Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Therefore I Am.

It always starts with a creeping feeling of being different. Of being somehow wired differently, in some fundamental way. It sneaks up to me and whispers, You are not of these people, and as soon as the thought has been had, I know it's true. That I've been fooling myself, thinking I can have the kind of faith I see around me and still be who I am. From the outside, it's all I want. When I get inside, I can't put it away from me quickly enough. It smothers. It does not think; it just blankets everything and takes away its value, makes the things I love into things that are said to be shameful. I take a thought and think it as I am so wont to do, turn it over and peer at it and study all its nooks, come up with an answer I can live with, and then immediately compare my answer to the answer of the Christians around me and feel some kind of way about it: sorrowful, or guarded, or angry. Never satisfied.

Example: sexuality. And I'm not talking gay, straight, or bi here. I'm talking sex, period. Any kind of sex. Kinky beyond imagination or good old-fashioned, straight-laced, missionary-style, stay-under-the-covers and for-heaven's-sake-leave-the-lights-off sex. Last time I was at church, I got treated to a sermon on my church's thoughts about sex and felt like I should have my hands cut off, my eyes burned out, and my dirty, dirty tongue removed from my mouth -- and then I got pissed, because religion has been shaming biology for centuries. For the sake of trying to explain what I mean, I will confide that I once conducted an experiment in my own personal sexual values, to wit: I wanted to see if I could have casual sex. Just go out and have sex, all "Slam, bam, thank you ma'am." So that's what I did. As luck or whatever you want to call it will have it, there seem to be a lot more people willing to lay you and leave than there are lay you and stick around to love you. Out of curiosity, I found one of these ladies and, well, laid her. And summarily got laid by her. (And if this kind of talk bothers you, go grow up and come back later.)

As it turns out, I did not enjoy this arrangement. Zero fun. I actually got bored right in the middle of the whole process. Casual sex is not for me, but I don't feel the least bit ashamed of myself for having tried it. And if I had enjoyed it, I'd still be doing it, and I wouldn't be ashamed of myself then either. You know why? Because I am a human being. I have biological drives. Caging or stigmatizing them in ways I do not feel compelled to do is against the very nature of nature. I've always thought it ten thousand different kinds of extra-special bullshit the way we human beings keep clinging to beliefs that are fundamentally designed to shame us. It's almost as if we want to be punished. Religion defines morality, and morality defines religion. It's screwed up.

Example: Sanctity of Life Sunday

I once heard someone say during a sermon on this particular Sunday morning that there is no such thing as an unwanted child. I almost got up and walked out of the church right then. Say that to an unwanted child. Obviously this woman had never been and unwanted child, or no such thing would have ever left her mouth. She was raised in a nice Christian home by a nice, law-abiding family. She was treated fairly and with kindness. What about children whose fathers rape them, whose mothers sell them for cocaine? Children who waste away in their cribs because no one can be bothered with them? Tell one of those children there is no such thing as an unwanted child, and see what she says. I don't feel I'm amiss in my conviction that sometimes, no life is better than a life of misery and suffering. I personally could never have an abortion, but I am not ashamed to say that I don't find it completely repugnant and that in some cases, I even advocate for it -- and that in any case, it is not my place to choose for someone else what to do with a pregnancy. I am not the Procreation Police. And to head off a common argument: yes, I value my life and I want to keep it. But I have no memory whatsoever of being a zygote or a fetus, and therefore would not value life if I had never known myself to have had it. You can't miss something you aren't capable of identifying as yours.

To be perfectly honest, I would be better served right now by making a list of things I do not believe:

1. I do not believe Sin fell upon humankind because Eve ate a damned apple. Ridiculous. It's a myth, a tool to explain why bad things happen in the world. Every religion ever conceived has had such a story.

2. I do not believe a man named Noah built a boat and put two of every kind of animal that has ever existed upon it. I call shenanigans. Do you know how many species of insects there are, alone? Millions. There exist on this earth animals no human eye has ever seen. The Ark? Myth, myth, myth. Look up The Epic of Gilgamesh. 

These are just a few things. There are more. Many, many more. Jonah got swallowed by a whale and lived in its belly? Bullshit. Samson was strong because he had long, luxurious hair? Bullshit. What boggles my mind is  the general inability and/or refusal of so many people around me to see these things as what they are: stories. Fables really, generally having morals apparent or hidden. What's even worse is the way things are twisted to suit so many personal uses:a thing is a story when that suits us, or a hard and fast commandment when that suits us.

I'm not saying anyone from my church intentionally does any of this. They don't. It's all subconscious, but then, that's the problem: so many people only think that they are thinking, or learning, or teaching themselves -- when really what they're doing is regurgitating everything they've been told to think in slightly different costumes, so that essentially everyone ends up with the same damned circus.

Sometimes I envy people this. Sometimes it seems that I was born a thinker, an analyst, a cynic, a truth-seeker, and that I have never been truly at rest in my own head since the moment I knew I was alive. Sometimes I think it would be a relief to be one of the sheeple, to walk within well-defined parameters. It's hard to think so much. Sometimes I think things that absolutely terrify me, but I can no more not think them than I can hold my breath and expect not to faint. All this thinking is a part of me, even when I want to run from it screaming with my hands over my ears. If I cease to think, I cease to be. I think, therefore I am. If I think not, I am not. Etcetera. 

I try to tell myself that I can hold to my own convictions and continue to commune with my church-going friends on a sermon and study basis just to take what I need and leave the rest, just to feed my own spiritual hunger and leave the table when I'm through, but I have an inherent problem with this: it's a lie by omission. I have stopped going to Bible study because I don't believe that one book is the be-all and end-all of the Divine will of the universe, but I don't have a right to dismantle the faith of people who do. By trying to work my spirituality into their sanctions and biting my tongue instead of calling bullshit, I am leading them to believe that I am of like mind when in fact I am not. I don't like this because I don't like fooling people to achieve my own ends. But spiritually, I am lonely. I have only met one other person on par with my thoughts in these matters: Biz. Without her, I would be stranded on a desert island of spiritual isolation, and I am overjoyed to have her. But something in my human make-up craves more ... belongingness, is the only way I can describe it. I usually laugh and say I flout convention, but the cold, hard truth is that we all want to groupthink. We all want a merry little band of kindred spirits to bop around with. I belong to a group of people who like to say we laugh and flout convention. I need that. And I need something else, and I'm not getting that something else.

I often wonder if I keep trying Christianity because it's ingrained. I run forth and keep hitting a wall: bump, bump, bump. Then I wonder if I'd fit in anywhere: would a make a good Buddhist or a Hindu or a Taoist or a Pagan, or an adherent to Pastafarianism? All Hail the Flying Spaghetti Monster; holy is He. Sometimes I wonder if deep down I'm an atheist, and the thought terrifies me so much that I'd rather keep fooling myself than admit it. Why else would I keep putting my idiot self through this?

If my brain had an "off" switch, I might actually rest someday.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

"How to Live with a Calculating Cat"

A few weeks ago, my dad bought me this delightful little volume:


It has a sequel, "The Calculating Cat Returns." 
This tiny tome illuminates the many ways by which cats, throughout the course of history, have manipulated humankind from "top of the food chain" to "humanoid slaves." But I'm quite sure it has missed a few methods, because I have a cat hellbent on creating new ones. People lovingly refer to my beast as having "personality." Do not be fooled: this is just a rather nice way of saying he is especially devious and entirely too narcissistic for anyone's good. Cats, you might argue, are naturally devious and narcissistic. This is true. Don't get me wrong: I rather like cats. I'll be the first to disembowel you if you lay a hurtful finger on mine. That being said, however, the beast called Jude could win awards for devious narcissism. In case you aren't convinced, here are a few of his "personality" traits:

1. If I spend too long away from home, (by which I mean, like, an hour) Jude is quite likely to throw himself onto the floor behind the front door and stick his adorable little white paws out into the corridor, where he makes the little paws go, "Pat, pat, pat" on the tile while crying piteously. This has been known to draw a gaggle of old ladies to him, so that I arrive home to find four of them sitting in the hall outside my door stroking the little white paws while their owner purrs like a diesel engine. The ladies make noises about how sad it is that the poor wittle baby is home alone, and the "poor wittle baby" spends the rest of the day looking smug and self-righteous.

2. "Poor wittle baby" will do something he knows darn well he isn't supposed to do --walk back and forth on top of the dresser, endangering the wholeness of my Granny's dolls, for example -- just to get my attention. I will impose appropriate sanctions (i.e. picking him up and dumping him unceremoniously on the floor.) He will express his displeasure for about thirty minutes by turning and presenting me with an unobstructed view of his butt every time I glance his way, after which he will pretend to have forgiven me and beg and beg for me to play with him. Sometimes our games go swimmingly. Other times, depending on the severity of the bruise to his ego, he will suddenly flatten his ears, bite me hard enough to provoke a shout, and then hiss and run like hell. This is not play. It is deliberate punishment. I have lived with this cat long enough to know the difference.

3. He smacks my dates. Picture a winter's afternoon about 4 years ago. Then-girlfriend and myself are sitting side-by-side on the loveseat, holding hands and talking gooey to each other. Needless to say, we have not been paying attention to him: in fact, we've just concluded a marathon makeout session, during which we paused from time to time to poke fun at him as he slumped in a chair across the room, looking more and more dejected as the hours passed. Sensing that we were finally finito -- at least for the day -- El Juderino abandoned his post to jump up into my lap. He paused a moment to rub his head under my chin, then walked regally into ex's lap, looked her straight in the eye, drew back a paw, and slapped her silly. Then he hopped down and calmly walked away, tail in the air like a flag of victory. (Leaving ex going, "Oh my god, the little shit hit me!" I told her to stop calling my baby names, because it's not like he actually has claws. Looking back, I should have seen this as the first in a series of events that led to the dissolution of our amorous partnership.)

Still not convinced? Alright, alright. If that last item can't convince you I'm not sure anything will, but consider this:

4. For the past few years, Jude has been on an absurdly expensive prescription diet. This is due to his propensity to produce crystallized urine and develop urinary tract infections. His pH is, um, "Whack." Said food balances his whack pH -- for approximately $51 per 17.5 lb. bag. Thankfully, it works. It is also super-duper nutritious in a variety of other ways, and very nutritionally efficient: it's so packed with everything he needs, it can make him rather fat if I don't watch his portions. The vet said to feed him 1/2 a cup per day, but I feel sorry for his rumbly tummy and give him a whole one, split between morning and evening. On top of this veritable superfood, he gets treats and the occasional can of Fancy Feast or little piece of chicken or steak. He is not at want for kibbles OR bits. He is glossy, soft, and even a bit chubby. This does not stop him from trying to convince me that he is starving to death. Previous attempts to force me to feed him have included howling like a banshee, tromping back and forth on my bladder at 5 a.m., throwing himself at the closet door till I'm convinced he'll either break the door or a rib, ripping up paper towels and kitchen sponges, and simply staring hot little holes straight through the center of my soul and out the other side. His latest ploy is desperate, even for him: he has been known to eat no-see-ums off the floor and gaze at me pointedly the entire time to communicate the dire straits I have put him in, but lately he has taken to eating little carpet-y bits and other oddments and then PRETENDING TO THROW UP, hoping I might feel sorry for him and give him more food to replace his falsely regurgitated stomach contents. (I do this for him when he is actually sick, except then I soak it in broth first to make it easier to digest. He knows this. He likes it. A lot.) That's right: my cat tries to fake me out with made-up illnesses. He practically plays hooky for food. He would sell himself in the street for food if I'd let him.

That, my friends, is a Calculating Cat. He dares you to prove otherwise.