More Blog Changes

You may have had some trouble accessing this page recently. Blogroller, the service that auto-loaded the list of blogs maintained by other members of the Well, has apparently shut down. When this page tried to load the Well blogroll, it was led instead to redirect to the parking page for blogroller.com.

The problem is now fixed, but the long list of blogs maintained by fellow Wellperns is no longer available.

The Pillows Arrived

And they work. The drawback is that they feel like a toilet seat. So it sort of feels like I'm sitting on the can while using my computer.

That's what I have my iPad for.

Heart Is Contrary To The Way

Via Sweeping Zen:

Emmon: If (the way) cannot be conceived by the heart, how can it be conceived/thought of?

Mster Nyuri: As soon as a thought arises, there is also the heart. Heart is contrary to the way. No-thought is no-heart. No heart (the empty heart) is the way of Truth (True Awakening.)

I Don't Want It Very Badly

Sometimes being alone sucks, and I guess I've been more keenly aware of alone-ness's general suckitude over the past several weeks.

But nothing is going to change in that regard. I close my eyes, and try to visualize things being somehow different, and I can't. I can't even imagine it. I can visualize myself living on a space station more easily than I can visualizing myself in a relationship. In fact, imagining myself in a relationship is a little like imagining myself at the dentist's office.

Mind Over Mary is right, or almost right, when she says I don't want anyone in my life. I do want someone in my life, but not very badly.

The Reluctant Waitress

There's a place I go many mornings for breakfast. I've been there so often, most of the waitresses know my name, and I theirs. They say hi to me, even if I'm not at one of their tables.

Except for one. She's pleasant enough if I'm her customer; otherwise, she'll look the other way when I come in, or studiously examine a check until I pass. If I say 'good morning' as I walk by, she'll pretend she didn't hear me while everyone else says 'good morning' or 'hi'.

Naturally, I'm somewhat attracted to her. Is it because she so clearly dislikes me, or does she dislike me because she senses I'm attracted to her? Or maybe it's both — kind of a closed feedback loop?

I'm not pushing it. In fact, I'll avoid sitting at her tables if I can, because it's so obvious I make her uncomfortable.

She seems to chat up the guys who have short hair and NASCAR-logoed windbreakers. I wouldn't put on a NASCAR windbreaker to get close to Milla Jovovich dressed in nothing but three strategically-placed cups of chocolate pudding, so I'm certainly not getting one to wear to breakfast.

I wonder though, what it is that makes about one out of twenty women kind of cringe when they see me coming.

Hemorrhoids

Had 'em since I was in my twenties. Maybe that's why I'm go grouchy.

Until recently, they've never been more than a nuisance. But now, when they're being feisty, I can't even sit in a chair.

I ordered a couple of those donut-shaped cushions today. They support your ass while letting your 'rhoids just sort of float free.

I will report back on my results, because I know you want to hear every precise detail.

It's All Tits And Ass From Here On Out

A few months ago, I noticed a young woman with an awkward, sort of stiff gait crossing the street. I remarked to the woman who was with me that she had the stride of a gymnast or swimmer.

My friend's lower lip started to quiver, so I asked her what was wrong. I got about five minutes of weepy argle bargle about the marginalization of women above a certain age, and something about patriarchy, and something and something.

I hadn't commented at all on this young lady's attractiveness or lack thereof. But by merely noticing her long, stiff-kneed walk, I had oppressed and undermined women everywhere.

My mother, as I mentioned in previous posts, was 'way ahead of the curve on this stuff. As early as about 1967, she was lecturing about weak, irresponsible men — which included, presumably, all the ones she was fucking. I was taught that I was, simply by virtue of my gender, both guilty and impossibly, irredeemably weak, and that the best I could hope for was the opportunity to clean house and do dishes for some woman who was intrinsically better than I could ever hope to be.

As a result of that upbringing, I was bending over backwards to avoid objectifying women long before the term 'objectifying' came into currency. From adolescence through my late forties, I wouldn't even compliment a woman on her clothing, because that would mean having some inappropriate awareness of her gender, appearance and, perhaps, her sexuality.

Even so, I seem to be objectifying women by simply taking note that they're ambulatory. So, once again, fuck it — I'm done. It's all tits and ass from here on out, folks.

Done With It

I am a heterosexual male. I am attracted to women. I may not trust women, but I am attracted to women. More specifically, I am attracted to certain kinds of women, and they are mostly of the willowy, ethereal, Stevie Nicks archetype I have posted about so many times before.

That may be shallow and superficial, but it's the way it goes with me.

I was discussing this with a female friend a few days ago, and for the first time in the years I have known her, she cut me off and said the topic wasn't open for discussion. She was upset, I think, because she believes, as many of my female friends do, that I am 'supposed' to be attracted to sturdy, sensible, scowling women who will straighten me out and make me be disciplined and productive. Or, alternately, that I should be that completely asexual 'bean bag chair' on which they flop down for a good cry when their boyfriends have shit on them.

The first paragraph of this post strikes me as being fairly tepid and noncontroversial. Yet I posted it with some trepidation, because I know if I had said something like that in front of my parents, my father would have squirmed nervously and my mother would have come completely unglued.

"You're not going to be like your father!" she would have scolded. "You're going to learn how to do laundry, and wash dishes, so that if you ever get married, you'll know how to be a dutiful husband and supportive of your wife!" My mother thought I should aspire to be a maid or housekeeper, largely so I could take care of our home while she was out getting hammered. I think she figured I would never marry; in fact, she once suggested to me that I was gay.

The housekeeping training didn't stick, as anyone who has been in my home knows. But I think what did stick was this notion that I was supposed to be some sort of groveling servant who existed only to try to please women by being the always-patient listener, always available to do favors, always willing to put her needs and interests before my own. The eternal rescuer, in other words.

Well, I am 58 years old now, and fuck that. I am done with it. And I am done with apologizing or feeling guilty because I like feminine women. If that's not 'nice' of me, too fucking bad. I am old and frumpy now, and not capable of playing Jake Danger for anyone, but someone else is going to have to be Big Brother/Daddy.

I Almost Forgot!

A few weeks ago, I found the 'eat shit' woman on Facebook. Hadn't talked to her since 1982 or thereabouts. Sent her a friend request. She never answered, but she imediately upped all her Facebook security settings to Threat Level Red.

I guess that's the way we say 'eat shit' in 2011.

More On Depression

From the New York Times blogs – Dick Cavett on depression:

...when you’re downed by this affliction, if there were a curative magic wand on the table eight feet away, it would be too much trouble to go over and pick it up.

More here.

More on Introversion

From The Atlantic, 2003

Caring For Your Introvert

Follow this link to a 2006 interview with article's author, Jonathan Rauch.

And another Jonathan Rauch story on introverts and romance.

I'm Tired of Being the Bean Bag

Sometimes I write things here that later resonate with me almost as if they had been written by another's hand. So it is with the 'punching bag' reference of a couple days back. As soon as I saw it in writing, I realized that I was bugged by it more than I had been previously willing to admit.

Actually, though, 'punching bag' is probably the wrong term. It's more like I'm a big, comfy bean bag that women like to plop down on while they're waiting for their boyfriend, Jake Danger, to get out of jail. Or maybe things didn't work out with that tweaker they took home after finding him sprawled out in an alley behind the Paseo, so they come hang around me while they're waiting for a suitably scabrous crackhead to sweep them off their feet.

Anyway, I'm noticing that I'm not as tolerant about playing 'Uncle Mikey' to them as I used to be.

A Very Strange Man

I remember one time Ms. HRP and I were going somewhere. We had chatted a bit in the car, then ran out of things to talk about, and were sitting in silence as I drove. Suddenly, she turned to me and said, "You know, you're a very strange man."

I took that as a compliment. But it's another of those 'eat shit' kinds of things. No hidden meanings. She just meant what she said.

In fact, the 'eat shit' woman once told me I was 'moody, temperamental and weird.' I didn't think I was temperamental, but I took the rest of it positively.

A Brief Note

I am so sick of these tea party fuckers.

Then Again...

Here again is the guy who's not giving up his identity or soul for romance. So, I'm frankly being a little ridiculous.

Revisiting Mind Over Mary

I wrote something the other day about Mind Over Mary's comment on my first 'eat shit' post.

There was another line in her post that I wanted to explore:

I am not in a relationship because I feel like I have to give up my identity and my soul to be in one. It's all about me. I know that no man is going to give me what I want until I'm ready to take it, and that may be never.

I have written about this before, I think. I've dated women who loved me and had a wonderful plan for my life. But it wasn't my plan. One wanted to turn me into a ballroom dancer. She has since taken up residence in Glennbeckistan, and I guess I would have been pulled along for that trip, as well. Another, who talked about Martha Stewart in a manner normally used to describe the Dalai Lama, wanted to turn me into a suburban Republican. I was not ready to do either of those things, and as I told one of them, if you want a guy like that, go find a guy like that – don't try to remodel me into that person.

I read a web post somewhere the other day about how to impress women in bars. I personally think if you're trying to impress women in bars, you've already lost the battle. But the article had advice like, 'Be the first to sit down. This demonstrates your dominance over the other males in the group.' It also recommended, 'When you sit down, spread out. Claim as much space as you can. This also establishes your dominance, plus it forces other males to remain standing, making them appear weaker than you.'

I can imagine some half-wasted bimbo in red suede cowboy boots seeing me sprawled out on a chair or sofa in a bar and thinking, 'Mmmmm – look how much space he takes up! I want to carry his seed in my body and give birth to his offspring, that our tribe may grow strong and kill many mastodon.'

The fundamental problem with almost all this 'how to pick up girls' advice is that it encourages men to adopt contrived, inauthentic personalities – to be plastic actors on a stage with other plastic actors. This is what I did in TV for many years, although for different reasons, and I can tell you from that experience that a] it's exhausting and b] you can't keep it up 24/7 forever.

In fact, if you're like me, your whole personality runs so counter to creating drama and immersing in constant stimuli and distraction that you've all but disqualified yourself from any sort of romantic opportunity.

So, like Mind Over Mary, I'm not giving up my identity or my soul to be in a relationship.

But It Made Me Feel Alive!!!

'Tis Better To Have Loved And Lost... Not Really.

So says psychology professor John Buri, Ph.D. in this article from Psychology Today.

That's like buying a car, only to discover that it is a piece of crap, and announcing --- "At least I was able to enjoy driving it for a month and a half before it broke down."

It's Okay To Be An Introvert – Sort Of

Here's another of those articles about introverts, published recently in Psychology Today:

There's More To Introversion Than You Might Think

Many people, including introverts, believe that introversion is a personality trait that curses you for your entire life. However, introversion is not a unitary quality; its six facets moderate over time and can show significant changes throughout life.

That's good news. There's hope for us. We may be able to change. Even though as a group, we produce most of the world's art, letters, music, scientific discoveries and technological advances, there's still a chance we can break through our limitations and become car salesmen, televangelists, politicians or multilevel marketing coordinators.

And here's one segment of the article that caught my attention:

Excitement Seeking Facet: Psychologists have long known that people vary in the need to be stimulated as well as the desire to take risks. If you're low on the excitement seeking facet, you'll probably never go bungee jumping or become a race car driver.  You seek peace and quiet and are perfectly happy with keeping to your daily routines.

What are introversion's benefits?  Being low in excitement seeking doesn't mean that you are not willing to change or experiment. People low in excitement seeking just don't need to be stimulated by lots of noise and action.  They certainly make better roommates or neighbors because they prefer a steady, quiet, lifestyle.

Unless you crave a neighbor who makes you feel alive.

All right. I'm through ranting for awhile.

But, as Linus Van Pelt famously said in Peanuts, "I love humanity. It's people I can't stand."

Still not feeling very Buddha-y.

What I'm Talking About Is Being Used

From Mind Over Mary:

MCARP doesn't trust women. He thinks he wants a Stevie Nicks type girl who is into mystical, spiritual stuff and who will be completely honest with him. My girls want men who are like the guys in romance novels and will be completely honest with them.

How many times do I have to say it? NO ONE wants complete honesty. We all want to be lied to and we all want the guy or girl who is lying to be good enough at it not to get caught.

There are no perfect men or women, but there are specific types of people each individual is attracted to. I get that. I also get that the one person who decides whether they will be in a happy relationship is the person looking at you in the mirror.

If you're trying to figure out why you can't find the perfect guy or girl, take a good look at you. Blaming the entire population of guys or girls for not being able to find someone is silly. It's all about you.

I'm not sure what to say about this. I have never thought much about the 'complete honesty' thing. All I was saying in my previous posts was that I was annoyed by women who approached me, initiated the contact, told me they were interested, only to reveal – usually in a matter of a couple of days – that they weren't interested at all, and that sometimes they actually mildly disliked me. I can't come up with any rational reason why that would happen.

Let me recall another example. A few years ago, I was sitting on the patio of a local restaurant. There was a woman sitting at a nearby table with whom I was passing acquainted. While she was sitting there, a fairly good-looking guy in motorcycle leathers was aggressively flirting with her, and she was mostly ignoring him.

Another woman, much younger than any of us – a teenager, in fact – walked by and struck up a conversation with the motorcyclist. This conversation culminated in him loading her on the back of his motorcycle and taking her for a ride around the neighborhood.

The other woman, who to this point had been all but ignoring him, became suddenly incensed that he had ridden off with a much younger woman in tow. She came over and sat down beside me. She was obviously drunk. "You know," she slurred, "I happen to think you're a very handsome man."

Well, that was an interesting turn of events. Because in the weeks and months preceding this conversation, I had appeared to be a very invisible man, at least to her. That wasn't something I had worried myself over – I'm a pretty average-looking guy, and women look right through me all the time. But now, here she was, almost a stranger, practically sitting in my lap and telling me how hot I was – because some other guy she actually didn't give a damn about had 'snubbed' her, in her mind, for someone younger.

Obviously she didn't give a shit about me, either. I just happened to be the closest guy at the moment, and I guess she thought the motorcyclist would be in a jealous rage when he came back and saw her sitting with me.

This is not
me, dammit.

She was yanking both our chains at once in some bizarre effort to bolster her own ego.

So, no, I don't trust women, at least not in matters like this. I have the Everlast logo on my forehead that says I'm just a chunky, good-natured punching bag for all kinds of female issues, and I don't know how to turn that sign off. Every time I try, everyone whines I'm being 'mean'.

Mind Over Mary says if you can't find romance, you should look at yourself. I agree. I don't blame other people for that, and I don't blame myself. It's just how things are.

But what I'm talking about right now isn't finding or not finding romance. What I'm talking about is being used. I don't like it, and I don't feel like I have some moral obligation to endure it.

Don't Waste Your Time (Or Mine)

"People who love in the expectation of being loved in return are wasting their time." — Paulo Coelho

Sincerity costs more.

So, blogblah! tipped a waitress two bucks Friday night to tell me to eat shit.

But she didn't sound like she meant it. I guess sincerity costs more.

Eat Shit Addendum

I don't know what set me off on this. This stuff has been on my mind intermittently for years, and occasionally I just pop a gasket about it.

I am OK with the idea that most women I meet are not going to find me attractive. I think that's true for every man – even Frank Sinatra said he struck out a lot more often than he scored. And the flip side of that coin is that I don't find many women I meet attractive. Not many at all, frankly. I meet someone I find really interesting about once every two to three years.

I am also OK with the woman who tells me to 'eat shit'. In fact, I find it, in certain circumstances, rather adorable. It's the 'you're cute when you're angry' thing.

What I am not OK with is the woman who is thinking 'eat shit', but is saying just the opposite, for god knows what reason. Just something to do while 'Jersey Shore' is in reruns, I guess.

I don't like being emotionally ragdolled by someone who's just looking for some passing amusement.

Of course, this would probably carry more weight coming from someone who had not ended a relationship by climbing out a woman's bedroom window while she was in the kitchen talking on the phone.

Oh, update: what set me off on this was that woman in the coffee shop complaining that men 'got lazy' and didn't do enough to make her 'feel alive.'

A little wrapped up in my own drama

...as I am prone to be from time to time. I'll be back when I have something less baggage-intensive to write about.

More on 'eat shit'

I was telling a friend about the various things I have learned mean 'eat shit'. She said she thought I was cynical.

But that doesn't make me wrong.

A sigh is just a sigh, 'eat shit' is just 'eat shit'

Here's another story some of you have heard before.

Many years ago I worked at a TV station in another city. There was a woman there to whom I was rather attracted, but she was in a relationship, and I got no sense at all that she had any interest in me.

One day she was complaining about something that had happened to her during the day, and I made some smartass remark about it. She looked at me with narrowed eyes and said, "Eat shit, mcarp."

I naturally assumed that meant something along the lines of 'I actually have the serious hots for you, and now I'm overcompensating because I don't want to admit it to you, or even to myself.'

As it turned out, that's not what she meant at all. What she meant was, 'eat shit.'

You must remember this,
A sigh is just a sigh,
'Eat shit' is just 'eat shit.'

That was an important lesson for me, though, in understanding the difference between reality and my own wishful thinking, which, when it came to romance, often got the better of my common sense.

Later, I learned there are some other things women say that also mean "eat shit."

When a woman says, for example, "I've been trying for two years to get you to notice me," that means "eat shit."

If she says, "Here's my phone number – call me," it means, "eat shit."

If she says, "I'd like that. Let me arrange for a babysitter," that means, "eat shit."

If you kiss a woman, and she says, "That's what I've been waiting for," it means, "eat shit."

If she says, "You're everything I look for in a man," it means, "eat shit."

So now I pretty much assume any flattering thing a woman says to me is actually her saying, "Eat shit. You're such a clueless fuck, you don't even realize I'm actually making fun of you."

Yes, I realize it. I just don't know any graceful way of responding to it.

At least that woman who told me to 'eat shit' actually expressed her true feelings, instead of yanking me around for weeks or months.

Rant Redux

I listened to a woman at the coffee shop complain this morning about how men 'of a certain age' get lazy. We don't go to the gym anymore, nor do we create passion and excitement. In other words, we don't do enough to entertain her. We're not giving her enough gasping, eye-rolling tales of intrigue, danger, heartbreak, snort, snarf, blort, argle bargle to engage her and her friends at girls' day out.

I told her some of us outgrow our need for constant drama. "Oh, it's not drama," she replied. "It's passion."

"Oh, I know," I said. "It makes you feel alive."

"Well, yes," she said. "I want to feel alive."

"I'm alive right now," I replied. "Therefore, I feel alive. This is what being alive feels like."

"But I want to feel more alive!"

How the hell do you feel 'more' alive?

Sometimes it sucks being alone. But good lord, what's the alternative?

Sometimes It Sucks Being Alone

Sometimes it sucks being alone. Not all the time, or even most of the time, but sometimes. And lately – like the last four weeks or so – it seems a little suckier than usual.

I can't tell you how many hours I have devoted to pondering how I ended up pretty much romance-proof. I can guarantee it's been thousands, over the years. Eventually, I got tired of having the same conversation with myself over and over, and I mostly put it aside.

The zen thing to do with this right now is to note it – 'hmm, I seem to be noticing and feeling loneliness (and/or horniness) a little more than usual' – and then let it go. That's what I'm trying to do.

It just now occurred to me that this seemed to coincide with the shutting off of the perpetual background music. I didn't turn it off on purpose; the computer stopped playing because of a software update notification or something similar, and I never bothered to turn it on again.

Changes/progression

Sometimes I feel like a Time Lord who regenerates every so often.

If you look at my music list in the right column, you'll see that I haven't had any music going in the house for, as I write this, 23 days. This after literally years of non-stop 24/7 chants, Tibetan bowls, shakuhachi songs and Indian sitar music. It's been nothing but silence here for more than three weeks.

I haven't had a haircut since October. For eight years, I wore it almost exactly 3/32 of an inch long, and cut it myself with electric clippers. Now, it's almost long enough to put in a ponytail, which is how I wore it back around Y2K.

Meditation practice is gone. Fuck it. I still consider myself nominally a Zen Buddhist/Taoist, but I'm doing without all the Tricycle/Shambhala Sun/Buddhadharma stuff.

If you look at it, you'll see it; if you look for it, you won't. That's what I've got, and it's all I need.

As you may have read, we had the hottest July on record this year. Not just the hottest July for this state, but the hottest July for any state, ever. Now, as I write this in the second week of August, it's cloudy and 68° outside, and I am lovin' it. My usual summer depression has lifted, at least for today.

There have been some other changes in my general outlook/demeanor/thought process lately, but they're not the kind of things I want to post on the Internet so anyone and everyone can read them. I worry that I've given up too much privacy already. Suffice it to say that the changes are fairly profound – profound enough that I actually wonder if, given my long history of hypertension, I've suffered some sort of micro-mini-stroke that has affected my personality. The changes surprise me – pleasantly, I guess.

Big Trucks!

I understand why tradesmen drive big trucks. But I watched some guy who probably works at a cell phone store in the mall doing the forward-back-forward-back-forw​ard-back-forward-back parking thing at my breakfast place this morning with a stretch cab pickup the length of a school bus.

Is it really worth that daily hassle to occasionally pick up some chick in red suede cowboy boots and a 1976 Farrah Fawcett hairdo at a bar down by the airport?

Retirement Anniversary

This month marks the fourth or fifth anniversary (I forget which) of my retirement. It seems like it's been this way forever. In the years since I've retired, I've accomplished almost nothing of any substance or value. In fact, strike, the 'almost'.

And yet, years later, there are still days when I wake up, realize I don't have to see another person or talk to another person that day if I don't want to, that I don't have to wear certain shoes, or have certain facial expressions, or a certain hairstyle, or express certain opinions I don't actually hold, and I want to weep with joy that I don't have to do any of that at all.

These have been the best years of my life.

We Need A Trillion Dollars, Fast

Crap.

Crap.

Bowling Ball

Lately, almost everything I eat sits in my stomach like I swallowed a bowling ball. Breakfast is OK, but I have to be careful about lunch and dinner. Even a plate of fried rice will weigh me down. I'm assuming it's mostly the heat.

What I Mean By Depression

When I write about depression, I don't mean sadness. There have been times in my life when sadness was an element of my depression, but it was never the whole thing. And at the moment, sadness plays almost no part in my depression.

When I'm depressed, I don't want to leave the house. I don't want to spend much time with friends. I certainly don't want to socialize in groups. The willowy and ethereal Buddhist woman left a voice mail message for me last week; I haven't called her back. Now that's depressed.

Paperwork and other mind-numbing repetitive tasks get put off, even more so than usual.

My depression used to be made worse by seeing other people around me who seemed happy and enjoying life. Over the past few years, though, I've come to believe most people are no happier than I am. Mostly, they're running frantically from distraction to distraction, trying to avoid dealing with the essential meaninglessness of their lives.

I've mentioned previously the handful of friends who keep themselves in a near-constant state of emotional upheaval and turmoil because it makes them feel 'alive.'

Once I realized these people were no happier than I was, and sometimes less happy, being depressed didn't bother me as much.

When I was a kid, I used to enjoy sitting in a drainage pipe/culvert that ran beneath a street near my house. It was usually dry, or perhaps had just a trickle of water. It was cool and dark. I could hear sounds from the street, but they were distant and muffled. That's how my depression feels – a cool, dark place where I acn be alone.

It's Not As Bad As It Sounds

Those of you who've been reading this awhile know that I struggle with depression. I'm in the midst of it right now, exacerbated by the 100+° temperatures we've been having almost daily for the past six weeks or so.

Even when the weather is pleasant, I often find that my depression is worse in the evenings. I rarely go to bed in what could be called a happy or 'up' state of mind. The last time, in fact, was probably right after I retired four years ago.

Most of the posts on this blog are written late at night or early in the morning. It's 12:32 AM as I write this, for example. But right now, I'm mindful enough to 'step outside' my depression for a moment and look at it more objectively than I usually do.

Most of the time, though, when I post in the middle of the night, I'm in a much more depressed state than I am in the morning or in the middle of the day. The cumulative effect, over five and a half years of blogging, is to create the impression that I am much more depressed than I actually am.

Another Day

There was another day today. It was like every other day for me. A mixed blessing, I guess.

Thinking About Death

I was with my father when he died in 2000. He was in hospice care, heavily sedated, succumbing to pancreatic cancer.

There has not been a day since then, I guess, that I haven't thought about what it will be like to die.

I sometimes wonder, in fact, why I'm still alive. It sometimes feels akin to defying gravity.

Random Quotes

Random Quotes:

If something looks beautiful to you, something else must be ugly. If something seems good, something else must seem bad. All perceptions.

– ZenDirtZenDust

via Zen Moments:

Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.

– Carrie Fisher

The Quality of Life

I went for a walk last night and stopped and visited with a cat lying in what I assume was her own front yard. She let me scratch her ears, and licked my fingers because I had recently eaten some imported wafer cookies I had bought at a pizza joint.

For me, this is how the quality of life is measured. I don't care what they name the new downtown boulevard, or how many lights are on the new skyscraper. If the neighborhood pets are friendly, and the trees shade the sidewalks, and neighbors wave as they drive by, then I think things are fine in this town.

My Buddhist Name

My Buddhist name is The Monk Superlative Bright. What's yours?

This is a lot easier than going to some Buddhist temple and getting a priest to hang a dharma name on you. I need to get my new name translated into Japanese.

The Essential Nature of Reality

I'll tell you something about seeing the Essential Nature: it's kind of like going to see the Grand Canyon. You drive out there, however far, and get out of your car and walk to the observation point. And there it is. Wow... the Grand Canyon!

And then you say to yourself, 'Well, now what?' Because you can't stand there and look at the Grand Canyon forever. Sooner or later, you have to go back home and resume your daily life.

Nor can you just sit and blissfully look at the Essential Nature forever, unless you're a monk or something. Seeing it will change (one hopes) your attitude about daily life, but you will still have a daily life.

Fringe Update

I'm halfway through season three, and, um, what the fuck?! Who decided this needed to be a soap opera? My interest is waning rapidly.

Facebook Mystery Friends

I'm going to write at some point about the approximately ten percent of my Facebook friends whom I've never met. Some had legitimate reasons for friending me, but most, like the woman I mentioned in the previous post, seem to have picked me at random and just have some axe to grind, usually pertaining to politics or religion.

Leave Me the Hell Alone

One of the advantages of paying to download TV shows is the absence of commercials. I have become highly sensitized to advertising over the past several years. It sometimes feels like people are surrounding me, screaming at me to buy their products, gadgets, politics, religion, whatever. The only way to escape it seems to be to shut myself in my house with no TV, radio, newspapers or magazines. Even then, advertising reaches me through Facebook and other web sites.

There was an ad in my Facebook sidebar today encouraging me to 'like' a well-known restaurant chain, and its new 'stacked, stuffed and topped' menu items. It reminded me of the 'McFriendly's' storyline in Doonesbury, in which Zonker works for the restaurant chain that is constantly looking for new ways to cram more calories into its customers.

One of my Facebook friends had already 'liked' it. She is a morbidly obese fundamentalist Christian woman whom I don't think I've ever actually met. She apparently friended me to preach Jesus to me.

But, back to the commercials. I don't want any more people yelling at me, or demanding that I buy their stuff, or trying to trick me into thinking that I want to buy their stuff. I want them to just to leave me the hell alone.

Television

I am somewhat embarrassed to admit I have become hooked on the TV series 'Fringe.' I bought all three seasons from iTunes; they've been downloading continuously for four days.

Today is Monday. I spent most of Friday and pretty much all of Saturday and Sunday watching, and got all the way to the end of season two. Season three ought to be completely downloaded by tomorrow evening.

I told friends only half-jokingly that I felt guilty sitting in front of my computer monitor watching TV when I could be using that time to wallow in self-pity. I've gone without a TV for years, and congratulated myself for not being a video zombie glued to the screen every evening.

But I've really gotten tired of pondering the circumstances of my existence, which is what I spent most of my free time doing. I've decided it's probably more therapeutic for me to zone out for awhile in front of the TV (or, in my case, the monitor) than to stay focused on my own solitude and depression.

Heat Wave

The heat wave continues here. Highs are forecast to be at or above 100 all week. I'm grateful to have a cool, comfortable place to hide out. The previous owners put central air in my 80-year-old house. I almost wish, though, I could just cool one or two rooms to save money.

The Very Dark Room

I think I have previously mentioned the Very Dark Room. It is the master bedroom of my house, whose windows have been covered with blackout curtains. It's where I am right now, and where I spend most of my time in the summer.

I am really worn out with the outside world at the moment. It will pass, but for the moment, I need to hide out.

Cologne

I was eating dinner at a restaurant yesterday evening when a guy came in wearing more cologne than I have ever smelled in my life. I don't know how he did it; if I immersed myself in a tank of cologne, I would not emerge reeking as this guy did. He sat alone at the next table, and within two minutes, my eyes were watering and the back of my throat was burning.

New Links

I have added links at right for two sites.

One is for Dharma Cowgirl, who is the former Buddhist in Nebraska. She is no longer in Nebraska, but she is still a Buddhist.

The other is for The Worst Horse, home of the "Dharma Burger". Hard to describe – you'll have to look for yourself.

I Never Got It

I'm 58 years old now, and I barely understand anything about love. My sense of it is that my understanding is much dimmer than that of the average person.

One thing I did realize — when I was about fifty — is that love is less than I had previously imagined it to be, and that part of what threw me off was that I had kept looking for more than was actually there.

I never wanted a romance to be mere entertainment, or a diversion or hobby. Nor did I want it to be a business/commercial proposition. Or a religious exercise. I can't tell you what I did want, but it was something more than that.

More on this later, if I feel like writing about it. Right now, the subject is about as interesting to me as room temperature oatmeal.

I Forgot

It seems that about three times a week, I wake up in the middle of the night with an idea for a blog post. But lately, I haven't been as interested in getting up to write it. So, I file it in the back of my brain and go back to sleep. By morning (which is currently about noon by everyone else's schedule), I remember that I had an idea, but no recollection of what it was.

Apparently, I'm Not In Love With Stevie Nicks

...according to this, anyway...

Judith Orloff, MD: The Difference Between Lust and Love

I Want To Be An Ant Again

I used to have the sense of being directly connected to the infrastructure of the cosmos, like a tiny ant crawling along a strut on some huge, complex carnival ride.
 
Lately, though, I've felt like just some shlub holed up in his house on 15th Street. I spend too much time thinking about piddling stuff. Movies... Tom Jones videos... Weiner jokes... some woman who wouldn't return my call. Pfeh.
 
The Tao is so large the universe can't contain it, and so small it will fit in the palm of your hand. Why would I be focused on anything else? But sometimes even the Tao bores me.

This Is Tom Jones

Back in the paleovinyl era, I did not get the whole Tom Jones thing. What's New, Pussycat?, She's a Lady, etc., just left me blank.

But now he's about seventy, and he can still knock down walls with that voice. Here he is with Nina Persson and the Cardigans in a 2008 cover of Talking Heads' Burning Down the House.



And, of course, she's not altogether unwillowy or nonethereal.

Music

Assuming you read this blog on a Flash-enabled browser, you can see my list of currently-playing music at the right of the page.

I have become quite attached to my music collection. I have a huge collection of classical music, and also a small amount of 60s and 70s rock. Neither get much airplay.

But I have become very reliant on the shakuhachi music, the Tibetan bowls and the singng chants to help build an emotional and psychological wall between myself and the rest of the world.

This music collection is one of the great blessings of my retirement.

Freedom From Assumptions

I had the idea that if a woman offered me her phone number unbidden, it probably meant she would like me to call her. Even now, that seems logical, but obviously, it's not always the case. Look how long it took me to see that!

One of the things I've been working hard on for the past few years is not making assumptions. I'm struggling to see things as they are, and separate the thing at hand, whatever it may be, from all my opinions, prejudices, expectations, analyses and so on. To go from overthinking to directly experiencing.

People tend to want to apply this approach only to The Great Matter, whatever they might think that is, but it's practical for everyday life.

On the other hand, maybe I should have followed her out to her car and asked her, "Wanna kickit?"

Hobosexual redux

As I mentioned previously, I exchanged phone numbers with a woman at a restaurant. I called her and left voice mail, which she has not returned.

I am once again simultaneously annoyed and relieved.

But not surprised.

This, after all, is the guy who got her number. If I were a woman, I wouldn't go out with him, either.

Lesson Learned

Personally, there's nothing under my clothes that I would want posted on the Internet. That's why I wear clothes.

Return of the Hobosexual

A woman chatted me up in a restaurant yesterday, and we ended up exchanging phone numbers.

It's the second time in a week that a stranger has approached me at dinner.

I have lately returned to the 'hobosexual' look I wore three or four years ago. Lord knows I looked pretty disheveled in the restaurant. But maybe I look friendlier this way.

Afraid of Oneness

I wrote something here the other day about how I tend to look at the world around me as if I were watching a movie.

"The Buddha taught that there is no difference or boundary between each of us as individuals and everything in the universe that surrounds us. Intellectually, I can accept that, but instinctively, it feels otherwise.

I often feel as if what we perceive as 'reality' is just a movie I'm watching, although on a 360° screen. And that's the way I often want it. I don't need or desire to be immersed in it, interacting with it, having my thoughts, perceptions and emotions shaded or distorted by it."

I listened to an Alan Watts lecture last night that touches on this very matter. He said that people refuse to embrace oneness with the universe because they are 'afraid' of it.

I'm not sure 'afraid' is the word I would use, but I think that the general concept is on the money. The more I understand about the world, the less I want to do with it. I see people all around me caught in traps: people stuck in awful jobs to pay for all the expensive things they've bought; people stressed out about personal drama in which they immersed themselves because it seemed at the outset it would be 'fun,' 'sexy,' or 'exciting'; people caught in substance abuse.

I'm like a guy who can't swim who's watching people drown. If I jump in them after them, I'll drown, too. So, I just stay on the shore and try to not fall in the water along with them.

I make no bones about the Bodhisattva Vow. It's beyond me. I might as well vow to win the Boston Marathon, or become President. If I have a next life, maybe I'll be strong enough to work for the enlightenment of all beings. But right now, my goal is to just not screw things up.

It's interesting, though, how a person can feel directly connected to the whole universe, but still not want to leave the bedroom.

"I thought you were drunk."

I walked into Pho Saigon yesterday to get lunch and took my usual table. A stranger two tables away looked over and said, 'Hey, do you need to be alone, or could I join you?' He was thirtyish, kind of hipster-looking, in rumpled gray shirt and jeans. I thought he might be someone I had met at the pizza place or the coffee shop at some point, but had forgotten about. So I invited him over.

I'll call him David. He was, in fact, someone I'd never met. He was about 33, and he had just come back to town after living out of state for a few years. He'd left a wife and a lot possessions behind in Oregon and is trying to start over. He told me he'd been struggling with alcoholism for a couple of years, along with cocaine. I figured at that point he had just chatted me up to get a free meal off me, but that wasn't it.

"Actually," he said, "when you walked in here, I thought you were drunk. That's why I wanted to talk."

"No, I look like this all the time," I said.

I asked him if he'd ever been in the program, and he said he had, on and off. I told him I knew a couple of folks who could help him with that, if he was interested.

David asked me if I'd read 'The Power of Now,' and I told him I had started it, but not finished it, and that I was more into Alan Watts than Tolle. He'd heard the name, but didn't know much about him. I told him the story of Watts' uproarious (I guess that's a word) tenure as Episcopal chaplain at Northwestern University, and how after that, he had retreated to an upstate New York farm to write "The Wisdom of Insecurity."

I used to keep copies of that book around to give to people, but I don't have any at the moment. David said he'd check the used book store for a copy.

We talked some about zen, and seeing reality free of opinions, illusions and delusions.

I ended up buying his lunch, anyway, over his protests. I was grateful for the conversation.

I hope things work out for him.

It's Only A Movie

I woke up in the wee hours of the morning and found myself further contemplating Hangover 2. It literally made me nauseated to think about it.

If it has any redeeming quality at all, it is that it never pulls you in. You are always aware that you are watching a movie. You're in a seat in a theater, and what you're seeing is on a screen at the front of the room.

This is also how I often view so-called 'reality'. The Buddha taught that there is no difference or boundary between each of us as individuals and everything in the universe that surrounds us. Intellectually, I can accept that, but instinctively, it feels otherwise.

I often feel as if what we perceive as 'reality' is just a movie I'm watching, although on a 360° screen. And that's the way I often want it. I don't need or desire to be immersed in it, interacting with it, having my thoughts, perceptions and emotions shaded or distorted by it.

I posted an item the other day about the acquaintance who announced on Facebook that he felt he was in physical danger hanging out in a bar. He was sitting there with a can of pepper spray in his hand, just in case. But he didn't leave, which is what I think any rational person would have done. There's a guy who's really immersed in his 'reality'. He's sort of like Hangover 2 1/2 — another movie I can watch, but I want to feel like I'm just a spectator in the audience, not part of the cast.

Isolating is my way of getting out of the theater of 'reality'. It's actually just a different scene of the big movie, but it's a quiet, dark scene that doesn't cause me sensory overload.

Movie Night

Blogblah! and I went to see Hangover 2 last night. Neither of us thought it was funny, and I found it depressing. I don't find anything amusing about shootings, drug overdoses, bodies stuffed in ice coolers, self-mutilation, etc.

Bad Memories

I try not to spend time dwelling on the past. Sometimes I do, though, and then I mentally scold myself for dragging myself through all that dirt yet again.

Sometimes, though, some past recollection will pop into my head, prompted by something happening in the present moment. These aren't remembrances I've stopped to ponder or pity myself over — they're just tiny fragments of memories that appear unbidden. I don't think there's any way to prevent that.

But I wish there were. I wish I could turn them off. I wish I could lock the front door against them. I wish keeping the blinds drawn would hold them at bay.

Of course, I know the Buddhst teaching about memories and the past, and sometimes it helps to focus on that teaching. Sometimes.

My unpleasant memories outnumber my pleasant memories by a ratio of a thousand to one, going from earliest childhood to dinner last night. The earliest bad memories are about things that happened to me, but from about 1978 forward, the bad memories are about stupid or bad things I did to myself or others. And there are plenty of them to remember. Not Charles Manson or John Gotti stuff, but a long string of foolish acts and statements.

Part of the reason I stay holed up in this house is to stay away from anything that will spark a bad memory, and to avoid creating new ones.

Breathe Deep the Gathering Gloom

Nice profile pic, huh? It's interesting how a photo can look like you, yet look nothing like you. This photo makes me look like I was in The Moody Blues.

A Lime Green Manthong

You know, I've been depressed so much of my life that depression is like wearing old, comfortable underwear. Enthusiastic optimism, on the other hand, would be like a lime green manthong. I don't want to wear it, and I don't think you want to see me wear it.

New (To Me) Technology

I just discovered that you can buy wireless remote switches for lamps and other appliances. You plug the receiver into a wall outlet and plug the appliance into the receiver. Then you can turn the switch in the receiver off and on with remote.

This is going to be godsend for turning lamps on and off while I'm in bed.

Looks Like Lennie, Talks Like Cronkite

I've written in some previous posts (here and here) about my desire to separate my intellect from my physical body and just drift through space.

I think the picture in the previous post helps explain why. The body from which I would like to be separated is basically healthy, but fat, clumsy and awkward. My head, as I've mentioned before, is huge. My legs are short for my height. I'm six feet tall, but because of the bizarre proportions of my physical form, I don't look tall — I just look like a big, slow slab of beef. When I'm photographed alone, I look fairly normal, because there's no one to whom I can be compared. But sitting or standing next to other people, I look freakish.

And this body looks like it ought to house an intellect with an IQ of about eighty. People have trouble getting past the fact that I look like Steinbeck's Lennie Small from "Of Mice and Men," but talk like — I don't know, Walter Cronkite or someone.

So, there's that rant.

The Real Me

mcarp the hutt.

Sometimes we lose sight of how we appear to other people. Well, at least I do. The person I see in the mirror seems to be a lot more attractive than the person other people see in the flesh.

I was keenly aware of how I appeared when I was a reporter; after all, I saw myself on television all the time. But now, many years later, I don't pay so much attention to it.

So, I was taken somewhat aback when I found this photo of myself on a friend's Facebook page. Even so, I have to accept the reality that this is how I appear to other people, and that the notion I had of my own appearance, and negative as it was, was still somewhat idealized.

Damn – I look like Baby Huey. Well, except that Baby Huey isn't pecking on an iPhone all the time.

I'm a bit thinner now than I was when this picture was taken more than a year ago, but even when I'm at my ideal weight, I'm still kind of a big, hulking mass, and not in a rugged, athletic way.

So, if you've been looking at those tiny thumbnail pics of me and wondering what the rest of me looks like, there it is.

TV Weatherman Meets Two Women In Bar, Wakes Up With AmEx Balance of $43,000

Media Bistro

Facebook Update

I'm still working at scaling back my Facebook activity. I point out from time to time that people rely on TV, movies, and specator sports to distract themselves from the essential nature of reality. But I use Facebook the same way.

This blog requires more effort to post, so I'm not as tempted to just kill time by fiddling with it. But Facebook makes it too easy. Scaling back really is work.

I like to think my Facebook 'addiction' is somewhat mitigated by the entertainment value of my posts, but I'm probably flattering myself. Even if my stuff is amusing, ought I to be adding to the general noise of the Internet?

It wouldn't kill me to just STFU.

As Much Drama As They Want

An acquaintance of mine posted a Facebook status an hour or so ago stating he is hiding in a corner of a well-known hipster/stoner bar, pepper spray in hand, fearing for his own safety. He says it 'seems like a different lifetime' that he was last able to enjoy going to bars.

If I were a closer friend, I would tell him that if I were him, I would find some other place to be. It's crazy to hang out in some joint where you don't feel safe.

But, being an introvert myself, it's easier for me to avoid those places altogether.

I've known other people who move in his same social circle, and it's all drama, all the time with them. Just a few weeks ago this same acquaintance posted about being ejected from another fairly notorious bar after a dustup, and receiving threatening emails afterward.

I had another, closer friend who frequented these same bars. Her life was a continual series of confrontations and crises. Everywhere she went, it seemed, she was harassed, insulted, intimidated or assaulted — often by total strangers. Not just in bars, either — it happened to her at work, at the mall, at family reunions. She always saw herself as the innocent victim in these incidents. But I told her once, after hearing about the latest outrage against her person, that she had more of these incidents in 90 days than I'd had in my whole life. And it was true.

People have about as much drama in their lives as they want to have.

Overnight Storms

It stormed all night, and it looks like it will storm most of the day today. The rain is very welcome, at least here in the city. I don't know how the timing is for farmers.

How 'Bout That Immanuel Kant?

I think I've mentioned before that I'm completely ignorant of Western philosophy. A friend sent me the link to the essay I posted yesterday. I guess any first-year philosophy student is familiar with it, but I had never seen it.

Immanuel Kant: What is Enlightenment?

IMMANUEL KANT

An Answer to the Question:
What is Enlightenment? (1784)

This text was lifted from the website of the University of Pennsylvania. —mcarp

Enlightenment is man's emergence from his self-imposed immaturity. Immaturity is the inability to use one's understanding without guidance from another. This immaturity is self-imposed when its cause lies not in lack of understanding, but in lack of resolve and courage to use it without guidance from another. Sapere Aude! [dare to know] "Have courage to use your own understanding!"--that is the motto of enlightenment.

Laziness and cowardice are the reasons why so great a proportion of men, long after nature has released them from alien guidance (natura-liter maiorennes), nonetheless gladly remain in lifelong immaturity, and why it is so easy for others to establish themselves as their guardians. It is so easy to be immature. If I have a book to serve as my understanding, a pastor to serve as my conscience, a physician to determine my diet for me, and so on, I need not exert myself at all. I need not think, if only I can pay: others will readily undertake the irksome work for me. The guardians who have so benevolently taken over the supervision of men have carefully seen to it that the far greatest part of them (including the entire fair sex) regard taking the step to maturity as very dangerous, not to mention difficult. Having first made their domestic livestock dumb, and having carefully made sure that these docile creatures will not take a single step without the go-cart to which they are harnessed, these guardians then show them the danger that threatens them, should they attempt to walk alone. Now this danger is not actually so great, for after falling a few times they would in the end certainly learn to walk; but an example of this kind makes men timid and usually frightens them out of all further attempts.

Thus, it is difficult for any individual man to work himself out of the immaturity that has all but become his nature. He has even become fond of this state and for the time being is actually incapable of using his own understanding, for no one has ever allowed him to attempt it. Rules and formulas, those mechanical aids to the rational use, or rather misuse, of his natural gifts, are the shackles of a permanent immaturity. Whoever threw them off would still make only an uncertain leap over the smallest ditch, since he is unaccustomed to this kind of free movement. Consequently, only a few have succeeded, by cultivating their own minds, in freeing themselves from immaturity and pursuing a secure course.

But that the public should enlighten itself is more likely; indeed, if it is only allowed freedom, enlightenment is almost inevitable. For even among the entrenched guardians of the great masses a few will always think for themselves, a few who, after having themselves thrown off the yoke of immaturity, will spread the spirit of a rational appreciation for both their own worth and for each person's calling to think for himself. But it should be particularly noted that if a public that was first placed in this yoke by the guardians is suitably aroused by some of those who are altogether incapable of enlightenment, it may force the guardians themselves to remain under the yoke--so pernicious is it to instill prejudices, for they finally take revenge upon their originators, or on their descendants. Thus a public can only attain enlightenment slowly. Perhaps a revolution can overthrow autocratic despotism and profiteering or power-grabbing oppression, but it can never truly reform a manner of thinking; instead, new prejudices, just like the old ones they replace, will serve as a leash for the great unthinking mass.

Nothing is required for this enlightenment, however, except freedom; and the freedom in question is the least harmful of all, namely, the freedom to use reason publicly in all matters. But on all sides I hear: "Do not argue!" The officer says, "Do not argue, drill!" The tax man says, "Do not argue, pay!" The pastor says, "Do not argue, believe!" (Only one ruler in the World says, "Argue as much as you want and about what you want, but obey!") In this we have examples of pervasive restrictions on freedom. But which restriction hinders enlightenment and which does not, but instead actually advances it? I reply: The public use of one's reason must always be free, and it alone can bring about enlightenment among mankind; the private use of reason may, however, often be very narrowly restricted, without otherwise hindering the progress of enlightenment. By the public use of one's own reason I understand the use that anyone as a scholar makes of reason before the entire literate world. I call the private use of reason that which a person may make in a civic post or office that has been entrusted to him. Now in many affairs conducted in the interests of a community, a certain mechanism is required by means of which some of its members must conduct themselves in an entirely passive manner so that through an artificial unanimity the government may guide them toward public ends, or at least prevent them from destroying such ends. Here one certainly must not argue, instead one must obey. However, insofar as this part of the machine also regards himself as a member of the community as a whole, or even of the world community, and as a consequence addresses the public in the role of a scholar, in the proper sense of that term, he can most certainly argue, without thereby harming the affairs for which as a passive member he is partly responsible. Thus it would be disastrous if an officer on duty who was given a command by his superior were to question the appropriateness or utility of the order. He must obey. But as a scholar he cannot be justly constrained from making comments about errors in military service, or from placing them before the public for its judgment. The citizen cannot refuse to pay the taxes imposed on him; indeed, impertinent criticism of such levies, when they should be paid by him, can be punished as a scandal (since it can lead to widespread insubordination). But the same person does not act contrary to civic duty when, as a scholar, he publicly expresses his thoughts regarding the impropriety or even injustice of such taxes. Likewise a pastor is bound to instruct his catecumens and congregation in accordance with the symbol of the church he serves, for he was appointed on that condition. But as a scholar he has complete freedom, indeed even the calling, to impart to the public all of his carefully considered and well-intentioned thoughts concerning mistaken aspects of that symbol, as well as his suggestions for the better arrangement of religious and church matters. Nothing in this can weigh on his conscience. What he teaches in consequence of his office as a servant of the church he sets out as something with regard to which he has no discretion to teach in accord with his own lights; rather, he offers it under the direction and in the name of another. He will say, "Our church teaches this or that and these are the demonstrations it uses." He thereby extracts for his congregation all practical uses from precepts to which he would not himself subscribe with complete conviction, but whose presentation he can nonetheless undertake, since it is not entirely impossible that truth lies hidden in them, and, in any case, nothing contrary to the very nature of religion is to be found in them. If he believed he could find anything of the latter sort in them, he could not in good conscience serve in his position; he would have to resign. Thus an appointed teacher's use of his reason for the sake of his congregation is merely private, because, however large the congregation is, this use is always only domestic; in this regard, as a priest, he is not free and cannot be such because he is acting under instructions from someone else. By contrast, the cleric--as a scholar who speaks through his writings to the public as such, i.e., the world--enjoys in this public use of reason an unrestricted freedom to use his own rational capacities and to speak his own mind. For that the (spiritual) guardians of a people should themselves be immature is an absurdity that would insure the perpetuation of absurdities.

But would a society of pastors, perhaps a church assembly or venerable presbytery (as those among the Dutch call themselves), not be justified in binding itself by oath to a certain unalterable symbol in order to secure a constant guardianship over each of its members and through them over the people, and this for all time: I say that this is wholly impossible. Such a contract, whose intention is to preclude forever all further enlightenment of the human race, is absolutely null and void, even if it should be ratified by the supreme power, by parliaments, and by the most solemn peace treaties. One age cannot bind itself, and thus conspire, to place a succeeding one in a condition whereby it would be impossible for the later age to expand its knowledge (particularly where it is so very important), to rid itself of errors,and generally to increase its enlightenment. That would be a crime against human nature, whose essential destiny lies precisely in such progress; subsequent generations are thus completely justified in dismissing such agreements as unauthorized and criminal. The criterion of everything that can be agreed upon as a law by a people lies in this question: Can a people impose such a law on itself? Now it might be possible, in anticipation of a better state of affairs, to introduce a provisional order for a specific, short time, all the while giving all citizens, especially clergy, in their role as scholars, the freedom to comment publicly, i.e., in writing, on the present institution's shortcomings. The provisional order might last until insight into the nature of these matters had become so widespread and obvious that the combined (if not unanimous) voices of the populace could propose to the crown that it take under its protection those congregations that, in accord with their newly gained insight, had organized themselves under altered religious institutions, but without interfering with those wishing to allow matters to remain as before. However, it is absolutely forbidden that they unite into a religious organization that nobody may for the duration of a man's lifetime publicly question, for so do-ing would deny, render fruitless, and make detrimental to succeeding generations an era in man's progress toward improvement. A man may put off enlightenment with regard to what he ought to know, though only for a short time and for his own person; but to renounce it for himself, or, even more, for subsequent generations, is to violate and trample man's divine rights underfoot. And what a people may not decree for itself may still less be imposed on it by a monarch, for his lawgiving authority rests on his unification of the people's collective will in his own. If he only sees to it that all genuine or purported improvement is consonant with civil order, he can allow his subjects to do what they find necessary to their spiritual well-being, which is not his affair. However, he must prevent anyone from forcibly interfering with another's working as best he can to determine and promote his well-being. It detracts from his own majesty when he interferes in these matters, since the writings in which his subjects attempt to clarify their insights lend value to his conception of governance. This holds whether he acts from his own highest insight--whereby he calls upon himself the reproach, "Caesar non eat supra grammaticos."'--as well as, indeed even more, when he despoils his highest authority by supporting the spiritual despotism of some tyrants in his state over his other subjects.

If it is now asked, "Do we presently live in an enlightened age?" the answer is, "No, but we do live in an age of enlightenment." As matters now stand, a great deal is still lacking in order for men as a whole to be, or even to put themselves into a position to be able without external guidance to apply understanding confidently to religious issues. But we do have clear indications that the way is now being opened for men to proceed freely in this direction and that the obstacles to general enlightenment--to their release from their self-imposed immaturity--are gradually diminishing. In this regard, this age is the age of enlightenment, the century of Frederick.

A prince who does not find it beneath him to say that he takes it to be his duty to prescribe nothing, but rather to allow men complete freedom in religious matters--who thereby renounces the arrogant title of tolerance--is himself enlightened and deserves to be praised by a grateful present and by posterity as the first, at least where the government is concerned, to release the human race from immaturity and to leave everyone free to use his own reason in all matters of conscience. Under his rule, venerable pastors, in their role as scholars and without prejudice to their official duties, may freely and openly set out for the world's scrutiny their judgments and views, even where these occasionally differ from the accepted symbol. Still greater freedom is afforded to those who are not restricted by an official post. This spirit of freedom is expanding even where it must struggle against the external obstacles of governments that misunderstand their own function. Such governments are illuminated by the example that the existence of freedom need not give cause for the least concern regarding public order and harmony in the commonwealth. If only they refrain from inventing artifices to keep themselves in it, men will gradually raise themselves from barbarism.

I have focused on religious matters in setting out my main point concerning enlightenment, i.e., man's emergence from self-imposed immaturity, first because our rulers have no interest in assuming the role of their subjects' guardians with respect to the arts and sciences, and secondly because that form of immaturity is both the most pernicious and disgraceful of all. But the manner of thinking of a head of state who favors religious enlightenment goes even further, for he realizes that there is no danger to his legislation in allowing his subjects to use reason publicly and to set before the world their thoughts concerning better formulations of his laws, even if this involves frank criticism of legislation currently in effect. We have before us a shining example, with respect to which no monarch surpasses the one whom we honor.

But only a ruler who is himself enlightened and has no dread of shadows, yet who likewise has a well-disciplined, numerous army to guarantee public peace, can say what no republic may dare, namely: "Argue as much as you want and about what you want, but obey!" Here as elsewhere, when things are considered in broad perspective, a strange, unexpected pattern in human affairs reveals itself, one in which almost everything is paradoxical. A greater degree of civil freedom seems advantageous to a people's spiritual freedom; yet the former established impassable boundaries for the latter; conversely, a lesser degree of civil freedom provides enough room for all fully to expand their abilities. Thus, once nature has removed the hard shell from this kernel for which she has most fondly cared, namely, the inclination to and vocation for free thinking, the kernel gradually reacts on a people's mentality (whereby they become increasingly able to act freely), and it finally even influences the principles of government, which finds that it can profit by treating men, who are now more than machines, in accord with their dignity.

I. Kant
Konigsberg in Prussia, 30 September 1784

Shit.

Shit.

I Thought I Wouldn't Make It To 40

I'm about 18 months away from my sixtieth birthday. My. Sixtieth. Birthday.

I don't know what the fuck I'm doing still here. When I was in my teens, I assumed I wouldn't make it to forty. I assumed we'd have a nuclear war, or I'd get hit by a drunk driver, or I would just get fed up and kill myself. But I'm still here.

I have it all pretty much figured out. No, really, I do — seriously. I've written about it here in a scattershot kind of way. Maybe I should organize it all into outline form, so it makes more sense. But the main thing is, I don't have a lot of heavy profound questions left. Everything's settled in my mind, and no mysteries remain to be unraveled.

The one part I never figured out was how I was supposed to fit into the big picture. Maybe I just don't. But at this point, what difference does it make how I fit in? They're cueing up the closing credits as I write this.

People keep telling me I could live another twenty years. Like I would want to do that. Another twenty years of cleaning up cat shit.

Okay, that's enough self-pity for now. I don't want to use it all up.

Happy Mother's Day

Today is Mother's Day. On Facebook, many of my friends are using pictures of their mothers on their profiles. Many more are posting tributes.

I won't post anything about it there, because I don't want to put a damper on other people's remembrances, but this nostalgia and affection seems completely alien to me.

To me, a mother is someone who has nothing good or supportive to say to you. She's someone who tells you you're ugly. That you're clumsy. That you'll grow up to be a 'fairy'.

She's someone who is drunk almost all the time. Who occasionally disappears for two or three days at a time, only to reappear as if nothing unusual has happened. Who is occasionally carried into the house passed out drunk, with fellow barflies at each arm and leg, hauling her dead weight.

She's someone who, if you're hit by a car while crossing the street, walks into the emergency room complaining about how you've disrupted her day.

My mother and I parted ways when I was 14, and I never saw her or spoke with her again. She married another staggering, slobbering drunk (the widower of the woman my dad was screwing on the side), and they moved to a little town in the Ozarks and lived the rest of their lives there.

I know I've written about a lot of this before, but sometimes I feel the need to vent.

Whompf!

Dead of night
Whompf!
It's the cat

Lo, the infinite!

Yesterday, chicken and rice.
Today, rice and chicken.
Lo, the infinite!

A New Blanket

My new blanket sheds
Covered with red fuzz
I sleep

Wednesday

Can you make the sun rise earlier?
Can you stop it from setting?
Then what the hell is your point?

Bush Derangement Syndrome

I'll freely admit I suffer from Bush Derangement Syndrome. I think George W. Bush was the worst president of my lifetime, which began in the closing days of the Truman administration. Mr. Bush finished his career with a comfortable lead over first runner up Richard Nixon.

But I was prepared, and, in fact, eager to move on after the election of Barack Obama. I saw no reason to keep stomping on the hapless boob who survived eight years in the White House on nothing more than swagger and talkin' Texan t'folks.

But just about 72 hours ago, Navy SEALS raided the compound of terrorist leader Osama bin Laden and killed him. And even though it was Bush who blew off warnings of the imminent World Trade Center/Pentagon attack, telling a CIA official, "All right, you've covered your ass now," before leaving the intelligence briefing unread on a coffee table to go fishing; even though it was Bush who, upon learning of the attack, spent ten minutes pretending to read "The Pet Goat" while the gears in his brain tried to process the political implications of his monumental fuckup; even though it was Bush who had bin Laden cornered at Tora Bora but let him slip through, we now have Republican sycophants claiming that Bush deserves the credit for bin Laden's death.

It must have been Bush, because Bush, after all, was the rich white guy who had the cowboy hat and boots, the pickup truck and the movie-set 'ranch' in Texas — not that uppity colored fella from Kenya or Hawaii or Illinois or wherever he's from.

Bush deserves credit for killing bin Laden about the same way an arsonist deserves credit for the fire department putting out his fire.

All My Walking, by Santōka Taneda

I want to plug a book. I read a lot of books, but rarely does one affect me enough that I want to recommend it.

The book is called For All My Walking. It's a collection of poetry by Santōka Taneda, translated from Japanese by Burton Watson.

Taneka was a college dropout, failed businessman, divorced husband, mediocre Zen monk and alcoholic who finally decided to walk the roads of Japan, going from town to town begging for alms and recording his thoughts in his diary and as haiku poetry. He lived from 1882 to 1940. He died at age 57.

He became one of Japan's most celebrated haiku poets.

You can find out more about Taneda in this biographical sketch by Nonin Chowaney of the Nebraska Zen Center. It covers a lot of the reasons Taneda's poetry has so much appeal for me.

It's just product.

I have a hard time grokking the whole local pro basketball thing. Here's what I see:

A group of businessmen get together and buy this team – a thing, a product – from some other businessmen, and bring it home with them. It's like you buying a sofa at a garage sale, only no tax dollars are spent building a home for your sofa.

Then, much money is spent on advertising. SOFA UP, EVERYONE!

And, for reasons I don't understand, thousands of people dig deep into their psyches, uncover some primitive sense of tribal bonding, and apply it to this product. They even pay money for the privilege.

I get tweets and Facebook messages exhorting me to THUNDER UP! What do these people expect me to do? If I give a damn about pro basketball, I've already Thundered Up. But if a bazillion dollars in advertising, car pennants, multi-story tall posters and a guy dressed up as a buffalo can't get me to THUNDER UP!, what difference is a tweet or a Facebook message going to make?

A few years ago, a female friend and I were discussing some project or event. I don't remember what the event was; I don't even remember who I was talking to.

But I remember that finally, frustrated by my lack of enthusiasm, she said, "C'mon, mcarp! GET EXCITED!" And then she just stared at me, with a wild, wide-eyed grin frozen on her face. She looked like Cesar Romero playing the Joker.

That's sort of how I view these 'THUNDER UP!' people.

It's just a game, folks. It's just product.

By The Way...

I was excused from jury duty about 11 am Tuesday, without setting foot in a courtroom.

A Good Servant, But A Bad Master

‎"A person who thinks all the time has nothing to think about except thoughts. So, he loses touch with reality, and lives in a world of illusions.

"By thoughts, I mean specifically, chatter in the skull. Perpetual and compulsive repetition of words, of reckoning, and calculating.

"I'm not saying that thinking is bad. Like everything else, it's useful in moderation: a good servant, but a bad master."

— Alan Watts

List of Ingredients

I was trying to describe this blog to someone, and I told him it was one third Zen, one third Taoism, and one third self-pity.

I think I may have exaggerated the amount of Zen and Taoism.

Random Notes: Meditation, Manic Episodes and Me

I did meditation last night for the first time in a month.

I went through a period where I was depressed and physically uncomfortable and just didn't want to do it. That was followed by a brief period of unusually high spirits, and I still didn't want to do it. Eventually my brain chemistry settled back into its normal state, and I began feeling a new desire for meditation about four days ago.

I want to say something about the unusually high spirits. My normal state is one that most of my friends consider mildly or perhaps seriously depressed. They think my life is boring, and can't imagine anyone would want to live this way, but it's the lifestyle with which I am most comfortable. I don't have as much excitement in my life as they have in theirs, but neither do I have all the drama and intrigue.

The period of high spirits began at roughly the time I was flirting with the thirtysomething woman about whom I wrote previously. I knew as I was doing it that it was very out of character for me, and I suspected at the time I was having what, for me, constitutes a 'manic episode'. I am pleased to say the thing played itself out without me getting my feelings hurt or my heart broken, and without leaving other people with the impression that I'm some sort of creepy stalker. Previous infatuations have usually ended with much bumpier landings.

In other news, Zen is starting to bore me. I think I've gotten from it all I'm going to get from it. I understand that I don't see things exactly as they are, and that my view will always be clouded by perceptions, desires, biases and prejudices. I will always work to overcome them, but my understanding will never be perfectly clear.

But I'm not going to move to another city so I can join a zen center. The whole thing about the robes and the chanting and the Japanese middle name doesn't have much appeal for me. I suspect a lot of people get into that stuff because the process gives them a sense of accomplishment, of making progress in some way.

I don't need to feel like I'm making progress. I realize I have a mind best suited to napping on the front porch, watching clouds, listening to birds sing and saying hello to stray dogs and cats, and I'm going to stick to what I do best.

Jury Duty

It's not tomorrow, it's a week from tomorrow.

Don't worry — I've already updated Facebook.

Facebook III

Sometimes I update my status a half dozen times in a single day. If I'm not otherwise occupied, I check it for notifications every ten minutes or so. How am I going to be a Zen hermit if I can't even stay away from Facebook for half a day?

Facebook II

I was criticized tonight for posting a link to this Roger Ebert blog item about the nation's apathy toward its new class of robber barons.

I should focus, I was told, on "more positive thoughts and feelings."

All I can say is that nobody is stopping anyone from posting YouTube videos about new age medicine and/or baby ducks. Knock yourselves out.

Facebook

I post a lot on Facebook... more than I post here. And I have a larger audience. In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, I am more guarded about what I say there.

I post a lot of Zen and Taoist quotes. I post a lot of links to political items, although lately, there are fewer of those as my interest in political blogs has waned. I 'check in' with reports of my whereabouts and activities (feeling reasonably confident that none of my friends will burglarize my house if they see I'm away).

But I don't think I've ever used the words 'willowy' or 'ethereal' on Facebook. I've never written the words 'infatuation' or 'made foolish'.

I've come to think that there are few things on the Internet drearier than guys whining about their love lives, although I do it myself. Facebook is just not the place for that.

Years ago, during the morning chatter around the table at the coffee shop, a friend revealed he had been diagnosed with cancer. The whole conversation stopped. Everyone looked at him, then at each other. The discomfort, including mine, was palpable. His honesty, and, frankly, his vulnerability at that moment had violated the understood code of superficial jocularity that guided coffee shop conversation.

Facebook is a lot like that. Keep it happy, keep it superficial. If your grandma is sick, it's OK to mention that, but your own pain, doubt, suffering, dukkha, whatever is too much of a downer.

Oh, look. It's a baby animal video from YouTube!

Not All the Time

Sometimes it sucks to be alone. But it doesn't suck to be alone all the time, which is part of the reason I don't try harder to change that.

Jury Duty

I have jury duty next week. This is already starting to be flashback-y for me, and I'm kind of freaking out about it. The last time I was in a courtroom was as a reporter covering the McVeigh trial in Denver. It makes me queasy even thinking about that. I do not, do not, do not want to find myself in a courtroom again. This is going to be like psychological torture.

God damn I hate being reminded of any of that.

Obama Announces Re-election Campaign. BFD.

Well, the President has announced he'll seek re-election. And, of course, I'll vote for him. What other choice is there? (And don't say "Ron Paul", dammit.)

At least Obama will ease us into medieval feudalism gently, instead of strapping us to a time-traveling rocket sled and firing us back to the Middle Ages at the speed of sound.

Love, Depression and Neediness

The times I feel loneliest seem to be generally the times I am also the most depressed. When my mood is good, I seem to be pretty comfortable with being alone. But when my mood is down, I feel like I want that archetypal willowy, ethereal hippie chick around to comfort me.

But that's 'neediness', and it runs counter to conventional wisdom in our culture. Relationships, like everything else, are supposed to be about winning, achieving, manic consuming, moving up, status, etc. — all the things for which you'd need an electron microscope to see how much of a shit I give.

Plus, relationships are also supposed to be about passion, drama, intrigue, excitement, anguish, recriminations, etc., barf, blrrrf, gorpf, snort, while all I want to do is sit with the archetypal willowy, ethereal hippie chick and watch birds.

So, my relationship prospects remain dim. I refuse to conform.

Drama Free

My life has been drama-free for years now. There have been a couple of little dustups during that time, but I don't count those. When it comes to long, byzantine dramas that are the result of other people's plotting, scheming and love of intrigue, I haven't had to suffer through one in about four years.

I've now reached the point I've started to take drama-free living for granted. But I should pause once in awhile to consider how lucky I've been to have this opportunity.

'You Just Buy The Refrigerators'

Everyone around you is telling you what you are and who you are by expecting certain behavior from you. Which, if you are a reasonable and socially-inclined person, you perform. Because that's what's expected of you.
— Alan Watts

When I was a kid, especially from age seven on, I was given the message a lot of children get when their parents are alcoholic: 'You are not as important as the alcohol. You are not as important as the bars and the parties. In fact, you're just in the way. Your role is to be as close as possible to invisible. Don't distract us or bother us.'

That's how I learned to be an enabler. It's how I learned that my role in life was to be the selfless giver, playing the role of supporter and friend while expecting nothing for myself. All my life I transmitted the 'enabler' message, and there were always people who recognized the message and exploited it. They included bosses, friends and women.

I finally started learning about this in therapy, when I was in my mid-forties. The short-term results were disastrous. My friends and my employer of 17 years, who had been telling me what I was and who I was by expecting certain behavior from me, abandoned me. Fortunately, I had the support of a men's group I had recently joined as well as a large circle of online friends on The Well. Even though my Well friends had never met me (or perhaps because of it), they were far more supportive than my 'real' friends.

I kept pushing on, and today I'm much less of an enabler than I once was. But I'm still far from completely liberated.

In the Rinzai school of Zen, they teach that enlightenment is sudden, but that it must be followed by years of rigorous training to cast off habitual behavior and thought processes. The same is true of post-therapy life. I still have to be mindful of my own thoughts and behavior, and must frequently ask myself, 'Are these the thoughts and behavior of my post-therapy 'enlightened' self, or is this my parents still talking to me?'

A few years ago I was with a female friend at Lowe's, walking through the hardware aisles. She suddenly turned to me, smiled and said, "Would you buy me a refrigerator?"

There was a time I might have done it. Maybe I would have done it right then, if she'd phrased the request as a command and attached some guilt strings to it. But I turned her down. More importantly, I saw at that moment that our 'friendship' was based upon her being a user of other people who had picked up on my weak but still flashing 'enabler' beacon.

About five years ago, the woman to whom I refer as Ms. Willowy and Ethereal had to choose between me and her current boyfriend, and she chose the current boyfriend. I was crushed — I loved her and still love her now — but I never spoke of it to her again. I wrote about it endlessly here, but I didn't say anything to her. I felt it was my job as 'the friend' to just shut up and be supportive.

I got differing advice from friends about how to deal with this. Some said I should have kept trying, while others said I should let it go. Among those who said 'let it go,' I frequently picked up a 'vibe' that seemed to say, 'Let it go because you're just the friend. You're not supposed to get what you want. You just buy the refrigerators.'

I think what I'm saying here is that some of my friends are real friends, and some — especially women — have just latched on to me because they've seen the still-flickering 'enabler beacon'. They actually find me weak and mildly contemptible, but they don't mind humoring me so I'll keep doing them favors. And I still have trouble telling which are the friends and which have just latched on.

When women flirt with me or seem to be attracted to me, I've learned, nine out of ten times it's the 'enabler' beacon that's drawn their attention. I can't trust them, and I don't.

Harmony With the Tao vs. Just Plain Crazy

I try to live in harmony with the Tao these days. But I can actually live in harmony only with my perception of the Tao, which is far from perfect. For the big picture, I can rely on old and ancient Chinese masters. But when it comes to the smaller, immediate picture, I don't have much to go on.

My New Age-y friends feel that they're achieving harmony with the Tao by advocating practices and procedures that I think are mostly utter bullshit. Which of us is right? Is it possible we both are? Could the Tao be carrying our lives in opposite directions?

Some of my friends tell me I don't rely enough on my emotions. I feel like my lack of emotion is in harmony with the Tao. My emotionalism, when I let it show, makes me seem weak and needy, and frankly disgusts and sometimes scares people. But maybe emotionalism is the right path for some other people.

Are the tea partiers in sync with the Tao? Hard for me to see how that could be, but maybe they are.

Well, the wisdom I've got is the wisdom I've got.