[See http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/7342071.stm]
The BBC today reported that a "nude photograph of France's first lady, Carla Bruni, has been auctioned for $91,000 (L46,098)--more than 20 times the expected price." If one reads beyond the headline and the first paragraphs, we learn that "Christie's said money from the sale of the photograph will go to Swiss charity Sodis, which provides clean drinking water to developing countries."
It is all too easy to miss the message of this apparent bit of fluff, the universal message. There is so much to obscure our vision to see the meaningful.
Take the nudity of a well-recognized person now made public by an auction and an international news medium. Sex sells news and other things. Is this the message? that the BBC gains readership by reporting this news? It titillates us and tempts us to enter the world of who is doing what with whom and how many times? Too mundane.
Ms. Bruni participated in the occasion of taking the picture. She posed, perhaps was paid, consented implicitly or explicitly to the publication. All pretty straightforward. Are the model and her career and the industry of which she was a part the beneficiaries? and the lessons? Perhaps, but this is hardly noteworthy in the larger scheme of things. There are other models and other nudes in pictures and paint. Significance of who and what again do not seem to be the point.
Money. The root of all that is good and evil. The fact that a photo has sold for such a sum is a commentary on the values and affluence in our societies. Or is it? Surely photographs and photographers and subjects have commanded this and higher sums for fashion or art. And prices are always going up. We can't be surprised if a photo or a gallon or liter costs us more today that it did yesterday. For what purpose--money--does not seem to point to that which is meaningful.
The argument may be that we need gas/petrol more--we use it to get around. We don't use a photo in the normal course of things. Okay, let us make the comparison with a coffee-table book. High-end books to look at in plain view of self and guests are almost like the oeuvre of Carla au natural. Case closed? No lasting smack between the eyes about the meaning of life or some such thing in a book or its use.
Christie's. Do we live better or more meaningful lives knowing that it was Christie's and not the Akron Museum of Modern Art that sold, or bought, Carla's likeness? Fat chance. And is it giving to Sodis, a charity, that we can relate to? Another, with all due respect, charity. We need not proceed further. What can the message be, and is it in any sense universal?
Representing or presenting the female figure throughout history has been seen and understood as that part of us which is always and ever aspiring. We seek beauty. And the effect of giving with whatever motivation to a cause or someone is, unadorned by speculation, interpretation and such, an unselfish, good act. A truth.
THE True, the Beautiful, the Good — through all the ages of man's conscious evolution these words have expressed three great ideals: ideals which have instinctively been recognized as representing the sublime nature and lofty goal of all human endeavour. (From A lecture by Rudolf Steiner, Dornach, January 19, 1923, http://wn.rsarchive.org/Lectures/TruGoo_index.html.)
Take the particulars away. The specific details--BBC, Christie's, Carla, money, charity-giving, etc.--are not the message of the fluff. The universal message without obscured vision is to see ourselves and others and the best that our humanity in all its facets, and foibles, are capable of. That we aspire--and aspire yet again--let there be more nudes and more auctions and more unselfish acts. We can take pride and comfort in the meaningful, and ourselves.
September 12, 2011
Invented truths?
In an article titled "Texas sect temple 'used for sex'," we read this from the BBC Web site on April 11, 2008.
Members believe a man must marry at least three wives in order to ascend to heaven. Women are taught that their path to heaven depends on being subservient to their husband.
It is 2008. If ever there was an invented truth, this must (still) be it.
Not to cast stones at the sincerity of some character or others, this precept, or "revealed truth" is a prescription for God knows what, and only s/he can know. No man or woman today with a mentality beyond mythical can swallow this. But apparently some have. And they have allegedly included children in the mix, but to date it is unclear how children play a role in the "sect's" marriages and families.
Perhaps it is desperation or some strong sense of "I can beat this death-inevitability thing by sowing my seeds." It is unclear, except again in an omniscient's eye. We cannot know that even by the standards of the most devout, who acknowledge a better and brighter yet unknowable force in and through and all around us. That s/he has spoken audibly on this specific approach to marriage and male-female relations and not on other matters of great import yesterday and today seems highly suspect.
To be accurate, the quote refers to three wives at the same time, polygamy. Otherwise many of us are already guaranteed a place because of three or more legal, lifelong commitments, which may successively have found rocky shores.
The subservient-to-men piece is archaic by anything we can learn from the further reaches of human and social development, developments we can document by advances in knowledge, prosperity and consciousness. How is it that there is great want of awareness in this world of seeming plenty? Perhaps we are too full of ourselves and what we have accomplished, while at the same time losing our vigilance to what is reasonable and good.
Some would argue that the good is relative. In the context of faith, sex with minors and multiple wives (why not husbands?) is sanctioned. But is dominance over and exploitation of the young or naive ever justifiable in the face of what we know causes physical, mental and emotional (let alone spiritual) harm? Call this then stupidity, or more kindly, ignorance. But today, to be possessed of either is both a curse and the self-inflicted disability of religious and non-religious alike. Okay.
Maybe it is about Texas. After all, it is not the first sect to have been uncovered in that state. Perhaps it is in the soil or the water of the place? No, too simplistic. By that my own place could breed as much weirdness, and it does. So the idea of doctrine growing out of location seems fruitless, or it deserves much, much more careful thought and study. What then?
Some would have us see this as a male conspiracy and the brainwashing of women. These then attribute a level of consciousness and premeditation to promulgating the doctrine. Isn't this just a cover for coveting the other for pleasure or dominance, and taking what the ego or the devil says is there for the taking?
Some would claim that women and men in this sect believe. Although that has been dismissed above, perhaps there are some believers. Enticed or enrolled into a polygamous program before the opportunity to see and learn the world apart from one belief's lenses could account for this. If this is the case, do we need to save ourselves from ourselves, thus justifying state intervention?
All of this to say if not strongly suggest: The end of the world is at hand and in the hands of those who would have us believe invented truths and the exploitation of the poorly informed. They are killing us with their words and fervor for their own, not God's, pleasure.
_____
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/7341077.stm
Members believe a man must marry at least three wives in order to ascend to heaven. Women are taught that their path to heaven depends on being subservient to their husband.
It is 2008. If ever there was an invented truth, this must (still) be it.
Not to cast stones at the sincerity of some character or others, this precept, or "revealed truth" is a prescription for God knows what, and only s/he can know. No man or woman today with a mentality beyond mythical can swallow this. But apparently some have. And they have allegedly included children in the mix, but to date it is unclear how children play a role in the "sect's" marriages and families.
Perhaps it is desperation or some strong sense of "I can beat this death-inevitability thing by sowing my seeds." It is unclear, except again in an omniscient's eye. We cannot know that even by the standards of the most devout, who acknowledge a better and brighter yet unknowable force in and through and all around us. That s/he has spoken audibly on this specific approach to marriage and male-female relations and not on other matters of great import yesterday and today seems highly suspect.
To be accurate, the quote refers to three wives at the same time, polygamy. Otherwise many of us are already guaranteed a place because of three or more legal, lifelong commitments, which may successively have found rocky shores.
The subservient-to-men piece is archaic by anything we can learn from the further reaches of human and social development, developments we can document by advances in knowledge, prosperity and consciousness. How is it that there is great want of awareness in this world of seeming plenty? Perhaps we are too full of ourselves and what we have accomplished, while at the same time losing our vigilance to what is reasonable and good.
Some would argue that the good is relative. In the context of faith, sex with minors and multiple wives (why not husbands?) is sanctioned. But is dominance over and exploitation of the young or naive ever justifiable in the face of what we know causes physical, mental and emotional (let alone spiritual) harm? Call this then stupidity, or more kindly, ignorance. But today, to be possessed of either is both a curse and the self-inflicted disability of religious and non-religious alike. Okay.
Maybe it is about Texas. After all, it is not the first sect to have been uncovered in that state. Perhaps it is in the soil or the water of the place? No, too simplistic. By that my own place could breed as much weirdness, and it does. So the idea of doctrine growing out of location seems fruitless, or it deserves much, much more careful thought and study. What then?
Some would have us see this as a male conspiracy and the brainwashing of women. These then attribute a level of consciousness and premeditation to promulgating the doctrine. Isn't this just a cover for coveting the other for pleasure or dominance, and taking what the ego or the devil says is there for the taking?
Some would claim that women and men in this sect believe. Although that has been dismissed above, perhaps there are some believers. Enticed or enrolled into a polygamous program before the opportunity to see and learn the world apart from one belief's lenses could account for this. If this is the case, do we need to save ourselves from ourselves, thus justifying state intervention?
All of this to say if not strongly suggest: The end of the world is at hand and in the hands of those who would have us believe invented truths and the exploitation of the poorly informed. They are killing us with their words and fervor for their own, not God's, pleasure.
_____
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/7341077.stm
Step One*
for Maggie
Find a quiet place,
aside the human race.
You will need little care,
just a straight-backed chair.
Settle comfortably in, realizing
Realizing Self is no sin.
Breathe in and out,
and all else rout.
Let your body go.
So there you are . . . just so.
Close now your eyes not to see.
NOW--ready? Just be.
Recite your words
till they end.
Ever, so, slow.
Then again. Go.
No one's perfect.
Ego's mind will wander.
Stay awake for best effect.
Work is hard there--beyond yonder.
Demons may appear.
Watch them, do not fear.
Let them also go.
Slow. Again.
For twenty min!
(You can afford the time.
Where you're going--
No need for silly rhymes!)
There you did it.
And on the morrow,
You will come and sit.
Same time and place,
to let ego go a pace.
Not self but Self,
the safest, treasured space.
Rewards aplenty,
those minutes twenty.
Peace and One--
The goal that is no goal.
What better spent to awaken?
yours and my and our immortal soul.
_____
* Refer to the works of Eknath Easwaran.
[Not so obvious. You have to experience it, not read or talk about it. Or bother yourself with silly rhymes like this one. What you are after but not after (the goal that is no goal) is more important and powerful than words can express. The ineffable.]
Find a quiet place,
aside the human race.
You will need little care,
just a straight-backed chair.
Settle comfortably in, realizing
Realizing Self is no sin.
Breathe in and out,
and all else rout.
Let your body go.
So there you are . . . just so.
Close now your eyes not to see.
NOW--ready? Just be.
Recite your words
till they end.
Ever, so, slow.
Then again. Go.
No one's perfect.
Ego's mind will wander.
Stay awake for best effect.
Work is hard there--beyond yonder.
Demons may appear.
Watch them, do not fear.
Let them also go.
Slow. Again.
For twenty min!
(You can afford the time.
Where you're going--
No need for silly rhymes!)
There you did it.
And on the morrow,
You will come and sit.
Same time and place,
to let ego go a pace.
Not self but Self,
the safest, treasured space.
Rewards aplenty,
those minutes twenty.
Peace and One--
The goal that is no goal.
What better spent to awaken?
yours and my and our immortal soul.
_____
* Refer to the works of Eknath Easwaran.
[Not so obvious. You have to experience it, not read or talk about it. Or bother yourself with silly rhymes like this one. What you are after but not after (the goal that is no goal) is more important and powerful than words can express. The ineffable.]
April 1, 2010
Secret no secret
and
This blip aside
[Only occasionally do I post comments elsewhere . . . usually out of irritation or outrage, sometimes awe and respect. I did so out of both of these. Here are the words slightly dressed up, which support the analysis and commentary I had just read: "The Secret": A Critique by Carolyn Baker, http://jwlsweblog.blogspot.com/.]
I saw The Secret once about two years ago, maybe a little more. Slick production, thus lots of money behind it--why? to sell books, DVDs, etc., I guess. As to the message, it is very, very old. And it is combined with other truisms that are also not in the category of secrets. One need only go back to Napoleon Hill with his Think and Grow Rich, which is far back enough, the early part of the 20th century.
You need to have a clue (thought) before you can realize (manifest) in physical reality. A lot of stuff just does not happen without some sense of "this is what I want" plus "now I will have or do it." The result is something. If you keep the idea, now purpose, in mind, you will approximate what you set out to make real.
No big secret. And it does not have to do with a law of the universe. The secret's law is just the "magic" someone "sees" when something roughly or even precisely anticipated happens as a result of their intentions and what they do. There is not some cosmic attraction behind this, or show me where or how?
The other side of the so-called secret is accounting for attracting all the bad stuff. A poor person somewhere on the street is not, I would surmise in most cases, saying I want to attract poverty and homelessness. Rather, their thoughts and actions, to the limits of luck and chance and forces much, much larger than him or her are acting to keep 'em there or help 'em, or not, move beyond to better. You can say, they are trapped and no law of attraction as such operates for such tragic conditions as this.
I still maintain that it is the entitled (read Baby Boomer) preaching pseudo cosmology, effectively their selfishness/schtick to the people who would make them rich by buying that c$%p. Is that too harsh or pessimistic? Naw!
[Since I posted this, another response to what I was responding to was posted by Richard Kent Matthews. I couldn't resist. See https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20048226&postID=2603336406552529867.]
A blip aside
First, I think what you have said is partially right. You are not wrong. You don't need to take it personally.
Next, no one is going to sue you. Your inviting suit must mean you feel so strongly about being right that winning would produce some gain. Strong words. Empty by The Secret's own precept.
Consider. In a suit for gain, who wins? Both parties have the future reality of winning in mind. They each are magnets. But we know that magnets have opposing poles. If you or someone opposing you loses, does that mean that their practice of The Secret was somehow flawed? or not as pure? or that it was not in keeping with the highest and best good for all as determined by the universe? But that means I can't have everything I ever wanted. What kind of belief system is that which promises this but has such obvious exceptions?
In the spirit of partially right, I will agree with the point about creating one's own experience of reality--if we don't there really is not hope, but no consciousness at all! There is no secret to this.
Now, this is the side-step. The Secret is not so much about creating our own experience of reality as much as it is about creating observable realities in a proven, cause-effect manner.
As you dismissed a number of the mainstream religious and spiritual traditions, you called on your readers to mind what the Buddha was purportedly to have said. "Whatever resonates with your sense of reason, accept it and reject the rest." I guess Buddha holds some truth even though you have also said, "No one knows the truth of anything really." This blip aside, and again focusing on what was said, what does your sense of reason tell you about what we should believe about The Secret, or any necessary palliative to death's inevitability?
May a fellow preacher suggest to another: "The one [at life's end] with the most toys wins" is an empty philosophy or religion--because it only lets us temporarily, if that, set aside contemplating why we are here and what will, for sure, happen one day. This is your alternative, which leads to compassionate action, and it is surely not nihilism, or worse--The Secret's materialism.
I saw The Secret once about two years ago, maybe a little more. Slick production, thus lots of money behind it--why? to sell books, DVDs, etc., I guess. As to the message, it is very, very old. And it is combined with other truisms that are also not in the category of secrets. One need only go back to Napoleon Hill with his Think and Grow Rich, which is far back enough, the early part of the 20th century.
You need to have a clue (thought) before you can realize (manifest) in physical reality. A lot of stuff just does not happen without some sense of "this is what I want" plus "now I will have or do it." The result is something. If you keep the idea, now purpose, in mind, you will approximate what you set out to make real.
No big secret. And it does not have to do with a law of the universe. The secret's law is just the "magic" someone "sees" when something roughly or even precisely anticipated happens as a result of their intentions and what they do. There is not some cosmic attraction behind this, or show me where or how?
The other side of the so-called secret is accounting for attracting all the bad stuff. A poor person somewhere on the street is not, I would surmise in most cases, saying I want to attract poverty and homelessness. Rather, their thoughts and actions, to the limits of luck and chance and forces much, much larger than him or her are acting to keep 'em there or help 'em, or not, move beyond to better. You can say, they are trapped and no law of attraction as such operates for such tragic conditions as this.
I still maintain that it is the entitled (read Baby Boomer) preaching pseudo cosmology, effectively their selfishness/schtick to the people who would make them rich by buying that c$%p. Is that too harsh or pessimistic? Naw!
[Since I posted this, another response to what I was responding to was posted by Richard Kent Matthews. I couldn't resist. See https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=20048226&postID=2603336406552529867.]
A blip aside
I still believe we create our own experience of reality. If we don't then there really is no hope.I believe you have side-stepped the point a bit about all this Secret stuff. Can't let you off that easy after such confrontational words, but I won't go so far as to sue you.
You'll think I'm wrong. So sue me.
First, I think what you have said is partially right. You are not wrong. You don't need to take it personally.
Next, no one is going to sue you. Your inviting suit must mean you feel so strongly about being right that winning would produce some gain. Strong words. Empty by The Secret's own precept.
Consider. In a suit for gain, who wins? Both parties have the future reality of winning in mind. They each are magnets. But we know that magnets have opposing poles. If you or someone opposing you loses, does that mean that their practice of The Secret was somehow flawed? or not as pure? or that it was not in keeping with the highest and best good for all as determined by the universe? But that means I can't have everything I ever wanted. What kind of belief system is that which promises this but has such obvious exceptions?
In the spirit of partially right, I will agree with the point about creating one's own experience of reality--if we don't there really is not hope, but no consciousness at all! There is no secret to this.
Now, this is the side-step. The Secret is not so much about creating our own experience of reality as much as it is about creating observable realities in a proven, cause-effect manner.
You are a magnet attracting to you all things, via the signal you are emitting through your thoughts and feelings.In the case of the impoverished sweat shop worker, or anyone less fortunate, s/he creates a personal, private experience of reality AND there are conditions and circumstances much larger than him- or herself placing challenges in the paths to wealth and abundance. That this worker experiences the life s/he does is undeniable, and again no secret. We assume consciousness/awareness of what is happening with most people. We can assume this with our sweat shop worker. That s/he also might benefit from a change in magnetic forces is also undeniable. As I said, and The Secret creates a false mystique around,
I am a money magnet and money comes to me effortlessly and easily.
http://www.thesecret.tv/top-secret-summary-of-teachings.html
You need to have a clue (thought) before you can realize (manifest) in physical reality. A lot of stuff just does not happen without some sense of "this is what I want" plus "now I will have or do it." The result is something. If you keep the idea, now purpose, in mind, you will approximate what you set out to make real.But that does not mean that the sweat shop worker will rise out of poverty, or that I will become president of IBM, or the world. That this worker can change the conditions and circumstances with which s/he must cope is quite something else. That I can change the world by changing myself, you must grant me as I do for myself. If I see it differently, it is different, for me. That I can change the situation in sweat shops around the world is quite something else.
As you dismissed a number of the mainstream religious and spiritual traditions, you called on your readers to mind what the Buddha was purportedly to have said. "Whatever resonates with your sense of reason, accept it and reject the rest." I guess Buddha holds some truth even though you have also said, "No one knows the truth of anything really." This blip aside, and again focusing on what was said, what does your sense of reason tell you about what we should believe about The Secret, or any necessary palliative to death's inevitability?
May a fellow preacher suggest to another: "The one [at life's end] with the most toys wins" is an empty philosophy or religion--because it only lets us temporarily, if that, set aside contemplating why we are here and what will, for sure, happen one day. This is your alternative, which leads to compassionate action, and it is surely not nihilism, or worse--The Secret's materialism.
March 18, 2010
Disculpa plantilla?
[Over the past few years, long lost friends and flames have contacted me. We have reached that age and stage. The "existential angst" I have felt with not knowing how to respond to these messages from the deep blue past gave birth to this template. I confess I have not actually used it.]
I am not very good at this--connecting or re-connecting with people. Some character flaw, I guess. Plus, I have become more of a loner and recluse these past fifteen years. Life's buffet has not served up the right choices, or I have chosen poorly.
Suffice to say, I am indeed still kicking and intend to for as long as possible. I appreciate and have made a religion of truth, beauty, and goodness. I use my talents and energies to discern and understand "what is." I am in good company, but certainly not special--neither a leader-to-follow nor exemplary parishioner. But I do my best to enjoy the moments and the visual and other candy that I discover each time I open my eyes, or close them.
I am happy to know you are here, too. I have strong and weak memories, some surely repressed, of the times we were together. It would be nice to sit and go through these. Who knows what would surface? I am sure there would be discoveries to delight, or perhaps dismay us. Regardless, it would be worth the effort. And it would allow us to share again a relationship-love that brought us together in the first place, caused by fate or fashion. And that surely has joy, sometimes laughter, associated with it.
Unfortunately for now, I am one of those who is limited. Call it economically challenged. I will travel to Mexico in a few days and try not to disappear (France would have been preferable). I have had to swallow hard and work on digesting the latest necessary corrections in the course of a life. I am not sure where my one-way ticket will finally take me. At least I can work on languages and cultures still, perhaps find a caretaking or other low profile job.
As you can see, it is difficult for me to get close. I use language and other defenses. My intent is not to do this, but for now I still find it necessary to cover the sadness and pain that otherwise can overwhelm me. In person I am still presentable. I am fit and healthy, handsome in a grayish sort of way, positive, and whatever else. I am not embarrassing to be with in public or one-on-one. Normal in everyday life, if that is descriptive of anyone--I doubt it is. I evade groups.
I cannot account for what has happened over the years. That is a kind of writing I was never good at and have decided not to try anymore. Suffice to say I am here now and glad to be able to say hello. If this is not the strangest message you have received from a distant someone, I would be happy to hear from you again. I will do my best to respond, but it may take some time. As I said, communicating and connecting are challenges for me, and I am flying below the radar, not entirely by choice.
End of August, 2007
I am not very good at this--connecting or re-connecting with people. Some character flaw, I guess. Plus, I have become more of a loner and recluse these past fifteen years. Life's buffet has not served up the right choices, or I have chosen poorly.
Suffice to say, I am indeed still kicking and intend to for as long as possible. I appreciate and have made a religion of truth, beauty, and goodness. I use my talents and energies to discern and understand "what is." I am in good company, but certainly not special--neither a leader-to-follow nor exemplary parishioner. But I do my best to enjoy the moments and the visual and other candy that I discover each time I open my eyes, or close them.
I am happy to know you are here, too. I have strong and weak memories, some surely repressed, of the times we were together. It would be nice to sit and go through these. Who knows what would surface? I am sure there would be discoveries to delight, or perhaps dismay us. Regardless, it would be worth the effort. And it would allow us to share again a relationship-love that brought us together in the first place, caused by fate or fashion. And that surely has joy, sometimes laughter, associated with it.
Unfortunately for now, I am one of those who is limited. Call it economically challenged. I will travel to Mexico in a few days and try not to disappear (France would have been preferable). I have had to swallow hard and work on digesting the latest necessary corrections in the course of a life. I am not sure where my one-way ticket will finally take me. At least I can work on languages and cultures still, perhaps find a caretaking or other low profile job.
As you can see, it is difficult for me to get close. I use language and other defenses. My intent is not to do this, but for now I still find it necessary to cover the sadness and pain that otherwise can overwhelm me. In person I am still presentable. I am fit and healthy, handsome in a grayish sort of way, positive, and whatever else. I am not embarrassing to be with in public or one-on-one. Normal in everyday life, if that is descriptive of anyone--I doubt it is. I evade groups.
I cannot account for what has happened over the years. That is a kind of writing I was never good at and have decided not to try anymore. Suffice to say I am here now and glad to be able to say hello. If this is not the strangest message you have received from a distant someone, I would be happy to hear from you again. I will do my best to respond, but it may take some time. As I said, communicating and connecting are challenges for me, and I am flying below the radar, not entirely by choice.
End of August, 2007
March 16, 2010
At your convenience*
A trip back to the mother country awakens one's ears to changes in the mother tongue. I recently visited the US. Not surprisingly, I found my native language changing. The following sound bite surprised me. But I hope it is an aberration, not a development.
"Hello, this is So-and-So. I am not available to take your call right now, but if you leave a message, I will get back to you at my earliest convenience."
Several people I telephoned in the US had this recorded on their answering machines inviting callers to leave a message. For those interested in native speech, this sounds like a good sample of American English to consider, or not.
The phrase "at [one's] earliest convenience" has been used to leave an urgent message, or make an important request. The caller or writer says, "Please get back to me at your earliest convenience." Translation: "I need you to do something ASAP [as soon as possible]. In fact, and quite probably, I will be very worried or upset if you don't!"
Here is the translation of the variant of that phrase given by the answering machine.
"I will get back to you when I choose to. But it will be on my terms, if I have time today, perhaps after working out, having lunch with friends, checking my e-mail, and watching the latest installment of "Desperate Housewives" on TV. If tomorrow or later, well, I will just have to see if I can fit calling you into my busy schedule."
Yes, I may be overstating a bit. I acknowledge one might let this kind of thing pass coming from an answering machine. But aren't the incoming and outgoing voices on answering machines those of people? Face-to-face, the "at my convenience" would be rare unless the speaker really wanted social boundaries and difference in status in bold, italics, and underlined. "What is important and urgent for you is not necessarily so for me. In fact, it's not."
I was surprised at hearing these outgoing messages because "at your earliest convenience" has had a limited situation or context. It was for when you really needed an answer from someone, or to have something done. Not often was it used for saying, "I am more important than you, or whatever it is you want."
Has my native language evolved with this strain, or is this a culture bite I am hearing? For people to assert how communications will be without first knowing who is calling and for what, well, that is using language for a preemptive strike. Must be a culture thing.
The American preoccupation with rights and what is right has its darker side. Argue with this if you will, but an answering machine's generic outgoing message reveals its owner in his or her new clothes. Among other, not-so-obvious messages is that "at my earliest convenience" assumes callers need to be clear about the rules for live talk. The party calling back will be in charge, including when.
It is as if the one leaving a call-me-back message isn't already clear on these points. The advance warning, or is it admonition, isn't necessary.
Having said this, I prefer not to hear the obvious, and not subject myself to a role I don't help define in relationship. "At my convenience" from an answering machine is rude. I suspect other users sensitive to the feeling-tones in the language would agree. This phrase should be reserved for those demanding few who deserve reminding their language or behavior needs restraint. "At your earliest convenience" can retain its original, useful urgency, as in "Please get back to me on this quickly."
I hope preemptive strikes are not casually creeping into the language. At your earliest convenience, argue with this message if you will. I will get back to you on that.
_____
* Posted originally by Kevin Mactavish, 13 April 2006, on http://jbrooksdann.typepad.com/anecdotal/2006/01/how_convenient.html. Thanks to J. Brooks Dann for starting the conversation.
"Hello, this is So-and-So. I am not available to take your call right now, but if you leave a message, I will get back to you at my earliest convenience."
Several people I telephoned in the US had this recorded on their answering machines inviting callers to leave a message. For those interested in native speech, this sounds like a good sample of American English to consider, or not.
The phrase "at [one's] earliest convenience" has been used to leave an urgent message, or make an important request. The caller or writer says, "Please get back to me at your earliest convenience." Translation: "I need you to do something ASAP [as soon as possible]. In fact, and quite probably, I will be very worried or upset if you don't!"
Here is the translation of the variant of that phrase given by the answering machine.
"I will get back to you when I choose to. But it will be on my terms, if I have time today, perhaps after working out, having lunch with friends, checking my e-mail, and watching the latest installment of "Desperate Housewives" on TV. If tomorrow or later, well, I will just have to see if I can fit calling you into my busy schedule."
Yes, I may be overstating a bit. I acknowledge one might let this kind of thing pass coming from an answering machine. But aren't the incoming and outgoing voices on answering machines those of people? Face-to-face, the "at my convenience" would be rare unless the speaker really wanted social boundaries and difference in status in bold, italics, and underlined. "What is important and urgent for you is not necessarily so for me. In fact, it's not."
I was surprised at hearing these outgoing messages because "at your earliest convenience" has had a limited situation or context. It was for when you really needed an answer from someone, or to have something done. Not often was it used for saying, "I am more important than you, or whatever it is you want."
Has my native language evolved with this strain, or is this a culture bite I am hearing? For people to assert how communications will be without first knowing who is calling and for what, well, that is using language for a preemptive strike. Must be a culture thing.
The American preoccupation with rights and what is right has its darker side. Argue with this if you will, but an answering machine's generic outgoing message reveals its owner in his or her new clothes. Among other, not-so-obvious messages is that "at my earliest convenience" assumes callers need to be clear about the rules for live talk. The party calling back will be in charge, including when.
It is as if the one leaving a call-me-back message isn't already clear on these points. The advance warning, or is it admonition, isn't necessary.
Having said this, I prefer not to hear the obvious, and not subject myself to a role I don't help define in relationship. "At my convenience" from an answering machine is rude. I suspect other users sensitive to the feeling-tones in the language would agree. This phrase should be reserved for those demanding few who deserve reminding their language or behavior needs restraint. "At your earliest convenience" can retain its original, useful urgency, as in "Please get back to me on this quickly."
I hope preemptive strikes are not casually creeping into the language. At your earliest convenience, argue with this message if you will. I will get back to you on that.
_____
* Posted originally by Kevin Mactavish, 13 April 2006, on http://jbrooksdann.typepad.com/anecdotal/2006/01/how_convenient.html. Thanks to J. Brooks Dann for starting the conversation.
The greatest sin is
omission, not evitable neglect:
To not do freely what one can and one ought.
Magnitude's measure is deliberation's delay.
Lest thou transgress, waken to never forget.
(No omission without commission.)
That same damned panhandler asks for my money
as he checks his Rolls Rolex up a long sleeve.
It is not easy or safe to juggle and judge.
Can you spare him a dime, his nose all runny?
My life's excuses beget the same guilt.
Plea ignorance or insanity,
it's our dirty all same. To the books then,
or whatever you can, to work through the silt.
Heighten awareness of things surface beyond;
deep or distant, it's an eternal game.
You have no choice nor do I.
Give me a cup then, bring the beggars on.
The double bind me-thou is thou-me.
Subjects and situations more heinous?
Who's to decide the degree, or agree?
Except we're all damned, 'n me most of all.
To not do freely what one can and one ought.
Magnitude's measure is deliberation's delay.
Lest thou transgress, waken to never forget.
(No omission without commission.)
That same damned panhandler asks for my money
as he checks his Rolls Rolex up a long sleeve.
It is not easy or safe to juggle and judge.
Can you spare him a dime, his nose all runny?
My life's excuses beget the same guilt.
Plea ignorance or insanity,
it's our dirty all same. To the books then,
or whatever you can, to work through the silt.
Heighten awareness of things surface beyond;
deep or distant, it's an eternal game.
You have no choice nor do I.
Give me a cup then, bring the beggars on.
The double bind me-thou is thou-me.
Subjects and situations more heinous?
Who's to decide the degree, or agree?
Except we're all damned, 'n me most of all.
March 9, 2010
Mercy's shadow
[I suppose this piece somehow wells up from my dark side. I also know an angry crazy person, impossible to live with, and I have experienced first hand having been driven to extreme frustration, although I have never gone this far unimaginatively. And it puts out an imagined but no less palpable reality, a thing to be witnessed and at some level understood. Good only exists, I'd pontificate, because evil does . . . such is the dualism of every thing.
From the view of imaginative variations to come at what is, this piece offers some interesting possibilities based in part on intentional ambiguities. For example, where would this question lead one: Grounded in what is said and only that, what is the relationship between the speaker and you (mentioned twice)? and the man she lived with for eight (or more) years? Ask further questions like these, and you will get additional tentative realities, I imagine. Leading to . . . an open and comprehensive (integral?) conclusion to bank for future decision/action.]
I've told this before, but I can tell it again if you like. It doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything. If I had it to do over, I would. Even if things was worse than now. This is nothing compared to living with him. I didn't actually live with him. I lived at his mercy. And that finally got me. I mean I realized it. I only lived because he let me. He watched. I was under his thumb. Every minute of every day. My only safe place was the bathroom. He wouldn't come in there, trained he was, like that. But he would bang on the door if I was in there too long, longer than I should, "to take care of normal business," he said. He was like a dog, and angry. Oh, the anger. Anger and meanness. I took it for as long as I could. I think eight years is long enough. After I moved back into the house, it started. I should have left him then when it began to get bad, before even that. My sister warned me. I don't remember the first time, but early on. She finally said, "Bash the bastard in the head. The world'll be better without him." I finally got the message, but bashing seemed so brutal, or something. The word. Cruel, I guess. She said, "Show no mercy." Like him when it comes right down to it. But in the end, I got pretty angry, pretty desperate. Bash. Yes, that is what I did. Skull caved right in. I guess almost anything does with a with a hammer. "Lucky hit for a girl," he'd have said. He always said stuff like that. But this time he didn't. He can't. At that point I didn't care about nothing. Not me, not him, not my sister, not mom, not what would happen, not if he lived like a vegetable from then on or just died right there and then. Nothing. And I'm happy now. I was pretty shocked at first, but now I'm OK. At least sort of peaceful. This place is heaven compared to our old dump. Plus there's heat and TV, and it's clean. I couldn't even tidy up, he had me so scared. Like a mouse or something I was. No, he was this big cat and I felt like this tiny helpless thing. Yes, maybe a mouse. I just wanted to get away from him. Hide in the corner. But I couldn't after I decided to come back. He was always there. Always. Watched me. Talking. Never let up. My sister warned me. I guess I lost days, months. Probably most of those years. I had nothing else but to do what he said and try to avoid those hands when he got riled about something. He'd hold his arms straight down and his hands would begin to make those fists. I'd freeze up, stop whatever I was doing. Something silly. Nothing, really. I lost years, and I don't even remember stuff. It is like a blur to me. I remember when it started and when it ended, but in between? It's all fuzzy. Like his head. Like it was. He deserved it. The judge didn't think so, and his friends, those people who'd come around now and again. But I know. Yes, I know. And my sister. No one would believe me about her. They said she didn't even exist. Imagine. Well, check it out. Check my family tree, or whatever you do. I am sure to this day I know where she is, but no one cares. No one even asked. "Bash," he said. She said, "Bash away," and he did. Took her out the back door and didn't come back for a long time. Told me to stay right there. Last thing I heard for a long time was that screen door bang. I still hear it if I think about it, which I don't. Well, after seeing that, I was so scared. Like frozen I was. I know where she is. In a better place. "But sometimes when you open your mouth, that's what happens." He said life was like that. "No freedom of speech 'round here," he said. I didn't know what he was talking about. But now I do. I can say whatever I want to here. Even talk to you. I don't have to be quiet. I am not a mouse. It is better than living like that. And my sister. I am sure she knows. She is in a better place. I am sorry she's not here, but this place--she wouldn't like it. She with the short happy life. Me, I hope I have a long life. Mostly not happy so far, even before his nap--I couldn't even move, he'd get so angry. Said I was always disturbing him, makin' noise and such. But I was very quiet. Maybe I'll be OK, if this is what I got comin'. Who knows? They're gone and I'm here. And it ain't so bad. Only sometimes, when the others get to yelling and making noise, like they are crazy or angry or something. Or when those friends of his come round. But all the doors keep them away. I am safe. And he's not here to bother me. Mercy. Mercy. That's what there is sometimes in this world. But the good kind, the kind where nobody really bothers you much. Yep, him and my sister gone. Just me. I wonder what Mom thinks of all this. She probably saw it all, and she saw it all comin'. I think in some way she can rest in peace now. In good mercy, I guess you could say.
From the view of imaginative variations to come at what is, this piece offers some interesting possibilities based in part on intentional ambiguities. For example, where would this question lead one: Grounded in what is said and only that, what is the relationship between the speaker and you (mentioned twice)? and the man she lived with for eight (or more) years? Ask further questions like these, and you will get additional tentative realities, I imagine. Leading to . . . an open and comprehensive (integral?) conclusion to bank for future decision/action.]
I've told this before, but I can tell it again if you like. It doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything. If I had it to do over, I would. Even if things was worse than now. This is nothing compared to living with him. I didn't actually live with him. I lived at his mercy. And that finally got me. I mean I realized it. I only lived because he let me. He watched. I was under his thumb. Every minute of every day. My only safe place was the bathroom. He wouldn't come in there, trained he was, like that. But he would bang on the door if I was in there too long, longer than I should, "to take care of normal business," he said. He was like a dog, and angry. Oh, the anger. Anger and meanness. I took it for as long as I could. I think eight years is long enough. After I moved back into the house, it started. I should have left him then when it began to get bad, before even that. My sister warned me. I don't remember the first time, but early on. She finally said, "Bash the bastard in the head. The world'll be better without him." I finally got the message, but bashing seemed so brutal, or something. The word. Cruel, I guess. She said, "Show no mercy." Like him when it comes right down to it. But in the end, I got pretty angry, pretty desperate. Bash. Yes, that is what I did. Skull caved right in. I guess almost anything does with a with a hammer. "Lucky hit for a girl," he'd have said. He always said stuff like that. But this time he didn't. He can't. At that point I didn't care about nothing. Not me, not him, not my sister, not mom, not what would happen, not if he lived like a vegetable from then on or just died right there and then. Nothing. And I'm happy now. I was pretty shocked at first, but now I'm OK. At least sort of peaceful. This place is heaven compared to our old dump. Plus there's heat and TV, and it's clean. I couldn't even tidy up, he had me so scared. Like a mouse or something I was. No, he was this big cat and I felt like this tiny helpless thing. Yes, maybe a mouse. I just wanted to get away from him. Hide in the corner. But I couldn't after I decided to come back. He was always there. Always. Watched me. Talking. Never let up. My sister warned me. I guess I lost days, months. Probably most of those years. I had nothing else but to do what he said and try to avoid those hands when he got riled about something. He'd hold his arms straight down and his hands would begin to make those fists. I'd freeze up, stop whatever I was doing. Something silly. Nothing, really. I lost years, and I don't even remember stuff. It is like a blur to me. I remember when it started and when it ended, but in between? It's all fuzzy. Like his head. Like it was. He deserved it. The judge didn't think so, and his friends, those people who'd come around now and again. But I know. Yes, I know. And my sister. No one would believe me about her. They said she didn't even exist. Imagine. Well, check it out. Check my family tree, or whatever you do. I am sure to this day I know where she is, but no one cares. No one even asked. "Bash," he said. She said, "Bash away," and he did. Took her out the back door and didn't come back for a long time. Told me to stay right there. Last thing I heard for a long time was that screen door bang. I still hear it if I think about it, which I don't. Well, after seeing that, I was so scared. Like frozen I was. I know where she is. In a better place. "But sometimes when you open your mouth, that's what happens." He said life was like that. "No freedom of speech 'round here," he said. I didn't know what he was talking about. But now I do. I can say whatever I want to here. Even talk to you. I don't have to be quiet. I am not a mouse. It is better than living like that. And my sister. I am sure she knows. She is in a better place. I am sorry she's not here, but this place--she wouldn't like it. She with the short happy life. Me, I hope I have a long life. Mostly not happy so far, even before his nap--I couldn't even move, he'd get so angry. Said I was always disturbing him, makin' noise and such. But I was very quiet. Maybe I'll be OK, if this is what I got comin'. Who knows? They're gone and I'm here. And it ain't so bad. Only sometimes, when the others get to yelling and making noise, like they are crazy or angry or something. Or when those friends of his come round. But all the doors keep them away. I am safe. And he's not here to bother me. Mercy. Mercy. That's what there is sometimes in this world. But the good kind, the kind where nobody really bothers you much. Yep, him and my sister gone. Just me. I wonder what Mom thinks of all this. She probably saw it all, and she saw it all comin'. I think in some way she can rest in peace now. In good mercy, I guess you could say.
February 2, 2010
Still-born
I wouldn't say I can't write one of these stories--a novel, for lack of a more precise term--but it seems after three tries, I should think about my desire to do so. Here is the deal.
The first was about a guy who had a recurrent nightmare of being watched from behind a curtain or darkened doorway. He would have the experience of this in, shall we say, real life, and that would be his last. The voyeur was one who just wanted to study, no kinky or scary or violent stuff involved.
I got to the point that it seemed to me the plot would be boring for anyone to read. Plus, my excursions into the character of the watched teetered--more than teetered--on philosophical exposition, Jungian archetypes, etc., not necessarily interesting for anyone except me, plus it was fun to have the plot turn upon itself. What would it be like to watch? What is it like to be watched? And these would be the central genre of questions that occupied the professional interests of the main character . . . who dies of his own nightmare made concrete by the voyeur.
The story started like this.
The next project was called Vanishing.
Or perhaps this would have been the start. I couldn't decide before I left this one withering in the incubator.
The problem with writing this one was, after less than a third of the way into it, I got bored. Now how is that? My main and other characters bored me! My readers could not have that, I mused, and so the project foundered.
The latest--A Serious Affair, for lack of a better working title--goes like this (ignore the numbers in parentheses):
Where does this leave me? Well it is clear I have these three stillborn scribblings. I feel I need better plots, or as a writer friend has told me, "just tell a good story." Well, I like the stories and their possible development as a result of going further with them, but I can't get beyond the outlines and first partial drafts.
John Irving in a recent interview said that if you are not up to revision, you are not a serious writer. Well, what about not having anything to speak of to revise? What am I missing? I mean, what am I missing that these stories do not have enough in them for me to stick with them longer? to get to the point of making revisions?
Recently I have written exercises, each about a thousand words or so, and these have been immensely rewarding to do, to revise, to re-read and find there my own genius, perhaps something only I can appreciate. And I have put out some pretty good, if obscure, poems. They too have satisfied the urge to write, to get what's inside out. But these longer fictional works--conceived in my own head and not based on any biographical reality except perhaps my own knowledge and values, not things that happened to me or somebody I know--they have eluded me.
I have thought of going back to the longer works and writing in thousand-word chunks--dialogues, descriptions, scenes, background materials, streams of consciousness, whatever. Then I could piece them together, either by just dumping them into what I might call a new (for me) form of long fiction, or craft them together somehow during revision. Rather than start with the big picture/story and working it down from beginning to end in a long string of text, properly ordered and complete, I could start from the pieces and work my way up to the magnus opum.
The first work was one which discovered itself as I wrote it. That writing was satisfying until I asked if a reader would ever want to slog through all of that just to have a guy die and another crawl back into his obsequious life. The second had this discovery aspect plus a physical journey to organize the story, mostly the western states. But I sort of got stuck in Reno in a casino in the middle of the night of the first day. The third project never got beyond the core summary, although I had an idea of the first three or so scenes. And I had a sketch of the attractive 29-year-old almost-celibate, as told by a unisexual friend. Yeah, a little weird, but I had a promising draft, rich enough to qualify as a kind of literature, or so I think (this fragment I have posted).
I think I am still back with the problem of story or plot. My characters are interesting, to me. But they don't do anything interesting. Perhaps I am really attempting a character study or two, or should be in order to continue. But is a character study what I want to do?
To qualify what I said above, Followed had a lot of me in it. The two main characters had identifiable aspects of me. PF in Vanishing had less of me, although it could be argued that I have been vanishing, or erasing self in some sense, for years. A Serious Affair has as its main characters two women. I can't say either as currently conceived shares much of me. The progress, if that is what it is from novel ideas one through three, is increasing distance from the autobiographical. Each, however, is imagined, created through a process of thinking and developing as it, each writing project, progressed. Is this a kind of maturation, leading to something? and what?
What did each singularly lack? What made me think they were boring, or would be? First, each character I created was honest and true. They were who they were, and they were not bad, as in evil. In fact, one could say that each was true to him- or herself, and in that sense good, without tragic or lesser flaw. In the Affair project, the two women come off as goody-good! Cooperating on a project to save others, after and as they saved themselves. What is missing? Conflict. A villain. A character tic, or two, or more. Some spite, or maliciousness, an unhappy ending.
For example, what if Lillith caused her husband's death in some way, or she just watched him die instead of going for help? And the revelation of this sometime later in the story would have an effect upon her friend/competitor Jeanne, such as to put the project in jeopardy, or arrest Jeanne's will to complete it, or so forth. Well, this complication would be a development of the story, but for what purpose? To keep the reader from being bored? As the would-be author, this is boring for me. The story becomes like just any other psychological drama or soap. And if it did, that does not seem to be what I want to do. There is nothing wrong with that, but for me to do it, all the writing, organizing, and more, I have to have some stake. Money and fame are not attractive, nor are they realistic outcomes.
Which leads me to think that it is non-fiction that is my interest, rather than fiction. And it is this deep interest in bare and reasoned truths rather than entertainment or stories that try to disguise or cleverly teach bare and reasoned truths that has me writing, or trying to.
In the process of self-effacement, I have come to a point where I do not tell stories. Not about me. And I do not see them or remember them as I go through my days. It could be that the absence of an adequate story for a novel has something to do with my own arrested or blindered development, my own alienation.
I would have to say that it is not the hackneyed problem, writer's block, that I am talking about. I have the story, the plot, the characters, locations, points of view, and all the rest. I just get to a point where writing and completing the plan seems without justification, intrinsic reward. I could go on, but I choose, based on considered reasons, not to proceed down the corridor to the reception room at the end, or whatever the metaphor.
Now for the obligatory turn. It is possible to add additional "reasons" here, but these too are on a never ending path. That path must not be avoidance but punctuated by a stopping point or two along a way toward, toward the next. To pick one of these projects up again, to create a new one having learned the key--I need to be hooked, compelled--I cannot say.
The overall effort here has been putting understandings out there to look at, and for the reader--this writer being one--to take to any next step. This piece does just that; admittedly it does not resolve itself, nor does it report on the fates of the three incomplete stories. These are all stillborn; would that they and this reflection lead to being born again, born still--or just allow us to rest in a fuller sense of what is, what should suffice, for now.
The first was about a guy who had a recurrent nightmare of being watched from behind a curtain or darkened doorway. He would have the experience of this in, shall we say, real life, and that would be his last. The voyeur was one who just wanted to study, no kinky or scary or violent stuff involved.
I got to the point that it seemed to me the plot would be boring for anyone to read. Plus, my excursions into the character of the watched teetered--more than teetered--on philosophical exposition, Jungian archetypes, etc., not necessarily interesting for anyone except me, plus it was fun to have the plot turn upon itself. What would it be like to watch? What is it like to be watched? And these would be the central genre of questions that occupied the professional interests of the main character . . . who dies of his own nightmare made concrete by the voyeur.
The story started like this.
As my father instructed from behind me, I held the mirror at arm's length.But so what? I stopped about half way through. I called it Followed.
"Now," he said, "look at yourself. You at a distance. Can you see yourself as I see you from here, over your shoulder?"
I confessed I could and followed his every word despite not seeing the point.
"Tilt the mirror so you can see me. There. Now you see me. I am a different image. Because I am me, of course. But also because I am not you. Now, move it back so you can see you. It is not you in the mirror. But it looks like you. It is the image of you, but it is something or someone other. Here now, then gone. Get it?"
I confessed I didn't. And so it went like that. He had infinite patience. But I didn't have his gifts, his way of looking at the world out there as some kind of object that he could focus on, or not, and understand, by his way of seeing, that there was both sameness, unity. And there was difference. Other. And that, he contended, helped him in his personal life, which he said was all we had, our personal lives. The roles of father, businessman, friend, all of them, they were just different views of him but not him. It was this divorce from everything that helped his sanity, particularly in the final years when he became less, I would say, acute. And he said it had helped him since his mid-twenties when death, he was certain, stalked him. To keep that specter at bay or in perspective, my father returned to the mirror or some other method he had and the reminders of who he was and was not. He was able to categorize the images and the identities that went with them, he said, and he found peace, mostly, throughout his life. It was a quiet, distant, and sometimes lonely existence, from the outside anyway.
I am afraid the lessons didn't take all that well. But now and again I look out there as if in a mirror to see what it is that is there, or appears to be there. I try to see it separately, distantly, and not as a part of me. But I have not had the peaceful moments my father said he had. I look over my shoulder now, and I know he is there even though I cannot see him in detail anymore. I know he is there. And clinging to that, I suppose, has led me to try and try again to get it, that elusive subject or object or image lesson.
The next project was called Vanishing.
"Don't leave blood, semen, or menstrual discharge behind you as you run."That's how it started, about a privileged guy who just decided one day to disappear.
Or perhaps this would have been the start. I couldn't decide before I left this one withering in the incubator.
Aside from Percy Ignatius Weasley, who after all is a fictional character, it is inconceivable that just twenty-eight years ago anyone's real parents could have named their son Percival Franklyn and then gone off and died. But happen it did, and therein lies one reason for this someone's disappearance. Who wouldn't want to with a name like Percy? But that is perhaps too simplistic an explanation.PF's adventures take him around the western US and then on to Europe, finally ending in a new friendship, or relationship, and the revelation of his truer self, not the same as the one from the life that he had been living. Other characters were involved, mostly to try to find him, and they too had their own revelations, including dropping out of the game of hide and seek involving PF. Search of self by self and others, as others discover themselves too, or something like that.
The problem with writing this one was, after less than a third of the way into it, I got bored. Now how is that? My main and other characters bored me! My readers could not have that, I mused, and so the project foundered.
The latest--A Serious Affair, for lack of a better working title--goes like this (ignore the numbers in parentheses):
Hal, charismatic and enigmatic in the prime of life, (1) falls from his horse leaving his wife, Lillith, and his mistress, Jeanne, to carry on. Memories of him and the preparations he made help them with their grief and more.It doesn't sound bad, but isn't this also boring? Grieving women find renewal out of a dead loved one's ashes, or some such thing, plus there is this do-good, personal development center now up and operational as conclusion. The triumph of the human spirit--yuck! End of story? What if I spiced it up a bit by taking away the progress. Not everyone progresses, some regress, some have dark sides that sabotage others along the way, etc. Naw, still not worth writing, and not worth reading.
Each feels her loss differently, but Jeanne's commitment to personal, especially spiritual, development, plus the separate bequests from Hal, show that the women will cope and thrive better by cooperating to achieve what (2) Hal would have wanted.
With Hal's loving guidance, (3) Lillith is already more aware of her power to attract, yet her personal development is still held back by a life of near celibacy and distancing others. Lillith would give up this her private way to wholeness with Hal in favor of avoiding the pain of grief and just living a comfortable life, but for a crush on Jeanne and the money and emotional support Jeanne needs to realize Hal's vision, a small conference center to support leading edge thinking and action.
(4) Jeanne realizes that she has not only received important lessons but also a mandate from Hal when she recalls her memories of their times together. Having to deal with the real property he has left her helps her step beyond her troubled business and up to a higher calling. Although she feels she should Lillith alone and give her space for grieving and not focusing on her husband's other woman, she can't. Her own grief compels her to share intimacies with Lillith. And she needs Lillith's financial help. Jeanne faces new challenges in acting in Hal's stead as model for Lillith and the point person for a near-complete vision.
The eventual opening of Hal's conference center signals a change in Lillith and Jeanne's relationship as it has evolved since Hal's death. They discover a new beginning out of allowing destiny's (title?) passion to work its magic.
Where does this leave me? Well it is clear I have these three stillborn scribblings. I feel I need better plots, or as a writer friend has told me, "just tell a good story." Well, I like the stories and their possible development as a result of going further with them, but I can't get beyond the outlines and first partial drafts.
John Irving in a recent interview said that if you are not up to revision, you are not a serious writer. Well, what about not having anything to speak of to revise? What am I missing? I mean, what am I missing that these stories do not have enough in them for me to stick with them longer? to get to the point of making revisions?
Recently I have written exercises, each about a thousand words or so, and these have been immensely rewarding to do, to revise, to re-read and find there my own genius, perhaps something only I can appreciate. And I have put out some pretty good, if obscure, poems. They too have satisfied the urge to write, to get what's inside out. But these longer fictional works--conceived in my own head and not based on any biographical reality except perhaps my own knowledge and values, not things that happened to me or somebody I know--they have eluded me.
I have thought of going back to the longer works and writing in thousand-word chunks--dialogues, descriptions, scenes, background materials, streams of consciousness, whatever. Then I could piece them together, either by just dumping them into what I might call a new (for me) form of long fiction, or craft them together somehow during revision. Rather than start with the big picture/story and working it down from beginning to end in a long string of text, properly ordered and complete, I could start from the pieces and work my way up to the magnus opum.
The first work was one which discovered itself as I wrote it. That writing was satisfying until I asked if a reader would ever want to slog through all of that just to have a guy die and another crawl back into his obsequious life. The second had this discovery aspect plus a physical journey to organize the story, mostly the western states. But I sort of got stuck in Reno in a casino in the middle of the night of the first day. The third project never got beyond the core summary, although I had an idea of the first three or so scenes. And I had a sketch of the attractive 29-year-old almost-celibate, as told by a unisexual friend. Yeah, a little weird, but I had a promising draft, rich enough to qualify as a kind of literature, or so I think (this fragment I have posted).
I think I am still back with the problem of story or plot. My characters are interesting, to me. But they don't do anything interesting. Perhaps I am really attempting a character study or two, or should be in order to continue. But is a character study what I want to do?
To qualify what I said above, Followed had a lot of me in it. The two main characters had identifiable aspects of me. PF in Vanishing had less of me, although it could be argued that I have been vanishing, or erasing self in some sense, for years. A Serious Affair has as its main characters two women. I can't say either as currently conceived shares much of me. The progress, if that is what it is from novel ideas one through three, is increasing distance from the autobiographical. Each, however, is imagined, created through a process of thinking and developing as it, each writing project, progressed. Is this a kind of maturation, leading to something? and what?
What did each singularly lack? What made me think they were boring, or would be? First, each character I created was honest and true. They were who they were, and they were not bad, as in evil. In fact, one could say that each was true to him- or herself, and in that sense good, without tragic or lesser flaw. In the Affair project, the two women come off as goody-good! Cooperating on a project to save others, after and as they saved themselves. What is missing? Conflict. A villain. A character tic, or two, or more. Some spite, or maliciousness, an unhappy ending.
For example, what if Lillith caused her husband's death in some way, or she just watched him die instead of going for help? And the revelation of this sometime later in the story would have an effect upon her friend/competitor Jeanne, such as to put the project in jeopardy, or arrest Jeanne's will to complete it, or so forth. Well, this complication would be a development of the story, but for what purpose? To keep the reader from being bored? As the would-be author, this is boring for me. The story becomes like just any other psychological drama or soap. And if it did, that does not seem to be what I want to do. There is nothing wrong with that, but for me to do it, all the writing, organizing, and more, I have to have some stake. Money and fame are not attractive, nor are they realistic outcomes.
Which leads me to think that it is non-fiction that is my interest, rather than fiction. And it is this deep interest in bare and reasoned truths rather than entertainment or stories that try to disguise or cleverly teach bare and reasoned truths that has me writing, or trying to.
In the process of self-effacement, I have come to a point where I do not tell stories. Not about me. And I do not see them or remember them as I go through my days. It could be that the absence of an adequate story for a novel has something to do with my own arrested or blindered development, my own alienation.
I would have to say that it is not the hackneyed problem, writer's block, that I am talking about. I have the story, the plot, the characters, locations, points of view, and all the rest. I just get to a point where writing and completing the plan seems without justification, intrinsic reward. I could go on, but I choose, based on considered reasons, not to proceed down the corridor to the reception room at the end, or whatever the metaphor.
Now for the obligatory turn. It is possible to add additional "reasons" here, but these too are on a never ending path. That path must not be avoidance but punctuated by a stopping point or two along a way toward, toward the next. To pick one of these projects up again, to create a new one having learned the key--I need to be hooked, compelled--I cannot say.
The overall effort here has been putting understandings out there to look at, and for the reader--this writer being one--to take to any next step. This piece does just that; admittedly it does not resolve itself, nor does it report on the fates of the three incomplete stories. These are all stillborn; would that they and this reflection lead to being born again, born still--or just allow us to rest in a fuller sense of what is, what should suffice, for now.
January 14, 2010
Evolution 101
Zuska had a botfly
living in her leg.
(In truth, I do not lie.)
Came a little egg,
rolled off a 'quito's back,
down the little snout
into the hole its sack.
There twould not come out.
It had a little tube,
where it got its air;
and blew it in a fugue--
raising Zuska's hair!
Came out a worm one day,
color of slick white.
From then we cannot say.
Except when it's night,
a new egg is begot,
waiting for a ride--
plus some of Zuska's lot--
to now in you reside!
living in her leg.
(In truth, I do not lie.)
Came a little egg,
rolled off a 'quito's back,
down the little snout
into the hole its sack.
There twould not come out.
It had a little tube,
where it got its air;
and blew it in a fugue--
raising Zuska's hair!
Came out a worm one day,
color of slick white.
From then we cannot say.
Except when it's night,
a new egg is begot,
waiting for a ride--
plus some of Zuska's lot--
to now in you reside!
January 1, 2010
There is no other
Imagine a point here and another far and a third to the left of the sun about an inch but distant five light years.
Each and all of these or other points are at the center of an infinite surround ever expanding towards eternity but never getting there where there is no there.
Which means you or other and all are at the center of a universe so timeless and boundless each is inconceivable and minuscule.
Pass the wine and give me a bit of cheese (while I get my head around all of that in my timeless moment at the center of nowhere).
Trite repetitions such as this console us not, we of those documentary children left on our own but recipients of ready made insights and shakable conclusions.
If every point is a center, then there is none and neither bringing rights, lofty expansive descriptions, or morose morsels that need concern us.
Yes, I'll have another, thanks.
No one can leave it like that, insignificant beings in immense seeings. What of the meanings inside and great deeds done in the immediate surround?
They have a measure of difference among like kinds just as galaxies among billions collide and we hardly notice, but they are momentous moments too.
Yes I'll have another, thanks.
Then I'm done here. No one will notice except the humor and my long suffering partner, the star, at the other center of my universe where there is no other.
Each and all of these or other points are at the center of an infinite surround ever expanding towards eternity but never getting there where there is no there.
Which means you or other and all are at the center of a universe so timeless and boundless each is inconceivable and minuscule.
Pass the wine and give me a bit of cheese (while I get my head around all of that in my timeless moment at the center of nowhere).
Trite repetitions such as this console us not, we of those documentary children left on our own but recipients of ready made insights and shakable conclusions.
If every point is a center, then there is none and neither bringing rights, lofty expansive descriptions, or morose morsels that need concern us.
Yes, I'll have another, thanks.
No one can leave it like that, insignificant beings in immense seeings. What of the meanings inside and great deeds done in the immediate surround?
They have a measure of difference among like kinds just as galaxies among billions collide and we hardly notice, but they are momentous moments too.
Yes I'll have another, thanks.
Then I'm done here. No one will notice except the humor and my long suffering partner, the star, at the other center of my universe where there is no other.
December 24, 2009
Come this spring
A windowless wooden door
with hand-hewn lintel, stone,
a window as wide and half as tall,
above, ivy curtained,
the silent portal framed,
a seldom entry
at the end of a gravel path
scrunching each approaching step,
neither discloses nor invites
one to knock or inquire;
the door and window and foliage
impose such as to hide
building or dwelling
of which they are all one.
And I to Italy
to see if 'round the back
a garden needs a tender,
or an olive needs cicadae
to sing it's present there,
or sit-admire fruit awaiting.
December 21, 2009
Un-i-sex
She stopped by the other day and told me the latest. I have become the listener now in our relationship. It was different before, but now it is this way. And I don't mind. In fact I like it. Listening is a way of relaxing in a conversation, isn't it? And even one's silence and patience have an effect. Or if it is just acknowledgement that you have understood, if you understand that way of listening, that can help too. I mean understand the other person. So I am fine with it. But this is not about me.
She said that Brad had stopped by her desk at the office and shuffled about. She didn't get--until he had to come right out with it that he wanted to buy her a coffee--that he was really doing that, trying to invite her. She said that she was so dense. I didn't agree. But maybe she is. Anyway, she met Brad, maybe it was Starbuck's. She was all out of sorts. It had been raining by then and she had forgotten her umbrella. She was all wet with her briefcase from the office and some packages she had picked up from Lacey's. They were holding them for her. And she wanted to take them home. New things she said she needed. Some even sexy, although I know she wasn't going to show them to anyone. There was no one in mind, no one current. In fact, there had never been to my knowledge. We have known each other for a long time, and I think I would know. No, there is no one. But this Brad. She said he was nice. They talked about work. And then she left. Just like that. I asked if there was anything else. Something he did or said. She said no, nothing. I asked about whether they would be meeting again, and she said that was a curious question. Of course they would see each other at the office. It was like that with her. She never seemed to wonder about things. I mean men and how they might be interested. She didn't even talk about being attractive for guys, although I know she takes care of herself. She really does. She always looks great. But who am I to talk like this? It's really none of my business. But in a sense I guess it is. I am listening. She tells me these things. Sort of makes it my business. But I don't think it is my place to ask questions. Not questions like that.
So Brad came and went, I guess. Just like so many others. And no word from her about anything more, anything juicy. Anything romantic. Maybe she just doesn't have it in her. No, that is not it. I think she just doesn't pay attention.
I remember John. He was a looker. I saw him once. They shook hands when they parted, although to me he looked a bit awkward about it. She extended her hand first, and he hesitated a moment then took her hand. They shook as business people do. I guessed that that was how she wanted it. I didn't think all these things at the time, just an impression. But now that I am telling you, that is how it seems. When we talked about him, and I said he seemed nice, she said he was, and that was that. Off she went on some other subject. I think it was about a weekend she was planning, a spa weekend, to get away from work "and everything." I never knew what "everything" was. Her life seemed to be work, a bit of shopping, exercising at an aerobics center. Her social life was a kind of mystery. I only heard about stuff when she wanted to talk. And her need to talk--can I call it that?--came and went. So I don't know about everything.
I tried to put together when she needed an ear and when she didn't. My life, after all, was not all that exciting. But hers, well, hers could be, or could have been. Sometimes she was stunningly beautiful in a natural sort of way. She dressed very well. You'd expect that of a businesswoman today. Well, she is not so much a businesswoman as a career girl. Administrative assistant, I think they call it. But she dressed the part and more. Perhaps it was the firm she was with. I mean a dress code, maybe unspoken. I don't know. Anyway she didn't even have to dress that way to look fabulous. So she got lots of attention just because, because she looked the way she does. Her beauty is physical, yes. But there is something else. I guess it is what people mean when they say it comes from the inside. She is definitely beautiful from the inside, and out.
She smiles a lot. She is friendly. She is talkative, but also a listener. And the way she listens, she draws you right in. You become special. But when you act, I mean men, they act on that special feeling they get when they are around her, off she goes, literally. Or changes the subject, about the weather or sports or, you know, she avoids getting personal. It is conscious. But I think sometimes it is not. More like something she's learned, from her childhood or something. She just isn't interested in getting personal, except with me, I guess, and I am sure with members of her family, especially her brother. Her brother seems to be important in this way. Anyway, she is beautiful. And if she feels she has flaws or is in any way less than what she is, she doesn't talk about it, not with me.
Thom was someone she talked a lot about for a while. Then one day she stopped. We were having lunch, and I asked about him. I joked that a Thom could sound like a T or a Th. I preferred the latter, and I asked her which she preferred. We laughed a bit, said the Th sounded better. She said he was interesting but that she would not be seeing him again soon. I asked if he was married. She said no, but that he would be out of town a lot, and "he said he was very busy." This way of saying it caught my attention, but I let it go, for at that point she looked out the window and commented on the approaching clouds. She said she thought it would rain, although the weather-cast had not said so. There was a brief silence. I tried to prolong it by not saying anything. Like making a space for her to say something more, something she really wanted to say. And then she began talking about her brother.
He seems to be in the picture, but I know he lives quite far away. I guess they talk on the phone. No, they do talk now that I remember. I haven't paid much attention, but come to think of it, she mentions him a lot. He is younger and apparently has had some terrible experiences with women. They seem to have dumped him, always dumping him. She never went into details, but it seemed that frequently she was counseling him by phone on how to cope, how to understand what happened, what women were like, all that sort of stuff. I guess he pretty much relies on her and she, from her distance, takes care of him.
One time I asked her what she said to him. What was the advice and stuff. She began by saying you know how women are. And I said I didn't. No one is allowed to generalize in my world, and I think whether man or woman, neither can say how it is with the general other. So I won't venture a comment or opinion even where my own sex is concerned. She said that was interesting, "very intriguing," she put it. And then she gave a couple of examples of what she said to her brother. She said that women were people too and that because one did not choose to continue in a relationship with him did not mean that he caused it, a break that is. Each person has her own issues, like expectations. I liked that. Each person has her own issues. And then she said something like maybe you were doing something that somehow turned the girl off. I thought this interesting also, because it is this awareness of what she does that I don't think she has, I mean in relation particularly with men. But I could be wrong. Obviously I must be, if she is giving that advice to others. Especially to a man, if a brother counts as a man, which I think he must, right?
Well, all this is for nothing. She is a wonderful person with a lot going for her. She is kind of old not to have had a serious relationship, particularly for a person as attractive as she is. Twenty-nine and never been kissed. I don't actually know that, but about the virginity I'm pretty sure.
One time the subject came up. Our conversations are not as freewheeling as I would like, otherwise we would have been clear on this subject long ago. She certainly knows my story on that score, for sure. I guess she holds herself back with me, too. Anyway, she said she just didn't feel like other women she knew. She felt kind of a-sexual, or that she didn't really didn't know what sexy was. She said she had felt something funny, and scary, once with someone she liked a lot. I asked it this person was male or female. She gave me a strange look and didn't answer but continued talking about how she thought she did not fit in that world. When it came to parties, she said she found herself by herself or talking to different people. Sometimes a man would come up and say something cute, but she always brushed it off. She said these lines, she called them "lines," were curious but basically not credible. That was it, she focused on the line as if from another planet and not in any way related to what the other person really was trying to say. I said that was very interesting, what did she think they wanted to say. She said they were probably not going to say, whatever it was. And because of that, she didn't need to respond, except politely and briefly. She said they were hiding themselves, and if that is what they wanted to do, she would respect that. I said that was also interesting, but maybe a man and a woman did not have to spell it all out to each other. At that she said that if the whole business of flirting and sex and anything more was based on this deception, she would prefer not to play. At that I asked her whether or not she had ever kissed a man. She said she hadn't and fell silent. So I put it another way. Had a man ever kissed her? She said yes, and fell silent again. I said "Well?" She said, "That's it. That's all there is to say. I have never had sex with a man."
I take her at her word. And I feel I got pretty close to the truth then. I am no threat to her, and so disclosing to me is pretty safe. She has said as much. And so I don't go off and speculate about what really happened. I think if she wants me to know, she will tell me. And I don't need to know. It is she not me who is, like, leading this relationship, our friendship.
My next question was about other women, because she sometimes talked of people she knew who were, she said, pretty or attractive. I think she used the word pretty. So often did she use this word to describe someone that I had a small voice inside me that said that there was something there. Why would she say someone was pretty and then go on to describe what she looked like, what she was wearing, and so forth. It was like that with Melanie. She talked about Melanie several times over the course of several months. I think it was last year. By Christmas, however, the name disappeared. I asked about her once or twice, like with Thom, but she said something like Melanie no longer had the time of day for her. Same story, I guess. I wondered what that meant, especially when she said that Melanie had a different life and friends and was always busy when she called. Well, I just thought that explained enough. But there was one thing. I think Melanie held a special if temporary place in her life. There was a kind of sadness or bittersweet quality to how she said she no longer had time for her. It was the faintest suggestion, but I thought I saw it in her eyes before they averted mine. Sometimes I stare while listening. I think I must appear pretty intense, or interested. Maybe I unnerved her.
From time to time she would comment ever so briefly about some woman passing by or sitting over there in the coffee shop. We often met there, the one near my work, not hers. She seemed to notice. Not so much clothes as the face, the lips, or her figure. I don't know. It is just a feeling. Don't women talk more about what other women are wearing, not so much about how fit they are or how sensuous their lips are? You tell me.
Anyway, I have nothing much to go on in this department. But my point is that there is a singular lack of any relationship she talks about. It is all about surfaces and he is nice, or pleasant. It never seems to go deeper. She does not seem to be hiding but then again it seems she is. And why would she from me?
From time to time, especially lately, I have thought I should just stop being the listener. Maybe I should talk about me and my sexual fantasies and such. Maybe my problems. But I have yet to change the way we meet and enjoy each other's company. I guess it is more about her, but I enjoy being with her and hearing about how things are going.
Often it is about some thing. Something she is currently interested in. And she has a wide range of interests that have nothing to do with relationships, men and all of that. For example, lions. She went through a lion stage. She researched them, downloaded documentaries, borrowed books from the library about African predators and such. She went on and on sometimes about those lions. The mating also. Sometimes when she talked about that and the role of the lioness, it was like she got some kind of energy. Pent up sexual frustration, my shrink would say. I don't know. But what she had to say was interesting. Then she went off on how big our galaxy is. She sounded like some kind of star-struck kid, one that just could not get enough of how damn big the universe is. She measured stuff in millions and millions of light years and all of that. It was like she was in a constant state of wonder. Sometimes she would catch herself and stop and ask if she was being too adolescent or something. I would say she was, and she would stop. It was like these worlds of things, or animals, were a kind of strong attractor drawing her in by some force greater than herself, maybe outside herself. I don't know. It just seems like a big thing for her sometimes. And I guess she goes off on these subjects with men who strike up conversations with her. I wonder what effect that has. Maybe they would rather have the conversation center around the nothingness of getting eventually into each other's pants or something.
Is she frustrated? Not at all, I guess. Me? That's another story. I hope I haven't said something here I shouldn't have.
She said that Brad had stopped by her desk at the office and shuffled about. She didn't get--until he had to come right out with it that he wanted to buy her a coffee--that he was really doing that, trying to invite her. She said that she was so dense. I didn't agree. But maybe she is. Anyway, she met Brad, maybe it was Starbuck's. She was all out of sorts. It had been raining by then and she had forgotten her umbrella. She was all wet with her briefcase from the office and some packages she had picked up from Lacey's. They were holding them for her. And she wanted to take them home. New things she said she needed. Some even sexy, although I know she wasn't going to show them to anyone. There was no one in mind, no one current. In fact, there had never been to my knowledge. We have known each other for a long time, and I think I would know. No, there is no one. But this Brad. She said he was nice. They talked about work. And then she left. Just like that. I asked if there was anything else. Something he did or said. She said no, nothing. I asked about whether they would be meeting again, and she said that was a curious question. Of course they would see each other at the office. It was like that with her. She never seemed to wonder about things. I mean men and how they might be interested. She didn't even talk about being attractive for guys, although I know she takes care of herself. She really does. She always looks great. But who am I to talk like this? It's really none of my business. But in a sense I guess it is. I am listening. She tells me these things. Sort of makes it my business. But I don't think it is my place to ask questions. Not questions like that.
So Brad came and went, I guess. Just like so many others. And no word from her about anything more, anything juicy. Anything romantic. Maybe she just doesn't have it in her. No, that is not it. I think she just doesn't pay attention.
I remember John. He was a looker. I saw him once. They shook hands when they parted, although to me he looked a bit awkward about it. She extended her hand first, and he hesitated a moment then took her hand. They shook as business people do. I guessed that that was how she wanted it. I didn't think all these things at the time, just an impression. But now that I am telling you, that is how it seems. When we talked about him, and I said he seemed nice, she said he was, and that was that. Off she went on some other subject. I think it was about a weekend she was planning, a spa weekend, to get away from work "and everything." I never knew what "everything" was. Her life seemed to be work, a bit of shopping, exercising at an aerobics center. Her social life was a kind of mystery. I only heard about stuff when she wanted to talk. And her need to talk--can I call it that?--came and went. So I don't know about everything.
I tried to put together when she needed an ear and when she didn't. My life, after all, was not all that exciting. But hers, well, hers could be, or could have been. Sometimes she was stunningly beautiful in a natural sort of way. She dressed very well. You'd expect that of a businesswoman today. Well, she is not so much a businesswoman as a career girl. Administrative assistant, I think they call it. But she dressed the part and more. Perhaps it was the firm she was with. I mean a dress code, maybe unspoken. I don't know. Anyway she didn't even have to dress that way to look fabulous. So she got lots of attention just because, because she looked the way she does. Her beauty is physical, yes. But there is something else. I guess it is what people mean when they say it comes from the inside. She is definitely beautiful from the inside, and out.
She smiles a lot. She is friendly. She is talkative, but also a listener. And the way she listens, she draws you right in. You become special. But when you act, I mean men, they act on that special feeling they get when they are around her, off she goes, literally. Or changes the subject, about the weather or sports or, you know, she avoids getting personal. It is conscious. But I think sometimes it is not. More like something she's learned, from her childhood or something. She just isn't interested in getting personal, except with me, I guess, and I am sure with members of her family, especially her brother. Her brother seems to be important in this way. Anyway, she is beautiful. And if she feels she has flaws or is in any way less than what she is, she doesn't talk about it, not with me.
Thom was someone she talked a lot about for a while. Then one day she stopped. We were having lunch, and I asked about him. I joked that a Thom could sound like a T or a Th. I preferred the latter, and I asked her which she preferred. We laughed a bit, said the Th sounded better. She said he was interesting but that she would not be seeing him again soon. I asked if he was married. She said no, but that he would be out of town a lot, and "he said he was very busy." This way of saying it caught my attention, but I let it go, for at that point she looked out the window and commented on the approaching clouds. She said she thought it would rain, although the weather-cast had not said so. There was a brief silence. I tried to prolong it by not saying anything. Like making a space for her to say something more, something she really wanted to say. And then she began talking about her brother.
He seems to be in the picture, but I know he lives quite far away. I guess they talk on the phone. No, they do talk now that I remember. I haven't paid much attention, but come to think of it, she mentions him a lot. He is younger and apparently has had some terrible experiences with women. They seem to have dumped him, always dumping him. She never went into details, but it seemed that frequently she was counseling him by phone on how to cope, how to understand what happened, what women were like, all that sort of stuff. I guess he pretty much relies on her and she, from her distance, takes care of him.
One time I asked her what she said to him. What was the advice and stuff. She began by saying you know how women are. And I said I didn't. No one is allowed to generalize in my world, and I think whether man or woman, neither can say how it is with the general other. So I won't venture a comment or opinion even where my own sex is concerned. She said that was interesting, "very intriguing," she put it. And then she gave a couple of examples of what she said to her brother. She said that women were people too and that because one did not choose to continue in a relationship with him did not mean that he caused it, a break that is. Each person has her own issues, like expectations. I liked that. Each person has her own issues. And then she said something like maybe you were doing something that somehow turned the girl off. I thought this interesting also, because it is this awareness of what she does that I don't think she has, I mean in relation particularly with men. But I could be wrong. Obviously I must be, if she is giving that advice to others. Especially to a man, if a brother counts as a man, which I think he must, right?
Well, all this is for nothing. She is a wonderful person with a lot going for her. She is kind of old not to have had a serious relationship, particularly for a person as attractive as she is. Twenty-nine and never been kissed. I don't actually know that, but about the virginity I'm pretty sure.
One time the subject came up. Our conversations are not as freewheeling as I would like, otherwise we would have been clear on this subject long ago. She certainly knows my story on that score, for sure. I guess she holds herself back with me, too. Anyway, she said she just didn't feel like other women she knew. She felt kind of a-sexual, or that she didn't really didn't know what sexy was. She said she had felt something funny, and scary, once with someone she liked a lot. I asked it this person was male or female. She gave me a strange look and didn't answer but continued talking about how she thought she did not fit in that world. When it came to parties, she said she found herself by herself or talking to different people. Sometimes a man would come up and say something cute, but she always brushed it off. She said these lines, she called them "lines," were curious but basically not credible. That was it, she focused on the line as if from another planet and not in any way related to what the other person really was trying to say. I said that was very interesting, what did she think they wanted to say. She said they were probably not going to say, whatever it was. And because of that, she didn't need to respond, except politely and briefly. She said they were hiding themselves, and if that is what they wanted to do, she would respect that. I said that was also interesting, but maybe a man and a woman did not have to spell it all out to each other. At that she said that if the whole business of flirting and sex and anything more was based on this deception, she would prefer not to play. At that I asked her whether or not she had ever kissed a man. She said she hadn't and fell silent. So I put it another way. Had a man ever kissed her? She said yes, and fell silent again. I said "Well?" She said, "That's it. That's all there is to say. I have never had sex with a man."
I take her at her word. And I feel I got pretty close to the truth then. I am no threat to her, and so disclosing to me is pretty safe. She has said as much. And so I don't go off and speculate about what really happened. I think if she wants me to know, she will tell me. And I don't need to know. It is she not me who is, like, leading this relationship, our friendship.
My next question was about other women, because she sometimes talked of people she knew who were, she said, pretty or attractive. I think she used the word pretty. So often did she use this word to describe someone that I had a small voice inside me that said that there was something there. Why would she say someone was pretty and then go on to describe what she looked like, what she was wearing, and so forth. It was like that with Melanie. She talked about Melanie several times over the course of several months. I think it was last year. By Christmas, however, the name disappeared. I asked about her once or twice, like with Thom, but she said something like Melanie no longer had the time of day for her. Same story, I guess. I wondered what that meant, especially when she said that Melanie had a different life and friends and was always busy when she called. Well, I just thought that explained enough. But there was one thing. I think Melanie held a special if temporary place in her life. There was a kind of sadness or bittersweet quality to how she said she no longer had time for her. It was the faintest suggestion, but I thought I saw it in her eyes before they averted mine. Sometimes I stare while listening. I think I must appear pretty intense, or interested. Maybe I unnerved her.
From time to time she would comment ever so briefly about some woman passing by or sitting over there in the coffee shop. We often met there, the one near my work, not hers. She seemed to notice. Not so much clothes as the face, the lips, or her figure. I don't know. It is just a feeling. Don't women talk more about what other women are wearing, not so much about how fit they are or how sensuous their lips are? You tell me.
Anyway, I have nothing much to go on in this department. But my point is that there is a singular lack of any relationship she talks about. It is all about surfaces and he is nice, or pleasant. It never seems to go deeper. She does not seem to be hiding but then again it seems she is. And why would she from me?
From time to time, especially lately, I have thought I should just stop being the listener. Maybe I should talk about me and my sexual fantasies and such. Maybe my problems. But I have yet to change the way we meet and enjoy each other's company. I guess it is more about her, but I enjoy being with her and hearing about how things are going.
Often it is about some thing. Something she is currently interested in. And she has a wide range of interests that have nothing to do with relationships, men and all of that. For example, lions. She went through a lion stage. She researched them, downloaded documentaries, borrowed books from the library about African predators and such. She went on and on sometimes about those lions. The mating also. Sometimes when she talked about that and the role of the lioness, it was like she got some kind of energy. Pent up sexual frustration, my shrink would say. I don't know. But what she had to say was interesting. Then she went off on how big our galaxy is. She sounded like some kind of star-struck kid, one that just could not get enough of how damn big the universe is. She measured stuff in millions and millions of light years and all of that. It was like she was in a constant state of wonder. Sometimes she would catch herself and stop and ask if she was being too adolescent or something. I would say she was, and she would stop. It was like these worlds of things, or animals, were a kind of strong attractor drawing her in by some force greater than herself, maybe outside herself. I don't know. It just seems like a big thing for her sometimes. And I guess she goes off on these subjects with men who strike up conversations with her. I wonder what effect that has. Maybe they would rather have the conversation center around the nothingness of getting eventually into each other's pants or something.
Is she frustrated? Not at all, I guess. Me? That's another story. I hope I haven't said something here I shouldn't have.
December 8, 2009
untitled
Sometimes something is so beautiful it brings tears you can't stop, so good it makes a smile you can't wipe away, so full of something that makes you understand so clearly, so comprehensively--it is so elegant--that all is right with the world for that moment, and you forget every worry, every wrong, every misdeed, and all regret . . . something such as the smallest you can focus on in the sunshine while the music of your heart provides the perfect background, or such as the largest like the Golden Gate Bridge seen from the Marin Headlands, or the Grand Canyon from the bottom up. Or take a Paris evening in late spring after consuming all the exquisities and you come to reside in an aperitif, some cheese, coffee, and a Gauloise while watching lovers successively pass by and cross to infinitely singular points on the Pont Neuf to kiss. Ah, life sometimes, some things, some moments catapult us out of ourselves and into eternity. It is no wonder we hunger for such moments now and everlastingly.
Spirit's sweet peace*
Feeling spirit 's not spirit, no such rot.
Awareness is of these, yes, and the not.
Your feelings and thoughts both to float free by,
awareness as clouds in an empty sky.
Conflate empty with feelings, spirit's done--
then the regressive slide's your first born son,
then unending worlds of clones your small self,
subject's fascination right off the shelf.
Spirit is transcending beyond just me.
(This is a bit of a mess, can't you see?)
Witness the witness here and deep inside.
There pure being 's where our spirits reside.
Declarations aside, we would be where
our view would be stuck in an outside stare.
Externals are not where true spirit's at,
nor is a label-name to fix the that.
Spirit is being, not something about
by those that make noise and ceaselessly tout.
(Yet they too are part and whole manifest
that comprise and permeate this our nest.)
Would that being our essence our practice
and not such stuff we invite and entice.
Thus we'd realize as is our bequest.
We'd come to sweet peace as such is our rest.
__________
* Inspired by Shambhala Publication's Interview with Ken Wilber,
http://wilber.shambhala.com/html/interviews/Shambhala_interview.cfm/wsdindex.html
Awareness is of these, yes, and the not.
Your feelings and thoughts both to float free by,
awareness as clouds in an empty sky.
Conflate empty with feelings, spirit's done--
then the regressive slide's your first born son,
then unending worlds of clones your small self,
subject's fascination right off the shelf.
Spirit is transcending beyond just me.
(This is a bit of a mess, can't you see?)
Witness the witness here and deep inside.
There pure being 's where our spirits reside.
Declarations aside, we would be where
our view would be stuck in an outside stare.
Externals are not where true spirit's at,
nor is a label-name to fix the that.
Spirit is being, not something about
by those that make noise and ceaselessly tout.
(Yet they too are part and whole manifest
that comprise and permeate this our nest.)
Would that being our essence our practice
and not such stuff we invite and entice.
Thus we'd realize as is our bequest.
We'd come to sweet peace as such is our rest.
__________
* Inspired by Shambhala Publication's Interview with Ken Wilber,
http://wilber.shambhala.com/html/interviews/Shambhala_interview.cfm/wsdindex.html
November 12, 2009
Meme in a Kosmos
[A short gloss. Memes are _structures_ we can perceive of recurrent _mutual understandings_ along side of _science_ and _art_. The quartet is a Kosmic description, which is also not the whole but part. Our participation is required. But this piece will be the last of merely naming, therefore claiming. It does not do what it says it should.]
Strophe
Have you seen a meme?
It is like a theme.
_Seen one I've never.
I'm not so clever._
It's like what we do,
needs one, maybe two.
_Can you eat it, yumm?
Something cooked by Mum?_
More like over time,
things we eat, or rhyme.
_Made then they are.
Memes are not so far._
Close at hand we see.
Out of sight they be.
_Are they fixed on land,
timeless as the sand?_
No, they sometimes shift.
We must through them sift.
_So to say they're there,
memes are when we stare._
Yes, and more with some,
before you say, "Done!"
_Why we themes do sew,
if memes come and go?_
Occupy our time--
till we wax sublime.
_Trees are one with ground,
if Truth is never found._
Antistrophe
That may be for you.
Some massage the goo.
_Thus they form a pense
to avert the rends?_
Yes, tears and more, say,
to effect what may.
_Some things we create
science cannot sate._
Ideas finely posed,
are our history's prose.
_Without good and new,
little would be true._
A poor life we'd lead
without ideas' good steed.
_That along with text
we can forge what's next._
Nature, time and space
include thoughts apace.
_Silly rhyme is this.
Beauty's part we miss._
Let not us deceive.
Kosmos can conceive.
_Truth is science 'main.
Structure not disdain . . ._
Words our meanings make.
No poems forsake.
_Thank you gentle god.
We'd be more than clod._
Strophe
Have you seen a meme?
It is like a theme.
_Seen one I've never.
I'm not so clever._
It's like what we do,
needs one, maybe two.
_Can you eat it, yumm?
Something cooked by Mum?_
More like over time,
things we eat, or rhyme.
_Made then they are.
Memes are not so far._
Close at hand we see.
Out of sight they be.
_Are they fixed on land,
timeless as the sand?_
No, they sometimes shift.
We must through them sift.
_So to say they're there,
memes are when we stare._
Yes, and more with some,
before you say, "Done!"
_Why we themes do sew,
if memes come and go?_
Occupy our time--
till we wax sublime.
_Trees are one with ground,
if Truth is never found._
Antistrophe
That may be for you.
Some massage the goo.
_Thus they form a pense
to avert the rends?_
Yes, tears and more, say,
to effect what may.
_Some things we create
science cannot sate._
Ideas finely posed,
are our history's prose.
_Without good and new,
little would be true._
A poor life we'd lead
without ideas' good steed.
_That along with text
we can forge what's next._
Nature, time and space
include thoughts apace.
_Silly rhyme is this.
Beauty's part we miss._
Let not us deceive.
Kosmos can conceive.
_Truth is science 'main.
Structure not disdain . . ._
Words our meanings make.
No poems forsake.
_Thank you gentle god.
We'd be more than clod._
November 10, 2009
Theresienstadt visitor*
Part I
CARLOS: No one, not the guards or the commandant can take that from me.
INTERLOCUTOR: But they can torture you, make you do things you would never dream of doing, like killing. With stones, with your own hands. Or raping your own daughter.
CARLOS: They try to break me by doing nothing. By letting me rot here. By neglect, not giving me food. By not seeing my sores or hearing the sounds of my sickness.
INTERLOCUTOR: Yes. And still you say they cannot take your freedom. You have no freedom here. In any sense.
CARLOS: They cannot take my words.
INTERLOCUTOR: They can rip your tongue out. Have you thought of that?
CARLOS: Yes, they can hurt me, deprive me, command me. But they can't take my choice, my own words from me. They can't even take what I have said to you. You will go out of here with my words engraved in your heart, if you have one.
INTERLOCUTOR: Whether I do or not, you will be here. A prisoner in your incommunicable words. Your choices, which I dare say place you in the most horrible of states. Look at yourself.
CARLOS: Is communicating so important? There are worse prisons than living confined in one's own words. Even those words that do not travel from these lips.
INTERLOCUTOR: This place then.
CARLOS: Yes, this place. And others. There are other jails with invisible bars and guards with keys they keep out of reach. They will never give them up, let you just borrow them for a moment to set yourself, shall I say it, free. Oh, there are guards and bars. And despair. Hopelessness.
INTERLOCUTOR: A prisoner then of words, and longing for what others have and you don't.
CARLOS: There is nothing that others have that I can't do without. Look at me. I am proof of that. I am still here. I am talking with you.
INTERLOCUTOR: And when visiting hours are over?
CARLOS: I have these silent words, the ones in here. The ones no one hears or can hear. In them there is no prison but total freedom. No one takes that from me, as long as I am sane enough to utter them, to manage with them, to imagine with them. As long as I am alive, my body not so dead that I cannot any longer.
INTERLOCUTOR: Grim. Very grim.
CARLOS: Ultimate salvation. The only one from here.
INTERLOCUTOR: Would your God could hear that.
CARLOS: I suspect he does.
INTERLOCUTOR: Then it is prayer, these words, this corner of your dim, residual life that is this freedom. You communicate with your God.
CARLOS: No. I just communicate. It is not important that anyone is there to listen, to hear me.
INTERLOCUTOR: And what do you say? Other than what you have said here today to me.
CARLOS: I am still here. I am me. Separate from you. Separate from all that is that I can see and feel in this place. Even the hopelessness. In that simple declaration, there is immense comfort and power. No one can touch or tamper with that.
INTERLOCUTOR: Except if you die, or they break your body. Is that what you call spirit?
CARLOS: A word. There are others.
INTERLOCUTOR: Have you confessed?
CARLOS: I have told them what they wanted to hear.
INTERLOCUTOR: Was it the truth?
CARLOS: Truth is what they wanted to hear.
INTERLOCUTOR: You are equivocating.
CARLOS: I need at least some amusement.
INTERLOCUTOR: At my expense. I don't understand this freedom of yours. I am wasting my time. There is nothing to tell those on the outside who are waiting for word from you.
CARLOS: I have told you what you can say. I have told you the essence. Freedom is precious. And nothing except total, thoroughgoing incapacity can snuff it out.
INTERLOCUTOR: I wonder if they will take hope from that.
CARLOS: They have their own prisons, their own jailers. They just need to recognize them for what they are. Tell them to look for the the guards, the commandants, the interlocutors. They are all around. And once you see them, declare for yourself and, through that, against them.
INTERLOCUTOR: People like me. I am one of them. A keeper. Someone who would take freedom from you.
CARLOS: Yes. You see that now.
INTERLOCUTOR: The one who questions would have you as he wants you. As without your freedom but submission to me, my words.
CARLOS: There are worse prisons than your words.
INTERLOCUTOR: I suspect there are.
[CARLOS is silent.]
INTERLOCUTOR: You are a different sort. Good bye. I suppose it is useless to say I hope to see you in better spirits.
CARLOS: Yes, but I could use some clean water and warm food.
INTERLOCUTOR: I am afraid I have no influence over such things.
CARLOS: My points exactly. Think positive thoughts. For me, if you like.
(Interlocutor falls silent.)
Part II
(Two armed guards in the yard ordered the inmates standing nearby to kill the two who had failed in their escape attempt. Carlos was one of those given a direct order to begin the execution. He refused and just stood there. Others took up stones and the horror ensued. The guards walked away when the two were dead and when those who had participated had hung their heads.)
INTERLOCUTOR: You could have been killed on the spot.
CARLOS: I know that. I wasn't. It was just chance.
INTERLOCUTOR: What made you refuse?
CARLOS: Killing is not in me, even for self preservation.
INTERLOCUTOR: But you knew what the alternatives were. Kill or be killed.
CARLOS: You forget. Chance saved me, gave me a reprieve. Till I don't know when, but a reprieve still.
INTERLOCUTOR: You know you will not leave here alive. No one does.
CARLOS: I know.
INTERLOCUTOR: You can be certain. And?
CARLOS: And knowing that, it was going to be then or anytime. Maybe even today. That certainty gave me a choice. I chose by not throwing a stone that the cause of my death might come right then from someone's heart, or some impulse in that moment of chaos and shock. But it didn't. I don't have control over others.
INTERLOCUTOR: So that's what your freedom is about. About knowledge that you accept about a fate now or later and choosing to accept that fate now or when it will be.
CARLOS: Yes, death's certainty. There is also no escape from here, where I know it will take place. I just don't know when. And if I accept that knowledge and that one unknown, my own unavoidable death every minute here, I gain a kind of dispassion, can I call it? I think of it as freedom.
Killing those inmates would have been horror for me. Choosing not to kill them and not suffer every minute since was the only possibility for me. And now that it turned out this way for however long it will, there is no change in my essential condition. I am here. I am alive, still. Death awaits me--still. I have a small range of choices, but the one about killing someone else, or killing myself, that is not one of them.
INTERLOCUTOR: But by refusing you might as well have asked them to kill you.
CARLOS: They didn't. They didn't maybe because they know I know. Waiting to die, anticipation and fear, is harder than dying. They think my waiting is worse than death itself. The guards are not so stupid. Or if they are, they didn't know what to do in the moment, and on that one day, they did what they did, spared me. The irony is no one is spared, ever. Maybe they knew that deep down somewhere. Or maybe they are so evil that my living under a death sentence that can be carried out by anyone at any time is a greater cruelty that they can inflict.
INTERLOCUTOR: So that leaves you where?
CARLOS: Here, of course. They put me here, now isolated from the others.
INTERLOCUTOR: Maybe they think this will increase your fear about what they will do to you.
CARLOS: I know there is no escape. We all wait till the end. And in that condition, I am free not to wait. Death will find me, or I will find death when the time comes. I have a freedom from the imprisonment of my own soul, or spirit if you prefer.
INTERLOCUTOR: Yes. You are a different sort.
CARLOS: You said that before.
INTERLOCUTOR: Did I?
CARLOS: You are wrong. I am no different. I have weak moments. But I've merely seen and accepted. I understand. And where there is understanding, or death, there is liberation from whatever is. And most days I can attend to other matters. You see, they cannot really control everything, appearances not to the contrary.
INTERLOCUTOR: This is my last visit.
CARLOS: Every moment is the last.
INTERLOCUTOR: Spare me your philosophy. Save yourself. At least try to.
CARLOS: Spare me your illusions. I prefer your questions.
(Carlos gets up from the corner and stands by the door as if he had just entered the cell. He takes a deep breath, and this time silently begins mouthing words no one can hear.)
__________
* Inspired by a visit to TerezÃn in the fall of 2009 and reading the novel, _The Shadow of the Wind_, by C. R. Zafon.
CARLOS: No one, not the guards or the commandant can take that from me.
INTERLOCUTOR: But they can torture you, make you do things you would never dream of doing, like killing. With stones, with your own hands. Or raping your own daughter.
CARLOS: They try to break me by doing nothing. By letting me rot here. By neglect, not giving me food. By not seeing my sores or hearing the sounds of my sickness.
INTERLOCUTOR: Yes. And still you say they cannot take your freedom. You have no freedom here. In any sense.
CARLOS: They cannot take my words.
INTERLOCUTOR: They can rip your tongue out. Have you thought of that?
CARLOS: Yes, they can hurt me, deprive me, command me. But they can't take my choice, my own words from me. They can't even take what I have said to you. You will go out of here with my words engraved in your heart, if you have one.
INTERLOCUTOR: Whether I do or not, you will be here. A prisoner in your incommunicable words. Your choices, which I dare say place you in the most horrible of states. Look at yourself.
CARLOS: Is communicating so important? There are worse prisons than living confined in one's own words. Even those words that do not travel from these lips.
INTERLOCUTOR: This place then.
CARLOS: Yes, this place. And others. There are other jails with invisible bars and guards with keys they keep out of reach. They will never give them up, let you just borrow them for a moment to set yourself, shall I say it, free. Oh, there are guards and bars. And despair. Hopelessness.
INTERLOCUTOR: A prisoner then of words, and longing for what others have and you don't.
CARLOS: There is nothing that others have that I can't do without. Look at me. I am proof of that. I am still here. I am talking with you.
INTERLOCUTOR: And when visiting hours are over?
CARLOS: I have these silent words, the ones in here. The ones no one hears or can hear. In them there is no prison but total freedom. No one takes that from me, as long as I am sane enough to utter them, to manage with them, to imagine with them. As long as I am alive, my body not so dead that I cannot any longer.
INTERLOCUTOR: Grim. Very grim.
CARLOS: Ultimate salvation. The only one from here.
INTERLOCUTOR: Would your God could hear that.
CARLOS: I suspect he does.
INTERLOCUTOR: Then it is prayer, these words, this corner of your dim, residual life that is this freedom. You communicate with your God.
CARLOS: No. I just communicate. It is not important that anyone is there to listen, to hear me.
INTERLOCUTOR: And what do you say? Other than what you have said here today to me.
CARLOS: I am still here. I am me. Separate from you. Separate from all that is that I can see and feel in this place. Even the hopelessness. In that simple declaration, there is immense comfort and power. No one can touch or tamper with that.
INTERLOCUTOR: Except if you die, or they break your body. Is that what you call spirit?
CARLOS: A word. There are others.
INTERLOCUTOR: Have you confessed?
CARLOS: I have told them what they wanted to hear.
INTERLOCUTOR: Was it the truth?
CARLOS: Truth is what they wanted to hear.
INTERLOCUTOR: You are equivocating.
CARLOS: I need at least some amusement.
INTERLOCUTOR: At my expense. I don't understand this freedom of yours. I am wasting my time. There is nothing to tell those on the outside who are waiting for word from you.
CARLOS: I have told you what you can say. I have told you the essence. Freedom is precious. And nothing except total, thoroughgoing incapacity can snuff it out.
INTERLOCUTOR: I wonder if they will take hope from that.
CARLOS: They have their own prisons, their own jailers. They just need to recognize them for what they are. Tell them to look for the the guards, the commandants, the interlocutors. They are all around. And once you see them, declare for yourself and, through that, against them.
INTERLOCUTOR: People like me. I am one of them. A keeper. Someone who would take freedom from you.
CARLOS: Yes. You see that now.
INTERLOCUTOR: The one who questions would have you as he wants you. As without your freedom but submission to me, my words.
CARLOS: There are worse prisons than your words.
INTERLOCUTOR: I suspect there are.
[CARLOS is silent.]
INTERLOCUTOR: You are a different sort. Good bye. I suppose it is useless to say I hope to see you in better spirits.
CARLOS: Yes, but I could use some clean water and warm food.
INTERLOCUTOR: I am afraid I have no influence over such things.
CARLOS: My points exactly. Think positive thoughts. For me, if you like.
(Interlocutor falls silent.)
Part II
(Two armed guards in the yard ordered the inmates standing nearby to kill the two who had failed in their escape attempt. Carlos was one of those given a direct order to begin the execution. He refused and just stood there. Others took up stones and the horror ensued. The guards walked away when the two were dead and when those who had participated had hung their heads.)
INTERLOCUTOR: You could have been killed on the spot.
CARLOS: I know that. I wasn't. It was just chance.
INTERLOCUTOR: What made you refuse?
CARLOS: Killing is not in me, even for self preservation.
INTERLOCUTOR: But you knew what the alternatives were. Kill or be killed.
CARLOS: You forget. Chance saved me, gave me a reprieve. Till I don't know when, but a reprieve still.
INTERLOCUTOR: You know you will not leave here alive. No one does.
CARLOS: I know.
INTERLOCUTOR: You can be certain. And?
CARLOS: And knowing that, it was going to be then or anytime. Maybe even today. That certainty gave me a choice. I chose by not throwing a stone that the cause of my death might come right then from someone's heart, or some impulse in that moment of chaos and shock. But it didn't. I don't have control over others.
INTERLOCUTOR: So that's what your freedom is about. About knowledge that you accept about a fate now or later and choosing to accept that fate now or when it will be.
CARLOS: Yes, death's certainty. There is also no escape from here, where I know it will take place. I just don't know when. And if I accept that knowledge and that one unknown, my own unavoidable death every minute here, I gain a kind of dispassion, can I call it? I think of it as freedom.
Killing those inmates would have been horror for me. Choosing not to kill them and not suffer every minute since was the only possibility for me. And now that it turned out this way for however long it will, there is no change in my essential condition. I am here. I am alive, still. Death awaits me--still. I have a small range of choices, but the one about killing someone else, or killing myself, that is not one of them.
INTERLOCUTOR: But by refusing you might as well have asked them to kill you.
CARLOS: They didn't. They didn't maybe because they know I know. Waiting to die, anticipation and fear, is harder than dying. They think my waiting is worse than death itself. The guards are not so stupid. Or if they are, they didn't know what to do in the moment, and on that one day, they did what they did, spared me. The irony is no one is spared, ever. Maybe they knew that deep down somewhere. Or maybe they are so evil that my living under a death sentence that can be carried out by anyone at any time is a greater cruelty that they can inflict.
INTERLOCUTOR: So that leaves you where?
CARLOS: Here, of course. They put me here, now isolated from the others.
INTERLOCUTOR: Maybe they think this will increase your fear about what they will do to you.
CARLOS: I know there is no escape. We all wait till the end. And in that condition, I am free not to wait. Death will find me, or I will find death when the time comes. I have a freedom from the imprisonment of my own soul, or spirit if you prefer.
INTERLOCUTOR: Yes. You are a different sort.
CARLOS: You said that before.
INTERLOCUTOR: Did I?
CARLOS: You are wrong. I am no different. I have weak moments. But I've merely seen and accepted. I understand. And where there is understanding, or death, there is liberation from whatever is. And most days I can attend to other matters. You see, they cannot really control everything, appearances not to the contrary.
INTERLOCUTOR: This is my last visit.
CARLOS: Every moment is the last.
INTERLOCUTOR: Spare me your philosophy. Save yourself. At least try to.
CARLOS: Spare me your illusions. I prefer your questions.
(Carlos gets up from the corner and stands by the door as if he had just entered the cell. He takes a deep breath, and this time silently begins mouthing words no one can hear.)
__________
* Inspired by a visit to TerezÃn in the fall of 2009 and reading the novel, _The Shadow of the Wind_, by C. R. Zafon.
November 6, 2009
Finished or not
Nights race round and pass faster than they used.
So many daylight dreams and projects had. . . .
Now they're past nothings, or memories fused.
No time left for half and more to feel glad.
I would the past the brilliant building be.
But it is not so; final payment's nigh.
Quick nights tell the darkness to make me see:
not much time nor enough, as I would lie.
Anticipate and race toward all your life
then find you your self that cold ember's glow.
Future's consolation is now less strife,
but the race we would have, it is not so.
Things learned and practiced have a life their own.
Terms' endings close the interest only loan.
So many daylight dreams and projects had. . . .
Now they're past nothings, or memories fused.
No time left for half and more to feel glad.
I would the past the brilliant building be.
But it is not so; final payment's nigh.
Quick nights tell the darkness to make me see:
not much time nor enough, as I would lie.
Anticipate and race toward all your life
then find you your self that cold ember's glow.
Future's consolation is now less strife,
but the race we would have, it is not so.
Things learned and practiced have a life their own.
Terms' endings close the interest only loan.
A sonnet this
A sonnet is a little love lyric,
just to pass the time, or punctuate it,
or both of these, if we are much adept.
Thus this not-what-may-seem is the subject.
As with miracles, it is also so,
an expression of and a call to sow.
The everyday hides or hails love bespoke,
yea, not just miracles the naught does cloak.
The moments so sure and simple gifted,
up to action from the mud we're lifted.
Compare the opposite, I would have you.
Isn't that a song that still sings how true?
Love or longing for it, a call not low:
This sonnet does punctuate, don't you know.
just to pass the time, or punctuate it,
or both of these, if we are much adept.
Thus this not-what-may-seem is the subject.
As with miracles, it is also so,
an expression of and a call to sow.
The everyday hides or hails love bespoke,
yea, not just miracles the naught does cloak.
The moments so sure and simple gifted,
up to action from the mud we're lifted.
Compare the opposite, I would have you.
Isn't that a song that still sings how true?
Love or longing for it, a call not low:
This sonnet does punctuate, don't you know.
You got what you (will) pay for
Public transport transports you, say, a bus;
private means you conveniently port--
difference being whisked away with no fuss,
versus sending self via umbilical pre-sort.
Where one makes room for possibilities,
(although the case could be another way)
the other gives predictablities.
Neither/none's preferable, who can say?
Except passenger intent and fare charged.
Although hidden forces often us move,
where we would go may only be revealed
in fullness' end--we hope the way is smooth.
Appearances not to the contrary,
we all arrive else, and pay plus unwary.
private means you conveniently port--
difference being whisked away with no fuss,
versus sending self via umbilical pre-sort.
Where one makes room for possibilities,
(although the case could be another way)
the other gives predictablities.
Neither/none's preferable, who can say?
Except passenger intent and fare charged.
Although hidden forces often us move,
where we would go may only be revealed
in fullness' end--we hope the way is smooth.
Appearances not to the contrary,
we all arrive else, and pay plus unwary.
October 9, 2009
Clinical trial failure
GIRL: No, that was nice, really.
BOY: I am so sorry.
GIRL: It's OK. Some guys just can't.
BOY: Oh?
GIRL: Yeah, sometimes it's like that.
BOY: How do you know?
GIRL: Well, I just know.
BOY: You just know? This is something you just know?
GIRL: Yeah. And we talk.
BOY: Who's we?
GIRL: You know, girls.
BOY: You mean girls talk about this stuff? between each other?
GIRL: Yes. It's OK. We can try again sometime. Soon.
BOY: [silence]
GIRL: So?
BOY: So what?
GIRL: So what do you think? about trying again, I mean.
BOY: Seems a bit clinical to me.
GIRL: What do you mean?
BOY: Well, you seem to know all about it. And you even know people and talk with your girlfriends and . . .
GIRL: Yes, we need to know. I mean we need to be prepared.
BOY: Prepared for what?
GIRL: For . . . for aborted attempts.
BOY: Now it really sounds clinical. Pretty cold.
GIRL: We could try again right now.
BOY: Jeese. I don't like talking about this. It is like school or going over the steps before bungee jumping or something. You--I really got to get up the nerve for something like this.
[prolonged silence]
GIRL: I think it's time to cut you off.
BOY: Cut me off? Off what?
GIRL: All this. I don't think you are mature enough to handle it.
BOY: Handle it? I can handle anything. I can prove it.
GIRL: Well, not just, er, recently . . .
BOY: I don't want to talk about it.
GIRL: OK. See you later then.
BOY: Just like that?
GIRL: Yep. You're not up to it, or can't . . .
BOY: That's a bit harsh.
GIRL: OK. If you say so.
BOY: I do. I do say so.
GIRL: Well, see ya.
BOY: Doubt it.
GIRL: Don't be a spoiled sport.
BOY: I'm not. I just . . . I just thought . . .
GIRL: Thought what?
BOY: That it would be more . . . soft or romantic or something.
GIRL: Maybe I didn't use the right words.
BOY: Yeah, maybe.
GIRL: See ya!
BOY: Hmm. Charlie said it would be like this with you. I didn't believe him, but now I do.
GIRL: Charlie? Charlie! What did he say?
BOY: I think it's time to cut you off. I'll spread the word.
GIRL: What did you say?
BOY: I am so sorry.
GIRL: It's OK. Some guys just can't.
BOY: Oh?
GIRL: Yeah, sometimes it's like that.
BOY: How do you know?
GIRL: Well, I just know.
BOY: You just know? This is something you just know?
GIRL: Yeah. And we talk.
BOY: Who's we?
GIRL: You know, girls.
BOY: You mean girls talk about this stuff? between each other?
GIRL: Yes. It's OK. We can try again sometime. Soon.
BOY: [silence]
GIRL: So?
BOY: So what?
GIRL: So what do you think? about trying again, I mean.
BOY: Seems a bit clinical to me.
GIRL: What do you mean?
BOY: Well, you seem to know all about it. And you even know people and talk with your girlfriends and . . .
GIRL: Yes, we need to know. I mean we need to be prepared.
BOY: Prepared for what?
GIRL: For . . . for aborted attempts.
BOY: Now it really sounds clinical. Pretty cold.
GIRL: We could try again right now.
BOY: Jeese. I don't like talking about this. It is like school or going over the steps before bungee jumping or something. You--I really got to get up the nerve for something like this.
[prolonged silence]
GIRL: I think it's time to cut you off.
BOY: Cut me off? Off what?
GIRL: All this. I don't think you are mature enough to handle it.
BOY: Handle it? I can handle anything. I can prove it.
GIRL: Well, not just, er, recently . . .
BOY: I don't want to talk about it.
GIRL: OK. See you later then.
BOY: Just like that?
GIRL: Yep. You're not up to it, or can't . . .
BOY: That's a bit harsh.
GIRL: OK. If you say so.
BOY: I do. I do say so.
GIRL: Well, see ya.
BOY: Doubt it.
GIRL: Don't be a spoiled sport.
BOY: I'm not. I just . . . I just thought . . .
GIRL: Thought what?
BOY: That it would be more . . . soft or romantic or something.
GIRL: Maybe I didn't use the right words.
BOY: Yeah, maybe.
GIRL: See ya!
BOY: Hmm. Charlie said it would be like this with you. I didn't believe him, but now I do.
GIRL: Charlie? Charlie! What did he say?
BOY: I think it's time to cut you off. I'll spread the word.
GIRL: What did you say?
Advice to a young student upon entering college
Set aside your feelings and realize that a world exists that is purely, or almost purely, in your head in the form of immaterial ideas, ideas like pure concepts and thoughts, such as those _about_ things. Yes, they can be in the form of images, and yes, they can be more or less clear. And they can be accepted or rejected or shaped in different ways--by thinking and considering, often with the help of others living and dead.
Fellow students and teachers will discuss with you what you are trying to understand or learn _about_. And writers will talk to you about these things also, because all is not in the repertoire of each student or teacher. The world of knowledge is greater than any one person.
So, there are these things--ideas--which are the stuff, the major amount of stuff, in college. Yes, college is about other things, but in the main teachers and students entertain and work with ideas, and they do so regardless of how they feel about them. Set your feelings also aside so that you too can see clearly what they are. Don't feel that you have mastered something because you have had the introduction. There is always more to know of the things themselves and about them.
Next, realize that all the cognitive content (the ideas) of what you and your fellow students and the teachers work with is not you. An idea is not yours until you decide to embrace it, that is you make it yours and with some level of feeling you own it and you represent it as how you as a unique and individual person think and will act. But because the content is not yours at the beginning, or not yet yours, you do not need to defend or justify it except on its own terms, using your head not your heart. It is separate and apart. It does not have to be about you.
Beware when answering questions such as, "What do you think about that?" This question is often answered by likes and dislikes and feelings. Which is not the answer to the question! Pay attention to the exact, specific questions before stepping into the quicksand.
When you write something or present something to a teacher or a class, you are giving evidence of your understanding of a _what_--an idea or set of ideas. What you have written or presented can thus stand outside of you as an understanding. That understanding and the way in which it is presented can be judged as good, better, best, or not good or relevant--and these according to faithfulness to the original idea or ideas and according to the correctness and effectiveness of presentation, because in this area too, there are ideas and practices (acts) for which there are accepted ways. So once you have externalized what you think in a way that can be good, better, and so forth, in communicating, all these things take on that immaterial character of ideas also and can be talked about without much if any emotion.
College is about learning the ideas and how to communicate them in ways that are understandable and actionable. Failure to be able to show evidence of your understanding by either expression or the content of expression is failure to learn one of the most important skills college has to offer.
Be aware that many if not most students do not truly learn these things in three or more years of college study. It takes a lifetime of practice to separate ideas from feelings and to combine them when the situation properly calls for an integrated response. Some people never get it. Imagine an idea half-baked, or eloquence without substance.
Next, try and then find your preferred approaches to studying and taking exams. This too is a content area with information, knowledge, and practice that have worked for others. Survey what others have said to do and experiment until you are comfortable with your approaches, and employ them if they work. Do not lose time at the beginning by ignoring this. Half or more of a term can pass by floundering around before you settle in. The earlier you settle in, the better. With practice you will refine your study and preparation skills.
Not lastly, listen carefully. Read carefully. Reflect without regret. Respond not too carefully. There is much to gain from others in college, and you are someone who can learn from others as well as from how you yourself perform.
Fellow students and teachers will discuss with you what you are trying to understand or learn _about_. And writers will talk to you about these things also, because all is not in the repertoire of each student or teacher. The world of knowledge is greater than any one person.
So, there are these things--ideas--which are the stuff, the major amount of stuff, in college. Yes, college is about other things, but in the main teachers and students entertain and work with ideas, and they do so regardless of how they feel about them. Set your feelings also aside so that you too can see clearly what they are. Don't feel that you have mastered something because you have had the introduction. There is always more to know of the things themselves and about them.
Next, realize that all the cognitive content (the ideas) of what you and your fellow students and the teachers work with is not you. An idea is not yours until you decide to embrace it, that is you make it yours and with some level of feeling you own it and you represent it as how you as a unique and individual person think and will act. But because the content is not yours at the beginning, or not yet yours, you do not need to defend or justify it except on its own terms, using your head not your heart. It is separate and apart. It does not have to be about you.
Beware when answering questions such as, "What do you think about that?" This question is often answered by likes and dislikes and feelings. Which is not the answer to the question! Pay attention to the exact, specific questions before stepping into the quicksand.
When you write something or present something to a teacher or a class, you are giving evidence of your understanding of a _what_--an idea or set of ideas. What you have written or presented can thus stand outside of you as an understanding. That understanding and the way in which it is presented can be judged as good, better, best, or not good or relevant--and these according to faithfulness to the original idea or ideas and according to the correctness and effectiveness of presentation, because in this area too, there are ideas and practices (acts) for which there are accepted ways. So once you have externalized what you think in a way that can be good, better, and so forth, in communicating, all these things take on that immaterial character of ideas also and can be talked about without much if any emotion.
College is about learning the ideas and how to communicate them in ways that are understandable and actionable. Failure to be able to show evidence of your understanding by either expression or the content of expression is failure to learn one of the most important skills college has to offer.
Be aware that many if not most students do not truly learn these things in three or more years of college study. It takes a lifetime of practice to separate ideas from feelings and to combine them when the situation properly calls for an integrated response. Some people never get it. Imagine an idea half-baked, or eloquence without substance.
Next, try and then find your preferred approaches to studying and taking exams. This too is a content area with information, knowledge, and practice that have worked for others. Survey what others have said to do and experiment until you are comfortable with your approaches, and employ them if they work. Do not lose time at the beginning by ignoring this. Half or more of a term can pass by floundering around before you settle in. The earlier you settle in, the better. With practice you will refine your study and preparation skills.
Not lastly, listen carefully. Read carefully. Reflect without regret. Respond not too carefully. There is much to gain from others in college, and you are someone who can learn from others as well as from how you yourself perform.
Without unexpected challenges
[The distinction between narration and description blurs. In the succession of events recounted we see what the other says, almost as if we were also perpetrators.]
The trip from Mexico to Brussels went without unexpected challenges. The biggest was getting out of Mexico, what with both Pavla and I being "illegal tourists" and Maco requiring a piece of paper at the airport, which was difficult for the authorities to produce because of computer problems and bureaucracy and security. It took a full three hours to sort out all of the above, and my fine for overstaying my welcome was 230 pesos.
As to the trip. We took a ferry to Playa del Carmen, a taxi to Cancun. We checked into our hotel with dog. They got my e-mail and were expecting all three of us. I was surprised. Then with dog, off to the shopping center to have him fitted with a travel crate. The sales clerk quoted a price 500 pesos more than what Pavla was originally quoted. We had him call the owner and verify. We got our price. Then he sold us a water-feeder-container thing probably meant for hamsters to strap to the crate. It was overpriced and when we tried it back at the hotel, it didn't work. Who won in the end?
With crate en route back to the hotel, the first taxi driver we encountered tried the same trick--gouge the gringos. We got out of the taxi once he quoted a price of 150 pesos for a ride that not a half hour earlier cost us 20.
The entry into the European Union was slick. Maco even wanted to get back into his crate after he got out. I guess he had some nice adventures down in cargo from Cancun. He had no accidents nor was he psychologically damaged by the experience, I guess. But it would have been different had I been the only one to handle him and all the papers, my ticket, visa, etc. Except for the psychological damage. That would have been mine. I really needed Pavla's help, and she mine.
We stayed in Brussels just down the street from NATO headquarters in the cheapest hotel we could find. It was easy. The info desk at the airport helped with complete and accurate details including how to leave stuff (e.g., dog travel crate) at the airport for our flight to the CZ the following day.
Whew, what a noticeable difference from Mexico. Not just the efficiency, but this neighborhood in Brussels was clean as a whistle, everything in working order, apparently--no stray dogs, trash, loose electrical wires . . . there were even sidewalks meant for pedestrians and runners and bicyclists. Plus rabbit or deer poop lying about as occasional snacks for the dog. Not the regular Mexican fare, street food menu included. But there is a price. It is cold and wet and gray here. And there is no music or colors. The Belgians are pretty conservative compared with the local scenes in Cozumel. Everyone dressed in grays and black. Can you imagine!?
All in all, a good and easy trip, once on the plane and out of Mexico. Oh, the air conditioning in the plane in Mexico did not work. Most passengers thought that hell's end was near, until we were airborne. Then everything worked, very smooth flight, and we landed in Brussels on time. The cost all the way to the CZ without the overnight was about $500 each including Maco. Everyone loved the dog, except, of course, the Mexican authorities and airport check-in people.
No one checked Maco's ID chip. And his other papers? I don't know if anyone ever looked at them. It cost us less than 100 Euro to get him here.
While in Brussels, we ate in two restaurants. Both welcomed Maco, and he was well behaved. He is a magnet for attention in some places, each kind of attention being different. For example, several people in Brussels patted him once on the head as they walked by without stopping, and neither said anything to nor acknowledged his owner(s) as they did so.
Maco landed in Prague and got hold of the bag with the few bits of dog food in it that we had used to keep his attention, get him into his crate, etc. He was so happy to be carrying something and off the plane that he shook it playfully and it spilled all over the all-too-slick Prague airport floor. Czechs looked on without expression, as usual, as the dog scrambled and slid all over the place to gobble up the bits and greet us with abandon at the same time.
My conclusion for Maco is that he is a go-anywhere dog. We were on trains and busses, in taxis and private cars, on planes, escalators, elevators . . . all of it and no fuss. If we were just standing waiting for some reason, he lay down and just waited. The passers-by petted him and he only humped one baggage handler, female, who said she loved dogs until the humping con noticeable erection. She said, "Oh, he's a male." I think I said something like "Yes, very much so." She quickly became serious and ignored him.
As for me, my first morning in the CZ was in snow up beyond your-you-know-what, and as a courtesy and grateful houseguest, I shoveled for an hour in sandals, three shirts and a borrowed windbreaker. Welcome back to winter, one here which has not seen the sun, I am told, since Christmas. Maco is delighted with the snow. Pavla is definitely not amused.
That is the report for now. Now what? as we scratch our heads and Maco licks himself--guess where--why the hell did we leave paradise?
12.03.09
The trip from Mexico to Brussels went without unexpected challenges. The biggest was getting out of Mexico, what with both Pavla and I being "illegal tourists" and Maco requiring a piece of paper at the airport, which was difficult for the authorities to produce because of computer problems and bureaucracy and security. It took a full three hours to sort out all of the above, and my fine for overstaying my welcome was 230 pesos.
As to the trip. We took a ferry to Playa del Carmen, a taxi to Cancun. We checked into our hotel with dog. They got my e-mail and were expecting all three of us. I was surprised. Then with dog, off to the shopping center to have him fitted with a travel crate. The sales clerk quoted a price 500 pesos more than what Pavla was originally quoted. We had him call the owner and verify. We got our price. Then he sold us a water-feeder-container thing probably meant for hamsters to strap to the crate. It was overpriced and when we tried it back at the hotel, it didn't work. Who won in the end?
With crate en route back to the hotel, the first taxi driver we encountered tried the same trick--gouge the gringos. We got out of the taxi once he quoted a price of 150 pesos for a ride that not a half hour earlier cost us 20.
The entry into the European Union was slick. Maco even wanted to get back into his crate after he got out. I guess he had some nice adventures down in cargo from Cancun. He had no accidents nor was he psychologically damaged by the experience, I guess. But it would have been different had I been the only one to handle him and all the papers, my ticket, visa, etc. Except for the psychological damage. That would have been mine. I really needed Pavla's help, and she mine.
We stayed in Brussels just down the street from NATO headquarters in the cheapest hotel we could find. It was easy. The info desk at the airport helped with complete and accurate details including how to leave stuff (e.g., dog travel crate) at the airport for our flight to the CZ the following day.
Whew, what a noticeable difference from Mexico. Not just the efficiency, but this neighborhood in Brussels was clean as a whistle, everything in working order, apparently--no stray dogs, trash, loose electrical wires . . . there were even sidewalks meant for pedestrians and runners and bicyclists. Plus rabbit or deer poop lying about as occasional snacks for the dog. Not the regular Mexican fare, street food menu included. But there is a price. It is cold and wet and gray here. And there is no music or colors. The Belgians are pretty conservative compared with the local scenes in Cozumel. Everyone dressed in grays and black. Can you imagine!?
All in all, a good and easy trip, once on the plane and out of Mexico. Oh, the air conditioning in the plane in Mexico did not work. Most passengers thought that hell's end was near, until we were airborne. Then everything worked, very smooth flight, and we landed in Brussels on time. The cost all the way to the CZ without the overnight was about $500 each including Maco. Everyone loved the dog, except, of course, the Mexican authorities and airport check-in people.
No one checked Maco's ID chip. And his other papers? I don't know if anyone ever looked at them. It cost us less than 100 Euro to get him here.
While in Brussels, we ate in two restaurants. Both welcomed Maco, and he was well behaved. He is a magnet for attention in some places, each kind of attention being different. For example, several people in Brussels patted him once on the head as they walked by without stopping, and neither said anything to nor acknowledged his owner(s) as they did so.
Maco landed in Prague and got hold of the bag with the few bits of dog food in it that we had used to keep his attention, get him into his crate, etc. He was so happy to be carrying something and off the plane that he shook it playfully and it spilled all over the all-too-slick Prague airport floor. Czechs looked on without expression, as usual, as the dog scrambled and slid all over the place to gobble up the bits and greet us with abandon at the same time.
My conclusion for Maco is that he is a go-anywhere dog. We were on trains and busses, in taxis and private cars, on planes, escalators, elevators . . . all of it and no fuss. If we were just standing waiting for some reason, he lay down and just waited. The passers-by petted him and he only humped one baggage handler, female, who said she loved dogs until the humping con noticeable erection. She said, "Oh, he's a male." I think I said something like "Yes, very much so." She quickly became serious and ignored him.
As for me, my first morning in the CZ was in snow up beyond your-you-know-what, and as a courtesy and grateful houseguest, I shoveled for an hour in sandals, three shirts and a borrowed windbreaker. Welcome back to winter, one here which has not seen the sun, I am told, since Christmas. Maco is delighted with the snow. Pavla is definitely not amused.
That is the report for now. Now what? as we scratch our heads and Maco licks himself--guess where--why the hell did we leave paradise?
12.03.09
Middle Child, Middle Way
I am the second of three, stationed between an older brother who channels my father, repeating advice suitable for his baby brother, and a younger sister who behaves like a grammar school nun, threatening to strike my knuckles with a ruler because I broke one, rule that is. Being in the middle is not really the problem. It is that my brother and sister do not get along. But I have solved this problem. Here is how I did it.
The first step was I got ill. On my almost deathbed in a moment of surrender I declared, "I can't help you two get along. I have to think of myself from now on."
The next step in solving the problem involved a bit of psychology, my own first of all. Incapacitation forced me to see the getting-along problem as mine, too much caretaking. A little more psychology brought me even closer to the solution where "they" were concerned. Alfred Adler's theory of birth order reveals that my brother is disposed to certain personality traits. Wehr (2008) provides this sketch.
"The first-born child is given a great deal of attention and is expected to be the "ego ideal" for his or her parents. High expectations for achievement are placed on the namesake child. As first born, the child is given a lot of responsibility and being the oldest, wields power among siblings by using aggression and the power of authority."
Adler's traits of the first born describe my namesake brother, who quotes and cites our father, for example when he was teaching us to drive: "Remember to use your rearview mirror." Nowadays, my brother laughs when I remind him about his mirror as he gets in the car.
Nyman (1995) conducted a study where participants described self and others according to birth order, but the study did not highlight my rule-keeping sister. The third born is not seen as an "enforcer". Although birth order theory and its application in the Nyman study may not help explain my sister's behavior, my own observations are valid enough. Consider as I did, for example, the judge in my sister who to this day travels extensively for a major competitive sport to enforce what is allowed and not.
Adlerian psychology might identify me as a peacemaker (Isaacson), and that is what I tried to be before I stopped caretaking. Fate forced me into seeing the problem I now accepted I had with my brother and sister's relationship. In addition, greater understanding, perhaps through psychology, can help us come to terms with the seemingly unsolvable. In my case, the problem out there of the relationship of my brother and sister was really one in here.
Is that it then? Is this the process I used to surmount the occasional blips in my particular family relations? To find equilibrium, the middle way? No.
My paternalistic rule-maker brother and matter-of-fact rule-keeper sister will likely be unable to behave towards each other with untainted care because each would have others behave just so. My siblings are kin in fact and conduct. Where one makes rules for others to obey, the other makes sure that rules are kept. So rule one is: You need to make sure they keep the rules. Retort: You are not keeping the rules yourself! I give you my brother and sister.
Thus, the final step in the process of solving my problem was to use my own resources, to think for myself. This together with a clear identification of the problem, acceptance of it, and knowledge, both from conventional wisdom and more carefully argued cases, make for better solutions to personal challenges I have faced. Oh, yes, I have not forgotten the two other considerations.
One, we can all acknowledge that solutions, changes really, sometimes come in whole or in part from fate or coercion, or both of these. This is well understood if lifestyle corrections must be made because of an unanticipated, unavoidable illness.
The second consideration is more serious. Please help me find a way to make my sister laugh when she gets in the car and I am the driver.
References
Isaacson, Cliff. "The Personalities: Second Born." Birth Order Plus. 20 Nov. 2008
Nyman, Lawrence. "The identification of birth order personality attributes." The Journal of Psychology 129.1 (1995): 51. 18 Nov. 2008
Wehr, Marcia. "Forum and Debate on Birth Order: Does Birth Order Affect Personality?" Psychology Online. 20 Nov. 2008
The first step was I got ill. On my almost deathbed in a moment of surrender I declared, "I can't help you two get along. I have to think of myself from now on."
The next step in solving the problem involved a bit of psychology, my own first of all. Incapacitation forced me to see the getting-along problem as mine, too much caretaking. A little more psychology brought me even closer to the solution where "they" were concerned. Alfred Adler's theory of birth order reveals that my brother is disposed to certain personality traits. Wehr (2008) provides this sketch.
"The first-born child is given a great deal of attention and is expected to be the "ego ideal" for his or her parents. High expectations for achievement are placed on the namesake child. As first born, the child is given a lot of responsibility and being the oldest, wields power among siblings by using aggression and the power of authority."
Adler's traits of the first born describe my namesake brother, who quotes and cites our father, for example when he was teaching us to drive: "Remember to use your rearview mirror." Nowadays, my brother laughs when I remind him about his mirror as he gets in the car.
Nyman (1995) conducted a study where participants described self and others according to birth order, but the study did not highlight my rule-keeping sister. The third born is not seen as an "enforcer". Although birth order theory and its application in the Nyman study may not help explain my sister's behavior, my own observations are valid enough. Consider as I did, for example, the judge in my sister who to this day travels extensively for a major competitive sport to enforce what is allowed and not.
Adlerian psychology might identify me as a peacemaker (Isaacson), and that is what I tried to be before I stopped caretaking. Fate forced me into seeing the problem I now accepted I had with my brother and sister's relationship. In addition, greater understanding, perhaps through psychology, can help us come to terms with the seemingly unsolvable. In my case, the problem out there of the relationship of my brother and sister was really one in here.
Is that it then? Is this the process I used to surmount the occasional blips in my particular family relations? To find equilibrium, the middle way? No.
My paternalistic rule-maker brother and matter-of-fact rule-keeper sister will likely be unable to behave towards each other with untainted care because each would have others behave just so. My siblings are kin in fact and conduct. Where one makes rules for others to obey, the other makes sure that rules are kept. So rule one is: You need to make sure they keep the rules. Retort: You are not keeping the rules yourself! I give you my brother and sister.
Thus, the final step in the process of solving my problem was to use my own resources, to think for myself. This together with a clear identification of the problem, acceptance of it, and knowledge, both from conventional wisdom and more carefully argued cases, make for better solutions to personal challenges I have faced. Oh, yes, I have not forgotten the two other considerations.
One, we can all acknowledge that solutions, changes really, sometimes come in whole or in part from fate or coercion, or both of these. This is well understood if lifestyle corrections must be made because of an unanticipated, unavoidable illness.
The second consideration is more serious. Please help me find a way to make my sister laugh when she gets in the car and I am the driver.
References
Isaacson, Cliff. "The Personalities: Second Born." Birth Order Plus. 20 Nov. 2008
Nyman, Lawrence. "The identification of birth order personality attributes." The Journal of Psychology 129.1 (1995): 51. 18 Nov. 2008
Wehr, Marcia. "Forum and Debate on Birth Order: Does Birth Order Affect Personality?" Psychology Online. 20 Nov. 2008
Behold the lamb of God**
Father Rumi hung up the phone after having promised to stop by the farm and have a look late that afternoon. He promised, after Colin told him of the eerie way all except one eye looked at him. Father Rumi readily admitted to himself that he was more curious to see the abnormal lamb for himself than to minister to Conlin's apprehensions about how they--the other six eyes--stared at him. Father Rumi thought he should reassure his parishioner that at least and in this case a most unusual creature also bore the stamp of God's flock. And after all, Colin was one of Rumi's flock too, who called in need. It was Father Rumi's _raison d'etre_, to respond compassionately and unreservedly to any call for help.
_Seven eyes. There's a curiosity. And one on top of its head that stared just up in a vacant or knowing gaze. That image brings new meaning to adoration and contemplating the divine. Silly thought. But what did that eye see?_
To be stared at with six eyes, six pairs, that was almost normal, Father Rumi thought.
_But for animal or human to have seven eyes, well that was a wonder, not to mention that six gave Colin the creeps. Colin was probably just unnerved or amazed that they were staring at him, following his every move about the barn. Maybe the lamb was just hungry and Colin held the promise of salvation from hunger? Or was it just the fact of a lamb born on Christmas eve with seven eyes?_
Superstitions abound still in this land, he dismissed.
_No awe or omen need necessarily be our response. Colin was probably just a bit taken aback by one of nature's mistakes. I'll go and visit him and bless his lamb. The church's complicity averts duplicity._
Father Rumi, proud again for his clever rationalizations, went about tidying up after this special day's rituals and celebration, and he settled into his reading chair and was soon in a kind of waking dream reminiscent of images conjured up by Coleridges' Xanadu and its gardens sprinkled with colorful koans.
Colin was not easily agitated, but this event and that being in his barn were enough to stir up and hold valid Jungian archetypes made manifest and then some. Colin was odd but not a fool and not unschooled. His offbeat readings as well as his interest in the esoteric practices of the ancients who once lived on his land made perfect sense to him as a modern if modest small farmer, and bachelor with not too much time on his hands. The seven-eyed lamb born coincidentally(?) last night on Christmas eve took on an auspiciousness and importance beyond the mere vicissitudes of nature that one sees, or hears about after five beers in the pub, or reads about in the sensationalist press. One eye in the position of the seventh chakra contemplating the heavens--well, that was just too much to ignore, that is if one could ignore the silent other eyes that just watched his every move.
Colin wondered whether he had done the right thing, calling Father Rumi. Well, at least he could give witness, especially since he didn't know if there would be any more surprises involving the lamb, or anything else. Village folk, once they got hold of this news, would be asking to see it or would just show up, like from last Christmas until after Twelfth Night when that light, UFO they said, had appeared in his horse pasture that bordered the state highway to the north.
__________
** Page 181: A shepherd calls the local priest when one of his sheep gives birth to a lamb with seven eyes. _The Writer's Book of Matches_.
_Seven eyes. There's a curiosity. And one on top of its head that stared just up in a vacant or knowing gaze. That image brings new meaning to adoration and contemplating the divine. Silly thought. But what did that eye see?_
To be stared at with six eyes, six pairs, that was almost normal, Father Rumi thought.
_But for animal or human to have seven eyes, well that was a wonder, not to mention that six gave Colin the creeps. Colin was probably just unnerved or amazed that they were staring at him, following his every move about the barn. Maybe the lamb was just hungry and Colin held the promise of salvation from hunger? Or was it just the fact of a lamb born on Christmas eve with seven eyes?_
Superstitions abound still in this land, he dismissed.
_No awe or omen need necessarily be our response. Colin was probably just a bit taken aback by one of nature's mistakes. I'll go and visit him and bless his lamb. The church's complicity averts duplicity._
Father Rumi, proud again for his clever rationalizations, went about tidying up after this special day's rituals and celebration, and he settled into his reading chair and was soon in a kind of waking dream reminiscent of images conjured up by Coleridges' Xanadu and its gardens sprinkled with colorful koans.
Colin was not easily agitated, but this event and that being in his barn were enough to stir up and hold valid Jungian archetypes made manifest and then some. Colin was odd but not a fool and not unschooled. His offbeat readings as well as his interest in the esoteric practices of the ancients who once lived on his land made perfect sense to him as a modern if modest small farmer, and bachelor with not too much time on his hands. The seven-eyed lamb born coincidentally(?) last night on Christmas eve took on an auspiciousness and importance beyond the mere vicissitudes of nature that one sees, or hears about after five beers in the pub, or reads about in the sensationalist press. One eye in the position of the seventh chakra contemplating the heavens--well, that was just too much to ignore, that is if one could ignore the silent other eyes that just watched his every move.
Colin wondered whether he had done the right thing, calling Father Rumi. Well, at least he could give witness, especially since he didn't know if there would be any more surprises involving the lamb, or anything else. Village folk, once they got hold of this news, would be asking to see it or would just show up, like from last Christmas until after Twelfth Night when that light, UFO they said, had appeared in his horse pasture that bordered the state highway to the north.
__________
** Page 181: A shepherd calls the local priest when one of his sheep gives birth to a lamb with seven eyes. _The Writer's Book of Matches_.
Recommended reading***
Manager: Let me get this straight. You recommend to every customer the same book? We can't keep it in stock.
Clerk: Yes, that's right.
Manager: Let's see. _The Satanic Verses_. To everyone?
Clerk: Yes.
Manager: Why, for God's sake?
Clerk: It's a good book.
Manager: Have you read it yourself?
Clerk: No.
Manager: How can you possibly recommend it if you haven't read it? Not to mention that it is sort of politically incorrect for me to even stock it.
Clerk: It says it all.
Manager: But you haven't read it.
Clerk: Don't have to. It is all in there.
Manager: How do you know?
Clerk: Well, if you must know, here is the deal. If you read anything, anything of some substantial minimum length, doesn't matter, fiction or non-fiction, in there you will find the answers to all life's mysteries.
Manager: Interesting thesis. But I doubt _The Satanic Verses_ is going to help you bake a cake or prevent a souffle from deflating. Otherwise we could put it with the other cookbooks. What am I talking about? This is crazy. You have got to stop it.
Clerk: Well, think of all the sales and no complaints ever lodged against me, or dissatisfaction with my recommendations, what I have said, I mean . . .
Manager: You don't make recommendations. You make only one.
Clerk: You seem to be the only one complaining. Have you read the book?
Manager: Well, no. But that's beside the point. We can't be recommending just one book. We have others to sell.
Clerk: People buy other books. I don't prevent that.
Manager: But they go out with their book and either a copy of that damn book or they have reserved a copy for when the backorders arrive. And I only order and re-order _The Satanic Verses_. Nothing else.
Clerk: I guess our customers' experience reading this book stands as a testament to what I have said. I mean my opinion that one book is as good as another, if you read it carefully.
Manager: I don't think that follows. But why this book?
Clerk: There is enough there, they tell me, to keep them entertained and enlightened for a lifetime. When they come back to get a copy as a gift, that is. Seems like pretty often.
Manager: Pretty strong recommendation.
Clerk: Yes.
Manager: What do you say to customers? Do you reveal your opinion about reading or this philosophy of yours?
Clerk: It depends.
Manager: On what?
Clerk: On the customer.
Manager: Now you are a psychoanalyst. I don't believe this.
Clerk: Is there anything else?
Manager: Hmm. Could you just recommend something else once in a while or something.
Clerk: Sales'll drop.
Manager: I'll take that . . .
Clerk: Chance?
Manager: Yes. I mean, no.
Clerk: I think you will find the right answer to your questions after you read _The Satanic Verses_ and consider this chance business of yours. At least it might help you with your indecisiveness.
Manager: Don't start with me. I am not the one on trial here.
Clerk: I'm on trial?
Manager: Go back to work.
Clerk: Yes, sir.
Manager: I suggest you read that book before recommending it to another customer. You might change your mind, or your philosophy or whatever.
Clerk: I have another one to recommend if _The Satanic Verses_ ceases to please and instruct.
Manager: And what is that?
Clerk: Oh, it will come to me. The dust jackets and any illustrations figure into an important decision like that.
Manager: For Christ's sake!
Clerk: Sounds like a lesson from _The Satanic Verses_.
Manager: I haven't read it. And besides, half the world hates him for writing it. There is, or was, a contract out on his life for writing it and defaming the prophet.
Clerk: Which prophet?
Manager: See, you should read the book.
Clerk: Why?
Manager: To see what it says and why all these people are so up in arms.
Clerk: Brilliant. I can use that with some our customers--like you--teetering on the edge. Thanks.
__________
*** Page 126: A bookstore clerk decides to recommend the same book to all customers, regardless of what they ask her. _The Writer's Book of Matches_.
Clerk: Yes, that's right.
Manager: Let's see. _The Satanic Verses_. To everyone?
Clerk: Yes.
Manager: Why, for God's sake?
Clerk: It's a good book.
Manager: Have you read it yourself?
Clerk: No.
Manager: How can you possibly recommend it if you haven't read it? Not to mention that it is sort of politically incorrect for me to even stock it.
Clerk: It says it all.
Manager: But you haven't read it.
Clerk: Don't have to. It is all in there.
Manager: How do you know?
Clerk: Well, if you must know, here is the deal. If you read anything, anything of some substantial minimum length, doesn't matter, fiction or non-fiction, in there you will find the answers to all life's mysteries.
Manager: Interesting thesis. But I doubt _The Satanic Verses_ is going to help you bake a cake or prevent a souffle from deflating. Otherwise we could put it with the other cookbooks. What am I talking about? This is crazy. You have got to stop it.
Clerk: Well, think of all the sales and no complaints ever lodged against me, or dissatisfaction with my recommendations, what I have said, I mean . . .
Manager: You don't make recommendations. You make only one.
Clerk: You seem to be the only one complaining. Have you read the book?
Manager: Well, no. But that's beside the point. We can't be recommending just one book. We have others to sell.
Clerk: People buy other books. I don't prevent that.
Manager: But they go out with their book and either a copy of that damn book or they have reserved a copy for when the backorders arrive. And I only order and re-order _The Satanic Verses_. Nothing else.
Clerk: I guess our customers' experience reading this book stands as a testament to what I have said. I mean my opinion that one book is as good as another, if you read it carefully.
Manager: I don't think that follows. But why this book?
Clerk: There is enough there, they tell me, to keep them entertained and enlightened for a lifetime. When they come back to get a copy as a gift, that is. Seems like pretty often.
Manager: Pretty strong recommendation.
Clerk: Yes.
Manager: What do you say to customers? Do you reveal your opinion about reading or this philosophy of yours?
Clerk: It depends.
Manager: On what?
Clerk: On the customer.
Manager: Now you are a psychoanalyst. I don't believe this.
Clerk: Is there anything else?
Manager: Hmm. Could you just recommend something else once in a while or something.
Clerk: Sales'll drop.
Manager: I'll take that . . .
Clerk: Chance?
Manager: Yes. I mean, no.
Clerk: I think you will find the right answer to your questions after you read _The Satanic Verses_ and consider this chance business of yours. At least it might help you with your indecisiveness.
Manager: Don't start with me. I am not the one on trial here.
Clerk: I'm on trial?
Manager: Go back to work.
Clerk: Yes, sir.
Manager: I suggest you read that book before recommending it to another customer. You might change your mind, or your philosophy or whatever.
Clerk: I have another one to recommend if _The Satanic Verses_ ceases to please and instruct.
Manager: And what is that?
Clerk: Oh, it will come to me. The dust jackets and any illustrations figure into an important decision like that.
Manager: For Christ's sake!
Clerk: Sounds like a lesson from _The Satanic Verses_.
Manager: I haven't read it. And besides, half the world hates him for writing it. There is, or was, a contract out on his life for writing it and defaming the prophet.
Clerk: Which prophet?
Manager: See, you should read the book.
Clerk: Why?
Manager: To see what it says and why all these people are so up in arms.
Clerk: Brilliant. I can use that with some our customers--like you--teetering on the edge. Thanks.
__________
*** Page 126: A bookstore clerk decides to recommend the same book to all customers, regardless of what they ask her. _The Writer's Book of Matches_.
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