Clearing the Path to Transcend

I am not going to lie.  I am not qualified to write about music.  I haven't spent decades poring through obscure vinyls in dark record stores building a vast expanse of musical knowledge.  I don't have any connections with any big bands; no hookups for pre-release material.  No one in the music business cares who I am.  

The reality is, I have only been this involved in the music scene since late 2012.  While I have always loved music, it took nearly 35 years to figure out how to take part, and that took a major life change to precipitate the change.  One core tenet of that change, documented elsewhere in this blog, was that I needed to make a deep personal involvement into the musical community a central focus in my life.  I wasn't entirely sure how; I'd always loved heavy music but I seemed to be an island in my passion.  I didn't really know anybody that liked music like I did; I always liked the slower, thicker, experimental tracks from more popular artists.  In a way you could say I always loved doom metal but just didn't know what doom metal was yet.  There were songs like Soundgarden's 4th of July, Smashing Pumpkins' Silverfuck, or Tool's Third Eye that made me wish that bands did that kind of music full time, instead of resigning these epic tracks to deep cuts hidden in the ends of albums.  

It wasn't until earlier in 2012 that I was starting to find out that there were, in fact, bands devoted to this cause.  The first example I stumbled upon was on YouTube, a chance find of the video for 35007's Tsunami, followed shortly by Sea of Tranquility. While not necessarily heavy, this opened me to a world of music not limited to the radio friendliness of 5 minute songs, verse-chorus-verse arrangements, and wide distribution.  It was a matter of a couple weeks before I was addicted to the /r/stonerrock and /r/doommetal subreddits and devouring everything that showed up there.   Heavy, dynamic, expansive music.  I was home.  

The next step was to find doom metal shows in Boise...not an easy task it turns out. There was a local band, Wolvserpent, that played sparingly, but other than that, the only mention of doom metal in this region was of a band called Yob....that had just played a show that I had already missed.  Finding actual information about the band was kind of difficult to do, so I went right to the source and checked out Atma, which they were currently out supporting.  Listening to Atma for the first time, and more importantly, listening to The Mental Tyrant from The Unreal Never Lived, was a strange experience because, not only was it new, it was familiar in the sense that I had been looking for this style of music my entire life.  It wasn't only epic and expansive, it was expressive and deeply emotional.  It was the 15 year old me listening to Siamese Dream for the first time again.  Much like the events going on in my non-musical life, it was a wiping away of decades of rusted assumptions and learning to be a child again, to start over, learn to feel, and fall in love for the first time all over again.  It was foreign and comfortable all at the same time. 

Soon after, it was announced that Yob would be making another stop in my town, in the fall of 2012.  The show was at the Shredder, with Uzala and Norska scheduled to open.  What The Mental Tyrant did for breaking me into real doom metal fandom, Uzala did for breaking me into the local music community.  A local band, specializing in an occult-laced doom sound, they not only showed me that this little town actually makes great music, but how nice people can be.  It's easy to expect an air of elitism, especially among musicians, but instead what I discovered was a welcoming community full of incredibly friendly people.  Even though Yob rolled in extremely late, so late that Norska was taken off the bill and Yob had to use Uzala's gear, the show was a skull shattering masterpiece that lasted well into the wee hours of the morning, followed by a communal gathering of friends celebrating heavy music together.  For a show that could have been considered a disaster, there was not a sad face anywhere; only happiness as Mike and Chad rattled off band names I had never heard of, and while Aaron rummaged in the back of the van to get me a t-shirt and a signed poster. 

This show, on Sept 7, 2012, was the seminal moment where I became a member of the local music community.  This is home.  This is where I needed to be.  It's now been two years since that time, and I have been busy.  I joined a band and watched it disintegrate.  I've been to dozens of shows, and traveled to see more.  I started my concert photography.  I have met countless kind and awesome people and connected with strangers I knew I'd never see again.  So here we are, two years later, and finally, Yob has finally released another album; Clearing the Path to Ascend. Given the role Yob has had in the musical portion of my personal growth, it's not surprising how much anticipation I have to actually participate in the communal excitement of a new album release for the first time.  That being said, my expectations are pretty high, yet at the same time, barring a Billy Corgan-esque sound reinvention, the expectations should be fairly easily met given their history of consistency.  

That being said, Clearing the Path to Ascend is exactly as expected but not without its surprises.  While many Yob albums have 3-5 shorter songs followed by a long epic masterpiece, CtPtA has 4 epic tracks, all of which extend past ten minutes in length. In a sense, this album is a refinement of everything that makes Yob great.  Unlike many other doom acts that hammer the same stylistic theme for eternity, CtPtA is consistently shifting feel.  This is partially because each song tackles a fairly different sound, but also because the songs themselves also move greatly from one space to another.  Unmasking The Spectre is probably the most familiar sounding song on the record, and the one that my now nostalgic brain has tagged as my favorite track, however the track that seems to be getting the most attention is Marrow.  Marrow is the final and most adventurous song on the album, and Mike's time working on acoustic material definitely shines through on the vocal approach to the song. 

After several listens, the question that lies heavily on my mind is, "Why did this not have as much impact on me as Unreal Never Lived?" And the answer, I feel, is one missed all too often by music reviewers; that music is as much about the listener as it is about the artist.  Music is often an emotional bookmark in time; a crossroads where a soul is receptive and vulnerable and a piece of music happens to strike right into that vulnerability.  It's a lock and key, and the magic happens when one perfectly fits the other.  It just so happens that in 2012, I was emotionally vulnerable to what The Mental Tyrant was wielding, and while I love CtPtA, it's just not quite the same as falling in love for the first time again. 

Defining Marriage On Our Terms

I. A Personal Evolution of Change

Over the last several months, I have tried to become more of an observer regarding hotbed political discussion, rather than my usual role of opinionated blabbermouth. What I have noticed is a consistent hypocrisy across the entire political spectrum that says "I require tolerance for my lifestyle and my lifestyle only".  Generally I like to think that this applies to the louder participants, but my experience is that it is fairly endemic to anyone that has any kind of strong opinion.  What is most interesting is that these people are quite adept at spotting the hypocrisy in others, but quite blind to their own (I am sure there are plenty of hypocrisy skeletons in my own closet).  The fact of the matter is, however, that the vast majority of people who talk about politics seem quite content to actively restrict the lifestyles of anyone who is not like them.

The hypocrisy of the right is pretty obvious within the circles I associate with, and there has been much spilled ink about theocracies, gay rights, women's rights, marijuana legalization, and the overall theme that non-fundamentalist Christians should not be forced to be held fundamentalist ideals through theocratic law making.  Not as much is written about the hypocrisy of the left,  but rest assured, it is there, and oftentimes it is present in the very same issues where the right is criticized. I first observed it among the atheist communities; whereas the hatred for religion is so strong that they would happily violate basic freedoms of the religious (probably surprising to hear given that I am atheist that hates religion).

It's not just religion, either.  The gun control debate is a prime example of hypocrisy on the left.  Just like hard liners on the right,  the argument basically boils down to "if I don't understand it or don't like it, it should be illegal", and just like the right, the left is happy to resort to emotional appeals to try and justify criminalizing behavior that is not inherently immoral.  Both sides feel somehow justified acting as arbiters for what is deemed acceptable culture, and both sides attempt to use legislative hammers to beat each other over the head into compliance.  

I understand it.  I was once one of them, first on the right, then somewhere not-quite-left. It's empowering to think that you have all of the answers, and if you could just force those other idiots to live and think the way you do, well, then wouldn't the world just be a better place?  But they don't.  And they never will.  And frankly, I like it that way.  

One thing I have learned on my journey is, that just because someone agrees with me, that does not mean that I will actually like them.  I would much rather talk to someone that can intelligently, respectfully, and effectively disagree with me much more than I tend to like those that share the same views, but do not understand the views they have.  What talking to people has taught me is, being an honest thinker is more important than what you actually think.

II.  The Importance of Being Wrong

There is an important opportunity that is lost when our population is primarily focused on swinging those legislative hammers upon the heathens to their cause; by not actually understanding what the believe or what they oppose, they fail to see the inherent complexities that arise when you mix 300 million people from cultures that come from all over the world.  By artificially assigning simplistic definitions and characteristics to these diverse groups, it becomes far easier to dismiss what you do not already believe in and dismiss them out of hand.  The lost opportunity is two-fold; the opportunity to learn from those who disagree with you, and the opportunity to let everyone live their own lives and make their own mistakes.  Which is why both the ideologies of the left and the right, (and really, any ideology that requires compliance from an opposing faction) are ideologies of tyranny, because they attempt to demonize and criminalize behaviors that they do not agree with.  

Even if a particular view or ideology could be shown to be universally better than others, I do not think it makes for good legislative policy.  Even if you could effectively protect people from ever making their own bad decisions, you rob them of the ability to learn from them, and potentially become better, wiser, smarter people.  Even worse, by criminalizing non-immoral behavior, you only ensure that people suffer perpetually for their bad decisions, rather than letting them profit from them.  Even outside of legislative action, just culturally stigmatizing behaviors has a chilling effect on allowing people to discuss them openly, and thus, keeps all of us from learning the lessons that can be obtained by them.  

This is where the hypocrisy is equal across the entire right-left political structure; that whatever you are against should be legislated against.  Let's take marriage for example.  It's no secret that many conservatives support actions like DOMA that effectively codify into law only monogamous heterosexual unions as federally recognized marriages (even though most Democratic congresspersons voted in favor of it at the time, and was signed into law by a Democratic president), while the recent movement to allow for gay marriage is largely one driven from the democratic left.  Here the supporters of gay marriage get to proclaim about how tolerant they are, but in reality, while they are slightly more tolerant, the hypocrisy still exists in that both the left and right believe that a centralized state authority still should be able to define what marriage is and what marriage isn't, and then confer rights and benefits around that definition.  We, as citizens, are then corralled into fitting into that pre-defined template of marriage in order to retain those benefits.  

This is where the tyranny comes into play.  I, as an able bodied and sound minded person, should be the person who decides what kind of family arrangement is appropriate for me, and as such, I should be the one making the choice about who should receive what benefits based on my relationship with said person(s), however, the tyranny of the current system dictates those rights and benefits for me, based on how I fit into their definition of "married".  While widening the definition to be more inclusive is indeed an improvement (and the definition has widened considerably since the origin of marriage licenses were to primarily prevent race-mixing), it is still a feeble attempt to adjust to the growing public acceptance of homosexuality while completely brushing off the idea that government should have no authority to determine these things in the first place.

And thus, comes the point.  Live your own damn life, and let me live mine.  Let me decide if I want to be abstinent or promiscuous.  Let me decide if drugs will enhance my life or not.  Let me decide what the terms of my relationships will be, whether they be monogamous or non-monogamous, hetero- or homosexual, or somewhere in between.  Let me decide who my next of kin should be.  Let me decide if I want to be in a religion, whereas I can then follow that religion's teachings, or to not be in one, and not have to follow in any teachings at all.  Let me decide if I should possess firearms or not.  Let me make my own decisions, whether they are good or bad, because I will get the opportunity to learn from them.  And then let's talk about them.  I do not aim to be a social isolationist libertarian, where we all do what we want and forget about what anyone else thinks.  I would rather be a socially inclusive libertarian, where we do what we want, but let's encourage a rich, vibrant social discourse so that we can all learn from each other, and be satisfied that people are different, and are free to live the lives they want.  Just put down the legislative hammers and and forget trying to define marriage, sexuality, what drugs are acceptable and which are not, what guns are acceptable and which are not, and let the citizens figure that out for themselves.  

III. Let Me Live So That I Can Learn To Live

"Learning to live" seems to be a consistent theme of this blog, and today's entry is no different.  Today is special however, as Patty and I are officially casting off one of the last vestiges of our old life, and truly embracing the spirit of living the life we want to live: we are replacing our wedding rings with tattoos.  While this decision has little bearing on our every day life, and one that has no legal or religious effect on our marital status, it is something we decided needed to happen.  We have come to the realization that it is better to be together because we want to be, not because we need to be, and our marriage exists because we desire it to exist only as two consenting adults who care about each other.  Our marriage is what we want it to be today, and if we want it to be something different tomorrow, then we will change it.  There is no social, religious, or governmental affiliation or expectation that can any longer have any affect on us; this is truly our journey to do as we please.  

As for why we are ditching the rings, well, honestly, they have become distasteful to me.  When Patty and I were in pre-marital counseling, the priest told us that the rings were a symbol of slavery, and that wearing them meant we were slaves to each other.  I no longer feel that slavery is a good way to manage a relationship.  I don't desire to be Patty's slave, and I don't desire for her to be mine.  What I want is to be a strong, independent, caring person who happens to share my experiences with an equally strong, independent, caring person.  The tattoos represent our commitment to each other, that we are important parts of each others lives, but we are not slaves.  Even if our marriage ended tomorrow, we recognize that we have been so integral to each other's well-being.  Years ago, we cast off the chains of slavery to religion, now it is time to cast off the chains of slavery to each other.

We no longer need religion to define morality, and we no longer need government to define marriage. We define these things for ourselves, and we are happy to do it.

Better To Be Dead Than Dying

Death Is Easy.  Dying Is Hard. 

Almost exactly a year after my grandfather, my grandmother has died.  And I am no closer to understanding how to deal with death today as I was then.  My grandfather was the first person who had died that I was remotely close to, and as such, was the first time I had to confront the nastiness of finite mortality.  And I hated it.  More than just dealing with the idea that, one day, my consciousness will evaporate into nothingness, I felt that the whole process of dealing with the death of a loved one to be nonsensical and detrimental to everyone involved.  

My grandfather spent the better part of a decade dying.  His care was intensive, as he was bed-ridden for a long period of time.  While physically incapacitated, he was at least mentally aware, until a few months before his death when he suffered a stroke, after which he faded into the abyss.  Seeing someone you once knew go from lucid to lost is not pleasant.  It is an uncomfortable realization when someone you knew and loved can no longer remember who you are.  It is at this point that one must face the fact that personality and characteristics are primarily tied to brain function, and when the brain no longer functions like it once did, the person you once knew is already gone.  I saw a glance of this when Patty had her seizure; some aspects of her personality have changed entirely, just because her brain now functions differently with the proper medication.

Now that I no longer live with the premise that a person has a spirit that contains the fundamental aspects of their character, I must be able to understand and deal with the consequences of that philosophy; that character comes strictly out of the physical brain, and that injuries and disorders to that brain will potentially impact what kind of person they are.  As hard as it is to accept at times, my experiences with Patty's epilepsy and Joey's brain injury, as well as the mental fading of the elderly people I have known in my life, show me that this is fundamentally true.  Seeing how the nature of a person can so drastically change after such drastic or degenerative changes to their brain function, it becomes difficult for me to even consider that a person can exist beyond death.

However, from a personal standpoint, this future non-existence is not a big deal.  When I die, I am nothing.  I won't persist in any meaningful way.  I won't remember, I won't dream, I won't feel pleasure or feel pain.  It's easy.  It's null existence.  It's the process of dying itself that becomes terrifying; years spent in agony, reduced awareness and reduced usefulness.

The near fanatical devotion to extending life makes no sense to me.  I don't want to die tomorrow, or even "at the top" of my life, but I don't want to persist to 90 for the sake of persisting.  There has got to be a point where the benefits of living no longer outweigh the benefits of ending life.  If my kids are gone, and my loose ends are tied up, the barrier for entry to the abyss all of a sudden becomes a lot easier, especially if a major illness crops up.

What makes even less sense is how we treat death.  Family gets together after the person has died to hold some kind of memorial service.  An opportunity to comfort a person at the end of their life is wasted.  Instead of sharing memories and happier times with the person about to depart, they must be shared without them.  It is a strange concept to me to see family voyage many miles to mourn that they will never see a loved one again, when they rarely made the voyage to see them while they were alive.  Maybe this is a matter of perspective from a person who sees the deceased as irrecoverably lost.  Maybe for those who believe in a spiritual facet, the last opportunity to spend life with a loved one while still living doesn't have such a high cost that I try to assign to it.  Even so, the process seems so backwards to me.  There is a terrible irony that a deathbed is lonely but a funeral is well attended.  

It is my hope that the end of my life is handled in a much more pleasant fashion.  When the time comes, where the realization that my life has reached the end of its usefulness, either mentally or physically, and that efforts to maintain life have severely diminished returns, that I will gather family and friends together for a last hurrah, to enjoy their company while I still live.  To tell stories, to hear stories, to enjoy companionship one last time, to toast a life well lived, is my hope.  When the party is over, I hope the very closest of friends and family would be merciful enough to help me end my life peacefully.  My goal for the end of my life is a happy death.  Ideally, Patty and I will live a long life together, and experience that happy death together.  There will be no extended hospital stays fighting terminal illnesses for me, at least not past a reasonable age.  

Lessons Learned

That being said, given that the life being celebrated has ended, there are ample opportunities for contemplation and reflection, opportunities to teach and learn.  And surprisingly, to feel the joy of being a parent, in seeing the humanity in my own children, to see them discover the nuances of their own mortality for the first time, and to be surprised with how they discover facets of death we had not seen ourselves.  It is a strange sensation to be completely surprised with my children's reactions to things, but at the same time, not be surprised at all.  Both of our kids have very distinct personalities, and it is interesting to see the spectrum of responses when exposed to new circumstances.  

In the case of my grandmother's death, this was Joey and Christi's first experience seeing a dead body.  We tried to prepare them for the experience beforehand, explaining them the traditions of a wake, and how to be respectful.  At the same time, we wanted to honor their emotions regarding the event, and encourage them to express their feelings toward it.  Joey has always been what we called an "emotional weather vane"; whatever the prevailing feeling is around him, he feels.  If people around him are sad, he is sad.  If people around him are happy, he is happy.  I don't think he even really understands his emotions, but just like everything with him, he just is.  He is a leaf in a river, always going with the flow.  Seeing grandma's dead body didn't really disturb him so much as it enforced the sadness he already felt.  What really hit it home for him was when he finally realized that it was his grandpa's mother that died.  He is pretty close to his grandpa, so seeing how sad it was for my dad really made it sad for Joey.  The empathy that my son possesses reveals a humanity within him that is so beautiful and comforting. 

Christi on the other hand, is much more cerebral, almost to the point of emotional obliviousness.  She remembered her job from last year, to be a hug dispenser for anyone who was sad.  To accomplish this job, she demanded that I refill her with hugs beforehand so that she could give them out at the wake.  I couldn't really say that she was filled with sorrow, but she did her job admirably, though she was definitely apprehensive about seeing the body.  After a while, she worked up the courage, held Patty's hand, and asked to go up.  Once she saw the body, she remarked how beautiful great-grandma looked, even saying that she was more beautiful coffin than she was when she was alive.  She then said, "huh, even death can be beautiful".  How moving, to hear those words from a nine year old girl?  How brave, for her to tackle her fear head-on, look death in the face, and confront it in such a matter-of-fact way?  I hope that the courage and rationality persists with her, so that she can one day help her parents transition to a beautiful death.  

As for me, even though I felt sorrow for my own mortality, anger for having to step into a church again so soon, and a general confusion regarding how to best deal with the anger while still being supportive of family (seems the only coping mechanism I have is passive aggressive sarcasm and lots of tongue biting), I felt close to my little family.  Driving home from the wake, and chatting while sipping on hot cocoas and coffee at the Flying M afterwards, I realize how special this little foursome is to me.  My cerebral daughter, my empathetic son, my encouraging wife, we make a great team.  I may not persist until I am 90, but I am going to have a great life with them, and hopefully a beautiful happy death as well. 

Replacing Church and Living Unsatisfied

So, You Don't Believe in God.  Now What?

My wife and I abandoned our faith somewhere around 2005, and ever since, our way of dealing with the universe has evolved on a near daily basis.  Even years later, in 2013, we are still trying to figure out this living thing.  Why is this so difficult?  One might think that this is a pretty obvious question, that because adherence to religion is so central to the lives of so many people, that removing that aspect will of course have a huge effect on those that choose to leave.  

The reality isn't that easy, however.  If one believes in God, then decides that they no longer do, there is much more to deal with than just the loss of a deity.  Don't get me wrong, learning to live without God is not trivial.  For many, it's a long grieving process that takes years to deal with, just on its own.  However, coming to grips with that single aspect is not the end.  The reality is, religion is kind of a one-stop shop for a variety of human needs and comforts, and leaving religion means either leaving those needs unsatisfied, or finding other ways to satisfy them.  The more involved you are in your religion, and the more intrusive religion is in your life, the harder it is replace it.  

After coming to grips with disbelief, it came natural to us to start examining aspects of our lives that religion had previously determined for us.  Morality, relationships, charity, sexuality, all became topics of re-discovery (and still are).  Some might assume that without religion, these things become a free-for-all, however, generally that is a fear of some religious people that really isn't a tenable reality for most of the godless.  What is more likely is the realization that the journey into disbelief is a more complicated path than that of remaining faithful; no longer do the big questions of life come with pre-packaged answers, instead, we must wade out into the confusing, complex, terrifying universe to try and wrest some meaning from the abyss. 

Even after dealing with the grief of losing the ideal of a caring deity, and dealing with answering life's great questions on your own, there are still more holes left to fill for the freshly deconverted.  Many lose families and friends, sometimes through deliberate ostracisation, but also for less malicious reasons; many social connections are just lost through the lack of common purpose.  Many lose the sense of belonging.  Others miss the feelings that are brought on by the spiritual connections that no longer exist.  Some miss the culture that their religion curated.

It cannot be understated how important these secondary social roles have played into the success of religion.  It was a mistake that we made when we left it; it was surprisingly difficult to be on our own because of it.  We had our issues, but I can't imagine how some people who are in real deep muster the courage to leave (some of the Phelps children who have left Westboro Baptist come to mind). 

A New Church

It is important to not underestimate the importance of the secondary roles that church may have had in our lives.  Initially, the other effects of leaving religion has a greater effect on the newly liberated, however, after time, these comforts that religion once provided become an issue to deal with in their own right.  So how do we cope?  Just like we now have the choice to decide for ourselves the role of morality and ethics in our lives, we also have the freedom to explore these needs and how we want to satiate them.  Some have even gone so far as to advocate for an "Atheist Church", sometimes referred to as Atheism 2.0, to fulfill those needs by providing a church-like environment but without the condemnation.  The existence of Atheism 2.0 highlights what many ex-theists are loathe to admit, that church does actually provide some value to believers, outside of just deity worship.  However, while it tries to fill that void, I prefer to take a different direction.  

Instead of replacing one kind of one-size-fits-all church with another, I have found a new kind of church.  This church shares a lot of things with the church I used to attend; it has celebrants, sacraments, tithes and rituals.  It has community, and fosters a deep emotional connection with my surroundings.  Services for this church are held semi-regularly; those who attend often wear special clothing that shows their involvement within this special community.  Tithe is offered upon entry to enable the celebrants to focus on their craft.  Sacramental wine flows freely throughout the service, and incense is thick, fostering feelings of connectivity and togetherness.  This is the church of Doom Metal, and my fellow concert-goers are my congregation.  It sounds silly at first, but it should not be immediately dismissed.  Every month brings a different celebrant in a different venue, but the result is the same; a spiritual refueling that leaves me satisfied until the next service.  I can go to any show in any city and feel as if among friends.  Every show is a spiritual experience.  Once the slow, heavy, reverbrations fill the room, they resonate with an internal emotional timepiece of every person in attendance; no longer a group of individuals, we move as a single collective consciousness, and a mosh pit becomes no different than a school of fish or a flock of birds, moving and acting as a single organism.  This is an experience my old church could never provide for me, and it is special to me.  

There is a fundamental and important difference between my old church and the new one.  While I get a deep and meaningful satisfaction for the communal experience that a good show offers, it has a strictly limited mandate.  While Al Cisneros of Om commands the attention of hundreds every night, his influence is limited.  Al Cisneros cannot tell me how to love, who to love, or how to live.  The only thing he can do is be a musical conduit and satisfy that single social desire.  The moment the celebrant of this service exceeds that limited mandate, is the moment they fail to satisfy the one desire I need them to fulfill.  At the end of the service, the big questions in life are still left unanswered, because it is not the role of this place to answer them.  This is a church without religion, and I am still on my own to find answers.  As it was said in Fight Club, "Nothing was solved when the fight was over, but nothing mattered".   

Al Cisneros, Feb 10, 2013

The beauty of this arrangement is that while Doom Metal is fulfilling and satisfying experience to me, there is no central teaching, no gospel, no homily that dictates that we must all belong to this church to be happy.  There is no need to evangelize, no need to recruit new members, no need to condemn others, no pressure to even bring my wife or children.  There is no need for this church to enter into politics, philosophy, or morality.  No one cares who we are or what we think at this church. We go because we want to go, and when we no longer have the need, we stop.  Because Doom Metal is satisfying for me, it does not imply that it is satisfying for anyone else, or that some other avenue of satisfaction can't be equally satisfying for others.  For some that I know, nature is their church.  For others, art, literature, or athletics has become theirs.  The only important fact here is that we recognize all of our needs, and find the healthiest way to understand them.  This is a terrifying beauty of leaving religion, I can now decide on my own how to be satisfied, with both great risks and great rewards.    

Terrifying Beauty

There is no better description about this mindset than terrifying beauty.  The whole world is new again, free to be experienced with new eyes.  It is filled with wonder and danger, knowing that many new experiences await, but also knowing that some risks have permanent consequences.  Many people have interesting stories to tell, and I have a new vigor to go find them and hear them, to be a missionary that listens instead of talks, to be an evangelist that seeks to be converted instead of to convert, to be a pilgrim to everywhere.  Simultaneously the greatest risk and the greatest reward is to be fundamentally changed by each experience.  My old church provided easy access to satisfaction; but it denied me the benefits of being unsatisfied.  My new church isn't really Doom Metal, it is really the world, of which music plays a part.  It is a mistake to lean heavily on only one facet of life, it is better instead to recognize the role each facet plays.  While music no doubt satisfies important needs that were previously handled by my old church, it is just as important that it does not satisfy all of them; this lack of complete satisfaction leaves me the desire to go out, experience other new things, and enjoy all of the terrifyingly beautiful aspects of this world.  

Choose Your Own Adventure

There is something about flying on an airplane that makes me feel like a little kid, which doesn't make a lot of sense, since I never flew when I was one.  In fact, the first plane ride I remember didn't happen until I was 15, when I got to pilot a Cessna as part of the Ace Academy program, a summer camp for aspiring pilots. A bit strange that I aspired to be a pilot, yet never rode on a plane, and my first ride involved me being in the pilot's seat.

The dream of being a pilot, like so many of our childhood dreams, never materialized, and the amount of plane trips I have taken is far too few for my taste, being only around half a dozen in my entire life.

So maybe this explains why air travel is so exciting for me, that the process of sitting in a metal tube hurtling through the air at hundreds of miles per hour has not become mundane yet. I prefer to think that is not the case, but rather that I prefer to see the excitement and adventure in mundane things. That not only can I look at a propeller of an aircraft and revel at the engineering required to make that function so well that air travel can even be considered boring, but also sit in an Olive Garden with my family and revel at the miracle of baked bread, slowly tearing apart a breadstick, watching the tiny air pockets separate into torn pieces, amazed that we as humans can invent leavened bread, much less airplanes.

It is amazing to me how quickly we as humans become acclimated to new things.  As I fumbled around the airport check-in, trying to cram my backpack into an impossibly tiny space, I feel the eyes of others upon me, and imagine them annoyed as I really have no clue what I am doing, while the process looks completely routine to everyone else.  Everyone looks bored and hassled, except for the flight attendants, whose job is to not look bored. I wonder how it it's possible to even be bored on an airplane, whether you have flown six times or six hundred times, toward vacation, toward work, or toward home.  I will try to not pass too harsh of judgement, it is only 6AM, after all. 

It's easy to be embarrassed by my lack of common sense in these routine matters, but it is also easy to be embarrassed about being so excited about something everyone else considers to be a nuisance.  But then, I remember that my life is as much of an adventure as I want it to be.  It's better than any Chose Your Own Adventure book, because this adventure is real. And so I sit in an airplane, in wonder of the complexity of the airplane, in enjoyment if the g-forces pushing me into my seat, in amazement at how quickly the city becomes a smattering of tiny lights, and in hope for new choices to choose from in the adventure book that is my life. I will happily fumble around trying to figure out how to ride a bus, how to stay at a hostel, how to make friends of strangers, and I will enjoy it because, god dammit, I choose to make this life an adventure.

So flying makes me feel like a little kid, not because I enjoyed flying as a little kid, but because I am still a little kid. A little kid that wants to know how things work, even if they are mundane and boring. A little kid who wants to learn and understand everything.  A little kid who wants to go on an adventure.  Who wants to come along?

The Battle for Joe: A Plan for Victory

I. A Word of Thanks

   Last week's post was hard to write.  Though the layout was simple, the writing straightforward, the whole thing took two weeks to put together.  While difficult, I was compelled to do it.  I needed to relive that terrible event so that I could put it to bed.  I needed to lay bare the fears, doubts, misdeeds and misgivings so that I could feel honest again.  I did not want to advertise my baggage, I just did not want to hide it.  I had doubts anyone cared, but you all proved me wrong.  

   The outpouring of support, and real, honest feedback really hit home.  I still fight back a tear reading through the comments, the notes of encouragement that have been sent, and the thinking about the words that have been spoken to me directly.  I owe all of you a great debt of gratitude for contributing to my healing.  I will never underestimate my friends again.  I love all of you, and I will use your encouragement to heal myself, and return that favor.   Below is my plan for victory over this adversity. 

II.  The Sitrep

  Last week was a breakthrough.  Writing about the experience allowed me to deal with it.  I can now recount the experience without crying.  I can now talk about things more honestly.  I have not had an unprovoked emotional outburst in nearly a week.  I can now sleep without Patty in the bed with me. I can now talk about charged topics rationally, but still allow some emotion.  The therapist is happy with my progress, and suggested I start looking forward, now that we have dealt with the past.  

  I am still emotional, and I still have my share of doubts and fears, though they are manageable.  I am still a bit lost as to who I am, and I only have a general idea as to where I want to go from here.  I am generally in a happier place than I was a month ago, but I know I need to progress further.

III.  Who I Want To Be

    When I sit down and analyze what kind of person I see as ideal, it's tempting to start with the easy stuff.  Honesty, kindness, patience, caring, these are the things that everyone wants to be.  The difficulty is digging deeper into these attributes and defining what about them makes them tough to become in practice.  It's easy to want to be these things, but what holds me back from becoming them?  

   Honesty is at the top of my list.  When I look to my friends and family I admire most, the one trait about them I admire the most is honesty.  I value friends who disagree with me.  I value people who are not afraid to tell me when they think I am wrong.  I love people who will not give up a disagreement because they are passionate about how they feel.  I also value those who are willing to share their innermost thoughts, things that are difficult to talk about.  These people become so much more to me as complete, real individuals, and I am honored that they would share their honest thoughts with me.  I want to be like them.  For some relationships, it's easier.   For others, it is more difficult because of the deep emotional attachment and the fear to cause offense or anger when I disagree.  That honesty requires bravery to speak my mind, trust that those I care about will respect that honesty, and tact to deliver that honesty in a way that is encouraging to discussion and sensitive to feelings.  Anyone that knows me, knows that tact is the skill I possess very little of.  

   Integrity comes next.  I have heard integrity be defined as "being the person you imagine you should be".  The core of this is deep examination of the self, identifying failings, and coming up with a plan to remedy them.  I want to be able to honestly address my faults as a person and deal with them.  This is a difficult line to walk; it is easy to ignore the faults, but it is also easy to be too hard on oneself as well.  It is helpful to analyze oneself, but it is also helpful to have the input of loved ones as well.  

   Responsibility is also important.  Some responsibilities are easy; as a husband who loves his wife, and a father who loves his children, it is not hard to want to be the best I can be in those regards.  That will never change, though the form that those responsibilities take might.  Other responsibilities are difficult, and I want to be the person that can be relied upon to handle those.  

   Lastly, I will say that I want to be a person that can not only ask for help, but for others to feel comfortable  asking us for help.  For too long, I have felt like Patty and I were an island; self-sufficient, but disconnected.  I want to change that.  I want to establish understandings with our close friends that, like how we have had to depend on them these past few months, that they can also depend on us.  I want a strong sense of "give and take".  Patty and I have had much discussion in the past on how we will never be the type to give freely; however, to those that meet the criteria of responsible adults among our circle, we need to be very clear that they should never hesitate to approach us for help, because we now know how much they themselves are willing to help.

IV.  What I Want To Do

   While taking the risk of potentially sounding like a list of New Year's Resolutions, I have compiled a list of things I want to do in 2013:

Music:  

 I want to join a band.  Deep down, I have always wanted to.  Music is just a part of how I function.  I can't drive without it, I can't work without it, I can't think without it.  I attend small shows with a dozen people in the crowd, watching these people on stage just lose themselves, and I am filled with jealousy.  These guys live in a van, traveling from town to town, and they come to Boise to play to nobody and I am jealous of them because they lose themselves on stage every god-damned day of their lives.  

   Now, I know that touring is not something I can do and meet some of those core values I have listed above, and I can be very happy to not live out of a van.  But I do want to play. I don't care if its playing tambourine or cowbell.  If I can somehow take part in creating an hour full of heavy riffs that I can swim in, I will be happy.  

  At the very least, I need to start writing songs, creating sounds, and making noise.  If I can't find some like-minded individuals in this town (and I know, this isn't the most Doom friendly town), then I am going to have to resort to making it myself.  I will gladly supply earplugs for anyone caught within the wake of my sound waves.

Family:

   I want to spend a hell of a lot of time with my wife and kids.  I want to take Patty out...a lot.  I want to meet her for lunch.  I want to take her out on the town.  I want to take her out dancing.  I want to sit with her on the couch and giggle.  I want to take drives out to the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night and stargaze.  I want to do all of these other things on my own so that I can have something interesting to talk about with her.  I want to be passionate about music and religion and philosophy and politics and then share that passion with her.  

  I want to share that passion for life with my kids.  I want to share a variety of life experiences with them just to see what sticks for them.  I want them to be able to be happy experiencing new things, no matter what they are, just so that they have the benefit of trying.  I want them to love life and to explore all of the things it has to offer.

Reading:

   I want to read more books.  For many years I concentrated on reading short, technical type articles, and I somehow even have gotten away from that.  It's time to move away from summing up every topic in a simple image or short phrase, but embracing the complexity that is life.  Religion, ethics, politics, are all things that have been written about non-stop for the last several millenia without resolution, so it is time for my education about such matters to become a bit more sophisticated.  It is time to challenge my preconceptions.

Writing:

   Since you are reading this blog, you can probably guess that I have already started this one.  Writing about my experience has been a positive, therapeutic experience, and I want to expand that.  I want to not only explore personal topics, but also philosophical ones as well.  Obviously writing is also tied into music, and I may consider writing fiction.  I don't think how or what matters so much as I write in such a way as to engage my brain on a more challenging level.  

Photography: 

    I know the amount of pictures I take is incredibly annoying to the various members of my family that are consistently caught in the glare of my flash, unfortunately I don't plan on changing that much.  I love documenting the miscellaneous minutiae of our lives, and I want to do more of it.  Where I want to change here is, I want to not only be behind the camera, but also in front of it.  I look through all of our old pictures, and it makes me a bit sad that I am not in many of them.  For the ones that I am in, and vicariously through the pictures of my family, I can be reminded of where I have been, for better or worse.

   There is something comforting about looking at old photos, and remembering events that would be long lost to memory otherwise.  I see pictures of Joey's birth, strapped to machines, and I am reminded of the sadness of him nearly dying, and I appreciate the wonders of modern medicine that gave him back to us.  I see pictures of Christi's birth, and I see the relief and happiness that came from knowing how a healthy child is born.  I see pictures of us in times of happiness, sadness, regret, fondness, love, sorrow, old friends, lost friends, new friends, old us, and new us, and I cherish every single one.  

  While I love the candid pictures of everyday life, I also want to expand beyond that as well.  I want to take more pictures of nature.  I want to take pictures of space.  I want to sit in my backyard and stare into the chaos of the cosmos, and capture a little piece of that onto memory.  I want to encourage my wife, my kids, and myself to creatively portray ourselves in such a way that I can then capture and share with the world.

Fitness: 

   One of the biggest regrets I have is getting out of shape.  I used to be in such good shape...I was thin, I was able to run for miles, I had the stamina of a god.  Somehow, I let that all slip away.  I have made good progress, I can run again, and I have lost nearly 40 pounds in 2012 alone.  I want more, though.  I am going to run more races, lift more weights, eat less sugar, and make sure that diabetes risk does not become reality for a long, long time.  

V. Conclusion

   I hope that in a short time, I will have achieved that goal of being a smart, attractive, interesting, and happy person that Patty enjoys being around, that my kids look up to, and that I can be proud of.  Time to get started.  

The battle for Joe

I.  The Seizure

      Having a seizure is not a terribly uncommon occurrence. Once you have one, empathizing friends and acquaintances come out of the woodwork with experiences of their own, imparting a sense of normality to the whole experience. Or, at least, it should have.

       On July 29th, 2012, my wife and I retired to our bed, late, because we had just finished having a tearful argument. We resolved our argument, then promptly went to sleep with my tear-stained head resting on her bosom. After about an hour, I was awakened to the sound of obvious distress. My wife, Patty, was having a panic attack in her sleep, or so I had thought. Her whole body was tensed up, teeth clenched, her first closed and her arm flexed, as if expressing frustration at some nocturnal bogeyman that only existed in her dream. The noise that woke me was a forced moan through those same clenched teeth. I was concerned, of course, and I tried to wake her from that bad dream. I touched her face, repeatedly asking, "are you alright?". She never responded. In fact, what happened next has been ingrained into my psyche for the last four months, and I fear it may be there forever.

     After a few moments of trying to rouse her, instead of waking, she went limp. At that moment, I realized something more serious was happening; what it was, I was not sure. Stroke, maybe? Aneurysm? Heart attack? Whatever it was, I thought she was dying, and me with her.  I kept trying to wake her, but for a few terrifying moments, she refused to respond.  I shook her, shouted at her, and slapped her face. I checked her pupils, they were normal.  I checked her pulse, it was highly elevated, which meant her heart was still working.  I was looking for any clue as to what was happening, but couldn't find one. Externally, I was the calm, centered, capable man doing all the right things a man should do in an emergency situation.  Inside, I was shaking apart; I could feel my very self evacuating my body.

    After a few moments of dead eyes, she finally began to wake. She was alive, but she was not herself. I kept asking Patty if she was alright, but for several minutes, she was not able to respond coherently. Initially, all I could get was silence or a low moan.  At this point, I called 911.  I told her repeatedly that she was scaring me.  I kept asking her basic questions, if she knew where she was and the like, and for a short while, all I got was a confused stare.  Eventually, I got her to sit up in the bed and get her to respond, though she was still very confused.  The paramedics arrived a few minutes later, and in that time, I was able to wake Patty enough to get her to walk to the living room couch.  She was awake and mobile.  EMTs quickly surrounded her and began asking her questions, most of which she could not answer.  She did not know  her name, who I was, what month it was, or if she had any children.

     After a few minutes of prodding she started to come around.  How she got into the living room surrounded by a dozen strange men, however, she did not know, but at least she started to remember who she was, who that strange brown man was and why he was holding her shoes.

    One of the paramedics first told us that what Patty experienced was most likely a seizure, and that she would recover normally, but we decided to go to the hospital anyway.  After getting her CT scan and getting sent home, the horrible terrifying experience should have been over, but it wasn't.

II. The Aftermath

    The following weeks after the seizure were filled with appointments and tests; our primary concern, obviously, was to find the cause of the seizure and treat it.  MRIs, EEGs, consultations, time on Wikipedia and Google looking for clues.  Much energy was spent haranguing doctors for test results.  About two weeks later, we got our answer: Temporal Lobe Epilepsy.  We immediately started a regimen of Lamictal, and though we were hopeful, we also were very hesitant due to the nasty side of effects of such drugs.  

    For most people, such a diagnosis after such an episode would be a very negative experience.  After all, what good could come from such a discovery?  It's a terrifying thing, and we were indeed very scared.  What we didn't expect, however, was that the diagnosis and treatment would turn into one of the greatest experiences in our 13-year marriage.  This is because the seizure unearthed a solution to a longtime problem that Patty was dealing with; for more than four years she had been dealing with overwhelming anxiety and panic attacks, and for a good portion of 2012, they were getting worse.  Come to find, the panic attacks were likely miniature seizures, often called "auras".  These auras contributed to a generalized anxiety problem, which in turn made the auras worse.  It was a vicious cycle that was continuously getting worse.  However, once she reached her full dosage of Lamictal, the auras disappeared and the generalized anxiety evaporated.

    For sure, the diagnosis came with some adjustments.  Patty could not drive for 3 months, which resulted on us having to lean on friends and family to make sure everyone made it to school and back on a daily basis.  The fear of side effects still lingered, especially once Patty started hearing things.  For the most part, however, Patty became free.  She was no longer chained to the millstone of anxiety around her neck, and she was no longer chained to my constant support.

III.  Unexpected Changes

    Even though the inability to drive created a certain amount of stress, in a lot of ways, things were getting much better. We were better able to discuss things more openly and honestly than ever before. We were able to take new challenges that would have been too difficult previously. Our love life was better than ever. The kids handled the stress admirably, and they were starting to show their own independence. 2012 had turned from a tough year to one of vast personal growth. While the growth for Patty and the kids was becoming easier after years of struggle, my own growth had become painful. It turns out, after focusing on Patty's issues for years, I had neglected my own. Strengths became weaknesses in this new family dynamic. That stable Vulcan-like man was really a mess of a person tied together with duct tape. Why?  Well that's a story in itself.

    The root of the problem comes to guilt.  Guilt for feelings, guilt for having problems that could not compare to other, more serious things that the rest of the family was dealing with. Some of the guilt is cultural; especially coming from a Catholic background notorious for ingraining guilt from a young age, especially sexual guilt.  Societally, there is a lot of pressure for men to be emotionless, since we are expected to be strong pillars on which our families depend on.  Individually, I was not innocent.  I betrayed myself with my own weaknesses, and I was a poor husband and father at times.  I was not understanding of the worsening anxiety that we later discovered to be Patty's epilepsy years later.  I had anger, I had sadness, but I also had passion.  Being an emotional person requires one to draw support from others, and while I grew up as a very emotional person, depending on others is something I loathed.  So I made a choice: I wanted to be the strong person, so I buried every feeling I had.  Not just the bad, but the good, too.  I really convinced myself that my right to have emotions were less important than helping Patty and the kids deal with their problems.

   This evolved me from an independent, flawed person, with my own goals and desires into a person whose only purpose is to support others.  My only goal was to help Patty achieve her goals, which at the time was primarily to deal with the anxiety.  I vowed to myself that I would be the most patient person in existence; if Patty needed to have a tantrum because her anxiety frustrated her, I would be the teflon-coated zen-filled foundation that she could hurl her frustrations at and never be affected.  For a long time, I felt that this made me a strong person; I could carry the burdens of others as far as they needed to be carried.

   The reality is, that did not make me a strong person, it made me a coward.  The seizure wasn't Patty dying, it was me dying.  The seizure set her free; her problems weren't latent psychological issues that offered no respite, that were in constant need of an ever-patient supporter; they were a physiological problem easily dealt with by medication.  She did not need me anymore.  She was free, and happy, and it wasn't because of me.  She could leave at any time and never have to see me again.  She was always beautiful, she always possessed the potent duo of intelligence and common sense, always had the wit to keep anyone on their toes, and even though I told her these things ad nauseam, only now could she finally recognize it in herself.  And, horrible as it is to say, that scared me to death.

    Of course, this feeling didn't happen right away; she still needed me to help her through the seizure aftermath for a few weeks.  I dutifully helped with prescriptions, doctors, driving, and all of the things entailed in the process.  Once that was all taken care of, and Patty could drive again, something changed.  I deteriorated.  I fell apart.  I could no longer hold myself together.  I swung from celebrating Patty's victories to uncontrollable sadness.  Anytime I thought about the seizure, I started crying.  Even on a good day, that thought would bring tears that I could not control.  I started crying at work.  I cried at home, sometimes for hours.

  The sadness evolved into more damaging emotions; anxiety, jealousy, and anger started to make their appearance.  Anxiety came first.  I became insecure about our relationship; I was terrified she could leave at anytime.  Intrusive thoughts invaded regularly; horrible ideas that Patty no longer loved me and secretly wanted to leave; that she might leave at any moment.  I feared that I was completely unnecessary for her survival, and thus unnecessary for her happiness.  I not only feared that I was unnecessary, but an impediment.  Even worse, the lack of control over emotions created a new fear; that this sobbing wreck of a man would push Patty away, having become too much of a burden.

  Jealousy followed, as well as anger.  I started having a difficult time controlling any of my thoughts or feelings.  I crossed the line from thoughts and feelings to actions by checking Patty's text messages.  I logically had no reason to suspect anything was going on, but the anxiety put the horrible idea in my head that they must be.  Rationality stopped altogether; even if I had irrational feelings, I should have been able to deal with them without acting out in a way that damaged our relationship.  If anything was going to chase Patty away, it was going to be this.
 

IV. Depression

    Depression is being surrounded by people that love you, but feeling so utterly alone.  It is experiencing a life of positive things, but never being able to recognize any of them ever happened at all.  It is laying next to the person closest to you, as they comfort you while you cry, but not being able to feel them there.  It's a horrible thing, but the worst thing about depression is that the things that you need to do to deal with it are the things that you want to do the least.  There are a myriad of ways of dealing with it.  A hobby.  Meeting with friends.  Talking about what it is that hurts.  Keeping a journal.  Exercise.  All of these things are effective means of handling those feelings, and while simple things, they become tasks so impossible to complete that they are not worth starting.  

   It is sad that I have been so down on 2012, that Patty had to sit me down and recount all the good things I had forgotten.  It was easy to focus on the family troubles, car troubles, poison ivy, leeches, ringworm, seizures, dog bites and injuries, that I completely forgot about the good things that accompanied them; awesome vacations with awesome friends, financial planning that gave us the freedom to buy new cars when we needed them, freedom from family drama, Patty's walls being torn down, sexual freedom, being in my best physical shape since college, playing guitar with Joey, and trying new things like kayaking.  2012 was a very polarizing year, but it wasn't a bad year.  If anything, it has set us up to have an awesome 2013, if only I can shake the despair.

   The one advantage I felt I have had in dealing with the depression is that I feel so used to failure that fear of failure doesn't really prevent me from doing anything anyway.  It's not some herculean will that drives me to exercise, or play music, or talk about it, it's that I just don't care that the task seems impossible.  That, and the acute hatred for this state I have found myself in, have given me the motivation to try and deal with it.  I truly despise myself in this state.  I suppose that attitude does not help my self-esteem much, but it does help me face what I need to do.  I want out of this soul-crushing prison and I am willing to do whatever it takes to escape.

  So I am writing.  So I am exercising.  So I am talking.  So I am playing music.  So I am seeing a therapist.  I am doing these things not only because I want to get better, but because they make me feel better, once I overcome the desire to not do them.

V.  Joe 2.0

   It is important that I see this time in my life as an opportunity.  I have often heard boot camp described as a place where a person is stripped down to their bare essentials so that they can be built back up again.  This is my emotional boot camp; I have already been stripped down, now I get to decide who I want to build myself up as.  Who do I want to be?  That seems to be a vital question for anyone at any given time, but the question has an increased sense of urgency for me, because, well, I don't feel like I am anyone at the moment and time is slipping away.  

   So who do I want to be?  A few things are obvious.  I want to still be a caring husband and father.  I still love Patty very much, and she will always be an important part of my life.  But I also want a life of my own.  I want the strength to pursue interests that she doesn't necessarily share.  This is something I have already started, with the kayaking, hiking, and music, but it is an important to continue.  I want to be strong enough to disagree with her.  I want to be strong enough to tell her things when I think she doesn't want to hear them.  Patty doesn't want a sycophant, and I don't want to be one. 

     I want to be emotionally balanced, to feel things in the right proportions.  No more Mr. Vulcan, no more sobbing mess.  I want to be skilled around the house, to be able to do any task or chore that is needed of me.  I want to write.  I want to create really terrible sounding music that no one will ever want to listen to, in the hope that someday I will create something good.  I want to be able to have a good time in any situation.  I want to be able to converse with anybody about any topic.  I want to have more friends, and more close, meaningful friends.  I want to never be afraid to be honest.  I want to be more empathetic to others.  I want to be eager to learn new things.  

  

VI.  The Rising Sun

   It's been a few weeks since I have fallen apart and started counseling.  I feel like I am on the mend, and am excited about the opportunity to start a new life in a new way with my love, Patty, and my kids.  Thinking about the seizure still makes me sad, but it doesn't drive me to tears like it did before.  I still get anxiety, but it doesn't drive me crazy anymore.  I can breathe through it.  A tear occasionally wells up, but I am no longer sobbing into Patty's lap.  I am finding my footing and re-establishing my personality.  I am booting up.


  Here's to 2013.