If there was one series on this blog that I would love NOT to extend - it is the worst fear realized series. Previous editions have included needles in my eye, dental picks, a volcanic stye, and being enrolled to teach a class at a university that had let me go 2 years prior! All major hoots. 

In terms of content warnings, if you are already scared of elevators, maybe this isn't the post for you. With that said . . .

A bit of parallel history that informs the upcoming situation. 

Sigmund Freud died in 1939. I use this fact as gentle support for the thesis that Psychology as a science started to take off in and around the late 30's and 40's. There was a big and increasingly relevant war that happened about the same time. Brutalist architecture became popular in the 1950s. Post war, in an effort to conserve materials, buildings "showcase[d] the bare building materials and structural elements over decorative design.^[6][7] The style commonly makes use of exposed, unpainted concrete or brick, angular geometric shapes and a predominantly monochrome colour palette." (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brutalist_architecture#History). That's a fancy way of saying they erected plain grey block-shaped concrete monstrosities with little to no lasting visual appeal. 

Because of the co-evolution of Psychology and Brutalism's popularity, most university Psychology buildings can be identified by their blockiness, jail-like presence, and lack of access to windows that open (not sure why this last point is true - but I have found it to be so). Boston College's Psychology building is a bit more modern, hailing from 1968, and mercifully with the 60's came windows you can fully open and close. Posh. Still, that's a 50+ year old space. Without disclosing any college secrets, this building is a part of the group of edifices the university hopes to refurbish or replace in the not too too distant future. (I think that's vague enough). The last, very important, detail you should know is that the University replaced the two elevators in my building last summer, but this story comes from the Spring prior to their replacement. 

About 8 months ago I remembered that all of the music I had illegally downloaded in college was still in my computer from years ago. Somehow, as that machine became outdated, I forgot to transfer the thousands of music files over into whatever new machine I got with plenty of memory to handle it all. This has left me, for about the past 7-10 years with the same 10 or so albums on my cell phone. And, because music has never been something I was much invested in, i.e. I don't have Spotify or Apple Music - I JUST had these albums as the only music on my phone for what must be the much bigger part of a decade. 

They are an eclectic bunch that I've gotten to know intimately. And with one NOTABLE exception, I'm only mortified at the dearth of content contributing to the background music to my life - not full on embarrassed by the content itself.  What's more - since I now have all of my prior albums loaded onto my phone - I have to do this from memory. I laugh in the face of danger. Let's get into it.

image from https://blog.discmakers.com/2017/10/get-your-songs-in-music-libraries/

The past week has been Jackson Pollack of emotions. 

My brother says he hasn't started so many sentences with "As a Jew . . ." since we taught Hannukah every year in elementary school. I don't have as many friends, so I've been saved from being a Jewish mouthpiece, but nothing can protect me from being a human being.

I had to get off Facebook for awhile. That's saying something since their algorithm has got my circadian rhythm pegged. But the faces of lost souls in Israel and in Gaza staring out at me are heartbreaking enough, but the overripe opinions that fall like crab apples from the Facebook Marketplace are too much to bare. 

I am not a geopolitical expert. I grew up an observant Conservative Jew, more observant than the rest of my family, and lived on a kibbutz for a year and a half of my most formative years. I have lost two friends to religious violence. It is impossible to not have bias. But today I am a humanist by nature, and my skepticism of how religion ends up parroting ideas of sanctity over care, has left me searching for my own ideas around regarding a power greater than ourselves.

To write about Israel with the idea that one has all the answers is simply proving you do not. There is nothing simple about what is going on in this war, and to believe it is, is to crush the totality of 5000 years of experience down a single convenient frame, with which you inspect under a religiously-branded telescope. 

Hamas is an evil organization that must be stopped. Targeting innocent people is not war, it is terror. Yes, Hamas pushes to be the voice of the Palestinian people, but they are not. In truth, Hamas's actions put the Palestinian people directly in harms way, and therefore it is dangerous to conflate the two -- as well as it plays into Hamas' propaganda. 

At the same time. They are not completely independent. Which is to say if Israel didn't hold 2 million people in an  tiny open air prison, there would be no empowered Hamas. Having a Jewish Prime Minister who has been casually cruel to the blight of the Palestinian people has not helped calm tensions in the region (as Bibi hubristically suspected). One can speak to the lack of humanity Israel has for Palestinians and still be crushed and speak out against the cruelty of Hamas. To point out suffering is not endorsing terrorism, it is contextualizing it. It is all human suffering. Put more clearly, it is consistent to be both against Israeli occupation and Hamas' terrorism. It is putting innocent human life first. 

When they report the innocent Israeli and Palestinian deaths separately each night on the news, it hurts. To see the innocent lives lost being weighed on a scale of social identity, I can't help but think we are missing the point. Distinguishing whose dead are whose is just a springboard to revenge and further dehumanization of the other. I'm not sure what the solution is, but amplifying outgroup hate isn't the way.

The innocent didn't ask for this war. The people, don't start these wars. Politicians and policies start war. Any American who went abroad during the George W. Bush Gulf War or during the totality of the Trump presidency has had to explain to foreigners the difference between what America does, and how the American people feel about it. Hell, up until this point Israel has been regularly protesting against its own Prime Minister. Countries are not monolithic; their inhabitants contain multitudes. And yet as countries fight wars, their people pay the price. 

And the people are bleeding. People who just want the peace of mind of being to go to sleep and wake up safe the next morning are flung into a war zone. In Israel and in Gaza. I don't have answers. My heart will continue to sit cracked, sunny side down, and work towards empowering as many innocent and essential  souls we have left. 

Am Yisrael Chai

Free Palestine

Often loss and growth happen simultaneously, but it never feels that way when they're happening.
The failures, which become our stepping stones are only geographical, and geological, in hindsight.
While my teaching career has grown, it has taken an unmistakable toll on my writing.
My words languish.
Fairness has no place in loss, only in letting go,
and the hardest things to lose are those that can't be seen.
So you carry their burden alone. Changed and unchanged.
More than one thing at a time.
Loss and growth.

I went to the edge of the water. The Atlantic.
The water curled in, slowly tearing seams in the adjacent craggy mountainside
The darkened lines of erosion looked like teardrops on the opposing rock face.
Wet slashes from a frigid and unsympathetic ocean.
It becomes futile to deny the beauty of the fragile dance of water and stone --
Despite their inevitability.
Growth and loss.

Hello again. The world's on fire and we need a smile so here we go:

If you read my last post, you already know that in a panic-induced shopping incident I inadvertently bought the title product instead of extra-strength tablets. That's my bad. But, since becoming a first time owner of an altogether new, to me, product, I have some suggestions. Marketing suggestions.

At this point, and I'm talking to you liquid pain reliever manufacturers, your target audience is parents and people who are too busy, distracted, or panicked to read a box before purchasing a product. And you are leaning into that "distracted" market by not clearly labelling the box "liquid."  Too simple and clear. Instead, in the upper right hand corner, away from all the other information it says,"oral suspension," which sounds more like a WIPEOUT challenge than a description of liquid.

I have a bunch of topics to write about. But, before I do I think it's important that my readers have some insight into my mindset during this current COVID-19 crisis. Am I scared? Do I think we are all sheeple? As a means of answering all of your questions, I present to you this very real vignette from a few weeks into the quarantine.

Matt's First Visit to CVS, and, in a Larger Sense, His First Time Out and Around Other People

The first thing you need to know is that I feel lucky. Lucky that I can work from home. Lucky I have a home and food security. Lucky that all of my levels of privilege let me worry about others during a pandemic, and not worry about my own survival. Lucky.

That said. One of my prescriptions has run out. The important one. The one I can't "just not take" without immediate and unsavory consequences. I have to go the the pharmacy, it isn't really a matter of choice. Sending my wife out for this, as opposed to grocery shopping, is essentially sacrificing her body for mine -- though if she goes, I go with her. I realize the previous sentence doesn't exactly read like marital bliss, but my anxiety is a red-eyed creature. And its teeth are real. And therefore, this is a reality, even though it isn't ideal.

I prepare. I obviously have a mask. I have read 22 different articles about wearing gloves and all the smart people say they cause more problems than they solve. I believe science and leave my food prep gloves at home. I lather my hands with soap for 20 seconds, I rinse in burning hot water (the virus doesn't like the heat), but I don't rinse well. I want a thin film of soap to still be coating my hands, like a force field, as I walk the half mile to the store. I touch my pocket to make sure my ID and credit card, already pre-removed from my wallet, are present and accounted for. I don't wear headphones because it feels like too much future touching of stuff. I depart.

I ended up in the Emergency Room this past Friday, and I don't even have a good reason why.

That's obviously a partial lie. What I mean to say is I didn't get doored, or finally get into that road rage street brawl we all know is just a matter of time. That said, my Adam's apple did swell up to the size of a baseball/softball, and that's not good. Turns out, it's not "that bad" if the cause of said swelling can be located with imaging. So my PCP sent me for an ultrasound on Friday afternoon. Everyone was pretty sure that my thyroid was to blame, and thyroiditis is eminently treatable, and once you have the diagnosis . . . . all the worry really calms down. Allegedly.

The rare huge-throated Mattibird

At 2pm I head to "the big hospital" to get my ultrasound.

Time stands still in a hospital. Since every problem must be dealt with scientifically and methodically, the only interjections of time are when people are rushed in, when others are rushed to surgery, and the chilling starter's pistol of a patient coding. With life and death so brazenly on display, it's difficult to parse the dramatic change in pacing from the gut punch of watching a person's worst moment fly right past you down the hall.

I have a bone to pick with the LGBTQ+ community. I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm mad at the group as a whole, but I definitely have beef.

Anyone who has read anything on this blog knows this isn't about sex or gender at all. Whatever LGBTQ+ people do with their bodies is as beautiful or disgusting as the shit straights do with theirs. Live loud, live proud. Go you. . . like . . . as a group.

I'm having flashbacks to pre-grad school. While those words hold no real polarizing valence, I can tell you with certainty, it's a good thing.

Back in Boston, inhabiting coffee shops. I find various cozy electrified nooks and each day brings new coworkers with colorful tales to overhear. You never forget the first break-up you get to completely overhear one side off.

"Tell me what I just said? What did I just say? Cause you're not even listening. Ok, a summary, the gist, of what I just said? It IS important! This is the whole problem. UUUUUfffff. You're infuriating."

Solid content.

In the end, it will be our humanity. Our so called "higher intelligence," and the ability to feel we can make sense of our world, that will be our species undoing.

Australia is burning, and it is a sources of endless personal sadness. The reports from NASA say the smoke, which is currently causing tennis players in Melbourne to collapse from smoke inhalation, will literally be felt globally. The smoke from a country on fire in the middle of a seemingly far away ocean, will circumnavigate the globe. We are already a world on fire.

I'm still on superheroes.

But today we're coming at the subject from a completely different angle.

I think comics writers have messed up a bunch of these origin stories. In what Social Psychology calls the Fundamental Attribution Error, many of these stories have emphasized the person as the driving force of their own destiny, and discounted the undeniable importance of the situation. To wit, readers or viewers first meet the young Carol Danvers, Peter Parker, Clark Kent (as a kid pre-powers), Hal Jordan, etc. pre-powers. As a viewer, we feel we understand the moral fiber of these characters before they realize their powers. But I think, for many of them, perhaps their powers ended up being the driving force of their future nature.

A great number of super-villains and evil mutants emit energy beams/lasers/fire/spikes/insert-dangerous-substance-or-weapon shooting from somewhere on/in their body. In my mind, the day you get pissed and turn the JV basketball team into a shish-kebab with your pre-pubescent projectile extrusions, is the day your "good guy" status also gets skewered through the heart. During that double-dutch tournament where Macy's feet begin emitting systemic booms, destroying the gym and killing everyone on the bleachers, she's probs not gonna be drafted to the superhero league of cool kids the next season. Macy's on the run. And that's how Macy became a super-villain.

I was b b b b born to be b b b bad!

I've been thinking a lot about superheroes and their huge resurgence in popularity in the past decade. Even more so than the heyday of comic books, superheroes, their origin stories, and their crossovers, have themselves crossed over into the mainstream. These days we aren't just seeing reboots of comic book characters moving to tv and movies, but whole new takes on the genre -- shows like The Boys and Raising Dion, which grapple with larger questions of morality and difference in the modern world.

The Boys

As I get older, I've been taking giving thanks more and more seriously. As life gets more complex, more difficult, and less forgiving -- it becomes all the more pressing to spend time focusing on the good in one's life. Even if that success is just the mortar between bricks of shit in a wall that continues up past the desiccated fields and then onward, up and over the horizon.

I'm thankful to be here this Thanksgiving. Here in time. I'm thankful it isn't last year. I'm thankful to have been provided more students to engage and educate. I'm thankful that this academic process continues to be reciprocal and energizing.

I'm thankful to know who I can turn to for support. I have recommitted to those that are committed to me. My friendships feel reciprocal, even if I'm still gun shy after my experiences in the past few years. Recently, there have been moments when I experience spontaneous joy in a way that I thought I'd lost forever, not too long ago.

I'm thankful that my work keeps me focused on systematic inequalities in a way that promotes my constant empathy. Being empathetic takes work. And practice. It's all too easy to write off those who are less fortunate, or even just different than you, because you have a head full of tasks that you have to get done today, and not enough hours in the day to complete them. When your day is spent instilling empathy as a mindset to young adults - it  becomes near impossible to deny the humanity in every person I come across. And I'm thankful for those reminders.

I'm thankful for dogs. All dogs. Especially my dogs. Talk about empathy. These dogs have cuddled me when I was down, and forced me to exercise for my own health, even when the couch was warm and incredibly inviting. Grover's fur has absorbed my tears and Falcor's tongue has cleaned their tracks directly from my eyes until I couldn't help but break out in a giggle fit. And that isn't even touching on the love that swells inside me when I scratch their bellies or rest my forehead on the soft wrinkles of their massive foreheads. I'm so thankful to dogs. And a few friendly cats that I'm making acquaintance with get some special mentions here. I'm not saying I'm a cat person - but I do see now that some cats are pretty cool. Pretty cool indeed.

My wife. Oh my wife. So much thanks. I am eternally grateful for the honesty in our relationship. And I guess, in the same way, the trust that we can be honest with each other and that unconditionally, it will be ok. And to be clear, I'm NOT saying that our relationship is perfect. Far from it, if there is such a thing as "it" in the first place. But, I think we both follow the advice my Dad once gave me during a particularly hard time.  He said, "If you can't trust and be open with the person you chose to spend your life with, well then, you're really fucked." I continue to be thankful for said advice. I think he's right.

And while this isn't a complete list, lastly, I'm glad I'm writing this all down here on my blog. A place I am actively working on re-inhabiting. As I wrote many years ago, a writer writes because it is in them, a part of their nature. To not write causes a blockage in the system where a backlog of ideas and emotions clog up my headspace, waiting to be thrown down on a page and made real.

The past few years have been, well, surreal. And, uncoincidentally, silent.

Now it's time to reclaim the narrative as I begin replanting my roots in the greater Boston area, and begin to tell my story once again.

There are some emotions that are more productive, in terms of producing writing, than others. For me, anxiety is my cash crop. The worries, fears, and second thoughts are a cavalcade of words, all I have to do is funnel all that content into meaningful turns of phrase and relatable empathy-provoking pain. Often, the pain/hilarity ratio of anxiety is around 50/50. Not for me to experience, mind you, but for you to read. When your inner voice won't shut up, there is always something to write about.

Anger, for me, is quiet. Rage, almost silent. Not much help. But we are living in a time of rage, and it requires as many voices as it can gather and scream bloody murder into the night and day and life and love and death together.

(image from drug.com)