Det finns en bild som många av oss bär på från barndomen: den långa bilresan, solen som flimrar genom sidorutorna, föräldrarnas tysta samtal i framsätet och sedan, som ett slags magi, en röst som börjar berätta. Kanske var det Astrid Lindgrens Ronja Rövardotter som lästes upp av en mjuk stämma via en skramlande kassettspelare. Kanske var det Emil i Lönneberga, eller något av de tusen andra sagor som Sverige fostrade sina barn med under bilsemestrar och långa sommarresor. Ljudböcker var barnens grej. Den var tidsfördrivets format. Den hörde hemma i bilen, inte i soffan.

Den uppfattningen levde länge. Länge nog för att forma en hel generations syn på vad det innebär att 'läsa' en bok. Att läsa var att sitta still. Att läsa var att ha boken i händerna, att känna papperet mot fingrarna, att se orden på sidan. Att lyssna på en bok var något annat – ett substitut, ett nödvändigt ont, ett sätt att konsumera en historia utan att egentligen ta sig tid att läsa den ordentligt. Den här synen var utbredd och den var enveten.

Men någonstans under det tidiga 2000-talets första decennium börjar något förändras. Inte dramatiskt, inte med fanfarer. Snarare som när man plötsligt märker att vädret har skiftat – man vet inte riktigt när det hände, men nu är det påtagligt annorlunda.

Den digitala vändpunkten

Det är svårt att peka ut ett enda ögonblick när ljudboken slutade vara barnens och bilresornas medium och blev något mer. Men om man försöker kartlägga förändringen landar man oundvikligen vid smarttelefonens genombrott. När vi fick datorer i fickorna fick vi också möjligheten att bära med oss bibliotekets hela samling, var vi än befann oss. Audible hade funnits sedan 1995, men det var först när det blev sömlöst integrerat med vår dagliga teknologi som formatet verkligen exploderade.

I Sverige blev Storytel, grundat 2005 men med sitt abonnemangsupplägg från 2012, en katalysator för en ny slags lyssnarkultur. Plötsligt var det inte en specifik bok man köpte utan tillgången till ett helt bibliotek. Precis som Spotify demokratiserade musiklyssnandet – och förändrade vår relation till musiken i grunden – förändrade streamingtjänsterna för böcker hur vi tänker på läsning.

Och med förändrade vanor kom en förändrad självbild hos lyssnarna. Plötsligt var det inte bara barn på bilresor som lyssnade på böcker. Det var pendlare på tunnelbanan. Det var löpare med hörlurar. Det var föräldrar som diskade efter middagen. Det var yrkesmänniskor som ville utnyttja sin pendlingstid. Och med dem kom en ny legitimitet.

Är det verkligen läsning?

Men legitimitetsfrågan är komplicerad. Den gnager. Räknas det? Den debatten är inte ny, men den har fått ny intensitet i takt med att ljudboken tagit allt mer plats. Bokens försvarare – ofta akademiker, litteraturkritiker eller kulturkonservativa röster – menar att läsning är en kognitiv process som kräver ögonens rörelse över texten, hjärnans aktiva avkodning av bokstäver och ord. Att lyssna är passivt. Att läsa är aktivt.

Neurovetenskapen ger en mer nyanserad bild. Forskning har visat att hjärnan i stor utsträckning bearbetar berättande och språk på liknande sätt oavsett om inputen är visuell eller auditiv. Den semantiska förståelsen, den emotionella responsen, förmågan att följa ett komplext narrativ – allt detta verkar fungera ungefär likadant. Skillnaderna finns, men de är inte av den karaktären att en läsform kan förklaras som överlägsen den andra.

Ändå är det svårt att helt avfärda känslan av att någonting är annorlunda. Det är annorlunda. Att läsa en roman med ögonen ger en frihet att pausa, att spola tillbaka i sinnet, att läsa om en mening vars skönhet slog en. Det ger en intimitet med textens rytm som uppstår i samspelet mellan ens egna inre röst och orden på sidan. Att lyssna är att låta någon annan bestämma tempot, röstens karaktär, pausernas placering. Det är en annan upplevelse – inte sämre, men annorlunda.

Och kanske är just den acceptansen – att de är olika utan att det ena måste underordna sig det andra – det viktigaste steget i hur vi tänker på detta. Böcker har aldrig haft ett enda format. Boktryckarkonsten ersatte det handskrivna manuskriptet. Pocketboken demokratiserade texten. E-boken utlovade ännu en revolution. Varje ny form väckte oro och motstånd, och varje gång visade sig oron vara, om inte ogrundad, så åtminstone överdriven.

Vad händer med den fysiska boken?

Och ändå: är den fysiska boken på väg att dö? Det är en fråga som ställs med jämna mellanrum, och det är en fråga som förtjänar ett seriöst svar snarare än ett reflexmässigt försvar.

Statistiken berättar en historia med inbyggda paradoxer. Ljudboksmarknaden i Sverige och globalt har vuxit explosionsartat under 2010- och 2020-talen. Storytel rapporterar ständigt nya prenumerantrekord. Younger generations – millennials och Generation Z – lyssnar mer än de fysiskt läser. Och ändå: den tryckta boken dör inte. Bokförsäljningen i Sverige har visat sig remarkabel stabil. Oberoende bokhandlar, som man trodde skulle sopas bort av näthandel och digitalisering, har i många städer återfött sig själva som kulturella mötesplatser.

Det verkar som att boken – det fysiska objektet – har funnit en ny identitet just i kontrast mot det digitala. I en värld där allt är flyktigt, delbart och ständigt uppdaterbart har papperet blivit en markering för permanens. Att äga en bok, att sätta den i bokhyllan, att kunna ta ned den om tio år och minnas var man var i livet när man läste den – det är en upplevelse som ingen strömtjänst kan replikera.

Det finns också en taktil dimension som är svår att rationalisera bort. Bokens vikt i handen. Pappersluktens specifika kemiska komplexitet – det är faktiskt ett ord för det, bibliosmia, kärleken till boklukt. Det faktum att man inte kan se batteriindikatorn minska. Det faktum att inga notifikationer bryter koncentrationen. Den fysiska boken är, i vår era av ständig uppkoppling, närmast ett meditativt objekt.

Berättarröstens renässans

En aspekt av ljudbokens uppgång som sällan diskuteras tillräckligt är vad den har gjort med berättarkonsten som sådan. Inspelningarna har blivit ett konsthantverk i sig. En bra uppläsning kan fördjupa ett verk på sätt som texten ensam inte förmår. Skådespelaren och röstartisten David Suchet, känd för sin tolkning av Hercule Poirot, har gjort en tolkningsnyckel av ett antal klassiker som många menar överstiger de ursprungliga texterna i kraft och närvaro.

I Sverige har ett antal röstartister blivit stjärnor inom formatet. Det finns lyssnare som medvetet väljer bort en bok om den läses av fel person. Rösten är en del av verket. Den här dimensionen av ljudboken är relativt ny – under kassettepokens glansdagar var uppläsningarna ofta torra och textbundna. Nu är det fullständiga produktioner, ibland med musik och ljudeffekter, ibland med omsorgsfulla tolkningar som tar decennier av skådespeleri i anspråk.

Det för oss tillbaka till ursprunget. Berättandet är, i sin mest ursprungliga form, muntligt. Innan skriften fanns sagor. Innan tryckpressen fanns skalden. Den som minns hur det kändes att ha en vuxen läsa högt för sig som barn – hur den rösten formade och färgade världen – förstår kanske varför ljudboken känns som något mer än ett substitut. Det är ett återvändande till något fundamentalt mänskligt.

Den nya ojämlikheten

Men det finns skuggsidor. Ljudbokens expansion har inte enbart varit demokratiserande. Det finns en oro, artikulerad av bibliotekarier och litteraturpedagoger, att den snabba konsumtionen av böcker via strömning skapar ett ytligare förhållande till texten. Prenumerationstjänsterna belönar kvantitet: ju fler böcker en lyssnare konsumerar, desto mer värd är prenumerationen. Det skapar ett incitament att lyssna fort, att välja det tillgängliga och behagliga framför det utmanande och svåra.

En annan oro handlar om vad som händer med de böcker som aldrig blir inlästa. I det digitala ekosystemet är synligheten allt. En titel som saknar inspelning riskerar att falla utanför det som räknas som tillgängligt. Esoteriska verk, smalare poesi, akademisk litteratur – det är format som passar dåligt för uppläsning och som därmed riskerar att marginaliseras ytterligare i ett medielandskap som i allt högre grad styrs av strömningsplattformarnas algoritmer.

Och det är värt att notera att tillgängligheten, som ofta lyfts fram som en av ljudbokens stora fördelar, fortfarande är ojämnt fördelad. För den med dyslexi eller synnedsättning är ljudboken en livlina – en möjlighet att ta del av litteraturen på lika villkor som andra. Men för den utan tillgång till en stabil internetuppkoppling, eller utan råd att betala en månatlig abonnemangsavgift, är det digitala biblioteket fortfarande stängt.

Vad läsning egentligen handlar om

Kanske är det dags att omformulera frågan. Istället för att fråga om den fysiska boken kommer att dö, kan vi fråga: vad är det vi egentligen vill bevara? Om svaret är litteraturen – berättelserna, tankarna, de mänskliga erfarenheterna som böckerna bär – så finns det goda skäl till optimism. Litteraturen lever och sprids bredare än någonsin. Fler röster hörs. Fler berättelser når ut.

Om svaret däremot är ett specifikt sätt att möta litteraturen på – stillsittandet, boken i handen, den personliga inre rösten som tolkar texten – så är den erfarenheten utan tvekan hotad. Inte utrotad, men förträngd. Tryckt på defensiven av ett accelererat medielandskap där uppmärksamheten är en bristvara och passivt lyssnande är enklare att infoga i vardagen än aktiv, koncentrerad läsning.

Det är en verklig förlust, om den sker. Det koncentrerade läsandets speciella egenskaper – förmågan att hålla kvar en komplex tanke, att bygga inre bilder utan yttre vägledning, att befinna sig i ett slags konstruktivt ensamskap med en text – är inte bara estetiska utan kognitiva och kanske till och med demokratiska. En befolkning som kan läsa djupt och kritiskt är mer motståndskraftig mot desinformation, mer kapabel till eftertanke, mer rustad för de komplexa samtalen som ett demokratiskt samhälle kräver.

Och när nästa generation barn sitter i baksätet – med trådlösa hörlurar och en strömningtjänst istället för en kassett – och låter en röst berätta dem in i en annan värld, så gör de exakt samma sak som de barn som kom före dem. De läser. De lyssnar. De lever.

Let us warm one another.

Your heart lights in me the glow of life. How fierce the fire my tongue sets in you. Let us start the wildfire of our longing. And rise and fall in one another’s embrace.

Ember to flame. Wind to torrent.

When the heat cools, what will we have wrought? But the greatest love story we have ever seen. I in you, and you in me. Books and moments and music and quiet contemplation. Great art, monuments to love... and some woe. And from us, great nations and worlds,

A universe begun with a spark in our eyes.

---

#poetry #wyst #love

Our Father Who art in heaven Hallowed be Thy name Thy Kingdom come Thy will be done on Earth as it is in heaven Give us this day our daily Bread And forgive us our trespasses As we forgive those who trespass against us And lead us not into temptation But deliver us from evil

Amen

Jesus is Lord! Come Lord Jesus!

Come Lord Jesus! Christ is Lord!

Three-Passenger Ship

And to our Atlas, as hers To the best of dawn, and the sea Floes of fish to coral Evidence be on the climb And substance heard, in prayer By particular way, honesty then Parchments of bread and maple Perhaps out of season- And Victory knew The edifice of days- back in tow And in her revenge, a catapult by the Maine Prodigy asleep But staying in Fortune This be the chill In beautiful air, to the distance with planes As they go Westward To a place of springing sea With other washmelt To the time, bless this ground And in the sympathy gait There was no noise to abate And vlad was sick Leeward May And had a plan in hand To announce a sub to a statue Nuclear ocean, the clear death of Holland Fearing the nights of other Crosses And on simple days, a church by a curb Setting lights upon servience Carroe few but this mist- And Audubon carry Perfumes of muster and the sick This is vlad’s place, they heard Digital and Troy Captive to all-hold In verdance by the Maine Happening know In the isles- and the end of the World Places by dawn And dealing there- to be gone.

Escuché tus canciones. No puedo decir que me conmovieron, pero sí que me parecieron diferentes. Eres un músico, quizás no maravilloso, pero sí especial. Tus letras son interesantes, pero sinceramente no puedo decir más, porque no las entiendo.

No sé por qué los jóvenes desperdician sus habilidades y talentos haciendo cosas raras. Sí, esa es la cuestión, cosas extrañas. Como quien dice, salidos de las pautas que han sido tan complejas de establecer. Imagína lo que costó a la sociedad aceptar el rock. Y cuando ya sus normas fueron adoptadas y hasta apreciadas, a unos jóvenes les dió por hacer cosas raras, por ejemplo el funk.

Imagínate lo de hoy. A dónde vamos a parar. Ya no se necesitan instrumentos. La música se hace pulsando unos botones.

Por eso me ha sorprendido gratamente tu disco. Todavía usas instrumentos. Todavía cantas con tu voz. Te felicito, eres un joven increíble. Y valiente: la crítica te va a despedazar.

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Aunque yo le digo a todos que mi cabaña es espaciosa, en realidad este tema forma parte de mis habituales fantasías. No es pequeña comparada con la que asigné a los duendes, si bien -proporcionalmente- la de ellos es más espaciosa.

Soy Santa Claus y a tí te conozco. Ya sabes que en Navidad no hay tiempo para presentaciones. Ahora puedo hacerlo porque estamos en marzo y te has sentado a mi lado con esa enorme jarra de cerveza. Yo llevo tres y estoy como nuevo.

-¿Tú eres de verdad Santa Claus? -¿Quién más, si no? Mírame. -Pero estás más delgado. -No te dejes llevar por las apariencias. Camarero, una más y la cuenta que ya es hora que algo pague mi amiguito. -Con gusto, y gracias por tantos detalles. Pero dime, ¿cuántos Santa Claus hay? -Yo qué sé. Nunca me había puesto a pensar en eso. -Pero es un hecho. -Sí, pero qué más da. Yo fui el que te tocó, y por eso te he reconocido. -¡Papá!

Debido a una pésima interpretación de ciertas filosofías orientales, estar aquí y ahora se encuentra sobrevalorado. Los mismos apóstoles de estos asuntos elogian a los visionarios como Julio Verne. Son capaces de hablar semanas enteras sobre lo magnífico que es tener un comportamiento virtuoso acumulando méritos para el mañana, meditar sobre el acontecimiento futuro de la muerte para observar lo transitorio de esta vida, y cuando explican la causalidad hablan del presente y del futuro como construidos con los ladrillos de las acciones que van quedando atrás.

Yo pienso que examinar el pasado puede ser fuente de lecciones que nos conducen a actuar de un modo más inteligente. Y considerar el futuro nos permite prever cuándo nuestros actos nos pueden encaminar al desastre.

Estar aquí y ahora puede ser magnífico. Vivir el presente es lo lógico en muchos sentidos pues podemos concentrar nuestra energía en lo que hacemos. Nos evita recordar episodios tristes del ayer que nos llevan a la depresión, o anticipar calamidades que el futuro nos puede deparar, con lo angustioso que eso resulta. Pero también puede hacernos estúpidos, porque hay otros sitios y otros tiempos que nos pueden dar algunas ideas para vivir mejor, incluso para imaginar de un modo creativo y placentero.

El aquí y el ahora no son buenos ni malos en sí mismos. Lo serán en función de lo que hagamos. Aquí y ahora puedo causar un daño, aquí y ahora puedo plantar un árbol.

Asunto diferente es pensar en el presente como un instante eterno. Uno puede pensar lo que quiera, pero si te comes una manzana, cuando la termines será simplemente historia.

Oorblog notitie (universeel in vorm en maat)

Rente nieren en lever kwalen organisatie voor winst behalen toren blazen en contstipatie leiden om in de organisatie energie afstoten en aantrekken lucht vaart en water bekken druk aanstuwen en afhouden het staketsel om gebouwen aandrijf as en vergelijken centralisatie en ontwijken af dragen en aan betalen verplichten en erop verhalen aan bevelen of uit zetten onder nemen toegang beletten binden aan de eigen wetten voor in stellingen achter laten hinder lagen & diepe gaten hart falen hersenaan doening minne kozen zonder voldoening bovenkomend ten onder gaan zinvol opgewekt, zinloos opstaan alles op afstand in één pakket oud kabaal in nieuw werkend net het kanaal gaat heen en weer signalen erin gaan op en neer van op telsom naar af trekken drama cursusisten in tijd rekken voor bestemming in calculeren zend gemachtigden in stalleren gedane zaken her programmeren over betaald gedrag aan leren ader vernauwing zenuw baan tros tomaat republikeinse banaan ter beschikking binnen bereik bepaald onbeperkt & co_ninkrijk blaas ontsteking bloed verlies afstandelijk, aantoonbaar, kies! door berekenen brandstof kosten standvastig in genomen posten dagritme stoornis dag verblijf zwakke rug en de poten stijf blijf bedrijvig reproduceren wie er uit valt her in tegreren buiten sporig in formeren alles binnenste buiten keren zowaar on begrensd aan bod minieme kans op beter staatslot van boven af gericht loon bepalen schuld saneren plus af betalen beleidsmatig ongelijk verdelen balans opmaken taart verdelen staaf dia gram buigbare lijnen dure jachten versus boemel treinen on nodige behoefte in te gratie wandel padje en geld vol statie on stuitbare ballen marcheren op gevulde buidel volstrekt lege kop oud en nieuw geld samen op weg hun kippen op stok maar van de leg gouden eitjes prijswinnend wijf kunstmatig op gewekt en stijf metersdikke rijen aan de kassa verschuiving in de grijze massa in op liftende billen parade coating over aangezicht schade ze slaan elkaar afgunstig gade als ze elkaar met gunsten overladen onbegrensde mogelijk heden voor een beperkt aantal leden God en Goud zuipen uit dezelfde bron wij alleen water uit de regenten ton de geloof waardigste leugen lijkt een eeuwigheid te deugen worden titels door geheiligd en de huis grot streng beveiligd loodzware lasten kanker verwekken in hoge premie eigen risico dekken tegenstroom met stoppen reguleren opgeweld tij in zekere mate keren salaris hoogte = drempel waarde de arme rest krijgt uiterwaarde mag onder gaan met have en al stranden tussen welvaren en wal lage letters en hoge geleerden zij die het tij ongunstig keerden de verantwoordelijkheid ontduiken hoger geplaatse posities misbruiken elkaar dwangmatig bevoordelen aldus waardevolle levens stelen in zetten voor eer tegen geweten na de dienst periode weer vergeten elkaar bestrijden voor rijk en dom is eigenlijk ongelooflijk stom het bezetene hoef je niet te delen als ze dood voor schuld bevelen

I had a pretty shitty day today, I didn’t get enough sleep last night and I had a lot of work. I also had to wake up really early for a meeting. I ended up feeling a lot of dread at the prospect of finding community of dealing with potential loneliness, and I had to remind myself that I’m just tired and the world looks worse than it is. A part of me didn’t want to go to the gym, and I didn’t even take my normal pre-workout, and I wanted to skip the heavy exercises because I just did not feel good. So instead I just absolutely pushed my body to its absolute limits, and I was just doing exercises to hurt in the best way. I was going absolutely to failure, and at some point I even almost passed out from getting so lightheaded afterwards. At one point I had an idea of a photo that made me laugh so fucking hard that I finished my set and then made it and sent it to A. When I got home, I bought him slay the spire 2 and we played that for a while and it was actually really fun playing it multiplayer. And I feel good again. Today was also the two week mark after I broke up with E, and I actually forgot to record a video to myself today. What a weird thing, but I actually do feel like it doesn’t hurt that much to think about. I think I filled myself up with so many experiences that it’s felt like so much longer than it has been, and I feel like I’ve really spent a lot of time processing a lot of the feelings.

The day went well... sorta.

-sigh-

It had its ups and downs. On one hand, I got to hang out with my two favorite people.

On the other, one was grumpy while the other tried to keep spirits up.

They really compliment each other in the weirdest ways...

But we got what we needed!

A new sound set up and a couple chicken wraps later, we headed home!

The night was pleasant. I got to spend time with a really awesome friend and watched a few episodes of Merlin.

Such a good show.

I came across a piece from Word on Fire — The Present You Want Is Not the Gift You Need—and it stirred something in me. It speaks of the quiet difference between a present and a gift, and how God, in His strange and patient way, offers us the latter. A present is what we reach for with eager hands; a gift is what shapes us, strengthens us, and sometimes saves us. The article became a small compass for my thoughts, and what follows is simply the path it opened.

We humans are short‑sighted travelers. We know what we want, or at least what we think we want, and we often demand it with the urgency of a child tugging at a parent’s sleeve. But wanting is not the same as needing, and the road ahead is longer than our vision can stretch.

A good parent knows this. A mother does not hand her child every shiny thing that catches their eye. A father does not surrender to every tantrum. Love is not indulgence; love is discernment. It is the courage to give what is good, even when it is not what is asked for.

And if this is true of earthly parents—who see only a little farther than their children—how much more true must it be of God? His gifts are rarely wrapped in the colors we expect. Sometimes they arrive disguised as delays, detours, or disappointments. Sometimes they feel like the very opposite of blessing. Yet they are given with a wisdom that sees beyond our horizon.

A present satisfies a moment. A gift shapes a life.

I am learning, slowly, to loosen my grip on the things I demand and to pay attention instead to the things I am given. They may not be what I wanted, but they may be exactly what I need for the next stretch of the journey.

#Reflections #GraceInDisguise

Izzy Is Pure, to a Fault.

#Izzy #nsfw

Izzy, short for Izabel, was a quiet, humble woman in her early 30s. However, her life is not what you would expect for someone like her.

Izzy was deeply rooted in religious teachings from the day she was born. It was her whole world. Supervised internet access, heavily monitored media consumption, Christian radio, private Christian school, daily prayers and routines, and then eventually full homeschooling. Even the Christian school failed to deliver her parents' strict religious standards.

She was brought up in this 'perfect' walled garden to protect her from all the sins and evils of the world. Some would say her parents did everything right. Others would say she was too pure to function in the real world.

As a young child, she was a darling. Adorable. Articulate. Educated. Innocent. Due to her sheltered upbringing, her development into a woman was severely delayed. These pure and wholesome beliefs began to manifest in ways that others began to notice.

Things escalated to their highest point when she took her purity ceremony at 19. She had been homeschooled most of her whole life, practically raised in the church, and was just accepted into a Christian academy. Most people would look at her in pity and great concern. She was taught that all of this was normal and any deviation from this path was sin. Now on top of that, she took a vow to God to remain forever pure.

She took this purity promise. Literally. She blindly trusted that her Christian upbringing was the right path. She would wait until a man of God worthy of virtue would choose her to be his wife. She would abstain. She took a vow to never masturbate. She would not fornicate. She would remain pure. That was the plan. It's what God wanted.

She was raised by her parents this way. She was told she was on the right path and her devotion to God would always reward her. Through college, she believed this wholeheartedly.

Many women in the church and in her graduating class were finding husbands, getting married, and starting families. Izzy knew they were not as pure as she was. She knew her peers lacked her level of devotion to stay pure.

She heard about their sins, and she was disappointed they strayed away. Some were touching themselves and kissing boys and sneaking off into the night. Izzy turned a blind eye. It was not her place to lecture them. She just had to stay steadfast with her faith and promise.

While she was aware of the basics of sexual intercourse, she was never fully educated on the depth of pleasure. Her parents feared corruption of her mind. They didn't want to strike curiosity. They kept her in the dark by design. She didn't fully realize it just yet.

Her peers at the Christian academy tried to befriend her. They tried to get her to see the world outside the Bible. They tried to open her eyes. But her indoctrination was too firm. They could not get through. To her world, it was sin.

Instead, she put up a shield of prayers and expertly timed Bible verses to further isolate herself from their sinful ways. She thought she was being tested. Through no fault of her own, she was so devoted to her promise that her mind was unable to mature past her teenage years. She was not equipped to make adult decisions that her parents shielded her from. She was not taught to interpret the world outside of the Bible. She had no toolkit to interact with others outside of her curated circle. By the time she graduated from the academy, this was painfully obvious. On the outside, her purity was overtly cringy and unsettling.

She got a job at the local Christian private school. Ironically, it was the same school her parents pulled her from all those years ago. Despite the fact she was now in her mid-20s, she still remained painfully innocent. Stunted. Naive.

She still lived with her parents, taught Sunday school, sang in the choir, diligently taught Christian values to others, graded papers, and radiated almost constant wholesome positive energy. Constant cringe energy.

By this point, she was a far cry from her peers. She was no longer on their same social or developmental paths. Their thoughts had matured. Their worldview had expanded. They were able to make clear decisions on their own.

Izzy's default when facing adversity was to stop and pray. If prayer didn't give her the answer, then that was not for her to know. This was her reality. This was her truth. Under the guise of false promises, Izzy had built a wall of faith so high that no man could enter. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. Her standards and expectations were unrealistic. Some would say delusional at this point.

Years passed. She maintained this devotion. Day in. Day out. Praying. Waiting. Hoping for the next steps to happen. Hoping for a man that she thought was promised to her. She blindly stayed devoted to her faith and the church for years.

After Izzy turned 29, she began to notice that her pure devotion to God was not rewarding her like she had hoped. Many women in the church her age were getting their children ready for preschool. She would hear rumors from the elders, something about “too pure to know the world.”

She asked her parents when she could move out on her own. They would deflect and say things such as “When you find a man, you can” or “It's not time yet.” Their own fear of the outside world was infused with every response to Izzy's pressing questions. Izzy started to have doubts about her life.

One day, a woman unlike anyone else Izzy had met entered the church. She was an outsider, someone Izzy didn't like just on blind sheltered instinct. She was in her early 20s, a college dropout, and a recovering alcoholic. Her skirts were too short. Her heels were too high. She was always showing too much skin. She often smelled of weed as well; Izzy didn't know what that smell was exactly, but she didn't like it.

Izzy fell into that all-familiar pattern many Christians fall into when faced with something contrary to their worldview. Being taught that everything about this new strange woman was sinful, she closed off and kept her distance. She was not taught to see this woman was in need. She was not taught to approach this situation with openness and compassion. Her sheltered life was her crippling flaw.

This young woman, this stranger, teary-eyed and broken, came to the church because of drugs; she wanted to change. Her confession was heartfelt. She gained the favor and hearts of many. She became a regular. Izzy didn't change her opinion about her. She maintained her purity bubble with a fierce loyalty, further isolating herself and anything associated from the outside world.

Izzy silently observed, practically judging. She kept wondering what good could come of this. She kept these dark thoughts to herself. She learned long ago not to force her religious views on others. They usually responded in silence. She didn't like how that felt.

The hammer dropped when just a year later, a new engagement was announced over the PA system during morning announcements. She took pause when she heard who it was. She was cleaning up her Sunday School classroom at the time. She almost stumbled in her heels as her vision blurred with blind rage. Deep inside, something dark was stirring. She knew it was sinful to have these thoughts, but she was human after all, right? That strange new woman and her longtime crush, Marco, were getting married.

She had her eyes on Marco for years. She always spoke to him. She always had her best makeup on; she was always in the spotlight for community service. She did everything to get his attention. It was obvious to everyone. Sure, Marco said things that were not always a shining example of how Christian men would speak, but he was a man with a good reputation in the church. She could look past those flaws if she just gave her a chance. He never did.

Her parents gave her suggestions on what to say or how to gain his attention. She gave him cards on his birthday and other random gifts he accepted with a smile. She even asked if he would watch a Christian movie with her at her parent's house. He gracefully and politely declined all advancements. She didn't know what she was doing wrong. Her parents just told her to keep praying.

When the news about Marco's engagement came through that small, tinny speaker, Izzy's heart sank. She never experienced such emotions. Dread. Fear. Anxiety. Despair. They hit her all at once. Her world was crumbling.

She didn't have eyes for anyone else. She never thought to try to keep her eyes open for anyone else. She didn't know what this strange new woman had that she didn't. She had been devoted to God her whole life... she was told it would all work out if she stayed pure. Instead, this new and brutal reality came crashing through.

She locked the door to her Sunday class, turned off the lights, and balled up in a fetal position in the corner. She wept. This wasn't the way. They told her that if she stayed pure, good things would happen. What she experienced in this moment was not good.

She will be 30 this year. Still a virgin. Still unwed, and no future prospects outside of Marco. She no longer had a plan. Her mind was blank as she cried slowly, regretting her lost youth, questioning everything she was ever told.

She heard the rumors among the elders. She heard the whispers about her biological clock and how she was too innocent for her own good, but she ignored them. She understood now that what they said behind her back was painfully true.

She felt small; she felt unwanted. She began to question her parents and what they told her. She questioned everything. Izzy needed to change.

For the first time in her life, Izzy didn't join others in the sanctuary. She sat in that dark room in a corner, hearing the hollow echoes of God and promises resonate through the walls. She sobbed uncontrollably. There she stayed. For the first time, she deliberately lied to her friends on her phone. She told them she didn't feel well and she was going home.

喫茶店で、友人から 「マラソンで、2位の人を抜いたら何位でしょう？」 という問題を出された。

答えは、2位の人と入れ替わるだけだから、少し考えれば正解は2位だと分かる。

しかし俺は、直感で「1位」とノータイムで答えてしまった。 「正解は2位でした」と言われる。

だが、大人としては、正しい答えを言うことよりも「正しい温度」で答えることの方が大事なのではないか、と思う。 大人には、考えてよい時間と、使ってよい脳の容量があらかじめ定められている。

これは、俺が忙しいという話ではない。 そんなクイズに本気で向き合う理由がそもそもない、というもっと根本的な話である。

大人が一生懸命クイズに答えていたら、それはそれで少し変だし、 もし難しい問題をすらすら解けたりしたら、普段いったい何に時間を使っているのか、という話にもなりかねない。

だから、そんな人が出してきたクイズには答えられないくらいが、むしろ正解なのだ。 そのとき大事なのは内容ではなく、場にふさわしい「温度」でいられることだ。

ここで、 「自分の無知と愚かさをかき消そうとしているだけではないか」 という反論もあるだろう。

しかしこちらとしては、ただ「自分は正しい」とでも言いたげな真顔を決め込むしかない。 それが、現状の体力や、これまでの経験などから総合的に繰り出される、大人にとってのなかなか頑丈な一手なのである。

そんなことを熱弁していたら、 「そもそも、大人がクイズに一生懸命答えるのは変って言ってたけど、クイズ番組とか普通に流行ってるじゃん」 と言われた。

流行ってるからなんなんだ。 そいつらはなんなんだ。

早起きして、朝は顔を洗って、髪をセットして、 向かう先がクイズ番組の収録なのか？

向かう先がクイズ番組というだけで、早起きするモチベーションになるのか。 人が動く流動的な動きとして不自然だ。 もっと自然に流れる、水路みたいな、人の流れる道があるはずだ。

この辺りから完全に感覚の話になってきたので、自分でもよく分かっていない。 だが、もう引き返さない。温度を維持したまま話を続ける。

しかし、同じ話題をこんなに長く続けていることも、 自分が一方的に理論めいたものを展開していることも、 それ自体が温度を間違えているのではないか。

そう、温度は声のトーンややる気だけではない。 喋る量や、他人とのグルーヴにも関与している。

そもそも「理論を一方的に話す」というのは、不自然なことだ。 雑談とは、風のような軽さと、二人のバランスを保ちながら、うまいことやっていくもののはずだ。

ここまで考えて、いよいよ自分で自分が愚かすぎる気がしてきたので、 もともと注文しておいたチーズケーキを、もう一度口に運ぶことにした。

“If only someone had gone before and lived or suffered or died — made [the world] so that it could be understood! It was too stark, not redeemed, not made real with the reality that was the warm blood of life. He felt that there was something missing, some road which, if he had once found it, would have led him to a sure and quiet knowledge.”

— Richard Wright in Native Son.

“Many a man thinks he is making something when he's only changing things around. But God let Moses make.”

— Zora Neale Hurston in Mules and Men.

Well I am ten days late and I don't have much of an excuse. I am somewhat behind in my novel writing, which has been sporadic, so I tend to put all my other writing off until I put time in on the novel. In this case I am just choosing to get this update done instead of doing something else. For me, that is really the only way anything gets done. I do not have a normal work day. I have a full time home gig that doesn't really allow days off, or any breaks at all. To say more would be to wallow in a bit too much bitterness, I think. Really I am thankful to be able to do this. The typing of this is something like talk therapy. You should only be worried if you stop hearing from me.

Writing

I put out a sonnet which you can read on this website. I am making sporadic progress on the novel. I draft with pen and paper, typing pages in—(really re-writing them)—to the computer as I go. I have a fair few pages that have been sitting in my journal that I need to get into my hard drives (I do not believe in the cloud, but I do believe in backups), before they fall into a lake or a fire or something. I started writing a song (I guess I am pretty much always writing one, I just don't get around to recording them because of the aforementioned job and my other work). And I am working on another essay.

Music

I am currently on vacation, and decided to bring my acoustic and work through a fingerstyle guitar course I bought awhile ago. It is by Jamie Dupuis and it has been immensely helpful. As a self taught guitarist, I never really had anyone tell me what scales/chord/shapes/picking patterns etc. I should learn, and this course is really filling in all the gaps. You should click on that link and listen to his harp guitar songs.

Reading

Last month and part of this month I read Richard Wright and James Baldwin and Zora Neale Hurston's Mules and Men. Richard Wright's Native Son was something of a shocker. I knew there would be murder but it happened so fast that it just sort of swept me up like a thriller. I read it, then read Baldwin's essay, Everybody's Protest Novel, which mentions Wright's Native Son. It was very cool, and (to nobody's surprise) I found myself agreeing with Baldwin. I like to give myself little reading quests like this. If I could attempt to extract a nugget of wisdom, it would be to point out the fact the Native Son is told from the point of view of the murderer (like Crime and Punishment, which I am sure Richard Wright had to have read at some point, but it is not Crime and Punishment that concerns me). In other “thriller” novels I have read that are written by white folks like myself, the identity of the killer is held until very last, often by withholding essential information and only dropping impossibly unrelated clues from which you could never make a connection (looking at you Agatha Christie!). If I could theorize a bit about this, I think that maybe from a white person's point of view, especially if they have the privilege of never even coming close to something like murder, they would probably have no idea why anyone would want to go and do something like that to them. So the identity of the killer is really a mystery for the white man or woman, but for the black man or woman (especially before the Civil Rights Act) who has had to watch their kids and brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers get murdered, the identity of the killer is so painfully obvious and so blindingly white.

Mules and Men by Zora Neale Hurston is a beautiful collection of folktales and hoodoo lore. There are stories, sermons, curses, blessings, rhymes, songs, all told with a deft pen and a fun-loving voice. A real change from Wright and Baldwin. Reading her dialectic and following the stories feels to me something like reading Shakespeare. And the fact that she is collecting these “lies” from poor blacks in Florida and New Orleans is a fact that might rankle your stereotypical Shakespeare fan, or not, I don't know what your stereotypical Shakespeare fan is like. There is a lie she collects at the end of Chapter V where 'Ole Massa' (A slaveowner) has a slave named John. Ole Massa's kids go out in a boat and almost drown, but John saves them, so Ole Massa promises to set John free by the end of the year. Well the year comes around and Ole Massa sets him free, but he keeps calling after John, “John, Oh John! De children loves you. And I love you. De Missy like you.” And John hollers back, “Yassuh,” but he keeps walking. And Ole Massa hollers this too, “But' member youse a n—er, tho!” And Hurston ends it (or she faithfully records the ending this way):

“Ole Massa kept callin' 'im and his voice was pitiful. But John kept right on steppin' to Canada. He answered Ole Massa every time he called 'im, but he consumed on wid his bag.”

If that does not say the un-sayable, then I do not know what to say.

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Thank you for reading! I greatly regret that I will most likely never be able to meet you in person and shake your hand, but perhaps we can virtually shake hands via my newsletter, social media, or a cup of coffee sent over the wire. They are poor substitutes, but they can be a real grace in this intractable world.

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