If You are Easily Offended or Cannot Think Abstractly, Do Not Read This.

Statutory Rape. I've had numerous conversations about this topic in my life. Mainly because guys are so afraid of unwittingly committing it. I'll preface this post by saying I hold rape as one of the worst crimes that can possibly be committed. Statutory rape is different, strictly because it can happen with no intent. And that is what I find so interesting and where the irony comes in.

There is a lot of irony contained within the sphere of statutory rape law. Statutory rape law is an interesting topic, to say the least. I'm sure a lawyer or law student could inform me of my ignorance, but, statutory rape law is the only law I know of where you do not have to be cognizant of the act you are committing to be guilty nor have the intent to commit a criminal act. If unwitting statutory rape isn't at the top of the list of "guy's worst nightmares" it has to be in the top 3.

I'm definitively not saying that there are no guys out there guilty of knowingly committing acts of pedophilia. In those cases, jail isn't even far enough as a punishment. The rub is that philosophically, biologically, socially, culturally, legally, and humanly aspects of the situation are not completely in tune with each other on the subject.

Consider this scenario inspired by a friend of mine (in conversation, not act):

A bar (in California, where the age of consent is 18) allows a 17 year old girl under the age of 21 into its establishment because she has a fake id.
The 17 year old girl is knowingly entering an establishment against the law.
A guy who is a legal patron of the bar is attracted to her and assumes that she is over the age of 21 because she is in a bar, and sleeps with her.

In this scenario, who is the most likely to go to jail?

There are a lot of ironic points here, but there is one that I find really interesting. The severity of punishment is inversely related to the burden of knowledge of each party.

The girl is the only one committing an illegal act with full knowledge of the fact (regardless of whether there should be a drinking age of 21 in the first place). Yet she would see the lightest punishment if "caught" and be thrown out of the bar and, perhaps in the worst case, stripped of her fake id.

The bar is supposed to have a legal duty as a business to be looking out for illegal entry to their bar. They have legally accepted this responsibility by choosing to create a business in which this stipulation must be followed. If they fail to uphold this social contract, they are fined. In the worst case scenario, they may be shut down after an excessive amount of failures.

The guy, in this particular hypothetical, is guilty of the horrible crime of being attracted to and acting on an attraction to a girl that is sexually mature at the age of 17, in a place of business who have accepted the social responsibility of keeping people under the age of 21 out of their establishment. He has every reason to believe that she is over 21 and is given no reason to doubt it. This man goes to jail and registers as a sex offender for the rest of his life if caught once. That is ironic.

In conversations about the topic, some have said that the guy should ask the girl's age. Here is where some more irony is injected into the situation. Would she really be honest with him if he does? And the best part is that even IF he asks AND she says 23, he'd still be guilty in the eyes of the law. The real ironic point is that he's supposed to ask her how old she is but asking a woman her age is one of the most taboo questions in our society.

Ironic.

A New Old Calling

I have been and continue to be lost. My life is decently aimless. I have penchants and inklings, but no hard and fast direction. I have been wandering for years, mainly since I graduated from college. I was called out on this once as if it were a bad thing. It was the first time I considered that it might be a bad thing. It has its drawbacks, but in general, I don't see any problem with it. Given the alternative, I'd rather be wandering and finding myself. At 26, if I knew exactly who I was and where I was going, what would be the point of going on?

Instead, I have no idea where I'm going and, in the words of Seinfeld's J. Peterman, that's the best way to get somewhere you've never been. I'll consider myself lucky if I can still wander and be lost if I make it to 40 and beyond.

The impetus for this musing, though, is actually that I have a direction for the first time in my life. It happened last week, when driving home from the coffee house where I was writing. The fibers of my novel's plot had just started weaving themselves together in a beautiful way that I could have never imagined when I started it. It gradually hit me all of a sudden and it almost brought a tear to my eye. If it is at all possible within the realm of reason, I will be a writer; a novelist. I have actually felt for the first time ever the pull of a professional calling. I will pursue it to the ends of the Earth, but in every other aspect, I will remain blissfully lost for as long as possible.

Warmth of Sunshine

I wish I had a dog. I like cats too, but just not as much as dogs. I've experienced both, and for my money, it's an awesome feeling when you are sitting on a couch editing your novel and a 2 month old puppy walks over and snuggles in next to you and falls asleep. It's just comforting, not to mention she makes the scene.

I wish I had a picture of it, but the best I can do is a word picture.

I am sitting in a coffee shop with my mug of coffee steaming on the table to my right, a slight drizzle is falling outside and the 25 pages I am currently editing is lying in my lap. The pen is behind my ear as I am slightly bent over the partial manuscript while a light brown puppy the size of a shoebox with light blue eyes the color of the Autumn sky lies curled up flush with my left hip. My left hand scratching behind his ear as my right turns the pages and brings the coffee cup to my lips every once in a while.

These are the exact times that I wish I had a dog of my own. No wonder the puppy's name is Sunshine.

Common Language of Travel

If you have never traveled anywhere, it is hard to speak with someone who has. I've spent practically every evening this week at a local coffee shop called the Drama Cup(previously known as the Muddy Cup). I go there to write and it is the perfect environment in which to do so. I've talked to the owner sparingly until last night when we sat down and talked for a few hours.

What was the impetus for this conversation? He had just bought a new 2-month old puppy.
What kept the conversation going though? He had lived in foreign countries and I've just gotten back from doing the same thing.

The very interesting thing is that our experiences in those foreign countries could not have been more different. My budget was limited and I lived very well while I was there, but definitively more "local". His experience was spending a ridiculous amount of money (think six figures) in the span of three months in Thailand. In any other context, this would most likely kill sociability. But we were talking about traveling. So it didn't even make a difference. We shared stories and coincidentally talked about how hard it is to relate the experience to someone who has not traveled.

It has nothing to do with elitism, if it sounds that way. It's just common ground. Traveling has a way of putting things in a certain perspective that you can't really relate to if you haven't. I can say this having been in both positions in my life. I feel privileged though to now be on the side of those who have traveled simply because I like the fact that I have. The only question I have to put to rest now is when I can make my next trip outside the U.S. border.

Writer's Block

Irony Incarnate. I am writing about writer's block. I've had it when it comes to blogging for about a week now. I just don't have any idea what to write about. I've still been writing, but the well has been drying up in more than one avenue. I still write and think about my novel. I still outline and plan. But I haven't had anything to write about in my blog. And I haven't been able to write a new poem in about a month. The well is drying for the moment. The simple answer is that I'd rather be out drinking a beer than typing into a computer at the moment, I guess. Though that is, as it sounds, too simple. That has never stopped me from writing before.

I write from experience. Something happens to me, and it inspires me to think about something. I have been simply experiencing though. Lately, I have just been living. Outside my head, as it were. I look back over this week of writer's block and think I must have not experienced anything worth writing about. This has been wholly untrue. It was a week that was rife with interesting experiences that should have born a plethora of ideas and thoughts. Instead, I unconsciously chose to forget the the thoughts and memoirs in lieu of just enjoying the moments as they occurred and moving on to the next without romancing the prior.

Hopefully the dam bursts soon. I'd like to incorporate both into my life. Yet sacrificing writing is not an option. However, sacrificing living in the present is not an option either. A battle that clearly needs a peace summit and a treaty to match Versailles.

Past Shackles

We are all slaves to our past. It grounds us and it binds us. Everything we are is a confluence of past occurrences that bubble over into our present circumstances and either builds upon or erodes our past experiences.

If it builds upon our past experiences, it just entrenches us further into who we have become as a result of our past. If it erodes them, it puts a dent in the self that has formed from our past, but also replaces it with more past experiences that shape us in their own way.

How does one split from the past? It is a romantic notion to give up everything:

To go live in a monastery on the top of a mountain in Nepal.
To go live with a tribe in a mud hut in the Savannah.
To permanently move to an entirely new place with new people that is completely and utterly foreign to you.
Or even to move to a place that is familiar to you but the people are not.

The fact remains that most people's past experiences have completely forbidden them from taking this kind of leap. (Incidentally, the very thing that makes the notion quintessentially romantic) They have been programmed to like stability and grounding simply by virtue of the fact that they grew up with it.

Eyes are the Window to the Imagination

Clarity is the enemy of imagination.

I have decently poor eyesight. I correct this when I need to by wearing glasses. "Need to" meaning when I'm driving or playing darts. In general, however, I try not to wear them. The reason behind this is simple; it gives my brain something to do. When I can't see very clearly, my brain tries to fill in the missing pieces. This usually leads to something interesting, because my brain usually fills the square hole with a round peg.

It's perfect when I think I see someone I recognize and go up and talk to them. Usually it turns out to be someone whom I've never met and not even close to looking like who I thought it was. But it just led to me meeting someone I've never met before.

It works with signs too. I try and read them from a distance and, more often than not, I think it says something completely outlandish and ridiculous, only to find out that it is mundane and trite as I get close enough to see what it actually says.

Sometimes I like the world of half reality and half imagination that I live in when I can't see everything so clearly. I wish that I could flip back and forth between clarity and fuzzy with my other senses as well.