the world Jane made for me, I am actually pursuing happiness. I’m not following a theory of what I think happiness should be. I am not the product of my history. I am the product of her: she actualizes me, takes me from floating possibilities to one cohesive whole.

When a theory, or hope, long considered ‘probably true’ turns to reality, it is still an astonishing event. Oddly enough, I reacted unlike I have of late: I was myself. I didn’t worry about how my words were being received. I knew that they were finding a home and that was enough. I was finding a home. A place of comfort and familiarity, typically called a ‘home’, right? I am at home wherever I am at, as long as it is with her.

I don’t know what I expect from myself. I don’t know what she is thinking. All I know is that this the first time I have felt alive in a very long time. And it’s her. I don’t have to translate my words before speaking. I don’t have to worry about loss of interest. I don’t have to worry that I am speaking with a person who cares. I don’t have to worry about being myself.

Pain does settle in around the edges, never seriously breaching the happiness. My joy – Our Joy – is there. It cannot be touched by any outside influence. It’s been said that connections like these – rooted in a spiritual, mental connection – are rare. I know it to be true, but, still, it is bizarre and I think counterintuitive. We are rational, emotional animals. At the forefront of the former is of course our ability to Reason, and, the latter is some combination of Love/Empathy/Compassion. So, if we are naturally animals who have as our essential characteristics the ability to think critically at high levels and the ability to love, why is it so difficult to reach people, to experience people on these levels? Why are we so eager to take the impostor over the real thing? How can we not know the difference? I don’t understand how the lie is told, and I don’t understand how others don’t have the same voice nagging at them, exhorting them to do the right thing.

There is an incredible capacity for recognizing Beauty, but at what point is the line blurred between “Beauty” and just liking something on a completely superficial basis. Is the guy who only goes home with 'dimes' or ‘nines’ a lover of Beauty? I don’t think so. This is why we have proper and common nouns. He likes beautiful women, he does not love Beauty. Beauty is found all over the place – the cloud formations we anthropomorphize as we stare out the car window, the happy eyes of a laughing child, the realization that We are a crack in the massive pavement that is society.

Beauty is not strictly sensory. The way she moves her hands as she speaks, conducting her words to work in the exact manner she wishes. Yes, I am viewing the act with my eyes. You got me. But what my eyes take in isn’t purely beautiful, it needs language to accompany it. And the words. Spoken with honesty and intelligence, her whole face is involved…there is no filter – from her earnest, unflinching blue eyes to her huge radiant smile. She does not hold back. She is both startling and completely matter of fact. How could she be so unique? How could she live in this world and turn out the way she did? How could she be anything other than this?

I don’t think there are answers to these questions, but the fact that they exist at all is the most unexpected, joyous plot twist of my life.

Character Sketch Revisited

His lips were pursed as if his smile were a real liability. Where the mouth’s theatrics were successful, the rest of his face failed. His active brows sharply rising with surprise, thought trains chug chugging along, rerouting themselves with a new destination and new tracks to get there. His green eyes scanned the relatively small room, devouring his environment whole, digesting it through the brain to the brows, and passing its uncontainable agreement, questioning, or disgust along to the once stoic mouth. His dark brown hair was perfectly in place, in stark contrast to the bulk of his life.

When he was younger, before he felt The Weight, Scott had a laugh that was rich with authentic emotion. Many considered him the verifiable definition of a “man-child.” Such was his delight in life, even as a young adult. They envied him for this but genuinely delighted in his presence: He opened up for others a part of the Self severely constrained by modern society. Conversation with Scott was highly interactive. There was a pervasive theme of transcendence, a rising above the amalgamation of preconceived notions that comprise our day-to-day baggage. He very rarely felt satisfied with the status quo, his brain would not allow it: too many contingencies unaccounted for, to many questions still left to pose. In others, this quality may have manifested itself differently, but in Scott it only illuminated his absolutely earnest nature.

Scott Fitzgerald Socrates Porter was born to Laura and Thomas Porter on the day Ronald Reagan was inaugurated as the 40th President of the United States of America. This has no other real significance save that James would grow up with an aversion to most actors (not acting as such, but actors with whom he came into contact) and at the age of six remarked to his mother concerning President Reagan, “Mommy, couldn’t an actor just act and pretend to everyone he a great person?” Smiling, equal parts sadness and joy for she had an inkling of the future, she had said that the President was no different than anyone else: “everyone acts differently than they are and proclaims their own greatness to whoever will listen.” At age 14, Scott would admonish his mother for such a view; her judgment was much too harsh and unsympathetic to the human condition.

It would be difficult, as well as pointless, to attempt to discern which parent contributed more with respect to James’ disposition and constitution. They both held the same philosophy of child-rearing: a Daring Honesty stressing the importance of fact-based knowledge tempered by the fact that a type of stoicism tangential to this is an isolation of Reason to itself, a denial of the fundamental capacity of human beings to feel Love, to experience Beauty. He came to know these as proper nouns always, causing much angst in his adolescent years.

Laura and Thomas did not name their son as they did with an eye to “The Blueprint for a Grandiose Future.” No, they thought it reflected as well as any name could. Really, how much could a name hurt? Or help, for that matter. So, they found it pretty arbitrary and decided to pick two of their most beloved historical figures, representing pretty fairly the child-rearing dynamic they wished to cultivate. Whether this was done intentionally, we know not. His parents decided on Scott after coming to the conclusion that Socrates carried with it far more expectations and to have a name like that one should choose it.

Neither one expected the dramatic turn of events that would follow from all of this, years later.

A Few Things

My protagonist would love this quote. So do I.

"People wonder why we rip on celebrities, when all around there are pages of shit glorifying celebrities like Winona Ryder. And celebrities view themselves as the fucking Mozarts of their time. Even fucking Ray Romano thinks hes an enlightened individual. These people all think they’re enlightened artists and therefore speak for the country. But I haven’t met one celebrity who wasn’t a little bit fucked up. Actors and actresses are the worst, because they’re just fucking monkeys. Half the people in this country could do what they do but for some reason they think their opinion matters." - Matt Stone, co-creator of South Park

This reminds me of an article, Elegant Nonsense, written by Victor Davis Hanson where he reminds us

"Nearly 24 centuries ago, Plato warned not to confuse innate artistic skill with either education or intelligence.

The philosopher worried that the emotional bond we can forge with good actors might also allow these manipulative mimics too much influence in matters in which they were often ignorant."

It is hard to react to these opinionful celebs. Not hard because I don't know what they're saying or who they are or why they are doing it (which, now that I think of it, is all one muddled mess of self-adulation and self reproach). It is hard because I can't experience their rhetoric (that's what it is, please show me a well structured argument) as their sympathizers do. I can't feel someone's emotions reacting to Richard Gere's emotions saying

"If you can see (the terrorists) as a relative who's dangerously sick and we have to give them medicine, and the medicine is love and compassion. There's nothing better."

A logical train of thought, with each premise building upon its predecessor towards an airtight conclusion - that is something my brain can sink into like a fat man in a lazy boy. Now, of course, most arguments are not airtight, but it'd be nice if there was at least the attempt towards honest discourse across ideological lines rather than this complete ignorance of the possible validity of someone else's view.

I can't empathize with it. I don't even know anyone who does, which would be nice; then I could at least try to understand how someone finds these celebrities to be a worthy source of intelligent thought. They're not inundating our society with celebrity fodder for nothing, right? There are people that are impacted by what a celebrity thinks and how a celebrity acts (in real life). It is sad but it is probably true. Let's put it this way, celebrities influence our purchase habits, not limited to entertainment: it can be expanded to include the individual manner in which we express our freedom through consumer decisions, adorning ourselves with that which will be the perfect combination of however we wish to be perceived, a tool to manage day-to-day self esteem levels. For all the confidence people have in their own individual worldview (to the point of belligerent argument), it seems we live in a society that is in constant need of reassurance of its identity, of what their Self should be, and the manner in which they should use their freedom.

A final thought from VDH:

If retired actors and entertainers wish to become politicians — an old tradition, from the empress Theodora to Ronald Reagan, Jesse Ventura and Arnold Schwarzenegger — let them run for office and endure during a campaign sustained cross-examination from voters. Otherwise their celebrity is used only as a gimmick to give credence to silly rants that if voiced by anyone else would never reach the light of day.

In this regard, we could learn again from the Greeks. They thought the playwrights Sophocles and Euripides were brilliant but not the mere mimics who performed their plays.

We're an appearance-based society and this is yet another manifestation of it. We'll take a superficial truth that wraps us up and tucks us in Any Day. Why do people so easily accept an appearance as Reality? The simplest answer is probably the most correct: It is very convincing. But how does it convince us? Reason is like the security guard that George Costanza gave the rocking chair to in an episode of 'Seinfeld' leaving the store open for robbery. It has fallen asleep, leaving emotions to run amok, unregulated and without a solid standard of value. We can only hope that it will awaken, en masse, before a growing problem metastasizes and leaves us with a few very ugly options.

The Beginning of a Beginning

His lips were pursed as if his smile were a real liability. Where the mouth’s theatrics were successful, the rest of his face failed. His active brows sharply rising with surprise, thought trains chug chugging along, rerouting themselves with a new destination and new tracks to get there. His unnaturally green eyes darting around, devouring his environment, digesting it through the brows to the brain, and passing its uncontainable agreement, questioning, or disgust along to the once stoic mouth. His brown hair was perfectly in place, in stark contrast to the bulk of his life.

When he was younger, before he felt The Weight, Scott had a laugh that was rich with authentic emotion. Many considered him to be the verifiable definition of a “man-child.” Such was his delight in life, even as a young adult. They envied him for this, but genuinely delighted in his presence: He opened up for others a part of the Self severely constrained by modern society. Conversation with Scott was highly interactive, and while people admittedly come into everything (or nearly everything) with preconceived notions, there was a pervasive theme of transcendence. He very rarely felt satisfied with the status quo, his brain would not allow it: too many contingencies unaccounted for, to many questions still left to pose. In others this quality may have manifested itself differently, but in Scott it served to illuminate the absolute earnestness that he brought with him wherever he went.

Scott Fitzgerald Socrates Porter was born to Laura and Thomas Porter on the day Ronald Reagan was inaugurated as the 40th President of the United States of America. This has no other real significance save the fact that Scott would grow up to have an aversion to most actors (not acting as such, but actors with whom he came into contact) and at the age of six remarked about President Reagan, “Couldn’t an actor just act and pretend to everyone he is a great person?” Smiling, equal parts sadness and joy for she had an inkling of the future, she had said that the President was no different than anyone else: everyone acts differently than they are and proclaims their own greatness to whoever will listen. At age fourteen, Scott would admonish his mother for such a view. He felt that her judgment was much too harsh and unsympathetic to the human condition.

It would be difficult, as well as pointless, to attempt to discern which parent contributed more with respect to Scotts’ disposition and constitution. For they both held the same philosophy of child-rearing: a Daring Honesty stressing the importance of fact-based knowledge tempered by the fact that a type of stoicism tangential to this is an isolation of Reason to itself, therefore denying the fundamental capacity of human beings to feel Love, to experience Beauty. He came to know these as proper nouns always, causing much angst in his adolescent years.

Laura and Thomas named their son as they did, not out of some grandiose vision for their son’s future. No, they thought it reflected as well as any name could. Really, how much could a name hurt? Or help, for that matter. So, they found it pretty arbitrary and decided to pick two of their favorite historical figures, representing pretty fairly the child-rearing dynamic they wished to cultivate. Whether this was done as a symbolism of sorts, we know not. His parents decided on Scott after coming to the conclusion that Socrates carried with it far more expectations and to have a name like that one should choose it.

Neither parent expected the dramatic turn of events that would follow from all of this, years later.

Towards a Philosophy of Writing and Other Hopes

I see an individual's philosophy of writing as composed, mainly, in two parts. One, the writer's substantive stories - complete with the settings, characters, themes that are expressed. The second half is the infinitely more critical area: the method by which mere ideas morph into art. It is this latter part that I have very little idea how to traverse. I have a lot of experience writing successful non-fiction stemming from my degree in philosophy, but every attempt to flesh out an idea for fiction ends fairly quickly in failure. I lose confidence in my ability to faithfully carry out my intentions - probably because I have no framework to support me when trying times arrive. So, in regard to my method, I have nothing to offer except this generality: if it is anything like the rest of my life's activities, it will be a work-in-progress with an approximate end in the sight but tempered by the knowledge that success doesn't come without adjustment.

Why do I write? Better question: Why do I do anything? (I have very little doubt that this will sound exceedingly arrogant, but I move forward without shame nonetheless) My actions are motivated by the belief that I have a very important, empathetic message that People need to immerse themselves in. (What a self-involved jerk, huh!) Seriously though. While I love beautiful prose (It's damn near my Achilles' Heel!), I'm a theme kinda guy - a "Big Picture" enthusiast, if you will. So, I write to convey meaning - to myself and others - and this is probably why all great authors write. Which by no means is intended to imply that I, as a conveyor of meaning, am even a mediocre writer - much less a great one!

Small-Plasma-in-the-Corner-of-the-Kitchen (Where Wall Meets Ceiling) Goals: To develop a method of consistent, successful writing which, while being a method, also has the flexibility to allow massive deviations from The Plan.

Massive-Anchor-in-the-Sea Goals: To write beautiful, coherent, (Can something be beautiful without being coherent? Probably. Separate arena of discussion though.) prose-laden fiction that reflects ideas of the utmost importance and that People A) empathize with and B) reflect on.