Holy Moses! It's been nearly a year since I've posted on this blog. I'm so terrible.

So, of course, I'm going to post random pictures.

 I grew a beard

 I was a pirate

And I want to wear that hat all the time now

 The only reason to work in a kitchen is to eat

 But I had to carve a pumpkin

 My favorite author passed away and he'll never know what this tattoo means to me

 And this guy 

And this guy passed on as well.

 These guys won the Super Bowl

I used to be kind of handsome

And I either got threatened or propositioned by some guy at a burger joint.

All Songs are About Love

How can I look upon
The red morning
Or violet evening
And not remember
Rhythms too old, too familiar

Needful clouds come again
In hideous force
Leaving an immortal scar
A moment of understanding
Of love and worlds' colliding

I've been broken so many times
Woken by
Distant thunder at midnight
Reminds me
All songs are about love

There have ever been
Two paths, side to side,
Shielded one from the other
Never meeting
I walk through one unaware

The encroaching inferno
Bleeding flame
Into the darkness
Leaves me lacking
The comfort of melancholy grace

I've been broken so many times
Woken by
Distant thunder at midnight
Reminds me
All songs are about love

A wind-blown calm belies my
Strength of breath
Days begin as they end
Given to grey depths
My mystic realities, prosaic fantasies

Unstilled with care and caution
The caressing sea is
Testimony of the passage of time
I exist still, one and separate,
Despite the sacrament of dreams

I've been broken so many times
Woken by
Distant thunder at midnight
Reminds me
All songs are about love

I have endured long nights
Shivering in the moon's passing
The cold wind comforts
Whispering a silent denial
Of mere presence and revival

We tried our best to restore
The innocence long lost
And learned only
Love could not save us
From the world or from us

I've been broken so many times
Woken by
Distant thunder at midnight
Reminds me
All songs are about love

Jon McQuillan 3/18/2015

There is no excusing abuse

Dear Ms. Watson,

I have been a fan for years, now. In fact, it’s been nearly six years since I first found The Skeptic’s Guide to the Universe. I was going through what could euphemistically have been called, “a difficult time.” I had considered myself a Skeptic ever since reading “The Demon Haunted World” sometime about 1997, but hadn’t really gotten into the community much more than purchasing the occasional “Skeptic” or “Skeptical Inquirer” magazine until this difficult time. I would say that in part being able to at the very least consider myself a member of this greater community helped me to cope, and because of that I became emotionally attached to prominent members such as yourself and the other rogues.

I have dealt with depression through most of my life, and about that time had come to the lowest point I had yet experienced and attempted suicide. While recovering, I realized that letting my brain idle often contributes to ruminating on the negative thoughts, which does not help in getting better. So I decided to try listening to this newfangled thing called podcast, and I was hooked. I binged on the SGU as well as others until I was caught up, and now I find myself eagerly anticipating Saturdays.

I remember watching the video you made talking about being propositioned in an elevator and chuckled to myself about how clueless guys can be. I remember being floored by the trolling you got after that. I still can’t believe how horribly Richard Dawkins behaved toward you. I guess that in many ways I had just gone along with the so called post-sexism meme and assumed that skeptics were better at being inclusive in this respect.

A lot of self-identified skeptics are also self-identified as nerds/geeks. The latter identity has experienced a great deal of bullying and harassment. At the very least, one might expect that people with such a background would be empathetic toward other groups that have been treated badly, but I have known that quite the opposite can be true. It is a bitter twist of irony that people who themselves have been othered will resort similar behavior toward other groups. I am deeply sorry to admit that I’ve done so in my past. Rather than minimize what I have done I choose to hold myself to a higher standard. I cannot atone for what I may have done, but I can do whatever it takes to make the world better.

It is all too easy for people to jump in and make a situation all about them, and I know that I must not check myself. While I can’t equate my experiences with any woman who has been assaulted, threatened, or harassed, I do know what it’s like to be attacked. I have dreaded the taunts, the shame of feeling powerless. Knowing that anyone experiences so much worse cuts deeply into my psyche to the point that I might despair. Knowing that anything I could do about it is such a pathetic drop in the ocean is nearly overwhelming.

But I do know from my own experiences is that the pain and suffering would have been eased, if only minutely, if only someone had simply spoken a quiet word of support. It needn’t have been public, much less in full view of my tormentors. A simple token of solidarity would have been amazing. Yet it is the fear of being put under the scrutiny of a bully that stays us from action. Self-preservation seems to be too strong an instinct when compared to a general sense of fairness and justice. I have stood by myself, have even contributed to such abuse.

I can no longer accept that in myself or others. I will not remain in the shadows while people like you are treated to horribly. The very least I can do is express my support for you and people like you. And so to you and everyone going through this, and to those who make a stand against deplorable behavior, and to those who suffer quietly, hoping just to get through another day, I say:

You make this world better. You deserve better. You did nothing wrong. You are not the one who is broken. You are not alone.

Rubber Pencils

The ward had tall windows with a view out on the city. It was very bright in the daytime and I think there was construction nearby. I think I remember flags waving off the cranes. The flat, urban skyline was monotonous, but actually kind of beautiful at night with the bright pinpoints of light scattering the landscape as if the sky had inverted. There were exercise machines next to the windows, but each had handwritten notes taped on indicating they were out of order. Once in a while someone would sit on the bicycle machine and pedal for a minute or two, myself included. Large tables, one I think a disused ping pong, had been placed nearby and each had jigsaw puzzles in various states from barely begun, to nearly finished upon them. One end of the large room had a flat screen television set and the other had an older television mounted in a large entertainment center that had movies on the shelves. Someone might put one on and watch for a while, but not for long usually. You find yourself becoming quite restless very quickly when you’re waiting until you get your brain zapped.

I was in a psychiatric ward for ECT, or Electroconvulsive Therapy, as nearly every other patient there. In such a place, you’re either waiting or recovering. Sure, they had varied group sessions scheduled, yet no more than a few hours a day and not much on therapy days. At least I think so: I can’t be sure because one of the side effects of ECT is memory loss attributed to both the anesthesia and the shocks themselves.

Some things I remember from repetition, and others for uniqueness. What I remember most: dreary boredom, and terror. And the rubber pencils.

You see, nothing that could obviously be used to hurt yourself or others can be allowed in such a place. This means no shoestrings, no drawstrings, no pointy things like pens or pencils. Except for the special pencils they handed out that were all bendy. They didn't write very dark and if you pressed just barely hard enough the “lead” would break off.

I actually had two stays in this ward, but I couldn't tell you if each was for a week, two weeks, nor if there was just a week between, or a month, or more. When my mind wanders back to this time, what I mostly remember is a kind of loathing. It was a dread feeling that pervaded everything from that time. The ECT sessions were terrifying in themselves; however, all my recollections from then contain an underlying existential horror.

The night before a session the staff would distribute two hospital gowns to each of us, one to be put on with the gap in the back, and the other with the gap in the front. They would make certain to wake us by eight (maybe earlier, I can’t recall) and one of the nurses would come and escort me for prep. Doctors and nurses would be huddled around the bed waiting for me. Once I had put myself in place, they would start into this choreographed flurry of actions that made me feel very self-conscious: EKG leads glued all over my body, an IV line stabbed into my hand or arm, a blood pressure cuff fully inflated, electrodes attached to my head, and doctors asking a boilerplate battery of questions to test my cognitive state. This whole while I would be calm and compliant outwardly, but absolutely terrified within.

The chief nurse would then get everything started by turning to me. He was a little older than me, with mostly white hair. He had an earnest, caring face, but I absolutely dreaded what he would say.

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Jon McQuillan”

“Can you tell me your date of birth?”

“December eight, 1967”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have the patient Jon McQuillan, date of birth December eight, 1967, do we all agree?”

A chorus of, “We agree.”

“The procedure is ECT, do we all agree?”

Again, “We agree.”

The cuff would then deflate and then the searing acid would stab up my arm. The pain would shock me each time, even though I knew it was coming. The anesthesiologist would patiently remind me to breathe deeply and relax, yet all I could feel was terror and the pain, and then. . .

It was as if they were gently placing pillows all over me until nothing. It felt like I had faded into non-existence. Perhaps it was just my brain trying to fill in for that sense of lost time, but I can recall feeling as if I had ceased to be.

The first time I came to in recovery, the chief nurse and another nurse were asking me things. I knew I was supposed to answer, and I knew that I knew the answer. I couldn't remember what language was, though, and squinted and blinked and tried to focus.

“Jon, can you tell me your name? Jon, how old are you?”

Jon, that’s me. Forty-four, I’m forty-four.

“Jon McQuillan, I’m forty-four.”

Because of the anesthesia, we couldn't eat after midnight until we had completed the session. Our breakfast would still be delivered, and if you were later in the rotation, you would finish just in time for lunch to be served. There you would be, your head feeling as if someone were squeezing it like a lemon, with two trays of food in front of you. And you would eat both of them, because your brain couldn't comprehend anything except for at that moment you had food in front of you and you were supposed to eat.

Eventually I would finish, then fill out the menu sheet for the next day with a rubber pencil, and stare out the big windows. Or I would move some of the puzzle pieces around. Or I would watch what was on one of the televisions. Or I would wander back to my room. Or I would pace in front of the big windows. And wait.

though all's fair in vanessy

I have very slowly been emerging from my latest depression. Medication and therapy have helped get me to a point I can feel more or less human, get myself up and about a bit, and interact with the universe on a level greater than that of a hermit. And though I’m not feeling bad, I haven’t felt all that confident about myself and what direction to take. Just getting to this point has been tremendous progress; however, I’ve felt stalled, plateaued, unsure.

This is an all too common theme throughout my life. I manage to reach an unseen barrier I can’t bring myself to cross. I have talked about this with my therapist, as well as with my psychiatrist. It was with my doctor I got a subtle, though deeply felt shock to the system: a positive, hopefully helpful shock. I sat there talking about how helpful the medicines have been, how much more I have been doing, and how I always reach this point. My mood and outlook may improve and I may outwardly seem as though I’m healthy, well-adjusted, and confident, yet I have not figured out how to even begin the process of figuring out how to give direction to my life. Essentially, in many ways, I am eternally stuck in the moment.

He asked THAT QUESTION, the one that comes up in myriad situations; from job interviews, to social introductions, and to on-line personality quizzes. “What are you passionate about?” The dread began pouring into the pit of my stomach. I stammered, I hemmed, I hawed, and I blathered on while my mind raced through countless memories when I’ve been asked iterations of this question. I remembered how I hated this question because I hated giving the answers that people expected. The standard responses came to me just like data scrolling down the screens of computers in cheesy old shows.

“I’m passionate about work,” bleep-bloop-blip, (what am I supposed to say?) “I’m all about family,” schritch-schritch-zip, (what’s the right answer?) “Working for a better world,” brrrrpp-chchch-fwoop, (GODDAMNIT) . . .

Fuck it, “Well, really there’s not all that much important I’m passionate about.” Might as well admit how truly lame I really am, “But there are two things I’ve absolutely loved all my life.” I felt the burning adrenaline radiating from the middle of my chest, took a breath, “The Denver Broncos and science fiction.”

My gaze had defocussed and wandered down to the table between us. I took another breath and looked up to meet the mostly suppressed grin and knowing eyes that spoke of just how much work he had to do with this guy. Except, his face had no reaction. He just looked at me as if I had told him yellow was a color. If anything, his expression seemed to say, “Tell me more about that.”

“I was born in Denver and have watched them my whole life. And I’ve never known a time when Star Trek, science fiction, and later fantasy haven’t been my favorite things.”

That was the beginning of a subtle shift in how I thought about myself and my life. For years now I have wholly admitted to being a nerd and a geek, and embraced the things I’ve loved that fell into those categories. But I’ve always held something in reserve, something resembling the “sensible adult” we are expected to become.

“Do you know about the Appalachian Trail?” he asked me as he shifted in his chair.

“Yeah,” I said, “I assume you don’t mean the euphemism the just re-elected South Carolina governor coined.”

He chuckled, “Right! My wife and I were on vacation and we were on the Trail when we met up with this couple. We got to talking and they live for hiking. They get jobs and save up enough money for their next destination and go. That’s what they do, they make enough just so they can do what they love.”

His eyes zoomed in on mine, “You like conventions? Have you ever been to one?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, and I could feel my smile, “I’ve been to several. It’s weird, even though normally I’d totally freak out in crowds, I love being there. All the things I love and all the people that share that feeling make it enjoyable.”

“Then why not make that the thing you do?” I couldn’t believe the earnestness on his face.

“Have you ever written?” he went on before I could answer.

“I have, and it’s one of the things I’ve always wanted to do, as in for my life, not just journaling or for a hobby.” I found myself telling him.

“Then here’s my challenge to you: write a thousand words a day. Whatever comes to mind. It’s tough, and it’s tough to write well. You’ll fail. But you know what? Everyone fails. All the time. It’s OK to fail.”

So, that was nearly a month ago. I went right home. Opened the Star Wars Moleskin© a friend had given me a year ago. Numbered all the pages just as he instructed me. Then wrote this:

So, a thousand words. How hard can that be? For as long as I can remember, I have been a nerd. I cannot remember a time that Star Trek has not been a part of my life. I sat, enrapt, in front of the TV imagining myself soaring from star to star discovering what has never been seen, fighting off the most dangerous threats, and just being the coolest of the cool. It almost seems like Star Trek was my whole life, and that’s not a huge exaggeration. But that’s not my only claim to nerd-dom. I read everything I could get my hands on, often far above my age level.

Which is where I stopped. Not just for the day, but for weeks. I failed. I didn’t write well, I barely got a tenth of the way to my daily goal, and most certainly didn’t write every day. But I will get there, and more. Because I have a lifetime of things to say that I’ve suppressed: things about Star Trek, Star Wars, The Lord of the Rings, the Broncos (sports ARE geeky), movies, books, life, the universe, everything.

I am Nerd McGeek

I, Nerd

I have always been this way. Introvert was the polite term, nerd and geek were the less polite words used as I got older. There were worse, but in all honesty even innocuous words became hurtful because of the way they were used. It boiled down to emphasizing and strengthening my outsider status.

I embrace both nerd and geek now. To me they are not hurtful anymore because each word implies things that I love and want to be known for. I know that there has been a debate over which one is more appropriate or derogatory. And I’m aware of the distinctions that have arisen from the back and forth. However, there is so much overlap between the two, there’s no use in worrying about what I call myself.

Part of being a nerd is having something, or indeed many things, to geek out over. Being a geek means being obsessively nerdy about something, or many things. Being socially awkward is implicit in both terms. To get pedantic regarding these two words is to make a distinction without a difference.

I am a nerd.

I am a geek.

I am Nerd, Nerd McGeek.