Occam's Razor

In an earlier blog titled “Don’t Tell Ruth” I wrote about a peculiar happening in the downstairs bathroom of the famously haunted Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs.

Well. Now I’m really freaked.

See, a friend from out of town wanted to see the Crescent.  This past Sunday she and I drove up the mountain from Fayetteville and, being as how we’re both ‘woman of a certain age’, our first priority when we arrived at the hotel was to locate a bathroom.  Just as in the original event, the upstairs bathroom was unavailable.  This time it was being cleaned.  Last time the doors of all three seemingly empty stalls were locked.

So this Sunday as on the previous Sunday several months ago, I trooped downstairs to the bathroom in what was once the morgue. It’s now a high-class, perfume-scented spa, which should either exorcise any ghosts or, at the very least, make them sneeze.

Well, but this time the moment I opened the door to the bathroom the hairs on my arms begin to stand at attention. See last time when I stepped in the room, a cold breeze washed over me.  I attributed that to an air-conditioning unit coming on just as I opened the door. Also a yellowing lace curtain fluttered at the window. Again I attributed it to the air-conditioner.  Then, when I flushed the toilet it made a noise like the groaning of a…well…ghost.  Afterward as I tried to leave the room I mistook a permanently walled up door for the actual door, had a moment of panic and then finding the correct door, found it momentarily swollen from the rains and stuck shut.

Okay.  Are you still with me? See this time the entire bathroom was different. First of all, I took a close look around. There is no air-conditioning unit in that room.  Secondly, there’s no lace curtain and no window where I remember it being from last time.

No curtain. No window.

There is a walled in door but the actual door is the sort that swings freely with well over a half inch of light showing at both the top and bottom.

So what the Sam Hill happened?  I admit to having an extremely overactive imagination.  But I’m not so far gone that I don’t know the difference between what I invent and what I actually experience.  So? Ghosts or some hallucinatory experience which occurred only during the time I was in that bathroom?

Which brings me to Occam’s Razor.  I could give you the Latin, but frankly if you’re the sort that’s impressed by that sort of thing you’re probably not a follower of this blog. The jest of the principle is “If you have two equally likely explanations for a situation, the simplest is most likely to be true.”

Therefore, with a heartfelt bow to Ruth Burkett Weeks, I conclude – there are ghosts at the Crescent Hotel.

Dirty Little Secret

We all have our dirty little secrets. The funny, the uniquely human aspect of these small vices is that they’re generally not near as secret as we think and, as a rule, there are about ten thousand others privately behaving the same way.

Me? I eat when I’m bored. Or fighting with my husband, or mother, or dog. I graze because I’m sad. I indulge to celebrate a victory. Or to drown my sorrows over a defeat. I nibble when I read, mindlessly munch while watching TV.

You get the picture.

Now.  Since I weigh forty pounds more than I should, there is no way on God’s green earth this behavior is a secret to anyone and yet part of my enjoyment in this activity is the guilty pleasure in pretending no one suspects that the majority of my kick-around-the-house clothes are stained with dribbles of chocolate, and that all my pants are two sizes bigger than they were ten years ago,

Seriously, who do I think I’m kidding?

I’ve tried any number of diet plans. The problem is they stress me out and we all know what I do when I’m stressed. Or, I lose a pound or two and, in celebration…well, you see where this goes. So I’ve come up with a new plan.  I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before.

I’m training a service animal to help me with my eating disability.

When I overeat, snack endlessly, frantically tear apart the cupboard looking for those last two Ritz crackers and the jar of peanut butter – the dog will bite me in the ass.

Hey. This might be my last hope.

Expectations

My friend Ruth tells me that people and experiences come into our lives at a time when we need them.  I suspect learning, growing opportunities are always at our fingertips.  We just don't reach toward what we can't yet use.
Most of you know that my husband, Jack, has mild dementia. You may also remember that I am taking a class at the UofA on Indian Philosophy.  You've got to trust me here.  I'll weave all this together before we're finished.
See, here's the thing -- I've been having a rough time dealing with the changes in my hero, my husband.  Yeah, I know.  He's been having a few issues with the new limitations too.  The thing is, it finally hit me, I've been making life more difficult for both of us by mourning for what-used-to-be instead of enjoying what is.
Buddhism teaches that we can never stand in the same river twice.  What I've come to understand is, while I'm in the river, at each moment, I can, and am in fact required, to find pleasure in this transitory experience. This enjoyment of the moment is only possible when I release all expectation.  Because with expectation comes dissapointment which blocks my joy.
It's hard to live in each moment.  Part of me, a big part of me, is surprised at each new change that comes along, wants to scream and rant and fight against the flow.  So, pray for me people.  Light the incense.  Whisper my name in the ear of Jesus and Buddha and the universe. 

Jumpin' Jehosophat!

A long time ago a Paulist priest told me an allegorical story about and an elephant and six blind men.  Yesterday I discovered that the legend originated in India among the Jainists. Funny how universal truth is not limited by creed.
Here's the story:
Six blind men stumble through the jungle and run smack dab into an elephant.
(Okay, may as well fess up right now.  This tale is going to be told in redneck-ese because, well, because I'm a redneck and I'm the one doing the telling this time around)
So.  Back to the hot, sweaty jungle and the six lost blind men.  Earl reaches up and runs his hands over the elephant's ear.
     "Jumpin' Jehosephat," Earl declares.  "This creature is like a leathery fan."
     "Not a chance," says Bubba from the back of the elephant.  "This animal is like a snake with a tuft of coarse hairs where its head should oughta be."
    "What's the matter with you two?" asks Billy Bob from his position at one of the elephant's back legs.  "This here critter is like nothing so much as a pillar."
      Beau, the oldest of the group, strokes the elephant's trunk and declares with authority, "This animal is sinewy and strong and it's movement is like that of a python."
      From the side of the pachyderm, Jimmy John exclaims, "When I lay my head against it's surface I hear the rumbling of a far away train."
      With his hands wrapped firmly around a tusk, Tiny, the largest of the group, insists, "The animal is like a sword.  Hard with a strong point at the tip."
      The six blind men begin squabbling among themselves, each insisting that the other's have missed the very essence of the animal and only they understand the true nature of the creature.  Before long, the elephant, bored with the process and one suspects a little sad too, wanders off.  When none of the men can convince even one other to see the animal in the 'correct' way, they resort to fists and teeth.  The six men roll on the jungle floor, do their best to show the others the true vision of the newly discovered creature.
      Finally a local priest or monk or, in this story, bartender comes along and finds the bloodied and broken men. 
      "Hey y'all!  Whatya fighting 'bout?"  he inquires curiously.
      The six blind men dust themselves off, wipe away the blood and explain to the newcomer about the animal they've only just discovered. The bar keep shakes his head and tell them, "That was an elephant.  And just 'cause you just stumbled on one that don't mean their kind ain't been around for the ages."
       When the blind men discover the bartender knows about this animal, they insist he enlighten them.
     "Settle our agrument," they beg.  "Which of us is correct in his knowledge of this animal?"
     "You are all correct," the sighted man tells them.  "And none of you is correct."
      At that the blind men fall upon the sighted man and beat him to death.
     Okay.  I just made up that last line, but given the current political environment in this country, that did seem the logical conclusion to the story.
    Here's my point.  We are too often the blind men.  What if Fox and CNN actually listened to each other?  Would our knowledge of the truth be expanded?  What if Christians and Muslims agreed that each of their religions had a small piece of the knowledge of God and that, if they listened to each other, they might all know a little more.  What if men stopped insisting on the strengh of the trunk and women quite criticizing the little tail and instead they came together to learn more about the relationship.
 Ah well.  I can dream can't I?
    
    

Censorship and Common Sense

    A romance writer friend of mine is now writing erotica.
    Ah huh.  I see you there wrinkling your nose, giving the little southern sniff of disapproval.  Any minute now you're going to be saying, 'Well, bless her heart." 
    Here's the site http://www.lunazega.com/  Dollars to doughnuts you're logged in within the next half hour.  And, once you've seen the site, you're going to be a secret follower.  Because we both know you're too worried about what your friends will think to be an open follower and because this is not your daddy's old playboy.  Lunazega is a cyberworld that celebrates female sensuality. 
     So, take a minute, click on the link and go to the site.  But come on back here because what I really want to talk about today is censorship and common sense.
     See, the friend who created this erotica webpage tried to take advantage of a small, free advertising space on facebook with a discrete and tasteful promotion of her new website.  As a result of this attempt, she was banned from that social networking giant.  Not told that, so sorry, but the advertisment is unacceptable. She can never again show her cyberface on facebook under the exact name she origianally used.  Gee.  I wonder how she'll ever get around that taboo? 
      So, in a world where a Disney movie is interrupte by erectile dysfunction remedies and the sleazy beer guy offers his stones to scantily clad young women, a website demonstrating that women are sensual, bless their hearts, even sexual being, that's not allowed on facebook.
     The thing is, censorship is a slippery slope.  We need to use a little common sense here.  Do I want my seven year old nephew purusing lunazega?  Well, no. Though I'd rather he spend his time looking at boudour photos than blasting zombies and ripping out the hearts of god-knows-who on some video game. But then, unlike the makers of violent video games, my friend doesn't market her site to children. 
    Another example of censorship jumped out at me this week.  The writer's critique group to which I belong meets in a church.  We writers bring food for their food bank, we get a place to meet.  Win/win.  Except that some of us in the writer's group do, occasionally use profanity in our work and we've been reminded to not read those offensive words out loud as this, if overheard, might create a problem.  Now writers, as a general rule, hate to be censored.
    However, this strikes me as less about censorship and more about common courtesty.  Do I think it's silly that we can read in a booming voice about a child molestor or a rapist or Bigfoot and that's all just hunky dory, but that some folks find it offensive to hear certain perfectly fine anglo-saxon words.  Well, of course I do.  And it doesn't matter.  Our group is a guest in this church and just as none of us, well most of us, wouldn't go to dinner at our grandmother's home and say, "Pass the fucking potatoes."  Just so, as guests in this particular house of worship, we're respectful. 
     So, is there a point to this tirade?  I think so, yeah.  If we could all just be a teensy bit more tolerant and understanding of each other, maybe the world would be a little better place.  If we could do our best to be a little more loving of ourselves and thus a little less quick to project our faults and repressed urges out there onto others, maybe God, in whatever name we call him or her by, would have a tiny bit bigger opening to pour her love into us.
     And to answer your question.  Yes.  I am fully aware that I started a blog about an erotica site and ended with God.  This ought to tell you something about me.

Wrong Word

I misuse a lot of words.  Not a particularly great trait for a writer. 
For instance.  The word lightening.  Well, see, for years I used this word to describe those bolts of electricity that flash across a dark sky.  But that word is actually 'lightning'.  Lightening is what you do when you add white to navy to produce robin's egg blue.  My bad.  I still get confused occasionlly.  Then I just write something like 'A flash of light lit up the night sky.'  I think I learned this trick from my mother.  A letter from her came the other day and she'd crossed through physician four times and finally wrote 'doctor'. 
An edit of Bigfoot Blues came back the last time I read at The NW Arkansas Writer's Group and four people had circled hyperthermia.  Evidently I meant to write hypothermia.  Huh.  I learn something at every one of those sessions.
The reason this contemplation of words came to mind is that I got an email from Ozark Writer's League asking for a form to be filled out in order to be listed in their quarterly magazine for having had a book, Redneck Goddess, published and a short story, Ozark Child, included in an anthology.  Well, this is all good and I'll eventually fill out the paperwork.  But the form is labeled Kudos and I'm easily distracted.  So I got thinking. 
See, I always thought kudos meant thank you.  Which, I now understand, it most certainly does not. It means congratulations.  So, all this time I've been using the word incorrectly.
So, when a friend went to the trouble to bake me a cake for my birthday, presented it to me with a smile and said "I baked you a cake!"  and I said, "Well.  Kudos to you."  I wasn't actually saying thank you, I was being an accidentl wise-ass. 
I get a number of expressions wrong too.  Like 'It's a doggie dog world."  That's not right, is it? 
Or, "I need that like I need a hole in my head."  Well,  I actually have a hole in my head.  Several of them.  The expression is supposed to be 'like I need another hole in my head.'  I'm pretty sure that's right.
The other day I told my husband it was raining cops and robbers.  Even I know that's not right. 
This kind of thing runs in our family.  My sister, atleast once in every phone call, tells me something is 'atypical' when what she means is 'it happens all the time.'  I find this hillarious because I love to laugh at others when I catch them in a mistake that I myself make a dozen times a day without realizing it.

Rain and Death

It's probably just me.  Usually it is.  But the timing was perfect and this image flashed into my brain. I 've learned to keep most of these little inside-my-head scenes to myself, but this one I'm going to share with you.
Our neck of the woods has had nothing but heat-washed blue skies for weeks.  A desolate, weak breeze occasionally rattles drooping leaves, birds hang their heads and pant through parted beaks, farmers pray for rain and cuss the local weather man.  In the city, lawns brown, air-conditioning units hum like giant cicadas, yard birds huddle dazed around dead, leaf-clouded bird baths.  No relief in sight.  We were hopeful for a time, expected relief any day.  Then we gave up all belief in rain, accepted our lot, taught ourselves to breathe shallowly and hug the shade.
This morning I'm on my way to the funeral of a friend's mother.  The lady was in her late eighties, and by all accounts, lived her life as fully as most of us.  This isn't a memorial to tragedy I'll be attending.  Still, her daughter, husband, friends will mourn.  They'll open thier eyes to morning light forgetful of their loss and be hit with the knowledge of her death again at full awakening.  They'll turn toward the phone to tell her some tidbit of trivia and realize, mid-stride, that she's gone.  Grief will overtake them for long, dark moments.
It rained last night.  Not the tease of a drop or two that evaporates before it can properly kiss the parched dirt.  No.  This was real, wind shaking the trees, moon racing black scrimmed clouds - rain.  Life giving water softening, penetrating, nourishing the good earth.
Pay attention.  Here's the tiny ephiphany for the day.
Might not death be to life, what that rain was to our thirsty land?  Is it possible that we go, day by day, year by year, until we grow accustomed to the hardship, until the longing for relief feels like foolish belief in a child's fairy tale?  Is not faith, whether in God, or rain, or Bigfoot - is not all faith - a choice we cling to, glory in, regardless of the last time our faces were kissed by proof?
I have a picture in my head of my friend's mother.  She's holding hands with Jesus, dancing on strong limbs in the warm rain, yearnings and hopes long forgotten, satisfied and fulfilled.