The Terror Felt Around the World

Twenty years ago, as I was getting ready for work, I saw a news report showing an airplane crashing into one of the World Trade Center towers. At the time, it seemed like a terrible accident. I thought no more about it as I began my day, consumed as I was then about trivial things. 

Things that would soon be rendered permanently meaningless.

By the time I started my shift, the second plane had hit, and it was then understood as a deliberate attack. I was stuck behind a cash register for most of the day, getting sporadic reports (some true, many exaggerated) from the handful of customers who trickled in. Smartphones weren't a thing. The Internet was something you sat down at a desk and dialed into. The closest television was back in the break room. There I was, wondering why our normally busy store was practically a ghost town—completely oblivious that the world beyond those glass doors was changing forever.

It took me a few hours to believe the towers had actually collapsed. After all, I had pictures of them taped to my wall that I had taken on a band trip only a few years before. They couldn't possibly be gone! When I finally saw the replay during my lunch break, it was like watching a movie. It didn't seem real.

I remember how gas stations and credit card readers kind of just...shut down. The networks were overwhelmed. 

The following week, I happened to be in Florida for my niece's christening. I decided it would be fun, since I was already in Orlando, to visit Universal Studios. I arrived to find a nearly abandoned park. There were no lines for any of the rides. People were terrified, assuming that theme parks might be the next target. In retrospect, I was an idiot for wanting to go, but I was 23. I felt invincible. (Although it was a stupid idea, it was one of the last road trips I ever took with my sister. I'm still glad I went.)

I remember Steph telling me I needed to marry my then-girlfriend so I wouldn't get drafted into the next world war. At the time, the fear didn't seem far-fetched.

My then-girlfriend, who was a native of Uganda, hugged me tight as she whispered, "now it's in your country," with a fear in her eyes I couldn't comprehend. She and her mother had moved to the United States to escape a civil war, only to find terrorism hitting our shores as well.

Until then, I had known nothing but a feeling of complacent safety during my privileged upbringing.

There are no words to describe how it affected...everything. All of the cable channels, including ones like MTV and Cartoon Network, carried 24/7 news coverage. Rumors spread like wildfire. I can still hear late-night panicked calls from close friends saying they heard Nashville was going to be next.

It doesn't feel like 20 years have passed. There are grown adults now who weren't alive then. They have no idea how the world was changed; how we were changed. Watching dozens of people jumping to their deaths live on television to escape being incinerated by flames...well, that sort of horror stays with you.

Some people say it brought everyone together, but that kind of depends on whom you ask. I vividly remember hearing accounts of hate crimes against innocent families who even looked like they might be from the Middle East. There was a lot of anger during that time. While understandable, it was unforgivable. You can't say it brought us together if you exclude some people from us.

That was what scared me then: how grief quickly grew to overwhelming anger. In many ways, it felt like the flames of fear and hatred were purposely fanned. Human beings, as I've recently written, are genetically conditioned for war.

There was a tidal wave of bleakness that drowned everything in a way I had never experienced before. Television shows stopped taping new episodes. Late-night talk shows didn't tell any jokes... if they aired at all.

For a time, it felt like we would never be able to laugh again.

Our innocence—our naivety —was lost.  

Those of you who regularly follow my musings know I generally try to keep things light-hearted, but there are no ways to make light of 9/11. We can hope some positives came out of the whole thing, but at such a tremendous cost of innocent lives—not to mention the pain for those left behind—was it worth the payment?

No. Not even close.

Please take care of yourselves and each other. The need for Love in the world cannot be understated or undervalued.

Lamp Posts

I wish each of us—every day—would take a moment to realize that we see the world around us not for what it is objectively, but rather skewed through a myriad of prisms; each based on our own cultural biases, religious programming, and social upbringing.

Our typical knee-jerk emotional responses to many of the things we see around us are so deeply embedded into our subconscious, we often confuse them as truths without question.

But, why are we who we are? Why do we believe what we believe? Why does someone with a differing point of view get immediately labeled as them or enemy? It is a pretty binary way of thinking for analog organisms, isn't it?

Us vs. Them. We see it every day on the news and on social media. The political arena, in particular, is a culprit as nasty as any comic book villain. Humans are, simply, conditioned for war.

It dates back to our tribal roots. Territorial conflict helped us survive our early days as a species. My tribe created a certain dogma that, in turn, became diametrically opposed to my neighboring tribe's dogma. Over time, our bodies evolved and our brains grew, and this behavior became embedded into our DNA. It was shoved to a back shelf in our shiny-new subconscious, yet it was as loud as ever.

Today, we have something amazing we've never had before: access to information. With the touch of a button, we can explore the cumulative database of all that humanity has learned and achieved. The best part? We are now exposed to points of view and ideologies that differ from the ones with which we were raised, on a level of magnitude unprecedented just a few decades ago. (These differing ideas often get categorized as them out of hand. Watch how our knees jerk! Pavlov would be proud.)

It may not seem like it when perusing literally any social media comments section, but the Internet is one of humanity's greatest inventions. It's not just for porn, cat videos, and dissenting opinions about Star Wars!

Oh, we're not mature enough to use it properly...not yet. See, we still have those prisms in front of our eyes. Those pesky tribal instincts. On the cosmological scale, humans are relatively recent arrivals. We are still in our collective adolescence, prone to outbursts and moodiness when things don't go our way.

You may be thinking I'm anti-religion. I'm not against religion, per se; I think a curious, healthy spirituality is a wonderful thing. Loving others, kindness, and treating your neighbor with respect are the greatest tenets of all of the world's leading faiths—perhaps even those you believe to be them.

The thing is, we're all on the same journey; we're simply on different parts of the road.  Some of us are traveling over mountains, others are trudging through the desert. Our personal viewpoints may differ, yet we all seek truth and understanding of the Universe.

Just as we seek to be understood ourselves.

I've been incredibly fortunate over the years to encounter many teachers who challenged me to think beyond my own prisms. Most of them had no idea they were teaching me anything; I simply listened to their stories. Along the way, I learned to start thinking outside of myself. I call these folks Lamp Posts, because they illuminated a part of my journey for a while. They showed me a part of the road I had never seen before.

I'm not the same person I was a few years ago. Universe willing, I'll be a different person yet by the time this 'ole biological machine stops functioning. (If I'm really fortunate, there will be even more to explore in whatever exists beyond.)

I hope we never stop learning, growing, and revising the idea of Who We Are. We have so much amazing potential.

We have to start by seeing the world—and each other—clearly.

If it's the Journey that Matters, I Want to Ride the Rails

Lately, I’ve been watching a lot of train videos on YouTube.

Model trains. Mountain-climbing cogwheel trains. Disneyland’s steam train. Japanese suspended monorails. The Hogwarts Express. Lego sets affixed with GoPros zooming throughout living rooms and terrorizing housecats.

I’ve been fascinated by trains ever since I was little. One entire bedroom of my childhood home was dominated by a miniature town whose primary mode of transportation was an illuminated four-car passenger train. Not that the citizens could actually go anywhere—there was only one station.

Naturally, everything lit up. I remember turning off the lights and staring at the thing for hours on end. (If I still had it, I’d stare at it as an adult, too. In fact, I’d probably already be decorating it for Halloween.)

I’d love to travel across the country via train. One with a sleeper cabin, and preferably a shower. It would be a long trip.

Until that dream becomes manifest, YouTube is free, so my mind and spirit can travel any time I wish. Being something of a nomad by nature, my sense of wanderlust is ignited by views of sweeping vistas rolling leisurely past the cabin windows. I breathe deeply, existing in a space where time is marked only by meals and sunsets, and conversations are timeless.

I imagine simply being, my mind unencumbered by the distracting rhythms and patterns that permeate (and often irritate) my normal, rail-less existence.

The destination isn’t important. Arrival schedules are irrelevant. The outside world becomes part of another life, another place; mere trivialities circumvented by a magical length of transcendent track.

It isn’t a highway that leads to Heaven...it’s a railroad.

Back to BASICs

I can still remember the first computer program I ever learned to code. It was two glorious lines of BASIC; as simple as it was eloquent:

10 PRINT "FARTS!"

20 GOTO 10

RUN

The resulting output was a repeating stream of FARTS! scrolling down the screen, which would continue to propagate until someone interrupted the loop, or the Universe ended — whichever came first.

Anyone who owned a computer running BASIC during the ‘80s and ’90s might have had a thick companion manual filled with programs, screensavers, and games; all of which had to be manually entered line by line. Sure, you could pop in a cartridge or load the program via an attached cassette drive, but what would be the fun in that?

A few months ago, I acquired a Raspberry Pi computer. For the uninitiated, a RaspPi is a tiny, low-cost computer the size of a credit card, which can be used in a multitude of projects: from home media servers to robotics, portable weather monitoring stations, retro gaming platforms, or running endless varieties of full desktop environments. You can even run some Windows applications on the newer models. 

It is the perfect project computer for anyone (kids and adults alike) who wants to learn to code. You can’t mess it up as everything is loaded from an SD card or USB thumb drive — any major mistake can be fixed by a simple reformat.

As I have access to an entire library of educational Udemy content via work, I’ve decided to take an introductory class on Python programming. I haven’t progressed much further than “Hello World” (or FARTS! as my BASIC counterpart is wont to do), but I always get kind of giddy to learn something new about computers and how they work.

So, quick question: any tech firms out there willing to pay top dollar to a middle-aged geek who knows how to output a lot of FARTS!? (Actually… don’t answer that.)

Vincent and the Doctor: a study on Mental Illness

My favorite episode of Doctor Who is “Vincent and the Doctor.”

The titular Doctor, along with companion Amy Pond, finds himself in the past... sharing the company of artist Vincent Van Gogh.

Vincent suffers what today we would recognize as mental illness, displaying symptoms such as severe depression and hallucinations. He is ostracized from society. He and his contemporaries believe his paintings to be worthless, even after the Doctor and Amy show complete admiration for his work.

Nothing either of them says can convince him otherwise.

Eventually forming a friendship with the troubled artist, the Doctor and Amy decide to bring Vincent to the present, to show him the impact his art has had on a more appreciative society.

In a heart-wrenching scene, Vincent stands in the midst of a gallery filled with his paintings, each piece crowded with admirers. The Doctor pulls a nearby docent aside to explain the importance of Vincent Van Gogh.

“To my mind,” the docent enthuses, “that strange wild man who roamed the fields of Provence, was not only the world’s greatest artist but also one of the greatest men who ever lived.” Standing within earshot, Vincent—and the audience—begins to weep.

Vincent is soon restored to his own time. Amy can’t wait to return to the art gallery, believing they must have changed the outcome of Vincent’s life. She expects to find hundreds of new paintings, but instead discovers that history remains unaltered: Vincent Van Gogh took his life mere days after their shared adventure.

Doctor Who is, of course, a work of fiction. As far as we know, Van Gogh never knew the impact his art would have on future generations.

Would that knowledge have made a difference? We will never know, but that wasn’t the point of the episode. If you have never watched it, I encourage you to seek it out.

Depression wasn’t only an issue in Van Gogh’s time. According to the CDC, suicide is currently the 10th leading cause of death in the United States. 

As it so happens, May is Mental Health Month. Like the subjects of other awareness months, Mental Health is a vital discussion we should have more often than a handful of weeks out of the year.

To give you a little of my own backstory, my mom was diagnosed Bipolar with Schizoaffective Disorder when she was a young adult. That means in addition to unpredictable mood swings, she occasionally has psychotic episodes where she has to be hospitalized. That used to terrify me when I was a kid, but then I learned about neurochemical imbalances in the brain. They are more common than I realized!

I personally have had issues with depression and anxiety throughout my life. It is a part of the psychological landscape I navigate every day. Writing about it has been an important part of my own therapy.

Fortunately, unlike poor Vincent, we exist in a world that encourages open discussion of mental health. There are treatments, such as therapy and medications. While modern mental health care is far from perfect, it has come a long way from its troubled beginnings, when it was considered a taboo subject never to be discussed in polite company.

While there are resources available, it comes with a catch: you have to be aware. Not only of yourself but also those around you. Are you no longer enjoying things you once did? Does your anxiety sometimes get so bad it keeps you awake at night? Has a friend suddenly become withdrawn?

Depression isn’t a weakness; anxiety isn’t a flaw. Even more severe mental conditions, like Schizophrenia, don’t mean you are broken. Sometimes, they’re simply a result of chemical imbalances in the brain, which can be regulated with medication and doctor supervision. (A real one, not the fictional hero.)

Other times, treatment can be as simple as talking with someone.

No matter the case, it begins with communication. We are all in this together.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

(800) 273-8255

BetterHelp Professional Counseling Services

https://www.betterhelp.com/

Centers for Disease Control Mental Health Information

https://www.cdc.gov/mentalhealth/index.htm

National Institute of Mental Health

https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/find-help/

Lights Out

At 1:30 a.m., a rare thing happened here in downtown: the power went out.

I only know this because the sudden departure of sound woke me up. (I can snooze through a tornado, but a quiet room will keep me up all night.)

Never one to miss such an opportunity, I stepped outside. There's an almost complete absence of light and sound—interrupted only by the pattering of falling rain—in an area usually humming with a subliminal orchestra of electrical equipment and glowing streetlights.

You don't usually notice all of it... until the orchestra stops playing. Now the world feels somehow wrong, even as it regresses to its default, more primal setting. I can't say whether there's a statement here on modern civilization and its impact on our senses, partly because I'm not really qualified to make such a pontification, but mostly because my sleep-deprived brain is trying to think at 2-freakin'-a.m.

Also, I'm realizing how loudly my cats snore, and it's terribly distracting.

In any case, now that I've dutifully chronicled the experience, I hope for electricity's swift return, because I can't sleep.

What's in a life?

 A part of my day job includes preparing obits to run in the following week's paper.

I always try to take a moment to reflect on the names sitting on my screen. These were real people with hopes and dreams and families and worries and fears and successes and loves and full, complete stories of their own―each one far more compelling than any piece of fiction ever scribbled.

However, tonight marks the first time I'm editing one for someone I actually knew. Suddenly, every bit of punctuation, each letter, even the spacing of lines are treated with meticulous, loving precision.

To be fair, that's what I'm supposed to do. It's literally a recurring item on my weekly "to do" list. But the task lands differently when it's someone I know.

An entire life, someone's entire existence... relegated to a few lines in ink.

It never seems enough, does it? Not when we are libraries all our own, with countless stories to tell.