Isaac S. and I were talking role playing and the biological basis of behavior for Mind Flayer society again this past Shabbat when our conversation meandered into the ever fertile field of movement ideology and identity politics in American Modern Orthodox Judaism. (In hindsight it seems appropriate we were taking a stroll through Spring Grove Cemetery at the time.) In responding to my observation that the faith of our forebearers had less to do with the work of Rabbi Joseph B. Soleveitchik and more to do with the return to roots movement popular in their generation, Isaac opined that the educational objective in modern orthodox schools was fluency in Jewish intellectual and religious practice rather than any ideological indoctrination. The latter is saved for the magical year in yeshiva in Israel after high school and before your first year in college.

This rang true for me on a personal level. A digression. I know close relatives who tacked towards Orthodoxy because for them it represented a more authentic experience of a Jewish identity they had not known or assimilated when they were younger. I can understand how for initiates, playing by the traditional conventions and standards makes more sense than playing some other variant of the game adapted by heterodox reformers or revolutionaries. This is what an “authentic experience” is after all. First, you learn to play by the regular rules. After a few years of getting used to the imaginary world and its rules, you can maybe make up your own rational mind whether the game play is lacking or needs some tweaking. Some other cats take this role playing so seriously that rather than stop playing they actually do try and adapt the game. This of course raises the ire of the old gamers and creates real tension between practitioners adapted to one of the now forked rulesets. So long as no one gets hurt, there should be nothing wrong with these typical frustrations. So long as no one gets hurt, there should be nothing to worry about with this sort of role playing.

There’s more to say about religion as role playing game. About preoccupations with identity versus more relevant concerns. About the search for meaning and the role of myth and fraternity in ferrying a mediocre simulacra thereof. More to say than I can or want to in one post, so that is all for now. The same can also be said alas for Mind Flayers.

Tags: Mind Flayers,Religion
Categories: Gaming, Yiddishkeit and ‽
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A close friend of mine has a popular name. She struggles to identify herself, to take strength in her unique being, and she is defied by her name: she is one of millions with this name. The galactic central planning committee gathers to converse and meditate on this problem for a thousand years. One venerable and whiskered planner ends the silence offering, “On our planet, Omicron Theta, we solved this dilemma by giving every new cloned O’Thetan a unique identifier. The monosyllabic names went first (Lars, Barb, Flin, etc.), then the duo syllabic names (Lucile, Laura, Robert, etc.), and on and on. By our eighteenth generation, the impediment of referring to each other by our octosyllabic names revealed the inefficiency of our schema, especially when making references in our academic journals and other publications. O’Thetans simply shortened their names to one or two syllables when making polite conversation over tea. Non-conformists subverted the naming system altogether by choosing abstract sygils in lieu of pronounceable names. This was over five thousand years ago. While we have kept these longish names for standards compliance purposes, today we all generally go by the name of Bob and rely on our advanced olfactory glands to distinguish each others unique nature…” As Bob seemed to be finished, galactic central planner 2304598723049234523097102532341- 57890123502389513453245789710345-1239481723- 58971234895713 began what in fact was an interruption. But before 2304598723049234523097102532341- 57890123502389513453245789710345-1239481723- 58971234895713 could finish introducing himself, attention had drifted back to Bob who was further describing the contemporary O’Thetan naming system. “As it happens, in every generation there are O’Thetans born without developed sensory glands, and navigating our society for them, is understandably nightmarish. These O’Thetans cannot even discern there own unique nature — in effect, they are nameless to themselves (although we could discern their identity quite readily). For their name, they rely more heavily on the old system, and they shorten their octosyllabic name to a monosyllabic one such as Biff or Sam, without being stigmatized as being overly pretentious or affected. Such names helps them in identifying themselves as unique beings, even as they remain nearly blind in identifying the rest of society as the rest do. Ironically, in adapting to their olfactory deficiencies, their light sensory lobes often become more sensitive and are capable of discerning our body shapes, musculature and skeletal structure and these handicapped O’Thetans have taken upon themselves the curious habit of mapping these external physical characteristics to certain subtle personality deviancies otherwise hidden to ordinary O’Thetans. Only at our academic conferences are these handicapped O’Thetans capable of putting a name to a face, as it were.” At that, the galactic central planning committee politely applauded Bob O’Thetan for his contribution, ascended from their lotus pond, and drifted to the buffet for corn dogs and spinachopita.

Categories: Aharonium and ‽
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One of the drawbacks of a curious and imaginative mind is that you’re constantly thinking that the places you visit and the people you meet will defy your expectations. I have been living in DC for three weeks now, just enough time to have made the acquaintance of some of the people I share my workday with, even enough time to meet some strangers, study the eccentricities of my landlord, and contemplate the cracks and bumps of the sidewalk on my way to work. When I’m confronted by some person acting in an ordinary way, as for instance, when I was told by an office manager that I must use Internet Explorer and forbidden to use Mozilla Firefox, my reaction was one of shock, shock at their playing so perfectly the part of some imaginary character approximating the performance of an office manager rather than being the chaotic and unpredictable human that they truly are. Why should I be stunned? That ordinary people advancing to positions of power would prefer caution to freedom, corporatism to expression, and obedience to zeal should not surprise me like it does. And once again I am made aware of a dangerous and perhaps childish naivite, to expect people to behave freely and respect freedom. I pray that I never meet their expectations.

Categories: Aharonium and ‽
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Interrobang‽ is in Cincinnati where Aharon has volunteered to give a presentation of his masters thesis research to the good people who show up at the Bond Hill Branch Library. “What will I tell them‽” asks Aharon while he procrastinates by interrobanging his head against the wall of his old bedroom. So much anxiety. But take comfort, he is also feasting in the plenty of his parent’s largess. Tonight: lasagna — a welcome trade from the dinners of mushroom soup and spinach he’s accumstomed himself to in our nation’s capitol. “I have done the right thing by coming here. This is a challenge!” says Aharon to no one in particular, except quite a few people will be particular tomorrow when they see Aharon beginning his presentation in the nude. “What’s wrong with that? I am comfortable with my body,” says Aharon and interrobang listens and records these ruminations. Ivan and Katziel sit nearby self-possessed, comfortably nude and furry, ignoring his bald lie.

Categories: Aharonium and ‽
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Once upon a time there was a fly, big and hairy as some flies are. He was born in a city nearby a large river in Mesopotamia. There the young fly ate the flesh of a corpse until he was no longer a squirming maggot and had to find a bride to birth a new generation of squirming maggots. Listening to the wind for guidance, he unraveled his still tender wings and buzzed off. The fly navigated a warm breeze above the scrub of the desert sniffing for a good carcass to hang out about and find a mate. After a while he came to the carcass of a rotting gazelle which had expired, parched and alone. He looked around but everywhere he turned were gangs of smaller naked flies, the females of which were not interested in him. He smelled wrong, buzzed wrong and was simply too big for them. Being a fly this didn’t bother the fly so much as it prevented him from finding peace. So exasperated, the fly took off and feeling weak, let himself be blown even further away by the dry hot wind until he smelled from afar the bloating body of a goat which had fallen over a rocky ledge. There he found much larger hairy flies engaged in fierce battle with a colony of bats for their prize. No one took an interest in him at all as he was too small to be of consequence to them. The fly was really too weak to be of interest to anyone now, even a female of his own unique species of fly, so he let his body relax and be driven into the desert to become a feast for some other small creature. Over and over he rolled until his wings were quite dusty and his exoskeleton merely a shell of a once vital fly. The desert night came, and the fly, nearly expired, was too quiet to be noticed by the lizards and the mice which scurried past. And there was peace. All of a sudden, the fly woke up in a dark wet place, so wet that he was weighed down with water. But he was alive and that was something. And he wasn’t alone either. There in the deep well he had been blown into were quite a number of other things which had in their own way fallen. Most were quiet like the fly, or dead like the scorpion next to him, but one creature the fly could not make out in the dark was raising quite a ruckus, and this was what had awakened him. “Help me” cried the thing in vain, fluttering its useless wings weighed down with water and buzzing in futility. The fly could not help the thing escape, he could not even help himself, but he had enough strength to speak, so he spoke to perhaps give some measure of peace to this other thing. “I am a fly and how I came here I have no idea.” The thing stopped buzzing to listen realizing it wasn’t alone. The fly continued, “I had set out to be with someone and the only companions I found were discord and loneliness. Now I am here with you, a thing which speaks and which I can understand. I would help you escape if I had the strength, but all I have is my voice.” The thing was quiet for a long time and then spoke, “I came from a place above only to find the echo of my desolation. And now in my final madness I have become that echo which I despise. I hear myself speak although I have no words to give, no sanctuary or friendship. I am only for myself, a conflict of motion and being, forever. I am lost and without peace.” The buzzing stopped and when the end came, there was peace nevertheless. The thing drifted under the water and floated beneath the fly raising him up. At noon, the desert sun shone into the well and with its heat freed the wings of the fly from the weight of the water. The fly stayed with the body of the thing for a few more days before leaving. On exiting the mouth of the well, he was swatted by a goat herder and crushed beneath the foot of a camel.

Categories: Aharonium, Mythology and ‽
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