Sunday, May 26, 2024

Not Even Not Zen 355: People Have Theories

People Have Theories

A theory is a model of how reality works, like the theory of gravity. People get attached to their favorite theories, even ones they don't formalize in writing. In fact, people might get most attached to informal, unspoken views. They mistake their assumptions about how things work for their reality. Some people die unhappily and, to them, unexpectedly because their theories missed something critical. 

Maybe they viewed the world through their ethnicity, as in "I didn’t expect that guy to shoot me because he looked like someone from my tribe." Maybe they viewed the world like a game, as in "I thought I'd get another chance."

Nowadays, these assumptions get called cognitive bias. We all, as humans, are likely to recognize how aspects of an event confirm our theories. We do this more than we notice elements of the same incident that contradict our expectations. The mental habit has been called other things, too, and so has the act of unlearning biases. Unlearning has gone by labels like 'letting go of preconceptions' and 'embracing the paradigm shift.' 

For long periods of time in many cultures, spiritual leaders played down the concepts of cognitive biases and unlearning. Those leaders asked people to 'endure' or to 'hold fast' to wrong worldviews. Still, the idea of unlearning has a respectable history. 

Seeing Things As They Are

As soon as people lived long enough to need to unlearn things, discussions about the need must have arisen. 'Unlearning' came to be held in high regard by some people, at least. 

Daoism is a tradition with a prominent focus on 'seeing things as they are.' Living in perfect harmony with the universe is the stated goal. In order to live in harmony, one needs to understand the world and accept it for what it is, not as what one wants it to be. Sometimes this view on living has made for good scientific observations. Long ago in China, Daoists became prominent scientists. Daoism always had a more mystical side to its philosophy, too, as expressed by the term 'ziran,' which means freeing oneself from obstructing biases and acting in a spontaneous, natural fashion, without effort. 

Stoic philosophies were lost to western traditions for centuries after Stoicism was banned. When the religion was popular, though, it used multiple terms to address 'unlearning' concepts. The Stoics valued ataraxia, the trait of not being disturbed by the external world, and apatheia, the peace one achieves by giving up the passions of life. Stoicism also recognizes pathos, which refers to emotions resulting from mistaken judgments. Giving up mistaken judgments is a vital step in the Stoic concept of becoming an ideal person.

Buddhism promotes the practice of vipassana. The term refers to seeing things as they really are and it has its own, dedicated style of meditation. The meditation may have drifted from its term a bit and from its implied unlearning of bad assumptions (although I don't have first-hand experience with it). Nevertheless, the term vipassana reflects the importance of the 'unlearning' skill and a long tradition of honing it.

Zen Buddhism, in a slightly separate tradition, expands the 'unlearning' concept as far as 'unasking' a question. By unasking, a Zen practitioner indicates that the question, regardless of its answer, is not a productive one - the answer cannot give any useful insight. 

Strategies 

Some ways of letting go of cognitive biases are simple.

One way is to envision a different bias. It goes like this: if you are convinced people are stingy then, for a while, convince yourself that people are generous. Observe, inside yourself and in your worldly circumstances, how the change in your approach changes the world. If you normally think of yourself as short, regard yourself as tall. If you often think your neighbors are fussy, think of them as careful, hence their beautiful yard, fence, or mailbox. Put your different view into your actions. 

The important thing is to be at least a little bit in control of your biases. Of course, envisioning a different bias in order to loosen the hold of a deeper, more ingrained one is just the mental or spiritual equivalent of warming up. 

Another powerful method of re-learning is increasing your ability to focus. With practice, some people get very good at this underrated skill. Likewise, you can train yourself to observe without judgement. To start, it's as simple as questioning the part of you making those judgments and asking, perhaps, "what did I really witness?" In many professions, possessing sharp observation skills is essential. (Think of an air traffic controller or a detective without them.) In others professions, the skill goes unrecognized even though it conveys a significant benefit. (Imagine the results when nurses or doctors increase their powers of observation.)

There are essays and books on these strategies but personally I find that another good way is to relax and deliberately lose focus. Let observations occur naturally. Maybe, as you regard those observations, you'll let those slip away, too. 

Any approach to improve un-learning or re-learning skills is valid to try. Because we all need to improve. The reason why 'seeing things as they are' is an esteemed practice in Daoism, Stoicism, and Buddhism is that clear outward sight and clear insight are related. And they are both a bit too rare. One of the reasons people have a hard time noticing things and understanding them, of course, is that people are attached to their theories.

Sunday, May 19, 2024

Not Even Not Zen 354: Poem - True Love, the Scam

While I was sitting at a wedding, listening to the vows, I started writing new vows in my head. A few whispered words from my wife made me decide on a particular poet. I tried to write for myself in that style. So for me, the ceremony was entertaining but I ended up with this confusing set of vows in my head.

I hope someday, someone will get married to this. 


True Love, the Scam

Would you take this spouse to bed?
Will you take this ring to wed? 

It might seem selfish, could be dumb
But I've liked my lonely freedom.

Would you be the lock and key? 
Stay together and still be free? 

If somehow I could be free
I would keep the lock with me.

Would you love their long pea coat? 
Would you love them in a boat? 

Boats may cause me to be sick.
Coats are itchy and too thick. 

Would you together make a house?
Can you, can you, be a spouse?
Will you shout a love primeval?
Would you dare a love illegal?

Well, if you give, to me, the ring
I think I'll dare most anything.

For damn, I am.
Damn, I Am.
In love.

Yes, I love you here and there. 
I will love you everywhere.

I will love you in a box.
I will love you. You’re a fox.
I swear my love upon a star.
I will love you near and far.

Say, I have fallen for the scam.
I am in love, damn me, I am. 
And I will love your long pea coat.
And I will love you in a boat.
And I will kiss you in the rain.
And in the dark. And on a plane.
And in the car. And in a tree.
Your kisses are so good, you see!

Yes! The box unlocks
And we'll be free
And I will love you more, you'll see.
Holding hands till we go gray
We'll increase our love each day.
I can love this stupid house.
I can be, with you, a spouse.
Yes, I love you here and there.
I will love you everywhere.

I do so like
this true love scam.
Damn it,
Damn it,
Damn, I am.
In love.




-- Eric Gallagher, 2024 (at Megan's wedding to Nate)

Sunday, May 12, 2024

Not Even Not Zen 353: Biomythography - Note 93: Strange Bedfellows, Part V

Strange Bedfellows, Part V

On a spring day in downtown Northampton, I wandered the sidewalks from shop to shop. I don't remember why. I may have stopped in at my work, which was a bar and restaurant combination on Bridge Street, the main drag. Even though I didn't have a shift there that day, I sometimes dropped by to say hello. There were at least three package stores, including Serio's Drugs in the downtown, but I don't remember bothering with them. I lingered at the book shops, as always. 

The weather was cool but, as I marched between the shops with my backpack on, I worked up a sweat. (It's likely that I bought a book and was carrying it, maybe several.) One of the women from work had recommended a local novelty shop two blocks up a hill on King Street. I'm pretty sure it was during my hike there from one of the bookstores that my thoughts about ny social life kicked in. 

I was seeing another lesbian. And the affair was probably going to be brief. It made me think. 

Two years before, back in college, I knew rationally that not everyone was bisexual. However, a lot of women (and probably the men) seemed to be fairly try-sexual, for sure. That's not what college is about, of course. It's mostly the classes. But college is where my last two years of girlfriends declared themselves to be bisexual. My relationships with them seemed like accidents, bits of random friendliness and luck, and they were some of the best lovers in my life.

Now I was starting to wonder if I had a pattern and if the root of it was something in me. Was I doing things, however unconsciously, to get into these somewhat-transitory relationships? Were the nature of my affections due to this area of Massachusetts? I had seen goth women, hippies, and jocks here, but all of them were interested in other women. Being lesbian or bisexual, either one, seemed awfully popular.

I spotted the novelty shop up the hill, fresh blue paint on the outer walls and sky-blue trim around the windows, probably puzzles and toys inside. Along one of the storefronts along my way as I passed, I spotted posters for upcoming concerts.

Being mostly single and mostly bored, I stopped for a moment to read about the bands and clubs. Next to one of the posters was a gay pride flyer. It was advertising a gay-themed bookstore coming soon. Books! And a store I hadn't visited! Admittedly, from the date on it, the place wouldn't open for more than a month. Maybe it wouldn't carry the trashy science fiction I liked best, either, but it would still be worth a look. I had been collecting "Dykes to Watch Out For" volumes and I was still missing one. What better place to continue the search than a gay-themed store?

That got me to thinking about lesbians again and why they were such a presence in my life. I glanced above the bookstore flyer. There was another photocopied sheet taped up with the others and it read, "There is no hell."

As an atheist, it made me smile. 

And then I realized I had gotten here because of religion and politics. Those weren't the only reasons but I had discovered in college how nice it was to be accepted. And the most likely people to accept me as an atheist, without disdain or even comment, were lesbians and gay men. 

No one here shouted 'commie' at me for not going to church. No one thought my taste in prose or poetry seemed odd. I could hang out with whomever I wanted, at least when I could persuade people to ask me over. Admittedly, my presence had been confusing for some of the gay men in the Northampton and Amherst social circles. A few women, too, had said they didn't consider me eligible because they thought I was gay. Others had an opposite reaction and 'tried to turn me straight,' for which I was thankful. 

There was a wonderful sense of relaxation for me when hanging out with all these people who didn't want anything from me and, of course, sometimes didn't want me around at all, which is also a fine thing at times. And sometimes they did want something. And sometimes it was me, which could get touchy in the social scene but usually fine. 

The pattern in my life was due to my atheism, for sure, but not only that. My life couldn't have brought me here to this town without the acceptance of people who were also on the outside of conventional society, even more on the outside than me, really. We all benefited, in a way, from the various forms of ostracization that pushed us together. The pressures from the larger world brought us to this place and our acceptance of one another completed the pattern.

Sunday, May 5, 2024

Not Even Not Zen 352: Poem - Dirt Beds

In the Dirt Beds

"Here's my row of pythons," she says.
Hand like a blade, she gestures to the open-air terrariums.
"The smaller row is the rat snakes."

They are raised mounds of dirt, really,
eight long rows, dry brown, littered with rocks.
One of her guests grunts as he picks his way between the raised beds.
His eyes scan the ground.
He notices a single reptile showing itself,
a colorful red, black, and yellow model
that his host swears is not venomous.
Wait, he thinks, and points a finger toward
a brown snake with a flat head, further down a different row.
 
He sees a green, reptilian figure rising, too,
from one of the holes at the tops of the mounds.
He notices a patterned snake, brown and tan, all the way at the end.
It appears to be sunning itself.

There are a lot of them out, he thinks. He just hadn't noticed.

"In these rows," his sister-in-law continues as she turns a corner.  
"I have kingsnakes and hognoses. There, with the ditch between them
are the homes for greensnakes and boas."

Her smallest guest is a boy of seven,
a book-smart child in a white shirt.
He sweeps his hand to the end of the far row.

"What are those mounds over there?" he asks.
Next to him, his older sister,
blue shirt, dark hair, dark jeans,
turns to study the earth.

"I keep a few indigos next to the greensnakes," she says.

"For the color?" asks the girl.

"Yes!" The answer comes with a laugh.
"They look nice. They're harmless."

Finally, the girl's mother, the host's sister,
raises her blonde ponytail
and puts a hand on her hip.
A moment ago, she was running her hand through the ditch
and now she pops a lump of dirt,
a puff of gritty smoke, dust on her pants.
Another hand goes to her other hip.

“Have you ever thought of growing something else
on this property?" she remarks. She lifts her head
to indicate the land beyond the fence.
"I mean, maybe corn, or a few fruit trees."

"No apples in this garden," the host replies.
Her eyes narrow suspiciously on her sister.
Her arms fold across her chest.
"Just snakes."



-- Eric Gallagher

Sunday, April 28, 2024

Not Even Not Zen 351: Biomythography - Note 92: Strange Bedfellows, Part IV

Strange Bedfellows, Part IV

Revival Unvisited

"So can we go somewhere?" I said. "I mean, together?"

Normally, it was hard for me to ask girls out. We stood in the swimming pool in neighboring lanes, though, and I was aware I looked trim and strong - at least the strong part. She leaned toward me. She had been flirting with me for a month. She seemed to enjoy pressing her breasts up against my chest or my back.

As a summer swimmer, she was fine. She had a good looking body. Her face was nice, too, blue eyes, brownish hair, and a smattering of freckles. Better, she had been grabbing onto me, pretty aggressively, at every excuse for the past two weeks. This was a case of me liking her but not having a crush, yet. Meanwhile, she had a crush on me that even I could see.

It seemed safe to ask her out.

"Where?" she asked. I had expected an outright 'yes' but she posed a reasonable question. Her open-mouthed, expectant smile was real. She kept leaning closer. We almost touched. It was me who leaned back a bit.

"A movie?" I guessed. Leaning back let me look her in the eye.

She nodded. A moment later, though, her grin faded. "I"ll have to ask my parents."

"Okay, yeah." It should have been an obvious thing but I hadn't expected it.

"They haven't let me go on a date before," she explained.

We were both fourteen. I hadn't thought of it as a date but that was partly because asking for 'a date' seemed paralyzing. Now I guessed she was right and a date was what I wanted. There was nothing wrong with us going out, even if our parents had to drive us.

Besides, we'd be alone at the movie, at least. And theaters were dark. I might be able to get a kiss before the show. Or after. Or something, anything. She would have to find a way to ask her parents, first. I had never seen them at the swim practices but from her talk about them, I knew it would be difficult.

Three days later, as I read a book in my house, the phone rang. My mother answered, as usual, The tone of her voice softened after a few seconds. I could tell she was speaking to someone she knew. Out of curiosity, I stepped out my bedroom door and walked to the foyer. My mother put her hand over the receiver.

"It's for you," she said.  

"Oh."

"It's a girl from swim team."

By the time I accepted the phone, I knew the voice to expect. She had never called me at home before. I was happy to hear from her, though. The sweet inflections of her speech sounded like her flirting in the pool. We exchanged friendly gestures for a few minutes before her tone grew more serious.  

"I talked to my parents," she said. "They don't want me to go to a movie. But they said I could ask if you'll come to the revival tent with me next week."

"What's a revival tent?" My heart sank. After I asked the question, I felt like the answer couldn't be good.

"You haven't been?" I could practically hear her eyes growing wider.

She spent a few minutes describing a baptist tent revival to me. Her minister was a hell-breather of sorts. His sermons were long-winded and strong on the element of damnation. At the end of it, we would all get baptised again. Well, for me it would be the first time.
 
It sounded awful. I tried to find a polite way to say no and I think I succeeded. She realized I wasn't baptist of any sort and she tried to make conversation about our different religions. My memory of our words is blurred, though, by my swirl of emotions and concentration outwardly on her feelings, inwardly on my awkwardness and, oddly, on my determination.

There was no way I would be willing to go to a revival tent. And it was not a date.

Later, my mother would tell me the girl had been very brave. I hadn't realized it until my mother mentioned it but, of course, it must have been tough to make the phone call. When we saw each other next, the girl and I did talk about religion, just a bit, but she blushed and changed the subject. Within a week, we were back to flirting again although at a bit of a remove, emotionally. She had to concede I was not a soul she was going to save.

She was the first young lady to offer me romance at the price of religious service. But she was not the last. Later, another high school girl would try to save me and, later, another. And after college, another. Although there should have been more temptation, I could never bring myself to pretend to any religion. Instead, I learned to be more out-in-front about who I was socially, sexually, and religiously. Although the best part of that had to wait for college.

Sunday, April 21, 2024

Not Even Not Zen 350: Biomythography - Note 91: Strange Bedfellows, Part III

Strange Bedfellows, Part III

One Bus Ride

My book was Lucky Starr and the Pirates of the Asteroids. My bus was Metro 31, a smelly but efficient single decker. My ride was going to take me from the bus stop at school all the way to Friendship Heights, the border between DC and Maryland. I clung to the bus handrail, standing, with a book bag hooked over my right shoulder. In my left hand, I flipped the pages of Lucky Starr. 

The bus jerked to a stop at Tenleytown. A dozen people got on. Another burst of a dozen clambered in, too, a lot more than usual. I had to guess there had been some sort of event downtown and it must have ended not long ago. I sighed and tried to let the fresh faces slip past me. 

Although a seat had opened up for a moment, I missed it. I had to remain standing.

Of course, everyone getting on had to find places to stand, too, but there was room. For a minute or so, I drifted between asteroids with a ray gun wondering what to do about the bad guys. Around me, the other passengers settled into their positions. 

"What does the pink triangle mean?" asked a brash voice, a woman. "Is that a civil rights pin?"

"No," said the man holding the rail across from me. "It means gay rights."

Usually, no amount of talking would rouse me out of a book, even if the story was kind of crap. This time, though, a hush fell across the bus that was so dramatic, I looked up. My head turned first to the young, attractive black woman who had asked the question. She wore a fashionable tan jacket, big earrings, and she looked sort of rich or at least well put together. A few feet from her stood a thin man in a denim jacket. He looked disheveled in a deliberate way. 

"Are you?" the woman asked, her eyes going wide.

"Yeah," said the man. 

While I replayed the entire conversation in my head, trying to understand, the crowd of black women from Tenleytown backed up the aisle. They pressed as far away from the man as they could. A few seconds later, the nearby white riders and one Chinese-American man took their cue. They retreated from the gay protester in the opposite direction. Even people in their seats shuffled their feet as far away as they could from touching the gay, brown-loafered feet. One brunette woman twitched in her spot. After a moment of agony, she got up and dashed to the front to join the black women. A younger brunette, curlier-haired college student leapt into her spot. 

In a few seconds, I was the only one left. Every other passenger had moved as far away from the gay man as they could. 

I glanced forward. The prettiest black woman stared at me with wide-open eyes and made a frightened, come-hither motion. In other circumstances, I would have swooned to see the gesture aimed at me. But not then.

I glanced to my side. The gay man, in his denim outfit and close-cut beard, stared at me expectantly. Expecting what, I wasn't sure. 

I took a step. I shuffled a second step, too, towards the black women. But then I glanced to my side again. The gay man looked so disappointed, I stopped. Now I didn't know what to do. 

Here, I should probably mention I was thirteen and didn't know what 'gay' was. It seemed to be something bad. I gazed to the back of the bus, where the white men and women had clustered. All of them seemed a little wild eyed. They were giving me warning looks. About what? Something. I was the only one who didn't know.

We came up on the next stop. Most of the bus riders kept staring at me to see what I would do. Enough time had passed, though, I had begun to feel impatient. I figured that, whatever these people were up to, it didn't matter. Pretty often, I had discovered, it really didn't. And this guy was clearly just a guy. 

I backed up a step. After a moment, the gay man stood a little closer to me and I noticed he smelled kind of perfume-y, for a guy. And sweaty, too, like he had just marched for a mile or two, which he probably had. But he was in a jean jacket. And I was in a jean jacket. 

Then he leaned even closer.
 
Was he trying to scare me? Was he trying to get me on his side? What were people being so weird about? Fuck them all. Fuck every single one. I opened up my book. The Lucky Starr series is not very good. I started shoveling through the prose like a post-hole digger within sight of the last fence post in the row. In the silence, someone cleared his throat. The bus stopped. More people got on. Slowly, in my dim awareness of the outer world, I heard the normal noises of the bus resume.   

When I got home, I asked my parents as I came through the door, "What does gay pride mean?" 

My father turned sort of pink around the ears and wouldn't answer. That was a response I hadn't expected. He lit up another cigar and wandered off, mumbling to himself. 

"Do you know what it means?" I asked my mother in the living room. 

"Well, it's men who may be a little confused," my mother said, not quite knowing how to put it, "but they deserve rights, too. Everyone does."

"Well, yeah."

"Why do you want to know?" she asked. This was maybe the beginning of her suspecting I was gay (although also still in dire danger of getting girls pregnant) for the next few years.

"Because I didn't know," I answered. In retrospect, that was probably not the most helpful response to her ears. But it was the truth.


Sunday, April 14, 2024

Not Even Not Zen 349: Biomythography - Note 90: Strange Bedfellows, Part II

Strange Bedfellows, Part II

Next, the Pinko

"You're a commie, ain't you?" said an older boy.

We stood in the mulch next to the asphalt playground. It was the spring of 1972, or pretty close, and it was sunny and mild,a perfect noontime for games. At the end of our touch football scrimmage, I had said something as we walked off the blacktop. I don't remember what it was but it stopped him. So I stopped.

He poked me in the shoulder and I poked him back. He was the class bully, more or less, and we had fought a few times, though he had mostly given up on fights. (In retrospect, he was a pretty good kid, well behaved except for his perfect teasing skills. He was just big and smart. He was our best athlete at a time when it made him the leader on the playground.)

"Commie or pinko," he insisted. "If you're against war, you're a pinko. Against church, you're a commie."

I felt ashamed but also enlightened. At last, I understood what a pinko was, sort of. And I probably was one. And I was also everything else bad, I knew, although I always seemed to end up being those things without meaning to be.

In the 1960s and 1970s, what folks would shout at an atheist was most was, 'commie.' As a non-believer in elementary school, I got called that, plus 'red,' and 'pinko.' I'd heard those names before, starting years earlier, due to my voicing of support for civil rights. By the time I was nine, I was ready to accept I was some of the bad things, even though I didn't understand the terms. 'Pinko' in war and civil rights seemed to mean I was a sympathizer the idea of basic fairness. Other people were mad about it.

He shook his head at me and walked away in disgust.

#

I didn't comprehend the context, of course. I didn't understand the epithets. My friends and I used some of those phrases ourselves because adults did. The fact that some kids could use the terms accurately seemed weird. One boy, Stanley, knew what "fuck" meant when he was eight. Another, Mike, knew what a "pinko" was by the time he reached fourth grade. I didn't know the cultural history behind any of it. None of us did, really, even the boys who were fairly savvy.

It's not that we were completely ignorant - but mostly, yeah, we were. 

Sunday, April 7, 2024

Not Even Not Zen 348: Biomythography - Note 89: Strange Bedfellows, Part I

Strange Bedfellows, Part I
The Non-Believer

When I was six, my grandmother decided to take me to her church. We stood on her screened-in porch before the trip. She tidied pulled out the crease in my pants. She straightened my collar. 

My parents had brought me to her house for the weekend. They already knew my grandmother felt it was scandalous that they hadn't taken me to get baptized. She had warned them of her intention to take me to her church. Forewarned, my father decided to prepare me. In the car on the way to her house, he reminded me of all the philosophical arguments he had drilled into me about logic being better than religion.  

His reminders:
  • Grandmother and her church members would probably say, everything has a creator and therefore the universe must have a creator. My father taught me to reply, 'Well, who created God, then?' If he exists without a creator, then things exist without someone to create them. Otherwise, God must have a creator.
  • God permits evil and natural disasters. Therefore, he isn't good. If he exists at all, he doesn't deserve worship.
  • The concept of omnipotence creates logical paradoxes. My father reminded me, 'Can God create a rock so heavy he can't lift it? If he can't lift it, he's not omnipotent. If he can't create it so he can't lift it, he's not omnipotent.'
  • The problem of hell. My father didn't need to remind me of this one, actually. Punishment forever, whatever the cause, is a moral horror. No one can condone it. At the age of six, the problem was maybe more obvious to me than to my father, who was accustomed to hearing the concept.
  • The lack of evidence. This was a tough one for me but my father encouraged me to let people try to present evidence. My problem (because I was six) was I had only a vague idea of what good evidence might be. (If three good friends pinky swear it's true, is it evidence?)
Fortunately, my grandmother realized she couldn't debate me, partly because my logic was good, and also because I had almost no understanding of the world. It didn't make sense to argue. In her eyes, the real path forward was to put me into a church environment to see if I could be lured in by the kindness of the place. At least, I think that was her plan.

On the car trip, I napped. In the pews, I dozed off, too. My grandmother tried to keep me awake. In an effort to please her, I strove to be alert. My time in Germany with nannies there had taught me to keep still (or else get a smack) but no one could quite make me pay attention, it seemed, if I wasn't doing anything.

My only memory of the actual church was the struggle to stay awake. When everyone around us started to rise, my grandmother took my hand. That woke me more completely and made sure I waited for others to leave our bench. She led me at a leisurely pace down the aisle toward the exit.

"Well, I'm going to go off with the ladies, now," my grandmother announced as we approached the main doors.

"What do the ladies do?"

She shook her head at my question and instead introduced her own line of thought.

"You are going to go to Sunday school," she said. "Won't that be fun?"

"School?"

"It's fun. You'll see."

At that point in life, I didn't mind school - the reverse, really. Schools, since the age of two, were places where I met and played with my friends. Even better, the classes were sometimes interesting. At their worst, they were rest periods between my games outside.

The church had built its school in the attic. The young woman in charge, wearing a blue blouse, led me up a narrow staircase to it. In my mind's eye now, as an adult, the classroom spaces look like an afterthought added on much later. The church had decorated the area well, though, with dark wood paneling in some spots and olive green paint on the main wall. The seats were sized for children, mostly, and the partial attic had been divided into four quarter sections for different activities. The mothers in charge had bought mats, alphabet blocks, and bins of play equipment.

I am not sure how the argument started.

There were eight or nine other children. The Sunday school teacher asked questions about what everyone believed, which seems odd in retrospect. It could mean my grandmother asked the Sunday school teacher to talk with me and this is the way she decided to start.

At any rate, I said, "I'm an atheist."

If you can imagine a thirteen year old bookworm wearing wire-rim glasses, her blonde hair pulled back tight in a bun, dressed like an adult but still looking like a child even to younger children, that was the Holy Babysitter I faced. She seemed smart and sure of herself. She decided to hold a debate with me.

We proceeded through my father's list, almost in perfect order. When I said "Who created God, then?" she seemed shocked and had no other answer than God was exempt from needing a cause. Like a good six-year-old student of logic, I pointed out that meant the universe needed no cause, either.

When we discussed the paradoxes caused by omnipotence, she said my example was 'silly,' which seems fair. But when I asked for an answer, she turned to the other children for a while to move them away into other activities, lest listen to us too much. Also, maybe she wanted to think.

When she returned, she folded her arms and said I should believe or else I'd go to hell.

"Do good people go to hell just if they don't believe?" I asked. 

"Yes." Her response was immediate. Yet, after she said it, her expression fell from stern to sad, almost crushed. She didn't want it to be true.

"Doesn't that seem mean?"

She gave me a worried look. Arms still crossed, she tried to talk about infinite goodness for a while. It's a concept I find attractive even as an adult. As a child, it was certainly something I wanted to be true. I think she could see by the expression on my face that she was making progress at last. 

"He is the best, the goodest, the nicest." She pointed all around the school, as if to indicate how beautiful it was. "If you could see Him, you would want to be his friend. You'd want to stay with Him forever."

I didn't have a counter-argument and, from her point of view, I calmed down. But when she kept talking, I started looking at the covers of the books around me. One of them said "Hymns" and I asked if that's how she spelled God's name: Hymn.

"You can read?" her eyes widened.

I had been reading for years. To her, this was a welcome revelation. She had reached the point of wondering what to do with me now that I had been intrigued by the idea of infinite goodness. In a few seconds, she searched for and found a  big blue book called The Bible Story. It had short words on the pages, printed in big letters. She held it open for me. I started reading. She put it in my hands. I sat down to turn to the next story and gawk at the illustrations.

Half an hour later, the Sunday School leader called me over to the rest of the children.

"But I'm reading," I protested.

Here is where I joined the other kids and my memory ends. I suppose I found playing with the children boring that day. 

So this is sort of the story of my grandmother's strategy. And my father's. And the tactics of the Holy Babysitter, bless her. But in a way, it wasn't my tale except as the tiniest soldier in a spiritual battle. I didn't have my own plan. What I have left from the incident is this slightly embarrassing memory of my grandmother's church.

It may have been embarrassing for my grandmother, too. She never took me back.  


Sunday, March 31, 2024

Not Even Not Zen 347: Poem - Your Pyre

Your Pyre

Forgive me this flatboat;
I feel I have sinned against you
with this crap of logs and planks
but honestly, it was hard work. 
Your wife could not afford a longboat replica.
Worthy ships are expensive, my friend
and you did not save enough. 
This is as much as she and our crew could do.

Forgive this tarp for a shroud because 
we meant to get silk  
but they don't have it at the craft store. 
Anyway, I bought a bolt of linen 
and it didn’t quite cover you. 
You got to be kind of a big guy,
big guy, there at the end,
and you looked too much like a body last night.
So this morning we pulled out the canvas
from your shed.

The boat rental shack gave me no trouble.
Your wife was right about that.
The lady there sold me a tow line, too, 
no questions.
I think I could have been drinking
from an open bottle of whiskey while I paid
and not gotten that woman to care.

Like you asked, well, demanded,
we have loaded you up under the tarp
with all your worldly treasures
but not all, only the ones your wife said were okay.
Ceremonial sword, class ring, 
favorite watercolor painting, lucky cat figure, 
the gold coin, although I hid that from your wife
- look in your inside pocket if you can -
and two pennies taped over your eyes. 
You don't get your wallet in the afterlife, friend,
but I'm pretty sure you won't need it. 

Forgive this kerosene because you asked for tar.
Sure, your idea would work but straw doesn't stay dry
and tar is slow to paint on.
We did paint and paint for hours
but this is a pyre on the water, buddy.
We couldn't rent a boat that's good on the open sea
so the other boats will see us.
I added the cans of kerosene and hair spray
because we won't get many shots at burning.

Forgive your brother and me for almost dumping you
when we lowered your flatboat into the water.
We brought the right equipment, dammit, 
but this stuff is hard.
I almost got caught between boats by the winch
when the tow line pulled down, sudden-like.

Forgive your brother for yelling when I started to light up
because he wanted more distance between the boats.
I'm using an actual fuse for the kerosene.
Well, six of them and two waterproof clotheslines
because I may have to do this twice.
Anyway, be happy. I humored your wussy brother
like you always wanted.

And I only lit it once.
I’m surprised. 
Apparently, I know how to build a bomb, sort of,
and now all the painted tar looks great.
You had a good idea there, buddy.

I remember in high school 
when we were young and strong 
as we drank by a campfire. 
You talked about having a Viking funeral 
and I realized you had fixated on this
since you were about eight, maybe.
We had decades and decades to prepare
but this is as far as we got, man.

Your wife did bring me whiskey.
A whole bottle, bless her,
so I will sit and listen to her speak.
Your brother started cursing at us
but she revealed a pack of cigarettes,
just for him. And so we sit.
We listen.

Well, here come the police, man.
I see the flashing lights in the distance.
Forgive me if I don’t go down fighting. 
I’m not headed for Valhalla.
Anyway, it's just one car.
They don't even have a boat
but I see them waiting at the rental dock.
I think I’ll just let them laugh at me 
And berate me a little 
And I'll sit on this deck and listen to your wife 
as she explains to them in full voice
like the fucking Viking soprano 
you always said she was.



-- Eric Gallagher, 2024 for a friend

Sunday, March 24, 2024

Not Even Not Zen 346: Biomythography - Note 88, Painful Relationships, Part II

Painful Relationships, Part II

How do you tell you're the relatively clueless one in the relationship?

When I was twenty-four, I started dating a woman who, in retrospect, arranged our circumstances so we could become a couple. For a few months, I'd hung out with her and her friends. Twice, maybe three times (it's hard to tell what was going on, especially in retrospect), she stopped her girlfriends from hooking up with me. This included bursting through doors into rooms where I was cuddling. At the time, I figured I had developed a bad reputation and she was simply protecting relatively innocent young women.

One day, she invited me to her place to hang out. Her boyfriend was gone for a few days and she was bored. Despite telling me repeatedly she was lonely, though, she didn't seem to want to socialize with her friends. She kept me in her bedroom instead and confided in me about her problems. They were interesting to hear about, especially her difficulties in college, but as it got later at night and I figured I'd better leave, she grabbed my wrist to stop me at her door.

"You're not tired," she said.

"Not so much." The conversation had gotten sexual and I'd grown uncomfortable. I felt the opposite of tired. Her innuendos had me wired up. I liked her boyfriend, despite her problems with him, and if she was worried about our reputations it couldn't do any good to have me spend the night.
 
"I've done all the talking." She gently released my wrist.

"I don't mind." I felt flattered she wanted to talk to me so much. She wasn't being selfish. "Really, I like it.

"Well, why don't you tell me about your problems for a minute?"

"Eh, mine are just failed affairs with women."

"Tell me about the one who came down to see you from New York."

After a while, I sat back down to conduct my self-analysis. The young woman made jokes about my love life. She teased me about the former girlfriend who had visited weeks before and another, too, from a couple months before that. After a while, she started touching me. After long enough, I lay down on her floor, in the center of her rug, partly to relax from the tension between us. It was a good place to talk more and listen to her thoughts. Past midnight, she lay down next to me. As we talked, she snuggled up. Her touches grew more sexually direct.

We spent a long few hours, both of us, enduring sexual teasing and tension. Finally, she set up camp on the floor and told me to go to sleep. It took a while, but I managed.

The next day, she fed me before I left her place. At noon, while I was doing chores in my apartment, I got a phone call. It was her. She announced she was breaking up with her boyfriend. She asked me to pick her up from her place and take us out to a restaurant to talk about it.

#

How can you know when a relationship gets too painful?

I think when nurses attach a ECG to you for a week at a time, when you're put on a hospital diet you didn't want, when you have 'heart blocks' induced by your experimental medicine, when you run out of veins to give blood tests, when the nurses start jabbing up and down your limbs, bruising the back of your arm, bruising the back of your hand, and they rip away patches of skin as they remove ECG pads from your chest, then at last you have a baseline for comparison. When everyone around you is groggy from lack of sleep, when your nurses are crabby with you, when your temporary friends feel glum, and you look around and wonder what's wrong with you, that's how you know.

When being an experimental subject feels light and carefree compared to the rest of your life, that's an important clue. I looked around at my smelly roommates, my medical surroundings, my tubes dripping into red bags, my swathes of tape, my nurses in blue smocks, and I felt good. 

In a situation like this, you want to know why you're happy. Why are you relaxed and joyous when everyone else is concentrating on their imprisonment and torture? It doesn't take long. It just doesn't take much thinking to figure out how the unhappiness is missing. After I considered the problem for a minute, I couldn't escape the conclusion. I dreaded going back to my girlfriend.

At this point, we had been living together for years. She had moved with me from Massachusetts to Maryland. We paid rent on an apartment together. We raised cats.

Before her, though, for two decades or more, my friendships had been the most important aspect of my life. That was a problem, now. My woman couldn't stand for me to visit my friends, even though I tried to include her in every event. She couldn't stop resenting the time I spent writing, either. In fact, any moment I spent not focusing on her was becoming the subject of her ire. The situation had gotten exhausting for me in a way I hadn't been able to recognize until the experiment.

“Can you skip the party this time?" she said, on several occasions. "I’m not feeling well.” 

At other times, it was, “Can we do something else? My foot is sore.”

And, “Aren’t you done yet? Let’s do something together, I'm bored.” 

Every time, she steered me to what she wanted. Also every time, it made perfect sense. If I wanted to go out and do something she didn’t like, she would let me make the arrangement. Then, at the last moment, she would get sick and ask me not to go. Her injuries and ailments were real. I don’t think she was faking anything. In some way, it made her feel bad to have me leave for a few hours.

She genuinely developed medical problems or she felt them more when the time came to see my friends.

“I would like it if you take care of me. Stay for a while.”

“Don’t leave me when I’m feeling feverish.” 

By the end of a couple of years, I had lost day-to-day contact with all of my friends except her. I no longer knew when they were available. They no longer expected me to call.

She was a good person, too. By then, I knew she was being manipulative. She couldn’t stop and she couldn’t really hide it. But she was still good. A lot of people would have liked all her attention.

Here was a thing I was discovering about myself, though. I couldn’t really live without my friends. I couldn’t stay in one place and not leave the house except for my job. I couldn’t live closely with someone who resented my time writing or exercising or dancing. I needed to dance and sing a little. I wanted to exercise more. I yearned to write or, at least to feel the afterglow of having written something.

I no longer wanted to live without the possibility of having children, either. That decision was my betrayal of our relationship. She had said from the beginning she wasn’t interested in having children. On that issue, it was me who changed.

My desire to have a family would, by itself, have signaled the end. I had gone from being slightly interested in parenting to, somehow, feeling sure I could be a decent father. Maybe books were to blame. By that point in my life, I had read Mario Puzo's The Godfather three times and I had solidified my ideas about family.

There is no good compromise over the issue of children. In every other aspect of my life, like everyone else, I was accustomed to making compromises. But there is no raising half a child. There are no part-time parenting jobs. And I wasn’t going to feel right without the sense I was trying to grow a bit more goodness into the world.

Even though she was a manipulator, even though my friends called her out for it and resented her control of me, she would have been a very good match for someone else right then, just as she was.

#

How can you ignore what everyone is telling you? 

For a couple years, my friends had been indicating I was too much in the sway of my woman - that I had stopped doing things that made me happy because of her. Some of my friends didn't use gentle words. But I ignored them. And when I realized, a couple years later, how unhappy I was and decided I had to end the relationship to preserve myself, a lot of the same friends circled back to tell me again.

The result of the decision, though, was a slow, multi-month breakup. 

Not all of our friends were happy with it. Some of them asked us if we would get back together or if we were even really sure about breaking up. 

When they inspired doubts, I remembered the euphoria I had felt in the midst of the medical torture. When everyone else had felt down about our living conditions, I had experienced sublime joy. Yes, she was my life partner and I was happy with her presence. I did my best to look after her and she looked after me. She improved me, day to day. Yet somehow, over a longer stretch of time, the direction of my life made me miserable. 

Over the course of the relationship, I had become more aware of being manipulated. I had considered it a bonus, sometimes, that I was being forced to defend myself more and more. Why not? I could handle it. I figured I could handle pretty much anything. But the revelation was: I was handling it and nonetheless was miserable. 

All it took was a moment of relative freedom for me to understand how off track my life had gotten, how unhappy I was to be stagnant and bereft of small joys. It seemed I would rather be woken up every night to be stabbed with needles than to keep on with the way I was living.

I should have done better. I should have fixed it from the start, somehow. I should have stopped the patterns of manipulation. But I didn't. Couldn't, maybe. And finally I had some awareness of the results.

A year after our breakup, we were still friends. When I visited on an autumn day, she told me she was having hallucinations. They happened often enough she decided to go to the doctor about them. She started taking medicine to control them. 

"I don't like the pills," she admitted. "But I think they help."

She turned her life in a different direction. Knowing about it felt good. Of course, I should have done better myself, earlier. I should have suspected a medical problem. I should have figured it out. But she was and is very smart and good at getting her way. I don't know that better understanding on my part would have helped. It might have set things back a bit if she perceived me pressing her into a decision she didn't trust. 

She made the choice. Although she had been determined to avoid it, when she needed to make the decision, she did.