Partial sunshine of the spot-filled mind

One of my favorite movies of all time is Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet's Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

Basic plot:

A couple undergo a procedure to erase each other from their memories when their relationship turns sour, but it is only through the process of loss that they discover what they had to begin with.

Awesome tagline:

I already forget how I used to feel about you.

So anyway, giving credence to the idea that there really is a pill for everything, it appears that scientists in the UK have developed a pill that promises to selectively erase painful memories. Woah, talk about redefining the human condition. As one medical ethics lecturer in London put it: "Removing bad memories is not like removing a wart or a mole. It will change our personal identity since who we are is linked to our memories."

Everyone has their personal traumas and demons. I know I have mine, and I've never met a person who didn't suffer from some dark memory. But I don't think I could give them up. I wouldn't say that personal identity is "linked to our memories". I would say that they are entirely comprised of our memories. Any sort of present awareness is transitory, slipping into the past in less than nanoseconds. The only thing that connects these isolated moments to a personal identity, a sense of self, is memory.

The question, instead, is whether bad memories have good value. That's a really tough call. Imagine, really, an eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. I mean, it's called the human "condition" for a reason. It's nearly impossible to even think about a complete bliss. The best we could even consider, if we're being honest about it, is a near-bliss. I think we need our bad memories in some way to be human.

Maybe a partial sunshine of the spot-filled mind is spot on, and being half-miserable is being full-human.

(See also Memento, where a man suffering from short-term memory loss has to rely on tattooing important things on his body to cling to a sense of self.)

Kerouac quotes that come to mind...

"A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world." - Jack Kerouac

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'" - Jack Kerouac

"I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion." - Jack Kerouac

Chevette memories, Part 2

In '94 I got my second car, a 1979 gray Chevette. Billy had bought it off a little ol' lady who never drove it, so the mileage was actually pretty low for a late-70s car. He had gotten into some trouble and couldn't drive, something about driving without a license and getting into an accident. He said I could have it for $375. I didn't have that much so my girlfriend paid for most of it. I think I paid her back. I can't remember.

My first Chevette was just rust pretending to be a car, a stack of paper clips waiting to fall apart. This one... this one was a tank! I couldn't kill it no matter what I did. I'd be driving down the road and on a whim decide to swerve off and try to flip it on the embankment, but nope, it wasn't having that. It'd keep trucking on, forty-five miles per hour at a forty-five degree angle, and I couldn't flip it for nothing. That surprised me too because Chevettes are really light vehicles. At school, about five of us got together and lifted Steve's Chevette and put it on some cinder blocks, as a prank.

In parking lots, when there's tons of snow they scoop it up into big piles that become solid ice eventually. I ran my little gray Chevette straight into one and, nothing, just plowed right over it. The thing was a pure tank. Mail boxes, railroad ties, street signs, mud, nothing stopped it.

It actually caught fire once. I was driving back from Columbus, smelled gas, and saw some smoke coming from the engine. I pulled over to the side of I-71 and lifted the hood to find the carburetor on fire. It was just a little fire, and I was able to pat it out. Got back in and kept driving. Like a tank, the car just kept rolling.

[Note: Hey Kaitlyn and Padrick. Skip reading the above. Your uncle is an idiot.]

Don't get me wrong, the car wasn't perfect. For one thing, it had the baldest tires I've ever driven on. There was this one corner over by Blue Rock Road where every time it snowed, no matter how slow I took the corner, the car decided it would keep going straight and run into a telephone poll. Every time. I can only imagine what the people in the house across the street thought when they'd see me come down the road, slide into the poll, get out to push the car out of the snow, come back a few hours later and slide right into it again. And again. And again. Not even on purpose.

The other problem with Chevette 2 is that the ignition system eventually went out. I tried to fix it but, again, I don't know anything about cars. The only way I could start it is by popping the solenoid, that is, taking a screwdriver and crossing two spokes to make a spark. This is done in the engine and the key needs to be turned to start when you do it, so you need a friend to turn the key for you while you damn near electrocute yourself. Luckily, Billy, license-free, was always palling around with me. But when you're by yourself, you have to come up with elaborate ways to keep the key in start while you're doing it.

Eventually, the ignition thingy didn't work at all and the car wouldn't start for me whatever I did. But, here's the thing, it did not die! Still! I couldn't kill it, but rather, it just got tired of me I guess. I got it towed out to my parent's growing car graveyard and left it there thinking it was dead-dead. But no, I learned later that my younger brother got it up and running and drove it, too, for the longest time. In fact, I don't know exactly what ever became of it. The tank is probably still out there plowing over stuff for some kid that just got his license.

Believe it or not, there's a part three.

Chevette memories, Part 1

My first car was a 1982 blue Chevette that I got in '93, I think. I was a late driver. I got my learner's permit at age fifteen, like everyone else, but I didn't get an actual car until I was 17. I didn't have any money as a kid, didn't have an evening job, worked a summer job once but blew all of the money on stupid stuff, and was one of three military brats in a single-income family. We weren't poor, really, but an E-8 pay grade isn't as much as you'd think it should be. My dad bought this car for me, but it was only $250.

It was my senior year at a Cincinnati high school and my dad had just retired from the military and bought a house out in rural Ripley, Ohio, which is basically the sticks. I didn't want to go. I really, really didn't want to go and got into so many fights with my folks about it, it was crazy. My dad (love the guy) thought it would cheer me up if I had a car, and found this ol' beat up Chevette a neighbor was selling. Out in the sticks, the rumors are true, everyone has three or four broke down cars in their yard for sell. We test drove it down 763, a hilly and curvy rode which is actually perfect for test driving cars. It made a lot of rattling that we thought we could fix, so we bought it.

I didn't give us a chance to fix it. A few days later I was missing my girlfriend and got the itch to get back to Cincinnati. I packed all my shit into the Chevette and "ran away". Downhill it was fine, but on every uphill the car would start ticking -- a tick, tick, tick, tick -- just like a bomb, I swear. It was something about some rods or something in the engine. I didn't and still don't know anything about cars.

The foothills of the Appalachians east of Cincinnati are all hills. So it was like, smooooth... tick, tick, tick, tick, smooooth... tick, tick, tick, tick, smooooth [smell of something burning]... tick, tick, tick, tick... tick... tick... TICK, TICK, TICK BOOM! Just like a bomb, big poof of smoke and everything.

I had made it to just outside of Mt. Orab and had to call my dad to come and pick me up, which was just demoralizing. It's hard to make your great escape when you end up having to call the prison guard to come and pick you up. We strapped some tow cables to the Chevette and dragged it back to my parent's farm, where it sat in the yard for a few more years before someone bought it for $25 as scrap metal. I think I may have put at most 50 miles on that thing total.

So ends my first car, my first Chevette, RIP.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer needs therapy, or zen

All of the other reindeer, used to laugh and call him names. They never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games. Then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say: "Rudolph, with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?" Then how the reindeer loved him, as they shouted out with glee: "Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, you'll go down in history!"

Dude, that is such the wrong message to be sending out to kids : )

So here you have this reindeer-kid, Rudolph, who's tortured by all the other kids at the schoolyard because his nose is off-color. Not only is he laughed at and called names by his peers, he's a social outcast. He's rejected. Then along comes The Man who says, "Don't worry Rudolph. I'm gonna make you a star!" What message are we sending here? Only after some big shot comes along and signs him to a sleigh-pulling gig, then is it OK to be Rudolph? Only after some dude with authority says, "He's cool", then it's socially acceptable, and we can love him, and we can shout with glee? No wonder there's millions of social rejects on YouTube crying for attention, hoping to be noticed.

Poor Rudolph needs some serious therapy!

Where's the story about the misfit red-nosed reindeer who gets laughed at and called names, but instead of enlisting in the carnival sideshow with the other freaks, decides that the real problem lies with what's considered "social norms", rather than his own peculiar shiny-nosed condition? Instead of searching for social acceptance, the reindeer-kid comes to terms with his own existence in a zen-like fashion: What nose? What red? What reindeer, even, but a spark of awareness that has no form?

I mean, the sleigh-pulling contract is nice too, don't get me wrong. But I think it'd be better for Rudolph in the long run if he sought his own acceptance rather than seeking the approval of others.

Endless becoming

I can't recall what book I jotted this from, but I found it in some notes I was throwing out:

Later in his philosophical development the idea of freedom became Sarte's main theme. Man, beginning in the loathsome emptiness of his existence, creates his essence -- his self, his being -- through his choices that he freely makes. Hence his being is never fixed. He is always becoming, and if it were not for the contingency of death he would never end. Nor would his philosophy. "Existentialists," wrote Irish philosopher Arland Ussher, "have a notable
difficulty in finishing their books: of necessity, for their philosophy --
staying close to the movement of life -- can have no finality."

Why no one will live on Mars

I'm a night owl and that's probably why I happened upon the above image of the Earth as seen at night, showing off populated areas by light density (click photo for larger version). It gave me the following random thought: Except for the sheer novelty of it, no one will ever choose to live on Mars. As shown on the map, people avoid places with extreme conditions, regardless of the technology to climate control it. On Mars, the average recorded temperature is -81° F, with a maximum temperature of 68° F and a minimum of -220° F. The coldest recorded temperature in Antartica (no lights) is a mere -129° F. Mars might be a cool place to visit (no pun intended), but you wouldn't want to live there.

Why I believe in Santa Claus

In 1897 the now famous "Yes Virginia There Is A Santa Claus" editorial was published in the New York Sun. This is my interpretation.

I believe in Santa Claus because I believe in black holes. True, the two seem to have very little in common. One's a big black hole. The other is a fat guy with a white beard. One is a region of space that is so dense even light can't escape it's gravitational pull. The other has eight tiny reindeer that apparently defy the gravity all the time. One eats the stars around it. The other eats milk and cookies. Yes, black holes and Santa Claus don't really have that much in common with each other. They do, however, share the following: No one's ever seen either. Both exist.

No one has ever seen a black hole. In order for us to see an object, something must radiate from it, usually light. Because the gravitational pull of a black hole is so powerful, nothing escapes it, not even light (hence it being black). Scientists only know black holes exist – with absolute certainty – because of the effect it has on the objects surrounding it. Once an object passes in close proximity to the black hole, all possible paths lead into the hole. Thus you can measure the existence of the black hole because you can see the effects it has on other objects. It's objective. It's real.

When Dr. Philip O’Hanlon's eight-year-old daughter, Virginia, asked him whether Santa Claus really existed he told her to write to the New York Sun, a prominent New York City newspaper at the time. So she did. She wrote, "Papa says if you see it in The Sun it's so. Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?" One of the paper’s editors, Francis Pharcellus Church, replied (in part) "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy... You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus."

Church wasn't trying to suggest that Santa is physically real, only that Santa is real in terms of an effect on the world created by the idea of him. This reality is caused by having someone so generous in the minds of people every Christmas, that he becomes real. This nonphysical reality of poetry and romance becomes objective changes in how people physically act. Santa Claus radiates into people's hearts and minds, and they are in turn kinder, generous and more Santa-like. Santa, physical or not, inspires people, and thus there is a real measurable effect.You don't get the same kind of result with other folkloric heroes such as the Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy. They inspire very little. Santa Claus, on the other hand, is a tangible role model. Because the effect is real, the cause is real.

Like black holes that have never been seen, but effects other things, Santa Claus is definitely real.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Thirty-two candles

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me...

I was talking to my three-years younger brother on his birthday back in February and he described to me the exact moment he realized he had made the transition from youthful bliss to "something else". He had gone with some friends to a Rocky Horror Picture Show, you know one of those places where everyone dresses up like their favorite character from the movie and participates. Well, a few members of the audience decided to get up on stage and act out the parts, a typical part of the show. This one chick decided to be Janet, and reportedly she was right on cue. Off came her shirt in tandem with Susan Sarandon on screen. Thing is, she wasn't wearing a bra... My then twenty-seven year old younger brother's thinking went in this order: "Cool!" to "Isn't this illegal?" and finally "Is she even eighteen?"

Ah, yes, birthdays. The yearly reminder that if you're having a good time it's probably illegal, and that the girl you think is hot... well, she's probably too young for you.

Alternative endings part 2

Then there was the time that we thought it would be fun to rappel off Rob's grandfather's four-story warehouse down in Covington. Of course we didn't know anything about rappeling (I'm an expert now) and decided to go off the side with just a rope sans-harness. And of course somehow I was chosen to go first. Luckily I survived, but I came down so fast that the rope literally tore through my fingers so much that you could see the bones. Nice.

I don't remember whose idea it was that the wounds needed to be cleaned with alcohol when we got home, but I'm going to blame it on Rob. I do recall him laughing while doing it.

Hey Rob. Fuck you, that hurt! : )

Alternative endings

I was trying to think of some of the most dangerous things my buddies and I did as a teen. My first thought was the time Billy and I caught a Metro bus to downtown Cincy to go to a club in Over The Rhine. The club was closed that day and we were too dumb to check the bus schedules and didn't realize that the next one wouldn't arrive until 7 am. We ended up sleeping down at Sawyer Point. That's probably not that dangerous unless you buy into urban stereotypes, which I don't.

Nope, my second thought was a lot more dangerous in hindsight. They were doing construction on that huge bridge on I-71 that crosses the Little Miami River just outside of Cincy near the rest stop. We used to go up to the rest stop in my beat up little '79 Chevette and strike up conversations with truckers and whatnot. We said we drove the Chevette all the way from Atlanta, that it had broke down, and that we were stranded. I have absolutely no idea why we said all that. Boredom leads to adventures and adventures need a backstory, I guess. Plus truckers often carry beer in the cab.

So anyway, one night we were up at the rest stop and we got the idea to walk down to the bridge. The bridge had an access catwalk built underneath, there were tons of constuction equipment around, and that was really all it took to turn the place into our personal playground. We all never really matured and when I say my teen years, I'm really talking about 17, 18, and even 19 years old. Late teens and playing in the underbelly of the tallest bridge in Ohio (239 feet) with BB guns because we were too cheap to get paint ball guns. Probably the most dangerous part was not on the catwalk, it was cralling out on the trestles with no support whatsoever. I mean, I've never really been afraid of heights, but that was just dumb. The catwalk was mostly safe enough.

One clear memory is looking out over the valley from the catwalk as dawn was creeping along the horizon, pushing the dark blues away with sweeping brushes of pinks and yellows and oranges. I don't know if anyone else shares that memory, but I always will.

Bit of trivia: The bridge is actually called the Jeremiah Morrow Bridge, something I didn't know until today. How cool is that?

Bit of scary trivia: I also didn't know until today that the bridge is approximately the same design and age as the I-35W Mississippi River bridge which collapsed earlier this month, killing thirteen people! Holy shit.