Written on 17 Feb 2005.

Irresponsible! How could they do this? How could they treat the amazing and multifaceted gems so carelessly? I am betrayed!

My favorite comic company has gone out of business. Dreamwave, host to so many excellent and talented writers and artists, has closed its doors forever. But, you challenge, what’s the big deal? It’s just a comic book.

OH HO! These magnificent pieces of art cannot be slandered by your depreciative claims! Every glossy page was an example of attention to detail. It was an homage to perspective. Each page was something that I would gladly hang and display on my wall.

I admit that I was partial to the subject matter. I collected Transformers when I was a child, and have begun again at the suggestion of a friend. The story lines, while not the most creative, did a fantastic job of delving into and developing the personalities of stereotypical characters. And now that the storylines are so much truncated fantasy, I find myself raising my fists to the sky in melodramatic rage.

They closed for “bad business practices.” They deferred payment to their writers and to their artists. THEY DID NOT PAY THEIR TALENT. And yet, they expected to continue to publish fifteen different comic books every month. Bad business practices, indeed.

I am left with unfinished stories and a determination to do better than they have.

Written on 12 Feb 2005.

The entire state feels like it’s in its death throes. In most of Flint, getting shot is a daily concern. In Detroit, this is no longer much of a worry, because the city stands practically abandoned, conjuring up images of an old western ghost town. Saginaw is hanging on by the skin of its teeth. Racially and economically divided by a river, the weather is the only thing preventing the city from boiling over. Lansing lives by the whim of General Motors and the debt-ridden state government.

What about the suburbs of Detroit, you ask. They’re extremely prosperous. Yes, this place has plenty of money. Likely as not, that will only last for another generation or two. Constant Urban Sprawl (white rich people fleeing black people who are trying to live a better life) eats the land and the trees. Housing and strip malls stand empty from time of construction and into the flight of the money intended to fill them. The young intelligencia leave, sick and tired of a car-based and basically flawed system of transportation. One can sit on I-696 stopped for only so many times. Soon, suburbia will stand as abandoned as Detroit now sits.

What about the rural areas of the state, you ask. There are several pristine small towns and rural expanses that seem immune to the collapse. These towns do not succumb to the Urban Sprawl (no Wal-Mart) and are not home to the infamous rednecks that populate the Michigan Militia and the KKK. However, the whole state cannot be supported by these small and rare utopias.

What about the western side of the state? Ok, you got me. I know very little about places like Grand Rapids, Kalamazoo, and Traverse City. It is possible, though unlikely, that the west side of the state has the magical wand that will be waved, and we will all be saved, to live happily ever after. But I doubt it.

The nation’s birth vs. death ratio is negative. More people die than are born, and the gap is increasing every year. With our recent foul mood toward foreigners, not to mention failing economy, we are less and less an attractive place for immigrants to make their home. All of these parallel state trends and attitudes.

How many homes for sale do you see in a day? How many for rent signs do you see in a day? How many more than five years ago? And yet, the construction and waste continue. Michigan can be saved from death. How many of us are willing to put in the hard work? How many of us are willing to open our minds and learn better ways of doing things? I fear that there are too few.

Written on 11 Feb 2005.

There is a French linguist that has earned the distinction of getting under my skin. In a lengthy diatribe that linguists call a “proof”, this linguist speaks about myth. He states, as a thesis, that statements within myths have more meaning when separated from their myths. He attempts to show that when considered in a purely linguistic fashion, the statements hold more meaning. This, he says, is because the context of the myth is lost to us forever, so the meaning the statement within the myth is a broken, dead thing.

As a student of objective religion and as a story-teller, I am personally offended. Through reading academic and professional writings over my life span, I have noticed a disturbing trend. To feel worthwhile, many have a need to reduce any view but their own to a worthless state. They must proclaim other views as meaningless, futile, and ultimately stupid. While this trend begins in Junior High School, it continues into middle management, over-paid executives, and academics that cannot abide obscurity.

Myths, and the statements within them, are powerful and whole literary pieces. Not only do they perform critical functions in the forming and evolution of a society (even today), but they provide major clues to understanding societies long dead. Even a newly-unearthed myth can have great personal meaning to someone living today. Reducing a myth, and the statements within it, to a “purely linguistic form” robs a myth of its history and true importance.

Written on 10 Feb 2005.

When cassette tapes slowly fell out of style, there was no question as to what would replace them. The Compact Disc, or CD, had already begun to infiltrate the market. Walkman, a combination AM/FM radio and cassette tape player, was a device made by Sony so that anyone could take their music with them. Being on top of their market, Sony released the Discman. Some came with belt clips, but most were meant for stationary use. Some were even mounted in cars on shock-absorbing devices to prevent the dreaded CD-skip. Even as their technology advanced – electronic skip protection, bass boost, ability to re-charge batteries while plugged in, ability to read CD-RW’s, and now the ability to read data CD’s with music files on them – their shape and design remained essentially the same.

Sony, as well as its competitors, seem to have completely abandoned the tried and true design. The straight back, holding the hinge for the top cover panel. The straight sides from back to front. The curved front panel with its central LCD layout, surrounded by all of the buttons and dials necessary for all of the unit’s functions. The panel to access the batteries on the bottom. No matter the brand, your portable CD player essentially looked like everybody else’s, despite stickers or painting. Until now.

I am amazed, as I see people studying, riding the bus, walking to class, when they pull out their CD players. It seems that there are as many designs, from the ground up, as there are people that own them. I admit that I’ve been out of the market, as my Methuselah Discman circa June 1997 still works beautifully. But, as I began to notice the changes wrought in those years, I began to smile. Apart from the custom airbrush paint job, my Discman is becoming as unique as the new designs. As the old models fail, it may truly become one of a kind, even before the next medium eclipses CD’s.

Some thoughts on deity.

When you make a pledge, an oath, to a deity, and you break it, how do you expect to deal with the repercussions? Do you expect any at all? So many students send their pleas to the heavens! “Please, God, if I can only pass this exam, I’ll never drink that much beer again!” “Please, God, if you could make this pregnancy test negative, I swear I’ll use a condom from now on.” How many pleas and prayers are answered, only to have these oath-breakers back doing the same things a few weeks later. On a small level, I envy these people for their forgiving and inattentive god.

I, on the other hand, do not have that luxury. My goddess makes certain that I understand the gravity of the promises that I have made. For instance, January’s New Moon came and went without a day of silence from me. My pledge was made in earnest, and sealed in blood. Shortly after the day passed, I became sick with a chest and throat cold. Over two days, my voice declined from normal, into a croak, and then left me completely. For three days, I could not speak above a whisper.

Many modern Christians bemoan the mysterious, hidden nature of their god. Here, the old adage fits. Be careful what you wish for.

This was an unassigned essay. I wrote it to set some events in order about Yule and a new oath.

Today, the moon is dark. According to my science-for-non-science-majors class, this is because the moon now rests between the Earth and the sun. According to my religious views, this is because the Goddess is dark, and this is the time for unraveling and un-making. I see no discrepancy in these views.

There was a time, recently, in which I was neglecting the gods. You could say that I wasn’t holding up to my part of our little bargain. You could say that life in a cubicle had over-inflated the secular, causing the sacred to fade away. You could say that my gods were pretty damn pissed off. You’d be right in all of this.

I knew that change was coming. I had signed up for classes in September, and immediately applied for financial aid. I had bought a house, and would close on it in two days. My last day at work was set. I had enacted change, and for the first time in a long time, it was working out beautifully. But, as Guns ‘N Roses said, every rose has its thorn.

December 21, 2004: After ending my shift at 9 PM, I headed to a friends’ place to pick up my wife. She had completed a ritual celebrating Yule, and the re-birth of the god. It was about 9:40 when I parked and turned off the car. Thoughts about my own spirituality flooded my mind and held my attention. I began to walk across the parking lot, setting my mind to the task of righting the wrong of my indifference. A few steps later, I had it.

Every month, for a year, I would make a pledge. I would be silent, undoing the force of naming and storytelling that I am gifted with. The New Moon was the perfect time to celebrate this un-making. It would honor Tiamat, she who craves the silence of the universe. I would be forgiven. I made this oath, giving it voice in my head.

I didn’t see the patch of ice. I began to slip, instantly afraid of my bad knees. I flailed at the carport pole to my left and the truck on my right. Neither gave me purchase, and my ankle violently twisted. I felt something crack, or snap, or pop. I fell forward, landing on my forearms, elbows, and knees. My ankle was a fireball of pain. I silently thanked the gods that both of my kneecaps were exactly where they were supposed to be.

I used the carport pole to pull myself up. My ankle supported my weight, if barely, so I figured it wasn’t broken. I assessed the rest of the damage as I limped to the apartment building’s door. Slacks scuffed at the knees. Trench coat scuffed at the elbows. Left palm cut open, with a side of gravel, and plenty of blood. I smirked, then. My oath to Tiamat had been sealed with pain and blood.

This was an assignment to get us ready for watching Super Size Me.

No fast food chain is regarded as more unhealthy, more stomach-churning, or more cheap than Taco Bell. With nicknames like Toxic Hell, it’s commonly thought of as having the lowest-grade ingredients and dirtiest environment.

And yet, business keeps flowing in. I arrived at 11:50 AM and 15 minutes later, there is still a full line of customers in the corral. They’ve already had to open their second register to deal with the lunch rush, and the “Now Hiring” sign seems to have been up for quite some time.

I watched the line of people and the seated customers while I munched on my hard-shell taco and chicken quesadilla. I thought about packaging and behavior while I sipped on my lemonade (just as much sugar as any of the Pepsi products they carry). I tried to figure out why, despite all that these people know about the food they’re purchasing, do they return to the lines and the drive thru queues of these horrible places?

Their convenience is unparalleled. Even at a slow pace, no sit-down restaurant can deliver food as quickly as a fast food joint. Meals are pre-arranged and numbered, so you don’t have to spend time worrying if you’re getting a “full meal.” The giant pops that come with the meals have cups that are designed to fit in your car’s cup holder, which is in turn designed for a smaller cup. ATM and credit cards are now accepted, with no minimum purchase. Even the location is optimized for your convenience.

We no longer wish to enjoy our food, relish its taste, appreciate the roundness of a good meal, or think about it at all. We want to eat and get back to the “real” living.