Futurama, Daemons, and brain monkeys

Today, Futurama premiers for the second time, this round courtesy of Comedy Central (the comedic gods favor us!). It already feels like a red letter day. In anticipation of the great event, creators Matt Groening and David X. Cohen answered often asked questions, including 'What is one fan question you never want to be asked again?'

They said they are sick of being asked, 'Where do you get your ideas?' Their response to anyone who asks is, 'We steal them. We watch other TV shows.'

So, all you creative geniuses...where do your ideas come from? Have your answer ready, because chances are, someone will ask.

In this video, Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Eat, Pray, Love talks about where ideas come from, and how to have these ideas without becoming a drunk manic depressive, like so many modern artists tend to do these days. If you are an artist of any kind, it is worth twenty minutes of your time to watch the whole thing. And just in case you don't feel like it, I offer the cliff note version of good quotes from the first half. (Disclaimer: some quotes may be off by a few words because I am a writer, not a court reporter or transcriptionist. Plus, I tend to gloss over details and occasionally get lazy).

Creative people across all genres have this reputation, it seems, for being enormously mentally unstable. Somehow, we've completely internalized and accepted collectively this notion that creativity and suffering are somehow inherently linked, and artistry, in the end, will ultimately lead to anguish.

Are you guys all cool with that idea? I think it's odious. I think it's better if we encourage our great creative minds to live.

For me, it's exceedingly likely that my greatest success is behind me. That's the kind of thought that could lead a person to start drinking gin at nine o'clock in the morning. So, I have to create some kind of protective psychological construct, to figure some way to have a safe distance between me as I am writing and my very natural anxiety about what the reaction to that writing will be.

I've been looking across time and culture for better and safer ideas to deal with this problem. The people of ancient Greece and Rome did not believe that creativity came from human beings, but rather came to human beings from distant and unknowable sources for distant and unknowable reasons. The Greeks called this disembodied creative spirit a Daemon. The Romans called it a Genius, which was a magical divine entity, a lot like a house elf.

Brilliant, that distance, that psychological construct to protect you from the results of your work. Back then, everyone knew this was how it worked, so the ancient artist was protected from things like too much narcissism; if your work was brilliant, you couldn't take all the credit. If your worked bombed? Not entirely your fault; everyone knew your genius was kind of lame.

And then the Renaissance came, and everything changed and we had this big idea: let's put the individual human being at the center of the universe, above all gods and mysteries, with no more room for mystical creatures who take notation from the divine.

People started to believe creativity came completely from the self. And, for the first time in history, you start hearing people referring to this or that artist as being a genius, rather than having a genius. And I gotta tell you, I think that was a huge error. I think that allowing somebody, like one mere person, to believe that he or she is the vessel, the font, the essence, the source of divine, creative, unknowable mystery...is a smidgen too much to put on one fragile human psyche.

So, boiled down to one sentence, in order to keep your sanity, never, ever say the ideas come from you. Your fragile human psyche just can't handle it. Credit another source. God, your muse, whatever. Gilbert goes on to tell you how to talk to your creative entity, especially if it comes to you at inopportune times (like while driving) or gives you total crap to work with.

Maureen Johnson calls her entity the Brain Monkeys (scroll halfway down to enjoy the Brain Monkey conversation). And after reading what MJ endures just to get ideas from her brain monkeys, I feel a little sorry for her. But not too sorry for her, since she's a published author with brilliant Brain Monkeys. What I wouldn't do for such monkeys in my head.

My college creative writing professor said his muse stuck a piano in the middle of a scene and messed up his whole plot. Muses, Brain Monkeys, or whatever, can do that. They can do anything. They can also leave town at the drop of a hat and not write to tell you when they will return.

Cruel, cruel Brain Monkeys. I hate you.

But I also love you to pieces. Please don't leave me. Stick around and tell me how to transform all those useless hours of TV watching into something as brilliant as Futurama. (I also envy Matt Groening's Brain Monkeys, but then, who doesn't?)

How has distancing yourself from your output helped you cope with life?

Matters of the Heart

Visiting the cardiologist is a barrel of fun. They take your blood pressure under all sorts of circumstances. Sitting up, lying down, hooked up to the EKG, on a treadmill, just off the treadmill, reciting your ABC's, etc.

And then there is the heart sonogram, which looks really cool, but not nearly as cute as an embryo on-screen. I always thought embryos on the sonogram looked like tiny gingerbread men the first trimester and turned into Skeletor as they grew. The heart looks more like a butterfly trapped inside Jabba the Hut, not the old animatronic Jabba but the more upwardly mobile CGI Jabba they added in the anniversary edition.

So, while I have Short PR Syndrome, I apparently have nothing else. I am very healthy, although I still need to have my cholesterol checked because of my family history. Heart palpitations are simply an annoyance I can ignore without consequence. Chest pain is due to some other mysterious entity in my rib cage, perhaps muscles. If you think about it, muscles are pretty mysterious.

Westward Ho, Freud

Cowboys are cool. They just are. They tame wild mustangs, don their wide-brimmed ten gallon hat, and ride off into the sunset.

Why do they call movies about cowboys Westerns? Is it because the take place in the West? If so, perhaps the powers that be should consider Hawaii or even Japan. There are places farther west than Texas or Kentucky. There will always be a place farther West, because West is a direction, not a location, or even a destination.

Maybe it's a Western because West is not so much a place as it is a philosophy. That maverick-adventurous-pioneering-spirit philosophy. Don't settle, keep exploring, keep growing. For America, that spirit was encapsulated in The West, or whatever was left between civilization and the Pacific coast.

If a Western is really about that philosophy, then a cowboy is more than just a guy with spurs on his boots and a tobacco addiction. He's the determined pioneer that leaves the comfort zone of civilization and makes riding into the Sunset a lifestyle, both for the love of his horse, and for the love of discovering something better out there in the unknown.

I finally read up on the basics of Freud's model for the human psyche. You know, the Ego, Id and Super Ego. How I lived this long without learning about this stuff, I can't even tell you. But when I read the basics of the model, I immediately thought of the American Cowboy, his horse, and that Sunset.

Brace yourself. This might get a little weird.

Before, all I knew about the Id was what I learned from that 1950's movie The Forbidden Planet. It starred a serious Leslie Nielson (a serious Leslie Nielson? I know. But he was serious in this film). It also starred a horrible monster of pure energy. As it turned out, the monster was the Id of this guy named Morbius, who had inadvertently super-powered it with alien technology. Morbius would go to sleep and his Id would party all night, wreaking havoc on the countryside and murdering people who ticked it off.

Now, repressed Ids do get a little psycho and will lash out when ignored. I didn't live during the 1950's, but after reading Keats' Crack in the Picture Window in American History class, I do get the feeling that people back then did more than their share of repression for the sake of appearances. They probably feared their Id would materialize in energy-monster form and kill the neighbors in their sleep.

But, really, the Id is just a big ball of needs. That's it. You pretend you don't need what you need, and the pressure cooker will blow its top in an ugly super-powered alien monster kind of way. Admit you have the needs, take care of the needs, and your Id will take you anywhere you want to go.

Like a cowboy's horse. A good cowboy feeds and waters his horse. Gives it breaks. Rubs it down at the end of the day. Talks to it like an old friend. He reigns it in when the horse wants to run off a cliff, but lets it run its heart out over an open meadow. A good cowboy loves his horse and meets the horses needs better than the horse could do by itself. In return, the horse transports the Cowboy in style. Whenever I think of my own Id, I think of it as unruly mustang that I have to reign in, that I need to feed, that gets me places fast.

Now Super Ego, I used to think that was someone with a big head. Somone who's ego - in the self-confidence kind of way - had become so inflated it was now super. But that's not so. Not at all. If Id is the needy little kid, then Super Ego is the stern unforgiving authority. The Super Ego starts every sentence with Should. You should eat your vegetables. He should watch his step. She should do the right thing. Super Ego knows how things should be, and fills your head with soapboxes and ideals. Super Ego gives you something to shoot for, because unless you decide how things should be, you'll never know what you want to change about the way things currently are. But those shoulds, if you let them, can cripple you with guilt, shame, and an inferiority complex, because you aren't where you should be. (I think it can also create a superiority complex, but I won't get into that)

For a Cowboy, Super Ego is the sun. As it sets, it is way more than obvious which way is West, which way to go. It gives the cowboy a direction, a goal, and kick starts him into getting off his arse and get moving. I've wondered about cowboys and sunsets before. Looking into the sun hurts! Why would you go straight for something that causes your eyes pain? I think a lot of people say this about church. Why go? I just feel bad about myself, realize I'm no where near what I'd like to be, and then I'm too depressed to do anything.

Sometimes church does that for me, too. But, luckily, I've learned from the best cowboys, and gotten myself a ten gallon hat with a very wide brim. Religiously, that brim is grace and forgiveness. It blocks the part of the sun I'm not ready to handle. Because, honestly, who wants to see the full glory of what you should be and know you just aren't there yet? It only makes you want to give up, or pretend you've already arrived.

Cowboys (and Egos) aren't about arriving anywhere. They are about other things.

The Ego's job is to make decisions, to balance things. It has to make calls between the needs of the Id and the demands and expectations of the Super Ego. Does the need of the horse warrant a temporary stop on his westward journey? The Ego must think ahead about the needs of the horse, and must make sure his West is really West. He must decide how much of the brim of his hat to use to shield his eyes, and when his horse would benefit from a romp in the field.

Most of all, Cowboys are about being in a Western. They are about going West. They love and care for their horse so it will carry them along. They keep track of that setting sun with the careful use of their ten gallon brim so they know which way they're going.

Really, it's all about going West. Don't let how far East you are get you down. West is not a place that you need to get to. It's a direction. it's a state of mind. It's the act of going.

I'm farther West today than I was yesterday, and that's all that counts.

Faith

We just read Alma 32 this morning in family scripture study, and then I read a humanist discourse on atheism. Putting those two kind of things together in one day can create some serious thinking.

I hope The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day saints is true. It is such a lovely view of the purpose of our lives here on earth. It gives a glorious future for us to look forward to after death. It motivates us to act and think in ways that help us form a stronger social network to support each other. Following its teachings leads us down paths that increase happiness in our lives, guides us to invest in aspects of life that will pay off the most, and protects us from much of the pain and sorrow in the low parts of life that inevitably happen to everyone. If we follow Christ's example and choose to trust in Him, we will achieve a higher level of maturity and development than we could have ever achieved just believing in our own abilities. These things I know, at least to some degree, by personal experience. I know them, because their proof is scientific, sensory based, involving things that can be counted and measured.

Is it ALL true? God, miracles, the afterlife, etc? Do those spiritual things really and truly exist? Now that, I don't know. Such things are outside the physical realm, so can only be believed, not proven or disproven with facts. What I do know is that it WORKS. Aspiring to be what this church asks me to be has made me a happier person. I feel more joy and peace because I trust, obey, and hope. I have grown more by following the basic principles of faith and repentance than I could have ever done without them. I don't know the Church is True with a capital T, but I hope, and with that hope, I push forward every day, doing my best, and putting my shoulder to the wheels the gospel asks me to push.



Alma said faith is to hope for things which are not seen but which are true. And how do you know it's true as a seed? You don't. You can't. Even Alma admits it. He says IF it is a good seed, it will grow in a good-feeling kind of way. If it isn't, it won't. The Gospel can look just like any other seed, good or evil, before you plant it. That's why the planting and watering is so important. You have to give it a shot, nurture the idea with some effort in your life, and see what sprouts up. So far, my choice to hope and work towards the principles of the Gospel has been delicious to me. I'm going to pour more of my hope and work into that deliciousness. Faith without works is dead, you know. Hope needs work to turn into faith.

So I hope The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is true, and I work towards that hope as if it were true. It's my faith that carries me forward, not my knowledge. Atheists, no matter how sound their arguments and logic, cannot touch my hope and determined choice to invest in it, and most especially the delicious result. For those things outside the knowable realm, they can choose to see a godless existence, but I choose to Hope for something better. I am so very grateful to have the Gospel in my life to give me hope and direction. I feel sorry for those who don't know the joy of hoping for such things, for those who don't even know what faith really is and what it could do for them.

Invest in the process

I talk too much without saying anything sometimes. I'm just going to let this guy speak for himself. It's about 15 or 20 minutes, but it is worth it. It is a philosophy that aligns itself with everything I know to be true about happiness.

Ebay store face lift

Okay, so I got the itch to completely redo the graphics of my ebay store. Some of that itch might have to do with the fact that they switched the structure of store pages so my old graphics are out of place and most of my links don't work anymore. The rest is due to the fact that I wanted to give it a more market-specific look.

My old style was antique insect collector. Interesting and sophisticated, but not very cute.



I'm shooting for adorable with the makeover. And anyone who knows me understands my love for pink and brown.



I should warn you the store is still in severed and outdated graphic mode at the moment. But not for long. Michael, my oh-so-genius husband, has agreed to help me navigate through the jungle of ebay specialized loopholes for html. And now that I have the new graphics, I can't wait to take him up on his offer. For instance, I can't find a tutorial that specifies the pixel measurements of the customized header. But I'm not worried, I have Super Web Man at my disposal (did I mention he's a genius? 'Cause he's totally going to save my ebay store from web graphics purgatory).

Poop, Love, and M&Ms

I know a few people who use M&Ms as a reward for potty training. They sometimes even keep the jar right there on the back of the toilet. The kid does his business, he gets an M&M.

I don’t have any strong opinions about whether or not this is a good idea. It might be a good temporary way to establish a new and important habit. Or it might create some inappropriate connection in the child’s mind between poop and M&Ms. This post isn't about whether M&Ms is a good idea for potty training or not. It's about Love.

It’s going to be Valentine’s Day soon. The day of love. And I have a very unique view of love. I think falling in love has a lot in common with the M&Ms of potty training.

Falling in Love, that special cloud nine feeling that comes to you when you are around a certain special person long enough, is what I consider the M&M of a committed relationship. Honestly, how many are mature enough to jump into a committed relationship if they aren’t in love? I have a feeling it is not a big percentage of those in their reproductive prime. Young healthy Americans do not usually shackle themselves to each other and try to build a domestic haven when the feeling isn’t there, when the world could be at their fingertips. Even if they agree with the principal of domesticity, it's still hard to pick a partner who also picks you, and then take the plunge.

It’s a habit establisher, that sneaky ‘falling in love.’ It does its darndest to get you in that domestic groove. Just like those parents who give you an M&M every time you go. And then you wake up, years later, and realize you’ve built your life around using the toilet, and more importantly, you've built all that good behavior on the foundation of getting those M&Ms. What if you went potty one time, and your Mom said, we're not handing out M&Ms every single time anymore. You're a big kid now and should go to the potty just because it's the right thing to do.

Here’s where the rubber really meets the road.

Was it just for the M&M? When Mom takes the jar away, do you start going in your pants again? Do you bail on potty training altogether?

Or do you believe in the potty? Agree with and maybe even like the whole poop and flush system? Are you willing to keep up with it for its own sake when the instant gratification of chocolate abandons you? When the going gets tough, will the tough still use the potty?

Okay, so there are a few flaws with my analogy. First, ‘falling in love’ is more like an advance bag of M&Ms, upfront, no good behavior required. Some people actually regress to diapers time after time just so they can get the big bag of 'let's try again' M&Ms upfront.

The other flaw is if you stick with it, those feelings come and go and come again. Sometimes you get the M&M, sometimes you don't. That lovely chocolate can catch you by surprise when you least expect it, when you've been flushing and washing, just doing what you know needs to be done, no candy required. In my book, those surprise M&Ms are the most delicious, because they're like an unexpected bonus for what you were going to do anyway, not the much needed reward you can't live without.

People think Love is about M&Ms. It isn’t. It’s about growing up and learning to use the toilet. M&Ms come automatically at the beginning to get you hooked, and then intermittently as you get it right from there on out. And I gotta tell you, the best M&Ms are the later ones. They might not come every time, but they arrive with bells and whistles like a peanut butter centers or almonds. Mmmm.

As long as you know it’s really all about the toilet, you can stop worrying about whether or not you’re getting every single M&M owed to you, and get on with doing what's important. And by that, I mean using the toilet.

Scott M. Peck said Love is not a feeling, it is rather extending yourself for the sake of spiritual growth. That means you can 'love' even when you don't feel it, and it still counts. Just go potty to go potty, whether or not the M&M is there. Do it long enough, and the M&Ms come back. I think that's just how it works. Genuine service eventually begats loving feelings.

I guess what I'm saying is just focus on potty training, that's the real goal. Enjoy the M&Ms as they come, but don't make them the make or break of your toilet use. You're a big kid now. You can do it!

P.S. I love my sweetheart. I'm enjoying handfuls and handfuls of gourmet chocolates in my life with him. They get sweeter every year.

Please is not a magic word (and other appendage myths dispelled)

I’m thirsty.

My legs hurt.

I can’t do it.

I call these imploding boundaries. The hidden pressure here for me is to step forward and take control, fix the problem for the person who is imploding. A person with imploding boundaries is also known as a victim.


Give me that.

You want this.

Don’t say that.

I hate you. You’re stupid.

I call these exploding boundaries. The hidden pressure here for me is to step back and let them take what they want, let them define and control me. A person with exploding boundaries is also known as a predator.

I live with both. Imploding boundaries is six years old. Exploding boundaries is almost three. I also live with Balanced Boundaries, who is nine. In reality, each of them exhibit at one point or another all three stances, but for the sake of the concept, I have simplified and assigned them static points. In reality, they are always in flux. It pays to keep an eye on where the boundaries fall day to day and respond accordingly.

We have always told all three of them that ‘please’ is a magic word. It appears to be, at least on the surface.

‘Give me that!’ will not get Exploding Boundaries her coveted item, but ‘Please give me that’ often will.

‘My feet hurt!’ will not get Imploding Boundaries an intervention, but ‘Please carry me’ often will.

How can ‘please’ seem like magic? Sometimes situations are beyond them. As a parent, we decide which ones are and which ones aren’t, when to step in and when to step back. But no matter whether they can cope with the problem on their own or not, they can always improve on their ever-growing comprehension of respect. And successful improvements in respect are rewarded, as if by magic, with the desired response from us.

Respect is a big deal. Respect knows other people are not zombie slaves. Respect knows other people are not all-powerful mind readers.

The origin of respect is to look again. Re-, as in revisit, rearrange, remind, and all things done again. -Spect, as in spectator, spectacles, and all things involved in looking.

I think respect has come to mean what it means today because our first look at other people in our world is as infants, and the second look is as non-infants. As infants, when we look at other people, we cannot distinguish them from ourselves. I cry, Mother feeds me. I am afraid, Father soothes me.

It is very similar to how adults think of their own hands and feet, or (here’s a weird concept) how hands and feet think of the adults they are attached to. I want the radio to be louder, my hand turns up the dial. My foot communicates pain, I rub it. Infants see their relationship to others like a body to a foot, or a foot to a body (depending on whether they are acting as a predator or a victim). To a baby, there is no you or me. There is only us, the foot and the body.


Of course, we all grow up, and realize that sometimes, I cry and Mother does not feed me. Sometimes, I am afraid and Father does not soothe me. This is the very beginning of respect. We take a second look at these people and realize maybe we are not a foot and a body, or a body and a foot. Maybe we are just two people. I bet the first time it occurred to us, it was a mind-blowing idea.

So ‘please’ is to remind both Imploding and Exploding Boundaries of that respect, to remind them to see others as separate. When they talk, they say ‘please’ to clarify to themselves and the listener that neither one is a foot. Nor is one of them a gigantic brain controlling a universe of appendage-like minions, either.

It is for that exact reason ‘please’ cannot be a magic word. It is not like rubbing a genie lamp and getting your wish. It is not like a magic wand that turns a pumpkin into a carriage every time. Please is not a magic word, rather it is a recognition, like calling someone Mrs. instead of Miss when they marry. We use it to recognize that others have free will, that they are separate from us, that what they decide to do does not have to be what we decide to do. A foot has to obey, but a person does not. A foot cannot think or act for itself, a person can.

'Please give me that' must sometimes be answered with: ‘Good job saying please, but my priceless antique is not for you.’

‘Please carry me’ must sometimes be answered with: ‘Asking me politely to carry you is one good idea, but I’m already carrying your sister. What else could you do about it?’

We think we are no longer infants, that we know the difference between me and you, but I don’t think we really do. I think Projection is a classic sign of failure to distinguish ourselves from others, where our passions and issues are ‘shoulds’ for everybody else. Every mother who has forced her child to wear a sweater because she herself has felt cold falls under the failure to distinguish, the failure to respect, the failure to recognize. And it is not just mothers and sweaters. Projection takes on all forms. I fall into it myself on a daily basis, heck, I feel a strong thread of projection in this essay. Even as I speak, I know bits of my infantile mentality are slipping out.

I hope all of us can figure out how to be Balanced Boundaries, neither the victim nor the predator, keeping our orientation with others free from the foot-body relationship. I believe AA calls this 'keeping your side of the street clean.' Other people's problems are their problems, and my problems are my own.

I struggle with it every day, both as a foot begging a body to give me direction and protection, and as the body that wants to control others like my own feet. I’d love to just be a person, and for you to be one, too. When I get it right, I’ll remember to recognize your status as a separate and sentient being with the dignified title of ‘Please.’