A Career Essay

I have come to this point in my college career and I must ask myself the all-important question why? I find that I am unhappy with where I am going and I know it's my fault. I suppose it started somewhere in high school. My mother wanted desperately for me to be successful (as all mothers do). She would suggest, from time to time, that I become a doctor or a scientist. I considered her words briefly. I thought of how nice it would be to have all the money I needed. I thought of how great it would be to provide all of the luxuries I could think of for my family. That is, I considered all this until my grades returned in Geometry, Physics, and Algebra II (which I only passed because I was "a good kid").

As you can imagine, this limited my choices, and I was left to decide between the soft sciences and the arts. Psychology, while interesting, was a little too perverted, history too boring, and political science sickening. My handwriting has always been poor and my drawings even worse. What, then, is a boy to do? Luckily, fate intervened, as she often does in stories like these, in the form of a creative writing teacher. On the last day of my senior year in high school she said to me, "You're insane if you don't go into a career in writing."

I shrugged off her advice as an errant compliment and kept on with my original career decision of becoming a computer programmer, which had always been a hobby of mine. After getting weeded by CS 101, and then not finding Print Journalism to my liking, I landed in the English major. Just another degenerate, forced into the amorphous degree that is barely one step above the General Studies major.

After coming to terms with where I was, I developed that artsy chip on my shoulder that broadcasts "I'm not in it for the money, I'm in it for the craft." I knew that all the others would work all their lives and I never would, because I enjoyed what I was learning and doing.

But now, four years later, I find myself caught in that same lie that I had been trying to get away from. That you can buy anything in this world for money. I had decided to get a PhD in Romantic Literature. I made a goal to get into a top school, I took a GRE prep course, and I bought books about grad school. In short, I was determined to become a highly respected and well paid Professor (an oxymoron though it may be). But while reading my books about grad school I became overwhelmed by the busywork, politicking, finagling, over-achieving, money, time, and overall ridiculousness of the process. So much so that it simply has made me question my own motivations. Basically, I had better be damn sure that this is what I want to do if I'm going to put myself through those things. I was overwhelmed by how emotionally and academically under-prepared I am for what I had planned to do.

And then to top it all off, the other day I was reading an essay by a top scholar in my chosen field and I found myself nauseated by what I was being forced to read. I tried to push away the thousand thoughts that assailed me to no avail. And after some further reflection on them, I cannot help but admit their validity. These were the questions and thoughts that swirled around my brain about my career choice, about me, and about the essay that sat in my lap:

- What is the point of all this "literary analysis," "scholarship," and "research" drivel?

- Who cares?

- Why is this scholar writing? Is it really to be read by an exclusive elitist crowd who label themselves intellectual? More often than not, essays come across as exercises in intellectual masturbation rather than creative analysis out of love for the works themselves. And these scholars are the people that we as students should aspire to become?

- Did this person plan on becoming a stuffy critic when they first began their career? For indeed, Academe has turned being a Professor of Literature into a glorified literary critic (and I mean that in the worst sense). With the rise of Formalism and the need to be taken seriously, scholars sacrificed their love of literature for a false sense of acceptance in the world of education. Though they may couch their criticism in terms of comparison, analysis, and literary jargon, the only thing that differentiates them from modern critics is that they cite other critcs that came before them and use MLA format. All while making new "discoveries" about the past.

- I wanted to ask this professor, what drew you into being an english major in the first place? Was it the critical essays your teachers made you read? Or was it the literature? Was it discussing eternal and enlightening truths buried in the novel or poem, or was it the political games and ass-kissing required to gain acceptance among your peers?

I'll admit that these questions are rigged, but I would be so bold as to say that 99% of students and professors  would answer these questions in the same way. And this isn't a new thing to me, I've known all along that I would have to sacrifice some of my creativity, or pay the piper in order to become a teacher, but it isn't until recently that I have actually started questioning whether or not it's worth it.

No one becomes an english major because they like writing stuffy academic prose or because they appreciate the mazes of "educated" jargon and gobbledygook that pervade millions of books and essays. But as a result of the acceptance of wordy blather in the PhD community, English majors are slowly chastised and coerced into writing and thinking this way because Professors are seeking to clone themselves.

Consequently, I would also be so bold as to say that all English majors experience the "what the hell did I just read?" essay at least once. This is the essay that is so incomprehensible and try-hard that it ends up saying nothing at all in a very fancy way. Consider this passage from Mikhail Bakhtin:
"The strength and at the same time the limitations of such basic stylistic categories become apparent when such categories are seen as conditioned by specific historical destinies and by the task that an ideological discourse assumes. These categories arose from and were shaped by the historically "aktuell" forces at work in the verbal-ideological evolution of specific social groups; they comprised the theoretical express of actualizing forces that were in the process of creating a life for language."
I rest my case. He might be saying some wonderful and grand things, but the only people willing to take the time to unpack that mess are professors with nothing better to do, and no talent for actually "creating a life for language."

My point is that I am done pretending not to care about money while inserting myself into a career path simply for the money and not because I love it. At first, when nothing was at stake in the 100 and 200 level courses I had fun immersing myself in the literature. But now that things are more serious and I encounter more jaded professors trying to groom their students into literary cronies by grading them down for not being "like them," I find that I am unhappy. What I mean is that I am no longer graded on the originality or merit of my ideas, but on how well I conform to the rigors of the academic prose, "proper form," and that muddy term they label "scholarship." I could say the same thing that has been written a thousand times and still get an A if I make it dense enough.

Granted, there are professors out there who haven't lost the vision, and to those last few brave souls, I applaud you. What I guess I'm really saying is that I am going back to writing. Not for anyone else, or for money, but because I love it, I'm good at it, and it makes me happy. And if I must provide for a family, I'll do this.

[Keep Following. It's about to get all kinds of active up in hee.]

Keep Searching

I think it funny whenever humans pridefully try to tell themselves that they know everything. It always serves as a little reminder to me that I shouldn't be like them. There are so many questions without answers. Even about the simplest of things. There is no conclusive evidence to explain why we yawn. Look it up! It's crazy! We don't know what is at the bottom of the deepest points in the ocean. We are kindergartners when it comes to explaining natural laws like gravity. We still aren't sure why light acts the way it does. We know so much. And yet, for every question we answer, we are bombarded by ten new ones. We should never stop searching for answers. We know more about the world around us now than at any point in our history.

But instead of our knowledge making us prideful and sure of ourselves, we should become more humble. More innocent. More unpretentious. We should be more adoptive of the attitude of that great Thinker who said, "The only true wisdom is in knowing that you know nothing." And heed that ancient prophet who wrote, "O the vainness, and the frailties, and the foolishness of men! When they are learned they think they are wise" (2 Ne. 9:28).

We humans have an amazing intellect. Every person has the opportunity to think creatively, to investigate, and to test the world around him or her. We have a soaring imagination. We are the smartest things on the planet. Our machines haven't yet surpassed us. And to neglect this intellect by assuming we know everything is the biggest travesty I can think of. When humans become prideful and stop searching for answers, or for the truth, mark my words, it will be our downfall. Thinking is mankind's most ancient and worthwhile endeavor.

And I think the three most important questions each individual must search and answer for themselves are: Who am I? Why am I here? And where am I going? I truly believe that the answers to these questions differ slightly from person to person. Some may be content with not knowing the answers. These people may become so drawn down the humility line in knowing that we don't know anything, that they may start to believe that such knowledge is impossible to find, and therefore the answers are not worth searching for. But in the end, they are guilty of the same error as those who think they know it all. The result is the same, they stop searching. They neglect their ability to search and find.

Some people are content with answers to the "Big Three" that go something like this:  We are descended from primates. We are here by accident. And when we die we disappear. And if that is what your intellect has led you to, good for you. If you feel that this is satisfactory I applaud you for your efforts in searching. If this knowledge fulfills and satisfies you and leaves you excited to wake up in the morning, fantastic. I would rather have people believe in something rather than nothing. What is important is that you searched for the truth. And perhaps your ideas about life will evolve ever-so-slightly with each new day. And as you learn new things on your search, you modify your answers, this is living. This is using the gift that has been given to you.

We should all be tolerant of how others choose to live and believe. But tolerance is a two way street. If we are tolerant of others' beliefs, it is OK to expect our views to be tolerated as well.

In this light, I present to all, the answers to these questions as I have found them. My answers are for me. Just because many others share similar beliefs it does not make them any less true for me. And they may be true for you. What is important is that you find out for yourself rather than relying on others. These are my answers. They make me feel good about my life. They give me purpose. They drive me forward and make me happy:

I am a spirit son of a loving God who is my spiritual father. I am here first and foremost to be happy, to learn, to love, and to live the best life I can possibly live and become more like my Father-in-heaven. And after this life, if I have tried my hardest, God will make up for my mistakes through the sacrifice of His Son and I will return to live with Him.

The best part about my answers is that they keep changing. I keep finding out new and exciting things about my destiny. I am constantly learning, sometimes improving, but always becoming more and more humbled about what I do not know. But if there is one thing that I am sure of, it is that God is there, and that He is the ultimate source of knowledge. To get this knowledge all we have to do is ask. And one way or another, He will give us answers. That is what I believe. I hope you are tolerant of what I believe, and if you don't understand how I could possibly believe this, just ask me. You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain, and at the very least you will understand me and we will become better friends.

[Sorry for the break  in form. Funny posts are coming. I know that's all you want anyway. But keep following.]

A Halloween Dream

I saw a dark hallway, the walls close, yet distant; a palpable night pervaded the place; its portals attended by nurses with dead eyes, their white coats cast in dim fluorescence. They bid me wordlessly onward and I did glide into the deep. My will was vapor before my curiousity. But as soon as the blackness beyond the metal gate met my eye, I wished to turn back. My heart began to flail and flutter and my stomach churned with apprehension.

My sight was dim and a rushing wind deafened my ears to all but my blood pumping. I was pulled deeper and deeper into the throat of what seemed to be a malevolent force. My hairs stood up as when you know you are being watched, but not from where. I felt the weight of a city above me, their sins and filth sliding down the floor beneath me, and I knew part of it was mine. I cried out for help, but was heard of no one. Time ticked itself to death and I knew I was alone. I slowed and was driven to me knees; dumped by whatever was carrying me. The cold stone seemed to swallow me and my heart slowed. I could hear my breaths echo as if off a wall or a presence directly in front of me, so close it made me quiver. But against all my apprehension, I reached out and felt nothing. The space was terrifying, and hungry. It drove from me all love and replaced it with crippling emptiness. I gave into despair and began to crawl. How long I crawled I do not know. Only that I crawled across the ripping cold stone until my palms bled. My tears burned cold trails down my cheeks.

And then I heard, as it were, the rushing of water. I began to claw my way to the noise, a small candle of hope began to flicker inside me. I called out to it, wanting there to be someone, something to hear me. The flowing noise got quieter as I approached. I reached out to the slight trickle to feel it. There was a rough stone wall before me and over its edge flowed a steady sheet of warm water. I became suddenly aware that my tongue was dry. No normal thirst it was. It was as a desert burning hot and dry inside me. And I made to scoop the water into my mouth as only one who is dying of thirst can. Frantically I pawed it into my mouth and then put my lips to the fountain and drank deeply for some time. All else did not matter, the glory of the drink was the only thing. It was all I had. Then, slowly, I began to taste. It was unlike any water I had before tasted. But somehow familiar; almost metallic. And then I knew it. It was not water at all. It was blood.

It ran its ponderous way down all the walls around me. I wretched, and wretched again. But nothing could cleanse me. And I was suddenly sure where I was; not in the sense that we know to be a surety of place, but I knew exactly where I was not.  

I began to shake violently. It was not a cold shiver or a fear tremble but a soul-shudder that had its roots deep inside me. I looked at my trembling hands and saw only shadow until they slowly materialized before me. I hardly recognized them, torn and blood-covered as they were. I sobbed as I stared and the deep realization came to me that I did not know who I had become. They were murderous hands. I saw them more clearly. The turning shadows my hands cast were projected onto the black stone behind them. There was light. It was a dark maroon shade coming from behind me. I wheeled and cried out when I saw the source.

A figure in a grey cloak held a grim lantern in his hand. Its slats were thin and jagged. The figure grasped it by a thorn-covered handle. The light was peculiar, unlike anything I had ever seen. But it was wonderful to see anything but darkness. I pulled myself to my feet and ran to the figure. As I approached I felt the air become colder. His hands were bone-thin and pale. And under his hood his face was weary and time worn. Great wrinkles crossed his translucent skin. I asked him to help me. He opened his mouth unnaturally wide and let out a death-rattle. The sound pierced me to the core. I slunk away terrified but he followed me. His light was just enough to help me puzzle out my surroundings. He followed behind me as I began to run deeper into the place.

The hall soon opened into an enormous chamber supported by great looming square pillars. I felt that I needed to cling close to them, as the open space scared me more than the narrow hallway I was in before. I looked up and saw the pillars disappear into a black void. My instincts told me to huddle down on the floor. A reverse-vertigo took hold of me and I crawled over to the nearest pillar. I felt something move beneath my hands. I looked deep into the black surface and saw nothing. Suddenly a serene face appeared. I felt it was akin to mine own, save for the grey thinning hair. As the face got closer, it changed. The skin sloughed off in great chunks and left only a skull. I gasped as I withdrew and I saw that inside all the pillars I could see half-rotted corpses writhing in silent agony.  

I turned to find the grey man pointing towards the center of the chamber. I followed his directive. I timidly made my way to the center, half-terrified and morbidly curious as to what I would find there. A pain-wracked shriek pierced the silence. And again I hid behind the nearest pillar, despite the horrors that were contained inside.

As I looked around the side of the pillar I realized I could see my breath. I covered my mouth to hide the mist and viewed the scene of horror before me. Black insect-like creatures covered an enormous ghastly machine. They chittered and clacked over its surface. Great beasts they were, half shadow and half spiked armor. They knew their business well. They were directed by a man in white. He stood on a platform of bodies well above them. His booming voice was a language I had never heard. One by one, the insects pulled a man or woman from the nearest pillar and pushed the poor screaming soul into the machine. They were soon silenced. I did not know what the machine was, but it seemed to be a sort of reverse baptism. I could take it no longer. I wished to die or be free of the place.

So I stepped from my hiding place and the man in white snapped his head in my direction and stared at me with piercing coldness. His gaze was tangible, it felt as if he could grab my throat and snap me like a twig. My knees buckled and my hair raised. He said, "You do not belong here..." Icy tears ran into my mouth and down my neck as I ran from the place. Faster and faster I ran. Until my lungs burned and my heart was about to burst. Soon I was gliding again. I could hear the man in white laughing behind me from deep within the chamber. It was not jovial, but hateful and full spite. "You do not belong here... yet," he screamed, "leave now!"

Soon the familiar fluorescent light and white-clad nurses greeted me again. And I woke with a cold sweat.

[Keep Following. Yes, this was actually a dream I had. Also, I'm growing a mustache.]

The General Rules #7 - Finding Fire

One time I wrote this about love,
"To quantify the incalculable.
It's like a fever that rises hot in your cheeks,
before spreading to your chest and then settling
somewhere between terror and bliss."

This is at once terribly wrong and perfectly right.

For all my moments of clarity and logical profundity and clever reversals and rehearsals and recitations about love, at the end of the day I still found myself missing someone. No one in particular. Just someone. And that was the problem. I wanted someone to talk to. I mean really talk to. Someone to understand every reason behind my actions regarding "love." Someone who understood that I was only writing to save my life. This blog was the bastard child of those imagined conversations. The girls came and went and it was hard. And yet, I cannot in good conscience condemn my path up to this point. Could it have gone any different? Any better? It may be a long time before I fully understand all of the milestones on my broken road.

Only when a momentous wave of appreciation and affection finally overtook me could I see the futility, the naivety, the simple presumptuousness of my endeavor. Of all the geniuses and mentors that have gone before, how could I have possibly have been satisfied or happy with my childish conclusions about this thing called love? I vainly thought I had something to offer, or could succeed where all the better people had failed. And failed they have.

I can say this because the things they have described, with their various methods and theories and conclusions, are pale, shivering children compared with what I now feel and know. And I see my own words as hollow figures of unoriginal works. I could barely name what I observed, like a toddler just learning that there are words for the things around him. Trying to describe or quantify the ways and workings of love with those words is like doing brain surgery with a hatchet. Giving "rules" for, and building white fences around a feeling is like trying to cage lightning. Love is elemental. It is a primal force. An unchangeable law of nature. And I will no longer try to compose its abstract.

Because our tools are painfully inadequate for the task, I will stop trying to describe what I observe. This will be the last General Rules post.

But before leaving, I will share a few things that I have recently learned about love's effects and implications. Those things that are quantifiable.

Love is completely a figment of our imaginations. Lest that conjure up a negative connotation, I mean imagination in the best sense of the word. The child-like wonder and creativity and beauty, just because it existed only in your mind and nowhere else, did not make the feelings you felt while imagining any less real. It was real because it was imagined. Our senses can be deceived. They are unreliable. Perceptions rely on the compliance of others, and if love is simply a perception based on logic, it is fallible. Logic may suffice at first, until new information is presented, at which point we must throw out our line of reasoning and start over. Love may make sense on a page. It may seem logical, but it rarely is. How often do we try to anticipate it using our logic and fail miserably? Imagination on the other hand can adapt to any information. It is robust, alive, and constantly in flux. This makes it youthful. If love exists in our imagination, it will never fade. We will never get tired and "fall out of love." I for one want to keep it alive and well and I vow to make it as wonderful as I've always imagined. I realize that those could easily be the words of a deranged stalker, but the difference between being madly in love and being a creepy stalker is only a matter of degrees and semantics.

Love is a choice. Our own prophet hinted at this idea six months ago. "Choose your love. Love your choice." Some think that love is an involuntary, unconscious effect caused an unknown combination of factors. But I am here to tell you that love wants nothing to do with ethereal notions of factors that we label "causes of love." Love has nothing to do with chemistry, humor, attraction, lust, appreciation, social standing, desire (enhanced by "the game"), and thousands of other things that do not matter in the least. Initial attraction may be involuntary, but I ask what initial attraction has ever turned into a full-blown crush without constant conscious dwelling, day-dreaming, and flights of fancy? Does this initial attraction to another person cease once we enter into a monogamous marriage or relationship? Of course not. The only thing that changes is the choice. Before a devoted relationship we nurtured this attraction constantly, and after a relationship begins, we (read:most of us) choose not to indulge it any more. Thus, the initial attraction never grows into anything significant. Love is a choice, but this should not demystify it or destroy any notions of its romantic underpinning. The choice to nurture love is infinitely more romantic than attributing feelings of love to being out of our control. The notion of love being out of our control has arisen from centuries of men rationalizing their affairs to their wives. "I just couldn't help it," is an excuse, not an eternal truth. And it is not love. If love is out of our control in the beginning of a relationship, then it always remains so, and could disappear one morning without explanation. It is a weak replacement for taking responsibility. But if we constantly choose to love then it becomes romantic. It becomes undying.

I know that there is no single "right" person for everyone. I know that there is no such thing as a "soul mate." But I now can see how easily those labels would arise. Because finding someone you can truly choose to love, wholly and completely, makes you feel as if you really have found that person. Finding love simply is a matter of finding someone who you are satisfactorily compatible with. Since true, romantic love is monogamous, that makes you feel as if there is no one else who could possibly compare. Again, this does not undermine love's boundless romanticism. The romantic aspects emerge when you choose that single person to be the object of your undying affection and when you choose to exert all your effort into making that one person happy. And it is romantic that any of us find somebody to love, given the circumstances and chance encounters in our lives. That we find a compatible match in the sea of humanity around us is the biggest miracle I have ever experienced. And it is hopelessly romantic.

If love is imagined and if it's a choice, maybe we make our own soul mates.

That is what I have learned. And it has fundamentally changed me. I found her. I found fire.

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Question!

It is mankind's greatest blessing and greatest curse that every decision is easier made the second time. I find it interesting where "the world" is headed. The world is a loaded word, a generalization for men in society, white men, American men, because I can only speak for them as far as I see it, and even then, only because I am one; thus, quotation marks.

I think Chuck got it right. We are the middle children of history. We are the the fast food generation. Ours is no noble battle, no fight for some righteous cause. We have no reason to live. At least a few hundred years ago men could still be men. Back then, being a man meant chopping down trees on a homestead to literally build a life for yourself and your family. Back then, your worth as a man was decided by how well you could protect and provide for a wife and offspring. Life had purpose, even if that purpose was simply to survive.

What do men build today? What decides a man's worth? Who do we protect? For whom do we provide? What is man's purpose? Why is the white male alive in America? With the easiness of modern life, what is left to live for? What do men have to value?

I can answer these questions, my religion gives me satisfying and fulfilling answers to all of them. But what do others say? (Take this next part lightly) It seems to me that all men build today are stock portfolios and bigger bank statements and beer guts. Man lives his life in a vain pursuit of what he pictures to be contentment. And for the first time in history, society's structure allows him to get at it. It was originally called the American Dream. But this dream is turning into a nightmare, for what does the white male find at the top of the corporate ladder but another rung? He finds that once he has all the things that he thought would bring him contentment, he still feels an empty bed where contentment should be sleeping soundly.

I once went to a party at a mansion in Alpine, UT. The house was enormous. It had everything. Hardwood floors, a library, a gigantic kitchen, a pool. Literally a modern castle. The owner was some lawyer in his late 50's, divorced, and alone. I later came to learn that he invited various groups of young kids to have parties and hang out there. Other people may have seen this as "such a cool thing" and "so generous," but I left feeling bad for the guy. Here was a man who had "everything": a ridiculous car, a giant house, and a boatload of money. He also had no one to share it with. Here was a man with all the trappings of the illusory "modern contentment" who slept alone in a little corner room of a gorgeous home. I couldn't help but feel like I had been used.

We as humans value that which is the hardest to get. For most people, happiness is hardest to get because they equate happiness or contentment with ethereal numbers, notions of wealth that are assured to you by banks and investment firms. They tell you how much money you have, how much you are "worth", but all those numbers will come and go without you ever setting eyes on them. And one day, one day in the near future, all that will collapse like some laughable house of cards we've built. The banks will tell you that you have nothing. When that day comes, you may find that you have nothing left to live for, and that you have squandered your days in frivolous pursuits. You'll wish he hadn't made the same decision the second time, and the time after that. And for all you who doubt the validity of my words, rest assured, Apple is working on a new iPad. So keep working at that job you hate.

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