Call it mental disability.
Call it self-indulgence.
Maladjustment.
A really, really bad attitude.
I am exhausted by (what I call, in my tradition) the sin in our culture.
Sin to which, I am sure, I make my own peculiar contribution.
Much of it plays out on a monitor.
I'm shocked by the fact that nine year old children suffer from access to pornography at the click of a mouse.
Horrified that access to guns is so easy that thousands of people are murdered by angry men or women (mostly men) who pick one up in a hot or cold fit of fury. More appalled that within hours we are able to become voyeurs, virtual tragedy buzzards, pecking at the ruins of someone else's life.
The Internet has also made adultery easier. I know that because I am propositioned by the lowdown guys on the lowdown.
Married men (or men whom I suspect are living with the wives) on dating sites now get the metaphorical back of my hand. I have little patience for other people's online dilemmas with regard to married love. Grow up, damn it, I want to say to them.
If I were a counselor, of course, I would not be allowed to be that judgmental. But I am not their counselor and don't want to be their...girlfriend.
Then there is the cowardly guy who disappeared without even an apologetic email. Bad behavior, if not sanctioned, is allowed.
I know, I know. I sound cranky. It's been a trying week.
I think I might be overexposed to online bad behavior. It has a way of suppressing my natural empathy and sense of compassion -- and who is to blame for THAT but the one who allows herself to sip everyday the 24/7 cocktail of news, gossip, shopping and flirtation that can be the Internet (when it's not information you need)?
Yes, I'm aware that many people control their virtual visits -- or use the web primarily for aesthetic or educational purposes. But I'm as aware that it enables many of us to lead double lives.
How many men, for example, do you know, who are captive to online pornography? I bet it's not just one or two.
When satiated with the stench of the carnival, I have a longing to seek out my friends in real life -- to cling like a drowning sailor to that which is authentic and true.
How will we protect our children? In some cases, it is already too late. They inhabit a world in which temptation lingers close at hand -- as close as keyboard access to deception, rage and terror.
Can we right our course? Only if we draw our children back, again and again -- reminding them that the best moments in life are not mediated by a white screen, but occur eye to eye, face to face, broken heart to open one, in the warmth of real life.
samedi, décembre 01, 2012
mercredi, novembre 28, 2012
Consider...me.
Hey, did you notice I'd mentioned that I'd been in an auto accident yesterday? I emailed him. Does it really count as an accident if you got scared silly -- but weren't going very fast, didn't smack into another car, and your 99 Volvo wasn't really much more damaged than it was before the accident?
I should rightly have been accused of hyping it up. But I was using the accident to make a point.
Why the heck hadn't he written to ask me how I was? Wouldn't that have been the polite response, even from a relative stranger (in contrast to what one expects from a strange relative)?
Then I wrote, with a faux touch of chipper, (no, not the woodchipper from "Fargo"), that I would respond if he wrote back, but wasn't going to initiate any more emails.
For the moment.
Possibly forever.
The fact is, I have no clue what happened between us, if something can be said to have occurred.
There was a long conversation (close to an hour and a half), I believe.
Followed by emails that jumped back and forth like live wires across the ether.
And then dinner -- oh, he's cute, I thought.
Why am I working so hard to keep the conversation going?
I defaulted to listening -- and questioning.
What was I afraid of?
At meal's end, several hours later, he said he'd had a great time, and wanted to see me again.
And yet the ease of the previous emails was gone. Was it ever there, I wondered, to begin with?
Trust -- but verify -- that was Ronald Reagan's famous aphorism about relationships with the Russian (previously Soviet) bear.
Oh hell, after meeting bipolars and narcissists, small children in large men's bodies and men who tried to run their hands over my body after one date, I just verify.
Knowing how downright weird this courtship fencing can be, I asked him again -- did he mean what he said?
Why yes, he answered, with precision and every appearance of sincerity.
But his online seeking (why do people linger on dating websites?) and the silence that has replaced his eagerness tell another tale.
It is, most likely, a tale I cannot decipher -- but shall accept, with just a touch of bitterness for the lost time and nascent wondering. I wonder if I should simply accept that having access to quick and simple forms of communication can bring out the beast in all of us, if we aren't careful.
Then the choice -- what to accept, and when is patience called for? Sometimes there are unknown circumstances.
What mysteries lie behind silence -- anomie, lack of passion, self-centredness, lack of interest, disability, distraction?
Or is it that online we have become the people we most fear -- shadows of the true self to which we aspire?
One God, we say in the Abrahamic faiths.
Yet online, whether it be to voice an opinion or to score a mate, we turn ourselves into godlings -- and scamper, treading on the feelings of others as though we alone were truly real.
I hope I am kind and considerate -- but who knows? The mirror we hold up to ourselves is always cloudy.
One thing for sure -- I am much more of a cynic.
I should rightly have been accused of hyping it up. But I was using the accident to make a point.
Why the heck hadn't he written to ask me how I was? Wouldn't that have been the polite response, even from a relative stranger (in contrast to what one expects from a strange relative)?
Then I wrote, with a faux touch of chipper, (no, not the woodchipper from "Fargo"), that I would respond if he wrote back, but wasn't going to initiate any more emails.
For the moment.
Possibly forever.
The fact is, I have no clue what happened between us, if something can be said to have occurred.
There was a long conversation (close to an hour and a half), I believe.
Followed by emails that jumped back and forth like live wires across the ether.
And then dinner -- oh, he's cute, I thought.
Why am I working so hard to keep the conversation going?
I defaulted to listening -- and questioning.
What was I afraid of?
At meal's end, several hours later, he said he'd had a great time, and wanted to see me again.
And yet the ease of the previous emails was gone. Was it ever there, I wondered, to begin with?
Trust -- but verify -- that was Ronald Reagan's famous aphorism about relationships with the Russian (previously Soviet) bear.
Oh hell, after meeting bipolars and narcissists, small children in large men's bodies and men who tried to run their hands over my body after one date, I just verify.
Knowing how downright weird this courtship fencing can be, I asked him again -- did he mean what he said?
Why yes, he answered, with precision and every appearance of sincerity.
But his online seeking (why do people linger on dating websites?) and the silence that has replaced his eagerness tell another tale.
It is, most likely, a tale I cannot decipher -- but shall accept, with just a touch of bitterness for the lost time and nascent wondering. I wonder if I should simply accept that having access to quick and simple forms of communication can bring out the beast in all of us, if we aren't careful.
Then the choice -- what to accept, and when is patience called for? Sometimes there are unknown circumstances.
What mysteries lie behind silence -- anomie, lack of passion, self-centredness, lack of interest, disability, distraction?
Or is it that online we have become the people we most fear -- shadows of the true self to which we aspire?
One God, we say in the Abrahamic faiths.
Yet online, whether it be to voice an opinion or to score a mate, we turn ourselves into godlings -- and scamper, treading on the feelings of others as though we alone were truly real.
I hope I am kind and considerate -- but who knows? The mirror we hold up to ourselves is always cloudy.
One thing for sure -- I am much more of a cynic.
samedi, novembre 24, 2012
The faces of victimhood
If you didn't have so many things going on, said a friend to me today, you'd feel angry instead of helpless.
Taken to its illogical extent, this often seems ludicrous. My son got up to go to the bathroom last night, and when he alerted me to his presence (we share a bathroom) I said " I'm sorry, there's no one in there" a moment of linguistic lunacy that will most likely go down in family history.
She may be correct.
Torn between work and family, I've had so many stressful moments this fall that I really haven't figured out when to grow a spine and when to curl up like a snail and hope the rain stops soon.
And I've often felt like a victim of circumstance.
And I've often felt like a victim of circumstance.
Given a little time to think this past week, I've been wondering about the many faces of victimhood.
There are events that make victims of other people -- wars, rapes, racial oppression.
Sometimes oppression can try to mold human beings into victims. Apparently Italy has had a recently rash of domestic violence, now chillingly termed "femicide."
Institutions can victimize people in ways that they don't even recognize at the time --large investment banks were really good at this over the past decade (and may still be). Anyone want to say mortgage-backed security?
And then there is the squishier kind of victimhood. Letting men you are pretty sure are married chat you up on online dating sites with their endless tales of woe. Getting involved in a long debate with some other dude about why you don't want to date him.
Apologizing when you don't need to apologize, because, darn it, someone's always wrong, aren't they?
Taken to its illogical extent, this often seems ludicrous. My son got up to go to the bathroom last night, and when he alerted me to his presence (we share a bathroom) I said " I'm sorry, there's no one in there" a moment of linguistic lunacy that will most likely go down in family history.
Taking more responsibility than you need to own.
Trying to make something come out right when the other person isn't invested in making it work.
Letting people criticize you on the basis of superficial observations -- and then brooding about the slam for days.
Letting people criticize you on the basis of superficial observations -- and then brooding about the slam for days.
Or feeling like a failure because you are trying to do an impossible parenting job without help.
No question that sometimes I find taking responsibility that isn't always mine easier than actually trying to find a solution that works well for everyone -- or facing the conflict that may occur if I have to claim my own inner adult.
I'm embarrassed to read these words on the screen - coming as they do from the mind of a middle-aged woman, they bespeak timidity.
No wonder some have made that mistake in judging me.
But I'm not, I assure you, always fearful. Principles are precious -- and the blood of the principled eccentrics flows through these Jackson veins.
Sometimes I battle with grace. Often without.
But as difficult as this time has been, I still want to be able to look at myself in the mirror and say -- hey girl, you didn't fold under pressure.
After all, I have a choice -- and I choose self-respect.
Let the spine begin.
vendredi, novembre 23, 2012
Thankfulness changes everything
Some of us were born with naturally sunny dispositions.
Other will struggle, due to a predisposition that may be environmental or genetic, with depression, making joy seem like a hurdle too high to jump, except on special occasions.
Then there are the rest of us, the majority.
We are the ones for whom appreciation is a daily decision, a choice to be made each day, each hour, each moment.
Where are you on the gratitude spectrum? In my column for the Lancaster newspapers, I consider how changing our attitude can change US.
http://lancasteronline.com/article/local/783297_Column---In-everything-give-thanks-.html
Other will struggle, due to a predisposition that may be environmental or genetic, with depression, making joy seem like a hurdle too high to jump, except on special occasions.
Then there are the rest of us, the majority.
We are the ones for whom appreciation is a daily decision, a choice to be made each day, each hour, each moment.
Where are you on the gratitude spectrum? In my column for the Lancaster newspapers, I consider how changing our attitude can change US.
http://lancasteronline.com/article/local/783297_Column---In-everything-give-thanks-.html
dimanche, novembre 18, 2012
In defense of uh, junk food
I start this post with the melancholy knowledge that to some of you, I will be defending the indefensible.
After all, my friends tend to be well-educated, middle or upper-middle-class men and women.
We know about the evils of preservatives and food coloring.
When we can afford it, we buy organic.
Those of us who can or care to cook, do. Our idea of indulgence in food is pizza from Trader Joe's.
Some of us have medical reasons not to touch the chips or Hershey's, not to dip into the dip or eat a pint of Cherry Garcia..
But not all.
Lamenting the demise of Hostess Twinkies (as quite a few of my friends have done online) is one thing.
But actually eating one? Quite another.
Fat. SUGAR. Cream made out of heaven-knows-what.
A square a day of dark chocolate? That's healthy.
But Little Debbie snacks? Gotta be a bunch of bad mommas buyin' that stuff -- or perhaps dads who don't know better.
Consign me to the ranks of the ignorant -- or worse, the defiant.
My larders brim over with various types of crackers and chips. Not only do I bring milk AND dark chocolate into the house, but I order it from Amazon and Great Britain. My son's lunch has both Oreos and Lay's Potato Chips, leading him to ask why his dinner looks like it came over with the Puritans and his lunch like a meal fit for decadent Rome.
I have no idea.
All I can say is that into everyone's life a little trash must fall. Trashy food. Trashy novels. Trashy love affairs.
And if you don't provide a little exposure to food, movies and books that may not be up to your ideals, kids are going to look for it somewhere else. (Love affairs, they can find on their own).
Personally, I enjoy a handful of chocolate chips in my cereal or a soft-serve ice cream cone on a hot night in Glenmoore.
No paragon of culinary virtue I.
In fact, turning on the stove often seems like the beginning of an amazing race to dinner.
But I'd rather my kids knew how to eat less than perfect food in moderation, rather than see it as forbidden fruit.
Or that's my justification for that huge plastic bin of chocolate candy, anyway.
I had to buy it --because the Halloween candy is long gone.
After all, my friends tend to be well-educated, middle or upper-middle-class men and women.
We know about the evils of preservatives and food coloring.
When we can afford it, we buy organic.
Those of us who can or care to cook, do. Our idea of indulgence in food is pizza from Trader Joe's.
Some of us have medical reasons not to touch the chips or Hershey's, not to dip into the dip or eat a pint of Cherry Garcia..
But not all.
Lamenting the demise of Hostess Twinkies (as quite a few of my friends have done online) is one thing.
But actually eating one? Quite another.
Fat. SUGAR. Cream made out of heaven-knows-what.
A square a day of dark chocolate? That's healthy.
But Little Debbie snacks? Gotta be a bunch of bad mommas buyin' that stuff -- or perhaps dads who don't know better.
Consign me to the ranks of the ignorant -- or worse, the defiant.
My larders brim over with various types of crackers and chips. Not only do I bring milk AND dark chocolate into the house, but I order it from Amazon and Great Britain. My son's lunch has both Oreos and Lay's Potato Chips, leading him to ask why his dinner looks like it came over with the Puritans and his lunch like a meal fit for decadent Rome.
I have no idea.
All I can say is that into everyone's life a little trash must fall. Trashy food. Trashy novels. Trashy love affairs.
And if you don't provide a little exposure to food, movies and books that may not be up to your ideals, kids are going to look for it somewhere else. (Love affairs, they can find on their own).
Personally, I enjoy a handful of chocolate chips in my cereal or a soft-serve ice cream cone on a hot night in Glenmoore.
No paragon of culinary virtue I.
In fact, turning on the stove often seems like the beginning of an amazing race to dinner.
But I'd rather my kids knew how to eat less than perfect food in moderation, rather than see it as forbidden fruit.
Or that's my justification for that huge plastic bin of chocolate candy, anyway.
I had to buy it --because the Halloween candy is long gone.
vendredi, novembre 16, 2012
They love their children too
Someone prayed for Palestine on Facebook and Israel tonight, as bombs whirred between the militants in Gaza and the Army in Israel.
Tonight, the Israeli army prepared for what looks like an invasion.
Palestine. I thought my Facebook friend was very brave to use the word.
Because that's how bad it's gotten over here. Not to mention over there.
On the battleground itself, a land drenched in the blood of historic hatred another battle is simmering -- a virtual war of phrases, pictures and fury on Twitter, Facebook, and other social media.
There are few of us here who dare to take a stance that recognizes the suffering of the Palestinian people. If we comment on it, we risk being branded traitors, secret militants who doubt Israel's right to exist.
But to be able to hold in tension Israel's right to exist in peace, without constant shelling and hatred, and a Palestinian right to self-determination doesn't make us traitors. It makes us human beings who have a different opinion from you, perhaps.
Those friends of mine who have been to the West Bank and Gaza and have spoken to Palestinians come back changed -- so often, meeting the stranger in the flesh, and seeing their face, changes you always.
They don't hate Israel or wish for it to go away. Instead, they seem touched by the misery of the people of the West Bank and Gaza -- at the same time that they want safety and prosperity for the people of Israel.
To recognize the appalling state of the people of Palestine is not to ignore the fear of the Israelis who have to spend the night in bomb shelters -- or the nihilistic rage of the men of Hamas, who think they can fight the best-equipped and perhaps most determined army in the Middle East and win.
Or perhaps they don't even care about "winning" -- maybe they just want the loyalty of the starving people they lead, those who have come to think that violence is their only hope. When did violence solve anything? It is the last drug of the desperate.
Even now, as you read these words, people are dying. Be sure of it.
Most likely, because of the sheer volume and efficiency of the Israeli weapons, they are the people of Gaza.
But in the days to come, days that look pretty violent and filled with horror at the moment, it's very possible that more Israelis will die.
I'm going to cry for all of them. And when I do, I will wonder, as I have so many times in the past, why we as human beings can't seem to walk in the murky middle, seeing truth on both sides -- and working for a just peace.
Recently I have questioned why we, as a species, are so bent to fast judgment. Thank goodness I believe in a God of mercy, one reaches out to His penitent and humble people in love. I'd hate to be judged by some of those so eager to hurl names and insults.
Our only hope on God is founded.
Pray for the people of Israel -- and the people of Palestine -- as the bombs continue to fall.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/worldviews/wp/2012/11/16/the-israeli-palestinian-politics-of-a-bloodied-childs-photo/?hpid=z1
Tonight, the Israeli army prepared for what looks like an invasion.
Palestine. I thought my Facebook friend was very brave to use the word.
Because that's how bad it's gotten over here. Not to mention over there.
On the battleground itself, a land drenched in the blood of historic hatred another battle is simmering -- a virtual war of phrases, pictures and fury on Twitter, Facebook, and other social media.
There are few of us here who dare to take a stance that recognizes the suffering of the Palestinian people. If we comment on it, we risk being branded traitors, secret militants who doubt Israel's right to exist.
But to be able to hold in tension Israel's right to exist in peace, without constant shelling and hatred, and a Palestinian right to self-determination doesn't make us traitors. It makes us human beings who have a different opinion from you, perhaps.
Those friends of mine who have been to the West Bank and Gaza and have spoken to Palestinians come back changed -- so often, meeting the stranger in the flesh, and seeing their face, changes you always.
They don't hate Israel or wish for it to go away. Instead, they seem touched by the misery of the people of the West Bank and Gaza -- at the same time that they want safety and prosperity for the people of Israel.
To recognize the appalling state of the people of Palestine is not to ignore the fear of the Israelis who have to spend the night in bomb shelters -- or the nihilistic rage of the men of Hamas, who think they can fight the best-equipped and perhaps most determined army in the Middle East and win.
Or perhaps they don't even care about "winning" -- maybe they just want the loyalty of the starving people they lead, those who have come to think that violence is their only hope. When did violence solve anything? It is the last drug of the desperate.
Even now, as you read these words, people are dying. Be sure of it.
Most likely, because of the sheer volume and efficiency of the Israeli weapons, they are the people of Gaza.
But in the days to come, days that look pretty violent and filled with horror at the moment, it's very possible that more Israelis will die.
I'm going to cry for all of them. And when I do, I will wonder, as I have so many times in the past, why we as human beings can't seem to walk in the murky middle, seeing truth on both sides -- and working for a just peace.
Recently I have questioned why we, as a species, are so bent to fast judgment. Thank goodness I believe in a God of mercy, one reaches out to His penitent and humble people in love. I'd hate to be judged by some of those so eager to hurl names and insults.
Our only hope on God is founded.
Pray for the people of Israel -- and the people of Palestine -- as the bombs continue to fall.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/worldviews/wp/2012/11/16/the-israeli-palestinian-politics-of-a-bloodied-childs-photo/?hpid=z1
lundi, novembre 12, 2012
The Blue Moon Effect
Writing is the closest I come to piloting an airplane (and be thankful for that, gentle reader). Though unmistakably a craft, it does not feel like work,most of the time. I write--therefore I am. On many occasions, putting fingers to keyboard has saved my sanity.
I don't review a book to please an author. I'd probably be a lot wealthier if I did public relations.
Yet it still makes me feel really good to think that I, in some way, approached or touched on an author's intent -- particularly when reviewing works of fiction. One can almost as easily be wrong as correct.
So thank you, Beth Kephardt, for sharing -- your book is rich and multidimensional and still lingers in my mind, like the smell of orange on one's fingers after the fruit itself is consumed.
http://beth-kephart.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-philadelphia-inquirer-review-of.html
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