Zen Jar Notes

I have an iPhone. There is an application called Zen Jar that I enjoy. You write an anonymous note, send it out, and people can reply to it. You can also receive their notes.

If people like what you write, they can give you "good karma". If they hate it, they can give "bad karma". Your rank is displayed every time you open the application. I am disturbingly proud of being the top 100 out of a total of 9780 users. It's a sickness, on my part. I won't be satisfied until I am number one, but I really don't have the time to achieve this goal.

As with most things, a lot of people ruin Zen Jar by being stupid. Some young men are trying to use the application to meet women. Some think this is a great opportunity to convert you to Christianity. Others want to talk about American Idol.

What follows are a few messages I sent out into the world. I like that each one is short, strange, and anonymous.

* * *

Vampires drink blood. What mythical creature drinks tears? I suspect it’s the daytime talk show host.

“Tell me all about your traumatic experience,” Oprah says. “Hang on. I’m going to need a straw.”

* * *

My blender doesn’t like me. We fight all the time. I think it’s because we have different political views. I’m thinking of buying a new blender, but I like to think of myself as tolerant and open minded. So I guess I’m stuck with this blender, for now.

* * *

When I’m not looking, my cat turns into an octopus. He doesn’t do anything special when in this state. It’s not a trick. It’s not his true form, or anything like that. It’s just something he does when I’m not looking. I know he turns into an octopus because of a look in his eyes and the way he sometimes smells of the sea.

* * *

The tooth fairy is a vicious killer. He shoots teeth out of his fingertips like bullets. When little children don’t give him enough teeth, he smashes them out of drunks with a hammer. Watch out for this guy, I’m telling you. He’s dangerous.

* * *

The stove in my apartment plays music, depending on what I cook. There are different tunes for fish, pork chops, chilli, or vegetarian dishes. I called the manufacturer, to find out how it works. They told me I was crazy. One day, on a whim, I boiled a pair of sneakers. The stove doesn’t play music any more. I guess I broke it.

Another Poem Fragment

When I pet my cat he purrs.
When I pet my blender, it whirrs.
When I put my cat into the blender,
I'm a registered sex offender.

Poem Fragments

He carries a tremendous weight
And refuses to put it down.
He carved his pain into his face
And parades it around the town.
He says, "If I stop being a martyr,
I will become a clown."

Put it down, friend. Put it down.
The world needs fewer martyrs.
The world needs a lot more clowns.

* * *

A person's heart should be hot.
There's something wrong if it's not.
Most people have hearts full of blood.
Some people have hearts full of snot.

Another excerpt from "Sexual Anomalies and Perversions"

The following is a quoted passage from the Magnus Hirschfeld book, Sexual Anomalies and Perversions. Apparently the quote is actually lifted from a book by Wilhelm Stekel, and the quote was written by one of Stekel's patients. I have taken the liberty of restoring the censored words.

Now I have to find the original Stekel book that the following comes from, because apparently Stekel goes into much more detail about the case. Sadly, Hirschfeld doesn't mention what specific Stekel text this passage is lifted from. DAMN YOU, HIRSCHFELD!

I've heard of cases like this before, but I still find it creepy and disturbing.

* * *

Before I approached you I had been treated to two psycho-analysts who possessed very little experience, and that had been gained from the reading of books on psycho-analysis. Thus, two years ago I submitted to analytical treatment by Mr. N. My most important symptom was an unconquerable fear that my students might boo me, that they might make a 'racket' by miauling, crowing, etc.

During the treatment my condition became worse. One day I received an anonymous letter which was full of foul abuse; most of the terms referred to urine and lavatory sexuality. (Lick my arse. I shit on you. Son of a whore. Damned beast. We'll give you what for. You a professor? You're a common shit.) The letter bore no postage stamp. I found it in the letter box fixed to the front door of the Institute.

You can imagine my consternation. Anna, my wife, was of the opinion that this could only be a boyish prank. The writing was disguised. It was all in capitals, like this:

YOU... BEAST... LICK... MY...

I thought the letter could only have been written by one of my pupils. My suspicion fell on a hefty lad whom I hated in any case, for the reason that he was the tallest and strongest of my pupils, whereas I am unfortunately small, weak, and ailing, a fact which intensified my inferiority complex.

A few days later another letter arrived, then a third and fourth. I went to the Rector and demanded a close investigation. I also approached the police, and, in addition, engaged a private detective. During the time when my letter-box was being watched day and night the daily newspapers received a shoal of abusive letters libeling and ridiculing me.

The letters were all written in big Roman letters, but in the Russian language. They contained protests that a man like me should be allowed to be a professor at the High School, and alleged that I had become weak-minded as a result of sexual excesses and was neither worthy nor capable of instructing the youth of the town.

I now launched a counter-attack. I accused the above-mentioned student, had him summonsed before the Rector and said to his face that he was the author of the anonymous letters. He obstinately denied the charge. An expert graphologist thought he detected certain similarities between the hand-writing in the letters and the lad's hand-writing, but was unable to arrive at any conclusive result.

The investigation produced no result, but I was so upset that I was obliged to apply for leave, which was granted. I then began to study graphology myself.

Gradually the terrible discovery began to dawn upon me that I myself had written the letters. I was puzzled as to why I had done this. I might add that during the first analysis I repeatedly pretended to be insane and was sometimes really on the edge of insanity.

Star Trek: a review

I will give nothing away in this review, in case you want to see this film.

I expected to hate it. Big Hollywood explosion movies do very little for me. Usually, you could blame this on old age. But even as a teenager, special effects extravaganzas have done nothing for me. Maybe I was born old.

The latest Star Trek movie has a lot of explosions, little plot, some character development, and not much else. I kept feeling like I was supposed to care, and I didn't. The special effects were supposed to thrill me, and I was bored. It all felt very much like a Pepsi commercial: well constructed, shiny, soulless, selling me something, immediately forgettable, and dull. Zero risk taking.

Ironically, young Kirk is a portrayed as a man who leaps before he looks, and this movie is so very safe, practical and bland. Even the big "shocking" events are safe and dull.

Roger Ebert's review is entirely accurate. He says the movie does little more than reload the franchise. The characters are rejigged, the universe is set up, and now we can begin a whole new franchise for a whole new generation. The end.

Wait, the end? Yes, the end. The movie finishes where it should begin -- with everything set up for something to happen.

The reason James Bond movies do nothing for me is because of all the touchstones and catch phrases. "Shaken, not stirred." We have a super villain. A fast car. Some sexy chick for Bond to fuck. Gadgets.

Those things MUST happen, otherwise it's not a Bond film. And that's why I stay away. I don't feel a small thrill when Bond says, "Shaken, not stirred." I feel irritation.

This Star Trek movie felt the same way. "We're changing everything! This ain't your daddy's Star Trek! By the way, Live Long and Prosper. Vulcan Logic, Mixed with Emotion. Romulans, but Different! Space, the Final Frontier!"

And so on.

Somewhere in Hollywood is a man sitting on a huge pile of money. He likes movies, but he wants to get a good Return On Investment. So he wants to play it safe. People come to him and beg for money, to make their movies.

"I want to make something totally new and exciting!" says one young director.

This scares the man sitting on the pile of money. He wants to know that he will make money if he spends money. New is risky. He tells the director to go away.

"I want to make Transformers 2!" says another director.

Hmm, the money man thinks. Transformers was very profitable. Explosions, robots, and a sexy chick? He gives the money.

"I want to make GI Joe!" says another director.

Hmm, the money man thinks. There are a lot of geeks out there who will buy into that. Explosions, robotic armour, and a sexy chick? He gives the money.

"I want to make Star Trek, for the next generation!" says another director. "Well, for the NEXT next generation. Think old Trek, only younger and sexier!"

CHA-CHING! thinks the man with the money.

And you get Star Trek: safe, bland, predictable, hitting all the spots it has to hit, slightly changing things without really changing anything, hipper, younger, and utterly lifeless.

The irony is that the original Star Trek series was risky, edgy, pushing the envelope. Sure, it was a corny space western soap opera. At the same time it was new and challenging. It fought against blandness. And it was low budget corn.

But when you're making a movie that costs millions, you can't risk offending anyone, or risk being too different. Toe the line, give the people what they want, play it safe. That way, you're guaranteed ROI.

And a dull piece of tinsel.

You probably shouldn't listen to me about this. The critics are all raving about this film. Apparently it's awesome.

I think the critics are morons. Except for Roger Ebert.

Magnus Hirschfeld: Right and Wrong

Magnus Hirschfeld was a gay, Jewish, transvestite sexologist with a foot fetish. The 1930s media dubbed him "the Einstein of Sex". There's even a Germany movie with that title -- The Einstein of Sex -- which shows Hirschfeld as a gay hero.

The movie (yes, I've watched it) quotes Hirschfeld as quipping that perhaps it would be more proper to call Einstein the Hirschfeld of mathematics.

While he was in the middle of a world lecture tour in 1933, the Nazis burned most of the books housed in Hirschfeld's Institute for Sexual Science. In 1934, the Nazis took away his German citizenship. Hirschfeld is considered one of the first major fighters for gay rights in modern times.

What I'm trying to say is Magnus Hirschfeld is completely awesome.

Like most things, I came across him completely at random. I'd never heard of him before. Why don't people tell me about these things? Why am I forced, for example, to discover Serge "monkey testicles" Voronoff all by myself? Why aren't we all pouring through history books, looking for these amazing people, worshipping them as gods?

I recently bought a copy of Hirschfeld's book, "Sexual Anomalies and Perversions". The first few chapters were fairly dull, as they described normal sexual development. There were no case studies, of course. Why would we need case studies to describe normal people?

Then the book started describing the perverts. Things got much more enjoyable. The case studies alone made me giddy.

- A man whose testicles never descended, but give off enough hormones to give him some wispy facial hair. He can get an erection, but not orgasm.

- A hermaphrodite presenting primarily male genitalia, who menstruates through his penis.

- A hermaphrodite presenting with primarily female genitalia, who produces a white fluid upon orgasm. When checked, it's viable sperm. This "woman" could get another woman pregnant.

Did you know labia are basically testicle sacks, minus the testicles? In some hermaphrodites, you can feel under developed testicles inside the labia. Isn't that great? Aren't you thrilled I told you this?

I am slowly working my way through the book, savouring it. There's so much there, and I want to experience all of it.

I've also purchased a copy of "Sexual History of the World War". One chapter has already piqued my curiosity -- "sex in the trenches". It had never occurred to me such things would happen. They never cover that sort of thing in old war movies.

When I hit page 376 of "Sexual Anomalies and Perversions", I came across the following passage. It shocked me. All historical heroes have their flaws. Finding them is the risk you take when you read old books. Of course, the sensibilities of today are not the sensibilities of yesterday. The book was originally published in 1938. The edition I am reading is a reprint from 1966.

All the same, I think it's worth reproducing on the Internet, if only to show where we once were.

Here's the passage, written by Magnus Hirschfeld.

* * *

Twenty-five years of practice in forensic medicine has convinced me that no allegation deserves to be treated with greater suspicion than that frequently made by girls, including pregnant girls, that they have been violated or raped. Even the statement that they have been deprived of the power of resistance or rendered helpless by seduction must always be received with a certain amount of caution.

Genuine experts on the subject are all agreed that it is extraordinarily difficult, if not impossible, to deflorate a woman or make her pregnant by the employment of sheer physical force, except where the woman's arms and legs are held by others or, as frequently happened during the First World War, she is tied down on a piece of furniture or the like.

The imagination is frequently inclined to a gruesome elaboration of such processes and to convert comparatively mild attacks into brutality. In the field of sex, rumour is particularly apt to exaggerate and upon investigation one is surprised to find what detailed and circumstantial stories develop out of some trifling incident.

The allegations of young girls that they have been surprised and violated in their sleep are also rarely credible, just like the allegations of young men, which are by no means less frequent, that someone has carried out coitus in anum on them while they slept and they only awoke as ejaculatio in recto occurred.

During the First World War courts martial submitted to me several cases in which soldiers resolutely stuck to their allegations that they were fast asleep. Although in reality the process was in most cases preceded by alcoholic excess on the part of the complainant, there was no question of unconsciousness.

The performance of anal intercourse always depends on a certain degree of consent on the part of the passive party. More successful than physical coercion is psychological coercion, such as -- principally -- the weakening or elimination of the sexual will by means of hypnosis, suggestion, threats, stupefaction, and narcosis with chloroform.

[three pages later, the book quotes "State Attorney Wulffen (whoever that is) as saying the following...]

The man expects even from the so-called 'respectable girl' a certain passive resistance to his urgent love-making. Women themselves are imbued with the instinctive feeling that they must not surrender too easily, and that resistence intensifies the man's sexual excitement. Thus a man will not consider a little sparring on the part of a woman as serious resistance in the sense of criminal law.

Everything depends on whether the woman has made seriousness of her resistance sufficiently clear, though even then then this fact does not necessarily prove rape.

There are girls who, although they wish to be conquered, do not want this to happen without serious physical resistance. They act in this way partly from vanity and partly from fear of pregnancy, but, at all events they want a test of masculine strength. Hence, in many cases the man has to overcome a resistance which, though considerable, is not seriously meant.

But if the girl concerned is asked before the court whether she has resisted seriously she may answer in the affirmative, either from shame or because she lacks a knowledge of her own unconscious motives, and an unjust sentence for rape may result. In such cases, therefore, a most careful sifting of evidence is essential.

* * *

End of quoted passage. Bizarre. Strange. And downright fucked up.

I Am In The Room

I am in the room now. I am no longer invisible. I am no longer hiding. Why does this frighten so many people? It's not as if I suddenly appeared out of nowhere. You always knew I was there, vague and hazy, like the probability of a person.

Now I'm coming into focus. Now I am becoming real. Now I give my opinions, if asked. Sometimes without being asked. I say what I want. Is that so threatening? Is that so disturbing? Why do you all cringe in fear? Why are you all so angry?

Maybe you were used to my silence, before. It allowed you to think. It felt calmer. You, almost alone with your thoughts, sharing the room with a shadow. The dim glow that I gave off, when I was a ghost, made you feel brighter, more alive. You could speak your opinions without fear of contradiction. It was safe, for you.

And it was safe for me. My silence, my inaction, was safe. I let people tell me what to do, where to go, how to feel. After all, what did I know? I seemed incapable of making any choice for myself. Other people seemed so certain. They had all the answers. They always knew what I should be doing.

You thought my silence meant that I agreed with everything you said. When I nodded, silent and hazy, it pleased you. I was your personal affirmation, your cheerleader. You thought you knew me, but really, you knew my silence. Those few times I managed to accidentally express myself -- it irritated you. The sound of my voice was disconcerting. I'd become a doll. Something you could talk to, be close to, that never talked back, never asked for anything.

My silence made me sick. My hands and feet and nose all tingled with stress. My stomach twisted itself into knots. My intestines stopped working. Some little part of me was screaming, over and over again, "These are not my choices! This is not my life! There is a me inside this doll!"

I thought I had diabetes. I thought I had cancer. "This is what dying feels like," I thought. I went to the hospital and they said I was fine. I was wrong, I wasn't dying. But at the same time, I was right. I was barely alive.

Sometimes kittens and puppies and babies die for no reason at all. They just never start living. Failure To Thrive, they call it. Nutrition doesn't get in. They don't engage the world. Who knew, it could strike in mid-adulthood?

So now, I've changed. I had to change. I'm going to thrive. There was no other option. Live or die. A half-life is no life at all. So now, I'm in the room. The doll has come to life. And it confuses and irritates you. All of you.

Your reaction surprises me. I don't know why, but it does. So many of you said you wanted me to be happy. You said I had to make a life for myself. You said I had to find a philosophy I could believe in, grab hold of, and make mine. "Shit or get off the pot," several of you said, more than once. My physical symptoms alarmed you. You all offered theories and advice. Everyone wanted me to get better.

All the same, my voice, my new reality, the soul I have grown for myself, is irritating everyone.

"I wanted you to make a choice," you all say in chorus. "I wanted you to find a philosophy, but I expected it to be MY philosophy."

Which is so funny. Because that was the problem all along. Don't you get it? All I had was your philosophy, fed to me like poisoned pabulum. And I ate it, one spoonful at a time, swallowing down the poison, like horrible tasting medicine that made me sick.

I'm here now. You're angry and frightened. You want things to go back to the way they once were. You miss the pleasant silence. The room was so big when you were the only person in it.

We're not going back. That's not going to happen. I won't let it happen. Your choices are to accept me being here, in the room, or leave the room. There's the door.

It might seem selfish to you. But that's just it -- I've been selfless for so very long. Blank. Absent. Missing from my own life. I'm here now, and I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure it stays that way.

I am in the room, now. I do hope you will stay in the room with me.

Edmund Will Be My Friend

I'm going to become Edmund's new best friend. I will go live with him in Seminole, Florida. We will play backgammon together.

* * *

We will drink lime soda and watch old episodes of The Golden Girls.

"Bea Arthur is dead you know," Edmund will say.

"So is Estelle Getty," I will reply.

And then we'll laugh.

* * *

When Edmund needs to go to his chemotherapy appointments, I will go with him. We'll sit together, in the hospital, as the healing poison courses through his body. And we will have lengthy conversations about an imaginary dead women.

"She's driving a scooter down the street," Edmund will say, "and a plate glass window falls off a nearby hotel. The window was improperly installed. It falls straight down, like a guillotine blade, and it cuts her and her scooter in two. It is completely painless and sudden."

"She has black hair, and a mole above her lip, on the right," I will say. "Her name is Tabitha. She's a popular high school teacher, and the entire football team attends her funeral. The team sits in the back rows, and every player is wearing his uniform and helmet."

"Tabitha has a two year old daughter," Edmund will offer. "The girl is named Clarice. She is too young to understand what has happened. At the funeral, Clarice repeatedly asks, 'Where is my mommy?' This makes everyone cry. Even the football players."

* * *

One day, I will come back from the store, and find Edmund masturbating with the flapping wings of a goose. He will be holding the goose upside down, by its feet, waving the goose in the air, then carefully holding the animal's flapping wings near his member.

"What the hell are you doing?" I will ask.

"What does it look like?" Edmund will reply. "I am masturbating with the flapping wings of a goose."

"That's what I thought."

I will then go into the kitchen and prepare a microwave burrito.

* * *

"Do you suppose Clarice wil ever understand what happened to her mother?" Edmund will ask me.

"Not really," I will answer. "Clarice is a stupid child. Did you see her last report card from kindergarten? She's borderline retarded."

* * *

Edmund will fill the refrigerator with unopened cans of ravioli. Each can has the paper label removed. Each can is a shiny silver colour.

"Cans don't need to go in the fridge," I will tell him.

"But they look so perfect," he will say. "The stainless steel fridge, holding all those stainless steel cans. It pleases me."

I will consider this, studying the contents of the refrigerator. I will discover he is correct. The cans will look wonderful.

"We could fit more cans inside if we removed all the shelving and drawers," I will offer.

This will make Edmund smile.

* * *

"Why did the window fall off the hotel, and cut Tabitha in half?" I will ask Edmund. "Why was it improperly installed?"

"Drunken workers," Edmund will answer. "Lazy, drunken, good for nothing workers who will forever go unpunished for what they've done."

* * *

On a quiet Thursday evening, I will walk into Edmund's bedroom and strangle him to death with a blue silk scarf. Because he has cancer, he will be weak, and not put up a struggle. I will then call the police and confess to the murder.

The authorities will ask me why I did it, and I will have no answer.

"Edmund was my friend," I will say. "We were very close. There's no reason for me to have done what I did."

This being Florida, I will be sentenced to death, and I will die in the electric chair.

* * *

"Could a plate glass window really cut a scooter in half?" I will ask Edmund.

"Do you doubt my word, asshole?" Edmund will answer. "Do you want me to fucking punch you in the mouth?"

"Hey, now," I will answer. "Just checking."

* * *

One day, it will rain, and I will see Edmund in the backyard. He will be naked, staring up at the sky, his mouth open wide. Instinctively, I will know he is thinking of turkeys. There's a story that turkeys are so stupid, they will stand there, staring up at the falling rain, their mouths open, taking in water until they drown.

"You can't do it, you know," I will cry out from the upstairs window. "You are not as stupid as a turkey."

"Get out of my mind!" Edmund will yell back.

* * *

"I don't like backgammon," Edmund will announce. "It's stupid."

"I agree, the rules are stupid," I will tell him, "but you will keep fucking playing if you know what's good for you."

* * *

Edmund and I are going to be amazing friends and have a great deal of fun. I can't wait to meet him.

The Married Life of a Duck and a Giraffe: poem

The Married Life of a Duck and a Giraffe

There's a little house down the road.
Peer through the window and you'll see
What looks like a joyful little duck
And a giraffe watching their TV.

The duck and giraffe fell in love
And were married at City Hall.
They honeymooned in India
And visited the Taj Mahal.

When they returned to Canada
They lived a happy life.
The giraffe was a thoughtful husband;
The duck, a loving wife.

Sadly, things turned sour.
They were struck by tragedy.
The giraffe fell ill with a serious case
Of cancer of the knee.

Things were touch and go,
But I'm glad I can report:
The giraffe pulled through, only he
Became a lot more short.

The duck pretends things are fine
But they aren't fine at all.
What had attracted her to her husband
Was that he'd been so very tall.

The giraffe finds comfort in booze.
Getting plastered on port and sherry.
Seeing light through a purple glass
makes his sad life seem more merry.

The duck sneaks out, late at night
wrapped snugly in her shawl.
In hotel rooms she has affairs
with the stars of basketball.

Sometimes the giraffe has fantasies,
they are terrible, French, étrange.
He imagines murdering his little wife
and cooking canard a l'orange.

The two animals barely speak, now.
It's habit that keeps them married.
Life is comfortable but dull.
It will continue 'til they're buried.

As you peer through the window,
the giraffe and duck look so swell.
But look closer and you'll understand:
Married life is hell.