Rob Boone

father | son | brother | professional | man.

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  • Why I Love the Web
    Apr 18, 12
    I love the web. Every time I sit down with or in front of a web-enabled device, I marvel at the possibilities that have just opened up before me. I realize, though, that not everyone grasps the transformative power of a world lain at your fingertips. Most recognize that it is sparking a revolution in the world as a whole, but few understand the web’s power to transform on a very personal and individual level. I see an opportunity for me to spell it out.

    My usual process is this:

    I usually begin my day with Twitter, catching up on the overnight nuggets sprinkled throughout the ether by the various wonderfully thought-provoking people I’ve chosen to follow. A friend recently remarked that she assumed that Twitter was just for sports and geek stuff, which, of course, couldn’t be further from the truth. In fact, Twitter is a tool. It is what you make it. It can be as dangerous in your hands as is a hammer in the hands of a toddler, or it can be as helpful as the same hammer in the hands of a master craftsman. It takes a bit of time to prune and trim your timeline to those who you find most engaging, but once you do, it’s a remarkably powerful medium. For instance, I tend to follow leaders in the fields I’m interested in, so my feed is filled with designers, writers, neuroscientists, psychologists, comedians, literary figures, Linux aficionados, freethinkers, and yes, sportscasters.

    I sift through these things in the morning, favoriting tweets that seem of interest. Each of those favorited tweets is fed to a bookmarking service (in my case, both pinboard.in and kippt.com), which I can then peruse later, opening the links to find those that are actually worthy of reading. Those that make the grade are added to my Readability queue, and I read them from the comfort of my Kindle.

    Quite often, a piece so entrances me that I star it in Readability. These are usually pieces I either write about or add to the Weekend Reading section I post here on Saturday mornings. Either way, I can go back to them later and re-read them. Usually, a theme or two emerges among a couple of articles, and oddly, it’s usually a theme that crosses genre or industry. I may see a correlation between the latest neuroscientific piece by David Eagleman and the How We Will Read segment on the Findings blog, a regular look at the future of reading. Frequently, I’ll use these starred articles to put together my thoughts on the divergent subject that emerges from within these various texts.

    Now, let me share something that recently came up in a conversation with a fellow wonderer (context: we were discussing the freedom to write about a topic of your choosing versus a school setting, in which you’re given a subject to write about, and usually given the materials from which to gather your own conclusions): her argument was that working on assignments you wouldn’t normally seek out allows you to diversify your perspective, to see things from the point of view of someone whose work you wouldn’t normally stumble upon. To which I say this: this is precisely the beauty of the web.

    The entire underlying philosophy of the web- indeed, the principle it was built on- is hyperlinks (or, simply, links). The ability to cite the work or writing of another individual within a given body of work is the glue that holds the web together, and the principle that gives it its enormous power. The result is this: when I browse these articles from great minds, the articles are inevitably sprinkled with links to the works of others, often those espousing the contending view of the point the author is trying to make. And those articles link to more works, and those to more, and ... well, you get the idea.

    All this combines to create a very sharp sense of serendipity. Before long, a mountain of information and engrossing texts lay before you, and it becomes your job to sift through the information to find what is valuable enough to be worthy of your time.

    All this can happen in a span of hours, if not minutes. Now, contrast this with the amount of time and effort it would take to collect that amount of information twenty years ago, or even the mere accessibility of it- how many scientific texts were available to us mere laymen before the web came along?

    This is to mention nothing of the newest web principle- the social aspect. Imagine being able to actually connect with the people who write the things you so admire.

    Now, would you like to learn to play the guitar? Learn another language? That’s possible. Want to collaborate on a screenplay with someone in Prague? You can do that. Your kids are hundreds of miles away? Grab your phone and pull up a videochat. At the moment, I’m learning design, honing my meager writing skills, learning another language, and studying a bit of acting. Often, I feed my mind with the fantastically powerful talks on TED.

    One can (and probably will, later) go on and on building a list of the mind-boggling qualities of an interconnected world, but I’ll leave it at that. There are any number of reasons to fall in love with right here, right now- the age we live in. These are but a few of mine. What are yours?
  • Thank You, Dear Reader
    Mar 31, 12
    Ideas are the beginning points of all fortunes.
    Napoleon Hill 

    When I started this weblog not long ago, I had no idea where it was headed. In fact, I still don’t. The one thing I knew is that I wanted to start conversations, and I must admit this was a thoroughly selfish motive. See, I am an odd sort of fellow who seems to surround himself with wonderful people, but people who, nevertheless, are seldom interested in the things that interest me- so I turned myself over the powers of the modern web. The web is, almost literally, anything and everything, but arguably its true talent is to spark conversations.

    So I wrote. I wrote to get the things in my head out of my head and onto the unprinted page, and by and large, my goal has been accomplished, though it will never be over. For one reason or another, the comments section of this blog has never exactly exploded, but the discussions have nevertheless appeared, usually in the form of email. You, wonderful reader, you, have many times emailed me your thoughts on my latest ramblings, and many of them have contained poignant insights, useful criticisms, or a simple word of thanks. A handful of you who know me personally have even called on occasion to give me your thoughts on something I’ve written. I want to thank you, because that, again, is why I write. The thoughts in my head, even in being “put to paper,” are not tremendously useful in and of themselves- they must be tossed into the air, where they can jump and run and play and frolic with your ideas, and come back down to me richer, wiser, and more thoughtful.

    As I said, I still don’t know where this blog is going. I started it with a few digital meanderings, which somehow morphed into life lessons of a sort, half-baked philosophical word collages, and the like. Perhaps I’ll find the sweet spot between the two: one of my greatest passions is the intersection of the digital world with the physical, and its effect on both individuals and society. Either way, it doesn’t matter, as long as I have fantastic readers, many of you fellow bloggers, with whom to exchange ideas. So, again, thank you. Here’s to keeping the conversation going.
  • On Vulnerability (A Special Edition)
    Mar 29, 12
    I find myself thinking about despair today. I tend to hold an existentialist worldview, maintaining that the universe is inherently void of meaning, which lends itself to viewing the world as a blank slate. If there is no meaning, then one must create his own meaning. The problem with the existentialist view, though, is that, even if rare, despair eventually rears its head, climbing into bed with you to ensure that its face is the first you see when you open your eyes one unsuspecting morning. Typically, I take one of two approaches to these days: I either reason my way out of them, or succumb to them completely- sometimes the most effective method of dealing with unwanted emotions is to allow them to defeat you, even if only for a time.

    It will be difficult, to say the least, to succumb to despair using the medium of the blinking cursor now before me. That being the case, let me use this cursor in pursuit of the first method: reason.

    The post I’ve most wanted to write of late concerns the role of vulnerability in our lives- its purpose and its advantages. Two things have stimulated this thought process in me: a fantastically brilliant TED talk by Brené Brown, and a film I recently watched. In her talk, Brown argues (and I’m paraphrasing) that only true vulnerability leads to true human connection, and that human connection is the heart and soul, so to speak, of existence. That being the case, the conclusion seems to be that vulnerability, in its rawest form, is vital to the human condition.

    The film contained an epiphany of the same sort, albeit much simpler. In it, two people made a powerful connection with each other, and I began to wonder, and then to investigate, exactly what led to this connection. The answer came in a rush: it was the vulnerability of one character, who exposed herself to a very raw, even humiliating level. There were no garments left to hide her soul- it revealed itself to be quite flawed, desperate and frightened, of the one thing that has the uncanny ability to petrify the strongest of us: ourselves. Her emotion was naked, and the effect on the witness of this undressing was powerful. The effect on her was even more so: though her eyes radiated with fear, her body moved as if it was tasting true freedom for the first time, bursting from the shackles of facade.

    The effect was, curiously, just as powerful on her witness, and it seems to me to be so for precisely the opposite reasons. Whereas the Vulnerable is freed by humility, the Witness is empowered. Being deemed worthy of such nakedness, the Witness cannot help but feel like the Chosen One, and indeed he is. He’s been chosen to witness the undressing of a soul to its most basic element: helplessness. And if helplessness (vulnerability) is the most basic element of our existence, it is then by definition the core component of us all, and the Witness cannot help but see it in his own soul. Therein lies the connection- the silken thread connecting us all. When a moment of vulnerability radiates from a person’s very self, it also shines a light on the thread connecting all of us, so that Witness and Vulnerable feel as if the Universe is revealing a true secret to them, hitherto unseen by the rest of us.

    These thoughts came streaming to me in a flood as I realized that, in writing a story, in order to create a true connection between two people, one character must be exposed, completely and utterly. This fact now seems as obvious to me as the grass beneath my feet.

    How, then, can I use this knowledge to fend off despair? The answer, now, seems obvious: I must make myself vulnerable. If connection is truly the heart of existence, despair must be the lack of connection, and thus a lack of vulnerability.

    Exposure is not an easy thing for me to do. I’m typically a fairly secretive person. In fact, I can honestly say that there’s not a single person on the face of the planet who truly knows me. Even those who think they do only see variations of a different mask. True, a select few see a much thinner veil than most, but no one has seen the mask removed. Ever.

    So, in this spirit, let’s peel back the mask a bit.

    I cannot begin to describe how petrified I am of my future. When I was a kid, there were, at various stages, a few things I was quite good at: it began with baseball, which gave way to academics, then acting, all intertwined with a bit of poetry and some dabbling with essays. Throughout childhood, it was always assumed by those who knew me that I would excel at one of these things as an adult. To date, however, I’m not a baseball player, or an actor, or a scholar. These things, as a matter of fact, I’ve failed at, quite miserably. What, then, is left? Writing. Only writing.

    I realize now why I’ve waited until thirty-one years of age to get so serious about writing: it’s the only facade I have left. Everyone who knows me thinks of me as a fairly talented writer. If I pursue this, then, and I fail: what is left to define me? What- who- will I be?

    I’ve also dabbled in design a bit lately. I’ve laid out my goal before: no longer will I be a salesman, peddling products I myself don’t believe in to unsuspecting victims by way of manipulation and cheap mind tricks. I’ll create things: with words and with code. The writer/ designer that, while already becoming a bit cliché, seems to give more meaning to my existence, and will allow me to follow my daughter wherever her stepfather takes her. Complete mobility is the goal, a circumstance in which, as long as I have my laptop, I can make a living. If I fail, then, it means that I may not be able to watch my daughter grow up. That thought is nothing short of unbearable.

    So I must learn. I must write, and fail, and design, and fail, and try, and try, and try. The stakes are high. I believe, though, that in the end, the connections made along the way will prove to be the most valuable of gems. I will connect to my fellow human beings; I will connect to myself, and I will connect to my daughter, by providing an example that will, one day, when she reads my words, make her proud to be my daughter. There is, I think, no nobler pursuit than that, and no surer way to fend off the advances of despair than by seeing the light in my child’s eyes when she looks back into mine with pride. That is the real- the only real- connection.
  • On Lying to Yourself
    Mar 27, 12
    Happiness is not right around the corner, though I know so many who feel that it is. For this to be true, life must be a journey of sorts. It is not. Instead, it is an almost infinite series of moments, strung together so finely so as to give the illusion of oneness, of one straight, measurable line. We are not walking a line. We are living a series of moments.

    I recently read a wonderful piece by Sara Robinson entitled Why We Have to go Back to a 40-hour Workweek to Keep our Sanity. In it, Robinson shines a light on the destructiveness of an all-consuming work life. Like any great truth, though, this thought process can (and must) be applied to every other corner of our lives.

    The American Dream has deceived us. What began as a seedling with limitless potential to bear fruit has become a thorny, tangled mess, luring us in through the promise of beauty, and ensnaring us in its prickly branches. The American Dream says this: that if you work harder than everyone else, you will one day have a beautiful home, family, and career. You will have a fine house, a beautiful car, an impressive job, 2.5 children, and a loving spouse. What’s never mentioned- only deceitfully implied- is that happiness is part of the package- that once you possess (so to speak) these things, you will be endowed with joy- that, as soon as you turn that corner, you will see happiness, gift-wrapped and waiting just for you. The illusion only works, however, if you don’t see the series of moments passing you by, only seeing the illusory straight line. And if you’re keeping yourself busy in the pursuit of The Dream, you’ll only ever see the line. To see the moments requires one to slow down, to reflect, to look. Do you see those little moments? The bedtime story with your child? The satisfaction you felt the last time you created something? The last time you did something you’d never done before? That walk you took a few months ago to clear your head? Keep looking. You’ll see them. Once you do, we can move on.

    If Happiness is not to be found in The Dream, where, then, is it to be found? You may be surprised to hear that I have the answer. In short, there is no answer. At least, not a universal or objective one. It’s the most relative and subjective of all questions, in fact. You alone can answer it. There are a few tips and tricks that might be learned, of course: the man who blurs the line between work and play is generally a very happy man. (In fact, lest you misunderstand the above paragraph, note that I'm not discounting the value of hard work; on the contrary, in fact: few things leave one feeling as satisfied.) The woman who’s learned to perfectly balance work and home life can say the same. Finding an adequate amount of personal time amidst the hustle and bustle of your obligations will certainly help. Ultimately, however, only you can know what makes you happy. Truth be told, though, discovering what makes you happy is the easy part. The next phase is quite difficult: doing.

    This is where Robinson’s advice comes in handy.

    Control- the Gift and the Curse

    On one hand, if happiness is so individual, you’re the only one responsible for your own happiness. That’s quite the burden to shoulder. On the other hand, you’re the only one responsible for your happiness. The meaning of your life is yours to create: do with it what you will. There is, I think, no greater freedom than taking full control of your future.

    Robinson delves into the idea that, until very recently, limiting your employees (or yourself) to a forty-hour workweek was considered the only healthy way to do things, both in regards to personal health and a company’s profit margin. A truly healthy company- and its employees- recognize the importance of well-rested and mentally nourished employees. The same applies to all of us in our personal lives.

    Task lists and busy lives are not the goal- they are, in fact, an obstacle. Being busy for the sake of being busy accomplishes nothing. Most of us realize this, however- and dismiss it out of hand. I’m not busy for the sake of being busy. I just have lots of very important things to do. Therein lies another problem. None of us want to be told, least of all by ourselves, that the things that we’re doing aren’t truly all that important. If we’re honest with ourselves, though- if we take a good, hard, brutal look- we realize that our priorities, by and large, are all mixed up. The result is that we convince ourselves that we don’t have time for trivial things like relaxation, the right amount of sleep, or enriching our social prowess by reading. The truth is that these things are crucial to a well-lived life. Just like at work, burning ourselves out in our “spare” time by not having any spare time leads to an unhealthy you, and an unhealthy you gets less done and lives a less joyful life. Want proof? If you have kids, there's an easy test to administer. Ask your child if he or she would rather have fifteen minutes of your undivided attention 1) sandwiched between two typical day-to-day tasks or 2) after you've just returned from a peaceful walk.

    One great technique is this: instead of saying that you don’t have time to relax, or to read your child that bedtime story, tell yourself that it’s simply not a priority. You’d be surprised how often this is true: would you really rather iron a shirt than take a walk? Watch the latest episode of The Killing or learn another language? We all have the same amount of time in a given day. The hard truth is that you’ve created your busy day and you can take it back again.

    I must govern the clock, not be governed by it.
    Golda Meir

    Most of us can trim up to a couple of hours of free time per day from our busy schedules. Even if it’s only an hour, imagine what you could do with an extra 365 hours a year. Once you find this spare time, you now have the luxury of filling it. Fill it with extra sleep, meditation, a good book- whatever makes you feel whole again. These are the keys to a joyful life. Outside of work, you are your own boss. If you’ve been working yourself overtime, scale yourself back to the metaphorical forty hours, and live, laugh, and love again. You'll be a better person for it.

  • Weekend Reading
    Mar 25, 12
    This week's reading contained so many gems, it was difficult to narrow the field down to the five most worthy of you, dear reader. I did manage, though. On a side note, I've decided that for those sites which require it, I'll be posting the Readability view of these articles. For those whose site is already in a beautiful, readable view, I'll link to the original. Enjoy: 


    Happy reading, Wonderists (as I've decided to call you). If you enjoyed this post, please share it with some awesome people with the handy buttons to your left.                                                                                                                                           
  • We interrupt your regularly scheduled internet...
    Mar 25, 12
    I've never posted a single link here on Wonderisms- that's what Tumblr is for- but this piece by @brainpicker is a Friday must-read. Poignant, timely, relevant, and just oh-so-good, it touches a topic near and dear to my heart. So, without further ado, click away:

    E. B. White on the Free Press and the Evils of Corporate Interests in Media
  • Excuses, Excuses
    Mar 15, 12
    I haven’t posted (read: created) anything here in a couple of weeks, mainly because the ideas haven’t exactly been forthcoming. There’s a reason for that, which I’ll explain, but for now I thought I’d get try to get the creative juices flowing by posting a journal entry of sorts, a brain dump: just to put pen to paper, so to speak.

    I’m in Louisville for the month to see my daughter. Though I take every chance I get to see her, it’s not nearly often enough, I’m ashamed to admit. This is decidedly the motivating factor behind a few aspirations, ultimately all rolled into one: to write, both blogs and novels, and to teach myself web design. See, my daughter’s stepfather is a military man, and so he moves/ transfers every few years. If I want to spend the most amount of time with my daughter, ideally I have to be able to work from wherever I have internet access. Hence the attempted career shift to an entirely mobile one.

    So, again, I’m here in Louisville to spend a month or so, which I like to do every so often. The writing environment, while satisfactory, is less than ideal, mainly because I’m simply not focused on it. While I’m here, the trivialities of my daughter’s life become my own, and while I wouldn’t have it any other way (no greater pleasure exists, in fact), it means that my writer’s brain must take a backseat to my father’s brain. Instead of waking up with the remnants of my dreams floating through my head, I wake with a mission: to see my daughter (her name is Jessica, by the way) off to school, to start her day properly. It’s a solid two and a half hours after I wake before I even begin to think of anything remotely resembling writing material. At home, I make myself stay away from the computer for an hour, at least, after I wake up, and perhaps do a small workout or read a bit. The freedom of my thoughts, though, allow my writer’s brain to stir during these precious morning hours, and usually by the time I sit down at my desk, those thoughts are begging to be penned. Not so here, as I’ve said. There- you have my excuse.

    Another thought that emerges in regard to the writer’s brain: I missed the opportunity to audition for two wonderful plays in my absence: Beckett's Waiting for Godot (arguably the best play ever written) and Steve Martin’s Picasso at the Lapin Agile. The experience of being in a show in and of itself is an extremely valuable thing, but the material that is produced by stepping inside the world of another writer (the playwright) is immeasurable. Creativity, to use the term in its loosest sense, is an extremely contagious thing. I’ve yet to meet a creator who is not spurred on by immersing themselves in the creative works of others, especially those more talented. Part of this philosophy is reflected in the fact that the best writers are also the best readers.

    Moving on- as I’ve said, it’s the most glorious of feelings to immerse myself in another creative pursuit- the molding of my daughter’s very self. There is, I think, no greater pursuit, and no greater challenge than the finest of lines that must be walked between directing a young mind, and letting that mind flourish of its own accord, wandering where it may. The desire between shielding her from harm and allowing her to make her own mistakes is mental tug-of-war that never ends. An example: yesterday, while jumping on the trampoline in the backyard with Jess and the neighbor’s boy, he revealed to me that she had broken his heart (they have... what’s the word for seven-year-old dating? We’ll go retro and use “going steady”). Later, Jess lamented that fact, telling me that she had only “broken up” with this boy so as not to upset her best friend, who was angry with her for even having liked him in the first place. Of course, this is a fine line to walk for her, too- where to draw that line between protecting the feelings of a friend and remaining true to your own feelings? I wanted so desperately to inform her of the ways of the world, what she should do, and how she should react- but this is something which she must not only learn for herself, but experience for herself. No amount of talk from me will embed in her fragile psyche the repercussions of the delicate dance of romance v. friendship.

    She also inspires me to no end. The other morning, while waiting with her at the bus stop, she told me that she’s so fast that she can outrun the clouds. She spoke these words without the faintest trace of inhibition on her face. As far as she was concerned, she could indeed outrun the clouds. As an adult, we often feel that such blind and boundless optimism can be quite hazardous. Perhaps optimism, though, isn’t even the correct terminology here. She has an unbridled faith in herself- a characteristic from which the vast majority of adults I know could benefit wildly. I can’t help but wonder how much some of the people I love would have accomplished had they had this very same level of faith in themselves. Regret, as they say, lies only in the past, though, and the past is something which my daughter will have none of. Neither does she care much for the future, which, to extend the phrase, begets anxiety. She’s interested only in now, for as far as she’s concerned, the present is the only time that matters. The consequences of that philosophy couldn’t be any clearer- I see it in her face every time she’s enjoying the present moment. If you look at the face of the nearest child, you’ll see it, too. That’s not just the expression of a cherub-faced future grown-up: it’s the visible embodiment of now. And when you realize that simple truth, how truly great now really is.
  • Weekend Reading
    Mar 17, 12
    First, let me apologize for missing last weekend's Weekend Reading post- it's been quite a busy week. I've decided to post all of these in Readability view. Let's get right to it: five articles worthy of your attention this weekend:


  • On Perfection
    Mar 08, 12
    Artists who seek perfection in everything are those who cannot attain it in anything.

    ~ Gustave Flaubert

    I’d like to spend a bit of time this morning evolving the concept of perfection. In the abstract, of course, there is no nobler pursuit. In reality, however, the pursuit of perfection can be cancerous. I know the disastrous effects this pursuit can render firsthand- I am a recovering perfectionist.

    In the opening quote, Flaubert is speaking only of artists, of course, but there is no greater artist than he who paints himself against the canvas of the world, who seeks to find his place among the stars, or in his own heart. Self-growth is a mantra that always surrounds the swirling deluge of thoughts circling me. There are some who have no desire to improve themselves, and I don’t care to dwell on that type of person. For the rest of us, that improving ourselves every day is tantamount to living a life worthy of... well, life, is axiomatic.

    It’s a double-edged sword, this mantra. On one hand, it is the pursuit of perfection that widens our eyes in wonder every morning. On the other, it can be a circular path to walk- when no less than perfection will do, the list of obstacles is, quite literally, never-ending, because our imperfections are infinite. To battle them is to battle infinity itself.

    I recently had a conversation with a friend in which I used a bad metaphor to illustrate the challenges we face in the pursuit of self-growth. It may be a bad metaphor, but it is apt. Imagine that your task is to build a spectacular wedding cake. The foundation must be perfectly proportioned if it is to support the rest of, say, a seven-tier cake. Eventually, though, in constantly sculpting and re-sculpting the foundation, you come to realize that the past several hours have passed in this pursuit, and you’re left with little time, and not a fully-realized cake at all, but a near-perfect seventh of a cake.

    So it is, I think, in our own pursuits. Each of us looks for a foundation within ourselves to build on. We want to be kind, strong, magnanimous, reasonable, intelligent... the list goes on. We would hardly like to build our very selves on a foundation of flaws, so we seek to correct (or worse, to erase) those imperfections. I am a bit stubborn. I’ve been told that I have to win every argument I enter into. I can on occasion seem too detached. I oversimplify things. Despite my best efforts, I drink entirely too much coffee, go on the offensive when cornered, and worst of all- I often think of my way of doing things as the only correct way. These, to say the least, are shortcomings, imperfections, but they are also a part of who I am. Were I to try to “fix” these things, that endeavor alone would consume my entire life, because they are such an inherent part of my nature. Were I to refuse to accept these things about myself, I would never be able to move onto the second, third, fourth tiers of my cake (me).

    This, I think, is the mistake that so many like me make- the vicious cycle that many can’t seem to get past, because they can’t seem to accept that they, as works of art, contain imperfections. How much more valuable, though, are works that contain such imperfections. The concrete example that comes to mind is mass-produced goods. Build a mold, and use it to produce hundreds, thousands, millions of materials with the same qualities, the same advantages, the same intrinsic beauty. Imagine these qualities in, say, Picasso’s works. It’s safe to assume that they would not hold the same monetary value had he devised a way to mass-produce his work, but neither would they hold the same inherent value. So it is with us. Our differences, flaws included, give us value. My mother is the only “my mother.” There is no other, and I can’t imagine I would value her as highly if there twenty of her. My daughter is an endless labyrinth of ideas, emotions, flaws, and triumphs. Again, there is no other, and she is the most valuable thing this universe has ever produced (I may be a bit biased).

    For once, I don’t want to dwell on this subject- I’m sure you get the idea. I’d like to invite you to write the rest of this piece. Examine yourself a bit, find those parts of you that are uniquely you, and identify the flaws. Embrace them. Use them to build the foundation of who you will become tomorrow, and build from it. No man or woman has ever existed in a state of harmony with his or her self without first embracing those scars, those imperfections. Find them in yourself, then move on. Perfection does not lie in perfection itself. Perfection exists only in ignorance of itself.

    Advance, and never halt, for advancing is perfection.

    ~ Khalil Gibran

  • On Fallibility
    Mar 01, 12
    As a child, I succumbed to the notion that the world around me was infallible. Everything was as it should be, and everyone knew what they were doing. Those who delivered the news, those who manufactured my home, those who ran my government were making products and ideas that need not be questioned. In seventh grade, that changed.

    I was sitting in Mr. Miller’s algebra class. We began the day’s lesson with the proper placement of a decimal point. Standing in front of the blackboard, yet another pillar of exactitude, Mr. Miller told us that, at a convenience store just up the road, a sign in the window advertised coffee for .99 cents, and that every time he saw that sign, he wanted to walk into the store, pour himself a coffee, and hand the cashier a penny, telling him to “keep the change.”

    The rest of the class chuckled. I did not. I wondered. The fallibility of the world had just been exposed to me, and I would never see it in the same light. If these people at the gas station didn’t understand a concept as simple as the placement of a decimal point- basic math to even the most average of seventh graders- what other mistakes were present in my world?

    As it turns out, no greater gift could have been bestowed upon me than the knowledge that even adults made mistakes, that the world was not a perfect, utopian place. If the world was indeed flawed, then it cried out for corrections, for new ideas, for new mistakes. The world is an unfinished product, and it desperately needed new workers to improve upon it. I was handed the proverbial blank slate, equipped with a single piece of chalk, and I needed to get to work. All these years later, the exhilaration of that epiphany has not yet left me.

    Fast forward to 2011. After a seven (eight?) year stage hiatus, I auditioned for a part in a local theater’s production of “Arsenic and Old Lace.”  Much to my surprise, the part was given to me. Not only had I been absent from the stage for so long, I also had no technical training, no real skill to speak of. So, during the first rehearsal, I pulled the director aside, asking him to be generous with his criticism, as I was eager to learn, to improve, to grow. After all, my stage background was less than impressive, to say the least, and his was to be envied. He was a professional actor, and one who ran his own theater, no less. His reaction to my request was surprising- in that he was surprised. Most people don’t ask for more criticism, he said. Few are thankful of the little that’s given to them.

    I pondered this for awhile afterwards. How could it be that amateur actors were so hesitant to receive instruction from someone so obviously their theater superior? How can anyone grow, how can anyone improve, if they’re completely closed to those from whom they can learn? The more I thought about this phenomenon, the more I started to recognize it in my life outside of the theater. Friends who were involved in bad relationships refused to take advice from those in a happy marriage. Freshman colleagues refused to accept the help of senior staff members. I even witnessed a first-time guitar pupil getting annoyed at the suggestions of his tutor. It was as if everyone assumed that they knew best, in every possible field, even if that clearly wasn’t the case. 

    He who moves not forward, goes backward
    ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe


    The problem, it seems to me, lies in the tendency of individuals to wrap their thoughts and their actions up into their identity, twisting and mashing them together until one is indistinguishable from the other. If we are the result of the things we, think, say, and do, then it’s difficult not to take offense when we are told that we could be doing something better, we could be approaching something in a more thoughtful way, or we could be dealing with circumstances more advantageously. After all, when you attack my actions, you are consequently attacking me.

    In order to grow, one must create a dichotomy of himself. One one side lies our thoughts, our actions, our words. On the other, our very selves. The Romanian philosopher and writer Mircea Eliade put it thusly:

    As long as we are unconsciously and automatically identifying with the changing contents of our consciousness, we never suspect that our true nature remains hidden from us. Contemplative traditions affirm in one metaphor or another that our true identity lies not in the changing contents of consciousness but in a deeper layer of the self, mind or soul. To reach this deeper layer one must slowly disentangle oneself from automatic identification with the contents of consciousness.


    In this case, of course, our consciousness is our thoughts, actions, and words. Once you’ve accomplished this disassociation, the recognition comes that you are an incomplete work of art: you yourself are a blank canvas, and you hold the paintbrush. Paint yourself as you will. There are no rules, no restrictions, and most importantly, no infallible master instructing you to paint yourself as so many have before you. Nor is your first attempt going to be your best, but that’s the beauty of the thing. You are not limited in the amount of times you choose to recreate yourself. You may choose to add a bit of color here and there, transforming yourself in minute ways until you’re satisfied with the resulting mosaic. You may choose to simply start with a blank canvas every week, every year.

    To let you in on a little secret, I’m in the midst of this very process. A ten-year salesman, I now know that there is no life better-suited for me than one of writing and web design. It’s a difficult, arduous process to recreate oneself, and it need not be so drastic. But to be the master of your own Fate, to wield the brush that paints your life is an invaluable and liberating thing. To be handed the brush, though, you must open yourself to the wisdom of others. Admit to yourself that you do not always know best. Don’t just open yourself to criticism- actively seek it, because you are a work in progress, and to see yourself as infallible is to paint yourself in black and white. The brilliant colors needed to paint a masterpiece lie in the wisdom of the people you love, trust, and admire.



  • The Currency of Movement
    Feb 28, 12
    Saturday night, I saw a one-woman play performed in a local theater. “Rachel Corrie” is the story of a courageous young woman who spent her last months in Palestine, championing a cause that was dear to her heart. The story of her death was not the story that needed told; the story of her life was a lesson in humanity.

    I spent a lazy Sunday afternoon watching “The 100 Greatest Artists of All-Time” on VH1 Classic, a rare couple of hours in front of the television. I only got the chance to catch numbers sixty through one, but in every artist profiled a common theme began to emerge: the abnormality of those who transcended their genre to become music icons.

    Sunday night, I caught snippets of the Academy Awards. Billy Crystal was charming and funny, yes, but the true appeal of the show began to appear during introductions and acceptance speeches, when introductions attempted to articulate the effect a particular work of art had on other human beings, and acceptance speeches showed us the raw emotion and human element of those great minds who were responsible for these works.

    The weekend’s crescendo came during Meryl Streep’s acceptance speech. Watching her bring herself to tears, as she has so many times prior, I found myself wondering at the fantastic places artists to which artists can transport us. There’s  a magic in art that’s so often overlooked in our overstimulated world. An artist- an actor, painter, writer, singer, sculptor, dancer, composer- offer us a magic carpet ride. It’s as if they pull up alongside us, telling us “I know a world not far from this one, which you absolutely must see. Jump on, and I’ll be your guide.” Sometimes this world is, truly, another world. Sometimes it is only another dimension of our own reality- one that we either didn’t know existed, or that we simply never recognized. In either case, the artist’s task is simple: to move us. They tinker with the innermost workings of our hearts, of our minds, tugging and pulling until we feel an emotion that almost overwhelms us. Feel that? That’s profound sadness. This lever here? Fear. This button? Pure joy. This, my friend, is what your soul was created to feel. This is what your heart is capable of.

    The ability to move your fellow man to tears, to unbridled laughter, to truly feeling operates as a sort of currency among artists. You moved me, sir, and I feel that I owe it to you to move you, too. I must repay you for your performance, and so in my next endeavor, I will strive to be better, to reveal to you the part of yourself which you have revealed to me.

    This is the higher plane that true creators reach. The rest of the world operates on a currency of money- a vile, earthly, meaningless thing.  Artists, though, transfer and create and destroy this amazing currency of movement, encircling the world in a spiraling web of heartache, laughter, and emotion. If you pay attention, you may even see it. A lucky few do. The next time you’re moved by a performance, a piece of writing, a song, close your eyes. The web may appear, in all its brilliant colors- the reds of love, the deep purples of perseverance, the whites of fear, the yellows of compassion. If you’re lucky enough to see it, you are thereby given a task: to add your own color to the web, to move your fellow human being as you have been moved. Now, close your eyes, take a deep breath, and get to work.
  • Weekend Reading
    Mar 17, 12

    A seemingly random collection of things worthy of your attention this weekend (some old, some new):

  • Coffee Cups & Relationships
    Mar 01, 12
    I recently had a conversation with a dear friend of mine, and it struck me that I’d spoken these words many times before. In fact, they were becoming something of a mantra, a piece of the personal manifesto puzzle.

    In this conversation, I likened most aspects of my life to a coffee cup I recently purchased. Now, I am quite the coffee fanatic. I’ve no idea how I’d go about my day without it. Consequently, I attach a great deal of significance to the cup I drink my coffee from. It must be fairly large- I don’t want to refill the cup every five minutes. It also must be large in the right proportions- wide, not tall. Tallness in a cup creates a feeling of instability. Instead, I want a wide cup that feels stable, solid, trustworthy. I also want the cup to reflect my personal tastes, so tend to shy away from intricate designs, opting instead for a simple one. One would think that such a cup would be easy to come by, but in reality, I only recently found the perfect cup.

    I now use this cup all morning, until I cut myself off from coffee, opting for water in the afternoon, when I switch to a structurally similar scotch glass. After dinner, I usually have a cup of hot tea, and I pull out the coffee cup again. That’s generally it- I use these two cups exclusively throughout my entire day. Do I pay an unusual amount of attention to the cup which holds my drink? Yes- and in doing so, I’ve extended this thought process to other aspects of my life.

    The conversation around this cup sprang up in speaking to a friend about a current relationship and its eminent demise. I had been single for many years, and preferred it that way. I was asked how I could be so comfortable living for so long without a partner. My answer was quite simple: I was more selective than most. As with the coffee cup, I refused to allow anything mediocre in my life, be it a relationship or a cup.

    The response that I got was quite interesting: what gave me the right to be so selective? Most everyone settles for something at some point or another. Isn’t it better to have something than nothing at all? From my friend’s perspective, it all sounded a bit egocentric. Perhaps, I said, but if that’s the case, I wish everyone were a bit more so.

    I want to immerse myself in an experience. If I’m reading a book, I’m doing so without any distractions- maybe outside on the porch, with the accompaniment of the birds’ calls, maybe in my favorite chair with Sinatra playing faintly in the background. If I’m watching a film, I set aside a certain block of time to pay attention to the message that the filmmaker is trying to convey, similarly setting the atmosphere. When I exercise, I don’t do so half-heartedly; again, I immerse myself. These activities (and even the simple act of drinking coffee) are things I’ve decided are worthy of my time. After all, time is the most valuable commodity on earth. It’s the epitome of transience. There has never existed a person who was more rich in time than any other. It’s a remarkably finite thing. Even as you read this, your supply is diminishing. That being the case, why would I settle for anything mediocre? Why would I read an article that does not enthrall me? Why would I drink from a cup that rather annoys me? And why in the world would I devote my time to a mediocre relationship?

    It is a wretched taste to be gratified with mediocrity when the excellent lies before us.
    ~Isaac Disraeli

    With the acceptance of mediocrity inevitably comes the confession that one’s life is mediocre, and to make that confession is not only sacrilegious, it’s patently false. As Carl Sagan put it: “Who are we? We find that we live on an insignificant planet of a humdrum star lost in a galaxy tucked away in some forgotten corner of a universe in which there are far more galaxies than people.” The fact that you are here is amazing. That you are able to bear witness to a sunset, to a child’s laughter, to great coffee and great conversation with a dear friend is awe-inducing. If you’re unfamiliar with the feeling of awe, you’re not paying attention to the world around you.

    The excellent lies before us, if only we cast mediocrity aside. Allow yourself to be a bit more selective in what is worthy of you, and the excellent will make itself known, be it a coffee cup or a relationship.

  • The Case for Conscious Consumption
    Feb 21, 12
    If you reside on the web, or even occasionally visit, this seventeen-minute presentation given by Clay Johnson should be at the top of your to-do list. In it, Johnson explains why we must demand a reversal in the trend of the downfall of editorial integrity, and why it is vital to every American citizen.


                       

    found via curiositycounts.
  • In Response to @JDBentley's "The Purpose of Life is to be Happy"
    Feb 16, 12
    JD Bentley recently (well, two months ago) wrote a post with which I vehemently disagree. Now, for the record, JD is a wonderful writer. I’m a subscriber to his site (you should be, too) and I enjoy his posts immensely. That said, I think he has this happiness thing all wrong.

    He begins this particular post by refuting an idea from the Dalai Lama, that “the purpose of our lives is to be happy.” JD’s refutation of that notion is this: “Not only does happiness being the purpose of life sound ridiculously vague and simplistic, it also sounds selfish and shallow.”

    The vague nature of happiness is entirely the point. In fact, were happiness not so vague, it would also be far less valuable. The notion of happiness reminds me of the ultimate and age-old question regarding the meaning of life. Indeed, perhaps the two are one and the same. Neither can be called objective- what makes me happy, what gives me meaning may be monotonous drivel to you, and vice versa. Happiness is perhaps the most subjective experience of all, and it’s this very characteristic that gives it its inherent value. As a wedding ring given to a young girl by her dying grandmother holds more value to that girl than the rest of the world, so the value of our happiness is ours, and ours alone. The question of happiness or meaning is a misleading one, because in and of their own right, those concepts don’t exist. Meaning (read: happiness) is a thing to be created, not an objective truth. As for the “selfish and shallow” bit, I’ll get to that.

    JD goes on to say:

    The purpose of life is a struggle for completeness. It has little to do with your emotions or your well-being. It’s about your character and your essence. You will have joyous experiences and sorrowful experiences, relaxed experiences and tiring experiences, all conspiring to build you up into wholeness.


    We’ve all known miserable people, and few of us would gladly spend a day with someone who seems to be in constant anguish. After all, misery loves company. It is indeed infectious. So, too, is a positive personality, and it is these with whom we prefer to spend our time. It’s simply human nature to prefer the presence of positive people. Given that you accept this truth, who could be called the more complete person? Person A, full of despair, or Person B, full of life? Nietzsche was an intellectual giant of his time, wildly accomplished, and yet I doubt he would have described himself as complete. Thoreau, on the other hand, would probably have no trouble describing himself as such, having devoted an enormous amount of his time to personal growth, after which he emerged a tremendously happy person. Both had tremendous character. Only one may be called complete. To commit to presenting the most complete version of yourself to those who choose to spend time with you seems neither selfish nor shallow.

    The post ends with this:

    We are a generation unwilling to hear such an answer, though. We’re more concerned with feeling good and being told it’s okay to feel good, whether or not it’s actually beneficial for us.

    Feeling good is not the point.


    Here, again, the very definition of happiness needs to be questioned. To confuse happiness with “feeling good” is, in my mind, intellectually dishonest. Were that the case, a few drinks would induce the optimum state of man. To feel good does not equate to being happy. In fact, the happiest people I know are not those who string together the most possible joyous experiences while eliminating as many negative experiences as possible. No, the happiest people are those who not only accept sorrows as inevitable, but embrace them as a mere link in the chain of life- a stimulus for reflection and growth. On his last point, I agree completely. Feeling good is not the point.

    Happiness is the meaning and the purpose of life, the whole aim and end of human existence. ~ Aristotle

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