Dear Dead,
Eventually, we get tired of the coffee shop. I’m hungry. We walk down the street to Red Dog, where we order beer and real food. I’m surprised because we aren’t having trite conversation. I really, really like you, and I’m having a good time. I would pick you as a friend. There’s an easiness to the way we talk, like we’ve been friends since high school.
With our drinks in hand, you start to tell me about your kid, Deming. You talk a lot about Deming, in a proud way. I see you honestly beam for the first time all night. Deming sounds like a real man’s man, even if he’s only five years old. I can see him in my mind’s eye, dirty and beautiful, stomping through the forest in search of dragons and worms.
Deming came along as the product of your first and only marriage, which ended as an emotional catastrophe. Your wife broke your heart, I guess. For the second time tonight, we connect. Abortion brought us together the first time, now it’s broken dreams and bad romance. I think that’s interesting, that we connect more around painful issues than happy ones.
You take a break for a while to sip your Porter, letting me talk about my romantic catastrophes. You laugh, albeit painfully, as I describe how different girls lied to me. You cringe as I recall my girlfriends’ crazy mothers. When I get to the worst parts, you stare into the dark swirls of your Porter, and I can see the bitterness dripping off of you. It’s true – I feel bitter too. It’s pain, and we wonder if anything good can ever come from pain.
For you, I think, Deming was the good thing. For all you say about human survival, your physics degree, and your life goals, I really think that Deming is the only thing you truly love. In fact, I think he saved your life. I think you would have killed yourself without Deming.
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New posts every Monday and Thursday.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Meteors And The Afterlife
Dear Dead,
You tell me your guiding constant is the pursuit of survival. You tell me that it is only a matter of time before the earth is obliterated by a meteor, or the sun, or nuclear war. The only solution, then, is to create a space colony. It makes sense to me. It reminds me of sci-fi novels, and I remember reading in a magazine that sci-fi novels are written by nerds, which is another name for socially dysfunctional geniuses. Just because they can’t dress doesn’t mean they aren’t right about their technofutural-inspired predictions.
I try to imagine the earth being pulverized by a meteor. With our telescopes, we would know it was coming. The government would tell us they were doing everything in their power to stop it, but they couldn’t stop it. They would only be lying to keep everything from turning into total chaos. A few people might have the foresight to burrow into underground shelters. Religious people would carry signs telling everyone to repent, while the unreligious people would presumably spend their last few days doing things that need repenting from.
Funny, it had never bothered me, the thought of the earth being destroyed. There is always the afterlife. I think religious people are famous for that mode of thought, and I ask you if you think it makes us wasteful of the earth’s resources. You hesitate, and I tell you that I want honest answers. That’s what this is all about: honesty. An open exchange of ideas. You pause for a moment, trying to decide if I’m telling the truth about wanting honest answers. I guess you decide I’m telling the truth, because eventually you nod and say you think it does make religious people wasteful of the earth’s resources.
Procreation is your next passion, even though you never made it past one offspring. In the fight for survival, you explain, the human race should procreate as much and as often as possible. This creates a common point of belief between us: we are both pro-life. Your reason is survival, mine is morality. Either way, we finally agree on something, and it feels good. The disagreement feels alright, too, but I think we humans like to agree with each other. We sense that unity is a positive experience.
The more we talk, the more you feel the freedom to be yourself. You get louder, enunciating your words and especially your profanity with clear, ringing bell tones. Your hands move, and you ride your chair like a bar room mechanical bull. Your eyes are so bright. I think to myself that if religious people were so passionate, we could end the orphan problem in Africa, or the sex slave trade in Asia. Maybe we could do those things instead of building temples and mosques and churches, instead of having religious TV shows, religious books, and religious wars. Maybe, if we were passionate, we could do good things.
You tell me your guiding constant is the pursuit of survival. You tell me that it is only a matter of time before the earth is obliterated by a meteor, or the sun, or nuclear war. The only solution, then, is to create a space colony. It makes sense to me. It reminds me of sci-fi novels, and I remember reading in a magazine that sci-fi novels are written by nerds, which is another name for socially dysfunctional geniuses. Just because they can’t dress doesn’t mean they aren’t right about their technofutural-inspired predictions.
I try to imagine the earth being pulverized by a meteor. With our telescopes, we would know it was coming. The government would tell us they were doing everything in their power to stop it, but they couldn’t stop it. They would only be lying to keep everything from turning into total chaos. A few people might have the foresight to burrow into underground shelters. Religious people would carry signs telling everyone to repent, while the unreligious people would presumably spend their last few days doing things that need repenting from.
Funny, it had never bothered me, the thought of the earth being destroyed. There is always the afterlife. I think religious people are famous for that mode of thought, and I ask you if you think it makes us wasteful of the earth’s resources. You hesitate, and I tell you that I want honest answers. That’s what this is all about: honesty. An open exchange of ideas. You pause for a moment, trying to decide if I’m telling the truth about wanting honest answers. I guess you decide I’m telling the truth, because eventually you nod and say you think it does make religious people wasteful of the earth’s resources.
Procreation is your next passion, even though you never made it past one offspring. In the fight for survival, you explain, the human race should procreate as much and as often as possible. This creates a common point of belief between us: we are both pro-life. Your reason is survival, mine is morality. Either way, we finally agree on something, and it feels good. The disagreement feels alright, too, but I think we humans like to agree with each other. We sense that unity is a positive experience.
The more we talk, the more you feel the freedom to be yourself. You get louder, enunciating your words and especially your profanity with clear, ringing bell tones. Your hands move, and you ride your chair like a bar room mechanical bull. Your eyes are so bright. I think to myself that if religious people were so passionate, we could end the orphan problem in Africa, or the sex slave trade in Asia. Maybe we could do those things instead of building temples and mosques and churches, instead of having religious TV shows, religious books, and religious wars. Maybe, if we were passionate, we could do good things.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Atheists Wanted
Dear Dead,
Today I place a poster in the coffee shop that says: “Atheists Wanted.” I leave my phone number, and within a few days, you call me. I didn’t really expect anyone to call, because it was a strange poster.
When we meet, at the same coffee shop in the arts district, it takes a few minutes to feel each other out. I am drinking an iced chai, because it is a warm summer night and we are sitting outside in Virginia. You drink a hot black coffee because you don’t drink anything else. You smoke a cigarette, respectfully directing your smoky exhales away from my end of the table.
The questions begin. I want to make sure you are really an atheist; you want to make sure that I really believe in an all-powerful spiritual being. More importantly, you want to make sure I will keep good on my promise not to try to convert you. That’s what my poster said.
You are different. And I honestly like that. Sitting with you is the same feeling I get when I go to one of my cafés and order something I usually don’t. It takes an element of courage to take the risk and form your mouth around the words, asking for something other than what you’re used to. Lately I’d been noticing that everyone around me thought all the same thoughts I did, listened to all the same songs, and read all the same books. We had the same heroes, the same enemies, and the same ambitions. Somehow it felt inbred, and I didn’t like the feeling.
You have interesting answers to all my questions, and while most of them start or end with a swear word, they are always intelligent. I like intelligent answers. I like people who think. You tell me that you have no respect for “nominal atheists,” who get drunk and fornicate, and decide not to believe in God because it eases the guilt. I laugh out loud when you say that, because it’s so true. People don’t think about what they believe. People like easy answers.
Today I place a poster in the coffee shop that says: “Atheists Wanted.” I leave my phone number, and within a few days, you call me. I didn’t really expect anyone to call, because it was a strange poster.
When we meet, at the same coffee shop in the arts district, it takes a few minutes to feel each other out. I am drinking an iced chai, because it is a warm summer night and we are sitting outside in Virginia. You drink a hot black coffee because you don’t drink anything else. You smoke a cigarette, respectfully directing your smoky exhales away from my end of the table.
The questions begin. I want to make sure you are really an atheist; you want to make sure that I really believe in an all-powerful spiritual being. More importantly, you want to make sure I will keep good on my promise not to try to convert you. That’s what my poster said.
You are different. And I honestly like that. Sitting with you is the same feeling I get when I go to one of my cafés and order something I usually don’t. It takes an element of courage to take the risk and form your mouth around the words, asking for something other than what you’re used to. Lately I’d been noticing that everyone around me thought all the same thoughts I did, listened to all the same songs, and read all the same books. We had the same heroes, the same enemies, and the same ambitions. Somehow it felt inbred, and I didn’t like the feeling.
You have interesting answers to all my questions, and while most of them start or end with a swear word, they are always intelligent. I like intelligent answers. I like people who think. You tell me that you have no respect for “nominal atheists,” who get drunk and fornicate, and decide not to believe in God because it eases the guilt. I laugh out loud when you say that, because it’s so true. People don’t think about what they believe. People like easy answers.
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