The Weight of Days

So... I am a jew.

I just found out this fact 5 days ago, while driving back from East Texas. I guess the first question someone might ask is "how the fuck did you just find this out?"

Apparently, my great-grandmother was full jewish. At some time, she converted to the Protestant faith and her family didn't take it well. They decided to not talk to her at all and basically, kicked her out of the family. So it was her secret.

My great-grandmother had my grandmother who had my mother who had me.

I am a jew.

What does it mean?

I don't know, to be honest. All my life I have watched my friends ( 99% of them are hispanic) and wished that I had that sort of connection to something greater than I. But I have always felt like a mutt. What does that connection mean? Again, I don't know. I want to understand my culture so much more. I want to embrace my jewishness. At some level, I have already begun. I used to make racist jokes about every race, including jews. No more. A friend of mine once told me that white people are rarely bothered by racism because, for the most part, it doesn't affect them. I agree.

And I think, when I was convinced that I was a white mutt, I was exactly that way. Racism was a non issue for me, at least as an offending issue. It didn't bother me, as long as it was applied in jokes. Don't get me wrong. Racism is distrubing when it is used to make people's lives miserable. But I always felt like it was amusing when applied to make light of racial generalities. But...

I am a mutt no more.

Posted by WDV at 9:48 PM | Permalink | Comments

tonight, i have never been so proud or ashamed of myself in my entire life.

i was given horrible news and responded with grace and class, though it hurt me dearly.

10 mins later i used that news in a disgusting manner and hurt someone i care for deeply.

i must be an existentialist, who else would do such a fucked up thing?

i despise myself, and everything i have ever stood for.

Posted by WDV at 3:22 AM | Permalink | Comments

I am often asked by my closest friends to give a list of books that have influenced my thought pattern (maybe just so they can avoid them!). In the next 4 posts, I will give a list of the 40 books that have most influenced me in my life. And, if I do not tire, which no doubt I will, I will give a blurb for each one. Noting some witty (or my attempt to be so) about the book or its effect on me.

Please feel free to comment on my choices. I hope you will indulge me in my own little trip into my mind.

40 - 31

40. The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood - I read this for the first time in my Intro to Lit class my sophomore year. Barbara Vielma. She was a good prof. Little flighty, I guess. I remember vividly the sex scene in this book, mostly because my girlfriend at the time constantly mentioned it. Not sure why a man having sex with a woman while his wife embraces the woman from behind is so odd. Isn't it human nature to pervert the natural? And if it is in our nature, doesn't that make our perversion all the more natural?

39. The Bad Beginning - Lemony Snicket - This whole Series of Unfortunate Events is amazing. Well-written children's books that are depressing and enjoyable as hell. My friend Jen recommended this book and I was hooked from day one. They are deeply fatalistic (realistic) in their view on life, and when (and IF) I have children, I want them to read novels like this one from an early age. I think it would be helpful in shaping their world view.

38. One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich - Alexander Solzhenitsyn - Another book brought into my life by one Barbara Vielma. This book really hooked my on Russian writing. Introduced me to truly depressing genres of literature. No doubt I have this opinion from a limited exposure (mostly through Dostoevsky), but I think it has bourn out by others with more knowledge than my own. One Day... really taps into the existential ethic: survival, one day at a time, existing.

37. Fast Food Nation: The Dark Side of the All-American Meal - Eric Schlosser - The first non-fiction book to make the list. Some from my voting party might consider it fiction, but I walk without blinders and facts are facts, regardless of who they make look bad. I'm not vegetarian, I enjoy eating beef, pork, chicken, you name it. This book has, at times, made me reconsider that life choice. I first heard of this book in a NOFX song. Not all great books or ideas come from lofty peaks, sometimes they drip from the gutters and seep through grates into the sewer. Not that NOFX is all that bad.

36. Moby Dick - Herman Melville - I got this book from America, I guess. Probably a lit class or a movie. I remember an old black and white job based off this book. I was terrified of the coffin in the final scene. No doubt my abhorrent fear of death waking early within my chest. May all rational men learn to stop fearing death, and instead embrace it as their natural end. Call me Ishmael. Well, at least call me Dan, I guess.

35. Man in Black - Johnny Cash - Now, I will be honest in saying that music is a huge influence in my life (sometimes good or bad. And hopefully FallOutBoy will never be my life-consuming compass in my thought patterns!). Johnny Cash was an artist. A man consumed by his talent and his lifestyle. I have nothing but love and respect for this man I never knew. This book is extremely effective in its frank upright delivery. Its like talking to J.R. across a kitchen table. Pretty sure Bob Lopez pointed me to this book.

34. The Plague - Albert Camus - I remember I read this book because of the recommendation of my girlfriend (at the time). I had really enjoyed another of his novels (which will peep out soon enough), and looked forward to reading this one as well. This story really hammers home the idea that man cannot control his life around him. That nothing can be controlled, and especially life or death. Camus must have indeed suffered in his mind. His ideas are bleak. but true. In the end, if nothing else, I learned from Camus that truth is more important than delusional happiness.

33. Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury - Goddamn it if Bradbury didn't nail the future dead on: people ignoring books for TV and radio, knowledge seen as abnormal and the drive for it regarded as unworthy. Joseph Leonard put me on to this book. He was a creepy old man, and a good friend. This book suggestion will not be forgotten. Whenever I think of censorship or the stupidity that seems to permeate our modern age, I am struck that this man spotted this coming 50 years ago.

32. Naked Lunch - William S. Burroughs - When I was in Bible college some 10 years ago, I had a dream one night, a man came to me and asked me if I would buy his books. I told him I could not. He then offered to sell his cane. I told him I could not. So I handed him the money I had. He leaned forward and whispered the saddest thing I had ever heard (though when I awoke, I could not remember what he had told me). Two weeks later, I was thumbing through a magazine in B & N and spotted the old man from my dream. It was William Burroughs. His secret was that he had killed his wife while drunk. I do not know what to think of that, but when I think of that dream, I get goosebumps.

31. Legends of the Dark Knight - Various - Comics have influenced me greatly. None more than Batman. He was a man fighting evil in his time with what he had: his mind and his body. This particular comic was darker than the others of its focus, Batman. It was more brutal and a hell of a lot more realistic. When I think of being a kid, I think of Batman, beating up bad guys and whisking away into the night.

More to come.....

Posted by WDV at 11:12 PM | Permalink | Comments

I have been reading Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground lately (a highly enjoyable book about a bitter and angry man). I have observed that he, the author, must have been incredibly depressed (as, I imagine, most Russian writers of his era were) to write such a fascinating discussion of human nature. And, as I do with most great writers, compared him to myself to find similarities or differences (obviously in hope of discovering genius in the cracks).

Some time back, I had a panic attack. Freaked out, hyperventilated, rushed to the hospital, the whole nine yards. It was not pretty. I remember the feelings that surfaced during that, it was embarrassing. I was not where I am today, in my thought process, and I remember begging God to let me live. When I think about that, I am ashamed of myself. First of all, if I die, I want to die on my feet, so to speak. I don't want to whimper into eternity (if that is what is awaiting us), I want to calmly open the door and walk in. Secondly, if there is a God (I choose to believe that there is), why would he give a shit about what one human being was begging of him? I find it so amusing that someone thinks that their promises or covenants with God will change his mind on some point. If God created us, he knows how fickle we are. He knows that we will say anything to live another second. Why would he believe Dan Vaughn in that car seat on the way to the hospital?

All that was just to say that, after the attack I was diagnosed with depression. I'm not sure if that is the technical term for it, but certainly that was how I understood it. To ease my "pain", my doctor prescribed zoloft, an effective medicine (turns out my dad had used the same medicine earlier in the year) for the treatment of depression. Over time, I became numb. Not over-medicated numb, I wasn't walking into walls and shit. It was that my mind became quiet.

Recently, I was discussing with a close friend how ideas compete in my mind. Like a thousand conversations going on at one time, not audible voices, but ideas clashing in my mind. Over and over again, not one winning over the other. Like a fight between an old married couple, neither will win, but the screaming and cursing continues. Does this make me crazy or is it the most rational level of thought that there is? Realizing that all arguments, as shocking as it may seem, have some truth in them, and that it is the situation that makes them correct or incorrect. How horrible to live in a world of grays instead of black and whites! Life is easy for those that see only right and wrong.

But it was that fighting that was gone from my mind on zoloft, and I found that I was numb to the world around me and the world inside me. I could not communicate with my fingers any longer: my writing suffered. And it is at that point that Dostoevsky and I crash into each other on intersecting lines. What if Fydor was that way now, in this modern age? He would be instantly diagnosed and pumped full of meds to keep the bad thoughts out. I feel that, in many ways, pills and meds are killing expression and self-reliance in this country. We are a nation of over-medicated robots, bumping into each other as we shuffle around the hospital.

I am not saying that there are not some mental and physical ailments that do not require medication. I am a diabetic and require two pills daily to treat my blood sugar levels, and I would never argue that I should be without those meds. I am merely arguing that maybe we should tolerate those things which are tolerable for the sake of feeling our lives. Is happiness the only goal in life? Do I have to have a sloppy, pill-induced smile to prove that I am alive? I think that life is just as much pain and depression as it is happiness (I would argue that life is much much more pain and depression than happiness). When we medicate away the negatives of life, do we not rob ourselves of the experience?

Posted by WDV at 9:51 PM | Permalink | Comments

Tonight, on the way home (from where, will become obvious at a later point), I passed a dog. It was a flea-bitten mutt. The kind that deserves pity, because, not due to any fault of its own, it was rejected by the world around her. She was unloveable and dirty. I empathize.

I made the mistake of going out tonight (I could write that statement every time I go out, I am well aware. Yet, I continue this habit like a young boy masturbates, with shame, yet unwilling to stop.) I went out for a dear friend, seeking comfort for both her and I, and honestly believed (first mistake) that a bar, some friends and some drinking would be enough (second mistake). Many of her friends came out, and at some level she should take solace in the fact that so many people honor her company. And I was among the crowd tonight.

Her friends do not do her justice. They are, for the most part, empty-headed and without worth (less than the dog I mentioned before). Their conversations were disgusting to a thinking man. One turned to me and said (please believe this is true),

"So she tells me you are an exishtenshuless."

"Yes," I replied, smiling, "I do fancy existential philosophy."

"That's cool."

I wish Camus would have risen from his grave and kicked her square in the ass. Maybe she would have felt something (for the first time in her life, no doubt) and had a real thought (even if it was only "Did a zombie just kick me in the ass?"). Oh, but the fun did not end there.

Her wonderful companion for the night (a young man that was the member of some frat, which I do not remember) spoke of how he had got an A on a philosophy test by answering the question "Why?" with "Why not?". Some professor should be shot. That might be the only thing I culled from this mush-mouthed, keg-guzzling idiot.

I explained to him why he got the A. That a professor probably recognized his use of Socratic reasoning (a stretch, at best) and figured he had learned something in his class. His response, you might ask?

"I don't care, as long as I got the A!"

Then a great (I use this term while apologizing to the English language for abusing her for the sake of sarcasm) discussion ensued on ends and means. His friend (of previous mispronouncing fame) agreed with him, and getting an A was the most important thing, so who cared how you got it. Hitler would have loved these two. "Killing Jews will make Germany better? Fuck it, I'm in!" (which is ironic because this woman used to date the one Jewish friend I have the honor of knowing).

I am a man among mental midgets, destined to be the dog, wandering the street, looking for solace in a warm spot on the concrete. But there is no warm spot in sight, at least, not yet.

Posted by WDV at 11:48 PM | Permalink | Comments

Today, I am sitting in training for my new job at Sprint. I won't bore you with the details of the training, but I have made an observation on people (especially those that are sitting around me in this room).

First, most people are boring as hell. Not just in the conversations you have with them (though that is the best way to judge someone, I think), but also in the way they interact with everyone. I don't know if it just the US (self-loathing American, I am not), but dumb, boring, foolish, idiotic people are the norm in our society. Is it because so many people are below par that par has moved down and we are all achieving that par? If that is the case, where does that leave intelligent people (which, to be honest, I consider myself to fall in that category)?

Second, trainings, for the most part, are pointless. Anything you learn in training will have to be backed up with experience on the field anyway. I would compare it learning something in the classroom, if I may. When I went to college, I learned plenty of things. Piles of books were dumped into my brain. Knowledge was poured on top of knowledge till I was overflowing with shit I knew. However, it was not until I went out into the world that I put any of that shit into practice. And when I put it into practice, that is when I actually knew it. When I made that trip to Idaho, I put my existentialism in practice. AND I KNEW IT. Not halfway, not sortof, but I knew it. Through and through I knew what I believed and gave it legs. No amount of training could replace that.

Third, in any group, you will find someone who you can put up with. Maybe that is part of human nature, having to have someone like you that you can share the burden of the day with. This room is full of shlubs, yet I found one person I could tolerate and actually enjoy his commentary on it all. Could he hang with the rest of my friends? I don't know. But in this room, he is all I have, so I amplify his tolerable points and make him my friend for the moment. Is he really that cool? I doubt it. But like a person in the water will make anything floating a life raft, he is the only way I have to deal with this bullshit and get through the day. Funny how human nature allows for levels of friends. Some for the moment, some for the night, some for life.

Fourth, jobs are shit. We work only because we have to. Who in their right mind would focus on an unrewarding profession instead of their own interests? If I could sit at home and write all day, I would. I would fill my room with stacks and stacks of useless piles of drivel that I call writing. I would be a genius in my own mind and world. At my job, I am just some other guy. I don't stand out, because honestly, I don't give a fuck.

Which leads into the fifth, I honestly don't care about jobs. Seems so unimportant in life to me. Why do so many people bust their asses for people who don't care about their success? The alienation of the worker, sure it's a socialist idea, but it doesn't make it not true. I remember when I was younger, my dad used to make me work. I hated it, but, at the end of the day, I felt I had accomplished something. I realize now, I am so much more happy when I pour myself into a written piece or a song, than when I get done with another shift at Sprint. The job may pay the bills, but art is my passion.

I rambled (we are all guilty of that sometimes). Please accept my apologies for wasting this moment in your life.

Posted by WDV at 10:52 AM | Permalink | Comments

I need to empty myself out, and myspace is not the place or format to do that. Yes, I will probably post a link to this site on myspace, but I feel the need to separate myself from that scene for more instense thinking.

Tonight, on my myspace blog, I posted about the need for a family, the need to feel unconditional love from someone other than myself (because, of course, we are all experts at loving ourselves). I posted about how lonely I was watching a horrible reality TV show, wishing I had someone to cry about missing. I guess that wasn't exactly right, I cry about missing plenty of people. I could better put it by saying that I wished I had someone who I had the right to miss, which is another thing altogether. Plenty of us have had silent crushes on friends and strangers alike, but that feeling of love or any strong emotion is hardly justified when considering their (the object's) ignorance of it. Most of us have probably been the subject of said crushes and we hardly give a thought to it.

Are you so ugly that no one could crush on you? Trust me, that is not possible. Even the most undesirable of us have been loved and longed for by someone, of the opposite sex or our own.
We may not have known about it, and maybe that is why some of us find it so unthinkable, but the law of averages certainly indicates that we have been desired by someone at sometime.

But I digress. The point of this discussion (and I hope that this is indeed a discussion, and not a one-way conversation with myself) is that tonight I wished I had a family. Or at least someone who loved me and I loved in return.

I have been married before (see, even the most unloveable can achieve love). I walked down an aisle, I exchanged rings, I moved in with a woman. Then I watched it all, in turn, fall apart in my hands. I feel no need to discuss blame (at this time), but the end result was the same, regardless. So I did have a family for a moment. My wife and I were a family unit, with (at the least in theory) the potential to produce children and live lives happily united. Again, the point of this blog is not to discuss my failed marriage, but rather to focus on the need for love and family (which, in my mind, should be the embodiment of said love).

So how can someone, as myself, who failed so desperately in my one attempt at family, still wish for that thing which I do not have? Is it that aspect of human nature that Dostoevsky spoke of in Notes from Underground? The desire for choice (and wish) even if that thing is self-destructive? Wanting what I really shouldn't have? Maybe that is off the point, but name dropping Dostoevsky is always helpful is establishing one's credentials as an existentialist and, furthermore, as an intellectual.

I don't know what it is in all of us that drives us to want the family unit. I don't know if it is the desire to reproduce (stable environment = chance for offspring), the need to fit in with everyone else (though the world around us shows that families are fucking falling apart left and right. 50% divorce rate and such), the desire to achieve the essence of what a man or woman is supposed to achieve in life (wait, I thought was existential, fuck that!), or is it something else? Has society stained us so deeply that we cannot shake it? Does it touch every aspect of our goals and wishes, to the point that we don't really have a choice, but rather only a desire to fulfill our society's measures of success?

I guess the point of all this is to say that I don't know what it is that makes me cry when I watch TV and see families. I don't know what makes me wish to be 5 again and look at my parents hugging in the kitchen. I don't know why I look into a woman's eyes and wish that she wore my ring on her finger. But I do it anyway.

Posted by WDV at 9:39 PM | Permalink | Comments