I hate a kid

There is a child who lives in an apartment next door. She is the best form of birth control money can buy. I hate this kid. That’s a terrible thing to say; I know. Part of me feels bad for saying it. But you would hate her too.

At least once every day, this two year-old-girl screams and cries. This takes place from 7 am to 8 am, an hour of my “sleep” spent suffocating myself with a pillow, trying to drown out shrieks and yells and earth-shattering sobs. The only way I can get the noise out of my head is to repeat audibly to myself (while still under a steamy hot pillow) my own personal rosary: I hate you I hate you I hate you. More often than not, I get an afternoon and evening reprise.

Granted, sometimes she just cries, but they are deep, moaning, horrible cries, cries that make me suspect that someone just told her about mortality and eventually she is going to die. But I doubt that she can even conceive of mortality and the infinite abyss, so she’s probably upset about needing to eat her oatmeal. Child, just eat your stupid oatmeal. For the love of God, eat your oatmeal.

More often than not, however, these wails bemoaning her existence are accompanied by top-of-the-lung screaming, screaming that carries no tonal overtures like her diatonic bawlings. It’s just a blast of nuclear energy scoffing at the walls separating us and driving its way into my ear canal. WHY? You are TWO! Life is not bad for you! You want to cry about something? Graduate college and face the real world. In the mean time, please stop. Just…stop.

Should I be afraid for her? No. The joys of thin-walled Los Angeles apartments also include the noises from her guardians. I hear cajoling, pleadings, and the occasional snap of “Oh Stop It!” This kid is not being abused, unless they know a method for beating with no noise. Come to think of it, if they’re not employing that technique now, maybe they should start.

Is this really what being a parent is about? If I got a kid like that, I would take it back. I would say, No, this isn’t what I ordered. I wanted the angel child that would play quietly in the corner and everyone would exclaim, "Why, isn’t she precious!" to which I would reply,"‘She must get it from her father," and we would all titter and go about our lives. This child makes everyone cry, even the neighbors. Can I get a refund or store credit or something?

I could go on and on, but something has interrupted my passive aggressive linguistic lashings. There’s a strange new sound around me. The sound of… silence? I began writing this to the tune of misery, and now I hear nothing except the sound of the fan of my laptop, a car passing by, and the far away bark of a dog. White noise. Gentle noise. Noise that placates my twisted angry heart. I am going to let this anger go and find a more constructive use of my time, at least until she begins again. In the mean time, if you are a parent or know screaming children and have any words of wisdom to offer my bewildered, tired soul, please share.

The Castle

“Hi!” Sarah stood at the edge of the park’s sandbox and peered at the boy making a sandcastle. She noticed some pink flowers behind him and momentarily considered picking one or two. They matched her flip flops. But no, she wanted to play with the sandcastle more.

The boy didn’t seem to notice her. Sarah tried again. “Hellooo.” She put her hands on her hips and tapped her foot dramatically, like Mom did when annoyed with Dad, or with Jimmy, their Labrador.

“Hi,” mumbled the boy, nervously.

Sarah evaluated his technique. The boy's castle was only two tiny lumps side by side. He must be in preschool, because everyone in kindergarten knew that sandcastles were at least two big lumps side by side.

“You should put more on top,” she declared. “I can help.”

The boy kept his eyes on the castle. He said nothing, but took his finger and began creating a moat. Boys are so stupid, Sarah thought. She climbed in the sandbox, picked up a handful of sand, and dumped it on top of the first mound. The boy quivered, and a tiny groan came out of his mouth.

Oh no, Sarah thought.

The groan turned into a wail, and Sarah sat, dumbfounded, empty hand still outstretched over the top of the castle. Idiot, she thought. It looks so much better.

Sarah’s mom hurriedly walked over, and a much rounder grownup lady scuttled close behind. “…not sure, but you know how kids are,” she heard her mother toss over her shoulder with a laugh. The other woman seemed not amused, and huffed her way over to the sandbox. Her pudgy arms reached into the fortress and plucked out the boy, tut tutting all the while. She set the boy on the ground and began brushing off his blue and white overalls.

“What happened, Sarah?” asked her mother.

“We were playing sandcastle, and I was helping,” Sarah announced matter-of-factly.

“Are you alright, Jimmy?” cooed the pudgy lady.

Jimmy? Sarah thought. He’s like my dog!

“You see, they were just playing sandcastle. No harm done,” her mother offered. “Sarah, remember to play nicely. Say sorry to Jimmy for making him cry.”

Jimmy is acting like a two-year-old, but he can’t help it. He’s just a puppy, Sarah decided. I'll be gentle. “Sorry Jimmy,” she sang, and presented him with a small grin, front left tooth missing. Impulsively, Sarah hopped up, dashed over to the pink flowers, picked the prettiest one she could find, and ran back with flower in outstretched hand. Horrified, Jimmy buried his face in his mother’s gaudy plaid skirt.

“Well,” sputtered Mrs. Pudge, taking the flower on Jimmy’s behalf, “that was very considerate. Jimmy, will you play nicely with…”

“Sarah,” her mother inserted.

“…Sarah?” Mrs. Pudge finished. “Look, she brought you this pretty flower.” Jimmy eyed the flower cautiously. There was a tiny ant crawling in the middle of it. He liked ants. His fortress could become Ant Castle if he put the flower in its middle.

He took the flower from Mrs. Pudge, crawled back into the sandbox, stuck his finger in the one undefiled lump and plopped the stem into the hole he created. Ant Castle! Maybe this Sarah wasn’t completely evil after all. Jimmy looked up at the three intimidating women with a shy smile.

“Pretty!” Sarah exclaimed. She ran over, picked another flower, ran back, and plunked it in the better sized lump. Flower Castle! Jimmy isn’t so dumb after all.

Sarah and Jimmy glanced at each other. Jimmy quickly looked down, restarted his moat, and then cautiously looked back at Sarah.

“I’ll help?” Sarah asked. Jimmy smiled and went back to work, with Sarah plunging in right beside him.

The ladies looked on approvingly. Sarah’s mom turned to Mrs. Pudge and exclaimed, “But my, where did you find that gorgeous skirt?” They wandered back to the nearby park bench, leaving the two architects to continue building the castle.

Bedroom Feng Shui vs. Water

Two months ago, I rearranged my room, but before I did, I looked up the laws of feng shui. Many of them made sense, such as reducing electromagnetic fields (i.e., turn off your damn computer), placing your bed so you can see the doorway (a command position in case of attempted ninja attack), and creating a peaceful color scheme (no multi-colored polka dots). However, I was startled by the following commandment:

Remove any water images from the bedroom.

I found this funny, because I am drawn to paintings that include bodies of water. The first painting I ever bought, I discovered while perusing the wares of a street vendor in Rome. It was tucked away amid dusty old books and cracked vinyl records. What is this? I thought, noticing a corner of painted canvas. Pulling it out, I was met by a red sky at night (sailor’s delight), casting a fading stream of warm light over otherwise dark waters. In the foreground, two large rocks peep out of the placid ocean, hinting at land a little further inward. In the background, three boats sail off into the ocean, toward the just-set sun. I don’t know what other people see when they look at this obviously amateur acrylic, but I see an adventure, not of turbulence accompanied by those attempting new feats of bravery, like Jason in Argonautica, but of the kind born out of an instinctual human need to connect to something bigger than oneself, like The Old Man and the Sea. And in this connection, my water image, bought in the most unlikely of places and transported back to America in my own quiet adventure, sets me at rest.

Since then, I have bought others paintings—one of an ocean wave crashing against a rock, and another of a cottage nestled in the woods by a winding river. In each scene, this water brings life and power that it shares with me, but that I cannot and should not attempt to control. It is a gift, a moment in which I may partake, but which existed in itself before I arrived and will remain after I am gone.

So, feng shui, will these water images cool the fires of passion that should be raging in my boudoir? I hope not. Most of the time, they are busy bringing me joys of their own. I would hate to throw the babies out with the waters, if you catch my drift.

An example of my internal dialogues

Said Mrs. A to Mrs. B, “I wish but to live naturally.”

Said Mrs. B to Mrs. A, “Yet is there any other way?
As seasons come and seasons go, mankind’s condition morphs, you know.
But since it changes by our hand, it must be natural to withstand.”

Said Mrs. A to Mrs. B, “I see what you mean, obviously,
And acumen of human mind does give me leisure with my time.
But let me know if you agree: Invention breeds necessity.”

Said Mrs. B to Mrs. A, “I shall not throw my car away.”

“Neither would I,” said Mrs. A, “And this is what concerns me,
Fraying values, over-bloated needs, that scrape away propensity
To see interconnectedness, and give the greedy heart some rest.”

Said Mrs. B to Mrs. A, “A personal issue I’d say.
It’s just as natural to want rest as to want King Midas’s chest,
And if invention that incites, I join with Smith in my delight.”

Said Mrs. A to Mrs. B, “You don’t feel systematic need
To produce, publish endlessly? To make your Jack a Master She
And in so doing to neglect the simple things Forefathers bled
To secure for posterity—Redwoods, gulf streams for you and me?”

Said Mrs. B to Mrs. A, “Do you want cars or skies today?
In verity, you have your pick—contribute or rest as you wish.
Do keep in mind there’s no free lunch and hope your wants subside by much.”

Said Mrs. A to Mrs. B, “Maybe I don’t mean naturally.
In verity, I wish there were more balance in the universe
My afternoons spent catching fish, playing critic o’er evening’s dish,
But giving to society, developing holistically.”

Said one pragmatic Mrs. B. “Remember late 1980s?”
“It was a lovely fantasy, but didn’t work realistically,”

Said Mrs. A to Mrs. B, “But surely, that was too extreme.
Yet even if I had the chance, to leave behind dreams of success
For a life of simplicity, I don’t know if I could, Ms. B.
My brain’s has oxymorons packed—Driven eudaimonmaniac.”

Said Mrs. B to Mrs. A, “Please take that lesson home today,
This worrying will turn you gray, and at the end of it you’ll say
No matter how much time I thought, there was no proverb to be bought—
Unless you want to be a monk, there are no goddamn answers, punk.”

Okay, so maybe the last line doesn't quite fit the poem in style...

If God Spoke to Me

Prophets and preachers, attuned to the sounds of heaven, translate the voice of God to their flocks below.

But if God spoke to me, what would it say? In silence, I hear this:

“I am the Father of Abraham, the Mother of Isaac, and the earth that envelopes them all. I am the immutable laws of the universe and the chemicals bouncing in your brain. Those who invoke me and those who deny me all share in my being, for being is my nature.

People feel me in connections. Feel my energy in the pews of a church, listening to a sermon on the values of traditional marriage. Feel me in a Civil Rights rally, marching for the freedom to unify with the ones you love. Feel me in the mountains of Afghanistan, in the spirit of the warriors under Osama Bin Laden, fighting for a lifestyle, fighting for a life. Feel me in the sorrow of New York City on September 11, 2001. Feel me in the cry for assistance to Haiti, and in the energy of those who heed the call. I am. I am existence. I am the united. And my power grows with the numbers who join, joining me.

Fight me against me! You have, and you will continue to do so. And I will bolster your Churches, and I will fuel your Taliban, and I will inspire all who help those stricken by natural disaster, for unity does not exist without me. The more you unify, the more you know of me. Your laws, your rules, when used to separate, to segregate, to describe and prescribe a life, will each have a piece of me in their spheres of unity.

But take these segregationist rules away, find common ground, and two previously separate unities merge into one, and there I am in more fullness. You will feel me ever stronger, and you will look back and say, "This is a truer God, for it is a more complete God."

He who is without blame cast the first stone. He who is with blame, reach out and unify, and find me there.”

This is what God said to me.

What does your God say to you?

***DISCLAIMER***
I am afraid that this piece will anger many, many people, and maybe rightfully so, for I didn't clearly make known my views about God.
I should say that I don't believe in God, especially not a conscious God, but I FIRMLY believe in the religious experience. I let go of my idea of God when I was 15 years old, after I watched a video of thousands of people worshiping at the Ka'bah. I wondered to myself, if entire nations believe in their God as strongly as I believe in mine, how can I know which one is correct? The mere "feeling" of God doesn't do me any good as a measure.
And yet, I had felt it, so I empathize with the "Knowledge of God" that comes through gut, raw inuition.
So let's say that groups of people unify under similar experiences of God--or similar experiences of values, or similar experiences of conviction in the 'right' way of living. How can we measure which system of feeling is better than the next?
In my view, the systems that allow for the most freedom, the most love, the most acceptance and unity, are categorically better than those that prohibit freedom and acceptance. Why? Because when we look at what each religion or movement has in common, it is a sense of unity, of something greater than ourselves in which we play a part. And if that something can be made categorically larger by including more people, more walks of life, and still finding the unity within, that is a more comprehensive, greater unity than the one that preceeded it.
So No, I do not support the Taliban. I think their system is closed, critical and wrong. And No, I do not support churches that would deny people to marry the ones they love. But, I DO believe that people who participate in those systems feel God through a sense of unity In those systems. And I do believe that opening your system to more walks of life provides a greater sense of unity, and thus ultimately, a greater Feeling of God, whatever that may mean for the individual.

Writing: Is it good for you, too, baby?

I love writing. I should do it more often. Often times, driving home after a long day’s work, I think about my “Next Piece,” how it will move and sway and provocate (that’s not really a word—just go with it), and people will be stirred to comment, and we will think and laugh and grow together. In this world, we inspire one another, we realize our innate prejudices, we expunge ourselves of the refuse of bygone eras laden with traditions of fear. But then I get home, flip open my laptop, and watch my facebook feed deliver me a new candy every minute and a half.

Sometimes I think about thinking about writing, and it’s all very self-indulgent and not that awesome, unless I imagine that my self-indulgence somehow becomes a rocket ship instantaneously reversing course in a vacuum, a miraculous physics-defying Adaptation-esque twist. (Truthfully, I vacillate between thinking that’s one of the greatest and shittiest screenplays ever written, but since that’s part and parcel of what Kaufman wanted me to question, he gets his way, which lends itself to brilliance. Jerk.)

The truth is, finding a subject and writing on point can be difficult. And so, dear reader, you’re my only hope. I propose the following: Give me a mini topic, and I will write about it. 200-500 words, nothing more. And if you want me to return the favor, I will gladly suggest a topic for you and even more gladly read your opus. We can move and sway and provocate ourselves, a veritable hedonist brain commune. Are you in?

Truth be told, this piece was supposed to conclude with some real thoughts on how to extract the benefits of tradition without the Burkean prejudices. But i'm tired now, and my facebook feed has racked up a lot of eye candy...

Whom to Date

I came up with a solution to the problem of what type of man I need to date while showering before New Year’s Eve’s festivities and rocking an intense pre-party buzz. Don’t let the circumstance bring you to doubt my findings; they are founded upon only the most rational scientific grounds.

Each individual falls into one of the following categories, which can be graphed on a standard Cartesian plane:

I. Attractive, Intelligent
II. Attractive, Unintelligent
III. Unattractive, Unintelligent
IV. Unattractive, Intelligent

Let’s imagine the x and y axes (attractiveness, intelligence) valued from -7 to 7. A person can lie anywhere on the plane (see graph). However, instead of thinking in terms of only 4 quadrants, it might be more useful to break it down further into degrees. If the absolute value of any number is greater than 5, we will add a “highly” in front of their categorization. Thus, a value of (5.2, -7) would be “Highly Attractive, Highly Unintelligent,” while a score of (3, -2) would be “Attractive, Unintelligent.”


How do we evaluate where we lie on the graph? You people are so demanding. I don’t know. Let Brangelina create standards for High Attractiveness and Joe Dirt a standard for High Unattractiveness (and High Unintelligence for that matter). For my purposes, intelligence will be a combination of life smarts and book smarts. I believe I am (4.5, 5.9), or “Attractive, Highly Intelligent.”

Now, what kind of man should I date? I’d love to date a really attractive, really intelligent guy, but sometimes they are hard to find. In order to widen my dating pool, I need to be able to make concessions.

The fact of the matter is that most of my friends are highly intelligent; I can get my intellectual fix from them. And as much as you can admire the attractiveness of your friends, you don’t share the physical intimacy of a dating relationship.
Therefore, in a dating relationship, attractiveness weighs slightly more than intelligence (hold your judgment; this doesn’t apply in the long term!). I have made a not-to-scale graph of my ideal dating pool. If I can find the men who are attractive and intelligent, but slightly less intelligent than I am, so that my intelligence becomes an incentive to date a girl slightly less attractive, this will be perfect! (Is this a stereotypically male strategy for dating as well?)

Someone more, equally or almost as intelligent as me but categorically more attractive will be considered “Dating Up.” This is great for a while, but has the potential for heartbreak.

And none of this is an indicator of marriage material. Eventually, all of our bodies will fall into the clasping hands of age. For a long-term life mate, it is probably best to date someone of equal or greater intelligence, and probably someone less attractive than you, because you can count on them being consistently grateful for your (relatively) hot bod, and you can admire their long term stability and interesting companionship.

BUT! I have too much to do before I’m ready to settle down, so all you (x > 4.5, 2 < y < 5.9) men out there, feel free to drop me a line!