tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36319548685798924262024-03-05T21:32:15.500-08:00Nicht Diese TöneOh friends, not these tones, Let us sing yet more joyfully!Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.comBlogger273125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-60941622095138670992018-10-04T13:51:00.001-07:002018-10-04T13:51:09.424-07:00Poem<i>Written in November of 2017, in Boulder, Colorado.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
All songs are love songs and all love<br />
works miracles and not always the good kind.<br />
The miracle of finite duration and the<br />
miracle of graceless endings and the<br />
miracle of unrequited desire and the<br />
miracle of falling and never hitting<br />
the bottom because the pit you fell into<br />
doesn't have one.Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-22423186463777157352017-10-12T13:58:00.000-07:002017-10-12T14:03:13.276-07:00I Sleep in Providence<i>The first line was accidental poetry I heard someone say at a recent meeting, much like <a href="http://nichtdiesetone.blogspot.com/2011/04/my-heart-is-in-slaughterhouse.html" target="_blank">these</a> <a href="http://nichtdiesetone.blogspot.com/2011/12/remember.html" target="_blank">two</a>.</i><br />
<div class="p1">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sleep in providence<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>always.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>most days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>although,
when I wake, I find myself<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>elsewhere.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>nowhere.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>when I am
done visiting your version<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>of
Charon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>of
Cerberus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>of
love and Lethe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>despite the
brightness of the ambient city lights.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>where the
streets are so narrow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and
sometimes I lose<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>my
way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>my
sight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>at least, I
wish I did.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>but I’d
rather sleep with you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>even
though, sometimes it seems like Hell.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>or Purgatory.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>for no good
reason.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>hoping I’ll
become worthy<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>of
the place.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>of
your wanting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>of
myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>beside some
vast ocean I can’t name.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>until
someone finds me out and I’m<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>ousted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>castigated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>deified.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>forever.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>never.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>on the
occasion of your latest heartbreak.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>listening
to autumn leaves fall<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>in
a coffee shop.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>in
my head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>in
another time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>in a coffee
shop.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>during
autumn.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>wearing
nothing<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>except
sorrow, mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>except
sorrow, yours.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>except
a lonely hat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>feeling
only desire.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I dream of you.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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</style>Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-57700750862318472382017-09-25T11:34:00.000-07:002017-09-25T11:34:08.322-07:00Sunday among RedwoodsRedwoods. Every time I see them they blow my mind. It's like looking into the night sky and seeing the light of stars hundreds or thousands or millions of years old, except you can touch a redwood and feel what ancient means. Time stands still in forests.<br />
<br />
I drove down to the redwoods today on a whim, then hiked four miles with my notebook but no water. Now I'm sitting on a fallen tree, writing, thirsty. The car isn't far away, and soon I'll make the hour plus drive home. But for this moment I'm sitting, breathing deep, bathed in the dull flow of fading sunlight in this narrow clearing near park headquarters.<br />
<br />
It's quiet here. Still. Even when branches crack or the wind blows through the low leaves or you hear a bird titter or a nearby group of people laugh. It's quiet. Still.<br />
<br />
When I was in college I once meditated nearby two talking friends. One came up to me when I was finished and told me a story. It goes like this:<br />
<br />
"Once there was a monk who got tired of meditating in his monastery on a mountainside, so he came down into the city, found a street corner by a busy market, sat down, and meditated there. Someone asked him why, and he said, 'It is easy to meditate when your surroundings are peaceful. True enlightenment can only be achieved when you can silence your mind even surrounded by chaos.'"<br />
<br />
Could that monk have ever learned to meditate in the chaos, though? In the woods, you may not find your Buddha nature, but you maybe do come closer to the Earth's.<br />
<br />
Forever and forever<br />
everything's alright<br />
Midnight woods<br />
- Jack KerouacPaul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-36626015066092698822017-08-17T17:48:00.001-07:002017-08-17T17:49:09.255-07:00Poem<i>Used the same writing process as <a href="http://nichtdiesetone.blogspot.com/2012/11/poem.html" target="_blank">this one</a> from 5 years ago. Hence the formal similarity.</i><br />
<br />
<div>
Impossible dreams</div>
<div>
echo through<br />
memory, whispering<br />
desired names,<br />
each syllable<br />
a plea,<br />
each want<br />
denied, each<br />
Rose only<br />
a tease.<br />
Devious moon-<br />
shadows, sanctify<br />
unrequitable loves.<style type="text/css">
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Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-46549622933684293762016-12-30T15:09:00.000-08:002016-12-30T19:58:23.132-08:002016 Poems<i>Just a few of what I think are my better poems from 2016.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Haiku</b><br />
(January - December)<br />
<br />
Your turn, Rose<br />
tell me how<br />
You don't love me<br />
<br />
Some couches<br />
aren't even<br />
All that comfortable<br />
<br />
Write your mountain poems<br />
sing your valley songs<br />
Gaze across the desert<br />
<br />
The sun rose<br />
and I loved the shadows<br />
As much as the light<br />
<br />
The moon rose<br />
and the echoing darkness<br />
Lightened<br />
<br />
Dogs under blankets<br />
hiding from<br />
The cool fog<br />
<br />
Bodhisattva bodhisattva<br />
why do you stay<br />
In this broken world?<br />
<br />
A Buddha climbed a mountain<br />
at the top he found<br />
So many roses<br />
<br />
Read my book<br />
- lonesome and tired -<br />
It has good words in it<br />
<br />
A whisper<br />
is a part<br />
Of silence<br />
<br />
Tea shop in Fairbanks<br />
clouds gathering<br />
Midnight sun<br />
<br />
Mountain haikus<br />
the mountains laughed<br />
At my writing<br />
<br />
It takes a mountain<br />
a long time<br />
To laugh<br />
<br />
Share my tea<br />
it tastes like<br />
Bitter flowers<br />
<br />
Using the armrests<br />
as footrests<br />
My mother<br />
<br />
The smell of decay<br />
roses in a vase<br />
Four days later<br />
<br />
Escher on the wall<br />
fish in the pond<br />
Impossible waterfalls<br />
<br />
Gloom<br />
never seemed<br />
So cheerful<br />
<br />
Kyrie eleison<br />
it takes ten minutes<br />
To say correctly<br />
<br />
Her red dress<br />
the smell of candle<br />
Wax hot on skin<br />
<br />
Who needs<br />
punctuation<br />
<br />
There are no secrets<br />
in a family<br />
Of sisters<br />
<br />
White sky<br />
ice on the pavement<br />
Walk carefully<br />
<br />
The fireplace<br />
its heat inconsequential<br />
Compared to hers<br />
<br />
Piano in the morning<br />
silent love songs<br />
Don't want to wake anyone<br />
<br />
Still filling pages<br />
rather than letting<br />
Their candid truth live<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The Rose and the Bee</b><br />
(January)<br />
<br />
The rose and the bee that gives it life<br />
The thorn of the rose and the sting of the bee<br />
My own scorpion tail and its impotent sting,<br />
Power only to poison, to harm, to destroy.<br />
In a rose there is some power, some efficacy,<br />
Some beauty like the beauty of a life well-lived.<br />
In a bee there is some industry, some determination,<br />
Some grace like the grace of a dream well-dreamt.<br />
In the thorn there is but a prick, the gentle reminder<br />
That not all pain is unwelcome, a lust well-earned.<br />
In the sting there is some small swelling, the stinger<br />
Stuck under the skin until it is released with care<br />
Or else wantonly scourged so the emptiness of its removal<br />
Stays with you as a memory of the desire<br />
For the sting to be gone.<br />
In a scorpion there is some weakness, a hard exoskeleton<br />
Only a ruse to protect the damaged innards.<br />
There is some strength, some base, unrefined purpose,<br />
Some cruelty like the cruelty of a love well-loved.<br />
The rose and the bee that gives it life and the scorpion besides,<br />
The thorn of the rose and the sting of the bee and the tail of the scorpion.<br />
All these are, invincibly, one.<br />
All these are, inevitably, sundered.<br />
All these degenerate, dying, they decompose.<br />
<br />
<b>I Dreamt About You Last Night</b><br />
(April)<br />
<b><br /></b>
I dreamt about you last night.<br />
I actually dream about you most nights.<br />
I wouldn't say they're good dreams,<br />
But what's a good dream?<br />
None of my dreams are good,<br />
Usually they're strange, complicated, uncomfortable,<br />
Surreal allegories for living.<br />
So my dreams about you are also<br />
Surreal allegories for loving.<br />
Last night I dreamt of our love,<br />
How we wanted each other<br />
But as we came together<br />
We were beset on all sides<br />
By people, watching,<br />
And while we were not ashamed<br />
So ardently did we wish for some private place<br />
So impossible seemed our desire<br />
That we were frustrated in our wanting.<br />
When I dreamt of you<br />
I dreamt of a lover far away<br />
Not just in distance, but in mind.<br />
<br />
<b>Mother and Son</b><br />
(April)<br />
<br />
My son:<br />
He's not feeling great today, but<br />
He is still going to school.<br />
He doesn't have a fever, I feel<br />
He is not contagious.<br />
He has allergies, bad<br />
Santa Ana winds,<br />
Sore throat, raw.<br />
He is not comfortable talking.<br />
He has a mug and tea bags and honey<br />
(Sooth yourself with my hot tea, my son, my honey).<br />
He will clear his throat, step outside.<br />
He will suck on throat soothers.<br />
He will make it, I hope, today<br />
Without me.<br />
<br />
<b>Write me a Poem</b><br />
(October)<br />
<br />
you said write me a poem so I took out my pen and<br />
started to write but you said not like that<br />
as if poetry obeyed some kind of rule<br />
you are not my queen or even my muse<br />
I wrote not because you asked but because I wanted to<br />
or even because I couldn't help it<br />
that feeling when you have to write<br />
that feeling predated your edict by a few seconds<br />
and made it seem like I was obeying you<br />
when really I was just obeying the Universe<br />
<br />
<b>Montessori</b><br />
(November)<br />
<br />
You may know your pedagogy and<br />
You may know your content and<br />
You may even know how to put them together.<br />
You can write a paragraph and<br />
Show a child to write one.<br />
You can add four digit numbers in your head and<br />
Teach a student to do the same.<br />
You can place an idea in its historical context and<br />
Model that process for a teenager, so she knows how, too.<br />
But you are spiritually deficient.<br />
You need to bow to a new idol.<br />
You need to teach the One True Way,<br />
Because no matter what you know and<br />
No matter what they learn<br />
It doesn't count unless it fits the brand.<br />
<br />
<b>Untitled</b><br />
(December)<br />
<br />
As I've lost my words<br />
I've rediscovered my silence,<br />
The silence of attention,<br />
Breathing in, out, om,<br />
Listening to the void,<br />
Hearing not truth nor wisdom,<br />
Nor lies nor foolishness,<br />
Hearing no thing.<br />
When I was younger I learned<br />
To listen was easy<br />
As long as you shut up and<br />
Open your ears and close<br />
Your eyes.<br />
Then words words all the the time.<br />
I spoke so much even when<br />
I did not need to.<br />
As I've lost those words<br />
I'm rediscovering the silence<br />
That undefined me.<br />
<br />
<b>After the Party</b><br />
(December)<br />
<br />
Winter morning, the day after the party.<br />
In the kitchen the family patriarch<br />
Rearranges wine glass and beer bottle.<br />
His children sleep silently.<br />
Downstairs from their childhood bedrooms<br />
A circle of chairs, remnants of<br />
Late night games, victory and defeat<br />
Still palpable in the furniture.<br />
I'm sitting in one of those chairs,<br />
The brown leather one, squeaky,<br />
The one she sat in last night.<br />
I wonder when she will descend<br />
Down that stairway, look me<br />
In the eye, confuse my jaded<br />
Heart.Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-43831491556446337122016-09-13T13:26:00.001-07:002016-09-13T13:29:06.814-07:00Mercy<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>So I've caught the Overwatch bug. It's a fun little game that's perfect for a teacher who can't play all the time, but can catch a match here and there. The main character I play is Mercy. What follows is, I guess, fan fiction? It's silly, but I had fun writing it. Enjoy.</i><br />
<br />
It was with some surprise that I awoke on a brisk September
morning in a dimly lit forest. I was surprised that I awoke at all. The last
thing I remembered, before the damp, rotting leaves and the swaying branches
that greeted me as I regained consciousness, was my death. It wasn’t a dream;
it hurt way too much. I had been shot during the battle. The bullet went right
through my stomach. I collapsed, and I could feel the strange mix of pain and
detachment that comes with the end.<br />
<br />
I sat up slowly, looking down at my blood-drenched shirt,
but unable to find the bullet wound. I probed the area gently with my hands,
but felt no pain there, and no other sign of the wound. And yet, there was the
hole in my shirt, and the blood. I could see no one else, no doctor, no way of
accounting for my miraculous survival. I guess revival might be a better word. Or
resurrection.<br />
<br />
I stood up, expecting to be weak and woozy, but I felt
strong, aside from the thirst and hunger that I always feel after a battle. But
I was very confused. How was I alive? Where was I? What should I do?<br />
<br />
I tried to focus on my memories of the battle. We had been
fighting in a hilly plains near the planet Julen’s largest city. There were no
forests that I knew of anywhere near the drop zone. I hand’t spent much time
studying the planet, but as far as I knew there weren’t any forests for miles.<br />
<br />
Judging from the scant light piercing through the branches
above and the long shadows on the ground, it was late afternoon, but that
didn’t mean much to me. It could have been the day of the battle, still, or it
could have been weeks later. The dead don’t exactly have a good sense of time
passing.<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The dead</i>. I was
dead, right? I mean, had I woken up in a hospital in intensive care I could
have understood what happened. But this forest made no sense. The more I
thought through my situation, the more questions I had. What day was it? What
planet was I on?<br />
<br />
I thought back to the battle. The briefing had said we would
meet heavy resistance from the colonial rebels. The Empire was sick of this
foolhardy attempt at independence, so they were sending the elite third<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span>division – of which I was a newly minted member – to occupy Julen, and to
locate and raze the rebel base. We were to land outside of Julen’s capital,
then to fight our way into the city. It was a straightforward operation, and
the battle had been in our favor when I took the bullet.<br />
<br />
As I wondered idly whether we had succeeded in our mission,
I heard a voice, “I’ve been watching over you. Your people took the city, but
the rebellion fights on.”<br />
<br />
Startled, I turned to see a beautiful middle-aged woman emerge
from behind the largest nearby tree. “Who are you? What am I doing here? What
happened?”<br />
<br />
“One question at a time,” She said, laughing, “And I get to
ask first. On a scale of 1 to 10, how is your pain?”<br />
<br />
“I’m not feeling any pain, just confusion.”<br />
<br />
“Good,” she replied, “I prefer to keep this painless, if
possible, though sometimes it can’t be avoided. I’m not a miracle worker. Well,
not always.”<br />
<br />
“Who are you?”<br />
<br />
“I’m a doctor. Or I was, before the rebellion. My name is Angela
Zeigler.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And you, you rescued me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“In a manner of speaking. I took you from the battlefield,
yes, to these woods.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Uh, where exactly are these woods?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dr. Zeigler shifted uncomfortably, “I can’t tell you that,
actually. We’re on Julen, and we’re near the rebel base.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I thought that was in the capital?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smiled, “It’s not. But I’m glad to hear you think it
is.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started to understand, “You’re with the rebellion?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At this she stiffened, “I abhor war. I wish the rebellion
had never happened.” It wasn’t an answer. Not really, anyway. But then again it
seems this woman had saved my life, so maybe she wasn’t a rebel. She continued,
“When the rebellion started I was in the middle of some fascinating research,
research that has particular applications in a war like this one.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And this research,” I picked up the thread, “Saved my
life.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It did. And it saved the life of the man who shot you. He
died in the battle as well. I won’t get into the details as to how, but if
someone dies, I can revive him if I also revive someone killed by that person.
I’m not sure I understand it myself. Stills seems like magic, to be honest, but
so far it works.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was hard to believe what Zeigler was saying, but then
again it was even harder to believe that I was alive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A man emerged from the same direction I had seen the doctor
come from. “It’s time. I have to get back into the fight.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dr. Zeigler sighed, “If we must, Jackson”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We must. You know that better than anyone,” the man,
Jackson, replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Who are you?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m a hero buddy. A hero of the rebellion, and thanks to
you I get to keep being a hero. We’re going to win this war.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spat at him. “You’re just a bunch of hopped up idealists
who think you can beat the empire.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Boys,” Dr. Zeigler cut in, “This isn’t the time to argue.
Jackson, he only just woke up, I haven’t even explained everything to him yet.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t care. I’ve got to get to the front lines,” the man
replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked on in confusion. Dr. Zeigler looked me in the eyes,
resigned. I saw sadness, and also firm resolve. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ll explain more next time. For now, just
know that Heroes never die, for a price.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m no hero,” I replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” she agreed. “You’re the price.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Terror grasped me as I finally understood. Jackson looked
into my eyes, pulled his gun, and aimed it at my torso.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mercy! Mercy! Please don’t do this.” I screamed, falling to
my knees.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dr. Zeigler kneeled down and grabbed my hand. “I’m here. I’m
sorry.”<br />
<br />
Jackson pulled the trigger and I felt the pain of dying for
the second, and not the last, time. As I collapsed, consciousness fading, I saw
Jackson walking away. Zeigler was still by my side. “How barbaric,” she said.
Jackson had shot me in the stomach again. My death would be slow. Mercy took
out a pistol and aimed it at my head. Again, she said, “I’m sorry.” Then, “It
has to be done.” She aimed at my head and pulled the trigger. I suppose that
was her idea of mercy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-87036814531120549992016-01-13T19:51:00.000-08:002016-01-13T20:25:03.808-08:00Some Poems<i>It's been a while since I posted any poetry, and I've written a fair amount over the last few months. So here's an assortment of what I consider the better recent stuff, plus a couple from the summer that I wasn't ready to post at the time, but am ready to post now.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Looking through my journal, it's interesting for me to note that I tend to write prose when I'm in a better mood and poetry </i><i>- haiku excepted - </i><i>when I'm in a worse (or more complicated) mood, so this collection is on the morose side. If you want light-hearted humor mixed with clandestine philosophizing, read the post below this one: "How to Survive in Nicaragua without Clothes."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>--------------------</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Assorted Haiku from November through January</i><br />
<br />
November morning<br />
cool and bright<br />
The car window fogged<br />
<br />
So many books<br />
all full<br />
Of beautiful empty words<br />
<br />
Romeo's lesson:<br />
not to have<br />
Is what sustains us<br />
<br />
It's not yet dark enough<br />
that I can<br />
See the stars<br />
<br />
Wandering the tarmac<br />
a lonely man<br />
Who cannot fly<br />
<br />
Wrote a haiku<br />
then promptly forgot<br />
All about it all<br />
<br />
Sleeping in the hotel<br />
a lost couple<br />
Of Big Apple dreamers<br />
<br />
I didn't fear<br />
the wild scorpion<br />
We have too much in common<br />
<br />
Where am I?<br />
the statue of Jesus<br />
Blocked by flowers<br />
<br />
The bugs don't<br />
consider themselves<br />
Nicaraguan<br />
<br />
Las B<span style="font-family: 'Linux Libertine', Georgia, Times, serif; line-height: 1.3;">élgicas</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Linux Libertine', Georgia, Times, serif; line-height: 1.3;"> mas bonita en la </span><span style="font-family: 'Linux Libertine', Georgia, Times, serif; line-height: 1.3;">mañana</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Linux Libertine', Georgia, Times, serif; line-height: 1.3;">Que en la noche</span><br />
<br />
In my generation<br />
we're all just a bunch<br />
Of flitting moonshadows<br />
<br />
<i>--------------------</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Written on the plane to Managua. This one is inspired by the song <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cI7OtmHGHQk" target="_blank">"The Clouds Breathe For You," by the Glitch Mob</a>.</i><br />
<br />
The clouds breathe for us<br />
When they fill with vapor they cry<br />
like us it's too much to bear, sometimes<br />
and the torrent that follows,<br />
in the hazy afternoon, filling<br />
the air with drops of cold, bitter liquid<br />
draining through pipes and sewers<br />
overflowing from pools and ponds and<br />
all the puddles splash.<br />
<br />
<i>--------------------</i><br />
<br />
<i>Also written on the plane to Managua.</i><br />
<br />
The world’s lexicon is vast, immeasurable,<br />
Sometimes indecipherable, replete<br />
as it is<br />
with symbols and icons and archetypes,<br />
denotation and connotation, inflection and<br />
suggestion, innuendo, ententre.<br />
The world speaks, in so many tongues,<br />
from so many mouths,<br />
but the Universe remains<br />
Silent.<br />
<br />
<div>
<i>--------------------</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>An admittedly sad poem written in June. I know that Buckley is not the original writer of the song in question, but his version remains my favorite.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
I still cry when I hear Jeff Bluckey's "Hallelujah."</div>
<div>
There's one verse, in particular, that gets me.</div>
<div>
It speaks to my memory of loving, and losing,</div>
<div>
And not being sure if the loving was ever real,</div>
<div>
If every breath was, actually, halleljuah.</div>
<div>
It throws the whole edifice into chaos, you see,</div>
<div>
The edifice in which my gullible heart lives,</div>
<div>
Where I believe in love and want to love</div>
<div>
And want to need to have to believe</div>
<div>
That love can be a victory march, maybe, sometimes.</div>
<div>
Then I remember that all of my love has been</div>
<div>
And maybe will ever be</div>
<div>
Cold, broken</div>
<div>
Hallelujah.</div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>--------------------</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Another reflective poem I wrote in July in Colorado. Not dissimilar from the previous in theme, but better constructed, I think.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
What does it mean to have faith?</div>
<div>
The damp air, still pregnant with afternoon rain</div>
<div>
Even in the middle of the cool night</div>
<div>
Sent ripples through the blinds covering the window,</div>
<div>
And at the desk in the corner</div>
<div>
Across from the piles of boxes -</div>
<div>
Symbols of some kind of faith</div>
<div>
In some kind of love -</div>
<div>
At the desk in the corner I heard</div>
<div>
A car passing in the distance.</div>
<div>
I remembered looking out of a fifth story window</div>
<div>
Waiting for my love, my first love, to arrive,</div>
<div>
Waiting impatiently, desperately,</div>
<div>
Waiting with impossible desire need lust fear</div>
<div>
Waiting, leaning against the brick windowsill</div>
<div>
Knowing that someday she would not come</div>
<div>
Pretending that someday was today</div>
<div>
Letting my stomach drop and my heart shatter</div>
<div>
Preemptively, and perpetually ever since.</div>
<div>
I have always had faith in the impossible</div>
<div>
And what is more impossible than love?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>--------------------</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Finally, my most recent poem. I'm reading a beat poetry anthology at the moment, and you'll probably notice the influence.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<b>Moonshadow</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A January night, the sky patched with clouds</div>
<div>
Like a toenail, the light from the moon</div>
<div>
Shone down in slivers, silvery light beige</div>
<div>
Illuminating hardly anything at all</div>
<div>
A lamppost and a stop sign</div>
<div>
Casting shadows on the ground</div>
<div>
A man walking and wanting and caught</div>
<div>
in the moon's pale gleam, hardly visible</div>
<div>
His thoughts, hardly visible hardly thinkable</div>
<div>
Hardly even thoughts at all just the wanting</div>
<div>
And the wanting until all he thinks is the wanting</div>
<div>
And it's hardly a thought at all.</div>
<div>
A sliver of light, a hint of a smile,</div>
<div>
the gleam in her eyes, her toenail when</div>
<div>
She wore open-toed shoes, reflecting the</div>
<div>
light of the full moon on some other brighter</div>
<div>
lighter night in some other brighter lighter life</div>
<div>
and the wanting of all her from the</div>
<div>
gleam in her eyes to the</div>
<div>
reflection of the moon in her toenail</div>
<div>
A man walking caught wanting under the moon</div>
<div>
Casting a moonshadow blocking out the light</div>
<div>
Wanting the toenail moon wanting the fullness</div>
<div>
of a fortnight later when the shadows</div>
<div>
The shadows he might cast then would be</div>
<div>
So much more discernible and in her</div>
<div>
eyes the moon reflected so clear</div>
<div>
and that is the wanting. That is the shadow.</div>
<div>
That is the wanting.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-84204430369544595112016-01-08T22:19:00.000-08:002016-03-07T09:55:26.040-08:00How To Survive in Nicaragua Without Clothes<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Chapter
One – Houston</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The trouble
started some thirty thousand feet in the air above the Oklahoma panhandle. “Uh,
folks, we’re going to be put in a holding pattern above Houston. They’re, uh,
having some weather trouble there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our connecting
flight to Managua was scheduled to leave a mere 45 minutes after our arrival in
Houston, so my mother and I looked at each other doubtfully. We had already
advised my brother and his girlfriend to proceed without us should we fail to
make the connection. Enjoy Managua without us, brother! We’ll be living it up
in beautiful Houston, Texas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Maybe the
flight to Managua will be delayed,” Mom suggested. I conceded that it may well
be, but as travel makes me, not quite morose, but at the least a little jaded,
my hopes were not high.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Some minutes of
circling later the captain returned to his mouthpiece: “Looks like they’ve re-opened
the airport. We’ve got a radar vector in to Houston, so we’re going to take
it.” This news was met with excitement. The airport is open! We didn’t know it
was closed, but OK! And a radar vector! Whatever the hell that is! Let’s go!
Left unsaid, “this is going to be a bumpy ride.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was a bumpy
ride. There was lightning to the left of us, lightning to the right of us,
lightning in front of us, volleyed and thundered. Yet we stormed forward
through the stormwinds and stormrains and stormclouds and electro-charged storm
death beams and made it successfully to the ground. Taxiing down the Houston
tarmac we could see thousands of fish-eyed travelers, noses to the windows and
gates of every terminal. “It’s a trap,” I said in my best Akbar, not for the
last time that evening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Once safely into
the trap, we confirmed the delay of our Managua flight, and could not locate
James and Jane. Their own flight, it seemed, had not made it to Houston. Their
plane was already several hours late, as they were meant to arrive well before
us. We prepared to mourn the loss of a young man – a loyal brother and son – and
his young love, but a text message cut short our grief.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You can’t text
from the plane!!” I said, incredulous to the tone of two exclamation points
(but not three).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’m pretty sure
it would crash if you did,” my mom agreed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: “They must
have crashed already.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Mothership:
“Can ghosts send text messages?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The text: “We’re
on the tarmac in San Antonio.” Followed by, “It might be some time. The pilot
says he doesn’t know when we’ll be cleared to leave.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“They’re not
going to make it,” I offered, helpfully, as I glanced at the current flight
status for our Managua departure. The Jays – James and Jane – had an hour to
make it from San Antonio to Houston, disembark, and reembark on another plane.
“Unless their plane is the plane to Managua,” I suggested, again helpfully.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We consulted an
arrivals screen. It said their plane had landed 15 minutes ago. I let James
know the good news that he was, actually, already here. “Ha ha very funny,” he
said. I don’t think he actually laughed, though. Airplanes make him cranky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We asked the
Manauga gate lady. She looked tired. I looked around. They all did. Every
single United employee – roughly five or six in total – working at the Houston
George Bush Oversized Metaphor for Questionable International Diplomatic Policy
looked positively harangued. The airport had been closed down for hours, it
turned out, and the line at the United customer service desk was already
filling to comedic lengths. It snaked left, then right, then around a corner.
There were people sitting in chairs. There were people standing on chairs.
There were couples meeting, falling in love, raising families, growing old
together, and being replaced by future generations. The line was, I tell you,
slow. And, in their infinite wisdom and the security that near monopoly and a
blatant disregard for anti-trust law – because, really, who enforces that shit
anymore? – grants, United had elected not to call in any additional employees.
Why pay overtime when you can make people wait in an obscenely long line?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Managua gate
lady looked positively chipper compared to the poor solitary soul manning – or
Sisyphus-ing – the customer service line. She informed us first that my
brother’s plane was in Austin – in stark contradiction to his text message – and
that the plane for Managua had not yet arrived, meaning that our scheduled
departure in 40 minutes was extremely unlikely, if not entirely impossible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“It’s the same
plane,” I offered again. The gate lady shook her head and smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Let’s get food,”
Mom suggested.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My Mom and I,
after a thorough scouting of the available eateries, settled on Rubies,
because, hey, I hadn’t been home in California for a few days and everything
else was terrifying. A goodish burger and a goodish beer sounded goodish enough
for a lost evening in the proverbial Bush.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">While drinking
my unexpectedly gooder than goodish beer, our flight was further delayed. In
classic airline fashion, it was not canceled. It was delayed thirty minutes at
a time. “Nueve, nueve y media, diez, diez y media, once, once y media.” I
figured I’d better practice my Spanish numbers, what with Nicaragua on the (increasingly
distant) horizon and all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Fortunately, the
delays meant the Jays might just reach us. “Nope, we’re still in San Antonio, on
the tarmac,” James contradicted via text. I vaguely recalled some law about not
keeping passengers on the tarmac for more than an hour – it had been nearly
four – but figured, once again, that United had basically said “to hell with
laws” years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Having eaten,
The Mothership and I returned to besiege our gate. That there was nothing on
the other end to besiege – no plane, no people, no precious gems or noble
titles – mattered little. We would besiege it nonetheless. And so, not unlike like
a catapult-man ready to let loose a flaming boulder, I took out a book and
began to read quietly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Later, much
later, my brother’s plane landed in Houston. “I’ll find your gate,” I texted
him. “Ha! We don’t have one,” he replied. He was right. I went to his assigned
gate and there was another plane there. I spent the next hour or so darting
around the airport, holding conversations with other travelers in my pitiful
Spanish – because, it turns out, a lot of people in George Bush’s airport speak
more Spanish than English – and riding the tram back and forth between the C
and D terminals.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">At some point in
all of this the flight to Managua was officially and shockingly canceled.
United emailed us right away with a message that said, in so many words,
“Suckers! Good luck finding another flight to Managua! The next three are all
already booked!” Despairing at the length of the real customer service line, my
mom got into the virtual line of United’s customer service call center. Because
she’s from Hawaii and therefore has to fly anytime she wants to do anything
other than lay on the beach she’s in United’s fancy Premier club or whatever
they call it, so she only had to wait on hold for two hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">During those two
hours, my brother’s plane finally found a gate. A mere 10 hours after taking
off from Newark, he had arrived with his (very cranky) Jane in Houston. “Hey
brother,” I said, “Our flight to Managua’s been canceled!” He was happy to see
me, too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We reunited with
The Mothership, who had, by now, memorized the gripping United hold muzak. She
was in the process of composing a new harmonization for the main theme when she
finally reached a human and started finding new flights for us the next day.
They put the Jays on a flight to El Salvador, and Mom and I on a flight to
Belize, both with mysterious Central American airlines we’d never heard of.
From these foreign ports, we were assured, we would arrive in Managua at some
point the following day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was getting
near midnight at this point, so we made our way to a hotel near the airport.
James contracted Houston’s least competent and, not coincidentally, most stoned
Uber driver – we’ll call him Scooby – to pick us up at the baggage claim. He
had a hard time finding the baggage claim, so we spent a good fifteen minutes
running from one side of the airport to the other looking for him once he
finally made it to the airport. While we waited for Scooby, Mom and I asked the
baggage people about our baggage. For the first of approximately ten times in
the next twenty four hours we were told a very specific lie: “It will be on
your new flight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Once aboard
Scooby’s station-wagon, our erstwhile driver executed a stunning series of
wrong turns, demonstrating along the way that three rights make a left, and got
us to the hotel. I decided it would be smart, before checking in for the night,
to check on our flight to Belize. It turned out it had already been delayed,
meaning we were going to miss our connection to Managua. As fun as being
stranded in Belize sounded, Mom and I decided to give customer service another
try. The hold music wafted through our hotel room as I hatched a plan to visit
Alaska by myself for as long as possible, as soon as possible. I even booked a
cabin outside a small town six hours north of Fairbanks. It seemed the only
sensible thing to do given the circumstances.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually,
finally, at roughly three in the morning, United transferred us to an American
Airlines flight to Miami, leaving at way-too-soon o’clock. Foolishly, we
hustled out of our hotel room, got into a cab, and made our way back to the
airport. As it came into view I felt a pang of nostalgia. It had been far too
long since I had seen George Bush International.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Leaving the cab,
Mom and I strode to the American Airlines check in, maintaining our poise even
as we passed a tragically closed Starbucks and the half-dozen or so souls who
stood simply gazing at it with a look of utter defeat in their eyes. We were
not the only sleep-deprived would-be travelers in Houston that day. We entered
our new flight information. We navigated the labyrinthine and unfamiliar user
interface (because, really, who flies American?). We pressed the buttons and
punched the keys! We saw that our flight to Miami, originally scheduled for
5:30 in the morning, was delayed until 12:30, and that our flight to Managua
left Miami at 12:00 sharp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I think we’ll
miss the Managua connection,” I said, helpfully returning to the original theme
of the journey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I guess we have
to call United again,” my mom replied with a surprising lack of excitement. She
dialed the phone. The muzak played once more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’ll call the
hotel. You think United will pay for all these cab rides?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Shh, I’m
working on a second tenor harmony.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I explained to
Yvette – the front desk lady at the hotel and perhaps the only competent person
working in the whole of the greater Houston area that fine evening, or morning,
or whatever you call it at 4 AM when you haven’t slept – that we were coming
back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I saved your
room and still have your keys,” she replied. “I had a feeling you’d be back.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You’re
miraculous. Why don’t you work for United?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Do I really
have to answer that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I guess not,” I
said, realizing how wrong it would be to send an angel into the pits of hell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Despite our
third cab driver’s Scooby-like confusion about how to get there, we arrived
back at the Holiday Inn shortly, and Yvette handed us our keys. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">At least</i>, I thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can sleep</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“No you can’t,”
my mom said, reading my thoughts because she’s a witch, “We’re on the 9 AM to
Managua.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“But that one
was booked?” I was puzzled. That one was booked. I was sure. They told us so,
multiple times. They even taunted us about it. It was booked, I tell you!
“Nothing makes sense anymore! When do I leave for Alaska? When can I go to
sleep?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Let’s get back
to the airport.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was late
enough that the Holiday Inn’s airport shuttle service had started, so we
avoided yet another cab ride. As we walked past the front desk and turned in
our keys, Yvette smiled. “Enjoy Nicaragua,” She said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Chapter
Two – Jicaro</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Your bags will be on your new flight. Your
bags will be on your new flight. Your bags will be on your new flight.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dear reader, you
will never guess where our bags were when Mom and I arrived in Managua, or more
pointedly, where they were not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“They’re not
here,” I observed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Seems that
way,” Mom agreed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We went to talk
to the United baggage representative.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, there are a
few things you need to know about Managua, Nicaragua at this point. First, it
is the third largest city in Central America. Second, its airport has only six
gates. Third, we had flown over an erupting volcano during our descent. Ok, you
don’t really need to know the third one, but it was pretty cool. “This makes it
all worth while,” Mom said at the time. I wouldn’t go that far, myself, but it was
pretty cool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway,
important things one and two are important because they tell you something about
Managua; it’s not exactly technologically advanced. Consider: the airport at
the third biggest city in the US has, well, I’m not sure how many gates, but
it’s at least seven.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The United
baggage representative in Managua, therefore, had access to the following
tools:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"> 1)<span style="font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">A
pen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> 2) A stack
of delayed baggage forms.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> 3) A
desk with a huge crack in the surface.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The man in front
of us, who also could not locate his bags, asked the rep, “Can you just check
on a computer to see where my bags are?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Sir,” the bag
rep said with a smile, “I don’t have a computer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Indeed, she did
not. But she happily filled out a few lines of the delayed baggage form – and I
really do mean <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a few</i>; most of the
form she left blank – and gave us a phone number to call before sending us on
our merry way through customs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Will we ever
see our bags again?” I pondered wistfully.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I thought back
to the flight that morning. We had been delayed – surprise! – because, as the
pilot said, “there are a few bags from last night’s flight that we have to
load.” I was certain, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">certain</i>, that
he was talking about my orange duffle and mom’s green roller. I was certain
that, all those times they told us that our bags would be on our new flight
they were telling us the truth. I was certain that I would have my toiletries
and my underwear and my precious Hawaiian shirts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You put your
toiletries in your checked bag?” James would later ask reproachfully. Shut up, James.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway, without
checked bags we burst through customs and into the hot Nicaraguan sun. My jeans
– which I would be wearing for quite some time to come – were not ideal in the
90 plus degree heat and rabid, rainforesty humidity of Central America in
December, but, hey, I couldn’t change without my bags.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">James: “Why did
you even check bags in the first place?” I said shut up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“No, seriously,
why did you check a bag, Paul?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ugh. I only
answer this question, at this point, because it is so essential to the rest of
this journey that it cannot be avoided. Though I risk detouring into other
stories – including some that are not even my own – I fear a diversion cannot
be avoided. The short answer to why I checked a bag to Nicaragua is that I
spent the week prior in Denver with my Aunt, my mother’s sister. It turns out
that the weather in Nicaragua in December and the weather in Denver in December
have little in common. Two climates over 11 days makes is hard to fit into one carry
on and one personal item, especially if you, like me, tend to bring a library’s
worth of books on any trip.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Wait, how many
books did you bring with you?” I don’t want to talk about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The longer
answer for why I checked a bag is that there were a lot of things I wanted to
bring with me to Denver and Managua. For example, the board game <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dixit</i>. I’ve played it with lots of kids
– I’m a middle school teacher – and while they enjoy it, they’re uniformly
terrible at coming up with clever phrases to match the pictures on the cards
each player is dealt. Where an adult might say, “misery loves company” to
describe a picture with a solitary mime crying a solitary tear, or “where’s my
swiss army knife?” for a picture with a pockmarked, cheesy-looking moon in the
corner, a ten-year-old will instead say, “green!” because the card has a lot of
green on it. I really wanted to play with my mom – who has a PhD – and my
brother’s girlfriend – who is also an English teacher – and my brother – who’s
a pretty bright guy, too, I guess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Hey, at least I
didn’t put my toothbrush in a checked bag.” Yeah, yeah. I get it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Of course, I
also anticipated playing with my eight-year-old cousin in Denver. Ethan has
adored every game my mother or I have ever brought with us and taught him to
play. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dixit</i> proved to be no exception.
We even ended up getting him a copy for Christmas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">All of which is
to say, I had to bring <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dixit</i>, ok? And
I needed my purple shorts, and I needed to bring my present to the Jays – a
book, because I’m a nerd – and various shoes, including hiking boots,
flip-flops, and something semi-formal for any New Years festivities, and, and,
and… not to mention sweaters and cold-weather stuff for Colorado.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And yet, here I
was, in Managua, getting into a car, about to drive an hour south to Jicaro, a
world famous ecolodge on an island in the massive Lake Nicaragua, without any
of the things I was convinced I needed for the trip. I had no clothes, even,
besides the increasingly rank shirt – already approaching 72 hours of service –
on my back, the underwear – 48 hours – under my jeans, the jeans themselves –
well over 100 hours – and the shoes and socks on my feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You mean you
didn’t even put a single change of clothes in your carry on?” Damn it, James.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How does one survive in Nicaragua without
clothes?</i> I pondered on
the car ride south.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Looking out at
the people of Nicaragua, it was clear that many were living answers to my
question. They said, in the way of all tropical peoples, “you survive just fine
without clothes.” That’s not entirely fair, though. Though scantily clad, the
people of Nicaragua were, nevertheless, clad, especially in the city of
Managua, the metropolitan hub of the Central part of Central America. Indeed,
it bemused me to note that, in front of sheet-metal shacks sat men and women in
distinctively American clothing, affixed to American cell-phones, surrounded by
American advertising. I was almost, but not quite, shocked to see that almost
all of the billboards had pictures of white people on them. Manifest Destiny
never dies, I guess, my own presence in Managua a case in point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Arriving at the
lake after an hour of awkward semi-conversation with our driver, who spoke only
minimal English, and whom I was much too tired to try to engage in my own paltry
Spanish, Mom and I boarded a boat to Jicaro. Yes, you have to ride a boat to
the ecolodge. I sat in a back row seat, placing my computer bag – my carry on –
at my feet. The water beside me was precariously close to the edge of the boat.
I thought about the massive stack of student essays I had in my bag, wondering
how, if I lost them, I would ever finish my semester’s grading.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You brought
your students’ essays to Nicaragua in your carry-on instead of an extra shirt
or toothpaste?” Sigh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“An A for
everybody,” I announced to no one in particular as the boat motor revved into
action, already anticipating that, having lost my checked bags, the Universe
would find a way to confiscate my other bags as well. I swear that I did not
secretly wish to be rid of those papers. I swear it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When, some
minutes later, we made it to the dock and my papers had somehow,
disappointingly, not ended up at the bottom of the lake, I drank a generously
proffered and mysteriously sweet drink from the hands of the bartender I would
later learn was named Marlon (after Brando, yes), vaguely paid attention
through a brief tour of the island, hustled myself to my hotel room and fell
asleep. “Welcome to Jicaro,” I dreamt, “where, hopefully, clothes are
discouraged, or at least optional.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Chapter
Three – El Lago</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That evening,
Mom and I found ourselves once again waiting for James and Jane to arrive. We
sat at the Jicaro bar, a good sight better than an airport Rubies, granted, with
Marlon – who, I now noticed, had striking blue eyes despite being otherwise clearly
and wholly Nicaraguan – and Eduardo, a skinny man in his mid thirties who could
easily pass for 22. Driving through Managua and its surrounding suburbs, if you
can call them suburbs, had given me a general impression of the country.
Specifically, my general impression was that it was poor. That evening, Marlon
and Eduardo – self-proclaimed members of the middle class – gave me and my
mother a more precise impression of their homeland.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Neither man
could afford to live in Granada, the closest city to Jicaro, and, it seemed,
the wealthiest city in the country. They both commuted roughly an hour to their
job servicing mostly American tourists at a resort which was simultaneously
low-key and wildly luxurious, complete with hippy-pleasing amenities like fresh
local food prepared daily, recycling bins in each “casita” – yes, it was the
kind of place where each room is actually a little house – tap water purified
on site, and a swanky salt-water swimming pool. Chlorine bad! The absence of
televisions and the limited, at best, internet on the island made it feel
almost rustic, but the steak served at dinner was a reminder that Jicaro was,
in fact, a resort.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sitting at the
bar in my jeans – rolled up to my knees so I looked like a hobbit – drinking whatever
Marlon felt like mixing, I could not help but feel pulled in two distinct and
uncomfortably contradictory directions. On the one hand, I felt a real, human
connection to these two Nicaraguan men. Eduardo, for example, had two children,
and was new to Jicaro. He had studied tourism and spoke excellent English. He worked
hard, clearly, and spoke eloquently about his country and his aspirations for
her, about his love of his kids and his wife, about his respect for his
colleagues, including the manager, Regina, the woman who ran Jicaro. He was a
man doing a job, and spoke to me and my mother not like we were tourists, but rather
like we were his friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Marlon,
meanwhile, was more reserved, but demonstrated his pride in his family by
producing a picture on his phone of his own young children, as well as one of
himself back when he used to have long hair like mine. He worked each day at
Jicaro from 2 pm to 10 pm, slept on the island until roughly 4 am, then took
the first boat back to the mainland so he could drive an hour to his home and
spend the morning with his wife and kids, seeing the latter off to school and
relaxing with the former for a few scant hours, before returning to work. He
was a tall man, and clearly quite strong, but also a bit shy. His English was
less refined than Eduardo’s, but, in contrast to his more vociferous colleague,
he wore a genuine smile on his face at, in my brief time knowing him, all
times. Both men were, however much distance and language and cultural difference
separated us, men not so unlike me or my brother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On the other hand,
I could not help but feel alien to their world. I live in Huntington Beach,
California, in an apartment that, at 500 square feet, is small by California
standards, even for a man living alone, but enormous to the point of excess by
Nicaraguan standards. At over $1300 a month, my rent is roughly what the
average Nicaraguan makes in an entire year. It is not unusual for me to spend
more than $15 on a meal, a preposterous sum in Nicaragua. Of course, most
preposterous of all is visiting a place like Jicaro, a literal island, sure,
but also a figurative one: an island of American wealth and privilege in El
Lago de Pobrezo Nicaraguense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Poverty is not
sadness, however, and Nicaragua never, from the first to the last, struck me as
an unhappy place. Marlon and Eduardo were well-educated, intelligent, and happy
men, as were so many of the men and women we met on our journey. Eduardo was,
too, a self-proclaimed modern man. He shared household chores with his wife,
taking his turn at the laundry and the dishes, cooking meals and helping to
raise his children. He dreamt of making a difference, someday, becoming a
teacher and passing on his own hard-won knowledge, of English, of how the world
works, of how the world could maybe work a little bit better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I do not doubt
that Eduardo, were he an American, would have attended a Cal-Berkley or some
such, probably on scholarship, and penned essays on systemic injustice,
institutional racism, and gender equality. As he was, however, he need not
theorize. Instead, he lived it in a way no American – even the most
privilege-conscious – ever could. He lived it because he had to, and because he
believed in a better life for himself and his children, and a better world, or
at least a better Nicaragua. He was not a revolutionary, or an idealist. He was
simply a man who understood that making the best of and for himself meant
making everything around him a little better than it was before he got there.
If that meant washing his family’s clothes – to the ire of most of the men and
even many of the women in his neighborhood – he would do it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Men like Eduardo
and Marlon are rarely famous. For one, they are not white or rich. For another,
they are not politicians or political agitators. For yet another, they are Nicaraguan,
not Cuban or Mexican or Costa Rican or Venezuelan or Dominican. Nicaragua is
one of the world’s forgotten countries, its six million people just a blip next
to Mexico City’s twenty-two million. And yet, it is such men as Eduardo, as
Marlon, that the world is actually made of. For a moment, talking with Eduardo,
I imagined myself in his eventual shoes, teaching not my well-off Fountain
Valley private-school students, but a mixed-age class of forty or so Nicaraguan
children. I thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I know more about
teaching than Eduardo ever will, sure, but he knows a lot more about life</i>.
I thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m glad he wants to teach.
He’ll be good. Damn good. He already is</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Marlon and
Eduardo both stayed well past their usual departure times waiting for James and
Jane to make it to Jicaro. When the Jays finally did arrive, we went out to the
dock with all of the staff who hadn’t turned in for the night to greet them. It
was charming and almost, but not quite, ceremonious. Then, after a quick hello,
everyone went their separate ways, the staff disappeared, and the weary
travelers soon made their way to bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Before bed,
though, James had an important duty to perform. His arrival was auspicious for
me. Although he, like us, had not been able to locate our bags in the Managua airport
upon his own arrival – it turned out they were in Houston, still, and would be
there for days to come – he is not so much taller than I that I could at least
borrow some of his clothes. I didn’t have to ask, even. He just threw some
shorts, an extra swimsuit, a change of underwear, and a t-shirt at me once he
had been shown his own casita. While it wasn’t quite the array I had in my own
bag, it was an improvement over what I was, and had been, and feared I would
always henceforth be, wearing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Chapter
Four – Idyllism</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The next day,
our first proper day in Nicaragua, was punctuated by three particular episodes.
First, Jane was stung by a monstrous hornet. Second, The Mothership and I
attempted – not unsuccessfully, but neither triumphantly – to go shopping for
clothes and basic necessities in Granada. Third, we kayaked around the lake at
sunset.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I say the hornet
was monstrous, but I don’t know that anyone actually saw it. Jane was asleep
when it stung her, twice – which, really, is a pretty dick move for a hornet – and
by the time she had transitioned from “Ow, this dream sucks,” to “Ow, this
isn’t a dream” to “Ow, I’ve been assaulted!” the culprit was long gone, his aerial
invasion complete save for the paperwork back at base.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So the hornet was
huge. Not even a hornet, really. More of a monster hornet, with bat-like fangs
and humming-bird wings. It must have been.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The welt that
quickly formed on Jane’s arm was in that ambiguous place between “ice it and it
should get better; don’t be such a crybaby” and “we better get to the ER before
this lady dies.” Since no one saw the suspect commit his particular crime, no
one was quite sure what kind of weapon he wielded, and whether its poison was
of the deadly variety. Then again, leaving the island would be so inconvenient.
And it’s kind of an unspoken rule of travelling in third (or second, or
whatever) world countries that you should probably avoid availing yourself of
the local healthcare unless you absolutely can’t help it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">At the risk of
losing our translator – and therefore the most important member of our
expedition – we elected to let the sting be (get it? be?) for the time be-ing (ok
I’ll stop). For the remainder of the trip the welt maintained a healthy status
quo of not-quite-bad-enough to make us panic. Said Jane, often, “Ow” and “My
arm itches.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was soon time
for The Mothership and I to venture into Granada to attain at least some of the
things that our wayward luggage’s waywardness had deprived us of. Without out
our wounded translator, my own Spanish would have to do. We presumed that the
Jicaro people had conveyed adequately to the car people what it was we were
trying to accomplish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Shopping in a
foreign country, if you’ve never done so, is weird. Really weird. It’s amazing
how many assumptions we have about basic things like how stores are laid out,
what they contain, what everything costs, how to interact with salespeople, and
generally how to go from “I need this” to “I now have what I need.” Overtly
there’s not a huge difference between a supermarket in Granada and a
supermarket in California. But in oh so many subtle ways they’re oh so
different that only my seven years of Spanish back in middle and high school
saved me from no less than three disasters in the hour or so of shopping my Mom
and I did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Disaster one
nearly occurred while my mom shopped at what seemed like a boutique clothing
shop next to a grocery store. That the prices were listed in dollars was a dead
giveaway that this was not a shopping hotspot for your average local. Much of
the merchandise was clearly geared towards rich 20-something Nicaraguan women
and young tourists, so my mom’s progress through the selection was slow,
especially since the store keeper’s English vocabulary consisted primarily of
the word “beautiful,” used to describe pretty much anything and everything in
her store.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">After a half an
hour the driver and I were getting antsy. We exchanged knowing and meaningful
glances. He asked me if we needed to get clothes for me, too. Looking down at
my distressingly and increasingly dirty jeans I said, yes, that would be a good
idea. He began to escort me elsewhere while my mom finished her adventure. This
was where disaster nearly occurred. First off, I’m not sure how my mom would
have found me had I gone elsewhere. Secondly, I needed her credit card.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">United, though
villainous in most regards throughout this tale, at least does have a policy
where, if you use your special United credit card to buy stuff that they lost
when they lost your luggage, they’ll reimburse you. My mom, therefore, needed
to buy anything we wanted to buy with her card. It’s not that I couldn’t have
paid for my own clothes, but on principle I really wanted United to pay for
this one, you know? I explained all this in a flawless Spanish sentence, and
the driver sullenly returned me to the boutique. Shortly thereafter he called
for back up and left us in the hands of a different driver. He made a big show
like he was sorry to go and had some other appointment, but I think he was just
tired of waiting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The irony of all
this is that my mom’s United card was rejected when she tried to pay with it.
Checkmate, United. Well played.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The second
narrowly averted disaster occurred when we finally left the boutique and
arrived at the grocery store, which had a small clothing section. Fortunately,
it wasn’t all women’s clothes. Unfortunately, it was only women’s and
children’s clothes. I forgot that everyone else in the world uses the metric
system and missed the memo about kids’ clothes, so I nearly bought a bunch of
way-too-small underwear before putting dos and dos together to get quatro. I
also nearly bought some girl’s shirts that probably would have looked great on
me, but may have sent the wrong message.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Recalibrating my
expectations, I surrendered my hope of truly restocking. Instead I found a
shirt, a pair of underwear for a monster-kid, and a pair of flip flops. It was
something. Elsewhere in the store there were plenty of toiletries and other
necessities, so while I had to resign myself to being even less fashionable
than usual, I at least wouldn’t have to lose my teeth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Shopping amidst
the toiletries, I came across a package of what looked like underwear, and
thought for a minute that I was saved. I picked up the package. I considered
it. I tried to parse the label and the small print. I thought. I looked around
the aisle. I made awkward eye contact with another shopper. I thought some
more. I realized that I was holding a package of adult diapers, some decade-old
Spanish from Sra. Planck’s class flooding back into my mind. I put the package
down, averting a third disaster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So, while the
shopping trip did not go swimmingly, I did manage to improve – very slightly –
my clothing situation. Now, instead of two shirts, I had three. Instead of one
pair of my brother’s underwear, I also had a pair of my own that hopefully
might fit. I had floss and toothpaste. I had a pair of flip flops, so I could
stop running around Jicaro without any shoes. I had failed to find any shorts
or pants, but, hey, my jeans didn’t smell so bad that anyone had complained
yet. Meanwhile my Mom had found a strange new assortment of overpriced pseudo-designer
clothes from a fancy upscale shop. So that was a win?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Neither of us
was particularly happy with the results, or with the time it took, or with United
Airlines. But, hey, surviving without clothes in a foreign country isn’t about everything
working perfectly; it’s about surviving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As for the
kayaking that followed, some hours later, it was the strange mix of cynically
touristy and innocently idyllic I was coming to expect from Nicaragua. We
admired the sun setting over the mountain as we strained against the lily ponds
and dark lake water, trying to remember where, exactly, Jicaro was. We were
astounded by the sounds of howler monkeys on the shores of some islands, and we
were gustily barked at by guard dogs on others. We learned to identify which
islands were owned by rich individuals, which others were owned by resorts, and
which few were retained by the locals.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The strange
geography of Lake Nicaragua was such that a private mansion might sit only a
few hundred feet from a small, half-dozen hut shanty town. Somewhere on the
lake there was an abandoned resort, with ruined statuettes sticking menacingly
from the nearby water. Elsewhere there were Jicaro’s active competitors, with
their own swanky swimming pools and, presumably, their own unique ways of
attracting the almighty American Dollar. Elsewhere still there was a school
that Jicaro supported, which means that they raised money and built cutting
edge educational technologies like bathrooms with running water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Like the night
before, talking with Marlon and Eduardo, kayaking around this small corner of
Lake Nicaragua was an exercise in colliding worlds. This time, though, it wasn’t
just my world running into the Nicaraguan one. Instead, we paddled in the
interstices between worlds, the lake serving as border, highway, neutral
ground, and observation post. Easy as it was to discern which islands belonged
to which kinds of people, it was much less clear how and why the divisions were
what they were. It wasn’t just a matter of size, or the levelness of the
terrain, near as I could tell. Most likely each island had its own complicated
political and social history, spanning back through generations of ownership,
squattership, salesmanship, and, heck, perhaps even armed conflict. It was not
hard to imagine, while kayaking around the lake, some small naval skirmish
erupting in Hatfield v. McCoy fashion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Of course, while
kayaking, my thoughts weren’t nearly so philosophical. They mainly consisted in
exhortations to keep paddling, we’re almost there. Our guide was Jicaro’s
longest tenured employee, and in the grand tradition of tenure he didn’t give a
shit. He made fun of us from the start, joking that he would be leaving us
halfway through the tour and seeing if we could find our way back to Jicaro.
His delivery was so serious that I nearly believed him, and his demeanor so
matter-of-fact that I didn’t even feel upset about it. I thought, more or less,
“Oh, ok, that’s fine. The guy who knows his way around will abandon us
somewhere on the lake as the sun goes down and we’ll have to find our way back
without him in the dark. Sounds good.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On the trip
itself, he kept asking us where Jicaro was, then laughing at us when we pointed
in the wrong direction. It was never quite clear whether his teasing was
entirely good natured. I was, in fact, mildly surprised when he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">didn’t</i> abandon us in the middle of the
lake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, throughout
this long, wonderful, odd first day in Nicaragua, I was cultivating my identity
as a man of few clothes. The kayaking trip aided me significantly in this
venture, as it utterly ruined one of my three shirts – a new one I had only
just acquired the night before from my brother. Lakes, while beautiful, are
filled with fresh water, and fresh water is filled with living organisms, and
living organisms are filled with interesting smells.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Kayaking, by its
very nature, tends to moisten whatever clothing you’re wearing at the time, and
so a whole third of my wardrobe returned to Jicaro soggy, teaming with
microscopic sea life, ready to bloom, pungently, in the coming hours and days.
Indeed, one of the plastic bags from the shopping trip soon became my repository
for smelly things, like my too-well-worn jeans. I may, in some desperate moment
later in the trip, have considered actually wearing clothes from this
terrifying plastic bag, but I preserved my dignity and the olfactory systems of
my fellow travelers by refraining.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mostly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Chapter
Five – El Jardin</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our stint at
Jicaro was meant to be longer, but our delayed flight meant we departed after only
one full day on the island. We were off, the following morning, for El Jardin.
This was one of the last hotels available over New Years in San Juan Del Sur,
Nicaragua’s closest thing to a party town. Why we were going to a party town
for New Years escaped me, as none of the four of us are what I’d call partiers,
but we went barreling south with yet another contracted driver all the same.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Like many of our
drivers heretofore, this one had no idea where he was going. He had the name of
the hotel, but was unable to locate it when he got to San Juan Del Sur. Visions
of Scooby flashed in my mind. This Nicaraguan version of Scooby became quite
frustrated with us for not being able to tell him where our hotel was, though I
don’t know why he expected a bunch of Americans to be able to locate a
mysterious hotel in a city we’d never been to (or, I must admit in my case,
heard of) before. Eventually all became clear as we learned that the hotel was
not actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in</i> San Juan Del Sur, but
was rather outside the city, past where the paved road ends, up a precariously
steep hill, overlooking a bay on the other side of the ridge from which a giant
statue of Jesus looks down upon Nicaragua’s party capital in disapproval and,
presumably, forgiveness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Being outside of
the city, El Jardin was home to a great many bugs, insects, and other
small-scale wildlife. Plus two Labrador retrievers and an odd assortment of
Belgians who owned and ran the place. This hotel, while charming, was quite
different from Jicaro. For example, the menu at the “restaurant” (read: a
handful of tables and a tiny bar) was hilariously European, featuring spaghetti
with pesto, beef stroganoff, and lasagna. Ambient conversation was as likely to
be in French as in Spanish, and the swimming pool definitely had chlorine, a
fact that did not dissuade the dogs, Cosima and Pandora, from drinking from it incessantly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The manager at
El Jardin was a gorgeous, twenty-something Belgian girl named Rose. I say she
was gorgeous, but it’s hard to tell whether she actually was, or whether she
only seemed that way because of her youth and her proclivity – apparent when we
first met her by her non-managerial outfit of a loose, mostly backless t-shirt
with no bra – to wear very few clothes. As a man of very few clothes – albeit
in a less voluntary sense – I felt a natural kinship with Rose. She clearly
knew how to survive in Nicaragua without clothes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Additional
complications, in determining Rose’s true attractiveness, included her Yvettian
competency at her job – an underrated aphrodisiac – and my increasing sense of
general desperation, owing to three things in particular: first, my lack of clean
clothing; second, my need for a place to do my ever-looming grading (which had
once again somehow managed to not fall into the lake on the boat leaving
Jicaro); and third, a vague but perennial fear I’ve been cultivating for the
past two years since my divorce that I’ll never fall in love again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">James sensed all
of this right away, of course, and with a younger brother’s shark-like nose for
weakness assigned me the preposterous “tarjeta” of seducing Miss Rose.
Seduction is not, sadly, one of my talents, so I had no doubt that I would fail
the assignment. To be honest, I didn’t particularly try. And, anyway, I
rationalized, I don’t want to seduce anyone. That’s not me. I’m a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">relationship</i> guy, not a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fling</i> guy. Plus, I further rationalized,
the Universe is just messing with me. I already know a substantially more
beautiful Rose back home. La Rosa Del Jardin was just an ambiguous cosmic
metaphor for that Rose, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the</i> Rose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I trained my
skills as literary analyst on this metaphor, but the Universe remains a fickle
and hard-to-decipher author, so I made little headway. In the tried and true
tradition of resigning before the impossibility of an impossible crush, I
decided that this Nicaraguan Rose was merely a microcosmic blossom sent by the
Universe to taunt me with her name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Absorbed in such
thoughts, I went to dinner at the hotel restaurant with my family, a nest of
wasps from the table next to ours, and a giant spider who was clearly failing
in wasp cleanup duty. As Jane was still, at this point, afflicted with an angry
red welt, the wasps were a source of much consternation. It matters little how
delicious one’s pesto is when one is pestered by the aerial terror of a giant,
dangly-legged, Central American monster. I treated these wasps with
indifference, but James has always feared bees, and Jane’s traumatic recent
past conspired to push us to tables further and further from the source of the
wasps. In so doing we found ourselves closer and closer to the window through
which the wasps were leaving to go about their waspy business, so ultimately
the meal turned into a hokey-pokey affair, what with the jumping up and down
and turning ourselves around. In truth, no table was safe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In retribution,
albeit scant, for my preposterous and existentially troubling tarjeta, I was
quick to point out whenever the spider disappeared from view, as this too was a
source of some anxiety for my urbanite brother and his urbanite girlfriend. I
would subsequently wonder where it went, and speculate that maybe it was
somewhere near the legs of our table and chairs. When it was visible, I would
approach it and examine it closely, reaching my hand out as if to poke and
thereby agitate it, reveling in the aghast question, “you’re not going to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">touch</i> it, are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I may be single,
but at least I’m not afraid of spiders. Compelling, I know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Chapter
Six – New Years</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The following
morning Rose was even more beautiful than she had been the night before. As we
ate breakfast – outside this time, away from the insectile menagerie of the restaurant
proper – she came by wearing these awesomely geeky glasses, her expression less
severe than it had been upon our arrival, her bearing generally more friendly,
her outfit similarly sparse. It wasn’t until much later in the day that I
learned that this new Rose wasn’t Rose at all, but rather was her friend Moana.
Fortunately, I don’t know any other Moanas, so I was safe from
over-interpreting the Universe’s intentions this time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was New Years
Eve, and our car ride through San Juan Del Sur the day before had convinced us
that the best way to spend the day would be going to a beach far from the city
proper. San Juan Del Sur is like an extremely poor-man’s version of Newport
Beach or some other Southern California surf town. It was chock full of what can
only be described as “bros.” As they geared up for their New Years revelries, we
fashioned an itinerary that would end up being as close to perfect as could be
imagined.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The beach we went
to after breakfast looked like something out of an advertisement. It was
pristine, marred only by some touristy food shacks playing competing American
music (one hip hop, one classic rock). The water was warm, the waves were
clean, and the surfers were, mostly, beginners. I felt an itch that I haven’t
felt pretty much the whole two years I’ve lived in Southern California. I felt
an itch to surf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I should explain
that I used to surf quite often. I lived in Hawaii, and surfing – I’m somewhat
embarrassed to admit – was actually a part of my first real adult job. So maybe
it wasn’t really a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> adult job.
Anyway I was never a great surfer, but I was passable. Over time, though, and
when I left Hawaii, I gave it up. I always loved surfing, but I could never
really stand surfers. So many places that I’ve surfed I’ve found the other
surfers in the water to be not exactly unfriendly, but vaguely wary and
territorial. But here, thousands of miles away from my home, in foreign waters,
surrounded by rank beginners being pushed into waves by Nicaraguan surf
instructors, I felt I could – nay, needed – to get back onto a board.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Like an idiot, I
thought I would be fine on a board much like the one I used to ride in Hawaii.
At 7’6”, my board was not a short board, but was about as short as a longboard can
be while still retaining the name. As a result of my ambitious board choice, I
spent the first half hour of my surf experience remembering how tiring it is to
paddle constantly and how easy it is to wipe out when you don’t make the drop
into a wave. Eventually I managed to catch a couple of waves – I wasn’t about
to give up – but the experience was a stark reminder that I’m not 23 anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Lest my surfing
sound like a failure, I hasten to clarify that it was, to me, an unmitigated
success. I may not have surfed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">well</i>, but
I did surf. With sand in my hair, water in my ears, and with the pleasant
soreness that comes after such exertion – plus the existential calm of being at
a beach, where my lack of clothes was well out of mind – I relaxed with my
compatriots eating a quesadilla and drinking a mediocre Nicaraguan beer in one
of the touristy shacks near the beach. Surrounded by other Americans and awash
in endorphins, I almost forgot where I was. Which, maybe, is what travel is all
about. It’s not just about going somewhere cool or interesting or different,
it’s about going somewhere where the where doesn’t matter, where you can just
forget and put aside all the stupid reasons you have for doing certain things
or not doing others, where you can just be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Hmm, that sounds
dangerously like a California surfer bro.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The last day of
2015 was young, yet, as we returned to El Jardin only to be whisked away for a
horseback riding tour shortly thereafter. The chariot upon which we departed,
this time, was a truck with room for two in the front seat. My brother and I,
therefore, stood in the back, in the truck bed, and raced along the dirt road
back towards the beach we had just departed – albeit this time I was clothed
in, you guessed it, my trusty jeans. I don’t know how dangerous it was in the
back of the truck, but I am certain that we would have gotten pulled over had
we been in the US.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t know
that horseback riding is, as the kids say, “a thing” in Nicaragua. It is,
however, a thing for my brother. He has always loved animals, and has always
been obsessed with cars. Jane, in an inspired moment, explained to James that
if you combine the two you get, basically, a horse. So on one of their many
trips together they went horseback riding, and now my brother is hooked. Also,
it turns out that horseback riding in Nicaragua is absurdly cheap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our tour took us
up a mountain and down to a beach. No words can do justice to the
preposterously Hollywoodish feeling of emerging from a back alley onto a
secluded beach on horseback, trotting along the edge of the waves, and scaring
the shit out of a turtle that was hanging out on the beach until you showed up
on your giant neighing, pooping, monster. Our guides admonished us for scaring
the turtle, even though they were as much to blame as we were.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As we made our
way from beach to beach, we were photographed by locals and tourists alike. Our
lead guide – who mostly road at the back – hardly seemed to care, but our other
guide, younger and vainer, made a bit of a show of it. He would slow up then go
cantering along stretches of open sand. He would wield and flourish his crop.
He would smile and wink. He was, it must also be said, sullen and brooding for
much of the tour, regularly assaulting nearby plants with his crop and avoiding
all conversation even with the entirely fluent Jane. He probably had a Rose of
his own he was preoccupied with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Upon our return
to El Jardin we ate a delicious New Years dinner and fell asleep. James failed
to arise before midnight, but Jane, Mom, and I celebrated the admittedly arbitrary
holiday by narrowly avoiding getting stung by a scorpion near the pool. This
prompted my mom to relate her famous story of saving her colleague Anna from
almost certain death in Costa Rica after a scorpion sting. Anna was rendered increasingly
and rapidly paralyzed by the sting, as the responsible species is capable of
killing in roughly an hour. As my Mom and Anna were roughly an hour from the
nearest hospital at the time, it took some fancy driving to get Anna to medical
care in time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The moral of the
story, as my Mom tells it, is to check your luggage and shake out your clothes.
Anna was stung not by a scorpion from the area where they were working, but by a scorpion from elsewhere in Costa Rica that had been hiding in her luggage
for days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Jane was
mortified. She looked at the itchy welt on her arm. She looked back to where
the scorpion had disappeared over the wall around the pool. She looked towards
the restaurant with the wasps and the spiders. She wished us happy new year one
last time and announced that she was ready for bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For my part, I
did not fear finding scorpions in my bags or my clothes, as I had none in which
they could hide. The next morning, however, Jane and James found a scorpion in
their baggage. It was time to leave El Jardin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Chapter
Seven – Managua</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Have I mentioned
that my Mom is a witch?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We call her “The
Mothership,” which sounds very technological and fancy, but it’s all a ruse.
She’s actually a witch. She’s descended from witches, after all. Her mother was
a professional astrologer – borderline psychic – and her mother’s mother was
the village “streganona” back in Italy. That is, she was, in short, the
official village witch. It runs in the family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Mothership
knew to warn Jane of the scorpion in James’s bags, or else she put the scorpion
there. Cause and effect can get confusing in cases of witchcraft. Heck, I
wasn’t quite ready to ascribe the presence of Rose at El Jardin to the vagaries
of a fickle Universe. The source of such conjurations may have been much closer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When we arrived
at our final hotel – a strange modern affair called “Contempo” in Managua
proper – for a final night ‘ere our departure my mom became convinced that she
should go to the airport to look for our bags. The phone number we had received
way back upon our arrival from the baggage rep had not worked for days; it just
rang and rang with no answer. It seemed certain that our bags were lost,
perhaps forever. There was some scant hope that they might make it back to
Hawaii eventually, but I had given up hope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But when a witch
insists that she absolutely has to go to the airport to find the bags, well,
you let her go. My brother wasn’t happy about it. He interpreted the whole
thing as much more of a crisis than it really was, and worried that our
decidedly monolingual mother would not be able to make it to the airport and
back unaided. The Mothership, however, brooked no reproach. She was on a
mission, as only one with supernatural insight can be, and so she departed in a
cab, leaving the rest of us to lounge by yet another pool, or else in our chic
hotel rooms, while she pursued the seemingly impossible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Contempo’s rooms
are all named. Mom and I were in a room called “cafe,” complete with a bowl of
coffee beans, a very odd pit of wood chips, and a set of bamboo rods in one
corner of the room. James and Jane were in a room called “poesia,” or poetry, which
had a massive red couch that looked like it had been cobbled together from
upscale British sitting-room chairs. Their room also had a throne because, hey,
why not? All in all, I felt that wood chips were a less striking amenity than a
throne, and wasn’t sure that all rooms in Contempo were equal. What Contempo
had that none of our previous habitations had quite managed was functioning internet
and desk space. So while Mom was off on her mission I got down to the important
business of grading. Just kidding, I played Hearthstone. That is, until it was
time for the massage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now I know what
you’re thinking. A super cheap massage at a Central American hotel with thrones
in the guest rooms and piles of wood chips (perfect for hiding scorpions, I’ll
note) in random corners … Sounds shady, right? Hey, I didn’t book this stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Even so, I wasn’t
about to wear a swimsuit or, worse, any of my hopelessly dirty clothes during a
massage, especially after the masseuse eyed me judgmentally when it looked like
I might not fully disrobe. I don’t know the proper etiquette for these things –
I don’t exactly get massages often – but I figured, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hey, I’ve survived this long in Nicaragua without clothes
metaphorically, I guess it’s time to make the metaphor literal</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The masseuse was
all business, even if the massage was mediocre and the music was shockingly bad
(elevator music covers of 70s and 80s rock songs like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rockin’ the Casbah</i>). It was a surreal experience that was not easy
to take seriously, a sentiment echoed by my fellow travelers when they each had
their turn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What stood out
for me, however, was that right in the middle of the massage my Mom returned
from the airport. She poked her head into the massage room, much to the
consternation of the masseuse. “Success,” she said. “I got them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“What?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Our bags. I got
them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She left, the
massage eventually finished, and I returned to the hotel room to find my duffle
waiting. I put on clean underwear and my purple shorts and a t-shirt that
wasn’t filthy. I was happy. Although I had come to terms with my lack of
clothing and had accepted that my bags were gone, I also never doubted that The
Mothership’s witchy intuition was right, and that she would find our bags.
James was more surprised, “No shit?” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Later, at dinner,
Mom explained that she found our luggage in a room filled with lost bags. There
was a solitary man calling all over the United States, trying to find the
owners of this wayward luggage. He was one man saddled with the lost and
delayed bags – mostly from Houston – trying to figure out where to send all of
it. He was, we heard, quite happy to be rid of two bags, even if it left only a
small dent in the work he had to do. He was but one man doing the work of many,
after all, and any assistance was welcome. Apparently United doesn’t like to
pay overtime in Central America either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Later still,
after dinner, I changed into a new outfit – because, hey, why not? – and we
played <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dixit</i>. Better late than never.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Epilogue
– Returning Home</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When I made it
home to Los Angeles I had a moment of fear. The LAX baggage claim looks more
than vaguely like a third world nightmare. After nearly a week without my
baggage, I feared that, now, back home, I’d undergo a similar separation from my
basic necessities. Missing a toothbrush would be much less of a problem in
California, where the stores were familiar and se habla Ingles, and of course I
have other clothes at home, but I’d just as soon rather not navigate United’s byzantine
customer service.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Fortunately,
this time my bags arrived without incident, so I said farewell to my Mom and,
on my way home, reflected on my largely clothesless journey through Nicaragua. I
rode in a shuttle, listening to my fellow ride-sharers – a father, his wife,
and his teenage daughters – complain about how far out of the way Huntington
Beach is from Irvine (it’s really not), and I couldn’t help but notice how
different their journey was from mine, how different everyone’s journey is, and
how little we notice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For all the time
I was in Nicaragua, the absence of my baggage was, if not at the forefront of
my mind, a constant pin prick. Almost no one I interacted with, however, would
have had the slightest idea of that. Similarly, I’m sure that Jane’s hornet
sting was hard for her not to notice, even if it was easy for me to forget
except when she reminded us by, for example, harvesting aloe vera from a plant
at El Jardin.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t consider
myself much of a traveler, really, not like the new-place-each-weekend Jays, but I do see what people mean when they say that
traveling builds empathy. It’s not that being without my clothes in Nicaragua forced
me to put myself in the shoes of the people I met so much as it forced me to take
myself – literally and metaphorically – out of my own shoes. We may never be
able to truly see things from a perspective other than our own, but at least,
sometimes, we can be reminded that our own perspectives are limited.</span></div>
Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-67369113444214970442015-10-26T22:27:00.000-07:002015-10-26T22:27:27.472-07:00The RSVP<b>By Xavier Moon</b><br /><br />
I dream every day of an impossible love.<br />
<br />
When I look into her eyes, I see the soft blue fire of a mind burning with passionate thought. I see the poetic soul that hides under a practical, utilitarian exterior. I see the insecurity masked by her brash confidence and authoritarian bearing. I see the childish playfulness of her heart alongside the painful longing she has for someone worthy of her.<br />
<br />
To say I have wanted her would be irrelevant.<br />
<br />
I have wanted her, needed her, lusted after her, cursed her, admired her, whispered her name at the edges of sleep. And yet it is absurd to say I want her, need her, lust after her. It is absurd because I know that it is enough for me to want her. It is enough for me to dream. And so in wanting I want not. In dreaming I have enough.<br />
<br />
I have been to the depths – I reside in the depths – and I have seen that sorrow and joy are the same emotion in a slightly different tonality, that pain and pleasure exist for each other, that beauty is what is left when you strip away all your pretensions and assumptions and face the Universe unflinching and unblinking. To love is to hear the Universe speak to you and to have the courage to speak back and say “yes.”<br />
<br />
What do I care if my love is impossible? I have said “yes.” Every time I say her name, I say “yes.”<br />
Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-23090719777067667002015-10-13T21:13:00.000-07:002015-10-13T21:13:11.990-07:00On Reaching Top 10 Legend in HearthstoneAlmost two years ago I started playing Hearthstone. I was streaming at the time, in between my departure from Stanford and my arrival in Los Angeles to teach. I played Hearthstone rarely on stream, as it was really just a small side thing that I did for fun. I didn't spend any money on the game, and I mostly tried to build silly decks that weren't particularly competitive, but were fun to play. I'm sure watching old videos of myself would be aggravating. I probably misplayed all the time, made poor deck construction choices, and generally was terrible.<br />
<br />
At some point in those early months I made a push to reach legend, the highest "rank" you can achieve in a month. I got close - about 8 wins (above .500) away - but stalled out. I was playing a deck called "watcher druid," at the time, named after the absurd 2 mana card "ancient watcher," which has the stats of a 4 mana card, but cannot attack. It can, however, with the help of other cards, be given taunt, or it can be silenced, and for druid in particular this made it a very powerful card. A big, cheap taunt protected the druid player long enough to set up his inevitable "force of nature + savage roar" combo, or else an early watcher plus a silence put a ton of pressure on the opponent.<br />
<br />
After that close month, I moved to LA and started working full time at LePort. This was around when Naxxramas was released, and it wildly changed the meta-game to the point where my trusty watcher druid was no longer viable. Because I didn't have as much time to adapt to the new meta, I stopped playing Hearthstone. I'd log in from time to time, of course, and complete a few quests to make some gold or do some arena runs, but I wasn't playing seriously at all. Instead, I started to spend time watching YouTube videos and streams of top players, in particular Trump and Strifecro. While I was playing little, I was learning a lot, and the time eventually came when I got hooked again.<br />
<br />
I don't know exactly what did it. Maybe it was the first full expansion, Goblins and Gnomes. Or maybe I just got into the swing of teaching and found myself with more time. Or maybe I was eager to apply everything I learned from watching top players. Whatever the reason, I started playing seriously again. I reached legend for the first time playing "handlock," a deck that runs a bunch of powerful cards that synergize extremely well with the warlock hero power. A few months later I reached legend two months in a row running midrange paladin.<br />
<br />
Then this month came. Instead of messing around with fun decks and making a late-season push to legend, as has been my practice so far, I decided to really try. I built my own version on control warrior, a deck that has always been powerful but which has received tremendous new tools recently in the form of "justicar trueheart" and "bash," cards which significantly aid the warrior in survivability and early game removal respectively. I started playing this deck, making tweaks as I went, and lo and behold, I reached legend a week and a half into the month.<br />
<br />
A funny thing has happened since I reached legend. I've been steamrolling. I'm not keeping exact stats, but I estimate my winrate is about 80%. Granted, it's early in the month and a lot of players are messing around in advance of the late month horse-race. But even so, I find myself in a surprising position. I'm ranked, as of this writing, 9th on the North America server. I'd be surprised if I finished the month that high - and I'd be surprised if I rank up even higher - but even so it's validation to me that maybe I do know what I'm doing a little bit. Maybe it wasn't absurd to call myself the "Gameologist" when I was streaming. And maybe, just maybe, I should pick up that work again.<br />
<br />
I don't think I could be a full time streamer. For one, I love education, I love teaching, and I love curriculum. I enjoyed streaming while I did it, but I actually enjoy teaching, as a job, more. That said, I have been feeling the itch to stream again. My small but loyal following from over a year ago probably won't be excited to see me play a bunch of Hearthstone, but that's fine. The goal, this time, would be to specialize. I still play and enjoy a variety of games (when I have time, which is rarely), but Hearthstone has become my mainstay, and I'm finally good enough, I think, where I can legitimately stream and gain a meaningful following.<br />
<br />
But I'm not sure. Reaching top 10 legend has opened up this possibility, but another side of me wonders if I want to. Hearthstone is my fun, my relaxation after a day of teaching and grading and writing emails to parents. And streaming, ultimately, is work. To turn my hobby into a side job - and, frankly, a side job that will likely pay little, if anything - seems dubious at best. Still, it's worth pondering...Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-15558183932554788192015-07-08T14:04:00.001-07:002015-07-08T14:06:21.706-07:00Summer HaikuThe truest myth<br />
Tantalus<br />
In his cave<br />
<br />
Listless afternoons<br />
the sunshine<br />
And the salt breeze<br />
<br />
No one notices<br />
trees rustling<br />
Beside a boulevard<br />
<br />
The metaphysics of<br />
riding a motorcycle<br />
Announcing itself<br />
<br />
At the bottom of things<br />
all the dust<br />
Settles<br />
<br />
The aesthetics of<br />
punctuation:<br />
A beautiful semicolon<br />
<br />
Sometimes it seems<br />
like everything is romantic -<br />
Or else nothing is<br />
<br />
She was a dream<br />
even when I held her<br />
Close in my arms<br />
<br />
Quiet rebellions<br />
always make<br />
So much noise<br />
<br />
Mountain haikus<br />
lost in the altitude<br />
Struck by afternoon lightning<br />
<br />
Desires and expectations<br />
filling the world<br />
With eternal longingPaul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-19140584833941363862015-06-06T15:59:00.000-07:002015-06-06T15:59:13.055-07:00Xavier Moon<i>Context first. Xavier Moon is the name of a character from my oft-restarted, oft-aborted, novel. In truth, Xavier Moon is, in some small way, me, and in many large ways, not me. Regardless, he's become so archetypal and abstract to me that in order to write him as a character I'm going to have to fight with him a lot.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>What I'm about to post here is something I wrote back in October, but chose not to post at that time. Rereading it, I figure, hey, why not? So here's a paragraph about Mr. Moon. Be warned, this is me writing the way I </i>really<i> write. Kerouacian, if I flatter myself, or maybe just poorly. Hard to say. Regardless, here be (intentional) run-on sentences.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Xavier Moon is an impossible character to describe, because he's really only an idea, an archetype, a reflection of myself into some mystical, mythical world of forms, but not quite that, because Plato's forms have no meaning in our historical age, when we can see the past and make - or more often not make - sense of the stories about the past that we hear and accept. Xavier Moon has been a writer, a musician, a student, an athlete, a dreamer, a dream, a lover, beloved, powerful, meek, an astrologer, a scientist, a lonely man in shirt sleeves (after Eliot), and a man burning some preposterous version of his own second Troy. Xavier Moon stays up until 3 AM, but doesn't particularly care for clocks. He wears the finest clothes, but no jewelry, and has long, black hair. Or else his hair is brown, tawny and well-kempt. Regardless, his glasses give him a dignified, intelligent bearing, and he would never be caught writing in a generic notebook with a generic pen, not because he has some superficial aversion to the cheapness of genre, but because he somehow finds himself always surrounded by finery, as if by accident. He is no great man, but he draws the greatness of others to him. Except, there's a catch, because in the process of attracting and enabling power to come to be his own lunarity inflicts some shadowy maleficence upon the shining virtue of his interlocutor. He might rationalize his corrupting bearing by explaining that, in truth, there is no such thing as greatness uncorrupted, or else he might remind those poor souls to whom he is midwife that all births - especially significant ones - are painful.Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-80848631543657937052015-06-03T21:43:00.000-07:002015-06-05T18:48:21.514-07:00The Problem With Love<div class="MsoNormal">
The problem with love, as a word, is that it’s woefully
imprecise. The Greeks had no less than three words for our one. That’s a
radical reversal of the usual state of affairs. Consider the Greek <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">logos</i>, which is variably – and
accurately – translated as “word,” “logic,” “idea,” and “ratio,” and is also
appended onto countless other roots to mean “the study of,” as in anthropology
(literally “the study of humans”) or technology (literally, and somewhat
ironically, “the study of art and craft”). <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Logos</i>
is typical of Greek: a single word referring to a great many concepts, for
which we now have dozens and dozens of words.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
English, however lexically rich in most cases, is destitute
when it comes to love. Love is love. While we still believe in a difference between
brotherly love – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">agape</i> in Greek – the
love of an idea – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">philos</i> – and
romantic love – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eros</i> – we have but
the one word. It’s a problem that makes itself felt whenever we say we love
someone. One would hope that context is enough, most of the time, to tell which
kind of love is meant, but it’s not always immediately obvious.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the purposes of this essay, I want to talk mostly about
love as in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eros</i>. Romantic love.
Desire. The other kinds of love are interesting, sure, but not interesting
enough. So let’s extract ourselves from the linguistic mess. Love, from here
on, need not be a complicated word. Or, at least, we can peel away the first
level of complication and get to the real problem.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The problem with love as a word is miniscule compared to the
real problem. The real problem with love is as an emotion, as an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">experience</i>. No two people have the exact
same experience of love, but if great poetry and shitty pop music alike teach
us anything, it’s that there are certain aspects of being in love that resonate
across time and space and culture. Our experiences may differ, but in those
differences there is much commonality. I won’t cite love poem after love poem –
or pop song after pop song – as that could take ages. Instead, here’s the
problem with love in a nutshell:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love is always, and fundamentally, unrequited.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t mean to say that two people can’t love each other. I
don’t mean to say, either, that happy relationships don’t exist. Of course
there are a great many people in the world who accurately describe themselves
as in love with one another. There are genuinely loving 50<sup>th</sup> wedding
anniversaries and lovers who finish each others’ sentences. There are men and
women who cook for their partners at the end of a long day and couples who
raise their children together joyfully. There are couples who never fight
because they’re so much alike, and couples who fight all the time and revel in
the fighting and so love each other for that. Who am I to say all that love is
unrequited?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hasten to explain that unrequited does not mean that love
is not felt by both parties. Literally, etymologically, “unrequited” means “not
given back.” And how could it be given back? Love, given to someone, is not
meant to be returned. When two people love each other, they love with a
different love, with their own love. My love for someone else is uniquely mine,
and the love I receive in return is emphatically not mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That may sound like just semantics, though, and questionable
semantics at that, so let me explain. What I really mean is, there is a
certain, irrational, intrinsic myopia to love. Love is felt, but not really
understood. We become obsessive over it. We act strangely. We lose perspective.
Even if – especially if – we deeply, truly love another person, that love is so
essentially our own that to think of it as being shared is almost absurd. When
two people love each other, it is not that they possess each other’s love.
Rather, they possess their own love for each other.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To distinguish this from more traditional and mundane
unrequited love, let’s consider the ways in which love is typically not
returned. A great deal of the love in the world is unrequited in the classic
sense that one person loves another without being loved by that person. After
all, it is much, much easier to find someone to love than it is to find someone
who loves you. What’s more, it’s easy – and probably foolish – to trick
yourself into thinking you’ve fallen in love with someone simply because that
person loves you. This, too, is unrequited love, because however real it feels,
it’s not really, really, real.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there are the countless cases where love fades, where
the magic and passion that once allowed a relationship to flourish turn to mere
duty and routine. This happens often, and while it may be expected and accepted
that relationships lose their luster with time, at a certain point that love,
that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eros</i>, becomes more a familial
love, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">agape</i>, which doesn’t
particularly inspire – or, I dare say, matter – quite so much. The true tragedy
is when this happens to one partner before it happens to the other. How awful
is the unrequited <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eros</i> of a man or
woman whose partner <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">loves</i>, but is not
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in love</i>?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, there is the shared love, the storied requited
love, of fairy tales. Prince Charming and his Princess, or Beauty and her
Beast, or those all-American grandparents who were once high school
sweethearts, married at 20, and have been together ever since. Even when these
stories are real, though, they’re not true to the form of love. The nature of the seeming requital is too superficial. It doesn't go to the mythological roots. Is not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Romeo and Juliet</i> the truer story? Or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tristan and Isolde</i>? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scholars, intellectuals, and high schoolers throughout
history have debated whether Romeo and Juliet truly love each other. For the
moment let’s assume they do. Let’s assume that they are not just horny
teenagers aroused by each other’s beauty. In that case, theirs is a classic
requited love gone wrong. Thus, theirs is a tragedy of epic, mythical proportions
(“never was a story of more woe / Than this of Juliet and her Romeo” and all).
Love at first sight – true love – turns to ash, to death, to the bitterest of
ends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It need not be that way, but there’s a certain truth to it,
no? Romeo’s banishment stems from his inability to separate himself from his
world, to inhabit totally his love for Juliet. There is no doubt that he wishes
he could do nothing but love her, but he cannot put aside the broader world.
And such is love’s myopia: it wishes to be all, to consume, to be the heart and
soul and core of one’s being, and yet it cannot. “Love is not all,” to quote
Edna St. Vincent Millay’s <a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-is-not-all/" target="_blank">famous sonnet</a>, “it is not meat nor drink / Nor
slumber nor a roof against the rain.” That Millay would not give up her love –
her memory of her love, even – for those more practical things does not mean
that love can replace those things. Romeo would certainly like to give up his
family’s hatred for the Capulets – a ‘need’ which is good deal more abstract
and less necessary than food – but he finds doing so impossible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps love need not be so myopic? Maybe there is a healthy
way of relating with it? Maybe it need not consume the way it consumes Romeo?
Indeed, a great many people manage to live and love without being destroyed by
the emotion as Romeo and Juliet are. Ah, but Romeo and Juliet are a metaphor,
not a cautionary tale. They speak to the impotence of love – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eros</i>, to be clear – to affect or even
relate to the world, even if it wants nothing more than to do so. There is a
way of reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Romeo and Juliet</i>, in
fact, where it seems that the characters actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want</i> to die.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To explore this idea, I think it’s better to turn to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tristan and Isolde</i>. The classic poetic
union of death and love – from the French euphemism “le petite mort” to the
grand final scene of Wagner’s opera – is no accident. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eros</i>, love, whatever word we want to use, is in some sense cover
for the real heart of the matter. Wagner – and Shakespeare – aren’t actually
writing about any kind of gilded, Platonic, or divinely pure love. They’re
writing about sex. They’re writing about orgasm, as a release, as an escape, as
an end, and also as a source of power, as a conflict and a struggle. Romeo and
Juliet die. Tristan and Isolde die. Their deaths tell us how they love, not in
some sweet and innocent way. Their deaths tell us how they fuck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tristan and Isolde</i>,
the final scene is gruesome. Tristan never consummates his love <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for</i> Isolde <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">with</i> Isolde. As such he lies on the stage dying, unable to wait for
her any longer, his guts spilling out of him. His death comes, and Isolde
arrives to find him spent. She finds him, also, beautiful, and proceeds to sing
perhaps the most erotic solo in all of opera. If you’ve never heard it, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9680zhMmIqM">go listen</a>. It’s
patently, blatantly, unavoidably sexual. At the end, as wave after wave of
crescendo and tension finally resolves into a single explosive, orgasmic, musical
moment – tension not only built in her solo, but through the entire opera –
Isolde is said to have transcended the physical plane, dying her own peculiar
death, reaching a spiritual fullness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tristan and Isolde want to die, and spend the entire opera
trying to die together. Romeo and Juliet, too, want ever to die. Juliet has a
particular penchant for trying to stab herself with Romeo’s dagger. Yeah,
Shakespeare is subtle like that. She finally succeeds in the final scene, after
he – much like Tristan – kills himself instead of waiting for Juliet to
“arrive” (or wake up in this case).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
[More could be said about the details of these love-deaths,
about how Romeo and Tristan can’t wait, about how much more profound Juliet and
Isolde’s experiences are, about the ways in which the pleasure of sexuality is
tied up with power and pain and is never quite the sweet, innocent thing we
like to pretend it is. But that’s all for another time and place.]<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what’s the deeper truth here? For one, erotic love is
erotic. It is as much about sex as anything, and while loving a person may
extend to – indeed, may depend upon – his character or her work ethic, his
kindness or her sense of humor, his intelligence or the beauty of her heart,
none of that is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eros</i> without the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eros</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More to the point, though, is that Tristan and Isolde, and
Romeo and Juliet, are archetypes for sexuality. They find true requital
fundamentally impossible, because they cannot share their orgasms, and orgasms
are as spiritually, metaphorically, and mythically significant as death itself.
In these stories, the main characters’ little deaths do not occur at the same
time as each other, but even if they did, would they be truly shared? When
Romeo dies, only Romeo can die.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what is the problem with love, again? All love is
fundamentally unrequited. That does not make love bad. That does not make love worthless.
That does not mean love will not continue to preoccupy me and the millions and
billions of other romantics in the world. But my love will never, truly, be
shared, even if it wishes it could be. My love will never, truly, be requited,
because my love is, finally, mine alone.<br />
<br />
Still, I feel that love, and wish, earnestly, for that
impossible requital. Failing that – as I needs must – perhaps I’ll someday be one
of those fortunate few who loves someone who loves me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-54938061112625494962015-06-01T17:17:00.001-07:002015-06-01T17:17:26.767-07:00A Sonnet<i>The final assignment of the year is to write a sonnet. To prove it could be done, I wrote a sonnet about writing sonnets for my students this afternoon during homework period. Here it is.</i><br />
<br />
A sonnet is no easy thing to write.<br />
It takes much practice, effort, skill, and time.<br />
Against the meter poets ever fight,<br />
And 'tis no simple task to make it rhyme.<br />
But these are just the formal steps to take.<br />
The real art lies in saying something true<br />
That with the reader needs must resonate<br />
Because it is profound, brilliant, or new.<br />
So many poems explore the same old themes,<br />
Like love, desire, death, and happiness.<br />
A few, though, do escape those tired memes,<br />
Exploring thoughts unique, and nothing less.<br />
So when contributing your own new verse<br />
Expound on all, yourself, the universe.Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-18958174017200298172015-04-17T21:40:00.002-07:002015-04-17T21:46:07.556-07:00Eulogy<i>I have thought long and hard about where and whether to publish this piece. In many ways, it is so deeply personal, so familial, that to post it here on my (granted, near-desolate) blog seems scandalous. And yet, I feel that I am not only writing to my family, but to families writ large. However barbed my words are, here, they come from a place of love. I have learned, the hard way, that love is not just about comfort and soothing. Sometimes love is hard. Sometimes love has to speak hard truths. This is one of those times.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I may well alienate many members of my family by posting this. But the point is, I am already alienated. I am already excluded. And perhaps that is what I needed in order to be able to speak.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
___________________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
When I was one, Patricia Scott – Grandma Pat – decided to retire after a foot injury because she wanted, among other things, to be able to spend time with her grandchildren. When I was in high school, commuting from Boulder to Denver and back, I not infrequently stayed at her house instead of making the long trek all the way home. In her quiet, but firm way she was an inspiration for me. In retrospect, the path I have followed mirrors hers: Like her, I attended Stanford; like her, I hold a degree in Education; like her, I teach English.<br />
<br />
Pat Scott was caring and fiercely intelligent, and while I could never have articulated it as a child, now as an adult I can see why she must have been an incredible educator. She was organized, always, and had a strong sense of right and wrong. I can imagine her – perhaps I channel her myself, these days – saying “no” to an 8th grader in a way both that stops him from overstepping boundaries and still reminds him that she cares, that discipline is not for discipline’s sake, but in order to help students grow and to become <i>disciplined</i>.<br />
<br />
I saw my grandmother for the last time less than a week before she died. Her Alzheimer’s was about as advanced as it gets, her memory all but gone. Still, she had moments of recognition, and for a time she smiled and held my hand as she slept.<br />
<br />
Of course, Alzheimer’s is a brutal disease precisely because it eats away the mind while leaving the body intact. Pat’s brilliance eroded over years. It’s hard to say exactly when she stopped being the woman she once was, but by the end she was unthinkably far removed from the Pat I remembered growing up, the larger than life grandmother who, despite being Colorado born and raised, was almost British in her comportment and dignity. Her family nickname – “The Baroness” – was well earned. Perhaps there was something mocking in calling her that, but there was also a great deal of respect.<br />
<br />
Pat Scott lived a rich, full life. I cannot say that I am sad for her loss, exactly, as we all must die and Pat’s time had come. She experienced and achieved so much that it’s hard not to smile, when you think about it. In this case, at least, the universe was fair. A good woman, a dedicated educator, a brilliant thinker had her time on this earth and enjoyed it. She made the most out of her sisterhood, adored her grandchildren, and even rekindled her own mother’s passion for the piano in her later years. Hers was a life well-lived, a life worth celebrating, and I am honored to have her as a grandmother and an inspiration.<br />
<br />
___________________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
This is where this piece of writing should end. But it can’t, because Patricia Scott’s death is not self-contained. You see, my grandmother’s funeral was two weeks ago, and I was not invited.<br />
<br />
She would have wanted me to be there. She was my grandma, and I was her grandson, and although we weren’t always all that close, when we did spend time together we had a kinship – owing to our many similarities – which I only now understand.<br />
<br />
And yet, I wasn’t told about my grandmother’s funeral, even though I visited her less than a week before her death. I wasn’t told even though it was on a weekend when I easily could – and would – have flown over from California to attend. I wasn’t told, and all of the reasons for why that I can imagine are, at best, stupid ones. In the grand scheme of things, my being left off of the invitation list for Grandma Pat’s funeral is a small thing. But it is so case-in-point, and so blatantly, obviously wrong, that it’s hard to ignore.<br />
<br />
What’s the bigger story, here? Well, it involves all kinds of family drama. It involves my father’s suicide and his brother’s unwillingness to learn from that suicide. It involves a cynical assumption that my brother, my mother, and I are both far greedier and far wealthier than we actually are. It involves decades of unspoken family traumas, of burying conflict under the rug, of pretending to love instead of actually loving.<br />
<br />
___________________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
It’s hard to tell any part of the story without telling the whole story, but I’ll do my best to keep it brief.<br />
<br />
Robert Franz, my father, committed suicide just over two years ago. The story doesn’t start there, by a long shot, but it’s as good a focal point as any, because Bob’s death is still the fracture, the center of the spider web of broken glass which stretches out to his brother and cousins and children and all who knew him. There are many ways of telling the story of Bob’s suicide: he was an alcoholic who was so good at being an alcoholic that it cost him everything; or else, he was depressed by his closest friend’s losing battle with cancer; or else, he moved to Hawaii only to find that you cannot escape yourself.<br />
<br />
There’s another way of telling the story of Bob’s death, however. Bob was an alcoholic his entire life, and his alcoholism was perpetually enabled – and often encouraged – by his family and friends. The ultimate responsibility for his actions lies with him, but with Bob’s death waves of guilt rippled through my extended family. “We didn’t know it was so much of a problem,” was a common refrain. “I wish I would have done more,” another.* The reality is, though, that no one could or would have done more. To do more would have been against the essence, the culture, the very being of our family. To confront Bob was unthinkable. To intervene was impossible.<br />
<br />
<i>* And yet others, still, stubbornly refused to see that there had been something wrong, that Bob’s death was something other than an unexpected and unimaginable tragedy when, in truth, it was a long time coming.</i><br />
<br />
You see, Robert Franz was but one of many alcoholics and addicts in his extended family, and like so many families of addicts ours tries to brush the problem under the rug. Bob’s suicide made doing so, at least in his case, impossible, but my own unaccountable silence on the topic ever since – when I used to write so much more – owes in large part to my sense that we, collectively, as a family, we do not want to acknowledge that Bob was not alone, that Bob was not the only one who needed to ask for help, and that Bob was not even close to the origin of this problem. My own silence owes to the fact that I was taught, from a young age, not to be confrontational, to make peace rather than to tell the truth (at least when it came to family) because that’s what love is.<br />
<br />
But that’s not what love is. Love is telling the truth, even when the truth hurts, and the truth is that the Franz / Scott / Lankford family is still a family of alcoholics and drug addicts, and those of us who are not addicts are terrified to call out those who are. “Terrified” isn’t even the right word. “Unable” is closer to the mark.<br />
<br />
I do not think that drug use or drinking makes people into bad people. I do believe that there are some people who are able to drink and use drugs responsibly – at least to an extent – and that extremist prohibition is as unwise and unhealthy as extreme addiction. But within this family drugs and alcohol have done so much damage that we must be overly careful, overly conscious, and overly articulate. The truth is, we have been none of these things, so much so that drugs and alcohol have more say in who attends whose funeral than blood. My exclusion from my grandmother’s funeral owes, fundamentally, to this: I am clean and sober.<br />
<br />
I’m beyond thinking my family – my extended family – can change. It is too wounded, too wrapped up in its drug-induced stupor, too permissive, too much in denial about its profound dysfunction, too concerned with the appearances of loving each other to actually do so. I would hope some of them, at least, have the decency to feel ashamed at not telling a grandson about his grandmother’s funeral. But I suspect, more likely, they’ll hide behind the lie – the insidious, twisted lie – that they were protecting me, my mother, and my brother from further heartache. Or else, they were avoiding – or postponing, and we are ever-postponing* – drumming up drama and trauma we mistakenly imagine to be best left undisturbed.<br />
<br />
<i>* We collectively postponed confronting my father until it was far, far too late.</i><br />
<br />
The irony is that, in playing politics with my grandmother’s death, the deeper pathology of the Franz / Scott / Lankford world has surfaced. Drugs and alcohol, long the bane of the family, are but a symptom of something deeper: an inability to be true with and to each other. We would rather hide our diseases and discomforts, our predilections for addiction, our deep-seated distrust of each other, than acknowledge them with the understanding that it is precisely with family where our flaws, collective and individual, shouldn’t matter.<br />
<br />Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-55756943045820171432014-10-30T18:55:00.000-07:002014-10-30T18:55:23.553-07:00October Haiku<i>A sampling of what passes for my best haiku from the last month. I've been writing a lot. A few aren't terrible.</i><br />
<br />
Sitting on a chair<br />
the game<br />
Of apologies<br />
<br />
I remember finding everything<br />
hiding itself<br />
In a single brick of a wall<br />
<br />
Wind at the pier<br />
seagulls flapping<br />
Just to stay still<br />
<br />
Fishing lines<br />
and old fat men<br />
Statues to Huntington Beach<br />
<br />
Somewhere a girl cries<br />
her autumn boy<br />
Didn't want her<br />
<br />
The world is full<br />
of purple balloons<br />
And red umbrellas<br />
<br />
Sidewalks waiting<br />
in the grey dawn<br />
For the runner's footfall<br />
<br />
Sitting alone<br />
a queen bee<br />
Without a hive<br />
<br />
What do we want<br />
from our<br />
iced teas?<br />
<br />
Every cafe closes<br />
when the patrons<br />
Run out of ink<br />
<br />
His sunglasses<br />
protect his eyes<br />
From being seen<br />
<br />
Walking the pier<br />
so many young couples<br />
Secretly fighting<br />
<br />
An empty strip mall<br />
the decline<br />
Of the West<br />
<br />
The death of culture<br />
my notebook<br />
And my pen<br />
<br />
Sitting at his desk<br />
surrounded<br />
By little infernos<br />
<br />
She spoke, assured<br />
but secretly she<br />
Boiled, insecure<br />
<br />
A barista's glasses<br />
her coffee voice<br />
And converse sneakers<br />
<br />
Halloween in Los Angeles<br />
the people wore<br />
Slightly different costumesPaul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-32123213502234589202014-10-17T13:15:00.002-07:002014-10-17T13:15:53.828-07:00Kerouac then MeEvery cat in Kyoto<br />
can see through the fog.<br />
<br />
We are the cats<br />
here is Kyoto<br />
Ours is the fogPaul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-64763647325051580652014-09-28T19:17:00.002-07:002014-09-28T21:50:26.945-07:00A LePort Teacher's Weekend at StanfordThis weekend I drove up from Huntington Beach back to Palo Alto to work as a coach at the Challenge Success fall conference. It's a long drive, and I must admit it was somewhat surreal being back on Stanford's campus for the two days of the conference. Stanford is the kind of place that exists in a bubble, mostly out of time. The inside of the School of Education building, in particular, looks almost exactly as it did when I first arrived at Stanford in 2009, and it probably looked the same in 1979. My sense of awkward familiarity was aided, of course, by the presence of my picture on the "current doctoral students" wall and my still-extant mailbox in the basement (it even had mail in it). Since I'm technically "on leave" I shouldn't have been surprised, but I've become so invested in my new job at LePort that it's hard to remember that part of my identity which is, still, Paul Franz, Stanford PhD Student.<br />
<br />
This dual identity was particularly in play while coaching. It is my Stanford background, not my teaching background, that brought me to Challenge Success. Being a teacher has made me a much better coach and facilitator, but it's my connection to educational research and best practice that makes me a quality - and indeed even minimally qualified - coach for CS sessions.<br />
<br />
Challenge Success is a non-profit co-founded by Denise Pope, Madeline Levine, and Jim Lobdell. It grew out of what was at the time a very small but poignant strain of research which suggested that "successful" students around the country were actually stressed-out, unhealthy, and unhappy, and furthermore often engaged in manipulation and cheating. Denise's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Doing-School-Stressed-Out-Materialistic-Miseducated/dp/0300098332" target="_blank"><i>Doing School</i></a> is an excellent ethnographic study that chronicles the problem. The goal of CS is to address this issue by coaching schools through a process which will help them implement research-based practices to reduce student stress and increase overall well being. At its core, this implies a culture shift away from a strict, zero-sum mentality in which success equals GPA and elite college enrollment to a more holistic view which includes honoring balance and non-academic (or non-traditional academic) achievements.<br />
<br />
The suite of policy changes which Challenge Success schools have implemented over the past 10 years is expansive. For example, schools have switched to block schedules or added late days, implemented policies limiting homework, moved towards more authentic or project-based assessments, set aside more time for faculty collaboration (because it's not only successful students that can be over-stressed), started regular parent education programs, and countless other efforts.<br />
<br />
It's truly inspiring to be even a small part of a conversation at a school trying to make radical cultural or structural change. The school I coached last year has been trying very hard to implement a test calendar and associated policies, and is now looking to start a series of regular teacher-to-teacher observations with a particular lens on how homework assignments are used in class, all in an effort to increase the quality of homework while decreasing its quantity. My new school this year already plans to pilot a block schedule, but their larger goals are deeply cultural: they want to take on the zero-sum culture of success that they feel has harmed their school community and taken the joy out of learning for their students.<br />
<br />
Part of what is so effective about Challenge Success is that, as a coach, it is not my job to advocate wholesale restructuring on day one. Coaching is a process of gently guiding teams towards solutions that will most address their particular contexts, and which will have the largest impact while still remaining feasible in implementation. Tackling a deep-seated school culture problem starts with minor reforms, and with building a community of parents, teachers, students, and administrators who can work together to reach larger goals in the long term. Ultimately, it is the commitment of schools and the stakeholders therein (and, indeed, all of the stakeholders therein) that leads to the success of reform efforts.<br />
<br />
As you might imagine, participating in this kind of conference required a pretty significant mind-shift for me after my first month teaching 8th graders. I was amused by how similar running a discussion with administrators, teachers, parents, and students was to running one of my literature discussions, but the content is so different, and the objectives so differently scaled. In my class, I'm trying to make a deep impact on each and every one of 13 students. As a coach, I'm trying to facilitate a process which will impact potentially hundreds (or thousands) of students, and many hundreds (or thousands) of adults, but my particular impact on any one person is immeasurably small. Both kinds of efforts - deep and narrow, and shallow and broad - are important, I think, and they are equally difficult to do well, but the concern with the individual that lies at the heart of teaching simply can't express itself in the same way in the coaching environment.<br />
<br />
I'm satisfied that I get to experience both. I'm particularly satisfied because, after spending the weekend talking to people from schools other than LePort, I have an even deeper appreciation for how special my new employer is. Almost every significant, research-based solution that Challenge Success advocates is already in effect at LePort. We use a block schedule. Teachers have time to prepare and to plan, and are engaged in a culture of near-constant observation, feedback, and growth. Homework is minimal and always purposeful, and students have an hour-long homework period at the end of the day after classes are completed. Parent communication and education is one of LePort's greatest strengths. Above all, an emphasis on allowing each student to define their own success - rather than holding every student to the exact same, externally determined standard - is one of our core tenets. I may be the only person who has any kind of intimate knowledge of both Challenge Success and LePort, and it strikes me how much they share for two organizations with no contact. Then again, I likely wouldn't have ended up at LePort if it didn't embody the philosophies and employ the policies that I came to hold dear in my time at Stanford and with CS.<br />
<br />
After even a month at LePort it has become easy for me to take for granted that LePort is how a school runs, but returning to the outside world - and returning, in particular, to Stanford at a conference attended by many of the best independent and public schools in California - I was reminded that, if LePort is not wholly unique, it's close. Even most elite schools still carry with them, at the end of the day, the legacy of "this is how education is done" and "this is what success means." I'm fortunate to teach somewhere that doesn't need to attend a Challenge Success conference because they got it right from the start.<br />
<br />
On a personal note, I also took heart from a conversation I had in passing with Denise during the busy conference day. Often I felt somewhat out of place, this weekend, because I was no longer a researcher. Wandering around Stanford, it was easy to get caught up in Stanford's culture of success: high-quality, impactful, well-funded research leading to a tenure-track position at an elite institution. That's a path I've put aside, and however much I am satisfied with my choice, a part of me still wants to paint my decision to leave Stanford as a failure on my part, instead of as a healthy response to an untenable emotional situation. When I ran into Denise she sent me the message I needed to hear, surrounded as I was by the Academy writ large. In so many words, her message was that success isn't just about a degree from a prestigious university. She asked me how I felt about teaching, and I told her that I was having a blast, and loving it every day. "Good," she said, "I always knew you would. I'm so happy you found your place." I replied, with a smile, "Me too."Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-23363112552298004412014-08-23T22:21:00.000-07:002014-08-23T22:21:03.852-07:00Flatter MeA kindness, they would seem,<br />
Your gentle words,<br />
Convincing yet conniving.<br />
I do not doubt you have no scheme,<br />
and yet your speech<br />
Is wholly undermining.<br />
Perhaps I believe too little in myself?<br />
Or perhaps you flatter me<br />
Unto utter catastrophe.Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-34259830692977810292014-08-13T17:05:00.000-07:002014-08-14T17:36:01.081-07:00Why I Am Not a Baha'i<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Introduction</b><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One
of Bertrand Russell’s most famous essays is entitled “Why I Am Not a
Christian.” This controversial piece was written at a time when atheism was
strongly frowned upon, and it served, along with other important pieces of
Russell’s moral philosophy, as a part of the court case which prevented him
from taking a mathematics position at City College of New York later in his
career. Because of his atheism and perceived moral turpitude, Russell was found
unfit to teach the young people of New York. The litany of charges against him
in that case read much like those leveraged against Socrates in Athens:
corrupting the youth, profaning the divine, and making the weaker argument the
stronger. At their heart, however, they were principally concerned with his
irreligious philosophies and ethics.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
hardly expect such tumultuous fallout from this humble essay. I am no Bertrand
Russell, either in wit or clarity of prose, and I cast nowhere near so wide a
net. It is, however, in a similar spirit that I embark upon writing this essay.
Russell wrote his famous critique of Christianity in a very Christian world,
surrounded by Christian leaders and friends. Again, I am not as prominent as
Russell – nor would I want to be – but it is the case that a great many of my
friends over the past few years have been Baha’is. I spent eight years in a
relationship and four years married to a Baha’i. I have attended feasts and
devotionals, observed junior youth groups, and read some – though not all –
Baha’i texts. I would venture that I know as much about the Faith as any
non-Baha’i you would care to name, not only in its words, but in its deeds. I
have experienced it first hand for nearly a decade.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My
wife and I are currently going through a divorce. This has not soured me on the
Faith, but it has given me the opportunity to write this essay. While married,
I think I was afraid to clearly and comprehensively express to her or to anyone
else my reservations about the Faith, and my reasons for never fully embracing
it. The issues I will raise in this essay are mostly not new ones to me; they
have been, by and large, the very same reasons which prevented me from becoming
a Baha’i from the beginning. Some of those reasons have, of course, changed as
I have learned, while some have gone away and others have arisen. I am not so
stuck in my ways of thinking that my views of the Faith have not evolved with
time. However, the core of my opposition to the Faith is and has always been
the same.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Before
I discuss what that core is, and how it manifests itself, I feel I should
clarify that I do not despise the Faith. In fact, I find it mostly quite
honorable, respectable, and even inspiring. My many Baha’i friends are among
the best people I have ever met. Ethically, intellectually, and even
spiritually I feel that I share so much with them that it is little wonder I
have found writing an essay like this so difficult. And yet, in the ebb and
flow of day-to-day life surrounded by Baha’is, I have never found an outlet to
express myself and my non-Baha’i-ness. I have too often defined myself in the
negative, as what I was not, rather than in the positive. Though this essay
takes the negative as its title, its objective is to make clear that my rejection
of the Faith is not a deficiency. It may even be a strength.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;">I know that most of
the Baha’i community accepts me for who I am, but there is always an edge of
discomfort in that acceptance. When I have attended feast, for example, my
presence has always felt deeply awkward to me. There is no room in the core of
Baha’i community practice for the non-Baha’i to express his non-Baha’i-ness.
The prayers feel pointed and ministerial, and there is no opportunity for the
non-Baha’i to participate without embracing the texts and prayers of the Faith.
During the social portion of feast, meanwhile, I have always felt like I was a
curiosity, the strange non-Baha’i surrounded by the faithful. It does not help
that Baha’is call non Baha’is “seekers,” implying that Baha’is are, in some sense,
“finders.” So, at feast most of all, I was defined in the negative. I do not
reject the label of seeker – I am honored to be ever-seeking in my life, as
learning is one of my greatest passions – however, I do reject the implication
that what I am meant to find is the Faith.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I suspect a Baha’i
would argue that feast is not really meant for non-Baha’is, and that I’d feel
more comfortable at a devotional. I disagree. The devotional, in my experience,
is essentially a toned-down feast, in which prayers from the Faith accompany
readings from other texts and sources. I have never seen a devotional which was
not bookended and punctuated by Baha’i texts and prayers. The Faith forms the
context for all of its activities, defining all that is not the Faith in the
negative. If I read Whitman at a devotional, what is most striking is not what
Whitman says, but who Whitman is. Or rather, who and what Whitman is not</span><span style="background: white; color: #252525; text-indent: 0.5in;">. Any reader of <i>Song of Myself</i> will recognize the peculiar irony at play here:
Whitman considers himself a member of any and every religion, but the feeling
does not to me seem to be mutual. Perhaps more to the point, Whitman considers
his work as true as any religious revelation, and the feeling in this case is
certainly not mutual. Whitman, to the Baha’i Faith, is not a messenger of God,
and so his poetry, however great, can never be of equivalent value to the
writings of the prophets.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;">As with Whitman, so it goes with me. I am not a Baha’i. I do
not wish to be a Baha’i. I am not a seeker, and my lack of faith is not, to me,
a weakness or a flaw. Quite the opposite. Like Russell, I believe that the
morality of the logician and skeptic is all the more firm precisely because it
does not derive from faith. I strive to be ethical not because I am commanded
by a higher power to be, but because I have decided to be. I am not without my
own kind of faith and my own breed of spirituality, but I find my own beliefs
incompatible with those of the Baha’i Faith. I reject its metaphysical
teachings, its presentation of its own history, and its vision for the future
of humanity.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>On
the Existence of God and the Afterlife</b><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;">One of the
centerpieces of Russell’s argument against Christianity is, of course, his
rejection of the Christian God and afterlife. I will not rehash thousands of
years of arguments for or against God in this essay. Suffice to say there have
been countless attempts to prove or disprove God, and an ingenious
demonstration by Kant that to prove or disprove metaphysical arguments is impossible.
I will side with Kant here. There can be no proof or disproof of God’s
existence. The same can be said of the afterlife, the soul, or any metaphysical
thing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;">In my experience,
Baha’is do not all agree about how important the metaphysical teachings of the
Faith are. All Baha’is certainly believe in God, and Baha’u’llah explicitly
lays out a vision for what the afterlife more or less is. Nevertheless, I have
known Baha’is who simply do not care about the afterlife, reasoning that
they’ll see when they get there, while I’ve known others to whom it is at the
core of how they interpret the rest of the writings of the Faith.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;">For my part, I do not
believe in the afterlife, nor do I believe in God – at least in the sense in
which God is portrayed within the Faith. As in many religions, God is decreed
“unknowable” by Baha’u’llah, but is subsequently given a gender – male – and
various human attributes and qualities like mercy, bounty, knowledge, sight,
and so on. I can forgive this inconsistency as poetic license, but it bothers
me the same in the Baha’i Faith as it does in Christianity, Islam, and Judaism.
God is viewed, in the Faith, as a creator and organizer of human lives. I have
heard several Baha’is say that God does not give people more than they can
handle, and that our difficulties are meant to be opportunities to grow. This,
to me, has always seemed a twisted and heartless logic, and it cuts me to the
quick. My father committed suicide at 54 years old because of depression,
alcoholism, and borderline personality disorder. Surely God could have given
him a little less, rather than leading him to a lonely and desperate death?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;">Of course, faith of
any kind responds to such arguments with cries of “it’s all part of God’s plan”
and “he’s in a better place,” or else “he brought it on himself with his
wickedness.” To which I can only respond that, in order to believe those
rebuttals one must already have faith in the metaphysical teachings of the
religion (or, in the latter case, one must be especially crass and willfully ignorant
of the complexities of alcoholism). The logic is circular: if you believe in an
all-merciful, all-powerful, all-knowing God, then it is easy and necessary to
rationalize any apparent injustice in the world as a part of some bigger plan.
If, however, you do not believe that God – if there is a God – plays an active
role in the day to day life of every human, it’s much easier to understand why
bad things happen: because people sometimes do bad things. Or else, sometimes
bad things just happen on their own. All the more reason, to my mind, to try to
create good and to celebrate when we succeed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;">Again, my purpose
here is not to argue about whether God exists. I have my reasons for doubting
in the existence of an omniscience and omnipotent deity, but faith has its own
reasons, and logic, as Kant says, cannot decide either way. My purpose, here, is
to express that non-belief is not a weakness or a lack, and to highlight that my
non-belief makes it impossible for me to be a Baha’i. However accepting the
Faith is, my metaphysical beliefs are incompatible with the teachings of the
Faith, and ultimately participation in any religion is, in large part, a matter
of faith in the metaphysical teachings.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Affirmation
or Negation of Life?</span></b></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">One of my principal
objections to the metaphysical teachings of monotheistic religions is that they
inspire fatalism. It is true that Baha’is work hard to make the world a better
place, but when the plan is God’s and not humanity’s, does that not undercut
the process? Nietzsche’s </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Birth of Tragedy</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
is instructive here. In any religion where the metaphysics are fundamentally
concerned with death – and the internal logic of the Baha’i Faith does point
inevitably towards preparing oneself for the afterlife – the whole ethos of the
truly faithful becomes necrotic. Nietzsche calls Christianity “Apollonian,” in
contrast to the “Dionysian” pagan practices that it replaced. The Apollonian
way of being, he argues, is hardly a way of being at all. It negates life,
because it is concerned first and foremost with the grim logic of preparing
oneself to die. The Dionysian way, by contrast, celebrates life and the
pleasures thereof. It is not, in my reading, indulgent and self-serving, but
rather it is profoundly spiritual in its celebration of the very fact of
physical, emotional, and intellectual being.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;">I have heard Baha’is
say, “we are not physical beings having a spiritual experience, we are
spiritual beings having a physical experience.” I think this maxim
misunderstands the counterfactual. The Dionysian argument is not that we are
physical beings having a spiritual experience; it is that it is impossible to
separate the physical being from the spiritual being. We have to be both, and
neither has precedence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;">The Baha’i Faith is a
good deal more in-the-world than many religions of the past. Monasticism is
frowned upon, as is asceticism. However, the Faith still looks with some
derision upon pleasure in general and sexuality in particular. The ideal
marriage in the Baha’i Faith produces children and involves sex, no doubt, but
sex is treated with an Apollonian severity in the writings. It is a kind of
sacred duty, another form of reverence and worship, a prayer. Sex is meant
primarily – perhaps exclusively – to bring a couple closer together and closer
to God, and to produce children. Sex is also not to be experienced outside of
marriage. In the most literal readings of the Baha’i writings, even kissing and
hugging – and any other physical contact of any kind – is limited to the bonds
of marriage.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 0.5in;">To me this is a
profound negation of a fundamental human drive. Sexuality should be celebrated,
not shunned and treated with guilt and shame. It should be the ultimate
Dionysian pursuit. In so being, the spirit is exalted as much as the body. To
treat sex with overmuch austerity and reverence is to rob it of its magic and
its humanity. And not just its humanity, its animalism. It is far too easy, in
the Apollonian logic of religious morality, to forget that human beings are not
so different from the apes, dogs, horses, cats, and rodents that we consider
lesser beings. We, after all, have an afterlife to live for! So goes the
Apollonian way of thinking. But we are also animals, and not so far removed
from our mammalian brethren. We have animal needs and animal desires. What
makes us exceptional is not that we have the ability to control and deny those
desires, but rather that we can appreciate them, celebrate them, and play with
them. To the Apollonian, sex – and life in general – is a grim, sacred duty. To
the Dionysian, sex – and life in general – is the most wondrous art of living.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I am not a hedonist.
I believe in moderation, self-control, and the value of delayed gratification.
As I said earlier, ethics are deeply important to me. However, I cannot be a
Baha’i because the purpose of my life is, tautologically perhaps, my </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">life</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">. I do not know and cannot know what
will happen to me when I die – and I have heard many Baha’is say the same – but
even more to the point I do not particularly care – something I don’t think
I’ve ever heard a Baha’i say. While I live, I wish to live, and to live well. Again
I follow Russell (and Nietzsche) in the belief that preoccupation – or any
occupation – with a life beyond this one is a colossal, Apollonian waste of
time.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Prophets,
Infallibility, and Cultural Context</span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One
of the most troubling aspects of the Baha’i Faith is its insistence that its
prophet, Baha’u’llah, is totally infallible. He is, allegedly, the prophet for
the modern age, and his teachings are meant to last the next thousand years, at
which point we’ll be ready for the next prophet, presumably. He is the most
recent in a series of prophets, which include Jesus, Zoroaster, Muhammad, and
strangely enough the Buddha, among others (more on this later; the Buddha’s
metaphysical teachings run so contrary to the Faith that his inclusion as a
prophet has always struck me as very odd). These prior prophets were the
prophets for their time and place, and were necessary for the continued and
eternal spiritual growth of humanity. Baha’u’llah, for the first time, provides
a teaching which is truly meant to encompass the entire world and to apply to
people from any and every cultural background.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Of
course, the Baha’i Faith arose in Persia in the 19<sup>th</sup> century.
Baha’u’llah himself grew up in an Islamic family, and it is striking how much
more like Islam than, say, Hinduism, the moral teachings of the Faith are.
Baha’is deny the importance of the cultural context of Baha’u’llah’s life,
because they have to in order to accept the logic of his infallibility. God,
the story goes, speaks directly to us through Baha’u’llah, and so we cannot
doubt anything that he has written, even though we clearly must interpret it as
times and cultures change.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One
cannot help but wonder whether God might not have waited a few decades. The
world has changed drastically between Baha’u’llah’s time and today, and as a
scholar with some interest in cultural histories and anthropology, it strikes
me that much of the Baha’i Faith’s teachings seem particularly attuned not to
the modern world, but to the 19<sup>th</sup> century Persia in which it was
born. For example, the Faith’s writings teach that those guilty of arson should
be burned to death, that thieves should be marked in some permanent or
semi-permanent way, and that men are allowed to take multiple wives. In most
modern cultures, all three of these teachings are considered woefully
anachronistic. In the context of 19<sup>th</sup> century Persia, they make
sense, because they reflect the moral and ethical codes of a traditionalist
Muslim society. However, the Universal House of Justice – in charge of all
issues of interpretation in the Faith – has chosen not to reject these teachings off hand, or to interpret them as anachronisms. Rather, they must accept the
infallibility of Baha’u’llah, and so they teach that the barbaric penalties for
arson or theft are for a <i>future</i> state
of civilization. Similarly, they explain away the allowance for multiple wives
by stating that Baha’u’llah’s stipulation that you must treat and love multiple
wives equally implies that you can actually only have one wife, after all. One
wonders why Baha’u’llah didn’t say so in the first place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Of
course, my explanation for why Baha’u’llah didn’t say so in the first place is
that he was a man, very much shaped by his cultural and historical context, as
we all are. He may have had tremendous insight and vision, and may have been
extremely spiritually attuned. But I reject that he or any other human is
fundamentally divine (or more divine than any other, anyway), and thus I am
capable of disbelieving parts of his teachings. Whatever wisdom Baha’u’llah
shared with humanity, his teachings are but one source of wisdom that I would
consult were I to try to construct an understanding of human life. It is true
that Baha’is are encouraged to read and study texts from beyond the Faith
(though as I recall Baha’u’llah strongly discourages them from reading
Voltaire, which always seemed a strangely specific and spiteful bit of
censorship), but with an eye towards seeing how those texts fit with the Faith,
and not on their own terms. A true Baha’i may doubt the Faith, but
fundamentally cannot remain a Baha’i if those doubts are not eventually
assuaged. A true Baha’i may read Spinoza or Hume or Plato or Nietzsche, but
fundamentally cannot take seriously their skepticism while remaining a Baha’i.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Each
of those philosophers – and every book and religion – has a cultural context
which helps us understand the how and the why of their importance. The Baha’i
Faith says that this is true of every thinker, every religion, and every text
ever written <i>except</i> for the
revelations of Baha’u’llah. This exceptionalism is problematic to me, because
it is present in countless works of philosophy and theology. The idea that
everyone but you has a certain quality is usually a sign of self-delusion. And
so, as I believe when I read Descartes (who argues that no one gets it like he
does), I also believe that the writings of the Baha’i Faith are not, actually, eternal
and de-contextual. This does not mean they are worthless – far from it, the
rich context of any book is a part of its appeal – but that I think they are
primarily the result of their time and place and not divine revelation means
that I could never be a Baha’i.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Internal
Hypocrisies</span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Rejection
of the importance of the cultural and historical context in which the Faith
arose is but one of the inherently illogical teachings which prevents me from
being a Baha’i. There are three others I wish to discuss, here, because they
are frustrating contradictions that I have found it difficult to get many
Baha’is to even acknowledge, let alone explain. I offer them in the hopes that
perhaps a dialogue is possible.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
first is the Faith’s teaching that religion and science should be in harmony.
In principle this is a great idea, but in practice I have found that members of
the Faith only follow this teaching so far as it is convenient. As soon as
“science” expands to include history, anthropology, psychology, and other
social sciences the Faith stops being so accepting of scientific reasoning and
the scientific process. For example, the Faith actively rejects academic
efforts to study the origins of the religion. Juan Cole – a former Baha’i who
left the Faith under threat of excommunication for his research – published a
book about the Islamic origins of Baha’u’llah’s teachings based on
unprecedented access to primary source documents and correspondence between the
members of Baha’u’llah’s family. These primary source documents told a very
different story than the official story of the “Covenant Breakers” which the
Universal House of Justice tells today.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My
purpose here is not to discuss the merits of Dr. Cole’s research, or to rehash
the history of the Faith. Rather, the point is that, faced with scientific
research which challenged doctrine, the Faith’s response was not the
scientifically rigorous one – dialogue based upon evidence – but rather it was
outright excommunication. If Dr. Cole’s research was truly wrong, surely a
scientifically minded religious leadership would refute it in scientific terms.
However, the Faith chose not live up to its belief in the harmony of religion
and science in this case. In my experience, this large-scale example plays out
at a small scale frequently. The Faith believes in science until science
contradicts the teachings of the Faith. Just as Baha’is should read widely
without ever questioning the Baha’i writings, Baha’is should study science and
operate scientifically… until doing so challenges the writings.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
second troubling teaching of the Faith is its utter rejection of homosexuality.
This owes to the very narrow view of sexuality in general discussed earlier –
it is a sacred duty performed to produce children and nothing more – but is
particularly troubling in a religion which states that all humans are equal. A
homosexual Baha’i cannot get married, and must live an entirely chaste life.
Shogi Effendi, one of the “guardians” of the Faith after Baha’u’llah’s death,
argued that homosexuality was a disease and a choice, an attitude that many
modern Baha’is still hold. They claim not to judge people for their
homosexuality, but they nevertheless reject the overwhelming scientific
evidence that homosexuality is not a choice or a disease because their
religious leaders say so.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Given
that homosexuality is not a choice or a disease, it stands to reason that
homosexuals – or any transgendered people, for that matter – are second class
citizens in a Baha’i world. They may be treated with equal respect and subject
to the same laws as other people, but they are barred forever from romantic
love, child-rearing, and sexual activity. The Faith may argue that sexuality is
a material excess which takes us further from God, but it places a very high
spiritual value on child-rearing. How can meaningful equality exist in a
society where one of its most sacred functions is forbidden for an entire class
of people?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
final troubling and hypocritical teaching of the Faith is its claim that men
and women are equal, whilst denying women the opportunity to hold the highest
offices in the Faith. The Universal House of Justice, by decree of Baha’u’llah,
will never have a female member. These nine men are the ultimate source for
resolving disputes and interpreting the Faith, and for some reason it is
vitally important that they have penises. If they didn’t have penises, God
would be very upset. I don’t mean to sound crass; the point is that this
prescription is patently absurd unless you consider it from the perspective of
the historical context in which the Faith came to be.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
inequality of men and women in the teachings of the Faith crop up in other
places, as well. For example, the teachings on divorce assume that husbands
will always make more money than their wives. Baha’i divorce, like Baha’i
marriage, is a joyless, Apollonian, and arduous affair in which the man is
responsible for economically providing for his wife for one year. Of course, I
understand why this provision was necessary to protect the largely oppressed women
of 19<sup>th</sup> century Persia. But the Faith teaches that the writings are
eternally true, and not just contextually true. It assumes that men support
women financially, and that a woman would never be the primary earner in a marriage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One
of the most important pieces of philosophical work in the 20<sup>th</sup>
century was Derrida’s work on deconstruction. Any text, it turns out, will turn
out to be internally inconsistent if you pull at it hard enough. It is perhaps
uncharitable to attack the Baha’i Faith for what I consider to be internal
inconsistencies in its teachings when such inconsistencies are an inevitable
outcome of argumentation itself. However, the point here is that, while some
texts are happy to make an argument without aspiring to universal, eternal
truth, religious texts by their very nature have more at stake. There is a
certain lack of humility which surrounds any “revelation,” and thus it seems to
me that we should hold such works to a higher standard. Surely God, of all
authors, would be able to avoid the trap of internal inconsistency? That He
cannot suggests either that human language simply cannot express His will – the
position I expect a Baha’i would take – or that the authors of revelations are,
no matter how spiritual, ultimately as human as the rest of us.</span></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">The
Baha’i Misreading – or Non-reading – of Buddhism</span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
mentioned earlier that the Baha’i Faith teaches that Buddha was a divine
messenger, just like Baha’u’llah, but for a particular time and place. All
religions, the Faith argues, come from the same fundamental source, and teach
the same fundamental spiritual lessons. I think this argument is quite
convincing for the Abrahamic religions of the West. After all, there is a
logical progression from Judaism to Christianity to Islam to the Baha’i Faith.
In each case, the founders of these religions were deeply aware of, and in fact
were raised in, worlds in which the predecessor religion was dominant.
Incorporating Eastern religions like Confucianism, Taoism, Buddhism, and
Hinduism into the same paradigm is a sticky problem, however, because the
fundamental assumptions about the nature of epistemology and metaphysical being
are different.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Among
the Eastern religions which the Faith teaches are part of the same human
trajectory towards greater spiritual awareness, I am most familiar with
Buddhism. To say that Buddhism and the Baha’i Faith are fundamentally the same is,
I think, intellectually dishonest. Many of the core teachings of Buddhism
directly contradict the core teachings of the Baha’i Faith, and only a highly
selective and self-serving reading of Buddhism allows Baha’is to claim
otherwise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">On
the issue of metaphysics, in particular, Buddhism is quite clear. In contrast
to Baha’u’llah, Buddha does not claim to be a divine being. He is not a
messenger of God or a prophet. He is enlightened, but enlightenment is the
result of a personal spiritual journey whose purpose is to escape the cycle of
rebirth that brings suffering to our souls. There is, in Buddhism, no creator
God who has organized the universe or who intervenes in human affairs. There is
no necessary progression of humanity as a whole; rather, spiritual progression
is individual (and, indeed, that individual progression, and individuality
itself, is an illusion). What’s more, there is no afterlife in the Baha’i sense,
but rather reincarnation in which the soul returns to the earth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Even
the practice of Buddhism runs contrary to the Baha’i Faith. Buddhist meditation
is fundamentally a different kind of exercise than Baha’i prayer. Monasticism
is considered a higher calling in Buddhism, and it is entirely acceptable and
even desirable that a young Buddhist choose to spend his life pursuing
enlightenment in a monastery. The Faith looks on such practices with disdain,
because it believes that the highest calling of any religious person is service
to the world, and that spiritual progress is impossible without service. The Baha’i
Faith may claim to respect Buddhism, but if the fundamental forms of spiritual
practice are not only different, but contradictory, how can it be said that the
religions come from the same source?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Furthermore,
intellectually Buddhism is built upon a Socratic and experiential basis. There
is no requirement that Buddhists accept Buddha into their heart, or that they
believe his teaching is infallible. Faith, in the Western sense of the word, is
essentially absent from Eastern religions generally. There is something like faith in Buddhism, but it does not have the fatalistic resignation that faith
in the West does. It’s more empirical, and derives from a logical and
linguistic structure which is far more holistic and less discrete than what
we’re used to in the West.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">All
of this runs directly contrary not only to the teachings of the Baha’i Faith,
but to its meta-teaching that all religions come from the same source and
believe in the same God. Interpreting Buddhism as a monotheistic, Abrahamic
religion requires disregarding the fundamental teachings of the Buddha.
Believing that Buddha is a divine messenger means ignoring Buddha’s own claims
that he is not one. The first “Long Discourse” of the Buddha lays out “What the
Teaching is Not,” and, in so many words, what it is not is the Baha’i Faith. To
say that it is requires a troubling degree of literary, intellectual, and
cultural imperialism.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Unity
or Hegemony?</span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This
brings me to perhaps the most difficult of my problems with the Faith: its
emphasis on unity. Unity is a problematic word because, while it sounds like a
good thing in principle, in practice, it has often been the cause of great
evil. Consensus can ensure that everyone has the stake in a decision, or it can
cow people into refusing to voice dissent. Unity has been used as an excuse for
war, genocide, excommunication, torture, and imperialism throughout human
history. The idea of religious unity, in particular, has a more than troubled past.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s
impossible to answer whether the Baha’i Faith will be as hegemonic as
Christianity has been, as the Faith is a fraction of a fraction of the size of
even the smallest of major world religions (let alone the behemoth that is
Christianity). However, its emphasis on unity has troubled me even in my smaller-scale
dealings with the Faith and its members. While Baha’is respect members of other
faiths – and agnostics like me – I think my keen sense of non-Baha’i-ness in
all Baha’i gatherings comes particularly from the unity that Baha’is manifest
with each other. In many ways that unity is admirable: Baha’is have a strongly
humanitarian sense of purpose and an admirable moral strength. However, I have
also noticed their extremely insular jargon – the non-Baha’i will have to learn
what ATC and LSA and JYG mean, and why Baha’is “consult” so much – and the
distinct lack of non-Baha’is in many of their networks. Among my own group of
Baha’i friends I know of almost none, myself excluded, who are not Baha’is.
Baha’is may have friends from work, of course, or school, but ultimately they
surround themselves first and foremost with other Baha’is.* My own inclusion in
a group of Baha’i friends had nothing to do with my virtues as a person, and
everything to do with my wife being a Baha’i.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">*
The exception being the young people who Baha’is recruit to participate in
their “core activities.” Baha’is are happy to make use of non-Baha’is in the
spiritual curriculum that makes up the Junior Youth Program, either as students
in the program or as facilitators. What is striking to me about this program,
however, is its cynical targeting of what Baha’is call “receptive”
neighborhoods. In practice, “receptive” is code for poor and minority. The Baha’i
Faith systematically – and quite intentionally – tries to recruit children from
lower socio-economic and ethnic minority backgrounds to become its students and,
later, field-workers. They profess no missionary intent, but their curriculum
is essentially a Baha’i recruitment pitch, they have explicit goals from the
National Spiritual Assembly and House of Justice for how many new Baha’is they
hope to recruit, and they celebrate vociferously whenever a participant in the junior
youth program signs a declaration card and becomes a full-fledged Baha’i. A
missionary by any other name still evangelizes.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Unity
can lead to dangerously insular ways of thinking and speaking. As with any
group of like-minded people, Baha’is have developed a shared language and a
great many shared assumptions about how the world works, how they interact with
each other, and what they are trying to accomplish. Clarity of purpose is
admirable, but diversity and dissent are admirable too. However much the Faith
claims to value diversity, it is brutally vindictive against internal
dissenters, labeling them “covenant breakers” and expelling them from the
Faith. I would never be allowed to be a Baha’i in the first place because I do
not accept core parts of the teaching. Ironically, if I were, somehow, to
become a Baha’i and express these same reservations, I would be subject to
excommunication, loss of voting rights within the Faith, and would likely lose
all of my Baha’i friends. So can I truly be said to be in union with any of my
current Baha’i friends? I think not. I believe it is only because I have
respected and tolerated the Faith enough to not voice my concerns – however
legitimate I believe they are – that I have not alienated the Baha’i community.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For
my part, I don’t believe that objections to the faith need be fatal to my
friendships with members of the Faith. However, I am frustrated that I am still
the non-Baha’i, the “seeker,” the unbeliever. I will, in the Baha’i community,
always be a second class citizen, as will any non-Baha’i, whether they are
Christian, Buddhist, Agnostic, or anything else. Unity and hegemony are
impossible to disentangle, and a religion which claims to value diversity, but
which puts unity at its core, will always be forced to live in a paradoxical
state of, on the one hand, seeming tolerance, but on the other, fundamentally
judgmental discrimination.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For
this reason I fear a Baha’i world, even as I respect their vision and foresight
in trying to establish a world order which is not based primarily upon greed,
political power, and economic gain. I worry that a non-Baha’i in a Baha’i world
would face persecution and second-class citizenship (at the least, she would not
be eligible to vote in Baha’i elections, which would <i>de facto</i> make her politically second-class). I worry that unity
will be an easy excuse for exclusion, excommunication, and squelching of
dissent. That Baha’is are explicitly forbidden by the teachings of the Faith from
protesting against their government or from breaking even the most unjust of civil
laws is deeply worrying to me, because it utterly removes ethical agency from
the individual and installs it in the House of Justice. The world the Baha’is
imagine is, at its core, a theocratic one, not a democratic one. At the top of
its pyramid is a counsel of 9 men who will dictate fundamentalist law which
will, in the literal words of Baha’u’llah, have the power to disenfranchise,
execute, or dismember violators, and which will treat unbelievers with token
respect but will forbid them from playing any meaningful role in the governance
of society. I cannot know these things for certain, of course, but it is hard
for me not to read the teachings of the Faith in a way that does not lead to
this conclusion: a global Baha’i society would be a fascist society, and a
society in which I would want no part.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Conclusion</b><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In
this essay, I have tried to explain why, despite eight years in close contact
with members of the Baha’i Faith, I have found it impossible to embrace the
religion. It is not meant as an outright condemnation of the Faith, per se, but
I also know that it will likely come across as inflammatory to any Baha’i who
reads it. That is not my intent, but I fear it is an inevitable outcome of
writing frankly about so touchy a subject. The reality is that my objections to
the Faith are not easily assuaged. They cut the heart of what it means to be a
person, what life is for, and how we ought, therefore, to live. I reject the
Baha’i vision for the future of mankind, and I reject its metaphysics. I
believe that the Faith has a role to play in humanity’s future – as do all religions
– but I cannot accept its idealized vision of a “united” and wholly Baha’i
world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In
truth, the future of humanity a hundred or a thousand years from now is not a
major concern for me. Humanity will be what it will be, and the Baha’i Faith,
if it is to play an important role in that future, will have to address its
internal inconsistencies in one way or another. My objective here is not so
long-term or so cosmic as to try to define humanity’s future or that of the
Faith. Rather, mine is a more local concern: I wish to express what I have
felt, for eight years, has been inexpressible for me. I would hope that,
perhaps, it can be a source of dialogue, because despite its barbed appearance
it is not written out of malice. I am still the man who married a Baha’i, who
has welcomed Baha’is into his home and his life, and who counts among his
closest friends several members of the Faith. Nothing about this essay changes
that, because very little in this essay is new to me. I have had these
reservations as I have met, befriended, and grown close to my Baha’i friends. I
remain the open-minded person I always have been. Indeed, I suspect a
closed-minded person would never have gotten close enough to the Faith to write
this essay in the first place.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">To
end on a positive note, I offer a piece of poetry from Walt Whitman, who of all
poets and thinkers probably best expresses my own spiritual beliefs:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>All truths wait in all things,<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>The insignificant is as big to me as any,<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background: white; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(What is less or more than a touch?)</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Logic
and sermons never convince,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">The
damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">(Only
what proves itself to every man and woman is so,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Only
what nobody denies is so.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">A
minute and a drop of me settle my brain,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">And
a compend of compends is the meat of a man or woman,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">And
a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each other,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">And
they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it becomes omnific,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">And
until one and all shall delight us, and we them.</span></i>Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-37037247584426023882014-08-04T21:51:00.000-07:002014-08-04T22:05:49.867-07:00HeroesYes, I know. It's a little tacky to talk about who one's heroes are. Thing is, today was my first day working at LePort Schools, and at one point we were each asked to name a personal hero, and to explain why said person was a hero. I actually found this a challenging question to respond to, however, because I have a great many heroes. Or perhaps the better word is idols. Or mentors. Or maybe a mix of the two.<br />
<br />
You see, I'm not entirely sure what a "hero" is. It's a Greek idea, and like many Greek ideas I think it's gotten both too puffed up and too trivialized in translation over time and space and through the linguistic wringer that is English. The Greek idea of a hero was mythical, magical even, and very strange. Achilleus, Heracles, Antigone... these were heroes. I don't know if they were supposed to inspire us to greatness or to warn us against hubris or what.<br />
<br />
So maybe the better words are idols and mentors. I have a mix in my own life. There are artists and thinkers who I idolize, whose work has left enough of a mark that I have had the chance to get to know that work, and be inspired by it. I also have mentors, who are influences of another kind. They have all inspired me on a more personal level, as teachers, friends, employers, or family members.<br />
<br />
I could only name one hero today, but there were a lot of names dancing around in my head. So here are my heroes, or rather, my idols and mentors.<br />
<br />
<b>Idols</b><br />
<br />
<i>Walt Whitman</i><br />
<br />
I selected Walt Whitman as my hero today, because I think no writer has been more influential for me. Whitman's <i>Song of Myself</i> remains my favorite poem, essay, or writing of any kind. No less than three of the most important moments of my life have been punctuated by reading the poem in its entirety (twice aloud). I have read portions of it at weddings and at funerals, and for a time carried one of its more memorable cantos in my wallet.<br />
<br />
What is it that I love about <i>Song of Myself</i> - and, really, the whole of <i>Leaves of Grass </i>- in all its incessant and meandering glory? I love its spirit, its body, and its sound. It is a poem not only about poetry, but about why human beings write poetry in the first place, and maybe even why writing poetry isn't particularly necessary. It's a poem about love, and death, and sex, and independence. It's lewd and wildly inappropriate. It's political (abolitionist, in particular), but deeply impolitic about it. It celebrates contradictions and impossibilities. Above all, though, it's a poem that asks the reader to live without it, to compose his own songs and live his own life. I return to <i>Song of Myself</i>, from time to time, to remind myself to celebrate and sing myself. But it would be a deep misapprehension of Whitman to study him overmuch.<br />
<br />
<i>Ludwig Van Beethoven</i><br />
<br />
Like Whitman, Beethoven was a rebel. Whitman was at least partially responsible for what we now call "free verse," and Beethoven was at least partially responsible for what we call romanticism. He personalized and emotionalized music to a degree that was essentially unheard of prior to his work. His symphonies radically transformed the very structure of the symphony (there is a vast formal and structural difference between symphonies written before and after Beethoven).<br />
<br />
Beethoven inspires me, though, not because he was a passionate musician, but because his passion was so precisely measured and expressed. He was a master of composition, even after he lost his hearing, and however wild his music was - especially for its time* - it never feels out of control to me. Contrary to the popularized Hollywood renditions of Beethoven which paint him as a mad genius, who translates his anger and lust and frustration to the score feverishly and slavishly, I believe Beethoven was more a master of music than a slave to it. Passion is admirable, but excellence requires mastery of that passion. I idolize this, above all, about Beethoven.<br />
<br />
<i>* This cannot be overstated. These days Beethoven seems rousing, but expected. In his own day his music was truly shocking. The length of the Third Symphony alone, not to mention its harmonic and formal curiosities, would have struck any contemporary listener as bizarre.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Thelonious Monk</i><br />
<br />
Speaking of rebels, Thelonious Monk was a musical rebel. In many ways, he's a contemporary version of Beethoven: a true master of his craft whose rule-breaking was always more measured than it sounded. My idolization of Monk, however, is much narrower. I appreciate him, primarily, as a pianist. I do not sound like him, when I play piano, but he is nevertheless my greatest inspiration as a pianist, and especially as an accompanist. If you listen to recordings of Monk playing, what you'll find is that he is an exceptionally soloist, yes, but also an exceptionally good listener and accompanist. Not every one who played with him knew how to play with him, but those who did - Charlie Rouse, for example - play off of and with him in a way that most epitomizes, to me, what jazz is all about.<br />
<br />
<i>Langston Hughes</i><br />
<br />
I actually knew fairly little about Hughes until fairly recently, when I read his autobiography, <i>The Big Sea</i>. I knew, of course, that he was a central figure in the Harlem Renaissance, and I had read, as a student, <i>A Dream Deferred</i>. Through his autobiography I came to appreciate more about Hughes, the man and poet, and not just the symbol he has come to be in the traditional curriculum.<br />
<br />
I'll leave you to read <i>The Big Sea</i>, yourself. What I most appreciated about the book, and about Hughes, was his commitment to the joy of life. Like Whitman and Beethoven, he celebrates and sings his own odes to the joy of simply being. He is as masterful a wordsmith as any poet, and even his most biting and political poetry has a metrical and rhythmic levity. So, Hughes too is political without being politic, as much concerned with the everyday working man or woman as with the seeming greatness of leaders and decision makers. He shows and indeed lives the silently dignified life of a real person with real troubles and real celebrations.<br />
<br />
<b>Mentors</b><br />
<br />
All of the above idols are dead poets and musicians. They give shape to the way I live my life: the humanistic content which on some level defines who I am, how I read, and what I believe. And yet, while I have pretensions to being a musician and a poet, at heart I increasingly feel that I truly am a teacher (even when I was streaming, I was really being a teacher). With that in mind, these mentors are most responsible for teaching me how to learn and how to teach.<br />
<br />
<i>Denise Pope</i><br />
<br />
Denise is a researcher and lecturer at Stanford who co-founded <a href="http://www.challengesuccess.org/" target="_blank">Challenge Success</a>, an organization I have been fortunate to work with over the past couple of years. In contrast to many researchers, Denise is primarily focused on using her expertise as a researcher to make a positive impact on education writ large. Challenge Success, in particular, is inspiring because it focuses on a massive systemic issue in our education system which too often gets swept under the rug by more popular celebrated causes. That issue is, in short, how we define success. Too many students (and parents, and educators, and educational institutions) see success narrowly in terms of grades and matriculation records. As a result, students increasingly live unbalanced lives. They spend too much time doing homework, they burn-out and get sick, they don't get enough sleep, they cheat. Denise's book <i>Doing School</i>, chronicles this phenomenon by following a handful of exceptional students, hand-picked by the administration of her partner school. The results are staggering, because these exceptional students are living, by and large, unhealthy and unfulfilled lives.<br />
<br />
In my work with Denise, she has shown me what it is to be an ethical and balanced leader who lives what she preaches. Like any Stanford faculty member, she faces a barrage of emails and requests for attention, but she remains ever graceful in the face of such potential stressors. Perhaps most inspiring to me is her position: Senior Lecturer. I suspect she could be a Professor, if she so chose, but it seems to me that the priorities of a full professor are misaligned with her priorities as an educational leader (and as a mother). I suppose it is no accident that she was one of the first people to call me when I went on leave from Stanford to offer me encouragement, and she was one of the first to applaud my decision to find a teaching job when I did so. After all, she taught me the value of using academic knowledge to do good in the world.<br />
<br />
<i>Todd Kelly</i><br />
<br />
Todd was my piano teacher growing up, and was of course a huge influence on my musical style. He let me start out learning how to improvise and play jazz, rather than drilling classical theory and technique into me. His own unique style as a composer and musician - I'd say he's a mix between George Winston and Ethan Iverson, an odd couple if there ever was one - certainly rubbed off on me.<br />
<br />
But Todd was more than a piano teacher, and was as much an influence on me as an educator as he was on my musical development. I spent more time learning with and from him than any other teacher in my life, and I think a great deal of my own pedagogy derives from the way that he taught me. He treated me like an intellectual and musical equal long before I actually was one, and in so doing pushed me to be a better pianist and better musician. Our frank conversations about what I hoped to get out of music, and how much I was willing to put it taught me how to be self-reflective and metacognitive, and how to set goals for myself. Our co-compositions taught me the value of creative collaboration, a value which I have always sought to impart on my own students.<br />
<br />
<i>Sam Reynolds</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
There are teachers and mentors with whom I've spent much more time than Sam. I've only met Sam in person once, and spoken to him a handful of other times. My chief interaction with him was through a pre-recorded online course of his I took back when I had just graduated from St. John's and still had no idea what I wanted to do (I hadn't even decided on education as a field, yet). Nevertheless, Sam's influence on me is significant.<br />
<br />
Sam Reynolds is a professional astrologer who, like me, came from a philosophy background which imparted upon him the value of scientific skepticism. Through practicing and studying astrology, however, he found sufficient evidence to make it his career. This post isn't the place for me to defend my astrological practice (I don't say belief, because I do more than believe in astrology, I practice it), but I would be remiss if I didn't include Sam as a mentor for me precisely because of the way that Sam teaches and practices astrology. Without, to my knowledge, ever studying educational theory, Sam <i>gets</i> pedagogy and curriculum. His course had one of the better curricula I've ever encountered in any class I've taken (and that includes classes at Stanford).<br />
<br />
It's also worth noting that Sam is as intellectual a person as I've ever met. He's well-educated and well-read, incredibly wise, with a biting wit befitting a Scorpio. What Sam has taught me, then, besides a thing or two about how to read a chart, is how to stand up for what you believe even when it's unpopular. He brings to bear his education and intellect in defense of what he does and who he is, but he is never malevolent about it. Nor does he brook the malevolence of others. He is, as any good teacher should be, a model professional thinker <i>and</i> communicator.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Sharon Sikora (or "Mom")</i><br />
<br />
My mom is a teacher, and so it should come as no surprise that she's been a tremendous influence on my own growth as an educator. I won't go into mushy details here about the ways in which she inspires me, but suffice to say she is as excellent a teacher as you will ever find. She has modeled, throughout my life, everything that I value in an educator: she believes in and respects her students, knows her content, designs excellent curriculum and assessments, knows how to think about technology (she neither fears nor worships it, but rather uses it as a tool), and communicates well with her colleagues. She, also, has tried to balance her career as a teacher and educator with her life as a mother and wife. Those who know me and my family will know that this has been no small task, and yet it was a task she performed - and continues to perform - with optimism and joy, in spite of all that has happened.Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-50082143657707622412014-07-31T13:25:00.003-07:002014-07-31T13:34:45.058-07:00Reflecting on My DivorceTwo months ago my wife got on a plane to go visit her mother in New Mexico. We drove to the airport in silence. I don't know what was going through her mind, but mine was a raging torrent of anger, sadness, and confusion. She had already made it clear that she was leaving me, and I truly didn't understand why. I loved her, she said she loved me, but for some unfathomable reason she had decided that we couldn't be together anymore. Perhaps I could have accepted this if we were just girlfriend and boyfriend, but we had been married for four years, and together for eight. In all that time we had been through ups and downs, like any couple, but the word "divorce" had never seriously entered my mind until she broached the topic mere weeks earlier. Even that morning, driving to the airport, I didn't truly believe what was happening was real.<br />
<br />
In retrospect I suppose it was weird that I drove her at all. Looking back, two months later, that drive was one of the most painful moments of my life. Symbolically it feels like I was helping Jericha leave me, supporting her in her decision. When we arrived at the airport I took off my wedding ring and gave it to her. This dramatic gesture meant that our marriage was in her hands. But she had already decided long ago that she didn't want to be married anymore.<br />
<br />
I'm not ashamed to admit that I cried on the way home. I loved my wife. I married her because I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, because she was beautiful and smart and fun, and because she understood me and accepted me for the weird person I am. Yet here she was, unilaterally deciding to end a marriage that I had invested my heart and soul in, a marriage which I thought she, too, had invested her heart and soul in.<br />
<br />
In the last year and a half I've lost a lot. My father committed suicide. His father - my grandfather - died shortly thereafter. My uncle Paul - whose cornicello I now wear whenever I go out - died of heart failure a few months later. My PhD advisor had a life-threatening and life-altering stroke. I decided to leave my PhD program all together. And now my wife was leaving me, but not before I attended and spoke at the funeral of her father - my father-in-law - towards the end of April. There's a kind of grim irony to the end of our marriage, surrounded as it was by the deaths of so many family members. I'll always remember that the last truly meaningful time I spent with my wife culminated in the Baha'i tradition of washing the body of her father and standing next to her during the Baha'i prayer for the dead.<br />
<br />
The grim irony, here, goes beyond the parallels between death and divorce. The grimmer irony is that my wife's stated reason for leaving me is that our marriage was insufficiently spiritual, that I was insufficiently religious. To this charge I could offer no response. I spoke at her father's funeral and helped wash his body.* If that was insufficiently spiritual, insufficiently respectful of her faith, then perhaps I truly was incapable of being her husband after all.<br />
<br />
<i>* My mother told me of a conversation she had with Jericha's mother after the funeral. "Paul," my mother-in-law said, "is a keeper." My mother was bothered by this, and so am I. After four years of marriage and eight years in a relationship, hadn't we decided that I was a keeper already? Was I being tested so long after we had committed to each other? Why did Jericha marry me, and why did her parents consent to our marriage, unless they already knew I was a keeper? Adding ironies to ironies, this claim that I was a keeper came mere weeks before Jericha left me, proving that I was not, at least in her eyes, a keeper after all.</i><br />
<br />
What bothered me about this was that our religious differences have been present since the beginning of our relationship. I have always been a kind of strange amalgam of agnostic, secular humanist, occasional Buddhist, astrologer, and sometime pagan (for example, I believe in Pele, the Hawaiian goddess of volcanoes). My metaphysical beliefs are hard to articulate and hard to pin down, and frankly they fluctuate with time. Jericha, on the other hand, has a steadfast and unshakable faith in the teachings of Baha'u'llah. Because I have always found most of the teachings of the Baha'i Faith sensible - with some notable exceptions - I never felt that my wife and I were incompatible on account of the Faith. We had a number of conversations, sometimes quite heated, in the early stages of our relationship about our metaphysical and spiritual differences, and before we married I was confident that we had found enough common ground.<br />
<br />
In retrospect, I suppose we hadn't actually found common ground. Perhaps I didn't let Jericha express herself enough, or perhaps I didn't listen closely enough when she did. The truth was, the common ground I felt we had was insufficient for her. It was not enough that I support her service and respect her faith; I had to join in her service and practice her faith, or else she could not be happy with me as her husband. The first letter she ever wrote to me, at the beginning of our relationship, ended with the line "help me worship God." I thought, in my own way, I did exactly that. I offered insight into how to better teach the kids in her junior youth group. I let them use - sometimes begrudgingly, I'll admit - our apartment for their meetings. I supported Jericha's decision to do full time service to her faith (with a paltry, for the Bay Area, stipend) instead of getting a normal job. I agreed to move into a neighborhood I never would have chosen myself in order to support that service further. To me, this was helping her worship God. To me, this was the meaning of love and marriage: there was little I would not for her do if she asked.<br />
<br />
What I could not do, though, was be a Baha'i. I never understood that what she meant when she said "help me worship God" was actually "worship God with me." However far I was willing to bend for her, my fundamental disagreements with the metaphysical teachings of the Baha'i Faith - and some of the physical ones, as well - made it impossible for me to engage seriously in Baha'i prayer with her. In her own words, I "neutralized" her spiritual energy, because when she would come home full of that energy she felt she could not share it with me. Of course, that easily becomes a vicious cycle. She can't share her faith with me, so she doesn't try, so she can't share her faith with me. Add in to that the emotional and spiritual turmoil that I've been going through for the past year and a half, and you have a recipe for disaster.<br />
<br />
So she ran from me. Ever since she started her full-time service, Jericha has been working more than full time. We had little time together even when I was a PhD student, but in 2014, while I embarked on my streaming experiment, Jericha redoubled her service work to the point that we saw each other for perhaps a few hours a week at most. Most days, including weekends, she left the apartment by 8 or 9 in the morning, and didn't come home until 10 or 11 at night, promptly going to bed. We would share a meal together once every week or two, and she would often spend that meal reading and responding to text messages from fellow Baha'is. By my estimation she was working between 80 and 100 hours every week, and, what's more, she took our car with her wherever she went, so I was stranded at home. Realistically, streaming was the only "job" I could have done for those five months.<br />
<br />
I have no doubt that I didn't do enough to keep us together during this time, but I'll excuse myself on two accounts. The first is that I had no idea that Jericha was thinking of divorcing me. Had she given me any indication, I would have worked as hard as I could to salvage our marriage. But the moment that she first said the word divorce was mere weeks before her actual leaving me. The second is that I was still working through my own emotional issues surrounding my father's suicide and my decision to leave Stanford. I suppose I cannot blame my wife for finding me an unfit partner through 2013 and early 2014, because I truly was at an emotional and spiritual nadir. What bothers me, though, is that rather than being there for me and trying to lift me up, she summarily declared me insufficiently spiritual and left me. Marriage, to me, is not only about enjoying each other's company in the good times, but also about helping each other and sticking together through the bad.<br />
<br />
In contrast to Jericha, I see my mother, who stuck with my father through infidelity and a lifelong battle with alcoholism. At his best, my father was a kind, caring, and intelligent man. But he was rarely at his best. Often he was at his worst, and his worst was dark, delusional, cruel, deeply irrational, angry, and consistently drunk and high. In short, his worst was far, far worse than my worst, which is a little sullen and moody, overly cynical, and perhaps a bit too sedentary. Once depressed, it takes a little effort to pull me out of my shell, but I don't have any chemical dependencies and really only want to spend time with someone I love.<br />
<br />
In 2013 and the first half of 2014, I spent almost no time with the person I loved most, at a time when I most needed to spend time with someone I loved. And yet not once did I believe I would divorce Jericha. Not once did I actually think that our marriage was doomed. Not once did I realize that she was in the process of leaving me already. I believed that her commitment to me was as strong as mine to her, and I believed, moreover, that her service was so important to her that I dare not impose on it overmuch. If service made her happy, let her do service.<br />
<br />
One of the things she told me after she left me was that she considered my desire to spend time with her selfish. Of course, people going through a divorce say many hurtful things to each other, but this particular barb still sticks with me, because I disagree with it so fundamentally. Is it truly selfish to want to spend time with your spouse? Is it selfish to ask your spouse to love you just a little bit more than she loves other people? Is it selfish to want to be the most important person in your spouse's life? For my part, I married Jericha because I loved her not just a little, but a lot more than anyone else. I married her because I wanted to spend time with her, to play games with her, and to travel with her. I wanted to support her in what she did and to make her happy. I wanted to be there for her when things weren't going well, and for her to be there for me. To be told that all of that is selfish was shocking and painful. To be told by your spouse that she loves you, but no more and no differently than she loves all of humanity is worse than being told that she doesn't love you at all. I'd take her hatred over her ambivalence, any day.<br />
<br />
Ambivalence is what I have received, however, and it still puzzles me to no end. It puzzles me because she married me, and because she maintains that getting married was a good decision. I find that baffling. If divorcing someone is the right decision, aren't you admitting, tacitly, that getting married was a wrong decision? The astrologer in me says, "Ah yes, Paul, but Jericha is half-Sagittarius, and this is how Sagittariuses think; they love you and leave you and don't see how you could possibly be upset about it." The cynic and critic of repressive religious teaching in me says, "This is how Bahai's work; they marry young to assuage their sexual guilt (they aren't even supposed to kiss before marriage) and eventually realize that they married the wrong person."<br />
<br />
On this later point I offer a further thought. Baha'is, I learned after some digging, actually have a significantly higher divorce rate than the general population, despite quite explicit condemnation of divorce in their holy texts. I believe this owes to their extremely repressive sexual ethic. Even in marriage, sex is looked down upon at best, which means any sexually active Baha'i must needs cultivate a continuous sense of guilt. Furthermore, the Baha'i teachings on marriage paint the experience of being married in such glowing, impossibly magical terms that it's no wonder a Baha'i might easily find fault in their spouse if their marriage is not continuous bliss and mutual service. Baha'u'llah's expectation for the Baha'i husband and wife is so high that living up to it is nigh impossible, even for the faithful (much less for the heathen like me, who believes with Whitman that the body and the soul are not separate and that sex is as holy as prayer). So a Baha'i couple has to live with a continuous sense of inadequacy - especially if they have sex sometimes - that is crippling to the kind of self-confidence and comfort that I think is essential to a successful relationship. It's hard to have a sense of humor about your marriage when God is always judging you inadequate. And if God is judging you inadequate, how long until your partner does the same? Perhaps four years?<br />
<br />
For my part, continuous judgment and perpetual inadequacy was a part of why I left Stanford: it's a part of the Silicon Valley world where wild success is expected and anything less is considered abject failure, leading to a lot of over-stressed and unbalanced people. I can't imagine applying the same kind of standard to my marriage. Relationships take work, sure, but they shouldn't be a perpetual job or chore. What I wanted out of my marriage was safety, security, and love. I wanted a friend who would spend time with me. I wanted a partner who wasn't afraid to try new things and who didn't feel guilty about being in love with me. I wanted to be loved and committed to in the way that I loved and committed to my spouse. As it turned out, what Jericha wanted was something very different, and she didn't tell me until after she decided to leave. I think that is the bitterest pill to swallow, and the one I'll have to fight with for longest: I was never really given a chance.<br />
<br />
Which takes me to today. I've moved to Huntington Beach, just south of Los Angeles, for a job teaching middle school English at LePort, a small but growing network of private schools. The past two months have been emotionally difficult, of course, but also life-affirming. In Jericha's leaving I found strength that I had forgotten. My marriage was, in truth, a miserable one, in part because I was not at my best, and in part because Jericha truly left me two years ago, but waited to tell me until this May. In that time I had lost track of a lot that I cared about, things that I have rediscovered in the interim. I have started hiking again, and meditating. I have begun cooking for myself for the first time since I was a Master's student at Stanford. Since I arrived in Huntington Beach I've been regularly waking up and running first thing in the morning (I hope to surf again soon, too, but I've got to get into surfing shape first).<br />
<br />
Would I have rediscovered these things in my marriage? It's hard to say. I believe I could have if my wife had actually loved me for who I was and been there for me in my darkest hour. I am recovering not just from a failed marriage, but from the grief of losing a father and a grandfather and an uncle and an imagined career as a researcher and the mentors and friends that went with that career. It hasn't been an easy recovery, but it's a recovery I believe I would have made even in my marriage - or even faster in my marriage - had my marriage been healthy. But I truly am recovering. I still have moments of sadness and still feel a great deal of anger at being mislead and abandoned by a woman I loved dearly, but recently I have also felt a joy and hope and excitement that I hadn't felt in years. I run when I wake up because I wake up with energy and optimism, and it feels good.<br />
<br />
I still have my insecurities and fears. I've never been a socialite (I'm deeply introverted), and it's intimidating being in a city where I know almost no one. I have to make new friends, as part of this new life, and that's never been easy for me because I've always been a man of a few close friends rather than many acquaintances. I also know little about how to meet women or date. I've been in my relationship with Jericha since I was in college and have never been both single and an adult before. But I have faith that my honesty, intelligence, and enthusiasm for life - an enthusiasm which I had all but lost - will suffice to keep me happy in the coming months and years. I will be an excellent teacher, an excellent friend, and an excellent partner in a relationship when the time comes. Above all, I will be true to myself as I explore my latest unexpected path, and I will rejoice in its particulars. And so my blog's (somewhat pretentious) title and tag line prove themselves again: "Oh friends, not these tones. Let us sing yet more joyfully."Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-91796751274616687612014-07-17T00:36:00.001-07:002014-07-17T00:36:57.174-07:00Haiku<i>Just some (no-syllable-rule) haiku from the last couple months.</i><br />
<br />
Faith is a fool's<br />
way of<br />
Forgiving foolishness<br />
<br />
The Baha'i Faith<br />
the religion<br />
Of the Wasteland<br />
<br />
The Wasteland<br />
swallowed<br />
My poetry<br />
<br />
My brothers are already<br />
at home<br />
Eating cake<br />
<br />
Meditation doesn't destroy<br />
my desire<br />
It sanctifies it<br />
<br />
Still<br />
I dream<br />
Of her<br />
<br />
I've read Plato<br />
and Platonic<br />
Means something elsePaul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-17549771260875149092014-07-10T18:08:00.000-07:002014-07-10T18:08:19.873-07:00Geode Haiku<i>I have this really cool purple geode that I used today with my tutoring students to help get them writing detailed descriptions. After the session, I wrote some haiku - in the Kerouacian, no-syllable-rule style - inspired by said geode. My three favorites:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Purple claws<br />
a dusky shell<br />
Evening underground<br />
<br />
Inky effusions<br />
too thick<br />
To have color<br />
<br />
Timid but expectant<br />
the crystalline mouth<br />
Half-openPaul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3631954868579892426.post-88005127198595935192014-06-24T03:38:00.002-07:002014-06-24T03:54:03.917-07:00Twenty Nine Worlds<div class="MsoNormal">
1<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every few miles the suburban wasteland repeats itself.
Starbucks. Chipotle. Verizon. Panera. McDonalds. <i>Et cetera</i>. Its insidiousness lies not in its spiritual emptiness,
but in its eternal, commercial tautologies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Atop a clock tower the remains of a mechanical existence
chime defiance to digital modernity. Do such artifacts exist because bits allow
them to? Or aren’t bits mechanical, too?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can we ever know who we are when the world is full of
pseudonyms? Perhaps anonymity is not only a safeguard, but also a price. What
does identity cost?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I fear I have become more abstract as I have gotten older.
Poetry is better when it’s visceral, material, physical, real. Abstraction is
the hidey hole of faked intelligence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A prophet need not follow his own teachings if he is truly a
prophet. Such is the dangerous illogic of faith. Regardless, reinterpretation and
rationalization heal all historical wounds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If Eliot’s peach is a metaphor, what is a watermelon? I
think sharing one is every bit as sensual, and a good deal less pretentious.
And it tastes better.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Innuendo – whether verbal or physical – is beautiful but frustratingly
problematic, not because it’s silly or childish or immoral, but because it’s
too easily misread. Miscommunication is the ultimate anaphrodisiac.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I celebrate as much as Whitman, and am trying to relearn how
to sing, but one wonders whether he might over assume. You know what they say
about assuming.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually you understand that beauty really is a matter of
heart, mind, and soul, not of body. If she weren’t so beautiful, I wouldn’t love
her so damn much.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
10<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The easy humor and confidence of youth is so readily stifled
by the rigors of living in the so-called real world. Imagine laughing like a
kid your whole life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
11<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Philosophy should never have a definite article. What is a
philosophy anyway? It’s an anachronistic way of pretending your narrow,
inadequately considered worldview is profound, consistent, and reasonable. Bullshit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
12<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The world is not understood; it is interpreted. Blessed are
the meaning makers. May they make a thousand meanings and thereby make life
interesting enough to warrant the trouble.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
13<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Popular culture is a tautology. Has there ever been any
culture which was not, in some sense, popular? Could it really be called a
culture if it weren’t shared?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
14<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tristan’s love for Isolde is frustrated, impossible, and
unbelievably pure. Isolde’s love for Tristan is selfish, sadistic, and
unbelievably sexy. Love is wrapped up in power, desire, and suffering.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
15<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps the saddest unintended outcome of a connected world
is how it sapped the magic from discovery and the novelty from humor. Keats would
never write <i>Chapman’s Homer</i> now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
16<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are still mountains waiting to be climbed, my friends.
There are still evergreens and lakes buzzing with dragonflies. There are still
leaves of grass serving as journey work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
17<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have surrounded myself with death. The last sacred act of
my marriage was to bury my father-in-law. Pluto makes a difficult conversation
partner, but his power is undeniable.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
18<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You ask how I will remember her? I will remember red stripes
on the skin of her stomach, raw from leather coils. I will remember her gasping
in excitement.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
19<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To deny astrology is to deny archetype, mythos, and
spirituality itself. Astrology does not speak of fate; rather it makes possible
an otherwise inarticulate conversation with one’s very soul.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
20<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a fragment lives an entire world, but there is only one.
No thought is self-contained, no prophecy self-fulfilling. A thing is a thing
by virtue of everything else.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
21<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remix is also a tautology. We live in an age of tautology,
where recursion is virtue and begetting oneself is apotheosis. Beware the bastard
sons of techne and logos.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
22<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s something calming about disorder. I cannot clean my
desk not because I am lazy, but because its clutter brings me a sense of peace.
My entropic security blanket.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
23<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We debated one night over the proper term for a group of nobles.
Geese have their gaggles and crows their murders. We settled on gossip. Paints
the right picture.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
24<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine a truly deviant aesthetics. It has become more and
more difficult to find beauty in strangeness, not because strangeness has
disappeared but because we no longer acknowledge it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
25<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is something liberating about having a secret. I do
not want my friends to know everything about me because I would be just another
variable in their equations.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
26<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How does one claim one’s own space? Anything above the
ground floor is an artifact of countless unseen hands conspiring to alter
extension itself. Above us not only sky.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
27<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Am I less playful than I used to be? Or is my playfulness better
disguised? I still think of Eden and her scorched eluvium. But I don’t like tattoos.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
28<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The frequent mutual exclusivity of groove and counterpoint
puzzles me. Why can’t music be funky and complex at the same time? Do we forget
Joplin so easily as that?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
29</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I play games, and I play to win. Rhetoric is my game board,
emotion my trump card. But my greatest strength is that I also know how to
lose.<o:p></o:p></div>
Paul Franzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10454463015164323230noreply@blogger.com0