May 312011
 

Dear Ask Amy,

I have been having trouble getting responses from my friends on Facebook when I make witty comments.

For instance, An Aunt on my Mother’s side posted that she was feeling tired and puffy. One of her friends replied that maybe she had the jaundice. I suggested that maybe she had the Michelin, but nobody made any more comments to either of us after mine. Maybe they didn’t understand. The Michelin Man is made out of tires. Get it? And he looks all puffy. Or maybe my comment was just so spot on brilliant that nobody had the courage to try to top it. But, I’m having trouble figuring out which way it is.

Another time, someone mentioned that a customer had broken a contract. I told them that it was a good thing that they didn’t live in ancient Egypt when contracts were written in hieroglyphics on clay tablets because then when someone broke a contract it was literally broken. Nobody commented on that one either.

My question is this: can you tell me if I am funny or not?

Hilarious in Harrisburg

Dear Hilarious,

I’m not going to touch that with a ten-foot Hungarian. Just don’t give up your day job. Also, never stoop to explaining a joke. If it crashes and dies, just bury it.

Copyright 2011, David Satterlee

Creative Commons License This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License (CC BY-NC-ND 3.0), which essentially says that you are free to share the work under the conditions that you attribute it fully, do not use it for commercial purposes, and do not alter it.

May 312011
 

By David Satterlee

Growing up is all about existential angst. Yes, that’s where to start. Not with the spitting up, crawling, and preverbal babbling. The real issues of growing up are: What’s it all about? To be or not to be? What do you want to be when you grow up? What is the meaning of life, the universe, and everything? As a crusty old man looking back, I can see that I repeatedly died to myself and was reborn in progressive and incremental stages. [Below, I will assign colors to these stages for later reference.]

I grew up as “young brother perfect” in an unconventional Christian fundamentalist faith. The angels were watching and God knew everything I did. I wanted a pony in the Kingdom. If I wasn’t good, I couldn’t live in the New World. [purple]

I was one of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Life was a constant struggle with “worldly” people. I wouldn’t celebrate your pagan holidays, enter one of your churches, and would not spend much time with your children because they were “bad associations.” I knew in primary school that college would only corrupt my faith; it was clearly not for me. [red]

By my teen years, I was past “Aren’t you a cute little boy with your Watchtower.” and into earning approval inside the congregation. We were Bible students. We were committed to getting it right and we were better than you. To prove it, we would wake you up on Saturday mornings to tell you so right to your face. We wanted nothing much to do with your corrupt world. We were witnesses of our God and it was wonderful. [blue]

It was appalling. Something about it was not right. As a young adult, earning a living and caring for my family, I was determined to make a success of myself. Life was exciting. I had interesting technical work. I read the news, studied every new field that caught my interest. I still had ambitions to advance in the congregation, but it was not making me joyful. A life of Godly devotion was supposed to be as good as it got. I explored the self-help and leadership literature. I checked out books on psychology and relationships. I sneaked home books on meditation and Zen. [orange]

Somewhere in this process, some author mentioned Ken Wilber and I made a note of it. I searched him out at Borders Books and bought The Essential Ken Wilber. It was strange and hard to chew, but there was something essentially coherent in there. I was hooked and read better than 2,500 pages of Wilber before my orgy of introspection and expanded horizons had wound down. My world had changed. I now belonged to all of humanity and could examine others’ beliefs without cringing and love them without reserve. [green]

Ken Wilber reports that he faced his own disillusionments (with science) but completed school with degrees in chemistry and biology. He explored Buddhism and tried to find a way to reconcile it with Western thought. In 1973, he wrote The Spectrum of Consciousness and began lecturing and teaching workshops about the hidden unities and relationships of disparate scientific fields, philosophies, and world views.

After the death of his wife from cancer in 1987, Ken isolated himself and spent over a decade in intense research and voluminous writing. He reads voraciously and writes loquaciously. He writes from depths of personal clarity, expresses himself with a mix of well-ordered precision and poetic exuberance, and exudes unabashed authority.

Ken Wilber has a special interest in mysticism and what Aldous Huxley called “The Perennial Philosophy.” The man walks his talk. He meditates and achieves altered states of consciousness at will. He does all this without abandoning Western standards of scientific inquiry. Any page in one of his books may discuss authorities as disparate as Sri Aurobindo, Jean Gebser, Clare Graves, Chogram Trungpa Rinpoche, Jean Piaget, or Plotinus.

Although this may sound like an unholy mess, Ken has borrowed, trimmed and constructed a philosophical framework for organizing his observations. He first assumes that every view has a discernable orientation and something worthwhile to contribute. The first construct of his framework is a four quadrant matrix using internal vs. external orientation against singular vs. plural reference. Essentially, these indicate internal perception, external observation, closed cultural views, and open societal views. He adds multiple lines of progressive development such as emotional, mathematical, musical, and spiritual. Development along any of these lines follows predictable stages such as Jane Lovinger’s stages of ego development. He distinguishes between temporary peak experience states and permanently achieved stages. He allows for both feminine compassionate/relationship approaches and masculine agentic/justice approaches to achieved states.

Ken has also incorporated the research of Clare Graves (as developed by Don Beck and Christopher Cowan into “Spiral Dynamics.”) Spiral Dynamics describes and assigns color codes to the successive world views that are experienced as individuals and cultures mature. Beige for instinctual reactions; purple for spirits and superstition; red for survival struggle; blue for obedience to authority (including religious conformity); orange for strive/drive ambition; green for sense of united open community; yellow for ability to observe the dynamics of complex systems; and turquoise for an integrated sense of being and belonging while within life’s chaos.

Now, I can see that I have been developing through predictable transformations of worldview. This suggests a structure for growing toward future stages. The existential angst is receding but not gone. I am a brother to all things. My responsibility is to learn and love; to improve myself and leverage that growth into the goal of enlightenment for all sentient beings. There remain unimaginable mysteries. There remains too little time in this flesh. What can I do? What can it mean? What will come next?

Copyright 2011, David Satterlee

Creative Commons License This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License (CC BY-NC-ND 3.0), which essentially says that you are free to share the work under the conditions that you attribute it fully, do not use it for commercial purposes, and do not alter it.

 

May 272011
 

Individuals generally derive their identity based on the groups to which they belong. Sometimes group membership, when the group is seen negatively, causes the members to suffer low self-esteem. Consider the various groups to which you belong.  What instance(s) can you relate from your life in which membership in a certain group caused you to have low self-esteem?

Having someone criticize the community to which you belong does not have to direct your self-esteem. Your response is dependent on the nature of your own character, values, and worldview. Continue reading »

May 272011
 

Some Excellent Food for Thought

On August 21, my wife and I travelled to Raleigh, North Carolina to attend the 2009 annual forum of the Central Carolina Songwriters Association. We had high hopes to pick up helpful songwriting tips and make some networking contacts. We anticipated a sizable event—perhaps 100 people—and arrived early with high expectations. We discovered 20 people in a church basement. The mood was exceptionally casual; the proceedings started 20 minutes late.

My primary critique is of the first speaker, Paul Barton. Although Barton had made little obvious preparation, he seemed to consider himself a naturally outgoing rascal. He briefly described his studio and his technical music production work, and eventually offered a few interesting comments. However, he spent the bulk of his presentation mugging for the audience. Several times he reclined on the front of the stage while talking, or left the stage and sat beside someone, or draped his arm over their shoulders.

He used a few PowerPoint notes, but often turned his back to the audience to consult them as he continued to talk. Some of his mannerisms were cute the first time, but quickly grew anoying. For instance, he has the practiced ability to imitate the sound of a reel to reel tape player rewinding briefly. When he misspoke, he would say “rewind,” loudly into his microphone while reproducing that sound.

Barton offered a few aphorisms that could have been the basis for some interesting observations, but he repeatedly intoned them with a deep voice into his microphone as if they were so profound that they needed no further elaboration. At one point, he made an observation about one of the ladies in the audience that he knew enjoyed singing in the shower and turned this into a distasteful series of sexual innuendos, which were taken up and continued by the second speaker. But that

The second speaker, Mike Tavlor, is an experienced songwriter, and brought his guitar to the stage. Although he made a promising start, his initial observations about music and harmony theory quickly bogged down as the audience plagued him with tedious questions about the most elementary aspects of chord structure.

This was followed by the midmorning break, where Dianna and I hastily agreed that there was little for us here except the great Krispy Kreme donuts. We stepped outside for some air and never came back. On the way out of town we discovered a Schlotzsky’s restaurant and enjoyed our sandwiches very much.

So, I would have to say that we thought the food was excellent.

Copyright 2009, David Satterlee

Creative Commons License This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License (CC BY-NC-ND 3.0), which essentially says that you are free to share the work under the conditions that you attribute it fully, do not use it for commercial purposes, and do not alter it.

May 272011
 

The movie “28 Days” explores the experience of social intoxication, its consequences, and the experience of rehabilitation therapy. It did not seem compelling or motivating; the plot was more of a device to splice together caricatures of people and situations. That observation stayed with me throughout the film and was so perplexing that I watched the first third of the film again with director’s commentary set on. Although the director had once been in rehab, none of the commentary dwelt on alcoholism, but only on their experiences in solving challenges presented by the various scenes. They did not seem to have any concept or interest in presenting a message.

The initial token scenes depict a cultural of thoughtless social drinking; indifferent to consequences. Flashbacks to Gwen’s childhood “explain” how she got in this condition. Her drunken state at her sister’s wedding is glared at in disapproval as it becomes more and more grotesque. Everybody seems willing to just watch as she self-destructs.

Next, we see her in a therapy session where she shows self-contempt and self-destructiveness while tossing off trite aphorisms about drinking. She is in denial: “I don’t have a problem. I’m just having fun. I can control myself. I could quit if I wanted to.”

In a defining moment, we see Gwen throwing her drugs down the drain. In a 12-step program, we are treated to: “Man, this is not a way to live. This is a way to die.” We are shown that old relationships have the power to lure her back.

Entering rehab, Gwen feels pain and self-pity and concludes that living is losing. We get unsatisfying lines like: “Everybody hurts everybody”, “I liked you better the old way”, and “Hurting yourself feels better than everything else.” As a victim, she concludes that life is unfair and uses that as an excuse to abandon self-control.

Her turnaround begins with conversations with a fellow rehab patient—a baseball pitcher. He treats her to his philosophy that: “You should only worry about the things you can control,” and “The definition of insanity is continuing to do the same thing and expecting different results.” Preparing to leave the rehab facility, she has the catharsis of confession and is told: “Those are just the things you’ve done; not who you are.”

Gwen finds some support with her sister and discovers that she should have been willing to ask for help because she needed it just like everybody does. She discovers that all her old friends and patterns of life have to be left behind in order to avoid relapsing. Finally, the shallow summary lines are: “We are our own worst enemy or best friend.” And “You have to get help to help yourself.”

I was disappointed that the movie rarely went more than skin deep, did not present sympathetic characters, and relied so heavily on lightweight, self-help, pop psychobabble. It felt more like a connect-the-dots “don’t drink” cartoon for adolescents or a vehicle to market Sandra Bullock in a “serious” role. I was, however, especially fascinated by the rehab set location at an historic Boy Scout lodge, just outside of Black Mountain, North Carolina, that I have visited on several occasions.

Copyright 2009, David Satterlee

Creative Commons License This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License (CC BY-NC-ND 3.0), which essentially says that you are free to share the work under the conditions that you attribute it fully, do not use it for commercial purposes, and do not alter it.

May 272011
 

A little boy threw something out the window of his school bus. The driver saw him and gave him a note to take home to be signed. This little guy is bright, full of life, and his eyes shine with hope, joy, and irrepressible potential. Why had he done this and what is to be done?

Coming in the door, our intrepid miscreant meets his waiting grandmother. I can imagine his apprehension and hesitation. He already knows he’s in some kind of trouble. Worse yet, Grandma is a retired elementary school teacher. Grasshopper stands nervously in front of Master. She sees instantly that something is amiss. Still, she doesn’t hesitate to reward his homecoming with her biggest smile and warmest hug.

“Can I go out and play with Bobby?”

“What are you holding?”

“A note.”

“Well, then I had better read it.”

The usual suspect reluctantly surrenders the charges against him to the officer of the court and examination begins.

“What did you throw out the window?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Uh huh. What did you throw out the window?”

“A piece of paper.”

“Why?”

“A boy told me too.”

“Why?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What did the bus driver say?”

“I don’t remember.”

Grandma is no fool. “Well then, I need you to sit on this chair and try to remember while I finish cooking supper.”

For our little boy, time passes like he were crossing a turbid stream. He cannot see his feet nor the uneven bottom of the stream bed where he must place them. Surging water constantly threatens his balance. He is alone; with no one to hold his hand. The far bank is in sight, but his immediate future is clearly at risk.

Granny loves him enough to let him suffer for a while. Eventually—no, actually at a thoughtfully chosen interval—Granny turns from her work and, offering a reassuring smile, resumes the interrogation. “What did the bus driver say?”

“He said, ‘That was stupid.’”

Granny’s diaphragm spasms and she barely suppresses the impulse to cackle hysterically. “Well, do you think it was stupid?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“You know you shouldn’t litter.” Grandma has made a misstep, but she doesn’t realize it yet. She had him on the defensive but has just appealed to the knowledge and rationality of a prepubescent child.

Seizing the opportunity to object, he asserts himself. “But I wasn’t littering.”

“You threw paper out the window.”

“But, littering is when you throw a can out the window.” A cunning twitch of satisfaction caresses his lips. But now he has made a misstep; forgetting that he is arguing against prosecutor, judge, and jury.

“Littering is when you throw anything on the ground.” Objection denied. There is no further response from the accused; he has no recourse but to throw himself upon the mercy of the court. The verdict is in and It is all over except for the defendant’s statement and the reading of the sentence.

“How do you feel about your littering?”

“It was wrong.”

“Should you do things just because another boy tells you to?”

His pupils dilate momentarily as he considers the potential loophole of being told to do something by a girl. Sanity returns. “No.”

“What should you have said to the boy that told you to do it?”

“I should have said, ‘I’m not stupid.’”

“Do you promise to not litter like that again?” “Like that,” she said. Grandma has deliberately given him some discretionary wiggle room. He understands that he just got a suspended sentence with probation. This will be a test of his character.

“Yes, I promise.” No hesitation. No caveats. Just so. Well done. She signs his note and hands it back. The trial is over and the jury is dismissed.

“Okay, then I guess you have about fifteen minutes to play with Bobby before coming in for supper.” He glances at his wristwatch. Granny knows that he will be back soonish. She bends down to give him a hug and kiss before he dashes off.

Hesitating, he looks back briefly and says “I love you.” They both know that his record has already been expunged.

Copyright 2011, David Satterlee

Creative Commons License This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License (CC BY-NC-ND 3.0), which essentially says that you are free to share the work under the conditions that you attribute it fully, do not use it for commercial purposes, and do not alter it.

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