So I haven't been writing as much as I'd like to. I haven't been creative as much as I want to be. I have ideas; I just haven't acted on them.
I have space and time. I don't have confidence or money. I don't want to step on toes or stub my own. I have a thirst for creation. I want to explore my curiosity. I want to see what is there, and what isn't really there. I want to create new ways of seeing old things. I want to make it better and more interesting, but with my own methodology. I want to create value out of discarded objects and junk and garbage. I want to find the new gold.
I want to stop starting my sentences with "I".
I want to find a way to keep my wife sane and not lose my sanity in the process. I want to create an environment where I can work without sacrificing too much-- of my sanity, my love, and my values. Surely there is a way to work within the parameters of my mind that won't be a menace to society? And what the fuck if it is, anyway? Why do I even care about any of that?
I'm sensitive to acceptance and tolerance. I want to be liked. I want to inspire hope in others. I want to make good, and clean up what is so dirty. I want to drink like there's no such thing as a hangover or a blackout. I want to seethe with euphoria, taste the elixir of gods and goddesses, and brew my own happiness and sustenance.
There is glory in realizing one's dreams. There is glory in dreaming greatly, vastly surpassing one's own limitations and barriers. There is so much more to this story! We have barely scratched the surface. We relate with relativity and know in the flow. It's all in flux and part of the river. Enlightenment can be drunk. There is more to be experienced in an abundant universe. But it all makes sense, only now, and fleetingly, in the present.
I don't know who I'm writing this to. I don't know why I am writing it. But I am called to do it. I am directed by my thoughts and passion to observe, elicit, and calculate. To measure with the tools I have in my toolbox, and pound out a reality that exists for a strangely, organically relative amount of time, touching another's consciousness by happenstance. Who knows who shall read this?
The constant interruption of method and practice. The continual struggle. To keep alive and focused on what you're doing. Of making progress. Of getting your work done. Of feeding yourself, nourishing yourself. Something is always in the way of the attempts I make to complete my journey to enlightenment. But maybe enlightenment is actually already with me, not somewhere else that I have to find or create?
Now. The ultimate knowing. Awareness.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Jackpot In Time
Douglas Adams wrote in Hitchhiker's Guide that the answer was 42.
I've been playing a game with time lately. When I look at the clock I celebrate when I receive a run or a straight. Like at three thirty-three. It's coming, in a few minutes, as I write this sentence. But I don't know for sure if I'll catch it. I'm doing other things, after all.
I celebrate when it comes to me, and I try not to seek it out or "camp" on the clock until I get a winning combination. It's kind of like playing the slots without the cash involved. The payout is emotional, not financial.
I did some calculating after I had been playing for a few days and realized that there were 21 combinations of numbers that qualified as a jackpot in this game. And then, with the am/pm, that number was doubled.
42.
My calculations have since shown a different solution (I forgot to include ten o'clock's three zeros), but it's still a bit of a fun play with time. This way, when you wake up at four forty-four in the morning, you get a smile on your face, because you've hit a fortuitous time signature.
There was a time where my friend and I tried to catch each occurrence of the 12:34 time on my digital watch. I think we only got three in a row before we abandoned the experiment. Still, there was some exhilaration in the anticipation of seeing it happen. Like the odometer thing.
And by the way, this is my two-hundred twenty-second blog. Yesterday was February 22nd. And I missed 3:33am because I've been blogging and surfing and linking and such. I even missed 3:45.
Maybe I'll start wearing a watch again. Digital, of course. Game doesn't work as well with clock hands. Will this become an obsession? Has it already?
Time will tell.
I've been playing a game with time lately. When I look at the clock I celebrate when I receive a run or a straight. Like at three thirty-three. It's coming, in a few minutes, as I write this sentence. But I don't know for sure if I'll catch it. I'm doing other things, after all.
I celebrate when it comes to me, and I try not to seek it out or "camp" on the clock until I get a winning combination. It's kind of like playing the slots without the cash involved. The payout is emotional, not financial.
I did some calculating after I had been playing for a few days and realized that there were 21 combinations of numbers that qualified as a jackpot in this game. And then, with the am/pm, that number was doubled.
42.
My calculations have since shown a different solution (I forgot to include ten o'clock's three zeros), but it's still a bit of a fun play with time. This way, when you wake up at four forty-four in the morning, you get a smile on your face, because you've hit a fortuitous time signature.
There was a time where my friend and I tried to catch each occurrence of the 12:34 time on my digital watch. I think we only got three in a row before we abandoned the experiment. Still, there was some exhilaration in the anticipation of seeing it happen. Like the odometer thing.
And by the way, this is my two-hundred twenty-second blog. Yesterday was February 22nd. And I missed 3:33am because I've been blogging and surfing and linking and such. I even missed 3:45.
Maybe I'll start wearing a watch again. Digital, of course. Game doesn't work as well with clock hands. Will this become an obsession? Has it already?
Time will tell.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Epitaph First Draft
Will I be remembered fondly?
I erect a grand scheme of God-like perfection when I come to judge myself. I want to cure ills, make friends of my enemies. I want to heal the sick and feed the hungry. I want to find a way so that even the devil and the Lord Almighty can reach across the chasm and shake hands. Then wrap it up in a lovely box and put a shimmering bow on top.
I've got such expectations. Are they hard-wired? Or have they grown in me, over time, like my waistline?
I've always aimed high, or at least I was led to believe I was aiming high. I placed high on my IQ test at an early age, and so it seemed that there were to be great things to come in my life. I continued to excel academically through high school, and landed a favorable financial aid package to go to my first choice in colleges.
But I'd also kind of developed the idea that I'd "figured it out" by the time I was to leave high school. Maybe I didn't have the love of my life that I wanted, but I thought I had already met her. I had a close knit group of friends that had a blast spending time together the summer after we graduated high school. I'd worked hard to reinvent myself and "make it" socially, after my friends had unceremoniously dumped me just before the start of my sophomore year. I think I've written about this before, but I'm not remembering when or where. Was it my pencil scribbled journal, complete with doodles and extremely hard to read when I would get excited about a particular subject? Or is it here, in the bloggerverse? Something I'll have to look into further, no doubt.
But for now, I need to summarize. I thought, since I had succeeded so famously in high school, that my hardest challenges were behind me. I had made it to adulthood without killing myself or anybody else. I had it figured out. I was enjoying myself, and that was what was important. I had plenty time to grow old and die-- that would come much later. Like when I was in my forties.
Well, welcome to your forties, buddy. You've had your shit stirred with a splintering stick and it's gotten kinda messy, wouldn't you say? Maybe you did have a few more things to learn...
Like how to set goals to exceed expectations, only by making a bunch of small attainable goals that add up to something special. I tended to try and do just enough to get by. And I didn't get by. But that's my cross to bear. I've had lots of chances, maybe more than most. And I've made the best of them that I could.
Like being no credits short of a B.A. degree, and yet not having said B.A. degree. Like needing a "C" and receiving a "D". And yet, finding my way and building my resume without telling that story. But each time I list my education on a job application, there I go again. Most of my friends from college have a degree, perhaps even framed and hanging on the wall in the den of their home. Me, I didn't even get to keep the empty folder with the note saying I hadn't satisfied all of my major requirements.
It's a hard pill to swallow, that kind of failure. But I've made the best of it. I'm finding my way, the path for my steps alone. Sometimes it's a lonely road.
So what will the epitaph say? "Didn't satisfy major requirements?"
Needs work.
I erect a grand scheme of God-like perfection when I come to judge myself. I want to cure ills, make friends of my enemies. I want to heal the sick and feed the hungry. I want to find a way so that even the devil and the Lord Almighty can reach across the chasm and shake hands. Then wrap it up in a lovely box and put a shimmering bow on top.
I've got such expectations. Are they hard-wired? Or have they grown in me, over time, like my waistline?
I've always aimed high, or at least I was led to believe I was aiming high. I placed high on my IQ test at an early age, and so it seemed that there were to be great things to come in my life. I continued to excel academically through high school, and landed a favorable financial aid package to go to my first choice in colleges.
But I'd also kind of developed the idea that I'd "figured it out" by the time I was to leave high school. Maybe I didn't have the love of my life that I wanted, but I thought I had already met her. I had a close knit group of friends that had a blast spending time together the summer after we graduated high school. I'd worked hard to reinvent myself and "make it" socially, after my friends had unceremoniously dumped me just before the start of my sophomore year. I think I've written about this before, but I'm not remembering when or where. Was it my pencil scribbled journal, complete with doodles and extremely hard to read when I would get excited about a particular subject? Or is it here, in the bloggerverse? Something I'll have to look into further, no doubt.
But for now, I need to summarize. I thought, since I had succeeded so famously in high school, that my hardest challenges were behind me. I had made it to adulthood without killing myself or anybody else. I had it figured out. I was enjoying myself, and that was what was important. I had plenty time to grow old and die-- that would come much later. Like when I was in my forties.
Well, welcome to your forties, buddy. You've had your shit stirred with a splintering stick and it's gotten kinda messy, wouldn't you say? Maybe you did have a few more things to learn...
Like how to set goals to exceed expectations, only by making a bunch of small attainable goals that add up to something special. I tended to try and do just enough to get by. And I didn't get by. But that's my cross to bear. I've had lots of chances, maybe more than most. And I've made the best of them that I could.
Like being no credits short of a B.A. degree, and yet not having said B.A. degree. Like needing a "C" and receiving a "D". And yet, finding my way and building my resume without telling that story. But each time I list my education on a job application, there I go again. Most of my friends from college have a degree, perhaps even framed and hanging on the wall in the den of their home. Me, I didn't even get to keep the empty folder with the note saying I hadn't satisfied all of my major requirements.
It's a hard pill to swallow, that kind of failure. But I've made the best of it. I'm finding my way, the path for my steps alone. Sometimes it's a lonely road.
So what will the epitaph say? "Didn't satisfy major requirements?"
Needs work.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Nothing To See Here
Nothing is sustainable.
Meaning, all things change, yes. That is, all known things twist and turn, ebb and flow, live and die. Except nothing. Nothing sustains. Infinitely.
In living this life, I try to sustain stability. I try to maintain equilibrium and flow with my emotions and the forces I encounter. Sometimes I walk, and other times I crawl. Still other times I sit still and notice the void. I breathe in. I breathe out. My consciousness cycles like waves at the beach, synchronized with my breathing. Water stretches out, then recedes. As do we.
I see it again. My own mortality. I know it is coming, but when? Do I have a say? Is it predetermined, part of a grand plan?
Can I imagine myself out of these thoughts I've been molded with? Am I just consciousness, perceiving itself? And what is consciousness, anyway? Awareness? What are these things? What is the nature of existence?
Right now the dishwasher is cycling, and there is a rhythmic rattle or clang of a dish, and it sounds like a dog is barking, but away in the distance, and much too rhythmically to actually be a dog. Such a thing hooks my wandering attention and distracts me, long after my attempts to relay the experience in writing have droned on, and the experience and sounds shifted. While I tried to capture the sand in my hand, it seeps away and I'm left with something different.
I struggle. I struggle well. Struggling is my super-power. I'm Struggle Man. More powerful than a stomach tied in knots. Able to leap large gaps of logic in a single bound.
There's merit, so I'll share it. I'm writing because I care. Maybe someday you will, too. Perhaps you already do.
There is a light. And when that light goes out, it is very dark. In fact, there's nothing darker.
Nothing is.
Meaning, all things change, yes. That is, all known things twist and turn, ebb and flow, live and die. Except nothing. Nothing sustains. Infinitely.
In living this life, I try to sustain stability. I try to maintain equilibrium and flow with my emotions and the forces I encounter. Sometimes I walk, and other times I crawl. Still other times I sit still and notice the void. I breathe in. I breathe out. My consciousness cycles like waves at the beach, synchronized with my breathing. Water stretches out, then recedes. As do we.
I see it again. My own mortality. I know it is coming, but when? Do I have a say? Is it predetermined, part of a grand plan?
Can I imagine myself out of these thoughts I've been molded with? Am I just consciousness, perceiving itself? And what is consciousness, anyway? Awareness? What are these things? What is the nature of existence?
Right now the dishwasher is cycling, and there is a rhythmic rattle or clang of a dish, and it sounds like a dog is barking, but away in the distance, and much too rhythmically to actually be a dog. Such a thing hooks my wandering attention and distracts me, long after my attempts to relay the experience in writing have droned on, and the experience and sounds shifted. While I tried to capture the sand in my hand, it seeps away and I'm left with something different.
I struggle. I struggle well. Struggling is my super-power. I'm Struggle Man. More powerful than a stomach tied in knots. Able to leap large gaps of logic in a single bound.
There's merit, so I'll share it. I'm writing because I care. Maybe someday you will, too. Perhaps you already do.
There is a light. And when that light goes out, it is very dark. In fact, there's nothing darker.
Nothing is.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
How Do You Honor Martin Luther King, Jr.?
There's no one way, right way to do it. Did you do something?
One of my acquaintances from high school posted on Facebook that believe it or not, Martin Luther King, Jr. was a republican. I had never heard that. Still not sure I believe it. But at the very least, if he was a republican, he certainly wasn't a typical one. And a republican in the 1960's is a very different one from a republican in 2013. Here's the article if you're inclined to read it. Personally, I couldn't get through it on my first try.
I think the fact of the matter is that if asked, MLK wouldn't have identified himself with either of the two leading parties. He existed outside of the political ideology. He was more a pacifist, and an idealist, than a democrat or a republican.
That's kinda how I feel, too. I think of myself as a liberal, a progressive, and most times a democrat. But I'm not married to any one political party or stance. I'm open minded and always gathering more information to find the truth that we all can share in. I'm not looking to "win" or "beat" the opposing side. The victory I seek is for all Americans, all citizens of the world.
Here's some more info on MLK and a Houston group's assertion that MLK was a republican. There are all sorts of characterizations being made based on his actions, but it seems obvious to me that he existed outside of the political realm. The article even quotes an expert as noting that MLK made it a practice not to affiliate with any party.
Some things are bigger than politics.
I think a lot of things are bigger than politics. And the way to finding real solutions to some of our biggest problems has to supersede party affiliation. That is why MLK was such a radical revolutionary, and why he is remembered so glowingly. He found the unbiased and unadulterated truth and championed that, for all to enjoy, for all to celebrate. No political party has rights to claim such an ideal as their own.
Looking back through some of the history listed in the articles I linked above, I wonder about their voracity, sure. But I also am intrigued to note the differences over the years that the parties have championed. It says to me not that one party is better than the other, or that one has shown greater courage or dignity over time, but that the process is working. The process of debate and conversation between all voices is finding the truth for us all. It isn't one side that has made us great and the other side that tears us down. It is the coming together in cooperation that has brought our greatest triumphs. Participating, actively, in the process of our government not only makes government work better, it makes our lives better. And sometimes that means working for the establishment, and other times it means working against it. Learning the dance is our legacy.
One of my acquaintances from high school posted on Facebook that believe it or not, Martin Luther King, Jr. was a republican. I had never heard that. Still not sure I believe it. But at the very least, if he was a republican, he certainly wasn't a typical one. And a republican in the 1960's is a very different one from a republican in 2013. Here's the article if you're inclined to read it. Personally, I couldn't get through it on my first try.
I think the fact of the matter is that if asked, MLK wouldn't have identified himself with either of the two leading parties. He existed outside of the political ideology. He was more a pacifist, and an idealist, than a democrat or a republican.
That's kinda how I feel, too. I think of myself as a liberal, a progressive, and most times a democrat. But I'm not married to any one political party or stance. I'm open minded and always gathering more information to find the truth that we all can share in. I'm not looking to "win" or "beat" the opposing side. The victory I seek is for all Americans, all citizens of the world.
Here's some more info on MLK and a Houston group's assertion that MLK was a republican. There are all sorts of characterizations being made based on his actions, but it seems obvious to me that he existed outside of the political realm. The article even quotes an expert as noting that MLK made it a practice not to affiliate with any party.
Some things are bigger than politics.
I think a lot of things are bigger than politics. And the way to finding real solutions to some of our biggest problems has to supersede party affiliation. That is why MLK was such a radical revolutionary, and why he is remembered so glowingly. He found the unbiased and unadulterated truth and championed that, for all to enjoy, for all to celebrate. No political party has rights to claim such an ideal as their own.
Looking back through some of the history listed in the articles I linked above, I wonder about their voracity, sure. But I also am intrigued to note the differences over the years that the parties have championed. It says to me not that one party is better than the other, or that one has shown greater courage or dignity over time, but that the process is working. The process of debate and conversation between all voices is finding the truth for us all. It isn't one side that has made us great and the other side that tears us down. It is the coming together in cooperation that has brought our greatest triumphs. Participating, actively, in the process of our government not only makes government work better, it makes our lives better. And sometimes that means working for the establishment, and other times it means working against it. Learning the dance is our legacy.
Friday, January 11, 2013
This Just In... Christmas Is Over
Wha? What happened?
What was all that noise, just now? The singing, clamoring, and the YELLING ABOUT SELLING STUFF!!! "Jesus Christ!" I said. And I was right, apparently.
I think that there was a little more going on there than a holiday for the birth of Jesus. Yeah, yeah, I know, there was New Year's too, and a host of others. But there was a helluva lot more going on.
We had people mourning the loss of their child. There was vilification and the ascension of heroes. There was drama and then some. Once again, there was tragedy, and once again, the media slurped it up and sprayed it back at us, with more, more, more.
When are we going to learn? There is no way to place a safety force field over our kids. Adding more guns to the situation just doesn't seem like a good idea to me.
We've gotta talk about what drives people crazy. But that's what drives people crazy in the first place.
We need to get serious about our priorities. Is it really so important that guns be so easily available? And ammunition too? Why is it so important that we have guns?
I don't own any. I've fired a rifle before, and shot some pellet guns, but I imagine I rate as a gun novice. Still, I feel that my safety is not increased by guns, or wouldn't be by me owning one. I think guns threaten my safety more than enhance it. But that's me.
I believe that people should have a right to own a gun and be a responsible steward of it. Having a gun requires great responsibility. As does driving a motor vehicle. Or voting Republican, for that matter.
I just don't see the sense in amassing an arsenal, like so many do. It only seems to build the paranoia and suspicion that is present at the beginning of the decision making. Why do we need so many nuclear bombs, for example? To "scare" our enemies, who have an equally large pile of similar bombs? In order to deal with our problems, we need to approach them realistically, not by swinging a bigger stick. Although such a tactic might work in the short term, in the long term the problems usually get exacerbated.
So go ahead. Call me a liberal. Bleeding heart. All that shit. Whatever. You can even shoot me. Kill me. Rub me out. Silence me with your assassin's bullet. But there is a grand accounting to all of this, and that will bring the greater good. So can your hysterical chanting about how the government's gonna take away our guns and we'll all be goose-stepping in no time. Because it's hogwash. Bullshit. You're kidding yourself if you think owning a gun makes both you and me safer. It still doesn't give you the right to kill, and all of your hypothetical scenarios where you get to play hero don't actually slay the dragon. There's more to this story, poncho.
What was all that noise, just now? The singing, clamoring, and the YELLING ABOUT SELLING STUFF!!! "Jesus Christ!" I said. And I was right, apparently.
I think that there was a little more going on there than a holiday for the birth of Jesus. Yeah, yeah, I know, there was New Year's too, and a host of others. But there was a helluva lot more going on.
We had people mourning the loss of their child. There was vilification and the ascension of heroes. There was drama and then some. Once again, there was tragedy, and once again, the media slurped it up and sprayed it back at us, with more, more, more.
When are we going to learn? There is no way to place a safety force field over our kids. Adding more guns to the situation just doesn't seem like a good idea to me.
We've gotta talk about what drives people crazy. But that's what drives people crazy in the first place.
We need to get serious about our priorities. Is it really so important that guns be so easily available? And ammunition too? Why is it so important that we have guns?
I don't own any. I've fired a rifle before, and shot some pellet guns, but I imagine I rate as a gun novice. Still, I feel that my safety is not increased by guns, or wouldn't be by me owning one. I think guns threaten my safety more than enhance it. But that's me.
I believe that people should have a right to own a gun and be a responsible steward of it. Having a gun requires great responsibility. As does driving a motor vehicle. Or voting Republican, for that matter.
I just don't see the sense in amassing an arsenal, like so many do. It only seems to build the paranoia and suspicion that is present at the beginning of the decision making. Why do we need so many nuclear bombs, for example? To "scare" our enemies, who have an equally large pile of similar bombs? In order to deal with our problems, we need to approach them realistically, not by swinging a bigger stick. Although such a tactic might work in the short term, in the long term the problems usually get exacerbated.
So go ahead. Call me a liberal. Bleeding heart. All that shit. Whatever. You can even shoot me. Kill me. Rub me out. Silence me with your assassin's bullet. But there is a grand accounting to all of this, and that will bring the greater good. So can your hysterical chanting about how the government's gonna take away our guns and we'll all be goose-stepping in no time. Because it's hogwash. Bullshit. You're kidding yourself if you think owning a gun makes both you and me safer. It still doesn't give you the right to kill, and all of your hypothetical scenarios where you get to play hero don't actually slay the dragon. There's more to this story, poncho.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Ready the Till
I don't know what I want to write about. That's a beautiful thing. An opportunity. A commencement. Pomp and circumstance.
It's a new year. 2013. A new way of living. A whole new world, out of the ashes. This long strange trip continues, in spite of the grand proclamations of its demise.
As do I.
It's easy to take this time and look back on the year just past and project into the near future. We always seem to do it. What did you like and not like about last year? What are you planning to do differently?
I have often begun the year with a flurry of written activity. There was a time that I set goals of production for myself-- I seem to remember a goal of a hundred pages of writing and forty drawings. Didn't happen, but it was ambitious and optimistic. And I was producing a lot more art those days.
I had the idea that I need to relocate to an "artist's community" the other day. Like in the last week. I was thinking of some place that has a lot of talent in the community and nurtures its artists. Perhaps that is just something that my community needs to do for me. Maybe if I practice more, get more active, and start producing art, the community will respond.
I have a lot of raw material for art production. Bits of collected metal, some gnarled, some rusted. Lots of different grades of material, from chunks of steel to fine wire. I also have a fair amount of scrap wood, and a floating assortment of screws and nails. I tell ya, there's something brewing here.
I always have big plans this side of Christmas, in my head, for next year's decorations. I want to try and win an award or get some press. I'm an attention whore. I want to work towards something beautiful that others can enjoy because I brought it to be. That's the way of the artist. Sort of.
So this morning I popped the top on my laptop and got moving on the writing. And I feel like I got some of the plaque of the walls of my intestine and the soluble fiber is producing something. It's time to get regular again, with this writing. With this artistic stretching and groping for meaning and beauty. There's ground to turn, worms to feed, seeds to sow. I hope to be here even more than I was last year.
And I want to have a more productive garden, too.
It's a new year. 2013. A new way of living. A whole new world, out of the ashes. This long strange trip continues, in spite of the grand proclamations of its demise.
As do I.
It's easy to take this time and look back on the year just past and project into the near future. We always seem to do it. What did you like and not like about last year? What are you planning to do differently?
I have often begun the year with a flurry of written activity. There was a time that I set goals of production for myself-- I seem to remember a goal of a hundred pages of writing and forty drawings. Didn't happen, but it was ambitious and optimistic. And I was producing a lot more art those days.
I had the idea that I need to relocate to an "artist's community" the other day. Like in the last week. I was thinking of some place that has a lot of talent in the community and nurtures its artists. Perhaps that is just something that my community needs to do for me. Maybe if I practice more, get more active, and start producing art, the community will respond.
I have a lot of raw material for art production. Bits of collected metal, some gnarled, some rusted. Lots of different grades of material, from chunks of steel to fine wire. I also have a fair amount of scrap wood, and a floating assortment of screws and nails. I tell ya, there's something brewing here.
I always have big plans this side of Christmas, in my head, for next year's decorations. I want to try and win an award or get some press. I'm an attention whore. I want to work towards something beautiful that others can enjoy because I brought it to be. That's the way of the artist. Sort of.
So this morning I popped the top on my laptop and got moving on the writing. And I feel like I got some of the plaque of the walls of my intestine and the soluble fiber is producing something. It's time to get regular again, with this writing. With this artistic stretching and groping for meaning and beauty. There's ground to turn, worms to feed, seeds to sow. I hope to be here even more than I was last year.
And I want to have a more productive garden, too.
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