BLUNDER WOMAN!

William Moulton Marston - Wonder Woman's creator and inventor of the lie detector.

        The other day I had an exhilarating conversation about Wonder Woman’s twin. Specifically, how satisfying it would be if Wonder Woman, Diana of the Amazon, warrior princess from a mythical queendom, had a twin sister who was a complete mess. 

This sister, unlike the dark-skinned Nubia (of precarious political correctness) who appears occasionally in DC comics, would be the equal and opposite reaction to Diana’s perfection – her strength wearying, her speed a vulnerability – often devastating private property not safeguarding public welfare in Man’s World.

She fights in arcane, piddling theaters; she’s obsessed with cutlery design, biodynamic colons, public education and the ocean floor – which, being super-powered, she can visit. She’s agitated and haggard, with high cholesterol and insomnia. Her tiara often boomerangs back into her face. She shows up at Wonder Woman and Steve Trevor’s door with mustard in her hair and one of her gold wrist cuffs missing.  

She is: Blunder Woman.

In the comics, Wonder Woman can remove her gold bracelets, greatly amplifying her powers, but then she goes insane. Blunder Woman is half-there all the time. She’s neurologically atypical. Without getting diagnostically specific, Blunder Woman’s maladjustment, her strange habits and melancholy can be measured scientifically.

She’s a hero with an uncommon experience of the world, whose altered mind belies her abilities. More Lionel Essrog of Lethem’s Motherless Brooklyn or Haddon’s young hero of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time – naturally peculiar – than the Dark Phoenix, Venom and other characters overwhelmed by power or an alien force, brainwashed, tortured or stricken with amnesia.

A brain hero like Blunder Woman reflects where we are culturally with science. The brain is the visible frontier. Sufficiently advanced technology, funding, popular and media interest have coalesced in this neurological moment. Disciplines like ecology and archeology are studied with comparatively diminished fascination and support.

For the most part, super heroes and villains were conceived in two dimensions and have retained observable simplicity and purity in the present. Elevating the untidy complications of the mind into the superhero hall allows us to deal with neurological mysteries in the context of infinite dramatic sagas, if we elect to.

We choose our heroes. We draw attention and resources to causes we believe in and, for humans, genetic and environmental variability has been the truest never-ending story.

Blunder Woman is my hero because she represents the brain’s possibilities, power and fragility. She’s a picture of the imperfect: difference-celebrating, vice-affirming and excuse-offering. She’s also a perfectionist cautionary tale – think, the dark, flawless Black Swan (film or ballet) – and an uncomfortable reminder that regardless of genius, talent or victory, some deficits, whether they’re seen as such or not, are permanent.

Superheroes appear when we need them, in narrative fiction and real life. Wonder Woman arrived at super speed to save the day with her lasso of truth in 1941 at the beginning of World War II, two decades after the 19^th amendment enfranchised women – a conscious embodiment of traditional strength, wisdom and femininity. In 1999, humanity’s hacker messiah showed us we could be free, have faith and fight for love in the new technological millennium, in The Matrix. There’s a fictional hero for almost every social concern.

Fiction is art, but like science, entrepreneurship and activism, it’s part of the work we do to address the problems of our times. The struggle is to achieve, win and not to repeat battles. We raise heroes so that, one day, we’ll no longer need them.

Given trends in neuroscience, gene therapy and biotech, it’s not preposterous to imagine a more genetically homogenous population down the line. Neutralizing or removing genes and protein receptors linked to disease, borrowing traits and abilities from other species – perhaps even the cleansed, synthetic futures of sci fi nightmare – how far we are from these possibilities varies, but they’re all on the table.

We’ll continue to use technology to make humans healthier. This troubles me because historically unhealthy people (particularly neurologically unhealthy people) have done amazing things. Extraordinary mental faculties pair with severe mental and physical abnormalities. The frailties of our species (as it is today) contribute to a diverse population and a volatility that incites passion and inspires creation.

Reduced genetic variation and fitter populations will alter the trajectory of our world. It’s pointless to ask, with hands outstretched to a silent sky, if it’ll be an improved world. Better to be part of its creation. Exploration is inevitable. Don’t fear Gattaca. Genetic destiny is a partial truth.

But who are the heroes of the healthier, homogenous future? Certainly not Blunder Woman.

Heroes belong to the worlds they protect. Comic book stories continue decade after decade (1) because they’re entertaining adventure stories. Villains and circumstances are updated – sometimes completely re-written, as Wonder Woman recently was – and heroes rise and fall in popularity. I grew up with Kitty Pride, Martha Washington and Tank Girl. They also persist because (2) superheroes are as immortal as the human qualities they embody. With near religious explanatory suasion, they stand for: courage, loyalty, resilience …

Will these traits be as important in the future? Will we crave adventure when our brains interface directly with Wikipedia? After psychopharmacology births unimaginable, safe mind-expanding drugs? Will we need superheroes at all?

I don’t think we’ll see the end of them. At minimum, they’ll serve as reminders of who we were – the flavors of our cultural past. Pick your favorite. Not knowing what future heroes will be like is kind-of exciting. Whoever they are, I expect fans will feel the same fondness for them that I feel for Batman, Buffy, Blunder Woman and so many others.

The New Air Travel Humor

Originally published on Thought Catalog: http://thoughtcatalog.com/2013/ha-air-travel/
 

My good faith unscientific analysis suggests there’s been a shift in air travel humor from seatbelt use demonstration and re-circulated air material toward looking mass violence in the face, acknowledging hidden (entertaining) racial prejudices and coping with first-world guilt and new security technology, all of which make average civilians feel a little like criminals. And everybody knows criminals, like blondes, have more fun.

Acknowledging its unqualified awfulness, are we, the not-Homeland-Carrie-Mathison’s-or-Dark-Thirty-Maya’s, really afraid of terrorism? Statistics indicate a large-scale attack is unlikely to happen again any time soon and experts (who actually understand what’s happened in Afghanistan and Iraq in the last dozen years) largely agree that al-Qaeda is, at present, almost certainly incapable of organizing one. Psychologically, by default, we’re protected by denial, deflection and a natural, generally speaking, underwhelming facility with large number calculation, necessary to do the math on this horrific and complicated data set.

One of the star tweets under the hashtag #MuslimRage – an appropriation of a Newsweek gaff following the Innocence of Muslims video fiasco – according to NPR, retweeted 1,000 times, was, from Leila:

Lost your kid Jihad at the airport. Can’t yell for him. #MuslimRage.

Can’t yell “jihad” if you’re a brown person in an airport.

If there’s a better (funnier) nod to racial/cultural/religious anxiety than that tweet, I haven’t seen one, and if the targets of profiling are laughing, the whole thing seems slightly more manageable.

Are we afraid? Maybe. What we are, what we’ve got, as a people, is a topical miasma of suspicion of Middle-Easterners and Muslims, even if we know better. Admitting that prejudices of this kind exist everywhere as part of historical-cultural narratives, the door opens for comedy and other forms of public discussion.

A question regarding terrorism-inspired air travel security occurred to me on a recent transatlantic flight: are retinal scanners concealed in seatback monitors?

Watching an inferior NBC comedy, history anthology resting on the tray table, for reference, jacketless, because it’d been used as a daytime coaster/nighttime sleep aid and marked by embarrassing cup rings of various sizes, mid program, the word: AMERICAN appeared on the screen in official-looking white text.

 It formed at the exact speed a learning program would use to gently tell a human being that: it’s watching, has scanned and retrieved personal information (nationality, gender, passport number, origin of departing flight, city of final destination) which it was then reading back from the beginning.

I was flying from Heathrow to JFK, so I’d read: AMERICAN, female, P#: xxxxxxxxx, London, Heathrow and New York. I waited. Eventually, AMERICAN appeared again, several times. Was the program confused? Was I extra American? 

No, I remembered, you’re on American Airlines. This wasn’t intelligent software it was tonally nationalistic brand-driven communication. Overly possessive, in my opinion; do partners, like NBCUniversal, know that American is plastering their brand name (and my nationality) all over entertainment content?  

In Jesus is Magic, Sarah ‘Big S’ Silverman suggests American Airlines use the slogan: “first through the towers” — because it is something in which they came first. Personally, if AA combined this line with a cross-cultural program for storytelling and sharing between individuals interested and/or affected by religious or racial conflict, connecting participants with constructive ways to channel frustration and grief, I’d develop a bad case of brand loyalty. It’s certainly preferable to seeing: AMERICAN across a TV actor’s forehead.

By the way, I haven’t rejected the possibility of in-flight retinal ID tech. Strangers wearing latex gloves touch us in public, we partially disrobe and stand in full-body scanning machines and there are RFID computer chips in our passports.

However we may feel about living in these dog days of privacy v. protection, the important message, I think, is one of fraternity: we’re all criminals, all of us together, let’s beat (laugh at) this together.

First world guilt is, as a rule, funny. In the throes of our great environmental awakening, issue-driven politicking has an apocalyptic bend, we recycle applesauce jars, rescue furniture from city streets, buy Cooper Minis and circulate TED talks we hope vindicate our fervor.

Still we fly. Terrorism and deleterious effects of oil consumption and trade be damned. The unseemly cognitive dissonance we face when we book a flight: sustainability mantras (suppressed or indulged) opposite an almost obligatory transportation custom of our time – baring eccentric and elevated stature and forgiving friends and family – has an easy turn-off switch: go anti-green.

Popular narratives of planetary responsibility direct us to admire and possibly emulate some pretty ridiculous groups: hippies, luddites, yuppies with self-sufficient micro farms or desert gardens, sustainable third-world growers, etc.  The do-good / live-normal conflict is a heavy one. What we need is an equally weighted counterbalancing voice: a disgusting, wasteful (honest) and funny one, bringing regular folk into the search for a practical solution. #EnvironmentalMisconduct. Comedy = the new activism.

Not having listened to Big S, American Airlines tells customers: “We Know Why You Fly.” Which is absurd and kind-of touching. Flying hasn’t always been an equalizer, but, for many of us, it now is. Air travel humor too is for everyone, as personal and as rich in flavor as humanity is in character. So, in a manner inspired by the officious, gleefully judgmental voice of David Sedaris, a true man of all people, please enjoy journal entries I wrote during my latest travels. 

Ex1. Travel Journal Entry: There Will Be Blood 

 There’s either red wine or blood on my tray table hook. You know, that sliding rectangular knob that restrains your in-flight, reading, writing, eating and sleeping surface? I hope it’s blood. It’s not a sufficient amount of wine/blood to indicate serious injury and I’m always a fan of the spread and amplification of filth. Also, with all the irrational fear of flying and annoying security precautions, somebody better be getting hurt. 

Ex2. Travel Journal Entry: Soup Suspicion + Pizza Exposé 

The mushroom ravioli* may be filled with onion soup, a ruse concealed by basil-flavored fishflakes in a sunflower oil and cornstarch liquid and a tablespoon of lumpy red paste tasting of salt. *Conspiratorially, transatlantic flights seem to favor ravioli as a vegetarian option for religious and other butt-hurt objectors and those intimidated by airline meats.

Part B: Pizza comes in a box. It has “traces of eggs.” It is named: La Pizza Quattro Formaggi and produced by a company called Incanto. It is made in Italy and the directions for how to open and consume the pizza are in Italian and English and, though I’m able to understand both, I read neither, and ate two-thirds of the pizza incorrectly, messily – in a way my mother, grandmother or any civilized person would consider improper.

Thanks for reading.

Dear Hollywood

DEAR HOLLYWOOD,

When you do the Petraeus pentangle affair, it should be a decadent fit of cheeky social commentary, authorial conceit and sumptuous production and – a Greek tragedy pastiche.

Not a satire, sincere, and not just emotionally. Wholly, done with reverence not deference or snark (more Cohen brothers’ Homer than Baz Luhrmann’s Shakespeare) and though tragic, not painful to watch. If Rossellini neorealism and Minnelli theatricality had led not to the nouvelle vague but to a Winchester mansion-esque, fictional cinema verité – “Petraeus the King” would be its contemporary lighthouse. Hollywood, let’s rewrite film history.

Let’s re-imagine the recent past, depict (real) tragedy without sacrificing humor – entertain, edify and open dialogue by cleverly selecting from the devices of classical dramatic storytelling. Be honest, Hollywood, the pentangle idea has been discussed.

The chasseurs and critical saboteurs will drool onto their keyboards in anticipation of the mere announcement of a Petraeus project and continue to salivate through production and into theaters. It’s one for the wolves … but what if it works?

Proposed title: “Petraeus the King”

Pre-treatment synopsis: see below

Dream writer/director/production design team: writers Lee Hall and David (or Brandon) Cronenberg, director Tom Hooper, Abbas Kiarostami or David Cronenberg, production design Amy Wells and Dan Bishop

Thanks for reading and best regards,

A Hopeful, Mirthful Moviegoer

SYNOPSIS

Prologue 

In 1950, the auspicious last middle-century-year of the old millennium, Generals Petraeus and Allen’s fathers cross paths in Washington D.C. – Petraeus Sr. is a foreigner, Allen a native. They take shelter from a storm in a crowded restaurant and share the only open table and the last blue plate special, which Petraeus offers to buy.

Their discussion is unencumbered and lively. Midway through the meal Petraeus discovers that his wallet is missing but is too shamed to admit the truth. Allen pays for the meal graciously and Petraeus parts, bent as his storm-worn umbrella. Allen then admits he’d never trusted the foreigner.

Unknowingly, the men had lunched in a cafeteria owned by the Central Intelligence Agency, established a few years prior, who’s motto: "And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free" was, along with the Divine Mandate of Hospitality, violated by the travelers.

The Fates appear. For deception and vanity, and defiance foul of a noble if nominal truth dictum, the Fates foretell of the Petraeus family’s damnation by dishonesty and for hubris and transgression of sacred Hospitality law that the Allen family is cursed to have a great trust withdrawn from them by the state. 

Plot 

General Petraeus returns from a storied campaign quieting violence in foreign lands to a new post in the nation of his birth. The Chorus sings that Petraeus is as much a national symbol of strength and talent, as to those closest to him and that by his side always are men and women of intelligence and competence, aids, stewards, guards, court members and colleagues, his wife, and the other woman who loves him.

At home, Petraeus confesses to a steward that public and private disingenuousness unmask and beleaguer him. The steward, a CIA man, and the brother of Petraeus’ lover, replies that sanctioned and illicit unions unravel hourly, love and lust abound, and advises Petraeus to nurse his ills internally and silently.

Sibling, lover, athlete, and court historian – Paula Broadwell – enters. She and Petraeus go for a brisk walk around the grounds where she talks of being raised a citizen, scholar and fighter – the equal of her brother or any person. Later, the Petraeus family gathers in a warm scene, preparing to go out for the night.

At a celebration thrown by General Allen and his wife a woman with a deranged countenance, Natalie the Mad Woman, approaches Allen and Petraeus and their spouses and warns: of double speak and double deeds senseless and vile, trust and time misplaced and honor defaulted. She then recites something remarkably like the opening stanzas of Fleurs du Mal, calls the attendees “sexist trout,” tries to grab Allen’s side arm and is escorted out.

Elsewhere, Jill, the Mad Woman’s sister, speaks privately with a man in a shirtless costume with an FBI crest. She smiles tiredly to his romantic overtures before rejoining her husband, Lord Kelley and Generals Allen and Petraeus, leaving the shirtless man to watch from a recess. Suddenly, a captain reporting urgent news interrupts Petraeus. They step outside. Petraeus gives orders and dismisses the man, where Paula wordlessly joins him and takes his hand.
 
Inside, General Allen’s wife Katherine informs him of a fearsome plot; he tells Petraeus that there are present threats, beyond the constant malevolent palaver – to the realm and to imperial leaders and their families – and that the threat comes from Mr. Broadwell, the husband of Petraeus’ lover.

Lady Allen also informs Jill Kelley of the threat. After some days Jill, despite the discomfort, requests the company of the shirtless agent to ask for his assistance. General Allen and Lord Kelley witness the meeting and seeing desire in the shirtless man’s eyes Lord Kelley agrees it prudent for Allen to send Jill thousands of pages of emails, with the aim of discovering the full nature of Jill’s relationship with the shiftless agent.

Although his affections are unreturned, the agent consents to keep vigilant watch over the Broadwells, Mr. and Mrs., to glean signs of a coup and hopefully earn the love of Lady Kelley. He discovers – in addition to the Petraeus/Broadwell affair – the thousands of pages of emails and, suspecting a romance, is thrown into a jealous fugue. In his altered state the shirtless agent brutally murders three peasants and delivers a frightful soliloquy on torture.

Allen looks up from his pursuit of truth on behalf of Lord Kelley and finds his actions incriminating and wasteful; he tells his wife and the Kelleys, “Women should be trusted.” That night Jill Kelley commits suicide by poison, leaving a note: It is insufferable to generalize about women, or men.
 
At the Petraeus home, husband and wife discuss the latest intelligence related to the feared plot, when Lady Petraeus links facts to evidence incriminating their steward, the CIA man, and Paula’s brother, as the originator of seditious whispers. Petraeus asks his son to deliver the steward into custody, during which time the steward divulges his sister’s affair with the young man’s father. Paula arrives at the prison unnoticed by the general’s son running home in a feverish thrall. She steps behind the bars beside her brother in a final haunting tableau vivant.

Upon confronting his father and hearing the hearsay confirmed, the young Petraeus is so enraged he topples a bookcase, causing its contents to break and accidentally sending a shard of glass into his mother’s heart. Petraeus holds his dying wife and weeping son and says, “I am at fault. I am damned.”

Allen conceals the suicide that occurred at his residence and is arrested by the shirtless FBI agent’s bosses, the shirtless oligarchy, and the emperor, who delays his promotion. The last death of the last act is Jill the Mad Woman’s who runs to General Allen’s feet, stabs herself and relates – in perfect iambic trimeter – that the whole world is mad and that we love only spectral reflections of ourselves.

 As the curtains close a Chorus member somberly emerges from the group, identifies himself as Leon Panetta, points to the audience and orders an ethical inquiry.

Have You Seen My Deranged Millionaire?

I'm a part-time Girl Friday for a deranged millionaire - trademark John Hodgman - a five-foot 90 lb ex CEO, ex ex ballerina from Verona, in art for business, in conversation for sport, she emotes in rollicking bursts, brainstorms between midnight and two am and has made a career trading money, influence and good ideas with business and cultural professionals.

She freezes at room temperature, relishes rejecting social ritual (Christmas and family dinner) as sentimental (va bene, va bene, above it… I get it) and thanks to her shamanism practice accept routine life guidance from her dead father; she's also swayed by scholarly lectures and George Clooney movies. Technically, she’s a millionaire in both dollars and euro. Together we work on culture project with high profile clients around the world. Sometimes I pick up her nutritional supplements and fix her computer.

We live in New York, she in Manhattan and I in Brooklyn. Following Hurricane Sandy’s brutal pass through the region, there's been a puckish reversal of the norm - my neighborhood is comfortable and safe and hers in Lower Manhattan is not.

I haven’t heard from her since the storm. She routinely emails me in excess of ten times a day so it's a fairly noticeable absence. My hope is that she made it from down to up town, to higher ground, above the most affected areas, etc. Maybe she jumped a plane to Italy before the airports closed.  

But with the uncertainty and because my imagination has a dramatic tinge of late - I'm seeing her floating in a landscape of unearthly darkness, isolation and imposed quiet, maybe its outer space, or somehow she caught a flight to Omaha that had to make an emergency landing somewhere in the great plains. This fantasy is much easier than reality because if she didn’t buy her way out of downtown before the surge, odds are she’s dead. I don’t want seem callous. I said it wasn’t easy.

There's solid subjective, unscientific evidence that the cognitive handicaps of the highest classes - different from those of the more modestly born - unless deliberately mitigated are, in general, and specifically in the case of my boss, extremely debilitating in situations of uncontrollable peril, like super hurricanes.

Deranged millionaires can’t live without electricity. They perish like vampires in the sun. I decline to justify this metaphor beyond the recent passing of Halloween... Downtown has been dark for days. From my roof the skyline looks broken and it's stranger on the ground.

I've seen pedestrians directing traffic at Delancey and Bowery, psychotically amicable tourists hailing cabs through thick mist as I weave across empty lanes on Canal for half a mile heading west surveying damage. I saw trees in: cars, store windows and intersections, and water bubbling out of grates and I imagined the vermin beneath in the foul saltwater brine above the flooded subway tracks. For connection, power, wifi or heating, I saw crowds outside hotels, Starbucks and churches everywhere. 

I haven’t seen the fire damage in Queens or been up to the top of darkened high rises. I've only seen videos of the damage to the Jersey Shore and they're heartbreaking. It’s a real place, The Shore, not just reality show. My dad’s family home in PA was flooded when he was a kid. One of the only surviving photos of him is from a summer vacation to the Jersey Shore. 

I've looked, but I still haven’t seen my deranged millionaire.

Whether you’re across the country or in an apartment above 42^nd street, where it’s nearly business as usual, this October surprise has affected physical and digital landscapes, public spaces, and internal landscapes. Kids who've spent this Halloween out of school, trapped indoors without power, will remember this year.

This is complex time of destruction and compassion in its face, both itself and something near its opposite like the way Alien is a perfectly beautiful horror movie or back when Ann Pasternak staged Waiting for Godot in New Orleans after Katrina. 

No one wants to make 9/11 or Katrina comparisons but they should (sensitively). There’s a lot to compare. This region is leaking pain, empathy and strength into the online environment in text, photos, sound and video – as surely as floods washed piers into the sea and fires added heat to the atmosphere. Local public radio has been inundated with stories of compassion, gratitude, fortitude, and resilience – the kind you can hear. 

If you’re reading this, you’re probably doing alright (aces!) but a great many other places and people aren’t, like my boss, who is currently floating in a starry void. This is a joke, obviously, one that isn't so different from the routine minor deflections, obfuscations and avoidances of normal life. I’m practiced at this. Let’s be honest, I work for my millionaire for a reason. My creativity, rationality and demand for efficiency complements her hyper competitive aggression and confidence.

Maybe this isn’t your tragedy. Or perhaps you’re focused on making the 2-3 hour commute to keep your job in a tough economy. Maybe you’re drinking all of the rubbing alcohol in the house or out volunteering at every free moment, donating money and blood and plasma and all of your humanness to make things better.

Or maybe you’re living through this without giving it a thought or a feeling. And that's sad. Because it’s real, physically, in the digital world and the memories and muscles of people struggling.

Devastation is an invitation to think and feel – something, anything – real things. For instance, I’ve used this time not only to consider the social staircase of cognitive handicaps and my enduring love for the X-Files (for measured pacing, respect for people and the paranormal, for asking questions thoughtfully and answering tentatively) but also to acknowledge that this may be the first time in over two years of working together that I’ve seen my boss as a person, vulnerable, in an imagined gravitationally anomalous rift with coruscating light, or trapped without electricity in her apartment.

There are a lot of bizarre hurdles to nontraditional employment, more complicated than tax forms and declaration of income. The whole thing is tedious and unwritten. It's been simpler to discount my boss as untouchable, bizarre, two-dimensional human-like woman but she's a person, whole and complete, whom I've chosen to work with.

It may be selfish but I don't think it's a bad idea to show respect for grave situation through sincere introspection. Wherever you are, I say go at a problem, have a tough conversation, read a book you’re afraid of, do something you’ve wanted to do for a while and write about it, act improper and see how you feel, take pause, because sticking our heads up in the clouds or down in the dirt is darn useful.

And, if while your head is up or down, you happen to see my deranged millionaire, please drop me a line.

fluxcracker

This is a fluxcracker. It is made of the milky, muddy stuff of fantasy. It comes from a store that has everything you want and nothing you don’t.

I imagined the store a long time ago during a [1.] superficial nighttime daydream.

In middle school I didn’t have much of a fantasy life. I still don’t, when I’m not dreaming. One night when I was twelve or thirteen, in bed before falling asleep, somehow free of the scholastic, introspective and hormonal curiosities that accompanied those days, I had a strange, shallow fantasy.

The ordinary nighttime thoughts I allowed myself back then were deeply practical, i.e. planning what level of deviance I could comfortably get away with that week or priming myself to beat the pants off the rest of my soccer team (except for that one girl) in our next long distance run. For whatever reason, that night, I imagined, wished for, a store that was just for me; it would appear behind the wall of my room opposite my bed and would have everything I wanted and nothing I didn’t.

Initially my store was filled with clothes, book bags and wonderful Japanese and Korean-imported mechanical pencils and pens – and I didn’t stop at me – I imagined everyone had his or her own store. The stores were small, one room, because they were person-specific, appearing silently beyond walls stared at from bed in the stretched minutes between day and night.

The idea was immensely practical and absolutely impossible, and lying there I felt flush with the sweetness of vanity and the low, deep pleasure of knowing: were this simple, impossible thing possible, life would be easier and happier for everyone (my age and older too).

Eventually I considered the sci-fi and alternate make-believe means by which this room could be, and more interestingly I imagined how the room would come to know what it knew, how it would know regardless of what I consciously knew, and why it filled itself with what it did – why I wanted what I wanted.

If I could’ve left the room alone, maybe it would’ve wandered itself into my fiction in some way – not that it’s a particularly clever or profound invention but, novel, for me, so I returned to it, asking too many questions and eventually running into the unquantifiable complications of [2.] special, general and human relativity.

The problem with the room is that it’s biased toward a holistic view of people and the world, when in reality nothing is static and everything has moving parts. There is no objective preferential vantage point for measuring and explaining personhood, the mysteries and whys underneath our identities and desires.

Of course, pragmatically, we don’t think like this. We tell our stories. We own our memories and organize them routinely and creatively into shapes that we recognize as ourselves. They’re reconstituted in a thousand dotted lines in a zillion moods for an unknowable number of reasons.

Living for a certain length of time, if one looks closely enough, cognitive dissonance and inexplicable contradictions can be found in our minds and hearts.

Some people feel steadier than others, than I do. Me, different worlds feel one conviction away from where I plant my feet and I often feel capable at any moment of convincing myself of extreme or bizarre truths – but those untroubled by extra-dimensional spaces or time dilation, less incised by gaps between perception and cognition, undismayed by the messy braiding of instinct and free will, still feel an occasional unsteadiness, a shimmer on the hard lines of facts. The room would not be the same for most at 13 and 35, which is at least a glimmer of a shimmer.

I know more now than I did in middle school. We know more than any other human civilization in history but we’re uncertain what this means or what to do with our erratically and rapidly increasing knowledge.

But we choose. As individuals, even if we don’t know what’s in the room, it’s full of our things. Things we like.

[3.] The French: j’ai craqué or j’ai craqué sur means something like: I really liked it! It killed me! I was so into it!

I didn’t hear this expression when I lived in Paris after college, either my French friends were lingua-purists (they’re French) and not fond of the colloquialism or I just wasn’t listening. Now, when I listen to France Culture podcasts, I hear it ten times in twenty minutes.

The verb, craquer, is traditionally used to describe creaking floorboards or snapping tree branches. I like how similar it sounds to crack or cracker, to English-speaking ears, and I like that it means: to like a lot, to an overpowering degree.

I like that however massive our knowledge, whichever direction consensus sways on mind-body-spirit issues, neuroscientists, philosophers, theologians – whoever throws a hat into the ring and emerges fist raised – I like the idea that the ground beneath my feet is unstable, that my room is out there in the land of just-before-dreams continuing to change.

Is there hope we’ll ever figure things out, really, that we’ll quantify our chaotic lives? Answer impartially and undeniably why the store with everything and nothing is filled with what it is? Who knows.

Maybe change (flux) is the only real truth and we should crack on it – continue to crack into it and enjoy what we find.

[4.] A fluxcracker:

is always delicious – whether it tastes like strawberry revenge or if it starts a melody playing in my head.

Amid all of the uncertainty in the world it can be a great pleasure to find what we like, even if it’s in an imagined place. The idea of cracking on a fluxcracker is a comfort to me, even if it’s not real.

What I like most of all is that the longer we live the more opportunities we have to keep cracking, to find real answers to real problems. The fluxcracker is a portable piece of the room I can bring along with me.

A math teacher at my high school had a poster, black on white, which read something like:

[1.] Superficial Understanding

[2.] Confusion

[3.] Deeper Understanding

[4.] Knowledge

Meaning, you learn something, you learn further and get confused, if you stick with it a more meaningful understanding emerges, and then you can say you know a thing.

This story here goes: imagination, complication, decision, tentative understanding - probably to be followed by continued confusion. 

I think, with math maybe the story can stop, but in life you may need a superficial fantasy or two. The end. For now.