Comparative pain is a game no one wins.

Part of the problem is that 90% of the people in the world aren't telling. The old man sitting next to you, smiling at pictures of his grand-daughter, barely escaped a dictatorship with his life. The sweet, friendly woman you work with who seems to have it made was originally married to an abusive cop whom she had to flee on a chance weekend cross-country, chased by his buddies in the force. All the people around you... they've known death. Sickness. Suffering. Thwarted ambitions. Destroyed dreams. Loneliness. And you'd never know it from their faces.

So most of the time, you're missing data you need to play the game.

You can console yourself imagining what people are going through based on what they make public, maybe. But then, when they do share, you're suddenly forced to confront someone whose situation, objectively, must have been worse than yours. What then? You're forced to resent them for making your own feelings feel petty and small. Their experiences become nothing more than a whip you use to punish yourself for being human. You dehumanize them, turning their own suffering into something that has nothing to do with them and everything to do with you. And you scar yourself, undeserving, for you are no less entitled to your emotions than they are.

Here's the truth: there's no such thing as comparative pain. There's no game. There's no way to measure, no way to win. We all come into this life and we all suffer. Some of us choose to talk about it, and some won't, but you will never understand any person's personal hell. And with very few exceptions, you will never even know they're burning.

As the movie says: the only winning move is not to play.



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Tags: philosophy
Current Mood: unhappy

I wasn't planning on saying anything about the recent SF/F kerfluffle...

...but watching it, I realize no one is saying what I'm thinking, and what I'm thinking is that if you really wanted to be revolutionary and go forth to take back something that's been lost, you'd go reclaim non-sexual touch. Because it would be totally shocking to me to attend a convention without having someone make an inappropriate comment to me or do something inappropriate that made me glad I brought friends to get in the way of idiots. Because despite the vast army of celibates, priests and neuters that I write about, people will inevitably decide that the handful of characters with strange sex lives must be the truer reflection of WHO I AM and therefore they MUST ask me if they can have sex with me. Because sometimes I think people are incapable of appreciating beauty without wanting to find some way to get off on it.

There's never been an SF/F convention where I wasn't constantly making sure I wasn't alone... and yes, I worry about it more at cons than I do in normal situations. If you haven't noticed why this is necessary, you're not living in the real world. To be honest, the furries are far safer; I've never, ever had the same level of problems at a furry con.

Yeah, I just said that furries were more polite about sex than the average SF/F fan.

I'm sure I'm not the only one absolutely exhausted with society's puerile and ultimately boring fixation with sex. Yes, it can be wonderful, no it's not the key to enlightenment. Can we move on now?

I've written about this before, but I'll say it again: if you really want to be counter-cultural, you'll champion celibacy. Go for it! I'm waiting!

...still waiting....

Yeah. Not so revolutionary now, are you.


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Tags: controversy, culture, philosophy
Current Mood: disgusted
Current Music: Deep Forest

I was riding my bicycle a week ago or so, in the late late afternoon when sunset is threatening but it's still light out... enjoying the quality of the light, so luminous without heat. There's a long slope alongside a pond where you don't have to pedal and I sat back as I sailed past, listening to the click-click-click of the bicycle chain and the distant piercing whistle of a heron... watching the breeze ruffle the surface of the water into shining folds, smelling star jasmine and cut grass.

dracosphynx and I have been having a discussion about whether I'll sell 50 books (at the time, I was at 44 sold and no movement for weeks). But out there in the quiet, some part of me detached from the idea that it was important to sell as many books as possible. It had been gnawing at me that I haven't had time to put together the marketing for The Aphorisms, and that beyond sending out the review copies I haven't really pushed it.

And I wondered: why do I have to push? Why is it important? Five books or fifty, it is what it is. When I have the time to put together fliers and letters and send out newsbits to websites, I'll do it. But I don't right now, and it's not a big deal. There's so much temptation to mistake your successes for your identity... to look at what you do and say "That is who I am." But it's not, not really. Nothing external truly is.

People will find the work... or not. And I'll still be here, and so will the books. In the mean-time, I have living to do... or else what will I write when I finally sit down?


( Of course, the moment I stopped fretting about it, I sold three more... figures. I think the universe just wants me to have another cup of chocolate. :) )


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Tags: books, philosophy, writing
Current Mood: easy-tired

"Strange..."

"What's that?"

I am leaning forward over my desk, tangled hair over one shoulder and all my brushes in front of me. "Well, they've seen you thrown people around. Tie them up and expose them in public. Threaten to rape them—with the implication that you'd follow through if necessary—you've shown you're good with a whip for a reason we'll see in a while. You've sedated people, blinded and gagged them, had them thrown into rooms for solitary confinement, cut them... and throughout all that, people responded uneasily, wondering what keeps you from abusing your power. Now that I've revealed it, some of them think you've been tortured and the sympathy shifts."

Shame laughs.

"What?" I say, looking over my shoulder.

"It's very aunerai, forgive me," he says. "Perhaps you should have used a different metaphor."

"Like what?"

"Tell them it's like a chef having to sample his entire menu before serving it."

I stare at him. "You think this is funny."

"It was a transcendent experience," Shame says quietly. "And I was in good hands. What should I fear from what people think they know?"

"Some people would argue torture can't be transcendent."

"Then you should not explain at all the Ai-Naidari definition of torture," Shame says. "Besides, even humans know better. The book you just read, yes? "In some rare cases, this shift in consciousness [toward spiritual enlightenment] happens dramatically and radically, once and for all. When it does, it usually comes about through total surrender in the midst of intense suffering." "

I eye him. "You're reading Oprah Book Club picks."

"No, you are," he says, laughing. "I'm just reading over your shoulder."

"It really doesn't bother you?" I ask.

"No," he says. "And it shouldn't bother you."

"Right," I say, and drag myself off to start the day.


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Tags: ai-naidar, meta-conversations, philosophy
Current Mood: sleepy

Meanwhile, in other news... I periodically hunt around the web for mentions of my name to see how well my marketing's working. In the process, I ran into a discussion of the Jokka stories on a discussion board, wherein I was called a bad furry copy of Ursula Le Guin ("Just because it's a step above the quality of bad furry fanfic doesn't mean it has anything profound to say"), which was... bemusing enough.

But then they called me a misogynist. Which hit me somewhere between the eyes.

The response: "MCA Hogarth isn't a man, you idiot."

"Even better. Another woman full of self-hatred and with gender issues."

There was a brief discussion where evidence was raised to prove this point based on the Jokka stories, at which point the thread devolved into the usual forum trolling.

I admit I was stunned into silence by the discussion, and I spent a few days thinking about it. The temptation to say "That's not what I meant!" is strong, but also pointless... because I wasn't trying to say anything when I wrote those stories. Not on purpose. And you can't defend yourself against accusations based on your secret feelings.

For all I know, they're right. It makes me wonder.

Everyone brings their own thing to the art, and you don't have any control over what they think or take away from it. I suppose that means there will be people convinced I hate women (or myself)... along with all the other amazing things that have been assumed about me based on what I write (including at least two people who think I have Lisinthir's kinks, which is... uh... a pretty impressive assumption).

Still... being called a bad furry copy of Ursula Le Guin... there are worse things. I guess.


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Tags: philosophy, writing
Current Mood: O_O

"What now?" Shame asks as I stare at the lexicon, my pen still in my hand.

Wordless, I point. He looks and says, "Ah. I wondered when you would find that."

"You wondered!" I exclaim.

He nods. "Since I saw that you make... strange distinctions. "Submissive." "Dominant." "Switch." "

I look over my shoulder at him. "Exactly what were you reading to find stuff like that?"

"A culture's attitude toward sex is revealing," Shame says. At my expression, he says solemnly, mimicking the Calligrapher, "I used the tool of the Firefox."

"Lord preserve," I say, covering my eyes. "Did you...."

"Turn Safe Search off," he says. He nods toward the dictionary. "But you see, we are different."

ieqera [ ee yeh KAIR aa ], (noun) — balance between desire to lead and desire to follow. Every person's ieqera is different, leaning more towards one or the other, but every Ai-Naidari has both qualities in them.

"You perceive," he says as I stare at it, "all of us must have both. As Farren noted, "Ever is there one born below you... and one above."

"Even you?" I tease.

"Particularly me," he says.

"Even Thirukedi?"

"The Emperor answers to his people, does he not?"

"The Exception?"

He smiles without humor. "Is the Exception. That question answers itself, and you should know better, aunerai." He taps the page. "Read on."

naima [ neye MAH ], (noun) — need to lead, be in charge, take care of many others, be aggressive, make decisions (one side of the scale of ieqera).

fijza [ FEE jzah ], (noun) — need to follow, be subordinate, serve one particular person, be receptive/submissive, be given clear direction (one side of the scale of ieqera).

"Taking care of people is in both these definitions," I say, quiet.

"The more responsibility you have, the more people you are responsible for. Yes? And yet the servant serves a master." Continuing the lesson, he says, "The adjectives are manaimas, to be leaderish, and mefijzan, to be followerish. Both are necessary and honorable. It is possible to be bad at both... and very good. A good servant is as invaluable as a good leader."

"My head hurts," I say.

"Is it your head, or your heart?" Shame asks.

I eye him.

He touches my shoulder, startling me. "I didn't mean to wound you. But... this is another form of destructive independence your society practices, yes? Pretending that everyone must be a leader, and that cooperation is somehow accomplished by many leaders coming together and mysteriously deciding to help one another. It's ridiculous. It drives the truth into your bedrooms."

"I'm not sure that's true," I say, quiet.

"I'm not sure it's not," he says, and leaves me with the dictionary.

Ieqera... always someone above and someone below. But that would require more trust in one another than we have, wouldn't it.

I put the pen down and close the book. I'm done for the day.



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Tags: ai-naidar, language, meta-conversations, philosophy
Current Mood: sigh

For as long as I can remember, I've been able to dream myself out of nightmares. My subconscious and I... we have a pact. I pay attention when it speaks and in turn it declines to press the point once it's made.

But now... now I have nightmares I can't wake from.

A couple of months after the baby was born I put her in the baby carrier, nestled against my chest with her face resting on my collarbone, and went to the chocolate shop. The curb leading up to the door is very steep. I misjudged it. Completely.

For the first time in my adult life, I fell. Not just tripped. Fell. Both of my feet left the ground.

There was no time to acknowledge there was nothing I could do. A two-month-old baby landing on a concrete edge with 140 pounds on top of her was not going to survive, and it didn't matter that I didn't have time to brake my fall.

We stopped.

I was on my knees. My right palm was flat against the ground. My left was wrapped around her, cradling her head... which was less than a foot from the ground, the length of my bent arm. She didn't even blink. When I looked down at her she was staring at the world with mild curiosity, unperturbed.

And I, I shoved myself upright, stepped up onto the curb and walked into the chocolate shop. I shook while I drank, and the heat of the chocolate scalded my scraped palm through the paper cup. I could feel the bruises spreading on my knees.

Once upon a time, I'd thought vanity would be enough to spur me to exercise regularly. It was... for a while. But it never kept me at it, day after day. Running until my ribs feel like curved knives. Lunging with sword, point-out, my legs burning and arm trembling from exhaustion. Biking uphill, pollen stinging my eyes.

When vanity wasn't enough, I thought it was over. The only thing that could possibly motivate me, I thought then, was the romance of a cause. But what cause could possibly obtain, in a modern world? I was never like to be the heroine of any story.

More fool I.

To be quick enough to dive for her. To be strong enough to hold her. To be fast enough to race her. All my nightmares are of her coming to harm. I know inevitably she will. But if it is in me to prevent it, I don't want my body stopping me.

So I run for her. And as my heart expands and I feel the love of those around me, I run for them. For all of the people I have failed to understand need me. Need me to be strong. To be healthy. To live and laugh alongside them for as many years as my heart will beat.

I don't think the mother's nightmares will ever go away... but then, my duty won't either. So I no longer try to dream my way free of them. The point has to be made, again and again and again. When I wake I lean forward and rest my brow on my arm, and then I renew my resolve.

Live now. Pay attention. Grow strong.

Grow strong.

Tags: health, life, mom in spots, philosophy
Current Mood: quiet
Current Music: Gabriel & Dresden - Dangerous Power

It's so easy to become confused in this life. We lack for teachers, or we don't lack for distractions--

--I'm not sure what it is.

I've always been told that joy is a solitary emotion... that it leaves you naked. But I've never found it to be true. Pleasure, yes. Pleasures of the body, fleeting things of the mind and flesh, those things have always felt profoundly alienating.

But joy? Joy is being connected to everything. It's throwing your head up to the sky as you dance and seeing the ripple of distant blue clouds against a black sky and there being nothing between you and it and you rise...

...it's melting back into the river...

...it's a profound expanding outside your own boundaries. And it's meant to be shared.

I really do believe in my heart that joy is communicable. Not pleasure, not the vicissitudes of flesh... but that divine coming-home. It's meant to join us to one another as well as to the universe. And you are never stronger, nor more unassailable, than when you are in that place. You could be at the mercy of the worst violence and still be untouched.

This is why, when something touches me in public, I try to remember to lift my head and cry without shame. Or dance. Or laugh. This is why I write or draw the things in my heart and let them go. This is why I think of art as a moral act... and feel no difference between writing about my fencing or my aliens. It's all the same wellspring.

Life is profound when you're always reaching past the skin. I often fail. But the more I try, the more I succeed--




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Tags: philosophy
Current Mood: quiet
Current Music: Thom Yorke - Atoms for Peace

When I was young, I was certain of the paramount importance of controlling other people's perception of me ("dress for success, smile when you're down, present only the best of yourself at all times"). But throughout my life, I've glimpsed moments, startling mirror moments, of a universe where none of my attempts had any meaning. The guy in high school who told me I never looked more beautiful than the night I happened to be wearing rags and a ponytail and old glasses, because I was happy. The gorgeous friend I saw after she gave up the hope of her life, who moved like a poorly animated marionette. Here and there, when I least expected it, a reminder that the body is the least of what we see.

Several people have asked me, "So you met shadesong in person! What's she like!" And I've blithely told all of them that she's just like she is on her livejournal. That's mostly true. But, you know, she talks a great deal on her livejournal about her battles with fibromyalgia, with not knowing her body anymore. About her seizures stealing her memory and how scattered she is and how difficult it is to concentrate. And I know that to her, these things are what she sees.

When you meet her, you don't. I have rarely laid eyes on anyone so focused in my life. Ferocious, energetic, but all that energy directed like the point of a spear in flight. She's talking to you and she's obviously engaged with you, but unless you're completely self-involved you sense immediately you're not the object of that energy.

I felt totally at home when I hugged her. I wondered if other people have seen that in me, because I recognized it on sight.

Hello, fellow artist.

How pointless to think we know what other people see in us, on seeing us. We're trapped on the inside, with our own issues and our own points of focus. On the outside, people are free to notice what's really important to us in how we move, what we say, how we act and react... all of it spilling from us in ways we're completely unaware of, and never will be.

I wish I could go back. I'd tell that me the secret to controlling other people's perception of you is to be the person you want them to see.


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Tags: philosophy
Current Music: Fiona Apple - The Child is Gone

The Camry shivers around me as other cars rush past in a steady stream. My eyes are on the red left-hand-turn light, and I am, as usual, thinking about things we take for granted and that technology has changed. I remember when I was young and giving my father heart attacks racking up long distance charges connecting to BBSes on the other side of the country, before there was a public internet...

"Those people," my parents would tell me. "That you meet in letters, or on those BBSes. You can't trust them. You never really know them. They could be lying to you and you'd never know."

And I'd nod and then go off and form mad friendships and have devastating crushes on people I'd never seen, hanging on words glowing in green text on a black screen.

And then later in college: "You'll meet a lot of people online, but you'll never know who they are until you meet them in person. People present to you what they want you to see. You can't be real friends with people you never meet in person." A pause. "It's in the body language, you know."

And I'd nod and then go off and form more mad friendships that lasted decades and talk to these souls daily and they would become more real to me than real people.

I never questioned the wisdom that you can't really know someone without being exposed to their body language to tell whether they were only showing you the best that they were. But I have just come from dropping shadesong and her family off at the train station, and leaning over the steering wheel I find myself alone with thoughts I've never confronted.

Like the fact that people lie about who they are in person, too. Like the fact that when I normally meet new people, I'm at a convention: shiny, bright, dressed gloriously in corsets and long skirts with perfect ringlets and cosmetics, and I am laughing and putting my best face forward and that's me, yes, but isn't the best me? Just the same as I put forth on my livejournal?

...and I think suddenly of people who are more themselves online than they are in person... because they have a disability that makes social interaction difficult, or they are awkward around people and don't know how to comport themselves through no fault of their own save that they're shy, and I think: if I'd met them in person, I might never have formed a friendship with them at all... because I couldn't have gotten through their presentation method. How many people dear to me do I owe to the Internet? Even one is precious, and I can count more than that on my fingers. How rich I am!

Things are rarely as simple as you hope. Dangers come to you in person and online; great opportunities and friendships also. But somewhere along the line I stopped believing that you can never really know a person you meet solely through the Internet. It depends completely on the person: if they really are who they think they are; if they really want to connect with you; if they spend enough time with you that you can start to learn when they're comfortable and when they're not. Is it easier to deceive people online? Maybe... but I don't know anymore. It's always good to be cautious, in flesh or in text.

And I think these things, bemused, because I feel like I've known the woman I just left at the Amtrak station for all the years that I've been reading her livejournal, and when we met there was no difference, none at all, between the her online and the her in-person. And the only thing I can think, squinting at the gray sky, is that the one great disservice the Internet has done us is that it will probably be years before I see her again.

How difficult it is for us now to map these connections of the heart in the age after the Internet, but before instant/more convenient transport! Perhaps my daughter's daughter will speak with pity of the days when people lived and cared and spoke all their lives to people who remained nothing more than distant voices, black text glowing on a white screen. Will they say, "How sad that they could rarely touch the people they formed attachments to"?

...or will the body have become superfluous by then, and their only pity reserved for how we couldn't rise above our own shells to fix our eyes on a more transcendent view of each other?

What a strange time we live in. All I can think as the light turns green is, "What next?"


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Tags: culture,