Of Mystery And Magic

 

I was never a magician, but as a youth I planned on becoming one. I was never more than a magician’s assistant, but I was a faithful one. My older brother was a magician, and in his younger days I was his helper. As his assistant, I was let into the secret of how each trick was done. But before he told me, I was made to swear the Magician’s Oath, which goes: "As a magician I promise never to reveal the secret of any illusion to a non-magician, unless that one swears to uphold the Magician's Oath in turn. I promise never to perform any illusion for any non-magician without first practicing the effect until I can perform it well enough to maintain the illusion of magic."

Sort of silly, perhaps, but I took it seriously. Secrets used to mean something back when. Today, there is no such thing, it seems. A quick look on the internet can probably tell you the secret of any trick you’re likely to see on stage or off. But I never told a single magic secret. Our very first performance was probably my biggest temptation. We performed for the Brownie troop for my school, and every girl in my fourth grade class was suddenly interested in me, wanting to know how the doves appeared from a flaming pan, or how they disappeared just as quickly in a collapsing box. Perhaps it was a sense of duty, perhaps it was simply a desire to keep trade secrets. Or perhaps even at that young age I had some appreciation for a sense of mystery.

I won’t try to analyze my motivations as a child. But reflecting back on it, I still appreciate the idea of mystery and the guarding of secrets. It’s not that people don’t have a right to know the truth, but knowledge should be gained with a little bit of effort, not with a click of a mouse. Anything that is gained too easily is never properly appreciated. The receiver of truth must have the proper reverence for it in order for it to make its mark. And perhaps the world is better off when keepers of the secrets make sure they are given to those who can properly appreciate and respect them.

Something similar can be seen in the martial arts. Anyone who is interested can learn how to break an arm these days. A generation ago, a martial arts instructor had an interest in teaching a moral code as much as fighting techniques. An instructor would not advance a student who did not show the proper respect to his teachers and fellow students. I’m not sure if such a thing exists today, but surely much of the tradition has been stripped from the training.

If my examples of magic and martial arts aren’t convincing, then let us use romantic love as an example. Anyone with access to the internet can learn in graphic detail how babies are made. But this teaches little about the proper attitude towards creating life and nourishing it. The great mystery of love can easily vanish in the light of cold truth, as indeed it seems to have. If we look too closely into things, we can explain away all that might otherwise be beautiful and magical. Maybe it is not a matter of looking too closely, but a matter of how we look at things. If we look with reverence upon the things we should hold sacred, or magical, we can appreciate them for what they are. If we lack the reverence, we may also miss the magic. It seems that we are living in an age without magic, and I find that a pity. Without a sense of mystery, without a true sense of reverence for wisdom earned through effort, we risk abandoning the very things that have made us who we are, as individuals and as a society. Perhaps as individuals we won’t really notice, but I fear that as a society we shall all suffer from the lack of appreciation for mystery.

The Love Of Knowledge: A Very Short Story

Professor Jeff Wilson, head of the archeological department, burst into the room, startling Professor Johnson. Johnson, head of the biology department, looked up from his computer screen into the wild eyes of his associate. The man with whom he had been working with for so long was scarcely recognizable.

“Oh God,” Wilson exclaimed. “It’s too much!” For lack of words or comprehension, Johnson could only stare at the maniacally excited man who strode about his office and rambled on without uttering a coherent thought.

“It’s all so clear now! It all ties together! Sunshine and pizza and dogs barking at the moon. It all makes sense! Every shred of it all pieces together.”

Johnson stood aghast as Professor Wilson prattled on hysterically about baby rattles and daggers, a movie he had seen in his youth about a giant gorilla and the interrelatedness of time and space. He spoke of inanities, yet Wilson could not help but see a certain light in the other’s eyes. He spoke madness, but he radiated vision. It was a disturbing incongriguity.

Wilson’s excitedness was such that Johnson was tempted to try to make sense of what he said. “Calm down,” Johnson said, “and try to tell me what you’re talking about.”

Forcing himself towards some sort of calmness, Wilson sat in the chair next to Johnson’s desk. He paused in his ramblings, and with a noticeable effort, tried to convey the revelations dancing in his head.

“There are no words,” he said at last. “It’s too big. Too grand. It’s life, it’s everything. And, and…”

Johnson had always known his friend to be a dispassionate sort of man. The only time he ever saw him excited was at the moment of discovery, and Johnson could only assume that this was the case now. They had been working for a while now on a project together. A unique bacteria was found within the body of a centuries dead mummy. Within a tomb laid hidden beneath the earth for countless ages, was this reminder of a civilization long turned to dust. Yet in that tomb this bacteria survived. It was alive. Despite the centuries and the death of all that surrounded it, this speck of live somehow survived. It was this find that came to involve Johnson. And it was this find, even more than the discovery of an unspoiled tomb, that had excited Wilson. It was a living clue for both professors, a way of bringing the past into the present.

Johnson looked back up at his now stuttering companion and knew what he had done. This bacteria was unlike any known to biological science. To know more about it had become both men’s life work. Because of a need to know more that transcended mere professional curiosity, Wilson had infected himself. He had become the host of an unknown organism in order to understand what countless white mice had been made to know; mice that did not die but were never again what they were.

“You’ve done it, haven’t you?”

Wilson nodded his assent forcefully. It was as though he wished to communicate his thoughts, to make himself known. But every time he spoke, a stream of meaningless babble erupted from his mouth. Frustrated by his inability to communicate but still exhibiting the same inner fire, Wilson leaped from his chair and left the room.

By the time Johnson thought to go after him, Wilson was out of sight. Johnson headed toward the one place where he thought his friend might go—the laboratory where the bacteria was kept. He rushed to the lab, but found nobody there. He was alone with the bottle sitting on the table where Wilson had left it. He looked at the bottle and slowly the realization of what he would do came over him. A scientist’s first rule is objectivity: he must distance himself from whatever it is he is studying. But a scientist’s first love is to know, and love knows no rules. He scrambled around until he found a pen and paper, and began scribbling on the paper the last lucid thoughts he may ever know in his life.

R.I.P. Nelson Mandela

Just a brief clip from my book The Amazing Morse to let the world know what I think of Nelson Mandela on the occasion of his passing. Although it is a work of fiction, it comes straight from my heart.

"He shuddered as he wondered what would lead a person to such a place where words like choice, freedom, trust, and kindness had no meaning. And then he thought of the Nelson Mandelas of the world, those who had willingly endured such environments, people who had such a love for freedom that they were willing to sacrifice their own for the sake of other's. Surely prison must be even more dreadful for such gentle and developed souls. He could not imagine having the kind of strength needed to make such sacrifice."

Yeah, I'd like to think I could have that kind of courage and heroism, but I pray I am never put to that test. I pray that I could perhaps act even half as bravely as Nelson Mandela. And I pray that there are others out there somewhere, willing to follow in his footsteps.

The following song has always made me think of Nelson Mandela. Maybe we can't all be the inspiration he was, but we all have a part to play. Lyrics start at 1:30.

Hunky

Note: For best effect, please listen to video while reading this blog.

“You don’t want to go in the pool, there’s a Hunky in there!” The comment was directed at a young girl by a group of boys nearby. The young Hunky in the pool was my father. The term Hunky was an ethnic slur aimed at Hungarians. Technically, my father was Russian and Polish, but the term was often used pejoratively towards anyone of Eastern European descent. You see, at the turn of the Nineteenth Century, the industrial revolution was in full stride and immigrants rushed in to fill the many factory jobs that promised them a better future. These immigrants, having made the daring break from the life they had always known, took whatever jobs they could find at whatever wages were offered. I think the first thing taught about a capitalist economy is the law of supply and demand: the greater the supply is of something in respect to its demand, the cheaper the cost. The result of such a massive influx of desperate workers into the job market must have severely cut the bargaining power of the workers that were already living in this country. The initial success of industrialization promised American workers a better life. But that promise was unkept when a new wave of foreigners took what people here thought was theirs. Ad to that the language and cultural barriers, and animosity inevitably arose. Ghettos sprang up around the nation, where people who spoke the same language, ate the same food, and worshipped in the same way tended to congregate. It is only natural that the new Americans were anxious to integrate, and I suppose it was only natural that the “Native” Americans were less than hospitable to them. I understand that, and I think my father did too. And yet the incident at the pool stayed with him, and he felt the need to tell me about it some fifty years after the event.
When I was growing up, Polish jokes were told quite often, much more than dumb blonde jokes are now. It never bothered me, nor did it bother my father, who was one of the first to pick up “The Official Dumb Polack Book”. The success of this book was followed by a sequel, followed by “The Official Dumb Polack/Dumb Italian Book, followed by the Dumb White Folks/Black Folks book. I’m not sure how far this went on, but I do remember the Irish being included at some point. I would often tell Polack jokes myself. If someone got insulted, I had as my defense my Polish heritage. But there were always some who took offense despite our shared ethnicity. After arguing my position, I would defer to their sensibilities.
Since early in my life I have been a collector. Comic books were not things to be looked at and then discarded, but part of an ever expanding whole. So it was with stamps and coins, always trying to add a new country to my collection. And so it was with friends, I have to confess. I would always ask a new found friend their nationality, hoping to add to my collection. A unique ethnicity added a little something to the particular person’s persona, added a little something to my perception of the world. So I swear to you that there was no racial malice when I did what I did. I don’t know my exact age, but I do remember I was in grade school, probably 8 or 9 years old. Children of that age sometimes flirt by exchanging insults, and this is what I was doing when I called Evelyn Lugo a Puerto Rican Pig. I didn’t know the meaning of the word alliterative at that age, but that’s what I was going for. When she quickly took offense to what I said, I immediately assumed it was the word pig that set her off. I tried to explain it away, tried to explain to her that she should not take that attitude with me, but it was to no avail. In an instant, it seemed that she had grown in maturity, as though I were talking to someone far older than myself. I truly did not understand the offense, but I understood that she was genuinely offended. Although I don’t blame myself now for my lack of understanding at that young age, I do blame a society that made a little girl grow up too soon. And as a member of that society, I recognize my responsibility to that young girl on a playground so long ago. Like my father before me, I understand and forgive, but it has stayed with me.
Perhaps need and greed shall always be with us. As long as they are, people will point fingers at those who speak, look, and act differently from ourselves. Ethnicity and nationality will be convenient diversions to the real problems of this world. But I am optimistic in this respect. I am reminded of something my older brother told me. In World War II, the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union caused over 20 million deaths in the U.S.S.R. But in the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Leningrad, the song Traumerei (Dreaming) is played continuously 24 hours a day. It is intentional that a song by a German composer is played here, a reminder that there is no ill-will towards the German people. I have tried to find a clip of it on YouTube, but there is nothing really suitable. I did, however, come upon this. Here is Vladimir Horowitz, a Jewish-Russian, playing Traumerei before a crowd in Russia in 1979. Many in the audience are of an age that indicates that they had survived the most brutal war that has ever plagued mankind. On many faces can be seen tears, but no anger or outrage. It will forever stay with them, yet they can forgive.

I Don't Own A Cell Phone

I don’t own a cell phone. I’ll pause for a moment while you appreciate that fact. To be honest, there has been a time or two when one would have come in handy, but for the most part I am glad I don’t have one. It is a choice on my part, after all. I don’t feel obligated to have one just because everyone else does. Nor do I feel the need to have one just so people can contact me whenever they wish. I often feel that a cell phone is similar to what a prisoner out on bail must wear when he is on house arrest. Of course, whenever I try to call someone who I always see playing on their phone, it seems like I have to hire a bail bondsman to track them down.

I watch people with their cell phones and I am reminded of my former addiction to cigarettes. I see people as they sneak looks at it when they know they shouldn’t be. I see them texting or chatting when they’re driving and I feel less safe as a result. I see them unable to concentrate for any length of time on any one thing because of the compulsion to take another hit off of their phone. I see them ignore those around them as they become absorbed in a conversation that reads something like: “really? Lol.” I see it in a way they do not because I am not a user myself. I see it in a family gathered together for a holiday meal, each of them in their own little world.

But I see it in them because I too have the same compulsion. When on the computer, I often find myself slavishly clicking to the Window where Facebook is the second I hear the ding. I don’t salivate, but I do respond. I find myself checking various accounts and sites over and over again, experiencing the diminishing highs, doing it more and enjoying it less. I’ve felt that feeling before, while sitting in front of a slot machine. True, when immersed in my little online realm I’m not losing money, but I am losing time I will never get back again.

People are cautious by nature, unwilling to deviate too far from what they see as normal so long as they are on their own. But put them in a crowd and they’re quite willing to go off on an extreme tangent together. If cell phones were a rarity and you only had one friend who was constantly pawing at one like Gollum with his precious, it would be pretty easy to say his behavior was abnormal. But now that everyone is doing it, nobody seems to have the courage to point out this new addiction that has spread like a plague in the last few years. I see mothers ignoring their children as they eat dinner at a restaurant, taking pictures of their lunch to share on Facebook with friends whom they have never met. I see people walking their dogs, completely oblivious of the joys that a walk outdoors can provide, or the cuteness that a dog exhibits in a hundred different ways in the course of a mile stroll.

Over 200 years ago, William Wordsworth said: “The world is too much with us.” I can only imagine what his reaction to life today would be. We are never free of the things, and so are never able to truly relax, never able to get to the mental state that provides us with the true feeling of being comfortable with ourselves and our surroundings. We are in a constant state of expectation, always dealing with the immediate, never having time to deal with anything in any depth. Our very consciousness is being altered. Not to sound old-fashioned or conservative or anything like that, but shouldn’t that give us pause? Shouldn’t we worry just a little bit when our ability to think at any kind of deeper level is being compromised? But of course, you say, I can function just fine. I don’t need my cell phone, I just like to have it with me at all times. Change the word “alcohol” with “cell phone” and see if your argument still stands. Or better yet, “my precious”.

 

Update

 

I began writing this post yesterday and didn’t get around to finishing it (I was doing important stuff on Facebook). I arrived at work this morning to discover that a friend and coworker of mine had been fired because of his repeated abuse of the no-cell phone policy at my work. This father of two will not be able to provide his family with the kind of Christmas he had hoped to because of his need to share what was most likely a meme with his larger social network. Had he not been fired, perhaps the prior paragraph I wrote might have been different, but I suspect not by too much. Somehow, somebody put forward the notion that technological “progress” is inevitable and that it is futile to stand in its way and we all accepted it. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change, but let Him also give me the courage to change the things I can. Prevailing wisdom states that every advance in technology is not only inevitable but for the better. But maybe, just maybe that’s not true. Perhaps it is just the constant propaganda of the cell phone manufacturers, who are only interested in pushing their next-gen phone. At the very least, we should be mindful of the changes that technology brings, cautious of what we lose in the exchange of old for new.

What Is Freedom?

I’m not really sure what the word freedom means, but I know that it has something to do with Harley Davidsons and sanitary napkins. I know it’s something that we’re supposed to fight for and die for, so it must be important. I’ve also been told that freedom is a concept that never existed until the founding fathers of The United States of America decided it was of primary importance. I’ve often heard that freedom isn’t free, but that’s never helped me to understand it much. It seems that freedom always has corresponding responsibilities, which again undercuts the very notion of free. When you think about it, if freedom isn’t free, then what is?

It seems to me that every time someone tells you how important freedom is, that they are asking you for something. If patriotism is a scoundrel’s last refuge, then the concept of freedom is his first sales pitch. During the early days of the second Iraq War, we were encouraged to use the term “freedom fries” in place of French fries, in order to show our patriotism. Edward Bernays, marketing pioneer and nephew of Sigmund Freud, was given the task of increasing sales of cigarettes. His idea for doubling the amount of smokers was to market to women. Up until that time, there was a social taboo against women smoking. Cynical genius that he was, Bernays tied the idea of smoking to the growing women’s liberation movement. Using the term “freedom torches”, Bernays hired women to smoke cigarettes in public in order to link rebellion and freedom with cigarettes.

Now I’ve already admitted to not knowing what freedom is, but I know a thing or two about slavery, and addiction is just about the greatest form of slavery possible. That’s why pimps introduce drugs to their recruits, to get them used to not being in control of their lives. I was a smoker for many years, and I can tell you first-hand that the day I quit smoking was perhaps the most liberating day of my life. I still look back at the day I declared my freedom from nicotine, and that memory more than anything else gives me some appreciation of the word freedom. To think that some SOB would use the word freedom in an attempt to enslave half the world’s population is almost too horrible to imagine. And here again, I gain some appreciation of the concept of freedom. Because even the death that cigarettes deal to so many of those who become addicted to them is not as bad as the lack of control one experiences when one is a smoker. To know that someone or something has such control over some aspect of your life leads you to doubt your ability to control your life overall. In that sense, I can understand the sentiment of Patrick Henry when he said “Give me liberty, or give me death.”

Maybe freedom is just some adman’s pitch. Maybe freedom is a nebulous concept with no real meaning.

Then again, maybe freedom isn’t just a Madison Avenue invention. Perhaps it is such an important thing that those that wish to manipulate your emotions realize its strength and use it to control your behavior. Perhaps your freedom is the most important thing in the world. If that is true, then what exactly is freedom?

Hitler promised freedom from the communists and the Jewish conspiracy, and he delivered in a big way by killing every Jew and communist he could find. But freeing Germans from communism and an alleged international Jewish cabal did little to free them from Nazism. That’s the thing about freedom—you break free from one oppressor just to fall into the grip of another.

It can be an endless cycle, one in which we are all pawns moved across a board. Perhaps the most we can do to claim our own freedom is to be aware of the powers that push us back and forth. Take the time to get to know the world around you, get to know who is running the show, and who is trying to shape the way you think. And above all, be suspicious of those who tell you they are concerned about your freedom; it could very well that their only concern is their freedom to get rich at your expense. Freedom is in fact not free, the cost is constant vigilance, not so much of our borders but of our minds and those who would seek to shape them. There are people paid handsomely to get you to believe what you are supposed to believe, to make you see lies as truth, slavery as freedom. The key to freedom is knowledge, for the truth will set you free. One can be manipulated only as long as one is unaware. Once you know the truth, you will have not only the ability but also the desire to claim the freedom that was your intended birthright.

The Solutionist

 

Here’s an idea in its infancy, a mere babe in its swaddling clothes that could easily perish through neglect or disinterest. And yet the idea, though small as a mustard seed, has vast potential if people can find their way to it. It is not my idea, but already I think that just by my awareness of it, it has already grown somewhat beyond the sole ownership of its originator. See, that’s the thing; I don’t want to tell you what it is supposed to mean, rather I’d like to tell you what it means to me. And from there, you are welcome to share it with others as you see fit, allowing the basic idea to grow as people contribute to it.

Here is a link to a blog post I recently read: http://www.thesolutionist.us/?p=88

It goes beyond a simple question, actually. The author of that brief post is also the author of a book called The Solutionist, which can be found here: http://www.amazon.com/kindle/dp/B0076B3CII

The basic premise, if I may provide my own take on it, is that through working and communicating together we can make the world a better place by improving the processes we use in every area of our lives.

Again, it is a simple idea, but its simplicity does make it any less worthwhile. Most of us care about the world and the people in it and would like to do what we could to make it a better place. But most of us don’t do anything because we really don’t know where to start, or because we are really not sure which is the best way to go about it.

Well here is a place to start. As for the best way to go about it, let’s talk amongst ourselves and together fashion workable ways to solve the world’s problems. Which problems am I talking about? All of them, or at least whichever ones are important to you, whichever ones you think you can assist with. Here is a flag planted in the ground around which we can rally. Let’s start now and get the ball rolling. It can be done, we only need to have the belief required to begin the task. It is not a task any one of us can do alone, but it can be done when a determined group of people work together without personal agendas. It is not about one’s religion, politics, or philosophy, it is about changing the way we do things as a society in order to make the world a better place. It is doable, if we wish to do it. Let’s start today. The world's problems are not insurmountable, though it often can seem that way because we can not see above the ruts in which we are stuck.

As I said, this is my own personal take on the book and the idea of Joe Euclide. But I believe he would not claim the term “solutionist” to refer to himself alone, but to anyone desiring to find answers to the problems that face us today. And as I also said, this is but a single beginning, a rallying point for those interested in improving our world. Who knows what it could become? It has the potential to grow far beyond a simple blog, or a simple book. Where it goes is up to you, and to solutionists everywhere.