My Asylum

I hope this blog serves as my abacus, whiteboard, workbench, workshop and workstation to unravel wonderful works of art that speak so much to me, in literature and lyric, sight and sound, cinematography to cave etchings.  Since my first class in college, I have wanted to cut loose and learn “what I want to learn.”  My first introduction to this learning was a class in college that was actually my very first class in college, as it was a Monday-Wednesday-Friday class that began at 7:00 a.m. – Western Civ.  The professor was an adjunct professor that also served as a chaplain to the nearby Mountain Home Airforce Base.  His professorship and the material that in high school I dreamt of one day feasting upon, awakened something in me that never left.  After day one, I thought: “Man!  If this is college-life, then this is going to be amazing”; but the other classes awaiting me dimmed that brief hope.  My first remains my favorite.  And my first research and writing project began with the Father of Western Civilization himself, Socrates (or as Bill and Ted called him, with my little spin: Oh, So Great Sewcrates.  I don’t know how Bill and Ted spelled Socrates because I only saw the movie and didn’t read the final research paper they turned in). 

I am persuaded by Socrates whose observations still fascinate me, as well as his superpower of asking the “right question.”  Socrates roamed Athens trying to disprove the Oracle that said he was the “wisest.”  “No way!  How could I, a poor soldier-turn-mason-turn-…nothing be the ‘wisest’?”  His questions annoyed their targets, like a child who keeps pressing his father with “Why is the sky blue?”, and all the honing questions that follow.  A good and wise father, I think, might silence his frustrations and just smile, shrug and say, “I’m just a kid too.  I don’t know much more than you,” and wiser father might follow that with, "Let's go figure it out together."  Socrates asked far too many penetrating questions to discover the truth of a matter that he framed to the master builder, the “sophist” (and I have a lot to say about them), the public servant (and that’s what eventually stung the Gadfly), and…the poet!  But with the “poet,” which I see very broadly as the “artist” of any form or medium – with the poet, Socrates discovered something unique.  Socrates loved the lyrics of the poet.  He observed they were indeed inspired, because their works were self-evident, proving the genius; but even the poet was at a loss of the true depth in meaning of his own art.  The true Master Poet used the poet as His quill, while the poet held his own, thinking it was his will.  This is so common with these geniuses of today.  Many, oh so many, artists humbly declare that when their respective masterpieces were formed, both in mind and manifested in actuality, something came entered in and "took over."  This takes nothing away from the true artist and poet in my mind, not one bit, but only causes me to admire them even more.  God gave us these artistic geniuses almost as prophets or “seers” to see what the rest of us struggle to see.  What would we do – where would we be without both Tolkien and Jackson?  It’s not just for entertainment purposes, but as “cover stories” of our real and really, horrifically-beautiful lives.  Consider the brilliant playwright, William Congreve, who picked up Shakespeare's tragic quill like a baton two-generations down the Troubadour Trail. Writing at the peak of the Restoration, he forged the magnificent play, The Mourning Bride.   In his dedication preceding his prologue, which I believe he probably delivered himself on stage in the presence of “Her Royal Highness,” Princess Anne of Denmark, the dedicatee herself, he reveals his true artistic mind, aligned with the Divine.  In it, he flawlessly explains the convergence of entertainment with our morality in mortality. 

                “From hence it is that this Poem, constituted on a Moral, whose End is to recommend and to encourage Vertue, of consequence has recourse to Your Royal Highness's Patronage; aspiring to cast it self beneath Your Feet, and declining Approbation, till You shall condescend to own it, and vouchsafe to shine upon it as on a Creature of Your Influence. 'Tis from the Example of Princes that Vertue becomes a Fashion in the People, for even they who are averse to Instruction, will yet be fond of Imitation…Thus Poets are instructed, and instruct; not alone by Precepts which persuade, but also by Examples which illustrate. Thus is Delight interwoven with Instruction; when not only Vertue is prescrib'd, but also represented.”

God has written our stories in a code that goes far deeper than any program we can conceive today.  I know it.  I have witnessed my pain and experiences in the lives and living of ants and kings, and too many times in the lives and stories of the characters that the poets “cast beneath (our) feet.”  And due to the universal truth  that since the beginning of time every single one of us has queried Destiny, “Who am I?”, this is my quest: to come to know God and my Fellowman, and maybe, just maybe I might someday know who I am.  The man in the mirror has gotten me nowhere.  

No one need think this blog is to critique others’ works from a traditional sense.  No one should come here for a book or movie review.  The critic is first a “sieve” that sifts.  I am not sifting through words and works for any other purpose other than to learn, ultimately who we all are.   I stay the consummate admiring critic in any form, be it Tolkien’s words or Jackson’s cinematography.  I will never be one that slams the movie over the book.  Both artistic expressions are seen through unique eyes and unique hearts, and all deserve respect. 

Explanation of Name, Critango:  

                As I was finally and seriously contemplating this project to create this outlet for myself and for whomever else may want to jump in and jive (because I’m going crazy with all of this in me – I gotta get it out; my journals alone in stacks seem to have turned into Scorpions as I lay on my back), I played around with the idea of “A Critical Angle,” meaning my view, to me, is “critical,” to me, and it’s uniquely from my “angle” and vantage point.  I specifically wanted the article, “A,” in the title, because everyone has each their own critical angle that must be respected.  These are just my takes.  However, I didn’t fully appreciate the sound of, “A Critical Angle,” but the child within heard “tangle.”  That stirred something different in me.  What about a "Critangle," because my thoughts are all “tangled” up in my mind, and I need this avenue and outlet to untangle them?  I liked that better, but then it got best. 

                I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Damn!  That name is as tiring to type as it is to say.  I’m so sorry.  If I had any say, I’d do something about that).  I’m a nothing and an almost-nobody in my church and the world, and without question a more peculiar Mormon than you may be accustomed to or expecting.  I am a divorced, recently-recovered addict and alcoholic, who has suffered through decades of shame and yes, suicidal depression, which I am no longer ashamed to admit.  I’m all alone having lost much of the loving affection of even my very own children.  I don’t see things the way any other Mormon I know sees things.  On more than one occasion, my opinions have landed me in some hot water in my Mormon community.  Oh, well – I don’t care, so I don't think anyone else should.  Nonetheless, I did serve a mission for my church after my illustrious high school career (or, “careers,” and there’s a funny story about that graduation, and not-so-funny ones thereafter).   I was called to serve in Andalusia, Spain.  I fell in love with everything Spain - the language, the food, the culture, the music and rhythm of that country, nation (Spain's beautiful people) in that very critical region of the world.  We all know the movie app, Fandango.  I specifically use that particular movie app, exclusively, ever since the app was released and precisely because the Fandango is the name of a famous Andalusian dance.  It’s wildly geometric.  As a young skinny missionary in Spain, I watched many beautiful Españolas dancing so majestically with their flowing dresses, and I so wanted to jump in and jive with them, but it was, like many other things for missionaries, “against the rules.”  There are no rules here.  The dance itself testifies to the critical angles that I speak of.  Imagine a dancer spin in all directions, covering the entire dance floor.  One can imagine seeing every single point of view dancing through life with such a philosophy.  And that’s when one became two.  True to the “tangle,” something else got raveled in.  I have a brother, my polar-opposite and once-sibling rival, who served his mission in Buenos Aires, Argentina (on the other side of the world) where the Tango emerged, as a direct lineal musical and rhythmic descendant from Spain’s Fandango; but the Tango has a unique flare all its own, and deserves its own respect.  The country and culture that the Tango grew out of was not the same that led to the emergence of the Fandango.  From side to side and high to low, I want to see the light of truth through every facet and angle in life that I can, and strangely both the Fandango and Tango speak that very thing to my soul.  So, I dropped the literal “le,” knowing that everyone’s ear is smart enough to catch the “tangle” theme, and added an “O”(MG!).  I tangled A Critical Angle, Tangle, my beloved Spanish Fandango and my brother’s Argentine Tango.  I shook the Magic 8 Ball, flipped the coin, cast the lot, put a coin in the slot and what do I got – Critango!  And as strange as it may be, today, the very day I am daring to write and publish my first blog post, is Sunday, July 19, 2026.  I wasn’t following the FIFA World Cup because of the current craziness in my life.  I just now looked at what’s on cable, and, “Hmm. That’s ironic.  Spain and Argentina are playing.”  But it was several minutes later when I put it all together - "Wait! It's Finals???!!! Are you kidding me?! I have to publish this today!"  And, damn!  The FIFA Finals were being played in New Jersey, the newer Jersey pointing to the original island, Jersey, where the ancestors of my boyhood Jersey cow, Toto, that I milked every morning in high school with my little sister, Alexis, originated?!  (When my parents moved their family from small-town Kansas to small-town Idaho, we lovingly named all of our farm animals after characters from The Wizard of Oz.  The cow was crowned Toto because the dog that was walking his Green Mile came from the pound and already had a name on record.  Apparently, we can all be "saviors on Mount Zion" to some creature, but please don't ask me how Pup or Toto died.  Little saviors have their limitations of salvation.  Oh, and Jersey cows are so pretty, and Toto was the Belle of the Ball.)

My life suggestion: 

                                                 Keep your head on a swivel with both God and the Devil

                                                                                   ...actually more so for God than the Devil.

How I envision this workshop:

I have always wanted a place to deconstruct to reconstruct, to analyze in order to synthesize.  Here I hope my crazy has found its asylum, my sinner its sanctuary, my abandoned its refuge and my barbarian to be let back into his own house for supper.  But I was born with a much more synthetic than analytic mind.  And in law school, I actually heard out of the mouths of two pompous law professors the absurdity that analysis, i.e., the “legal mind,” was worthy of our highest aspiration and admiration, and, get ready for this…“the highest form of cognition.”  BULLSHIT!!!  Damn the Law!  Paul was right!  The Law does indeed only condemn.  It sits high above from a single vantage point to declare guilt or innocence, with its proverbial “my way or the highway” arrogance.  And what are you left with after a "thorough analysis"?  I pile of broken up pieces!  And after all the illuminating judgmental analysis, who in hell can piece us all back together.  It won't be the Law that tore us apart in the first place.  Damn it all!  But I am grateful for having learned some skills of analysis, but that’s it, a simple acknowledgement, but for me, it's all about the synthesis! 

I’m sure my interface organization will change as I go, for different angles produce different opinions, and opinion often directs behavior.  Nevertheless, I hope to be able to have a dual-column interface where the original work of the, let’s say “poet,” is on one side for review, and my commentary on the other.  I reverence original sources, so I don’t want to touch them, just observe.  If I reverence the original work, what do you think I feel for the poets themselves?  If I worship God and reverence final works, where does the poet lie in my heart and mind? – right in the loving middle.  I love the poet (to me, the writer, philosopher, actor, painter, lyricist, musician, singer, and on and on – they are all beloved poets to me).  My mind may change, but I like the idea of using “poet” rather than the more so commonly used umbrella term, “artist.”  I don’t know why, but let’s call even the oil-on-canvas artist a “poet” for my purposes here, because all that will come from my observations will literally come out of me in words "by the letters," literally , and oftentimes tearfully.  

As an attorney, this makes me a bit nervous, and rightfully so.  I am not an IP attorney and do not know all the copyright laws, so I very much hope that I do not step on any creative toes here, but a buddy of mine knows😊.  (Justin, keep your phone on.)  If I'm able to pull this off, I will be very careful to upload truly original sources, pre-existing in the Public Domain.  

A Note on Sources: 

I hope no one is fearful that I would ever try to manipulate anyone into believing what I believe.  That is by no means the purpose of this blog.  But I refuse to be tethered or limited in any way to where I draw on my analytical and synthetical observations for my own personal life purposes.  If you are offended by references or citations to a verse from the Book of Mormon, may I offer a suggestion?  You have every right to see the Book of Mormon, or any other work that another might hold sacred, as a fictional epic, like The Lord of the Rings.  I won't be offended - I didn't write it.  I love Sci-Fi and Fantasy and have learned so much from its authors and producers (Oops, I mean “poets”).  If you'd like, see the Book of Mormon as fantasy (I’m sure you already do – ha ha). I think it’s fantastic, so we’re pretty closely-aligned already.  I have learned life lessons, and even received direct answers to prayers from the likes of characters such as, Leslie Knope on the TV comedy, Parks & Rec, and I’m not kidding.  God is going to speak to you from anywhere and by any means. 

Oh, and here’s another way I envisioned anyone interested in observing my life’s Seinfeldian observations in art, literature and poetry: I love the way Cicero decided to write his Essay on Friendship because he beautifully sets it up as a conversation between friends, so the reader is observing a conversation among friends, talking about friendship, while the reader can remain the observant fly on the wall.  (By Aristotle's permission, I also invented a word to describe this "fly on the wall" writing style as Ciceronean.  But if the concept is already captured by an existing word, I will have only muddied the waters and I must drop it, out of respect to the original OG.)  I don’t care if you criticize my analyses or syntheses, but at the very least, I want you to feel the comfort and ease of not feeling force-fed any of my opinions.  And, please, keep in mind another one of Aristotle’s pieces of advice that the wise man or woman possesses the maturity to entertain the opinions of others, yet are able to “walk away without adopting them." That truth was echoed by Jesus when he said to “agree with thine adversary while in the way,” which was Jesus’ way of saying the modern reiteration, “seek first to understand rather than be understood.”  I’m only trying to “seek first to understand” through the works of others.  I invite you to observe unmolested.  I won’t swat you away, even if you're a gadfly.  (And although I still don't know how this whole blog-thing works, I hope that the platform invites discussion, because I'd love all the help I can get.  So come down and fly around.) 

P.S. (Can I "P.S." in a blog?  I don't know.) 

"¡España ganó!" Wow!  I just finished my post when the clock's pendulum swung toward Spain, only to remain in Spain, like its rain.  Moo, Toto, moo!  Sorry, Sam (ha ha).  

P.P.S.

OMG! this is hilarious to me.  I just now tried to drop this intro into an ai chat for a quick grammar review as I sat at my workstation anticipating the upload of my very first attempt at blogging, but the ai system’s automated safety filters threw a generic error, blocking my text, flagging it as “malicious script.”  I didn't know my ex-wife worked for Google.  I asked ai what to do, and it responded it doesn’t know what to do with this…Critangle.  Well, neither do I!!! 

P.P.P.S. 

It's 4:11 am, the morning after, and I woke up with a start, wanting to end this disaster - I have become The Mourning Bride herself.  I just realized another profound synchronicity to all of these happenings in my pitiable life.  In the panic that the finish line evoked in me and my race to publish my very first blog post, I chose the platform, Webador.  Yet in my grand ignorance of how I fit in the Blogosphere, I was anxious, as always, that I made the wrong decision.  But now I see the Universe's genius.  I feel I can confidently say that whoever chose the name for this platform, Webador, was more than likely drawing on the concept of the Troubadour - That's the Bard! The Wandering Poet!  Wow!  And don't you just love Congreve's imagery that the poet figuratively lays his works "beneath (our) feet" for "(Our) approbation," when it us who sit at their feet, listening like little children, begging them to go on, waiting with baited breath for their next verse?  Now, do I dare do what I have said, and open one of the Universe's verses, as spoken from one of Its prophetic poets, and look and listen to see?  Sometimes I don't dare, quivering at their quills, to read another verse, for fear of what I might see, in me.  I understand the idiom "bated breath," and even think I know Shakespeare's original sentiment. However, for years the imagery of "baited breath" has captured my attention. It's easy to see the poet's bait on the hook at the end of his line to attract my interest, but I have always seen myself the fisherman as well, luring his words and spirit to me. Thus the bard and the boy have captured one another and are eternally bound in kind torment.  Yesterday! I turn my back on you that I may with might face Today as new.  

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