Adjusting Course

I procrastinated writing this week, because the topic I was most tempted to write about was writing─ who cares to read as an amateur writer ponders upon writing?─ am I writing for some desired audience, myself, or for the sake of writing?─ am I even justified in calling myself a 'writer'?

I think it's obvious, I've been dealing with some self-doubt; likely banal autumnal-existential-depression.

Honestly, I feel justified in considering myself a writer. If asked about my profession, I wouldn't [yet] refer to myself as such, but I do write, and I do publish it to a blog. I'd not claim the title of blogger, because I'm not one of them. That is, my blog doesn't exist to spread information or opinion or feed ego, it exists so I can share my craft and, ideally, receive feedback of some sort.

I am a writer (by certain definition), but why then, do I write? I'm not going to make a cliched appeal to a contrived notion of the Art of Writing: it's not majik, in any-sense. And I frankly don't care about the science of writing either, to met it's a craft which I practice.

So, I write for myself, it's a compulsion that leads to self-satisfaction. Altho, yes, I would like to garner a following, I'd like to make a living from writing and doing as much would fuel my ego: such is the nature of succeeding in any practice. Still, I will not pander to an audience, because it is not in my nature to do so. I will write, endure and perhaps find some measure of success.

I am proud of what I've written here and I'm proud of my previous postings on this blog: whether they garner an audience or not. My efforts have been spent writing earnestly and respectfully on topics I care about. The internet is filled with enough snark and rage, which I've little enough interest in reading, let-alone contributing to.

This marks a change in this blog's function. My poetry will henceforth be found at 'Emarald Wordsmith'. I'm not concerning myself with short-fiction, for the time being, but if I write some it will likely be posted to that blog as well.

'Figuring it Out' will be devoted to essay/journal style writing.

Death and Timothy

This story is not yet complete.

Death came early to the boy, at the tender age of three and would visit often then-after. At first, distraught by the ghastly figure, he cowered beneath blankets, clinging to a stuffed kangaroo, working up the courage to scream. Eventually, he fell asleep.

He would awake, comforted by the warmth of daylight through the window and relieved that the putrid odor was gone. The boy reasoned it best not to tell anyone, if he hid well and didn't acknowledge the robed apparition, it might vanish. After all, many things were imaginary.
Months passed, almost an entire year. Death visited every few nights. The boy would cower, surrounded by his favorite toys, clutching Garoo. Death would wait at the foot of the bed, watching the boy through the covers, considering.

Time's Elusive

time's elusive
for pensive
people
laugh
scream
and
hide

such waste
it is to be
a nation free
while some judge
based in ignorance
  but those of intelligence sit on the fence
based on relativity
thank Einstein
if you feel fine
like a mouse
in a lab coat

waste not want not
o what bull shit
go to the supermarket
get what you want
change your mind
then trash it

this
is
how
we
live
time's elusive

Atheist Blogroll and the Scarlet Letter

Image via Wikipedia

My Blog, "Figuring it Out," has been added to The Atheist Blogroll. You can see the blogroll in my sidebar. The Atheist blogroll is a community building service provided free of charge to Atheist bloggers from around the world. If you would like to join, visit Mojoey at Deep Thoughts for more information.


Ahem... Canned intro out of the way, here's why I've joined the Atheist Blogroll and added the scarlet A to my blog. My reasoning all comes down to 2 words, community and awareness. In Babylon 5, the point is made that humanities strength comes from the fact we build communities- the concept seems trite and high-minded, but there is some truth in it.

Atheists are perceived as interlopers within our predominantly christian, typically religious society. Even by non-theists, including agnostics, atheism is seen as a defect of character- the conceit of pride. We are, in many ways, shunned from participating within our communities. To be an atheist in America, is to live closeted, pandering to christian ideologies.

I see 2 ways through this, not mutually exclusive. The first is to establish our own communities. I'm not referring to the trend of "atheist churches," or somewhere establishing an atheist state/nation. No, an atheist community should exist, primarily as an academic community. Atheism is, after-all, an incidental trait, a by-product of healthy scepticism, not a defining characteristic of our being. The second is to spread awareness of atheism and who exactly these atheists are- to become a ubiquitous group within our existing communities, so that it becomes acceptable, if not common, to live a rational life.

Joining the blogroll, is part of my effort to join that community, on the web. Linking to the both the blogroll and Richard Dawkins' Out Campaign are part of my efforts to spread awareness.

first– then– at last

first you're young,
brash and bold!
doorbell wrung–

swallow your tongue!
punches pulled?
hope on hold?


then you're old!
no time left,
hope bereft?

plant a poppy.

Poetry should be heard.

Skepticism

How can one know what to believe? What is truth? What is reality? The fact is, we take a lot on faith. We accept a lot, simply because it's common, maybe even mundane within our experience, and it's safe within that familiarity. But, we also choose what to believe (I think more typically) by rejecting that which runs counter to our expectations or experiences. Ideologies, philosophies, foods, memes, brands, people, etc. etc. are all rejected, because they're alien entities within our framework of the familiar.

It takes effort to move beyond rejecting that which runs counter to expectation. Skepticism is required and unfortunately, I don't believe skepticism is an innate human trait. Rather, it must be cultivated in children. Practiced and honed by the individual.

Not a part of the plan

This wasn't part of the plan. I stood up, alone in a white walled room, maybe 25 feet square. The only apparent exit was a square opening, far above my head; light entered through it. Perhaps daylight, if so, I'd been in the white room for at least 12 hours.

I considered myself. I was hungry and thirsty, not starved or dehydrated, it was just time for a meal. Although, there was a medicine aftertaste lingering on the back of my tongue, a slightly metallic taste when I licked my lips. Maybe, I'd been fed and drugged. Maybe it had been a daily event, for weeks or longer. Within the White Room, there was nothing to mark time.

Grace In Nirvana

I could exclaim
the joys of life
or, condemn you all,
the source of strife.

If I have a soul,
I've walked this plain before,
known by many a name;
ever the speaker for reason,
earning death for that treason.

Maybe, we defy human nature,
with every effort to be better.
Then, maybe we live in err,
defining self as our struggle.
Thus confused, thus clinging,
thus fearfully believing.

Tho ultimately self-contained,
still seeking and contriving
self-righteous, self-made conflict
in hope of attaining,
just reward, certain grace,
unique to us and ours
but denied our race.

Numbers

I haven't delved deeply into the study of statistics, but I know enough and I feel like I know more than most people.

There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies and statistics.

That quote is the best place to start. A statistics reduce the world to a relational-quantitative perspective. If I tell you that I have 3 apples, I'm reporting a statistic. If I tell you that I have 1% of the apples from my neighbor's tree, I've reported another statistic and providing you with the information needed to infer that that the yield of my neighbor's tree was 300 apples. If I tell you, 1% of the apples from my neighbor's tree were reported stolen, you might be tempted to guess that I stole them; the numbers match up, 3 were stolen and I have 3 in my possession. That is a coincidence, yielding circumstantial evidence.

Musing in a Cafe

“The energy of this place is all wrong.”

“It is? I hadn't noticed, dear. What's the energy supposed to be like?”

“Just more and less and well, just not like this, not like this at all. Have you ever been in a coffee shop with energy like this?”

“I don't know, dear, you know me, I'm so grounded. You have to have your head up in the aether to pick up on energies, the way you do.”

“True, true. You know, you have a brown aura, the color of Earth. It's like the Mother has embraced you, holds you close, inside her self.”

Good Morning

We begin with coffee:
freshly ground sumatra,
(organic, shade-grown & fair-trade)

and cold, clean water
(sterilized and filtered).
While the Mr. Coffee

works it's alchemy,
we start the computer.
As our system boots,

we turn on the TV,
to the news or cartoons
(upon our sensibilities).

The iPod may still be on,
in the background.
Our coffee is ready,

and we pour a cup,
(half packet of Splenda
and a splash of soy)

to sip impatiently,
as Facebook loads.
C'est La Vie.

Better Late...

I've been stuck on the essay this week. We've had family in town and I've been unable to escape it all. I seem to remember, most writers do their stuff late at night or early in the morning, locked away in a private study, or sequestered in friend's summer homes during the winter months or in the back corner of a busy coffee shop.

The point is, writing requires solitude, of some sort. I've learned recently, that silence actually helps, as the effect of noise, especially music, on mood is profound.

Inheritance

The Sun was setting; Venus the only visible body, in the sky.

“That's the International Space Station,” The Father said.

“Wow!” The Son was awed.

and in this end, I find regret

As I bleed out, I think
how this act changes things,
I've martyred myself to those who loved me
and proven my insignificance, unworth and stupidity to any detractor
they'll smile and smirk, “it's just evolution at work”

as I bleed out, I worry
what will remain, what is my legacy
in my wake, these things I write will take on poignancy
my words will titillate with a sense of missed urgency
published they will provide, an immortality critics can't deride

as I fade out, I wonder
what dark secrets you may find
hidden in boxes and drawers or password protected on my hard drive
the evidences of fetishes and long hidden addiction
but I trust, upon review, you'll choose to keep it, the final secret between we two:

and in this end, I find regret.

Essay: The God I'd Believe In

For this essay, I've expounded on the themes in the last story I posted.  It's tempting, as an author, to keep my personal beliefs private, thereby leaving my writing open to interpretation.  However, there's also merit in intellectual honesty.  People will find their own meanings regardless, that's just how language works, particularly in it's written form.

I came to atheism thru Christianity and a flirtation with Buddhism. Altho it's perfectly accurate, there is a fundamental flaw in that statement, which might undermine my arguments if I don't point it out. This flaw being, that it appears I've put atheism on the same plain as religion, when Naturalism is the equal of religion.

Still, it was Christianity and Buddhism that led me to atheism, which in turn led me to Naturalism. This is more than quibbling over semantics, Naturalism is a belief in a natural origin of the universe and life; it is the foundation of scientific thought. Atheism is a stance on a si
ngle subject (god) which does not address the fundamental of the universe and does not eliminate spiritual or supernatural perspectives on reality. And I, personally, wrestled with concepts of god, before I gave in to a Naturalistic perspective.

The God I'd Believe In

The day I met the Angel, was altogether unremarkable. Breezy & warm while I had been at work, all that giving way to a calm chill and the freedom of evening. It was too nice to stay in, a quick stop at home to change into me, then I was out for the evening. I rode my bike downtown, local coffee shop, town's favorite and mine, a band was playing, standing room only. So, I got a tea to go, Darjeeling.

On the way out, I recognized a face, no name came to mind, I gave a half-smiling nod.

“Hey,” she waved, “can I bum a cigarette?”

And I Alone

every moment, alone
every moment, alone
unthought
unthinking
every moment alone
her smile, her lies
here lies her smile
and I staring
at the wall
perfect metaphor
for the future
tripped up
tripped out
lost in unthought
lost, unthinking
bleeding secretly
in secret places
future unseen
through the wall
death certain
discontinuation
uncertainly
discontinuity
direct violation
of the empiric
radical belief
so common place
truly mundane
I the radical
in every moment,
alone, unbelieving
actively skeptical
braving the alone
social defiant
rebel against the norm
quite commonplace
quietly seeking
ever alone
her smile wilted
deformed, defamed
certain testament
and last will
repent, receive
repent, believe
and I alone
every moment alone

Acknowledging Puck

I worry about the impact I have upon people.
I know, I shouldn't.  I should relax, be me.
But, I infect people, and affect them
deeply, profoundly, just by knowing me,
I alter them. Or, this is ego and vanity,
run amok, drawing phobia from coincidence.
I may overestimate, inflate the merit
of certain evidences. The girls who spurned
my advances, to marry men essentially me,
in appearance, intellect, even temperament.
Maybe, I was only middle-link in their chain,
not prototypical. And I wonder, of the friends
who gave up religion, forfeit education,
changed party affiliation and preferred
brand of detergent, not upon my urging
but after incidental conversation,
meaningless musings unmeted
seemingly & passively caught up in my ponderance.
Inside me, a certain devil, oft called Puck,
a villainous and dastardly demon soul,
an infamous spritely trickster, benign.

Independence Day Sonnet

Dear Uncle, you try to infect me with rage,
honestly I hope I never reach that stage,
it can't be healthy at any age;
just as you shrug me off as naive,
I can see you're not so sage.

Despite the things we both believe,
(I cling to hope, you live in fear
and nostalgia for yesteryear)
I suspect we both agree
there's danger in complacency:
revolution's never won,
freedom's never free!
Liberty plays host to Tyranny,
our common goal to cure that phage.

Seed

Carried on the wind of culture, was something novel,

less a seed, more a pollen granule.

Dangerously far from reality,

the merest hint of potential

floating, wafting, drifting:

perhaps settling within a mind

in full bloom, copulating,

yielding a seed, pure potentiality.

Half threatening some pervasive perversity

but equally promising perseverance,

or perhaps only preservation but, certainly of hope.