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On November 22, 1963 John F. Kennedy, C.S. Lewis, and Aldous Huxley all died within a few hours of each other. In his 1982 book, Between Heaven and Hell, Peter Kreeft imagines what it might be like if the three of them met after death and had a conversation about the really big question: life, death, and everything (spoiler: Kreeft doesn't believe the answer is "42").

The book is entertaining and thought provoking, if necessarily manipulative and bias toward the point of view of C.S. Lewis. Lewis fills the role of Socratic moderator/inquisitor and "theist" aside Kreeft's versions of Kennedy as humanist and Huxley as pantheist. Lewis gets all the good lines (Kennedy: Where the hell are we? Lewis: You must be a Catholic…and I’m pretty sure you’re wrong about the location) and one imagines these men, wherever they may be, taking exception to the words being put into their mouths, including and perhaps especially Lewis. But for observers of Socratic inquiry, or Spock, or classic Christian apologetics, it is a good primer and illustrates how far most of us drift away from any approximation of logic or honest argument on most important questions. In my view, some of the arguments in the book are flawed, not in their above-ground construction but in their underlying assumptions, or the sources of authority upon which they are built.

I suppose I will always feel most aligned with faith as a purely existential experience and with the value of doubt, which, as a tradition, has been honored in many of the world’s religions, including Christianity, though not generally the western evangelical variety. This may or may not be a cop out. Ask me again tomorrow.

Kreeft’s  book came to mind a few days ago, when Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson died within a few hours of each other. I kept thinking about it until it became clear I had to write something down. Now, I cannot claim to have been profoundly affected by the lives, careers, or deaths of these two people. I enjoyed much of Michael Jackson’s music but I never purchased an album. I was a incidental observer of his life, not out of choice, but because I own a television. As a young teenager, I was a fan of Charlie’s Angels in the way that young teenage boys were fans of Charlie’s Angels. I did not own Farrah’s famous poster, but several of my friends did. Still, I was never alone with one long enough to create a memory.

Other than some generic despondence over the human condition, and some sharp stabs of empathy upon catching a glimpse of Ryan O’Neil’s face while flipping through the channels that night, I had little personal reaction to the deaths on that day. But having read the Kreeft book at least twice, the idea of a conversation between Farrah and MJ after death would not leave me alone. It was nothing complicated or profound that occurred to me, no message,  just a brief exchange in a taxi cab.

If I have any aspirations whatsoever as a writer, especially one who is trying to return to his creative writing roots after many years in the business writing wilderness (greetings to my clients...thank you for your business...I love you all), it is better to listen to impulses such as these, as useless as the outcome may seem. So, I wrote it out my little scene and, after much internal debate, decided to post it on my personal blog. Why? Because whatever else I am, I am a writer too and it's about time I get back in the habit of admitting it without apology, and a writer needs readers, even if they be only two (hi Jen).

I have not attempted anything as ambitious or clever as Kreeft, or anything ambitious or very clever at all. I had a short vignette bouncing around in my head that needed to get out. That’s all. The exchange below does not necessarily reflect things I believe in or things I do not believe in. It’s just a bit of imagining to excise whatever it was that these two public deaths and reactions to them set off inside my brain. And the magic of the blog is, I get to do that, regardless of…well, regardless of anything that could come after the word regardless.

As is often the case when I try to write an introduction to something, the things I really want to say are mostly in the introduction itself.

With that ringing endorsement…

(Beginner blogger technical note:  There are formatting errors below that I cannot see during editing or preview and that I cannot fix, despite spending too much time trying to do so, and and getting good and ticked off...so I apologize. I am trying to figure it out.)

Taxi Driver:       You need a cab?

Michael:            I don’t…I don’t know.

Driver:               Do you know where you are headed?

Michael:            I’m not sure.

Driver:               Well, trust me, it’s too far to walk. Get in.

Michael:            But there is already someone in  the back.

Driver:               Ma’am, do you mind sharing the cab?

Farrah:              No, not at all.

Michael:            Thank you.

Driver:               No need to buckle up, sir. Here we go.

Farrah:              Hello, Michael.

Michael:            Farrah? Farrah Fawcett?

Farrah:              I would say this is a pleasant surprise but I’m not sure that’s right, but it might be.

Michael:            This…what are…oh, I remember now. I was so sad  to hear…

Farrah:              It doesn’t matter. We’re here now.

Michael:            And where is here?

Farrah:              Moving on.

Michael:            So, it’s over? I’m not going to wake up in the hospital?

Farrah:              Yes, Michael, it’s over. How do you feel?

Michael:            I feel good. Actually, I feel great, better than I have in years.

Farrah:              Isn’t it wonderful?

Michael:            It is. It’s amazing. But where are we going? Are you…don’t tell me you’re an angel.

Farrah:              No, I don’t think so. At least, not in any way that makes sense without a

residual check. All I know for sure is we’re moving on and I feel peaceful.

Michael:           How do you know that? Don’t you have questions?

Farrah:             Well, I’ve been here a little longer than you and the longer you are here the more

you absorb an understanding.

Michael:           You know, I think I can feel it.

Farrah:             And I had time to prepare myself while living and begin the transition. With

acceptance came glimpses of what was to come, a sense of the peace and the questions began

to fall away. Do you remember everything you believed before, about what it means to die?

Michael:          I do, I think. I remember it was…detailed, complicated, I guess. It seems like it

now. But I forget all of the…I guess I don’t remember.

Farrah:            Do you want to remember?

Michael:          No.

Farrah:             No, I don’t want to remember either. I only want to remember the people who loved me.

Michael:         But, so many…

Farrah:           No, not the fans, bless them. The people who truly knew me and truly loved me.

The people I loved so much that it kept me alive even after my body gave up. And even their

faces are beginning to fade from my memory, but their presence is very strong inside of me.

Michael:       I feel that too. Is this what happens, we’ll forget everything?

Farrah:         I don’t think so. I think memories of life are always available to us when we want them.

Driver:          That’s exactly right, ma’am. That’s how it works. And we’ve arrived at our destination.

Farrah:         What beautiful gates.

Driver:          Now, if I can just find Saint Pete.

Michael:       Saint Peter? This might not be good.

Driver:          No, Saint Pete is what I call the remote control for the gates. It’s my little joke.

Ya’ll see a remote back there?

Michael:       Here it is. Farrah, does our driver look familiar to you?

Farrah:         Yes, of course he does. That’s Elvis.

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Posted by Ferguson Said at 12:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Last night while I lay, I mean, sat on the couch watching The Golf Channel, I mean, The History Channel, my dog started growling out on the back patio. At first, I thought she must be growling because she forgot that “lay” is past tense for “lie,” which means to recline (though not necessarily to relax), but it is also the correct form for the present tense of depositing an object, to lay something down. This is a very frustrating grammatical reality, but must be absolutely infuriating for a dog, as evidenced by the fact that she had graduated from growling to full blown barking. So I went outside to explain “lie, lay, lain” and “lay, laid, laid” to our dog, Sookie. I thought a nine-quadrant matrix would work best as a visual.

But Sookie was not barking at the insanity of correct grammar. You see, like most pet owners, I project my thoughts and behaviors onto my dog.  I am the one who growls and barks at grammar, not my dog.

Sookie is a Jindo/Sheppard mix (i.e. Korean/German...Hyundai/BMW, or maybe Kia/Audi)), very territorial, loyal, and protective of her family. So, she sends a few barks over the bow of anyone who steps onto the property or thinks about stepping onto the property. I’m quite certain she would go tooth-to-bone on the mailman if given the chance, but if she sees him while out on her walk, she ignores him. It’s all about turf.

Last night she was staring into a group of potted plants, barking and growling and generally attempting to look bigger and badder than whatever it was that had her attention.

Imagining some small animal cowering among the pots I went over for a closer look. Sookie did not stand down or even acknowledge me when I reached her side, as if whatever it was might escape if she let down her guard.  I looked but could not see anything. When I moved a vine from the tomato plant to get a better look, Sookie darted in toward one of the green tomatoes and then quickly withdrew with a half growl half bark, a warning that she was serious about something.  I reached in to touch one of the tomatoes and Sookie followed my hand in and then pulled back again with dog-like-cat-like reflexes.

The dog was barking at the tomatoes.

I told my wife, Jen, when she came outside to see what was happening, that the dog was barking at the tomatoes. I said it twice because, well, they were words I had never uttered previously in my life and such phrases deserve repeating.

The tomato plant, complete with several small and mid-sized green tomatoes had just arrived on the back patio that day and although it had been resting in its new home for several hours, the shiny green skins were now reflecting the porch light, making them stand out among the surrounding plants.

But Jen wanted to be sure and went back into the house for a flashlight. There are a number of stray cats in the neighborhood and our backyard offers several discreet locations for depositing a litter. Jen wanted to make sure there wasn’t a baby kitten or possum or some such chew toy hiding in the shadows. While she was gone, I moved the tomato cage several times, causing the tomatoes to move and Sookie to do her dart-in-for-the-kill-but-then-change-her-mind routine.

The flashlight revealed nothing and after several minutes of my talking baby-talk at the tomatoes, Sookie either lost interest or decided once and for all that I am a complete and utter numb-skull and wandered off.

We have a weird dog, I guess. But I can’t help thinking that maybe she knows something that we don’t know and I have had a second and third look at those tomatoes in the light of day. Sure, they’re just tomatoes, right? Probably. Maybe. Worst case scenario, they are actually alien pods waiting for a signal from the mother ship before they take over our bodies. Nah.

I did look up the recipe for fried green tomatoes, though.  You know, strike first, strike hard, no mercy. That's how I roll.

www.aboutferguson.com

Posted by Ferguson Said at 02:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

So, my first ever blog post, Superman’s Mute Canary, may have conveyed the idea that I am a skeptic when it comes to hope, or worse, that I’m one of those emo-cynical types we tail-end boomers are young enough to know about but too old to really understand. Like my parents were with Wacky Packages trading stickers.

Au contraire (that’s French for nuh-uh).

Remember the character of Andy, played by Tim Robbins, from Shawshank Redemption? He was friends with Red, played by Morgan Freeman.  At one point, somewhere in the second reel I think (this is how we talk about movies in LA), Red takes exception to Andy’s seeming reliance on hope. Andy insists that they should not give up hope, while Red believes that hope, at least for men in prison, can leave you one beer shy of a six pack.

Andy chooses hope, clings to it and even appears mesmerized by it to the point that his pals think he might be out of his tree and about to commit suicide. But Andy isn’t bonkers, he channeling Warren Buffett, who said (didn’t you read my first blog post?) that HOPE IS NOT A STRATEGY.

Andy not only has a strategy, he has a plan, a plan only the mind of Stephen King could dream up for escaping from prison.  When Andy looks dreamily off into the distance and talks about hope he’s not talking about Chuck Norris repelling unexpectedly from a helicopter to sweep him up to freedom. He’s not talking about some uber-liberal member of the parole board who likes his dimples and lobbies for his release.  And, he’s not talking about faith. His friend, Red, was talking about faith, I think. Not faith in God or heaven, but faith in anything around them to deliver freedom.

I’m not talking about faith. That is for another day, another blog, another world maybe. My point or my questions or the nails in my soapbox amount to this: Hope happens. Yes it does. Sometimes it’s the sun that does it, or the caffeine in your coffee. Whatever. It happens. So what? Then what? Unless it’s attached to something it is just a cheap high.

Not long after Andy escapes, Red is paroled and sent back out into the world where, despite his freedom, hope does not appear…until, he has a plan. The plan is accompanied by these words from Andy: “Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.”

But what isn’t said but is said by the movie is that hope never dies as long as you are moving toward, or not even toward but striving for the thing you hope for. Hope blossoms in Red because he has a plan. He has a strategy. Get on a bus and head for Mexico to find his friend.

No, hope is not a strategy Mr. Buffett, but a strategy can ignite hope. And that’s what I think about hope. Good feelings feel good, but get on the bus. Feeling hopeless, Mike? What’s the plan?

As he makes his way to Mexico on the bus, Red, who told Andy that hope can drive you crazy,  says in voice over: “I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend, and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope.”

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Posted by Ferguson Said at 10:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Hope is on my mind. You too? Well, it is a classic top of mind topic, a lemon twist in the human condition. Prophets, poets, philosophers, politicians, they have beaten the concept to death...well, not quite to death. I mean, it is hope, after all. The point is I have nothing to add, not really. That's why I chose it for my first-ever blog post.

I have nothing to say but I have gathered, unintentionally and over the years, a personal index of what others say around the idea of hope. The things that others say about unfathomable topics are comforting, of course, especially when the words are attributed ultimately to someone who keeps the blueprints for the universe on file in his office, in a file cabinet made of gopher bark, no doubt. It's nice to know that others, omniscient or not, have arrived at some conclusions. But I am on the verge of a bottomless digression, so on with it.

Emily Dickinson famously versed that "hope is a thing with feathers." The poem goes on to describe hope as Superman's mute canary, or maybe Yankee Doodle Pigeon. Neither rain, sleet, snow, nor Dastardly and Muttley in Their Flying Machines can drop this bird.

(For those of you of a certain age or those of you who watch retro-toon channels, it will now take about 37 minutes for the song, "Stop That Pigeon" to stop repeating in your head)

Nearly the best part about Emily's portrait of hope is that the super-bird lives in our soul. Nice. What better home for a ubiquitous if ambiguously defined concept than inside another ubiquitous if ambiguously defined concept? But I like it. I have learned that success is not only about showing up, it's also about gaining access. But I don't have to figure out how to get face time with hope or get hope to visit my website or read my resume. According to Ms. Dickinson, I don't have to stalk hope. Hope is in my soul right here...or maybe it's over there...but it could be under here, about two inches to the left.

Then there is Woody Allen, and Woody Allen is the best part of Emily's poem. Years ago he published a collection of stories, many of them having appeared in the New Yorker. He named the collection Without Feathers because, well, his persona as a comedian and humorist was a man without hope, or perhaps more correctly, a man who has hope but it looks like a plucked Cornish hen and never takes flight. Now that I think about it, I'm sure that is what Woody Allen's hope looks like, a featherless bird furiously flapping its buffalo wings.

But never mind that, the book itself is hilarious.  The first time I read it was on a road trip. I sat in the back seat reading and laughing so hard and so often that the other people in car became annoyed. You see, while the existence of the soul and therefore a bird cage for Yankee Doodle Pigeon might be dubious for some, myself among them at times, laughter is as tangible an experience as exists, and an experience within which hope really does take flight. It is difficult to despair while laughing, is my guess. Unless you are the caped crusader's arch enemy, The Joker.

This, I think, is why I watch comedy at night. Sir Francis Bacon said (and I'm paraphrasing here) that hope makes a great breakfast but a lousy dinner. The morning time, especially under the influence of good coffee, holds out the hope of many possibilities, accomplishments, wins, new starts. Anything can happen. At night time, it's all over. This morning-time optimist club to which most of us belong (again, except for The Joker) reflects the seduction of hope and a siren song I try not to hear.

Which brings us to my very favorite saying about hope, most often attributed to the Oracle of Omaha himself, Warren Buffett, and the antidote to high hope and the accompanying crash. Buffett said, "Hope is not a strategy." Hoping for things to happen is, for me, the quickest path to depression. Planning for things to happen can take me through the day and to my pillow on an even keel.

But then again, as a good friend of mine said, "Hope may not be a strategy, but it's a hell of a campaign slogan."

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Posted by Ferguson Said at 05:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)