Question: If you could read the brain of anyone in the world and find out what they truly think about you, who would it be?

Just a quick blurb for thought that I just had. Do you think our society deals properly with male anger?

On the one hand, some of you might say our society is enamored with vigilante justice and glorifies a violent, angry response to problems.

On the other hand, some of you might say that the educational system and church does its best to silence, shame, and/or medicate any boys who are too intense and too outspoken.

I'm not really sure what I think yet. Too much tolerance of anger leads to a selfish society. But too little tolerance of anger leads to apathy and passivity. Or do we have it just right? Thoughts?

I decided to twist the "Ask me anything" posts I've seen on Xanga lately. If you leave me a comment here, I will ask you a question in the comment section. I will be asking personal questions directly based on what I know from you. Go for it.

When I get an idea for a Xanga post, it may stay in my head for days before I actually post it. It thus gets some time to marinate and age well until it comes forth freshly seasoned for your blogonomical consumption. (Whoa, "nom" can also be seen as an abbreviation of gastronomical. MIND. BLOWN.) I do love writing a post where I feel like each word was already written, and I am merely changing the font color to make it visible for all.

The problem is that often a highly polished post gives no room for reader interaction. It seems at times that the more well-written a post is, the less likely it is to actually create a good conversation. At times on the web, there's an amusing phenomenon where having slight errors and inconsistencies, or publishing something that isn't quite airtight in its arguments, actually creates a better post. As people rush to debate and correct and polish, they co-create with the original writer, and it provides a possibility for a better post than what might have occurred otherwise. Raving and ranting, even though it may seem juvenile, can actually help create truth and uncover hidden frustrations and feelings.

However, there's a point at which unpolished posts create harm. For example, writing a post titled "Why are Greek People so Argumentative!" and then babbling about it would be a poor use of ranting (example as well of the UCLA video that offended Asian folk). When writing about an ethnic category or type of person, ranting and using a broad brush creates an unfair feeling of cruelty and judgment. If one is going to tread on such areas, one should be classy enough to create airtight, reasoned arguments. It's exactly why I don't read some of the more popular bloggers. They intentionally slur groups for pageviews, and then act as if they are creating art or discussion instead of just manipulating and offending for amusement. Rudeness, even when hidden behind humor, is rudeness. I'm reminded of Solomon's proverb that "Like a madman who shoots flaming arrows, arrows, and death, so is the person who tricks his neighbor and says, 'I was only joking!'"

In the end, I decided to private Monday's post for now. I do sometimes think I should be a little more emotional and direct in my posts. Those of you who know me off Xanga know I can be quite opinionated at times. But words have power, and although too much polish can be intimidating and perfectionistic, too little polish can be offensive. It's a delicate dance, but one worth undertaking, just as the chef attempts to perfectly time when the dish is removed from the oven. Seasoning one's speech with salt and avoiding idle words can become frustrating at times, but the peace and joy that result are well worth it. So back to the kitchen it is, with the tap shoes on and the apron at the ready. Thanks for reading this rather self-centered, mundane take on the writing process.

Prayer has always been one of the hardest parts of the Christian life for me to follow. The idea of talking to the air or listening for God's guidance is tough for my logic-driven mind to grasp. However, paradoxically, prayer also seems to be what I'm best at. Usually, if I pray hard for something, it gets fixed, or I at least feel more peace about it. I suppose it's much like exercise in that it's hard to start but you feel much better after you do it.

That said, I would like to try to pray more. One good inspiration is to have lots of things to pray for besides my own needs. So, if you have a prayer request, list it below, or send me a message. I have lots of travel time in next few weeks, so I'll print out the list and carry it around with me. Let's see what happens...

“Help, help!” The cries rang throughout  to Sherwood Forest. Friar Tuck, heavy-set and out-of-breath, ran towards the cries. It sounded like a young woman. Perhaps it was yet another trick by the Sheriff of Nottingham! But being both a man who followed Robin Hood and a man of the cloth, he must help a woman in distress. He finally stepped out into an open area of the field. A young woman, perhaps about 16 years old, was calling for help across the clearing. She was standing rather nonchalantly next to a tree. Friar Tuck looked both ways as he ran across the open space, worrying that he would get an arrow for his troubles. But no such arrow came.

He reached the girl, slowing down lest some snake or quicksand was the cause of her cries. But she quieted as he ran closer, and he saw the cause of her troubles. Her foot had gotten wedged underneath a tree root in such a way that she could not withdraw it herself. After the Friar had ceased his panting, he introduced himself.

 “Young lady, I see you are caught in a trap.”

“And I see you are meddling” she retorted. “What made you think I was calling for you?”

Taken aback, the plump priest was silent for a moment. “Well, young woman, I assumed that you were needing help…”

“I was” She replied. “But not from you, although I assume, being a man of the cloth, you mean well. I was calling for a unicorn to rescue me.”

The fat friar attempted to stifle his laughter. Thankfully, years of hearing confessions had steeled him to bear with many amusing moments of human weakness. “A unicorn, my dear child? What makes you…”

“Yes, a unicorn!” She said, with eyes flashing brightly. “He will come to me and with one slash of his great horn, he will free me from this trap! Then I will jump on his back and he will let me ride him to his special land!”

The blubber-filled Bible-carrier could barely restrain his merriment. “Tell me, young lady, how will this unicorn know to find you? I’ve heard that unicorns have surprisingly poor eyesight. What if he accidentally runs you through, or rescues another young lady by mistake?”

“I am not a young lady. I am more than old enough for the unicorn, and I am ready for him.” Her eyes flashed, but her eyes remained calm. “He will find me.”

The obese orison-giver realized that she was not as young as she had first seemed. “This is then…not the first time you’ve done this?” She nodded her head briefly. “Then…your foot is not truly caught in the root?”

“Oh no, it is fully caught.” She winced as she tried to move it. “I jammed my foot in there myself. But I wouldn’t change a thing. Each pain brings me nearer the unicorn. I shall bear a thousand griefs for the unicorn, and call for him until my throat is as hard and dry as his hooves!”

The weighty wordsmith began to feel real pity for the girl. “But my dear, this is an awful way to find the unicorn. Why must you cause yourself such pain? I see both your legs are black and blue. Please, let me cut you free. If it is riding itself you so crave, there are many horses. Why must you mistreat your body so, which the good Lord gave you?”

She seemed to listen for a moment, but then gritted her teeth. “Leave me! With the likes of you around me, no wonder the unicorn will come no closer! Begone, Fat Friar! Return to your musty scrolls and dusty confessionals! Leave me to the unicorn!”

How does it end?

Good news! I'm finally launching my imaginary music career, and I just got back the photo for my CD cover.
Bad news! I don't know what style of music I'm singing or what the title of the CD is. Can you help me?

After you do it for this photo, feel free to join in by uploading your own CD cover shot. So what style of music am I singing, and what is the album name?
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I can't stop thinking about "The Long Winter," written by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Snow and cold are the constant enemy. Desperate, finally Almanzo Wilder (a name so fake that it's real) and Cap Garland go on a 12 mile journey to find food. The rumors amazingly prove true, and they find a farmer with wheat, living all alone...who doesn't want to sell! They manage to avoid physical violence, coax him into selling, and come back just in time to avoid a monster blizzard. The whole story is just so oddly surreal. The snow plays the part of the quiet, murderous villain, who can never be killed but must be waited out. Weather has proved to be the villain in many stories, but the quiet cruelty of the snow, burying its victims, closing them into their homes and waiting for them to die, is a cut above the damage water, wind, and earthquake can do. For whatever reason, I want to see a movie adaptation of this, or a re-write of it all as a short story.

Speaking of nature, I want to start a web-site dedicated to scary trees. I loved this funny comic about bad trees, by the way. People could submit their photos of dark, scary looking trees, with bikes, kittens, and kites trapped in its branches, just waiting to eat passer-bys. It's all about the aesthetics, you know?

Speaking of aesthetics, it amuses me how bands seek so desperately for unique clothing. "We're not normal people! We're band members!" It's as if they long to be considered aliens from another country rather than humans. "Hello, we are gods from Bandlandia because we have these special clothes not available in stores. Worship us and give us your plump virgins!" I know, our country loves music dearly, but if you stop to think about it for just one second, it gets pretty ridiculous. So, um, don't, and turn the stereo louder. What good is talent unless you wear silly clothes and shout loudly to draw attention to yourself?

Speaking of shouting loudly, I can't believe how talented 1930's Germany was, and how easily it still fell to the voice of Hitler. Here was this poor country, still somewhat devastated by war, filled with intellectuals. Artists, rocket scientists, theologians, Einstein! all there, and all fleeing Hitler in the end. Do we as Americans ever think about how much America benefited from the influx of German minds? No way we win the space race without Wernher Von Braun...or perhaps build the nuclear bomb without Einstein. Ah, Einstein, with that snow-white mass of...but it is the long winter, and my voice trails off as I look outside and finish this post.

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I find myself musing lately a lot on the need for a recipient in social networks. For every writer, there must be a reader. For every vlogger, there must be a viewer. For every singer, there must be an audience. Creative works constructed for their own sake do exist, and many of us dabble in creativity merely for our own enlightenment. However, for most the appreciation of the audience is the fuel that makes it possible to stay in studios and apartments for hours at a time, churning out our best efforts.

However, what worries me now is that my belief in the Reader (capitalization intentional) is shaken. As our society gets busier, as we grow ever more selfish, no one wants to be the active listener anymore. Getting a lengthy reply (or giving one, for that matter) becomes more and more scarce over time. I laugh a little as I see Formspring and similar sites start to fail. Those sites depend on people being unselfish enough to ask other people questions as well as waiting to be asked questions. Meanwhile self-centered sites like Youtube and Dailybooth grow rapidly; they have no need for an audience and are self-erected monuments to one's own legacy. I see Xangans pleading and begging for people to ask them questions or give them comments, while never dreaming of proactively asking questions themselves and being interested in others.

It depresses me. The glorious Reader, the intelligent and witty observer, the friendly and caring confidant, seems to be on life support. I go to my old favorite blogs about sports, about romance, about pretty much everything, and I see ghost towns filled with white space where thriving comment communities once existed. It's not just a Xanga problem, I'm afraid. You may argue that the Reader was always a being on the verge of extinction. What does one person's opinion matter among millions? Why take the time to write a response or send a thank-you when you've already gotten what you wanted? But I fear that such attitudes represent a descent into sheer commoditization of entertainment, where soul and mystery is distilled into units and utility. For an interactivity junkie like myself, who loves the connections created by creativity, this is where I begin to have withdrawal pains.

I love the Muse, with her sudden inspirations, her moments of white-hot creativity and fervent knowledge. But I've grown to love the Reader even more, with his ability to see new things from the rock that is higher than I and from his kindness to look past the words I write into my soul and then make the journey back to report what he has found, paying no attention to the disarray and still finding beauty. He may just be sleeping or away on business. But I fear he is dead. I will miss him.

   I feel like I need to do a quick throwaway blog, but real life is too interesting for me to take too much time away from it. (Yeah, odd change, right?). Here are three photos of some of my favorite literary things:

No, it's not a scorecard from my dating experiences. It's the scoresheet from my judging of the Xanga Teen Writing Contest! (link goes to top ten entries). I sponsored a contest, with prizes, for top teen writers on Xanga. It did result in people getting to know a few new writers, and I'm still pleased/proud of the experience overall. I just wish there were less entries; something like 100 posts to rate!

I'm totally not posting this so that you think I'm in touch with my inner feelings and I have a lot in common with Mr. Darcy. Nope. Totally not a scheme, just like the photo you took of yourself in a basketball jersey because whats-his-face likes the Lakers. We even? Ha, I do love Pride and Prejudice. I came across an abridged version as an awkward teen and thought (1) Elizabeth Bennett is so spirited, I want to meet someone like that someday and (2) if Mr Darcy can land Elizabeth after such an awful start, there's hope for me! I can't say I'm much of a fan of Austen's other works, though; they don't have same zing as P&P.

I've liked Louisa May Alcott for a very, very, very long time. Her writing makes me happy and restores my faith in humanity. It teaches me so much, too; the wisdom of Jo not marrying Laurie and how much that little story taught me about male and female relations, or how in Jo's Boys so many interesting role models and types for youg men are presented. Her biography is one of hard work amidst struggle. I would have to say that all things considered, she's a hero of mine. Invincible Louisa indeed!