January 28, 2004
Calmer today, much calmer...
I don't know what the antecedent was to the anxiety attack yesterday, but it was a monster. I am feeling much better. After I was calmer, I went to see a friend about music and then to have dinner with another who had been there through several of the worst attacks. She and I chatted over soup and salad at Baker's Square and came to the conclusion that it really does not what sets the attacks off, as much as it does to understand how to talk myself down and try to understand what they are linked to. In some ways they are like a hyperlink on a computer, click on the specific event and find yourself transported to another place. "Age-regression" is what it was called by my therapist. It could be a good thing or a terrifying thing. To this day the scent of night-blooming jasmine makes me sick (it is a link to violent events in my childhood). The smell of the ocean is a good one (it is a link to some very good memories). I don't know what the antecedent was yesterday. I do know that it is past and I am doing much better.
I worked on my webpage for my music project. I am teaching myself HTML and am really pleased with the results. Another friend, who works in the computer industry as a programmer, told me that HTML was a dead langugage. " Cum mortius en lingua morte?," I responded. I don't think he got the joke.
Doing better. Who knows, I might get a song or two out of it!
January 27, 2004
Breathe, just breathe the air...
Will this choice add to my life force or will it rob me of my energy?
Now here is a question! And it only took five others to get to it. Ah well, was the journey worth the efforts? We shall see. Again, I have several reservations about how the question is framed. Notwithstanding these, the query poses an interesting point, especially for a person that is vexed by depression and anxiety. “What do I do to save myself from falling into the abyss?” might be a better posing of the question. But that would require the author to admit that there is darkness, an abyss, and so on. But I digress.
I am dancing at the edge of the cliff at this moment. I am writing to save myself the plunge.
My anxiety is more than conditional, my depression more than occasional: both are the dark edges to my aura that become greater or lesser but never truly vanish. To a much lesser degree it is like the delusion of a treated schizophrenic: the voices are there, but the mind chooses to ignore them. “The delusion is real… ,” I started to write that sentence, it seemed to be oxymoronic; that is, however, the nature of the delusion: its puissant pretense and convincing façade mask reality itself in a haze of incredulity and confusion. That is so often how I feel. I feel that now, as I write.
Understand, I am not a cowardly person. I have physically taken firearms out of the hands of people that intended to use them, and did so calmly. I have reasoned with persons intending to do harm and walked away having brought the situation to a peaceful solution. Why, then, can sounds, smells, perceptions of reality, send me into a dark and stuporous spiral of fear, one that has in the past turned me into a maniac of spewing profanity and verbal assault?
Fight or flight… visceral and survivalist, binary ethics (we all know my feeling about that one).
Life is more than two options: fight or fuck, make love or war. I want to feel the colors and not simply to struggle with the dark edges. It is not that I cannot do so, indeed I spend most of my time content and happy in my way. But these moods can sweep in like a tsunami, a rogue wave that leaves noting but death in its wake. Good God, are you listening? I am thankful that by nature I am not self-destructive, but this slow stewing my own adrenalin induced haze is more than I want to feel. That bitter metallic taste in my mouth, the tightening of my stomach, and the feeling that I am alive. Now there is a paradox.
Damn. I want the room to stop spinning. I know that this will pass… that is my life-jacket. Breathe. Just breathe…
On a somewhat jocular note, I almost made it into Limbo! Not bad for a former clergyperson!
The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Second Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test
Now here is a question! And it only took five others to get to it. Ah well, was the journey worth the efforts? We shall see. Again, I have several reservations about how the question is framed. Notwithstanding these, the query poses an interesting point, especially for a person that is vexed by depression and anxiety. “What do I do to save myself from falling into the abyss?” might be a better posing of the question. But that would require the author to admit that there is darkness, an abyss, and so on. But I digress.
I am dancing at the edge of the cliff at this moment. I am writing to save myself the plunge.
My anxiety is more than conditional, my depression more than occasional: both are the dark edges to my aura that become greater or lesser but never truly vanish. To a much lesser degree it is like the delusion of a treated schizophrenic: the voices are there, but the mind chooses to ignore them. “The delusion is real… ,” I started to write that sentence, it seemed to be oxymoronic; that is, however, the nature of the delusion: its puissant pretense and convincing façade mask reality itself in a haze of incredulity and confusion. That is so often how I feel. I feel that now, as I write.
Understand, I am not a cowardly person. I have physically taken firearms out of the hands of people that intended to use them, and did so calmly. I have reasoned with persons intending to do harm and walked away having brought the situation to a peaceful solution. Why, then, can sounds, smells, perceptions of reality, send me into a dark and stuporous spiral of fear, one that has in the past turned me into a maniac of spewing profanity and verbal assault?
Fight or flight… visceral and survivalist, binary ethics (we all know my feeling about that one).
Life is more than two options: fight or fuck, make love or war. I want to feel the colors and not simply to struggle with the dark edges. It is not that I cannot do so, indeed I spend most of my time content and happy in my way. But these moods can sweep in like a tsunami, a rogue wave that leaves noting but death in its wake. Good God, are you listening? I am thankful that by nature I am not self-destructive, but this slow stewing my own adrenalin induced haze is more than I want to feel. That bitter metallic taste in my mouth, the tightening of my stomach, and the feeling that I am alive. Now there is a paradox.
Damn. I want the room to stop spinning. I know that this will pass… that is my life-jacket. Breathe. Just breathe…
On a somewhat jocular note, I almost made it into Limbo! Not bad for a former clergyperson!
The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Second Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
| Level | Score |
|---|---|
| Purgatory (Repenting Believers) | Moderate |
| Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers) | High |
| Level 2 (Lustful) | Very High |
| Level 3 (Gluttonous) | Moderate |
| Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious) | Very Low |
| Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy) | Low |
| Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics) | Very Low |
| Level 7 (Violent) | Moderate |
| Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers) | Moderate |
| Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous) | Low |
Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test
Binary Ethics
Am I looking for what’s right or what’s wrong?
You’ve got to love any moral or ethical system that is binary; so simple even a five year old child can address probing moral questions. That is way too easy. Was it “right” to drop the bomb on Hiroshima and then to do it again to Nagasaki? Ask the soldiers that were on the invasion force, ask the civilians whose last moment was a gasp of horror as the sun exploded over them. Even the apotheosized 9-11 episode can be played out in several lights. Just because more than one way of seeing a question does not imply that all options are equal: indeed, most options are non-starters. But to ask a question as simplistic as whether there is a pure good and a pure bad choice is a short-cut to thinking.
Morality exists in shades of gray; it is those textures in-between light and shade that makes it so interesting..
I recall a class on ethics that I took while a graduate student. I was asked to abstract my ethical thinking into one phrase: “That which affirms life is good.” This, of course, means that there may be many “good” choices. Situations change, as will the choice. What affirms life in one setting may not in another. One is forced to consider context – hopefully to take the time to know the context – before making a decision. Is abortion good? My answer: it depends.
To answer yet another one of the “right questions” I have to say that I endeavor to affirm life. I try to do live by the following: “If I cannot help you, I will not hurt you.” Notice that I did not say “shall not,” which implies an absolute future, but “will not,” that speaks to my intentioned actions.
Looking at the list of “The Right Questions” I have to ask when the author will actually pose an interesting question that is more than mere drivel.
Ah but I am merely a fool…
You’ve got to love any moral or ethical system that is binary; so simple even a five year old child can address probing moral questions. That is way too easy. Was it “right” to drop the bomb on Hiroshima and then to do it again to Nagasaki? Ask the soldiers that were on the invasion force, ask the civilians whose last moment was a gasp of horror as the sun exploded over them. Even the apotheosized 9-11 episode can be played out in several lights. Just because more than one way of seeing a question does not imply that all options are equal: indeed, most options are non-starters. But to ask a question as simplistic as whether there is a pure good and a pure bad choice is a short-cut to thinking.
Morality exists in shades of gray; it is those textures in-between light and shade that makes it so interesting..
I recall a class on ethics that I took while a graduate student. I was asked to abstract my ethical thinking into one phrase: “That which affirms life is good.” This, of course, means that there may be many “good” choices. Situations change, as will the choice. What affirms life in one setting may not in another. One is forced to consider context – hopefully to take the time to know the context – before making a decision. Is abortion good? My answer: it depends.
To answer yet another one of the “right questions” I have to say that I endeavor to affirm life. I try to do live by the following: “If I cannot help you, I will not hurt you.” Notice that I did not say “shall not,” which implies an absolute future, but “will not,” that speaks to my intentioned actions.
Looking at the list of “The Right Questions” I have to ask when the author will actually pose an interesting question that is more than mere drivel.
Ah but I am merely a fool…
January 23, 2004
Next question, please!
Am I standing in my own power or am I trying to please another?
ANYBODY THAT KNOWS ME Knows that I have always hated authority. My first response to this is, "DUH." But I must be more reasoned than that... And it begs the real question, what is power?
Is power intrinsic? Are there personalities that exude power? Or is power simply the perception of power? Either one of these - and I tend toward the latter - tends to be overly simplistic. I am not and have never been a charismatic person. I am a person that can hold his own in discourse and can argue his way into and out of just about anything I want. Is that power? I don't think so. I tend not to put a lot of stock in power (remember, I tend toward the idea of power deriving from perception of power). Instead, I tend to think about motivation. Now this is where I thank the Gods that are that I am an introvert.
Jung spoke about introversion and extroversion as the source of motivation for the person. Introverts derive motivation from within, extroverts from without. Put in terms of this rather poorly phrased question - originating as it does from an equally smarmy self-help book which I still refuse to either read or buy - it says that we introverts stand on our own while the rest of you obsequious toadies grovel and kowtow to please others. Maybe that's why your marriages lasted longer than mine?
Bloody Hell! It is not an issue of one being good while the other is bad... I think the real question is do I chose to live my own life authentically or vicariously. But those words don't sell copy.
Alas, I am just a fool...
January 16, 2004
Who wants to be a millionaire?
Do I live to achieve long-term fulfillment or short-term gratification?
There is a paradox in this question… is my short term gratification not simply a part of my longer-term fulfillment? Now let me put it as plainly as I can: is an orgasm long-term fulfillment or short-term gratification? I think my point is taken. Not all short-term gratification is a bad thing. Long-term fulfillment is impossible without these waypoint along the journey.
This is not to say that a fulfilling, long-term relationship is not more satisfying and personally meaningful than a spontaneous liaison with somebody whose name you might recall next week. Indeed, the latter is incompatible with the former. Again, I resist the idea that there is a binary solution to this. The human heart is not simply a yes/no operation. And the root question seems to me to be more about the heart than whether a code is true or false.
Plato understood that the honest enquirer has to leave three options opened about any supposition: It is true, it is false, it is unknowable. Ah, the last is where the human heart resides. It is the realm of paradox, self-referential assertions that ultimately defy logical proof, the terrain of faith. Kierkegaard is said to have called faith a leap into the dark (but he was Danish… what do we expect from people that live on a cold, dark peninsula?) that is finally taken without knowing, may be attended to by anxiety and fear, and is only ultimately proven.
Since the question was taken from a somewhat smarmy self-help book (I went to the local book-store and saw it… Shall we say that my assessment in a previous entry was accurate?) it will, of course, tie fulfillment to having the most toys, achieving the most, in short it is the consumerist vision of fulfillment. I like to think that Gandhi was self-fulfilled – perhaps self actualized is a better term? – or that Martin Luther King, Jr. was making choices that would lead to a rich life, had he not been gunned down by an assassin whose choices were also motivated by his or her somewhat sinister vision of fulfillment. Really, the Hindu and Buddhists get this one right: self-fulfillment is a very western ideal, as if the ego is the center of all things. And they would hardly consider the act of choosing to be anything that could lead beyond the sound of the songs of the birds of desire. It would be the moment of being, in its beautiful emptiness, that would be key.
So, who wants to be self-fulfilled? Do I live in such a way as to both achieve short-term gratification and long-term fulfillment? Of course. Final answer? It is unknowable.
Ah, but I am only a fool…
There is a paradox in this question… is my short term gratification not simply a part of my longer-term fulfillment? Now let me put it as plainly as I can: is an orgasm long-term fulfillment or short-term gratification? I think my point is taken. Not all short-term gratification is a bad thing. Long-term fulfillment is impossible without these waypoint along the journey.
This is not to say that a fulfilling, long-term relationship is not more satisfying and personally meaningful than a spontaneous liaison with somebody whose name you might recall next week. Indeed, the latter is incompatible with the former. Again, I resist the idea that there is a binary solution to this. The human heart is not simply a yes/no operation. And the root question seems to me to be more about the heart than whether a code is true or false.
Plato understood that the honest enquirer has to leave three options opened about any supposition: It is true, it is false, it is unknowable. Ah, the last is where the human heart resides. It is the realm of paradox, self-referential assertions that ultimately defy logical proof, the terrain of faith. Kierkegaard is said to have called faith a leap into the dark (but he was Danish… what do we expect from people that live on a cold, dark peninsula?) that is finally taken without knowing, may be attended to by anxiety and fear, and is only ultimately proven.
Since the question was taken from a somewhat smarmy self-help book (I went to the local book-store and saw it… Shall we say that my assessment in a previous entry was accurate?) it will, of course, tie fulfillment to having the most toys, achieving the most, in short it is the consumerist vision of fulfillment. I like to think that Gandhi was self-fulfilled – perhaps self actualized is a better term? – or that Martin Luther King, Jr. was making choices that would lead to a rich life, had he not been gunned down by an assassin whose choices were also motivated by his or her somewhat sinister vision of fulfillment. Really, the Hindu and Buddhists get this one right: self-fulfillment is a very western ideal, as if the ego is the center of all things. And they would hardly consider the act of choosing to be anything that could lead beyond the sound of the songs of the birds of desire. It would be the moment of being, in its beautiful emptiness, that would be key.
So, who wants to be self-fulfilled? Do I live in such a way as to both achieve short-term gratification and long-term fulfillment? Of course. Final answer? It is unknowable.
Ah, but I am only a fool…
January 15, 2004
Living in the past?
Do my choices propel me to an inspiring future or will they keep me stuck in the past?
What a question! Behind it is the assumption that the past is to be avoided and the future full of hope. Truly, every moment of this life we stand at the cross-reads. Small decisions have an awful or awesome trajectory. Generally the things that we take for granted seem to be most pregnant with anticipation and bursting with possibilities. Part of this is the hope that I bring to the choice. I cannot forecast with precision the outcomes of my choices. I can make good choices in the moment that have horrific results. I can make poor choices in the moment that bring me to a renaissance. I do not believe that in the web of possible outcomes that we are Invictus, the masters of our ships and captains of our souls. We make choices and live with the outcomes, planned and unplanned, anticipated and unforeseen.
I suppose for me the real issue is do I choose to take from the past that which will enable me to move quickly toward a brighter future.
That is a question, indeed. I have so little recall of the past. One example: my sister tells a story about a dolly that she loved that I am said to have thrown into a tree. This was for her a defining moment. I have no memory of the incident. Something must have happened as the dolly was found in the branches of the tree several years later – when both of us were young adults and living out of our parents’ home – where my sister said it had been thrown. There was no reason for her to have falsified the incident, and the objective finding of the dolly in the tree says that there is truth. But equally, I have no memory of it. The past is a murky pool for me. I expect that this was part of my love for history, an attempt to become memory where there was no memory. For me it is a question of making peace with the void and noting the emotional dissonance when it occurs.
In some ways that is helpful: having few memories of the past is hardly tantamount to having no past, but it certainly may be as near as makes no matter.
There is white noise for me where others have memory. It is just as well, I suppose, if something in my mind short-circuited the past it was for a reason that I can only presume to be salubrious. This means that I am free and in a sense unfettered by a past to haunt or captivate the now. But there is still that sticky wicket about an inspiring future. Inspiration: to be inbreathed, full of spirit, enthusiasm. All of that has biblical imagery running deeply to its core. This hearkens back to Genesis, where YHWH is said to have inspired the dust of the ground to make it live. Thus we are enthused, from εν θέιός, to be in the divine (more on that issue on the last musing). Life is the breath of God that animates us and makes this dust live. All days are inspired as apart from this infusion we die. I am reminded of a poem by Dylan Thomas:
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
How, then, to honor the spirit that courses through my very being? Is this divine breath a maelstrom or a gentle breeze that propels the ship toward its home-port? I can recognize the trajectory but cannot answer the question in any definitive way. Perhaps that is the key: that in the now, not the future or the past, I live and must decide, trusting whatever gods there are and seeking their grace...
Ah, but I am only a fool….
What a question! Behind it is the assumption that the past is to be avoided and the future full of hope. Truly, every moment of this life we stand at the cross-reads. Small decisions have an awful or awesome trajectory. Generally the things that we take for granted seem to be most pregnant with anticipation and bursting with possibilities. Part of this is the hope that I bring to the choice. I cannot forecast with precision the outcomes of my choices. I can make good choices in the moment that have horrific results. I can make poor choices in the moment that bring me to a renaissance. I do not believe that in the web of possible outcomes that we are Invictus, the masters of our ships and captains of our souls. We make choices and live with the outcomes, planned and unplanned, anticipated and unforeseen.
I suppose for me the real issue is do I choose to take from the past that which will enable me to move quickly toward a brighter future.
That is a question, indeed. I have so little recall of the past. One example: my sister tells a story about a dolly that she loved that I am said to have thrown into a tree. This was for her a defining moment. I have no memory of the incident. Something must have happened as the dolly was found in the branches of the tree several years later – when both of us were young adults and living out of our parents’ home – where my sister said it had been thrown. There was no reason for her to have falsified the incident, and the objective finding of the dolly in the tree says that there is truth. But equally, I have no memory of it. The past is a murky pool for me. I expect that this was part of my love for history, an attempt to become memory where there was no memory. For me it is a question of making peace with the void and noting the emotional dissonance when it occurs.
In some ways that is helpful: having few memories of the past is hardly tantamount to having no past, but it certainly may be as near as makes no matter.
There is white noise for me where others have memory. It is just as well, I suppose, if something in my mind short-circuited the past it was for a reason that I can only presume to be salubrious. This means that I am free and in a sense unfettered by a past to haunt or captivate the now. But there is still that sticky wicket about an inspiring future. Inspiration: to be inbreathed, full of spirit, enthusiasm. All of that has biblical imagery running deeply to its core. This hearkens back to Genesis, where YHWH is said to have inspired the dust of the ground to make it live. Thus we are enthused, from εν θέιός, to be in the divine (more on that issue on the last musing). Life is the breath of God that animates us and makes this dust live. All days are inspired as apart from this infusion we die. I am reminded of a poem by Dylan Thomas:
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
How, then, to honor the spirit that courses through my very being? Is this divine breath a maelstrom or a gentle breeze that propels the ship toward its home-port? I can recognize the trajectory but cannot answer the question in any definitive way. Perhaps that is the key: that in the now, not the future or the past, I live and must decide, trusting whatever gods there are and seeking their grace...
Ah, but I am only a fool….
January 14, 2004
Amazing, the things that make me happy…
Today was an interesting day. There are times when I feel that I am dancing on the edge of a razor. But what the hell? If I'm going to slice myself to shreds, do it in style and with a sense of panache! Verve: that's my word for the day. I've decided that I don't want my epitaph to read, "He was a good man." I'd rather it read, "Damn, the dude had verve!" I have a long ways to go on that one, but my dance on the edge of the razor will certainly qualify me for some style points.
I was supremely happy at lunch. I had a good cup of coffee and a simple sandwich. Damn, it was good. Something about good food, no matter how simple it is, that sets the tone for a good life. Silly things make me happy: my cow-shaped creamer that my daughters got me for Christmas, good French Roast (Italian Roast, even better), good music, wit, humor. All of these things contribute to my well-being more than I am capable of saying.
I came across a list of ten questions, part of a self-help book I think. I thought that they bore consideration. The list is reproduced below (as is the link, located with a "Google" search of the author's name):
1. Will this choice propel me to an inspiring future or will it keep me stuck in the past?
2. Will this choice bring me long-term fulfillment or short term gratification?
3. Am I standing in my own power or am I trying to please another?
4. Am I looking for what's right or what's wrong?
5. Will this choice add to my life force or will it rob me of my energy?
6. Will I use this situation to grow and evolve or will I use it to beat myself up?
7. Does this choice empower me or disempower me?
8. Is this an act of self love or self-sabotage?
9. Is this an act of faith or is it an act of fear?
10. Am I choosing from my divinity or from my humanity?
-- from Debbie Ford, "The Right Questions"
Now, and for the record, I need to say that I take issue with many of the ways that the questions are framed. I do not distinguish, for example, between my divinity and humanity. I am a creature born of flesh and blood. I don't worry too much about the inner-god, as I consider that nonsense. Instead, I see this as my connection to the whole, to life-itself. Still, despite some minor issues, the questions provide a framework for consideration. Swap out the term "an act of," and substitute "Do I act..." as a general means for reflection and I think that we are onto something. Not that this is overly original, indeed, the best ideas are merely resonance of that which we all already know (OK, I am an unabashed Platonist!). This is a simple way to think about them. Besides, the writer appears to me to be yet another self-serious,high-cost new-age "healer" that packaged and plagiarised what the ancients have asked all along. There are some things we should not need to pay for, wisdom being first on that list.
In all fairness, I have to say that I have never read the book - nor do I intend to - and, as such, can say nothing about it. It was the list of the questions that were posted on a friend's coworker's webpage that intrigued me. Besides, we all have to answer them for ourselves. No book can do that for us!
I've decided that I need a discipline to renew my spiritual quest. I will consider one of these questions daily for the next several days, and you, gentle reader, will have the benefit of my so-called wisdom. If nothing else it is good for a laugh at my expense. But I have always been happy in my role as the court jester, a poet with the soul of a clown.
Truly, the simple things make me happy. And that colors how I perceive the reality that I inhabit.
Ah, but I am just a fool...
January 13, 2004
Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa...
13 January - Later in the evening.
I suspected that this blog would get me into trouble. The problem is that I am leaving key details out of the conversation for the purpose of "intentional ambiguity." If I am using only first names, only alluding to dates it is out of respect for those persons that are part of my life, whose intimate details need not be broadcast. No falsification is implied nor is there any attempt to prevaricate in any way. I am telling the truth and respecting the privacy of those with whom I have shared this life.
A friend called today. She was concerned about something that I wrote in a posting earlier, asking if she was one of the "psycho-chicks" that I have dated of late. I was at great length to assure that she is not by any measure a psycho-chick. Let me say this here and now: I do not think that there are more psycho-chicks than psycho-dudes. I think that it has to do with our age. I am 46. The number of women to date has shifted to women that have either not been involved in a marriage or similar relationship, widows, or those whose relationship has failed. The cause of this - widowhood notwithstanding - may have to do with the baggage that we all carry. Some baggage is more onerous. The pool of "normal" people has shrunk and the ratio of healthy partners has changed (for all both men and women, gay and straight). As a result of this - and being a recovering psycho-dude - I have become somewhat cautious.
I really think that it is not an issue of finding a person that does not have baggage so much as it is finding a woman whose baggage matches mine.
Regardless of that... I will say this here and now. If anything I write is hurtful to anybody please know that it is not my intent. Recall my core value: If I cannot help you, I will do my damnedest not to hurt you. I offer an apology to anybody that has been, will be, or is hurt my anything I write.
In looking at myself I realized that I need a space to process the missteps I've taken in this dance we call life... this is part of that process. I can only tell the truth as I am able. Being a man of merely average intellect and education I sometimes stumble.
But I get up again...
Ah, but I am just a fool...
I suspected that this blog would get me into trouble. The problem is that I am leaving key details out of the conversation for the purpose of "intentional ambiguity." If I am using only first names, only alluding to dates it is out of respect for those persons that are part of my life, whose intimate details need not be broadcast. No falsification is implied nor is there any attempt to prevaricate in any way. I am telling the truth and respecting the privacy of those with whom I have shared this life.
A friend called today. She was concerned about something that I wrote in a posting earlier, asking if she was one of the "psycho-chicks" that I have dated of late. I was at great length to assure that she is not by any measure a psycho-chick. Let me say this here and now: I do not think that there are more psycho-chicks than psycho-dudes. I think that it has to do with our age. I am 46. The number of women to date has shifted to women that have either not been involved in a marriage or similar relationship, widows, or those whose relationship has failed. The cause of this - widowhood notwithstanding - may have to do with the baggage that we all carry. Some baggage is more onerous. The pool of "normal" people has shrunk and the ratio of healthy partners has changed (for all both men and women, gay and straight). As a result of this - and being a recovering psycho-dude - I have become somewhat cautious.
I really think that it is not an issue of finding a person that does not have baggage so much as it is finding a woman whose baggage matches mine.
Regardless of that... I will say this here and now. If anything I write is hurtful to anybody please know that it is not my intent. Recall my core value: If I cannot help you, I will do my damnedest not to hurt you. I offer an apology to anybody that has been, will be, or is hurt my anything I write.
In looking at myself I realized that I need a space to process the missteps I've taken in this dance we call life... this is part of that process. I can only tell the truth as I am able. Being a man of merely average intellect and education I sometimes stumble.
But I get up again...
Ah, but I am just a fool...
Glad to be awake...
I generally appreciate the hours spent dreaming. They are helpful, insightful, and often just plain entertaining. Last night was one of those evenings, however, that I awoke glad to be free from the demons that vexed my sleep. All of the dreams had one theme: futility of my labors. I remembered Kurt Vonnegut’s character Rabo Karavekian, the Armenian abstract-impressionist whose works all dissolved, leaving him with a legacy of futility.
Today shall be a day with school, applications for subbing positions, and following through on other things that need attention.
The whole image of seeing work that needed to be done being destroyed, often as soon as it was produced and then by the treason of the pens that I used to write, failure to find paper that would hold its ink… it was almost as if the very tools of my trade were rebelling against me with a disdain that they reserved for those beneath contempt. They would rather have been destroyed than be the means by which my words could be read.
Here is something amuzing that I found on two of the blogs posted today… might be making the blog rounds, who knows? "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" in Latin! Everybody sing:
Aufer me ad arenam.
Aufer me cum turba.
Da mihi glires sparsos melle.
Reditum domum non curo velle.
Pro leonibus exhortemur.
Nil refert hominum.
Duo, tria membra edent
gladiatorum.
Which, being interpreted, means:
Take me to the arena,
Take me out with the crowd.
Buy me some dormice in honeycomb
I don't care if I never go home.
So let's root, root, root for the lions
Not the humans they maim
Munching two, three more body parts
at our Caesar's game.
Gotta love it... jeeze, I wish I'd have written it! Enjoy it anyway!
Today shall be a day with school, applications for subbing positions, and following through on other things that need attention.
The whole image of seeing work that needed to be done being destroyed, often as soon as it was produced and then by the treason of the pens that I used to write, failure to find paper that would hold its ink… it was almost as if the very tools of my trade were rebelling against me with a disdain that they reserved for those beneath contempt. They would rather have been destroyed than be the means by which my words could be read.
Here is something amuzing that I found on two of the blogs posted today… might be making the blog rounds, who knows? "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" in Latin! Everybody sing:
Aufer me ad arenam.
Aufer me cum turba.
Da mihi glires sparsos melle.
Reditum domum non curo velle.
Pro leonibus exhortemur.
Nil refert hominum.
Duo, tria membra edent
gladiatorum.
Which, being interpreted, means:
Take me to the arena,
Take me out with the crowd.
Buy me some dormice in honeycomb
I don't care if I never go home.
So let's root, root, root for the lions
Not the humans they maim
Munching two, three more body parts
at our Caesar's game.
Gotta love it... jeeze, I wish I'd have written it! Enjoy it anyway!
January 12, 2004
To sleep, perchance to dream…
12 January 2004
A couple of meandering thoughts occurred to me this morning as I transitioned out of my night-long embrace with Morpheus into the cold reality of morning: I slept past my alarm – nothing new in that – and dreamt that several hours had passed. When I awoke I was certain that at least two hours had passed when in reality – using that phrase advisedly – only twenty minutes or so had passed.
I considered this and realized that the mind, in dreams, is released from the constraints of time and space. Both are free to expand and contract without regard for the conventions of existence. The mind can drift into other realities – again, using that term advisedly – other moments with amazing plasticity. The chronological sequence is set aside as the mind goes where ever it will.
The conventions of “reality” are sometimes problematic for me. I have a very keen sense of intuition. There are times when I am certain that I can see and feel that which originates elsewhere (No Thorozine please… Haldol? Thank you, no…). It is like the ghost that is a shadow of parallel reality going about its business and casting a shadow unaware in this moment. Remember Schrödinger’s Cat?
Is the mind exercising a sort of game in dream-time when it sets aside the reality? The mind/soul cannot exist outside of the body. The mind is enfleshed by the body and it is of the same biological stuff of which the body is made that composes the mind. The perceptions of the mind originate in the physical reality and are sensed using the physical apparatus of the body. It would seem that the mind is a physical/biological construct, at least in this reality.
I don’t believe that the mind is imprisoned in the flesh. I don’t dislike the flesh, on the contrary, it can be lots of fun! I tend to think that the mind may have fewer boundaries than the body appears to impose. This flesh is the primary means of perception. But what dreams may come?
Ah, but I am only a fool…
A couple of meandering thoughts occurred to me this morning as I transitioned out of my night-long embrace with Morpheus into the cold reality of morning: I slept past my alarm – nothing new in that – and dreamt that several hours had passed. When I awoke I was certain that at least two hours had passed when in reality – using that phrase advisedly – only twenty minutes or so had passed.
I considered this and realized that the mind, in dreams, is released from the constraints of time and space. Both are free to expand and contract without regard for the conventions of existence. The mind can drift into other realities – again, using that term advisedly – other moments with amazing plasticity. The chronological sequence is set aside as the mind goes where ever it will.
The conventions of “reality” are sometimes problematic for me. I have a very keen sense of intuition. There are times when I am certain that I can see and feel that which originates elsewhere (No Thorozine please… Haldol? Thank you, no…). It is like the ghost that is a shadow of parallel reality going about its business and casting a shadow unaware in this moment. Remember Schrödinger’s Cat?
Is the mind exercising a sort of game in dream-time when it sets aside the reality? The mind/soul cannot exist outside of the body. The mind is enfleshed by the body and it is of the same biological stuff of which the body is made that composes the mind. The perceptions of the mind originate in the physical reality and are sensed using the physical apparatus of the body. It would seem that the mind is a physical/biological construct, at least in this reality.
I don’t believe that the mind is imprisoned in the flesh. I don’t dislike the flesh, on the contrary, it can be lots of fun! I tend to think that the mind may have fewer boundaries than the body appears to impose. This flesh is the primary means of perception. But what dreams may come?
Ah, but I am only a fool…
January 11, 2004
All Quiet on the Western Front...
11 January 2004
It has been a few days since I’ve written. I spent the last weekend with my little daughter. I am amazed at how much she is changing: getting taller and thinner, more curves. My little girl is becoming a woman before my eyes. The changes happen so quickly. Time passes and she continues her growth and progress on a path that will lead her away from me. That is what parenting is about: saying goodbye to our children. Prepare them, love them, support them; but all in preparation for the day when they leave us. I never understood how bittersweet this is. On one hand she is doing what she is supposed to do, and doing it well. She is growing and becoming a beautiful and interesting woman. On the other hand, with every breath, every moment she is moving father from me. She is doing what she is supposed to do and it is good, but…
What do I have on-deck this week? I need to go to the county to get on the sub list, I have stuff for school that has to happen. I also want to begin work on my music. I just purchased a Telecaster… I have always been a fan of Fender Basses, owning two (a P-Bass and a fretless J-Bass) but have been ambivalent toward their guitars (I do love a Gibson Les Paul or an ES 335, gotta love that fat sound). I played this Telecaster and the neck felt good in my hand. Maple neck… its got that sharp Telecaster “twang.” I also have to work with my kids at school.
I do have to follow up on some money issues… got one problem sorted out, now I have to get another one off the decks. A phone call early in the morning is in order.
A quiet couple of days… nothing profound to say. Here is a poem by Pablo Neruda from his Twenty Songs of Love and One of Despair:
"Girl Lithe and Tawny"
By Pablo Neruda
Girl lithe and tawny, the sun that forms
the fruits, that plumps the grains, that curls seaweeds
filled your body with joy, and your luminous eyes
and your mouth that has the smile of the water.
A black yearning sun is braided into the strands
of your black mane, when you stretch your arms.
You play with the sun as with a little brook
and it leaves two dark pools in your eyes.
Girl lithe and tawny, nothing draws me towards you.
Everything bears me farther away, as though you were noon.
You are the frenzied youth of the bee,
the drunkenness of the wave, the power of the wheat-ear.
My somber heart searches for you, nevertheless,
and I love your joyful body, your slender and flowing voice.
Dark butterfly, sweet and definitive
like the wheat-field and the sun, the poppy and the water.
Mejor en Español...Niña morena y agil - Poema 19
Niña morena y agil, el sol que hace las frutas,
el que cuaja los trigos, el que tuerce las algas,
hizo tu cuerpo alegre, tus luminosos ojos
y tu boca que tiene la sonrisa del agua.
Un sol negro y ansioso se te arrolla en las hebras
de la negra melena, cuando estiras los brazos.
Tu juegas con el sol como un estero
y el te deja en los ojos dos oscuros remansos.
Niña morena y agil, nada hacia ti me acerca.
Todo de ti me aleja, como del mediodía.
Eres la delirante juventud de la abeja,
la embriaguez de la ola, la fuerza de la espiga.
Mi corazón sombrio te busca, sin embargo,
y amo tu cuerpo alegre, tu voz suelta y delgada.
Mariposa morena dulce y definitiva,
como el trigal y el sol, la amapola y el agua.
It has been a few days since I’ve written. I spent the last weekend with my little daughter. I am amazed at how much she is changing: getting taller and thinner, more curves. My little girl is becoming a woman before my eyes. The changes happen so quickly. Time passes and she continues her growth and progress on a path that will lead her away from me. That is what parenting is about: saying goodbye to our children. Prepare them, love them, support them; but all in preparation for the day when they leave us. I never understood how bittersweet this is. On one hand she is doing what she is supposed to do, and doing it well. She is growing and becoming a beautiful and interesting woman. On the other hand, with every breath, every moment she is moving father from me. She is doing what she is supposed to do and it is good, but…
What do I have on-deck this week? I need to go to the county to get on the sub list, I have stuff for school that has to happen. I also want to begin work on my music. I just purchased a Telecaster… I have always been a fan of Fender Basses, owning two (a P-Bass and a fretless J-Bass) but have been ambivalent toward their guitars (I do love a Gibson Les Paul or an ES 335, gotta love that fat sound). I played this Telecaster and the neck felt good in my hand. Maple neck… its got that sharp Telecaster “twang.” I also have to work with my kids at school.
I do have to follow up on some money issues… got one problem sorted out, now I have to get another one off the decks. A phone call early in the morning is in order.
A quiet couple of days… nothing profound to say. Here is a poem by Pablo Neruda from his Twenty Songs of Love and One of Despair:
"Girl Lithe and Tawny"
By Pablo Neruda
Girl lithe and tawny, the sun that forms
the fruits, that plumps the grains, that curls seaweeds
filled your body with joy, and your luminous eyes
and your mouth that has the smile of the water.
A black yearning sun is braided into the strands
of your black mane, when you stretch your arms.
You play with the sun as with a little brook
and it leaves two dark pools in your eyes.
Girl lithe and tawny, nothing draws me towards you.
Everything bears me farther away, as though you were noon.
You are the frenzied youth of the bee,
the drunkenness of the wave, the power of the wheat-ear.
My somber heart searches for you, nevertheless,
and I love your joyful body, your slender and flowing voice.
Dark butterfly, sweet and definitive
like the wheat-field and the sun, the poppy and the water.
Mejor en Español...Niña morena y agil - Poema 19
Niña morena y agil, el sol que hace las frutas,
el que cuaja los trigos, el que tuerce las algas,
hizo tu cuerpo alegre, tus luminosos ojos
y tu boca que tiene la sonrisa del agua.
Un sol negro y ansioso se te arrolla en las hebras
de la negra melena, cuando estiras los brazos.
Tu juegas con el sol como un estero
y el te deja en los ojos dos oscuros remansos.
Niña morena y agil, nada hacia ti me acerca.
Todo de ti me aleja, como del mediodía.
Eres la delirante juventud de la abeja,
la embriaguez de la ola, la fuerza de la espiga.
Mi corazón sombrio te busca, sin embargo,
y amo tu cuerpo alegre, tu voz suelta y delgada.
Mariposa morena dulce y definitiva,
como el trigal y el sol, la amapola y el agua.
January 07, 2004
Checking in on resolutions...
7 January 2004
Update on Resolves…
Music: This is the area of greatest progress. I’ve made contact with the Musician’s Union. Lots of benefits for joining. Seems I goin’ legit! I’ve made a contact with Matthew, a friend that just released his CD. He has some piano gigs lined up at a few of the local watering holes. I’ll play bass with him. Standards and ballads. This rock’n’roller is really going legit! Hey a gig’s a gig!
Budget: I’ve released funds to pay bills… waiting for the check. I also got to the bottom of the snafu with my bennies… they’ll start paying this week. Money at last! I also leaned that I can apply for and qualify for beaucoup financial aid with school. I’ll be doing that paperwork tonight and in the morning.
Spiritual: No progress, no efforts yet.
Work: Back to my volunteer gig. I am also going to Camarillo on Thursday, tomorrow, to sign up for the sub list. The school where I am working likes me… there is a good chance for work with them.
No poetry or pretense today… just checking in.
Update on Resolves…
Music: This is the area of greatest progress. I’ve made contact with the Musician’s Union. Lots of benefits for joining. Seems I goin’ legit! I’ve made a contact with Matthew, a friend that just released his CD. He has some piano gigs lined up at a few of the local watering holes. I’ll play bass with him. Standards and ballads. This rock’n’roller is really going legit! Hey a gig’s a gig!
Budget: I’ve released funds to pay bills… waiting for the check. I also got to the bottom of the snafu with my bennies… they’ll start paying this week. Money at last! I also leaned that I can apply for and qualify for beaucoup financial aid with school. I’ll be doing that paperwork tonight and in the morning.
Spiritual: No progress, no efforts yet.
Work: Back to my volunteer gig. I am also going to Camarillo on Thursday, tomorrow, to sign up for the sub list. The school where I am working likes me… there is a good chance for work with them.
No poetry or pretense today… just checking in.
January 06, 2004
Shining like a star in the soul's deep dark...
6 January 2004
Today is the Festival of the Epiphany of our Lord. This is the day that the Magi were said to have visited the infant Jesus bearing gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. The gifts were said to be something of an allegory for the Christ. Gold was representative of Jesus’ role as the King. Frankincense was indicative of the sacrifice on the cross. Myrrh was the foreshadowing of his humanity. Funny how my training as a liturgical pastor never quite escapes me. Epiphany means, literally, to shine upon. The word has taken the meaning of a divine revelation; the sudden intuitive grasp of reality through something; a metaphor in the existential moment.
I have no idea what that last sentence means, but, damn, it DO sound good! I digress…
I am aware than all calendars are artificial. They have no meaning in and of themselves. They, themselves, are metaphors for the time that they seek to reveal. Time… I have always been fascinated with time and eternity. The NT and Greek thinkers conceived of an eternal and encroached upon the momentary, one was organic while the other was linear. The eternal seems to kiss the existential in these flashes of intuition. It is as if for a moment you see clearly through the darkness and the fog… OK, I also read Calvin’s Institutes.
It has always amazed me that what we see, intuit, grasp, forever changes us. We can’t claim blindness or innocence once we have had our eyes opened. We’ve seen and what we’ve perceived has altered our consciousness by having become part of our experience. I’ve always wondered if this is why so many of us prefer to stay within the confines of what is known and comfortable. That conformity allows a consistency that does not require – or even want – innovation or investigation. This is the conservative that loves the status quo. It serves the needs of the privileged, majority, power-base (whatever the source of cultural bias may be) well. Change is intrinsically risky and therefore to be avoided when the risks that are known are too great for the power-base of the culture to bear.
That is why independent thinkers are such a pain in the ass… they see and have been changed. They cannot go back to the status quo, however much they may long for its comfort and promise of consistency. Aristotle was no dummy. He understood this. He knew that the essence was a constant and for that reason, nothing could change its essential nature: it was constant.
Then came Galileo, looking at the heavens and daring to say it ain’t the way we thought. In that moment of seeing , that epiphany, there was change as his eyes were opened.
It is part of our soul, I think, to seek those changes because the greater good is served by taking the next step, risking and growing…
“Great spirits have always found violent opposition from mediocrities. The latter cannot understand it when a man does not thoughtlessly submit to hereditary prejudices but honestly and courageously uses his intelligence.”
– Albert Einstein.
Blessed Epiphany.
Ah, but I am just a fool…
Today is the Festival of the Epiphany of our Lord. This is the day that the Magi were said to have visited the infant Jesus bearing gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. The gifts were said to be something of an allegory for the Christ. Gold was representative of Jesus’ role as the King. Frankincense was indicative of the sacrifice on the cross. Myrrh was the foreshadowing of his humanity. Funny how my training as a liturgical pastor never quite escapes me. Epiphany means, literally, to shine upon. The word has taken the meaning of a divine revelation; the sudden intuitive grasp of reality through something; a metaphor in the existential moment.
I have no idea what that last sentence means, but, damn, it DO sound good! I digress…
I am aware than all calendars are artificial. They have no meaning in and of themselves. They, themselves, are metaphors for the time that they seek to reveal. Time… I have always been fascinated with time and eternity. The NT and Greek thinkers conceived of an eternal and encroached upon the momentary, one was organic while the other was linear. The eternal seems to kiss the existential in these flashes of intuition. It is as if for a moment you see clearly through the darkness and the fog… OK, I also read Calvin’s Institutes.
It has always amazed me that what we see, intuit, grasp, forever changes us. We can’t claim blindness or innocence once we have had our eyes opened. We’ve seen and what we’ve perceived has altered our consciousness by having become part of our experience. I’ve always wondered if this is why so many of us prefer to stay within the confines of what is known and comfortable. That conformity allows a consistency that does not require – or even want – innovation or investigation. This is the conservative that loves the status quo. It serves the needs of the privileged, majority, power-base (whatever the source of cultural bias may be) well. Change is intrinsically risky and therefore to be avoided when the risks that are known are too great for the power-base of the culture to bear.
That is why independent thinkers are such a pain in the ass… they see and have been changed. They cannot go back to the status quo, however much they may long for its comfort and promise of consistency. Aristotle was no dummy. He understood this. He knew that the essence was a constant and for that reason, nothing could change its essential nature: it was constant.
Then came Galileo, looking at the heavens and daring to say it ain’t the way we thought. In that moment of seeing , that epiphany, there was change as his eyes were opened.
It is part of our soul, I think, to seek those changes because the greater good is served by taking the next step, risking and growing…
“Great spirits have always found violent opposition from mediocrities. The latter cannot understand it when a man does not thoughtlessly submit to hereditary prejudices but honestly and courageously uses his intelligence.”
– Albert Einstein.
Blessed Epiphany.
Ah, but I am just a fool…
January 05, 2004
Dead before life's noon...
5 January 2004 - In the evening.
I just spoke to my daughter. She went back to work, following vacation with her mother and sister. She went in and her boss informed her that one of the children with whom she worked had been murdered by her mother. The kid was only four years old.
My daughter is a strong women. She is compassionate and intelligent. Death is a bitch, no way about that one. I was a clergyperson years ago. I was only 9 years older than she is now when I took over my first church. During that time I had to bury lots of people. The youngest being a child killed in an accident with farm equipment. I remember being torn between wanting to feel grief and being detached. This has remained an emotional dichotomy that has been part of my professional life since young-adulthood. I have always been involved in the helping professions. People die. It's part of the gig.
I could hear in her voice all of the confusion of how to feel that I felt: torn between wanting to cry and not understanding why it does not have as strong an effect as might have been expected. She called to tell me. She does not want to talk. I understand that. I left the door open to her to call back and will check in a day or two to see how she is doing.
Death is a bitch, with wings... and four is too damn young.
I just spoke to my daughter. She went back to work, following vacation with her mother and sister. She went in and her boss informed her that one of the children with whom she worked had been murdered by her mother. The kid was only four years old.
My daughter is a strong women. She is compassionate and intelligent. Death is a bitch, no way about that one. I was a clergyperson years ago. I was only 9 years older than she is now when I took over my first church. During that time I had to bury lots of people. The youngest being a child killed in an accident with farm equipment. I remember being torn between wanting to feel grief and being detached. This has remained an emotional dichotomy that has been part of my professional life since young-adulthood. I have always been involved in the helping professions. People die. It's part of the gig.
I could hear in her voice all of the confusion of how to feel that I felt: torn between wanting to cry and not understanding why it does not have as strong an effect as might have been expected. She called to tell me. She does not want to talk. I understand that. I left the door open to her to call back and will check in a day or two to see how she is doing.
Death is a bitch, with wings... and four is too damn young.
Montag Blau
5 January 2004
I am feeling a bit depressed this afternoon. That is nothing new. It is a cycle of life for me. I struggle with depression and at times have to just allow for it to be in the background, like a toothache or an allergy. For some people their depression is overwhelming and makes life itself overwhelming; thankfully I’ve not had that sort of episode for years (though I am aware that it can happen at anytime if I let it get out of hand). But today it is there, in the background, coloring everything I do and feel. I’ve learned to recognize the symptoms and what to do to take care of them. Allowed to get out of hand it can quickly take hold and begin a cycle of manic activity and deep depression.
I can't say how often I've heard, “Get over it, you’re just feeling sorry for yourself… it's nothing.” Maybe, but I doubt it. I do know that I can get past this and that in a day or two will feel better. I’ll not allow this to take control nor will it stop me from doing what I’ve set out to do today. But I have to begin by saying the words, “I am feeling depressed today.” I am not asking for sympathy or for anything. It is a simple reality. I say it for my sake, to name the demon.
I am almost like an addict: “I am powerless over (name the drug of choice)…” The addict makes a choice not to use in that moment. That is power. If the addict chooses to use, then the consequences follow. For me, it is too easy to allow myself to fall into depression. I have to choose to admit that it is like a black dog biting at my heels and choose to keep it at bay. None of this is really new: the power that I have lies in the ability to recognize what is happening and what I need to do to overcome it. It took years to develop this skill. I was fortunate, not everybody can or does (I don’t know which).
For some pharmacological therapy is indicated. For those for whom they are effective they can literally be life-savers. I tried the drugs. My physiology is such that I am the one in a million that will have the strange side effect. Welbutrin turned me into a raging mad-person. Worse than anxiety! I remember screaming to call the physician and desperately trying to get a grip watching the world spinning around me, all the time feeling more depressed and powerless - what a trip!. It is generally a good drug that holds folks together with no real side-effects. Celexa… I felt like I was stoned and the world was moving in slow-motion. My mind was numb and I was almost narcoleptic. They work for most, for me, no.
I don’t drink when I am depressed. I don’t do anything that would allow the mood to deepen. This means that I may have to impose a structure that allows – forces? – me to remain active. So it is… I am dealing with depression today. It will pass. I won’t let it have the upper-hand.
Ah, but I am only a fool…
I am feeling a bit depressed this afternoon. That is nothing new. It is a cycle of life for me. I struggle with depression and at times have to just allow for it to be in the background, like a toothache or an allergy. For some people their depression is overwhelming and makes life itself overwhelming; thankfully I’ve not had that sort of episode for years (though I am aware that it can happen at anytime if I let it get out of hand). But today it is there, in the background, coloring everything I do and feel. I’ve learned to recognize the symptoms and what to do to take care of them. Allowed to get out of hand it can quickly take hold and begin a cycle of manic activity and deep depression.
I can't say how often I've heard, “Get over it, you’re just feeling sorry for yourself… it's nothing.” Maybe, but I doubt it. I do know that I can get past this and that in a day or two will feel better. I’ll not allow this to take control nor will it stop me from doing what I’ve set out to do today. But I have to begin by saying the words, “I am feeling depressed today.” I am not asking for sympathy or for anything. It is a simple reality. I say it for my sake, to name the demon.
I am almost like an addict: “I am powerless over (name the drug of choice)…” The addict makes a choice not to use in that moment. That is power. If the addict chooses to use, then the consequences follow. For me, it is too easy to allow myself to fall into depression. I have to choose to admit that it is like a black dog biting at my heels and choose to keep it at bay. None of this is really new: the power that I have lies in the ability to recognize what is happening and what I need to do to overcome it. It took years to develop this skill. I was fortunate, not everybody can or does (I don’t know which).
For some pharmacological therapy is indicated. For those for whom they are effective they can literally be life-savers. I tried the drugs. My physiology is such that I am the one in a million that will have the strange side effect. Welbutrin turned me into a raging mad-person. Worse than anxiety! I remember screaming to call the physician and desperately trying to get a grip watching the world spinning around me, all the time feeling more depressed and powerless - what a trip!. It is generally a good drug that holds folks together with no real side-effects. Celexa… I felt like I was stoned and the world was moving in slow-motion. My mind was numb and I was almost narcoleptic. They work for most, for me, no.
I don’t drink when I am depressed. I don’t do anything that would allow the mood to deepen. This means that I may have to impose a structure that allows – forces? – me to remain active. So it is… I am dealing with depression today. It will pass. I won’t let it have the upper-hand.
Ah, but I am only a fool…
January 04, 2004
Knowing you, knowing me...
I’ve just gotten back from driving my daughter back to college. It was good to spend six hours with her in the car… she is such an interesting person. I started to think about knowing the people that I love. It occurred to me that I liked the Bernard Pivot questionnaire, better known as the questions on Inside the Actor’s Studio. It is a good tool… good questions. Here are my answers with some elaboration.
1. What is your favorite word? “Hope” I am, despite my dark edges eternally optimistic about life and this world. Hope is the only thing that keeps us living and saves us from indulging in an orgy of excess just to prove that we are… it saved me from suicide when I was an adolescent, and is the grace that allows me to see every day as a gift.
2. What is your least favorite word? “No” If grace is God’s “yes” than “no” is something that limits. I look for the “yes” in all things. This does not mean that I get everything that I want, far from it. It is finding the “yes” when the whole damn world seems to be crying no… back to hope, I suppose. YES…
3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? Silence, a blank page… I don’t yet know what sounds to make, what words to write… the possibilities are endless. How shall I break this silence, what words shall I speak…
4. What turns you off? Noise… meaningless drivel that passes for meaning; sound and fury that signifies nothing. There is so much noise in this world; commercials telling us that we need to smell a certain way or dress a certain way to be acceptable, noise that passes for music which we play because we fear silence... The list goes on.
5. What is your favorite curse word? FUCK…So many possibilities. Want to start a beautiful friendship? (Fuck yeah…); angry and don’t know how to confound them? (FUCK YOU! – now really – this is more a promise and a word of hope… a curse would be NEVER FUCK YOU.. back to “NO”); lost in the dark? (Fuckin’ A… ) The list goes on…
6. What sound or noise do you love? The sound of a lover sleeping the sleep of the content in my arms… sigh
7. What sound or noise do you hate? Anything said in anger… words are too strong to use with blind fury; once unleashed they can never be recalled and their harm lasts as long as does memory. I've unleashed so many such salvos that I will spend a lifetime atoning for my shortsightedness.
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? I would be a teacher of history at the graduate level. I love history. It is the common story that binds us each to each.
9. What profession would you not like to do? Anything that values paper, currency, or anything over compassion.
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? “My mistake; you ARE on the guest list…”
Ah, but I am just a fool...
1. What is your favorite word? “Hope” I am, despite my dark edges eternally optimistic about life and this world. Hope is the only thing that keeps us living and saves us from indulging in an orgy of excess just to prove that we are… it saved me from suicide when I was an adolescent, and is the grace that allows me to see every day as a gift.
2. What is your least favorite word? “No” If grace is God’s “yes” than “no” is something that limits. I look for the “yes” in all things. This does not mean that I get everything that I want, far from it. It is finding the “yes” when the whole damn world seems to be crying no… back to hope, I suppose. YES…
3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? Silence, a blank page… I don’t yet know what sounds to make, what words to write… the possibilities are endless. How shall I break this silence, what words shall I speak…
4. What turns you off? Noise… meaningless drivel that passes for meaning; sound and fury that signifies nothing. There is so much noise in this world; commercials telling us that we need to smell a certain way or dress a certain way to be acceptable, noise that passes for music which we play because we fear silence... The list goes on.
5. What is your favorite curse word? FUCK…So many possibilities. Want to start a beautiful friendship? (Fuck yeah…); angry and don’t know how to confound them? (FUCK YOU! – now really – this is more a promise and a word of hope… a curse would be NEVER FUCK YOU.. back to “NO”); lost in the dark? (Fuckin’ A… ) The list goes on…
6. What sound or noise do you love? The sound of a lover sleeping the sleep of the content in my arms… sigh
7. What sound or noise do you hate? Anything said in anger… words are too strong to use with blind fury; once unleashed they can never be recalled and their harm lasts as long as does memory. I've unleashed so many such salvos that I will spend a lifetime atoning for my shortsightedness.
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? I would be a teacher of history at the graduate level. I love history. It is the common story that binds us each to each.
9. What profession would you not like to do? Anything that values paper, currency, or anything over compassion.
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? “My mistake; you ARE on the guest list…”
Ah, but I am just a fool...
January 03, 2004
timbre and resonance...
Playing my flute…
I love music. In the movie, The Witches of Eastwick, the character Darryl Van Horne observes that without precision passion is chaos, without passion precision is prissy. I have the book but have not read it. Mea culpa. I like the quote. Music is what happens with passion weds itself with precision. I am not convinced that this is mere technique: precision of thought, of vision, clarity in listening to the heart’s murmurings. That is how I understand the precision in music. Technique is vital, to be certain, but there is something more that requires precision. Not a note wasted, either my commission or omission.
There is another quote about music that speaks to me: I love music for what it makes me remember and for what it makes me forget.
There is much to remember. I have almost no memory of my childhood. It is as of those years did not exist. I hear stories and they seem to resonate in an empty room. No sympathetic vibrations, no harmonics, no recall: it is as if there is silence where there should be a song. When I feel what I can of my childhood I hear minors and dissonant chords with throbbing bass and tense crescendos that cry for resolution. But then there is a chord, a note, a phrase that falls from the sound of the birds or a child’s laughter, or something that brings the phrase to resolution.
But there is still some small syncopation
I am not a wind player… I just like the flute. I went into my bathroom – all that resonance – and played there. For a moment I could see to a different place, full of beautiful sounds that speak more eloquently than words of the heart’s true longings…
Ah, but I am just a fool…
I love music. In the movie, The Witches of Eastwick, the character Darryl Van Horne observes that without precision passion is chaos, without passion precision is prissy. I have the book but have not read it. Mea culpa. I like the quote. Music is what happens with passion weds itself with precision. I am not convinced that this is mere technique: precision of thought, of vision, clarity in listening to the heart’s murmurings. That is how I understand the precision in music. Technique is vital, to be certain, but there is something more that requires precision. Not a note wasted, either my commission or omission.
There is another quote about music that speaks to me: I love music for what it makes me remember and for what it makes me forget.
There is much to remember. I have almost no memory of my childhood. It is as of those years did not exist. I hear stories and they seem to resonate in an empty room. No sympathetic vibrations, no harmonics, no recall: it is as if there is silence where there should be a song. When I feel what I can of my childhood I hear minors and dissonant chords with throbbing bass and tense crescendos that cry for resolution. But then there is a chord, a note, a phrase that falls from the sound of the birds or a child’s laughter, or something that brings the phrase to resolution.
But there is still some small syncopation
I am not a wind player… I just like the flute. I went into my bathroom – all that resonance – and played there. For a moment I could see to a different place, full of beautiful sounds that speak more eloquently than words of the heart’s true longings…
Ah, but I am just a fool…
January 02, 2004
Nunc hoc in marmore non est incisum ...
2 January 2003
Whomever said that “it is better to have loved and lost” obviously never lost at love...
My parents have been together over fifty years – that’s half a century folks! I am 46 years old. If we count adulthood from age 18, then I have been an “adult” for 28 years. Of these 28 years, I have been married – twice – for a total of 13 years. It does not take a rocket scientist to see that I have been single longer than I have been married.
My standing joke is that I make a great boyfriend and a lousy husband. I think that S. and L. could attest to that one, much to my shame. I have to wonder why these marriages, and every other significant relationship in my life, went belly up. I know now, looking back, that it was my temper. I could lose it and break into loud shouting tirades at a moment’s notice. My therapist told me that it was post-traumatic stress syndrome from my childhood (how convenient is that?). Whatever the reason, the result was a semi-conscious state of fear, anxiety, adrenalin (oh that bitter taste in my mouth and the feeling of my gut tightening up for battle…) and a sharpening of an already acute tongue led to disastrous consequences for anybody within earshot. The irony is that anger sickens me. I don’t mean that metaphorically: I get physically ill when I hear an argument.
The good news is that I’ve gone now for three years without any real anger issues… but I have also avoided a serious romantic relationship for that time. I’ve found myself in a curious place in matters of the heart. I’ve had more than ample opportunity to hook up with women, but have not been able to take the risk involved with intimacy. It seems that the closer you were to me the higher the risk of anger. You get the picture.
I’ve wondered if this is simply the price of admission, like a drunk that can’t take a drink if he is to remain sober. I hope not. There is a part of me that craves a relationship. I miss being with somebody and have, for the past three years, grown weary of waking up alone. I want cook for somebody, to hear another person in the house, and – more than anything – to love and be loved again. I’ve only partly joked that I have dated psycho-chicks of late. Much of that is bad luck (and I do have some stories… that is another posting) but some of it seems to be having chosen women that cannot commit. Pretty clever, huh? My particular favorite was the divorcee that continued to cohabitate with her estranged husband. That pretty much made any commitment impossible.
Let’s do some arithmetic… so, 15 years of single life, three years without incident. That means that I have the equivalent of one in five years without incident. I’m not certain what that really means… it’s not like I was angry for the other four years. I wasn’t. I had some really moments, though. Three years without incident… I think that it may be time to test the waters?
There is more to my fear of testing the waters, though. I tend to love very deeply (I fall hard, fast, and deep… a bit impulsive, am I?) and it takes a long time to get over love lost. My first love, a girl named K. who was 18 when I was 20, took nearly ten years to get over (encroaching on much of my first marriage, I might add; I never said anything, but I think that L. knew). The first marriage took years to get past. My daughter once asked me if I still love S. (my second ex-wife). I had to be honest and say yes. She shook her head, as if to say, “Daddy, I love you but you’re pathetic…” I understand. I don’t know how to get over love. I do know that in order to love completely that I need to let the past be in the past and live in the now. This is not to say that I cannot be friends or even intimate, but it does cast a shadow on the big “L.”
Better to have loved and lost? I have a nearly perfect record of losses in love. Let me tell you, it sucks big time…
Ah, but I am just a fool…
Whomever said that “it is better to have loved and lost” obviously never lost at love...
My parents have been together over fifty years – that’s half a century folks! I am 46 years old. If we count adulthood from age 18, then I have been an “adult” for 28 years. Of these 28 years, I have been married – twice – for a total of 13 years. It does not take a rocket scientist to see that I have been single longer than I have been married.
My standing joke is that I make a great boyfriend and a lousy husband. I think that S. and L. could attest to that one, much to my shame. I have to wonder why these marriages, and every other significant relationship in my life, went belly up. I know now, looking back, that it was my temper. I could lose it and break into loud shouting tirades at a moment’s notice. My therapist told me that it was post-traumatic stress syndrome from my childhood (how convenient is that?). Whatever the reason, the result was a semi-conscious state of fear, anxiety, adrenalin (oh that bitter taste in my mouth and the feeling of my gut tightening up for battle…) and a sharpening of an already acute tongue led to disastrous consequences for anybody within earshot. The irony is that anger sickens me. I don’t mean that metaphorically: I get physically ill when I hear an argument.
The good news is that I’ve gone now for three years without any real anger issues… but I have also avoided a serious romantic relationship for that time. I’ve found myself in a curious place in matters of the heart. I’ve had more than ample opportunity to hook up with women, but have not been able to take the risk involved with intimacy. It seems that the closer you were to me the higher the risk of anger. You get the picture.
I’ve wondered if this is simply the price of admission, like a drunk that can’t take a drink if he is to remain sober. I hope not. There is a part of me that craves a relationship. I miss being with somebody and have, for the past three years, grown weary of waking up alone. I want cook for somebody, to hear another person in the house, and – more than anything – to love and be loved again. I’ve only partly joked that I have dated psycho-chicks of late. Much of that is bad luck (and I do have some stories… that is another posting) but some of it seems to be having chosen women that cannot commit. Pretty clever, huh? My particular favorite was the divorcee that continued to cohabitate with her estranged husband. That pretty much made any commitment impossible.
Let’s do some arithmetic… so, 15 years of single life, three years without incident. That means that I have the equivalent of one in five years without incident. I’m not certain what that really means… it’s not like I was angry for the other four years. I wasn’t. I had some really moments, though. Three years without incident… I think that it may be time to test the waters?
There is more to my fear of testing the waters, though. I tend to love very deeply (I fall hard, fast, and deep… a bit impulsive, am I?) and it takes a long time to get over love lost. My first love, a girl named K. who was 18 when I was 20, took nearly ten years to get over (encroaching on much of my first marriage, I might add; I never said anything, but I think that L. knew). The first marriage took years to get past. My daughter once asked me if I still love S. (my second ex-wife). I had to be honest and say yes. She shook her head, as if to say, “Daddy, I love you but you’re pathetic…” I understand. I don’t know how to get over love. I do know that in order to love completely that I need to let the past be in the past and live in the now. This is not to say that I cannot be friends or even intimate, but it does cast a shadow on the big “L.”
Better to have loved and lost? I have a nearly perfect record of losses in love. Let me tell you, it sucks big time…
Ah, but I am just a fool…
Resolutions and other acts of self-deception
2 January 2004
I’ve always resisted the idea of making resolutions for the New Year, partially out of sloth – I know that I’ll not keep them – and partially out of resistance to the idea of doing something that aligned with bourgeois values: work harder to garner greater material wealth and prestige. I think that the dawning of middle age – perhaps it is a late morning? – has forced me to revisit this resistance to planning. I’ve always been a “rise with the tide, go with the flow” type of guy. It has served me well, to a point at least. My definition of “well” perhaps being somewhat different than most of my fellows would have it.
I am breaking with my tradition; here are my resolutions – in no particular order – for the next twelve months:
1. Employment: Locate a suitable job teaching special education
2. Music: Record my CD (vanity, vanity…)
3. Music: Formal studies! Theory and counterpoint?
4. Music: Resume gigging in Ventura, Santa Barbara and Los Angeles Counties
5. Financial: Debt free and living on a budget (How bourgeois can it get!!!!)
6. Spiritual/Emotional: Spend disciplined time in meditation/prayer, find a community of faith
7. Spiritual/Emotional: Do works of charity and peace that cannot be paid back (all anonymous)
8. Physical Health: Eat well and exercise
I am listening to Jaco Pastorius playing Continuum… the man is truly the god of the electric bass. But I digress.
I suppose that I have come to a point in life where I want to make changes. This is not so much a referendum on how I have lived (boring, says I) as much as it is a course correction that is aligned with my values. What are these values?
Peace and Harmony – I gave up trying to save the world years ago. Now I just want my corner to be tidy and a haven for peace and beauty. If I do this maybe somebody else will, and then somebody else, and so on until the world is saved by stages.
Do no harm – If I can’t help you , I certainly won’t hurt you. That is much harder than it sounds. This has been the great challenge of my life and continues to be the central motivation in all that I have done. I have failed miserably at times. Other times I have had modest success. There is much that I have done of which I am rightly proud. I want to continue doing what is good and learn to leave behind what is not.
Live, laugh, love – In one-hundred years all of us will be gone and nothing will be left but the sound of our laughter and the salt of our tears… enough said on that one.
Honest and meaningful work – I do like to work. But I cannot work for something that I do not believe in . I won’t whore myself out for material gain. Unlike some of my leftist friends, I do not see corporations or wealth as evil. I see them as areas that have been easily corrupted, however. Greed is the enemy, not wealth.
Speaking of my core values… Here is a poem by D.H. Lawrence. Extra points if you can name the band that used it in their eponymous album!
A Sane Revolution
If you make a revolution, make it for fun,
don't make it in ghastly seriousness,
don't do it in deadly earnest,
do it for fun.
Don't do it because you hate people,
do it just to spit in their eye.
Don't do it for the money,
do it and be damned to the money.
Don't do it for equality,
do it because we've got too much equality
and it would be fun to upset the apple-cart
and see which way the apples would go a-rolling.
Don't do it for the working classes.
Do it so that we can all of us be little aristocracies on our own
and kick our heels like jolly escaped asses.
Don't do it, anyhow, for international Labour.
Labour is the one thing a man has had too much of.
Let's abolish labour, let's have done with labouring!
Work can be fun, and men can enjoy it; then it's not labour.
Let's have it so! Let's make a revolution for fun!
Ah, but I am just a fool...
I’ve always resisted the idea of making resolutions for the New Year, partially out of sloth – I know that I’ll not keep them – and partially out of resistance to the idea of doing something that aligned with bourgeois values: work harder to garner greater material wealth and prestige. I think that the dawning of middle age – perhaps it is a late morning? – has forced me to revisit this resistance to planning. I’ve always been a “rise with the tide, go with the flow” type of guy. It has served me well, to a point at least. My definition of “well” perhaps being somewhat different than most of my fellows would have it.
I am breaking with my tradition; here are my resolutions – in no particular order – for the next twelve months:
1. Employment: Locate a suitable job teaching special education
2. Music: Record my CD (vanity, vanity…)
3. Music: Formal studies! Theory and counterpoint?
4. Music: Resume gigging in Ventura, Santa Barbara and Los Angeles Counties
5. Financial: Debt free and living on a budget (How bourgeois can it get!!!!)
6. Spiritual/Emotional: Spend disciplined time in meditation/prayer, find a community of faith
7. Spiritual/Emotional: Do works of charity and peace that cannot be paid back (all anonymous)
8. Physical Health: Eat well and exercise
I am listening to Jaco Pastorius playing Continuum… the man is truly the god of the electric bass. But I digress.
I suppose that I have come to a point in life where I want to make changes. This is not so much a referendum on how I have lived (boring, says I) as much as it is a course correction that is aligned with my values. What are these values?
Peace and Harmony – I gave up trying to save the world years ago. Now I just want my corner to be tidy and a haven for peace and beauty. If I do this maybe somebody else will, and then somebody else, and so on until the world is saved by stages.
Do no harm – If I can’t help you , I certainly won’t hurt you. That is much harder than it sounds. This has been the great challenge of my life and continues to be the central motivation in all that I have done. I have failed miserably at times. Other times I have had modest success. There is much that I have done of which I am rightly proud. I want to continue doing what is good and learn to leave behind what is not.
Live, laugh, love – In one-hundred years all of us will be gone and nothing will be left but the sound of our laughter and the salt of our tears… enough said on that one.
Honest and meaningful work – I do like to work. But I cannot work for something that I do not believe in . I won’t whore myself out for material gain. Unlike some of my leftist friends, I do not see corporations or wealth as evil. I see them as areas that have been easily corrupted, however. Greed is the enemy, not wealth.
Speaking of my core values… Here is a poem by D.H. Lawrence. Extra points if you can name the band that used it in their eponymous album!
A Sane Revolution
If you make a revolution, make it for fun,
don't make it in ghastly seriousness,
don't do it in deadly earnest,
do it for fun.
Don't do it because you hate people,
do it just to spit in their eye.
Don't do it for the money,
do it and be damned to the money.
Don't do it for equality,
do it because we've got too much equality
and it would be fun to upset the apple-cart
and see which way the apples would go a-rolling.
Don't do it for the working classes.
Do it so that we can all of us be little aristocracies on our own
and kick our heels like jolly escaped asses.
Don't do it, anyhow, for international Labour.
Labour is the one thing a man has had too much of.
Let's abolish labour, let's have done with labouring!
Work can be fun, and men can enjoy it; then it's not labour.
Let's have it so! Let's make a revolution for fun!
Ah, but I am just a fool...
It is the last day of 2003...
31 December 2003
Time continues its inexorable march forward. We each grow older, another day closer to death. Time continues and we are afforded a moment to take stock of our lives and consider the choices that we have made and the legacy that we will leave behind as we, too, fade into the collective memory of our children. I am acutely aware of the artifice of this whole endeavor: indeed it is nothing but the caprice of consensus that has declared that 1 January 2004 begins a New Year. Still, the consensus is powerful insofar as it represents a perception of newness, a perception of a time to take stock and look forward in hope and back with – hopefully – an honest eye and not too much nostalgia.
Over twenty years ago, I stood in the common room at Trinity Lutheran Seminary and overheard a conversation between a professor and an older student. The professor asked “How many summers” my friend had seen. He responded forty-five. At the time that seemed to be such a long time. I’ve now seen that many plus one; it is not that long at all, more a heart-beat than an eternity. Time passes. So shall we.
Yet it is not with a sense of melancholy that I write, though those that know me also are aware of the dark and shadowy outline that embraces my aura. Time passes and we change while remaining quite the same as we ever were. There are things that are part of my essential being. I still wake in wonder of this life. I still don’t understand. I still secretly yearn for the approval of my father, while distancing myself from all that he valued. Maybe this is part of being a man in mid-life. I never believed that the mid-life crisis had to do with sports cars and younger women (the latter being a favorite passion of mine!) as much as a realization that one’s father sets the tone for one’s life.
My father and I have “enjoyed” a strange relationship, I suppose. Neither one of us quite knows what to do with the other: we are more cordial than warm. Neither one will risk a step forward to embrace the other because, I believe, to do so both would have to embrace ourselves. We are cut from the same cloth in many ways: stubborn, opinionated, head-strong, passionate, self-doubting, and – dare I say? – wary of the other. Perhaps we just have become comfortable with our détente?
My father is a man of action, a doer more than a dreamer. He is a healer; and a damn good one, at that. There is much in him that I admire. He is kind, generous, loving. He has garnered the respect and admiration of his fellows. He can also be petty and mean-spirited (traits that when I look in an honest mirror held by a steady hand I see in myself). His passion – medicine – was always his first love. I suppose that this was part of the reason that I refused to be a healer; a sense of puerile jealously at that which vitalized the man and created a distance between us. More than anything – like most sons I suppose – I craved words of approval from this man whose disapproving glance could devastate me. But despite that I regard him as a man among men, one of the old gods, one for whom respect and perhaps begrudged admiration is due.
I am a dreamer. Happy in my non-conformity and disregard for material wealth. Also a man of passion, I have loved music, the arts, and – more than anything else – words. All of my choices revolved around the power of spoken language and the urge to perform words in front of an audience. I became a preacher to that end, having been seduced by the incarnation of the Word. The Word became my means to sculpt the souls of those who would listen. Their power to inculcate a sense of wonder and possibility remains a potent drug for me. I still am driven by the beauty of the Word and am enraptured by its power to create perceptions that dance in harmony with the ultimate reality, with the ideal realm of being.
And so it is that I stand at the dawn of yet another year, the man of action and the dreamer must somehow find peace with one another; actions without dreams are drudgery and dreams without action are delusions. Perhaps the words of Wordsworth are apt for consideration on this dawn of yet another year:
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
So it was when my life began;
So it is now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old;
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
I smile as I write these words and can hear an old argument, with perhaps a bit of nostalgia and affection: “What does it mean?” the doer demands, the dreamer responds, “Just as it says…”
And so I sit at my father’s desk – a gift from his father – soon to be a gift to my daughter, wearing his ring – again a gift from his father, soon to be one to my daughter – and am aware that time passes and all that really matters is that we love each other, even if we don’t understand each other or share each other’s values.
Another year has come, yet another summer on my back. The time is fleeting and only appears to quicken as I realize that each day represents less and less of my total span of life and still remains the totality of my hope. I don’t know what dreams may come in this year, but still I dare to dream…
Ah, but I am only a fool...
Time continues its inexorable march forward. We each grow older, another day closer to death. Time continues and we are afforded a moment to take stock of our lives and consider the choices that we have made and the legacy that we will leave behind as we, too, fade into the collective memory of our children. I am acutely aware of the artifice of this whole endeavor: indeed it is nothing but the caprice of consensus that has declared that 1 January 2004 begins a New Year. Still, the consensus is powerful insofar as it represents a perception of newness, a perception of a time to take stock and look forward in hope and back with – hopefully – an honest eye and not too much nostalgia.
Over twenty years ago, I stood in the common room at Trinity Lutheran Seminary and overheard a conversation between a professor and an older student. The professor asked “How many summers” my friend had seen. He responded forty-five. At the time that seemed to be such a long time. I’ve now seen that many plus one; it is not that long at all, more a heart-beat than an eternity. Time passes. So shall we.
Yet it is not with a sense of melancholy that I write, though those that know me also are aware of the dark and shadowy outline that embraces my aura. Time passes and we change while remaining quite the same as we ever were. There are things that are part of my essential being. I still wake in wonder of this life. I still don’t understand. I still secretly yearn for the approval of my father, while distancing myself from all that he valued. Maybe this is part of being a man in mid-life. I never believed that the mid-life crisis had to do with sports cars and younger women (the latter being a favorite passion of mine!) as much as a realization that one’s father sets the tone for one’s life.
My father and I have “enjoyed” a strange relationship, I suppose. Neither one of us quite knows what to do with the other: we are more cordial than warm. Neither one will risk a step forward to embrace the other because, I believe, to do so both would have to embrace ourselves. We are cut from the same cloth in many ways: stubborn, opinionated, head-strong, passionate, self-doubting, and – dare I say? – wary of the other. Perhaps we just have become comfortable with our détente?
My father is a man of action, a doer more than a dreamer. He is a healer; and a damn good one, at that. There is much in him that I admire. He is kind, generous, loving. He has garnered the respect and admiration of his fellows. He can also be petty and mean-spirited (traits that when I look in an honest mirror held by a steady hand I see in myself). His passion – medicine – was always his first love. I suppose that this was part of the reason that I refused to be a healer; a sense of puerile jealously at that which vitalized the man and created a distance between us. More than anything – like most sons I suppose – I craved words of approval from this man whose disapproving glance could devastate me. But despite that I regard him as a man among men, one of the old gods, one for whom respect and perhaps begrudged admiration is due.
I am a dreamer. Happy in my non-conformity and disregard for material wealth. Also a man of passion, I have loved music, the arts, and – more than anything else – words. All of my choices revolved around the power of spoken language and the urge to perform words in front of an audience. I became a preacher to that end, having been seduced by the incarnation of the Word. The Word became my means to sculpt the souls of those who would listen. Their power to inculcate a sense of wonder and possibility remains a potent drug for me. I still am driven by the beauty of the Word and am enraptured by its power to create perceptions that dance in harmony with the ultimate reality, with the ideal realm of being.
And so it is that I stand at the dawn of yet another year, the man of action and the dreamer must somehow find peace with one another; actions without dreams are drudgery and dreams without action are delusions. Perhaps the words of Wordsworth are apt for consideration on this dawn of yet another year:
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
So it was when my life began;
So it is now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old;
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
I smile as I write these words and can hear an old argument, with perhaps a bit of nostalgia and affection: “What does it mean?” the doer demands, the dreamer responds, “Just as it says…”
And so I sit at my father’s desk – a gift from his father – soon to be a gift to my daughter, wearing his ring – again a gift from his father, soon to be one to my daughter – and am aware that time passes and all that really matters is that we love each other, even if we don’t understand each other or share each other’s values.
Another year has come, yet another summer on my back. The time is fleeting and only appears to quicken as I realize that each day represents less and less of my total span of life and still remains the totality of my hope. I don’t know what dreams may come in this year, but still I dare to dream…
Ah, but I am only a fool...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)