My 1st and only fan letter

Dear Joe W.,

Like many of your readers, I was first introduced to your work when I read "Letters to Wendy's". I was assigned the book as part of a creative writing class that I was taking at the University of Georgia. I was 22. I have followed your career ever since and have many times shared your work with my friends. And reading your words we have laughed, like really laughed, and I thank you for the joy that has given me.

But maturity for me has finally set in––probably a little late, to be sure––and now your poetry has taken on a much greater importance. Now I understand a little more about what your humor is aiming towards. The day in and day out of adult life has given me a greater understanding of tragedy, but maybe understanding is the wrong word. What I mean is, as I've become older, I've now confronted tragedy and put it in to sharper focus; I've now stared it in the face, close enough to see the light reflecting from its eyes.

And because of this confrontation with tragedy, with loss, with suffering, and despair (these are serious words, and I am using them seriously), humor, for me, has taken on a life or death importance. It has become a matter of standing on the edge of a cliff and deciding on whether or not to step over into the abyss, or to simply laugh into it.  Your poetic speech contains the weight of all of this, of the confrontation with human despair and the rising tide of emotions that come from the realities of adult life, and, I think, the proper attitude for engaging in the confrontation.

I think I get some of what you are trying to do, is what I'm trying to say. And I have learned a lot from your work; that is, I have learned much about what poetic speech is capable of accomplishing. I had been skeptical before, but I now I am convinced of its power and importance.

I've never written a fan letter before, but I wanted you to know that, for what it's worth, your work has meant a lot to me. I've turned to your poems many times and have found in them some relief from loneliness and isolation. I read your work and laugh out loud, and even though my laughter, over time, has grown heavier from this confrontation with my abyss, it has become more frequent, and more visceral and necessary. And in your work I've found better reasons to laugh, to confront, and to stare without blinking at all of it––the tragic and the sublime––with fists clenched and my head staring forward, white-knuckled with a toothy smile. So, again, thanks Joe, thanks for all the existential giggles and the inspiration; they have served me well.

Best,

M.W. Ross
University of Massachusetts
Amherst, MA

Some comments to my class.

Class,

To call an essay “biased” is to say that it is slanted, or really, that it has a particular point of view. To tell your readers that something is biased is useless unless you identify the nature of that bias. I know very well that the author in question is "biased";sure, he believes in something, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. Indeed, his arguments draw much from the intellectual foundations of Leftist thinkers like Karl Marx, and more modern ones like Barbara Ehrenreich, among others––all political thinkers with strong opinions and academic writing styles. 

The world is a political place. There is no way around it. As your teacher, I am not going to tell you what to think, that is not my job. I will give you some indication of what I think if you ask, but that’s it. I will not use my position of authority to tell you what you should believe (I am your instructor, not your priest). 

What I want you to understand that objectivity in matters of social life is not possible, practically speaking. Objectivity is an issue for graduate philosophy seminars and for formal methods in the natural sciences, stuff like that. But for most issues that people care about, sorry to tell you, it doesn’t exist. No one can escape their point of view when discussing matters of morality and social life––none of us are omniscient. We cannot escape our own skins.  

What I want you to do is to both identify an author’s point of view and then evaluate it; then, if you disagree, tell me why. Over time, you will learn to develop a point of view of your own––this is not an easy task, though. Developing a fully formed opinion takes work and even sacrifice. It means learning to be patient and to evaluate the evidence and the claims to truth that are presented before you. 

My job is to give you the tools to become critical, independent and self-reliant thinkers. In other words, as Neil Postman once said, my job is to try and teach you to detect B.S. You must learn to recognize when an author is saying something important and when he or she is not. You must learn to train yourself to judge between truth and falsehood, between balderdash and profundity. Part of my job is to train you in intellectual self-defense against all the forms of nonsense and misinformation that you will be confronted with for much of your adult lives.  

When it comes to answers and small "t" truth, I will do all I can to give you the tools for you to begin to make your way towards your own personal truth and answers, but you must patient, these things take time. The German poet Rilke once wrote, I'm paraphrasing, that young people must not seek answers, yet, because it is much too early in their lives for that. Instead, the young must be very patient towards all that is unresolved in their hearts and try to love the questions themselves. For now you've gotta live, that was his point. Because someday, in your living and searching, you will live your way into an answer. Live now you guys––live now and question.

Philosophical Pessimism and the Mirth of the Universe

[Dialogue]

I: Where does your humor come from?

The Grieving Male: It comes from my getting the big joke. This stupid predicament we find ourselves in, I get how fucking funny it is. Like how we are born into a consciousness that gives us the ability to realize that we will, no doubt about it, get sick and old and eventually die. It’s the joke of the universe­. And we, as sentient beings, seek to escape the reality of our inevitable demise by totally submersing ourselves in the mundane minutiae of career and personal life, all without realizing how small we are; like how none of the things we care about matter in the face of this massive, infinite space that we float around in. None of it matters. Your job, your personal life, your kids, all of it, all of the things you hold dear are totally ephemeral and insignificant. You’re caught up in a larger, historically contingent order indifferent to your personal story.

And worse yet, even your suffering isn’t meaningful; it’s only the consequence of an evolutionary accident that created a linguistically capable being with an ill-advised illusion of a self. And this self, this individual consciousness, thinks that it matters, that the pain it must endure has some sort of teleological end—that it adds up when it’s all said and done. It doesn’t. You suffer only to die. And that’s funny. Like really funny. 

I: So humor is the only way to respond to this, ‘s that right?

The GM: Well, gallows humor. That’s the name of the game now. Before I was speaking about the individual, but it doesn’t get any better when you think about the society, the whole enchilada, all of us. Here’s another gut buster for you: Human civilization will not continue. It will eventually destroy the eco-systems that sustain it. And, with climate change and environmental collapse all the revolutionary Left can do now is mourn. The jig is up. The revolution isn’t coming. It may take a century or two, but our complex industrial society will collapse under its own weight. Environmental unsustainability and political rigidness is a lethal combo. This should scare and depress you. We have just walked through the doors of our own funeral, and here I am, whispering jokes in the pews.

I: Suicide, you sound like you are writing a suicide note. First, you establish that an individual’s aspirations are all meaningless, and then you establish that the civilization is doomed. So then there is no way out, no matter how you look at it. It sounds like you are in mourning; your revolution isn’t coming; you have lost an infinite, a unifying thing that was probably only a dream to begin with…

The GM: Thus, now it’s…

I: Now it…

The GM: Now it seems impossible, sure. At one time the dream didn’t seem like a dream at all, now it seems as if it’s totally lost. We are all wide-awake and can’t remember what we were dreaming to begin with. And suicide is another, very big, question; and I just don’t wanna talk about it. 

What I am talking about is laughing in the face of despair. In fact, humor is, for me, the only way to discuss what is most terrible and odious and despairing. It's the only way to even begin to move towards an ineffable monstrosity. Yes, monstrosity and despair, people write very long books about these things and sometimes even get close to circling them. But really you cannot even discuss them in a straightforward way because they lose their actuality if you do; they lose their force and power. But I think jokes begin to move in the right direction. Jokes are like a solar viewer that grade school kids use to look at an eclipse––you have to use jokes/humor to confront something that is truly horrible without getting burned. And confrontation is important, because you can’t turn your back on despair; it will swallow you whole if you do.

I: It will destroy you.

The GM: Yes, I think so.

  

The Two Faces of One City

Phew, I'm back in GA after a week in Dallas, Texas. Here's the thing about Texas: On the one hand it really is the republican stronghold you've heard scary campfire stories about. Every gas station I went to along I-20, under the big Texan sky, had for sale special edition TIME magazines dedicated to the legacy of Ronald Reagan, prominently displayed, right in front of the cash registers. In Dallas, there were numerous highways named after George W. or Reagan, and, of course, Dallas is the town where the G.W. Bush library is located (I drove by––I didn't actually go in).

But on the other hand, the part of Dallas where I stayed looked almost exactly like little 5 points in Atlanta or the end of Washington street in Athens, GA. Which is to say, no more than a 5 minute drive from the G.W. Bush library was a section of town filled with tattooed hipsters riding fixies to specialty craft beer pubs or co-opt grocery stores with banners advertising "No GMO" products (at one point, I even spotted an organic dog food store). It was strange. I mean, it was odd that in what is arguably the most conservative state in the country, in Dallas there was a sizable amount of what might be called progressive/Whole Foods style culture right next door to the super-patriotic cultural monuments of the New Right.

This dichotomy was epitomized for me when I spotted a Volvo emblazoned with numerous liberal bumper stickers supportive of Obama and the local library system right next to a car with Army of God style anti-abortion stickers. And it was nothing to spot a group of goth girls all with polychromatic hair walking behind a group of frat guys wearing pastel Polos and khaki shorts. There was something almost schizophrenic about it, cowboy boots and doc martens all walking alongside each other without anyone batting an eye. I didn't stay in Dallas long enough to get a handle on it, but I do have free place to stay if I every decide to go back and try and understand it––the seemingly binary culture of Dallas, TX.

Fermented Moralism (A fragment)

Wherein a conversation is overheard in obscure dive-bar, somewhere outside of Savannah, GA, 2316 hrs. EST. WASP MALE #1 is a young, twenty-something, bookish and needle-faced student wrapped in a tweed sport coat and blue jeans. WASP MALE #2 is a chubby and bearded and 40-something regular; he sits on a precarious black bar-stool while sweating into plaid shirt and a pair of red sweat pants. The air is stained with tobacco smoke and darkness, a howitzer of an air conditioner is booming from the back of the bar. Drinks have been served. Voices are elevated.     

W.M. #1: “What the hell are you talking about?”

W.M. #2: “I don’t know man, [left hand clutching his chest] I just think there are different types of drunks in the world. Some people, when they drink, just want to hump it on over to their brother’s, sister’s house––whatever––and knock on his ‘r her door and kick their face in, bloody––while other people, they get drunk and want to call up their brother ‘r sister and tell ’em how much they love ’em at 3am on a Saturday morning. It’s just some inner thing that alcohol strips away like paint thinner and reveals, you know? I think there’s a continuum between love and hatred that most people fall on and alcohol makes it easier to get a measurement, is what I’m fruckin sayin’––think of drunkenness like a pregnancy test or something for whether or not someone is an asshole––pour some alcohol on ‘em for the plus or minus.  And results differ, obviously. On the one hand, there are some people who just understand…like it’s frucking innate, they just understand what love and beauty and pain are, you know, like, all that shit. They’re just born with it, they can connect with it cause they’re able to really feel something. And when you drink with these types a pure, base level, drunken empathy comes out, I mean, not all the fruckin time, but sometimes these types will express themselves in a silly expression of good-will that is done in a honest-to-goodness way––it’s like real or whatever. Example, this especially drunk and empathic type person might listen to you describe how your mother died of a rare and terrible form of mesothelioma and then they’d relate to your experience and maybe even shed a vodka soaked tear for you––sure, maybe they won’t technically remember every detail of the conversation the next morning, but don’t think for one second that their expression of empathy wasn’t real in that moment, it was, and this little incident says something about who that person chooses to be [closes his eyes and takes a drink]. And you’ll have, on the other end of the spectrum, you’ll have these people that just fruckin can’t connect with this type of stuff, love or empathy or whatever. These are the negatives. These are usually your aggressive, angry types; they’ve been forced into this hateful and scary world and they just can’t help but be scary and hateful right back. And when these negative types walk down the street all they see is a herd of others; people who aren’t like them; strange people who want to steal and fruck over innocent God-fearing people first chance that comes ‘round.  Just pour some alcohol on a frightened and volatile personality like this and you’ll see it––a red stripped misanthropic streak––it’s like some drunken king will emerge that wants to push everybody else off the friggin’ mountain, in other words, this king doesn’t know what else to do but react. All that fear and hated ‘ll ooze right out of ‘em because the alcohol has dissolved away their normal façade of basic human solidarity. Dig me? And sometimes, even, with an especially bad case, shit will go down in a situationally, inappropriate and violent way. You’ll see fruckin sweat and bloodshot eyes and then clenched fists will erupt for little or no reason. Tantrums will explode and a fruckin-malignant-shit-strapped-mouth will turn on you and start to threaten you and yours because of your faggoty-looking pink t-shirt or something. You know the breed I am talking about, don’t you? It’s not a rare-fruckin-bird to say the least. Stay away from these drunken bastards––but then drink around them occasionally so you’ll know who they are.”

W.M. #1: “[Almost yelling] But come on, do you really think it’s necessary to get someone drunk to tell the difference between someone filled with love and someone filled with hate? Between a simpatico and a King Asshole? Sounds suspect to me. You’re building two poles of positive and negative and then diagnosing people accordingly. Two poles that don’t necessarily fit the population you are describing––everyone in the world, presumably? And, I mean, the social utility of alcohol isn’t really in question is it? What I mean is, alcohol has been lowering inhibitions and lubricating, as it were, the grinding realities of social interaction in public spaces since antiquity, and part of what it means to lower one’s inhibitions is to make conspicuous the sorts of personal desires and thoughts that a sober and more timid self would keep hidden or severely edit––nothing new here. So maybe alcohol does make someone more apt to reveal something about who-they-really-are in front of strange…others, so what? Unless you are trying to congratulate yourself for the amounts of fermented juniper you have consumed before me tonight, then by all means…”

W.M. #2: “OK, you got me there. Sure, sure my argument is self-serving––hey man look at that young lady right there, soo sexy, yes dear lord [eyes blinking rapidly]––hell yes I am saying that alcohol is a wonderful and socially useful thing right as I am drinking it, of course, and obviously I consider myself to be a positive-slightly-morally-better-than-you-empathic-type, as my current drunkenness clearly reveals [winks]. There simply is no way I will fall into some sort of violent rage this fine evening, or, pretty much any evening before or after this one for that matter. But OK, if you want to poke holes in my typology or argument, sure, go ahead––‘cause I, unlike you, haven’t been nursing this fine pint glass filled with mostly gin and some tonic that I’ve been lubricating this little social gathering with. So maybe I’ve exaggerated a bit. Spoken with shovels full of my own bullshit. Oh Lord, I don’t know [eyes blinking more rapidly than before].”

W.M. #1: “Hey, I’m not saying everything you say is bullshit. I’ll spare you my estimated percentages, but some of the shit you say rings true. And yes, I’m not drinking tonight like there is an impending apocalypse. Anyway, for the sake of argument, how much of the King Asshole is someone really responsible for? Where does one draw the line? You seem to be saying that the Asshole is intrinsic to the Self and is amplified through inebriation, a priori. In Freudian terms, when someone drinks too much their “id” comes out to play like a cement truck rolling through an antique store. But I guess we should leave Freud out of it; you’re just saying that alcohol reveals something true about someone, I guess, in less technical terms. And you realize you’re taking the Cartesian Self for granted here, right? But keep going, I’m amused.”

W.M. #2: “Where did you learn to talk like that? You should probably not do it anymore. It’s anti-social [burps].”

W.M. #1 “Are you saying I'm pretentious or something? [chuckles] Your social instincts are better than mine, I think. You must feel more, being in the world as you are. If my dad were alive he’d like you more than me, I think. You remind me of him. You know one’s relationship to their father, or parents for that matter, is less important than some may have you believe. The perceived importance of your family life as it relates to your mental health is mostly a vestige of Freudian dogma, which stills plagues the empirical psychological research done here in North America, believe it or not. Even though not everything he said was total bullshit, [chuckles, again] I am writing as fast as I can to exorcise that Viennese ghost…”

W.M #2 “[Interrupting] Psychology? Gross. I have no use for Academia, so called. [turns to bartender] Hey man! Beer me. Yeah, I’ll take that green one, yeah that one, thanks man…[Slaps W.M. #1 on the back] You know man…you’re hurting; I can see it in you. Look at yourself. You look like a nerdy, sad puppy gone missing his God; you need to laid, right!? [laughs]. I think I understand you now, see––see!? I can understand you now. See Dylan? It’s the positive and empathic effects of alcohol happening right here before your eyes. I know that what you need from me right now is empathy and understanding, personal verstehen my man. That’s a good German word.

W.M. #1 [interrupting] I know what it means.

W.M. #2 OK, sorry, look, I’m talking about a type of person who seeks a better understanding of others, understanding to the point where then can truthfully, not in any bullshitty-type-way, extend something like love to someone. And if this sad world is ever gonna get any better, this type of love and simple social courtesy of giving someone the-benefit-of-the-doubt needs to happen more often. Jesus, you know, that old Jew would have agreed with me. But there are some pitfalls with extending love to the people that need it. See I think people are mostly scared and alone and lonely, and the most repulsive people are usually the most scared and the most lonely, which can lead to this strange double bind where the people that really need love the most are the ones that are the hardest to reach out to because they’ve morphed into such pricks [squints his eyes at W.M. #1]. What a frucking mess, right? Just a bad situation, but someone has to love these mean fruckers. The ones that want to lash out in the world when they get viscerally intoxicated, somebody has to love them, yeah, even them.  And for me, I have this unavoidable conflict in my head about these negative types that, really, one should avoid because they’re so mean and indignant and hateful, but the problem is they’re the same people who need love the most, all while they don’t deserve it. Don’t ask me to solve that little conundrum here now. Love and understanding, that is, as unoriginal as all this sounds, people, all people, need these two things from other people to be in the world and not collapse from all the inevitable suffering that comes with the whole deal. It’s a question of being, or, better yet, a soul. So what I’m saying is a person’s soul is a intrinsically-social-kind-of-essence; it is living inside of you Dylan, and healthy souls make connections with other souls. Connections between lonely souls are the only way to confront this absurd situation we find ourselves in. Floating around on some rock in an infinite space that is so big you can’t even begin to describe in terms that are even close to any relatable, daily experience. No one should have to confront that kind of thing alone, that abyss––not even assholes. All we have is one another.  

My New Surroudnings [A place in GA to remain unamed]

The people here are huge. In this town I've moved to, that is, they're big. And I'm not trying to pick on them, it's just true. They're also mostly white, religious and camo-clad. These are facts I have learned from surveying my surroundings while taking trips to the grocery store. Their religiosity is normally displayed in unequivocal-bumper-sticker-form. One, seemingly ubiquitous, sticker I see here takes an unusually antagonistic stance towards its readers, next to a picture of a cross it reads: "If this offends you, we'll see what you think when you stand in front of Him on judgement day." The cars that the stickers are attached to are also huge. Most of the population here, or at least their children, participate vigorously in organized sports. This fact is evidenced by bumper stickers as well, and also by sliding mini-van doors that open to reveal small groups of uniform adorned teenagers.

My new port side neighbors are a couple––much younger than they look I imagine––and they have a small child, a boy, between three and five years old. The boy likes to play by himself in the front yard with yellow toy dump trucks. He is usually naked. Sometimes he is wearing a diaper. I have often wondered if the naked boy in my neighbors' front yard is part of some sort of elaborate government scheme to lure and capture pedophiles. I am becoming more accustomed to seeing baby penis on my way to and from the house. Baby toys dot my neighbors' backyard like white plastic stars on a grass canvas.

My girlfriend has met the aforementioned couple next door. To date, I have not. The little boy's mother came over to ask my girlfriend, Amanda, about her cat. The mother was inquiring about the cat because, according to her, an unidentified cat had been sneaking into her house and "fucking" her cat in her bedroom, on her bed; and she suspected that Amanda's cat was the guilty cat fucker. Quite the conundrum, obviously. Amanda, however, told the mother that this unwanted and invasive feline coitus could not be attributed to her strictly indoor cat, Ruby. After Ruby's innocence was thus established, Amanda and the mother exchanged personal details and pleasantries. As Amanda recounted, the mother was extremely open to her––to put it mildly––as she, the mother, moved the conversation from simple introductions to her struggles with pill addiction with DeLorean-like speed. The mother's oversharing made Amanda not a little bit uncomfortable, but she listened with characteristic empathy. I concluded from Amanda's encounter that should we wish to know anything––anything––about the personal lives of the young family next door, we need only hurdle over a couple of baby toys and ask.

The other neighbors to my starboard are a much older couple with an unknown amount of children that have, presumably, left the nest. On Sundays I see a young adult pull perfunctorily into the driveway, with a small child in tow, and then leave again shortly thereafter. During the week the husband and wife can usually be seen on their front doorsteps smoking cigarettes. On the weekends, I usually see the husband obsessively mowing his lawn––he mows over and over the same spots of grass with Sisyphean-esque repetition for hours on end. The man has a zen-like determination to prevent his grass from rising due either to an intense inner hatred of graminoids, or explicit love of them, I can't tell which. I have spoken to this grass-worrier only once, and upon learning of my then status as a graduate student, he told me that I "[looked] like a college man." I took this to mean "unemployed." He then invited me to church, and I, shamefully, lied and told him I was leaving town to visit my mother and could not join him in worship. When I step outside, he waves at me and says, "hello neighbor!" I can't help but appreciate the greeting. I usually wave back and say, softly but firmly, "what's up man."

My new surroundings are very familiar, extremely so. I am not alien to the cultural norms of the southern U.S., and I have a complicated relationship to them akin to the relationship between a disagreeable son and narrow-minded father. It's a strange mix of frustration and anger, mixed with a sort of obligatory love and commitment. I am indeed a native son. So if you feel that I have been unkind to those I've written of, know that I speak of them as a part of the community and not as an indignant outsider.

As for now, I should be looking for a job instead of blogging––so wish me luck in finding a corporation to rent myself to. I'm looking forward to maybe making some of you a cup of coffee while working at Starbucks, that is, if I'm lucky enough to get a job there. 

"We are Professionals after all."

Graduate school for me has been an interesting experience. As a process and method for professionalizing young minds and bodies, a university education  is pretty damn effective. If you're the type of person who is going to study for and then suffer through the admission exams; who is going to fill out the appropriate forms and turn them in before the deadlines; who felt really good in High School when they got an "A" on a test (even if they knew that grades are at best arbitrary and at worst class repression--getting that "A" felt soo great); a person who got excited when the teacher asked you a question and you knew the answer, etc., etc., etc. If any of these things are true for you, you (like me) can be, will be, professionalized  should you go to Graduate school.

 The question you should ask now is, "what the fuck do you mean by professionalize?" So, I'm talking about a process, not a static concept. To begin with, a professional is someone whose occupation requires training, competence in their duties, and adherence to standards within their field. In other words, a "professional" in popular parlance refers to someone who is skilled in "Best Practices" and who offers their services to the public for a fee. The noun "profession" has its roots in the neo-classical Latin professionalis meaning a public announcement of canonical obedience. This meaning was retained in British English circa 1275 whereas a "profession" was an announcement or vow of obedience to God that marked someone's entrance into a religious order. Over time of course, the religious connotations of the word have vanished, and I'll leave it to you to decide the nature of the God  professionals are now obedient to. To "professionalize" someone in the modern sense is to cultivate them according to a particular set of norms and practices. In the case of graduate school, this process is designed to make students into productive academics armed with the proper methodologies for attaining truth/knowledge in their respective fields. Additionally,  this process serves to teach them the proper habits in associating with one's colleagues, students and the like. At least, this is the oft told and commonsensical story. 

What this professionalization process actually accomplishes is to weed out people that aren't cultivated so easily. For example, I have a friend getting a PhD in information science who dresses like a bum; I am also likely to be accused of looking like this. He doesn't shave, has long hair, wears cut-off camo pants everywhere (is probably wearing them now) and I have never once seen him wear a tie -- an admirable quality no doubt. When my friend attends academic conferences to present his work, attends various social mixers and colloquiums, he usually looks like he slept on the back of a freight train the night before. I think it's funny, his adviser and colleagues do not. In fact, warnings have been issued telling him, in effect, to clean up his appearance and look more professional. To most people, this sounds so normal it barely merits any comment. Most people accept that it just does not do to dress a certain way in certain social circumstances. Yet, this dress requirement is also a form of professionalization, a type of disciplining of the body -- a shave and a haircut (Foucault would smile). The powers that be, the status-quo, whatever you want to call them, have a stake in not only molding minds but bodies as well; even if telling someone what to wear is only a mild form of coercion, it is a form of prescriptive coercion nonetheless that seeks to further cultivate an appearance of professional status and obedience. Put another way, this bodily discipline is a part of the process of which one of the the end goals is justification of social position, and of course, part of that justification is "looking the part". Those who deviate from the established norms, in thought or appearance, are appealing to the wrong God, as it were. Appealing to the wrong God in thought, practice or appearance will cause one to be denied access to the professional order -- filtered out and discarded. So of course, should my friend wish to further his career in the academic order, he will have to change his habits because of the social pressure - it's sad really.