Here are some highlights from the first forty-three years of my life:

• I graduated from Harvard (1936-1940).
• When Pearl Harbor was bombed, I enlisted in the Navy (1941-1943). It hardly seems necessary to mention that my time was served in combat.
• I served six years in the House of Representatives, and eight years as a Senator.
• I've written several books and won a Pulitzer.
  

• I have brains, integrity, and I live by a socially-acceptable code of ethics.
  

• In short, I have many of the qualities befitting the President of the United States of America.

A nation which has forgotten the quality of courage which in the past has been brought to public life is not as likely to insist upon or regard that quality in its chosen leaders today - and in fact we have forgotten. - JFK

Do you remember this guy? Do you remember those televised debates with Richard Nixon? Do you remember his energy, his youth, his willingness to fight for social change? Do you remember how you felt during the Cuban Missile Crisis? Do you remember how you felt when John F. Kennedy was killed?

I don't, you old, scurvy bastards. I was born more than a decade after you buried your President.

During those ten years, you fogeys kept yourselves busy, didn't you? You walked on the moon. You had two or three social revolutions. In Vietnam, you saw your police actions develop into a losing war. You killed off another Kennedy, two popular black leaders (and a handful of less visible black leaders), and your military executed yet another globally-loved martyr. I'll bet half of you don't know the name of this guy:

Double or Nothing:
Do you remember where you were when he was killed?

In August, 1974, you accepted the resignation of the 37th President of the United States of America: Richard M. Nixon.

Two months later, I was born.

Last week I visited the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum (the J.F.K. Library and Museum has a fantastic website). Most of the stories about John F. Kennedy that I've heard or read were chronicled on the walls of the beautiful building in Boston, overlooking the water, or told by reels of wonderfully preserved film.

From developing the Peace Corps to instituting several research and care programs to help the developmentally disabled, John F. Kennedy created several social awareness projects more or less from scratch.

Q: What does John F. Kennedy have to do with Abu Simbel, the Aswan Dam and the Lotus Flower Tower?

A: A few years before you elected John F. Kennedy to the Presidency, Egypt commenced advanced plans to build a stable Aswan Dam. Between the United States and Britain, $270 million dollars in promised loans to aid the construction were withdrawn, in part due to Egypt's intention to nationalize the Suez Canal. The Soviet Union, however, offered nearly one third of the construction cost, the scientific know-how, and the skilled workers necessary to complete the Aswan Dam. This offer, of course, was presented as a gift rather than a loan. The Lotus Flower (on the right) stands as a monument to commemorate the friendship between Egypt and the Soviet Union.

There was a problem: the rising flood waters blocked by the partially-built Aswan Dam threatened to destroy Abu Simbel, an ancient and precious temple from the pharaonic era. The tightening cold-war conflict notwithstanding, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy mobilized the global effort to save Abu Simbel, and with her help, John F. Kennedy crossed cold-war boundaries to financially support the salvage mission.

Wouldn't it be nice to have someone representing our country, now, internationally, with that kind of class?

Did we really elect George W. Bush to represent our country?

From time to time, people of my generation hear stories about this young Irish fellow who served as President of the United States. You tell us these great stories, inspiring stories, stories that would seem more appropriately fitted to a long-lived legend, rather than to John F. Kennedy, who, after all, served as President for only the short years between 1961 and 1963.

These stories, though, they're only fairy tales. Whether or not John F. Kennedy was a great President doesn't matter in the slightest. Whether or not John F. Kennedy was a great man doesn't matter in the slightest. Whether or not the death of John F. Kennedy was a tragedy doesn't matter in the slightest.

Only the fact that you've made John F. Kennedy into a mythological hero matters in the slightest.

Look, old people: you lived through crucial years. You saw our isolated world smooshed into the same vat of goo with all the other isolated worlds. Planes, trains and automobiles. Long-distance telephone calls. A square, squat box filling your living room with the magic of the universe. You fought wars against countries living on the other side of the globe--countries you never knew existed.

A young Irish-Catholic flashed into your life and inspired you to look through your pleasant, whitebread window curtains, to see the world as a place worthy of your interest.

You old people cannot understand this truth: we don't believe you. There isn't a single concept you associate with morality, with leadership, with the decency of the United States that hasn't been trampled, dismissed, satirized, and destroyed.

I'm almost an old fogey myself, the same as you. But there is a difference. I was born in the immediate aftermath of the Watergate scandal. I've lived through the following presidencies: Gerald Ford, Jim Carter, Ronald Reagan, George Bush Part I, Bill Clinton, and now, unfortunately, George Bush Part II.

These are the old men you've brought into my living room. You did it yourselves. This lot represents your highest, most pathetically hopeful code. What's happened to you? When was the last time you thought about the importance of inspiring your children? Here are a few words from the grave, some mulch to grind into your plastic lawns:

"A man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on. "

"A man does what he must - in spite of personal consequences, in spite of obstacles and dangers and pressures - and that is the basis of all human morality. "

"A revolution is coming- a revolution which will be peaceful if we are wise enough; compassionate if we care enough; successful if we are fortunate enough - but a revolution which is coming whether we will it or not. We can affect its character, we cannot alter its inevitability."

And, most importantly (in case you've forgotten in your dotage):

"All this will not be finished in the first hundred days. Nor will it be finished in the first thousand days, nor in the life of this administration, nor even perhaps in our lifetime on this planet. But let us begin. "

Copyright ©2004, ©2005, ©2006 Joshua Suchman. All rights reserved.
Taboo Monkey Blue Blog: Writing on Writing

Nice picture, isn't it?
Er, is it?

We see the world in a way that seems so sensible, so complete, that we assume everyone sees the world in the same way. We're willing to accept that other people maintain different beliefs, live through different experiences, manage thought patterns by way of varying levels of rationality, intelligence, artistic sensibility--we accept that others interpret the world we all see in different ways.

But are we really looking at the same world in the first place?

The blind do not see the world. We can accept this idea, even if we can't fully imagine ourselves into the lives of those who have never seen the world, or the lives of those who have lost the ability to see the world.

We imagine that the senses of hearing, touch, smell, and taste are enhanced for those who cannot see--we take our own hearing and touching and smelling and tasting experiences, and we imagine increased sensitivity; our own world, but with clearer sounds, with detailed surfaces and potent scents.

But is it really the same world?

I'm colorblind. I cannot translate the longer wavelengths of light into clear color--the reds and greens you experience are different experiences for me.

What number do you see?

How clearly do you see it? There is, in fact, a number buried in the gray: 83. I can't see it. Most people can. I'm colorblind, most likely you're not; you see a number that clearly exists. Does it exist for me? Is it there if I can't see it?

This box, in my eyes just as gray as the previous box, also contains a number: 37. I can see the number 37. When I see this number, I begin to imagine the ability to see "83" in the first box--what it would look like. To a person with a certain sort of color blindness, both numbers are invisible. Because I exist somewhere in the middle, I feel I understand both perspectives: yes, there is a number; and yes, some people cannot see it. And I believe the numbers exist--even the ones I can't see.

Here's a third example: this box contains the number 49. I can't see it. Most people with any type of color blindness won't. Even people who have normal color vision may have difficulty seeing the second digit clearly. Do you see a number? Do you see the number 44 or 49?

Let's take a minute break. Imagine yourself writing this post, inserting the images, offering a write-up of each number. Not too difficult to imagine, I hope.

For example, I forgot to label these tests when I downloaded them. The first test I can almost see, but not well enough to take a numerical stand; nor will I take a stand with the last test. The second test looks like clear case of the number 25; the third-to-last looks like the number 16. The sixth example looks, more or less, like the number 8. Now, I specifically downloaded the fifth test here to demonstrate how tricky this gets. I see the fifth test as another cut-and-dry example--in fact, it appears more clearly to me than the "25" in case two. The fifth test clearly looks like the number 2. Not a vague 2, or an almost 2. We're talking about the number 2. I've seen twos around, from time to time. I know what they look like. They look like this 2.

But it's not a 2, is it?

If it's not a 2, then I'm on my own. When I don't see things, and someone says, "Hey, Taboo! Look how beautiful those things you can't see are! Aren't they wonderful?" I feel okay. I have faith. I don't need to see everything first-hand. If the someone has good eyes, and the person is trustworthy, I'm happy to play along. But give me a 2, and you're going to have a hard time telling me it isn't there.

Is it the same world? Are we really capable of seeing outside ourselves?

Copyright ©2004, ©2005, ©2006 Joshua Suchman. All rights reserved.
Taboo Monkey Blue Blog: Writing on Writing

A potent, perfect photograph focuses on a concrete, limited space, always accepting the reality of a small, square location. But the picture finds real air inside the tunnels of tension that burrow in and out of frozen time. How much deeper does the emotional, intellectual picture take you? The photographer snaps the shutter, and one broken piece of time is removed from the whole--but a picture focused on more than space opens a dialogue with the past, present and future.

We have images flickering against the backscreens of our brains. Sometimes they flash with brilliant clarity; other times they slink around like shadows.

Have you ever tried explaining a dream? There's always a difference between the true dream experience and the one you relate--you need to focus images in order to express them to others. You focus the images, you change them, then they become your way of expressing something that works only on a wordless level.

You take a photograph of someone in a frozen, boundary-locked moment—but a picture with real value allows a truer image to come forth with its timeless, lasting, meaning that no boundary can completely obscure.

In order to create value, a human being must learn his distance. The most lurid, disturbed imaginings need the right distance, the right focus, to find an expression that will have external meaning. Likewise, the pure, theoretical concept needs a focus—it needs to find the right form.

When writing a story—fiction or otherwise—a writer who finds himself too close to (but not in) the story will build powerful, intriguing images; but the reader won’t see the whole picture. We feel distressed, even nauseated when we sit too close to a movie screen, or read a book that digs too deeply in too many places—trying to focus on anything that’s too close leads to 800mg of Ibuprofen, a Budweiser, and the Simpsons from your couch.

When writing a story—fiction or otherwise—a writer who finds himself too far from the story will leave the reader less of a headache, because the reader will throw the book away after one and one-half pages. Then the two readers will snuggle up together and, as quickly as they are able, they will forget about you and your blurry ideas.

How close are you to your life? How much do you let in through the front door, and how much are you willing to give? Those subtle, essential images flickering around your soul require your acknowledgement in order to find clear expression. They require your confession of distance.

When we deceive ourselves into believing we’re closer to or farther from our world than we really are, we find ourselves unable to communicate—in the way we want to communicate.

Taboo

"Write!" a guy says. So I write:

Just to the left you'll find a rather nice photo of me. See how full my purpose appears, how well-rounded and adjusted, how contented I am with my little obsessions and quirks. After all, I'm a libra. Everything has a place, everything evenly balances on the fulcrum of a simple age, in simple times.

Quite a nice representation of Taboo at his best. Really.

Jump forward ten years.

The New Psyche:

1. Survival

Occasionally I find myself questioning the unquestionable survival instinct that we all, allegedly, have: they say this instinct is written throughout our genetic code. They say, in fact, this instinct forms the bedrock for all of our instinctual days and ways. Once we procreate, I suppose, and complete the necessary trust fund paperwork to protect the lifestyle to which our progeny has grown accustomed, then we can head back to our couches and beer cozies to await the sounding of our death knells.

Not everyone has progeny. But this crafty survival instinct of ours assumes authority over various developments. Physical and genetic longevity--do these demand emotional, psychological, and financial survival? No, of course not: they certainly help out with the longevity issue, but our survival instinct treats sanity as a peripheral need at best.

Do I have a survival instinct? Sure, but Mister Instinct and I--I'm not sure we're on the same page. Consider the three-quarters of this guy: he's living in Boston on student loans from the feds to get his meat hooks on a degree with little or no employment trade value . . . last week he temped at the annual international Lions Club convention in order to make his rent . . . the Lions gave him a Floppy Friend to recognize his efforts--that's a stuffed lion, inorganic, mind you, with, by the way, a twelve dollar trade value.

So it goes.

2. Excellence

Taboo Ubermensch. I'm the overman, superman, burning live timber to fulfill my destiny as a pioneer; I'm a man among many, many men.

Or I will be the Man, one day, I'm nearly sure of it. Excellence, in fact, may be the only way to justify a reckless path. We have to trust ourselves.

You'll notice that I've used the word "we" to include "you" in "my" journey. This way, we hedge our bets. I take advice. Sometimes I pay for advice. I'm a sucker: I've just let loose another 18 Big Ones in loans for another year of similar advising. We believe, don't we, that the voice of reason and experience is worth a listen or two. We're willing to borrow from the paths of other Ubermensches. We've taken a road considerably less traveled than other adjacent roads; but we've needed to buy our road maps at Barnes and Noble.

Well?

So?

3. Me: "You'd be crazy not to take some. Have you ever had a mango lassi?" (Adverbs, Daniel Handler)

Have you ever been moving in one direction for such a long time that, finally, when someone says, "hey, buddy: come over here, sit down, have a mango lassi!" you don't go over there even though that's exactly what you want to do? You'd be crazy not to get yourself some mango lassi. Someone's buying; you should drink.

But it's easy to forget that what you want is not merely survival; nor is it to make yourself a nice slice of excellence. Survival is good stuff, and excellence tastes fine given some temperate climate and a chilled beverage. But those things aren't what you were after when you took that first step toward completing all the steps in that single, narrow direction.

See? You forgot what you wanted, already. You've been moving in that one nifty direction for such a long time that you don't remember why. Survival? Excellence? Has someone ever offered you a mango lassi, and you declined? How the hell could you decline the mango lassi? Who the hell do you think you are?

Copyright ©2004, ©2005, ©2006 Joshua Suchman. All rights reserved.
Taboo Monkey Blue Blog: Writing on Writing