Thanotophobia

Humans are a strange lot. (...That's okay. I'll wait while you go get a pencil to write that down. Just be sure you credit me when you use it.) Ever since our species stopped dragging its knuckles on the ground as it made its way to becoming bipedal, we've been inventing and playing innumerable little games and telling ourselves all sorts of stories to try to distract us from the fact that we, by and large, don't have a clue as to where we came from, how we fit into the scheme of things, why we're really here, or where we're going.

The avoidance-at-all-costs of the subject of death and dying goes back almost as far as the knuckle-dragging. I'd not be surprised if it were discovered that fear of the unknown is built into our genes, and there is nothing more unknown, and therefore terrifying, than death. We invented religion and the concept of heaven and hell not only to curb our wilder and more violent traits with the promise of either reward or punishment, but to assuage our fear of the ultimate unknown.

Death really isn't all that complicated. It is simply "the permanent ending of vital processes in a cell or tissue." It is a natural and inevitable process for every living thing. Yet because we have religion and the promise that there is...well, something...after our cells and tissues not only cease functioning but disappear, we believe that our the ability to think and reason somehow puts us above every other living thing. Yet the fact that we are not superior to a housefly or a rutabaga...just very different...is impossible to fully comprehend. It's nice to feel superior.

Some would argue that without the assurance of...something...after death, we would have no reason not to do whatever we wanted to while we're alive: rape, pillage, burn, steal. I would counter that there is enough of that going on even with visions of heaven and hell, like sugar-plum fairies, dancing in our heads. The fact is that we are a social species. We have set up a system of written and unwritten laws and rules by which the vast majority of us abide and are relatively comfortable with.

Because death and religion have become so intertwined over the millennia, it's hard to talk about one without the assumption that one is also talking about the other. This particular blog isn't intended as a diatribe against religion. But I firmly believe that while spirituality is also a part of every human being, the sins and excesses of organized religion have accounted for more wars, cruelty, and pain than any other social institution.

It's really odd that I, who wear my heart on my sleeve, who love happily-ever-after stories and beauty and romance, do not believe in the concept of heaven and hell. I'd like to believe in heaven. I really, truly, with all my heart would. But there simply is no logic to it. I go back to the question I asked my evangelical Sunday School teacher when he was extolling the wonders of heaven. "If my best friend does something terrible and is sent to hell, and I go to heaven, won't I be sad and miss him? But you said no one is sad in heaven." Organized religion and I parted ways shortly thereafter, with mutual relief.

I have never feared death...which is not at all to say I do not fear dying. To me, it is infinitely logical that death is exactly the same as the time before we were born. No one ever speculates on that, or is the least fearful of it. Nor should they be. Death is merely a return to that same "state of nonexistence" from which we were born. Absolutely no awareness, absolutely no fear or concern. Just the nothing of the deepest sleep. How can that be bad.

Being alive, for however long, is all there is and all that matters. And if we are concerned that the cessation of life is the cessation of our meaningfulness, or our worth, then we should do all we can while we are alive to make a difference to the world and all those who will be emerging from nonexistence after we have returned to it.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Practical Purposes

Where I come by my fascination with statistics and general trivia, I have no idea (as I have no idea of the why or how of so many things I do), other than that they have no practical purpose. This, for example, is my 513th blog...which I know only because Blogger provides the information. Each blog, the "Word Count" option on my computer tells me, averages somewhere around 800 words. This comes out to 410,400 words, give or take, which is a lot of words no matter how you look at it. I am not equating quantity with quality, of course. As anyone who has read my blogs with a fair degree of regularity can attest, I have a tendency to careen wildly from pillar to post within the course of any given blog.

The fact of my being so easily distracted is evidenced in the space between this sentence and the preceding one. I wanted to use the word "caroom", to describe bouncing wildly from place to place, but when I typed it I got a squiggly red line beneath it to indicate it was misspelled. So I then spent five minutes trying to find out how to spell it and have deduced there apparently is no such word. Of course there is such a word! I've used it all my life. My paranoia nods knowingly, saying "See? It's all part of the plot to drive you bonkers!"...which sent me running back to the dictionary to find the origin of the word "bonkers" ("origin unknown"). It's endless.

I also currently have another 30 begun-blogs which I've never gotten around to finishing. Some of them I might, others I probably won't.

When I have an idea for a blog, I don't do much planning out...another of the little curses which have plagued my life...and just start typing, only to find myself, a couple of paragraphs in, running out of steam, starting to wander off in other directions, or realizing that it wasn't such a good idea after all. Most people would just throw them out. But as I work so hard to try to prove, I'm not most people.

I'm fascinated by statistics from annual rainfall in the Gobi desert over the past 50 years to the number of stories in the world's tallest building.

So what if so much of what I'm fascinated by is little more than trivia and of little practical use? I love trivia. As I've mentioned before, in one or more of my blogs, I've never lost a game of Trivial Pursuits (thank God they don't have an "All Sports" edition, or I'd be doomed). I can quote you the opening lines of radio shows from the 1940s and 50s ("...dive with a roar into the 2 1/2 mile tunnel that burrows beneath the glitter and swank of Park Avenue, and then: Grand Central Station, crossroads of a million private lives; gigantic stage on which are played a thousand dramas daily" or the opening to "Our Gal Sunday": "...The story that asks the question, can a girl from a small town in the midwest find happiness with England's richest, most handsome lord, Lord Henry Brinthrop?"

Or I can remember songs like WW1's "Hello, Central, give me Heaven, 'Cause My Daddy's There," or the post Civil War Confederate song, "Furl the Banner." I can tell you the last song played by the Titanic's band as the ship went down....not "Nearer, My God, to Thee" but the protestant hymn, "Autumn." I can remember long-ago movie stars like Anna Mae Wong and Toby Wing and Lash LaRue.

I can tell you how many people died in Chicago's Iroquois Theater fire on December 30, 1903 (602), and who was appearing on stage at the time (Eddie Foy).

But can I follow the simplest of directions for anything...anything involved with technology or moving parts? Would I ever willingly buy any product that says, on the box, "Some Assembly Required"? Don't be silly.

The problem with the concept of "practical purposes," of course, lies in the word "practical." I don't recall that word's ever having been applied to me. But who cares. Did you know that the average snowfall for Antarctica is only about 2 inches a year? Now, that's fascinating!

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Sanctuary

On those occasions when Blog Day rolls around--as it has three times a week for the past couple of years, now--and I find my mind stuck in neutral with no idea of what to talk about, I take sanctuary in stepping back in time 50-plus years to see what I was writing about to my parents while I was in the Navy. I like to stay as close to the present day and month as I can, but that' not always possible. So I chose two not-too-long letters written in a February long lost in the fog of time, but still bright and clear in my heart and mind. I hope you won't mind my sharing them here.

February 4 - 7, 1956
The ship has been writhing all afternoon—at supper the tables slid across the mess decks and water sloshed out of cups. The soup was up to the brim on one side of the bowl and touching the bottom on the other. At the moment, she’s creaking like a Spanish galleon.

Currently engrossed in a quasi-legal discussion—we’ve gone from courts martials to Canadian-American relations. Andrews says “Canada and America will be the same thing some day.” It probably never occurred to him that Canada might not want to become a part of the great U.S. If I remember correctly , we tried that once. As any map can tell you, we didn’t quite succeed.

The conversation, from which I have been generally excluded, has broken up while Andy goes in quest of some hot bread and Coutre has gone to fetch some butter.---The bread won’t be hot for half an hour, so Nick has substituted some good old Navy hardtack.

Quarter till ten and here I sit, reading Christopher Marlowe.

10 February, 1956
Just finished reading, in one of those twenty-five cent Man’s magazines, an article on the assassination of President McKinley. From this article and one I’d read previously, McKinley was evidently shot by two different men with the same name (Czolgosz). My subconscious, or alter-ego, or whatever you wish to call it remarked bitterly—it’s always bitter—that I’d better go out and shoot a President, because that’s the only way I’ll ever become famous. Oh, well….

The storm continued all through the night and up until late this afternoon—I loved it; twice the ship lurched as though it had been thrown into the air and let drop down again. All hands were warned to stay clear of the Foc’sle and all weather decks, but I, curious as usual, decided to go back to the fantail.

The sea thrashed about like a madman in a straight jacket—steam and spray were mixed with the heavy snow and the clouds of smoke from our breaths—yes, there are others as curious as me.

Water washed an eighth of an inch deep across the hangar deck, and the cold was enough to force me back below before too long. After warming up, I went back with the wastebaskets. One I dumped into the chute hanging over the fantail fell directly into the water—the other had a fifty-foot drop, and colored bits of paper flew off into the snow like bright birds. Waves were breaking even with and above the level of the fantail, which somehow escaped getting swamped. In the distance, the dark grey of our destroyer bobbed between the lighter greys of sea and sky. If I’d had a coat, I’d have stood there a lot longer, but that was too much for me.

Cut off as we are from the world, our only contact is through the ship’s Daily Press—printed on two sheets of 8 1/2x13 heavy paper. I haven’t even seen one of those in two days. From what I’ve gathered, Italy is in bad shape because of the snows—rumors of hunger riots and other major catastrophes float throughout the ship. If this is true, we will no doubt put into port as soon as possible and set up soup kitchens for the Communists, who will take it and curse us for not giving them enough.

I don’t see how we can spare anybody anything—we are on slightly low rations ourselves. The food used on this ship is tremendous—we give away over 500 lbs of coffee a week to different divisions here on board—that doesn’t count the amount we use for meals.

Tomorrow, if the sea has calmed down sufficiently, we take on another 116 tons of supplies—including 25 tons or so to be delivered to the USS Courier—a radio ship off Rhodes broadcasting propaganda to Russia and the Communist countries.

In Naples we are to pick up five hundred cases of baby food for somebody or other. Ah, such is life on our great ships of war.

I wish I had some cocoa—maybe mom will be nice enough to send me a box of Nestles’ individual bags.

A trip to the calculator shows I have just 184 days to go—tomorrow will make it exactly one half year! And with that cheery news, I leave you….

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Losing Roger

It occurred to me this morning in the shower that ever since I created Dorien, he has been increasingly taking over our shared life to the point where I am occasionally but frankly concerned that Roger will be totally lost and forgotten. Because the bulk of my life is spent in writing in one form or another, it's the Dorien side which takes up the majority of my time and attention, and the Roger side seems increasingly relegated to breathing, eating, sleeping, and performing those utterly mundane details that make up reality. I am not a little concerned that Roger's individuality is being lost to Dorien's.

I suppose it's only natural. Dorien, after all can do and be anything or go anywhere he chooses. It's easy for him to ignore reality because he never has to deal with it.

I know, I know, Roger is Dorien as much as Dorien is Roger. Roger came first and has been around a lot longer. But far more people know Dorien's name than Roger's. In the early stages of our dual relationship, I preferred to keep the Roger part of me suppressed, partly as a matter of self-protection. I wrote my first few books while living in the Great North Woods, the land of beer-drinking, deer-hunting Packer fans locked in a time somewhere around 1950. To be known (as I eventually was despite my efforts to keep a very low profile) as a writer of books with fags and perverts in them inevitably provided those who were trapped in an area of few jobs and little hope for improvement a badly needed sense of absolute superiority over them uppity queers. Luckily it never went beyond the occasional terribly clever phone call from local teens. ("Hi, Roger. It's your old buddy Jack...Jack Meoff!" Snickers and dial tone.)

At any rate, with Dorien's emergence, Roger began slipping into the background, and I must admit my own complicity. The more freedoms Dorien enjoyed, the more I identified with him, sometimes at Roger's expense.

It's confusing for people not to know whether to refer to me as Roger or Dorien. To those I knew before Dorien came along, of course, I remain Roger. But for those who know me through my books, blogs, and other writing, very few...if they even know my duality...call me Roger, and I see little point in adding to the confusion.

I honestly don't know of anyone else in this same position, though I have no doubt there are many.

And, speaking honestly, as I really always try to do, the fact is that Roger is not the person I would have him be. As you may have noted in these blogs, I frequently grow furious with myself for my seemingly endless shortcomings--which makes it easier for me to look to Dorien for those things that Roger lacks. Dorien is far more patient, far more thoughtful, far more able to express himself than Roger. Dorien can eat anything he wants and go anywhere he wants and do anything he wants and sleep with anyone he wants. Roger cannot.

I honestly doubt I will ever reach the point where my self delusions will become a real issue for either me or the outside world. I don't think I'll start hearing Dorien's voice in my head, telling me to do things Roger would never consider. So while I fully admit to being delusional, it is a benign delusion from which I can and do take a great deal of comfort and strange pleasure.

As the Roger part of me grows older and less able to do all those physical things I once could do, I find new reasons to turn more and more to Dorien. I'm rather like a passenger on the Titanic running up the slanting decks to keep ahead of the advancing water.

But I know all of this is just my Roger side giving into my tendency toward melodrama. Neither Roger nor Dorien is in any real danger of disappearing. The division between us is...like Dorien himself...far more imagined than real. But I do feel there is some justification for my concern that I am in effect neglecting my Roger side. I really must concentrate on fully appreciating that everything I love about Dorien began with and stems from Roger, and despite my notorious penchant for self-deprecation, I have to remind myself of the one rule I have successfully observed throughout my life: never, ever take myself too seriously. It's a good rule to live by.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

A Spam Epiphany

Oh, dear Lord! I've finally figured it out! My Spam folder is in fact the cyberspace equivalent of a group home for the obscenely greedy and the hopelessly insane. How else can one possibly explain the huge piles of infuriating blather deposited in my Spam folder every day? The pure idiocy of the opening words of these messages, quoted below--as always, exactly as received--prove it beyond any doubt. It is a source of endless frustration to me to acknowledge that I am utterly incapable of simply ignoring them without some sort of response.

"Forgot about his mistress? - Good day, I accidentally found a letter from you, I remember how we communicated with..." (Oh, right. You're that homeless guy with the pet rat who's been rummaging through my garbage. I really must get a paper shredder.)

(unknown sender): "You can trust us your health, we know how to improve it." (Well of course I can trust you my health. I always have total trust in anyone who isn't even willing to identify themselves. See that donut over there? Why don't you go take a flying.....well, never mind.)

"You could make 24,000 dollar in 24 hours" (Of course I could. I could do in five minutes were it not for those pesky surveillance cameras and those irritating laws about bank robbery.)

"boiled and cut fine. The force-meat must be used sparing! He egg and oil you have already mixed, in place of...." (Right. And you can bet I'm going to be eager to lift the toilet seat to see the rest of your message.)

"You gf hot pics - for carnal victories" ("Carnal victories?" What in the HELL are you talking about? Never mind...I really, really don't want to know.)

Galipeau "t, the Popes were th - Ndations on which his scheme rested. For law substitute Christianity, for social union spiritual....." (Aren't you running for Congress?)

"What's your coming time? Get stiff tonight...." (I can't give you a coming time without knowing where I'm going. And if I have to get drunk, I'll probably be late anyway.)

"FROM THE DESK OF MR.FRANCIS ALIU Director Auditing and Accounting Department Bank of Africa...." (Uh-huh.)

"You're Hired! Make $250+ a Day" (And all I have to do to "get started" is to sign a contract full of the world's smallest type committing me to buy $1,000 of your worthless product per month and that I will have to pay all costs involved in selling the crap? Wow! Sign me up!)

"Your gf caught on camera!" (Gee, if I had a gf, maybe I might give a crap....Oh, wait. No, I wouldn't.)

"You Have Been Chose to Receive 2 jetBlue Airways Tickets Survey!" (I'm so happy to have been chose! Do they fly to English speaking countries? And exactly what is a"2 jetBlueAirways Tickets Survey"?)

"Change your soft destiny-If you're excited by this girl and your male schlong is still downwards, you need this...." (Oh, dear Lord, there is so much wrong with this picture I don't know where to begin. 1. What is a "soft destiny", exactly? 2. By what stupefying gall do you dare to assume I would be excited by a "girl"? 3. My "male schlong?" Is there a "female schlong"?)

Enough for now! I grow faint (and nauseous). I was raised to believe that all men are created equal and that no human being is superior to any other. But messages like the above give me serious pause. I again wish I could say that I will never again compile such a list. But we both know I'd be wrong.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Aphorisms

I love aphorisms. I probably could have done quite well had I gone into the fortune cookie business. Since I somewhat reluctantly began using Twitter (the cuteness of that name still revolts me) I find myself using them frequently. And since, as you know, I hate losing a single word I've written, I've started collecting some I've posted there. Some may arguably not be aphorisms, but then not all small insects found on pepper plants are aphids. (I have no idea where that came from.) Here are a few:

Every new day is a blank page in the story of our lives. Write clearly, write large...and use crayons.

Life is a burning building, and I am frantically trying to save as much of myself as I can through my words.

Why are those who preach so fervently about the glories of heaven not in more of a hurry to get there?

Readers are to writers what rainfall is to a drought.

The mark of a true friend is one with whom, after not being in contact for several years, you can pick up a conversation in mid sentence.

Communication rests not so much on conveying information as on being able to understand what is being conveyed.

Always remember: Silence is not golden; silence equals consent. If we do not speak out against an offense, we deserve what we get.

Having a good friend is a matter of luck; being a good friend requires effort.

There is a great difference between growing older and growing old.

Good writing is like making good gravy...you've got to be sure to get all the lumps out.

Life is a game of Russian roulette, and the older one gets, the more bullets are put in the chamber.

When an ad says "No Reasonable Offer Refused," guess who determines what is reasonable?

It is generally easier to point someone in the right direction than to try to drag them.

Have you ever noticed that good advice is easier given than taken?

Humans seem incapable of appreciating what they have until it is gone forever.

Anyone who follows others without question is a sheep, and has no right to complain when they're fleeced.

The primary purpose of any bureaucracy is to propagate itself and its power.

The problem with "passing time" is that you don't pass it...it passes you.

Why is it that proselytizers, in their zeal to convert you to their way of thinking, have no interest whatever in what you currently think?

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Gratitude

Gratitude is something far more commonly felt than expressed. Part of the reason, I suspect, is that the words "Thank you"--the two words most used to express gratitude--are an automatic social and cultural response to even the smallest favor, from a "gesundheit" to being handed a receipt at a check-out stand, and often seem inadequate.

"Thank you" is just the thinnest surface layer of gratitude. Under "Thank you" lie an infinite number of layers, depending on the degree of gratitude felt, and the deepest layers of gratitude can never be adequately expressed.

Gratitude is a tree which grows from the seeds of kindness, and kindness is freely given without thought of repayment. But I consider gratitude to be a form of acquired debt which must be repaid. Far too many people, if the concept of gratitude being a debt even occurs to them, repay it with I.O.U.s or promissory notes.

I realize that I do far more bitching and moaning and complaining than is warranted by circumstance. I talk endlessly about what is wrong with the world (and there is much to talk about), yet very seldom express my equally boundless gratitude for the positive things in my life and in the world.

First and foremost, my gratitude for having been given, and still having, the gift of life cannot possibly be put into words. That gratitude is followed closely by my gratitude for my relative good mental and physical health. Despite my share of physical problems, I realize that compared to what others go through, mine, as Humphrey Bogart says in "Casablanca", don't amount to a hill of beans. Which doesn't stop me from complaining anyway. I am what I am.

I am also infinitely grateful to having been born into the family I was. There are no words or combination of words capable of conveying my gratitude to my parents. How could there possibly be, when I owe them so much? Every member of my family, from my grandparents through my aunts, uncles, and cousins, have never been anything but completely loving and supportive, and I realize that there are, tragically, many people who cannot say the same. And though my parents and most of my immediate family are now gone, my gratitude to them for having them to enrich my life remains undiminished.

Beyond the circle of immediate family is another circle, of friends. I am grateful to have been blessed with an extended family of wonderful friends who shore up my fragile ego and are unfailingly there when I need them. That they also put up with my...shall we say, "minor eccentricities"...and constant complaining is proof positive of the incalculable value of friendship.

One problem with expressing gratitude is, in fact, in finding how to do it properly and proportionately. Too-frequent and too-effusive expressions of gratitude soon lose their effectiveness and become the equivalent of a "thank you" given someone who holds a door open.

I've come to the conclusion that perhaps the best way to express gratitude is not through words but actions. Small gestures: a phone call, a sincere compliment, an invitation to coffee or a movie or dinner can speak more clearly than words. Something so small as being willing and making yourself available to listen to problems which may not directly concern you.

Gratitude is too often overlooked as a real and valid emotion, yet it, our individual awareness of it, and how we each respond to it, help to shape and define us as human beings.

And in case you were wondering, I'm grateful to you for reading my blogs.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.