Goodbye Karnak (An actor's musings on his character)

I woke up this morning missing something. This wasn’t unexpected as Ann is away on business, but as I read her messages and sent some back, I came to realize that wasn’t the missing experience I awoke with. She’ll be home tomorrow, but I was missing something I didn’t expect back. I just finished a run of Ride the Cyclone with my friends, so perhaps I was just missing being in the show and working with my friends. But that’s a familiar experience too, and this didn’t quite fit the bill. After sitting with things for a few minutes, I realized I missed guiding my flock. Which is interesting because 'I' didn’t guide any flock. My experience with my fellow actors was not one of guide; I got more guidance from them than they got from me. We were coworkers, co-conspirators, and friends. Nevertheless, guiding my flock is what I was missing. 

Karnak is a very interesting character. As a precognition machine, he is both a participant and narrator for the show. While the part could simply be read as a machine without ruining the show, you would have to ignore some important aspects to do so. Written into the part is a fair amount of (drought dry, sometimes sarcastic) humor. So, does Karnak have a sense of humor? Maybe. Karnak is not reliable. The information he gives can be misleading or subject to change without prior notice. It isn’t a big stretch even to claim Karnak as dishonest. He has a goal/job. His work is to evoke self-honesty and self-acceptance from his charges before they move on to whatever comes next. But he doesn’t do so from a sense of principle as you or I might. He doesn’t need to be honest to evoke honesty, and he doesn’t need to be nice or fair to evoke self-acceptance. This is not the end justifying the means, it’s more like a declaration that (there, in that part of the after-life) the means are irrelevant. So, is Karnak a good guy? Maybe. 

Karnak is a conniving manipulator whose goal is something we consider to be good. Karnak (as I played him) did have feelings, but not the way most people do. Karnak did not really have free will. He did and said what he did and said because that’s what needed to happen next to manipulate the kids in the right way. There was no need to worry or fret, no indecision or guilt, and no reticence to lie or pressure to tell the truth. But the fulfillment and relief Karnak felt when any step was taken toward self-honesty and acceptance was profound. So, in case you’re interested: David, during Mischa’s monologue, Karnak bent the entirety of his will to convince the audience of the defensibility and respectability of Mischa’s anger: when he described his grief with Canada, Karnak was angrily willing the audience on Mischa’s behalf to accept the guilt they are due. Caleb, even while being intolerant of the excuses and complaints Noel had to make, Karnak admired the intensity with which Noel experienced the world and knew it was not only a story he needed to tell, but a story people needed to hear. Carina, Karnak got Ocean to be truthful pretty early on, but that wasn’t enough. My how he rejoiced when Constance taught her to pay attention to how much she valued other people too: what a boob punch! Emma, Karnak felt a profound sadness for Jane’s lost life, but also quite a lot of intrigue for the girl who seemed so similar to him in some ways. “There, but for the grace of patent-holders, go I.” Chris, Karnak was amazed at the depth and involvement of Ricky’s fantasies; he willed the audience to understand the monumental accomplishment of Ricky’s overwhelmingly positive experience amongst the trials of his life. Kelly, I had a little bit of trouble separating my reactions to Constance from Karnak’s because of how much I identify with her. But I can tell you this, while everyone was sobbing over her monologue and jawbreaker, Karnak was already rejoicing. Karnak knew that Constance turned the corner with the “most horrible possible way” line. It was at that point that Karnak knew he had successfully guided the kids to his goal. 

A side effect of being in Karnak’s head during all of that was that I (the actor) felt removed when we ran the sad parts of the show. Karnak was rarely sad when I would have been. So we’d finish a very sad part of rehearsal or the show, and I’d be the only one with dry eyes. This is an unusual theater experience for me. Fortunately, I was often sweating copiously from my well-insulated head, so I didn’t need to explain. ;) Karnak also felt great joy which he experienced and expressed through the curious human habit of dancing. It was a wonderful show. 

 

I usually go through a period of readjustment and grief at the end of a good show. I miss the people, routines, purpose, drama, responsibilities, and spectacle. I feel all those things for this show too. But today I woke up missing the act of guiding my flock. I was experiencing Karnak’s feelings. Rest easy Karnak, what comes after your death is just me. It doesn’t look like you’ll be forgotten anytime soon.

The Facts in the Case of the Adulterated Ovum: a Poeish account

Preface: I'm a scientist. I recently tried an experiment that was meant to chemically cook a raw egg inside its shell. The experiment did not go as expected. I am also a fan of the works of Edgar Allen Poe.


The Facts in the Case of the Adulterated Ovum

A regular un-fertilized chicken egg was immersed in a weak acetic acid solution: common table vinegar, 3%. The immersion was conducted at room temperature for approximately 2 hours followed by an elevation of the temperature to 90 degrees Fahrenheit for another hour. The immersed egg was then refrigerated for approximately 24 hours until the calcified shell had wholly dissolved into the acid solution. At which point the egg rather resembled a child's translucent rubber ball, albeit ovoid in nature. The dissolution of the shell and the continuation of the substance of the whole was, at this point, curious, but not alarming as such and the occurrence was the desired and sought-for result.

What came next however defies expectation, and indeed has been resistant to any logical rigor to date. I, therefore, will not offer analysis, but merely state the facts in the case and allow the reader, more qualified, or more rash, to state the causes and predict the consequences.

With the intention of dehydrating the ovum, (for, without a shell, I can no longer call it an egg) now vulnerable to its surroundings and protected only by its thin membrane, the egg was immersed in a saturated salt solution. The solution, in fact, was so saturated to act like half brine, and half wet sand. In this environment, the first unexpected curiosity presented itself. The ovum sank. It being a well-known fact that a chicken's egg will float in salted water, and with the densest part of the egg removed, and with the water in question holding on to much more salt than even the oceans hold, this event surprised, nay, startled the investigator.

Investigations as they are, though, this one continued even amongst the unexpected revelation. As was stated above, the brine immersion was intended to dehydrated the ovum through osmotic processes well understood by practitioners of statistical natural philosophy. After two hours the ovum should have been dehydrated to such an extent as to wrinkle and deflate the now-flexible membrane containing the vitreous inside. Again, the investigation was met with surprise when the ovum displayed no deflation whatsoever. This surprise, being lesser than the first was duly noted and subsequently ignored. The ovum was allowed to sit immersed in brine for an additional 10 hours.

What fantastic results did obtain! Wonderful or horrific are, alas, too subjective as descriptors for this account of the facts; but, rest assured, the investigator felt strong emotions upon observing the ovum after 12 hours soaking in the brine. In direct defiance of statistical physics, the egg had not deflated at all. No water had seeped through the membrane. This curiosity was too acute to ignore. It was decided that the internal state of the ovum needed to be assessed. After some deliberation about the specifics of dissecting the internal structure of a raw egg, it was decided to put the egg into that peculiar stasis available to eggs by cooking. Accordingly, the ovum was immersed in a boiling water bath for approximately 20 minutes then cooled in cold water for one hour.

What wonders did my eyes then behold! For, though the ovum had been subject to sufficient heat to thoroughly cook the cell in its entirety, and though through the membrane one could clearly see that the ovum had turned the expected opaque white of cooked eggs, the consistency of the ovum as felt through the membrane was that of a completely uncooked egg. The phenomenon was sufficient to make the investigator doubt the very truth of what he had just done. Careful reconsideration was undertaken to reassure the investigator that the ovum had in fact been subject to more than enough heat to completely cook the contents of the membrane.

His curiosity no longer containable, an immediate assessment of the situation was sought. With careful deliberation the membrane, which was considerably tougher than had been thought, was breached. Upon said breaching, the membrane split with such immediacy that the contents could not be artfully detained, and what spilled forth into the sink again caused such consternation as to compel the investigator to conclude that his twice confirmed method had not imparted a tenth of the heat necessary to cook the contents of the ovum. The fluid thus expelled held all the earmarks of uncooked egg white, and only upon closer inspection could the minutest tendrils of what appeared to be very lightly cooked egg whites be seen suspended in the now-mysterious fluid. The immediate conclusion was that, through some extra insulatory property of the altered membrane, or through an undiscovered mistake of method, the ovum had not been heated hardly at all. The egg white appeared almost completely unaltered from the rawest of eggs.

Imagine then the astonishment, the awful wonder, the sheer disbelief, when from out of the sink was recovered an egg yolk apparently cooked to a perfect hard boil.

Many an answer has been put forth to explain these mysterious events, and none have yet satisfied the scientific mind. In the course of the evolution of the mystery and beliefs surrounding the raw cooked egg, I fear the facts of what actually transpired will be lost. For this reason I have set forth the simple facts in the case of the adulterated ovum, so that future minds can assess the case without wading through entire structures of (dis)belief.


-Andy Allen Poe

Apropos of nothing, a short psychological thriller: Am I Awake?

Am I awake?

She came at me. That’s it.

We were talking… or, I was talking; I was telling her about my day.

It had been an excedingly strange day to that point; all sorts of improbable things had been happening. My car stopped working in the middle of the freeway at 80 mph. That wasn’t too weird; it’s an old car and the engine just stopped. I put the clutch in and, cursing mildly, coasted; looking for a chance to merge into the right lane. Then this big ole’ Mac truck comes up behind me, and looks to clobber me right there in the middle lane. I mean, it was moving. I was pretty sure I was going to die. And it hit me. But instead of a crunch, I felt a slight jerk and all of a sudden I’m going as fast as the truck, because it's pushing me… and my engine is running again as well as it ever does. The trucker waves at me in my rear-view mirror and slows down, and I drive off.
I know. The details don’t add up. First, when was the last time you saw a semi going 110 mph? How did it hit me without damaging my car or sending me clean off the road? Why did my engine start back up? But what really gets me, is why did I then keep going as if nothing unusual had happened? I didn’t stop to check for damage, I didn’t take the next exit, I didn’t even end up changing lanes. I just waved happily to the trucker, who by all rights should have just killed me, and kept going.
I didn’t even get home late.
Okay, so you don’t know me. To you this probably sounds odd, a bit off, maybe even scary. But not to me; to me this is truly bizarre. There is a reason my car still runs after 340,000 miles. I take meticulous care of it; I would stop if I ran over a medium size rock on the freeway to make sure my tire is okay. I’m downright anal about my car. But not that day: that day, my engine stopped on the freeway, a huge truck slammed into me, and I didn’t stop, I just drove calmly home. I don’t even think I looked at the bumper when I got there. Who was I?
When I did get home, I took a nap. I wasn’t tired; I remember that I wasn’t tired because I said that out loud to her: “Theresa, I’m not at all tired. I’m just going to take a nap.” That’s what I said. I wasn’t upset… in fact, I can’t explain it at all. I just took out the milk and a glass for myself, and then laid down on the kitchen floor and took a nap.
When I woke up it was twilight, and Theresa was still there waiting expectantly. She saw me wake up, and said, “How are you?” She’s cute that way; I taught her to talk while she was just a chickling. So I start to tell her my day; the 15 minute phone call in the morning, where neither of us said a single word the whole time, the fact that I forgot to eat lunch, but still found that I had spilled ketchup on my shirt, and then the freeway incident.

That’s when she came at me. Don’t ask me to explain how; she was in her cage, with the doors latched. Then she was flying at me screeching in a way I’ve never heard before; as if a stranger had her and was pulling out her feathers by the fistful. I can tell you with complete sincerity that I have never been as freaked out in my life as when that little bird came streaking at me with that blood-curdling scream. It was as if Theresa was gone, and a demon from the mythic underworld… no, that’s not right; the reason I still live this moment over and over again, is because Theresa wasn’t gone. I could see it in her eyes; she was there. And it was her, my beloved pet, who was screaming in terrible agony, and hatred, and malice as she came at me. She came at me, and attacked my face… a very personal attack. I still feel like I am shaking all over (though I can’t be) when I remember it. Please don’t ask me about her anymore.

Then everything stopped. Then I was here.

That’s what I remember; here’s what I’ve been told: I was found in my house, on the kitchen floor. I was paralyzed from a broken neck. They tell me that whatever broke my neck severed the spinal cord immediately, so that I would have felt no pain from my shattered left leg, broken ribs, crushed pelvis and dislocated shoulder. They also tell me that the cuts on my face were not clean cuts, but ragged tears that seemed to have been caused by an exotic bird… but not Theresa, who was found safely locked up in her cage contentedly asking the paramedics, “How are you?” What they don’t tell me is how I ended up on the floor of my third-floor apartment, with a severely totaled car parked neatly in the garage… except for the rear axle which was blocking the flow of traffic ten miles away on I26. These seem like important details to me, but no one seems to hear when I ask.

It would all make more sense if I were dreaming. But how can I tell? I can’t pinch myself, but I’ve had dreams since where I could pinch myself. Each time I do, I wake up, and each time I wake up, I’m here in this world where nothing makes sense. How can I possibly prove to myself that this is real? How would I know the proof wasn’t a dream? What proof that I am awake could I possibly dream up… that I wouldn’t be able to dream of? Please tell me.

Am I awake?

Boston, and Our Vulnerability to Terrorism.

If you’ve looked through my blog history, it is clear that I have neglected my blog for quite some time. My life has changed significantly since last I wrote. I finished grad school, Ann gave birth to our daughter (let’s say her name is pTerry), I have a new job, Ann has a new job, and we’re moving soon. I’ll try to write about all of those things in the future; but for now, please ignore my neglect and read on as if there actually was continuity. Today I want to write about Boston and the politics of terrorism. Hmm, I managed to make that sound dry… oh well.


The past week has been crazy. Put aside (but don’t forget) the deadly explosion in Texas caused or complicated by lax regulation, zoning, and budget cuts. Put a pin in the fact that CISPA is back again despite repeated popular protest, and no popular support. Feel free to ignore (for the moment) North Korea jumping up and down in the corner. Something is disturbing me about the Boston bombing, or to be more specific, the public and political response to the whole ordeal.

First, the bombing was horrible on many levels. People and their lives were damaged and destroyed during a time of rather pure celebration. I empathize, and my heart aches for them and the situation in a way that is recognized by thousands of people who have been feeling the same way and discussing their feelings all week by way of emotional triage. That is my politically-correct statement, but also, I want my readers to understand that this is my emotional background, even if it isn’t the subject of my writing and even if I sound emotionally cold at times.

Very shortly after learning about the bombing, people in my family and other folks prominent and obscure made the point that bombing a marathon in Boston was a stupid and pointless thing to do. It could serve no one. It was clear almost immediately that the response of the people was to come together in massive support, save most of the lives of the victims, and unify in defiance of violence and fear. The kind of fierce New England neighbor-ness that Ann is always pointing out to me was evident in spades. It was as if Boston stood up as one angry body with a giant finger pointed to the sky to defy the terror and proclaim that no one can force them to fear doing whatever they want to do. No jerk with a garage bomb has the power to make them change the way they live their lives. Today, a week later, I think that most of the people of Boston and many others are stronger, and more unified, as a direct result of the bombing.

Unfortunately, I don't think it will last. Through observation, I have developed the opinion that this country is incredibly vulnerable to terrorist acts such as these. It's not that we are particularly easy to attack in this way, but that we are damaged heavily each time we are attacked. Right now the people of Boston are more tightly knit and strong, and this is a fine demonstration of the goodness of the people, and the strength of their community. However, the governing bodies of these good people are slower to react; we haven't seen the whole response yet, and I'm worried.

Eleven and a half years ago airplanes were flown into the World Trade Center. It was horrifying and destructive, and it will most likely haunt much of our generation throughout our lives. In the aftermath of the attacks, US flags sold out, the red cross had to turn away blood donors, non-profits had to turn away supply and money donations. The entire city and most of the country resolved to emerge stronger and better than they had been. No one could inspire terror in a nation so great: in defiance the country rebelled against the will of destructive agencies. The nation was more unified than any time before or since in my life. The potential of that unity was palpable.

And then, when the slower governing bodies made their response, we spent that potential. We went to war. We enacted the traitorously named patriot act without reading it. We went to war again with little reason or evidence. We renewed and expanded the patriot act; we enacted more laws to restrict our freedoms in the name of safety. We opened and used extra-legal torture/jails all around the world. We invented the TSA, and expanded their powers and budget every year despite any evidence that they have ever stopped anything bad from happening. We continue to erode free-speech and fourth amendment rights under the guise of increased safety. How many times in the last ten years have you heard the unchallengeable argument: "If it will save even one life..." used to justify some new law or regulation?

There are many examples where this phenomenon has reared its head and new restrictive laws have been enacted to prevent something that is already illegal. But I'll stick to 9-11 for now. Two weeks after the attacks, we had culprits. Shortly after that we went to war to bring the culprits to justice and blah, blah, blah (<- anti-war rant here: ask me if you're interested.) So, massive legislative overhauls, restricted freedoms, inconvenient and expensive new travel procedures, reduced privacy, eroded rights, eroded global reputation, two wars, 10 years, 7000 US soldiers, 100,000+ Iraqi and Afghani, and more than a trillion dollars later, we caught and killed Osama bin Laden. And we're not done. The US is still technically in a state of emergency (an absurd literal contradiction), we are still involved in one and a half wars, your rights are not being repaired, people are still held in jails without being charged, the TSA isn't going anywhere, and much of the world still justifiably hates us. We were attacked and we caught the bad guys. Tell me who won. Tell me who is stronger now.

And that is what I worry about with regards to Boston too. The bombing hurt people, and they almost immediately emerged stronger. They caught the suspects (presumed innocent?). There is healing that needs to happen now, but what else will we do? What will we give up to make sure it never happens again? It is good that the people can emerge stronger from an act of terror, but what are we teaching the bad people of the world when we are so willing to harm ourselves in response? So, today, the (still hurting and still healing) people of Boston are stronger and closer; but I don't think we'll know how much the bombers really hurt us until the next Boston marathon.


It took me most of my life to date, but now I think I understand: the only thing we have to fear, is fear itself.
 

Cell phones: a reference for all those concerned.

When I was a little kid, I was walking down the street with my parents and I heard someone talking in Spanish. This set me to empathizing with the speaker. I had been studying French in school, and I knew how hard it was to think about what I wanted to say, then figure out what English words would fit best, then translate those words into another language. It’s tough, and this person was speaking a lot of words. Immediately following those thoughts I had my first revelation; of course she wasn’t translating English thoughts into Spanish. She was thinking in Spanish.
I’ve read that the human brain is wired to be able to speak and understand languages. The fact that we develop many different languages that can’t be perfectly cross-translated, I think, speaks to our collective inability to accurately communicate our ideas into words in a way that can be universally understood. Additionally the affiliation between thoughts and words is not the same from person to person and it is a loose affiliation indeed. I often feel like I have this loose affiliation even worse than the average person. This has lead to a lot of confusion or misunderstanding concerning my personal inhibition to acquiring a cell phone.
Many of those who are close to me know that I am very resistant to having a cell phone, and because they are friends and family, most of them have given me the benefit of the doubt and asked me why. This is a perfectly reasonable question that I have never been able to adequately answer. The kicker is that the conclusion is perfectly clear in my head: I don’t want a cell phone. My clarity and insistence in this matter combined with my inability to communicate the reasoning has had unfortunate consequences. I’ve been referred to as a luddite, a contrarian, and (most unjustly) as stubborn. This has been an on-going conversation for many years; but recently I have gotten a better hold on the reasons I don’t want a cell phone. Perhaps, with a bit of effective communication, I can make it as clear for all the people outside of my head too.

Some of the reasons I don’t want to have a cell phone, I have made clear to some people. These are the usual suspects in ascending importance:

Cell phones record more and more personal information, and I do not trust that it will be handled properly. I try to minimize the cross-section of my personal information that is available to companies that can profit by selling it. (This is a weak objection that I may give up some day.)

Cell phones are expensive; it is really a lot of money one way or the other. (This objection has been negated by generous people offering to buy a plan for me.)

Cell phones provide poor service. Coverage, and provider issues aside, the sound quality from a cell phone is universally poor. Even the best cell phones are only given a small portion of bandwidth for voice, and the result is tinny and abrasive sound quality that makes everyone hard to understand (for me) and afraid to talk over each other. (This unnecessary limitation clearly annoys me more than the average cell phone user.)

Cell phones are not necessary. They are incredibly convenient, and I would never deny that. No matter how ingrained they are in our daily/hourly lives, if the system crashed, we would survive. I can still make plans for the future without being able to talk to someone right now. In fact, I’ve learned this behavior is gratifying because of the extra effort it takes. (*Yes, of course I could make plans that don’t rely on the phone despite having a cell phone; see below.)

I do not want to be available all the time. As convenient as it would be for other people to be able to reach me in a moment’s notice, I don’t want to be reachable all the time. (*Yes, of course I could turn it off; see below.)

Cell phones are unnecessarily and intentionally wasteful. They draw far more energy from the grid than a 5V home phone, but that isn’t the real issue. Cell phones are made to be replaced. They are made to specs that are apparently engineered to fail after 2 years. Partly this is driven by consumer demand to replace old tech with new tech. But there is enough consumer demand for a phone that never breaks under normal use, that there should be at least one model available. There isn’t. Either they physically break after 2 years, or they are rendered useless by software upgrades, or the electronic components burn out. None of this is inevitable. Many houses contain (now defunct) hard-wired or wireless phones that have been operational for decades, mine included.

Cell phones are a distraction from real, present life. I do not want to be connected to people and information at all times. My brain is very active. I jump from thought to thought as I walk down any random street. It is how I live my life and experience the world. I solve my life problems and world problems, I invent cool stuff, I sing songs, I have philosophical debates, I notice other people and try to understand them, I talk to people I am with and try to reason through things I don’t know, I notice animals and sounds, I notice how I feel, and plan things I want to do and say. When I talk to people on the phone, most of that shuts down as I apply my attention to the person. (This isn’t intrinsically bad, but if it happens all the time, it will detract from what I am doing; this is why I am usually staring at the ceiling in a dark room during long phone conversations.) When I am connected to information, every question is followed by an answer from either a solid source of information or some collective of opinions. It is convenient, but intellectually stifling and boring. (If it is important and I am unconnected, I’ll look it up later.) (*Yes of course I could turn it off; see below.)

*People point it out all the time. You can have the convenience of a cell phone without access to the features you’d prefer not to use simply by turning off the features. If you don’t want to be connected, turn off the phone. If you don’t want access to limitless info, don’t use a data plan. If you don’t want to be accessible, buy a phone that is for emergency use only. There is no denying that this is true; but that is not what I would do. If I had the ability to talk to people any time, I would. If I had access to information all the time, I would use it instead of my brain. If I had music and video entertainment available, I would partake. Some of the reasons I don’t have a cell phone are the same reasons I don’t buy skittles and keep them in the house, the same reasons I don’t give myself access to cable or broadcast TV. When you have an issue with overindulgence of whatever, sometimes the best option is to limit your access to whatever in any way you think will work.



It seems that those explanations never suffice. People tend always to return with the same arguments, and it is these return arguments that I have only recently been able to address. They sound something like this:
What happens if you are in an accident?
What happens if you are lost?
What if you are running late or need assistance?
What if you are in danger?
What if other people you love are lost, hurt, in danger...?
and, most recently: Oh, you’ll get a cell phone when Ann is pregnant/about to give birth/when you have children.

My only response to date has been to cite the well-known fact that somehow the human race has survived to date, most of the time without cell phones. Unfortunately, this barely scratches the surface of the real reason that I have remained unswayed (and rather annoyed) by these arguments. Keeping to this inadequate answer sounds very much like an exercise in stubbornness because it sounds like I am denying that I would want a cell phone in those situations: an absurd proposition. In all but one and a third of the situations above, I would definitely want a cell phone... badly.

The real reason that I strongly resist those objections is because they are reasons based in and designed around fear. We live in a culture of fear. Our marketing drives consumerism with fear, our wars are driven and funded by fear, our laws are built to dispel fear, our politicians are elected because they claim to take actions to abate our fear. Bad things can happen, and the fact that they might happen should make you want to _______________. Fill in the blank: reduce our civil rights, buy a cell phone, make slingshots and lawn darts illegal, fight the taliban, elect another Bush, stop eating eggs, pass DOMA, refuse vaccinations, outlaw fresh milk, bomb Iran... I’ve seen people fight every single day to live their lives despite all of the bad things that could happen as a consequence, and I have seen people destroyed by fear. I will not decide how to live my life based on what I fear.

I’m not particularly ignorant though. Being prepared for the worst is not the same as being afraid of the worst. I won’t discount the possibility of something bad happening just because I don’t want to live in fear of it. Bad things might happen that would be easier to handle with a cell phone. But when you put aside the fear, those (mostly remote) possibilities become just another factor in the calculus of making the cell phone decision; and in that calculus, I still don’t want a cell phone.

Lastly, I don’t claim this to be irrefutable logic or an undeniable conclusion, but it is my logic and my conclusion. This is my reason; this is why I don’t want a cell phone. It’s not stubborn; I have nothing to prove to the people in my life who think I should have a cell phone. It’s not a decision made out of a dislike of technology or a desire to be contradictory. It is a reasoned decision in defiance of fear but accounting for all possibilities, and (I shudder to share this) it isn’t necessarily final. I am always open to more information, or shifting priorities; but as far as I can tell, this is how I want to live my life... I think.

Transit of the gods.

Generally speaking, in day-to-day life, the sun is a familiar object. Someone might say: “What’s that?” And you’ll reply, “Oh don’t be silly, that’s the sun.” Or: “Where’s the sun; oh, never mind. There it is, behind that tree.” We are sun-kissed, we are with sunshine on our shoulders, it looks like we got a little sun on our nose. The sun is with us, right there, in the sky, behind that cloud, just like the airplanes. It is immediate.

Conversely, the planets are celestial objects. We know from grade school what they are, but when we see them, we usually see them as stars with less-predictable positions. They are out there, beyond, they are places of imagination and dreams, or science (-fiction) epic travels.

Twice a century or so, we are faced with the peril of paradigm shift. Last night, Venus crossed between us and the sun. If you saw it, and could not avoid falling into contemplation about what was happening, you faced the danger of two possible, dizzying shifts in perspective:

1) The sun, our familiar, was shining brightly as it always does; right there, up in the sky. But, if you looked closely with the right equipment, something dark was on the surface: a blemish. What could it be? It was Venus of course: that celestial harbinger of both night and day. How could this be? How could this remote celestial body come between us and our familiar sun?...

SHIFT

...our familiar sun is celestial too: so very far away. Perspective comes roaring in with mighty vengeance! The solar system is enormous; Venus, nearly the size of Earth, which is itself almost impossible to imagine in its breadth, is a tiny little dot in front of the sun, which is twice as far away from Venus as Venus is to us, so we must be (zipping back, zooming out) impossibly tiny and insignificant; no more to the sun that the smallest virus is to us, except even less than that because we can’t even begin to have any effect on the sun which is impossibly massive and so far........ Breathe. Let it go. Nothing meaningful can ever be done under this paradigm, especially if you then turn to the other stars.

I did not experience that shift. Instead, I experienced:

2) The sun, our familiar, was shining brightly as it always does; right there, up in the sky. But, if you looked closely with the right equipment, something dark was on the surface: a blemish. What could it be? It was Venus of course: that celestial harbinger of both night and day. How could this be? How could this remote celestial body come between us and our familiar sun?...

SHIFT

...Venus, that celestial distant harbinger is familiar too. She’s right there between us and our familiar sun! (Flying out, zooming in) Venus is huge! The sun is even bigger and further, and they are both right here in our own little (solar system-sized) space. Mercury is in there too, riding the inner well of the sun’s gravity like a cosmic daredevil or a coin tossed in the perfect, friction-free donation well, both zipping around like neat little celestial bouncing balls that were thrown by the playful laws of physics, like I would love to throw a ball into a gravity well, and wait, we are flying around on our own enormous planet, and there are more little objects flying around the system with abandon, encountering nothing but the resilient balance between gravity and orbital momentum, and colliding chaotically with gasses and solar winds and sometimes, if you threw the celestial body just right, with another celestial body in a fascinating explosion of energy with pieces and parts rebounding and deforming in ways impossible to predict, but endlessly entertaining to analyze and watch over and over in the vain desire to see, know, and PLAY...

Last night, I became one of the gods!

And Life Goes On

I guess I should follow up after my previous post. My anger was not long-lived; especially as it had been catalyzed by people who had decent intentions. Medically, Ann’s situation is currently healthy, and quickly getting back to normal; the potential problems cited by the doctors before my last post were non-existent upon closer consideration and extra procedures were not required. This is my very elliptical way of saying “it’s over now.” Let’s move on... but first:



Over the course of the whole ordeal that was our miscarriage, I learned one astounding fact. The numbers we heard varied from source to source, but miscarriages are surprisingly common. My father passed on information he learned 20 years ago in med-school to the effect that 5% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. That is one in twenty, or, quite a lot; and that information is more than 20 years old. It dates from a time when many people and institutions still didn’t consider you pregnant until sometime after the 12th (or 20th in some cases) week. If you consider a woman to be pregnant after implantation, that number, currently reckoned, is much higher. We were informed by nurses, mid-wives, and doctors, that the number is now known to be one in eight, one in four, or one in every two pregnancies end in miscarriage. In a variety of people we’ve talked to since, we have discovered individuals who have personally experienced: one of four, one of three, two of eight, two of five, four of fifteen, and plenty more people who just aren’t sure. Miscarriages are very common; so common, that I think we would all benefit from calling them (and understanding them to be) natural.

But, miscarriages are sad. If you know you are pregnant, it is nearly impossible not to start building your hopes around a baby who’s only existence so far is little more than genetic potential. I know it is nearly impossible, for I actively and intentionally tried not to build hope. But, as it turned out, those three weeks that we knew Ann was pregnant with living potential, felt much more like three lovely months. Hope we did, expectations we built, and when all was over, sadness we felt.

It is this sadness that keeps people from talking about miscarriages. Protecting other people from this sadness is why people don’t announce pregnancies in the first trimester. I totally understand this. But, with silence comes stigma, with stigma comes guilt or shame, and with guilt and shame comes pain. For some, it is easy to shed this cycle through understanding its origin, for others it is destructive, and for most… we lie somewhere between.


So, I want to go on record (in this protected forum first, and in the larger world when the wound is less raw) as a person who is not silent on the matter of miscarriage. They are common and natural, and it just may be very helpful for people to be able to speak about them openly. So, I declare myself forever open to frank discussion on the topic. Send me an email, write in the comments, anonymously, or not; let us talk.


Sigh, okay… life goes on, and so does this blog. My next post will be a story. Stay tuned…