The jangle of horse tack and the creak of leather, coming between gusts of brisk autumn wind, was the first indication that Brother Oscar was no longer alone on his hillside. From somewhere behind him came the faint thud of hooves on the narrow trail from the forests below, the bright ring of metal on stone as one of the hooves slid over the rocks. Surprised, but not alarmed, the monk frowned at the loosely bound leather journal in his lap and scratched out another few words before the horses and their riders came alongside him.

ￜWell, old man,ￜ came a deep, imperious voice. ￜDonￜt you rise to meet your betters?ￜ

Twisting his head to one side, Brother Oscar peered up at the man on the horse. His interrogator had deep lines on his middle-aged face; where the hermitï¿œs face was creased at the eyes and the mouth from smiling and squinting into the sun, the horsemanï¿œs face also included deep frown lines on his high forehead and around his stern, aristocratic beard. The retinue of armed knights mounted behind him were as superfluous as the circlet on his brow to proclaim him a king.

ￜWell, I would rise, Sire, but my old bones donￜt move as well as they used to,ￜ replied the hermit. ￜAnd I was trying to finish my thought here. I donￜt suppose you know how to spell ￜephemeral,ￜ do you? No, no, I thought not.ￜ Licking the tip of his charcoal pencil, he made another stab at the word.

The kingￜs stern face split into a creased grin that very few of his courtiers were ever privileged to see. ￜYou old goat. Iￜm doing good to know what it means, let along how to spell it!ￜ

Kicking one leg over the cantle of his saddle, more like a young man than a monarch, the king slid down from his mount even as the old monk stood up. They met with clasped wrists, slapping each other on the back.

ￜWell met, Everard,ￜ Oscar proclaimed. ￜWhatever are you doing in this part of the world?ￜ

ￜPolitics, what else?ￜ growled the king. ￜPoncy Ponnardￜs got his whiskers in a wad because Daven refuses to marry his spot-faced daughter.ￜ

ￜAnd youￜve come to visit me rather than stay in the capitol and sooth his ruffled feathers?ￜ Oscar guessed, his blue eye not quite winking. ￜThat will take some doing, you know. Heￜs monstrous proud of the girl.ￜ

ï¿œAye, and it will cost me a dozen casks of his finest wine out of his tax tithe this winter, no doubt. Though I’d rather drink bad wine than listen to Daven shouting at me for choosing him a bride he didnï¿œt want.ï¿œ

If the knights in King Everardￜs service were unaccustomed to seeing their sworn lord lounging on the grass with a barefoot hermit, exchanging tidbits of gossip like a pair of plowmen at the local pub, they wisely did not say anything. Instead, they unbuckled their horsesￜ bits, allowing them to graze, established a watchful picket around the small clearing and kept a watchful eye on the surrounding countryside.

Settled once more on his stump, Oscar placed a stone atop his journal to keep the breeze from riffling the pages and examined his visitor. The king was fast closing in on the half-century mark; not a remarkable age for most men but far longer than his own father had lived. His soldierï¿œs body was still square and fit, but those spent at his huge fire oak desk were vastly outnumbering the days of riding and swordplay and his waistline showed the difference.

ￜSo, Daven will not marry the Baronￜs daughter,ￜ he murmured. ￜIￜm not a man to say ￜI told you so,ￜ Everardￜￜ

ￜOh, shut up,ￜ commanded his king. ￜI thought it had a chance. Davenￜs never at home any longer. How should I have know heￜd object to the girl?ￜ He swore under his breath. ￜI canￜt get one of my sons out of his books, and I canￜt keep the other one in the castle. How am I supposed to get either of them married?ￜ

Oscar held his tongue; he knew Everard well enough to know it was a rhetorical question. Indeed, the king barely paused long enough to let him make a response before he continued his plaintive monologue.

ￜIￜve told them both, again and again. Arranged marriages are your best chance at cementing alliances, but Daven canￜt seem to get it through his thick head. Says heￜs not ready to settle down and get married. And Jared flat out refuses to consider a contract marriage. Says heￜll marry for love, or not at all. Silly cub.ￜ

ￜI remember you ranting for hours the week before your father made you marry Maranda,ￜ Oscar observed leisurely as he fumbled in his pouch and found a battered pipe and a twist of tobacco. Pipe clenched in his teeth, he filled and lit it with a broken sulfur match. ￜIt was some year before you forgave your father for that, no matter how fond of her you eventually became.ￜ

Everard clasped his hands under his neck and closed his eyes against the bright sunshine. ￜI did love her, eventually. And I know that she loved me, for all the good it did her.ￜ

ￜThen you should tell your sons that. I remember how proud you were when you came and told me of Davenￜs birth, and Jaredￜs. Tell your boys about their mother, the good things and the bad.ￜ

A snort came from the man on the grass. ￜMy boys donￜt want to know about their fatherￜs love life. You should have heard them carrying on when they found out about Bernice.ￜ

ￜVanderaￜs widow?ￜ Oscar questioned. ￜWhat about her?ￜ

Everard rolled to lean on one elbow, idly plucking at the grass. If the sun had not been so bright, Oscar might have thought he was blushing. ￜWell. Vanderaￜs been dead for three years now. Not like it hasnￜt been done before.ￜ

ￜSo. You and the Lady Vandera, eh? If I were truly a pious monk, Iￜd ask if you were planning to marry her.ￜ

Everard shrugged. ￜSheￜs made it clear sheￜd rather be a kingￜs mistress than a queen. She tells me being a queen would be too much work, and the boys will call her ￜwicked stepmotherￜ behind her back.ￜ

ￜJared wouldnￜt,ￜ Oscar pointed out. ￜHeￜd say it to her face.ￜ

ￜAnd Daven wouldnￜt speak to her at all. He still misses his mother, you know. Tells me I ought to be faithful to her memory.ￜ

ￜAs if youￜre being unfaithful,ￜ Oscar mused. ￜAh, young people. They think the world is only one thing or the other, left or right, and that true love lasts forever, like mountains. Theyￜll learn, like we all do, that itￜs rare enough to find love at all, and they shouldnￜt begrudge its coming or going.ￜ

Getting a general grunt in agreement, Oscar leaned over and handed the pipe to Everard, who took several furtive puffs. ￜThe doctors tell me I shouldnￜt smoke these any more,ￜ he confessed, handing it back.

ￜTheyￜll never hear it from me,ￜ Oscar declared, giving him a conspiratorial wink. He took a long pull and blew the resulting smoke out in a ring that drifted only a short distance before the breeze tore it apart.

ￜDid you ever have a love, Oscar?ￜ Everard asked suddenly. ￜBefore you took your vows?ￜ

ￜLong ago,ￜ the monk admitted after a moment.

ￜPretty?ￜ

ￜOh, yes,ￜ declared Oscar firmly. ￜShe was the prettiest little bitch you ever saw.ￜ

The king lifted his head and gave him the sternest look in his repertoire, which was extensive. The older man winked.

ￜBrown and white, about so tall,ￜ and he held his hand off the ground about even with his knobby knee. ￜNo particular breed, just a mongrel stray who shared my dinner and kept my feet warm at night. I gave her to an innkeeper and his wife when I headed up this mountain. I wasnￜt sure Iￜd even be able to feed myself, let alone a dog.ￜ He paused, knocking the last bit of fire out of his pipe and grinding it into the dirt. ￜThey had a handful of kids, I figured theyￜd play with her, keep her happy. Found out years later she pined away and died for me.ￜ

Even though he made an attempt to sound offhand, Everard could hear the sorrow in the old manï¿œs voice. He made a harrumphing noise to spare his friendï¿œs discomfort and leaned back in the grass, closing his eyes against the bright sunshine. His interlaced fingers went behind his head for a pillow, but his movements dislodged the narrow gold circlet he wore. It was unceremoniously shoved back into place on his broad forehead, where a permanent grove had been pressed into his temple just where the hair was turning silver.

ￜThatￜs not what I meant and you know it.ￜ

ￜThen ask me directly,ￜ Oscar chided gently. ￜHave I ever had a lover? Not since I was a green boy. My studies took my time and energy as a student, and then I took my vows. This has been my life ever since.ￜ

ￜExcept when snot-nosed princes come tramping up to your door, demanding you turn over a non-existent horse,ￜ Everard interjected.

Oscar laughed, as had been the kingￜs intention. ￜOh, you were a sight that day,ￜ he chuckled. ￜYou were what, seventeen?ￜ

ￜJust barely,ￜ the king admitted. ￜIￜd gotten lost from my friends during a hunt. Nearly killed my poor horse, who sensibly flung me in a ditch and went home.ￜ

ￜI was twenty-six, I think, when I came here,ￜ Oscar said. ￜAnd thought it was the worst mistake Iￜd ever made, until I found out how amusing the local gentry could be.ￜ

ￜA man canￜt get any respect. Even from the peons,ￜ Everard growled.

ￜPerhaps you should have had me beaten. I might be more respectful.ￜ

One eye cracked open, peered at the monk, and closed again. ￜI doubt it.ￜ

A silence fell between the two men, comfortable as old boots and just as familiar. It was Everard who broke it, finally, continuing their conversation as if only moments had passed since they spoke.

ￜWhat do you do up here, Oscar? Sketching the flowers canￜt take you all day.ￜ

ￜOh, I do a bit of gardening, and I write my thoughts down on occasion. Raise my bees. And I pray.ￜ

Everard frowned thoughtfully. ￜTo which god? I donￜt think Iￜve ever asked you that.ￜ

ￜWhy, whichever one is listening,ￜ Oscar replied gently.

ￜHmm.ￜ The king gave that one some thought. Eventually he asked, ￜAnd how sure are you that anyone is listening?ￜ

Oh, Iￜm never completely sure,ￜ Oscar admitted. ￜBut I have faith.ￜ He winked at the closest knight, who appeared scandalized at this and moved his grazing horse further from the heretic and tried to pretend he hadnￜt been eavesdropping.

ￜWell. I hope your faith is worth something, because youￜve got damned poor taste in clothes.ￜ

ￜWhat, this?ￜ Oscar held up a tail of his pale blue cloak, a color more suited to young brides than old men. ￜWhat, donￜt you like the color?ￜ

ￜIn a word, no.ￜ

ￜNeither do I,ￜ he admitted, chuckling. ￜItￜs the work of Dan Weaverￜs new apprentice. Started out dark blue, but a couple of washings has gotten it this way. Itￜll be a nice gray in a year or so.ￜ

ï¿œIï¿œve told you before you can have a place in my castle. Just say the word. You can have a suite if you like. Canï¿œt guarantee the chimneys wonï¿œt smoke, but the food is decent – I guarantee my tailors have their dyes right.ï¿œ

Oscar shook his head. ￜWhat more do I really need? Iￜve a hut yonder. I sell my carvings now and then, and my honey. Occasionally Iￜm gifted by one of the townspeople, when theyￜve got a guilty conscience. Iￜve everything I need.ￜ

Another grunt answered this, and another silence. But as before, King Everard was not a man given to silences. ￜDo you have any more of those books you gave me, last time I was here?ￜ

ￜNo, just the one. Did you give it to your eldest?ￜ

ￜYep.ￜ

ￜAnd?ￜ

ￜDaven, he ￜumm,ￜ Everard stammered uncharacteristically before finishing his statement, but he had always held to the truth in his dealings with the old monk and he wasnￜt going to stop now. ￜHe used it to light the fire.ￜ

To his surprise, Oscar laughed heartily. ￜIￜve done that myself, you know.ￜ

More incensed now than when the crime had been committed, Everard sat up abruptly. ￜYou have wisdom to share, Oscar. My son should heed your words.ￜ

ￜWhy, because Iￜm a hermit living on a mountain? No young lad wants to listen to his elders, let alone old coots like me.ￜ

ￜYou see clearly,ￜ the king insisted. ￜSome days I canￜt get my head cleared until well after court has run on far too long. I could use some of that, and so could my sons.ￜ

ￜPerhaps. Young folk always think they see more clearly than we old fools do. You and I surely did, when we were that age.ￜ

ￜNevertheless,ￜ insisted Everard, ￜI want to see that manuscript when youￜve finished it.ￜ

ￜThis?ￜ Oscar questioned, nudging the little leather volume with his foot. ￜThis is only a few wandering thoughts on the ephemeral nature of life. Itￜs hardly great philosophy.ￜ

A sharp stare came from under lowered brows. ￜYouￜve been sitting up here on this rock for the last thirty years, and youￜre writing about things not lasting?ￜ His tone was frankly disbelieving.

Nodding, Oscar indicated the royal person with a wave of his hand. ￜYou stand, or lie, rather, just past what should be the middle point of your existence in this world. Your kingdom, on the other hand, has stood for eight hundred years. But can you truly say how much longer either one of those will continue?ￜ

ￜThatￜs treason, Oscar.ￜ

ï¿œNo, merely speculation. The great Empire of the West ruled for over three thousand years, but now, no one can even say for certain where their capital was located. When I went to the University at Gerento, we could spend hours arguing over those old legends. Never did us a lick of good. No one has ever found the fabled city, if it really existed at all, or the riches it supposedly contained there.

ￜLook at this bluebell,ￜ Oscar commanded, plucking one of the tall flowers from beside his stump. ￜThis bluebell would die, and hundreds like it, when the winter snows arrive. But come back next year, and theyￜll be here. Come in a thousand years, when no one remembers you or your kingdom, and this meadow will still be a carpet of wildflowers.ￜ

Everard contemplated the flower with a sour expression on his face. ￜBe that as it may, Iￜm not going back to my barons and tell them to do whatever they like because weￜll all be dead one day anyway.ￜ

ￜThatￜs not what Iￜm saying, lad. Iￜm just pointing out that you cannae solve every problem on your desk in a day. Maybe you should just let your boys be for now. Sometimes, problems solve themselves.ￜ

The king was silent for a long moment, staring off into the distance, and the dancing bluebells on the edge of the meadow. ￜDaven wants to declare war on the Travanian duchy.ￜ

Undaunted by this sudden shift in mood, Oscar simply ￜhmmedￜ and pursed his lips in thought. ￜThe Travanians have held your southern border since before your grandfather was crowned,ￜ he finally commented, his scratching his nose thoughtfully. ￜWhat does Jared say?ￜ

ￜOh, he brings me maps, showing me where their foresters are cutting in trees on our land, and calculates all the increases theyￜve levied on our merchants. Talks about trade agreements and treaties ￜtil all hours.ￜ

ￜThey have many people to support, do they?ￜ

ￜNo. Daven is convinced theyￜre preparing for war. He wants to strike first.ￜ

ￜThey might be,ￜ the monk allowed. ￜWhat else do your spies tell you?ￜ

Everard tossed aside the piece of grass heￜd been toying with. ￜThe people are hungry. Thereￜs not enough food to go around, and the taxes are harsh.ￜ

ￜSounds like they need money,ￜ Oscar commented.

ￜThatￜs what Jared says. He thinks they must be paying off a moneylender, or else the duke is being squeezed for something. But he agrees with his brother, and that right there is something I never thought Iￜd see come to pass.ￜ

ￜHe might be right. If their duke is desperate, he may attack in hopes of improving his fortunes. Though heￜll strike east first, Iￜd wager. If I remember right, the Osnear principality has a very small standing army.ￜ

ￜYouￜre remarkably well informed for an old fart on a mountain,ￜ Everard remarked dryly. ￜYes. But theyￜre swiftly making up for that. Word is, theyￜre contracting with some mercenaries.ￜ

That was greeted with another thoughtful ￜhmm,ￜ and for several long moments only the sound of the birds and the leaves softly rustling in the breeze filled the clearing.

ￜDoes Travanian have a daughter?ￜ Oscar asked idly.

Everard snorted in disbelief. ￜA niece, but donￜt even suggest it!ￜ he growled. ￜDaven would stick his foot in his mouth within hours of going there.ￜ

ￜNot Daven. Jared. Heￜs a scholar, and heￜs a sharp mind under all that hair. Send him with a courtship gift. Have him stay a few weeks. He might find out the root of the problem. Worse comes to worse, he might actually fall in love with the girl. Then youￜll have a poor relation to depend on you, rather than a threat.ￜ

The king scowled, his lips twisting within his beard as he considered the notion. ￜThereￜs not a chance in hell Travanian will believe Jaredￜs come looking for a bride.ￜ

ￜNo, but heￜll be sure to realize youￜre paying attention,ￜ Oscar pointed out.

ￜItￜs a thought. Canￜt hurt, thatￜs for certain. At the least it could buy me some time. And Travanianￜs not stupid enough to let Jared come to any harm while heￜs within the duchy.ￜ He chuckled suddenly. ￜThereￜs nothing like poking a man in the kidneys when heￜs getting ready to pee,ￜ he said crudely. ￜAnd thereￜs nothing Jared likes better than to discover a manￜs secrets.ￜ

A meaty palm came down on his knee with a solid crack. ￜAnd, by God, Iￜll ask Ponnard to donate a dozen casks of his best wine as a courtship gift for my younger son, and tell him I still want his daughter for the older one. Ha!ￜ

Energized, the king sprang to his feet and beckoned for his horse. ￜYouￜll have to excuse me, Oscar. Iￜve got a baron to flim-flam and a son to set spying.ￜ

ￜOh, by all means,ￜ Oscar told him. ￜIￜm always here, and have no such exalted duties to keep me running hither and back. And here,ￜ he added, stooping to gather a handful of the wild flowers around him, twisting them into a nosegay of many colors. ￜTake some of these back to your lady.ￜ

ￜAnd what will the people say,ￜ Everard demanded, ￜwhen they see their king riding through the capitol with a bouquet of flowers in his hand?ￜ

The old monk gave him a sly wink. ￜTheyￜll say ￜThings canￜt be as bad as all that if the old man is looking to get friendly with the widow Bernice tonight!ￜ

The king laughed, but took the flowers and tucked them into the front of his riding jacket. ￜWhy is it I come here carrying my kingdom on my shoulders, Oscar, and you send me off with a handful of weeds?ￜ

ￜA change of view often helps, Everard. Remember that.ￜ

ￜItￜs more than the scenery, old friend. Are you sure you wonￜt consider my offer?ￜ

ￜNo, my lord. Youￜre a king, and must live in a palace. Iￜm a monk, and my place is here. But youￜre welcome to share this old mountain with me anytime. Bring your son, next time.ￜ

ￜWhich one?ￜ

ￜEither. Both. Weￜll all talk together, and theyￜll learn what two old fools do on a long afternoon.ￜ

Everard nodded, and took the reins from the equerry holding his horse. He mounted and gathered the reins together, settling the restless animal as it danced and jawed at the bit. The old monk stood unafraid as the horse danced and sidled closer, its rider leaning down over its neck.

ￜGoodbye, Oscar,ￜ he said as he clasped the old monkￜs wrist in parting. ￜIￜll have the huntmaster send you a piece of venison next time I get a stag.ￜ

ￜEverard,ￜ Oscar reminded him gently, ￜyou havenￜt gone hunting for years.ￜ

The king frowned theatrically. ￜSo I havenￜt. A side of bacon, then. And some tobacco?ￜ

The horse sprang forward at that moment and broke into a canter, flicking his heavy tail like a colt rather than the heavy charger he was, leaving Oscar to call out, ￜIf you think you can get it past those doctors of yours!ￜ

Rich and full, the kingï¿œs laughter rang out, mixing with the golden sunshine and the jangling sound of horsegear atop the mountain.

Existence has been trivialized, marginalized, vaporized.
I extemporize my identity and, consequently, dilute myself.
My experience is riddled with vulgar melodrama and ridiculous incompetence.
Explanations devolve into ritualistic and barbaric words.
Hope is my executioner.
Can I exchange this for something less nihilist?
No refunds. Original receipt required.

 

Every now and then, I think of a word that needs to be added to the English language. Sadly, these words generally fail to catch on with anyone but me. This is a new one, though, that absolutely has a place, though admittedly it might only fit in with some specialized conversations. The word is unrational.

"Rational" is used to describe an argument that is internally, logically consistent AND generally fits into a view of the world based on sensation and objective observation. Faith clearly is not a rational thing, because it requires that one suspend what they see in the world.

"Irrational" is considered the opposite of rational. That is, it FAILS to meet the standards of being logically and internally consistent, and does not fit into that objective outlook on the world. One might think that faith is an irrational thing, but I contend that it is not. Irrationality has another component that is often overlooked, in that an irrational argument ATTEMPTS to meet he same criteria a rational one does, but fails in the effort. If a rational argument is a winning one, then an irrational argument is a losing argument.

But does faith fit into that category? It seems to me that because faith requires the suspension of the standards by which a rational argument is judged, it can’t be considered either rational OR irrational. If the rational wins the argument and the irrational loses it, what do you call something that’s playing by a different set of rules entirely? Ultimately, I think that’s why it’s so challenging to have a discussion about faith and belief on anything approaching logical, rational terms. That doesn’t make religious belief wrong (though I don’t share it myself), but it does make it hard to talk about with someone who isn’t already predisposed to believe in the first place. If your criteria is rational in nature, you’re not going to be convinced by a religious argument, and likewise if you’re inclined to a religious viewpoint, the fact that it’s not logically consistent isn’t likely to convince you that you should give it up. Debating an issue while using different criteria for judging the discussion is an exercise in futility, even if it is entertaining.

So there it is. Faith, I dub thee unrational.

The Bite Me school of thought has its roots in my youth. Anyone with doubts about this can contact my parents. They will be happy to confirm that fact, Iï¿œm sure.

Todayï¿œs incarnation has evolved from a general attitude into a litmus test of sorts, a test of oneï¿œs beliefs. Before delving into the nuts and bolts of the test, a few words about what goes into our beliefs.

What is it that makes some beliefs something weï¿œre willing to argue and fight for? There are two components at work hereï¿œhow strongly we believe weï¿œre correct and how important the belief is to us. The strength of the belief can vary widely, from the notion the feeling that something isnï¿œt quite right to the ironclad conviction some people have that the death penalty is absolutely immoral, or absolutely necessary. Likewise, the importance of the belief ranges between extremes.

It is important to note that strength and importance do not necessarily correspond to one another. For instance, I might believe with no doubt at all that granite countertops are superior to Formica ones. I might even find that this issue is of critical importance to my view of the world. It may be that I go around looking for people with a contrary position so I can convert them to the joys of granite. Let us say that you think my preference for granite is dead wrong, that Formica countertops are better in every way. Let us further say that despite this fact, you resist my attempts to engage you in debate about this issue. You find yourself asking, ￜWho cares?!ￜ The strength of your belief is equal to mine, but the importance of the issue is not. As such, it is not a belief youￜre willing to advocate in an argument.

This example serves to illustrate that there are two components that make up each of our beliefs. These ingredients measure the truth of a belief. If we were to express it in a formula, it would read:

Truth = Strength + Importance

Sometimes we find ourselves caught up in our beliefs. This can manifest itself as an argument with a close friend or an inability to shift our thinking as easily as we should. Whatever it looks like, holding tightly to a belief that isnï¿œt true is problematic at best, tragic at worst (Damaging a relationship beyond repair over an issue, only to realize later that it wasnï¿œt worth the cost can only be described as a tragedy).

Of course, there are some beliefs that are true enough that the potential costs are justified. The truer a belief is, the higher the price weï¿œre willing to pay for it. And this brings us back to the heart of the Bite Me Philosophy. It will serve as a test to see how true our beliefs are, how high a cost weï¿œre willing to pay for them.

The test consists of a series of theoretical exercises. We will picture ourselves having a heated discussion about one of our beliefs with someone we know well, and finally concluding with, ￜDonￜt like it? Bite me!ￜ Then, weￜll consider the consequences of that act, and determine if the belief is worth those consequences.

Of course, the repercussions depend on who we say that to, donï¿œt they? That’s why the subsequent steps of the test will apply this theoretical situation to more than one person.

Start out by thinking of your baselineￜthat is, someone who saying, ￜBite me!ￜ to would have few repercussions. This can be someone youￜre not very close to, though it doesnￜt have to be. For me, my friend Jeff is the baseline. Not because we arenￜt closeￜheￜs one of my best friendsￜbut because we have the kind of friendship where tossing off the occasional insult without any difficulty. If I say, ￜBite me!ￜ to Jeff, he flips me off and we continue about our business.

Now that youï¿œve established your baseline, jump to the other extreme. The top of the ladder is the person you can hardly conceive of saying these magic words to. The reason for your reluctance isnï¿œt important. It could be your spouse because you hate the idea of how that would make him or her feel, or your boss because youï¿œd be fired, or your mother because it would hurt her and your dad would kick your ass. The point is, this person is the BMGHP (Bite Me Grand High Poobah).

The endpoints of the Bite Me Ladder are firmly in place, but there are steps in between that need to be filled in. Go back to your baseline, and step it up one notch. This will be someone you could still say, ￜBite me!ￜ to, but there would be more serious consequences. This might be a sibling, a coworker, something along those lines. Once this person is established, continue filling people into your ladder.

The number of rungs in your ladder is up to you. It should certainly be at least five, and probably no more than eight or nine. The important thing to remember is that the steps need to be discrete. That is, there must be a noticeable distinction between the people on rungs three and four. Likewise, make sure that youï¿œre not jumping too far between steps. Visualize the ladder if youï¿œre having difficulty, and ask if you can get from one rung to the other without stumbling.

Once the ladder is established, youï¿œre ready to test your beliefs. Take one of them, think about it for a few minutes. Now, using your baseline, apply that belief to the theoretical situation described above. Really picture what would happen if you told that person to bite you. What would the consequences be? If youï¿œve picked your baseline properly, it shouldnï¿œt be more than a few minutes of awkwardness. Now, ask yourself the critical question: Is it worth it?

If the answer is yes, move to the next person in your ladder and do the same thing. Continue until the answer is no. When you reach that point, drop back down one rung on your mental ladder. Now youï¿œve established the truth of that belief. The higher you went before deciding it wasnï¿œt worth the consequence, the truer that belief is for you.

This becomes more valuable when you have something to compare it to, so you should test several of your beliefs in this way to provide a valid context for comparing beliefs. This gives you not only a snapshot of how important that particular belief is, but a growing portrait of all your beliefs, a way to see their relative importance.

So how does this help you? The practical benefit of the test is that it allows you to determine the truth of your beliefs before facing the consequences of telling someone close to you to bite you.

Beyond this, it provides a visual way to compare your beliefs. What does this portrait say to you? Do you find that the beliefs that are higher on the ladder are really the ones you should hold dear? If not, perhaps itï¿œs time to reevaluate them. Whatever you discover, youï¿œll be in a better position to make decisions about arguing for, and acting on, your beliefs.

"Scott Andrew and the Walkingbirds are apparently some kind of lo-fi, DIY urban acoustic pop and weirdo country thing. " – CDBaby.com

This month’s musical contribution came out of some research I was doing on independant music artists. I came across the Creative Commons web site which led me to Scott Andrew and the Walkingbirds.

 

All of these songs a liscenced under one of the Creative Commons Liscences and are available for download and personal use.

Since I am not much of a reviewer or objective critic I’d reccomend reading the CD Baby Synopsis of Scott Andrew’s music. I will stick to listing the songs and hopefully tickling your fancy.

Gravel Road Requiem: Reading the lyrics for this one reminds me of the trips I make back to rural Iowa occasionally. Lots of little roads that the locals have their own names for. Its both lonely and comforting at the same time. The song seems to capture that sentiment. Nothing New: Recorded with Shannon Campbell under the name Pet Rock Stars this song sticks to the folk/pop/country mix and features some nice vocal collaboration between Scott and Shannon. One Sure Thing: A good mix of music and lyric. The subject matter is as old as music but the song manages to move you along through the struggles of a man trying to make a solid relationship.

 

A recent conversation with Latharia got me thinking about how we get ideas, and how much we learn just by talking them over with people whose opinions matter to you. And that reminded me of this little nugget I jotted down a couple years ago, in a slightly different formￜ

Weï¿œve all seen those chain letters, the ones where you put your name at the bottom of a list of 10 people and send a dollar to the guy at the top, and in three weeks you can retire to a small island in the Caribbean. Iï¿œve never tried one of these things before, so I canï¿œt say if they work or not. I can say that if everyone Iï¿œd send the letter to would be half as skeptical as I am, Iï¿œd never see a dime.

Thereï¿œs a similar concept, though, that I can guarantee results from. It doesnï¿œt have a snazzy name just yet, so for now weï¿œll call it the Idea Pyramid. Hereï¿œs how it works: gather your one or two absolute best ideas, the things you think are particularly true or unique or clever or funny. Polish them up a bit, really put some of your soul into the ideas. Then share them with the people closest to you. Take pains to make them understand your ideas completely, to see all the cool twists and turns of your self that are reflected in them.

Now, hereï¿œs the hard part. Donï¿œt ask what they think about your ideas. Youï¿œre not looking for affirmation here, but rather for a return on your investment. That return will come in the form of your friend sharing her ideas with you. It may not happen right away, and with some people it might not happen at all. But hereï¿œs the great thing: if you get any return at all, youï¿œve gained something wonderful without spending a thing. The idea you shared? You havenï¿œt lost itï¿œin fact, itï¿œs probably become clearer even to yourself by the telling. And that gift from your friend is something you might never have gotten otherwise.

Enraged, trapped, cornered, like a caged tiger, I pace. Filled with energy and rage that screams to be released, I look for a target that can be rended, shredded, destroyed. Beyond hope and beyond help, I race along sand dunes like a madwoman, tears running down my face, sandstorms clawing at me, tearing at my tender skin. Fists pound ineffectively on padded walls. Screams of rage go unchecked and unheeded. A door creaks open and I whip around, springing for freedom, like a wild animal. I disregard attempts to catch me, and dodge tranquilizer darts of complacency and security. I find myself in a long corridor, lined with plate glass windows, showing the outside world from the vantage point of a mountaintop compound. I sense them closing in, and cannot let them restrain me. Gathering speed, I launch myself into the glass. The window shatters, and jagged edges tear through my flesh. Bloody tatters of skin and cloth flutter as I plunge down the rocky cliff. My body bounces off the hard, packed earth and I hear bones snap. Sliding, slipping, falling, I cannot control my descent. I do not even try. Blood pours forth from a gash in my forehead, and I am blinded. Suddenly, I feel myself plunge into a freezing cold body of water. It holds me close, wraps me in comfort, and I feel blessedly numb. I inhale refreshing water into my lungs, and the numbness fills me inside and out. My lifeforce pumps out steadily, slowly, assuredly…finally fluttering and failing. They’ll never find me here.

 

I am celebrating. Iï¿œve just finished writing yet another conference paper. Yes, itï¿œs 1:30am the night before I leave for the conference, and yes, it would have been better to have begun it sooner, refined it more, but as I sit here watching it print out, sipping my celebratory chambord and cream, life is good.

As a teacher of literature and writing (among other things), one would assume that I enjoy writing. I donï¿œt. It sucks.

What I enjoy is having written. Writing is painful and hard; aside from the physical task of concentration, thereï¿œs also this script running in the background: What if Iï¿œve overlooked an obvious source? What if someone else has already made this same argument? What if my professor/editor/audience doesnï¿œt like it? What business do I have writing this for public consumption?

Inevitably, once I play a few hands of computer solitaire, check my e-mail, win a game of Mah Jongg and receive my lucky fortune (one of which reads ￜDo that thing which you have been putting offￜ), and begin writing, I have plenty to say. In fact, what I thought was one conference paper is three, if not four. This revelation of my competence takes me by complete surprise every time I sit down to write, although, once I reach this state of relief, I always remember that I experienced the same doubts and the same surprise the last time I sat down to the computer, and the time before thatￜ.

As I was re-reading some texts for this paper, I found this passage from Carson McCullersￜ ￜThe Flowering Dream: Notes on Writingￜ:

It is like a flowering dream. Ideas grow, budding silently, and there are a thousand illuminations coming day by day as the work progresses. A seed grows in writing as in nature. The seed of the idea is developed by both labor and the unconscious, and the struggle that goes on between them.

I understand only particles. I understand the characters, but the novel itself is not in focus. The focus comes at random moments which no one can understand, least of all the author. For me, they usually follow great effort. To me, these illuminations are the grace of labor. All of my work has happened this way. It is at once the hazard and the beauty that a writer has to depend on such illuminations. After months of confusion and labor, when the idea has flowered, the collusion is Divine.

Finally, language to describe the moment when I move from rehearsing to writing and find that I have something to say: ￜthe grace of labor.ￜ Writing is like religion in that you have to labor with the faith that grace will come, all the while worrying that it might not.

 

The internet is a strange thing for a variety of reasons, but the biggest for me is that you can become close to people you haven’t met, and indeed may never meet. This is the best and worst thing about this sort of communication.

I am a card-carrying fan of The West Wing, as most of my friends are probably sick of hearing about. I like the show enough that I post on a fairly regular basis to a message board, dissecting the highlights of each episode. I even, to my everlasting chagrin, read fan fiction occasionally. It is truly a sickness.

One of the true regulars on this board is a Lt. Colonel in the Army reserves, a gentleman using the handle TonyS. There are a lot of intelligent people who post to the board (found at Testytoads), but I’ve yet to find someone who can explain military and historical matters in a way that makes me realize how ill-informed I truly am. Many, many times there have been posts (some of them by me) saying something to the effect of, "Maybe TonyS can explain this, but I don’t understand ________." And generally he did just that. While I didn’t always agree with his conclusions, I’ve never seen someone who was so easily able to balance making his point with maintaining a profoundly respectful, openminded tone.

TonyS’ recent posts were coming to us from Kuwait, where he was stationed as a Public Affairs officer. Always, his words expressed a tone of frustration and concern with the lack of planning that seemed to be the hallmark of US policy in the region. He cited Defense Secretary Rumsfeld’s decision to close the Peacekeeping Institute, saying "We don’t do peacekeeping."

On August 27, Lt. Colonel Anthony Sherman, died in a medical clinic in Kuwait. He was the victim of a heart attack despite being an accomplished triathelete and marathoner. He is survived by his wife and 8 year old son.

I had absolutely no private contact with TonyS. I never sent him an email or discussed family, friends, work, or any of those things that would have told me something meaningful about him. We replied to the same message board, that’s all, and when he quoted one of my posts I felt a strange sense of pride. I’m a smart guy, but not in the areas he was. I find, oddly, that I miss him.

The last message to the board that I saw from TonyS ended this way:

"…this is why I hesitate for you to start mailing us stuff. It takes many weeks to get here – mail is still terrible here – and we may either be someplace else by the time it gets here or (Inshallah) we will be ready to catch the freedom bird. We just don’t know. That song ‘I’ll be Home for Christmas’ is becoming more and more prescient … and poignant."

It seems that in this he was correct, but not in any way I would have hoped. He made me, and a lot of other people, a little smarter. That’s no kind of epitaph, but it’s the best I can do.

Except perhaps to say this. There’s a quote I’ve heard attributed to Mark Twain that reminds me of Tony. "Patriotism means being loyal to one’s country always and one’s government when it deserves it."

I can’t remember who I stole this idea from, but I think it’s a good one. Movie reviews are great things, but it can take a while, reading through the plot synopsis and discussion of the actors’ merits. Wouldn’t it be nice to just get to the point sometimes? For those too lazy to read (or write) an entire movie review, I submit the following: Movie reviews in haiku form!

UNDERWORLD

Vamps and Lycans fight
It seems they forgot the plot
This was worse than Blade

THE PERFECT STORM

It’s The Perfect Storm
George Clooney looking rugged
Where’s Mark Wahlberg’s dick?

But see, if I’m the only one doing this, it seems entirely too weird. So help me out – review your favorite (or not so favorite) movies in this format. For the haiku-illiterate, remember the syllable form: 5/7/5. It’s fun, I swear.