War (huh?) what is it good for (apparently a lot of things)

War: a competition between two factions (generally armed) that results in one side losing and the other winning (or both losing). To have a war, one first needs two sides, an "us" and a "them." Then, one needs an issue of contention. Obviously, in the "war" on drugs, we have an issue of contention, but do we have two sides? It is easy enough to say that there are enemies in the war on drugs. One only has to say "Columbian drug lord" to get that reaction. But that is not the whole story. A large portion of the distribution chain is within our own country- even within our own population. If we insist on using a "war" metaphor for halting drug usage, we insist that these people (the distributors and the users) are "enemies of the population." Clearly, we cannot burst into someone's home and start shooting just because they are using. But that is what the "war" on drugs suggests. At the same time, we have no problem in locking up the criminals who use and distribute. But if we are calling addicts criminals, then we are denying their problem. They are chemically dependant on a substance. That is not the same as being involved in an opposing faction, or holding up a bank. They may have chosen to start, but their body makes the choice to stay on the chemical. If we use the metaphor for war, we ignore completely the nature of their affliction. They become the enemy, rather than our friends and neighbors. It also ignores the need for compassion. While our society says that we should comfort the sick, it says nothing about comforting the criminal. We view drug users with a strange mix of abhorrence and hatred- they are against us in corrupting our society. They are not the victims; they are the perpetrators in this "war."

Clearly, there is a difference between the "war" on drugs, and the need to "cure" the drug users. With the "war" on drugs, we fight the very people that we are trying to save. We incarcerate them and take them away from their families. This is not the care and healing that a sickness deserves.

War on drugs (ugh!) what is it good for (locking people away, I guess.)



 

Whores! (Got your attention yet?)

It's so strange to know that you have a little story somewhere inside you. You can almost-sort of-kind of feel it. It's like it's got little hands, little feet and legs- little wings (or other appendages not yet named by man), and it's moving, fluttering ever so slightly. The problem is that you aren't quite sure of where it is. You can listen to the little flutterings, try to seek it out, and sometimes it will make itself easy to find. But those are never the fun ones. The exciting stories are the ones that come unexpectedly, popping from your chest like that alien in the movie Aliens. You're feeling fine one second, and the next second there's this splattered mess all over your keyboard and this thing sitting there proudly with a little "murr?" like it expects you to reach out and pet it. Because that's the moment that you get enamored with it. It's all sleek and glossy black, and you just want to love it. Never mind the fact that it just popped out, it's beautiful.

There is another thing that I've noticed. Art begets art. In fact, let me put it in a little bit of a poetic form
Art begets art.
Joy begets joy.
Sorrow to sorrow
And Laughter to laughter.

I still can't quite believe that I wrote that on the top of my Japanese homework, but when the muse strikes. Oh, when the muse strikes. I have a feeling that I will be posting my Courtesans of the Pen sometime soon. As soon as I get some cohesion to the parts. Right now, let me give the basic idea of the satire.

The muses are all whores.

There. I said it. Now, if anyone was really offended by that statement, just completely turned off...

Stop reading.

I mean it. Don't go any further because if that offended you, then you are probably going to have an aneurysm from what comes next. In fact, I would recommend that you generally stay away from these kinds of rants. If you pop a blood vessel and end up sprawled all over your keyboard, I don't want to feel in any way responsible. What a way to go. Your brain goes "fzzrt," dies instantly and your body (deprived of any control whatsoever) falls normally. Of course, if you are typing or reading at the computer at the time, you're going on to your keyboard. You will end up with one side of your face getting QWERTY-itis, and you'll probably be drooling into the keyboard. Not a pleasant way to go. That, and my essay will be up on the screen, so the police will be reading it. And if one of them is prudish in any sort whatsoever, he will either keel over (oh great, two deaths on my conscience) or he will want to ask me some questions. So yeah, if you are prudish in any sort, and you haven’t already stopped reading... You’re putting both of us at risk.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

And now for those with the intestinal fortitude to read such satire (it's meant to be funny at the same time it is a truthful reflection on the natures of inspiration). I present you with my magnum opus. (An image of a revolver wielding penguin from Bloom County, if you are that old. Or, if you have been reading the Sunday funnies. If you’re still confused, try http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Opus_the_Penguin)



Courtesans of the Pen

By Robert Tolley

The muses are all whores.

Show them a pretty bauble or shiny new ideas and they will wrap themselves around your leg, enticed by the newness. They will brush your hand one moment and leave you with your pants around your ankles the next, not pausing for anything in between.

You can court them as mistresses, plead and appease them, ply their silken trades with gifts and wonders but sometimes they’ll leave you- just to prove they can, and how you can’t get it from anyone else. Then they show up one morning, giggling, and you see them and smile. They drop their skirts to the floor and all is forgiven. No matter how many times they have left, no matter how much your hair has grayed, they’ll still be back.

They torment you when you can’t get the pen up- will tease you and flash you in the most inappropriate of moments- when you’re at a meeting and look out the window, she’ll be there, leaning over, shaking it at you. Or you’ll be in the shower and she’ll give you a quick kiss and slip right down the drain before you can catch her.

But then one night you’ll be ready for her- alone in your bed with a notepad and a quill and she’ll come and it will be beautiful. She’ll show you things that you never thought possible- and then in the afterglow of the moment, you’ll be leaning back and she will say “get all of that?” in the way that only she can, flash her smile and leave again, leaving you once again alone on the cooling bed, your notepad smudged with the results of yet another messy lovemaking, and your head not yet quite calmed down.

Or maybe you can’t last the distance- your lead goes soft or your pad is too short and she pouts and frowns and turns away disappointed, casting one last glance back at you as she walks through the door. But she’ll be back. In those moments searching for a word, her touch will electrify you like a hand along your thigh and you will remember how many nights she had spent with you.

And thrilling as it is, it can be expensive to court the muse- nights in golden champagne rooms, journeys on private yachts or stays in French villas. All of that she will appreciate, of course, but after that courtship, she can still turn around and spend the next day lay in the lap of some random Joe- just to make his day. They are fickle and flighty. In a moment they will disappear at a loud sound or sudden interruption- whisk up their things and vanish, leaving you half finished and stunned at their departure.

And if finally a child is born of that bond, that joining, you will bear it, and it will come crying and misshapen from your loins, and you will have to appeal to her to help you mend its twisted frame, set its bones and make it beautiful- and like a true whore, sometimes she will, and sometimes she’ll flash you a smile with the seat of her panties and disappear for another stint around the town. But you will still care for that child, still raise it as your own. And maybe it will be able to lose the stigma- being a whore’s bastard child- never knowing its mother. Maybe it will rise of its own accord into a world that is too often too cold to the newcomers. It happens often enough for there to be some hope. Hope that yours will be different and that the world will welcome it. Because goodness knows, you aren’t the only one who has birthed such a child.

Like all truly public women, they can be enjoyed by everyone. But, there are some that have made their pursuit a life’s venture. Dirty old men will sit in smoke filled rooms, exchanging stories of where and when- even how many at a time. They will listen to the others stories- each thinking of the next time, of how it will be even more worthy of the telling. You can always tell those men, the bookish ones, always with a little kit, a package seemingly innocuous enough, ready to “capture the moment” as it were.

But it is not limited to smutty old English professors or even writers. Students will sit in classes, waiting anxiously for their next visit. And sometimes they will even enjoy the company in class, pen scratching anxiously on the paper. They hide that courtesan behind a book, or behind a tilt of their leg, but they enjoy them nonetheless. They hide because few teachers would appreciate the encounter. Even though they eventually encourage the students to seek out the “femmes de plume” as it were. That is, if the student is unable to court these dames that they are shunted to the ranks of the “unimaginative” or “standard” while those able to seek them out successfully are given accolades. A strange sort of double standard, with an action that is both required and forbidden.

And then one day you’ll be sitting in an auditorium, thousands of other anonymous people, and you’ll see her across the room. She will walk across the floor, slip you a lascivious little smile, place her finger to her lip and settle down to give you a little lap dance. And you will try not to show it, try not to let on to anyone else, or let them figure it out. But that’s hard, as she knows exactly what she is doing, what she is putting you through. So she’ll be sure to drag it out as long as she can, leading you on while all of those thousands of other people might be watching, as you hope that you can find your pen in time. And then she’ll raise her head from your lap and give you a little grin, kiss you on the lips and walk away, your eyes casting around to see if anyone else noticed.

As with all matters of the night, there are books of advice- a veritable library of kama sutras for the courting of the muse. Some instruction on how, when and in what positions. It isn’t required reading, but as with many things a little knowledge can be gained from books, but a good deal of it is experience. You know what to do by learning how to do it. And if you are fumbling with your first attempts- she’ll just smile knowingly and lead you gently on. But once you get some experience, the books can help, help you get a little more adventurous, get a little more out of each encounter. And when it is good, it is really good, but even when it is bad, it’s still pretty good. But while there are those who are truly skilled at seeking them, most are working hard just to catch a glimpse of one. It is what one makes of it, whether during the encounter you just lie there or whether you can take her, slip a bridle in her mouth and do something indecently kinky. She’ll enjoy that- like any lady of her craft, and will make it all the better. Because, eventually when you are distracted, she’ll take the bit and loop it through your mouth and ride you around the room. And while you’re busy tasting her kisses, she will have a good time and leave you tied up in your bed when she’s done. But that’s no problem, because you will remember every moment, and that makes it all worthwhile. She’s gone, but she’ll be back.

After all, they’re off turning tricks all across the world- everyone has had one at one moment or another- whether it was an ongoing fling or just a one night stand- that’s up to her and them. But even the most committed Joe knows- that they will be with you one moment, a memory the next. Because the muses are the courtesans of the pen, lovers for the night and day.

So what do you think of that? At least it's an extended metaphor, and at most it's more than a little bawdy. Tell me what you think.

Hedging Bets on Love

Love is a dangerous emotion. At least, that is what our language says when we “fall” for someone. Falling is uncontrolled, and while the falling doesn’t hurt, the sudden stop at the end does. Clearly then, when we discuss someone “falling” in love, we are talking about an uncontrolled emotion, something that is likely to take someone and drop them in a painful situation. The loss of control over one’s emotions are highlighted in the metaphor. We cannot control our descent, and that loss of control is taken as a negative effect. Another side effect of falling in the real sense is disorientation as we lose gravity. This feeling, of not knowing which way we are falling is true to the sort of blind disorientation that results from love. At the same time, love is not bad. It creates a positive bond which is ignored by the metaphor of “falling.” Unless it talks about people “falling together” in which case a different sort of metaphoric image is created, “falling in love” ignores the positive aspects of the emotion. When we use that equation, of how falling is equal to love, we tell ourselves that we have no control over it. While we can chose to fall, chose to jump off some high precipice, all too often it sneaks up on us as we trip over something we didn’t see. It seems to say “don’t go looking, for love, because eventually love will catch up to you.” While we admire those who are passionately and deeply connected by love, we are also a little bit irritated by those who are blinded by their love. Shouting “get a room” to the couple that is obliviously making out at the football game is a good example. The general populace is irritated by that sort of uncontrolled display of affection. But even so, the intolerance is a gentle one, an acceptance that such a display is beyond the control of those engaged in it. After all, they cannot control “falling.”

I feel that I must digress now to talk about A Ways From Nowhere. It does deal with love, and in many ways with “falling” (of one sort or another). If one can fall into love, can one also be tripped or pushed? What if a little nudge was all that it took? That if you had the right skills you could “push” someone ever so lightly into someone else’s arms. Either that, or you could trip that person into your own arms. What would you do with those powers? Well, that’s enough of the shameless plug for one day. Toodles! 

A strange duality/Which you fear

Anger is an emotion where the effect varies with its target. That is to say that anger between friends is significantly different between anger between enemies. With a friend, one can voice one’s anger appropriately- thus diffusing its effect. Between friends, when the anger is expressed, amends can be made. That is the nature of friendship, is that even with the differences, the effects of anger exist only until they are voiced. That is not so with anger toward an enemy. Since an enemy is not usually someone that one speaks to in the sort of frank manner that one would address a friend. In this way, an enemy is less likely to know that you are angry with them. Also, since they are in an adversarial relationship with you, they are less likely to try and make amends. The hostilities are more likely to continue and grow without communication. In the poem there is a definite difference between expressing and hiding one’s anger. When it is discussed, the force of the anger “ends.” That is to say that it no longer has any power to destroy. But when the force of the anger is contained, nurtured and directed, it can be powerful enough to kill one’s foe. If the friend is fine while the foe is slain, there is a definite difference between the effects. The difference is that between friends, such little issues are voiced easily, removing them. But, between enemies, each small reason for anger builds upon the conflict. Anger between enemies grows, and is refreshed with each hostile thought. In this poem, anger is metaphorically described as a tree. It needs to be watered, given sunlight, and when full sized it will bear fruit. The last line even says that his foe was outstretched beneath a “tree.” Anger described as a tree is certainly a valid metaphor, and it ties in all of the other images in the poem. In this way, Blake’s describes anger as a “poison tree” which can be both powerful and impotent at the same time. 

The Technology of Peace!

Socrates states that people will learn many things but know nothing. That is, that they will not evaluate what they have learned. Since one cannot ask words to expand upon what they said (due to their inherent permanence and unchanging nature), one has to learn only what is said by the words. Socrates, in his method of teaching, uses the method of asking questions to the student. He seeks to identify flaws and inconsistencies in logic and reasoning. One cannot ask the page a question and expect an answer any different from what is written there. Additionally, the page is unthinking and uncaring. It doesn’t matter to the book who reads it, or for what reason it is read. The same written words can be used for many different purposes, for good or evil. A book cannot protest its use, cannot say “that’s not what I said” simply because it cannot speak. A book is unalterable, and there lies its strength and weakness. If we become a writing culture, we lose the ability to question the information that we learn. Also, if we become accustomed to learning without examining, we become unable to judge anything that we learn. According to Socrates, this deprives us of reason and thinking. I feel that Goody would not agree with Socrates, because he asserts that oral and written information can coexist. Socrates fears that his method of teaching will die out, and the written method will replace it. Goody identifies the symbiotic relationship between the two technologies. He states that neither is in danger of dying out, and that there is no real conflict between the two. Both the written and the oral compliment each other, and will continue to be used.



Technology, in each era, has come to commonly mean the technology of that era. In our terms, technology is the computer and the internet, the digital of the silicon born. In the years before, the technology was the car, the radio, the horse drawn carriage. All of these technologies are hard technologies. They can be touched, they can be listened to, and they can be used to move the world. But there is one invention that has changed more than the wheel. Language as a technology has defined the way that we think, act and relate to other people. It allows us to make endeavors past the scope of our individual abilities. Language allows us to have effects beyond our own physical presence. Writing takes language and makes it permanent. Language is extended from simply the oral tradition into something that can last for years, travel across generations, and exchange information with other cultures. In terms of its impact, language is definitely a technology. Therefore, the transcription of language into a permanent form is technology. I do not agree that the definition of technology should be “expanded” to include writing, because it already includes writing. The definition does not have to be expanded to encompass something that it already contains.



 

Error: Unable To Read Disk (Insufficient Energy)

It’s strange sometimes, how you can feel something inside- some plot or character that wants to come out- and yet you can’t summon up the energy to birth it. I suppose that it’s an effect of a sort of lethargy of the brain. It’s like the disk that just won’t spin up to full speed, but instead goes whrrr-chnkk, spinning up and then dropping RPM. It’s the sort of thinking that requires a great amount of energy but really creates no result. I have just enough energy to think and write this. There isn’t enough energy to study, and I can’t quite summon up the motivation to do any “important” writing. I need to work on Overture 02, on Angelo or Cassandra, or even the editing work on A Ways From Nowhere. I think that I finally have a way to split the 187,000 word monstrosity into about 5 smaller books. It’s sort of a young adult book, anyway. Only Rowling can make a book that large and pull it off, and Alandrus is definitely no Potter child. Aargh. I have the first little bit of Closer To Nowhere written too, and I can’t even summon up the energy to transcribe it from the little Moleskine notebook. I think that was the thing that kept me sane through the NOLS trip- being able to write something long, with my typical over-dense prose. That, and reading what I’d written to the group, 10 people stuffed into a little tent that’s supposed to fit 4 uncomfortably. They loved Alandrus, which made it even better. I suppose that some time I have to e-mail them the edited versions of AWFN. That’s the next step for Alandrus, is finding out whether people like the shortened “5 books” versions, or the whole “big honking book.” I need readers. Volunteers can apply in person. Compensation will be arranged, probably in the form of a “thank you” and getting to read some very long winded fiction about a very improbable series of events. Summary to follow, whenever I can get some more energy.