Requiem for a Zombie Father

I was listening to a podcast today in which two men discussed, among other subjects, the state of being happy simply for the happiness of the person or people you love, even if that happiness was without you, or was despite you (not a negative type of “despite,” just a happiness that was fundamentally orthogonal to your existence), or was in a situation that traditionally is associated with jealousy.  They were speaking specifically of a notion associated with the “polyamory movement,” the concept of Compersion:  A feeling of joy when a loved one invests in and takes pleasure from another romantic or sexual relationship.

One of the speakers said that, while he thought he would have trouble ever feeling real “compersion,” he nevertheless thought that, if he were to learn that he was about to die, he would certainly want to know that his wife and children would be happy after he was gone, even if that meant knowing that his wife would marry someone else, as long as doing so would make her happy, and the new man would be a good stepfather for his children.

I felt a strange and disturbing pang when I heard this, because it seemed to me that his hypothetical scenario described my situation quite well…except, of course, for the fact that I haven’t died.  I’m a sort of zombie version of that speaker’s contrafactual: dead but still wandering around, too stupid to realize that I’m no longer among the living.  I do not grow or obtain new life; I merely continue.

I truly do want my family to be happy, though.  All of them.  And maybe they really all would be happier if they didn’t have to worry about some pathetic revenant who’s too stupid to know he’s no longer part of the world.

It’s a strange thing to find myself envious of a hypothetical, alternate version of myself—one who died, perhaps, of some relatively short-term illness or accident, after which all the other events in the lives of my former wife and my children played out exactly as they have in this reality.  But I do feel that it would have been so much easier—for me, and probably for them—than the Nosferatu “life” I’m living.  It’s all but unbearable to be the dead husband and father and yet still to be around to know it, to feel the chill and putrescence of one’s own dead flesh, to ache and yearn for the life one used to have, and that others have, but to know—despite not wanting to know—that it’s all gone forever, and to know oneself to be now merely a source of pain and worry for those who have made it clear that they are happier without an animated corpse in their lives.

What is one to do in such a situation?  I’m really not the sort who believes in reincarnation, unfortunately, so I don’t expect to be revivified.  It’s just not the way I’m built; it’s not in my nature.  I had my life, my family, the people I loved the most in all the universe, but now that’s over.  They’re gone—or, more precisely, I’m gone.  I died some years ago, and somehow, I’m still upright.  I suppose there are some who might admire the stubbornness of a cadaver who is unwilling, or unable, simply to accept reality and die, but personally, I find it a contemptible.  Then again, I’ve never been my biggest fan.

In “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,” Dumbledore says, “Do not pity the dead, Harry.  Pity the living, and, above all those who live without love.”  I think he was right.  Death is, finally, nothing to be afraid of or to be pitied; it’s simply a state of oblivion.  It’s the restored default, a return to the ground state—the deleted file, the song after it’s through being played, the dance after the dancers have left the floor.  Life, on the other hand—especially the life of a walking corpse—can be a sheer cacophony, a lurching, drunkard’s walk.

What is one to do?  Where is my answer, or at the very least, my release?  Where is my Van Helsing, with cross and wooden stake, to end my career as an undead thing?  I’m waiting.

In the book “Red Dragon,” Will Graham says of Hannibal Lecter, “He’s a monster.  I think of him as one of those pitiful things that are born in hospitals from time to time.  They feed it, and keep it warm, but they don’t put it on the machines and it dies.  Lecter is the same way in his head, but he looks normal and nobody could tell.”  Though I’m certainly neither a murderer nor a cannibal, I think I know what he means.  I think I know how that feels.

I’m tired of being in pain, of knowing that I can never get back even a semblance of all that I’ve lost.  I miss my children so much, but I have nothing to offer them.  I even miss their mother as well, but I clearly have less than nothing to offer her.  Every breath is a weariness.

In defense of scientism

[Originally posted on robertelessar.com on July 20th, 2017]

On this 48th anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing, I want to talk a little bit about science, and how it, in principle, can apply to nearly every subject in life.

The word science is derived from Latin scientia, and earlier scire, which means “to know.”  I am, as you might have guessed, a huge fan of science, and have in the past even been a practitioner of it.  But science is not just a collection of facts, as many have said before me.  Science is an approach to information, and more generally to reality itself, a blend of rationalism and empiricism that calls on us to apply reason to the phenomena which we find in our world and to understand, with increasing completeness, the rules by which our world operates.  Personally, I think there are few—and possibly no—areas into which the scientific method cannot be applied to give us a greater understanding of, insight into, and control of, our world and our experience. Continue reading “In defense of scientism”

Phone calls aren’t old-fashioned, and a call from me isn’t worth the effort, anyway.

There’s a Facebook meme that I sometimes see, and it goes something like this: “Call me old fashioned, but I prefer a phone call to a text message.  I want to hear your voice, to have a personal connection, not just read what you have to say.”

I don’t think I have the words exactly right, but the gist of the thing is there, and it’s the general message and attitude of it that I want to address to begin with.  The attitude conveyed by the meme seems to be one of self-righteousness and self-congratulation—though probably most of the people who share it don’t feel that way.  To many of us that’s the way it comes across, though, and I have little doubt that the originator of the meme felt smug and snooty as he or she created it.

It’s to that person that I’m really addressing the first part of this post, but I also want to speak to those who thoughtlessly share the meme, causing real pain for some people, one of whom is me.

First, and perhaps foremost, I want to address the absurd notion that a phone call could ever be “old-fashioned.”  Humans have had telephones—in any form—for barely over a century, and for the first half of that time, the phone was a rarely used, and a rarely owned, item.  Phones as a ubiquitous means of communication only came into common existence in the latter half of the twentieth century, and became something each person carried on their person only within the last decade or so.  Writing, on the other hand—text messages, if you will—has existed in one form or another for millennia. Continue reading “Phone calls aren’t old-fashioned, and a call from me isn’t worth the effort, anyway.”

The problem of attribution

The era of Facebook memes bearing quotes, to say nothing of the siloing and compartmentalization of views experienced in online life, has led me into a minor quandary, and I want to get my thoughts out on the matter, for your consideration and potential feedback.

I am a great fan of the idea of intellectual property, being, as I am, a writer of both fiction and nonfiction.  The writer has the right to what he or she writes, just as any artist has for his her or works of art, and musicians have to their music.  I think most people agree that it’s unethical—and certainly it is illegal—to use another person’s created work against his or her wishes, especially if one is making money by doing so.  Even works in the public domain—including those that were written so long ago as to be considered ancient, such as the works of Homer, Plato, and Sophocles—shouldn’t be reproduced in whole without giving credit to the author.  We should remind ourselves of the source of such works, and give credit to the memory of those who have written words that we found moving; certainly, we must give credit to the creators who are still living, especially if we are going to make money in the process.  We should also, in the latter case, get permission, and usually we should pay them. Continue reading “The problem of attribution”

Use your f*cking turn signals

Use your fucking turn signals, people.

I shouldn’t have to say anything more.  Actually, I really shouldn’t even have to say that, but apparently, I do, because there are astonishing numbers of people who rarely or never seem to use their fucking turn signals.

This is a pet peeve of mine (obviously), but I think it’s a legitimate one.  Turn signals are one of the simplest of all the buttons, lights, switches, levers, and knobs in your car, but the way many people approach their use, you’d think that activating them required a degree in rocket science.  It’s harder to steer than it is to use your turn signal.  It’s harder to use the gas, it’s harder to use the brake, it’s harder start the effing car.  It’s way harder to turn on the radio and/or change stations, or (god forbid) to text and drive.  There’s absolutely no excuse for not signaling. Continue reading “Use your f*cking turn signals”

Courage and Liberty

I must admit that I was a troubled upon reading that residents of several states will soon need to bring their passports in addition to their driver’s licenses with them to board domestic flights, starting in 2018.  I was troubled, but I was not surprised.

There was simply no reason to be surprised.  The Real ID act was signed into law more than a decade ago.  It was, apparently, passed in response to the fact that many of the 9/11 hijackers boarded their planes using fake ID’s.  That terrorist event was also the trigger for the creation of our very own KGB…which is more or less the same acronym as the DHS.  (KGB translates roughly as Committee of State Security, in case you didn’t know…a pretty close equivalence to the Department of Homeland Security).  Of course, we’d already long had the NSA, which acronym has a similar meaning, but its efforts and activities have typically been far more clandestine and less overtly intrusive than those of the DHS (though troubling, nonetheless). Continue reading “Courage and Liberty”

Against “cultural appropriation.”

I recently read an article that was written in response to a conflict between two professional athletes about the nature, the problem, and even the hierarchy, of “cultural appropriation.”  My thoughts upon reading about this frankly ludicrous conflict were basically the same as my general reaction to all accusations of “cultural appropriation,” and they are more or less as follows:

“Congratulations!  You are clearly and irrefutably safe.  Indeed, you are clearly and irrefutably among the safest creatures ever to grace the surface of this hazardous planet.  You have adequate, clean water, you have abundant food, you have superb shelter, you have protection from predators, from attackers, and from invasion, and you have a lifestyle that provides you such abundant and luxurious free time that you can invent problems about which to be outraged.” Continue reading “Against “cultural appropriation.””