Bible Study

     This morning I was shopping on the Internet. Christmas is over for another year and it’s time to buy stuff for myself.

     A knock on the front door. Who the hell would knock on my door? I live in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t a loud cop-knock or a neighbor with the tentative lost-dog tap. This was a staccato rhythm, a series of authoritative single strokes.

     Immediately I thought, “Salesman.”

     As I marched to the door I glanced at my ax, which is propped nearby against the wall. Probably won’t need that.

     I swung the door open to some fifty-ish guy who looked like a piece of underdone toast; bland, conservative gray suit, topcoat, glasses. He starts babbling aggressively, immediately, while holding out a book and thumbing through it.

     “We’ve been talking to some of your neighbors about the bible and I would like to….”

     I said, “Oh shit,” and slammed the door.

     I have a bible on the living room table. I could see it from where I was standing. I’m reading the John Woods translation of Thomas Mann’s German epic novel “Joseph and His Brothers.” It’s a reality-based re-telling of the biblical story of Joseph, Jacob, Isaac, Rachael, Zebulon, Dinah, Levi, the whole unwashed, superstitious, inbred poorly-groomed cast in a 1500 page package. I am not a bible expert, so I keep the good book next to me as I’m reading so I can refer to the original tales and compare them with Mann’s version. Mann’s book is a fascinating read that will occupy a large chunk of winter.

     It was ironic, though, that for the first time in decades, I had a bible in plain view while some moron was standing at the door a few days after Christmas with a desire to rag on me about the mysteries and secrets of Christianity. There were so many things I wanted to say to my dim redeemer.

     “I read the bible, it’s bullshit, go away.”

     “If you believe in god I can’t take anything you say seriously.”

     “I’m an atheist and I have an ax.”

     This same thing happened thirty years ago with two guys, Witnesses or Mormons, and I invited them in, poured myself a big drink of brandy, offered them the bottle, put on some loud music, Zeppelin or Black Sabbath, and told the bible-boys to sit down while I spewed obscenity laced hatred and told them that as long as they were in my house I could kill them if I wanted to.

     Alas, I no longer drink, so that specific avenue of fun has been pretty much closed off for me.

     Instead, this morning, I glanced at my ax, barked, “No thanks,” and slammed the door in the prophet’s face.

     I did not give a shit if the guy had traveled a jillion furlongs or cubits, if he had the secret to long life or if his camel was thirsty.

     I’m tired of believers; crazy religious people wear me the fuck out.

     I am not spiritual but I’m really devoted to my ax. It’s real. It’s not an imaginary disappointment invented 4,000 years ago by some goat herders who had gotten themselves in deep shit and needed a magical entity to rescue them. I can hold the ax in my hands and swing it. It has weight and I can touch it.

     How about if I went door to door preaching my beliefs and offering to show people how they could be saved?

     “This is my ax. I believe in my ax and you should, too. Can I take a few minutes of your time to show you my ax and talk about your salvation?”

An Act of Commerce

I’ve been chopping firewood; first time in my life. I’m pretty much a suburban guy and I’ve worked as a writer, systems analyst, journalist, teamster, drinker, smoker, liar, and my leisure activities have consisted of browsing bookstores, watching videos, fucking off, driving around and bar hopping. Muscles I’ve neglected are sore from chopping wood, but I’m also more relaxed and I’m sleeping well. I had a therapist years ago (Number 4) that said if I found an activity which employed the body’s long muscles, quadriceps, biceps, back, it could help to reduce stress and anxiety. As if. I told him he was an idiot and a fraud, paid him $100 dollars and left to get drunk. Don’t try to tell me about stress relief.

I have a friend here in the mountains of New Mexico who lives in a teepee. He grows and sells beans. Special beans: Zuni, Anasazi, Heirloom. They don’t look like the kind you’d find in the supermarket and I can’t imagine that he makes a living, but his overhead is low and he has few needs.

We were talking this morning about the weather and the Christmas holidays and I told him how much I enjoyed chopping wood. He’s a tough guy, physical, dresses in Carhartt canvas, his hands are rough as sandpaper, and I realized that telling him about my recent love-affair with manual labor must sound pretty fucking lame to this dude who’s spent most of his adult life outdoors.

He said, “Hey, if you have any extra firewood I’ll trade you some beans for it.”

Blown away.

“What? Why?”

“Well, it’s been pretty cold and I haven’t been able to get up into the mountains to gather wood. I have enough in my truck for another night but I’ll need some more.”

Never in my craziest fantasies have I envisioned myself as a supplier of fuel to off-the-grid mountain men. Jesus. And he was going to give me beans. Beans. This was beginning to sound like a warped version of Paul Bunyan and Jack in the Beanstalk with a little Carlos Castaneda thrown in for psychedelic good measure.

The basic model of social commerce is barter. He needs firewood and I have some. I don’t see the great appeal of beans, but they are a primitive and respected food that has sustained populations for millennia. I’d give him the wood for nothing, I can chop more, but I’m going to take the beans in trade. I’ll probably put them in a drawer and forget them for a couple of years until I accidentally come across them and throw them in the garbage, but the historic act of exchanging my services for his goods has a biblical, elemental authenticity and allows me to participate in an honest and ancient system of human collaboration.

And, goddamnit, my old therapist was right. I should send him a letter of apology. When I’m wielding my ax I am composed, strong and invincible. And afterwards I’m calm. I even vaguely understand the appeal of living in a teepee and of learning basic survival skills. I love my ax, perhaps a little too much, and I chop wood. Instead of sizable and expensive quantities of cocaine and alcohol, I can bring myself to a state of equanimity and self-control after a half hour of hard ax-work. If I’d known it was all going to be so fucking easy I could have saved $140,000 on therapy. Now I have to go chop wood to earn my beans.

Sensitive Artists

     Another big article recently about creative people and how sensitive they are. Do you think writers and artists are especially sensitive people? According to many writers and artists they are. They’re extremely intuitive and thoughtful and insightful, complicated and perceptive. Don’t they feel more deeply, aren’t they more caring and shouldn’t we understand that their profound complexity requires that we treat them with extra special respect and admiration?

     Oh, shit no. No, no, no.

     A person I know, who calls himself a writer, does not have cancer, is not living in poverty, doesn’t have disabilities, doesn’t suffer the burden of children, can afford decent food, gas, heat, appears to be tolerant of his current wife, has plenty of time to garden and travel and take cooking classes at the local junior college. He recently posted a message in which he was passionately lamenting the trials and difficulties of The Writer’s Life, the literary torments, the daily production of linked sentences composed of correctly spelled words and how proud and blessed he was to have finished his latest story.

     Fuck you, you toilet. Please. There is no “Writer’s Life”.

     There is Life, short and confusing and you choose to write. Or paint or sculpt or dance. Or not. There are no special gifts or cosmic sensitivities. Hard work and luck. Those are the often-overlooked necessary components of any real artistic enterprise. Not self proclaimed “sensitivity” or praise from friends about how well you express yourself in your retarded Facebook posts. Really, everyone expresses himself or herself fairly well and it doesn’t make them special or unique.

     Sorry, but there is only one species of humans. Homo Sapiens. That’s us and that’s it. Eating, digesting, screwing, dying and some of us do other stuff like painting and writing and juggling and competitive eating. There are not Homo sapiens I and Homo Sapiens II; the first group consisting of everyone else in the world and the other is that special advanced species of writers and artists. Ridiculous bullshit. Bitching about the hardships of an artist’s life makes one a gigantic whining baby, not an artist. No one is more than a normal human being with varying human weaknesses and abilities.

     Of course, the organism closest to Humans is the Chimpanzee. Perhaps artists and writers are more in tune with their inner chimp than the divine muse.

     Gee, you’ve written a nice poem and that’s a beautiful photograph of your grandchildren in the snow. Moving and profound. Your painting is a wonderful representation of the struggles of the artist in an uncaring society. Here’s your banana.

     Now that would make sense.

You Can Also Use an Ax to Chop Wood

     I bought a huge load of wood this year and it is nice and dry, almost perfect, but some of the pieces are a little too big for my fireplace. I needed to buy an ax to cut up the more cumbersome logs, split them down into kindling and make them fit.

     I spent an afternoon stacking the wood and it looks impressive, a looming wall of logs up against the fence, neatly arranged. I was sore after the job, but it felt good. I know I’m not the first guy to discover that physical labor can feel great and is healthy and satisfying. That was probably one of the Roman Stoics in the third or fourth century AD, just around the time the Roman Empire was collapsing and they were running out of slaves to do the heavy lifting.

     Stacking wood is weight bearing; the moving of objects from one place to another for an hour or so will help keep a person in good shape, strong and capable. Much better than standing still in a gym full of boneheads lifting barbells and tugging on threatening machines, running nowhere on treadmills.

     Picking up fifty armloads of wood and staggering twenty yards to stack it is gratifying and I don’t feel judged because I’m not dressed in the proper workout attire or I’m not slim enough and young and confident. I’m alone, out of breath, sweaty, covered in sawdust and dirt, my hands are scratched and filthy, but I’m doing something practical. And it’s relatively free. Of course, and this is a legitimate concern, there is no one around to administer CPR if something goes wrong, as it inevitably will. I can’t get a sixty-dollar massage and we don’t have a tanning booth, but I’m also not worried about anyone stealing my wallet or some testo-aggro dude who is looking for trouble.

     This morning I went to the hardware store and purchased an ax so I can chop the wood. I’ve never done that before, it was a unique, once in a lifetime experience. My First Ax. Felt good, let me say. I can never repeat the act of purchasing my first ax; it’s like first sex or first drink, first fight and first divorce. A right of passage.

     At the door of the hardware store I ran into my physical therapist. He’s a nice guy, handsome with good hair, serious, healthy as hell, strong, and he has helped me significantly with my chronic back problem and the tendonitis in my left arm.

     I’ve never felt comfortable with small talk and I don’t do it well. I’m usually accused of being inappropriate or obscene or dismissive. Most people tend to be sincere if they ask a question and they don’t expect a wise crack. I grew up differently and am always prepared for an automatic insult, a nasty response or sarcasm. I wish it wasn’t true. Over the past decade I’ve become much more integrated into the normal conversational deportment of others and I try to restrain myself, but when I’m feeling good and caffeinated I sometimes don’t edit as well as I should.

     The physical therapist is twenty years younger than I am but he cheerfully called out, “Hey, how are you doing, young man? How’s the back?”

     “My back is good today. Thanks for the help.”

     “What are you getting?”

     “An Ax. Some guy just pissed me off. I need an ax.”

     “So, what, are you going to work out your aggression by chopping a bunch of fireplace wood?”

I looked at him, squinted and realized he was completely serious. This is the way some people truly think. Their first word association when they hear the word “Ax” is “Wood”. Incredible.

     I answered, “No. I don’t have a fireplace.”

     He giggled nervously, realized that I was kidding him. Finally, I thought. Jesus, dude. I immediately, instinctively, decided that there was something wrong with him, but in reality, to this healthy young man the concept of working out one’s anger, anxiety, aggression by doing some exercise or hard physical work was as natural as breathing. I am in a prolonged state of recovery, but I'm occasionally reminded that there may still be flaws in my thinking and reactions.

     The ax I bought is a beautiful tool with a smoothly curved and tapered handle; it’s heavy enough to swing overhead and let the momentum do most of the work. It came pre-sharpened and slices through wood like butter, if I hit the log right. I missed a lot of the time, swung at thin air, jerking and jumping out of the way of the deadly blade, but still, it was a good half hour workout and I felt manly and outdoorsy when I was finished. Now I have a big pile of wood in varying sizes that will fit the fireplace. Success and health. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

     I thought about leaving my new ax outside, near the woodpile, but instead I’ve put it right next to the front door in the foyer, leaning against the wall. I can’t imagine using it for anything other than chopping wood, but you never know.

The Secret Answers to Life

I was having a pretty good morning until I started eavesdropping on the conversation at the table next to me at the coffee shop. There were several earnest men and women whispering about…The Secret… What the (bleep) do We Know…. Zeitgeist, those fakey science concept videos that were floating around a few years ago where men and women with good skin and white teeth who used to sell car wax and household cleaning products on infomercials were offering a method or video or book or board game that would give you enlightenment and success and money. Who the fuck are these people who offer a Higher state of being or transformation, God consciousness, energy, enlightenment, infinite healing, psychic, Soul, Spirit, Goddess, heart, light, Love, divine peace, serenity, Bigfoot, UFOs?

There are jillions of healers, ministers, priests, shamans, psychics, fortunetellers, magicians, guides, gurus and astrologers, the list goes on, so many people who are trying to convince me that they have a closer connection to the impossible and the ridiculous. Bullshit. They aren’t a more elevated species. There’s not like Humans (I) and Humans (II). These liars offer made up, inaccurate answers to insecure, sad, undereducated dimwits and there are no measurable results and no evidence that they do any good whatsoever. 

On the other hand, I’ve spent 30 years and hundreds of thousands of dollars of my own money to discover the Secret Answers to Life.

I can make you happy. Guaranteed. I will pass on ancient wisdom that I have discovered in my life’s journey to make you glad to be alive and brimming with self-esteem. Are you depressed? That’s a fucking shame. Are you sad about a divorce, or are you mourning the death of a loved one? I am so sorry. You have my deepest sympathies. Let’s cheer up together. I will show you a surefire way to move beyond sadness and depression. Do you feel as though you’re not reaching your full potential as an Artist or a Writer? Well, that’s no good, is it? No problem. I promise that I can make you a better artist, a more successful writer.  I know this is real, because I invented it. The Secret Answers to Life. All it takes is money. Act now to get your Secret Answers. One hundred dollars will get you one secret answer. A thousand bucks buys 12. And remember, Secret Answers make wonderful gifts.

I’ll give you a Secret Answer right now, for free: Trust your instincts. Unless you’re drunk. Then don’t trust your instincts. Want another? Sure, no problem. If someone tells you they have a way for you to gain insight into the future, achieve success in a relationship, become financially independent, they are full of crap and will rip you off and disappoint you.

I’ve worked out a sliding scale so that everyone, no matter how limited their resources, can achieve universal enlightenment and personal satisfaction. You need the Secret Answer. From me. Reasonably priced.

You’re welcome.

More About Freedom

   

More about Freedom

I’ve just returned from a trip Wyoming, which has the most beautiful landscapes on earth: mountains, rivers, forests, plains, wildlife, unending sky. Less wildlife these days, of course, due to human incursion, hunting, misuse of the environment. But still, some wildlife.

Plenty of people, too. Nice folks, I guess, but it’s hard to find a parking place but unless you walk a mile or so up the trail, there are crowds of other tourists enjoying the more convenient sites. This, naturally, makes me think about birth control. It’s your right to have a baby. Glory to god and all that but more people means less parking. No one is going to create a decent public transit system in the USA and we are going to continue depending on gas and oil for our energy. It’d be nice if everyone gave a shit, but they don’t. How can we have it all and keep the government off our back; keep them from limiting our freedom to breed and drive and still maintain ample parking?

Here are a few ideas:

Never quit smoking. Fuck the government and their nanny warnings. Smoking is fun and nicotine feels great.

Drink and Drive. What better way to get somewhere quickly? Driving is a drag; lighten the load with a pint of vodka.

The best drugs were invented in America for a reason. Be patriotic and take many drugs. Find new uses for narcotics.

Mix drugs and alcohol. If one is good, two are better. Just like kids.

Do not wear a motorcycle helmet. Live free. Ride free. Ride fast. Ride drunk.

Eat lots. You can get ten tacos for $9.90 at Taco Bell and a double quarter-pounder with cheese is only $4.69 at McDonald’s. Fast food, fast pleasure.

If you are in an abusive relationship, stay. If you leave you will be breaking up your family. You have a duty to the children.

Buy guns. Collect guns. Show your children where the guns are stored. You never know when the bad guys are coming.

Fight for your rights. Get in lots of fights with men who want to prove their manliness. Fight to the death if possible. Are you tough enough?

Suicide is a classically respected and honorable way to die. Consider it whenever you are confused or in trouble. Or out of money.

No one should restrict your freedom to do what you want. You deserve it all.

Remember to take crazy chances, walk down dark allies and argue with strangers.

I hope I’ve helped.

My Prayer

     Do you still believe in God? Really? Well good for you; must be nice and comforting. Am I right?

     I was raised Catholic, went to catholic schools, mass, the whole thing. The Catholic Church has taken a lot of crap in the past, and I’m not sure they deserve it. I was disciplined, disappointed and discouraged by the time I was 13 so I think my religious training was completely successful. The church helped make me into an angry, alcoholic cynic who is often crippled by self-doubt. Way to go, Religion. I can’t remember my own fucking phone number, but I remember prayers I learned as a toddler. Wow. Thanks for permanently occupying that part of my brain, the part I probably could have used to get laid more often but, Nope, it’s full of prayers.

I read the news every day. I probably shouldn’t, because after a half hour of Google, Christian Science Monitor and the San Francisco Chronicle I lean back and say, out loud, ”Man, I hate everything and everybody.” I become depressed and have scary thoughts.

     So, I’ve written a short prayer to help me get through those tough times of rage, anxiety and pessimism that occur whenever I attempt to understand the world. Here’s my prayer. You may join me if you wish.

     “Dear God, you little bastard, I pray that there actually is an afterlife and that you will be there in all your glory, because when I see you I am going to kick your cowardly, selfish, narcissistic ass. God, you sorry excuse for a deity, what made you think that racism, sexism, cruelty, bullying, tooth decay and venereal disease were things we really needed here on earth? You monster. You’d better hide behind wall of angels if you see me coming through the pearly gates because I am going to mess you up. If You are the all seeing, all knowing, loving, eternal, infinite and omnipotent dictator, then war, disease, starvation, torture, child abuse, Real Estate salesmen, wealthy entitled assholes, the Department of Homeland Security and the DMV are your creations and responsibility. You are doomed. Make your peace with your…self, I guess, because I’m coming for you and I’m not alone. That’s a promise, you evil, malicious weasel. Amen”.

     Feel better? Good. Me too.