Showing posts with label blogging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blogging. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Home Free! - Part IV (conclusion)
The Worth of This Spiritual Exercise
This story has been one about trying to find resolve for extreme sadness. Sadness wedged solidly in my soul.
And so, with no place else to turn, I have been reviewing my past to see how such problems had been solved in my earlier years. And as I told you, being a tattle tale worked for a time. But eventually one becomes a teen, a mature woman, a mother, a fully fledged adult and then what does one do?
Not much of a solution to be found in my teen years. It was over-dramatization that helped me through that segment of life. Flung on the bed in a puddle of tears is where solace was found when I was a teen. But, as an adult that all seemed such foolishness.
So as a young mother and a mature individual I could no longer tattle tales, or swim in tearful wails, so that is when I slammed doors and went to my therapist.
My therapist had pale blue eyes tinted with a wash of extreme kindness. My therapist was rather plump, with gray hair pulled back tightly in a tidy bun. She always wore cotton flowered dresses that had the appeal of gaiety. And an apron that gave her the appeal of complete devotion to her designated tasks.
And so I went in to my ‘therapist’s office’ and flopped on her couch. And immediately the healing began. Did we talk? No we didn’t? Did I tell her what was breaking my heart? No I didn’t.
I simply flopped on my therapist’s couch and the healing began while she went on doing whatever it was she was doing—as if I wasn’t even there.
She went right on whistling, and bustling, and sewing, cooking, or washing dishes. And my healing raced along. Swiftness encouraged by water running, dishes clanking, a sewing machine humming, knitting needles clicking, the smell of cooking, or by nothing more that the soft rustle of her apron against her skirt or her shoes against the floor.
The mend was not the result of any discussion or great wordy interchange. It was in the aura of home, being home, the safety of home. A grand feeling of security that erases sorrow like a fine bottle of White-Out.
Reminding me with such intensity, how I used to feel when playing ball and racing, amidst such risk and danger, full-tilt for home-plate. And then, the grand moment of majestic glory, when my foot safely touched the home-plate. Dancing, prancing.
“I’m Home Free! I’m Home Free!” (nothing can harm me now).
Like home-plate, home was just a place free from harm, fear, care, or any kind of inharmonious interface. That’s all. Nothing more.
So obviously, in my present distress, that is where I must go. But it’s a bit too late for that.
I look for a place to run, the plate to touch so I can yell, “Home Free”, but I can’t find it. Like some old ball diamond, fallen into disuse, the home-free-plate is covered with leaves and turf and can no longer be found.
Yeh, it’s really a bit of a shake-up when there is no place of true comfort where one can run to and skid in there yelling, “I’m Home Free!”
Of course I no longer have a therapist, and it’s bloody ridiculous that I should be whining about this so long after the fact. But this whole rant has been a rigorous spiritual exercise that has been comforting.
Proof of the worth of self-reflection. It has softened the rawness. Eased the pain. And although I’m not “Home Free” …— going back to the analogy of softball, I’m not in a hot box between second and third either.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Home Free! - part III
"Tattle-Tale! Tattle-Tale! Hanging on a bull's tail..."
And so, when I was a small child, telling on the perpetrator was what comforted a dismayed spirit. Particularly because I was the child, that wanted to do the caring and admirable thing.
I did nothing to become this wanna-be-good, self-sacrificing individual. I did nothing for the care and grooming of it. Rather, it came upon me insidiously (something modern society will most certainly fail to understand), through a religious upbringing that made the worth of a righteous character so much greater than my competitive spirit.
And fortunately or unfortunately, depending on whether one is the aggressor or the aggressee, from a child perspective, it seemed to me that God wanted most of all, remorseful and truthful confessions from evildoers.
And if they were not willing to do that, I was. And of course, all my tattle-taling was wholly and holy truth. I’m prett-ty sure.
And so, was it not like a ‘blessing’ for me to bring evildoers, through my well-articulated, third-person confessionals-on-their-behalf, into a state of guilty pondering? Perhaps even remission? Seemed like the righteous thing for me to do.
And so, I’ve said quite enough about tattles. Or have I?
Have I told you that because I was ‘a good little girl’, my parents and teachers were the backers of my tattles and so, as a result, it was rather serious when I told a sneering school-mate that I if they didn’t back off, I would tell on them?
Well your know now, and right about now, you’re probably saying that ‘this is the longest rant about tattle-tales that I have ever heard in one lifetime’.
Sorry about that, but you really must realize, if you haven’t already, that this kind of telling is at the very heart and nature of the DNA of a tattle-tale. The need to tell and tell and tell again.
But to bring this to a summation, ‘tis true, tattle-taling worked well for me in primary school but eventually that kind of juvenile reaction had to be discarded. And so with adolescence and eventually adult maturity, I moved on.
NEXT POST: Therapy and my oh-so-lovely Therapist
And so, when I was a small child, telling on the perpetrator was what comforted a dismayed spirit. Particularly because I was the child, that wanted to do the caring and admirable thing.
I did nothing to become this wanna-be-good, self-sacrificing individual. I did nothing for the care and grooming of it. Rather, it came upon me insidiously (something modern society will most certainly fail to understand), through a religious upbringing that made the worth of a righteous character so much greater than my competitive spirit.
And fortunately or unfortunately, depending on whether one is the aggressor or the aggressee, from a child perspective, it seemed to me that God wanted most of all, remorseful and truthful confessions from evildoers.
And if they were not willing to do that, I was. And of course, all my tattle-taling was wholly and holy truth. I’m prett-ty sure.
And so, was it not like a ‘blessing’ for me to bring evildoers, through my well-articulated, third-person confessionals-on-their-behalf, into a state of guilty pondering? Perhaps even remission? Seemed like the righteous thing for me to do.
And so, I’ve said quite enough about tattles. Or have I?
Have I told you that because I was ‘a good little girl’, my parents and teachers were the backers of my tattles and so, as a result, it was rather serious when I told a sneering school-mate that I if they didn’t back off, I would tell on them?
Well your know now, and right about now, you’re probably saying that ‘this is the longest rant about tattle-tales that I have ever heard in one lifetime’.
Sorry about that, but you really must realize, if you haven’t already, that this kind of telling is at the very heart and nature of the DNA of a tattle-tale. The need to tell and tell and tell again.
But to bring this to a summation, ‘tis true, tattle-taling worked well for me in primary school but eventually that kind of juvenile reaction had to be discarded. And so with adolescence and eventually adult maturity, I moved on.
NEXT POST: Therapy and my oh-so-lovely Therapist
Friday, January 7, 2011
Home Free! (part II)
Now some might wonder why I continue this whine. In seems quite unnecessary in the midst of a modern and sophisticated world with the fullness of understanding how to have and maintain ruddiness of body, soul, and oh yes, spirit as well.
Don’t we just hear it all the time? That if we eat the right foods, drink the right amount of water, run the right number of miles per day, stretch before exercising, love ourselves, and take time for ourselves, our spirit will be right on the blue dot. Exactly where our spirit is supposed to be.
Excuse me, but that is a lie. Though my body feels better after this kind of ritual, my spirit does not. My spirit does not thrive on nutritious food and a quota of exercise, and furthermore, my spirit is not insulated from woe by any watershed effect of these disciplined physical routines.
And the difference between my physical body requirements, and my emotional spirit requirements, is this. My body thrives on healthy nutrients without junk food. My spirit thrives on harmonious environments without junk conflict.
Now I’m not going to tell too much. Dumping it all will have me watering down this keyboard to the extent it most certainly will short out and permanently crater. I can only tell you that I have been separated from a precious someone I love, not by fate, but by stupid stuff that I fail to understand.
And no it is not Hub. Hub is still here.
Now in my search for some kind of comforting heal, I have thought of past states of crisis that were heartbreaking and how I fared through those trying times.
It was great when I was a child. If anything or anyone was not harmonious in their dealings with me, what did I do? I told on them. I told my mom, or dad, or the teacher. That fixed them. (smugness here)
And so I’m telling. I’m telling the one, possibly two, readers of this rant. But I know and they know that tattle-taling isn’t going to help me one iota. And so, the quest begins to find a new and better soul-salve for the rawness of my spirit.
NEXT POST: The search for healing.
Don’t we just hear it all the time? That if we eat the right foods, drink the right amount of water, run the right number of miles per day, stretch before exercising, love ourselves, and take time for ourselves, our spirit will be right on the blue dot. Exactly where our spirit is supposed to be.
Excuse me, but that is a lie. Though my body feels better after this kind of ritual, my spirit does not. My spirit does not thrive on nutritious food and a quota of exercise, and furthermore, my spirit is not insulated from woe by any watershed effect of these disciplined physical routines.
And the difference between my physical body requirements, and my emotional spirit requirements, is this. My body thrives on healthy nutrients without junk food. My spirit thrives on harmonious environments without junk conflict.
Now I’m not going to tell too much. Dumping it all will have me watering down this keyboard to the extent it most certainly will short out and permanently crater. I can only tell you that I have been separated from a precious someone I love, not by fate, but by stupid stuff that I fail to understand.
And no it is not Hub. Hub is still here.
Now in my search for some kind of comforting heal, I have thought of past states of crisis that were heartbreaking and how I fared through those trying times.
It was great when I was a child. If anything or anyone was not harmonious in their dealings with me, what did I do? I told on them. I told my mom, or dad, or the teacher. That fixed them. (smugness here)
And so I’m telling. I’m telling the one, possibly two, readers of this rant. But I know and they know that tattle-taling isn’t going to help me one iota. And so, the quest begins to find a new and better soul-salve for the rawness of my spirit.
NEXT POST: The search for healing.
Friday, June 4, 2010
My Big Blog Discouragement
My big discouragement at the moment with blogging is my lack of freedom of speech. It is not that I want to be vulgar. It is not that I want to be crude. I just want to out that which strikes me as the fabric of a striking story.
And what is most discouraging about it goes back to the debate of ‘character’ versus ‘writer’ and the reader perception that what a character does in a story defines what the author would do, particularly when the writer writes in first person as I prefer to do.
So how does one resolve this dilemma? The ‘id’ of who I am, and the “I” in the story? Must I re-christen the character in my story to Jack or Jane to escape the interchange of me with them? I have tried that but cannot do it and still retain the conviction of what I am trying to say. It is only in first person voice that I am able to make the essential part intimate, conversational, and multi-layered. Besides which, switching to another voice is like converting, what to me are fluid thoughts, to some other kind of clumsy dialect. And yes, I could alternatively switch to satire, but that too can easily lead to misunderstandings even more extreme. Particularly since, in an age of texting, no one any longer understands what ‘satire’ is.
But that is not all. The other thing, so difficult to explain, so hard to wrap my head around, but yet it is true, the honesty of the writing is hampered by such glitches in readers’ perceptions.
For example, right now, though seeming quite removed from this discussion, I want to express my dismay over why army troops in a sexually sterile environment want to have the right to be “openly-gay”. To what end in a place where no fraternization, not even hand-holding is allowed? Can I rant about how I explore this question in my own mind?
No way. Too political to write. The slant of the discussion must be politically correct enough not to stain the author. And how can that happen if the reader generalization of the character’s dismay creates a perception that “I” am too close-minded to understand and support the bravery, sacrifice, and efforts of the men and women engaged in war?
In contemplating this, and other situations of the here and now, I realized the other day, I have still so much stuff to write. But it is stuff that will be, (if the “I” is me), self-deprecating to an extreme. And (if the “I” is me), it will be unjust. (If the “I” is me), it will be so arrogant at times that it will make readers want to puke. And (if the “I” is me), I could end up on Court TV trying to explain my warped thinking. And (if the “I” is me), so innocent at times, it will make readers feel too corrupt to ever wear white again.
But I can’t write this stuff. I simply can’t. Not here, anyway.
In the meantime, I am oppressed, anxious, and ill at ease. I need to openly-out controversial writing inspirations. But this is an environment where, in present time, like openly-gay soldiers in the midst of war, to do so would serve no good purpose.
So I am discontinuing this Blog and these are my excuses.
Thank you for the time we shared.
I guess all the rest that I feel so compelled to write will have to have to be shoved under the bed and labeled “Posthumous Papers”.
And what is most discouraging about it goes back to the debate of ‘character’ versus ‘writer’ and the reader perception that what a character does in a story defines what the author would do, particularly when the writer writes in first person as I prefer to do.
So how does one resolve this dilemma? The ‘id’ of who I am, and the “I” in the story? Must I re-christen the character in my story to Jack or Jane to escape the interchange of me with them? I have tried that but cannot do it and still retain the conviction of what I am trying to say. It is only in first person voice that I am able to make the essential part intimate, conversational, and multi-layered. Besides which, switching to another voice is like converting, what to me are fluid thoughts, to some other kind of clumsy dialect. And yes, I could alternatively switch to satire, but that too can easily lead to misunderstandings even more extreme. Particularly since, in an age of texting, no one any longer understands what ‘satire’ is.
But that is not all. The other thing, so difficult to explain, so hard to wrap my head around, but yet it is true, the honesty of the writing is hampered by such glitches in readers’ perceptions.
For example, right now, though seeming quite removed from this discussion, I want to express my dismay over why army troops in a sexually sterile environment want to have the right to be “openly-gay”. To what end in a place where no fraternization, not even hand-holding is allowed? Can I rant about how I explore this question in my own mind?
No way. Too political to write. The slant of the discussion must be politically correct enough not to stain the author. And how can that happen if the reader generalization of the character’s dismay creates a perception that “I” am too close-minded to understand and support the bravery, sacrifice, and efforts of the men and women engaged in war?
In contemplating this, and other situations of the here and now, I realized the other day, I have still so much stuff to write. But it is stuff that will be, (if the “I” is me), self-deprecating to an extreme. And (if the “I” is me), it will be unjust. (If the “I” is me), it will be so arrogant at times that it will make readers want to puke. And (if the “I” is me), I could end up on Court TV trying to explain my warped thinking. And (if the “I” is me), so innocent at times, it will make readers feel too corrupt to ever wear white again.
But I can’t write this stuff. I simply can’t. Not here, anyway.
In the meantime, I am oppressed, anxious, and ill at ease. I need to openly-out controversial writing inspirations. But this is an environment where, in present time, like openly-gay soldiers in the midst of war, to do so would serve no good purpose.
So I am discontinuing this Blog and these are my excuses.
Thank you for the time we shared.
I guess all the rest that I feel so compelled to write will have to have to be shoved under the bed and labeled “Posthumous Papers”.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Award Winners and Presentation
I think my blogger friend Joy has been following my blog for so long she can read between the lines as well as on the lines. She must be able to do that, because she always seems to know when I am truly in need of encouragement. And that is when she sends me just that, either by e-mail or as a comment on my blog.
And today, (when I really needed it), there she is again. Giving encouragement, an atta-girl patty-pat, and encouragement to continue writing. And this time the encouragement came in the form of this beautiful award.
And in response I have been asked to write a quick list of ten things that make me happy – so here they are:
It doesn’t take much…
1. A blogger friend like Joy
2. The sound of rain on a tin roof
3. Soft cotton sheets to cuddle into that have been dried in the fresh air of Spring on the clothesline (Mmm – love that smell).
4. Piano music – alone, only piano – no other instruments interfering
5. Liquid chocolate – I don’t want nothing to dip in it Keep the chocolates, or cherries, or strawberries. I just want to dip a really BIG spoon in the stuff.
6. When Hub drives slow
7. When Hub sings (...in the garage)
8. Sunsets, sunrises, storm clouds, and rainbows
9. When I can write as long as I like...undisturbed
10. Getting encouragement exactly when I need it as much as I need food, shelter, and other of life's major requirements.
Now the other thing I’m supposed to do is pass this award on to ten people. So which 10 will it be?
Well, I see it this way. It is as pleasant to receive as it is to give, so any one who reads this blog is elected. Collect the award, put it on your blog. Reveal where the award came from and list ten things that make you happy…
We’ve got a positive moment happening here so help the moment endure…and pass it on…
Thank you again, Joy, for the very lovely Bloggy Award!
And today, (when I really needed it), there she is again. Giving encouragement, an atta-girl patty-pat, and encouragement to continue writing. And this time the encouragement came in the form of this beautiful award.
And in response I have been asked to write a quick list of ten things that make me happy – so here they are:
It doesn’t take much…
1. A blogger friend like Joy
2. The sound of rain on a tin roof
3. Soft cotton sheets to cuddle into that have been dried in the fresh air of Spring on the clothesline (Mmm – love that smell).
4. Piano music – alone, only piano – no other instruments interfering
5. Liquid chocolate – I don’t want nothing to dip in it Keep the chocolates, or cherries, or strawberries. I just want to dip a really BIG spoon in the stuff.
6. When Hub drives slow
7. When Hub sings (...in the garage)
8. Sunsets, sunrises, storm clouds, and rainbows
9. When I can write as long as I like...undisturbed
10. Getting encouragement exactly when I need it as much as I need food, shelter, and other of life's major requirements.
Now the other thing I’m supposed to do is pass this award on to ten people. So which 10 will it be?
Well, I see it this way. It is as pleasant to receive as it is to give, so any one who reads this blog is elected. Collect the award, put it on your blog. Reveal where the award came from and list ten things that make you happy…
We’ve got a positive moment happening here so help the moment endure…and pass it on…
Thank you again, Joy, for the very lovely Bloggy Award!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
The Ways of The Elderly 4.
WAY IV
And what are Valentine-like-loves? They can be of a Romantic nature but often they are not. They are simply people I have known throughout a lifetime that gave me confidence, courage, comfort, and worth.
Simply put, what you might call easy friendships with the kind of people that always, and forever, give comfort and security without a trace of aggravation or qualm.
I came to realize this Valentine-like-love representation only this morning in discussion with a friend who dropped in for coffee. In our conversation a name came up so familiar to me because the name mentioned was a fellow who lived near my parents’ house throughout my childhood years.
The name was Mr. Jolly. One of the friendliest, jolliest people one could ever hope to find. He lived alone for many years but eventually when I was in Junior High, he married a dear, sweet lady, as jolly and friendly as he. Wonderful people they were in every respect.
But after I married and moved from my childhood home district, I seldom saw Mr. Jolly and his jolly wife. But nothing changed. Even at that, he and his wife forever remained as friendly and jolly and open to chatting with me as they always had, despite geographic separation and infrequent encounters.
Now I was quite taken aback this morning when Mr Jolly's name came up in a coffee conversation. Surprised that a neighbor in this area that I now live in also knew him. Immediately I expressed in glowing terms how much I honored Mr. Jolly's goodwill and generosity. My coffee-friend listened and heartily agreed with my assessment, but then…and that’s when…she asked me if I was aware that Mr. Jolly passed away some years ago.
Immediately I was so deeply saddened – my soul awash with dismay, loss, and even a kind of isolation. But then slowly, I came to the realization that I knew that. I did. I already knew that. But with that blessed failing memory, I had forgotten and the forgetting was truly sweet.
I have thought and continue to think of the Jolly Man and his jolly wife so often. And when I do I smile and I am so happy when I think of them. Happy because I remember them only in the present tense. How lovely they ‘are’, and how lovely the discourse in my mind of their easy friendship, easy pleasantness, and jolly nature.
It is so nice to be comfortable with present confidence, and unmindful that Mr. Jolly is gone and she in a retirement place. I prefer it that way. Sorrow and loneliness eradicated. All that so direly chills the heart with the loss of good friends tucked away out of mind.
I am well aware that to others, this is a derogatory thing, this living a life of ‘fancy’ rather than ‘fact’. All I say to that is, “Excuse me, Sophists of Society, insist if you must on factual and scientific data for youthful years, but not for the elderly. Being old is not an easy path and in treading it, fancy is what softens the pains of physical and mental impoverishment.
____
And so, in conclusion, in Way IV, I give you only this one small sample of February comforts and Valentine-like-loves. There are more. Many of my dear friends are gone, but I forget that as I ponder special times we once shared when we conducted heart exchanges like Valentines.
And so what I am left with is a discriminatory memory that allows me to ponder what lovely friends (in present tense) I have. How fond I am of them, how strong and comforted I am because of them. How fixedly they remain an immortal abstraction within my heart and mind.
And so, I wonder if perhaps, in some oblique way, that here, in Way IV, we factually and scientifically found the fundamental cause of the oft-found-conviction of after-life immortality in the hearts of the aged because long-term memories are immortalized and short-term memories die such a premature death.
____
So Old Age? – Bring it on! In as many ‘Ways’ as there may be. And in that, let me be short-term-forgetful, as long as with long-term-memory, I retain the immortal companionship of all my many Valentines.
[“The Ways of the Elderly” could, I think, be a rather grand epistle. I invite you to do a “Way”. There is nothing sophisticated about my blog so if you have thoughts to add, post them in my comments section and I will pull them out and add them to the other “Ways”. Or post them on your own blog and let me know.
I say this half-jokingly, half-serious, because I don’t really know if anyone will use this prompt to divulge the secrets of present time and place that the Elderly are so disinclined, or unable, to tell.]
And what are Valentine-like-loves? They can be of a Romantic nature but often they are not. They are simply people I have known throughout a lifetime that gave me confidence, courage, comfort, and worth.
Simply put, what you might call easy friendships with the kind of people that always, and forever, give comfort and security without a trace of aggravation or qualm.
I came to realize this Valentine-like-love representation only this morning in discussion with a friend who dropped in for coffee. In our conversation a name came up so familiar to me because the name mentioned was a fellow who lived near my parents’ house throughout my childhood years.
The name was Mr. Jolly. One of the friendliest, jolliest people one could ever hope to find. He lived alone for many years but eventually when I was in Junior High, he married a dear, sweet lady, as jolly and friendly as he. Wonderful people they were in every respect.
But after I married and moved from my childhood home district, I seldom saw Mr. Jolly and his jolly wife. But nothing changed. Even at that, he and his wife forever remained as friendly and jolly and open to chatting with me as they always had, despite geographic separation and infrequent encounters.
Now I was quite taken aback this morning when Mr Jolly's name came up in a coffee conversation. Surprised that a neighbor in this area that I now live in also knew him. Immediately I expressed in glowing terms how much I honored Mr. Jolly's goodwill and generosity. My coffee-friend listened and heartily agreed with my assessment, but then…and that’s when…she asked me if I was aware that Mr. Jolly passed away some years ago.
Immediately I was so deeply saddened – my soul awash with dismay, loss, and even a kind of isolation. But then slowly, I came to the realization that I knew that. I did. I already knew that. But with that blessed failing memory, I had forgotten and the forgetting was truly sweet.
I have thought and continue to think of the Jolly Man and his jolly wife so often. And when I do I smile and I am so happy when I think of them. Happy because I remember them only in the present tense. How lovely they ‘are’, and how lovely the discourse in my mind of their easy friendship, easy pleasantness, and jolly nature.
It is so nice to be comfortable with present confidence, and unmindful that Mr. Jolly is gone and she in a retirement place. I prefer it that way. Sorrow and loneliness eradicated. All that so direly chills the heart with the loss of good friends tucked away out of mind.
I am well aware that to others, this is a derogatory thing, this living a life of ‘fancy’ rather than ‘fact’. All I say to that is, “Excuse me, Sophists of Society, insist if you must on factual and scientific data for youthful years, but not for the elderly. Being old is not an easy path and in treading it, fancy is what softens the pains of physical and mental impoverishment.
____
And so, in conclusion, in Way IV, I give you only this one small sample of February comforts and Valentine-like-loves. There are more. Many of my dear friends are gone, but I forget that as I ponder special times we once shared when we conducted heart exchanges like Valentines.
And so what I am left with is a discriminatory memory that allows me to ponder what lovely friends (in present tense) I have. How fond I am of them, how strong and comforted I am because of them. How fixedly they remain an immortal abstraction within my heart and mind.
And so, I wonder if perhaps, in some oblique way, that here, in Way IV, we factually and scientifically found the fundamental cause of the oft-found-conviction of after-life immortality in the hearts of the aged because long-term memories are immortalized and short-term memories die such a premature death.
____
So Old Age? – Bring it on! In as many ‘Ways’ as there may be. And in that, let me be short-term-forgetful, as long as with long-term-memory, I retain the immortal companionship of all my many Valentines.
[“The Ways of the Elderly” could, I think, be a rather grand epistle. I invite you to do a “Way”. There is nothing sophisticated about my blog so if you have thoughts to add, post them in my comments section and I will pull them out and add them to the other “Ways”. Or post them on your own blog and let me know.
I say this half-jokingly, half-serious, because I don’t really know if anyone will use this prompt to divulge the secrets of present time and place that the Elderly are so disinclined, or unable, to tell.]
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Ejection, or should I say Rejection? (III-IV)
Part III – The Search for Redemption
For three days I punched every link I could find. I tried search engines from every possible angle and direction. I even went through these rituals on all three computers, but no luck. Yes, it was all too true. I was solidly shut out. No way to crash this party with that kind of 24-7 security.
Now I had one wee bit of fragile hope in all this. Hub and I are here alone most of the time so when my computer stalls, or cycles some kind of stupidity, or takes to flashing nothing but pop-ups, or refuses to be cooperative in a thousand other ways, I say to Hub, “I am having a problem with this computer. Will you have a look at it?”
And so Hub looks at it and always says the same, “What the hell did you do to it? You must have changed something. This wouldn’t be happening otherwise.”
And of course I say, “I didn’t touch a thing. Honestly I didn’t. I changed nothing.” And it is the truth. I didn’t change anything.
Then Hub, who fully understands computer hardware, virus control, and all the other behind the scene aspects of computers, goes to my computer and does his bit of magic, and we are back up and running in good form. Sometimes it is simply manipulation from the keyboard, sometimes it is installation of a new bit of hardware, but when he attacks a troublesome computer, the trouble is normally short-lived.
Now one of the truly most enviable things in the mind of a computer is that, if it royally screws up, or gets a really nasty virus, Hub can subtract the computer’s moments of irresponsibility or disease and reduce its life to only the good times. He can erase the errors, the mistakes, the blight, and actually subtract from that computer the memory, and all of the segments of its irresponsible past that interfere with its performance.
I so often think now nice it would be if human beings could do that as well. This day it would be particularly nice to be able to so easily recant something I may have said.
But Hub tells me that being shut out from anothers blog cannot be cured in that way. That is their right, that is their choice, and without an e-mail address, there is nothing that can be done to re-establish contact.
Part IV – The Come Back
I am so utterly heartbroken. I cannot believe how heartbroken I am. It is stupid, utterly stupid, how sick at heart I am. At the same time I am so techy-dumb, dumb, (and forgetful as well), that I wonder if I could have changed something on my own page that caused this?
Anxiety over all of it plagues me like a nasty head-cold stuffling my mind. And then, a few days later, quite by chance, I notice in my archaic tracking system that although I can no longer visit my friend’s site, my friend had visited mine. Now I know, though I seldom do it, that if I highlight the site that visited me, occasionally that will take me back to their place. And so I try, and oh glory, it works. But now what?
The site name was not altered in any way, but nevertheless, I cut and re-pasted it on my links and suddenly we were back in business. No door slams in my face. No barred threshold or virtual voice screaming, “Get away, get out of here, and don’t ever, ever come back!”
But that is computers for you. They screw up and Hub thinks I did something to make them screw up. And as for me, I suspect he inadvertently did something to make it screw up. But he is as persistent that he didn’t change anything as I am.
So I have to accept that computers, like myself, are not always lucid. And within their incredible brains, they sometimes reflect in ways that cross signals and alter synapses. And in doing so wrack horror and rawness on people that is beyond belief.
And so now, as a final thought, if my friend really did want me out of there (which I am quite certain was not the case) – then all I can say is that, like the Salahis' at the White House Dinner, I too, have crashed the party.
But my mind is at rest that all is well. Since that horrible time, we have spoken often, and our conversations are as delightful and openly friendly as they ever were in the past. This was obviously nothing more than a friendship thwarted by some kind of inexplicable computer interference.
Friday, January 8, 2010
The Ejection, or should I say Rejection? (Part I-II)
Part I – The Nightmare Begins
To begin with, I’m a strong believer in good courage. Of chucking one’s chin in and getting on with it. With the belief that things can only get so bad before they have to get better.
Still the courage I have is not always so deep-seated as I may lead others to believe. The self-confidence I have is not so deep-seated as I may lead others to believe. And the goodness I want to have. And the faith, appreciation, and strong work ethic, I want to have. I guess we’re all like that to a certain extent. If all our attempts to be all that we would like to be are not sufficient, we apply a bit of make-up to more than just the face.
Now I’m telling you this because I had a really raw moment a few weeks ago that I wanted so much to tell you about. But I hesitated to do that, because the rawness I felt at the time completely reduced to rubble the embodiment of courage that I need, and feel obligated to maintain.
And when I write in the moment of that kind of conviction, I can spread rawness like a wildfire, because rawness is pouring out of every cell of my body. And when that is the case, I feel like I could literally drown my readers in my own sorrow. But I am no longer saturated with that rawness and so I am finally ready to tell you what happened.
___
Part II – Me, and My Big Mouth
I have been blogging since March 2003, and since that time many blogger-friends have come and gone. Quite often there are clues in their final post. Some simply need to take a break. Others find a new significant other, move to a new job or locale, and suddenly fall silent. But the little clues of what happened to them are enough that I can deal with it. And yes, a few discontinue because of health reasons and when that happens I am very sad, yet all of it is understandable enough to accept.
What is harder to accept is what I am unable to understand. And so I was less able to accept the situation of going to a blogging site, that I frequent more often than most, only to find that I no longer had access. When I hit the link on my page, I got a message that said, “No Access”. When I googled the site, I got the same message – “No Access.”
But yet I had a rather strong confidence that this was not the type of person that would just disappear without a ‘fill-in’ or friend letting readers know what was going on. This was a person to ‘into blogging’ to just erase and shut down his/her rants. So what does that mean? It must be me. Me—and my always-at-an-obtuse-angle-big-mouth.
It must be something I said that was too sassy. I mean all I say in good humor, but what I say is easy to misconstrue. I must have somehow inadvertently put one foot in my mouth and the other over the line where enough is enough is enough.
I raked my mind and could think of nothing offensive that I might have said that would drive a person to such a radical reaction. I tried again and again to stop by, but it was like getting a door slammed in my face again and again. The discard of friendship and the bolted passageway hurt. And what also hurt was the foregone conclusion that I was not welcome there. Not wanted there. Like – “please leave and don’t ever come back!” There was nothing for it except my strongest suspicions that my ‘friend’ was still out there, but they were absolutely, completely, unalterably done with me.
I won’t tell you that I wept bitter tears. That sort of thing is too intimate and private to tell. I will tell you that I said to myself, in my extreme disappointment, that if I was so careless that this could happen, I best not blog. ‘Twould be best for me to shut it down, and go back to the furnace room and write only for the sake of writing, for myself, and no other.
To be continued....
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Ten Things I Never Told You
I prefer curiosity that I am not in a condition to satisfy
I prefer markers of time lowered into deeper pockets
Buried and ignored
I prefer deviations peculiar to dreams --but still
I prefer to be found in my wrapper by my nightmare
If I cannot sleep, I prefer to cry myself better in a pillow,
(when I haven’t any tissue, And I haven’t any sleeves)
I prefer to give testy dialogue a grand poke in the middle
I prefer to name ‘Monday’ and leave the rest anonymous
I prefer the oblique separation of rain falling in slanted lines
I prefer a world dimensionally narrow
I prefer oblivion to the fact that I am out of place
Most of all I prefer the particularities and generalities of a gloomy life with bright glories of fancy.
I prefer markers of time lowered into deeper pockets
Buried and ignored
I prefer deviations peculiar to dreams --but still
I prefer to be found in my wrapper by my nightmare
If I cannot sleep, I prefer to cry myself better in a pillow,
(when I haven’t any tissue, And I haven’t any sleeves)
I prefer to give testy dialogue a grand poke in the middle
I prefer to name ‘Monday’ and leave the rest anonymous
I prefer the oblique separation of rain falling in slanted lines
I prefer a world dimensionally narrow
I prefer oblivion to the fact that I am out of place
Most of all I prefer the particularities and generalities of a gloomy life with bright glories of fancy.
Friday, March 13, 2009
An Open Letter to Anti-Bloggers
Dear Anti-Blogger,
March 17 is my 6-year Bloggiversary and with that I decided it was time to let you know how things stand with me.
I guess my first mistake was when I admitted that I blog. You said, “Get a life. Get out of the house. Make some new friends, find some new contacts, or join a club.”
“Come with me,” you said, but what you didn’t say (but still I knew), was you wanted me to compulsively, and almost daily embed myself in clusters of animated individuals.”
And I imagined you might be right. So for three weeks I engaged in dinners, dancing, and your other social events with their ribald conversations and compulsory social rites that accompany the ornamental membership that insulates your life from mine.
Together we whirled and twirled. Out and about. But despite the excellent food, the delightful bouquet of the wine, the brocade cloth, set against symphonic background music, and tables set with fork number one, and fork number two, and fork number three, all seem linked to a gloomy insincerity. I mean, maybe it’s just me, but I find it just a bit unsettling when forks have to line up and vie for time and an appointment?
I find that somewhat representative of the mockery of real life – where society is so bent on individual rights in a world of cloned disposition, designation, and duplication. Despite these thoughts, I remained silent. I promised myself I would not wound your intentions, though you didn’t hesitate to wound mine.
“It’s an ego-thing,” you said, “that blogging business. Like busking on the corner. ‘Look at me! I’m here! Listen to my song and dance and then drop a comment or two into the bucket.’ ”
Okay, okay. I can’t deny that, because that part of it, I’m not too sure about. Maybe that is the case.
But there is more, and for me to explain to you would be asking you to recognize the improbable. How can I defend my position by saying that here I form alliances with individuals for whom I have immense fondness? If I said that, you would laugh, roll your eyes, and say that I either lie or exaggerate.
How can I expect you to absorb my conviction that there is preciseness to be found in my Blog-World of totally diverse, yet collective intelligence? And brightness to each day gleaned from complexity made simple and simplicity made complex?
That here I see stunning world champions of Beauty and Brawn embellished with nothing more than the glow of ideas. Or sincerity in oblique convictions cast from another side of the seas of life. Though separated by vast geographical distances, we express closeted thoughts and analyze only those bits of interchange conveyed by words. But as limited as our exchange is, it is enough to know who is of sound judgment, sweet heart, and sober thought.
Relationships here are not based on superficial visual-perceptions of worthiness that trick us into forming new relationships that progress at such a reckless pace. Relationships formed in one day, fast-ripening by next week, and showing bits of rot and deterioration in three months.
Bloggers form alliances at a much slower rate. But in the end they are relationships that cause us to be touched, ambitious, and mindful of each other in special ways. I know you can’t understand it, but in the end we are linked as soundly by mirror-matter of the soul as gregarious and indiscriminate individuals in real life are linked by hot-spots of the flesh.
So frolic in your pulsing, steaming, social immersions of breath and body, while I frolic with equal delight with dear friends in the rapid transit of word, and phrase—essay, poetry, and composition—letters, quotes, punctuation.
(Written in honor of Blogger Friends who visit, cheer, andcomment-comfort me.)
March 17 is my 6-year Bloggiversary and with that I decided it was time to let you know how things stand with me.
I guess my first mistake was when I admitted that I blog. You said, “Get a life. Get out of the house. Make some new friends, find some new contacts, or join a club.”
“Come with me,” you said, but what you didn’t say (but still I knew), was you wanted me to compulsively, and almost daily embed myself in clusters of animated individuals.”
And I imagined you might be right. So for three weeks I engaged in dinners, dancing, and your other social events with their ribald conversations and compulsory social rites that accompany the ornamental membership that insulates your life from mine.
Together we whirled and twirled. Out and about. But despite the excellent food, the delightful bouquet of the wine, the brocade cloth, set against symphonic background music, and tables set with fork number one, and fork number two, and fork number three, all seem linked to a gloomy insincerity. I mean, maybe it’s just me, but I find it just a bit unsettling when forks have to line up and vie for time and an appointment?
I find that somewhat representative of the mockery of real life – where society is so bent on individual rights in a world of cloned disposition, designation, and duplication. Despite these thoughts, I remained silent. I promised myself I would not wound your intentions, though you didn’t hesitate to wound mine.
“It’s an ego-thing,” you said, “that blogging business. Like busking on the corner. ‘Look at me! I’m here! Listen to my song and dance and then drop a comment or two into the bucket.’ ”
Okay, okay. I can’t deny that, because that part of it, I’m not too sure about. Maybe that is the case.
But there is more, and for me to explain to you would be asking you to recognize the improbable. How can I defend my position by saying that here I form alliances with individuals for whom I have immense fondness? If I said that, you would laugh, roll your eyes, and say that I either lie or exaggerate.
How can I expect you to absorb my conviction that there is preciseness to be found in my Blog-World of totally diverse, yet collective intelligence? And brightness to each day gleaned from complexity made simple and simplicity made complex?
That here I see stunning world champions of Beauty and Brawn embellished with nothing more than the glow of ideas. Or sincerity in oblique convictions cast from another side of the seas of life. Though separated by vast geographical distances, we express closeted thoughts and analyze only those bits of interchange conveyed by words. But as limited as our exchange is, it is enough to know who is of sound judgment, sweet heart, and sober thought.
Relationships here are not based on superficial visual-perceptions of worthiness that trick us into forming new relationships that progress at such a reckless pace. Relationships formed in one day, fast-ripening by next week, and showing bits of rot and deterioration in three months.
Bloggers form alliances at a much slower rate. But in the end they are relationships that cause us to be touched, ambitious, and mindful of each other in special ways. I know you can’t understand it, but in the end we are linked as soundly by mirror-matter of the soul as gregarious and indiscriminate individuals in real life are linked by hot-spots of the flesh.
So frolic in your pulsing, steaming, social immersions of breath and body, while I frolic with equal delight with dear friends in the rapid transit of word, and phrase—essay, poetry, and composition—letters, quotes, punctuation.
(Written in honor of Blogger Friends who visit, cheer, and
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Truth or Fiction
In the past, we’ve pretty well covered it all. Why we blog, when we blog, how we blog. We’ve discussed the inner therapy of a sad rant, and the external therapy of a glad rant. But, what we haven’t discussed is truth vs. fiction.
Now, three years ago, maybe more, I was addicted to a blog. I don’t know how many fans that blog had, but with the amount of daily comments it received, it was a huge crowd.
As for me, I started reading it with reluctance but soon the writer and I started to gel. She seduced me into seeing through my conservative eyes the realities of her much more liberal mind. And with each subsequent reading, I began to feel things I hadn’t expected to feel. Strong sentiments of pity, love, and understanding, even though her lifestyle was abhorrent to me.
But then came that unforgettable day when it was revealed the blog was a game of pretend. And with that, it was also revealed that she was a ‘he’. And so, although that didn't diminish the value of an expertly cloned reality, readers went bizerk. They berated the author mercilessly. They stubbornly refused to read more. The comments were angry and bitter. And in real life, if ready access could have been achieved, I’m certain the throng would have stoned the author in the marketplace.
And so the author moved to a new site with a masculine identity. ‘He’ continued to tell real-life-sounding stories that made the best of the English Classics seem like shambling prose. But despite all that, his readership bottomed out.
I couldn’t understand it. To me it mattered no more to the beauty and soul of the author than it mattered to me (when I was a child), that a man named Dodgson wrote “Alice in Wonderland”, rather than Lewis Carroll.
______
Now you don’t have to read much of my blog to know that I generally write true-to-life stuff seasoned with internalized and imaginative thoughts. So I assume my two readers expect to find a continuation of that kind of truth here, rather than fiction. Having said that, I will now disclose what prompted this rant.
In my most recent post “Match-Holders and Candy”, I cloned fact-filled reality and then, when I had the reader’s attention, I eventually ‘fessed up that it was a mere dream.
So, in light of that and all I have just told you, what’s your perspective on truth vs. fiction? At the conclusion of my rant, did you feel like a stoning in the marketplace? Or, at the very least, did you want to do as Dick suggested one should do with discourteous store clerks…
“…Seize the oaf [that would be me]by the collar, pull him [her] over the counter top and back through the door then insert him [her] head down into whatever containers there might be outside - water-butt, trash can, feed tub…”, etc.
Now, three years ago, maybe more, I was addicted to a blog. I don’t know how many fans that blog had, but with the amount of daily comments it received, it was a huge crowd.
As for me, I started reading it with reluctance but soon the writer and I started to gel. She seduced me into seeing through my conservative eyes the realities of her much more liberal mind. And with each subsequent reading, I began to feel things I hadn’t expected to feel. Strong sentiments of pity, love, and understanding, even though her lifestyle was abhorrent to me.
But then came that unforgettable day when it was revealed the blog was a game of pretend. And with that, it was also revealed that she was a ‘he’. And so, although that didn't diminish the value of an expertly cloned reality, readers went bizerk. They berated the author mercilessly. They stubbornly refused to read more. The comments were angry and bitter. And in real life, if ready access could have been achieved, I’m certain the throng would have stoned the author in the marketplace.
And so the author moved to a new site with a masculine identity. ‘He’ continued to tell real-life-sounding stories that made the best of the English Classics seem like shambling prose. But despite all that, his readership bottomed out.
I couldn’t understand it. To me it mattered no more to the beauty and soul of the author than it mattered to me (when I was a child), that a man named Dodgson wrote “Alice in Wonderland”, rather than Lewis Carroll.
______
Now you don’t have to read much of my blog to know that I generally write true-to-life stuff seasoned with internalized and imaginative thoughts. So I assume my two readers expect to find a continuation of that kind of truth here, rather than fiction. Having said that, I will now disclose what prompted this rant.
In my most recent post “Match-Holders and Candy”, I cloned fact-filled reality and then, when I had the reader’s attention, I eventually ‘fessed up that it was a mere dream.
So, in light of that and all I have just told you, what’s your perspective on truth vs. fiction? At the conclusion of my rant, did you feel like a stoning in the marketplace? Or, at the very least, did you want to do as Dick suggested one should do with discourteous store clerks…
“…Seize the oaf [that would be me]by the collar, pull
Monday, April 28, 2008
Blogging Flu Prognosis and Diagnosis
First off, get your facemask on. Just as a simple precaution for yet another contagious disease not so fully understood.
It has been one very long, tough winter. Long enough that I have been almost driven to take some kind of mind-altering drug for the first time in my life to keep my nose and eyeballs above the high waters of depression.
But I’ve somehow struggled through with the bit of rudimentary stupidity and mild-dewed bravery that I was born with. Some say I’m depressed, but what do they know? They’re as apt to make stuff up as I am. And besides, I don’t need a diagnosis; I need a cure.
The winter battle has left me fatigued. And when I sit down to my computer there is the real threat that I might stay so long that my writing becomes too painful to read. So painful that the few readers who hap by will be saying, ‘Why doesn’t that foolish woman stop while she is ahead?’
That may even have happened already. My readers coming to a full stop before I do. That’s what seems to be happening, but so what? I’m a stubborn, opinionated soul who will clutter up any available writing space for the rest of my life just to get those backed up words that ‘anxietize’ my soul, out of my system.
I’m not one of those who loves myself enough to rigidly exercise, monitor my diet, take fitness classes, or rotate clothes at a maddening speed to keep in fashion. So likewise, I am not one to quit when quitting is preferable to me looking good.
That’s not me. No such self-discipline here. So, in accordance with who I am I’m not going to be self-disciplined with my writing either. I should probably stop but I will continue to write no matter how tough the struggle.
But there is one supportive factor that urges me on. That gives support to my situation without that being the intent. There are as many bloggers right now struggling with spring maintenance of their blogs, as there are writing joyful notes of goodwill at Christmas and loving thoughts on Feb 14th. So I think the nasty infectious web-blog flu is making its rounds like any other seasonal virus.
But in reference to that flu, let it be known. I didn’t start it. No one caught if from me even though I am NOT the author of consistently cheerful and uplifting thoughts.
Truth is, I don’t know who started it, but I don’t think I’m the only one that caught it. The painful part of the malady, not being so much what I write, as the disheartened tone with which I write it.
It’s enough to make me think that colds and measles all those other maladies labeled ‘contagious’ are not caused by transfer of micro-beasties but by an unwilling shared state of mind. It may even be possible that blog-flu is linked to the absolute expectation of climate warming. Warming that, though housed within a ruinous context, is still what I have steeled my soul for and I am most prepared for. But how can it happen while winter so arduously still threatens cancellation of the whole evil event?
I only theorize here. The origin is not fully understood. But still this blog-flu will only mend by plunging onward and upward. And as choked as you may be by reading this depressing caricature of how I feel at the moment, don’t run. This flu is dire, but it is not life threatening.
We will recover and when recovery is complete, I want you to dance around the May Day tree with me. We’ll really get into a frenzy of ecstasy, that will transport us back into the rapture of those original vague-in-memory-now, good times.
“See you later, commiserator!”
It has been one very long, tough winter. Long enough that I have been almost driven to take some kind of mind-altering drug for the first time in my life to keep my nose and eyeballs above the high waters of depression.
But I’ve somehow struggled through with the bit of rudimentary stupidity and mild-dewed bravery that I was born with. Some say I’m depressed, but what do they know? They’re as apt to make stuff up as I am. And besides, I don’t need a diagnosis; I need a cure.
The winter battle has left me fatigued. And when I sit down to my computer there is the real threat that I might stay so long that my writing becomes too painful to read. So painful that the few readers who hap by will be saying, ‘Why doesn’t that foolish woman stop while she is ahead?’
That may even have happened already. My readers coming to a full stop before I do. That’s what seems to be happening, but so what? I’m a stubborn, opinionated soul who will clutter up any available writing space for the rest of my life just to get those backed up words that ‘anxietize’ my soul, out of my system.
I’m not one of those who loves myself enough to rigidly exercise, monitor my diet, take fitness classes, or rotate clothes at a maddening speed to keep in fashion. So likewise, I am not one to quit when quitting is preferable to me looking good.
That’s not me. No such self-discipline here. So, in accordance with who I am I’m not going to be self-disciplined with my writing either. I should probably stop but I will continue to write no matter how tough the struggle.
But there is one supportive factor that urges me on. That gives support to my situation without that being the intent. There are as many bloggers right now struggling with spring maintenance of their blogs, as there are writing joyful notes of goodwill at Christmas and loving thoughts on Feb 14th. So I think the nasty infectious web-blog flu is making its rounds like any other seasonal virus.
But in reference to that flu, let it be known. I didn’t start it. No one caught if from me even though I am NOT the author of consistently cheerful and uplifting thoughts.
Truth is, I don’t know who started it, but I don’t think I’m the only one that caught it. The painful part of the malady, not being so much what I write, as the disheartened tone with which I write it.
It’s enough to make me think that colds and measles all those other maladies labeled ‘contagious’ are not caused by transfer of micro-beasties but by an unwilling shared state of mind. It may even be possible that blog-flu is linked to the absolute expectation of climate warming. Warming that, though housed within a ruinous context, is still what I have steeled my soul for and I am most prepared for. But how can it happen while winter so arduously still threatens cancellation of the whole evil event?
I only theorize here. The origin is not fully understood. But still this blog-flu will only mend by plunging onward and upward. And as choked as you may be by reading this depressing caricature of how I feel at the moment, don’t run. This flu is dire, but it is not life threatening.
We will recover and when recovery is complete, I want you to dance around the May Day tree with me. We’ll really get into a frenzy of ecstasy, that will transport us back into the rapture of those original vague-in-memory-now, good times.
“See you later, commiserator!”
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Blogging vs. Facebook
I have questions. Maybe you have answers.
So to resolve my questions, I want you to complete one of the following sentences in the comments section:
I prefer Facebook to Blogging because_________, or…
I prefer Blogging to Facebook because_________.
…or maybe you can tell me why you think other people prefer whichever of the two they prefer.
So to resolve my questions, I want you to complete one of the following sentences in the comments section:
I prefer Facebook to Blogging because_________, or…
I prefer Blogging to Facebook because_________.
…or maybe you can tell me why you think other people prefer whichever of the two they prefer.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Joy and the Responsibilities that Come With It
This Christmas I received a totally original gift from Middle Daughter (MD) that is funny, endearing, sweet, and original. She gave me a “First Aid Box for Brain Block”. And in that box she put snippets of phrases and photos for me to pull for writing prompts when all other inspiration fails.
The rules are rigid. I desperately want to rummage through the full contents of the box, but I’m only allowed to pull one paper at a time and I must complete that assignment before I can pull another.
So now I am on a writing marathon. So much to write before the box runs dry. In the meantime, I pulled a phrase from the box when I unwrapped it on Christmas morning and until I get past that assignment, I am not allowed to go on to another.
And so my prompt for today’s blog is…
‘Who cares’, I thought, ‘it isn’t as if …’
Who cares, I thought, it isn’t as if all the joys of the Season stem from the standard things that always march to the front of the line, Fa-la-la, to claim responsibility.
The sapphire winter skies delicately diffused with ice fog. Or the fresh snow all tinted with silver and pastel blue. Or the repertoire of all those beloved Christmas carols that have endured throughout the ages. It’s not as if it is the traditional afternoon Scrabble game accompanied by bubbly wine and a tasty snack of smoked oysters and crackers. Or all the gifts to be found under the tree wrapped in gold ribbon and lavender haze.
It’s not even the sweet, nutty-taste of turkey, stuffing, Christmas Pudding, or the hot rum sauce to glaze it. And it most certainly is not chests or nuts roasting by an open fire while we toast the holidays in the company of Royalty – like me and Good King Winston looking out for the last time at the Feast of Stephen.
So you may well ask, ‘What is it, then, for goodness sake, that stimulates the real joy?’
I am so pleased I can finally tell you. After so many Christmas seasons, only now, in this moment with weakening memory and palsied imagination do I finally know. It is a tiny little box with a tiny little latch that offers mysterious, unexpected surprises, each time I open it.
And so, the writing marathon begins and I’m fair giddy with joy as I anxiously await the next opportunity to open my next ‘prompt’ from my special surprise box. Everyone as surprising as the one before because MD has a sense of humor that makes it impossible to forecast what the next prompt might be.
The rules are rigid. I desperately want to rummage through the full contents of the box, but I’m only allowed to pull one paper at a time and I must complete that assignment before I can pull another.
So now I am on a writing marathon. So much to write before the box runs dry. In the meantime, I pulled a phrase from the box when I unwrapped it on Christmas morning and until I get past that assignment, I am not allowed to go on to another.
And so my prompt for today’s blog is…
‘Who cares’, I thought, ‘it isn’t as if …’
Who cares, I thought, it isn’t as if all the joys of the Season stem from the standard things that always march to the front of the line, Fa-la-la, to claim responsibility.
The sapphire winter skies delicately diffused with ice fog. Or the fresh snow all tinted with silver and pastel blue. Or the repertoire of all those beloved Christmas carols that have endured throughout the ages. It’s not as if it is the traditional afternoon Scrabble game accompanied by bubbly wine and a tasty snack of smoked oysters and crackers. Or all the gifts to be found under the tree wrapped in gold ribbon and lavender haze.
It’s not even the sweet, nutty-taste of turkey, stuffing, Christmas Pudding, or the hot rum sauce to glaze it. And it most certainly is not chests or nuts roasting by an open fire while we toast the holidays in the company of Royalty – like me and Good King Winston looking out for the last time at the Feast of Stephen.
So you may well ask, ‘What is it, then, for goodness sake, that stimulates the real joy?’
I am so pleased I can finally tell you. After so many Christmas seasons, only now, in this moment with weakening memory and palsied imagination do I finally know. It is a tiny little box with a tiny little latch that offers mysterious, unexpected surprises, each time I open it.
And so, the writing marathon begins and I’m fair giddy with joy as I anxiously await the next opportunity to open my next ‘prompt’ from my special surprise box. Everyone as surprising as the one before because MD has a sense of humor that makes it impossible to forecast what the next prompt might be.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Whose Blogging Now?
I think WE’VE found the cure to Hub’s impatience with my blog. I say ‘we have’ cause you’ve had a hand in this as well. When Hub isn’t asking me to “come cruising” (see previous blog), he’s back to querying me about why I blog.
When I say, by way of response, to help me improve the art of writing, he reminds me of the time he bought me an electric chord organ for Christmas. I fiendishly played that thing non-stop for more than 3 years and I got better, but still eventually no amount of practice would take me beyond a reasonable, but could-be-a whole-lot-better fixed plateau. So likewise, he reminds me about the cleansing of constipated computers and desk drawers around here that have to be regularly purged of my journals and scribbles. That he argues, is evidence that I have reached a similar plateau in the field of writing (ie. further improvement not going to happen).
And so then I say I blog because I want to do my small part to make the world a better place. And his comeback is to point out that statement is a direct expression of one thing, but at the same time, an indirect expression of something else. The false belief that I understand life better than others. ‘Making the world a better place’, though humbly expressed as a good thing, it is an egotistical thing that twirls itself into something that is pretty unattractive.
And so then I say it’s for therapy. A form of self-expression that gives me contentment. And then he says contentment comes with a regulated life. A little of this, a little of that, without lavish overindulgence in anything except backrubs for him.
And so then I say I have friends here that enjoy conversing with me and I with them. And then he says I could talk to him more instead.
And then I say it’s because I have always loved to write, needed to write, wanted to write and then he says anything that runs interference in our relationship to that extent borders on adultery. Besides it’s just a feeble excuse. So now you see how it is. ‘Nuff said.
So now we move to the resolution of this debate. And it starts with my need to express to all of you heartfelt gratitude and appreciation. To all of you that have taken a moment to make such funny, cute, and complementary comments to posts that involve Hub’s antics (like my last one).
And what I’ve noticed is next morning with printouts in hand, as I prepare to share your comments with Hub, he sits at the kitchen table looking grumpy, impatient, distracted, and in pain. But then, he can’t help himself. He hears your comments and I see that he is entertained, pleased, flattered and totally amused. (Bit of ego happening here, it would seem to me).
Now Hub knows everything there is to know about the internal workings of computers. He has a room loaded with motherboards, memory chips, wires, and plugs of one gender or another, and there is always a computer on the table that he is tweaking up. So I often think, that with a electronic intelligence that so far surpasses my own, he should have his own blog.
But would Hub ever have a blog? Nah. That’s no more likely than getting him to change from shorts and cowboy boots to shorts and sandals. It ain’t gonna’ happen.
But the tiresome debate over my blogging between Hub and I has finally come pretty much to a full stop. And not because I’ve eased up on my writing or because I’m busy doing backrubs. The debate has subsided because you, yes I mean ‘you’, have saved the day by radically weakening all of Hub’s criticisms about my false beliefs, arrogant ego, feeble excuses, and practice makes perfect.
Cause now when Hub says or does something silly or funny, I relay it to you. You comment and I relay that feedback to him early the next morning. And then Hub laughs and sings as he heads out the door to do whatever he does in his shop or in the yard.
The birds hush. There’s not much point in trying to be heard with Hub’s singing drowning out any hope they had for ‘making the world a better place’ by lending their choral enchantment to a new day.
So, though Hub may never have his own blog, the virtual reality that comes out of this discussion, the direct expression that inadvertently twirls itself into an alternate meaning is “Whose blogging now?”
When I say, by way of response, to help me improve the art of writing, he reminds me of the time he bought me an electric chord organ for Christmas. I fiendishly played that thing non-stop for more than 3 years and I got better, but still eventually no amount of practice would take me beyond a reasonable, but could-be-a whole-lot-better fixed plateau. So likewise, he reminds me about the cleansing of constipated computers and desk drawers around here that have to be regularly purged of my journals and scribbles. That he argues, is evidence that I have reached a similar plateau in the field of writing (ie. further improvement not going to happen).
And so then I say I blog because I want to do my small part to make the world a better place. And his comeback is to point out that statement is a direct expression of one thing, but at the same time, an indirect expression of something else. The false belief that I understand life better than others. ‘Making the world a better place’, though humbly expressed as a good thing, it is an egotistical thing that twirls itself into something that is pretty unattractive.
And so then I say it’s for therapy. A form of self-expression that gives me contentment. And then he says contentment comes with a regulated life. A little of this, a little of that, without lavish overindulgence in anything except backrubs for him.
And so then I say I have friends here that enjoy conversing with me and I with them. And then he says I could talk to him more instead.
And then I say it’s because I have always loved to write, needed to write, wanted to write and then he says anything that runs interference in our relationship to that extent borders on adultery. Besides it’s just a feeble excuse. So now you see how it is. ‘Nuff said.
So now we move to the resolution of this debate. And it starts with my need to express to all of you heartfelt gratitude and appreciation. To all of you that have taken a moment to make such funny, cute, and complementary comments to posts that involve Hub’s antics (like my last one).
And what I’ve noticed is next morning with printouts in hand, as I prepare to share your comments with Hub, he sits at the kitchen table looking grumpy, impatient, distracted, and in pain. But then, he can’t help himself. He hears your comments and I see that he is entertained, pleased, flattered and totally amused. (Bit of ego happening here, it would seem to me).
Now Hub knows everything there is to know about the internal workings of computers. He has a room loaded with motherboards, memory chips, wires, and plugs of one gender or another, and there is always a computer on the table that he is tweaking up. So I often think, that with a electronic intelligence that so far surpasses my own, he should have his own blog.
But would Hub ever have a blog? Nah. That’s no more likely than getting him to change from shorts and cowboy boots to shorts and sandals. It ain’t gonna’ happen.
But the tiresome debate over my blogging between Hub and I has finally come pretty much to a full stop. And not because I’ve eased up on my writing or because I’m busy doing backrubs. The debate has subsided because you, yes I mean ‘you’, have saved the day by radically weakening all of Hub’s criticisms about my false beliefs, arrogant ego, feeble excuses, and practice makes perfect.
Cause now when Hub says or does something silly or funny, I relay it to you. You comment and I relay that feedback to him early the next morning. And then Hub laughs and sings as he heads out the door to do whatever he does in his shop or in the yard.
The birds hush. There’s not much point in trying to be heard with Hub’s singing drowning out any hope they had for ‘making the world a better place’ by lending their choral enchantment to a new day.
So, though Hub may never have his own blog, the virtual reality that comes out of this discussion, the direct expression that inadvertently twirls itself into an alternate meaning is “Whose blogging now?”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
