On Being American, On Being Displaced

Stephen Harper

To start, I’m feeling a bit melancholy as of late. I can’t quite put my hand to it …. Truth of it is I can put my hand right on it but I don’t care to talk about that. Where am I going? I finished the book Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini recently and I had a passage that affected me and I remembered the page so as to expound. Turns out I didn’t remember the page correctly and the passage is lost as is the intent behind said passage. You see I was going to use the passage to remind me of what struck me. “The mind is a terrible thing to waste.”

It’s o.k. though because there was something else that struck me. The book details the main characters life with his father in pre (Russian) war Afghanistan. First off the book is beautiful. This is the talent that elevates mere words to literature. As I traveled through the book I embraced his center. His knowing where he came from and how distinct that is from other lands, even other villages. Traditions, be they cultural or religious, really give one something to stand on. It gives one a place.

I look at the carnage that is distinctly American. We are the stuff washed up on the far shore. Assembled and stuck together with sweat, even passion. Maybe just survival. It is a land of drive thrus so we don’t have to connect. Connection is messy. When I was a child I remember McDonalds posted the number of burgers sold. Not eaten, just sold. At the point of absurdity they now just trumpet “billions and billions served”. An update of Biblical scriptures would have us numbering our offspring “as the burgers of McDonalds. Verily.

But I realized I don’t have those cultural traditions that are more than quaint. It is a thing that can hold neighbors together and it marks ones territory. Our territory is for sale. My mother’s parents were from Italy. A large Italian family that gathered continually at their home where food was piled high and bocce ball was won not so much from talent but from how susceptible an uncle was from Nonie’s dandelion wine. I was young and there were tons of us always running around the property. Poppi-Joe died. Noni passed within a couple months. I was about 7 or 8. From that point I don’t remember ever getting together as a family again save funerals and weddings. We became Americanized. Separate but equal. My father was neither Italian nor catholic and his family traditions were destitution and alcoholism neither of which he participated in. Thankfully. But what he wasn’t shown, family, was passed on. This wandering distraction of a life. Something just off center. Shallow focus.

Now, we got the money. I live in the wealthiest state in the union which means I live in the wealthiest place on the planet. Anyone that has seen my profile knows I never miss a meal. But there are curses to our blessings. And I’m not so sure we fully understand what a blessing is. Is it small wonder that our children need to bring arms to school to ….. what, even a score? Feel better about themselves? The experts are still swishing that bitter taste in their mouths before they spit out a conclusion. And just like wine it always comes down to individual taste. There is an estimated 30+ serial murderers roaming our country at present. We have the wealth.

All that distilled into this; I am American to the bone. My family gets together on Thanksgiving. Well, one of my two brothers lives in Florida and the other family are all vegetarians. Turkey be damned. Gravy too. I wish I had made up a whole slew of traditions as my kids grew up. I didn’t think to. I didn’t know I was supposed to. They should have just been there. There is nothing that kids do in my neighborhood that I did or my parents did. We are as changing as shopping malls. Even the analogies use current vernacular because nothing old sticks. Or is it metaphor? I used to know the difference.

As I ramble I do realize the spiritual aspect in all of this. Traditions can give one a sense of place. Even in a culture removed from any semblance of God their traditions solidify them. They won’t stalk each other to fulfill a fantasy and they won’t secret their dad's revolver in their knapsack for an ego boost. But then they are left with a gnawing that tradition doesn’t fulfill. There are books of these stories. Truckloads. They even make their traditions God and their burning candles give off a pleasant odor. Even if it covers something that lies decaying just under the sound structure.

The remarkable advantage of being American is that we have no tradition to edify. Our hunger, to, goes to the marrow. Why else do Americans worship all that they do? We are starving. Other cultures abate this hunger with tradition we cover ours with stuff. They set the table exactly the same every generation. But their plates are empty. We pile our paper plates high with salacious abundance all set on TV trays. And when the bite is taken we find it is a semblance of food craftily constructed of Styrofoam

I wasn’t complaining. I really wasn’t. I was just chewing on something and I had to spit it out. Some wines are bitter. Especially wine that comes in a large cardboard box with a pull out plastic spout. Our traditions are every bit as transient as our technology. Every bit as transient as Americans. Yet there are no new uncharted lands to the west. The temperate ideal of southern California is smothered in emissions and an array of highways that don’t drive us together but separate us with vast cement plains. Plains where no buffalo dare roam. America is settling. And unsettling. But in whatever grand political experiment that history has sprinkled over us like some loving compost we find someone gets plowed under. And this always creates fertile conditions for the church to grow. Totalitarianism, fascism, communism, capitalism, harperism ….. yeah, I’ve got a world domination scheme going on. That a problem? Take it up with my security officer after you sign over all your wine boxes, pal.

So, all this comes to what? I always tell my friends that there is no truth in politics. There is no truth in any of it. Save Jesus. Jesus saves. “What’s so remarkable about that steve?”. What’s remarkable is that I am sounding very much like Billy Graham. Without the clout. George Beverly Shea on my iPod. No matter how complicated no matter how fractured it all is Jesus seems to be the constant. Then and now. I’m wondering why, oh why I get so distracted? It’s nothing more than lint exposed in the sun and I’m always the cat dashing after it. Problem is; I’m no cat. How tough can it be to remember that.

Me, Myself, and I

Stephen Harper

The title is, as with most things I come up with, not original. Where I got it from was Joan Armatrading. She is a wonderful singer/song writer I have been tracking with for multiple years whom no one has ever heard of. All that to say, let’s be clear here; What I have to write is about me, for me, and mostly to reflect well on me. Even when you say bad stuff about yourself people think it self deprecating and transparent and therefore it reflects well on yourself. What they very often fail to realize is that the bad stuff is true. Truer than most.

I’ve been fretting for days. A young woman called here wanting to bring in a handful of kids to see the radio station. This is horrible on several fronts the first of which is how …… underwhelming the facilities are. There’s like a computer that plays stuff and this cable takes it out to the transmitter. Viola’! The second front is my previous sentence. That’s pretty much how I’ll come off to these kids. Yeah, I’m a regular Mr. Rogers. “This is the neighborhood, these people do stuff, there’s some cookies, here I am punching my time card. Come back again.” Kids scare me. Truthfully, people in general scare me. Y’know, they look at you and, and they say stuff and they want you to respond. My name is Stephen and I am an introvert. I was social for three months but slipped into avoidance last week and double-locked all my doors. And let me tell ya it’s no picnic putting bolt locks on your car doors. Which explains the plywood in my car windows. Anyway, most people don’t know that about me. I stand in the back and greet people. I didn’t say I dislike people I just am retarded in social situations. Especially with people I don’t know. Little people exist to make me sweat. So they are to arrive this afternoon and I’m freaked. I am beseeching the gods …… yeah, in desperation I wouldn’t mind Zeus striking out with some lighting and whatnot. Vishnu getting all impersonal all over their tiny tushies. Part of that prayer is please, please, please have Bill stay here with me. Have him with no other appointments. Have Bill exist to meet my needs.

While I am pacing the phone rings and it’s Linda telling me that Tom Myashiro just called from an ambulance. Amy just went down with a seizure. They thought they were past the complications from her brain tumors. The righteous in me rears and I focus. My heart prays, my countenance slips. Within the hour Bill arrives and I swear to all that is holy you will never believe what was first out of my mouth. “Dude, are you going to be here this afternoon?” after my fears dissipate I remember something …… what was that? Oh yeah ………. Oh …. Yeah. One can never imagine how diminished a person can feel when he FOLLOWS that first sentence with, “….. ahhh, yeah, I just remembered ….. “. A notch below a child molester. Hitler and I sharing drinks.

The truth just plain sucks. All this to benefit what? I have been with God as long as I can remember. When I look back I sometimes see regression. When I behave this badly I wonder. I’ve been telling people the past few years that the word, grace, is looming larger that ever in my life. On days such as this it is a freakin’ exploding zeppelin crashing down as I scatter and stumble in between the burning bits. Me, Myself, I. “Oh, the humanity”. Another stolen line.

*note: Amy is home from the hospital now and okay. Continue praying.

Countdown to Oblivion

Stephen Harper

First, let me comment on the comments to Nothing ……. Seriously, guys, do you realize that by commenting it actually gives nothing …… weight. And I did want to respond to Mama Tried’s first comment. So, the renowned existentialist, Jughead, says to Archie, he says “hey, Veronica’s real cute” and Archie responds “Yeah, sure. My car looks neat, huh?” ………………… my car looks neat, huh? Man, does it get any more profound than that?

Times New Roman. You thought I was joking. I get this newsletter from a law firm in DC that deals with matters FCC. I don’t understand a word of it but sitting there with my magnifiers cradled on the precipice of my nose looking intently at its pages gives me an air of …. knowledge. This, for anyone that walks by. I usually strike the pose when I hear footsteps coming my way. Few realize that I’m holding it upside down and while browsing I’m thinking, “hey, I wonder if the guy what staples this thing together gets free legal advice. And if it’s another lawyer doing this does he suck as a lawyer that much he has to be relegated to stapling pages after law school?” Then I glance over at my own dismantled stapler and I am awash in shame and fear. But, I digress. One of the sections in said newsletter is titled, “Countdown to Oblivion”. Not original I know but then lawyers rarely are. However, it sure reflects the culture of a Times New Roman. We’ve all heard the noise that our culture is looking like the Roman Empire with the violence and the sex and the togas. Yeah, you heard right, togas. Did you know that if a man was caught wearing pants in ancient Rome he was beaten and his property taken away? I’m sure I read that somewhere. My question would be, what if he were caught wearing culottes? Part pant, part dress. Like to see that staple fumbling lawyer get his mind around THAT conundrum in front of Caesar. Depending on the Caesar of course. I mean Caligula might have thought it foreplay. But, I digress. I don’t see the culture reflecting Rome. I see me reflecting Rome. The curse of a blessed country (or a world power) is the stuff. Our priorities are altered exponentially by what we can possess. And our pain is diminished to what toys we can’t have. I need new carpets. Ours are old and worn and our bank account is vapor. I need a bigger bank account. And, geeeeese, it gripes me that I have to get one of my two cars fixed. Now, I’m not American bashing. You take a street urchin from Calcutta and transplant him to the US of A and within a month he’ll be crying that his half-caff double mocha from Starbucks doesn’t have enough ice and he will be upgrading to cable internet so he can download porn faster. No one is pure. No one gets out alive. My challenge isn’t to cram Jesus into my stuff like some errant puzzle piece. Jesus is always the piece that doesn’t fit. Frankly, that was my main attraction to Jesus. How did I get distracted from that? Even to have a little in this culture means having a lot. Having Jesus means having it all. What in the world makes me think that “filled to overflowing” has anything to do with new siding? I am the Times New Roman. It feels every bit as vapid as my bank account. The challenge isn’t the realization, it’s the crawling back. It’s tough to crawl with all that crap attached to you like the chain pulled by the ghost of Jacob Marley. But then He came to set the captives free. My mistake was thinking that this was a one-time deal. The more we have the more locks He has to pick. The b**ch of it is, He does it with a smile.

Nothing from Stephen Harper

I just opened up Microsoft Word to write nothing. Seriously, nothing. Janet Rubin threatened to do something to me if I didn’t submit something soon. I can’t remember what that something is but it must have tethered itself to the “fear stupid” portion of my brain. The “fear stupid” portion being directly underneath the “What’s That?” lobe. So, I sat there catching up on all my lapsed blog readings because …. well, I forget to read them on a regular basis. Some people are known for their humility, their character even their wickedness. I’m known for forgetting stuff. “oh, that’s steve. He mostly shakes hands, calls you by the wrong name and always asks what the date is”. But I digress. I forgot, I am also known for digressing. Anyway, read I did to be inspired. Who’s kidding who, read I did to steal. I needed an idea so I was going to piggyback on the wonderful posts from Art for the Heart. Turns out I can’t even crawl up on the back of those pigs. Not that any of those posts could be mistaken for a pig unless of course it was about a pig. Oh. Yeah, I didn’t catch ALL the way up on my readings. So, if you indeed wrote a devotional about us sending our personal demons into the metaphorical pigs of our lives to run screaming to a metaphorical or even a metaphysical sea or had a beautiful photo of the sun setting behind a ….. pig …. then I apologize for missing it. Well, maybe not for missing that particular visual epic because, y’know, it’s a pig. Big fan of bacon but aside from Arnold on Green Acres one can’t really point to a pig at any time in history as a reference of beauty, an inspiration for war or something that Michelangelo would have chipped in marble to be auctioned off for sick millions of dollars at Sotheby’s. And we all join in as I say “but I digress”. What am I getting back to? You guessed it kids, nothing. And that is my point. At 51 (or there abouts. My wife will correct me) I have traveled from knowing exactly where I am going to a grinding painful halt of nothing. I do my job. I even like my job. But it’s sort of like the guy that sets up the equipment for the bands. It’s the bands that give juice to the performance. The band that inspires the crowd. Sometimes you want to be the one that inspires. So, I do the lifting and I go home but I notice that I just sit. Nothing. I read, watch the tube and …. nothing. I could create a sitcom about nothing but Seinfeld already had it’s run. No piggy to back there. So, I opened Microsoft Word and typed in the default font, Times New Roman. And I’m thinking of writing about that. I am a Times New Roman. Pretty tasty subject, no? No. Well even if it is it’s going to have to wait to the next threat because this ain’t nothing. And doing something is exhausting. Peace.