Dave | unobtrusive lucidity

Recovery

Christmas tree standing in my favorite apartment from years ago As I write this, I’m listening to a country artist doing a cover of questionable quality of a Christmas carol while I’m sitting in a Starbucks surrounded by red and gold. I’m pausing for the first time in a long time, or at least the first time when I haven’t been too exhausted to formulate coherent thoughts, and attempting to wade through the slush of melting ideas in my head.

You know those great articles that you occasionally read in good magazines that make their point with the story of the experience rather than formulating a logical argument? So, with that in mind…

The last time that I remember having a truly devoted Advent and Christmas season was over three years ago. Last year wasn’t actually too bad, but it was still scattered, too scattered for my taste. This year, instead of being swallowed in the realization of this most holy of seasons, I’m swallowed in my desire to be swallowed in the realization of this most holy of seasons…like so much of me is exactly where it needs to be, and yet something central, something core, needs to be brought from the past and re-introduced to where I am today.

I’ve forgotten something that I knew then, something that is still within me somewhere, but flitting just out of sight with each attempt of my eyes to focus when it appears in my peripheral.

I know what it is, almost by name, and I’ve caught glimpses more often in the past two weeks. I saw it when I watched our daughter, now old enough to begin hanging her own decorations on our tree, hanging each decoration with care, proudly placing the angel on the top of the tree when I lifted her high to do so. I saw it when, beaming from ear to ear, she rang a bell that had been given to her by my late grandmother, and announced, “Merry Christmas, Mommy! Merry Christmas, Daddy!”

I heard it in the words of hope on the first Sunday of Advent, announced most beautifully and most powerfully by a minister with a pony tail and a bow tie in a small church in which I had never set foot before.

I’ve seen it as I looked back over our memory tree, pausing especially on the maple leaf that we purchased to recall our home in New Hampshire before we made the most abrupt move to North Carolina this summer.

I’ve read it in emails from friends in New England, felt it in my longing to return to what has forever become my home.

What I’m truly swallowed in is a frenzy, an unforgiving scramble for things that we have been forced to consider as important and necessary, and which are ultimately material and will not survive this corporeal life. Yet, we are forced to forsake the unseen, the immaterial of infinitely more worth for more and more time in order to survive with the material pittance without which we cannot eat, cannot live.

I’m swallowed in angst as police officers shoot unarmed people, as some celebrate in excess while others have too little, as the idea of God is supposedly made less plausible by a deity of a different type that we’ve conceived in our own minds.

There are about two weeks of Advent left before those of us who celebrate Christmas observe our most precious Holiday. That isn’t enough time for me to recover what I’m missing, to lay hold of what I’ve mis-placed. Not nearly enough time for my cloudy eyes to clear. And I wouldn’t be able to part this fog on my own, in any case. It’s not within my power. That clearing must come from outside of myself, by something external, something that is not myself.

Then again, that’s sort of the point.

Paean

As of shortly after 9:00 p.m. on Tuesday, I no longer have any grandparents.

I grew up with three…one maternal and two paternal…and I’ve buried all of them in the last eight years.

When my maternal grandmother passed, we had a sort of false alarm a couple of weekends before. Karen and I had packed and were leaving for an impromptu trip to attempt to maximize those final moments with her, when her condition unexpectedly improved. We turned around and went home, both tired from the week and glad to avoid a few hours on the road. We questioned briefly whether or not there would be wisdom in going to see her anyway, but ultimately decided that we would not.

Forgetting the clinical principle that there is frequently a spontaneous partial recovery just before a catastrophic crash, I lived to regret that decision.

Years later, Karen and I were returning from an unplugged vacation. I turned my phone on for the first time in a week, to be greeted with the voicemail that my grandfather was gone. We returned from vacation only to pack and travel again for a funeral. That time, I hadn’t seen it coming. I remember watching my grandmother say goodbye during the grave-side service, and marveled at her strength as she proceeded forward with her life as she always had. She had a firm constitution, and had lived through more than her share of hardships. She had endured more than I likely will ever have to, and she had figured out a way to make it through each time. She had always done so with her partner, though, and this would be a new…and unenviable…phase of the journey into which she would enter.

She carried on for years until this week. An unfavorable diagnosis a little over a month ago heralded what would be a fast decompensation…faster than we anticipated. At the end, she knew no one. Her transitioning on was a merciful relief.

I’m of the age at which losing grandparents is to be expected. I grieved late for the first. When I received the call for the second, I asked Karen to please keep me distracted for the day…I couldn’t work through the grief in that moment. When I received the call for the third early this week…and I knew why the phone was ringing, because, whether it be the odd time or some other sensory perception that we suddenly possess in such moments, we just know…I talked with my family about it, and then I kept working.

I’m sad. I’m remembering different moments that I had with both grandparents while they were alive. Mostly, I’ve just kept going with life. When I pause to think, though, I consider the time in the future when we tell our daughter something to the effect of, “You were very young when she died,” perhaps while looking at photos or something of the sort. This grandmother was the only one of my grandparents to have met our daughter. I’m so glad that she did. I think that the thrust of what overwhelms me…whenever I pause to let myself feel something like overwhelmed…is that, with my grandparents gone, I know what the next phase of loss in my life will be. That is a thought that I keep at arm’s length, a darkness which I cannot contemplate.

Sufficient for today are it’s losses.

A Review of “American Gods” by Neil Gaiman

American Gods by Neil Gaiman

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

This is a bad land for gods.

That is perhaps what rings in my ears the most at the conclusion of Neil Gaiman’s
American Gods, a heavy novel at just north of 400 pages that alternatively was either difficult to pick up or difficult to put down.

I had never experienced Gaiman in literary form before this book. I knew him from his comics writing, most notably The Sandman, and was curious as to his other writing. The title of this one arrested my attention, and it took me a bit to decipher what’s going on within the pages.

I’ll set the stage: Our protagonist, Shadow, is released from prison days early because his wife has been killed. He encounters a gentleman who wants to hire him as a sort of bodyguard while traveling to the funeral, and he agrees. He is then caught up in a brewing war…a war between the old gods, those of Norse, Roman, Greek pantheons as well as from various other traditions and countries…and the new gods, the gods of technology, of media, of all the things that America holds dear. Those are the gods that Americans have come to worship, and leave the old gods are fighting for their survival.

Yet…this is a bad land for gods.

It sounds gripping, right? And certainly, at the end, you’re drawn into the climactic conflicts in true graphic novel style. The book takes a while to pick up momentum…I was over 150 pages in before I felt like I was really moving, and after that point it was very start-and-stop. I found the novel outright difficult to continue at times, and, at around 250 pages or so, I was forcing my way through only because I refuse, on principle, to stop reading a book that I have started. Now, while that sounds bad, I’ll say also that the pacing is my only complaint about Gaiman’s craft here. His narrative is clear and imaginative, his dialogue nothing short of brilliant at times. I’m perfectly willing to concede that the pacing problem was me, not the author, and his craft at painting these gods…these gods in our country…is original, resourceful, and thought-provoking. Gaiman weaves in ancient religious traditions throughout the novel that I found myself wishing I knew more of, and I’m left with the feeling that these were frequently over my head.

So, my disappointment in the novel has nothing to do with Gaiman’s skill as a writer. What gives me pause is the discontinuity is what the novel says, the commentary (if I may over-use that word) that it makes. America is, in fact, a bad land for gods, as Gaiman states. It is a country of mis-matched origins, of disconnected histories woven into one, each bringing with it its own beliefs and traditions that have melded in a collision with a lack of history. Thus, traditions have been forgotten, and, in the rush of modern life, former religions are left by the wayside, discarded as futile and ancient, while new religions of business and technology replace them. Yet, even these religions hold little power, and are quickly forgotten as new religions are spun to take their places. And so, we reap the fruits of a shallow existence, of one without history or tradition or belief in anything other than what is most convenient. This is the world that Gaiman gives us in American Gods, and this is the critique that I find most true and lasting. And, in fact, had it been left there, I think that this would have been an outstanding novel because, agree with the statement or not, it is a powerful statement to make.

This, however, is merely (if I can apply that descriptor) the foundation for Gaiman to explore the concept and power of worship. The gods are left with power only when they are worshipped. The gods worshipped the most have the most power. As the protagonist tells us, human beings believe…it’s what we do, and thus we will believe in something, however shallow that something is as the former things fade into the background.

Is it, then this scattershot belief that makes this such a bad land for gods?

Again, that question is worth unpacking, and is enough for two novels. I applaud Gaiman for letting this circulate through his story.

Then, however…then comes the excessively didactic proclamation that the gods are, in fact, created by man, and only have power when man worships them…that man has not accepted responsibility for his inventions of belief, which now run amok and do damage while left unattended, eventually withering and dying away, impotent and powerless when forgotten. The breadth of Gaiman’s closure here seems to sweep all religions into this net, no faiths excluded, thus diminishing the very metaphysical statement that he makes earlier. Man, then, is the being with all the power, here, and the only true worship is self-worship…a remarkably shallow statement that leaves the reader empty after so much promise.

And yet…Gaiman hints at surprisingly redemptive moments through human belief. Shadow’s relating of the account of the thieves hanging on either side of Christ during the crucifixion, and reminding that the thieves should perhaps be remembered because perhaps they know spiritual realities more than many others, is quick, simple, and wants to be powerful. Later, the gods tell Shadow that it didn’t matter that he didn’t believe in them, because they believed in him…both stories of faith in something larger that ourselves that can salvage us despite our inability to do anything in our own favor. Is this fundamental state of the human condition also manufactured, left empty as it relies only on gods that we have created and are thus less than are we? Perhaps then, we are sacrifical to ourselves, or to our own creations, as would seem to be the case when Shadow hangs on the tree in the final chapters, an attempt at a Christological metaphor so obvious and so dysfunctional that I couldn’t have handled anything more glaring and in our face than it was.

I had read and heard much praise about this novel and, while certainly well-written, it left me profoundly disappointed in it’s lack of coherency and connectivity. Gaiman’s prose adeptly proclaims one thing, only to contradict it later. Perhaps that’s the point, and I’m missing something larger here, but I expected more of Gaiman. This novel is worth exploring…sort of. If your curiosity isn’t nagging you to read it, though, I can’t say that you’ll be happy it’s on your shelf.

View all my reviews

Heroic Actions to End Bullying

Screenshot of Rocket Racoon STOMP Out Bullying cover I’ve been intending to write about this for over a week now (he says as he blows the dust off of his neglected blog), but have you seen these variant covers that Marvel comics did for STOMP Out Bullying? If you haven’t, take a moment to look.

Marvel Entertainment was approached by the national anti-bullying organization to assist in promoting National Bullying Awareness Month, and these variant covers were the result. Particularly a nice approach by Marvel, as variant covers tend to be the sorts of things that collectors pounce on, and thus I imagine these were received well.

As you see, the covers feature prominent super heroes from the Marvel universe intervening in the sorts of situations that children face in our school systems every day, as well as situations that follow them outside of the school system (such as cyberbullying). Having spent a great deal of time working with kids who didn’t fit in with the mainstream, I’ve seen how cruel children can be to each other. It only takes one to create a herd mentality that follows the leader in targeting the one without support. More than what I’ve seen in professional pursuits, however, I know what I experienced in school. I was a geek, a misfit, the one who tried to do well in his classes. I didn’t hang out with the popular crowd, because I wasn’t accepted by them. I know the terror that comes with being isolated in a stairwell between classes by someone intent on doing me harm based simply on the fact that I was different. I know the nightmares that follow, the intentional alteration of the routes that you take through the school building. I remember that all too well. There’s been much research into what causes this phenomenon, all of which is valuable, but I will tell you this…what the child being bullied needs is to feel empowered, to know they are not alone.

The nature of a hero is that he or she with more power fights the battle that we cannot. They defend us from the evil to which we would inevitably succumb were we to not find help. Look at the covers from Marvel carefully. The heroes aren’t reacting with force against the bullies. I particularly find this striking in the cover featuring the Hulk, one of the characters that we would immediately expect to retaliate against an act of aggression. Instead, they offering compassion to the child being bullied, offering companionship. In doing so, they are empowering that child, showing the child that they are not alone, and are, in fact, very much like very good people.

The child who is bullied needs that heroism, that support. And we, each of us, can be the hero who helps them in some capacity. We can reach out to offer them that companionship, to let them know that they are not alone and that they are in good company. This is not an activity isolated to professionals…in fact, what has consistently been proven is that family and family friends have more of a positive impact on children than professionals who may be involved in the child’s life. Part of the nature of a hero is that the desire to be a hero, to help the helpless, is wrapped up so deeply in the human experience. Initiatives like this help us to see the small ways in which each of us can act on the desire to be a hero to those in our lives less powerful than ourselves.

Impulses to Click

It happened.

I’m sort of disturbed about it, to be honest.

You see, I’ve always spent a decent amount of time online, and I’ve been writing stories and ideas long before I wrote code. I’ve always been a voracious reader, and I guard my reading carefully (though life with a three-year-old leads to a less careful guarding of this than I would like). By guarding, I mean that I have always worked to reserve time for it (that’s the part that slides with a toddler). I used to routinely read 2-3 books monthly, part of which was motivated by a really great online book club, but then school and life and a daughter happened, so that average has significantly declined. That’s life, though, and the point is that I guard the time that I have carefully. I also guard what I read. I spent so much time in non-fiction during grad school that I couldn’t wait to get my hands on a novel again at the end of each semester (the only time I seemed to have to read them then).

By guarding, I also mean that I’m careful about how I read. I’ve read the research about how reading with a backlit display before bed causes disrupted sleep (and I do a lot of my reading before bed). I’m cautious to try to read the printed (or eInk) page while reading in bed, and leave the screens asleep for the night before I go to sleep.

I compartmentalize easily…I always have. Reading different mediums (a blog vs. a book) has always meant reading in two different modes, if you will. I’m careful about this because I want to, as much as possible, stave off the rewiring of our brains that different modes of reading brings. The beauty of reading a book…and one of the things that I so carefully guard against…is that I can become absorbed in those pages, that the world around me can melt away and that the only thing that exists in that moment is the story in which I engage as a willing participant. No distractions of incoming mail, no links, no infernal ads…rather the ability to leave all of that behind. It’s a different sort of experience, a different type of reading to me. That reading experience is what I’ve guarded, because I feel it to be so important, important enough to hold a dedicated place in our lives.

Last night, geek that I am, I was looking through a DC Comics superhero encyclopedia (don’t judge). In one of the entries, one of the images of artwork for the character in question was quite small. I got closer to it, squinting, and my right hand involuntarily moved for a mouse to click the image and make it larger.

My compartmentalized, guarded modes of reading collided.

Now, there’s a lot of conversation that could come from this, not the least of which is that this sort of book is exactly the sort of reading that is perhaps better suited for the medium of the web or an ebook on a tablet device. All of that conversation is valid. It’s just that I feel as though I’ve slipped in some capacity, that my guard has come down, that my reading or even my ability to think has somehow come into question.

And, that’s perhaps more than a bit melodramatic.

You see my point, though, right?

I’m going to go think about how to guard my reading again.