On mystery

Human beings are intrigued by the unknown and strive endlessly to know more, to clear up the mystery. Yet, we are also plagued by the unknown, the inexplicable, the mysterious. Modern manifestations of pop culture delve deeply in the mystery genre, and weird pop culture delves into cryptozoology and make-believe monsters, trading in ancient astronauts and Bermuda Triangles. Many mysteries are not mysteries at all when seen against the background of real science and rational empiricism. A person disappears, a bank is robbed, someone lies dead in their own living room, a painting is stolen, the power goes out, a window get broken, the car won’t start, your stomach hurts, and you don’t have an explanation for any of it. A letter is lost in the mail, the washing machine breaks, the roof leaks. We have a hundred mysteries around us all of the time: a strange noise in the night, a familiar looking face at the mall that you haven’t seen in twenty years, a ringing phone but no one answers. We are constantly trying to solve one mystery or another. One of the greatest fictional detectives of all times, Sherlock Holmes, is the modern model and poster boy for mystery solving and rational empiricism. Holmes’ success drove his creator, Conan Doyle, to distraction because he had no idea his detective would turn into one of the wildly successful characters of all time. The mystery genre publishes thousands of new titles every year–the reading public can’t get enough. Mysteries are probably popular because the mirror the chaos of daily life, and since we can’t bring order to real life, we live vicariously through the detectives that bring order to their fictional world. We feel better about our own chaos as order is restored when the detective lets us know that the butler did it.

On mystery

Human beings are intrigued by the unknown and strive endlessly to know more, to clear up the mystery. Yet, we are also plagued by the unknown, the inexplicable, the mysterious. Modern manifestations of pop culture delve deeply in the mystery genre, and weird pop culture delves into cryptozoology and make-believe monsters, trading in ancient astronauts and Bermuda Triangles. Many mysteries are not mysteries at all when seen against the background of real science and rational empiricism. A person disappears, a bank is robbed, someone lies dead in their own living room, a painting is stolen, the power goes out, a window get broken, the car won’t start, your stomach hurts, and you don’t have an explanation for any of it. A letter is lost in the mail, the washing machine breaks, the roof leaks. We have a hundred mysteries around us all of the time: a strange noise in the night, a familiar looking face at the mall that you haven’t seen in twenty years, a ringing phone but no one answers. We are constantly trying to solve one mystery or another. One of the greatest fictional detectives of all times, Sherlock Holmes, is the modern model and poster boy for mystery solving and rational empiricism. Holmes’ success drove his creator, Conan Doyle, to distraction because he had no idea his detective would turn into one of the wildly successful characters of all time. The mystery genre publishes thousands of new titles every year–the reading public can’t get enough. Mysteries are probably popular because the mirror the chaos of daily life, and since we can’t bring order to real life, we live vicariously through the detectives that bring order to their fictional world. We feel better about our own chaos as order is restored when the detective lets us know that the butler did it.

On panic

Often times, in the middle of a crisis–the planet is about to be destroyed right out from under you, for example–it is too easy to just panic and lose one’s head, do something stupid. One should never let the adrenaline decide anything for you. Panic is the worst thing there is for problem solving because it immediately blinds you to all possible solutions. I find panic is worse when I feel out-of-control, which is most of the time, but panic also encourages you to think that you have control at all. Thinking you are in control is the worst kind of illusion under which you might operate, and panic arises out of the illusion that you can control anything at all. Most all panic can be avoided if we can just keep our whits about us, breath deeply, sip a cold beverage, and, in most cases, just do nothing at all. Decisions made in haste under panic conditions are almost always bad decisions. I would venture to guess that almost anything done in panic should never have been done at all. In fact, most of the time, doing nothing is the best thing to do. Put off your decision, sleep on it, give it some time to mature, let it disappear on its own, or let it resolve itself with no intervention on your part at all. Panicking is for unexperienced amateurs who really don’t understand the wisdom of time and space, and that giving yourself both will often lead to a lucid and less emotional solution that is good for everyone. Most of the things in life that lead to panic are usually the intranscendent trivia that have nothing to do with anything important at all. In fact, most of the stuff that makes us panic can very often be ignored altogether. The second you start to rush things, everything goes badly very quickly.

On panic

Often times, in the middle of a crisis–the planet is about to be destroyed right out from under you, for example–it is too easy to just panic and lose one’s head, do something stupid. One should never let the adrenaline decide anything for you. Panic is the worst thing there is for problem solving because it immediately blinds you to all possible solutions. I find panic is worse when I feel out-of-control, which is most of the time, but panic also encourages you to think that you have control at all. Thinking you are in control is the worst kind of illusion under which you might operate, and panic arises out of the illusion that you can control anything at all. Most all panic can be avoided if we can just keep our whits about us, breath deeply, sip a cold beverage, and, in most cases, just do nothing at all. Decisions made in haste under panic conditions are almost always bad decisions. I would venture to guess that almost anything done in panic should never have been done at all. In fact, most of the time, doing nothing is the best thing to do. Put off your decision, sleep on it, give it some time to mature, let it disappear on its own, or let it resolve itself with no intervention on your part at all. Panicking is for unexperienced amateurs who really don’t understand the wisdom of time and space, and that giving yourself both will often lead to a lucid and less emotional solution that is good for everyone. Most of the things in life that lead to panic are usually the intranscendent trivia that have nothing to do with anything important at all. In fact, most of the stuff that makes us panic can very often be ignored altogether. The second you start to rush things, everything goes badly very quickly.

On sleet

Sleet is one of those easy metaphors for the difficulties life drops on your head: frozen rain. Walking in the sleet this afternoon, I was reminded that you cannot only not predict what might happen at any given moment, but that life is a tenuous adventure at best. Sleet stings as it hits your face, cold and icy. In vain, you put up your hands to block this icy sand that hits your tender skin. Sleet is anti-aesthetic. Snow gently falls on valley and field, horse and rider, but sleet just piles up in the corners like so many dead crickets. Sleet is death-like, the bottom pit of winter. It freezes on your windshield, turns into shiny ice on overpasses, turns steps into a death trap. Whatever is bad and evil and uncomfortable about winter is embodied in those stone-hard pellets of ice that tumble aimlessly through the sky and hit you on the head. Sleet seems to be an outcast of Hell, even unworthy of one of Dante’s circles. Cars spin madly out of control, people slip and slide wildly in a surrealistic comic ballet, and your tulips develop a shiny death glaze that will leave them brown and wilted. The birds hide, the peach blossoms fall off, and the squirrels sleep the sleep of the just plain tired.

On sleet

Sleet is one of those easy metaphors for the difficulties life drops on your head: frozen rain. Walking in the sleet this afternoon, I was reminded that you cannot only not predict what might happen at any given moment, but that life is a tenuous adventure at best. Sleet stings as it hits your face, cold and icy. In vain, you put up your hands to block this icy sand that hits your tender skin. Sleet is anti-aesthetic. Snow gently falls on valley and field, horse and rider, but sleet just piles up in the corners like so many dead crickets. Sleet is death-like, the bottom pit of winter. It freezes on your windshield, turns into shiny ice on overpasses, turns steps into a death trap. Whatever is bad and evil and uncomfortable about winter is embodied in those stone-hard pellets of ice that tumble aimlessly through the sky and hit you on the head. Sleet seems to be an outcast of Hell, even unworthy of one of Dante’s circles. Cars spin madly out of control, people slip and slide wildly in a surrealistic comic ballet, and your tulips develop a shiny death glaze that will leave them brown and wilted. The birds hide, the peach blossoms fall off, and the squirrels sleep the sleep of the just plain tired.

On going too fast

We lead lives of quiet desperation as we chase from one thing to the next, blind to our own panic and our senseless running to and fro in order to make everything work. We speed, break all the traffic laws, destroy our nerves, put ourselves in danger, put others in harm’s way. There is no sense of meditation or self-reflection or self-awareness in our wild chasing between appointments and deadlines. We are totally unaware of the danger into which haste and hurry put us. The modern connectivity of our digital gadgets is driving us all to distraction. We are all over-committed, over-booked, and over-worked because we can’t say no, and we let the tail wag the dog. I actually yearn for the simpler days when phones were on kitchen walls, we were unreachable when out of the house, we could walk to work and school, and we had limited reasonable commitments. We no longer have time for even the most casual moment to relax and smell the roses, have a cup of coffee, talk with a friend, drive reasonably to the next thing–or maybe even not have a next thing? I have written about time poverty in the past and its relationship to digital media and constant on-line connectivity, but I think that American society has hit a moment of critical mass of appointments, meetings, lessons, sporting events, reunions, and events. All of which makes for a very full and interesting life, but it also leads to forgetfulness, missed appointments, frustration, speeding tickets, red lights, and disappointment. One of my resolutions for this year is to just slow down.

On going too fast

We lead lives of quiet desperation as we chase from one thing to the next, blind to our own panic and our senseless running to and fro in order to make everything work. We speed, break all the traffic laws, destroy our nerves, put ourselves in danger, put others in harm’s way. There is no sense of meditation or self-reflection or self-awareness in our wild chasing between appointments and deadlines. We are totally unaware of the danger into which haste and hurry put us. The modern connectivity of our digital gadgets is driving us all to distraction. We are all over-committed, over-booked, and over-worked because we can’t say no, and we let the tail wag the dog. I actually yearn for the simpler days when phones were on kitchen walls, we were unreachable when out of the house, we could walk to work and school, and we had limited reasonable commitments. We no longer have time for even the most casual moment to relax and smell the roses, have a cup of coffee, talk with a friend, drive reasonably to the next thing–or maybe even not have a next thing? I have written about time poverty in the past and its relationship to digital media and constant on-line connectivity, but I think that American society has hit a moment of critical mass of appointments, meetings, lessons, sporting events, reunions, and events. All of which makes for a very full and interesting life, but it also leads to forgetfulness, missed appointments, frustration, speeding tickets, red lights, and disappointment. One of my resolutions for this year is to just slow down.

On The Mole People (1956)

Filmed and released in 1956 as a B movie, The Mole People, is one of the Saturday night camp films starring John Agar that is both good and bad at the same time. Production standards were card board cutouts and paper mâché boulders. As a movie goer you were required to suspend all of your disbelief regarding a plot line with more holes in it than a Swiss cheese. Even as a twelve year-old I thought this movie was awful, but perhaps even in its extreme awfulness one needs to contemplate the enslavement of the mole people. The plot is irrelevant, but the story is an old one, one group enslaves another, using force and violence to get another group to do all of their dirty work. The “mole” people are grotesque monsters, brutes and savages, and they are enslaved by more normal-looking humanoids, light-sensitive Sumerians as it turns out. The film is drenched is various levels of gratuitous violence and inexplicable adventures. The improbability of the storyline is only matched by the horrendous special effects, which turn out to be a flashlight. As a kid, we called this genre of film a “monster” movie in our own naive and simplistic way. Monsters were everywhere back in the 50’s and 60’s when this movie was made–middle of the Cold War, actually. We couldn’t defeat our monsters in real life, so we created troubling rubber-masked non-human monsters to populate the twilight zone of our subconscious. The weird light-fearing albinos and their slaves are thwarted, and the modern world of science and reason are re-established before the crowd walks back out into the real world of mutually ensured self-destruction of the nuclear age–slavery of another kind.