January 3, 2002
I cannot write.

I have not put the first significant word on paper or web page since the last update to this journal. The Muse, once so flirtatious and attentive, has moved on to another, and I am left here to wonder just what is wrong with me.

I thought it might be my environment, which temporarily changed from one of tranquility to one which was loud, squalid and dangerous. So I waited, patiently, until the storm had passed, and all was once again serene. But when I returned, I found I still could not write.

I thought it might be fatigue, because I had become so busy with celebrations, and mournings, and transitions, and labours. So I waited, patiently, until I regained strength and had a clear mind, unclouded by physical and mental exhaustion. But when I rested, I found I still could not write.

I thought it was a passing fancy, like the taste for raspberry sherbet, or the music of the theremin, or many thousand such fancies that grip the heart and mind with passion and then fade away, having left little impression on one's life. So I waited, patiently, for the desire to link words into sentences into paragraphs, and lines into couplets into verse, to fade and be replaced by some other temporary desire. But when I waited, I found I still could not write.

Like the taste for cool, clear water, or the music of the wind through the trees, or the fancy I have taken to inhaling on a regular basis, it has not faded with time. The longing has, in fact, grown, so that it is no longer a distraction, but an ache, a hunger, like a lust in my body.

And so, in desparation, and with nothing to say, I have turned again to the journal, throwing myself at it desparately, like a drowning man, only to discover that I have, in fact, actually written. Admittedly, I have not written well. If my name were posted here, I would never let this be posted. The cliches have flowed like Thunderbird; cheap, nasty, distateful, but easily accessed. It has been almost narcissistic. I almost feel cheap.

But at least I wrote something.

December 3, 2001
Recently I was contacted by someone I knew in my wild youth. When we were familiar with each other, we were friendly but not deeply involved with each other, and who will ever know if either of us wanted to be at the time. We were a couple of crazy kids, part of a larger group of crazy kids, which was part of a still larger crazy generation that had come to the brilliant and insightful conclusion that the previous generation was wrong-headed in all its thinking and that we would straighten out the world.

My friend has become a lawyer.

There is nothing wrong (contrary to popular belief) with being a lawyer. Especially in this case, because she is a prosecutor and is doing her best to follow the dream of our youth and make the world a better place. However, the revelation did cause me to ask a few questions.

For one thing, how in the world did we all end up so different that we imagined we would. My friend was never the type I had imagined to be in the legal profession. I saw her as more of a journalist, fighting against the excesses of government, rather that working for it. Then again, no one ever imagined I would end up being whatever it is that I am, and they certainly never imagined me doing anything anonymous.

It's been a while since I mentioned my latest musical preference. Aside from the latest seasonal music, particularly Manheim Steamroller's Christmas Extraordinaire, I've been listening to a song from Tingwei Meng. Although my Chinese leaves a lot to be desired, the song title roughly translates to Come See the Rain Falling in Taipei With Me This Winter. It's quite a beautiful song, but heavily western-influenced.

Another question that has risen (now that I have that random thought out of the way), is the one of what really is a significant life. Is my friend more important in this world because she is a prosecutor? Am I more important because of what I do? Is there any point to the question?

Here is the conclusion I have drawn. What my friend does is deeply significant, because she improves the world around her. Whether or not what I do will improve the world around me remains to be seen. And to be a true friend, in this world that has become so superficial; to really have an impact on someone else's life in a positive way, is all the significance anyone could ask for.

November 7, 2001
This evening, I am having a cup of this morning's coffee, and I am thinking about my father.

It's been more than eight years since I last spoke to him. He crosses my mind about once a week, maybe twice. Some odd thing will remind me of some event from my childhood, and I will recall how he looked at that particular moment, or how his voice resounded in whatever space tried to enclose him. He was a pretty good Dad, as far as anyone could hope to be a good Dad to me, helion that I was. He was always supportive of whatever wild notion entered my young mind, whether it was the time I developed an interest in American football without bothering to develop a talent for it, or the year that I took up my first instrument and filled the house with the joyful sounds of a beginning trumpeter which, if you have never had the pleasure of enduring, are remarkably similar to a congested elephant crying out in desparation for someone to please God just shoot it and end it's suffering. Dad was a patient and longsuffering man. He took me to Boy Scout meetings, ate my cooking every Father's Day without complaint, accepted the ill-considered Christmas gifts without so much as a puzzled look, and somehow survived my teenage years, and the [ahem] relationships that I went through while somehow keeping both of us from incurring either permanent scars or prison records.

Then, not long after I had gotten married myself, my parents ended their thirty-year relationship. Soon after that, I lost touch with him. We lived in different parts of the world, at times at almost exact opposite sides, and priorities seemed to shift. Once a year or so, I would send off an e-mail, and I would get a reply, and I would send off another, but it generally ended there.

I know right where he is. I know how to reach him. But, somehow, I get the impression he would rather leave things as they are. I feel somewhat sad about it. You see, I rather think I've turned out to be a decent human being, and I think it would be nice if he could share in the benefit of having raised one. Admittedly, I am a bit selfish about the whole thing, too. Even though I am ever so much older than twenty by now, I still sometimes would like to have a father around to talk things over with.

Well, I think I've said about all I can say on that topic for now. I may revisit it one day. And Dad, if you ever see this, no hard feelings, eh? I still love you.

October 15, 2001
With all that is happening in the world right now it has been difficult to focus. There are protests both for and against the coalition of mostly Western governments and their actions against the Taliban of Afghanistan. People on three continents are in a panic about the possibilities of bioterrorism and opening mail laced with some agent of destruction. Adults are fearful. Children are perplexed. And somewhere in the night, someone plans to take advantage of the confusion to exact revenge on someone else for one reason or another.

Once again, I am utterly dumbfounded at man's talent for inhumanity. Although I readily admit I am not a zoologist or a zoological anthropoligist, I am hard pressed to think of another species that hates itself quite as effectively as humanity.

As a student of human nature, I fear the worst is yet to come. As a student of science, I set emotion aside and calmly surmise that the worst is unimaginable, but there are, indeed, perilous times ahead. After all, if the current rate of expansion of scientific knowledge doesn't significantly decline, we will experience approximately 2000 years worth of progress in the next hundred years, using the first hundred years of recorded history as a standard rate of progression. As a student of the teachings of Christ, I wonder how anyone could expect any less.

I may be going out on a limb to say that the world doesn't have more than 50 years left, but if you ask around at your local high school, you might find that the next generation agrees with me more than you are willing to acknowledge.

September 23, 2001
I know no one will see the journal today, since it's closed for the blackout in support of America. But I have something on my mind, and I need to release it.

America is about to go to war. War is one of the things that America does best, and Americans seem to be so much more American, for lack of a more descriptive term, when they feel threatened. They aren't a bad lot, really, they just have this sort of attitude that, although they don't like each other all that much, no one else had better mess with them.

Another thing about Americans is that they tend to drag the rest of the world into whatever passion has grasped them for the month. Whether it's their music, their video games or, in this case, their causes, the vast majority of the world seems to get swept up into the fervor. It doesn't even have to be an American idea. If you can remember that far back, recall the famine relief programmes of the '80s. It started with a singer from a small but well-loved UK group. Once the idea hit the shores of America, though, they embraced it with passion.

All of that has brought me to this. The world is about to be swept up again, into a war this time. It is a war that, quite frankly, I don't know if the world will win. There is talk that this "war on terrorism" could be another quagmire for America, much like their involvement in Viet Nam. For the sake of us all, it would be nice if it were so simple. Unfortunately, the enemy involved here is much more complicated. Ask the people of Israel. Ask the people of Ulster/Northern Ireland. Ask the people of Columbia and Peru.

Notice that this war has not been declared against one organisation, but against terrorism. Once this particular group has been rooted out (a goal that may take years, as well as many lives), there will still be terrorists in the world, and therefore a reason to continue. For now, however, let's just concentrate on this one aspect.

This war will be fought against an enemy without a border. It can disappear into the ground like water, only to emerge behind you. There can be no occupation of it's capitol. There can be no control of it's financial apparatus. There can be no peace treaty signed. How does one fight an enemy who believes that the only way to ensure his immortal soul can be rescued from damnation is to kill as many of his enemy as possible?

At the risk of sounding contrary, I say none of this to support arguments against this military action. Just because a thing seems impossible is not sufficient reason to surrender. Man, as a species, is the only creature capable of inhumanity. Terrorism is the progeny of centuries of cruelty, ultimately expressing itself through self-destruction. If we are to survive the next century of progress, we must end terrorism, because technological advancement, extrapolated mathematically, will ultimately result in a single person having access to enough power to destroy all life on Earth. Should such a thing become possible, statistics assure us that eventually someone will take advantage of such power. Can there be any cost so great that it would be worth the eventuality of extenction?

And so, I have now written myself into a circle. I have endorsed a course of action that I have stated in the early portions of this entry cannot succeed. How can I resolve such an obvious paradox? I can't. Like Sysiphus behind his boulder, we must attempt what we know will not be successful, because surrender is a concept even more abhorrent than failure.

September 17, 2001
The shock is beginning to fade. Even though I wasn't at ground zero, this event was so emotionally loud, I was kind of internally deafened. I can't think of any other way to describe it.

The emotions are at a boil right now, all over the world. There is a lot of talk in America about retribution, and I hear that all across the United States, young men are lining up to sign on to the US military machine.

It's an understandable feeling. It's even an admirable sentiment. Love of one's country is nothing to be ashamed of, no matter where one is from. But before you put your name on that dotted line, young American, ask yourself the following:

How strong is your anger?

Your personal rage, and even hatred, may indeed be strong enough to carry you through a couple of months of initial training. Your thirst for revenge may succeed in driving you through whatever advanced training you require. Pain may even be strong enough to get you to the front lines without soiling yourself.

But when the war is over, and you still have two, or maybe more, years of service obligation left, will your rage carry you through?

Far be it from me to discourage anyone, of any nationality, from serving their country. Service is a valuable experience, a great oportunity to see the world and learn a trade, and I understand the American military has some excellent educational incentives. But rage is not the reason to serve. Find within yourself some nobler purpose, young American. All the world joins you in mourning, and laa the world cries out with you for satisfaction in this matter, for in this matter, we are all New Yorkers.

September 11, 2001

August 18, 2001
Uncertainty.

I hate not knowing things. I hate waiting to find out things I need to know. But even more, I hate that I am so impatient.

I don't think I ever signed a contract that guaranteed me tomorrow, or even that I would finish this paragraph. Throughout history, the people we have considered wise have told us not to borrow tomorrow's evil, because today has enough of it's own. And yet there is always this nagging desire to know the future, even if only to a limited extent.

Someone once told me that, when I am looking for trouble, I should remember that trouble is already busy with weaker men. To be uncertain in and of itself is no crime. When I allow my desire to control my world to control me, and I don't value those around me out of frustration, then I have crossed a line. What I am surrounded by is of infinite value in comparison to that which is next to come.

In the end, it comes to this: We are here, and this is now. All else is philosophy.

August 12, 2001
It's about midnight. I've recently returned home from work, had a late supper, and am winding down from the hectic pace of whatever it is that I do for a living. All the world is asleep around me, embracing the dream-state and its promises of reward, adventure and excitement. Sometimes I wonder what they all dream about, these people that surround me. Does my neighbor dream of the perfect lawn, manicured at right angles, with the sidewalk edged so crisply you could give yourself a papercut? Does the young man down the street dream of 75-inch subwoofers in his souped-up '87 Honda Accord?

And what of my family? Do my sons dream they are heroes in a Star Wars epic? Or that they ride bicycles through the night sky with E.T.? Does my wife, as she sleeps next to the empty spot that now calls me, have coffee with old friends on a shaded deck outside a perfectly-ordered home? Do the dogs dream of chasing rabbits, or of lying about the house all day while being hand-fed choice cuts of sirloin and a few cats?

What will I dream tonight?

Within the safe, secure confines of the recesses of my mind, hidden away from the people who expect stoicism and courage and stability, I allow myself to dream. Some are as simple as a day at the beach. Others are complicated, irrational, impossible, sometimes even frightening in their disjointed unreality. But they are mine, and I embrace them with desparate fervor.
In my secret dreams, I allow myself to have secret dreams.

August 18, 2001
The more I write, the more I realise I have a lot to write about, and the more I am faced with the knowledge that I am completely inadequate to address some of the topics that I want to deal with. Here are a few examples of things I have been asked about via e-mail and by friends face to face:

• Faith
• Love
• God
• Relationships
• Grief and Loss
• The Fundamental Nature of the Universe
• Religion
• Existentialism
• Motorcycle Maintenance
• Pasta

Naturally, I have strong opinions on all of these topics. My quandry, however, is that which troubles every writer. I want to make a definitive statement, one that will stand the test of time and be recognised by my children's grandchildren as a profound contribution to the human dialogue. The only trouble is, gee whiz (brief tribute to the Everly Brothers), I have so many more questions than answers, and only about three-or-so pounds of what amounts to a computer made out of meat to come up with any profundity.

So I guess today's topic is insecurity.

I heard of a study that some university did about 2 years ago (obviously funded by some branch of some government) that said one of the leading characteristics of incompetent people is their complete confidence in their competence. Part of what makes them what they are is their complete lack of awareness of what they are.

On the other hand, the study continued, competent people generally felt less able to perform than they were actual ability level would indicate. And so, again, part of what makes them what they are is their inability to perceive themselves as they truly are.

It's enough to make a writer neurotic. If I think I'm a good writer, does that indicate that I'm not? If I don't think I'm a good writer, and that indicates that I actually am a good writer, does that mean I should stick to topics that I feel I don't know well enough to cover? And if I don't think I'm a good writer (which is an indication that I actually am a good writer), why am I writing in the first place? Shouldn't I be an accountant, or a mercenary in the French Foreign Legion, or an Elvis impersonator, or an automobile technician in Wisconsin (I have it on the most reliable authority that Wisconsin is where all the best service techincians are)?

Fortunately, there are reasons for writing other than whether or not I believe I am a good writer. Far more important is whether or not I think I have anything to say. Having something to say goes deeper than being opinionated. There is more of an urgency involved, sometimes for the world to know something you have stumbled across, sometimes for you to find out if you are the only one in the world who feels as you do, and sometimes...

Sometimes it's because you have to. You have feelings, or ideas, or beliefs. Your environment won't allow you to speak, because what is inside you is so different from what is around you, that if you shared it with even your closest friend, you would find yourself more alone than you were in the first place.

So we write.

We scribble our thoughts on journals, or post them on web sites, because we are insecure. The irony is that the only way to deal with the insecurity is to go here, the most public venue there is.

But, then again, I could be wrong. It's only my opinion.