I just finished "Kingdom of Fear," the book Hunter S. Thompson wrote shortly before taking his own life. As a general rule, I would not advocate affection toward, or admiration of, this insane explosives enthusiast, substance abuser, and pioneer of Gonzo journalism. That would be irresponsible. But, as Hunter might say, it certainly works for me...
Hunter was a writer of the truest kind, I think. There was no distinct point at which his life ended and his writing began. As an author, his next book would appear out of the ashes of the mayhem he was planning to ignite. His story was being written at every moment, crafted into a chaotic first-person narrative of drug-steeped sporting events and presidential campaigns. This awareness–that the success in his career might hinge on the audacity of his life choices–had a powerful effect. It pushed him to the limits of what his psychedelic-induced imagination could fathom. It provided an environment whereby the consequences, whether it be the courtroom, the hospital, or the insane asylum, would be vindicated by the public's thirst for his subsequent exposition. What did not kill Hunter made him stronger, and ushered him to a life on the edge, where the possibilities were endless. It was a life of intent, honesty, and courage, and it is difficult to argue with the results.
When I read Hunter, I am reminded that we are not given permission to author our lives. We create our future at every moment despite what the world expects of us. Sound judgment is a myth. We cannot know the future. But, when we accept that we are building our future, advancing with courage, conviction, and complete unpredictability, we are left with a sort of humility and grace. It is a place beyond, where all that has passed is perfection and all that is yet to be is irrelevant. It is a beautiful place, and one where life may be lived.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The Dreaded S
Thank you, you know who, for reminding me of our personality category masters...
However, the Meyers-Briggs is almost a total sham. It mostly tells us what awful people we are while sugar-coating the ugly facts with pathetic flattery.
I took the test in college, where I learned I was an INFP...
"Quiet, reflective, and idealistic. Interested in serving humanity. Well-developed value system, which they strive to live in accordance with. Extremely loyal. Adaptable and laid-back unless a strongly-held value is threatened."
Just tell it how it is...
"Meek, slow, and delusional. Interested in believing fantastic errors of logic. Closed-minded and intellectually stunted. Dependent on pandering to others. Floundering and lazy unless frightened, which happens easily."
Then, about 5 years later, I took it again, where I learned I was an ENTJ...
"Assertive and outspoken - they are driven to lead. Excellent ability to understand difficult organizational problems and create solid solutions. Intelligent and well-informed, they usually excel at public speaking. They value knowledge and competence, and usually have little patience with inefficiency or disorganization."
Huh? But still, tell it how it is...
"Narcissistic and intolerable - they are driven to unyielding social domination. Excellent ability to manipulate people into doing things they don't want to do. Ruthless with a small cache of useful, superficial knowledge, they usually excel at pissing people off. They value nothing worthwhile, and have no patience for people they can't easily exploit."
I am a miserable human being indeed on both fronts, so is every other INFP/ENTJ. But, there is one thing I am not. There is one thing so vile and contemptible, even I am not capable of flirting with its sick, twisted sensibilities. Yes, I am referring to the unholy "S."
If the Meyers-Briggs were good for anything, it would be the identification of all human lizards capable of scoring the S. Anyone with an S in their type profile is dangerous, unpredictable, even lethal. S stands for "Sensing," but should stand for "Specimen," or "Sociopath," or "Sheep," or "Serial Puppy Killer." Don't worry, the true S wouldn't be the least bit offended by any of thes characterizations, but delighted. They do not feel as you and I do. Yes, the dreaded S senses everything, but feels nothing at all.
If there were anything special or worthy of reverence in this god-forsaken planet, the S would shun it, shit on it, and string it up. An S type, even the pathetic ISFP, is to be feared, for they are all relentless, efficient cogs in the grand machine churning to rip you to shreds for any technicality, no matter how trivial. They are soulless beasts who seek the Achilles heel of the most capable and honorable, then slice it with their nail file and pretend not to notice. Or maybe they don't notice. I don't know. Maybe they don't even know they are doing it. But, one thing is certain: these vile creatures must be stopped, or they will pulverize humanity in the endless meat grinder of technicalities until every last one of us has conformed to their numb, heartless excuse for an existence.
For an S, 1+1 cannot =3. Never. But, 1+1 can =2#&$@&*. It must! IT MUST! THERE IS NO OTHER WAY! And, that is why you can use them to incinerate millions of innocent people. Ss worked well for Hitler. They are the primary target of all demagogues and tyrants. To their credit, they are never the tyrants themselves. Never. But, if not for the S, the tyrant could never gain power in the first place. To an N, no argument can possibly win from the mouth of a raving, psychotic lunatic, no matter how self-evident. Ns detect that insane, freakish lust for power beaming from the frantic eyes of the possessed dictator. He is an obvious nut job. His is so easily dismissed as a man owned by fear, acting through terror on behalf of nothing but his own preservation. On the other hand, the S, incapable of comprehending his motives, and, believing 1+1=2#&$@&* because there is no other choice, is vulnerable to his arguments. To an S, there is no raving, flailing lunatic, just plain and simple facts placed neatly one-beside-another, just like the corpses stacked in pits next to rows of people being systematically executed–their limp bodies flopping over like sardines to be bulldozed over. They have hallowed this ground–those limp sardines–not us.
To use a timely metaphor, in the intellectual/philosophical/political world, the S will joyfully drill miles through bedrock to suddenly rupture a deep oil field under intense pressure, thus releasing an unstoppable flow of viscous grime, poisoning the world with fire, darkness, walking fish, and noxious fumes. It is always up to the Ns to plug the damn hole, usually after many irresponsible attempts including golf balls, rubber scraps, and miscellaneous refuse.
With that, I give you the plain and simple truth regarding the S, the scourge of the universe and the bane of our existence. May Ns use their power to give us nitrogen beer widgets rather than human fertilizer.
However, the Meyers-Briggs is almost a total sham. It mostly tells us what awful people we are while sugar-coating the ugly facts with pathetic flattery.
I took the test in college, where I learned I was an INFP...
"Quiet, reflective, and idealistic. Interested in serving humanity. Well-developed value system, which they strive to live in accordance with. Extremely loyal. Adaptable and laid-back unless a strongly-held value is threatened."
Just tell it how it is...
"Meek, slow, and delusional. Interested in believing fantastic errors of logic. Closed-minded and intellectually stunted. Dependent on pandering to others. Floundering and lazy unless frightened, which happens easily."
Then, about 5 years later, I took it again, where I learned I was an ENTJ...
"Assertive and outspoken - they are driven to lead. Excellent ability to understand difficult organizational problems and create solid solutions. Intelligent and well-informed, they usually excel at public speaking. They value knowledge and competence, and usually have little patience with inefficiency or disorganization."
Huh? But still, tell it how it is...
"Narcissistic and intolerable - they are driven to unyielding social domination. Excellent ability to manipulate people into doing things they don't want to do. Ruthless with a small cache of useful, superficial knowledge, they usually excel at pissing people off. They value nothing worthwhile, and have no patience for people they can't easily exploit."
I am a miserable human being indeed on both fronts, so is every other INFP/ENTJ. But, there is one thing I am not. There is one thing so vile and contemptible, even I am not capable of flirting with its sick, twisted sensibilities. Yes, I am referring to the unholy "S."
If the Meyers-Briggs were good for anything, it would be the identification of all human lizards capable of scoring the S. Anyone with an S in their type profile is dangerous, unpredictable, even lethal. S stands for "Sensing," but should stand for "Specimen," or "Sociopath," or "Sheep," or "Serial Puppy Killer." Don't worry, the true S wouldn't be the least bit offended by any of thes characterizations, but delighted. They do not feel as you and I do. Yes, the dreaded S senses everything, but feels nothing at all.
If there were anything special or worthy of reverence in this god-forsaken planet, the S would shun it, shit on it, and string it up. An S type, even the pathetic ISFP, is to be feared, for they are all relentless, efficient cogs in the grand machine churning to rip you to shreds for any technicality, no matter how trivial. They are soulless beasts who seek the Achilles heel of the most capable and honorable, then slice it with their nail file and pretend not to notice. Or maybe they don't notice. I don't know. Maybe they don't even know they are doing it. But, one thing is certain: these vile creatures must be stopped, or they will pulverize humanity in the endless meat grinder of technicalities until every last one of us has conformed to their numb, heartless excuse for an existence.
For an S, 1+1 cannot =3. Never. But, 1+1 can =2#&$@&*. It must! IT MUST! THERE IS NO OTHER WAY! And, that is why you can use them to incinerate millions of innocent people. Ss worked well for Hitler. They are the primary target of all demagogues and tyrants. To their credit, they are never the tyrants themselves. Never. But, if not for the S, the tyrant could never gain power in the first place. To an N, no argument can possibly win from the mouth of a raving, psychotic lunatic, no matter how self-evident. Ns detect that insane, freakish lust for power beaming from the frantic eyes of the possessed dictator. He is an obvious nut job. His is so easily dismissed as a man owned by fear, acting through terror on behalf of nothing but his own preservation. On the other hand, the S, incapable of comprehending his motives, and, believing 1+1=2#&$@&* because there is no other choice, is vulnerable to his arguments. To an S, there is no raving, flailing lunatic, just plain and simple facts placed neatly one-beside-another, just like the corpses stacked in pits next to rows of people being systematically executed–their limp bodies flopping over like sardines to be bulldozed over. They have hallowed this ground–those limp sardines–not us.
To use a timely metaphor, in the intellectual/philosophical/political world, the S will joyfully drill miles through bedrock to suddenly rupture a deep oil field under intense pressure, thus releasing an unstoppable flow of viscous grime, poisoning the world with fire, darkness, walking fish, and noxious fumes. It is always up to the Ns to plug the damn hole, usually after many irresponsible attempts including golf balls, rubber scraps, and miscellaneous refuse.
With that, I give you the plain and simple truth regarding the S, the scourge of the universe and the bane of our existence. May Ns use their power to give us nitrogen beer widgets rather than human fertilizer.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Starving the Soul Muncher
The Soul Muncher amuses itself by munching souls. Its tactics are ruthless and evasive: move, wait, strike, disappear. It hits hard and fast, targeting the completely oblivious. It cracks down like lighting over a mini golfer on a sunny day, feasting on what would have otherwise been a mildly entertaining afternoon. Its victim is suddenly paralyzed, left in a vacant, obedient daze. Bereft of soul, the individual reverts to behavior deep within, like some base autopilot, terrified of anything without precedence. Purpose forgotten, the victim clings to order, no matter how superficial, swimming in an apparent sea of chaos. "One false move..." echos in the darkness of that place formerly hosting a soul. "One false move and it's all over."
Dread. It consumes like bad movie; one that just has to get better, but never does. The initial shock escalates quickly to boredom, confusion, and bewilderment. The departed soul twists in the jaws of its captor, desperate to return. It watches its beloved host from above, observing its every heinous, predictable move. It wrestles this monster's spiny tongue as its host plays follow the leader, any leader, but mostly the one closest in physical proximity. This new leader barks orders from the TV screen, or the monitor. It is followed without question or doubt as the soul watches in horror. The Muncher observes, smiling as the victim apes who or whatever screams the loudest or behaves the most consistently. A soulless host needs simplicity, and accepts it in place of merit. Without soul, impression rules, as if truth can be wished away by consensus.
But truth does not yield entirely to appearances. Beneath the colorful balls, reality exists, sometimes at a shallow depth, sometimes miles down. It is a fact hostile to the Muncher. Reprehensible. The most accessible reality is always the Muncher's target, changed at the last moment to perpetuate a delusion, any delusion that allows the munching to continue. The Muncher's tendrils placate, entice, distract. They snatch souls that might awaken a different host, capable of stealing back the soul from its clenched jaw at any time.
The Muncher will starve without fear, and instills it at every opportunity, so far as it is able. Two hosts with souls clenched are doubly departed, fearful and hostile towards one another until the loudest tyrant can be agreed upon. Three vacant hosts require a louder, more shrill voice to round them. A hundred requires nothing less than a crazed psychopathic narcissist. The advancement swells through towns, states, nations. A war is a manic feasting frenzy for the soul Muncher. It shrieks when confronted with peace or compassion.
Attacking the Muncher will yield unsatisfying results. It can only be defeated by attrition. It must be deprived of soul, and that requires indifference to the Muncher's existence and rejection of its influence. The Soul Muncher whimpers when ignored like a deserted puppy, and grows cuter and more innocent-looking with every soul sucked from its throat. When it has no soul to feed upon, it is the most irresistible, adorable entity imaginable. At this stage, with no tendrils or spiny tongue, its puppy eyes cry desperately for attention. Even one having witnessed the wrath of bloody carnage left in its wake cannot smash so meek and charming a Muncher. While it must be destroyed, its appearance resembles whatever is most pure and precious to the observing, intact soul. Only one as heartless as the Muncher itself would be capable of smashing something so adorable, and only a Muncher is quite that heartless.
The Soul Muncher cannot be destroyed, only starved, which is accomplished through recognizing the existence of subtle facts, such as the simultaneous futility and relevance of the physical world, and then acting upon those facts however required, generally in the most absurd and unpredictable way imaginable. I have yet to discern a more expedient method of starving the Soul Muncher.
Dread. It consumes like bad movie; one that just has to get better, but never does. The initial shock escalates quickly to boredom, confusion, and bewilderment. The departed soul twists in the jaws of its captor, desperate to return. It watches its beloved host from above, observing its every heinous, predictable move. It wrestles this monster's spiny tongue as its host plays follow the leader, any leader, but mostly the one closest in physical proximity. This new leader barks orders from the TV screen, or the monitor. It is followed without question or doubt as the soul watches in horror. The Muncher observes, smiling as the victim apes who or whatever screams the loudest or behaves the most consistently. A soulless host needs simplicity, and accepts it in place of merit. Without soul, impression rules, as if truth can be wished away by consensus.
But truth does not yield entirely to appearances. Beneath the colorful balls, reality exists, sometimes at a shallow depth, sometimes miles down. It is a fact hostile to the Muncher. Reprehensible. The most accessible reality is always the Muncher's target, changed at the last moment to perpetuate a delusion, any delusion that allows the munching to continue. The Muncher's tendrils placate, entice, distract. They snatch souls that might awaken a different host, capable of stealing back the soul from its clenched jaw at any time.
The Muncher will starve without fear, and instills it at every opportunity, so far as it is able. Two hosts with souls clenched are doubly departed, fearful and hostile towards one another until the loudest tyrant can be agreed upon. Three vacant hosts require a louder, more shrill voice to round them. A hundred requires nothing less than a crazed psychopathic narcissist. The advancement swells through towns, states, nations. A war is a manic feasting frenzy for the soul Muncher. It shrieks when confronted with peace or compassion.
Attacking the Muncher will yield unsatisfying results. It can only be defeated by attrition. It must be deprived of soul, and that requires indifference to the Muncher's existence and rejection of its influence. The Soul Muncher whimpers when ignored like a deserted puppy, and grows cuter and more innocent-looking with every soul sucked from its throat. When it has no soul to feed upon, it is the most irresistible, adorable entity imaginable. At this stage, with no tendrils or spiny tongue, its puppy eyes cry desperately for attention. Even one having witnessed the wrath of bloody carnage left in its wake cannot smash so meek and charming a Muncher. While it must be destroyed, its appearance resembles whatever is most pure and precious to the observing, intact soul. Only one as heartless as the Muncher itself would be capable of smashing something so adorable, and only a Muncher is quite that heartless.
The Soul Muncher cannot be destroyed, only starved, which is accomplished through recognizing the existence of subtle facts, such as the simultaneous futility and relevance of the physical world, and then acting upon those facts however required, generally in the most absurd and unpredictable way imaginable. I have yet to discern a more expedient method of starving the Soul Muncher.
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