Judgment!

Judgment. It’s a pretty naughty word these days. Everywhere I look, I see a message that I should “stop judging people.” Usually the act of judging is made synonymous with puritanical motivations, fundamentalist religion, or bigotry. Here are just a few articles on the matter, all of which point the finger back at the judger for his or her own failings:

http://www.positivelypresent.com/2009/05/stop-judging.html

http://tinybuddha.com/blog/3-causes-for-judging-people-how-to-accept-yourself/

http://dalepartridge.com/please-stop-judging-people-heres/

We’re told not to judge people for a host of things they wear, do or proclaim:

http://hellogiggles.com/lets-stop-judging-women-tattoos

There are also acceptance movements, to help you get over judging particular books by their relative colors. Fat Acceptance is a good example:

http://ineedfatacceptance.tumblr.com/

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/news/fat-acceptance/

There’s tumblrs dedicated to stopping judgment:

http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/stop-judging

http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/stop-judging-people

There’s even a wikihow to help you stop:

http://www.wikihow.com/Stop-Judging-and-Criticizing-People

There seems to be a lot of social pressure out there to “stop judging,” but just what does that mean? Are such sentiments valid? Those of you who know me best know that I’m not going to just echo the sentiments of the writers above. It’s time to dig a bit deeper.

I actually consider judgment one of the fundamental ways we interact with the world and with others. Judgment is how we make pragmatic decisions, evaluate risk, and choose social relationships. Judgment isn’t always negative either. When we choose to do business or be friends with somebody, we have a made a positive judgment; we have not failed to judge.

Because it is so ingrained in the human experience, judgment is something that we are very unlikely to avoid. Doing exactly what we want and expecting nobody to have a negative reaction to it is not a realistic attitude. No matter what, people are judging you, and you are judging them. I don’t think there is anything wrong with that.

Violence: The Kind of Work You Don't Want to Bring Home

Fighting, Porn, Abuse, and Assault in Las Vegas

Note: this article is opinion, reflection, and analysis, not authoritative accounts of factual events. Source material should be used for citation, not this article, except as it pertains to the opinions of the author.

Rarely do I step outside of my usual fiction-philosophy mode of content for this site and do current event topics, but an interesting story popped up on my radar from my former home of Las Vegas. It seems that a professional MMA fighter promoted through Bellator MMA who calls himself “War Machine” (allegedly) severely beat his girlfriend, porn star Christy Mack, sending her to the hospital. He is now a fugitive and wanted by the LVPD, which hasn’t stopped him from making a fool of himself over twitter. Before I dive into some analysis, some philosophical discussion, and some practical advice, let’s have a quick rundown of some of the facts.

John “War Machine” Koppenhaver (For more, try Wikipedia):

“War Machine” is the legal name of the fighter in question. His birth name was John Koppenhaver. He changed his name legally in 2008.

War Machine fought on the Ultimate Fighter series under his birth name. He was eliminated in the first round.

His father died when he was thirteen, while Koppenhaver attempted to revive him using CPR.

He has been convicted of numerous assaults. He has received probation and was also sentenced to a year in prison in 2011.

War Machine performed as a pornographic actor in more than 12 films and has worked at a gay nightclub. He was also accused of assaulting people at a birthday party for a pornographic actress.

After being trolled by users of 4chan in 2013, he punched himself numerous times in the face. (source-video below)

He began his relationship with Christy Mack by stalking her over twitter. She eventually responded to the advances. He is ten years her senior.

He has a tattoo of “Mack” on the front of his neck for his girlfriend.

Christy Mack (For more, try Wikipedia):

Christy Mack is a pornographic actress and has worked in the industry for about two years. She was not involved in porn while War Machine was active in the industry.

She is recognizable for her extensive tattoo work and her unique hairstyle, which looks like a Mohawk.

She has claimed that she wanted to retire from the industry but had a large house and had to take care of her mother (source in video below)

She has a tattoo reading “Property of War Machine” on her shoulder (source: twitter)

Narcissus

Recently I wrote a short creative piece called "Echobox" that is part poetry, part realistic fiction and part fantasy, which explored through eyes of a young boy people's interactions with video media, specifically television. It reminded me of a poem I wrote nigh on ten years ago, called "Narcissus." The poem was intended to be read while listening to a selection of music played on a solo instrument. It was part of a cycle of similar pieces I performed called, "Solipsist." This particular part of the cycle was intended for string bass, an instrument I played in my younger days but have since given up. The studio recording for this poem/music piece was, alas, lost when the laptop I used for recording suddenly ceased to operate. As such, the Solipsist album remains incomplete, with the only live performance having been recorded by a third party at extremely low fidelity and volume. In the near future (once I replace some failed studio equipment) I may reconstruct and re-record the music. For now, here is the poem.

Narcissus

Echo

That weeping echo

Lost by the water’s edge

A pale thing never heard

Except in echo

Poor weeping echo

Left forgotten,

Never known.

To peer into the cool pond

To forget man, woman,

And god (Poor echo!)

At the beckoning of Nemesis

I crept over the mossy bank

And saw peering back at me

Like a vision of poor echo’s lament

Not the beauty she sought,

But a monster!

Vicious, ugly, tormenting.

Eyes turned inward

Scowling, raging, forgetting.

Nemesis of my Nemesis.

Poor echo!

How did she come to love

One such as this, or

Did she love another,

Who came before this horrid creature?

I reach out to kill it

To end its misery and the misery it inspires

And shall make it a monument

In remembrance of horror.

As we remember

Poor weeping echo

Left forgotten,

Never known.

Echobox

Echobox.

It’s a box… that echoes, obviously

Everybody’s second voice

Second talk, second mind,

Echoes back a righteous choice

Zion! Zion! To Zion we shall go! Infidels cannot hold Zion against its rightful heirs!

Billy sat and played with his toys. Mother’s echobox was on again, firing its angry nonsense words down the hall. It seemed like it was always on, even when she slept. He wanted to close the door, but he knew if he did, he would get in trouble. She would take away the toys.

Billy… What a stupid, average, nothing name, he thought as he piled brick upon brick. Slowly the castle he held in his small mind would take its recognizable shape in the physical world. He had run out grey bricks of the correct size, and so had to fill in some gaps in the castle wall with blue and red, but he didn’t mind. He imagined that they were decorations put there by the powerful king who built the castle. He saw two of the blue bricks next to each other, and an image popped into his mind.

A wolf.

He tore down the wall and started building again. This time, the blue bricks formed an image in the wall, of a blue wolf with red eyes (formed by a few small red bricks).

No king was ever called Billy. He pulled one of the little men from his chest. He put a crown on him. William. King William Wolsfbane. He put the little king on top of the wall. He imagined the dull, brown carpet of his bedroom was an expanse of wilderness before the fortress.

The dark army of Abaz will have to get through all these wastes to assail these walls. These wastes… they are our home! William the boy put more men on the walls. These he armed with spears and axes and shields. They were smiling. Men at war do not smile, unless they are certain of victory. Abaz will destroy himself upon these walls! He cannot wrest this sacred land from us! We are the rightful heirs of the soulforge. Our blood is in everything –even the rocks are our kin.

“Billy!”

He looked up. His mother was standing at the edge of the room. How long had she been there?

Your Friends Are Not Your Audience

Why you shouldn't expect friends and family to support your art.

We’re playing a show this Saturday at Club Fred. It’s only five bucks to get in and we’re playing all night.

I used to throw out this line nigh on every week back when I was 19-21 and gigging in rock bands regularly. After that it was different venues, more friendly to my classical and flamenco stuff, but the pitch was always the same, as were the responses, which something like this:

Awesome! I’ll totally try to be there. My girlfriend/boyfriend loves that kind of music! It’s so cool that you’re out playing.

When the gig rolled around, the audience would be filled with strangers. Occasionally a friend would show up (I’m thinking in my head of the few who actually would), but mostly the room would be filled venue patrons and random genre fans, virtually never anyone with whom I had a personal relationship. Most of my friends were, like me, musicians and were (I thought) just as dedicated to the art and the business as me. They feigned interest in my projects when I talked about them, but that’s where the support ended. Ultimately, my market always became strangers.

Blood Drinker: Chapter 10-1

At last we reach the third act of my mystical Japanese drama. Amaya and Yoshio have reached Osaka and seen the killer Ryunosuke at work there, though his whereabouts and motives still remain shrouded in mystery. Note: I realized that I used the name "Shiro" twice in the total narrative. I have changed the name of the second Shiro (the nephew of Daiki) to Shigeo. This edit has not been done on previous installments as of yet.

Previous installments can be found on the fiction page above or by clicking here. Thanks, as always, for reading. Don't forget to share if you liked it, and return on Thursday for the second half of chapter 10.

<<Previous: Chapter 9-2

Act III

Chapter 10

“How do you like your new clothes, Yoshi?” Amaya smiled at her retainer, who fussed with the knot on his obi by the window.

“A little oversized,” Yoshio said. He straightened the light mantle on his shoulders, which gave his lean body a long taper. “Which is in many ways good. It allows freedom of movement, and these leggings will obscure my foot movements for an opponent.” Yoshio tugged at the loose blue umanori[1] pants, which hung in stiff pleats to the tops of his feet. “However, this outfit will give an enemy more ways to grab and throw me, and I risk getting it caught on some piece of the décor should I be forced to draw my sword indoors.”

Amaya laughed as she walked over to the window and ran her hands over the cloth on Yoshio’s shoulders. “Ever thinking of utility. That is my Yoshi.”

“What else should I think of?”

“Do you like the way it looks?” Amaya said, opening her arms and displaying the long, hanging sleeves of her two-cloth kimono. The pure white silk shimmered in the sunlight from the window, and the pink pattern of the obi and the inner folds of the kimono stood out brightly. Her wide obi was snug, making her already small waist seem tiny.

“I like the way yours looks,” Yoshio said.

Amaya laughed again. “What about yours?”

Yoshio looked down. “I suppose it will do.”

“What about comfort?” Amaya said.

“I said it was loose.” Yoshio tugged on a sleeve. “See?”

“Yes, but does that mean comfortable?” Amaya walked back to the futon and tucked her katana away behind pillows and blankets.

“What else would it mean?”

“My dear Yoshi,” Amaya said, looking back to Yoshio as she tucked her tanto away in the folds of her white and pink kimono. “I will never tire of you.”

Yoshio frowned. “What does that mean?”

Amaya gave him a subtle smile, then sighed. “Let’s go. I do not want to make this worse than it already will be by being late.”

Yoshio nodded. He walked to Amaya’s low table and picked up the scroll he had found at their door upon returning in the early morning. He un-rolled it and looked at it again. It was written in beautiful black script, with flowing lines and perfect brush strokes.

“What is it?” Amaya said, standing by the door.

“I just didn’t get a good look at Masaki’s note when we arrived.”

“What do you see now, in the daylight?”

“It is professionally scripted,” Yoshio said.

“Many nobles are taught well in the arts,” Amaya said, moving to look at the scroll herself. She traced her finger along the well- painted and perfectly black strokes. “But you are right.”

“He means to impress you,” Yoshio said, frowning.

“He does,” Amaya said, “but he has already impressed upon me his cruelty and stubbornness. Tea and entertainment will do no more to lighten my opinion of him than inviting us to such with pretty letters. You worry about me often, Yoshi. You do not need to worry about me being wooed by the likes of Shiba Masaki.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were aware of his intentions.”

“I am. And yours.”

Teachers make a DIFFERENCE! What about YOU? Huh?

A Reflection on the Ego of the Teaching Profession

I had a different article in mind for today, but a conversation I had during work yesterday with my screenwriting partner Matt (find his website here) inspired me to create a different piece. Thanks for reading and don’t forget to share!

Credit/Source: Zen Pencils, zenpencils.com 

            I am a teacher.

            I have been a teacher for more than ten years, in various faculties. I’ve taught at private and public school. I’ve taught individuals and I’ve taught classrooms full of kids. I’ve taught at the college level and the elementary school level. Given my experience, it seems that the label of teacher is inescapable. Indeed, it seems I am the only one in my life actively contesting the title.

            I am a writer.

            I am a musician.

            I am a craftsman.

I am many other things to myself, my family, and my friends, but to people who have just met me, it all gets boiled down to “teacher.” Why then, do I rebel?