The Faux Pas Press #13
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Scott Chambers
26 October 2009
The Source of Gratitude
There is a God, and I have to believe that some benevolent intelligence conducts him, and, therefore, is also a force and powerful compass in the sailing of my ship, a ship that contains my little family. You may no longer find me preaching from a pulpit where shining faces of stupidity affirm each word I say with, “Amen.” You won’t have to worry about receiving a Saturday morning visit from me, ruining your morning coffee and what could have been hours of productivity. No, I won’t bore you with talk of farm boy prophets. You will no longer hear my story of conversion, and I will no longer tell you that I feel grateful for a holy book that was really taken from a shoddy piece of 19th-Century fiction. But today I feel grateful and want to say, “Thank You, God.”
I like God, I also like the gods, and I will further assert that I like no God at all. Because in all of it there is a lesson from the God who really controls me. This God is the Truth. The Truth sought through a life of service, artistic expansion, creativity, and the Scientific Method. This God can and will lead me to a life of meaning – how things really are and how things really will be. As you co-create this life and your work, which are one in the same, you will discover what success really means.
Deepak Chopra, the physician and author, defines success as “the outward expansion of happiness and the progressive realization of worthy goals (The Seven Laws of Spiritual Success).” Come at me with doctrine, a crafted impression of some eternal drama, come at me with your broken gods, your broken idols, your American Jesus, your presidential candidate, your favorite revolutionary rapper, your fucking Che Guevarra t-shirt, come at me with your inspired Watchtower Translation of the Bible, your arrogant, pathetic myths of creation and the recycled strife of the Ages, and all that I will see is you. I will see you and I will see only an impression of the Truth. Everything, every creation of time is homage to the thoughtless forces that use thought to paint an impression in time – governments, science, religion, art, and all the rest.
Yes, that is why I write. Fiction sometimes tells the truth truer, and mankind is inclined to seek the Truth. If we want more of it then we must simply use gratitude. Thank you. I bruise the impression that I carry about the Self. This is iniquity, spinning within and without, when I choose to be ungrateful.
Friday, the 23rd of this month, introduced a conversation with a guy that I will remember until the moon turns to blood and Shiva comes to end the suffering. I won’t mention his name probably ever but I will say that he has become a character in a novella that will be on Draft #2 by the middle of January. I call him the Source. I met him at a venerated military bar on historic Pearl Harbor.
“I have an unforgettable personality,” he said, expecting me to challenge the assertion. Perhaps, I will just pay homage to him in my own attempt at immortality. (The Source may just get what he is after.)
“I’ve never met anyone like me. I feel absolutely nothing. The people I’ve ever felt emotion toward can be numbered on one hand.” The Source, at this point and self-admittedly so, has entered the place in my mind that I call the Red Flag Zone, a place where the world must wait to discover all that it could be, a place like the Large and Spacious Building portrayed in Lehi’s Dream found the Book of Mormon, the most significant impression of the 19th Century. This is where great minds spend lives walking the lonely Iron Rod that leads to eternity while a Hoard of the unrighteous points the finger at pious and humble individuals. This is not an allegory to scoff at. The Source lives in the Large and Spacious Building, neither creating nor destroying.
“Control,” he reminds me, “is what parents are after. Having a baby, like you will, Jason, is your greatest shot at total control. Remember, that control goes both ways. The power goes both ways. The Controller is made subject to his subjects; the parent who fails to realize this lives in turmoil and delusion.”
I agree.
The Source, besides a childhood cohort of mine by the name of Miguel Gonzalez whose farts smelled of refried broccoli, is the only quantifiable genius I’ve ever met who can match my emotional intensity, but on one divergent point we find our relationship. This is the point of God and Gratitude. So, we must part ways.
I’ve got no conceited clothing to wear to the auditorium of disbelief, no war to be won by standing in the right, as far as I can see, there is nothing but repetitive calamity in the charged lecture halls of the West, and I don’t see any reason to be alive except for this. I believe that I can be grateful, and in so doing, teach others to do the same.
I awoke on Saturday the 24th to a telephone call from a friend who would take me to the Honolulu Airport. Now, I can not say how it happened, but probably because of my stupidity, the alarm on my cell did not blare. Have you ever awaken to the morning sunlight when shear panic sets in? Or seen you’re alarm clock and thought that your whole world might crumble? Me too.
Lola Isabella Chambers, the first installment, is due on the 28th, a Wednesday. The Truth? I spent Friday night at a cowboy bar and woke up to Dustin’s call at 6:37am. I had planned on getting up at 5:15am. I made my flight only because a loyal friend had my undeserving back. I am grateful.
“I don’t feel gratitude,” says the Source.
“I do,” I say. “I do.”
The cigarette stench and admission hand stamp stayed with me, and I’ve lost any self-importance. A baby girl will be delivered to our family. She gets a father who hangs in the delicate balance between wisdom and madness, a dad who will carry a debt his whole life, a debt that can never fully be paid. The only way to know the Truth is to be grateful. The only way to be happy is to be grateful.
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good.
Jason Scott Chamberswww.fauxpaspress.com
Monday, October 26, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The Faux Pas Press #12: Ode to Mike Tyson
The Faux Pas Press #12
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Scott Chambers
19 October 2009
Ode to Mike Tyson
I have considered the ever-present notion that no one, I mean no one, on this planet gives a damn about me. Have you? When someone offers you a compliment do you take a short whiff of the perfume or drink a bottle of complement poison? Yes, after all that has been said about your life and work, certainly you must consider that all of it, and I do mean all of it, is really poisonous horseshit. How does a conscious human-being operate with purpose after realizing that every piece of praise is really a cheap perfume that smells nice for a moment only to wear off after a night of glitz and club crawling?
When I was an impressionable young child I attended 3 long, painful hours at the local Mormon Chapel every week with my family. Part of this time was spent with other cute, unsuspecting kids in Sunday school. We were reminded, at almost regular cues it seemed, how important we were, how a loving God with dominion over worlds listened to each child’s prayer, and why it was good for me to honor him for being so loving. A heavy woman wearing a flower-print dress that she had made from a cut-out pattern she picked up over at Joann Fabrics would smile patiently through plastic-framed glasses and a mole that probably plagued most of her life. She would passionately talk about how grateful she was to Heavenly Father. We would sing songs like I am a Child of God and Jesus Wants me for a Sunbeam. I was frightened when she would call me out for singing too loudly. I wondered, “If there is someone out there who really cares about me, why would he appoint this bi-polar, obese woman to tend to me? Couldn’t he have found someone who cared more about my well-being than about the complement perfume she would get for being the Sunday School President? Or, at least someone who would not shake Aquanet hairspray flakes on me when I misbehaved or someone who had the decency to polish her Payless pumps before showing up to the Great and Heavenly Church Show each week?”
You see, I have considered that, in the face of all pretty sounding words, no one really gives a damn about me. They might very well care about what I can do for them but not about helping me achieve Nirvana or find the Elysium Fields of Gold. Yes, the Celestial Kingdom, as my people call it, is up to me. And it is up to you. Take a whiff of that.
On a similar note, Thursday, October 15th, was Opening Night of the Hawaii International Film Festival. I planned on attending, or if nothing else, showing up to the multi-plex to see what all the fuss was about. I speak Chinese so it did make some sense with all the hip foreign movies; however, I did consider another ever-present notion – I might be better entertained watching the spray-painted robot guys at Waikiki Beach bedazzle tourists with an act they caught in San Francisco last year. Putting my pretensions aside, I parked the Chrysler in the Costco parking lot next to the Dole Cinema. I walked through the mall entrance and I started to ponder my illustrious Mormon childhood in Richardson, Texas. “I guess I’ve spent 3 hours of my life doing worse,” I reasoned. As I continued my little commute, I realized that I should have brought a beret or worn a scarf, but the best I could muster up was a tight little Diesel man purse that my wife ordered from Zappo’s (the salvation of good commerce, I might add). Delaying a decision, not on what movie to see but on whether to go at all, I somehow detoured into this quaint furniture boutique - mostly because Elizabeth and I want to buy a new bed and some accessories for the family headquarters.
Well, this Interior Designer girl (or Furniture Sales Representative) approaches me with questions about price range and aesthetic preference. I respond with as many lies as I could squeeze into five minutes of conversation. I noticed the wheels turning, numbers adding up on the commission sheet. With each false implication, my hands become more and more animated, describing the grand plans. As far as she knows, I am refurbishing an old loft downtown. How exciting! Words are powerful and I’m a descent actor. Her face radiated and I think her skirt may have a risen a bit; her nipples probably got harder too. Yes, I could tell that I had a genuine gal on my hands, yes, a gal interested only in the real me and all of my dreams. I told her that I had foreign flick to catch and she handed me a business card, asking me to call her anytime. The Chrysler was waiting and we, the Chrysler and I, decided to head over to Wal-Mart and buy a movie that cost me less than the festival would have. Who needs a film festival; I can entertain myself - telling a bunch lies in a furniture store.
In closing, the movie that I chose was riveting and pays respect to a man who has had to find his Nirvana later in life. Realizing that he’d been poisoned by people who had sold him the complement perfume, he faced many lies - many painful truths as well. Perhaps, he faced the lie that these people actually gave a damn about him. Consequently, this man was on Oprah this week discussing his pain. He showed a striking emotional maturity for a man who has been through more than most people live to see. The film is called Tyson, and I will say it, the Champion, Iron Mike Tyson, shows us who we are as a culture, showing us quite possibly, with all the disdain that we have shown him, that we don’t give a fuck about anybody.
Today let it be known that I say, “Thank You, Mike Tyson. Thank you for enduring years of fickle praise and constant ridicule, for being willing to encounter your demons and showing us how to do the same, for playing the role of the Crucified and being a father that most of us can only dream of being, the kind of father that I hope to be next week.” So, this week’s thought is for you Mike Tyson: I must choose to be happy and serve this world even if no one gives a damn about me.
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good,
Jason Scott Chambers
www.fauxpaspress.com
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Scott Chambers
19 October 2009
Ode to Mike Tyson
I have considered the ever-present notion that no one, I mean no one, on this planet gives a damn about me. Have you? When someone offers you a compliment do you take a short whiff of the perfume or drink a bottle of complement poison? Yes, after all that has been said about your life and work, certainly you must consider that all of it, and I do mean all of it, is really poisonous horseshit. How does a conscious human-being operate with purpose after realizing that every piece of praise is really a cheap perfume that smells nice for a moment only to wear off after a night of glitz and club crawling?
When I was an impressionable young child I attended 3 long, painful hours at the local Mormon Chapel every week with my family. Part of this time was spent with other cute, unsuspecting kids in Sunday school. We were reminded, at almost regular cues it seemed, how important we were, how a loving God with dominion over worlds listened to each child’s prayer, and why it was good for me to honor him for being so loving. A heavy woman wearing a flower-print dress that she had made from a cut-out pattern she picked up over at Joann Fabrics would smile patiently through plastic-framed glasses and a mole that probably plagued most of her life. She would passionately talk about how grateful she was to Heavenly Father. We would sing songs like I am a Child of God and Jesus Wants me for a Sunbeam. I was frightened when she would call me out for singing too loudly. I wondered, “If there is someone out there who really cares about me, why would he appoint this bi-polar, obese woman to tend to me? Couldn’t he have found someone who cared more about my well-being than about the complement perfume she would get for being the Sunday School President? Or, at least someone who would not shake Aquanet hairspray flakes on me when I misbehaved or someone who had the decency to polish her Payless pumps before showing up to the Great and Heavenly Church Show each week?”
You see, I have considered that, in the face of all pretty sounding words, no one really gives a damn about me. They might very well care about what I can do for them but not about helping me achieve Nirvana or find the Elysium Fields of Gold. Yes, the Celestial Kingdom, as my people call it, is up to me. And it is up to you. Take a whiff of that.
On a similar note, Thursday, October 15th, was Opening Night of the Hawaii International Film Festival. I planned on attending, or if nothing else, showing up to the multi-plex to see what all the fuss was about. I speak Chinese so it did make some sense with all the hip foreign movies; however, I did consider another ever-present notion – I might be better entertained watching the spray-painted robot guys at Waikiki Beach bedazzle tourists with an act they caught in San Francisco last year. Putting my pretensions aside, I parked the Chrysler in the Costco parking lot next to the Dole Cinema. I walked through the mall entrance and I started to ponder my illustrious Mormon childhood in Richardson, Texas. “I guess I’ve spent 3 hours of my life doing worse,” I reasoned. As I continued my little commute, I realized that I should have brought a beret or worn a scarf, but the best I could muster up was a tight little Diesel man purse that my wife ordered from Zappo’s (the salvation of good commerce, I might add). Delaying a decision, not on what movie to see but on whether to go at all, I somehow detoured into this quaint furniture boutique - mostly because Elizabeth and I want to buy a new bed and some accessories for the family headquarters.
Well, this Interior Designer girl (or Furniture Sales Representative) approaches me with questions about price range and aesthetic preference. I respond with as many lies as I could squeeze into five minutes of conversation. I noticed the wheels turning, numbers adding up on the commission sheet. With each false implication, my hands become more and more animated, describing the grand plans. As far as she knows, I am refurbishing an old loft downtown. How exciting! Words are powerful and I’m a descent actor. Her face radiated and I think her skirt may have a risen a bit; her nipples probably got harder too. Yes, I could tell that I had a genuine gal on my hands, yes, a gal interested only in the real me and all of my dreams. I told her that I had foreign flick to catch and she handed me a business card, asking me to call her anytime. The Chrysler was waiting and we, the Chrysler and I, decided to head over to Wal-Mart and buy a movie that cost me less than the festival would have. Who needs a film festival; I can entertain myself - telling a bunch lies in a furniture store.
In closing, the movie that I chose was riveting and pays respect to a man who has had to find his Nirvana later in life. Realizing that he’d been poisoned by people who had sold him the complement perfume, he faced many lies - many painful truths as well. Perhaps, he faced the lie that these people actually gave a damn about him. Consequently, this man was on Oprah this week discussing his pain. He showed a striking emotional maturity for a man who has been through more than most people live to see. The film is called Tyson, and I will say it, the Champion, Iron Mike Tyson, shows us who we are as a culture, showing us quite possibly, with all the disdain that we have shown him, that we don’t give a fuck about anybody.
Today let it be known that I say, “Thank You, Mike Tyson. Thank you for enduring years of fickle praise and constant ridicule, for being willing to encounter your demons and showing us how to do the same, for playing the role of the Crucified and being a father that most of us can only dream of being, the kind of father that I hope to be next week.” So, this week’s thought is for you Mike Tyson: I must choose to be happy and serve this world even if no one gives a damn about me.
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good,
Jason Scott Chambers
www.fauxpaspress.com
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
The Faux Pas Press #11: Art of the Masses
The Faux Pas Press #11
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Scott Chambers
12 October 2009
Art of the Masses
I go back to find the beginning of this week’s thought. The day is Friday, September 25th of 2009, the last Friday of the month; this is an important night, not only for me and my gang of unusual suspects, but for the Honolulu Academy of Art, the spot on Oahu for historic pieces of art. On this night, the Masses wearing Prada sunglasses, plush designer underpants, or a night-life façade flock to the museum. Where do you go to see a bunch of horny older women and fashionable gay men pretending to appreciate the personal sacrifice of history’s greatest artists, artists like Van Gogh (who never sold a piece in his entire life) and Francisco Goya (who saw nothing but the horrors and misery created by the Masses who were not worthy of his art)? Where do you go? You go to Art after Dark, a monthly promotional event held at the Honolulu Academy of Art. Oh, to see and be seen. Oh, the horror that Goya might have painted if he were with me this night! He could have painted wine-drinking socialites, spiritual, enlightened socialites, given away by a set of Buddhist prayer beads around the wrist, showing they were above the beer-drinking masses outside. He might have painted wannabe models strutting around with some hack of a designer’s clothing on; he also might have painted a divorcee going through a mid-life crisis, asking why she can’t bring her martini into the Impressionist section. I would ask him to sketch me scolding some chic with fake tits for taking the sunglasses off my face. Not many changes occur through the centuries, and the Masses are, to a large degree, undeserving of the great art created for them to enjoy. But are they really? Life is art, isn’t it?
Which leads me to Iapetus Galt, the 6’7 comrade who joined me on this evening. (I call him comrade because I know he is a fan of communism and has decided to live a life serving the Masses.) This fucking guy is the most artistic presence in the place – not counting the spirit of Francisco Goya. I see him after paying the $10 cover charge to an older man who, I believe, was crushing on me. Galt is quietly strolling through the section where they keep Asian tapestries. He is wearing one of the many white t-shirts he designs with a black sharpie and his ideals, a pair of black cross trainers, some long jeans with holes in them, and a green and orange hiking jacket. Oh, to be seen and not give a shit. His clothes would come in handy later that night when I would be denied entrance to a totally elegant establishment they call Lotus Soundbar. Galt and I would non-chalantly enter a single bathroom stall attended by an old Filipino man; I would exit the men’s room wearing a pair of tight-ass jeans, tighter than the jeans I normally wear, and Galt would leave sporting my flip-flops and board shorts. Not really a fair trade, but dress codes must go enforced, especially at a high-end joint (wink) like Lotus. Sometimes what life presents to you is one hundred times better than what you could have ever planned out – except for my nemesis, The Korean. (I don’t ever plan on running into that son-of-a-bitch, but it just keeps happening. It doesn’t matter where I go.) Oh, to see life is to see art.
The stars align; sometimes the Moon aligns with Pluto or some other cosmic fancy footwork happens. I don’t know for sure; I don’t read Cosmopolitan that often, but life presents itself. You can choose to see the art or not. My wife, Elizabeth, knows all about encountering the fancy footwork of the Cosmos. In spite of her plans to marry a wealthy lobbyist and to move to Washington, she encountered me in Mid-July of 2008 in a scummy military hang-out in Monterey, California, a place that will remain sacred forever to us. I suppose that she could get hung up about not getting to go to social events and show off her sexy body to Senators, but then she wouldn’t get to attend my first Hollywood premiere or watch me walk away with a Palm d’Or at Cannes. She just have to plan some other trip to a New York City fundraiser with important political figures; And I will not get to go to Las Vegas with strippers and do lots of cocaine in rooms with mirrored ceilings. I don’t think either of us is in question about the most precious artistic manifestation to come out of that first drunken encounter. Yes, again, life is art, the art of the Masses.
A final example of this week’s thought is one I witnessed with the Unusual Suspects, my closest friends. We got together to talk art and business, life and goals. We’d planned on eating at a fine restaurant in Chinatown, a favorite of ours, Indigo. Alex said, “8:30 pm”; I said, “Word,” but I waited there until 9:30pm with no sign. By 10:00 pm, the folks over at Indigo weren’t even trying to serve us food. I left to eat Cuban food; they showed up late after a day at the football game. I could have been steamed, but that hurts me more than anyone. Well, we eventually found ourselves at the perfect spot for conversation, an out-of-the-way Chinese restaurant that I’d never been to. We must have chilled there for about two hours, all of us having a chance to contribute a verse – a great night. You see, it works like that 100% of the time if you will surrender. Remember: the art that you intend to create will show up if you do your work and intend it, and what the gods will present organically will always be one hundred times better than what you could have planned. You don’t have to even look artistic or wear Prada.
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good.
Jason Scott Chambers
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Scott Chambers
12 October 2009
Art of the Masses
I go back to find the beginning of this week’s thought. The day is Friday, September 25th of 2009, the last Friday of the month; this is an important night, not only for me and my gang of unusual suspects, but for the Honolulu Academy of Art, the spot on Oahu for historic pieces of art. On this night, the Masses wearing Prada sunglasses, plush designer underpants, or a night-life façade flock to the museum. Where do you go to see a bunch of horny older women and fashionable gay men pretending to appreciate the personal sacrifice of history’s greatest artists, artists like Van Gogh (who never sold a piece in his entire life) and Francisco Goya (who saw nothing but the horrors and misery created by the Masses who were not worthy of his art)? Where do you go? You go to Art after Dark, a monthly promotional event held at the Honolulu Academy of Art. Oh, to see and be seen. Oh, the horror that Goya might have painted if he were with me this night! He could have painted wine-drinking socialites, spiritual, enlightened socialites, given away by a set of Buddhist prayer beads around the wrist, showing they were above the beer-drinking masses outside. He might have painted wannabe models strutting around with some hack of a designer’s clothing on; he also might have painted a divorcee going through a mid-life crisis, asking why she can’t bring her martini into the Impressionist section. I would ask him to sketch me scolding some chic with fake tits for taking the sunglasses off my face. Not many changes occur through the centuries, and the Masses are, to a large degree, undeserving of the great art created for them to enjoy. But are they really? Life is art, isn’t it?
Which leads me to Iapetus Galt, the 6’7 comrade who joined me on this evening. (I call him comrade because I know he is a fan of communism and has decided to live a life serving the Masses.) This fucking guy is the most artistic presence in the place – not counting the spirit of Francisco Goya. I see him after paying the $10 cover charge to an older man who, I believe, was crushing on me. Galt is quietly strolling through the section where they keep Asian tapestries. He is wearing one of the many white t-shirts he designs with a black sharpie and his ideals, a pair of black cross trainers, some long jeans with holes in them, and a green and orange hiking jacket. Oh, to be seen and not give a shit. His clothes would come in handy later that night when I would be denied entrance to a totally elegant establishment they call Lotus Soundbar. Galt and I would non-chalantly enter a single bathroom stall attended by an old Filipino man; I would exit the men’s room wearing a pair of tight-ass jeans, tighter than the jeans I normally wear, and Galt would leave sporting my flip-flops and board shorts. Not really a fair trade, but dress codes must go enforced, especially at a high-end joint (wink) like Lotus. Sometimes what life presents to you is one hundred times better than what you could have ever planned out – except for my nemesis, The Korean. (I don’t ever plan on running into that son-of-a-bitch, but it just keeps happening. It doesn’t matter where I go.) Oh, to see life is to see art.
The stars align; sometimes the Moon aligns with Pluto or some other cosmic fancy footwork happens. I don’t know for sure; I don’t read Cosmopolitan that often, but life presents itself. You can choose to see the art or not. My wife, Elizabeth, knows all about encountering the fancy footwork of the Cosmos. In spite of her plans to marry a wealthy lobbyist and to move to Washington, she encountered me in Mid-July of 2008 in a scummy military hang-out in Monterey, California, a place that will remain sacred forever to us. I suppose that she could get hung up about not getting to go to social events and show off her sexy body to Senators, but then she wouldn’t get to attend my first Hollywood premiere or watch me walk away with a Palm d’Or at Cannes. She just have to plan some other trip to a New York City fundraiser with important political figures; And I will not get to go to Las Vegas with strippers and do lots of cocaine in rooms with mirrored ceilings. I don’t think either of us is in question about the most precious artistic manifestation to come out of that first drunken encounter. Yes, again, life is art, the art of the Masses.
A final example of this week’s thought is one I witnessed with the Unusual Suspects, my closest friends. We got together to talk art and business, life and goals. We’d planned on eating at a fine restaurant in Chinatown, a favorite of ours, Indigo. Alex said, “8:30 pm”; I said, “Word,” but I waited there until 9:30pm with no sign. By 10:00 pm, the folks over at Indigo weren’t even trying to serve us food. I left to eat Cuban food; they showed up late after a day at the football game. I could have been steamed, but that hurts me more than anyone. Well, we eventually found ourselves at the perfect spot for conversation, an out-of-the-way Chinese restaurant that I’d never been to. We must have chilled there for about two hours, all of us having a chance to contribute a verse – a great night. You see, it works like that 100% of the time if you will surrender. Remember: the art that you intend to create will show up if you do your work and intend it, and what the gods will present organically will always be one hundred times better than what you could have planned. You don’t have to even look artistic or wear Prada.
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good.
Jason Scott Chambers
Monday, October 12, 2009
The Faux Pas Rant #1: 4 Reasons 4 No Season
The Faux Pas Rant #1
4 Reasons 4 No Season
or
Why I Don’t Celebrate Christmas
Written 16 August 2009
By Jason Scott Chambers
One Christmas has been just like the other for me: not worth the time and effort. Sad? Man, it does sound like it when I hear other people talk about it, but I have to confess; I just can’t seem to justify it at all. The best Christmas I’ve had to date was with my wife, then girlfriend, with no tree, no pomp, no pageantry, just the two of us, and good feelings for each other. Who can argue with that?
I mean. If you’re planning on buying me a refurbished, classic-model Toyota Land Cruiser with a candied paint job and off-road equipment, we can talk. Otherwise, I can’t promise that I will be home for Christmas or any other holiday for that matter. Is this sad? I have to say that, to me, it doesn’t really feel like it.
I decided not to celebrate Christmas when I learned that all lessons taught by the Fathers to the Children are not based in reality, but are rather, based in the myths of history, myths that have repeated themselves long enough for people to make a buck. It is survival. Survival based in age-old myths that bind us. I’m talking about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and a child born of a virgin. I have also relinquished the idea that anyone will accept my explanation, but I do get a little fulfillment in the defense of my position.
You see, it has shifted, my paradigm forged by controlled marketing campaigns and a clever, manipulative play with emotions. I am not happy to say that it still bugs me though, having to defend this. I hope that the pain-in-the-ass argument will turn into progressive poetry, my position’s true defense. My prayer to the Master of Myths is that we can progressively and playfully dismantle all myths that create doom and begin our enlightened march toward a new world. My fear is that, like our Western fascination with the diamond ring and retail jewelry, the mind has been too seduced by false security and continental breakfasts, Cherry Garcia ice cream (I actually love the stuff), shopping mall trips, credit cards, and long evenings in the illusion of family unity.
I now present to you the 4 Reasons 4 No Season or Why I Do Not Celebrate Christmas (probably subject to change when my lovely daughter arrives, shows me her cute face, and I buckle on principles all together). One point I will not address in this piece is my disdain for the Jehovah’s Witness Kingdom Hall Fantasy Land or any other group that moralizes abstinence for La Navidad. (I once knew a Jehovah’s Witness kid with an erectile dysfunction and a predisposition to loose women. He would go around preaching against promiscuity. It always sounded like there was envy in his voice, angry at the world because he couldn’t get it up, using his religion as high ground. Not a true story.) Also, I will not use the Bible or the Holy Scriptures, as the aforementioned group calls it. I will also not decry any practice of yours with jealousy in my throat. No, I have no envy at all for those locked tight in the grind of the capital gear.
Stress. Our myths cause this because they control, to a large degree or to an enormous degree, our basic beliefs. I am against stress because, let’s be honest, it is a killer. Well, that and a number of other things consumed particularly during the holiday season. Holiday season stress people out. They’ve got to buy this; they’ve got to buy that. They got to be at Aunt Sharon’s house before 7:00am to watch the kids open gifts or the world will stop spinning on its axis.
Debt. I’ve decided to stop spending money on items that we’re not being manufactured two years ago. If it wasn’t money I had then, when I first wanted the item, then there is a painful truth. Guess what? I probably don’t want the damn thing. I don’t go and by the new G.I. Joe toy just because Hollywood decided to bank roll a dumb-ass movie. How can I begin to say that I have principles if I am controlled by the markets and familial guilt? Maybe I don’t have principles. Maybe I’ll have even fewer when my daughter wants a Christmas, but I believe she will learn to appreciate what she has a lot more if she does not always expect material shit on the 25th every year. We don’t need a special day to attract wealth. Look at the Jews. They have eight days during the holidays and they’re wealthy as shit. Do they carry the debt load in this country? Nope. Broke-ass people, most of whom are not even Christians, carry the debt load in the Home of Free.
Guilt. A weapon used by manipulators is guilt. The most lethal of all weapons, as Mother Rand describes it more eloquently than me, most lethal if you don’t count me after a Chipotle burrito, is unearned guilt, the WMD of the human psyche. This is simple, and I really hate to quote Nickleback but each day is a gift and not a given right. No one in your life owes you a thing – not your children, not your boyfriend, not the President. But give freely and you shall receive freely. Give gifts everyday because of the gift of life that is given to you – not because you have to.
Depression. Here is a phenomenon that is not only caused by Holiday Blues but by the false promises offered in a recurring idea of the human drama – everlasting life. Life, indeed, is everlasting and flowing like a river, but I’ve seen a lot of people get really depressed in its pursuit. Man, I’ve seen my own mother become very depressed over her inability to provide enough. Oh, the woes of societal pressure. She once had a hyper-ventilated fit and came close to spontaneous combustion when a pair of New Kids on the Block tickets went missing. I don’t really see the point even if your intentions are pure. Today is not everlasting even if life truly is. The way I see it, there is no sense in getting depressed over the holiday season. Are we securing a spot in heaven by our actions in December? What a waste!
I do have fond holiday memories. And I like opening gifts just like the next guy. I like to doing fun family things: launching a water balloon out of a three-man water balloon launcher trying to hit golfers in the ass, or driving around the neighborhood, yelling at unsuspecting pedestrians, saying things like, “I hope you have a Merry fucking Christmas”, or just kissing a loved one and saying, “Thank you. Thank you for being in my life.” I do love being around people. Christmas, however, also turns into an excuse for those who are not-so-beneficial to you to weasel back into your life with hat in hands, expecting a freebee, a pity fuck that lasts for days and days and days.
Any way, I hope we can all relish in the pleasure of spending time with one another. I also hope that this stance, and all of those who share it, can find joy in our own defense; so that it may become a pleasure not a holiday chore. In closing, Christmas is bad for happiness. I hope you enjoyed the 4 Reasons 4 No Season. If not, go fuck yourself.
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good.
4 Reasons 4 No Season
or
Why I Don’t Celebrate Christmas
Written 16 August 2009
By Jason Scott Chambers
One Christmas has been just like the other for me: not worth the time and effort. Sad? Man, it does sound like it when I hear other people talk about it, but I have to confess; I just can’t seem to justify it at all. The best Christmas I’ve had to date was with my wife, then girlfriend, with no tree, no pomp, no pageantry, just the two of us, and good feelings for each other. Who can argue with that?
I mean. If you’re planning on buying me a refurbished, classic-model Toyota Land Cruiser with a candied paint job and off-road equipment, we can talk. Otherwise, I can’t promise that I will be home for Christmas or any other holiday for that matter. Is this sad? I have to say that, to me, it doesn’t really feel like it.
I decided not to celebrate Christmas when I learned that all lessons taught by the Fathers to the Children are not based in reality, but are rather, based in the myths of history, myths that have repeated themselves long enough for people to make a buck. It is survival. Survival based in age-old myths that bind us. I’m talking about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and a child born of a virgin. I have also relinquished the idea that anyone will accept my explanation, but I do get a little fulfillment in the defense of my position.
You see, it has shifted, my paradigm forged by controlled marketing campaigns and a clever, manipulative play with emotions. I am not happy to say that it still bugs me though, having to defend this. I hope that the pain-in-the-ass argument will turn into progressive poetry, my position’s true defense. My prayer to the Master of Myths is that we can progressively and playfully dismantle all myths that create doom and begin our enlightened march toward a new world. My fear is that, like our Western fascination with the diamond ring and retail jewelry, the mind has been too seduced by false security and continental breakfasts, Cherry Garcia ice cream (I actually love the stuff), shopping mall trips, credit cards, and long evenings in the illusion of family unity.
I now present to you the 4 Reasons 4 No Season or Why I Do Not Celebrate Christmas (probably subject to change when my lovely daughter arrives, shows me her cute face, and I buckle on principles all together). One point I will not address in this piece is my disdain for the Jehovah’s Witness Kingdom Hall Fantasy Land or any other group that moralizes abstinence for La Navidad. (I once knew a Jehovah’s Witness kid with an erectile dysfunction and a predisposition to loose women. He would go around preaching against promiscuity. It always sounded like there was envy in his voice, angry at the world because he couldn’t get it up, using his religion as high ground. Not a true story.) Also, I will not use the Bible or the Holy Scriptures, as the aforementioned group calls it. I will also not decry any practice of yours with jealousy in my throat. No, I have no envy at all for those locked tight in the grind of the capital gear.
Stress. Our myths cause this because they control, to a large degree or to an enormous degree, our basic beliefs. I am against stress because, let’s be honest, it is a killer. Well, that and a number of other things consumed particularly during the holiday season. Holiday season stress people out. They’ve got to buy this; they’ve got to buy that. They got to be at Aunt Sharon’s house before 7:00am to watch the kids open gifts or the world will stop spinning on its axis.
Debt. I’ve decided to stop spending money on items that we’re not being manufactured two years ago. If it wasn’t money I had then, when I first wanted the item, then there is a painful truth. Guess what? I probably don’t want the damn thing. I don’t go and by the new G.I. Joe toy just because Hollywood decided to bank roll a dumb-ass movie. How can I begin to say that I have principles if I am controlled by the markets and familial guilt? Maybe I don’t have principles. Maybe I’ll have even fewer when my daughter wants a Christmas, but I believe she will learn to appreciate what she has a lot more if she does not always expect material shit on the 25th every year. We don’t need a special day to attract wealth. Look at the Jews. They have eight days during the holidays and they’re wealthy as shit. Do they carry the debt load in this country? Nope. Broke-ass people, most of whom are not even Christians, carry the debt load in the Home of Free.
Guilt. A weapon used by manipulators is guilt. The most lethal of all weapons, as Mother Rand describes it more eloquently than me, most lethal if you don’t count me after a Chipotle burrito, is unearned guilt, the WMD of the human psyche. This is simple, and I really hate to quote Nickleback but each day is a gift and not a given right. No one in your life owes you a thing – not your children, not your boyfriend, not the President. But give freely and you shall receive freely. Give gifts everyday because of the gift of life that is given to you – not because you have to.
Depression. Here is a phenomenon that is not only caused by Holiday Blues but by the false promises offered in a recurring idea of the human drama – everlasting life. Life, indeed, is everlasting and flowing like a river, but I’ve seen a lot of people get really depressed in its pursuit. Man, I’ve seen my own mother become very depressed over her inability to provide enough. Oh, the woes of societal pressure. She once had a hyper-ventilated fit and came close to spontaneous combustion when a pair of New Kids on the Block tickets went missing. I don’t really see the point even if your intentions are pure. Today is not everlasting even if life truly is. The way I see it, there is no sense in getting depressed over the holiday season. Are we securing a spot in heaven by our actions in December? What a waste!
I do have fond holiday memories. And I like opening gifts just like the next guy. I like to doing fun family things: launching a water balloon out of a three-man water balloon launcher trying to hit golfers in the ass, or driving around the neighborhood, yelling at unsuspecting pedestrians, saying things like, “I hope you have a Merry fucking Christmas”, or just kissing a loved one and saying, “Thank you. Thank you for being in my life.” I do love being around people. Christmas, however, also turns into an excuse for those who are not-so-beneficial to you to weasel back into your life with hat in hands, expecting a freebee, a pity fuck that lasts for days and days and days.
Any way, I hope we can all relish in the pleasure of spending time with one another. I also hope that this stance, and all of those who share it, can find joy in our own defense; so that it may become a pleasure not a holiday chore. In closing, Christmas is bad for happiness. I hope you enjoyed the 4 Reasons 4 No Season. If not, go fuck yourself.
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The Faux Pas Press #10: Like a Toppling Giraffe
The Faux Pas Press #10
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Scott Chambers
05 OCTOBER 2009
Like a Toppling Giraffe
I have, in the face of more than one challenge and in presence of undeserving people, aimed to prove my strength, showing my mountainous accomplishments or the fire of a godlike ingredient within the Self. I used to go to a yoga studio in Monterey, California where a man like myself would stand out – not because I’m weird, there are a lot of weird people in Monterey, but because it has become my brainless aim to stand out. In fact, I once attempted a stretching hand stand using my elbows as braces, the core as balance, and my unsteady breath as a calming force. The stance lasted only a few seconds before I was made painfully aware of a certain strength – my weakness.
If you can picture a toppling giraffe, wobbling his elongated head and long-ass neck, feet loosely flying through the air, hitting the branches of his dinner, you might as well have been there with me. I’m convinced that even the weird people in this class made this comparison. The outcome was my entire frame, feet coming down first, buckled like the hinges of a fold-out couch. A forty-something year-old female felt the wrath of my calloused heels on her left butt cheek. There were faces, pale with exhaustion and disbelief, observing the event. The polite teacher remained unmoved as if she’d had students behave in such a way before. I doubted this, especially after seeing the betrayed look on this woman’s face. “Why would you try such a thing, you inconsiderate ass hole?” (Not what she said but probably would have said if she could muster anything more than a yelp.)
“I’m SO sorry!” I said, showing more signs of embarrassment that I’d ever thought myself capable. I don’t think she bought the act.
There was another yoga class where I commented on the instructor’s failure to complete an abdominal exercise that she’d assigned us. I sent a friendly smile, attempting to stand out.
She said, “Great! Now you guys get to tell your friends and family how strong you are, stronger than the teacher of the class.”
I thought to myself, “I don’t know if my friends and family would believe that act either.” I said, “Hey, sometimes showing a weakness is the greatest strength.”
“Go fuck yourself, you inconsiderate ass hole.” (Not what she said but probably would have said if she knew that I needed to hear it.)
I then thought back on the many times that I’ve buckled, all the times my efforts at becoming a mountain have proven why it is more desirable to become a valley. Yeh, so, I guess I don’t really buy my own act.
You see, I’m a natural poser, a malleable man with little respect for who I really am and the self control of a drunk. Everyday, when I put on the many faces I’ve created, I see the truth that I want to speak behind the mouth of the clown smile that I’ve painted, the covert news of eternity behind the illusions that I sell. I see the lies of the great and abominable church at which I preach. I see the manifestations of all that I have dreamed and wonder how, even in moments of praise, I still feel like a loser. You see, I’m also an addict. I’m addicted to praise, to approval, the need to be somebody. When the crowd cheers I give them what they want, when they comment on my strength I can’t get enough. That shot of whiskey is on the bar top and the drunk shoots it.
There has got to be some antagonist at work that I can blame. (In spite of Bob Rose and his very convincing words to contrary, I refuse to believe that it is not the work of my nemesis, The Korean, but he’ll have his day in court, with me standing in the prosecution. All I can say is: Look forward to the showdown at www.fauxpaspress.com. I guess I hate the guy because he shows me who I am, what I am.)
What am I? Like most of us, I want to find the answer. I want to know if I’m really meant to be a father, whether I will be strong or weak, whether I can hold the pose without toppling over on the undeserving females of my life, females like my mother whose birthday I forgot, females like the beautiful woman who got duped into spending the rest of her life with me. You see, I’m sure that I will have plenty of chances to face my weaknesses, and she will have the joy of pointing them out (kind of like that guy who should be selling over-sized portions at Yummy Korean BBQ. He hasn’t said a kind word to me since I’ve known him. I digress.) Where would I be without these women? Where would I be without the godsend named Elizabeth? And what could ever replace Lola Isabella, the only truth, the only completely true thing I’ve created in my pathetic, fucked-up existence.
May be we need to stop the act, stop waving around the contribution slips of the organizations we contribute to, may be we ought to stop bragging about the women we’ve banged. A wise man once said to me: “Until you are okay in you own skin, you will always be a drain on other people.” (Painful words not spoken by the Korean but might as well have been. But then I would have to give him kudos, and we all know that a compliment makes a good man better and a bad man worse; he’s pretty bad. Quite frankly, I fear for the safety of humanity. I don’t think we can handle another dictator from that part of the world.)
May be we just need to be comfortable in our own skin, stop envying the illusion of power, stop paying homage to idols we sculpt. Maybe if we can see our greatest weakness, embrace it, and love ourselves for it, we will alter the world entire.
My thought this week is weak, but I’m claiming it. Embrace the weakness that others criticize and you will be strong. Become a valley and let all things flow to you, even if it means demolishing the mountain that you think you are.
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good,
Jason Scott Chambers
Oahu, HI
www.fauxpaspress.com
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Scott Chambers
05 OCTOBER 2009
Like a Toppling Giraffe
I have, in the face of more than one challenge and in presence of undeserving people, aimed to prove my strength, showing my mountainous accomplishments or the fire of a godlike ingredient within the Self. I used to go to a yoga studio in Monterey, California where a man like myself would stand out – not because I’m weird, there are a lot of weird people in Monterey, but because it has become my brainless aim to stand out. In fact, I once attempted a stretching hand stand using my elbows as braces, the core as balance, and my unsteady breath as a calming force. The stance lasted only a few seconds before I was made painfully aware of a certain strength – my weakness.
If you can picture a toppling giraffe, wobbling his elongated head and long-ass neck, feet loosely flying through the air, hitting the branches of his dinner, you might as well have been there with me. I’m convinced that even the weird people in this class made this comparison. The outcome was my entire frame, feet coming down first, buckled like the hinges of a fold-out couch. A forty-something year-old female felt the wrath of my calloused heels on her left butt cheek. There were faces, pale with exhaustion and disbelief, observing the event. The polite teacher remained unmoved as if she’d had students behave in such a way before. I doubted this, especially after seeing the betrayed look on this woman’s face. “Why would you try such a thing, you inconsiderate ass hole?” (Not what she said but probably would have said if she could muster anything more than a yelp.)
“I’m SO sorry!” I said, showing more signs of embarrassment that I’d ever thought myself capable. I don’t think she bought the act.
There was another yoga class where I commented on the instructor’s failure to complete an abdominal exercise that she’d assigned us. I sent a friendly smile, attempting to stand out.
She said, “Great! Now you guys get to tell your friends and family how strong you are, stronger than the teacher of the class.”
I thought to myself, “I don’t know if my friends and family would believe that act either.” I said, “Hey, sometimes showing a weakness is the greatest strength.”
“Go fuck yourself, you inconsiderate ass hole.” (Not what she said but probably would have said if she knew that I needed to hear it.)
I then thought back on the many times that I’ve buckled, all the times my efforts at becoming a mountain have proven why it is more desirable to become a valley. Yeh, so, I guess I don’t really buy my own act.
You see, I’m a natural poser, a malleable man with little respect for who I really am and the self control of a drunk. Everyday, when I put on the many faces I’ve created, I see the truth that I want to speak behind the mouth of the clown smile that I’ve painted, the covert news of eternity behind the illusions that I sell. I see the lies of the great and abominable church at which I preach. I see the manifestations of all that I have dreamed and wonder how, even in moments of praise, I still feel like a loser. You see, I’m also an addict. I’m addicted to praise, to approval, the need to be somebody. When the crowd cheers I give them what they want, when they comment on my strength I can’t get enough. That shot of whiskey is on the bar top and the drunk shoots it.
There has got to be some antagonist at work that I can blame. (In spite of Bob Rose and his very convincing words to contrary, I refuse to believe that it is not the work of my nemesis, The Korean, but he’ll have his day in court, with me standing in the prosecution. All I can say is: Look forward to the showdown at www.fauxpaspress.com. I guess I hate the guy because he shows me who I am, what I am.)
What am I? Like most of us, I want to find the answer. I want to know if I’m really meant to be a father, whether I will be strong or weak, whether I can hold the pose without toppling over on the undeserving females of my life, females like my mother whose birthday I forgot, females like the beautiful woman who got duped into spending the rest of her life with me. You see, I’m sure that I will have plenty of chances to face my weaknesses, and she will have the joy of pointing them out (kind of like that guy who should be selling over-sized portions at Yummy Korean BBQ. He hasn’t said a kind word to me since I’ve known him. I digress.) Where would I be without these women? Where would I be without the godsend named Elizabeth? And what could ever replace Lola Isabella, the only truth, the only completely true thing I’ve created in my pathetic, fucked-up existence.
May be we need to stop the act, stop waving around the contribution slips of the organizations we contribute to, may be we ought to stop bragging about the women we’ve banged. A wise man once said to me: “Until you are okay in you own skin, you will always be a drain on other people.” (Painful words not spoken by the Korean but might as well have been. But then I would have to give him kudos, and we all know that a compliment makes a good man better and a bad man worse; he’s pretty bad. Quite frankly, I fear for the safety of humanity. I don’t think we can handle another dictator from that part of the world.)
May be we just need to be comfortable in our own skin, stop envying the illusion of power, stop paying homage to idols we sculpt. Maybe if we can see our greatest weakness, embrace it, and love ourselves for it, we will alter the world entire.
My thought this week is weak, but I’m claiming it. Embrace the weakness that others criticize and you will be strong. Become a valley and let all things flow to you, even if it means demolishing the mountain that you think you are.
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good,
Jason Scott Chambers
Oahu, HI
www.fauxpaspress.com
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
