Simian Farmer

Matter will always matter

Via 3quarksdaily, I was exposed to this article that gave me a little food for thought.  "Atheism and Children."

I found it especially interesting in that I'm in the process of raising a young son with my wife.  I've given no small amount of thought to what sort of religious / spiritual / ecumenical or other upbringing we ought to provide to our child.  The short answer I've come up with is: none at all.  We haven't had him baptized and aren't going to.  Frankly, I don't intend to make any promises to any religions on his behalf for as long as he lives.  Or, for as long as I live would be a better way to phrase that.  And for many of the same reasons that are made in the linked article.

Though I don't hold to some of the author's views as strongly as she does.  I don't, for instance, consider myself to be an atheist.  I believe very strongly in God.  In some Supreme Mover that had an initial hand in the creation of all I take in around me.  This is not a god that is defined by any religion based here on Earth.  Keeping in mind my minimal exposure to various terrestrial religions, I find them all to be fear-based and therefore inherently flawed; and to be avoided.

I have a deep and abiding respect and, not nearly often enough, overwhelming awe for the universe in which I abide.  It is the ALL of it that I worship and respect.  To me, God isn't some benign deity who sits enthroned on high and watches over his flock and takes an Almighty Hand in affairs when it suits him.  To me, she simply IS ALL THAT IS.  And to attempt to define her in any other way would simply be too restrictive.  That's my perspective.  That's why I think that the phrase "I am..." is just about the most powerful there is.  But be careful: by declaring what you are, you are also declaring what you are not.

I'm reminded of a favourite quote from Star Wars; which leads me to believe I'm on the right path here, since everything of any importance can be thusly related: "Luke, you'll find that many of the Truths we cling to depend greatly on our point of view."

So, my wife and I don't really intend to give our son any sort of religious upbringing at all.  Certainly not in the traditional sense.  Nor any of our future children.  Not that I regret having been lured to Sunday mass with the promise of ice cream for most of the years of my own childhood.  It's partly from having walked that particular path that I know all the better it's not the same one I want to stroll with my children.  There is as much and more that I think can be learned from a wide-eyed wonder of the natural world than can ever be gleaned or gagged-down from religion.  And there's no sprinkling of Fear that needs to be lapped up alongside.

I'd rather my son read Shakespeare than the Bible.  (Not that I can claim to have read the bible from cover to cover.  I had a picture bible when I was younger; basically a 1,000 page comic book.  My favourite sections were the stories of Noah's Ark, King David, and Sampson and Delilah.  Apparently, 55% of American Christians believe Joan of Arc to be a direct descendant of Noah.)  I don't think there has ever been a person better able to express the human condition than dear old Bill.  I'd rather my son have a go at trying to understand relativity than make any sense out of the book of Genesis.

The only part of the article I took any real exception to was where the author was giving advice on what to do if you're not religiously-inclined.  One section ended: "...or move to Canada if you can stay awake."  But other than that, solidly written.

I took some (misplaced) pride in my early days at university in my ability to quaff a glass of beer followed immediately by a bottle in almost exactly ten seconds.  My throat's gotten a little more constrictive since then.  Common sense wormed its way in there too.  Just because there's a crowd cheering you on in a particular feat, doesn't mean it's the best thing to do for yourself.

Googlishness

I don't know why, but this site seems to get about half of its traffic from Google searches.  And for about the past month, over half of those (I'm guessing) have been from the search: "There are four lights".  All that just due to a minor post I made back on the first week of the month.

I checked it out, and if you type in that exact search in Google, I'm the first result.  Weird.  Weird in that I'm the first search result AND that there are that many people interested in looking up information on that Star Trek episode.

Formatting

It's going to be a nutty busy day at work on Monday, so I'd feel guilty taking the time to change the page banner on this here site for February.  So I've done it today; while at work.

I've been looking for an excuse to use that font for quite a while.  And now you know what's always on my mind; and every other heterosexual man's, for that matter...

Clutter

The natural progression of organisation and work ethic, for me, seems to follow the relative level of dishevelment of my immediate surroundings.  This holds true for me both at work and at home, and it sometimes amazes me at the effect it has on my mood.

If I walk in the door at home and the house greets me with a general state of cleanliness, that right there is a catalyst for a relaxed and easy-going evening.  And one that's much more productive than if I were greeted with scattered laundry, a messy kitchen, dirty floors and the like.  It's funny; and not in a 'ha ha' kind of way.  I can almost feel the physical deterioration of whatever ebullience I may have had.

Similarly at work, if I allow my office to embrace a more entropic state than is usually my wont, I find myself struggling to prioritize, feeling overwhelmed when confronted with unexpected tasks and just generally frustrated with an almost total lack of prioritization and direction.

So what is it, then, that prevents me from maintaining that organized state wherein I can operate from a base of confidence, secure in the knowledge that I have my priorities licked and am facing in the direction that I know I want to march, fully capable of handling any number and manner of unexpected requests or requirements?  I'd best not say general apathy, since that would indicate a certain disinterest in the status of my home; and that is certainly not the case. 

Is it the expedient fact that it's far simpler to allow entropy to wash over elements of my life like sand on a beach?  What if I build a really cool sand castle and want to protect it?  Perhaps I can liken my life to the country of Holland:  I have to keep building and maintaining a protective dyke system so that the relentless pounding of the chaotic waves are kept at bay and don't wash away the carefully groomed fields where my tulips grow. 

Vigilance shall be my watch-word.  "Meditate on this, I shall."

Ergonomic sex

If you're traveling to New Zealand any time in the near future, you'll be happy to know that the sex trade in that country has recently been decriminalized.  Or maybe you won't be happy about it; I don't know.

Either way, the country's Occupational Safety and Health Service (OSH) has taken a pro-active approach and published a guide to help prevent repetitive strain types of injuries.  A brief snippet from the article:

• Beds and workstations should support the worker’s back and allow for services to be performed without strain or discomfort.
• Beds and massage tables should be adjustable to allow employees to use them without strain.
• Employees should be trained for safe use of equipment and techniques.
• Workers’ clothing should be comfortable and should not affect the employee’s posture.
• Workers should take breaks between shifts and clients to avoid stress and fatigue.
• Workers should alternate between repetitive and non-repetitive activities.

Further proof for the axiom that nothing is funnier than the truth.  I wonder if the 'worker' charges more for alternating between repetitive and non-repetitive activities?

Thursday miscellany

On the fitness front, I weighed myself after my run at the gym this morning and was pleased to see that I've broken the 190 barrier: I'm now a svelte 188 lb.  Alarmingly, I'm still only measuring up at five feet eleven.

And now that I think on it, I will be donating blood this evening, so can subtract almost another full pound from my weight.  187 baby!!

*****

Here's a haiku I read this morning that I wish I had written.  Not to give you the impression that I actively search out haikus every day, I just sort of stumbled upon this one:

I had a dream where
I was in an infinite
loop, then the next night

*****

A single frame from today's Dilbert cartoon accurately reflects my sentiment regarding most of the blogs that one can stumble across any given day.
Please note that I am not completely excluding myself from that list.  Of course, this does not apply to any that I read on a regular basis; nor yours if you happen to read this post.  I think you're swell and need no external validation.

*****

If you want to go ahead and buy me this Silver and Jade light saber pendant for the measly price of US$199.99, I will rain accolades down upon you from here unto eternity.  Or at least for as long as it takes the initial novelty to wear off and I start to wonder what the heck I'd actually DO with such a piece of jewelry, since I obviously wouldn't be wearing it...

*****

Via Matt, The Force dot Net and The Official Site (three sources in the space of five minutes), one can read the opening scroll for Revenge of the Sith should you so desire.  I tussled with that dilemma for all of about 30 seconds before deciding to go ahead and do it.  (The tussle involved a couple of failed Jedi mind tricks, some dodged bullets and one spectacular flying round-house kick.  What finally subdued me was an unexpected sleeper hold.)  I was relatively sure that nothing would be revealed I didn't already know.  I was right.

It is increasingly frustrating at how easily one can encounter spoilers for this momentous cinematic event with hardly any effort.  I have to have the will of a fully-trained Jedi, using the Force as my ally, to resist some of the temptations that dangle so, umm, temptingly in front of me at times.  Thankfully, I have not learned anything that has caused me any great degree of consternation.  Yet.

*****

All that being said, I will endeavour to post something a little more poignant here tomorrow.

Good quote

I love these quotes; the first more than the second:

“The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them--words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear.”

~The Body, by Stephen King

“The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.”

~The Call of Cthulhu, by H.P. Lovecraft

From The Hook Project.

Bad dad

Declan and I had a great time in the pool last night.  I've been in the habit of leaving work just a smidge early on Tuesday afternoons in order to grab my son and get to the pool in good time.  We then have about ten minutes to splash around in the whirlpool before our half-hour class at 6 PM.

On these evenings, I take my wife's car to the pool (since it has the baby seat) and I leave my truck keys behind in case she needs or wants to go out for any reason.  Yesterday, she had plans to meet a girlfriend for coffee while we were at the pool.  I took Amy's spare set of car keys since they were most conveniently located at the door.  (I'm always rushing on Tuesday evenings to get home from work, get changed, change the boy, grab the bag, kiss my wife and head to the pool.  I was not thinking that Amy's spare set of car keys did not have a house key...)

Upon arriving home from the pool I came to the realization inferred above and quickly consoled myself with the knowledge that my darling wife had, just in the past week, secured the placement of a recondite key in the backyard.  I placed my boy on the front step and walked around the fence, confident in soon having ingress to my abode.  It wasn't there.

With an unpleasant sense of foreboding, I slowly turned my head to the right and glanced through the open curtains of the kitchen window to gaze upon the table therein.  Tauntingly, the spare key lay glinting at me, less than two metres from my grasp.  Peering through the fence slats, I reassured myself that my son was content with his bottle and staring intently at his flexing fingers.  Some tampering with that same cursed window soon had two panes removed, but the inner, locking, panes would not yield.  As frustrating as it was, a part of me was reassured by that.

It was just past 7 PM, we were locked out of our own house, a phone call to the neighbours went unanswered (where Amy babysits and conveniently has diapers and baby food stashed), I had no idea when my wife was coming home, Declan's fingers were getting cold (thankfully a mild evening) and it was dinner time.

Back into the car and a quick stop at the gas station to fuel up and grab a Coffee Crisp for Dad.  Across the street to the Save On Foods to buy some dinner for Declan.  I deposited my son in the hand-held basket and proceeded to the baby aisle.  Some food, spoons and juice for his now-empty bottle had us back in the car: him in his car seat and me administering chicken stew from the bottle, attracting strange glances from the woman sitting in the truck beside us.  (Another first last night; I have never before been eligible to park in the 'Parents with Children' stalls that are second in quality only to the handicapped spaces.  I reveled in that small victory.)

After finishing off with his blueberry-banana dessert and refilling his juice bottle, I was left regretting not having purchased any tissues with which to clean my son, now slightly soiled with his dinner.  Some rummaging around the front of the car yielded nothing but one (I will assume, for the sake of my conscience, clean) Swiffer cloth.  Not only does it pick up dirt, dust, hair and food particles from your kitchen floor, it does a bang-up job on baby's faces and hands.

With dinner over, the neighbours away and no idea when my wife would return, I gave Granny a call.  She was meeting with her quilters but had no problem with showing off her grandson when the opportunity presented itself.  Plus Declan (not to mention his dad) got some Arrowroot cookies out of the deal while we sat downstairs and watched Discovery Channel with my step-dad.

A phone call from my wife a couple hours later alerted us to the newly opened house and we returned without further incident.  Amy was briefly panic-stricken at arriving home at 9.30 PM with no son or husband in sight but was calmed by the phone message I had left.  All was well.

The boy decided to get his retribution for the disturbance to his routine by waking up just after 4 AM today.  My darling wife made the first salvo into his room and tagged me in fifteen minutes later when she met with minimal success.  He was perfectly content until being placed back in his crib.  So, with a wistful glance at my gym bag placed strategically by the front door, we nestled ourselves on the sofa, which seemed to placate the infant boy and allowed his dad to doze.

My wife woke me up, thinking I was long departed for the gym and work, with the admonition that it was twenty minutes before 8 AM.  (sigh)  I tagged her in to baby duty, dressed myself, brushed my teeth, glanced briefly at my unshorn face in the mirror, kissed my darling family and leapt into my truck, making it to work just five minutes after the hour.

Now I sit here: unshowered, unshorn, wearing yesterday's deodorant, still smelling very faintly of chlorine underneath the cologne, poorly rested, having had a chocolate bar and a handful of Arrowroots for last night's dinner, three cups of coffee for breakfast (with a fourth after I post this), and not terribly inspired at work this morning.

Current mood: Petulant.

How do they get 'em IN there?

Newly discovered definition for the word 'impossible' last night between the hours of 8.30 and 9.00 PM:

Impossible: (m-ps-bl)
adj.
"The process of re-inserting one's Christmas lights into the original boxes from whence they came."

How the hell do they get them in there in the first place?!  This is the second year that I have officially been a 'home-owner' and the first year that I've ventured to dangle luminaries from my eaves.  I managed to stuff a couple of small strings most of the way back into the boxes, but gave up on any others.  A quick trip to the basement yielded an empty diaper box.  Armed with that and a roll of hockey sock tape (left over from festooning Dad-in-Law's car with plastic carnations for the wedding), each remaining string of lights was wrapped around hand and elbow - in much the same way that my extension cords are stored - secured with several rounds of tape and deposited ceremoniously in the diaper box, ready to be removed and used again next year.

In other news, tonight will be the third week that Declan and I will be heading to our swimming lessons.  If all progresses well, he may even be dunking his head under water this evening.  (Still gotta grab me a disposable underwater camera sometime within the next 7 weeks to capture some of this magic on film...)

Poor bunnies...

It is websites like the one linked just below that reassure me I am not among the craziest of individuals on this planet.  I probably wouldn't even have linked it but for the simple fact that, about halfway down the LONG list of graphical representations of Oryctolagus cuniculus suicide, there is a Star Wars reference.  This always merits sharing.

Link Here!!