For reasons that escape me for the moment, I am feeling a little sad. Maybe sad is not the word, though I don't know what it is.
I've been watching television, something I do relatively rarely. Usually, TV reinforces my decision to avoid it. But tonight I watched a "reality" show about how people deal with uncomfortable realities. And then another one dealing with how people respond to horrific personal adversity.
How can anything on my mind compete? It can't. But I don't want it to compete. Woof. Life can be a bitch, but it's not bad for me. Not bad at all.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
3 More Months
It's just a touch over three months now. Then, I'll be reasonably free to pursue things I've not been able to pursue for a long time. Like freedom. Like a new intellectual foundation upon which to base my life, or what's left of it. That may be a tad dramatic. But maybe not.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Worry
This is a personal post for me. Don't let it bother you.
I'm getting worried. Worried that I'm closing my business without giving it enough thought. Worried that I may, truly, be entering the realm of poverty, from which there may be no emergence.
I can't not deal with this because I have an obligation to my wife; I can't leave her in the lurch. But if it were just me, I could reasonably consider auto-euthanasia if thing got really bad. But I can't do that. I just hope I'm worried about things that won't come to pass.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Lethargy
I am having a rather tough time keeping my mind on work when I need to be working. There are obligations to meet, clients to satisfy, jobs to do, objectives to meet. But none of them hold any interest. They haven't for some time, but since I announced my intention, just about three weeks ago, to terminate my clients' contracts in a few months it has become worse.
There's no question I have the capacity to do the work, regardless of my level of interest or lack thereof. But something is keeping me in a constant state of lethargy with respect to "work" responsibilities. I keep telling myself it's only a few more months, I can stay focused...but then I realize I'm lying to get me off my back.
I can smooth this out. I can be mellow about it and get on to the jobs at hand. But will I? I must.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Abject Poverty
Abject poverty. It's a phrase that crosses the lips of a spoiled yuppie who describes what his life will be like in the future if he doesn't get a raise. It's a concept that somehow seems appropriate to discuss while suggesting the inadequacy of one's income. It is a condition most who know the meaning of the words cannot begin to comprehend.
Abject poverty is a condition of hopeless existence, in which the only certainty seems to be hunger and perpetual insecurity. That's not insecurity in the sense one doesn't know where the next month's mortgage payment is going to come from. It's insecurity in the sense one doesn't know where the next sip of water or the next morsel of food will come from. It's the insecurity of knowing there is no assurance of a roof over one's head tonight or a way to keep the searing heat of the sun off one's head during the meanest summer. It's having no place to turn for help, no one who can offer shelter or clothing or food to eat. Adject poverty is the most wreched condition, a condition that rips away every scrap of dignity and every confidence one will live until the next sunrise.
I do not know abject poverty. I only know of it. But what I know of it makes me think it would make me feel desperate and afraid if I had to experience it. There would be no room for humanity, at least not in my head. It would be a petri dish for depression and hatred and anger and suicidal thoughts.
Try to imagine, if you can, someone you love living in abject poverty. Imagine that person homeless, penniless, and threadbare--unbathed, uncombed, unkept to the extreme--starving and wondering whether the next meal will come before starvation or an untended wound snuffs out the last vestiges of life from a worn and fragile body.
I hope these thoughts make you feel uncomfortable. I hope they make you feel uncomfortable enough to dig into your pockets and pull out some change or some bills to use as a means of buying your way out of the discomfort by making a contribution to an individual or an organization who can help.
Abject poverty is a condition of hopeless existence, in which the only certainty seems to be hunger and perpetual insecurity. That's not insecurity in the sense one doesn't know where the next month's mortgage payment is going to come from. It's insecurity in the sense one doesn't know where the next sip of water or the next morsel of food will come from. It's the insecurity of knowing there is no assurance of a roof over one's head tonight or a way to keep the searing heat of the sun off one's head during the meanest summer. It's having no place to turn for help, no one who can offer shelter or clothing or food to eat. Adject poverty is the most wreched condition, a condition that rips away every scrap of dignity and every confidence one will live until the next sunrise.
I do not know abject poverty. I only know of it. But what I know of it makes me think it would make me feel desperate and afraid if I had to experience it. There would be no room for humanity, at least not in my head. It would be a petri dish for depression and hatred and anger and suicidal thoughts.
Try to imagine, if you can, someone you love living in abject poverty. Imagine that person homeless, penniless, and threadbare--unbathed, uncombed, unkept to the extreme--starving and wondering whether the next meal will come before starvation or an untended wound snuffs out the last vestiges of life from a worn and fragile body.
I hope these thoughts make you feel uncomfortable. I hope they make you feel uncomfortable enough to dig into your pockets and pull out some change or some bills to use as a means of buying your way out of the discomfort by making a contribution to an individual or an organization who can help.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Lust for Australia
I stumbled upon a blog today that I have added to my blogroll and shall visit with some regularity, I think. It's called Though small it is tasty. The person who writes it (Meg, I believe) has a the same adventurous spirit about food that I have...I like that in a human. That fact that the writer lives in Brisbane (I think) makes it that much more intriguing. I visited Brisbane once long, long ago...about 1995, I think. I loved it. I want to go back.
Another blogger who has since moved back "home" to the Netherlands from a brief (2 years or so) stint in Australia used to write about her life in Australia (on the other side...in Adelaide). After reading her blog, viewing her photos, and getting wrapped up in her life there, I was ready to move...or at least make a trip. I suspect, after having read bits of Though small it is tasty, I may develop that same lust for Australia again. This time, though, I may be in a position to actually do something about it within the next few months. Of course, I'll have to sell my soul do to it, which probably won't bring much...I may have to take a freighter to make the crossing. Because a former staff member lives in Sydney now, I may be able to find someone there, too, to at least help find cheap hotels or direct us to an elder-hostel.
Another blogger who has since moved back "home" to the Netherlands from a brief (2 years or so) stint in Australia used to write about her life in Australia (on the other side...in Adelaide). After reading her blog, viewing her photos, and getting wrapped up in her life there, I was ready to move...or at least make a trip. I suspect, after having read bits of Though small it is tasty, I may develop that same lust for Australia again. This time, though, I may be in a position to actually do something about it within the next few months. Of course, I'll have to sell my soul do to it, which probably won't bring much...I may have to take a freighter to make the crossing. Because a former staff member lives in Sydney now, I may be able to find someone there, too, to at least help find cheap hotels or direct us to an elder-hostel.
Ah, well, I best not make expensive plans just yet. I have to first get used to abject poverty.
Monday, June 13, 2011
A New Chapter
PLEASE: IF YOU READ THIS, DO NOT SHARE IT, NOR SHARE THE INFORMATION. IT IS, FOR THE TIME-BEING, ONLY FOR YOU WHO REGULARLY READ THE SWILL I WRITE. READ ON TO LEARN MORE.
Today, I announced the closure of the latest professional chapter in my life. My clients now know; October 31 is my version of the rapture. There will be enormous amounts of work between now and then to prepare for the transition.
And, there is the distinct possibility that one or more of them will implore me to stay for awhile to help with the transition. But, for all intents and purposes, October 31 will mark the day on which my business, as it has operated for 13 years, will cease. I'm not shutting it down, just making it into a shell that I may, or may not, resurrect later.
Now, I have a request: though the chief volunteer leaders of my client groups know, the rest of world does not. Please allow me to keep it that way for a while longer. Do not post congratulations on my other blogs or Facebook pages, etc.; while I would love to read them, I still must let things play out as they will.
I am at once elated and terrified of a life lived in perpetual poverty. But I am so, so, so ready to experience it!
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Girlyman--Caroline
This tune was performed in public by Girlyman for the first time last night (6.11.2011) in Fort Worth.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Creativity...Art...Vision...Or Not?
Having not painted, or having not painted "art," for quite some time, my latest attempt was a somewhat shocking reminder that, absent the technique and skill, one's vision simply cannot be transferred to canvas.
That disappointing realization led me on a thought odyssey that raised more questions than it answered. The principal question it raised was this: does the creativity represented by visual art lay within the vision upon which a piece of art was based, or does it lay within the execution of the vision? Or is it the amalgamation of the vision and the techniques and technical skills required to execute the vision? Perhaps there are more options; perhaps artistic creativity is simply an elegant adjustment of one's technical limitations to one's vision, resulting in art that successfully integrates one's skill level with one's vision.
Ultimately, I think it can be reduced to this: despite the logic and legitimacy of the arguments that define creativity, creativity is a highly personal experience. I believe it can be intensely satisfying to the artist when the vision matches the artist's technical skills. But it can be intensely frustrating when they are on different planes.
When I shift the discussion to another creative landscape with which I am more familiar, that of using the written word, it becomes clearer to me. There, it seems to me, the "success" of the product requires successfully merging creative vision with technical capabilities. Exquisite technical capabilities, without the underlying vision, results in flat, dull, unremarkable language art. Intense creative vision without the technical skills for execution results in frustratingly chaotic word-bursts on the page.
Maybe I've answered my own questions, after all. There's creativity in my vision for the visual art I want to paint. But the frustrating paint-bursts on the canvas revealed the absence of the technical capabilities to carry it to fruition.
I've long believed the core capabilities of a writer are formed very early in life, perhaps before one finishes middle school. Those capabilities emerge through the use of language, early practice, and through perhaps an innate appreciation of language and what it can do. While those capabilities can be improved, honed, and refined later on, they cannot be created later on without that earlier foundation. So, too, I think, the core capabilities of a visual artist probably emerge early; if they are nurtured early and practices and developed, they can be refined later. But I doubt the technical skills required to translate vision into visual art can be successfully created later on. A certain level of mechanical skills may be acquired late, but that magical mix of vision and execution seem, to me, to require a foundation that can't be built after the walls are up.
That disappointing realization led me on a thought odyssey that raised more questions than it answered. The principal question it raised was this: does the creativity represented by visual art lay within the vision upon which a piece of art was based, or does it lay within the execution of the vision? Or is it the amalgamation of the vision and the techniques and technical skills required to execute the vision? Perhaps there are more options; perhaps artistic creativity is simply an elegant adjustment of one's technical limitations to one's vision, resulting in art that successfully integrates one's skill level with one's vision.
Ultimately, I think it can be reduced to this: despite the logic and legitimacy of the arguments that define creativity, creativity is a highly personal experience. I believe it can be intensely satisfying to the artist when the vision matches the artist's technical skills. But it can be intensely frustrating when they are on different planes.
When I shift the discussion to another creative landscape with which I am more familiar, that of using the written word, it becomes clearer to me. There, it seems to me, the "success" of the product requires successfully merging creative vision with technical capabilities. Exquisite technical capabilities, without the underlying vision, results in flat, dull, unremarkable language art. Intense creative vision without the technical skills for execution results in frustratingly chaotic word-bursts on the page.
Maybe I've answered my own questions, after all. There's creativity in my vision for the visual art I want to paint. But the frustrating paint-bursts on the canvas revealed the absence of the technical capabilities to carry it to fruition.
I've long believed the core capabilities of a writer are formed very early in life, perhaps before one finishes middle school. Those capabilities emerge through the use of language, early practice, and through perhaps an innate appreciation of language and what it can do. While those capabilities can be improved, honed, and refined later on, they cannot be created later on without that earlier foundation. So, too, I think, the core capabilities of a visual artist probably emerge early; if they are nurtured early and practices and developed, they can be refined later. But I doubt the technical skills required to translate vision into visual art can be successfully created later on. A certain level of mechanical skills may be acquired late, but that magical mix of vision and execution seem, to me, to require a foundation that can't be built after the walls are up.
At least that's what I think this morning.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Sharing Treasure
I have more treasures to share with you:
Remodelista: Sourebook for the Considered Home, an uber-intriguing interior design/architecture "blog" of sorts.
Kottke.org, a great blog from whence came the thunderstorm video in the adjacent post.
Peace and Love and Noticing the Details, a blog by Anne Herbert, that strikes a chord very, very deep within me.
Remodelista: Sourebook for the Considered Home, an uber-intriguing interior design/architecture "blog" of sorts.
Kottke.org, a great blog from whence came the thunderstorm video in the adjacent post.
Peace and Love and Noticing the Details, a blog by Anne Herbert, that strikes a chord very, very deep within me.
Wonderful Thunderstorm Video
Watch this, if you can, on full-screen, in HD mode. It is, at once, deeply relaxing and highly energizing.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Memorial Day
Today is Memorial Day. Many people do not know that Memorial Day began as Decorations Day, an event created by African Americans to honor Union soldiers of the Civil War. Its scope grew and it developed after World War I into an event to honor Americans who have died in all wars. Today, it honors Americans who have died while in the military service.
It's befitting to remember and honor the men and women who have died serving our country. But it would be wrong to equate Memorial Day with honoring militarism or aggression or American superiority over other countries. It is not, and should not become, a day to celebrate military service, nor should it be considered a day to equate patriotism with support for American military engagement. Memorial Day has become, and should remain, an occasion to express remembrance and gratitude to men and women who have taken seriously their duty to their fellow Americans and who have died while performing that duty.
I am opposed to wars and especially to wars launched with the objective of strong-arming the world around us into doing our bidding. War is an entanglement into which a country should go only as a last resort and only then after all other options have been exhausted.
That having been said, the men and women of the military do not set policy about wars; they only execute the policies they are given. Whatever they do at the behest of their commander-in-chief and their country, whether that direction is right or wrong, the sacrifice of their lives, made while performing that service, warrants our deep and everlasting appreciation.
It's befitting to remember and honor the men and women who have died serving our country. But it would be wrong to equate Memorial Day with honoring militarism or aggression or American superiority over other countries. It is not, and should not become, a day to celebrate military service, nor should it be considered a day to equate patriotism with support for American military engagement. Memorial Day has become, and should remain, an occasion to express remembrance and gratitude to men and women who have taken seriously their duty to their fellow Americans and who have died while performing that duty.
I am opposed to wars and especially to wars launched with the objective of strong-arming the world around us into doing our bidding. War is an entanglement into which a country should go only as a last resort and only then after all other options have been exhausted.
That having been said, the men and women of the military do not set policy about wars; they only execute the policies they are given. Whatever they do at the behest of their commander-in-chief and their country, whether that direction is right or wrong, the sacrifice of their lives, made while performing that service, warrants our deep and everlasting appreciation.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Unspoken Conversations
There are conversations waiting to be held. Waiting for what? I don't know, at least I don't know all the reasons. No one does, really. But there they are, ideas sitting patiently beneath a mountain of unknown reasons, unshared, unappreciated, unspoken.
Some of them are mine. I have conversations tucked safely away in my head. Most of them are one-sided and late to the retort, unable to deftly shred the egos of those whose word caused their creation, simply because they are too late.
Unspoken conversations define regret. They define it. They do.
Some of them are mine. I have conversations tucked safely away in my head. Most of them are one-sided and late to the retort, unable to deftly shred the egos of those whose word caused their creation, simply because they are too late.
Unspoken conversations define regret. They define it. They do.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Memory
If there's anything about the Buddhist philosophy with which I am at odds, it's the suggestion that one MUST live in the now. I think memories...the past...play an extraordinarily important part in our lives. They can shape the present and they can shape the future. Remembering things that once were unimportant can trigger the realization that those "unimportant" byproducts of daily life were, indeed, deeply important.
My memories of my early years have never been very clear, nor have I had many of them. Somehow, my years from 5-20 seems to have almost disappeared from my mind. But those occasional glimpses into what life was like for me when I was younger can bring back a flood of emotions. There's more to memory than recollection. Memory is the framework upon which our lives are constructed.
My memories of my early years have never been very clear, nor have I had many of them. Somehow, my years from 5-20 seems to have almost disappeared from my mind. But those occasional glimpses into what life was like for me when I was younger can bring back a flood of emotions. There's more to memory than recollection. Memory is the framework upon which our lives are constructed.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Heatlh Insurance: Make it Burn!
It occurs to me; we bitch and moan about health insurance companies taking us to the cleaners and refusing to provide the "services" they are supposed to provide at fees that are remotely close to reasonable. Have we ever, collectively, decided to tell them to fuck off?! It's time we did that. Every company, and individual, in the USA should simply say, "enough!" Put aside as much as you ever paid to them into a pool that will provide health care to people who need it...people who join the pool with you. Illegal? Bullshit! Let the government show up and try to take it away while we scream bloody murder to the television cameras!
I'm so utterly, completely, irrevocably pissed off at the greedy bastards who run healthcare and the insurance industry in this country I could SCREAM! It's time we stop complaining and DO SOMETHING! The assholes feel it in their pocketbooks. Make it burn, people. Make it burn!
I'm so utterly, completely, irrevocably pissed off at the greedy bastards who run healthcare and the insurance industry in this country I could SCREAM! It's time we stop complaining and DO SOMETHING! The assholes feel it in their pocketbooks. Make it burn, people. Make it burn!
Saturday, May 21, 2011
To Your Health
The decision about whether to go without health insurance is, for me, purely a financial one. It's simply about weighing options: do I want to hand over $700-$800 per month to an insurance company for me and for each of my staff members or do take a risk and set aside some money to help pay for "catastrophic" medical bills?
It's not a decision I want to make, but I have to make it. Of course it's not only about money. It's about whether I can keep staff; will they decide they cannot risk it and simply go to a larger company at which "exposure" is not the insurance company's only criterion for pricing?
I learned from one person that the threshold at which insurance companies no longer look at rating individuals is 100 employees. Below 100 employees, you're screwed if you have employees who are "aging" and/or who have any pre-existing conditions that frighten the insurance companies. Beyond "rating" each individual, the companies can "rate up" the high risk people by 67% of the peak premium for those individuals considered to be high risks. Me. My wife. My client services manager.
So, our glorious government decided to get tough with insurance companies and require them to offer coverage to groups of at least two people. Hooray. But they allowed the companies to "rate up" individuals to the tune of 67%. Not so hooray.
The ugly, but not-so-secret, secret about insurance companies is that they are wallowing in obscene profits. While claiming they cannot risk their "low" premiums on "sick" people for fear of spreading unreasonable burdens to others who pay premiums, they are literally awash in money. One piece of evidence of that fact is the fact that they are deluging with wife with marketing materials for Medicare Part B coverage; they are actively SEEKING people over 65 as policy-holders? These are the same people they will not write without being forced to in small group settings? Aahh...but the Part B coverage is in addition to coverage provided by the GOVERNMENT. It is ADDITIONAL coverage. So catastrophic coverage is already "covered." I see. So, if you remove the risk for insurance companies, they are willing to take the risk. What the fuck, EXACTLY, is the business they are in? RISK! But they want ME to pay for it. They do not want to risk their profits by taking risks. They want ME to take the financial risks for the policies they write.
I absolutely LOATHE the insurance industry right now. I loathe the healthcare system in this country. I loathe the greed-driven approach to health "care" in this country.
I am an unhappy camper. And I don't know just what I'll do, but regardless of the direction I take, it will be financially very difficult and very hard on my ability to get and retain staff. Thanks to my old age and my perceived ill health. NOT, of course, the greedy bastards who run the healthcare insurance system in this country.
It's not a decision I want to make, but I have to make it. Of course it's not only about money. It's about whether I can keep staff; will they decide they cannot risk it and simply go to a larger company at which "exposure" is not the insurance company's only criterion for pricing?
I learned from one person that the threshold at which insurance companies no longer look at rating individuals is 100 employees. Below 100 employees, you're screwed if you have employees who are "aging" and/or who have any pre-existing conditions that frighten the insurance companies. Beyond "rating" each individual, the companies can "rate up" the high risk people by 67% of the peak premium for those individuals considered to be high risks. Me. My wife. My client services manager.
So, our glorious government decided to get tough with insurance companies and require them to offer coverage to groups of at least two people. Hooray. But they allowed the companies to "rate up" individuals to the tune of 67%. Not so hooray.
The ugly, but not-so-secret, secret about insurance companies is that they are wallowing in obscene profits. While claiming they cannot risk their "low" premiums on "sick" people for fear of spreading unreasonable burdens to others who pay premiums, they are literally awash in money. One piece of evidence of that fact is the fact that they are deluging with wife with marketing materials for Medicare Part B coverage; they are actively SEEKING people over 65 as policy-holders? These are the same people they will not write without being forced to in small group settings? Aahh...but the Part B coverage is in addition to coverage provided by the GOVERNMENT. It is ADDITIONAL coverage. So catastrophic coverage is already "covered." I see. So, if you remove the risk for insurance companies, they are willing to take the risk. What the fuck, EXACTLY, is the business they are in? RISK! But they want ME to pay for it. They do not want to risk their profits by taking risks. They want ME to take the financial risks for the policies they write.
I absolutely LOATHE the insurance industry right now. I loathe the healthcare system in this country. I loathe the greed-driven approach to health "care" in this country.
I am an unhappy camper. And I don't know just what I'll do, but regardless of the direction I take, it will be financially very difficult and very hard on my ability to get and retain staff. Thanks to my old age and my perceived ill health. NOT, of course, the greedy bastards who run the healthcare insurance system in this country.
Monday, May 16, 2011
I Want to be Buddhist, I Think
I am a million miles away from achieving my objective. I will have contradictory objectives along the way. Those intervening objectives, I think, can be pleasurable and can temper the path toward that one objective, but they get in the way. I don't quite know why I pursue them, too.
But the thing I desire to is to free myself from suffering and to free others from suffering me. If I were to live how I believe, I believe I would live better than I believe I do.
These may seem to be silly riddles, but they're not...at least not entirely.
There is exceptional wisdom in Buddhist philosopy. But it's a hard target to reach.
But the thing I desire to is to free myself from suffering and to free others from suffering me. If I were to live how I believe, I believe I would live better than I believe I do.
These may seem to be silly riddles, but they're not...at least not entirely.
There is exceptional wisdom in Buddhist philosopy. But it's a hard target to reach.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Sad
I think I may have uncovered the problem. I'm just sad. It's me. It's not the environment, it's not other people, it's not chemicals. I'm just fucking sad. That's life. I'll get over it. If not, that, too, is just fucking life.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Just for the Record
I haven't known what to write lately, so I haven't written. At least not here, where I tend to write what I really think...sometimes. My mind has been on other things. Writing what I think has not been among them.
As I sit here wondering what to write, I realize I'm not ready, still. My mind remains on other things. It is on other things entirely.
These last few weeks I've been ill-at-ease over issues that are hard to articulate in my own mind, much less write about. I'm trying to make, and stick with, decisions, but none of them seem right or, I should say, prudent. But I am beginning to get a sense that there's an inevitability to it that suggests decisions are not mine to make. So I worry and I fret and I wonder what to do or what to do differently.
I'm being obtuse. It's only because I don't know quite what I mean. That notwithstanding, and just for the record, I am here. I really am. Right here. Right now.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Smile when you can
Smile when you can because, one day, there will be nothing to smile about and all you'll have are memories of those smiles. They will be treasures, those memories. And those smiles, too.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Largess
Once, when I was a young man, I knew the path to fulfilment would parallel the road less traveled. But fulfillment wasn't what I was after. At least I did not think that was what I was seeking. Nevertheless, those who had traveled that road called to me to follow. They knew me better than I knew myself. Or maybe that's just my wish now, my hope that I might have been better than ever I was.
That road, though, was littered with the corpses of unfunded travel, unbuilt houses, ungaraged cars, and unspoken compliments at all of those unattained things.
So I took a different route.
I took the road that would lead to largess. But I never felt entirely comfortable on that road, so I stayed safely on the shoulder, where my unease would be shielded from the stares of those who sped along the highway and where my conscience would not be so thoroughly out of place. As I was busy hiding from the prying eyes of those who were disappointed at my failure to fully embrace the philosophies that powered the race, I failed to see the disappointment in the eyes of those I'd left to make the lonely trek along that other, less traveled road. It wasn't just disappointment in their eyes, I now realize. It was contempt.
Somewhere along the way, I ran into roadblocks. I tried to run through them or over them, but I hadn't developed sufficient speed. All I did was ruin the undercarriage of the vehicle and slow my progress toward the destination. But I kept trying. I got out and pushed, from time to time, and I made some progress. The closer I got to the destination, though, the harder it was to see. A haze thickened around it. The light was blocked and I could barely make out what once had been, if not brilliant, at least bright. I thought it was bright. Wasn't it bright, before?
As the long journey along the shoulder of that well-traveled road neared the end, I found that the largess I'd been seeking had been damaged in transit. The haze had been caused by the smoldering oil-soaked rags that had been used to tie its broken pieces together. Others around me still clung to the shiny pieces that had been thrown off before the smoldering began. And they seemed to worship them. But I didn't like the looks of largess anymore. Yet when I turned around, hoping to trudge back down that road to the one less traveled, I found that those who would have been my traveling companions had long since completed their journeys. They had attained what I did not even realize we were seeking. And they were no longer willing to share the spoils of the trip. Their contempt at my abandonment of the path was complete.
You forgive a friend, but I was no longer a friend.
And so here I am, a lifetime and a universe and an experience away from the destinations that were so attractive those many years ago. The destination, as it turned out, did not really matter, for it is illusory. But somehow the journey has gone missing and I'm afraid it may be lost.
That road, though, was littered with the corpses of unfunded travel, unbuilt houses, ungaraged cars, and unspoken compliments at all of those unattained things.
So I took a different route.
I took the road that would lead to largess. But I never felt entirely comfortable on that road, so I stayed safely on the shoulder, where my unease would be shielded from the stares of those who sped along the highway and where my conscience would not be so thoroughly out of place. As I was busy hiding from the prying eyes of those who were disappointed at my failure to fully embrace the philosophies that powered the race, I failed to see the disappointment in the eyes of those I'd left to make the lonely trek along that other, less traveled road. It wasn't just disappointment in their eyes, I now realize. It was contempt.
Somewhere along the way, I ran into roadblocks. I tried to run through them or over them, but I hadn't developed sufficient speed. All I did was ruin the undercarriage of the vehicle and slow my progress toward the destination. But I kept trying. I got out and pushed, from time to time, and I made some progress. The closer I got to the destination, though, the harder it was to see. A haze thickened around it. The light was blocked and I could barely make out what once had been, if not brilliant, at least bright. I thought it was bright. Wasn't it bright, before?
As the long journey along the shoulder of that well-traveled road neared the end, I found that the largess I'd been seeking had been damaged in transit. The haze had been caused by the smoldering oil-soaked rags that had been used to tie its broken pieces together. Others around me still clung to the shiny pieces that had been thrown off before the smoldering began. And they seemed to worship them. But I didn't like the looks of largess anymore. Yet when I turned around, hoping to trudge back down that road to the one less traveled, I found that those who would have been my traveling companions had long since completed their journeys. They had attained what I did not even realize we were seeking. And they were no longer willing to share the spoils of the trip. Their contempt at my abandonment of the path was complete.
You forgive a friend, but I was no longer a friend.
And so here I am, a lifetime and a universe and an experience away from the destinations that were so attractive those many years ago. The destination, as it turned out, did not really matter, for it is illusory. But somehow the journey has gone missing and I'm afraid it may be lost.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Moods
Mood. Mood controls us. Or me, at least. That's a shame, sometimes. But most of the time it's just a fact. I think we'd all be surprised to look back at our lives in the context of the moods we were in as we experienced each moment. We'd be shocked. And, I'll venture to say, we'd be disappointed.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Gone
If I believed in magic and religion and goblins and fate, I'd believe the world is talking to me tonight. The wind is fierce, ripping and tearing limbs of huge trees as if they were scraps of paper. It's coming out of the south, adding the blast of a southern wind to the awfully heated air. I don't like this; I never have and never will.
It's as if the supreme booggity shepherd were saying, "You're going to pay, motherfucker, for what you'd done to this earth." And I can't help but believe the supreme booggity shepherd is right. We're going to pay.
Maybe not yet. Maybe not my generation, at least any more than we already have. And we have. We've paid by living in crowds while staying in family farms that, half a generation ago, would have been utterly private.
I could go on. I won't. I miss the real world of my childhood. It's gone. Oh, shit, it's gone.
It's as if the supreme booggity shepherd were saying, "You're going to pay, motherfucker, for what you'd done to this earth." And I can't help but believe the supreme booggity shepherd is right. We're going to pay.
Maybe not yet. Maybe not my generation, at least any more than we already have. And we have. We've paid by living in crowds while staying in family farms that, half a generation ago, would have been utterly private.
I could go on. I won't. I miss the real world of my childhood. It's gone. Oh, shit, it's gone.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Suppress
Unlike me, my father was not a man who wore his emotions on his sleeve. But he had emotions and he appreciated the poetic expression thereof. It's interesting to me that one of his favorite poems was this one by Rudyard Kipling, which in my estimation offers accolades to the suppression of emotion:
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
The Pointless World Around Me
It's Good Friday. As if that mattered to me. It's just another Friday to me. Another workday. Another day spent in pursuit of something I'm not sure of. Is this sense that it's all utterly and completely pointless unique to me?
Humankind desperately tries to find meaning, something to justify its existence. Not just its existence. Existence. Period. And so we grasp onto events. Simple incidents. And we aggrandize them. We make them bigger than they are. Over time, they grow into massive collections of fables and lies and stories that ostensibly give meaning to what is meaningless. In this context, meaningless is not intended to have a negative connotation; it is no more judgmental than saying the weather is warm.
That having been said, I sometimes wish I could believe in fairy stories and that I believed there were some reason for all this (motioning to the world around me).
Humankind desperately tries to find meaning, something to justify its existence. Not just its existence. Existence. Period. And so we grasp onto events. Simple incidents. And we aggrandize them. We make them bigger than they are. Over time, they grow into massive collections of fables and lies and stories that ostensibly give meaning to what is meaningless. In this context, meaningless is not intended to have a negative connotation; it is no more judgmental than saying the weather is warm.
That having been said, I sometimes wish I could believe in fairy stories and that I believed there were some reason for all this (motioning to the world around me).
Thursday, April 21, 2011
A Plan
Lacking a coherent plan, I've begun to take action. That has its drawbacks.
Let me explain by example. Let's assume your objective is to secure a top-level job in biochemistry. But your educational background is in archeology. Nevertheless, you want that senior job as a biochemist. You've even identified the specific job you want and that job is in another town. You move to that town, buy a house, and show up for work at the job you want. But it's already filled by someone else. They question why you've shown up for work at a job that is not yours...especially since you haven't pursued the education needed to be a biochemist.
You failed to plan the intermediate steps required to achieve that dream job.
Now, let's assume your objective isn't the dream job but is, instead, early retirement. But you haven't saved enough money to fund it. And you don't know how you're going to cover necessities like health insurance, let alone living expenses, before Social Security and Medicare kick in. Nevertheless, you make the decision to retire early. You decide to shut down your business and move on to "the next phase" of your life. Whoops. You forgot to plan this out. How's this all going to work? Is it going to work?
Not having the answer, and lacking the ability to even ask the right questions, you blunder blithely ahead.
Plans are so "corporate." So mundane. So necessary.
Let me explain by example. Let's assume your objective is to secure a top-level job in biochemistry. But your educational background is in archeology. Nevertheless, you want that senior job as a biochemist. You've even identified the specific job you want and that job is in another town. You move to that town, buy a house, and show up for work at the job you want. But it's already filled by someone else. They question why you've shown up for work at a job that is not yours...especially since you haven't pursued the education needed to be a biochemist.
You failed to plan the intermediate steps required to achieve that dream job.
Now, let's assume your objective isn't the dream job but is, instead, early retirement. But you haven't saved enough money to fund it. And you don't know how you're going to cover necessities like health insurance, let alone living expenses, before Social Security and Medicare kick in. Nevertheless, you make the decision to retire early. You decide to shut down your business and move on to "the next phase" of your life. Whoops. You forgot to plan this out. How's this all going to work? Is it going to work?
Not having the answer, and lacking the ability to even ask the right questions, you blunder blithely ahead.
Plans are so "corporate." So mundane. So necessary.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Repetitive Reptition, Over and Over Again
Manic depression. Depressive mania. Depressive depression. Manic mania.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Monday, April 11, 2011
What a difference a TV makes
I'll be driving 300 miles south in the morning. Into a different culture. Sort of. Fifty years ago, that would be true; a totally different culture. I hate television again for yet a new reason
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Prelude to Summer
It's April 10. Today's high temperature in Dallas is forecast to reach 88 degrees. Why? Was it something I said?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
