Category Archives: Under the Green Desk Lamp

‘Under the Green Desk Lamp’ is a regular feature here on Brad OH Inc. This category is the place for any sort of random musings to come off the reporting desks here at Brad OH Inc., and may cover such varied topics as philosophy, society, media, music, etc.

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in the articles of ‘Under the Green Desk Lamp’ are not necessarily the views and opinions of Brad OH Inc.

‘Overwhelmed’

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Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green Desklamp

Today, we have a special treat for all our fans here at Brad OH Inc. Through the savvy maneuverings of our legal department, we’ve come to be the sole owners of a number of songs by defunct Edmonton rock band ‘Basic Human Indecency’. Written by failed rock star Kai Konrad, these songs were never put to music, so really they’re little more than poems at this point—but that’s certainly not to say they’re without merit. We’ll be sharing these songs/ poems with you intermittently over the next few weeks. If there are any aspiring musicians perusing our site, feel free to use them in any way you like; just remember that sole legal ownership of these songs remains with Brad OH Inc.

Without further ado, we present to you today the intended lead single from the Basic Human Indecency album that never was: ‘Overwhelmed’.

Overwhelmed

I closed my eyes this morning

And tried to take it in

So many things around me now

All these images within

It’s like my world is crumbling

Glass marbles on the floor

Of a bigger world around it

And I’m waiting at the door

End of the beginning

Beginning of the end

Forget about your old sins now

There’s time to make amends

I remember thinking

That I knew it all

And I remember watching

All my foundations fall

Everyone is connected

In so many ways

And everything keeps changing

With the passing of the days

But nothings ever ending

The tape will always roll

And in the end all consequences’

Shall come to take their toll

They’re friends and enemies at once

And nobody can tell

They don’t have lies or self-deceit

Just a false pretense to sell

Their eyes flicker like candles

Bouncing between the walls

Anticipation in the heartbeat

And silence in the halls

With all the future waiting

A rumbling at the gate

Our minds all bent in circles now

And time will have to wait

Overwhelmed as I

Watch it all happen

Overwhelmed as I

Watch it all change

Overwhelmed cause I

Have no way to stop it

Overwhelmed cause I

Have no one to blame…

-Brad OH Inc.

Profits and Prophets

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Green Desklamp

Words are powerful things. They are our chief means of communication—assuming you can move past all that ‘body-language’ mumbo-jumbo—and thus serve as our key to expressing all ideas, plans, and opinions about the world around us. They allow us to apply labels, transfer knowledge, and express complex concepts to one another—passing information along and allowing it to grow across generations.

Words are the building blocks of language. They afford to us the ability not only to share our thoughts with one another—but to comprehend them ourselves. They apply meaning and value in a world of chaos; functioning to give context and relevance to what may otherwise be inconceivable. In an earlier article, we’ve actually covered how intangible it is to consider a world ‘Without Words’.

Words have the ability to convey great and terrible concepts—elevating us above the mire, or dragging us to the depths of despair. In this strange world or ours, there are even words which are considered too heavy to be spoken, whether because they are revered as sacrosanct, or reviled as curses.

Lately, there are two words in particular which have been troubling me. They are phonetic-twins: identical save for their spelling, and their meanings too have become all too dangerously similar. These are ‘profit’, and ‘prophet’.

Profits refer to the net gains made by an institution: usually monetary. In times like these, with corporations pulling the reins of government, and the media touting the notion that true ‘freedom’ is for the marketplace alone, profits have become the apple to the wild horses trampling all good sense and civility from our society.

Citizen interests are sold out for profits. Veterans are left homeless for profits. People suffer and die without healthcare in defense of the all-mighty profit-margin. Profits, profits, profits. They’ve become the sole respectable merit, and the defining drive of a corporate machine racing driverless, determined only to see how far it can go, how long it can persist. It seeks profit, and any destruction caused in this pursuit is justified so long as it has no effect on the net-gains.

We’re often reminded of what is owed to us: this illusive promise of life, liberty, and happiness. Of course, we are further assured, money cannot buy happiness. So it’s up to us to find on our own…just keep your hands off the profits.

Prophets are those people considered to speak in place of god or any other deity—often via divine inspiration. Like our recent discussion on the ‘Insidious Threat of Legacy’, prophets often represent an increasing distance from the so-called source material, and too often become cited as justifications for acts of violence and other atrocities which can in no other way be reconciled with their foundational beliefs.

It’s as prevalent a threat today as it ever has been.

Wars are waged in the name of prophets. Buildings are toppled in reverence to prophets. Ongoing conflicts over which prophet is to be trusted and which to be eschewed continue to enable the endless global uncertainty to which we are all subject.

Profits, and prophets—they aren’t so different in the end.

Both represent the false ideals of a misguided population. A life led in reverence only to that which can be gained; a sacrifice of ideals in order to defend the sanctity of a decaying value structure. Many religious communities seem to have turned away from worship of their actual gods, and are defined now by strict adherence to the prophets who have interpreted them. So too the governments of the world—who have turned away from their true purpose of protecting their state and citizens—wooed by the unscrupulous practices of corporate lobbyists who promise to redefine the national priorities.

How can these threats be rectified? If profits are not the only sufficient motivator for directing the course of society, and if prophets have proven an insufficient source of moral guidance, then where are we to turn?

If the value of profit is in what it can accomplish, and the value of prophets is in the ideals they represent, then perhaps chasing these equally-listless sources is the wrong approach entirely. Here at Brad OH Inc., we would encourage everyone to take some time to consider the foundation beneath each of these—and that is value.

What really matters to you? If you had all the profits in the world at your disposal, what would you make of them? If you could speak as a prophet to the people, what wisdom might you impart? If you are honest with yourselves, we believe you’ll find the answers are not so dissimilar. More importantly, and herein lies the essence of the issue—you may find that both profits and prophets are red-herrings, distracting us from what true happiness might already be available to us, if only we can disavow ourselves of these tired and misaligned notions.

-Brad OH Inc.

The Golden Goddess

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Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green Desklamp

They’re still out there. Oh, make no mistake about it; we still have our Gods and Goddesses.

It’s not religion I’m talking about. Not per se.

This is about the real Gods. The ones which move behind the scenes, the ones we actually look up to.

Gods and Goddesses abound in a place like this.

Made in his image—and all that.

I saw her with my own eyes: the Golden Goddess.

Until then, I didn’t even know I was looking for her. But passing through the supermarket, spending money to fill the void, she appeared before me at the magazine rack.

Hair flowing like spun gold, tussling over bronzed shoulders and cascading down a back arched with the pernicious poise of a predatory cat.

Her eyes shone like emeralds, gleaming with wanton hunger, and the eyebrows above were perfectly symmetrical, curved and inviting.

Her suggestive look left no room for misinterpretation.

It was only a passing glance. Then she was everywhere.

Every passing girl had touches of her within them.

All painted up in their revelations.

All decorated in their sacred garbs.

All repeating their hallowed sacraments.

All falling short.

Every man seeks her, and every woman strives to be her.

There are Gods as well.

Bound with muscles and tall as pillars, they call with different voices but similar promises. They tell you about things you’ll never achieve.

Paradise withheld—but almost attainable to the most prudent and savvy.

It’s something to strive for. At least in lieu of anything real.

They have bodies like humans, but more so. Digitally retouched beyond earthly proportions; sexual beyond human expectation.

Sex sells. It’s the most paid and prayed for thing there is.

And once you’ve known a Goddess, no earthly being comes close.

It’s happened to us all.

We chase our Goddesses, hoping to become a God.

We spend our money in pursuit of the holy ideal.

We withhold our affections for hope that our own Goddess is just around the corner—hold out, have faith.

You’ll never have one. You’ll never become one. They aren’t of this world. But for each deficit you find, you know there’s a solution down the next aisle.

Then another deficit, another product.

Flex your muscles alone in your room, hold them up to his.

Dye your hair.

Skip your meal—avoid temptation.

Push your breasts up in the mirror and let your proud shoulders fall along with them.

It can drive you mad.

But you’d have to be mad…to believe these things are real.

Yet you can’t risk giving up the chase. The rest are all so active, so close.

You can’t fall behind.

The next choice you make could get you to the Promised Land.

Who knows?

Why not?

What else is there to do?

Just keep your faith.

Just keep chasing the dream.

Just keep spending.

Maybe you’ll find her.

Maybe you’ll be him.

Maybe if you keep focussing on them, you’ll never have to see yourself.

-Brad OH Inc.

The Insidious Threat of Legacy

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Green Desklamp

Every once in a while, something great happens. No, we’re not referring to the recently passed two year anniversary of the opening of Brad OH Inc., although we do appreciate the thought. Rather, we’re talking about the game changers—people and ideas which come along on rare occasions and totally revolutionize the way we look at the world.

This can occur in any of myriad realms of accomplishment or character. Political leaders, such as Mahatma Ghandi, religious figures such as Christ or Allah, even examples of high celebrity character—such as that of ‘The Ironman’ Lou Gehrig or ‘The Boss’ Bruce Springsteen.

These bastions of reason and decency act as shining examples for the rest of us, and their exceptional accomplishments often enter the public consciousness in a caricaturized and—arguably—dangerous form. I’m talking of course about the concept of legacy.

When certain ideas or people reach a status significant for their effects to become lionized amongst the general public, a legacy is created. A legacy refers to an ongoing tradition; something handed down from the past, one generation to the next.

For the purposes of this article, religion is an effective tool to discuss the dangers of legacy. Avoiding arguments of merit or believability for the time being, it’s held that the teachings of Christ were passed down, and formed a legacy known as Christianity. This happened, according to religious accounts, because the divine nature of Christ allowed for him to give us teachings of truth deep enough to forever change the way people interacted and treated each other. Most of these teachings, taken in the proper context, certainly do provide valuable insights into human understanding and the ideals of human behaviour.

Unfortunately, when a person, or more importantly an idea, enters the realm of legacy, the source of the related actions or beliefs takes on a dramatic and irreparable change. This involves the motivation behind the belief.

Whether we look to religion, historical role-models, or political idealists, the initial movement is always based on current circumstances, and motivated by—arguably—noble and relevant values. However once a thing becomes legacy, the motivation for following it is divorced of the initial values, and is tied rather to a sense of hero-worship. This turns general ideas into absolute truths—often with long lists of rules and potentially terrible consequences. This is seen in the formation of religions, governments, rabid fanbases, etc., and is a dangerous precedent.

When we attribute any reason for acting to another person or set of ideals, the action becomes dogmatic, and the virtue behind it bleeds out and is lost. We become little more than automatons acting on limited and inflexible scripts.

Continuing with our example, the teachings of Christ centred primarily on peace, love, and the forgiveness of transgressions. These were noble values in their day, and could certainly stand for a resurgence in modern times. However, many followers of these teachings have lionized the source while failing entirely to grasp the values. This inevitably has led to infighting, grandiose claims, and the spread of a religion of peace at the edge of a blade. The ‘idea of the idea’ is worshipped, while the true ideals behind it are lost entirely.

Legacy is baggage—a crutch for people too concerned with their own aggrandizement to ever endeavour to discover truths of their own. It’s an insincere approach from the start, centred on the notion that having a great leader’s face on a t-shirt is sufficient to convey upon the wearer the same moral high-ground of their inspiration.

But it hasn’t really gotten us anywhere useful, has it. Everywhere we turn, we can hear one buffoon or another calling out for a return to this set of values, or this person’s teachings. Aside from very rare exceptions however, these revolutionaries are inescapably mired in their own hypocrisy, and the extent of their conviction begins and ends with reference to its source.

It’s a faulty mindset, and one that needs to change. Clinging to the successes of the past without understanding their genesis is a hopeless approach to fostering lasting change.

The great tragedy of humanity is that we continually give too much credit to the past, and too little to ourselves. If we want the world to be a better place, we need to stop seeking perfect solutions, and start living up to our ideals rather than just hoping for the right set of rules to follow. Too often we look to the example of others while turning a blind eye to the actions of ourselves. This is the fundamental danger of legacy, and this is why, with the dawning of this New Year, we here at Brad OH Inc. encourage everyone to worry a little less about who they want to be associated with, and much more about who they want to be.

-Brad OH Inc.

The Illusive Nature of Anger

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Green Desklamp

Like bad weather, lying politicians, the drudgery of Monday’s, or the social benefits of Corporate ambition—anger seems to be a topic that just keeps coming around. And well it should. Anger is a powerful emotion…capable of souring relationships, perverting logic, and arousing violent and hurtful reactions in even the most respectable of people.

These days, it’s an especially prevalent feeling. There’s no end to reasonable excuses for a little bit of righteous anger. The ongoing injustices of police violence, the stripping away of rights, securities and freedoms, and the decay of our democratic processes are just the tip of the iceberg.

There is little cause for doubt—anger may be the defining emotion of our modern day.

But what I’ve really been wondering about specifically of late is that noun: emotion. Is anger really an emotion? Despite the ingrained teachings of our youth, my experiences recently have had me questioning this classification. Upon reflection, I’m inclined to believe that anger is not in fact an emotion, at least not an independent one.

More accurately, I think anger is most often a reaction. When we talk about anger, we’re most often describing a series of visible actions or results: screaming, violence, reduced reasoning skills—all of these are ubiquitous and familiar indicators of anger.

But what’s the root cause behind them?

I can think of very few—if any—examples of anger as the root cause of an anger reaction. More clearly, imagine if you will a situation in which someone might act in an angry way, with no other emotion besides anger being the cause. I don’t think this is a common occurrence. In fact, I’m not sure it happens at all.

At the root of any such anger reaction—you will consistently find other emotions acting behind the scenes. Fear, frustration, jealousy, insecurity, and guilt are just a few of the most common culprits.

This is interesting for a couple of reasons. Firstly, when we try to process emotions, the first and most important step is to accurately label what it is we are experiencing. When we can define and put into context what’s causing our reactions, we’re better able to process them in a rational way, and thus solve our problems.

But when we describe ourselves as ‘angry’, I would contend that we’re describing only our emotional reaction—not the root emotion. This means that while we can give due warning of the madness which we might soon engage in, we are doing very little to effectively process our experience.

Secondly, like any good biological system, emotions exist essentially to solve problems. Just as hunger tells us that it’s time to eat, or pain warns us to protect ourselves, emotions give us feedback on social or environmental situations, and heeding them is key to improving our station.

If we feel jealous, we might work to achieve the object of our desire. If we are lonely, we might reach out to others for support. But is we are simply angry—we find ourselves stuck. We know we might make a bad choice, and certainly we will view ourselves with a victim mentality, but little is done to change the situation. More often in fact, our actions when angry serve only to worsen our plight.

If we’re able to step back and examine the base causes of our anger, only then are we able to make progress towards improving our situation. People protesting police brutality and racist court rulings are angry, for certain, but owning that emotion alone will get us precisely nowhere. Behind this anger lies fear, betrayal, a sense of isolation and injustice, and most importantly I believe—disappointment.

The world right now is an especially disappointing place, and it’s terribly rare to find examples of people—particularly those in power—living up to our expectations. Decency is something all but the most cynical of us were raised to expect. The basic decency of our fellow-humans might even feel like a natural right. But if so, it’s one long neglected.

And so as we watch banks get bailed out, workers forced into slave-like conditions for unlivable wages, the militarization of the police, and the complicit ignorance of the media, we may certainly feel angry. Perhaps even a good bit of rage. But it’s important to step back from this, and remember that there are many wheels turning behind the machinations of our fury.

We must expect better from people. But in the midst of our vehement objections, it is imperative that we remember its true cause. People, we believe, are fundamentally better than they are acting. No matter how angry this might make us, we must remember in the end to demand not an end to our anger alone, but a return to the days where we could rightly expect the best of each other.

-Brad OH Inc.

The Trial of Puff the Magic Dragon

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Green Desklamp

Puff the Magic Dragon—Marijuana menace, or allegory for the temporal nature of youthful innocence? This is the topic we’ll be exploring here today at Brad OH Inc.

Since the song was recorded in 1963 by the folk group ‘Peter, Paul, and Mary’ it has been the subject of much heated debate. On the surface, the song tells the tale of a fictional dragon—Puff—and a little boy—Jackie Paper—who comes to visit him in the land of Honah-Lee. Together, the pals frolic about, experiencing wonderful childish adventures together and forming a lifelong bond.

According to critics however, this fun little song is more than it appears—for underneath the playful tune and heartfelt lyrics lingers a threat so insidious and vile, it threatens to shake the very foundations of our dear society.

That’s right; we’re talking about the reefer.

Now, here at Brad OH Inc. we aren’t inclined to pass judgement on anything which doesn’t directly harm people save by the enforcement of its restriction; but moral judgements are beside the point here. The question we seek to answer is exactly this: is ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ really a subversive allegory for drug use, or is it simply the story of innocence lost which it purports to be?

Let’s consider the evidence. Critics of the song claim that the words ‘Puff’ and ‘Paper’ are overt references to ‘puffing on a joint’—a marijuana cigarette rolled in, you guessed it, paper! Further, the ‘autumn mist’ referred to in the song is accepted as a clear reference to either marijuana smoke or a general drug-induced state. Finally, the word ‘dragon’ sounds a lot like ‘dragging’, a term for inhaling from a joint. Together, these observations are said to support the notion that the song is indeed a secret love song to the society-destroying problem of pot.

Pretty shaky evidence if you ask me, but let’s consider the other side of the coin for a minute. If this song isn’t about smoking pot, as can potentially be extrapolated from approximately four words contained within it, then just what the heck is it about?

Well, if we are to be so bold as to interpret the song literally—based on the entirety of the words in it and the story they form when put in order, then the song is about something much less dangerous—although perhaps a lot more scary.

‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ is, if taken literally, about the death of imagination. Throughout the majority of the song, Puff and his human friend Jackie experience countless adventures travelling around Honah-Lee. Near the end of the song however, the lyrics reveal a strange and terrible twist:

“Dragons live forever, but not so little boys,

Painted wings and giant’s rings make way for other toys,

One grey night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more,

And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.”

What has happened here, exactly? Well, if we are to take the lines as literal, then we are hearing about how the young Jackie Paper has outgrown his childish fantasies, and stopped daydreaming about the imaginary dragon of his youth. The rest of the song continues, telling about Puff’s overwhelming grief at having lost his friend, and retiring sadly into his cave.

If the song truly is about drugs however, these lines take on a far more sombre tone. Jackie Paper moving on from Puff—taken to mean his use of marijuana—and onto ‘other toys’ might imply Jackie falling into harder drugs; a harsh warning of the potential for marijuana to act as a ‘gateway drug’. The remainder of the song, this being the case, would describe, I suppose, how sad Puff/ Pot is that Jackie Paper no longer partakes.

It’s a strange image, to say the least.

So what are we to conclude? How shall we interpret these abysmal accusations? Is ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ a simple song about growing up, or a veiled glorification of Marijuana and other drugs?

Well, the evidence is circumstantial at best, and moreover seems to have been gleaned from the song with the pointed desperation of an addict crawling the carpet in search of dropped narcotics. Dim-witted word-associations form the thrust of the argument, with no attention paid to context, narrative, or stated intention (song writer Peter Yarrow has expressed repeatedly that the song was written with no hidden meanings).

But maybe that’s the point. There’s no shortage of irony in the fact that a song about the loss of innocence is plagued to this day by hair-brained nitwits trying to find illicit intentions behind something innocent and good. Rather, it’s the leitmotif of a society driven to find that darkness—raised to be suspicious of anything with pure intentions.

Puff is most certainly just a dragon. Sadly however, until people give up their steadfast determination to darken the world around them with hysterical hatred and paranoia, he will remain a dragon under self-imposed isolation, grieving for better times.

And what of these fiends so desperate for someone to vilify that they would make effigy of a beloved childhood image? Who can they pin their hopes on if not Puff, where can they find the satisfactions of conspiracy and blame they so desperately desire?

I don’t know. Go ask Alice…

-Brad OH Inc.

The Metaphorical Imperative Revisited

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Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green DesklampIn our last article, ‘Without Words’ we reflected on the idea of what the world would be like without the vocabulary to define it. The concept was an interesting one to write about and consider; ultimately, it got us thinking back on another article we wrote, ‘The Metaphorical Imperative’.

The Metaphorical Imperative, for those who don’t recall, was a notion we explored about the source of and meaning behind creativity. In a nutshell, the idea is that as human beings evolved and our cerebral capacity expanded, the ability to question our world or ask ‘why’ would have appeared around the same time as the ability to use abstract conjecture to answer the question. These activities are certainly tied to language, although they need not be defined by it. Still, for the purposes of this article, we will take articulated thought as the base point for our considerations.

The fundamental assertion behind the concept of ‘The Metaphorical Imperative’ is that if humans owe any reverence or thanks for their current state, we owe it to the incredible work of evolutionary architecture that is our own minds—not to any god, devil, or undefined miscreant in between.

The need for existential reassurance, the fear of death, and the question of what we are and why we are here; these are all the direct products of a brain grown sufficiently complex to wrestle with such abstractions, and this alone is more miraculous and better cause for celebration than any story I’ve read in a holy book.

But that leads us to the next point. If our ability to ask questions is a miracle, what can be aid of our ability to create the answers for them?

Metaphor is the abstract use of one object to find or create meaning in another. If abstract thought is the impetus for asking ‘why’, then the tool for answering it is metaphor. My contention is that these abilities would have evolved in relatively close proximity to one another, representing a true ‘awakening’ of humanity.

If we are to discuss metaphor and meaning, we might as well start with one of the most famous—and central to our current topic. In the Garden of Eden, it’s said that Eve (that reckless upstart) ate from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, and thus doomed mankind forever.

Thanks a lot, Eve.

I find an interesting parallel in this. This fruit, the ‘knowledge of good and evil’ which caused mankind’s fall from innocence, is symbolically comparable to the notion of the Metaphorical Imperative, in which we gain both the ability to question our nature, and the skill to fashion suitable answers.

But it’s really the answers that interest me here; the nourishing apples to the terrible hunger of ennui. Via our ability to create meaning, the human race has tapped into our most fundamental and defining abilities: creation, art, and belief.

The power of this ability might be observed most directly in expressions such as organized religion, whose depth of belief has inspired acts of miraculous empathy and terrible cruelty. But the power of metaphor isn’t limited to religion alone. Any story—TV shows, books movies, video games—has the power through metaphor to provide just as much as religion to anyone with the ability to relate to it on a personal or psychological level.

Stories are the foundation of all culture; ideas, philosophy, art and religion, the fundamental basis of humanity can be defined as the ability to dream things up in a way they are not.

There are no exceptions. Whether it’s sports, gods, science-fiction, or science alone, everyone places their trust in some grand idea, anchoring their hopes and aspirations to some intangible notion that rings true to them.

Luke Skywalker, Aragorn, The New Orleans Saints, Zen Buddhism, Zeus and Allah and Jesus, all the angels in heaven and demons in hell have sprung from this one key human drive. All art is the product of the metaphorical imperative, and stands as testament to everything which makes us human.

But here an important consideration arises in our series of metaphors. If, as suggested earlier, this key drive which makes us human (for both good and ill) was represented as the great deception of the devil in the garden, then perhaps all artists are in fact worshipping the devil.

Perhaps the development of consciousness and desire in humans was an accident—a random fluke forever changing the course of our species. No doubt we would have existed in perfect harmony with our environment if we’d never developed the capacity to believe we are separate or better.

Maybe it’s a good thing, and maybe not. But although this cerebral capacity has led to great pain and suffering throughout history, I refuse to believe it is not also the thing which will see us to what we need to become. Creation and metaphor, for all our missteps, define us as the beautiful, shining bastards we are, and will someday show us just how incredible we can truly be.

All we need to find is the right story.

-Brad OH Inc.

Without Words

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Green Desklamp

Among the many blessings inherent to being a writer, paramount among them is the gift of always having the right word for a given occasion. Any writer—and even well-read non-writers—knows the thrill of pulling out some million-dollar word that so perfectly encapsulates your predicament it seems made just for the occasion. But recently, I found myself wondering just what sort of blessing this is, and whether with every proud smile and impressed friend that comes with knowing how to effectively articulate some miniscule event, some greater thrill may be lost.

What would the world be like without words?

Not many know—and those that do would certainly have a difficult time expressing it. It’s a primal sort of idea, hearkening back to cold days huddled around small fires on the plains of the savannah; gazing with inexpressible unease into the encroaching dark.

Sitting at that fire, you might feel the cold creeping into your bones, and with no words for why, toss another handful of sticks onto the glowing coals of your salvation. The flames would lick up; tiny firefly sparks sailing up into the boundless night sky to get lost among the countless, brilliant stars that watch you each night from above as the wolves watch from below.

The heat would swell, pushing back the creeping chill of night in its eternal yet ultimately futile battle. You might smile, and your head would swim with the wonder of it all. You would understand the connections and worship the results, but you’d have no words for the meaning behind it. A smile would have to suffice.

The next day would find you rested and warm, the sun back again, reliable as ever, chasing away the nameless demons of night and promising again that the familiar cycle would continue. And you would be glad.

There would be no words for the joy that day brings, nor the trepidation you might feel when the thunder clouds roll in, covering up the sun and threatening with their deep voices to tear the sky asunder.

With all the terrible fury of an unimagined god they would come, beating down with rain and hail from above, and shattering the mountaintops with flashes of authority beyond description.

Imagine then the relief when they passed, and again the world returned to normal—like it always did. Imagine the thrill of security and the reassuring surge of faith in your pounding heart: imagine it all without words.

So too would every waking moment be defined by such wonder. In the world we live in now—there are words for everything, even if at times many seem to fall so pitifully short.

Without words, how confounding would be ideas like hate, and love, and grief. Without a means of expressing them, how could we ever let go of that which hurt or hallowed us. All would be reduced to the guttural screams of terror or triumph; communication shackled to the hair-tearing passions of inarticulate isolation.

With no weather systems or science or writing, the world would be an unpredictable place of magic and mania—and every turn would bring some uplifting new idea which would lie stillborn on lips incapable of giving them birth.

It’s a marvellous but inaccessible idea. I think about it a lot, and slide every time down an unspeakable precipice of wonder and nostalgia, as if touching by proxy upon the culturally inherited passions we all share in our ancient past. It fills me with an incredible sense of awe, but each time I’m moved to encapsulate the extent of such feelings, I find sadly that I am without words.

-Brad OH Inc.

On Internet Speak and the Decay of Culture

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Under the Green Desklamp…

Green Desklamp

When I was just a young Corporate Person, amongst the greatest formative influences on my impressionable little mind were the writings of J.R.R. Tolkien. An interesting and little appreciated fact about Tolkien however is that he was not a writer by trade, but rather a linguistics scholar and professor of Old-English at the University of Oxford (Source).

It was his love of language, as well as his experiences in the trenches of WWI which informed his writing, and anyone familiar with his oeuvre will see the deep impact of his linguistic inclination etched into the very bones of Middle-earth.

Language is a powerful tool—one that defines our world and our relationships with others. In the article ‘The Metaphorical Imperative’, I expounded my idea about how the human ability for abstract thought, and the inherent search for meaning which naturally accompanies that ability, define us as animals. The combination provides us with an unending desire to explore and understand the world about us, while simultaneously giving us the tools to create answers to those very questions.

Language course is of an integral part of this equation. Our native language informs the way we interpret the world, and our thoughts are more-or-less bound by the linguistic constructs of the language or languages we speak.

Lately however, I feel a growing unease as I consider the direction that language is taking, and wonder about the implications this carries for society as a whole. I am referring to the decay of language easily evidenced by only a brief perusal of any internet message board or social network’s comments section. Obscure acronyms, lack of nuance, mutilated spellings, marred syntax, and a litany of other bastardizations of the English language will be the dominant form of expression almost anywhere you look.

It can become a depressing state of affairs, and if given sufficient consideration, might inspire in the reader a grave concern for the direction of society.

As a matter of context, let us consider the following scenario:

A young couple are out on their first date at an upscale Italian eatery. Shondra, 24, is a well-read academic hoping to find a stable partner as she starts out her own career. Ethan, 26, works from home, and spends the majority of his time honing his ‘memeing’ skills online. They sit now at a pristine table, a single candle providing ambiance in the dim room. Conversation buzzes all around them as diners enjoy their meal. Shondra and Ethan have just started their main course.

“Mmm, this pasta is really delicious,” says Shondra, a polite hand over her mouth as she finishes her initial helping of Chicken Linguini.

“Well, that’s just your opinion,” replies Ethan, shoveling another spoonful of Cannelloni into his mouth.

Shondra’s thinly drawn eyebrows furrow upon her pretty face. “That would be why I said it,” she replies. She isn’t entirely sure why Ethan felt motivated to highlight this fact, being that her voicing it obviated its being her opinion.

“Why do you say so?” She asks, hoping to gleam some deeper meaning from his statement of obvious facts.

“Because reasons,” Ethan answers, a wry smile on his face implying he felt this answer was both sufficient and witty. “Lol,” he finishes, as if to reinforce the embedded humour of this retort.

“So,” continues Shondra, undeterred by her mounting frustration. “What do you do in your downtime?”

Ethan flashes her a broad smile. “I like to RATIE all day.”

“Ratie?” Shondra asks, hoping Ethan might have some interesting new pastime with which she is as yet unacquainted.

“Yeah, Relax and take it Easy, duh.” Ethan sneers as he speaks, and forks another glob of pasta into his mouth. “This Cannelloni is amazing, its literally the best thing in the whole world.”

Shondra sighs. “Why didn’t you just say that, how could I have known that obscure acronym?

“And best thing in the world? I’m not sure you understand what ‘literally’ means.”

“I know right, how ironic!”

A tight frown mars Shondra’s pretty mouth. Suddenly, a gob of marinara sauce splatters into her face, causing her to howl in shock.

Ethan grins from ear to ear. “Trollololo!” He declares triumphantly.

Wiping it off with a fresh napkin, Shondra struggles to maintain her composure. “What the hell was that for?” She demands.

“YOLO,” comes Ethan’s response, “C’mon babe, I’ve got too much swag to have to justify myself, you need to calm down.”

“You’re acting like an ignorant cretin,” Shondra speaks in monotone.

“Cretin, more like epic, amirite?”

Shondra rises from the table now. “Ethan, this is clearly not going to work, I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” With that, she turns gracefully on her heel and makes her hasty exit.

Ethan is devastated. His mouth hangs open in shock, small drops of marinara falling down onto his ‘Affliction’ shirt. Setting his fork on the table, he sinks despondently down into his chair. “The feels…” he laments.

In this scene clearly, the stunted and overly specific language of the internet is entirely unfit for social situations. This is not the adaptive environment of such communication styles however, and due consideration must be given to where and when such conventions may be necessary.

For instance, being that online communication lacks the intonation inherent to verbal communication, some leeway may be given to the use of emoticons and clarifying abbreviations such as ‘j/k’ or ‘lol’.

Other conventions, such as the steadfast insistence on labelling every opinion as such no matter how obvious or redundant the label may be have arisen as a knee-jerk defenses to the volatile escalation so fostered in the anonymous confines of online communication.

Is this stylistic shift a hallmark of decaying culture and failing intellect, or is it a natural evolution of language resulting from our increasingly technological means of communicating, coupled with our busier schedules and lack of face-to-face contact?

Neither possibility should be dismissed out of hand. There can be little denial that language must evolve with the times. As new technologies and scientific or philosophical revelations change the way we view the world, language perforce needs to evolve in order to keep up.

So too with technologically driven changes in the way we communicate. Few would question the need to end a radio transmission with ‘over’, indicating to the other end that the line is now open for them to transmit.

Conversation over the internet is fundamentally different from other means of communication. It is detached, anonymous, and often responses come minutes, hours, or even days after the initial statement. With these challenges, the need for adaptive language is clear.

Still, many of the changes are hard to defend as strictly adaptive, and may be more so a product of the anonymity provided by online correspondence.

Is the internet becoming an unreadable mess? Is language and culture crumbling as people become less directly socially connected? Or is online communication actually an effective bridge between people, increasing social interaction—with language simply adapting to fit the needs of the new social environment?

What do you think? Please feel free to take up the discussion in the comments section—after all, ‘Divine Duty of Discourse’ is one of the 5 Central Commandments of The New Corporate Religion of Brad OH Inc.

-Brad OH Inc.

Bourbons by the Fire

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Under the Green Desklamp…

Green Desklamp

There’s a bottle of bourbon in arm’s reach of my chair, and through the window in front of me I can see the last vestiges of the day’s light hanging on the horizon. It illuminates the glass like hot iron. It seems the sunsets last longer these days. Or it could perhaps be that, with each one that passes, that singular moment when the last ray of sun clings to the western sky lingers longer in the mind, with its promise that light will come again.

On nights like this, the dangers of thought far outweigh those of the bottle, and the intoxicating effect of knowledge brings a sickness far worse than any hangover imaginable. And so I have a drink.

It’s a strange time, a time when any decent person with an eye for details might come to suspect they are one of the few remaining sane souls left in a terribly dystopian world—the sort of world where little girls grow up dreaming of being heiresses.

These days, the heedless ambition of the powerful is to society as is cancer to the individual. It first gnaws at the extraneous, chipping away the small pleasures and devouring the variety of life, making all things secondary to its demands.

But like cancer it grows unchecked, consuming everything allowed to it until all that remains are memories of times that were better, when hope for a brighter future still blossomed in the hearts of those now disenfranchised by the voracious appetites of its expansion.

It’s a desperate time—the kind of time when great ideas tend to come along… or else when people will cling to the best idea they come across.

I take another drink, a long one. It’s warm going down my throat, and fire in the stomach—a slow, soothing sort of burn.

The sun is growing dimmer, and light and dark weigh heavy in my thoughts. They’re timeless concepts—forged into the spirit of our society by countless books, songs and films. For me it was Tolkien, but the sources are innumerable.

Sometimes when my mind wanders, it goes unbidden to dangerous places. There are times that I wonder where the decency of man has gone. We’ve all heard about it—that innate spark of light within all people, destined with only the slightest encouragement to guide us from the ever encroaching darkness.

It’s getting darker.

We are but monkeys grown beyond our means. We make up stories, and bow before them to reckon ourselves to the fact that we are raised with a terrifying capacity for evil, yet maintain a gentle compulsion for good.

It’s not an easy understanding to bear, and the more you know, the madder you go.

I can see how it happens, how you can get lost within your mind. You chase some dream, and at first it dances about the edges, enticing you to believe you might catch it and make it true. But it leads, and you chase. Like a boy following a rabbit into the forest, you pursue it until you lose the trail. Then you look around to realize you’ve lost your own as well. You are left with no clue where on earth you are… or worse still, you’re not sure you remember who you are.

A man needs to fight against it, that infernal apathy. It’ll set in and boil, and pretty soon even the most casual of social encounters will feel like ships passing in the night fog.

Again, the bourbon soothes my thoughts.

What is a man to do? That’s the question that keeps bouncing around my head as my fingers rest limply on my keyboard. People often think I’m multi-layered, but the truth is I’m just multi-talented. This is my weapon—the written word is like a Lego set for smart people, and the destructive potential it can harness is a terrible thing to behold.

People glue themselves to reality programs, fixating on fictional calamities as their government is looted by faceless Corporations and their inalienable rights are stripped away like the clothes of a drunken debutante in a dingy frat house.

This is the reality allotted to us, and it’s difficult to blame the cowards for looking away and leaving it for the next generation. It’s a defense mechanism rooted deeply in our DNA.

With a web as intricate as this, no answers are clear, and even the most optimistic zealot can find himself lost in the chaos around him. But one must not avoid doing right for fear that the devil has deceived them into doing wrong, or else surely he has.

I grit my teeth and crack my knuckles. They’re stiff, and the flesh is dry and cracked. Have I grown this old in so short a time?

Everyone else is smiling, and a cheery voice on a television to my right tells me that quick and harsh punishment will come to the foreigners who object to our imperialistic agenda.

A cheer rises up—on the television to my left, a touchdown has been scored.

Godforsaken idiots.

My mind drifts again to the tales of my youth, and the things they promised: ages of miracles, and the certain defeat of darkness. It always took until the last moment—when hope held on by the thinnest thread. That’s when delivery always came, when people woke up to their innate power to change the world, and made real the paradise they cradled secretly in their hearts.

The sun is down now, the window dull and translucent once more. Outside, neon ads flash, telling me it’s time to buy a new phone. Then everything will be ok.

Darkness has always been our nature. It doesn’t need to be forceful, for it can grow at any time, and is capable of overtaking us and condemning us to savagery whenever we let down our guard.

The light within is different. It flickers perilously, and I’ve heard it said that once it’s out, it’s out. It may dwindle, imperceptible at times, yet it’s driven ever towards great good and kindness.

Sometimes we must squint to even detect it, yet in dark times like these, it is the thing we must search for the most earnestly, and count on for deliverance.

This is an active process.

Few things truly raise my ire, but the depthless greed and thoughtless destruction wrought by the heedless empowered lights a righteous fury deep in my bones.

There’s music playing somewhere, but I can’t catch the tune. My head swims under the drink, but I’m not confused. It’s certainty that drags my mood down, and the refusal to close my eyes to that which surrounds me. An unfailing belief moves my fingers now, and their clatter upon the keys pounds out a drumbeat all my own.

It’s short and simple. Its rhythm churns like a locomotive, driving itself on by necessity. It says that we must return to decency. It proclaims that glib cynicism and ironic detachment are the tools of cowards, and that making a joke of the night is the surest way to get lost in the dark. Above all, it wails that even under the guise of freedom—callousness and selfish greed must not be the fundamental underpinnings of our society.

If you don’t hold to that, know that you have an enemy in Brad OH Inc.

I take another drink, and the comforting warmth brings a smile to my tired face.

-Brad OH Inc.