Sometimes you just have to write a post that has no beginning, middle, or end. A post that resists coherence via unified metaphor. A post that begins with a lot of sentence fragments. Because the post itself is a collection of fragments, albeit a bunch of gem like fragments, maybe diamonds or, less cliche, hunks of shimmery black obsidian (oh, obsidian, what secrets do you hide in your resistant black glare?). This is a post like that. Fragments.
First, I am once again writing elsewhere. This time at the highly lauded literary publication, Brain, Child Magazine. If you are so inclined, you can read my first post by clicking here. It's not a happy post, but if all posts were happy, we would soon forget the meaning of happiness and our lives might be one long terrible Khalil Gibran poem and then what? I don't even want to imagine. Feel free to LIKE their Facebook Page, and if enough of you LIKE my posts on that page, I earn millions of dollars. I'm not sure if I was supposed to tell you that, but I don't understand a lot of professional things.
I hereby renounce the label "Dad Blogger" and anyone caught calling me a Dad Blogger will be hunted down and kicked in the shin so hard that you'll wish that you could go back in time and reconsider calling me a Dad Blogger. Dad Bloggers, a horrible collection of delusional men with questionable writing skills, are becoming more and more concerned with how brands portray dads in the media as they earnestly seek more just representations of dads making salads and braiding hair ON THE TV and I give so little of a fuck, hardly a speck of a fuck, about issues such as these that I can't continue to share the label with these men. In fact, they make me yearn for the security of outworn stereotypes by lapsing into macho processes like challenging them to duels with pistols.
Of course, by renouncing the "Dad Blogger" label , I inevitably sacrifice the distinction of being the Greatest Dad Blogger In The World, a position now occupied by Charlie and Andy from How To Be A Dad. Congratulations, guys. Now there's a couple of real swell guys, on the serious, and not anything at all like the above described whiny hucksters squeaking about gender bias.
It remains to wonder, then, what I am. What is Black Hockey Jesus? I was recently discussing this with the above mentioned Charlie (now 1/2 of the Greatest Dad Blogger In The World) and we both agreed that we hated the word "blog" because, frankly, it's a stupid word. Hence, Black Hockey Jesus is not a "Dad Blogger" nor is the space it occupies a "blog". So much for what it's not. Let's cast the fishing poles of our thought into the seas of what it is. Black Hockey Jesus is a Magical Undefined Virtual Space Where Language Emerges To Language Forth, Speak Its Say, And Vanish (MUVSWLETLFSISAV) and I, no longer a "Dad Blogger", toyed with being a Virtual Oracle or Divine Messenger when Charlie coined the phrase "Digital Prophet", which I liked very well, so Black Hockey Jesus is a blurry mess of the place, a magical undefined virtual space, and the digital prophet through which the language gushes. Both nouns, this dual definition of Black Hockey Jesus jams all logical channels until Black Hockey Jesus is itself the act of flying away and/or escaping: a verb. I/this (BHJ) is a verb. Hope that clears shit up. Again, not a "Dad Blogger". Let the Dad Bloggers fight their own little battles with Huggies and Kleenex.
Yesterday I spent most of the day writing a new piece for Brain, Child about my daughter and her inevitable transformation into a sex object by the scripts of our culture and when I say "writing", I mean deleting a lot and ending hours with only about 120 salvageable words. I called my sponsor and expressed my frustration about getting so little done and my reason for including this little anecdote is that, man, I was frustrated. With my focus honed in on what I didn't accomplish, I produced an unhappy man whose primary adjective was "frustrated". Eliciting more talk from me in a general conversational way, my sponsor heard me talk about spending my day as a writer (the way I've always dreamed of spending my days), about going on a 10 mile run, about how I see my kids every day, how they're spending next weekend with me, about the incredible weekend with Gwen I just had in Salt Lake City, about being sober 300 days on Father's Day, about talking to my dads, about how I'm here for two more weeks before me and Gwen go on vacation for 2 weeks, and it was here that he said "Man, you have a charmed life. You have one hell of a CHARMED life." And it wasn't like he was trying to counter my frustration; he just interrupted me to state a fact.
And my frustration, composed of shortsighted emphasis on what didn't work out the way I planned on a particular day, exploded into 1000s of pieces of many colored confetti that rained slowly to the ground and I felt charmed. My life is charmed. And the only reason I told you that is because maybe your life is charmed too. It probably is.
This last fragment was supposed to be about my developing concept of God, but BORING, and this post is already too long. But I will say this and then ask you a question: the major revolution achieved by my particular brand of substance abuse recovery is the inclusion of the option to CHOOSE your own conception of God and, though this is the most liberating approach to God EVER, it's still been a tripping point for me over the last 20 years because, no matter how hard I try to believe, God is stupid. Nonetheless, despite myself, a concept, and indeed a relationship, is developing but, rather than bumble through trying to articulate it here, I'd rather ask you: How do YOU conceive of God? What God means to me can be evoked by the process described above in traveling the distance between frustrated and charmed. But what's God mean to you?
Email me at blackhockeyjesus at gmail dot com. Comments are for blogs.
I think you are a good person worthy of love and good things, but your vision is clouded by deluded thoughts that revolve around yourself. Forget everything. Climb a tree. Seek council from the wackiness of birds. _bhj