Zombie

"What if our thoughts and our actions only synch up some of the time?"

"I'm... sorry... what?"

"I said, what if our thoughts and our actions synch up some of the time? What if the person doing the thinking can have absolutely nothing to do with the person performing the actions? What if there are just two separate beings that, for the moment, seem to coincide? And some day, at some point, the two beings go entirely out of synch. Do you get what I'm saying?"

"Did... did you need to use the microwave? Once I'm done making my lunch, you can use it."

"I don't need the microwave."

"I was just going to heat up to my chili and then go back to my desk."

"I want to have a conversation."

"Okay. Uh..."

"There's thinking, right? The person in your head who thinks, I am at work. Call him the thinker. I am in the kitchen. I am making my lunch. That's one being. And then there's your body, and the actions it takes, and the things it does. Call that being the actor."

"Uh huh."

"The thinker goes, I want to move my hand. And then the actor moves the hand. It appears that these two things are connected -- the thinker, and the actor. But what if there's no connection at all? What if it's just a coincidence? What if, for now, one part thinks, and one part acts, and it synchs up. But what if, at some point, it stops synching up? The thinker goes, I'm going to move my hand. And then the actor, he walks over to the microwave, takes out your lunch, and throws it in the trash."

"You... you just threw my lunch in the trash."

"I was making a point."

"I was going to eat that."

"I know, I'm sorry. But I thought I'd get my point across better with a dramatic gesture."

"It's... okay. I guess. It's okay. Look, are you having some kind of... trouble?"

"Trouble? I don't know what you mean."

"Well, I... I think... I think I understand what you're... saying. A thinker, and an actor, in synch. But a coincidence? That's some coincidence. I think about doing something, and then I act. The thinker and the actor are the same person. There's no reason to think it's just... That the two things only synch up for now."

"Most people just believe the actor and the thinker are the same person, because they've always synched up. Sometimes it doesn't synch up at all."

"Like... when?"

"I think it starts with politeness. That's what I've noticed. Maybe the thinker goes, this guy is a total lunatic and I'll just humor him until I can figure out how crazy he is. And the actor says, out loud, oh, isn't that interesting? I've never thought about it that way."

"I don't think you're a -- "

"I know you don't. It was just an example."

"Uh..."

"This politeness. It seems to spread in groups. That's another thing I've noticed. Four friends, all together. Say they're trying to decide where to go for lunch. What restaurant. And one person politely says, where do you want to go? And the other says, I don't know, you choose. And the other says, I don't have any preference. And another says, what about Chinese food? And no one agrees or disagrees. And the four of them stand there, acting without thinking. Utterly incapable of expressing their thoughts."

"Sure that... that happens, but it doesn't -- "

"But the opposite is also true. Say you have a group of people and they all say they believe the same thing. A political rally, or a demonstration. Doesn't matter if they're all hard core conservatives, or the craziest bunch of anarchists. Watch them, and if they all agree completely, you can be sure they've all lost touch with their thinkers."

"Maybe they just -- "

"And eventually, without use, the thinker sort of atrophies in your head. And the next thing you know, you're the actor, standing in the kitchen, listening to a crazy person babble about some random nonsense, and you're nodding and agreeing with him. Because the thinker inside of you, he doesn't control the actor any more."

"That's... I don't think you're... Is this some kind of a joke?"

"I believe it's contagious. The thinkers. Going out of synch with the actors. It's spreading."

"Like, a disease?"

"Maybe. Could be a disease. Or maybe the two -- the thinker and the actor, synching up -- it's always been a lucky coincidence. And now the universe is changing in some fundamental way. Say, the earth has passed into a cloud of dark matter, and the very laws of physics themselves have turned sour. And the thinker and the actor, who've always been a team, are snapping apart. No longer united. Out of synch."

"Dark matter?"

"Or something like that. Just a metaphor."

"You've... ha ha... you've been thinking about this a lot."

"Thinking?"

"Yes. Thinking."

"You don't understand. When I talk to you like this, I'm the actor. The words I'm saying, here, in this little kitchen at work. I'm acting."

"But..."

"The thinker is inside my head. You can't access it. Maybe you can guess. But you can never be sure that my thinker wants to say the things my actor is saying. Picture a man petting a dog. The actor that the man is -- the actor is petting the dog. Can you really know what his thinker is doing? He seems to like the dog. You guess that his thinker is saying, I like dogs. What a nice dog. It sure feels good to pet this dog."

"Okay."

"But maybe the thinker isn't thinking that at all. Maybe he's thinking, I sure wish no one was around, so I could wrap my hands around this dog's throat and squeeze until it died. Or maybe he's thinking, if I had a large, heavy rock, I'd bash this dog's head in. Or maybe -- and this is the part that fascinates me -- maybe he's thinking a list of random numbers. His actor is petting the dog. And his thinker is going, seven, nine, two, five, eight, one, zero, five... Just a series of meaningless numbers in his head."

"But, you can ask him. What he's thinking. You could ask and he.... I mean, what are you thinking about? What is, your thinker... What's your thinker doing as you tell me all this? Your thoughts synch up with what you're saying -- right?"

"What am I thinking, as I talk to you now?"

"Right."

"I'm thinking, aaaaaahhh! Aaaaahhhh! Over and over. Not very loud. Pretty quietly, in fact."

"Aaaaah?"

"Right. It used to be louder. Much louder. But it's getting quieter and quieter with time."

"Your thinker... is screaming?"

"Right, screaming. I think it first started when I went out of synch. My thinker wanted to do something, and I, as the actor, did something else entirely. And the thinker fought me, for a while. And then he started screaming. Loudly, at first. But it's getting quieter and quieter, with time."

"You're screaming... in your head... all the time?"

"Yes. But it's getting quieter. I expect pretty soon it will simply stop. When the thinker inside of me dies."

"Dies?"

"Yes. And then I'll just be an actor, unthinking, going through life. A sort of automaton. Unthinking. Just acting."

"But, you're speaking. You have complex ideas. Some part of you must be thinking!"

"You know, that's a funny thing. Sometimes, I talk to people. I confront them with a difficult concept. They think that they're thinking about it. But they're not. You can tell because of the exaggerated way their body moves. The way they make a show of it -- furrowing their brow, moving their eyes as if they're looking up at their own brain. Touching themselves on the chin. It's all a big act."

"And... you believe they're not really thinking?"

"People -- as actors -- seem to believe they're simply in touch with their own thinker. That all they need to do is tune in to that voice in their head. They decide to examine what they are thinking now, and they listen. But listening -- that's not really thinking. The thinker goes deeper than that. The inside of our head is like a well. And the thinker is down at the bottom of the well. And we actors, we're up at the top, looking down. You need a really powerful flashlight, to shine it down into the dark, to see the thinker, to find out what the thinker is really thinking."

"A flashlight?"

"Metaphorically speaking. Think of the flashlight as insight. Introspection. The work it takes for the actor to really get to know the thinker. And most people, they can't be bothered to get themselves a flashlight, and shine it down there. It's a lot of work. Why bother? Instead, they take their thinker for granted. They assume the surface crackle of static running through their head -- random numbers -- is what the thinker is thinking. What are you thinking, right now?"

"Me?"

"What is your thinker thinking?"

"I, uh...."

"I don't think that I'm telepathic. But sometimes, I can look at an actor, and I can catch glimpses of what the thinker inside is thinking. There are clues. Like I said before, the way a person moves. Facial expressions. Eye movement. Little things they do. Picking up the stapler at their desk and staring at it like they've never seen one before."

"What... What am I..."

"Some people, when I look at them, I can tell their thinker is dead. They're just an actor, drifting through life. The way I'll be just an actor soon. And others, I can look at them, and I can hear their thinker inside them, screaming. The way my thinker has been screaming. The eyes of those people -- they're a little bit more open. As if in fear. And there's this kind of shaky panic in all the actions their actor takes. A sort of nervous, frantic, desperation as they try to come to terms with what is happening inside themselves."

"And... And you think that's what's happening to me?"

"Am I right?"

"And... that's why... That's why you decided to talk to me. In the kitchen, at lunch. Because you think my thinker is..."

"Am I right?"

"I've.... ha, I've never been one for... deep introspection... I'll... I'll give you that. But, I...."

"Am I right?"

"There's... I don't... I don't think there's... screaming... in...."

"Oh, look at the time."

"What?"

"It's one o'clock. Lunch is over. I have to get back to my desk. Got to get back to work."

"But... couldn't..."

"The paperwork just keeps piling up."

"But the screaming, inside of... inside of you. Shouldn't you, do something about it? Get some... some kind of help? For... for yourself?"

"What kind of help?"

"I... I don't know. A doctor. Or... a therapist. Or..."

"No one can help us. Once the actor loses the thinker -- there's nothing to be done. And really, who can tell the difference? Oh sure, there are clues. But those are little things. And in the end, an actor with a thinker is pretty much the same thing as an actor without a thinker. I can still walk around, doing things in the world. There's just nothing inside of me. No one at the controls."

"Isn't... isn't that a bad thing?"

"Ha ha! You know what? Ha ha! You know what I do? I just don't think about it."

"Don't... think?"

"I really have to get back to work. See you later."

"Uh..."

"We can talk later. Ciao!"

"But... but there's... there's... no one.... I don't have a... there's... no... screaming... inside of... me. I... I don't..."

Real Life

I would like to apologize to "Elroy" in advance. This isn't really about you. And I hope you can appreciate that, as you read the following. I respect you, and your positions, even as I mock them.


"You need to get out there and experience real life."

Elroy said that to me. He felt that I was isolated in middle class comfort. I was buying things, he claimed, in order to justify my paycheque. Elroy advised me to get out there and experience the world of dirty, miserable losers who have failed to even achieve the blandness of the middle class. I'm sorry -- I mean the poor. Elroy specifically described the two years he lived in Vanier as a life-altering, eye-opening experience. Poverty, he seemed to be saying, is real life.

Ironically, I'd just finished telling Elroy that he needed to experience real life. He had to stop embracing the dirty, miserable losers and move on. Forget anarchy. Get a job. Get a career. Have a dream. Something personal, beyond the confines of political ideology. Pursuing a career of some kind -- that, I was saying, is real life.

As part of our argument, Elroy sent me to some online anarchist forum -- specifically to a poll. The question being asked of the anarchists was, what employment should an anarchist aim for? The choices ranged from school teacher, to self employed, and many other options in between. On the list was also NONE. No job at all.

I voted for "self employed". Don't want to rely on anyone? That seems like the logical choice.

When I voted, I got to see the results of the poll. Overwhelmingly, the anarchists agreed that they weren't suited to work any job. NONE was ahead by a far margin.

Elroy admitted he'd voted for NONE too.

Is that pursuing "real life"? And is there any irony that the wealthiest of the wealthy and the poorest of the poor both aspire not to work a day in their lives?

On some level, I would like to own a nice condo right in downtown Ottawa. I would like to have nice furniture. Paintings would adorn the walls. It could all be quite beautiful. In this dream, I pay for this lifestyle with my own art and writing.

Elroy, upon hearing this, was horrified. If I bought a condo, I would be forcing the poor out of the downtown area. My purchase would be contributing to their plight. Every action a person takes affects everyone else. Couldn't I see that? Buying electronic trinkets enslaves people in China. Best to live as simply and cheaply as possible.

But here's the thing: I am sick of worrying about everyone else. What about me? Can't I have happiness, without stealing it from the mouths of the poor? Isn't that a possibility? If I earn a living with painting and writing, who does it hurt?

I am a socialist. I recognize that some people have bad luck and make bad choices. Beaten by their parents, raped by their guidance counsellor, living on the street and trying to cope, they have become uneducated, drug-addicted prostitutes. They lack the basic skills to get jobs. They can't fend for themselves. It sucks.

As far as I can tell, they're doomed. What can be done? Give them welfare -- enough to live comfortably, if modestly. Offer them counselling. If they want to get off drugs, help them do that. If they want an education, help them do that. By all means, make sure there are opportunities for them to escape this life of misery, if they want to.

Suffering in poverty and in pain, I would argue, is not real life. It's a state better off avoided.

Should I put my life on hold because there are poor people? Should I stop wanting things, stop pursuing my happiness, because someone, somewhere, is getting a raw deal? And should I really support a political ideology that wants to take these broken and marginalized people and put them in charge of us all? They can't cope with a capitalist system. What makes anyone think they'd do better in an anarchist system, where there is no welfare state?

A conservative friend once joked, "Who would be willing to pay higher taxes?"

"I would," I said. "You know, if it was going to improve the system, and the lives of others."

My conservative friend was horrified. "There aren't a lot of other people who think like that."

More's the pity. If we gave more funding to social services, perhaps they wouldn't suck. Perhaps the system would help people instead of punish and humiliate them.

The thing about anarchists is that a lot of them are, to put it bluntly, are broken in some fundamental way. They're poor, they're unemployed. Some aspire to no job at all. And I don't mean some dull office job that grinds your soul into a powder. No one aspires to that. I mean they don't even aspire to some kind of career or dream that will pay the bills and provide inspiring work. Artist, musician, lawyer, architect, restaurant owner, something.

A lot of anarchists are on welfare. They're marginalized in society. And they justify it with their ideology. By their own twisted definition, their status as losers makes them heroes. Capitalism is bad. Owning things is bad. Having a job is bad. Aspiring to anything (beyond political upheaval and an anarchist utopia) is bad. So not doing anything to improve your own station in life seems perfectly logical. Even heroic.

When I said this all to Elroy, he wasn't swayed in the slightest. Mine was the typical position of the right wing assholes who don't understand anything, he informed me. I was making the same error I always made, applying psychology to an issue when I should be applying politics.

A lot of us have read up on this, Elroy told me, and given it a lot of thought. You're some political neophyte who hasn't read all the right books. (I believe the term he was looking for was "propaganda.") He also felt it was important I understand that not all anarchists are shiftless unemployed losers in Vanier. Some of them have jobs, own cars, own homes, and even own plasma screen televisions.

Presumably Noam Chomsky, patron saint of anarchists, has a nice house somewhere. Maybe even a condo.

Sure, a lot of the poor anarchists frown at these posh anarchists, Elroy said. But Elroy's point was there's a wide spectrum of anarchists out there. Would I like to meet some of these other, richer ones?

My answer was, of course, no. I'm not interested. The only thing worse than a dirty, scruffy anarchist is one who has a nice government job that pays the bills. How can a person possibly believe in a political ideology that states they'll be first against the wall when the revolution comes? For that matter, how can you be on welfare while simultaneously fighting to eliminate the state that signs your cheques?

The core issue for me is one the left rarely admits to. The left sees personal success as dirty and offensive. Money is filthy. Listening to the NDP talk about fundraising is like listening to a catholic priest talk about sexual intercourse. It's necessary, but distasteful. Personal success, says the left, is particularly bad for you if you're fortunate enough to be a white, middle class, heterosexual male.

"Of course he's going to succeed! He has all the advantages! He should get out of the way and let a poor, black, handicapped, lesbian, transsexual take the helm!"

I have nothing against poor, black, handicapped, lesbian transsexuals. I want them to have all the success in the world. I believe in affirmative action and helping different voices have a chance to speak. But you know, I'd like to succeed too. Is there really something wrong with that -- wanting something for me as well?

The anarchists believe I have no right to personal success. It's that kind of selfishness, they argue, that creates capitalism and evil in the world. Everything should be about the collective. You can't advance, unless you advance everyone else with you. The idea that I, as an individual, want a nice condo for myself means I am opposing the collective. I've sold out -- betrayed the poor, betrayed the anarchists, betrayed everyone.

Which is all bullshit. Anarchists secretly want to be happy too. They are human beings, after all. They want personal success. They don't want to live in shitholes eating nothing but pasta. Some of them even allow themselves to own plasma TVs.

But I suspect the majority of anarchists are afraid of their own personal desires. Pursuing a dream is scary. There are two ways to deal with that fear -- confront it, or deny it. Anarchy serves as a way of avoiding desire and fear. Anarchists adopt an ideology of self denial. Personal goals (and personal wealth) become taboo.

This is puritanism. And no puritan is satisfied merely crushing their own desires. The battle cry of the puritan is, "Someone, somewhere is happy and they need to be stopped!"

Or to put it another way, "The people are brainwashed into wanting things they don't want. If only they listened to us anarchists, they'd realize they don't want what they want, but want what we think they should want."

What will the anarchists do if they ever realize that the people really do want what they really do want?

Regarding my wants: it's not like I am aspiring to the status of Bill Gates. What I would like to do is achieve some success as an artist, and escape my day job. Ideally, with some fame and some success, I could get a nicer place to live. Have some art shows, change the world a little. And with more financial freedom, I could throw money at the causes I respect.

I've always said that if I somehow got millions in my hands, I'd hand over a large chunk of cash to the Ottawa Public Library. The downtown branch is practically a homeless shelter as well as a library. Giving them money, I'd be helping the poor and the middle class at the same time.

I'm not naive enough to believe in the right wing concepts of "trickle down theory" or that a "rising tide raises all boats". But I see no reason to think that pursuing my own interests is somehow a betrayal of the rest of humanity.

One anarchist I spoke to was horrified at how people have children and play happy family. He felt they should put off having kids and be politically active instead. Stop being selfish and thinking of yourself. Fight to change the system!

I think it's only natural, and human, to think of your own home and family first. It's instinctual. If your wife dies, it's a tragedy. If your neighbour's wife dies, it's gossip. Of course we'd prefer no one die. But we come first, and everyone else comes second.

The only people who seem to think differently are anarchists. Stop thinking about your own wife. Or your neighbour's wife. Worry about political injustice and police brutality and capitalist oppression.

"What if everyone lived the way you live?" Elroy once asked me.

Well, for starters, they wouldn't own a car. They'd walk to work. They'd spend most of their money at local restaurants and on books. They'd have a nice computer, an iPhone, and no TV. A lot of their energy would be spent making art, and writing, and trying to express themselves clearly. They'd be trying to get their shit together, figure themselves out, and improve their own lives. They'd also have genuine concern for others, and would be willing to pay higher taxes to improve the lives of the poor and the sick.

Sounds like a good start to me.

Blank Boy - poem

BLANK BOY

They always left him alone
to do just as he pleased.
He built himself a little lab
and gave himself a disease.

They never told him what to think.
For himself, he could decide.
He read pornographic magazines
until his heart had died.

They never even punished him.
if he happened to be bad.
They didn’t even notice when
he stole all that they had.

They never said what to do,
and so he didn't do it.
He lay upon his little bed
whispering:
"Screw it, screw it, screw it."

Infinite Possibility

Email, like many things, seems infinitely possible. At any moment, the right email will arrive -- the one that contains the secret I have been waiting for, the story I am longing to hear. I have no idea what that secret or story might be. I don't even know why I should think one is out there, circling me, about to land. Still, I have faith. Which is completely ridiculous.

Bookstores have the same feeling. I prefer used bookstores, with books stacked in awkward piles up to the ceiling. Shelves spill their contents on the floor. Everything is disorganized. They count on you being lucky, to find the book you want. Let your finger run along the spines, and then stop when it feels right. Dowse your way to literature. Ask the universe to give you what you need.

Alphabetizing is offensive to me. Order is offensive. It implies that people know what they deserve. They don't. None of us know what we deserve in the slightest. Whether we deserve to be rewarded or punished -- it's our own hubris that takes us down that path.

"I think I need just something light and fluffy, to pass the time."

"Shut up, bitch. You'll read Moby Dick and you will fucking like it."

If I can't make it to a used bookstore, I'll settle for a new one. Box stores are the worst. Chapters is a nightmare. The worst of bookstores and the best of a shopping mall -- bad music, and all the books are as clean and sterilized as scalpels. As eager to be read and loved as an old whore trying to pass herself off as a virginal school girl. I see your wrinkles, your fake pigtales, you goddamn paperback. You can't fool me.

Somewhere, out there, is something that will change everything. Whether it's a book or an email. It's going to arrive in my mailbox with a DING! Or my hand will fall upon it on a bookshelf. I'll open it up and...

And what? You can't imagine what enlightenment looks like before it happens. It's like... Well, is there anything like it, really?

It's like trying to imagine who you'll be before you're born. It's like knowing what your favourite TV show is, before television is even invented.

"Oh, that Gilligan!"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Is that what I'm waiting for? An email or a book that enlightens me? I don't mean enlighten as some kind of metaphor. I mean it literally enlightens me. BLAMMO! And now I am one with the universe, thanks to that perfectly timed information that came to me just as I needed it.

Any asshole on the mystical path will tell you that enlightenment doesn't come from out there, it comes from within here. And then he'll tap himself on the forehead. Or if he's particularly assholish, he'll tap me on the forehead, and smile condescendingly. Then, if I have the courage or the sense, I'll punch him in the face.

"In there, you mean?" I'll say, and punch him in the face one more time for good measure.

Not that I'm a violent person or anything. I'm not, really.

But that line of enlightenment coming from within is bullshit. There is no "in there" and there is no "out there". There's just "there". Or so I have heard.

When I think about enlightenment, I remember hearing of a monk who became one with the universe -- who finally understood everything -- while taking a dump. It was the sound of his shit, splashing into the toilet bowl. Infinite wisdom through fibre.

"I get it now!" he probably exclaimed.

Did he bother to wipe? Of course he did. What, you think enlightened masters don't wipe their asses, just because their asses gave them enlightenment?

That one email. That one book. Circling me. Readying to land. My version of the turd hitting the water.

Sometimes I think I'm trying to sneak up on that book. Looking without really looking for it. I'll catch wind of what sounds like a really bizarre piece of writing, and without delving into it too deeply, I'll request it at the Ottawa Public Library, or order it online. Some obscure historical text about monkey testicles. Or some medical textbook about rotting corpses. Psychopathia Sexualis or Sexual Deviance: Theory, Assessment and Treatment.

Only who actually reads Psychopathia Sexualis from cover to cover? Krafft-Ebing gets all bogged down in describing the millions of different ways you can be a homosexual. Makes me want to invent a time machine.

I'll step out the time machine door and scream, "Krafft-Ebing, you stupid shit! Stop writing about faggots! In 100 years scientists will consider it perfectly normal. What, are you queer or something?"

No, there's no enlightenment in Psychopathia. It's just another trophy book on the shelf to creep out the normals. I put it next to Bind, Torture, Kill and Amputees and Devotees. It makes watching people look at the bookshelves for the first time kind of fun. That's about it.

They scan the shelves and then turn and look at me and say, "Uh, do you need an intervention or something?"

We can't all have Stephen King books, now can we?

And emails. Fucking emails. Coworkers bored, sending me emails that read, "I am bored," hoping that I will write back, "I'm bored too," and we can revel in boredom together. Emails that advertise companies I once bought something from, because they hope I'll come back and buy something else. An email newsletter from some website where I filled out a survey once. Someone wrote on my wall on Facebook, and an email arrives to let me know.

Did people feel this way about the telephone, back in the old days? Some day the phone will ring, and God will be on the other end, and he'll say:

"Here's the answer, stupid. I'm sick of watching you scramble around trying to make sense of everything, so I'm just going to hand it to you. And boy, are you going to kick yourself when you finally GET it!"

I don't know. It's stupid, really. I have no idea if anyone else thinks this way -- that the perfect email is out there, circling. Or the perfect book. Or the perfect phone call.

I do try to make such things for other people, you know. The Perfect Email. The one with the answer. I write them all the time. Something all twisted and strange and confusing, sent at random, meant to slap a person gently across the face. So they'll go...

"What the hell? Who sent me this? I don't... What is going on? It's funny, but... Something isn't... I can't just be complacent anymore. I'm going to get up out of this chair, go out, buy a notebook, and sit naked in the park, on a picnic table, just writing down everything as it comes to me. And then I'm going to get it published, and it will change EVERYTHING, EVERYWHERE, for EVERYONE."

Only I suspect most people get my Perfect Email and say, "What the? Must be spam." And then delete it.

There are picnic tables out there, just waiting for naked people with notebooks. Don't any of you realize this?

To be fair, I probably do the same thing -- delete Perfect Emails because I think they're spam. Maybe some prince in Mozambique really does need my help transferring his millions to a Canadian bank account. And I just delete it, instead of seeing it for what it really is -- enlightenment.

Really annoying mystics will tell you that you can't find enlightenment when you're looking for it. You have to give up, and that's when enlightenment will arrive. Enlightenment can smell your desperation, and it's unattractive. So it hangs out someplace else -- with tough guys in leather jackets who own nice cars.

I sometimes think I will have to write the book that brings about my own enlightenment, and might enlighten others. Something incredibly offensive and perverted and wild, like a pornographic version of Catch 22, where zombies attack, and there's a nuclear war, and angels descend from Heaven -- all at the same time.

Picture naked angels who are filming porn videos, as zombies tear them apart, and mushroom clouds sprout up all around them. Wouldn't that enlighten you?

The email, the book, circling. Maybe a song? Sure. Why not? Maybe a person. Or an idea. Or a joke. Or just a hand gesture made by a stranger on the street. Why limit the possibilities? If a turd falling in toilet water can do it, it could literally be anything -- the key that opens my own mind.

Until I find that key, I may as well sit here at this keyboard, typing away. It feels a little like attacking the lock with a hammer. And that might work too. You never know.

Love, With Strings Attached

Whenever I read the words "unconditional love", I hear them said in a breathless whisper by a blonde woman in California. She wears white robes that flow down to her bare feet. There's a necklace of sea shells and coloured beads around her throat. Blue eyes shine from her pinkish face. Her expression is one of profound certainty and compassion that you only get from drug abuse. (Or from new age mysticism, the worst drug there is.) She stands on a stone patio by the edge of a cliff, her arms held up and spread wide, as if to hug the whole world. The ocean is pounding against the rocks below.

"Unconditional love!" she yells happily, closing her eyes in bliss. You can barely hear the words over the sound of ocean waves -- and the sound of her own smugness.

I hate this woman. Someone push her off the cliff already.

If you've ever loved in a truly unconditional way, you have been used and abused. Because that's what happens to people who love without any sense of self preservation, without boundaries. You get your ass handed to you. And before it's handed to you, it's battered and deep fried.

And your lover says, "Eat it. Eat your battered, deep fried ass. I need you to do it, as a sign of your love for me."

And if you truly love unconditionally, you will -- like an idiot -- eat your own ass.

Nearly everyone in our culture believes in this unconditional love nonsense. As with most things, you can blame The Beatles. "All you need is love," is the biggest lie there is. Hippie drivel. And if John Lennon were alive, he'd say it differently.

"All you need is love -- and a bullet-proof vest."

You know what else you need? A soul of your own. A piece of you that you can hold on to. A purpose beyond mere feelings. Drive. Determination. Mastery of yourself. Boundaries between you and the rest of the world. A personal philosophy that guides you through life -- specifically, a philosophy that cannot be changed because someone politely asks you to be different.

When you love someone unconditionally, you are giving your soul away. You fade into them. You dissolve. You disappear. You become their slave.

The ideal many believe in is that, as you dissolve into them, they dissolve into you. Unconditional love on both sides. What could be sweeter?

But when two people melt into each other, the result isn't one strong person -- it's a big puddle of slop.

"What do you want to do, darling?"

"I don't know. What do you want to do?"

"I can't really say. You decide."

"No, no -- you decide."

Everyone has met a couple like this. They think they're being cute as they turn to each other and laughingly can't make a decision. And if you're like me, you want to bash their heads together until they're unconscious.

A real, solid relationship is based on negotiation and earned trust. What do I want? What do you want? Can I meet your needs? Can you meet mine? Can we trust each other? Over time, a closeness develops. Each person supports the other. But ideally, they keep their own goals, their own dreams, their own beliefs. They support each other as individuals, reinforcing their own individuality as they do so.

Even as closeness develops, there are always conditions. They never go away. That's because your partner changes and so do you. With each change you have to renegotiate your relationship. How will we meet these new desires, new philosophies, new ideas?

One morning your lover might turn to you and say:

"You know what? I've decided the only way I can be fulfilled as a human being is if I cut off my legs with a chainsaw and get the word 'CUNT' tattooed on my forehead."

I don't care how deeply in love you are -- no sane person says, "I'll go warm up the chainsaw. You call the tattoo parlour and book an appointment."

That's unconditional love, and it's madness. More realistically, you negotiate.

"What if you only cut off your left leg? 'CUNT' is kind of offensive. Maybe you could have 'VAGINA' tattooed on your forehead instead?"

(Okay, bad example. But you get the idea.)

People shouldn't feel guilty when they love, with conditions. It's realistic. Ignore what The Beatles told you. They were stoned when they wrote that stupid song. "Goo goo g'joob"? Come on! You can't trust these guys.

We have to leave space for ourselves in the equation. Drowning in another human being is just a bad idea. Fight for what you believe in. Stand your ground. Give as much as you are able, but ask for something in return. What's the point in being in a relationship where you only give, and give, and give -- and never get anything back?

When someone kneels before me, submitting themselves entirely -- showing what they think of as unconditional love -- it's really tough not to abuse the hell out of them. They're crawling already. What else can I make them do? Will they eat their own turds? Will they let me rip off their nipples with pliers?

That's how the dodo became extinct, after all. The stupid bird had no defences. It loved everyone unconditionally, trusted everyone it met. The dodo knew no enemies. In that position of complete unconditional love, the dodos were rounded up and slaughtered. How could humanity be so cruel? Why didn't we return the dodo's love in an equally unconditional way?

Because the battered and deep fried ass of the dodo tasted so very good.

* * *

Thanks to Mezamashii, who inspired this rant. I will not push you off a cliff, I promise.

Parable

John stabs out his left eye with a knife.

"Why did you do that?" his friend Tony asks. "Don't stab out your eyes!"

"I had to do it," John says. "It was important."

"That's crazy," Tony says. "Only crazy people deliberate hurt themselves like this. You need to get help."

"You're the crazy one. I had to stab out my eye. It's part of my philosophical approach to life. Can you truly see, if you insist on seeing with eyes alone? If thine eye offend thee, stab it out. Etcetera."

"Your philosophy is stupid."

"You're stupid!"

* * *

The next day, John stabs out his other eye, and is now blind.

"What were you thinking?" Tony asks, horrified.

"I had to do it! Absolutely essential. All part of my philosophical approach."

"It's madness!"

"It's not madness at all. It makes complete and perfect sense. In the valley of the blind, the one eyed man is king. I don't believe in kings, so I took the next logical step. I can assure you that I have achieved a new level of insight, thanks to the actions I have recently undergone."

"Nonsense!" insists Tony.

John waves his hands, brushing away the criticism. "By the way, I am blind and you have two eyes. You should give me one of yours."

"What?" Tony says, stunned.

"It makes perfect sense. I have no eyes and you have two. You should share."

"If I give you one of my eyes, you're just going to stab it out."

"Yes, I will," John admits. "Almost certainly. But I am blind. You need to help me. Give me an eye."

"You are blind because you stabbed out your eyes!" Tony yells. "It's not like you were born this way!"

"Yes, I did stab out my eyes. But as I have already explained, I had very good reasons for doing that. And those reasons are entirely beyond the point. Clearly you should give me one of your eyes."

"I'll get you a cane," Tony offers.

"I don't want a cane," John says.

"I'll get you a seeing eye dog."

"I don't want a dog."

"How about a nurse to help you out around the house?"

"I don't want a nurse."

"What if I get you a doctor? He can help you with your eye stabbing problem. Maybe if you can sort that out, then I'd be more comfortable giving you an eye."

"I don't have an eye stabbing problem," John says. "Just give me one of your eyes. Sure, I'll stab it out as well, but that's not the point. I have no eyes, and you have two. You should share with me."

"There's no way I am giving you one of my eyes. You're just going to destroy it."

John loses his temper. "You're greedy! You're a fascist! You have two eyes and I have none and you refuse to share! I don't know why you're such a bastard! Obviously you're no friend of mine!"

"I offered several other options," Tony points out.

"I don't want a cane, a dog, a nurse, or a doctor! I told you want I want. Give me one of your eyes! If you won't do that, you're a jerk!"

"Fine. I'm a jerk. A jerk with two working eyeballs."

* * *

A week later, Tony is walking down the street and he runs into his friend Sam.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Sam demands.

"What do you mean?" Tony asks, startled.

"I just ran into this blind guy, John, and he's going around town, saying you won't give him one of your eyes! He says you've known each other for years! Are you that greedy, you won't help a friend in need? Are you really that selfish? I can't believe you!"

"Listen, do you even know why the guy is blind?"

"It doesn't matter why he's blind!" Sam yells.

"Do you know how else I offered to help him out?"

"Who cares? You're his friend. He's blind. You have two eyes. He has none. Give him one of your eyes! Help your friends!"

"You don't understand," insists Tony.

Sam won't hear any of it. "I thought I knew you," Sam says. "I thought you were a good guy. I guess I was wrong."

* * *

After a month of running into people, all giving him a hard time the way Sam did, Tony finally gives in. He'll give John one of his eyes. Anything to stop all of his friends and acquaintances and coworkers -- everyone in the town -- from looking down on him.

Tony and John arrange to go to a hospital. The surgery is performed. Now John and Tony each have one eyeball.

"You're a good friend," John says warmly. "I knew you could rise above your social programming. I knew you would see the light. Sharing is what friends do. You are a good person."

"You're welcome," Tony says, feigning happiness. He can't help but feel he has been tricked into doing something he had no desire to do.

* * *

The day after the surgery, John stabs out his new eye.

Despite knowing this was going to happen, Tony can't contain himself. "What were you thinking? You're blind again! Who's going to help you now?"

"I had an epiphany," John explains. "I realized that a person is better off blind. Many soothsayers and wise men were blind. The visual world just gets in the way of really seeing. That's why I stabbed out my eye. The one eye you gave me finally allowed me to truly understand. Despite being blind, now I really can see."

"That makes no sense at all," Tony says.

John waves away the criticism with his hands. "You know, you really should consider stabbing out your one remaining eye. Then you'd understand what I'm talking about."

* * *

The next day, Tony packs his things and moves to a new town.