Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Global Warming vs Societal Decay

As a follow-up to my last post, in truth, I really don't know all the merits of the fix-it theories for Global Warming --- assuming it is a fact.

I haven’t read the Al Gore fact sheets or watched the movie. As a rant-writer, I make the assumption, and perhaps unfairly, that everything Al Gore may say, is a plagiarized work, with all of it extracted from other’s work and investigations.

Seems to me he too graciously accepted the Peace Prize for “his” work, when the work was no doubt far-removed from any personal research or documentation on his part. Maybe I’m misunderstanding something here but isn’t it odd that through a direct factory-buy, one can suddenly become the ‘originator’ of another’s writ?

Still I often ponder, going off topic a bit here, why no one is working on a theory to explain, in a similar manner, the chaotic thinking of modern society.

Seems if we could get to the cause of that, straighten it out a bit, get some wisdom and common sense in the air, society, as a whole, could develop the kind of sensitivity that we have towards preservation of our environment. A sensitivity that would make so much of society better at parenting, sustaining relationships, being responsible, practicing wisdom, conciliating rather than warring with other nations, and ultimately as an extension of clear and responsible thinking, tidying up our trash.

Though I can’t fault Mr. Gore for the best of intentions, if he doesn’t get this connect, I’m not certain his connect is truly authentic. Unless, of course, our societal break-down is solely due to melting ice and the ever expanding hole in the ozone layer.

Another possibility may be that our present condition is the outcome of some other atmospheric, climatic, or circumstantial phenomena, not yet countered or realized.

In truth, I have to wonder when there is so much child and animal abuse and violence in the news, where are the tabulations and schematics for explanatory theories for the causes and cures for all that? Where is the campaign leader to sensitize us to those realizations? Is it not an equal, if not greater concern – the concern of who we are and what we will become if action is not taken now?

But, of course, that's me coming out of left field again. And I’ll be the first to concede I am no authority on anything much.

Perhaps if I felt comfortable with snagging others thoughts, and passing them off as my own, I’d have some enviable solutions and an even more enviable theory. But there is a part of me that will not allow me to do that. Recycling is good, but not so good in that context.

And so now I give you my final admission. I’m too much of a dreamer of an earth-based Utopia, where children are cherished, animals are loved, nature reverenced, and relationships stabilized by selfless-commitment to embed myself in the symptoms of Global-Warming that are not necessarily the crux of the matter.


P.S. Feel free to debate these notions. The originality of your thoughts are safe with me.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Colder than Cold

Photo source: Reader’s Digest/Feb 08

How could I not share this picture, when it so how Hub and I are feeling at the moment?

Right now I would pack all my aerosol cans out on the deck and spray all the contents if I thought it would help.
I would idle every vehicle in the yard till the tank runs dry, if I could get any of them started.
I would cook on a coal and wood brushfire, if I could clear away enough snow,
without freezing my butt, to get that fire going.
I would burn tires and plastic cups.
I would dig up all arable land and pour concrete on it. Build monster buildings and hot-tar all the roofs.
I’d trade in my old car for a B-train.
I would fly from east to west every day in the biggest sonar jet to campaign for any fool if they would just ask.
I would recycle nothing.

You have your gods, and I have mine
But when it comes to Global Warming….
I’m not a Believer, I’m not an Agnostic,
I'm an Atheist.

And I’ll be drowning in my own sweat before I return to past convictions.


P.S. I don't know how cold it got last night. My digital thermometer cratered at -42 C. and it refuses to be revived.

Friday, January 25, 2008


It warms the earth, gives breath to plants, and sustains human life. Even fitful flickers of light hold fascination and appeal. We are hypnotized, it would seem, by sunlight, starlight, candles, campfires, sparks, and flares.

The tiniest flicker of light has its own brilliance. The blacker the black the greater the radiant circle of its light. The colder the cold, the more force given to the dimmest of indicators. When there is nothing but a pit of darkness, even a shadowy and doubtful burn that flickers and seems to give life to dead skin, can be more comforting than no light at all.

But the true power of light is its speed. With its ear-splitting and ear-rending cry (thankfully too high-pitched for human ears), it scurries all four-headed beasts and three-legged monsters that hide in clothes closets or under beds. And with equal effectiveness, it peals through space and gives such a sudden and unexpected shock to dark events of antiquity that they turn inside-out into a current continuum of time.

We resist separation from light in life, and in death our wish for it is frantic. The death-launch provides certainty of a life well-lived, when the final address is a beacon of light. All is well if we see nothing more than a pinpoint of light, as long as it has holding power. We will go to the light. There is safety and redemption in it.

So what is this magic that it do?

Penetrating all layers of body fusion and erasing ethereal convictions that there are beasts under the bed.

Highlighting and magnifying the spirit of the oil in a painting, the water in the lake, the forest in the woods, the music in the chambers, the clouds on the horizon, the color in my hair, and the convictions in my soul?

Today the sky is gray. There is no luminosity in anything within or without. I sit in shadows. My only salvation is a tiny beacon of light that beckons me to come to it.

I am thankful the coffee is ready and grateful the indicator-light is on.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

A Refurbished Relationship - Conclusion


When Hub finally came home he looked humbled (maybe, if my guess is correct, even a little frightened). He gave me a little stuffed animal with a sheepish grin. Obviously the little boy within was wounded and shocked by my tirade, but the ego of the old man, was absolutely flattered. Surprised, astonished, and very much pleased by the positive validation that he remains after so many, many years, so ultra-important to an old woman.



In all this there is convolution. The most complex convolutions link faith and fear. And my convolution is this.

It is certainly true that cell-phones make us feel in control and radically alleviate concern when we are separated from each other. But at the same time, that positive effect may have a negative side. With every new confidence we lose the sweet softness that once precluded it.

Do you remember how often on the beach we used to go over to our children and touch their arms, forehead, hair, and give their hat a tug and speak to them with gentle concern about staying in the sun too long? That’s what we used to do – a whole lot of touching a whole lot of stroking. But with Sun-block lotions, we now sit on the beach and ignore the children at play, without concern.

Likewise, with nursery monitors, as parents there is no longer the need to stroke, touch, and check on babies with the comforting tap of footsteps in the hall, a touch on the face, and the comforting smell of our presence in the room.

A cell-phone gives us a similar confidence. Quick-time electronic access insidiously closes down the emotions that used to fire synapses in the brain of loneliness and concern that in turn fired warm and fuzzy neurological impulses.

So is it possible that cell-phones give a confidence that permit us to inadvertently disregard how touched we are by relationships and how cherished they are? I never realized before today that a simple gizmo, (ie. cell phone) could so deeply affect, and toughen up, otherwise tender thoughts.

We now have the power of omnipotence that can manifest all things. With cell-phones, there remains no need to cling to the traditional mind transmissions of past generations. In the pre-cell era, rather than voice-mail, we used internal supplication in situations of isolation and fear.

Fear, like the concern in my story, forced us to find something within ourselves that propped up faith. A surprising thing, since we swore we were ‘without faith’. But suddenly here comes faith rushing in. Encompassing any and all unseen forces of heaven and earth to stand guard and protect cherished ones.

With no other way to cope we used to pull aside ‘the atheist’ within and demand he do his part in the effort to remedy our fears by pretending we had faith until faith was realized. So with that thought, is it at all reasonable to conclude that cell-phones have contributed in an inauspicious way to the death of God and spiritualism?

I really don’t know, but one thing I definitely do know. I can’t tell Hub this story.

It would only further enhance his status around here and goodness knows he’s had enough stroking with the passion of my tirade and tears. Any more this week and he will NEVER take his cell phone with him again as long as we both shall live. The little boy might have been quite frightened, but the old man was way too flattered.

And where does Old Dog fit in? She was the tool of unseen forces to give new appreciation and meaning to an existence that was getting a little too old hat, and a little too mundane, bordering, it would seem to me, on that level of familiarity that can, without obvious symptoms, breed injurious contempt.

It strikes me that if Hub had his cell phone, this day would have differed from no other. There would have been no worry or turmoil and our relationship would not have got the soul searching and deep-polishing it got today. But without that ready electronic access, we both got a shake-up. A nasty bit to go through for me, but edifying to my heart, soul, and relationship.


Of these things I am certain because after yesterday’s vexations, this morning dawned new and different. I looked at Hub across the table. Asked him how he slept. He told me the coffee was so good. He poured me a fresh cup. And we lingered over coffee with happy smiles. I ruffled his hair. He rubbed my shoulders. We laughed at nothing. And we engaged with refreshed delight in each other’s chatter and presence.

Monday, January 21, 2008

A Refurbished Relationship - (Part III)


Now normally I am calm and rational. I have no patience with the immaturity of drama queen’s and those that over-react at every little circumstance. But I have just had a roller-coaster ride that has left me exhausted and completely depleted.

Before Hub can spit out anything beyond, “I’m visiting…”, I am in tears and off on a tangent. And what I have to say is exceedingly angry and out-of-character as well. As out of character, as Old Dog choosing to stay home.

“Hub, I am so f---ing annoyed with you.’ I scream into the phone. ‘Do you know how worried I have been?” I slam down the phone before Hub can respond.

Immediately the phone is ringing again. It is Hub calling back of course, but I am too disturbed to answer it. Six jangling rings – then silence.

Now I find myself contemplating my day. I can’t stay angry. Not when I’m so flooded with relief that Hub is okay. Not when I am so achingly grateful to God, fate, destiny, and all the other forces of heaven and earth that the bad omens that earlier were niggling my mind were nothing more than my own wild imaginings.

For certain, Hub is in shock. I never talk to him that way. I don’t slam down phones in his ear. I don’t refuse to answer his calls. But I am glad I did. I think now he will finally remember to take his phone. But is that so good?

I’m not sure it is. If he had had his phone with him today, I would not have had these hours of crystal and emotionally-charged enlightenment of how much he means to me in every way.

NEXT POST: is the conclusion -- "Hub Returns" and "Final Thoughts"

Sunday, January 20, 2008

A Refurbished Relationship (Part II)


Last post I told you how Old Dog made the unprecedented decision to stay home when Hub went to town. And now Hub is gone and hours overdue. I’m relieved when I cannot find his cell-phone. That can only mean he has it with him.
And so, to continue…

I call Hub’s cell. It rings shrilly in the room with a delayed softer echo in my ear. I jump with a start. The phone is not with Hub. It is next to me in the bookcase. I mutter to a distraught mind. ‘Oh, yea. That’s what cell phones are for. To decorate bookcases!’

Seconds build into minutes, minutes into hours, and still Hub does not phone or come home. The tension builds. I want to phone Youngest Daughter to see if Hub is there, but if he isn’t she will be more anxious than I already am and I don’t even want to think how much doo-doo I’ll be in for letting Hub away without his phone.

It wouldn’t come to this but Hub is older, he is diabetic. He has high blood pressure. He is sometimes plagued by headaches and blurring vision. And he drives like an idiot. Drifting, spinning, and regularly detouring into snow-blocked fields when he spies coyote or deer. This is the kind of nonsense he engages in to entertain the puppies when they go on driving excursions. No four-wheel-drive either. Just the silliness and risky behavior of a small boy resident in an old man.

Now add to that the fact that Hub generally calls me when he is gone longer than he expects to be. From his cell if he has it, from a land phone if he doesn’t. But without that call, his actions today are as out-of-character as Old Dog’s decision to stay home.

And so now I wonder, ‘Did Old Dog choose to stay home cause some kind of doggy-intuition told her it was not a good day to go driving with Hub?’

There are other friends I want to phone to see if they have seen Hub but doing so will spread unfair concern. And such efforts will only increase mine. I think of calling the police, but I already know they only get excited when someone is missing for a week or two. I am left to face the fact that there is no solution. I am isolated and completely helpless. I could take the pick-up and go look for him, but where do I start?

I sit in the big chair dogged with worry. I try to distract myself with some knitting. And then more sensitive thoughts creep into my harried mind. Thoughts of how important Hub is now and has always been to me. How hopeless all would be without him. How needful his place in my life. I want to cry but I mustn’t. And then, finally, the damn phone rings.

It is Hub.


NEXT POST: What was Old Dog Thinking?

Friday, January 18, 2008

A Refurbished Relationship (Part I)


Thirty years of ever increasing familiarity, implicit trust, comfortable ease, and oft times, duplicity of thought. That’s what life has become. There is little reason, anymore, to mind the relationship. No practical reason to take it out, examine it, polish it, or disassemble it.

As usual, we sit in silence lingering over coffee. Hub reads the paper. I rattle the keys on my laptop. I should perhaps ask, “Did you sleep well?” but the answer will be nothing striking. Maybe ‘yes’, maybe ‘no’, but it is all of too little consequence to pursue. So there is little verbal exchange.

After breakfast, Hub readies himself to take a quick trip into town. Two puppies hastily run to the car but Old Dog is not among them. I find her napping in the livingroom.

Old Dog is a bit deaf so I bend close and speak loudly words she readily understands. “Go”, “town”, “ride”, and “car”. Old Dog raises her furry little head, looks at me with disinterest, and returns to a sprawled position with her head resting on her paws. I urge her to ‘go’ with repeated appeals but it is obvious that Old Dog chooses to remain at home today. I feel her nose. I am puzzled when I find her nose is cold and wet and she shows no visible signs of distress.

In fact, I am more disturbed by Old Dog’s decision to stay home than I care to admit. She has never made this choice before. Even on occasional days when she looked ill and I found her nose papery-dry and warm to the touch. And so, for the first time in my life, I stand on the front step and announce to Hub, who is waiting in the car, that Old Dog is not coming. Hub blinks in astonishment. As shocked by this communication as I am.

And so Hub leaves and Old Dog stays. I watch from the door already knowing the routine. With the fresh snow, the temptation is too great. Hub spins the car in circles in the driveway. He ‘drifts’ (as the twin’s call it) burning circles of flying snow, and skidding out of the driveway on two wheels. It is disturbing but it can’t be helped. You can take the old man out of the kid but you can’t take the kid out of the old man.

Hub’s car rumbles by the window and I now expect Old Dog to come to the kitchen to let me know that it was all a dreadful mistake. That she was just joking and I should have known, and Hub should have known, that she really didn’t expect to be left. When she remains unmoving, I begin to think this unprecedented choice too far out of character to be dismissed. It is not something I can calmly dismiss as circumstance. It must be something more. Maybe an omen, handed down by the gods of fate and destiny, with critical and ominous meaning, that I need to take note of.

The thought is there but I push it aside so I can concentrate on other things. I already know that without other errands, Hub will be back within the hour.

But he isn’t. Time drags on. Two o’clock. Three o’clock. I pace the floor and finally start looking for his cell phone. I can’t find it. Good, he’s taken it. I’ll just call him to see why he is delayed.

( be continued)

NEXT POST: 2. Disturbing Thoughts

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

A Proper Canadian Winter

It is a “Proper Canadian Winter”. What else can I call it when all the chilly rituals of legitimacy are being so strictly adhered to? With snow and frost hand-in-hand strutting about bullying, inspecting, and practicing ultimate control like a dictatorial brigade. Demanding uniformity and consolidation of January muster.

Let there be no doubt about it. This year an arrogant winter has taken charge that demands homage and respect. There is no ultimatum. Those few Dissenters, the silent and still inhabitants of woodland or field, brave enough and egotistic enough to flaunt part of their exterior are redressed with snow, veiled in frost, and re-dressed and re-veiled until they fuse into a world of plump look-a-likes.

Winter has taken charge of the ground. January has taken charge of the sky. The sun, usually so bright and cheery, is obliged to ‘disguise and withdraw’. For security of a proper winter it must hide its warmth, reduce its fire, and retreat from the fray.

And so, it remains close to the horizon partially eclipsed by an opaque curtain of winter haze. Not even daring to risk insubordination to the war measures of winter by flashing fires of defense at the impudent and mocking sun dogs encircling it. Looking more like a big ol’ moon than the sun.

Sure every year we have another winter, but for a Proper Canadian Winter, assimilation and allegiance is all. Every contingent and complement of the landscape must wear the trooper colors of white on white. Stability and peace only come when positive spaces are embossed with snow and negative spaces air-brushed with frost.

For too long, all those unsettled, improper winters have dogged us. Winters of confusion and instability that ravage fields and shamble landscapes. With intermittent mixes of snow, rain, sleet, and belligerent Chinooks that propagate ugly patches of mud and rudely interrupt the sleep of plants and warm-blooded beasts in hibernation.

So isn’t it sweet to see winter done up good and proper for a change without the usual slovenly bungling?

A Proper Canadian Winter gets my vote. I hope I haven’t spoken too soon.

Friday, January 11, 2008

The Wedding

She texted him, he texted her, she texted him, and then he texted her back. Their language was cautious and carefully chosen. Both aware of the risks they were taking. Aware they must be cautious and avoid revealing too much.

But still the texting continued, sometimes with confidence, other times with uncertainty until eventually it became the language of intimacy. Shocking epiphanies. Words of lust made flesh. Interspersed with unrestrained sexual hyperbole – an extravagance of Chaucerian phrases of devotion and Freudian expressions of need.

But he lived here and she lived there, geographically distant from each other. They had certainly lucked out career-wise, each in a place with secure promise of their star rising. How foolish and impractical it would be for him to go to her or her to go to him. Foolhardy, it would be to sacrifice the mad success around the next corner by either of them leaving their Promised Land.

So despite the mutual strumming of heartstrings, if mutual can exist across such a vast separation, how silly it would be to give up their dream of fame, wealth, and independence. Why should they when each can access the other so quickly through text messaging? More quickly than one can access another in the same bed in a tangled twine of sheets?

And so they remained where they were and she texted him and he texted her and she texted him back. After all love is intangible. A shock wave, an impulse, so why not allow it to flow within it’s own currency?

It cannot be denied that it was a passion of love and electronic devotion. True, deep, and abiding love traveling with ease the smooth pulse of a bonfire of text interchange. The words on the screen validated it. Made it truth and reality. And so, before long, in a flash of reckless text and electronic waves and icon asteroids they consummated their love through some untold means that even Darwin would fail to understand. It was now, in truth, an affair.

But this will never do. What respect in this association? An affair must be legalized. So they texted a minister, he texted them back and they hired a Cyber-Geek to create a wedding venue. A beautiful and sanctified space with icons of cool-burning candles, a gilded altar, massive flowers, balloons, the delightful strains of a wedding march, and stitched digital photos of the princess and her prince.

The minister texted them the all-important questions and they responded in quivering, nervous yet bold interfaced italics. All of it enchantingly beautiful and duly witnessed by the Geek and an errant Commenter who accidentally happened by.

But still they felt incomplete. Their loins burning and empty. And so Mr. and Mrs. ASCII worked hard at improving their relationship with more text and still more text.

Each wrestling within their own messaging space with icons and alphabet symbols, phrase and poetry, until exhaustion and the strain of it all overrode their painful need. And in the brief spurts between they sated themselves with smug self-stroking of their wisdom. With the boldness of this new preference they congratulated themselves on their uncanny wisdom to remain in their own geographic space, ascending with such rapidity career ladders stable-set with sturdy rungs that invited them onward and upward. Hearts beat as one when he texted her that he had been named ‘Business Man of the year’ and she responded that she was now the ‘top CEO’ within a prestigious institution.

Years swiftly passed and he texted her and she texted him. And then one day, for each, a memory came softly sneaking around the edges of minds that were forming more ASCII compositions. A vague gnawing memory of what had been forgotten. And what it was, were the legends of things that formed the culture of their birth and childhood.

They had forgotten the pitch and fall and rise of voices and how that melody gives meaning to words. They had forgotten how in a physical space intuition reaches out in an interchange, despite happy smiles, and verbal assertions of contentment, to dispense truth and the real essence of things hidden beneath an exterior display of physical calmness. They had forgotten the clarity of the silent messages delivered by the coloring of a countenance, a bodily gesture, or a smoldering optical exchange.

They forgot skin is warm, silky, and delicate to the touch. That even hair when stroked by another can cast a magical spell. They knew nothing of warm body oils and gentle massage. And without this, they forgot how a gentle touch and soft caress is as nurturing to adults, as it is to a child.

But all that aside, they had a preference, and to each their own. But still I can’t help but think that this new preference jeopardizes the sustainability of human life on this planet. And furthermore, what might become extinct is the precious thread of touch and intuition that connects us to a partner’s ardent care or a child’s emotional need.

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

Alone and Forgotten

I’ve been given clearance so here’s my story.

“Roberta’s weird,” my friends and family say. “Congenial enough, but she’s like a hermit crab. Never leaves her house.” And that is true.

What I think it all boils down to is preparation for the inevitable ‘alone and forgotten’ stage of life. It strikes me that I should let Hub know what I’m thinking but he could neither accept or understand it, so why bother? Besides, my philosophical imaginings drive him to distraction without adding more. And so, without adequate explanation, Hub fits into my hermit-crab venue as best he can while he and the kids mutter among themselves about my mental state.

And then occasionally Hub gets all geared up to drag me along on a wild and woolly day of shopping, visiting, or driving about, and that’s when I say to Hub with sympathy in my voice.

“I know we haven’t gone anywhere for a long time. I know you appreciate me coming along, but honestly, there is no way to avoid it. I have to bake bread today.”

And I promptly pull out the flour canister and bread pan and set to work. It’s a devious political move. He is a practical man and in this way I can minimize his feelings of rejection by masking the situation in practical necessities. (Bread-making part of a political relationship? Who would have thought?)

And so Hub’s enthusiasm comes to an abrupt end. The labor of bread baking is a reality he discerns. He is well aware that after the mixing, there will be a first rising, a second rising, putting the stuff in pans, a third rising, then baking and cooling. The whole business a long stretch that will completely lap up the special outdoor pleasures of the lovely day so ardently beckoning to him to ‘come and play’.

And so I bake bread with as much sticky guilt in my mind as sticky dough on my rubber gloves. Guilt that perhaps my stubbornness has wounded not the man, but the little boy within. I find it truly quite amazing the way men retain the ‘little boy’ within. I see the little guy peeking out often through my husband’s eyes. I don’t think the same can be said of women. But that’s another thought for another time and so to return to my story.

So, despite Hub’s preference for home-made bread, I believe there are days he would gladly eat store-bought bread even though it promptly turns to dough when touched by saliva and glues itself to his upper dental plate. Still, some days that would be better than once again having the excitement of his plans postponed.

I can relate. I understand how he feels. I know well from my own experience that as I get older it is seldom that unexpected vigor strikes. But unfortunately, despite all the time Hub and I have been together, his desire and my desire at any given moment, seldom mesh.

I know too that I should be more flexible. And I find it puzzling that I am not. I don’t fully understand my wish for solitude either. I often think it might be the result of the fate of elders I have observed over the years.

I remember a sad old fellow down the road, showing me a large calendar where he marked the sparse visits of family members. The moon waxed and waned more often in a month than his family.

And I remember the neighbor who consistently sent her old father to his room where he was forced to dine alone whenever she had company. And I remember a visit to a retirement home. I remember a female elder there displaced from a Stony Indian Tribe.

She could speak no English. From morning till night she rocked frantically in her chair canting rapidly in a foreign riddle of sounds magically formed without lip movement. But mostly she wept without ceasing. The story told to me is that she was found in the snow, abandoned by her Tribe and left to die when old age made her more of a liability than an asset. And the other surprising thing an Attendant at the Home told me is that speaking with lips of stone is what led to the Tribe being called the Stony Indians.

And what I also remember is the chill of a tangible fog of loneliness duplicated in each of the circumstances I have mentioned. For some it was emotional rejection, for the Indian woman, physical rejection, but if you group them all, and condense them, it all boils down to the same thing. Old people will eventually find themselves alone and forgotten!

So in reflection of all this, I tend to frequently ponder the choices I need to make now to cope with that impending stage of life. And what seems most obvious to me is that I can minimize the insidious attack of old age and the chronic grouchiness steamed by self-pity that goes with it. All I need to do is practice and perfect until I like it and get it right – the craft of being alone and the art of being forgotten.

And yes, right now I know what you are thinking and of course you are right. If you were to ask, I am totally convinced my children will always care for me and be there for me. The irony is that my parents said the same about me, but I didn’t do so well.

So I ready myself for the inevitable. Pondering the things I will do with dimming eyes, feeble fingers, and wasted limbs. It seems more sensible in the context of ‘alone and forgotten’ to think about things I prefer to do without interruption and things that at the same time will give me constructive purpose and gratefulness for solitude.

The plan must have a sensible evolution and it does. If my sight fails, I will move from fine crochet to bulky knitting and if necessary from that to the larger work of hooking fabric strips. If my limbs fail, I will paint even if I have to move from realism to abstractions with a brush in my teeth. And if finances fail, I have a grand stash of materials waiting to fit into usefulness in some other evolutionary form. And if I can no longer drive, it will be no big deal. Whatever occurs, I am envisioning and preparing for it.

The most surprising thing in all this wild philosophy is that up until now, ‘plan’ was a dirty four-letter word that I never used. Up until now, spontaneity was all. But I’m not convinced spontaneity will work for the ‘alone and forgotten years’. I fear that for this final stage, the irony is that it is ‘spontaneity’, rather than ‘planning’ that jumps out unexpectedly like an evil Jack-in-the Box. And then JB jeers, winks, and nudges while delivering a homily cleverly disguised as dignified thinking about a dumb and stupid and unnatural way to end it all.

So I plan and practice loneliness in my readiness for perhaps not a long time, but a good time, when I am faced with the eventuality of being alone and forgotten.

Sunday, January 6, 2008

The Blissful Blog

I’m going to set aside the dreary rant I wrote today to discuss something else – the content of Blogs.

Of all the reasons I have contemplated for writing a Blog, aside from my love of writing, the one that I think is most accurate is the desire to ‘provoke thought’. And excuse me, but provocative thought can spring from weariness and dreariness as well as cheeriness.

I hate the terrible guilt I feel every time I yen to write about a melancholy state of mind. I want to write truth more often than fantasy and God knows I try, but at the same time there is fiction in the mix if you are left thinking I am always in an enthusiastic state of utter delight. I want to use my Blog to burrow into human consciousness even when it is in a state of decline.

Seems odd that I can write without guilt about clouds and rain and any other dreariness that nature can deliver that I see out my window. I can write without guilt about physical disasters. But at the same time I feel that I can't write about dreariness in my soul that springs, not from any conflict around me, but from the natural well of my humanity. Emotional realities that have as much of a rip tide, as physical realities.

Yes, I understand that in coffee conversation, such things should be avoided. But somehow, I want to see a Blog as different from that. I want to see it as a flexible thing that can bend when buffeted. I don’t want to be dogged by an obligation to be cheery. Some days, being cheery is the most painful of all of life’s miseries.

I am certainly glad that way back in 2003 when I began blogging I posted a bit on my sidebar about being ‘abstracted, distracted, and sometimes lucid.’ It doesn’t give me a whole lot of squirming room but it gives me some. And man, I wipe the sweat from my brow with utter relief that I didn’t name my blog something like ‘Blissful Blog’, or ‘Cheerful Chatter’.

The rant I set aside? What will I do with it? I’ll give it a few more days to season and then I’ll decide.