Journal of Fear and Hope (2017)

You Like Me, You Really Like Me
June 9, 2017

I was at a little low point a few days ago. A real blues deepening to black moment. At the end of the day I saw the notification on my phone: Someone liked the Paper Kingdom Facebook page. It didn't solve my problems. It didn't clear away the hurt in my heart. But it did make the load a bit easier to carry. That's what happens when you click like, when you click share:you lighten the artist's load just a wee bit. Or maybe it's like a strength-booster injected directly into withering muscles. I saw that one person was a fan of what I was doing, and I wanted to keep doing it. There was a small prick of light in the darkness, and I pointed myself in that direction. To any of you who have shared my work or given me a Google crosshair or a Facebook hitchhiker thumb,I thank you so so very much. It’s a small act of kindness with gigantic repercussions. It’s hard not to fall into despair, to think that all the effort to create good art touches no one and does nothing. It’s easy as the flick of a finger to lift someone out of that pit. I’ll say it one more time. Thank you.

Disconnect
June 6, 2017

Okay. This story takes place in a bathroom. But I'll be delicate.

I went to the restroom at work last Thursday, had a sit down, as I like to say. A guy entered the stall next to me, settled down with an exaggerated sigh, and said, “Ahh, covfefe.”

To which I say, No. Just. No. Because that means one of two things.

One: He's banking on the absolute worst possible way to make friends. He thought, that long-haired guy just went into the bathroom. He’s pretty cool, probably has similar political views. Hey, he’s sitting down. Okay, okay. Be cool, here’s the plan. I’ll just ease into the stall next him, break the ice with a little “covfefe” to let him know we’re kindred souls, then we’ll bond over politics while we poop. Pretty soon we’ll be having sleep-overs and playing Magic:the Gathering. This is gonna be great.

Or Two: He thinks and breathes internet memes because he has no personality of his own. He jumped into the hashtag moshpit and got down with the sickness, but at the end of the day all he had was a Twitter feed for a mind. Sure, it’s fun to interact with these things as they come along, assuring everyone that the cake is, in fact, a lie, and proclaiming everybody’s base are belong to you, but don’t become so reliant on that closed circuit feedback that you lose the ability to create and hold your own thoughts. You’ll be nothing more than a pithed and chloroformed frog, dancing to a galvanic twitch.

Turn off the communal feed once in a while and figure out if you have anything original to put in.

I know this sounds extremely hypocritical coming from a guy who routinely quotes Mystery Science Theater 3000 riffs to his infant daughter, but trust me. Not all fads are worth sacrificing your own thoughts to. In the words of Chuck D., “Save yourself. If you got yourself, watch yourself. Leave with your own mind.”

Another Worldly Device
April 13, 2017

I wrote and edited a 2,100 word essay entirely on my phone. I'd never done that before. I've been hesitant to do so, I think, because it was a new way. I was used to pencil and paper and desktop computer. I’ve known for years that I could write on my phone. Even before I got a smartphone, I read Douglas Adams’s account of writing an essay on a handheld device, tapping on the tiny keyboard with his thumbs. Have I been an old man scoffing at the whippersnappers with their Tweeters and their Faceboxers and their Velcro shoes? Probably. But till I got my new phone a couple of months ago, I never thought of a cell phone as a tiny computer. My old one was slow, and the keyboard was clumsy. I would mis-key every other letter and my output looked like a word salad. But the new phone is lightning-quick; the keyboard has swipe, which my wife swears by but was unavailable on my old phone. So writing on this machine is pretty easy. But what really pushed me to use it as a word processor was the fact I had very little available time to sit at my desk and work. Yes, I could carry a notebook like writers have for ages, but that meant having to transcribe it to type later. But here was a writing pad that fit into my pocket and could send my text file directly to my home computer to be made into a webpage or edited into a book. I could write on my lunch break, on coffee breaks, in line at the grocery store, while I'm having a sit-down.

The problem, of course, is I now have no excuse not to write. I can't say I left my notebook at home or didn't bring a pencil. I can't say I didn't have time. Did you go to the bathroom today? Yes. Then you could have written a paragraph. The same device that wastes all my free minutes can also make them productive. That's pressure. Every moment I'm not writing is a moment I'm failing. I'm thankful for the freedom this tool gives me, but as I get older, I’m constantly reminded of how fast my time here is ticking away and how much wasted time has whooshed by. I watch videos of an aging Henry Rollins, and he says the same thing. Do the work while you're alive. I think of Douglas Adams and there's a clear reminder that while the sound of deadlines whooshing by is kind of fun, the biggest deadline of all is a solid brick wall, and that can come hurtling towards you at any damn second.

The Day I Turned Forty-Two
February 1, 2017

On his forty-second birthday, Douglas Adams played guitar with Pink Floyd. I got to do something just as awesome on mine. My wife and I took our daughter down to the women's march. Or gathering, or rally, or demonstration, or protest. It was all of those. It rained the entire time. The rain dampened crocheted uterus hats, blurred hand-drawn signs, splattered a thousand umbrellas arranged in a rainbow show of support and sisterhood. My daughter wore a shirt that read "Rainbow is my favorite color." My wife and I took turns holding a sign that declared, "Not My Daughter's President."

We learned later that millions of people were gathering along with us in groups all over the world, on all seven continents, in show of solidarity for women’s rights and in protest against a president who gropes and ogles and objectifies without remorse or consequence. To all those who have been plugging their ears and ignoring the march while pretending the battle for equality was won and dispensed with years ago, keep this in mind: People gather in churches and temples and synagogues every Sabbath seeking the same things that brought all those women together on January 21, 2017, namely fellowship, support, a shoulder to lean on in difficult times, a place to voice your concerns among people willing to listen, and the comfort of knowing you are not alone. Millions left their comfortable homes to march and stand in the cold because they felt unappreciated and alienated. Saying they did so in vain and without cause is hurtful on a personal level.

Our daughter won’t remember this, but we’ll show her the pictures and tell her the story of the day the whole world joined together to say they loved her as a fellow human being. Maybe the time will come when she won’t have to take to the streets and demand to be treated fairly and given autonomy over her own body and her own decisions. But if it’s still necessary in the not-too-distant future, she’ll know that when she rises up, there will be an entire planet standing with her.