ColumnSome people experience overwhelming awe in church, some on magnificent mountaintops, some in elegant equations. But some of us tend to get “it” when witnessing stunning examples of our human footprint. If that sounds like you, you just might be a humanist—something with very down-to-earth implications.  

“I was blown away.” The phrase is used so often it’s a wonder we’re all not aloft. “Awesome!” A term so ubiquitous, you might find yourself yearning for the run of the mill. Indeed, if every OMG! were an honest-to-god conjure of what’s holy, His/Her/Its omnipresence would be completely and finally undeniable.

Of course it’s easy to pick on our culture’s most overused overstatements. (OMG aside, the above are certainly part of my vocabulary). But if we dial down the hyperbole for a moment and honestly think about the things that make us dizzily reach for the nearest handrail, we’re likely to learn a lot about who we are and what makes us tick.

Consider that second glance, the super serious one, that says, “No, really! I was blown away!” This usually features earnest and pleading eye contact that begs you to believe and embrace the gravity of what the speaker is gushing about. The subtext: “I’ve experienced something beyond words.” (So to speak.)

For most of us, the varieties of religious experience are evidenced as many. (I use the term “religious” advisedly, requesting some latitude from my fellow nonbelievers.) We know this because, hopefully, we know a variety of people. I, for one, have dear and respected friends who have been knocked off their horses by the Judeo-Christian King of Kings, both with and without the help of his also-divine son. Other believers I know have experienced more creedless, less-moderated Big Moments with what they perceive to be supernatural forces. Alas, such supernatural events have never happened to me.

Others tend to have their wow episodes in or considering nature, sitting on a mountaintop, watching the ocean’s waves or simply staring up at the vastness of the cosmos on a starry night. These happenings reportedly include a number of overwhelming sensations (smallness, bigness, existence, nonexistence, self, non-self) and a feeling of oneness with the universe. For a range of folks, from Buddhists to Gaians to Newtonians, our natural world offers up awe like candy, if we only take the time to look, pay attention and feel.

Unlike being touched by the supernatural, these natural episodes have happened to me. It would be something if they didn’t, living as I do in Northern California where a four-hour radius from my front door offers up glories like Yosemite and the shores of the Pacific. Over my lifetime, too, I’ve had the great fortune of experiencing marvels ranging from the Arctic Circle to the Gobi Desert. I’d have to be pretty thickheaded not to have been occasionally swept away. I, too, can be floored by the awe and joy of being a part of the universe and it’s clockwork workings, whether known, yet to be known or forever unknown. Yet despite its power, nature, per se, is not my biggest mind blower.

To Each His Swoon

The name of this column, HyperKulture, refers to a psychosomatic phenomenon that presents “rapid heartbeat, dizziness, fainting, confusion and even hallucinations when an individual is exposed to an experience of great personal significance, particularly viewing art.” In its debut, “In Swoon’s Way,” I wrote about a recent trip to Europe during which I had experienced a number of such events (healthily upright though I remained). Today, looking back at those moments and holding them up alongside similar events throughout my life, a pattern has emerged.

What sends my mind off its rails are the awesome things we humans do. (Yep. Awed. For real.) This goes back to what prompted my first swoon—Neil Armstrong setting foot on the moon (though this is probably a swoon-after memory of a memory given the fact that I was only 5 when it happened). In fact, I remain blown away by that historic feat; just conjuring it in my mind for more than few moments can make me dizzy and if I really push it, even a little teary. I mean, the dude left the earth and walked on the moon. WTF?!

Over the course of my lifetime, I’ve had a number of these man-made experiences. Visiting Atelier Brancusi, listening to the Beatles’ “Dear Prudence,” reading Leo Tolstoy’s “Anna Karenina,” enjoying a dinner once prepared for me by Chef Paul Prudhomme—all head-spinning. Even imagining indirect experiences—Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, MLK’s Dream, the idea of Amelia Earhart taking off into the ether—can totally spin me out when I give them more than just passing thought.

Don’t get me wrong. It takes a lot for someone or some deed to set me off—and sometimes it’s unpredictable. Why did that Caravaggio at the Met that one day spike my BP and send me running out to the street for air when all the other masterpieces I saw before it left me relatively unshaken? And what was it about that one time at the Jefferson Memorial in Washington? Why was that visit so different than all the other times I stood inside its colonnade? Who knows what kind of perfect brainstorm has to occur to rock my world?

In any case, to my religious friends: Some of your prophets. Holy shit! The idea that actual people have had that kind of impact on the world? That their ideas would hold such power and sway? Wow, man. It still baffles me that the Buddha came up with what he came up with. And to my science-focused friends, about those elegant equations that so turn you on? Given that the math is way above my pay grade, it’s the scientists themselves who suffered and slaved to arrive at such beautiful truths who ignite my wonder. Newton. Einstein. Hawking. When I think about what these people accomplished and the impact they’ve had on how we live every day—oh my!

Yep. For me it’s the humans. How about you? Have you been set asunder by Homo sapien heroics? World-renowned feats of wonder aside, are there people in your life who have done the unimaginably awesome? Your grandfather’s charity? Your mother’s unconditional love? Your aunt who lived gracefully with disease and died with strength and dignity? Maybe the person with whom you shared your first kiss? For those of us who have this mortal-creature-based swoon pattern, may I suggest that perhaps we have—heaven forbid!—an ism.

Us and (Just) Us

There’s no simple, all-purpose definition of humanism. Its many facets include historical, academic and philosophical angles dating back to well before the term came into use during the early Renaissance. But for these purposes, let’s use one that seems to be recurring and general enough to get the job done: “A system of thought that focuses on humans and their values, capacities and worth.”

Of course, there’s nothing in those words about the type of “religious” experiences I’m speaking of here. In fact, most definitions of the philosophy (or worldview or whatever you choose to call it) allude to it being distinctly rationalist and secular (big draws for me). But if we can agree with the idea that there are instances of experience in our lives that at least seem to be transcendental, then perhaps it’s okay to go ahead and give humanism its religiousy due.

Einstein here: “The most beautiful emotion we can experience is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead, a snuffed-out candle. To sense that behind anything that can be experienced there is something that our minds cannot grasp, whose beauty and sublimity reaches us only indirectly: this is religiousness. In this sense, and in this sense only, I am a devoutly religious man.”

The great scientist was speaking broadly and, of course, addressing rapture emanating from far beyond our actions on the ground. And let’s be clear: No one would go so far as to call humanism a religion. But for those of us who ascribe to this philosophy in its secular form, we can indeed point to our very own swoons and appreciate our awesomeness in what some might go so far as to describe as a spiritual way.

However you characterize the idea of humanist rapture, if you’re going to go ahead and claim the ism there are ramifications of such a throw-down—there is no doubt a yang for this yin. While most definitions of the philosophy speak to our ability (and even inclination) to make the world a better place, there is another side of the equation that speaks to something darker about our ability to achieve.

Yes, our capacity for evil is awesome too. While there are heroes who can truly make us swoon, just watch and listen and know about the bullies, as well. The beheaders, the fundamentalists, the reactionaries—know that the visceral shudder you get when you see their “achievements” is just rapture turned upside down. We humanists can’t offload the sublimely destructive on a less-than-benevolent god, the weather or the downside of an equation. If you’re anything like me, this dark side of our awesomeness can be as mind-blowing as the brilliant side. Oh, the humanity—and the voodoo that we do.

Scott Adelson is EcoSalon’s Senior Editor of HyperKulture, a column that explores opening cultural doors to initiate personal change. He is also the author of InPRINT, which reviews and discusses books, new and old. You can reach him at scott at adelson dot org and follow him @scottadelson on Twitter.

Related on EcoSalon

HyperKulture: Beyond the Algorithms – Don’t Look Now, But You Are What You Click

HyperKulture: Multiple Personality Order – Embracing Your Inner Yous

HyperKulture: Living in the Past – You Can’t Go Back… Why Would You Want To?

HyperKulture: Making Space for Your Inner Homebody – A Case for the Great Indoors

HyperKulture: You May Ask Yourself, ‘How Did I Get Here?’ – The Pitfalls of Passion Drift

Images: Aldrin Apollo/Public Domain (top), Smithsonian Institution (middle), Footsteps on the sand from Shutterstock (bottom).

The post Do People Blow Your Mind? You Just Might Be a Humanist: HyperKulture appeared first on EcoSalon.

ColumnDisgusted by overwhelming portions of salacious fare served up on the Internet? In today’s “click, monitor, push” information-marketing world, what we “see” is about more than algorithms—it’s about who we are.

I looked at a leaked photo and saw a naked celebrity. To be honest, while I didn’t realize what was on the other end of the hyperlink, there was probably enough information surrounding it that I should have known better. It was an impulse move (part curious, part prurient, part lazy) and I’m a little disgusted with myself for not thinking through my click. It’s not something I’m continuing to beat myself up about, but nevertheless, the event was indeed criminal and my choice was complicit. I’m sorry I did it.

I’m usually better than that when it comes to sensationalism and/or potential privacy breaches (of celebs or otherwise). I didn’t watch the Ray Rice wife-beating elevator video or the ISIL beheadings, I avoid “Read this Fucking Story!” headlines like the plague and I try to train a hypercritical eye on anything dubbed “trending.” I do this because at the end of the day, I know that in many ways I am what I click, and I do my best to exert at least a modicum of control over my intentions and actions when it comes to media consumption.

The consumption-equals-self concept (I think it began with “you are what you eat”) is not a new phenomenon, particularly in the media marketplace. I’m one of those before-and-after folk who, unlike the digital natives, came of age without an Internet, reading paper-based things and taking in what I could through a mere four or six channels on a rabbit-eared television set. Even then, though, I knew that my media interactions had implications beyond the ink stains on my fingers and my Sonny & Cher-strained eyeballs. I knew that my choices percolated up to sinister marketing meetings where decisions were made as to who I was (i.e., my demographic) and what I would be sold going forward.

In some ways, it seemed like a fair deal. I spoke with my choices. The powers that be listened and responded. Quid pro quo, right? (I confess that I secretly wished we were a Nielsen family.) But, still, there was something safely delayed about these transactions. It took time for Madison Avenue, the networks and the rest to understand my habits, construct customized offerings and deliver what I seemed to be willing to view. I assumed I’d eventually get more of what I thought I wanted, but the Mad Men and Media Merchants were somehow remote; there was some solace in the lack of immediacy.

Today’s media is a different beast. Think the above mindspace-commerce formula on steroids. Better still, on crack. As I busily click away, information is instantaneously gathered, crunched and fed back to me in the form of related content. If I click on naked celebs, violent videos, popular tripe and crap like that, then boom!—more naked celebs, violent videos, popular tripe and crap like that. Simple, even for us nerds who know nothing about how the intertubes do the voodoo they do.

Today, we are each in the business of creating sophisticated DIY echo chambers of information. There’s a one-to-one relationship between our surfing and its feedback, with virtually no play in the wheel. Liberal information for liberals. Conservative for conservatives. Shopping for shoppers. Not slowly but surely, but here and now, again and again, in real time until you buy or, as the case may be, buy in.

Smile for the Clickbait

Okay, so it’s no secret, nor is it surprising, that countless soulless algorithms are digesting my info and creating a customized and finely tuned online media environment just for me. And this isn’t always a bad thing. Aside from my Nielsen aspirations, I’m okay when options for that end table I’ve been valiantly surfing for or the first-edition Hemingway I’ve been staring at for months on eBay magically appear in my Facebook feed. And who needs to see those inane (not-my-bent) political ravings or overzealous (not-my-belief-system) religious messages. Not me. And through tech wizardry, I don’t have to, right? Huzzah!

But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? If we stare a little cross-eyed at our newsfeeds (wherever they reside), we can see what amounts to a selfie—a homemade portrait that depicts something between an accurate view of who we are and some distorted caricature of our likeness. Beyond the algorithmic give and take, the scrolling image reflects something about us and our desires. It’s been said that, if nothing else, we can decide what we pay attention to. In the end, such choices amount to no small thing.

This is not to say that these choices are always easy ones. When the video surfaced of NFL running back Ray Rice assaulting his wife in an elevator, for example, I faced a decision: To click or not to click? No? Maybe, but consider that its going viral led to a much-needed culture storm that continues to reverberate beyond the football league; the phenomenon of millions of people watching that recorded crime translated into critical knowledge and a subsequent national uproar.

But managing my relationship with information is also critical. Can I understand an issue without joining an ugly horde of voyeurs? Can I develop an internal brain-muscle memory that tells me that when I look at something I’ll be participating in a media marketing measurement system that will not only blow back to my own info trough but to the world’s as well?

Consider the birth of widespread disintermediated information flow, which in large part came in the form of the website known as Digg. The site (and its once-ubiquitous share buttons) was a prototype for grander social media to come (Facebook, Twitter and the like) and a crucial turning point in the democratization of editorial decision-making. (Full disclosure: My brother was CEO at the time.) In its 2009 heyday, Digg boasted 45 million users.

It more or less worked like this: When you came across something on the Web that interested you, you could Digg it by clicking a button associated with the story. This acted essentially as a thumbs-up vote, which would then determine its rise or fall on the Digg homepage. This meant users chose what was top-priority news and what wasn’t. The upside was enormous: Events previously buried by jaded, ignorant or bought editorial gatekeepers could jump to the top of the pops.

As with most big ideas, however, there’s a double edge to this otherwise gallant swordplay. If the world is watching, say, the Arab Spring or a maybe an important political debate, and that activity is instantly measured and widely promoted based on its popularity, that’s a good thing. But what about mob rule? I remember when naked Paris Hilton photos rose to the top of the Web world (with Digg’s help, by the way). What else was happening on that day? I wonder.

Mirror, Mirror

In a world (go ahead, say it like the guy on the movie trailers—there’s a dubious air about all of this) where we clickers increasingly decide what’s news, what’s worth looking at and what’s not, we more or less get exactly what we deserve. We can debate all millennium about the advantages or disadvantages of such people power (mob rule?) or algorithm-based marketing (stalking?), but the truth is, in one form or another, these formulas have been in play since well before the penny press—and they’re here to stay. Bitching about it is kind of like cooking dinner and then complaining that the chef is a talentless hack who’s serving up a bunch of slop.

What’s important, then, is how what we see on our screens is up to us as a culture of users—which, of course, means it’s ultimately up to us as individuals. There’s black and white—I should not have opened the naked celeb link. It shouldn’t have taken much thought to know what I was doing and thus supporting. And then there’s nuance—I can follow certain stories (domestic violence vis-à-vis Ray Rice or Middle East policy vis-à-vis the ISIL insanity) without voting for the dissemination of grotesque and sometimes even criminal bits and bytes on the Web.

What’s required for navigating this, on a personal level, is taking a moment to reflect before we open a link. Why do we blindly click? Do we think about the blowback that will be mainlined not only into our own info-intake valves, but into our culture as a whole? All told, our impulses are too often sadly unmediated: Curious. (What’s everyone going on about?) Prurient. (“She’s kind of hot. What’s behind this curtain?”) Lazy. (Cool! Click!) Going forward, I’m going to try to do a better job of casting my brain-space ballot. And the next time I feel the urge to get all indignant about “information” that comes my way, I’ll keep this in mind: Often, we get just what we ask for.

Scott Adelson is EcoSalon’s Senior Editor of HyperKulture, a monthly column that explores opening cultural doors to initiate personal change. He is also the author of InPRINT, which reviews and discusses books, new and old. You can reach him at scott at adelson dot org and follow him @scottadelson on Twitter.

Related on EcoSalon

HyperKulture: Multiple Personality Order – Embracing Your Inner Yours

HyperKulture: Living in the Past – You Can’t Go Back… Why Would You Want To?

HyperKulture: Making Space for Your Inner Homebody – A Case for the Great Indoors

HyperKulture: You May Ask Yourself, ‘How Did I Get Here?’ – The Pitfalls of Passion Drift

HyperKulture: Yes Means Yes Means What? – Miley, Rihanna and Me

Images: Chris Gilmore (top), SamahR (middle) and Eiti Kimura. 

The post Beyond the Algorithms – Don’t Look Now, But You Are What You Click: HyperKulture appeared first on EcoSalon.

ColumnThere’s an entire community inside you. Why fight it? Here’s a case for the more the merrier and why you shouldn’t let internal demons dis your Multiple Personality Order.

Some years ago, one of my dearest friends invited me to a Halloween party. It was an annual event at his place and, being seriously costume-slow, I went into curse-his-name-for-making-me-do-this-again mode. I finally decided on what I thought was a simple and pretty cool gotcha plan—to go as him. But as is often the case, simple became elusive as it quickly dawned on me that this wasn’t something I could do alone. My pal is, as much as anyone I have ever met, several people in one.

Equal parts doctor, art connoisseur, sports junkie, intellectual, party pal and erotic photographer, the costume would require my recruiting about a half a dozen people from our tribe of comrades. One of us would dress in a lab coat (with stethoscopey bling), another in a black turtleneck (avec le béret), another in an old Michigan football jersey (Go Blue!), and so on. The finishing touch was equipping each “personality” with a life-sized cutout of our friend’s face (we used an old close-up of him with a cigar dangling from his mouth) attached to a Popsicle stick to use as a mask. Voila! Off we went, finally positioning ourselves in a line-up in the hallway outside his apartment door.

We knocked.

We scared the shit out of him.

Looking back, I think what attracted me to this friend in the first place was not only his eclectic nature, but how each of his “selves” is so vivid and fully formed. We’re not talking Sybil here, it’s just that whichever one of his personalities you encounter on a given day isn’t just a little of this or a little of that—each is robust, well-developed and sometimes even extreme. He’s kind of a jack of all trades, master of many.

Of course, most of us can lay claim to multiple personalities.* But unfortunately, this boon all-too-commonly results in an internal dissonance that’s at best uncomfortable and at worst a powerful angst driver. Part of this unease comes from the fact that our culture is so wound up with us finding our “one true self.” (Thank you Deepak, Oprah, et al.) This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it tends to beg for a binary solution, as in “I am this, not that.” The search for authenticity has become about discovering “that certain something”—not those certain somethings—with everything else thrown overboard, or at least diminished.

Moreover, various aspects of our personalities may seem destined to be mortal enemies. This plays out on many levels, from the domestic to the professional, and even in the bedroom (or wherever you like to play). What’s a devoted father to do with his inner party boy? A corporate-ladder climber with her free-spirit artist? Straight-laced missionary lovers with their desire for kink? And there’s this: being on the fence is considered bad form, so we must have a winner. As I once wrote in these pages, whether it be Ginger or Mary Ann, the Stones or the Beatles, or whatever other clash our culture serves up, we’re pushed to choose, lest we risk seeming uncommitted, apathetic or even flaky.

Of course, these challenges can fuel some significant inner turmoil—and, as with any conflict, conventional wisdom suggests two clear options: negotiate a settlement or go to war. Personally, I know that I have a number of inner selves going at it at any given time, and indeed they’re often engaged in either a struggle to compromise or an ongoing blood feud. Recently, my fight card has featured two heavyweights—the public me vs. the private me. Step right up and see the battle of the century (well, half of one in my case): The socialite vs. the homebody. The writer vs. the reader. The exhibitionist vs. the voyeur.

But is internal shuttle diplomacy or coming to self-inflicted blows really our only choice? How could it be when there are people like my friend (though they are few and far between) who seem to not only have multiple selves, but selves that are simultaneously uncompromised and at ease with each other? Do we really have to choose? In my case, can I maybe be both an introvert and an extrovert? (Note that this link goes to a test that will supposedly determine if you are one or the other. Bah!)

Battle Fatigue – or It Takes a Village

When it comes to reducing internal dissonance, there are many problems with the “negotiate or fight” model. Let’s start with the first part—the compromise, or the give-and-take method. This involves one “you” surrendering something to another, and vice versa. (“I’ll stop doing this if you stop doing that.”) The danger here is a form of dilution, with neither impulse being purely or fully explored. Of course, there are many situations in our lives where we have to make tradeoffs (I’m a father—I know that some life compromises are not optional), but perhaps it’s not a good idea to surrender everything to the half-this/half-that technique. That’s the Jack that we don’t want to be, right?

As for the fisticuffs approach, well, ouch! The fact is, no one part of you is going to offer full-scale, unconditional surrender (short of your employing some sick “Clockwork Orange” approach), so something inside you ends up doomed to live in indefinite torment. Call it beating yourselves up. On top of that, the search for a singular authenticity seems to me plagued with the square-peg/round-hole problem. It’s simply not based on an accurate assessment of who we are. There are so many roles to play, so many tastes to consider, such a quilt to be woven. In the end, we not only are different things—we have to be. At least if we’re going to stay sane.

All this raises a favorite question: Who says? Who says we have to dumb down our different selves? And who says there has to be a winner? Isn’t it possible for each of our internal players to simply behave and take turns? Here’s a thought: rather than bringing your inner selves to the negotiating table (or the battleground), why not bring them to the round table? Serious clinical issues aside, multiple personalities don’t have to suffer from disorder. Like with any diverse set of folks trying to inhabit the same territory, if they dial down the judgment or need to dominate, they just might end up being solid citizens in a wonderfully varied universe—with experiences to match. Hell, they might even inspire each other.

As for the charges of being flaky or hard to pin down (or even a bit schizophrenic), I call bullshit on that too. While those who embrace their multiple selves without (too much) compromise may be uncommon, I find them to be interesting, strong and attractive. I recall what I refer to as my “Last Tango” moment. It was, I think, the first time I realized I possessed a fetish for what I have since lovingly termed “Walking Dichotomies.”

I was apartment hunting outside Boston at the beginning of my third year of undergrad and exploring (alone, I thought) what would turn out to be a perfect place to hole up for the winter. I was in the kitchen (nice stove), when a vision appeared in the hallway—she wore patent leather designer red pumps and carried a splendid handbag that must have set her back more than a month’s rent. Her ears, neck and wrists boasted jewelry more lovely than I had seen on just about anyone, let alone a student. And this: a well worn, but still bright Grateful Dead tie-dye tee (gloriously braless) and an old pair of bright red sweatpants. There was a chic-meets-hippie air about her and a smile that accepted it all perfectly. And I was in lust. And she turned out to be brilliant and fascinating (and a great roommate)—as well as a lifelong friend.

While it took some time to get what I so dug about this person so many years ago, today I can honestly say that—almost to the man and woman—the people I’ve most respected and been enchanted by have in common the ability to pursue and enjoy multiple, seemingly conflicting internal impulses. Whether it be the doctor/fine-art photographer/football geek, the champion skier/immigration activist/über-intellectual, the mother/neuroscientist/talk-show host, the writer/wrestler/dominatrix, my all-over-the-map kids or my wonderfully multifaceted life partner, the cast of characters within characters in my life has been riveting—and it happily marches on.

When all is said and done, the special ones aren’t half this or half that. They’re this and that. And they’re all that. The truth is our culture makes bank on giving us false choices. But when it comes to what’s inside, it’s we, all of us, who get to decide—or not.

Scott Adelson is, among other things, EcoSalon’s Senior Editor of HyperKulture, a monthly column that explores opening cultural doors to initiate personal change. He is also the author of InPRINT, which reviews and discusses books, new and old. You can reach him at scott at adelson dot org and follow him @scottadelson on Twitter.

* Disassociate Identity Disorder (previously know as Multiple Personality Disorder) is serious mental-health diagnosis. The author is in no way making light of the actual condition. 

Related on EcoSalon

HyperKulture: Living in the Past – You Can’t Go Back… Why Would You Want To?

HyperKulture: Making Space for Your Inner Homebody – A Case for the Great Indoors

HyperKulture: You May Ask Yourself, ‘How Did I Get Here?’ – The Pitfalls of Passion Drift

HyperKulture: Yes Means Yes Means What? – Miley, Rihanna and Me

HyperKulture: Dear Oprah, Please Tell Us Who We Are — Atheists, Feminists And Other ‘Others’ Need To Know

Images: Papa Lima Whiskey (top) and David Goehring(cropped).

The post Multiple Personality Order – Embracing Your Inner Yous: HyperKulture appeared first on EcoSalon.

ColumnFrom culture and politics to sex and relationships, too many of us spend too much time living in the past. Looking back with a wink and a nod is one thing, but nursing nostalgia is quite another.

I don’t recall exactly when I first heard a song from “my era” on an oldies radio station, but I couldn’t have been much older than 30. I’m going to say it was the mid-’90s, and it was probably my own fault in the first place for playing it too loose with my channel choices. (I mean, who listens to oldies radio?) I do, however, remember a Casey Kasem-esque pop-announcer harkening back to “years ago when this classic gem was number one. And now here’s The Clash, with their popular number, ‘London Calling.’”

I wasn’t at an age to lament growing old, so that angle of grief didn’t rear its woeful head. So I skipped the denial stage and went straight to anger. “Jesus, who is this fucking announcer?! It’s so over, anyway. Coopted. Mainstreamed, tagged and shelved.” And then the real classic: “They don’t make music like this anymore.”

I imagined myself back in the pit. (We called it slam dancing, if we called it anything at all. Not moshing). I thought, how great would that be?

Nostalgia—“a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations”—is a funny thing. (For you etymology buffs, it’s from the Greek nostos [home] plus algos [pain]. Homepain. Yummy.) It can hit you at any age about anything. From culture and politics to sex and relationships, it taps into macro- or micro-eras from your past when things had a distinct and (it seems now) pleasurable feel. The rush of compelling remembrance and desire can be so vivid that you would pledge your soul to somehow turn back the clock.

On top of that, the sensory assault can come from anywhere at any time. Someone’s perfume or the smell of a fresh croissant, rereading the novel that blew you away in high school or hearing a lost recording of the band you hung out with in college. It can happen when you realize you can’t afford something you once could. It can possess you in a cynical instant when you sense that you now know something about which you were once blissfully naïve.

Truth is, it doesn’t take long for a moment to fade in terms of time (long ago can happen fast), while somehow remaining closer than it appears in your rearview mirror. If you’re a parent you’ve done the math and pondered: “I wonder if my kid sees the ’80s the way I saw the ’50s? Does he think about R.E.M. the way I thought of The Platters?” Consider this: If the Beatles were breaking up today, they would have landed at JFK, all mop-topped and black & white, in 2007. Hell, the Gulf War is to today’s youth what the Korean War was to me. I am so not ready for M*A*S*H* 1990.

Mind-bending timeframes aside, if we’re between 35 and 65 and nostalgic feelings begin to wash up quickly and en masse, we often call it a mid-life crisis. The crisis part comes from how desperately we want to return to “like it was,” be it in bed, on the road, or simply when everything looked and sounded so, so good. If we only had the money, we’d buy it all back. Some do, in fact, in the form of a fire-red sports car or a sudden quit-job-join-Peace Corp play or the procurement of a boy- or girl-toy(s) whose youth is still being (poor things) wasted on the young. (I like to say that as much as I wanted one, I couldn’t afford a mid-life crisis.) In any case, this first wave can be startling and disorienting. Bright shiny objects from your past suddenly seem to be everywhere. It’s not just about history. It’s about loss. And it can quickly become unhealthy.

Bargaining: Train in Vain

When nostalgic cravings come up, it’s useful to remember how much we like to rewrite the past. Was that thing or time or person truly as warm and fuzzy and downright perfect as you remember? How much of the memory is infused with nostalgia itself, part of a vicious cycle of live, glorify, (try to) repeat. Fact is, most experiences weren’t quite as lovely (or awful, as the case may be) as they now seem to be.

I remember listening to a one-time travel-mate recall for an audience (holding court in a bar is nostalgia heaven, is it not?) the grandeur of some of our youthful “Third World” wanderings. “Man, we were great.” We were, in many ways, though I secretly remembered that my journeys were far from invariably glorious. (Maybe I passed on that last Jäger that night.) I thought to myself: Would I really take a do-over on that third-class train ride up the Nile? And getting busted in Burma pretty much sucked. And no, I didn’t get laid that one night and in truth I fought like a bandit with a pal about some dumb thing and pretty much wanted to bail on the whole adventure. These nostalgia-in-perspective thoughts didn’t diminish fondness for my road days, but to quote (the always great) Dorothy Parker, “I hate writing. I love having written.”

It’s true that we all enjoy a good rework of times gone by now and again—or at least our built-in forgetter takes charge for a variety of reasons. If it weren’t your music or your movie, would you really still think that band rules or that flick was the greatest ever? Sure, some stuff stands the test of time (I click like on everything Patti Smith or Tom Robbins), but to confess some more of my own nostalgia-meets-truth reality, The Psychedelic Furs were a great band but not the voice of a generation and high school was not cool like “Dazed and Confused.” (In fact, it was often a cesspool of fear and loathing.) Really, for those who were there, was Dirty Old 1970’s New York City all fun and games? And VH1 celebratory bullshit aside, were the ’80s the good old days? Speaking of that lovely decade, did the blow rock, or what? Was that God we saw or the bottom of a toilet bowl?

On the collective side, our attention-span-challenged nation is no stranger to massive, group-grope, creative cultural reimaginings, as well. There were the “simpler” 1950s, when a man was a man and Sundays meant church (and civil rights were still a dream). The ’60s—awesome color and light, man (and you could still “be the first one on your block to have your boy come home in a box.” Killer tune, no?). Political revisionism? Pick a side and pick a myth. Reagan. Clinton. Already the truly horrible Boy George (the reworked watercolorist, not the also-often-revisited crooner) is enjoying an alarmingly real-time re-do for when America most recently wielded its great big stick. Give it another decade and we’ll be looking back fondly at Dick Cheney.

One more quick but important over-the-shoulder shot before knocking off the past-bashing—let’s talk about sex, baby. Next time you see someone that reminds you of your magnificent hook-up daze, ask yourself if you were “better” then or now. I once heard an unconfirmed (but sounds like him) Norman Mailer story. When asked what he knew as an older man that he could have used when he was 18, his answer was “the key to great sex—lighting.” Are there things you know now—or didn’t know then—that get in that way of how you’d like to remember your alleged prime? And on a let’s-be-honest-it’s-only-somewhat-related note, was that true-love relationship as paradisiac as you remember? Even if he or she still somewhat resembles that 10-year-old pic on their Facebook profile, you broke up for a reason right?

Acceptance: A Brand New Cadillac

Enough with retro-assault; it surely wasn’t as bad as all that. In fact, let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that everything you’re nostalgic about was as great as you remember. Let’s even call it better. The question remains, do you really need it back, or is being here now a better play? My ’68 Mustang rocked, but when it died, it died. Hard. And this (relatively) new Prius? Runs great. Super mileage. And most important, it draws zero attention from the cops—a population among us for whom I have zero nostalgia. (They seemed particularly drawn to the Detroit muscle. No need to relive that.)

Her words may seem trite, but I have to hand it to my shrink who without fail responds to almost every “I want” with a solid-citizen-like, “What’s wrong with what you have?” (Sage direction. Semi-affordable.) One thing I noticed when that unaffordable midlife crisis abated, as most crises do, was that it had something to do with my no longer being interested in grabbing at what I once had, but instead began enjoying memories for what they are—information. By that, I mean they inform us about who we are now. Even the most wonderful and deservedly-cherished memories—mom’s embrace after school, uncontrollably stoned laughter at the Dead show, “Midnight in Paris” when all the pensions were booked—are all disappeared elements of your life that should color you in without defining who you are—and help you look forward as only humans do.

Here’s the thing about nostalgia: Like any drug that takes us out of our present reality, if left unchecked, it’ll grab you by the throat. It’s certainly true that most of our suffering comes down to unhealthy attachments. Nostalgia, in the end, is like any bright shiny object—and your relationship with it can be healthy, or not, depending how desperate you are to go backwards—and get away from where you’re at.

I have an uncle who’s 10 or so years older than me. I remember when he turned 30. It seemed so old to me back then, and my 20s loomed large like the Promised Land. I asked about how he felt about his new decade. Was it a drag getting older? “Fuck that,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to do 29 again for nothing. I’m moving on.” Amen. As for that old gem, London Calling, you bet it called. But I doubt it has my cell.

Scott Adelson is EcoSalon’s Senior Editor of HyperKulture, a monthly column that explores opening cultural doors to initiate personal change. He is also the author of InPRINT, which reviews and discusses books, new and old. You can reach him at scott at adelson dot org and follow him @scottadelson on Twitter.

Related on EcoSalon

HyperKulture: Making Space for Your Inner Homebody – A Case for the Great Indoors

HyperKulture: You May Ask Yourself, ‘How Did I Get Here?’ – The Pitfalls of Passion Drift

Hyperculture: Yes Means Yes Means What? – Miley, Rihanna and Me

HyperKulture: Read This F*&%ing Story! – Spinal Tap Headlines and You

HyperKulture: Dear Oprah, Please Tell Us Who We Are — Atheists, Feminists And Other ‘Others’ Need To Know

Images: Katie_photographer (top), chris m. (center), IFCAR (bottom)

The post Living in the Past – You Can’t Go Back…Why Would You Want To? HyperKulture appeared first on EcoSalon.

ColumnPressuring ourselves to “get out more” is an old hat we use to deal with our problems. Fresh air. Exercise. New experiences. It makes sense. But sometimes answers can be found by spending more time in our “place.” Here’s a case for respecting your inner homebody.

I’ve recently taken a few of those silly online quizzes that tell you who you are, what you were and where you should be. It’s a guilty distraction, I know, but it has importantly been determined that I’m Gustav Klimt, living in a minimalist Paris apartment during the Renaissance and playing lead guitar for Led Zeppelin. Fair enough. Count me in.

I mention this because among the many odd questions that helped these brilliant algorithms identify my true self, one popped up that got my attention: “Do you prefer to be inside [picture of some dark, ill-defined interior] or outside [a lovely mountain with a lovelier waterfall]?” I clicked “outside,” of course—but then paused, hit the back button and stared at the question again. Could I? Might I? Yes. I changed my answer to “inside.”

Allow me assuage some guilt out of the gate and say that I do love the outdoors. I’ve climbed some big mountains, hiked some excellent trails and believe Ra is the one true god. Also, with summer coming, I’m well aware that championing the indoors might not resonate very well with the promise of a much-needed vitamin D fix on the near horizon—particularly for my long-suffering friends back East. (Sorry, dudes. You’re welcome in Cali anytime.) Nevertheless, I think the great indoors—and staying home, in particular—gets a bad rap.

Most of us have a love-hate relationship with our personal home space—one that’s easy to take for granted. After all, it’s where we conduct such inspiring tasks as doing laundry, collapsing in front of the TV, going to the bathroom and eating hastily made eggs over the sink before rushing out to our “real” lives. Even those of us who take great care in tending to our insides, as it were, or choose to work at home (as I do), would be excused for gliding over its value and impact as familiarity indeed breeds oversight. You know, in plain sight, out of mind.

But next time you’re home (if you’re not all cozy now), take a moment to stop and look around, and pay some attention to your quarters. As the poet W.S. Merwin put it:

Just this, just this, this room where we are. Pay attention to that. Pay attention to who’s there, pay attention to what isn’t known there, pay attention to what is known there, pay attention to what everyone is thinking and feeling, what you’re doing there, and pay attention. Pay attention.

If you do, interesting things are sure to emerge. The colors you (and perhaps your roommate or partner) once chose to “open up the space.” How incoming light glints this way and that. What’s lying around? Magazines? Photos? Check out those books on the shelf. Which ones have you read? Which ones have you not? Why not? When was the last time you looked at that art on your wall? Remember when you got it? What was happening in your life then? Did you buy it overseas? Or at Pier One? What does that mean?

And here’s an ode to tchotchkes. I know they’re not everyone’s cup of tea (and dusting is a drag), but most of us have lots of them. From where I now sit, I see a curious combination of class (a lovely Baccarat glass statue of a Labrador retriever I stole from my parents) to kitsch (a Detroit Red Wings shot glass filled with Tootsie Roll Pops) to somewhere in between (a small ceramic sculpture of a head I made one day in college that somehow turned out way above my pay grade).

Though my space doesn’t give off the hoarder vibe, there are little things everywhere. They elicit memories of some of the many nouns in my life—the people, places and things—that at one time or another were important to me. All told, knickknacks are clues—curated breadcrumbs that can lead us back through our lives to experiences that may need re-exploring, analysis or just one more well-deserved smile.

Room to Create

Aside from stirring your memory pot, exploring your space can be a limitless source of creative and emotional inspiration, as well. At home you can have an interesting and productive conversation with yourself. One obvious example of how such space inspiration works is in the visual arts. Artists use the word studio—or “room for study”—to describe the place where they retreat to energize their thinking and do their work. Two quick examples:

A friend of mine, the artist Abigail Doan, spends a lot of time working with found objects. She says her home environment is “constantly evolving with the displayed objects that [she’s] currently researching or interpreting.” Her work with sculptural fiber forms and still life arrangements “often migrates from room to room in a dialogue with my children’s play activities as they, too, draw and create objects with materials that we collectively recycle in the home or find outdoors. There is a certain clarity that comes from making things work in the time and space that one has available.” By arranging, rearranging and juxtaposing items she’s gathered, Doan grows new concepts. This is a process that happens inside.

Also consider the game-changing Romanian sculptor Constantin Brancusi (1876-1957). Without belaboring my fascination with his revolutionary work, the relevant short take is this: the artist is inexorably linked to his commitment (some say retreat after scandals related to public reception of his work) to his Paris workshop, which was also his home. He constantly photographed it and invited the world to come to him, rather than pushing his work “out.” And he was always rearranging his pieces so they would support and impact each other, often describing how the populated space itself was his expression. (Man Ray described visiting the studio as “penetrating into another world.”) After his death, he left his “Atelier Brancusi” to the French state with instructions that it be displayed exactly as it was the day he died. Painstakingly recreated just outside the Centre Pompidou, the great master’s magnificent “interior” is now available to all of us.

Of course, the broader idea of “studio” is not limited to the visual arts. The workspaces of all great thinkers and writers are, in fact, a source of great public fascination. (Note the recent online obsession with library and study “porn.”) In any case, allowing what’s happening inside your four walls to expand your thinking—rather than confine it—can be a wonderfully creative experience.

Room to Learn

For many of us, our very personal relationships with our inside space goes back to our childhood bedrooms. I remember when I was young getting a great buzz when I gave in to orders to clean my “calamity.” In fact, I came to enjoy it, right down to arranging the pencils and markers in my desk drawer. Better still was rearranging my furniture—moving the bed here, the desk there, changing out this poster for that one. Sometimes the new arrangements made sense. Sometimes I created ergonomic disaster areas. But still, I got a charge out of doing it. Somehow it made me feel smarter.

Today, I can be a tad OCD-ish. (I know, flip self-diagnosis bugs the hell out of me too, but you get my drift.) I have to neaten my home office before I begin to write and my studio before I put brush to canvas. I don’t have a clean fetish or germ phobia, but I do react well to organized clutter. It gives me the illusion that I have my shit together—that my thoughts are straight, that I somehow know what I’m doing. And I’ve read that, like all things behavioral, there’s some neuroscience to this.

One way of learning, especially when we’re young, is getting raw data in. New experiences. Fresh information. Soaking it all up like a sponge. But as we age, it’s about more than adding new bits. It’s about working with what we already have in stock. That is to say, by repositioning what we’ve already acquired into new relationships, we see new patterns—and we learn. Existential angstists might refer to this as rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. I say it’s part of the fun. Regardless, spending time rethinking can shake loose new ideas.

I know the idea of hermitage isn’t for everyone, and that’s perhaps too strong a word, anyway. But looking “inside” for new inspiration, using the found objects of our lives to grow and inspire and develop new tales with our existing vocabulary, so to speak, can open new doors in ways that simply opening the exit door can’t. By all means, get out and breathe the fresh air. Find new things and ideas. But don’t be afraid to take them home with you. You never know what you might come up with after you empty your pockets on the table, move things around a bit and realize that knowledge and growth are at hand.

Now if you’ll excuse me, the laundry is piling up.

Scott Adelson—who does indeed go outside—is EcoSalon’s Senior Editor of HyperKulture, a monthly column that explores opening cultural doors to initiate personal change. He is also the author of InPRINT, which reviews and discusses books, new and old. You can reach him at scott at adelson dot org and follow him @scottadelson on Twitter.

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HyperKulture: You May Ask Yourself, ‘How Did I Get Here’ – The Pitfalls of Passion Drift

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Images: Allie_Caulfield (top): René Magritte, Les Valeurs Personnelles (Personal Values), 1952; Scott Adelson (center): Atelier Brancusi, Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris; Abigail Doan: Fiber Form Drawing |2012 (Sofia), Abigail Doan, 2012.

The post Making Space for Your Inner Homebody – A Case for the Great Indoors: HyperKulture appeared first on EcoSalon.

ColumnSmall compromises on big decisions can add up over the course of a lifetime. The result is passion drift—and waking up one day wondering how you wound up in the weeds. How does our culture sometimes take us so far off course? And is it ever too late to get back on track?

We used to call Talking Heads “nervous music.” Part punk, part wave, part funk, there was something angular, pitched and plaintive about their songs that took you slightly off center—a place many of us, back in the proverbial day, wanted to be. Short of being a “Psycho Killer,” of course, being a bit “off” was appealing. It meant you were a safe distance from The Man.

One of the group’s most recognizable refrains comes from the half-anthem, half-cautionary tale, “Once in a Lifetime.” Its infamous earworm goes like this:

You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
You may find yourself in another part of the world
You may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
You may find yourself in a beautiful house with a beautiful wife
You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?

And then…

You may ask yourself, what is that beautiful house?
You may ask yourself, where does that highway lead to?
You may ask yourself, am I right, am I wrong?
You may say to yourself, my god, what have I done? 

That last line—and the way frontman David Byrne could wrench it up from the depths of his twitchy, pitched soul—resonated deep. It was a primal scream, a warning of the horrors to come should we dare wander from our own authenticity. Nervous words. Yes. About a place where we were to take great care to never, ever go.

The Big Drift

Not too long ago, my brother and I met for coffee to talk about a commencement address he had been asked to give at his alma mater back in Boston. We like to kick around ideas when we get the time, and his charge offered us up some red meat: What do you say to your younger self?

He had chosen his topic—“following your passion”—and so we shot the shit for a while, two grownups (at 50, I have seven years on him) doing pretty well, but nevertheless thinking about what we might have done differently. To say that there was plenty in no way diminishes our current, relatively happy states of affairs. But yes, plenty.

I walked away thinking about the cultural pressures on young people that are as present today as they were when I was kid: security, money, family, prestige if you can get it. Subtle and not so subtle, the sense that we are to attain these “things” is always present, ambient, the water in which we swim. We all know the fears and the insecurities that drive such pressures. And we all know the delivery mechanisms. (Just click any “power on” button and wait for it.)

Here’s a phrase I used in our discussion that began to haunt me the second I drove away from the coffee shop: passion drift. And here’s a short definition: Unlike clear decisions that alter one’s life course (i.e., radically changing fields, partners, geographies, etc.), passion drift entails small compromises over time that offer the illusion of staying close to what delights you. It goes something like this:

Kid (cute): I want to paint pictures. I like to paint pictures!
CW (Conventional Wisdom): That’s adorable.
Kid: No, really.
CW: You’re going to need a real job, kid.
Kid: Ok, fine. How about stories? Can I write stories? You know, paint pictures that way?
CW: Depends. What kind of stories?
Kid: You know, stories. Like, make them up?
CW: You know you’re going to eventually have to buy your own shoes, right?
Kid (older now, less cute): Fine. What about writing for, um, newspapers!? Will that work?
CW: Now you’re thinking. Not something you can retire on, but it’s a start.

A start indeed. See the drift? Fine art becomes creative writing becomes journalism. Seemingly minor trajectory changes, but oh, what a slippery slope. As the challenges mount, the process continues as life—marriage, kids, the need to provide—marches on. Foreign correspondence, say, makes way for adventure travel coverage (married people have no business in harm’s way), then, maybe, to city magazines (best to stay in one place for those kids), then perhaps some agency work (got to feed ’em, too). Clients. Promotions. Leadership positions. Make a little bank. The kids grow up safely (pooh, pooh, pooh, as mom would say). “Things” are taken care of. But, hmmm. Where is that paintbrush?

Okay, so yeah, that’s my story—or part of it, at least. (All told, I’ve been blessed with a fine and adventurous life, and there are certain compromises I’m quite proud of.) But from what I see and hear, many of you have your own variations on the passion drift theme, as well. My bro does, too. What’s common, it seems, is that it’s most often about the small things. Sure, sometimes a Hail Mary comes into play, but mostly life is a war of attrition. Losing ground happens through a series of concessions, next wrong things that ultimately land you so far from your original passions that those impulses seem, at best, specks in the rearview, vague regrets that you can’t even make out from this distance. (Ok, Byrne, so you warned us.)

Get Back, Jo

Before I get too maudlin with all this, what’s a good story without a homecoming? You see, as this form of narrative happens to so many of us, the trick then is finding our way back, right? Or at least getting ourselves back into a passionate space, oriented toward something that’s not about external bullshit but more about our heart’s desire.

About turning things around, experience and simple math suggest two things: First, one has to stop what they’re doing and notice where they are. (How far into those weeds have you gone?) This is what I now refer to as a “Talking Heads moment”—an instance when one looks up and around and asks, well, what have I done? Such ahas!—or better, oh nos!—near everyone my age tells me, are not uncommon. It’s noticing and then leveraging them that’s critical. (Meditate much? Worked for me.)

And second, what takes time doing, most often takes time undoing, and the slow, methodical efficiency with which one drifts off course is an excellent model for how one might find his or her way back. For me that meant picking up that paintbrush, writing down that story, choosing this client instead of that, taking this gig for less money over that one for more. Nothing major. No burning down the house. Just beginning to do the next right thing instead of the wrong one. Bite-sized choices. Again and again.

Lack patience? I hear that. Well, as Cormac McCarthy once wrote, “between the wish and the thing the world lies waiting.” If you enter into the right terrain, it all gets pretty interesting again, and knowing this helps: Your next step will either take you closer to or farther from where you want to be.

What was nice about the conversation I had with my brother is that we’re both on the backside of life-course readjustments. We’ve had our serious crash and burns (and have been there for each other along the way), but have also had that experience of stopping—just stopping— picking up our brushes and getting back to work on what we wanted to do. Things aren’t perfect (are they ever?), but I can tell you this: I don’t recall which one of us picked up the tab at the coffee shop that day, but one of us did—and whoever it was didn’t have to sell his soul to do so.

Anyway, if you’re lucky enough to get that tap on the shoulder one day, consider this new drama. It’s short and sweet:

Conventional Wisdom: Hey kid, how ya been? Let’s talk.
Kid: Fuck you… psycho killer.

Scott Adelson is EcoSalon’s Senior Editor of HyperKulture, a monthly column that explores opening cultural doors to initiate personal change. He is also the author of InPRINT, which reviews and discusses books, new and old. You can reach him at scott at adelson dot org and follow him @scottadelson on Twitter.

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HyperCulture: From The Sanbox to Syria – Tribe, Ego and Decision Making

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Images: swamibu (top) and oddsock.

The post You May Ask Yourself ‘How Did I Get Here?’ – The Pitfalls of Passion Drift: HyperKulture appeared first on EcoSalon.

ColumnRecent Twittersphere flare-ups featuring Rashida Jones and Sinéad O’Conner “slut-shaming” pop-culture irritant Miley Cyrus and others for their fleshy outbursts drew swift backlash from some members of the feminist community and bitter online battles among women. What’s a man to make of all this?

Growing up in a liberal family in the ‘70s got me thinking. I cheered as Billie Jean King thrashed Bobby Riggs on the tennis court, watched in awe as millions jammed Washington to protest anti-women legislation and celebrated the Roe v. Wade triumph. I loved my mother that much more for proudly wearing her ERA bracelet (serendipitous though it was, as those also happened to be her initials) and followed her example when it came to developing my worldview regarding women and politics. All told, my support for feminism was indelibly engrained as far back as I can remember.

As an undergraduate, I read Andrea Dworkin and Betty Friedan, marched in “take back the night” campaigns and volunteered as a campus escort. It wasn’t front and center in my life, but I did my best to keep my testosterone in check in my relationships and outlook, and play by the rules as I saw them regarding the movement and its tenets, and their implications for my thinking and lifestyle.

To be clear, while I called myself a feminist (and still do), I look back with no illusions that my insensitivities didn’t lead to plenty of bad behaviors. I was guilty of my share of objectification (still am), and my ignorance and lack of empathy reared their heads on too many occasions. Yet, by and large, I embraced (accepted, I should say) the vilification of such shortcomings. I even tried to understand how someone could see my penis as a weapon.

Of course, it wasn’t always easy staying oriented in this sociopolitical context. One example of weird crossfire was in my studies. I was a lit guy, more or less, and clearly remember the icy stare of the prof who refused to read my thesis on Kerouac because the writer was a “pig.” Another one threw (as in slammed) a copy of Homer’s Odyssey to the floor during class, saying the work was “full of male crap” and that the canon was “rigged.” As the editor of a campus literary magazine, I witnessed and was dragged into numerous battles between the sexes—and I didn’t dare publish any of my own erotica as I was sure my take was poisoned by my pen (or sword, as it were).

Most of this kind of thing was anecdotal to my experience, not pervasive, and all told I manned up and surfed the Second Wave as best I could, learning life lessons along the way. But as the end of the century drew nearer, things began to change. The Feminist Sex Wars heated up, Madonna showed up as the anti-virgin and Chrissie Hynde began shooting her mouth off. The feminist tent grew bigger and the women I knew were no longer playing by the hard and fast rules I grew up with, as liberation took on a new, more inclusive and individualized sensibility. Relations between the sexes were suddenly less clear and, just as my fathers before me must have struggled to keep pace with change, I found myself tripping and bumbling and trying to understand, rethink and act accordingly.

The questions came fast: What, exactly, did all these changes mean and what, exactly, was becoming “okay” in this shifting paradigm? Could I flip on the porn? Did I dare admit that I secretly thought objectification was at times underrated? And why is that chick hitting on me? Does her T-shirt really say that? Did she just say that?! Part of me, of course, was delighted by this turn of events. Another part, seasoned in old-school sexual politics, had no idea what to do. Understandable, I guess, when seeing the world through the eyes of what is or isn’t politically correct.

To the “it’s a not about you” voices out there, fair enough, but I should say that it’s not just the fact that I’m a guy that made me attempt to see this evolution through my own lens. It’s human nature to ask what does this mean to me, particularly when it’s not about you and in many ways empathy cannot be part of the equation. Besides, I had women friends and lovers, and processing how those relationships were affected by such changes was at the very least polite, and at best simply the right thing to do.

This is now…

Today, Third-Wave Feminism has come of age (with a fourth purportedly taking shape), and it’s largely credited with invigorating and in many ways saving the movement. In terms of sexual expression, the footprint is everywhere—from the Suicide Girls to Yes Means Yes, there are countless articulations of the sex-positive moment. Just the other week, in fact, a woman friend and I were discussing how the word cunt is being happily retrieved for delightful usage by many of its owners. On the (more) popular front, we have Miley Cyrus merrily swinging along on her wrecking ball (spoiler: bad art alert), and Rihanna crooning, “come here rude boy/boy can you get it up?”

Not everyone is of the same mind though, as evidenced by recent online flames when Rashida Jones and Sinéad O’Conner weighed in negatively on Miley et al. Watching the slut-shaming and “what is feminism?” debate erupt, I thought about how much the world has changed since I was young—and about all those old struggles on the okay vs. not okay front. To her credit, Jones, addressing the issue in a Glamour article, asked men to weigh in: “Men: WHERE ARE YOU??? Please talk to us about how all this makes you feel. You are 49 percent of the population; don’t sit around and let women beat one another up while you intermittently and guiltily enjoy the show. Speak up! We care what you think!”

So okay, Rashida, here it goes:

Looking back, many of the questions I used to ask myself about how to react to women (and female expression) were off the mark. The fact of the matter is that too often we see the world and our fellow inhabitants through a social or political lens, leaving out one critical fact—people are people first, and men, women and the trans community are each a subset of that. Forget the relationship with the movement—we’re at our best when we treat humans with humanity, not when we try to define, limit and sometimes even understand others.

What does this mean? Well, call it trial and error, but I’ve come to realize that my most successful relationships—and best behaviors—happen when I drop the perceived definitions and flailing, biased judgments. Not to diminish my own, personal politics (to which I remain deeply committed), but what was most important about how I was raised was not how to be a feminist, but rather why to be feminist. Compassion and respect come first, said and modeled my mother. It’s not about gender—and being politically correct isn’t the core issue. The real question we must ask ourselves is, are we humane? To my boys (now interesting and respectable men), my mantra was always “be nice to everyone you meet and watch out for cars.” Be kind and be safe. That’s really all you need to know—at least that’s where it’s best to begin.

So, Rashida, what do I think? Well, my penchant for naked aside, I think Miley pretty much sucks. (Let’s just say her work is not to my taste.) Rihanna’s talent is, in a word, overwhelming (and Chris Brown is a criminal), and you, Rashida, are a brilliant actress. Sinead? Two things: that voice changed me back in the day and, sorry, but she turned me on something fierce. As for how each of you influence our culture—and younger women in particular—I’ll just say keep doing what you think is best. Your audiences (and perhaps their parents) can take it from there.

In the end it’s on us men to check ourselves, not on women to censor how they express themselves. I recently saw a powerful photograph of an attractive topless woman at a protest event with this scrawled across her naked breasts: “It’s still not okay to rape me.” I admit that I lingered over the image for a few extra seconds for prurient reasons, but what truly resonated for me is the truth of those words. And how, person-to-person feminism aside, and no matter what we believe about anything else in this world, she’s right. And that’s all we really need to know—or at least that’s where it’s best to begin.

Scott Adelson is EcoSalon’s Senior Editor of HyperKulture, a monthly column that explores opening cultural doors to initiate personal change. He is also the author of InPRINT, which reviews and discusses books, new and old. You can reach him at scott at adelson dot org and follow him @scottadelson on Twitter.

Related on EcoSalon

HyperKulture: Read This F*&%ing Story! – Spinal Tap Headlines and You

HyperKulture: Dear Oprah, Please Tell Us Who We Are — Atheists, Feminists And Other ‘Others’ Need To Know

HyperCulture: From The Sanbox to Syria – Tribe, Ego and Decision Making

HyperKulture: In Swoon’s Way – Time traveling and Staring Down Florence Syndrome

InPrint: On the Road, Again – Revisiting Jack Kerouac

Images: PNG etc (top) and PeterTea

The post Yes Means Yes Means What? – Miley, Rihanna and Me: HyperKulture appeared first on EcoSalon.

ColumnDear headline writers. This is not Spinal Tap.

Made you click! Quite a task, it seems, in today’s hyper-competitive online media marketplace. After all, this story is just one of dozens, maybe even hundreds, that will compete for your attention today. And the truth is that some of us will use any trick in the book to get at your precious eyeballs, including cry-wolf, volume-to-11 headlines.

We all get snagged this way from time to time. Evidently, some—let’s say quantifiable lots—more than others. In many ways, we seem to have come full circle back to the days of the penny press and its yellow journalism, with an omnipresent din of hawkers on every digital street corner: Extra! Extra! Every single word guaranteed to be over the top!

But really, is everything an extra? Is there nothing interesting that remains appropriately under the top? Apparently not much.

The noise starts early in the day, for some even before we get out of bed, our smartphones serving up morning copy that promises to be “truly unbelievable!” and photo stories that are nothing short of cap-S “stunning!” and cap B-“breathtaking!” Yes, the a.m. rush isn’t complete without being informed that today—every day, in fact—is the best of times and the worst of times, the end of something as we know it, and the magnificent start of something new. Do we dare miss out?

Here’s one from Upworthy, a good site with a lot of compelling material: “This Is Not A Joke. You May Laugh, But You Shouldn’t. It’s Quite Horrifying—It has to be seen to be believed. But you still won’t believe it.” Really? This is about a bizarre napkin designed to cover the mouths of Japanese women while they eat hamburgers. Insanely weird and sexist? Yes. Warranting a headline that would make a civil defense air-raid siren blush? Maybe not.

Moving on, how does (did?) this grab you: “Antibiotic resistance will mean the end of just about everything as we know it.” Right. That’s from Salon, a way-too-frequent flyer on click-me-now air, and purveyor of other gems such as “Psychopaths: Some are just like us!” (Are they?!) and “Embrace your small penis, men: Everyone else is lying anyway!” Mmhmm. Thanks.

Of course, nothing screams like good sex—or rather, porn. Lots of porn. “Food porn.” “Ruin porn.” “Nature porn.” And, for the more bookish, here is a related, sexualizing the unsexualizable trend that won’t seem to go away: I call it “A Million Shades of 50 Shades.” Politics: “Israel’s 50 shades of dismay over Iran nuke deal.” (GlobalPost). Science: “50 Shades of Grey (Matter): How Science is Defying BDSM Stereotypes.” (Huffington Post) Literature: “You Want Erotic? The Countless Shades of Anaïs Nin.” (Yeah, well, that last one was mine. At least I went for book on book.)

Of course, there are easy pickings on both our Left and Right. Obamacare: “Worse Than Slavery.” Debt ceiling: “How to prepare for the… apocalypse.” The cacophony in this category is truly beyond the pale. Even down-the-middle CNN (I know, if CNN represents the middle, we’re in real trouble) recently offered us this, just in case tornadic destruction wasn’t enough to grab our attention: “Grandma’s Last Words: ‘Get Me Out.’” Thank you, CNN.

Want more? Just Google something. Anything. You’ll find a headline to suit your most highly caffeinated, info-active mood about all things est—biggest, baddest, worst, best. The hunt for something incredible (in the strictest sense of the word) is like shooting fish in barrel. In fact, you don’t even have to search. It will come to you. (To avoid piling on, let’s pass for now on deliberately misleading headlines, a story unto itself: accuracy as collateral damage.)

Yet strangely, it doesn’t seem too long ago in Webville when superlatives more or less meant something, and an Onion headline was an Onion headline, and not mistaken (at second blush, at least) for real information.

Step Right Up

In a past lifetime, when I was a first-year Journalism grad student in Chicago, headline writing was part of a fearsome, nuts-and-bolts J-school boot camp. (One prof was a formidable ex-marine, in fact, boasting a handlebar mustache and a hair-trigger red pen.) The effort was like puzzle-solving—and not everyone was good at it. Limited space, limited words, a story to represent and (just as with the lead) a promise to be fulfilled if a reader should take the time to engage. And, yes, eyeballs to grab, too. All told, creating a headline is like wrestling with a mini Rubik’s cube.

The idea of selling your story often taps into a different side of the brain than actually covering it. Indeed, in most editorial worlds, headlines are not written by the writer of the piece itself, but by talented copy editors and, increasingly (online), by editors themselves. Writers who have been around will tell you of the countless times they opened their paper (or magazine, or laptop) and saw their copy under some weird words that made them think hmmm—or, more likely, “oh god, no.”

In any case, no matter who’s behind what’s on top of a story, there’s nothing wrong with selling copy with snappy headlines. They can be fun and creative and (hopefully) expository—an art form unto themselves. And no one, myself included, wants you to pass over his or her work for want of intrigue. (Kudos, by the way, to someone in these pages who recently walked the line and came out shining with “The Universe is So Weird! There’s Plastic on Saturn’s Moon?”)

Moreover, facts (and there so many of them) are facts: In the not-too-distant past, each day we were confronted with a limited number of “stories”—a newspaper or two, maybe a magazine or three, some TV to choose from. But today, we’re hit with thousands of them during our waking hours, most of which come to us online, as for-profit media outlets scratch away and beg so very hard for our mindpsace. Let’s be honest: no one should expect a publishing effort to be okay with simply fading into the background.

But as readers, many of us need to do a better job considering the cry-wolf factor as we scan our screens. (Face it, there’s not going to be an uprising anytime soon that says to HuffPo, Salon and all the others, “keep pulling that crap with the headlines and you’ll lose market share.” It sure would be nice though, huh?) Maybe it is just one breath of awareness before we offer up our prized click. That nanosecond when we can say: “Wait. Really? Am I really going to reach for that bright shiny thing?”

Finally, consider that subtlety isn’t dead—it’s just, well, subtle. Noise isn’t the key to good copy or truthful news. In fact, it might serve to tell you that what follows is not as advertised. Discernment is what it’s cracked up to be. The more game you bring, the better gems you are going to find.

I guess it’s like anything else in the days of the horrifying, unbelievable, incredible Information Age—it’s our job to consume wisely and be on lookout for what is real and true under the sea of hype. That said, headline writers, please stop screaming at me! On a scale of 1 to 10, even for the sensational, 10 is enough. This is not Spinal Tap.

(As I write, this just in: “Man who stripped naked and stuck a fire extinguisher hose up his bottom in a hotel corridor walks free.”—The Independent. Seriously?)

Scott Adelson is EcoSalon’s Senior Editor of HyperKulture, a monthly column that explores opening cultural doors to initiate personal change. He is also the author of InPRINT, which reviews and discusses books, new and old. You can reach him at scott at adelson dot org and follow him @scottadelson on Twitter.

Related Reading:

HyperKulture: Dear Oprah, Please Tell Us Who We Are — Atheists, Feminists And Other ‘Others’ Need To Know

HyperCulture: From The Sanbox to Syria – Tribe, Ego and Decision Making

HyperKulture: In Swoon’s Way – Time traveling and Staring Down Florence Syndrome

InPRINT: You Want Erotic? The Countless Shades of Anaïs Nin

InPRINT: Albert Camus and the Biggest Question of All

Images: Cory Doctorow (top) and The Library of Congress

The post Read this F*&%ing Story! — Spinal Tap Headlines and You: HyperKulture appeared first on EcoSalon.

ColumnOprah seems to think she knows best when it comes to social and religious identities. Here’s why that should piss you off.

During an awkward television interview last month, the extraordinarily famous Oprah Winfrey informed endurance-swimmer hero Diana Nyad that Nyad was not, despite her claims, an atheist.

Almost immediately, the godless Internet lit up with a range of reactions from heretics of all shapes and sizes proclaiming their indignation, anger and even “hurt.” This was Oprah—Queen of the popular media big leagues—and she was getting it wrong. But there’s more to this story than “nonbelievers annoyed.” Believers should be too.

The exchange took place on Winfrey’s Super Soul Sunday, which featured the talk-show host trying to muscle Nyad’s ability to experience awe and wonder into what is increasingly becoming mainstream God vocabulary—that is to say, one that expands the definition of the term well beyond its traditional angry-dude-in-clouds confines. Nyad, eloquent and powerful (figuratively, as well as literally), allowed Winfrey some wiggle room with language, but overall wasn’t having it:

Nyad: I’m not a God person…

Winfrey: Do you consider yourself atheist?

Nyad: I am an atheist…

Winfrey: But you’re in the awe.

Nyad: I don’t understand why anyone would find a contradiction in that. I can stand at the beach’s edge with the most devout Christian, Jew, Buddhist, go on down the line, and weep with the beauty of this universe and be moved by all of humanity—all the billions of people who have lived before us, who have loved and hurt and suffered. To me, my definition of God is humanity, and is the love of humanity…

Winfrey: Well I don’t call you an atheist then. I think if you believe in the awe and the wonder and in the mystery, then that is what God is… God is not a bearded guy in the sky.

Nyad: It’s not bearded, but there is an inference with ‘God’ that there is a presence, that there is either a creator or an overseer.

A moment later, after Nyad stated the fact that “we will never know,” Oprah said “’til that last breath—and [somewhat defiantly] maybe it will be an ‘oh, wow’ one for you…”

For us nonbelievers, this kind of exchange is nothing new. It’s one we’ve all had with often well-meaning folks (I should say that Oprah shows no malice here and seems genuine, albeit insensitive) who have trouble arranging us on their spiritual (and often religious) gameboards. It’s certainly well-trodden ground in the media. Here’s another recent example that caught a news cycle or three—CNN anchorman Wolf Biltzer, after May’s deadly tornado in Moore, Oklahoma, interviewing a survivor standing amidst horrible debris with her young child in arms:

Blitzer: I guess you gotta thank the Lord, right?

Tornado survivor: Yeah. [Clearly trying to quickly dismiss the question.]

Blitzer: Do you thank the Lord? …

Tornado Survivor: I – I – I’m – I’m actually an Atheist.

Unlike Oprah, Blizter seemed to quickly catch the woman’s drift, as it were, and moved on to playing with the kid. (Very cute.) Nevertheless, in watching the interview, one gets the sense that in that moment he was pushing the issue. When he didn’t get the “oh, yes, praise be” response he expected, he slipped into ‘But you have to, right? Do you?’ Like Nyad to Oprah, this woman did not fit his paradigm and he was taken aback.

These high-profile exchanges bring up two important questions. The first, which has been well covered, is whether atheists can have awe (and/or spirituality) in their lives without god(s) or a “higher” power. As a nonbeliever, I certainly don’t want to diminish the issue, but the question’s frequency really isn’t all that surprising, despite its insulting nature. The concept of being unable to make room for supernatural dualism in one’s spiritual framework is confounding to many. Burden of proof issues and a lack of scientific method aside, believers are operating within a framework that simply does not accommodate the kind of utter oneness that edges out anything higher or lower or elsewhere; it’s just something they can’t not see.

But question two is broader and more baffling, and one that has caught the attention of a number of my faithful friends (yes, believe it or not, I have many): Why is it that Oprah would feel comfortable responding to someone explaining his or her (very) personal sense of self (such as, “I’m a spiritual atheist”) with a “No. You can’t be that. I’ll tell you what you are.” Odd, right? Well, not really.

Pegs and Holes—Atheists are Not Alone

Sadly, it’s not difficult in our culture to find a wide range of precedent for the “you don’t believe what you say you believe” admonition. In fact, most of us can start quite young. Remember mom and dad’s head-patting “I know you think you believe that”? (Oh, man. Instant tantrum.)

How many women have been nominally exiled outside the cap-F, feminist camp because they might harbor the idea that a fulfilling life for them features being a stay-at-home mom, or perhaps, god forbid, they enjoy porn now and again? How about the virgin homosexual teen being told he or she’s not really gay—yet—or the bisexual who’s informed by certain members of the homosexual and lesbian communities that he or she is merely “confused”?

Want more? Might you be an animal rights advocate who’s “not” because you eat meat? An environmentalist cast away for not being sold on the evils of GMOs? And here’s one that’s near and dear to my heart: evidently, to some, my atheism somehow interferes with the Jewish identity with which I was born. (There’s a great line from Ricky Gervais that I like to trot out when asked by my tribespeople why I’m an atheist: “God made me this way.”)

The list goes on.

We all know how our culture is sadly characterized by a scarcity of empathy. But what about these instances where empathy is simply not available, when there’s just no way one can put themselves in the shoes of others who are so, well, other? What’s missing from the equation that leads people to feel okay contorting another’s sense of self and transmuting that sense into their own ideas and language? The answer seems to lie in the inability to simply listen and accept—baffled or not. Comfortable bemusement is just not in most people’s skill set. Control, however, is.

But that’s their side of the street, right? What about ours? Us others? What is our role in the cultural codependence that has the likes of not only average Joes telling us who and what we are, but our institutions, as well? Where do pundits and anointed culture purveyors like Oprah and Wolf come off telling us what we think? How dare they!?

How dare they, indeed. Have we handed them the keys to our personal kingdoms? Perhaps. Oprah’s untold millions are “earned” from a nation of viewers who turn to her to interpret their thoughts for them (not to mention telling them what books to read—including, um, “The Secret”). Why would we be surprised when she offers such interpretations and contortions designed to bring outsiders into the mainstream from what must surely be the cold? She’s just doing her (read: our) job.

What was great about Nyad (who, at 64 recently achieved her goal of swimming from Florida to Cuba) is not only how she didn’t evade the issue (she chose to appear on a show called Super Soul Sunday, for god’s sake) but how well thought out her feelings were, and how she held firm throughout the discussion.

Not all of us are prepared to come out of our closets when our belief systems are queried, challenged and dismissed, nor should we feel forced to do so. But given the opportunity—and the platform—to stand one’s ground, doing so deserves a ton of credit. That pesky acceptance thing, both self- and societal, ultimately emerges from freedom from fear and the courage to speak one’s mind.

Now, no one is suggesting that the shaken Moore survivor should have blitzed Blitzer with what might have been a (some might argue wiser) alternate question: “Why do you think God chose to punish and kill all those people? What do you think they did to earn such horrifying and violent deaths?” That would be insensitive, right?

The bottom line is that no one gets to tell you who you are or what you think. That’s up to you—no matter what anyone believes. Or doesn’t.

Scott Adelson is EcoSalon’s Senior Editor of HyperKulture, a monthly column that explores opening cultural doors to initiate personal change. He is also the author of InPRINT, which reviews and discusses books, new and old. You can reach him at scott@adelson.org and follow him @scottadelson on Twitter.

Related Reading:

HyperCulture: From The Sanbox to Syria – Tribe, Ego and Decision Making

HyperKulture: In Swoon’s Way – Time traveling and Staring Down Florence Syndrome

InPRINT: A Novel Challenge – Take Action and Read Outside Your Box

InPRINT: You Want Erotic? The Countless Shades of Anaïs Nin

InPRINT: Albert Camus and the Biggest Question of All

Images: Surian Soosay (top) and Bob Wells

The post Dear Oprah, Please Tell Us Who We Are — Atheists, Feminists and Other ‘Others’ Need to Know: HyperKulture appeared first on EcoSalon.

ColumnQuick: The Beatles or the Stones? Ginger or Mary Ann? Bomb Syria or don’t bomb Syria? It’s silly to equate the gravity of these choices, but it’s clear that our culture delights in and demands quick decision making. To be unsure is to be lacking true character and deemed less-than-relevant. Consider the din of mocking reserved for those who sit “on the fence.”

Yes, we are called on to know—or at least say we do. And we are called on to know now. Reaction to the situation in Syria illustrated this well. After Basher al-Assad forces’ use of sarin gas and Barack Obama’s (for some long-awaited, for others misguided and exceptionally American) saber rattling, many of my friends, acquaintances, the nation and the world quickly made their selections. Statements in defense of both tacks, in traditional and social media, were definitive, clear, justified. Despite the fact that a process was unfolding, in the days and even hours following the August 21 incident, decision making happened quickly, teams were chosen and colors donned.

I too leaned in one way fast (for these purposes, it doesn’t really matter which one), but I ultimately found myself uncommitted—and subsequently increasingly uncomfortable. Dear friends, smart people, emphatically broke both ways, while I just couldn’t pull the trigger, as it were, and join one chorus or the other. I’d like to think that I was taking the time to gather all the data (one of which emerged as what now seems like a fortunate accident) as it came in. Perhaps there was just too much to consider. Perhaps I lacked decision making stamina after so many years of White House war drumming and the battles that followed. In any case, I felt caught in crossfire between instantly fossilized sides. Not a fun place to be.

Young Decision Making

Perhaps we’re wired in a way where being confronted with a choice translates into quick decision making. After all, right out of the pubescent gate we’re challenged to establish personal and generational identities by choosing this and not that without too much thought. How much did we listen to our parents music before declaring it irrelevant? The [insert your favorite band here] was where it was at for Generation [Yours]. Same for our fashion/politics/spiritual decisions v. theirs. While the extent of such rebellion varied among us, almost to the young man and woman we agreed, we were not going to be like our forebears. And here’s to that.

And so we charged (or backed?) into our truths: Rock over classical, modern over traditional, anything to (mostly unconsciously) define ourselves as part of our generation and/or clique. Some of this was pure fun. (For me, it was the Beatles and Mary Ann.) But short shrift and quick disposal of anything “other” was the order of the day. No need for hmms. And no time, either. Seeing the other side or dilly-dallying on where we came down meant being vulnerable in a no-man’s land where no one seemed to have your back. Being part of a tribe was paramount and those without quick decision making skills lacked status or even acceptance. Consideration was shunned and changing minds forbidden. As author and Penn State cultural studies professor Michael Bérubé once pointed out, “It is very difficult to get a man to understand something when his tribal identity depends on his not understanding it.” Ah, youth.

Despite the fact that there is supposed to be a time to dispense with childish things, as we’ve grown older and left that messy sandbox, we still don’t always do a good job of taking in the broader view before decision making. In fact, the rules of our adolescent tribalism remain with us in a way that permeates our adult lives and our culture as a whole.

Consider This

The problem is that once we succumb to the pressure for quick decision making, defending our position in the face of new or unfolding information (or even changing tastes) can become a matter of ego—and that’s bad news. Even as the events of Syria unfolded, both the Obama-as-war-monger and punish-with-ordnance camps remained entrenched. But the facts on the ground were that a complicated situation with no easy answers was to a great extent diffused by a combination of factors and, dare I say it, a flexible thinker in the White House who took advantage of emerging facts and opportunities, both hoped for and unplanned. And none of this jibed with either side.

Again without comparing the graveness of such choices to the Syrian question, how many times have you read a book or seen a movie or encountered a piece of art and, though moved, were perplexed enough to need digestion time to tease out your thoughts and realize the full impact of the experience—only days, weeks or even years later reaching a conclusion. How many “one second thoughts” have you had? Sometimes understanding takes time—and sometimes it never fully happens before something leaves your figurative field of vision. Embracing this state of mind isn’t always easy, but it’s often critical to accurate decision making.

None of this is to defend apathy or disinterest—politically, artistically or otherwise. We’re not talking about those folks who on election night still insufferably seem to be neither here nor there, many of whom never had any intention of learning about the candidates, or even voting. (I, for one, am as uninterested in the uninterested as they are in me.)

I also don’t mean to challenge certain instances where we know what we know and delayed decision making is just senseless. (I remember advising my son upon his entering college to delay choosing a major until they threatened to throw him out. He chose Film on day one and two years out of college is enjoying a budding career in the field. Turns out he knew what he knew.) Moreover, some choices require quick action—if there’s a tiger in the room (or enemy planes in the air), taking one’s time before decision making would be pretty damn, well, thoughtless.

But here’s something to think about the next time you’re feeling uneasy about being perched on that fence: Shooting from the hip is an inaccurate game if you’re not Butch or Sundance. Bullseyes are most often attained when one takes careful aim before pulling the trigger (again, as it were). Know that assuming a thoughtful, jury’s out position can be an assertive and intellectually aggressive stance in itself—and one with its own style, if that matters. Of course, you might be well informed and confident, and being temporarily or permanently undecided is a rare occurrence for you. That’s fine. The trick though, as it is with so many things, is having the wisdom to know the difference.

(For the record, after careful thought and lifelong review, I’ll take both the Beatles and the Stones, and Ginger and Mary Ann.)

“Scott Adelson is EcoSalon’s Senior Editor of HyperKulture, a monthly column that explores opening cultural doors to initiate personal change. He is also the author of InPRINT, which reviews and discusses books, new and old. You can reach him at scott@adelson.org and follow him @scottadelson on Twitter.

HyperKulture: In Swoon’s Way – Time traveling and Staring Down Florence Syndrome

InPRINT: A Novel Challenge – Take Action and Read Outside Your Box

InPRINT: You Want Erotic? The Countless Shades of Anaïs Nin

InPRINT: Albert Camus and the Biggest Question of All

InPRINT: Gatsby, Paradise and the 1% – F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Pre-Occupation

Images: SAN_DRINO (top) and Desmond Tan

The post From the Sandbox to Syria — Tribe, Ego and Decision Making: HyperKulture appeared first on EcoSalon.