Through the inner workings of Blogger.com, provider of this site, I can see various bits of info under the "stats" summary. Apparently someone who was on my blog site entered an internal search to ask how worship is handled in The Neutral Zone. If the wording and spelling were complete enough to mean anything to me, it seemed to indicate that the searching was being done by a reader perhaps in Russia, where nearly half my readership is located, amazingly. At least, that's what the stats page also gives me.
Here I will freely admit that my neutrality cannot be depended upon when it comes to worship. Neutral in my attitudes toward people who are worshippers? Sure; I do that as devotedly as I can manage, determined to not be judgmental through the remainder of my life in the way I was during my religious years. I have written, in a book manuscript as well as in online comments, about my years of abject devotion to a Christian sect. The countless hours I spent on my knees during thirteen years of humble worship have made it difficult for me today to feel anything but revulsion at the thought of worship. What I came to see as wasted time then morphed into a grudge against the whole concept. That grudge came by way of realization that the time wasn't merely lost to me; the time spent in that devout mode had reduced me, weakened me as a person. In retrospect, I see worship as a constantly demoralizing and self-destructive activity.
Consider this: I hit puberty during the time Marilyn Monroe was soaring to heights of stardom. She was there in front of all of us hormone-laden teens of the nineteen-fifties, there to want and to worship. If I had taken to this goddess so profoundly that I could delude myself into a belief that she would someday be my lover, my soul-mate, etc., then I would have been giving myself over to a pointless and demoralizing struggle, my psyche forced to survive my own folly. Anyone who knew me and/or cared about me would have naturally been begging me to stop the madness of worshipping this unattainable goddess. They would have watched me in pity as I continually ate away inside with wanting something I could never attain. They would see me missing out on important activities while I sought more ways of potentially attracting Marilyn's attention. They would tell me this obsession was destructive and that I simply had to give it up. Other boys my age would have soared past me in development while playing baseball and joining in many typical youthful pursuits. I would have lessened my own stature by constant wishing and by pleading to some unseen force to give me the chance to see Marilyn and to have her see me.
Ludicrous analogy here? Not at all. The sad thing is, my fanciful worship of Marilyn (that didn't actually happen for me but undoubtedly did for many of my contemporaries), would have been less far-fetched than was my later worship of a traditional supreme being. At least Marilyn was real, was visible, was approachable. Was capable of returning attention. The odds against my meeting and finding love with her would have been astronomical, much as the odds against winning the big Mega Lotto jackpot - but it was not beyond any possibility. Worshippers of that traditional phantom in the skies (in any of the disparate concepts) surely believe that their chances for ultimate satisfaction are better than mine would have been with Marilyn. While I strongly doubt there is anything at all out there to make that desired satisfaction materialize, I nonetheless leave those worshippers to their own devices. And I wish them happiness in any way they can achieve it. I prefer working continually on being a better human and a more devoted fan and supporter of our visible cosmos. It is my firm and constant belief that when I bend to pick up one small piece of trash off the surface of this abused planet that I am doing infinitely more good for myself and humanity than I ever did by bending and scraping before a mystical supreme being.
IF that fictional worship of Marilyn Monroe had occurred in my youthful world, I would have expected, in fact it would have been a shame if it had not happened, that all who cared for me would have tried to convince me to give it up. But the commonly accepted traditions of society demand of us all that we never try to pull our friends and loved ones back from the brink of madness when they express a devotion to something completely implausible, invisible, unapproachable. And the madness is even madder than that - there is an intrinsic zaniness within the larger world of general belief! A Catholic can be deeply convinced that a Baptist is going down a wrong road and needs to be shown the light, but this simply isn't done. A Mormon can be absolute in his conviction that a Muslim is wrong in every way, but he cannot try to enlighten him; the right to believe any folly is sacred. Why, in our advanced age of Man and our 21st century world of scientific knowledge, can we not look at this phenomenon and ask, "What then can be the logic in my choosing any one of the innumerable beliefs and sticking to it in a devoted worship?" Ah, that is the question one might ask himself (unlikely though it is that anyone will), but it is a question one can never ask of others. It's just not in good taste.
That's it for now. No more talk of worship for this moment. I think I will go out and pick up some more trash from our Earth during Earth Week, then come in to settle into a scotch-on-the-rocks and maybe an old Marilyn Monroe film.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Miss Representation
So - - If I appear in drag and ask for your vote, might I win the title of Miss Representation? It would be very fitting, although I'm sure the clothes would not.
Yes, I meant to spell it out in the way it is above. Because that is the well-thought-out and interesting title of a new documentary film about women and sexism in our society. Jennifer Siebel Newsom, director (creator) of the film and website, Miss Represention, was interviewed on a cable news show on Sunday, April 15th and has since been well covered in a number of media outlets. So rather than try to write a new, longer blog today, I ask that you check out this important effort to achieve balance in our world of inequality. My own feelings on the mistreatment and under-appreciation of females have been clearly stated in earlier blog entries. The work being done by Miss Newsom will go far beyond what I might write in my small corner of blogland.
Good cheer to you on this beautiful morning.
Yes, I meant to spell it out in the way it is above. Because that is the well-thought-out and interesting title of a new documentary film about women and sexism in our society. Jennifer Siebel Newsom, director (creator) of the film and website, Miss Represention, was interviewed on a cable news show on Sunday, April 15th and has since been well covered in a number of media outlets. So rather than try to write a new, longer blog today, I ask that you check out this important effort to achieve balance in our world of inequality. My own feelings on the mistreatment and under-appreciation of females have been clearly stated in earlier blog entries. The work being done by Miss Newsom will go far beyond what I might write in my small corner of blogland.
Good cheer to you on this beautiful morning.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Nightmare Golf
The last few days have been a bit of a loss to my real world - assuming anyone would characterize my strange existence as happening in a real world. I came down with some very debilitating bug shortly after an Easter dinner. No connection, I presume. But by late afternoon, I was slipping into a state of chills and fever, sneaking away from the other guests and hosts at the auspicious venue, and stretching out across the guest bed. That happened to be near the guest bathroom, where I was concerned my meal was going to end up shortly, returning by the same path it had taken an hour or two earlier.
And to my friend Al, who commented on my previous post, allow me to say I did NOT enjoy that scotch as you encouraged me to do. The fact that I was sipping a fine after dinner drink and could not enjoy the taste was a clue that something was not quite right in my interior. My downhill slide began sometime around half-way through the final round of The Masters golf tournament which all of us at that gathering watched with delight. Witnessing Bubba Watson's tearful release of tournament tension was about the last thing I recall of the day.
To emphasize this connection to golf in general (and you know by now, I'm something of a nut for the game), I had just spent a week with our children who came to hang out at our home on the golf course. We played well over 100 holes of golf during that week! When my son is here with me enjoying the typical warmth of southern California, he feels enfranchised and obligated to spend all the time he can on the course because it's just the thing to do! He might manage to play on another course only once or twice before he's back here in three to four months, so he backlogs his rounds of golf whenever he's here. Now my six-year-old grandson is becoming almost as committed. So I did play a lot of golf, having to always be out there with them to allow them to play in my senior community. Naturally, I loved it all.
The foregoing info will come into play here shortly. Sleep on Sunday night was practically impossible. All my bones seemed to want to reject each other and depart my body in protest. But if my estimate of ten minutes as my longest single time spent in any one position is correct, then my nightmare was amazingly resilient and determined. It seemed I had slept almost not at all, yet it equally seemed that I dreamed for hours - that is, endured the nightmare for hours. It would seem the nightmare was so determined, it renewed itself after a number of semi-wakeful stretches in which I was forced to painfully turn my body to a new, still uncomfortable, position.
And the nightmare, unbelievably, had me trudging a golf course! I use the word trudging pointedly because walking was more like dragging myself along through thick mud - an account I've heard others recite in trying to express the feel of a nightmare. But the course I was playing didn't look muddy or awful in anyway; it looked like a beautiful golf course. It wasn't Augusta National, for some reason, but a fine course. I simply was hampered in my ability to play it properly. Apparently I was required (by some impish golf-gods conspiring with nightmare gremlins) to go ahead of my son's round on the course, and until I could conquer a hole in some way, he would not be able to do well at all. The problems were two-fold essentially. One; as I said, it was as though I had to trudge through mud even though the course didn't show up as muddy, and two; the holes I had to hit were not really holes and not even on actual greens. As best I can describe them, they were rubber-like objects tossed on the ground at odd locations - I had to find them - and they looked more like enlargements of those crazy shaped rubber-bands of many colors that youngsters collect on their wrists. After each time I was able to putt the ball into the crazy band, I was told I had to pick up the rubber item and put it on my ankle, stretching it over my shoe. These then gathered in number and hampered me still more as I continued slogging through the course.
My son following along with the regular play, typical greens and holes, and having a caddy, appeared to be playing well though I could barely catch a glimpse of him at some of the greens while I was on the succeeding tee boxes. At some of these moments, he gave me a thumbs-up gesture. Much appreciated!
I'm sure a dream analyzer could come up with all kinds of psychological meaning out of all this, but to me it meant one thing only: I was sick! My supposition is that the brain is stuffed with so much info along with flotsam and jetsam that given a chance, it will push out some of that crud while other systems are down.
Congrats to Bubba and my son for great rounds of golf!
And to my friend Al, who commented on my previous post, allow me to say I did NOT enjoy that scotch as you encouraged me to do. The fact that I was sipping a fine after dinner drink and could not enjoy the taste was a clue that something was not quite right in my interior. My downhill slide began sometime around half-way through the final round of The Masters golf tournament which all of us at that gathering watched with delight. Witnessing Bubba Watson's tearful release of tournament tension was about the last thing I recall of the day.
To emphasize this connection to golf in general (and you know by now, I'm something of a nut for the game), I had just spent a week with our children who came to hang out at our home on the golf course. We played well over 100 holes of golf during that week! When my son is here with me enjoying the typical warmth of southern California, he feels enfranchised and obligated to spend all the time he can on the course because it's just the thing to do! He might manage to play on another course only once or twice before he's back here in three to four months, so he backlogs his rounds of golf whenever he's here. Now my six-year-old grandson is becoming almost as committed. So I did play a lot of golf, having to always be out there with them to allow them to play in my senior community. Naturally, I loved it all.
The foregoing info will come into play here shortly. Sleep on Sunday night was practically impossible. All my bones seemed to want to reject each other and depart my body in protest. But if my estimate of ten minutes as my longest single time spent in any one position is correct, then my nightmare was amazingly resilient and determined. It seemed I had slept almost not at all, yet it equally seemed that I dreamed for hours - that is, endured the nightmare for hours. It would seem the nightmare was so determined, it renewed itself after a number of semi-wakeful stretches in which I was forced to painfully turn my body to a new, still uncomfortable, position.
And the nightmare, unbelievably, had me trudging a golf course! I use the word trudging pointedly because walking was more like dragging myself along through thick mud - an account I've heard others recite in trying to express the feel of a nightmare. But the course I was playing didn't look muddy or awful in anyway; it looked like a beautiful golf course. It wasn't Augusta National, for some reason, but a fine course. I simply was hampered in my ability to play it properly. Apparently I was required (by some impish golf-gods conspiring with nightmare gremlins) to go ahead of my son's round on the course, and until I could conquer a hole in some way, he would not be able to do well at all. The problems were two-fold essentially. One; as I said, it was as though I had to trudge through mud even though the course didn't show up as muddy, and two; the holes I had to hit were not really holes and not even on actual greens. As best I can describe them, they were rubber-like objects tossed on the ground at odd locations - I had to find them - and they looked more like enlargements of those crazy shaped rubber-bands of many colors that youngsters collect on their wrists. After each time I was able to putt the ball into the crazy band, I was told I had to pick up the rubber item and put it on my ankle, stretching it over my shoe. These then gathered in number and hampered me still more as I continued slogging through the course.
My son following along with the regular play, typical greens and holes, and having a caddy, appeared to be playing well though I could barely catch a glimpse of him at some of the greens while I was on the succeeding tee boxes. At some of these moments, he gave me a thumbs-up gesture. Much appreciated!
I'm sure a dream analyzer could come up with all kinds of psychological meaning out of all this, but to me it meant one thing only: I was sick! My supposition is that the brain is stuffed with so much info along with flotsam and jetsam that given a chance, it will push out some of that crud while other systems are down.
Congrats to Bubba and my son for great rounds of golf!
Sunday, April 8, 2012
He is Risen...
Ra, that is. The sun god has not ceased to be honored in many thousands of years, the last two thousand or so of these all mystically combined with a Son and tied to an extended mythology.
When some jolting image in a zany dream awoke me this morning, I was suddenly aware of the bright light coming in through the window and realized the sun was already up, which is unusual for my world. Normally I am checking the clock every few minutes, in total darkness, and deciding when I might just as well rise from the bed and not wreck a tenuous balance of sleeping/waking time. Then the daylight creeps into my living room as I sit with my computer on my lap and listen to the coffee brewing. Today was different only in that I slept a few minutes into daylight and had to shake off the eerie effects of some very busy and typically confusing activity that had gone on in the vague webs of dreamland.
I did not suddenly jump to the realization I was missing some kind of sunrise service. In fact, it was only after getting up and turning on the coffee maker that I had to deal with the reality of what day this is in the world around me - a world far more zany and confusing than dreamland. And now I need to gather myself and prepare for dealing with actual humans who impact my life but who also feel tradition bound to make some special worshipful gestures on this day. For the cause of personal and family peace, I must allow myself to be sucked in once again to that arcane world of eggs and bunnies. To be less than comfortable but more in tune with others who are part of my life, I will again drive to be with those who insist on doing the Easter thing. At least I managed to make it clear many years ago that I would have none of the go-to-meetin' part of the whole morass of Easter Madness. My morning time, instead of sitting piously among fearful deity followers, can be enjoyed while at the steering wheel, seeing the world around me go by and relaxing in the pleasure of moving along the road. This has long been one of my religious experiences - far more satisfying than any ceremonial religious b***s*** in which I have involved myself in the past.
So now to appreciate the fresh coffee, turn on the TV and check out what the folks in Augusta are saying about the final round of The Masters golf tournament that is getting underway even as I write. Part of what made me decide to make the drive to the home of today's hosts was the fact I knew there would be lots of food and good Scotch, and that the television would stay tuned all afternoon to The Masters. Terrific irony there.
When some jolting image in a zany dream awoke me this morning, I was suddenly aware of the bright light coming in through the window and realized the sun was already up, which is unusual for my world. Normally I am checking the clock every few minutes, in total darkness, and deciding when I might just as well rise from the bed and not wreck a tenuous balance of sleeping/waking time. Then the daylight creeps into my living room as I sit with my computer on my lap and listen to the coffee brewing. Today was different only in that I slept a few minutes into daylight and had to shake off the eerie effects of some very busy and typically confusing activity that had gone on in the vague webs of dreamland.
I did not suddenly jump to the realization I was missing some kind of sunrise service. In fact, it was only after getting up and turning on the coffee maker that I had to deal with the reality of what day this is in the world around me - a world far more zany and confusing than dreamland. And now I need to gather myself and prepare for dealing with actual humans who impact my life but who also feel tradition bound to make some special worshipful gestures on this day. For the cause of personal and family peace, I must allow myself to be sucked in once again to that arcane world of eggs and bunnies. To be less than comfortable but more in tune with others who are part of my life, I will again drive to be with those who insist on doing the Easter thing. At least I managed to make it clear many years ago that I would have none of the go-to-meetin' part of the whole morass of Easter Madness. My morning time, instead of sitting piously among fearful deity followers, can be enjoyed while at the steering wheel, seeing the world around me go by and relaxing in the pleasure of moving along the road. This has long been one of my religious experiences - far more satisfying than any ceremonial religious b***s*** in which I have involved myself in the past.
So now to appreciate the fresh coffee, turn on the TV and check out what the folks in Augusta are saying about the final round of The Masters golf tournament that is getting underway even as I write. Part of what made me decide to make the drive to the home of today's hosts was the fact I knew there would be lots of food and good Scotch, and that the television would stay tuned all afternoon to The Masters. Terrific irony there.
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