Purging the hate

I wish I could write a very sweet entry about the holidays and about the goodness and kindness of humanity. But I’m very bothered by something right now, and if I don’t get it out, I’ll regret it. I’ll enjoy my time with family tomorrow and Sunday, but tonight, I’m feeling an anger that I need to write about. (I suspect that some of you will understand about writing as a form of therapy.) I promise not to get too angry in what I write here—I’m more disheartened and disgusted than angry, to tell the truth—but if you don’t want to be sullied by any negative emotions at this time of year, feel free to skip this entry. I would totally understand.

This goes back to my recent entry about ‘haters,’ specifically my mention of the death of Christopher Hitchens, and how there were quite a few people who claim to be Christians who seemed to find some sort of perverse joy in his death. Last night a name popped up on Facebook; it was a person who dated back to my early days of blogging. Although I had stopped reading their blog some time ago, and had hidden their Facebook posts (I can only handle so many kid pictures), I hadn’t defriended them, and I thought I’d click through to see what they were up to.

As I scrolled down, my decision to hide their posts was confirmed. Then I came across this status update: “Christopher Hitchens is dead. Enjoy the heat.”

I wrote in that previous entry that no matter what you think of Hitchens, he was also a son, a brother, a husband, a father, and a friend. To see this sort of post from someone who claims to be a devout Catholic made me beyond disgusted. It sort of made me hate people for a very brief and disturbing moment. Obviously, not all people and not all religious people are like that, so I refuse to fall prey to such generalization, and I will not judge an entire group of people based on the remark of one big creepy jerk.

But I’ll say this: I find it appalling that anyone could find such malicious glee in the death of another human being. The gloating attitude and smug assurance that Hitchens was burning in a hell that many of us feel is nothing more than a manipulative ploy on the part of religion to foster fear, dread, and guilt in humanity is quite unattractive, and it’s one of the main reasons that so many of us are leaving religion behind. Why would I want to be around someone—or a group of people—who find a sick vindication at the thought of someone suffering eternal torment, or who think it’s perfectly fine to judge others and condemn them to the Fiery Pits™? Although I don’t want to generalize, I’ve seen far too much of this to think it is an isolated incident or the irrational hatred of just one snarky person.

Instead of offering condolences to the man’s family and friends, they just had to post about Hitchens burning in hell. Why not just say nothing? It’s actually kind of laughable, because it only serves to solidify the feelings and opinions of myself and my friends who happen to think that Hitchens was onto something. If he were still lingering about and able to see this sort of thing, I’m sure he’d laugh and say, “Typical! I’m quite unsurprised.”

The person who wrote the remark? Defriended. I don’t feel one bit sad about it, either.

Now, on to Christmas! I hope that you and your loved ones are safe and happy this holiday season. No matter what you do or don’t believe, I hope that you enjoy yourself, and feel a love and compassion for others. That’s what I try to focus on. I wish you all happy holidays!

Haters gonna hate

You might think that this time of year, when people usually think about peace and family and Coke-drinking polar bears and all things squee and squishy, we’d get a little break from the hate. You might think that, but you’d be wrong.

Oh, the majority are definitely not hatin’, but it seems like it’s the exceptions that always stand out. I really started noticing it the other day when one of our local TV stations posted the Obama family’s Christmas picture on their Facebook page. It’s really a nice picture, with everyone smiling and holding hands, and the girls look so sweet and they’re getting so big. However, knowing my community and having seen some of the comments that have been posted on the station’s page on other topics, I had a feeling that it was going to get nasty. I tried a preemptive strike with this comment: “It's a great picture of a lovely family. It would be nice if people could focus on that during this holiday season.” Of course, it did no good, with attitudes ranging from apathy to rage; a couple of people took the opportunity to disparage the President for his upcoming family vacation in Hawaii; one person called him ‘evil.’ There were a handful of comments similar to mine there, and I took some heart from that.

Then Christopher Hitchens died. The atheist community is in mourning; whether or not you liked the man, he had an incredible intellect, and his writings will be greatly missed. He was also a son, a brother, a husband, and a father, as well as a good friend to many. The response from some on the Christian right was not unexpected, but I was still taken aback by the sheer ferocity of the hatred. The horrid Bryan Fischer predictably said that Hitchens is in Hell, then went on to say that it was because “God loves him.” Whatever. Apparently irony is beyond the guy’s limited grasp. One of Hitchens’ books is titled God Is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything, so some folks on Twitter started the hashtag GodIsNotGreat. That didn’t go over well with some, and whoever started the hashtag was told to commit suicide and threatened with death. That seems to be a bit of an overreaction to me, especially when you’re proclaiming God’s awesomeness while simultaneously writing that you’re going to beat the shit out of the person who dares to disagree, or shoot them in the face.

Today, I read an article on a Catholic website stating that the atheists who had the audacity to file a lawsuit over a government-declared Day of Prayer in Arizona were whining, pathetic cowards. It included this memorable quote from author Mary Kochan: “Yes, you are outsiders. Go start your own damn country. This one was started by Christians, you puerile dimwits.” Gosh, I’m just overwhelmed by the sheer outpouring of Christian love! The broader issue here, that of the constitutionality of any government promoting religion, is beside the point. I was rather stunned at the rage emanating from this woman because someone dared to challenge the easy assumption of the Arizona government that everyone embraces Christianity and is perfectly fine with the government promoting prayer. Her level of anger seems a little out of proportion for a matter of people simply exercising their right to challenge such a declaration. I don’t know about you, but it doesn’t exactly make me think, “Wow, I’m going to get out of bed tomorrow morning and get to church bright and early, so I can meet people just like Mary Kochan!”

I’m pretty mellow this time of year. I can still get fired up about things, and often do. (Ol’ Mary might still get a comment from me on her article...I’ll be respectful, though. Kind of. In my own special way. Heh.) But I tend to let things slide a little more, I do my best to not take offense at statements that would normally start my chainsaw roaring, and I try to spread a little good cheer and good will. Sometimes it’s a matter of getting someone a gift that I think they’ll really like, and other times it’s as simple as smiling at someone who seems to be having a hard day. (At the grocery store the other day, I exchanged a smile and a few kind words with a woman whose little kid was screaming his fool head off. Wasn’t that better than making her feel bad by giving her a dirty look? I think so.) Tolerance is maybe one of the best gifts we can give, not just this time of year, but year round.

So I guess if you want to go after me for something I’ve written or done, now would be the time to do it. Just remember that I may be a little more mellow and tolerant at the moment...but in a couple of weeks, it will be a brand new year. And then all bets are off. [big grin]

Writing about Writing

I suppose that any of us who write a blog fancy ourselves as some sort of writer. I mean, the very act of writing makes us writers, no?

I hold no illusions, though. I occasionally get compliments, and I have been told that I'm a good writer. I appreciate it every time I hear it, it but I don't delude myself into thinking that I'm brilliant at it. (And please, please do not take this as my wanting or needing you to leave comments saying that I'm good. I always enjoy a nice compliment, but now is not one of those times. Compliments are much sweeter and more meaningful when unsolicited, spontaneous, and sincere.) I think that I'm a good "conversational" writer. I remember a friend telling me once, shortly after we got out of high school, that getting a letter from me was like talking to me. So I think that I do have a pretty decent ability when it comes to that. I also do pretty well with spelling and grammar, although I am by no means an expert.

All my tiny little feelings of accomplishment are blown out of the water when I read certain authors and essayists. You know the type...you read something so good that you're left with a mixture of awe, admiration, and envy. "Wow. That is really good. Man, I wish I could write like that, you bastard!" Of course, the epithet is meant with affection, because you truly do admire the way they can evoke emotional responses and paint such a vivid picture.

I think of Christopher Hitchens and his remarkable piece for Vanity Fair in which he learns that he has esophageal cancer. He writes with humor, pragmatism, and courage, including such lines as "In whatever kind of a 'race' life may be, I have very abruptly become a finalist," and "To the dumb question 'Why me?' the cosmos barely bothers to return the reply: Why not?"

Or consider San Francisco columnist Mark Morford, as he contemplates teabagger candidates and the difficulties they face on the campaign trail:

I sip my wine and sigh. What deeply unhappy lives these people must lead, no? So small and cloistered, panicky and scripted, entirely cut off from anything resembling the hot thrum of raw, sticky, swear-worded life as you and I know it, as they shuffle like chilled meatpacks from air conditioned SUV to stuffy Holiday Inn conference room, threadbare high school auditorium to sparsely attended right-wing nutball Midwestern church, retirement home, cotton-candy fairground.

There they are, lurching around the podium, stroking that baby, trying to rally the troops, working like 10 flavors of desperate hell to mean something to someone, somewhere, knowing full well what they're selling is a show, a sham, as they dance and swagger like a doll on a string.

Man, that's good. "Shuffle like chilled meatpacks." That makes me want to clap my hands with delight!

Third Eye Blind sang that "the four right chords can make me cry." So true. So, also, can an amazingly constructed sentence, a beautiful turn of phrase, and a perfect use of an obscure word. I love it when an author makes me look up a word; I might think I know the meaning of it, but I want to make sure. But just throwing a bizarre word in there for the hell of it is annoying and makes it seem like you're trying too hard. (I'm talking to you, Dean Koontz. Stop using the word 'ziggurat.' You don't have to put it in every freakin' book, okay?) There have been times when something is worded just so, and it honestly does bring tears to my eyes, or makes me smile with how well it was said. When that happens, I make a little note on the page, and put the page number on the inside of the back cover. I don't think Stephen King is a brilliant writer (a very enjoyable one, though), but he really does have a way with words sometimes, and here are a couple of my book notations I found.

I guess it gets cold everywhere. I bet it even snows in hell, although I doubt if it sticks. (from Duma Key)

...he walked to the wall where the safe was with big soft steps of cartoon caution. (from Under the Dome)

Isn't that wonderful? Can't you just picture it, and maybe even hear the cartoon boop boop boop sounds? Ha!

A lackadaisical little breeze cat's-pawed their cheeks. (also from Under the Dome)

I've found that reading some of the classic novels in my book club has shown me some unexpected and pleasantly surprising writing of outstanding caliber.

Sounds like the splash of a duck landing on the water...came across miles with a clarity that was at first incredible—and then mysterious because, like a cry in an empty house, it seemed to make the silence, the peace, more intense. Almost as if sounds were there to distinguish the silence, and not the reverse. (from The Magus, by John Fowles)

That is very evocative for me, because that is my experience in living out in the country. The silence is often shattered by sounds of vehicles (including loud farm equipment) going by on the road, but there are times when I can hear the subtlest of sounds, including squirrels chattering from the trees, and a sudden sound of deer bounding through the woods.

Salt is added to dried rose petals with the perfume and spices, when we stored them away in covered jars, the summers of our past. (from Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner)

A wandering dog of a night wind came in off the sagebrush mesa carrying a bar of band music, and laid it on her doorstep like a bone. (also from Angle of Repose)

...her white summer handbag like a white kitten in her lap... (Angle of Repose again)

Can you tell that I enjoyed Angle of Repose?

Okay, I think that is enough quotes. You get the idea. I read things like that and I'm hit upside the head just how remarkable some writers are. THAT is something to aspire to. I don't write fiction very often (although I might have to work on that), but I can only hope that once in a while I find that turn of phrase that is just right. I think I come close on rare occasions, and I feel okay about being a tiny bit proud of that and I hope that I can improve on it. I don't know how true the "tips for writers" graphic is, but everything I've read from actual writers has included the advice to keep reading. "Writers read." I think that IS important, because it shows you different ways of constructing your writing, different styles, teaches you about flow and grammar and usage. It also makes you understand your shortcomings and feel the humility that follows. Who knows? Maybe one day, I'll manage to leave someone in awe!

To all my writer friends, those famous and those who are not—yet—I salute you. You have a remarkable ability, you have a rare talent, and you have the potential to hit those four right chords that can make me cry. Keep at it. I will, too.

Get the funk out

I know I haven't written much here lately. The journalistic Muse has not shat upon my head for a few days now. I've been reading quite a bit (finished another book club book, read a Stephen King novella, got caught up on magazines), and I've been under the weather with a bit of a cold. I think I'm starting to shake it off, and I'm glad about that.

I'm also finding myself in a bit of a funk. I think most of it is just that I'm not feeling well, but if I'm to be completely honestly with myself, I know that part of it is that I have a birthday coming up. It's odd, because birthdays have never bothered me before. Thirty? Who cares? I was on the top of my game, looking good, feeling good. Forty? Pretty much the same deal. The thing is, I'm not even turning 50 this year. I'll be 48. I've still got two years to go before I'm eligible for AARP and certain places consider me a senior citizen. (I hear that I can get free coffee at McDonald's, which would be dandy if I drank coffee or ever went to McDonald's.)

So why is this getting to me so much right now? I know that part of it is because I'm not feeling well. I don't know about you, but I don't feel my most attractive when I'm walking around snuffling and snorting, and doing the Dracula cough. I realize that there is much more to me than the outside. I've always had the brains to back up whatever people thought they saw in the outer me, and that's something I've been proud of and valued in myself. So I know I need to keep that in mind as I stew in my own little woe-is-me goo.

I'm starting to feel that I'm on the downside of the mortality rollercoaster. Remember that feeling when you were young, when you felt you had an eternity before you? So many things to do, so many adventures to experience, so many places to go. I haven't lost that feeling, but I'm now realizing that I don't have an eternity ahead of me. Maybe it started when my Dad passed away in March. My mind whispered to me, "You might not be next...but you're certainly in line. Oh yes, you are."

A couple of people I admire very much for their intellect and keen thinking are ill, one of them gravely. Christopher Hitchens has esophageal cancer, and he'll be the first to admit that his chances aren't good. He is handling his illness with grace and good humor, and he has impressed me even more with his willingness to speak openly and frankly about it. He's 61. That's seeming younger all the time to me. PZ Myers recently had a pretty big cardiac scare. Chest pains, but no heart attack. Some blockage, but not requiring open heart surgery. He's 53. That is only five years older than I'm going to be in a few days. GAH!

I guess it kind of took me by surprise, because I've gone along all this while with barely a nod to another year gone by. Events have transpired this year that made me deal with death in a very personal way, so I am intellectually able to understand why I am more acutely aware of my own mortality on this birthday. The logical, rational Beth can recognize it for what it is, and will work towards making at least a little sense from it. There is much to be said for life experience, for learning more about the world, other people, and yourself. That doesn't come without living a few years. The emotional Beth can't help but miss that feeling of paying your fare and hopping on for a ride that felt like it would never end. I'm feeling like I can see the end now, and I don't like it much. Frankly, it scares me, but not because of any fear of death...that is inevitable, and although I didn't think a lot about it in earlier years, I never truly had the feeling that I would live forever. That's just silly.

It scares me because I feel like there is still so much I want to do! So many movies to see, so many places to go, and books...so many books to read! I've got a bookshelf full of them, and I've still got 78 books to go on my book club list of 100. Seventy-eight. Of course, the Number One book is em-effin' Ulysses, so I'm not entirely sure why I'm so anxious to get to the end! HA!

Well, looky there. I believe I just went and made myself feel a little bit better. Had myself a good cry, contemplated mortality and junk, gazed into the abyss, wrote it out...and I'm okay.

And in case anyone is wondering, YES, I have PMS! There, are you happy?

I need funk!