Somebody forgot to pay the phone bill last month... minimizing net accessibility over the past few days when the phone company got tired of waiting and cut off my DSL. You'd think I would have figured out by now that when my bank balance seems unusually comfortable it must mean I've forgotten to pay someone.
Oddly enough, they left my phone service connected the whole time.
Being in 'time out' left me with more time to read. I should read more and blog less.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Australia to ban incandescent bulbs
From the BBC:
More here.
"Australia has announced plans to ban incandescent light bulbs and replace them with more energy efficient fluorescent bulbs.
"The environment minister said the move could cut the country's greenhouse gas emissions by 4 million tonnes by 2012."
More here.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
A dream
I dreamt that I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom of a friend. I noticed an envelope lying on the floor, so I picked it up. On the back of the envelope was a list she had written of things to which she felt attached, and from which she wanted to free herself of attachment.
The first thing on the list, and the only one which I was able to read before I woke up, was "faucet handles."
The first thing on the list, and the only one which I was able to read before I woke up, was "faucet handles."
Monday, February 19, 2007
A sense of something missing
I had a sense over the weekend of there being something missing or incomplete in my life.
I used to have this feeling almost all the time. I don't have it as often anymore –– in part because of my recently-found beliefs, and in part, I think, because I've gotten older and I have more of the perspective that comes with accumulated life experience.
The first of the Buddha's four noble truths is that life is filled with dukha, a word which is often translated as 'suffering' but which can also be translated as 'dissatisfaction.'
Dissatisfaction can nag at you constantly. The natural response is to seek something that will stop the dissatisfaction –– something that will patch over that pothole that seems to exist in the center of your psyche.
In our culture, it's probably worse than elsewhere. We're the most-entertained, most-marketed-to, most propaganda-immersed human beings in history. We not only have the dissatisfactions that are natural to simply being alive, we also have all the dissatisfactions created by advertising, marketing, motivational speakers and the like.
We're dissatisfied, and we're told the way to end dissatisfaction is to own a luxury car, to bungee jump from a bridge, to buy NFL souvenirs, to sleep with someone more attractive, to own a complete collection of Elvis commemorative decanters, to get saved, to dress differently –– you name it.
We're dissatisfied, and we're told it's because life is supposed to be more exciting, more sexy, more luxurious and stylish. We just have to buy stuff and develop the right attitude –– the right attitude being that the most important thing is to get lots of money so we can buy more stuff (or give it away to televangelists and what-not, which is just another way of 'buying' relief from guilt or the fear of punishment from God).
But the 'stuff' never works for any length of time. The dissatisfaction –– the nagging sense of something being missing or incomplete –– always comes back.
The rest of the Buddha's noble truths talk about how to get rid of this persistent dissatisfaction -- getting rid of attachment, following the eightfold path. Maybe I should be working harder at that. Intellectually, I seem to be over the need to be constantly satisfied, but at some deeper level, I'm still struggling with it.
Even getting rid of suffering can become an attachment; the dissatisfaction starts to fold back in on itself and you find you're dissatisfied because you haven't succeeded at getting rid of dissatisfaction.
But the point I wanted to make here is that feeling dissatisfied is as natural as breathing. Even after you've bought all the stuff your house will hold, you'll feel dissatisfied. Even after you've found the love of your life, you'll feel dissatisfied. Even after you've become President of the United States, you'll feel dissatisfied.
I used to have this feeling almost all the time. I don't have it as often anymore –– in part because of my recently-found beliefs, and in part, I think, because I've gotten older and I have more of the perspective that comes with accumulated life experience.
The first of the Buddha's four noble truths is that life is filled with dukha, a word which is often translated as 'suffering' but which can also be translated as 'dissatisfaction.'
Dissatisfaction can nag at you constantly. The natural response is to seek something that will stop the dissatisfaction –– something that will patch over that pothole that seems to exist in the center of your psyche.
In our culture, it's probably worse than elsewhere. We're the most-entertained, most-marketed-to, most propaganda-immersed human beings in history. We not only have the dissatisfactions that are natural to simply being alive, we also have all the dissatisfactions created by advertising, marketing, motivational speakers and the like.
We're dissatisfied, and we're told the way to end dissatisfaction is to own a luxury car, to bungee jump from a bridge, to buy NFL souvenirs, to sleep with someone more attractive, to own a complete collection of Elvis commemorative decanters, to get saved, to dress differently –– you name it.
We're dissatisfied, and we're told it's because life is supposed to be more exciting, more sexy, more luxurious and stylish. We just have to buy stuff and develop the right attitude –– the right attitude being that the most important thing is to get lots of money so we can buy more stuff (or give it away to televangelists and what-not, which is just another way of 'buying' relief from guilt or the fear of punishment from God).
But the 'stuff' never works for any length of time. The dissatisfaction –– the nagging sense of something being missing or incomplete –– always comes back.
The rest of the Buddha's noble truths talk about how to get rid of this persistent dissatisfaction -- getting rid of attachment, following the eightfold path. Maybe I should be working harder at that. Intellectually, I seem to be over the need to be constantly satisfied, but at some deeper level, I'm still struggling with it.
Even getting rid of suffering can become an attachment; the dissatisfaction starts to fold back in on itself and you find you're dissatisfied because you haven't succeeded at getting rid of dissatisfaction.
But the point I wanted to make here is that feeling dissatisfied is as natural as breathing. Even after you've bought all the stuff your house will hold, you'll feel dissatisfied. Even after you've found the love of your life, you'll feel dissatisfied. Even after you've become President of the United States, you'll feel dissatisfied.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Bad advice
I gave someone bad advice today.
dzaster and I were in her car, in the middle of a discussion about Buddhism, non-attachment, freeing oneself of the addiction to drama and andrenaline rushes, and similar topics of mutual interest, when a purple inflatable ball about 30" in diameter came rolling down a parking lot. No one came after it.
We both commented on how odd it was for this ball to appear out of nowhere, with no one chasing it or following it.
When the purple ball reached the street, it turned south and went down the street.
"It's a sign!" I said. And then came the bad advice: "Go get it!"
dzaster stopped the car, got out, retrieved the ball, and put it in her trunk.
What I should have said to her was, "Wow, that was interesting. But now that we've had the moment, the thing to do is let it pass, carrying no attachment to the moment or to the object." And then we would have driven on.
But no. I thought not as a Buddhist, but as a guy with a house and a minivan full of crap. So dzaster, who has done more to simplify and declutter her life than anyone I know who is not living in exile in Nepal, now has a pretty much useless 30" inflatable purple ball in her trunk.
Sorry, dzaster.
But for God's sake, don't throw it away! It might be good for something someday!
dzaster and I were in her car, in the middle of a discussion about Buddhism, non-attachment, freeing oneself of the addiction to drama and andrenaline rushes, and similar topics of mutual interest, when a purple inflatable ball about 30" in diameter came rolling down a parking lot. No one came after it.
We both commented on how odd it was for this ball to appear out of nowhere, with no one chasing it or following it.
When the purple ball reached the street, it turned south and went down the street.
"It's a sign!" I said. And then came the bad advice: "Go get it!"
dzaster stopped the car, got out, retrieved the ball, and put it in her trunk.
What I should have said to her was, "Wow, that was interesting. But now that we've had the moment, the thing to do is let it pass, carrying no attachment to the moment or to the object." And then we would have driven on.
But no. I thought not as a Buddhist, but as a guy with a house and a minivan full of crap. So dzaster, who has done more to simplify and declutter her life than anyone I know who is not living in exile in Nepal, now has a pretty much useless 30" inflatable purple ball in her trunk.
Sorry, dzaster.
But for God's sake, don't throw it away! It might be good for something someday!
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Too cold
I had the idea I would go out and do something this evening, but it's just too cold. I'm back in the warmth of my house... me and the cats.
Hey, look! I'm a quiet maverick!
I took one of those online personality tests just now. I'm an INTP.
The Thinker
You are analytical and logical - and on a quest to learn everything you can. Smart and complex, you always love a new intellectual challenge. Your biggest pet peeve is people who slow you down with trivial chit chat. A quiet maverick, you tend to ignore rules and authority whenever you feel like it. You would make an excellent mathematician, programmer, or professor.
What's Your Personality Type?
I had a much more complete version of this test done about eight years ago by a certified Bristol-Myers instructor (or is it Briggs & Stratton? I can never remember). I think it produced the same result. I remember she said I was more 'P' that anyone she'd ever tested.
INTPs generally have the following traits:
I took some other test like this once where I turned out to be in the smallest of the classifications. It accounts for something like 5% of the population.
The Thinker
You are analytical and logical - and on a quest to learn everything you can. Smart and complex, you always love a new intellectual challenge. Your biggest pet peeve is people who slow you down with trivial chit chat. A quiet maverick, you tend to ignore rules and authority whenever you feel like it. You would make an excellent mathematician, programmer, or professor.
What's Your Personality Type?
I had a much more complete version of this test done about eight years ago by a certified Bristol-Myers instructor (or is it Briggs & Stratton? I can never remember). I think it produced the same result. I remember she said I was more 'P' that anyone she'd ever tested.
INTPs generally have the following traits:
- Love theory and abstract ideas
- Truth Seekers - they want to understand things by analyzing underlying principles and structures
- Value knowledge and competence above all else
- Have very high standards for performance, which they apply to themselves
- Independent and original, possibly eccentric
- Work best alone, and value autonomy
- Have no desire to lead or follow
- Dislike mundane detail
- Not particularly interested in the practical application of their work
- Creative and insightful
- Future-oriented
- Usually brilliant and ingenius
- Trust their own insights and opinions above others
- Live primarily inside their own minds, and may appear to be detached and uninvolved with other people
- Burst into tears at apparently random points in movies
- Drive a minivan crammed with shit
- Sleep with a cat they named after their therapist
I took some other test like this once where I turned out to be in the smallest of the classifications. It accounts for something like 5% of the population.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Doodle boy update
The new version of Corel Painter -- version 10 -- is out. I don't find this as significant an update as the 8 to 9 version, for whatever it's worth.
This is a teacup at the Red Cup.
They were wondering at Starbuck's what holiday it was
Note to JohnX: when the Red Cup is closed, as it often is on holidays, we cross the 63rd street frontier and go to the Evil Empire Starbuck's in Nichols Hills Plaza. Kathryn, Rena, Tall Ed, dzaster, Ned, the Gary, Dave and I were all there this morning when unforeseen circumstances delayed the Red Cup's opening.
You're always welcome to join us.
You're always welcome to join us.
Addendum
Jacking in from the Red-Cup-is-open-again port...
The Jane Monheit version of "The Waters of March" was the first version of it I ever heard. It was on an Internet radio station. That's been maybe four years ago.
I had never heard the song before, and started Googling it. I found out, of course, it was by Jobim, of whom I was dimly aware as the composer of "The Girl From Ipanema."
I've heard a few other versions of it since then, but the Jane Monheit version is the only one that moves me to tears every time I hear it. In fact, I don't listen to it very often because it's so emotionally overwhelming for me.
And I have no idea why.
Years ago, I saw the movie 'Contact' in the theater. This is the science fiction 'chick flick,' based on a novel by Carl Sagan, about a woman (Jodie Foster) chosen to make the first face-to-face contact with an alien race. To go meet the aliens, she has to travel in some sort of giant teleportation device built from blueprints the aliens have sent us.
The movie is mostly blah, but there's a scene where she's been strapped into the ten-story-tall teleporter and the mission control chief tells her, 'you're good to go.' They fire the thing up, and it starts shaking and rocking around and they're not sure if it's going to work, or not work, or blow up, or what.
Jodie Foster is bouncing around in the cockpit chair, saying to herself, "I'm good to go... I'm good to go... I'm good to go..."
For years afterward, I would start to cry whenever I thought of that scene.
"I'm good to go... I'm good to go... I'm good to go..."
Again, I don't know why.
One day, something made me think of it while I was in Lowe's Home Center. I was standing there in the aisle looking for grommets with tears streaming down my face.
My therapist told me, "Something's trying to get out."
I don't cry over 'I'm good to go' anymore. Maybe I'll get over "The Waters of March" as well.
The Jane Monheit version of "The Waters of March" was the first version of it I ever heard. It was on an Internet radio station. That's been maybe four years ago.
I had never heard the song before, and started Googling it. I found out, of course, it was by Jobim, of whom I was dimly aware as the composer of "The Girl From Ipanema."
I've heard a few other versions of it since then, but the Jane Monheit version is the only one that moves me to tears every time I hear it. In fact, I don't listen to it very often because it's so emotionally overwhelming for me.
And I have no idea why.
Years ago, I saw the movie 'Contact' in the theater. This is the science fiction 'chick flick,' based on a novel by Carl Sagan, about a woman (Jodie Foster) chosen to make the first face-to-face contact with an alien race. To go meet the aliens, she has to travel in some sort of giant teleportation device built from blueprints the aliens have sent us.
The movie is mostly blah, but there's a scene where she's been strapped into the ten-story-tall teleporter and the mission control chief tells her, 'you're good to go.' They fire the thing up, and it starts shaking and rocking around and they're not sure if it's going to work, or not work, or blow up, or what.
Jodie Foster is bouncing around in the cockpit chair, saying to herself, "I'm good to go... I'm good to go... I'm good to go..."
For years afterward, I would start to cry whenever I thought of that scene.
"I'm good to go... I'm good to go... I'm good to go..."
Again, I don't know why.
One day, something made me think of it while I was in Lowe's Home Center. I was standing there in the aisle looking for grommets with tears streaming down my face.
My therapist told me, "Something's trying to get out."
I don't cry over 'I'm good to go' anymore. Maybe I'll get over "The Waters of March" as well.
What it is
Jane Monheit
The lyrics, in case you can't follow:
A stick, a stone
It's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump
It's a little alone.
It's a sliver of glass
It is life, it's the sun
It is night, it is death
It's a trap, it's a gun.
The oak when it blooms,
A fox in the brush
A knot in the wood
The song of a thrush
The wood of the wind
The cliff, a fall
A scratch, a lump
It is nothing at all.
It's the wind blowing free
It's the end of the slope
It's a beam, it's a void
It's a hunch, it's a hope
And the riverbank talks
Of the waters of March;
It's the end of all strain
It's the joy in your heart.
The foot, the ground
The flesh and the bone
The beat of the road
A slingshot stone
A fish, a flash
A silvery glow.
A fight, a bet
The range of a bow.
The bed of the well,
The end of the line,
The dismay in the face.
It's a loss, it's a find.
A spear, a spike
A point, a nail,
A drip, a drop
The end of the tale.
A truckload of bricks
In the soft morning light,
It's the shot of the gun
In the dead of the night.
A mile, a must
A thrust, a bump
It's a girl, it's a rhyme
It's a cold, it's the mumps.
The plan of the house.
The body in bed.
And the car that got stuck
In the mud, it's the mud.
A float, a drift
A flight, a wing
A hawk, a quail
The promise of spring
And the riverbank talks
Of the waters of March
It's the promise of life
It's the joy in your heart.
A snake, a stick
It is John, it is Joe
It's a thorn in your hand
Or a cut on your toe,
A point, a grain
A bee, a bite
A blink, a buzzard
A sudden stroke of night.
A pin, a needle
A sting, a pain
A snail, a wasp
A riddle, a stain.
A pass in the moutains
A horse and a mule,
In the distance the shelves
Grow three shadows of blue.
And the riverbank talks
Of the waters of March
It's the promise of life
In your heart, in your heart.
A stick, a stone,
The end of the load,
The rest of the stump,
A lonesome road.
A sliver of glass,
A life, the sun,
A night, the death,
The end of the run.
And the riverbank talks
Of the waters of March,
It's the end of all strain,
It's the joy in your heart.
It's the joy in your heart.
It's the joy in your heart.
It's the joy in your heart.
Words and music by: Antonio Carlos Jobim
From the Wikipedia entry:
"Take the world lightly, and your spirit will not be burdened. Consider everything minor, and your mind will not be confused. Regard death and life as equal, and your heart will not be afraid."
I guess I can stop being maudlin now.
The lyrics, in case you can't follow:
A stick, a stone
It's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump
It's a little alone.
It's a sliver of glass
It is life, it's the sun
It is night, it is death
It's a trap, it's a gun.
The oak when it blooms,
A fox in the brush
A knot in the wood
The song of a thrush
The wood of the wind
The cliff, a fall
A scratch, a lump
It is nothing at all.
It's the wind blowing free
It's the end of the slope
It's a beam, it's a void
It's a hunch, it's a hope
And the riverbank talks
Of the waters of March;
It's the end of all strain
It's the joy in your heart.
The foot, the ground
The flesh and the bone
The beat of the road
A slingshot stone
A fish, a flash
A silvery glow.
A fight, a bet
The range of a bow.
The bed of the well,
The end of the line,
The dismay in the face.
It's a loss, it's a find.
A spear, a spike
A point, a nail,
A drip, a drop
The end of the tale.
A truckload of bricks
In the soft morning light,
It's the shot of the gun
In the dead of the night.
A mile, a must
A thrust, a bump
It's a girl, it's a rhyme
It's a cold, it's the mumps.
The plan of the house.
The body in bed.
And the car that got stuck
In the mud, it's the mud.
A float, a drift
A flight, a wing
A hawk, a quail
The promise of spring
And the riverbank talks
Of the waters of March
It's the promise of life
It's the joy in your heart.
A snake, a stick
It is John, it is Joe
It's a thorn in your hand
Or a cut on your toe,
A point, a grain
A bee, a bite
A blink, a buzzard
A sudden stroke of night.
A pin, a needle
A sting, a pain
A snail, a wasp
A riddle, a stain.
A pass in the moutains
A horse and a mule,
In the distance the shelves
Grow three shadows of blue.
And the riverbank talks
Of the waters of March
It's the promise of life
In your heart, in your heart.
A stick, a stone,
The end of the load,
The rest of the stump,
A lonesome road.
A sliver of glass,
A life, the sun,
A night, the death,
The end of the run.
And the riverbank talks
Of the waters of March,
It's the end of all strain,
It's the joy in your heart.
It's the joy in your heart.
It's the joy in your heart.
It's the joy in your heart.
Words and music by: Antonio Carlos Jobim
From the Wikipedia entry:
In Jobim's English version, "it" is a stick, a stone, a sliver of glass, a scratch, a cliff, a knot in the wood, the wind blowing free, a fish, a pin, a buzzard, the end of the road, and many other things. All these details swirling around the central metaphor of "the waters of March" can give the impression of the passing of daily life and its continual, inevitable progression towards death, just as the rains of March mark the end of summer and the beginning of the colder season [in the southern hemisphere]. However, Jobim's English lyrics also speak of the water being "the promise of life / ... the joy in your heart," which allows for other, more life-affirming interpretations.
"Take the world lightly, and your spirit will not be burdened. Consider everything minor, and your mind will not be confused. Regard death and life as equal, and your heart will not be afraid."
–– The Taoist Book of Leadership and Strategy,
2nd century BCE,
translation by Thomas Cleary
2nd century BCE,
translation by Thomas Cleary
I guess I can stop being maudlin now.
Dream
I went to bed and had a dream... I don't remember all the details, except that in the dream, I was in bed just as I actually was, except that there was a woman in bed beside me (this is how I knew it was a dream).
The woman was someone I know, but not someone any of you would know.
In the dream, I know I'm dreaming, and I'm trying to wake up, but I can't.
"Wake... me... up," I say to her, and I'm saying this out loud in my sleep, and even realize I'm saying it out loud.
"Wake... me... up. Please... wake... me... up."
Now I'm starting to get frustrated, because, dammit, I know I'm right on the verge of waking up, and I seem to be stuck there.
"I... need you... to... wake... me... up."
This went on for 15 or 20 seconds, I guess. Finally one of the cats came up from the foot of the bed and woke me up.
This is the second dream in a week where I've been right on the brink of waking up and talking out loud in my sleep.
Pretty trippy.
The woman was someone I know, but not someone any of you would know.
In the dream, I know I'm dreaming, and I'm trying to wake up, but I can't.
"Wake... me... up," I say to her, and I'm saying this out loud in my sleep, and even realize I'm saying it out loud.
"Wake... me... up. Please... wake... me... up."
Now I'm starting to get frustrated, because, dammit, I know I'm right on the verge of waking up, and I seem to be stuck there.
"I... need you... to... wake... me... up."
This went on for 15 or 20 seconds, I guess. Finally one of the cats came up from the foot of the bed and woke me up.
This is the second dream in a week where I've been right on the brink of waking up and talking out loud in my sleep.
Pretty trippy.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Another Saturday night...
and I'm home with a cold... which is inhibiting the performance of my duties as Ambassador of the Universe to the greater Red Cup metropolitan area. I'm going to find a book I haven't read yet, if I have one, and crash on the futon, coughing and sneezing and trying to stay warm.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
When was the last time...
...you ran your fingers over the bark of a tree?
...got grass stains on the knees of your pants?
...stopped and watched a squirrel watching you, and waited for him to make the next move?
...fell asleep on your front porch?
...got grass stains on the knees of your pants?
...stopped and watched a squirrel watching you, and waited for him to make the next move?
...fell asleep on your front porch?
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
God, Galactus and the Universe
The photos that have come back from the Hubble telescope have had a fairly profound impact on me.
I'm a little conflicted about this. On the one hand, expending all the time, money and energy to see stuff billions of light years away (or billions and billions of light years away, if you remember Carl Sagan's Cosmos) seems sort of pointless and silly.
On the other hand, well, holy shit:
Some of those bright spots are galaxies, as you'll see if you click on the thumbnail for the larger version of the picture.
Astronomers will make one thing of this, and I will make another.
Even though someone could probably tell us what the field of view is in that picture, it's a number so large we can't conceive of it, even as we're looking at it right there in front of us.
An experienced world traveler might have some concept of the size of the earth, but for the rest of us it's just a number from the World Almanac: 24,900 miles. We can't even actually conceive of that, let alone the view in that Hubble picture. (And personally, my sense of scale tends to lapse into the fabulous anywhere beyond Danforth Road.)
Imagine that picture projected onto the side of a 20-story building. Now, it's pretty damn big by our earthly standards, yet still not even a thumbnail representation of the real thing. But look at that twenty-story picture, where the earth, were it to be shown, would be maybe the size of a marble.
How big would your concept of God be in that picture? As I thought about it, I decided that my concept of God –– and I'm talking about the traditional Judeo-Christian Sistine Chapel God –– would probably be about 20 feet tall compared to a marble-sized earth.
(Galactus would top out, by comparison, at about three feet.)
And yet God –– as my limited imagination pictures him –– would still be dwarfed by the scale of that picture.
We are led to believe that whatever force created that huge cloud, billions of miles across, and made those galaxies spinning like 4th of July sparklers through the sky is profoundly concerned about gay Teletubbies, the Dixie Chicks, and concealed carry.
Well, you decide what you want to believe about that.
But here's the deal: that picture is a picture of you. You are all that. And all that is you. It's all one thing. At the subatomic level, you can't even tell where the traditional concept of 'you' ends and the traditional concept of 'everything else' begins.
You are all your friends and enemies. You are George W. Bush. You're me. You're an apple. You're Beasley the cat.
All one thing.
I'm a little conflicted about this. On the one hand, expending all the time, money and energy to see stuff billions of light years away (or billions and billions of light years away, if you remember Carl Sagan's Cosmos) seems sort of pointless and silly.
On the other hand, well, holy shit:
Some of those bright spots are galaxies, as you'll see if you click on the thumbnail for the larger version of the picture.
Astronomers will make one thing of this, and I will make another.
Even though someone could probably tell us what the field of view is in that picture, it's a number so large we can't conceive of it, even as we're looking at it right there in front of us.
An experienced world traveler might have some concept of the size of the earth, but for the rest of us it's just a number from the World Almanac: 24,900 miles. We can't even actually conceive of that, let alone the view in that Hubble picture. (And personally, my sense of scale tends to lapse into the fabulous anywhere beyond Danforth Road.)
Imagine that picture projected onto the side of a 20-story building. Now, it's pretty damn big by our earthly standards, yet still not even a thumbnail representation of the real thing. But look at that twenty-story picture, where the earth, were it to be shown, would be maybe the size of a marble.
How big would your concept of God be in that picture? As I thought about it, I decided that my concept of God –– and I'm talking about the traditional Judeo-Christian Sistine Chapel God –– would probably be about 20 feet tall compared to a marble-sized earth.
(Galactus would top out, by comparison, at about three feet.)
And yet God –– as my limited imagination pictures him –– would still be dwarfed by the scale of that picture.
We are led to believe that whatever force created that huge cloud, billions of miles across, and made those galaxies spinning like 4th of July sparklers through the sky is profoundly concerned about gay Teletubbies, the Dixie Chicks, and concealed carry.
Well, you decide what you want to believe about that.
But here's the deal: that picture is a picture of you. You are all that. And all that is you. It's all one thing. At the subatomic level, you can't even tell where the traditional concept of 'you' ends and the traditional concept of 'everything else' begins.
You are all your friends and enemies. You are George W. Bush. You're me. You're an apple. You're Beasley the cat.
All one thing.
The universe.
Beasley the cat.
All one thing
An apple, a quasar, Beasley the cat: all one thing.
You are in the universe, a portal to everything else in the universe... and you are the universe. And so am I. And so is an apple, a quasar and Beasley the cat.
You are in the universe, a portal to everything else in the universe... and you are the universe. And so am I. And so is an apple, a quasar and Beasley the cat.
The universe.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Another time slice
I went to Borders this evening, bought nothing, and emerged at twilight. There in front of me was the NW Expressway, and beyond it the hospital, the fitness center, Warwick West Apartments and Union Plaza –– the black glass tower with the brick-red corners.
Looking out over all that I felt something almost the opposite of what I felt Friday night –– a sense of bleakness, remoteness, aloneness, pointlessness. I still feel the same way now, although getting back to the comfort of my little house helps some. Again, there's probably some memory, some prejudice or preference or aversion that evoked or guided that response, but it doesn't help to know that.
Life feels bleak tonight. Nothing has changed in my life since Friday; only my attitude is different.
One of the things I wanted from a relationship –– when I was still pursuing relationships –– was a woman who could help me through these dark moods. Maybe that's why I developed my affinity for the goddess Tara.
But I understand now that it generally doesn't work that way. Significant others are not therapists.
Even so, I find myself wishing sometimes that there was someone here who could ease that sense of dreariness so I didn't have to carry the burden of it all by myself.
Wishing does not make it so. This sense of despair is mine, and no one else's.
Looking out over all that I felt something almost the opposite of what I felt Friday night –– a sense of bleakness, remoteness, aloneness, pointlessness. I still feel the same way now, although getting back to the comfort of my little house helps some. Again, there's probably some memory, some prejudice or preference or aversion that evoked or guided that response, but it doesn't help to know that.
Life feels bleak tonight. Nothing has changed in my life since Friday; only my attitude is different.
One of the things I wanted from a relationship –– when I was still pursuing relationships –– was a woman who could help me through these dark moods. Maybe that's why I developed my affinity for the goddess Tara.
But I understand now that it generally doesn't work that way. Significant others are not therapists.
Even so, I find myself wishing sometimes that there was someone here who could ease that sense of dreariness so I didn't have to carry the burden of it all by myself.
Wishing does not make it so. This sense of despair is mine, and no one else's.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Winning by not playing
Blogblah! has a post here that you should read, if you haven't already, before continuing with this one.
The details are different in some particulars, but generally speaking, his story is my story. I've haven't questioned a lot of other men about this, but I've talked about it to enough others to know that he and I are far from alone.
One thought in his post suggests a response. It's a point on which he and I differ:
That describes how I live pretty accurately, but not my attitude about it. When John says we "'win' by not playing," he makes the assumption that there is a 'win' and a 'lose' to these choices. I had that same belief at one point. In fact, it was that belief as much as anything else that kept driving me to bang my head against the brick wall of trying to get a whole series of 'Miss Wonderfuls' into my life.
Because of the kind of woman to which I was attracted (cute but not beautiful, extremely intelligent, borderline personality), these 'relationships' inevitably ended with her yanking the rug out from under me and standing there laughing or offering mock sympathy -- as often as not, arm in arm with the ne'er-do-well 'bad boy' heir to the Fahrquahr Humate Company fortune -- while I again sat on my bruised ass on the floor trying to figure out why repeating the same actions had once more led to the same results.
But I kept doing it, and for a long time I assumed I kept doing it only because I was lonely and/or horny.
My view was also tainted by the 'if at first you don't succeed, try, try again' maxim, whose point of diminishing returns I had passed by about 1980.
After getting into therapy about ten years ago, I had a couple of relationships that were not based on the need to 'rescue' a cute, bright psychotic. Those relationships were all brief and in every case I was the one who ended it.
I was bored by them, and I was faced with the discovery that having a crazy person wreck my life by exploiting my gullibility and naiveté at least offered some emotional payoff, while being nagged about my clothes or my car or my pets was just a drag. It was at that point I pretty much gave up the relationship hunt.
Eventually, I came to face and accept another unpleasant fact: I had viewed the pursuit of all those cute, bright, crazy women as a win/lose situation, and also to a certain degree a competitive situation in which I was losing by not 'getting' the same women other guys were 'getting'.
I considered myself a socially enlightened guy and not someone who 'objectified' women. But that's what I was doing –– not in the same way that Larry Flynt does it, but objectifying them nonetheless.
Nowadays, I don't think of it so much as win/lose anymore. Sometimes I slip back into that mode out of habit or depression, but it happens rarely.
Instead, I follow the zen and taoist belief in viewing things as they are and only as they are, and not viewing them in comparison to other events or other things, or through the distorting filters of prejudices, preferences and memories.
I am alone, and that is neither good nor bad. It is neither the right way to be nor the wrong way to be. It is simply a way of being.
This is actually at variance with the Buddha's own teaching, which was that romantic love was a grasping, controlling, attaching emotion that was as bad as jealousy or anger or anything else.
We glorify that kind of love in our culture, in my opinion, for the same reason we glorify driving around in big circles at high speeds, invading other countries or watching guys line up and then suddenly jump up and run into each while someone tries to sneak a ball past them. We just love crazy, pointless, adrenaline-producing stimuli.
My life is far from being 'on hold.' It's true that I'm more-or-less drifting with no goals, but I'm aware of that and fine with it. My life is actually busier now than it's ever been. I have more friends today –– including John Long –– than I had cumulatively from 1980 to 2003. So for me, at least, this is not a fate worse than death.
The details are different in some particulars, but generally speaking, his story is my story. I've haven't questioned a lot of other men about this, but I've talked about it to enough others to know that he and I are far from alone.
One thought in his post suggests a response. It's a point on which he and I differ:
"I know several people who don’t date at all and don’t want to. They have their imaginary self, imagined love and their memories. That’s it. They never have the rush of a new relationship and a new sex partner nor the high of feeling confident and fulfilled, but they never suffer the fiery hell of a relationship in flux and shambles, leading to a pit of burning lost love excrement up to one’s nose. They “win” by not playing.
"In my opinion, they have put life on hold and in my opinion this is a fate worse than death. It’s also the option I believe I am most likely to choose."
That describes how I live pretty accurately, but not my attitude about it. When John says we "'win' by not playing," he makes the assumption that there is a 'win' and a 'lose' to these choices. I had that same belief at one point. In fact, it was that belief as much as anything else that kept driving me to bang my head against the brick wall of trying to get a whole series of 'Miss Wonderfuls' into my life.
Because of the kind of woman to which I was attracted (cute but not beautiful, extremely intelligent, borderline personality), these 'relationships' inevitably ended with her yanking the rug out from under me and standing there laughing or offering mock sympathy -- as often as not, arm in arm with the ne'er-do-well 'bad boy' heir to the Fahrquahr Humate Company fortune -- while I again sat on my bruised ass on the floor trying to figure out why repeating the same actions had once more led to the same results.
But I kept doing it, and for a long time I assumed I kept doing it only because I was lonely and/or horny.
My view was also tainted by the 'if at first you don't succeed, try, try again' maxim, whose point of diminishing returns I had passed by about 1980.
After getting into therapy about ten years ago, I had a couple of relationships that were not based on the need to 'rescue' a cute, bright psychotic. Those relationships were all brief and in every case I was the one who ended it.
I was bored by them, and I was faced with the discovery that having a crazy person wreck my life by exploiting my gullibility and naiveté at least offered some emotional payoff, while being nagged about my clothes or my car or my pets was just a drag. It was at that point I pretty much gave up the relationship hunt.
Eventually, I came to face and accept another unpleasant fact: I had viewed the pursuit of all those cute, bright, crazy women as a win/lose situation, and also to a certain degree a competitive situation in which I was losing by not 'getting' the same women other guys were 'getting'.
I considered myself a socially enlightened guy and not someone who 'objectified' women. But that's what I was doing –– not in the same way that Larry Flynt does it, but objectifying them nonetheless.
Nowadays, I don't think of it so much as win/lose anymore. Sometimes I slip back into that mode out of habit or depression, but it happens rarely.
Instead, I follow the zen and taoist belief in viewing things as they are and only as they are, and not viewing them in comparison to other events or other things, or through the distorting filters of prejudices, preferences and memories.
I am alone, and that is neither good nor bad. It is neither the right way to be nor the wrong way to be. It is simply a way of being.
This is actually at variance with the Buddha's own teaching, which was that romantic love was a grasping, controlling, attaching emotion that was as bad as jealousy or anger or anything else.
We glorify that kind of love in our culture, in my opinion, for the same reason we glorify driving around in big circles at high speeds, invading other countries or watching guys line up and then suddenly jump up and run into each while someone tries to sneak a ball past them. We just love crazy, pointless, adrenaline-producing stimuli.
My life is far from being 'on hold.' It's true that I'm more-or-less drifting with no goals, but I'm aware of that and fine with it. My life is actually busier now than it's ever been. I have more friends today –– including John Long –– than I had cumulatively from 1980 to 2003. So for me, at least, this is not a fate worse than death.
Friday, February 02, 2007
A time slice
I did part of the Paseo gallery walk tonight. On the way back up the hill from JRB, I was right outside Blue Moon and was suddenly struck by the way everything was in that moment: the cold, the lights on the street, the people walking by, patches of snow on the ground.
In that moment –– just that time slice of only a few seconds –– my life was exactly what I wanted it to be. There was nothing special happening, but I had a moment of perfect satisfaction.
I could go back to that same spot tomorrow night at the same time, and it would feel different and probably not as satisfying –– the same river twice, and all that.
I've had many moments like that over the past 20 years or so, but I wish I had more.
I wish I felt like that all the time.
In that moment –– just that time slice of only a few seconds –– my life was exactly what I wanted it to be. There was nothing special happening, but I had a moment of perfect satisfaction.
I could go back to that same spot tomorrow night at the same time, and it would feel different and probably not as satisfying –– the same river twice, and all that.
I've had many moments like that over the past 20 years or so, but I wish I had more.
I wish I felt like that all the time.
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