I had a "less than" attack yesterday. "Less than" attacks are kind of like anxiety attacks, except I don't feel anxious, I feel inferior to some standard (artificial or otherwise) I think I should have attained as a person. It happened, of course, after I began comparing what I know about myself to what I know about someone I don't really know. Almost everyone I know, including friends and relatives, falls into that category of people I don't really know. Hell, it's hard enough to "know thyself" as the ancient Greek aphorism exhorts. How the freak am I supposed to know you?
So, great. I've survived 53 estival months in the Sonoran Desert and still haven't learned to tell that lying moron that lives inside me to go pound dirt when he starts accusing me of being a slacker, of not being successful enough, of doing the things I shouldn't have done and neglecting the things I should have done. Makes it hard to keep an inflated ego alive with that little bastard screaming in my ear.
Fortunately, I've learned that these "less than" attacks are temporary, they are feelings and they will pass. I've learned that it's okay to feel inferior for a little while, but I can minimize those feelings as they try to work their way into my behavior, as they inevitably do.
Perhaps the best antidote for "less than" attacks lies in the old axiom that the best defense is a good offense. I can take the offensive and look for someone to help, to do something for someone without looking for compensation of any sort. Magically, my feelings of inferiority evaporate when I love another person in a practical way.
Much of my energy in the past 17,000 or so hours has been spent in various efforts to enhance or protect what I thought other people thought of me. Many, if not most of these people didn't think much of me to begin with, but that truth was unknown to me and besides, it would've been too painful to accept had I known it.
There are things I like about being middle-aged. When I start to worry about what others think of me, I remember they don't, at least not very often. Most of my illusion of physical attractiveness has dissipated as parts per million in a sea of younger people who look at me like I have a third eye in the middle of my forehead.
Am I different from you? Well, yes and no. I don't believe all people spend so much time in amateur self-analysis or delusional introspection. But I think many others do, and so there are those with whom I connect on that level.
Today I'm going to spend some more time in my back yard, like I did yesterday, with the bright sun and brilliant blue sky. The dogs play and sniff and lie in the sunshine. I trim trees, pick up the cuttings and leaves, and try to make the yard look a little better than when I began. That it what I will do for today, because today is all I have.
30 January 2011
28 January 2011
There Are No Scared Cows at a Picnic with Hitler
Wait a tick. Didn't you mean "sacred cows?"
No. I meant cattle who are afraid. You know, terrified bovines. I've seen fearful canines, felines, even equines, but there are no scared cows, even in the company of the Duke of Depravity.
One morning, several sunrises ago, I awoke with bits and pieces of a dream I'd been having, involving a social function where people were milling about the grounds of a large edifice, some institution with lots of columns and porticoes - like a school or a church - and vast open lawns.
I, too, was strolling about with a group of five or six people, engaged in easy conversation, enjoying the perfect weather and fading sunlight. Among us was one Mr. Adolf Hitler - yes, THAT Adolf Hitler, complete with goofy little cookie-duster mustache and Nazi garb - and we seemed to be giving him a tour of the grounds. In the dream, I kept wondering why no one was addressing the "elephant in the room." so to speak. Aware of a bit of history, I kept thinking, "C'mon, people, this is Adolf Hitler, the fascist responsible for murdering millions of innocents, the genocidal sociopath with ambitions of world conquest, remember?
When I finally gathered the courage to whisper my concerns privately to individual members of the group, the responses were surprisingly uniform. "Ah, lighten up, man, that was more than six decades ago, a different century. Give the guy a break. I'm sure he's sorry and he's moved on, probably did some work and got in touch with his character defects. We all make mistakes. We just have to move forward and get on with our lives."
I didn't know what to think. Now we were spreading out a blanket and commencing to break bread with the Fuhrer, the master of malevolence. A pariah picnic? I mean, where's Vlad the Impaler, Nero, Pol Pot, Joseph Stalin?
Fortunately, I woke up. Dreams are weird.
No. I meant cattle who are afraid. You know, terrified bovines. I've seen fearful canines, felines, even equines, but there are no scared cows, even in the company of the Duke of Depravity.
One morning, several sunrises ago, I awoke with bits and pieces of a dream I'd been having, involving a social function where people were milling about the grounds of a large edifice, some institution with lots of columns and porticoes - like a school or a church - and vast open lawns.
I, too, was strolling about with a group of five or six people, engaged in easy conversation, enjoying the perfect weather and fading sunlight. Among us was one Mr. Adolf Hitler - yes, THAT Adolf Hitler, complete with goofy little cookie-duster mustache and Nazi garb - and we seemed to be giving him a tour of the grounds. In the dream, I kept wondering why no one was addressing the "elephant in the room." so to speak. Aware of a bit of history, I kept thinking, "C'mon, people, this is Adolf Hitler, the fascist responsible for murdering millions of innocents, the genocidal sociopath with ambitions of world conquest, remember?
When I finally gathered the courage to whisper my concerns privately to individual members of the group, the responses were surprisingly uniform. "Ah, lighten up, man, that was more than six decades ago, a different century. Give the guy a break. I'm sure he's sorry and he's moved on, probably did some work and got in touch with his character defects. We all make mistakes. We just have to move forward and get on with our lives."
I didn't know what to think. Now we were spreading out a blanket and commencing to break bread with the Fuhrer, the master of malevolence. A pariah picnic? I mean, where's Vlad the Impaler, Nero, Pol Pot, Joseph Stalin?
Fortunately, I woke up. Dreams are weird.
26 January 2011
Ego
I can talk, but I can't speak very well. I can type, but my writing is mediocre. I can listen, but I don't often make listening my intention. I can read, but I choose to do many other things that, in comparison, are a complete waste of time.
Talking, listening, reading, writing. Two active and two passive activities.
For as long as I can remember, I've wondered about my place in the world. Who am I? What's important?
I grew up with a great deal of exposure to the Bible, and I was thinking of how impossible it seems to escape ego, to think and act in any way that doesn't somehow promote self-interest. Yesterday, I thought about the Ecclesiastical conclusion that "all is vanity." Although at the time it was written, vanity was probably synonymous with futility rather than ego, I feel pretty sure the two concepts are closely related.
Distill life down to its simplest form. Imagine all of the vanity being boiled away, and only the essence of life dripping into a bowl. What remains in the bowl is survival.
I watched the President's state of the union address last night with my son. A gathering of human beings, but I could not see the iceberg. I could only see the tip above the water. The words, the faces, the expressions and actions of the participants were visible, but the innumerable thoughts were not.
I hope the men and women who lead the United States of America have found a way to escape ego, and that their efforts do not, in the end, result in futility. I have hope that with each successive generation, like the Colorado River carving the Grand Canyon, we survive, and our children imagine and create a new world, a world of patience, tolerance, and above all, kindness.
Let's strive to find a way to beat our swords into plowshares.
Talking, listening, reading, writing. Two active and two passive activities.
For as long as I can remember, I've wondered about my place in the world. Who am I? What's important?
I grew up with a great deal of exposure to the Bible, and I was thinking of how impossible it seems to escape ego, to think and act in any way that doesn't somehow promote self-interest. Yesterday, I thought about the Ecclesiastical conclusion that "all is vanity." Although at the time it was written, vanity was probably synonymous with futility rather than ego, I feel pretty sure the two concepts are closely related.
Distill life down to its simplest form. Imagine all of the vanity being boiled away, and only the essence of life dripping into a bowl. What remains in the bowl is survival.
I watched the President's state of the union address last night with my son. A gathering of human beings, but I could not see the iceberg. I could only see the tip above the water. The words, the faces, the expressions and actions of the participants were visible, but the innumerable thoughts were not.
I hope the men and women who lead the United States of America have found a way to escape ego, and that their efforts do not, in the end, result in futility. I have hope that with each successive generation, like the Colorado River carving the Grand Canyon, we survive, and our children imagine and create a new world, a world of patience, tolerance, and above all, kindness.
Let's strive to find a way to beat our swords into plowshares.
23 January 2011
Rocket Science
I've always wondered what my number is. You know, that IQ number.
One day a few years ago I spent several hours with an intern at a psychologist's office taking a variety of different tests designed to reveal my IQ mystery. Unfortunately (or fortunately), the intern moved on and so did I before I could prevail upon them to give me my number. The only feedback I got was from a therapist who told me, "Let's just put it this way, you're too smart for your own good." I took that as a compliment. It wasn't.
I never did particularly well in elementary or high school, but I managed to squeak by with minimal effort. There would be comments from educators from time to time like, "Gee, Mike, you're really capable, why don't you apply yourself?" I wasn't even sure what they meant by "apply yourself," but I do remember having a sort of thinly disguised contempt for education in general because I couldn't see any practical use for it. "Motive" is the force in "loco-motive" that pushes that big, long, heavy train down the train tracks, and this loco student couldn't seem to muster any motive for taking notes or finishing homework.
College was different. By the time I got serious about "higher learning" I was in my early thirties, and I had several motives to move my train down the track. I had a family and an ego to support, and besides, it cost me real money out of my own pocket. The motivating pain of being hit in the wallet is probably superseded only by being cold or hungry. I did well in college. I rarely got anything but an A.
Now. Lest you make the mistake of thinking there may be a hidden genius in this story somewhere (I certainly made that mistake), let me paint for you portrait of some of the more "geniusey" things I've done.
When I was 19 I had a dirt bike, a Husqvarna 250, that I liked to ride in the desert around Phoenix. As I prepared for a ride one day, I noticed that the chain on my motorcycle was all gummed up with a paste of grease and pulverized dirt, aka dust. So of course, I began to think of how to remove this impedance to my bike's performance and the solution immediately presented itself. Gasoline! Gasoline dissolves grease. Warm gasoline would surely be preferable to cold gasoline, but how to warm it up? I know! I proceeded to fill a large cooking pot, a stock pot, with about two quarts of gasoline, dropped my chain in it, placed it on the natural gas stove top in the kitchen, turned on the burner, and went back out to the carport, about 20 feet away through a side door of the house.
Presently I went back in the house and noticed that the pot of gasoline I'd placed on the stove was boiling. That's probably hot enough, my superior intellect reasoned, so I touched the handle on the pot. The next thing I remember was a loud noise and mushroom cloud of fire about the size of a Volkswagen Beetle that shot up to the kitchen ceiling, curled back toward me, and in the process removed my eyebrows and arm hair. This had not been part of my master plan. Once I realized I hadn't been killed or seriously injured in "a freak gasoline boiling incident," I ran outside, grabbed the garden hose, and extinguished the conflagration that used to be my kitchen.
While the harm to my body was minimal, the economic consequences, at least to the insurance company, were considerable. Charred paint hung in long strips from the ceiling, and the cabinets were damaged. What did I learn from this experience? Gasoline boils!
Fast forward to the early '90's. It's Friday morning and my eldest child, Kelly, and I have come back from breakfast and are looking for something to do before it's time to head off to school and work. The family trampoline was always good for a few thrills, but this morning I guess I needed a little more than the usual woo-hoo. "Hey, Kell," I suggested, "Let's move the trampoline over next to the playhouse and jump off the roof of the playhouse and do butt-bounces!" One tiny detail I neglected to factor in: there were railroad ties (part of our landscaping) under the trampoline.
We climbed to the top of the playhouse roof, about 12' above the trampoline mat and, not wanting to be a thrill hog, allowed Kell to jump first. She did, and bounced off the mat, butt first, with an exclamation of glee. I followed and, as I outweighed my young daughter by about 100 lbs, the laws of physics demanded that my sorry ass depress the trampoline mat considerably further, and my tailbone was introduced to the railroad tie lying in wait beneath the mat. All I could do was lie on the trampoline and groan in pain and tell Kelly to have Mom call my friend John Rhodes, a physical therapist. Later that day, X-rays would show a vertebrae had cracked, a chip missing from the corner. Narcotic pain pills didn't save me from my worst night of agony ever, not from the broken spine, but from the trauma to the abdominal muscles. What did I learn from this experience? Choose a heavier partner to go first when leaping from high places!
These days, I'm content with not knowing my number. Maybe it's better that way.
One day a few years ago I spent several hours with an intern at a psychologist's office taking a variety of different tests designed to reveal my IQ mystery. Unfortunately (or fortunately), the intern moved on and so did I before I could prevail upon them to give me my number. The only feedback I got was from a therapist who told me, "Let's just put it this way, you're too smart for your own good." I took that as a compliment. It wasn't.
I never did particularly well in elementary or high school, but I managed to squeak by with minimal effort. There would be comments from educators from time to time like, "Gee, Mike, you're really capable, why don't you apply yourself?" I wasn't even sure what they meant by "apply yourself," but I do remember having a sort of thinly disguised contempt for education in general because I couldn't see any practical use for it. "Motive" is the force in "loco-motive" that pushes that big, long, heavy train down the train tracks, and this loco student couldn't seem to muster any motive for taking notes or finishing homework.
College was different. By the time I got serious about "higher learning" I was in my early thirties, and I had several motives to move my train down the track. I had a family and an ego to support, and besides, it cost me real money out of my own pocket. The motivating pain of being hit in the wallet is probably superseded only by being cold or hungry. I did well in college. I rarely got anything but an A.
Now. Lest you make the mistake of thinking there may be a hidden genius in this story somewhere (I certainly made that mistake), let me paint for you portrait of some of the more "geniusey" things I've done.
When I was 19 I had a dirt bike, a Husqvarna 250, that I liked to ride in the desert around Phoenix. As I prepared for a ride one day, I noticed that the chain on my motorcycle was all gummed up with a paste of grease and pulverized dirt, aka dust. So of course, I began to think of how to remove this impedance to my bike's performance and the solution immediately presented itself. Gasoline! Gasoline dissolves grease. Warm gasoline would surely be preferable to cold gasoline, but how to warm it up? I know! I proceeded to fill a large cooking pot, a stock pot, with about two quarts of gasoline, dropped my chain in it, placed it on the natural gas stove top in the kitchen, turned on the burner, and went back out to the carport, about 20 feet away through a side door of the house.
Presently I went back in the house and noticed that the pot of gasoline I'd placed on the stove was boiling. That's probably hot enough, my superior intellect reasoned, so I touched the handle on the pot. The next thing I remember was a loud noise and mushroom cloud of fire about the size of a Volkswagen Beetle that shot up to the kitchen ceiling, curled back toward me, and in the process removed my eyebrows and arm hair. This had not been part of my master plan. Once I realized I hadn't been killed or seriously injured in "a freak gasoline boiling incident," I ran outside, grabbed the garden hose, and extinguished the conflagration that used to be my kitchen.
While the harm to my body was minimal, the economic consequences, at least to the insurance company, were considerable. Charred paint hung in long strips from the ceiling, and the cabinets were damaged. What did I learn from this experience? Gasoline boils!
Fast forward to the early '90's. It's Friday morning and my eldest child, Kelly, and I have come back from breakfast and are looking for something to do before it's time to head off to school and work. The family trampoline was always good for a few thrills, but this morning I guess I needed a little more than the usual woo-hoo. "Hey, Kell," I suggested, "Let's move the trampoline over next to the playhouse and jump off the roof of the playhouse and do butt-bounces!" One tiny detail I neglected to factor in: there were railroad ties (part of our landscaping) under the trampoline.
We climbed to the top of the playhouse roof, about 12' above the trampoline mat and, not wanting to be a thrill hog, allowed Kell to jump first. She did, and bounced off the mat, butt first, with an exclamation of glee. I followed and, as I outweighed my young daughter by about 100 lbs, the laws of physics demanded that my sorry ass depress the trampoline mat considerably further, and my tailbone was introduced to the railroad tie lying in wait beneath the mat. All I could do was lie on the trampoline and groan in pain and tell Kelly to have Mom call my friend John Rhodes, a physical therapist. Later that day, X-rays would show a vertebrae had cracked, a chip missing from the corner. Narcotic pain pills didn't save me from my worst night of agony ever, not from the broken spine, but from the trauma to the abdominal muscles. What did I learn from this experience? Choose a heavier partner to go first when leaping from high places!
These days, I'm content with not knowing my number. Maybe it's better that way.
Perfect World
PBS, the Public Broadcasting Service, credits a sponsor, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, with a motto that says "Dedicated to the idea that all people deserve the chance to live a healthy and productive life."
I listen to NPR because I really hate having my intelligence (see Rocket Science blog) insulted by stupid radio commercials. Also, I can get titillated from shocking news stories, then share gory details without guilt. Oh, by the way, did I mention I heard it on NPR? So you know it's true. Plus, it's fun to wonder what some of the broadcasters are like in "real" life, that is, life outside the radio personality world.
The first several times I heard "Dedicated to the idea that all people deserve the chance to live a healthy and productive life.", I didn't hear it. You know. I heard it, but I didn't hear it. I wasn't listening, I was filtering. It was just white noise, an ad on NPR - which is NPR because it doesn't have ads - it has affiliates, which have annual fund drives, which are sometimes more annoying than ads, because they bust out the guilt hammer to get me to send money to KJZZ, my local station.
But one day, the devil's advocate in me thought, "Wait a minute. That's an ideal that sounds so irrefutable, someone needs to refute it." So I stepped up to the plate: it was my turn at bat.
To be fair, there is a sort of disclaimer that it's only an "idea" that all people deserve the chance to live a healthy and productive life. It seems to me a pretty good idea, but apparently nature doesn't think so. Communism seems like a pretty good idea, too, it just doesn't work. You know that pie we wanted to cut up into equal sized pieces and distribute to everyone equally? Half of it just got eaten by some of the distributors, so now our ten-inch pie is a five-inch pie. And there's the rub. Human nature, being what it is (that's right, what it is, not what I'd like it to be), won't allow communism to work in practice. Of course this is a bit of an oversimplification, but but you get the idea.
Many ideas turn out to be ideals, and it's good to work toward an ideal, which is what I think the Gates Foundation is up to. But if we think it's going to happen before some river can carve another Grand Canyon, we're setting ourselves up for disappointment. If Mr. Hitler had gotten his way, and achieved his ideal of racial purity, the world would eventually be populated by a bunch of Aryan mutant freaks, the result of too much inbreeding.
If you search the Gates' Foundation's website for "Dedicated to the idea that all people deserve the chance to live a healthy and productive life," you won't find it. Instead, at the top of the page, on the same level as the name of the foundation, the motto ALL LIVES HAVE EQUAL VALUE appears, just like that, in capital letters. Now there's an idea I find irrefutable.
I listen to NPR because I really hate having my intelligence (see Rocket Science blog) insulted by stupid radio commercials. Also, I can get titillated from shocking news stories, then share gory details without guilt. Oh, by the way, did I mention I heard it on NPR? So you know it's true. Plus, it's fun to wonder what some of the broadcasters are like in "real" life, that is, life outside the radio personality world.
The first several times I heard "Dedicated to the idea that all people deserve the chance to live a healthy and productive life.", I didn't hear it. You know. I heard it, but I didn't hear it. I wasn't listening, I was filtering. It was just white noise, an ad on NPR - which is NPR because it doesn't have ads - it has affiliates, which have annual fund drives, which are sometimes more annoying than ads, because they bust out the guilt hammer to get me to send money to KJZZ, my local station.
But one day, the devil's advocate in me thought, "Wait a minute. That's an ideal that sounds so irrefutable, someone needs to refute it." So I stepped up to the plate: it was my turn at bat.
To be fair, there is a sort of disclaimer that it's only an "idea" that all people deserve the chance to live a healthy and productive life. It seems to me a pretty good idea, but apparently nature doesn't think so. Communism seems like a pretty good idea, too, it just doesn't work. You know that pie we wanted to cut up into equal sized pieces and distribute to everyone equally? Half of it just got eaten by some of the distributors, so now our ten-inch pie is a five-inch pie. And there's the rub. Human nature, being what it is (that's right, what it is, not what I'd like it to be), won't allow communism to work in practice. Of course this is a bit of an oversimplification, but but you get the idea.
Many ideas turn out to be ideals, and it's good to work toward an ideal, which is what I think the Gates Foundation is up to. But if we think it's going to happen before some river can carve another Grand Canyon, we're setting ourselves up for disappointment. If Mr. Hitler had gotten his way, and achieved his ideal of racial purity, the world would eventually be populated by a bunch of Aryan mutant freaks, the result of too much inbreeding.
If you search the Gates' Foundation's website for "Dedicated to the idea that all people deserve the chance to live a healthy and productive life," you won't find it. Instead, at the top of the page, on the same level as the name of the foundation, the motto ALL LIVES HAVE EQUAL VALUE appears, just like that, in capital letters. Now there's an idea I find irrefutable.
18 January 2011
Help?
Not much of a blog today. Spent the last 90 minutes of "blog" time in the midtown Manhattan of the Web sites, airlines/travel. So easy to get lost. I think I'd rather do research for a book about the Spanish Civil War.
Oh well. When I get frustrated to the point I feel like I need something stronger than Trader Joe's low acid French Roast, I'll ask for help.
Today's one-liner: Sometimes you don't know what you don't know. I do know one thing. I don't want to be a travel agent.
Oh well. When I get frustrated to the point I feel like I need something stronger than Trader Joe's low acid French Roast, I'll ask for help.
Today's one-liner: Sometimes you don't know what you don't know. I do know one thing. I don't want to be a travel agent.
16 January 2011
The World's Tallest Midget at 6'4"
The title of today's blog was my dad's idea of humor. I thought it was funny, and it reminds me of the title of a John Prine song titled "The Oldest Baby in the World," about a woman (in this case) who's lost that fleeting quality of physical attractiveness that causes the opposite sex (in this case) to pursue her. Although, as in most of Prine's songwriting, there is the usual burlesque humor, the main message is not satirical, but a compassionate sketch of the child within the adult, longing for love, but ignorant of the fact that love isn't romance, and romance isn't happiness, and happiness is not a goal but a byproduct of a life well lived.
"She's got the mind of a child
And a body peaking over the hill
Well, she would if she could
And she should, but nobody will
With her nails painted red
And her hair so unnaturally curled
Well I think that she may be
The oldest baby in the world
She's tasted the night life
But it's left her with nothing but hunger
And all the available men
Seem to think that they want something younger
But youth is a costume
And the beauty within lies unfurled
And I think that she may be
The oldest baby in the world
Fast horses win races
And royal flushes beat aces
And everyone's playing to keep
So let's turn out the lights
And rock that old baby to sleep
She loves the sound of the rain
But you know she's still afraid of the thunder
She keeps a head full of hope
And a heart that's so full of wonder
She may look like a woman
But she's still some daddy's little girl
And I think that she may be
The oldest baby in the world
Yes, I think that she may be
The oldest baby in the world."
Tomorrow my eldest and her husband leave for the Dominican Republic (D.R.) for six months. Matt is the Executive Director of Peligre Hope Partners and will traverse the island from the D.R. to Haiti to aid and develop Haiti for the Haitians, a people who have suffered too much for too long and who wouldn't know a "safety net" if it fell on them, which, by all indicators, never will. My middle child, Elizabeth, and her husband Josiah will follow Matt and Kelly to the D.R. later this month.
As a father, and especially a father who saw his role as provider/protector in the days when they were children, I feel sad and a little bit anxious. Mostly sad, because I am selfish and I will miss them. Anxious because I know I can't just pick up the phone and call them (or can I?), or drive ten minutes and have coffee with them.
More importantly, though, I feel an enormous sense of pride in the lives that my daughters have chosen to live. Sure, they're taking some risks, but they're not letting fear rule the gift of life they've been given. I'm not sure going to one of the poorest countries in Western Hemisphere is any riskier than sitting on a bar stool hoping that Mr. or Ms. Right will come along and think that you're wonderful, and that you'll ride off into the sunset together.
Sure, they're young, and sure, this is an adventure, but not a foolhardy adventure. You see, my daughters didn't spend their childhoods in gated communities in north Scottsdale, insulated from the mostly self-inflicted, quasi-misery of American poverty. They've been adults for a few years now, and they've chosen to live in areas where the darker side of human nature is right out front for you to see, not hidden behind the facade of expensive homes and automobiles and manicured lawns.
They'll be okay in the D.R., and they'll be okay in Haiti. My significant other reminded me this morning that my girls are street smart, not tourists from New Jersey about to become some Puerto Plata neighborhood thug's next mark. More importantly, the Power that sees to it that the rest of us are powerless will watch over them. This Power has assured me that everything is just as it's supposed to be, right now.
My daughters and sons-in-law are neither more nor less than anyone else who has made different choices.
Kelly and Elizabeth may look like women, but they're still some daddy's little girls. And just in case I haven't conveyed it, I love them and am really proud of them.
"She's got the mind of a child
And a body peaking over the hill
Well, she would if she could
And she should, but nobody will
With her nails painted red
And her hair so unnaturally curled
Well I think that she may be
The oldest baby in the world
She's tasted the night life
But it's left her with nothing but hunger
And all the available men
Seem to think that they want something younger
But youth is a costume
And the beauty within lies unfurled
And I think that she may be
The oldest baby in the world
Fast horses win races
And royal flushes beat aces
And everyone's playing to keep
So let's turn out the lights
And rock that old baby to sleep
She loves the sound of the rain
But you know she's still afraid of the thunder
She keeps a head full of hope
And a heart that's so full of wonder
She may look like a woman
But she's still some daddy's little girl
And I think that she may be
The oldest baby in the world
Yes, I think that she may be
The oldest baby in the world."
Tomorrow my eldest and her husband leave for the Dominican Republic (D.R.) for six months. Matt is the Executive Director of Peligre Hope Partners and will traverse the island from the D.R. to Haiti to aid and develop Haiti for the Haitians, a people who have suffered too much for too long and who wouldn't know a "safety net" if it fell on them, which, by all indicators, never will. My middle child, Elizabeth, and her husband Josiah will follow Matt and Kelly to the D.R. later this month.
As a father, and especially a father who saw his role as provider/protector in the days when they were children, I feel sad and a little bit anxious. Mostly sad, because I am selfish and I will miss them. Anxious because I know I can't just pick up the phone and call them (or can I?), or drive ten minutes and have coffee with them.
More importantly, though, I feel an enormous sense of pride in the lives that my daughters have chosen to live. Sure, they're taking some risks, but they're not letting fear rule the gift of life they've been given. I'm not sure going to one of the poorest countries in Western Hemisphere is any riskier than sitting on a bar stool hoping that Mr. or Ms. Right will come along and think that you're wonderful, and that you'll ride off into the sunset together.
Sure, they're young, and sure, this is an adventure, but not a foolhardy adventure. You see, my daughters didn't spend their childhoods in gated communities in north Scottsdale, insulated from the mostly self-inflicted, quasi-misery of American poverty. They've been adults for a few years now, and they've chosen to live in areas where the darker side of human nature is right out front for you to see, not hidden behind the facade of expensive homes and automobiles and manicured lawns.
They'll be okay in the D.R., and they'll be okay in Haiti. My significant other reminded me this morning that my girls are street smart, not tourists from New Jersey about to become some Puerto Plata neighborhood thug's next mark. More importantly, the Power that sees to it that the rest of us are powerless will watch over them. This Power has assured me that everything is just as it's supposed to be, right now.
My daughters and sons-in-law are neither more nor less than anyone else who has made different choices.
Kelly and Elizabeth may look like women, but they're still some daddy's little girls. And just in case I haven't conveyed it, I love them and am really proud of them.
15 January 2011
Broke "THE Rule"
Ever set out to solve a problem, and before long, you begin to decide that maybe that problem really wasn't so much of a problem as it was an opportunity for "improvement?" Now, your problem has become two or more problems, and you find yourself wishing you had your original problem back.
This happens to me less frequently than it used to, but I still occasionally find myself breaking one of the few rules I have for living: "If it works, don't fix it."
Thursday after work, I decided I'd do what I'd been thinking of doing for a while. I didn't like the internet modem and wireless router in the northwest corner of the living room with a bunch of other electronic stuff and The Great Tangle of Cords. There was nothing really wrong with where the internet stuff was, I just thought I could improve upon this "problem."
Uh-huh. After splicing cables and drilling holes through the outside and inside walls of the house, my modem fell 18" from where I had placed it on a chair and instantly became a worthless plastic box with a useless circuit board inside it. In a word: trash.
First thing the next morning I was spending 60+ dollars for a new modem. Brought it home, connected it, ran the set-up assistant, and failed to establish an internet connection. Called the cable company, spent an hour on the phone trying various troubleshooting techniques. No internet connection. The phone rep scheduled a repair person to come to the house the following afternoon.
Did I mention that I like things that work? As if that wasn't enough, I just noticed that an ember from that fire I'm learning so many lessons from has landed on my keyboard and burned a hole the size of a pencil eraser, half of the hole burned away the top of the Backspace key and half of the hole burned away the bottom of the Pause key. Lovely.
Am I the only one that has a love/hate relationship with all things technical? I'd love to hear your thoughts...
This happens to me less frequently than it used to, but I still occasionally find myself breaking one of the few rules I have for living: "If it works, don't fix it."
Thursday after work, I decided I'd do what I'd been thinking of doing for a while. I didn't like the internet modem and wireless router in the northwest corner of the living room with a bunch of other electronic stuff and The Great Tangle of Cords. There was nothing really wrong with where the internet stuff was, I just thought I could improve upon this "problem."
Uh-huh. After splicing cables and drilling holes through the outside and inside walls of the house, my modem fell 18" from where I had placed it on a chair and instantly became a worthless plastic box with a useless circuit board inside it. In a word: trash.
First thing the next morning I was spending 60+ dollars for a new modem. Brought it home, connected it, ran the set-up assistant, and failed to establish an internet connection. Called the cable company, spent an hour on the phone trying various troubleshooting techniques. No internet connection. The phone rep scheduled a repair person to come to the house the following afternoon.
Did I mention that I like things that work? As if that wasn't enough, I just noticed that an ember from that fire I'm learning so many lessons from has landed on my keyboard and burned a hole the size of a pencil eraser, half of the hole burned away the top of the Backspace key and half of the hole burned away the bottom of the Pause key. Lovely.
Am I the only one that has a love/hate relationship with all things technical? I'd love to hear your thoughts...
13 January 2011
Judging Your Inside by My Outside
I like humor, but I've come to understand how subjective humor is. If good humor were a science, we'd have rehab for movie addicts. Laughing makes me feel good. If I could figure out a way to laugh every time, all I'd do is do the thing, or watch the thing, that makes me laugh. Soon I'd be jobless and homeless and I'd hit what's known as "my bottom," and most likely, I wouldn't be laughing anymore.
Absurd overstatements or subtle (and absurd) understatements are the things that make me laugh. The movies "Anchorman" and "The Royal Tenenbaums" are examples, respectively, of the kinds of over and understatements that make me laugh. Ron Burgundy is the protagonist in "Anchorman," a local news anchor so full of himself that he makes me look humble. We see him primping with a hand mirror in the first few minutes of the movie as he prepares to go live on the evening news, when suddenly he declares, "I look good, I look really good." Then the absurd part. He says, "Hey everybody, come see how good I look."
One of the complex things about humor is that what makes me laugh are things that are absurd but have a faint (or not so faint) ring of truth in them, things I recognize as my own character defects, the twists and distortions of my psyche and personality.
Be honest. Which of us has not, at some point, maybe while getting ready to attend a wedding or something, has not looked in the mirror and, instead of the usual indifference, thought to ourselves, "I look good, I look really good." Thankfully, most of us don't shout out for everyone to come see how good we think we look. I guess that's impulse control at its most basic form.
A good friend once suggested that I not judge my own insides, who I really am, by other people's outsides. That is to say, don't measure my own worth by what I perceive others to be, based on how they look, what they drive, where they live, et al. I can really fall into that trap, and I do so on a fairly regular basis. It brings out the old "less than" monster, the feeling that says, "See. I knew I was a loser. This is just tangible proof."
Just being aware that I tend to do that helps quite a bit. I don't know much of anything about others beyond what I see on the outside. I have no idea how patient, tolerant, or kind they are. I mention those three attributes because that's what I aspire to, not because that's what I think everyone else should aspire to. I realize I'm a long way from being as patient, tolerant, or kind as I someday hope to be. But I'm definitely not as impatient, intolerant, or unkind as I have been in the past.
It's a good day. I'm above ground, and I can practice. By the way, you look really good.
Absurd overstatements or subtle (and absurd) understatements are the things that make me laugh. The movies "Anchorman" and "The Royal Tenenbaums" are examples, respectively, of the kinds of over and understatements that make me laugh. Ron Burgundy is the protagonist in "Anchorman," a local news anchor so full of himself that he makes me look humble. We see him primping with a hand mirror in the first few minutes of the movie as he prepares to go live on the evening news, when suddenly he declares, "I look good, I look really good." Then the absurd part. He says, "Hey everybody, come see how good I look."
One of the complex things about humor is that what makes me laugh are things that are absurd but have a faint (or not so faint) ring of truth in them, things I recognize as my own character defects, the twists and distortions of my psyche and personality.
Be honest. Which of us has not, at some point, maybe while getting ready to attend a wedding or something, has not looked in the mirror and, instead of the usual indifference, thought to ourselves, "I look good, I look really good." Thankfully, most of us don't shout out for everyone to come see how good we think we look. I guess that's impulse control at its most basic form.
A good friend once suggested that I not judge my own insides, who I really am, by other people's outsides. That is to say, don't measure my own worth by what I perceive others to be, based on how they look, what they drive, where they live, et al. I can really fall into that trap, and I do so on a fairly regular basis. It brings out the old "less than" monster, the feeling that says, "See. I knew I was a loser. This is just tangible proof."
Just being aware that I tend to do that helps quite a bit. I don't know much of anything about others beyond what I see on the outside. I have no idea how patient, tolerant, or kind they are. I mention those three attributes because that's what I aspire to, not because that's what I think everyone else should aspire to. I realize I'm a long way from being as patient, tolerant, or kind as I someday hope to be. But I'm definitely not as impatient, intolerant, or unkind as I have been in the past.
It's a good day. I'm above ground, and I can practice. By the way, you look really good.
12 January 2011
Work, Sloth, and the Importance of Being Smarter than the Dog
My dad's father once said, "If you want to train a dog, you have to be smarter than the dog."
What seems so obvious may have a deeper lesson. Dogs are consistent when it comes to understanding the relationship between behavior and reward. I walk, my dogs run. I ring a small bell, and they come and sit at my feet. They don't get a dog treat until they're present and sitting. And of course, if they don't come when I ring the bell, they go without the treat. You can count on this every time. You can take it to the bank, as they say.
Almost 33 years ago, I went to work for a large company, a quasi-municipality. I was 21 years old. When I tell people I've worked for the same company since 1978, they normally comment on how unusual it is for someone to stay with one employer for so long, as if it's some kind of mysterious phenomenon. For me, it's really pretty simple. They (my employer) keep ringing the bell and I keep showing up for the treat.
When I go to work, I expect to find something to keep me occupied for the day, and I'm rarely disappointed. I don't go there to sit in meetings, talk about my personal life, or work on my own agenda, although occasionally those things happen too.
It's a pretty straightforward deal. I like to eat and to have shelter, and as long as I keep showing up with the willingness to accomplish my employer's agenda, they keep their end of the bargain and put money in my bank account every couple of weeks. Work is not always easy, and many times I'd much rather be doing something else.
But that's why they call it "work."
.
What seems so obvious may have a deeper lesson. Dogs are consistent when it comes to understanding the relationship between behavior and reward. I walk, my dogs run. I ring a small bell, and they come and sit at my feet. They don't get a dog treat until they're present and sitting. And of course, if they don't come when I ring the bell, they go without the treat. You can count on this every time. You can take it to the bank, as they say.
Almost 33 years ago, I went to work for a large company, a quasi-municipality. I was 21 years old. When I tell people I've worked for the same company since 1978, they normally comment on how unusual it is for someone to stay with one employer for so long, as if it's some kind of mysterious phenomenon. For me, it's really pretty simple. They (my employer) keep ringing the bell and I keep showing up for the treat.
When I go to work, I expect to find something to keep me occupied for the day, and I'm rarely disappointed. I don't go there to sit in meetings, talk about my personal life, or work on my own agenda, although occasionally those things happen too.
It's a pretty straightforward deal. I like to eat and to have shelter, and as long as I keep showing up with the willingness to accomplish my employer's agenda, they keep their end of the bargain and put money in my bank account every couple of weeks. Work is not always easy, and many times I'd much rather be doing something else.
But that's why they call it "work."
.
10 January 2011
Well, How Do You Do, 2011?
I named my blog Lessons from the Fire because, in the darkness of an early December morning, in my living room, on the couch, by the fireplace, after my walk of at least 9/10 of a mile (don't ask) with the dogs, drinking a Thermos of coffee one tiny Styrofoam cup at a time, staring at a computer screen as if something amazing or astonishing or awe-inspiring or exceptional or extraordinary or phenomenal or rare or uncommon or special or interesting or life-changing were going to suddenly and spontaneously appear this time, I felt really, really disenchanted with technology in general and the "Web" in particular. I thought, "Why do I do this? I'm so disappointed with modern life. I mean, I can Google anything and instantly know more than I wanted to know about it. I can send and receive messages to and from every corner of the planet. News, weather, sports - anyone, anywhere, anytime - not a problem. Shouldn't this make me at least somewhat happy?"
It does not. And so I look away from the orderly glow of the computer screen to the chaotic glow of the fire burning in the fireplace.
I wonder why I'm almost 54 years old and still spend quite a bit of time on cold mornings like this fooling around with the fire when I could be combing the World Wide Web for all its "useless and pointless knowledge," to borrow a 1965 Bob Dylan lyric. The answer is that fire is more interesting to me, often, than what I end up finding online. Still, I do my banking, pay some bills, and check my email for that personal invitation to dine with Barack and Michelle on Pennsylvania Avenue.
I thought I'd explain the title of my blog so that no one would mistake it for some high-minded treatise on the trials and tribulations of my cushy American life and unremarkable past.
The metaphoric qualities of fire to life are legion, and I won't pretend to be able to list all, or even most of them as an amateur writer. Besides, I feel pretty sure it would be a bit of reinventing the wheel, as it seems very unlikely that someone else, or a bunch of other someones hasn't already listed them.
Fire is primal, necessary and dangerous. It has the power to save life and destroy it. It can boil water, kill bacteria, save you from freezing or asphyxiate you.
Starting a fire can be both easier and harder than you might think. Fire only wants fuel and oxygen, but it wants them in roughly equal quantities. Ever watched someone throw a match on a dead Christmas tree? It virtually explodes because the combination of fuel (dead pine needles) and oxygen (the spaces between the tens of thousands of needles) is optimal. Loosely packed sawdust can be explosively and spontaneously combustive. Amateur human fire builders are notorious for misunderstanding the flash point of various materials. They try to light a large log soaked with lighter fluid using a single match and then wonder why the fire goes out when the lighter fluid burns away. Start with something small and dry and don't pack it tightly together. Leave some air space or blow on it. Gradually build up to larger pieces of combustible material and you'll have a fire.
I'm no expert about fire, but I do know a little. Fire is still teaching me. Like how it's good to respect simple, old things that have stood the test of time. Do it, but don't over-do it. And when it goes out, maybe that's a sign that it's time to move on.
It does not. And so I look away from the orderly glow of the computer screen to the chaotic glow of the fire burning in the fireplace.
I wonder why I'm almost 54 years old and still spend quite a bit of time on cold mornings like this fooling around with the fire when I could be combing the World Wide Web for all its "useless and pointless knowledge," to borrow a 1965 Bob Dylan lyric. The answer is that fire is more interesting to me, often, than what I end up finding online. Still, I do my banking, pay some bills, and check my email for that personal invitation to dine with Barack and Michelle on Pennsylvania Avenue.
I thought I'd explain the title of my blog so that no one would mistake it for some high-minded treatise on the trials and tribulations of my cushy American life and unremarkable past.
The metaphoric qualities of fire to life are legion, and I won't pretend to be able to list all, or even most of them as an amateur writer. Besides, I feel pretty sure it would be a bit of reinventing the wheel, as it seems very unlikely that someone else, or a bunch of other someones hasn't already listed them.
Fire is primal, necessary and dangerous. It has the power to save life and destroy it. It can boil water, kill bacteria, save you from freezing or asphyxiate you.
Starting a fire can be both easier and harder than you might think. Fire only wants fuel and oxygen, but it wants them in roughly equal quantities. Ever watched someone throw a match on a dead Christmas tree? It virtually explodes because the combination of fuel (dead pine needles) and oxygen (the spaces between the tens of thousands of needles) is optimal. Loosely packed sawdust can be explosively and spontaneously combustive. Amateur human fire builders are notorious for misunderstanding the flash point of various materials. They try to light a large log soaked with lighter fluid using a single match and then wonder why the fire goes out when the lighter fluid burns away. Start with something small and dry and don't pack it tightly together. Leave some air space or blow on it. Gradually build up to larger pieces of combustible material and you'll have a fire.
I'm no expert about fire, but I do know a little. Fire is still teaching me. Like how it's good to respect simple, old things that have stood the test of time. Do it, but don't over-do it. And when it goes out, maybe that's a sign that it's time to move on.
Ou
The title of today's entry is not a typo. But just as "typo" is short for "typographical error," today "ou" is short for "ouch."
I'm pretty full of myself most of the time. Admitting that I'm full of myself doesn't make me less full of myself. It only means that I'm aware that my ego's normal state is one of over-inflation.
My mom is 77 today. She hasn't been to a doctor in well over two decades. She's been pretty healthy, with only the normal aches and pains that come with having birthdays. She doesn't want to be told she has high cholesterol or blood pressure because then she'd feel like she'd have to do something about it.
I understand that kind of thinking. Ignorance is bliss. If it works, don't fix it. What you don't know won't hurt you. After all, none of us get out of here alive.
The other camp, the prevention camp, prefers to try and take a regular inventory based on (hopefully) statistical factors affecting mortality. They'd call my mom's reasoning denial, something that doesn't bode well for a healthy mind, body, or spirit.
I never imagined a world without my parents. Then one day 12 years ago, my sister called to tell me our father had suffered a serious aneurysm and was in intensive care at a hospital in western New York. We both bought plane tickets, she in L.A. and I in Phoenix, and met in Buffalo, rented a car, and drove to Medina, where he died two weeks later. I'm grateful that during those two weeks there were times when he was fairly lucid and I got to talk to him a bit.
On my 42nd birthday, I kissed his funny old forehead and told him I'd see him in a few weeks. Two days later, 25 February 1999, I got a call from my aunt, his sister, saying that he was "gone."
Gone he was. The forehead I kissed as he lie in the casket was not my dad's forehead. It was the shell he inhabited while his spirit lived on earth. He certainly was gone, and as far as I could tell, he'd never be back. Those things hurt in a way not many other things can.
I miss my dad. I've missed him every day since that cold day in February 1999. My kids miss him. His wife misses him. He is no longer here, and we must go on.
I talked to my mom today and she's going to go to the doctor and get things checked out. A neighbor helped her find a doctor and is going to go with her. I felt much better after hearing that, as I began to see how I was becoming a bit over-confident that my mom would always be here.
Even at 53, I don't want to be an orphan. My mom and dad did the best they could with who they were, and I love them. When it comes time for the next one of us to check out, I want to have been a little more patient, a little more tolerant, and most of all, a little more kind.
I hate saying goodbye.
I'm pretty full of myself most of the time. Admitting that I'm full of myself doesn't make me less full of myself. It only means that I'm aware that my ego's normal state is one of over-inflation.
My mom is 77 today. She hasn't been to a doctor in well over two decades. She's been pretty healthy, with only the normal aches and pains that come with having birthdays. She doesn't want to be told she has high cholesterol or blood pressure because then she'd feel like she'd have to do something about it.
I understand that kind of thinking. Ignorance is bliss. If it works, don't fix it. What you don't know won't hurt you. After all, none of us get out of here alive.
The other camp, the prevention camp, prefers to try and take a regular inventory based on (hopefully) statistical factors affecting mortality. They'd call my mom's reasoning denial, something that doesn't bode well for a healthy mind, body, or spirit.
I never imagined a world without my parents. Then one day 12 years ago, my sister called to tell me our father had suffered a serious aneurysm and was in intensive care at a hospital in western New York. We both bought plane tickets, she in L.A. and I in Phoenix, and met in Buffalo, rented a car, and drove to Medina, where he died two weeks later. I'm grateful that during those two weeks there were times when he was fairly lucid and I got to talk to him a bit.
On my 42nd birthday, I kissed his funny old forehead and told him I'd see him in a few weeks. Two days later, 25 February 1999, I got a call from my aunt, his sister, saying that he was "gone."
Gone he was. The forehead I kissed as he lie in the casket was not my dad's forehead. It was the shell he inhabited while his spirit lived on earth. He certainly was gone, and as far as I could tell, he'd never be back. Those things hurt in a way not many other things can.
I miss my dad. I've missed him every day since that cold day in February 1999. My kids miss him. His wife misses him. He is no longer here, and we must go on.
I talked to my mom today and she's going to go to the doctor and get things checked out. A neighbor helped her find a doctor and is going to go with her. I felt much better after hearing that, as I began to see how I was becoming a bit over-confident that my mom would always be here.
Even at 53, I don't want to be an orphan. My mom and dad did the best they could with who they were, and I love them. When it comes time for the next one of us to check out, I want to have been a little more patient, a little more tolerant, and most of all, a little more kind.
I hate saying goodbye.
08 January 2011
I'm an Egomaniac with an Inferiority Complex
I was musing/smiling about those song lyrics from the Steve Miller song "The Joker" that say "People keep talkin' 'bout me, baby..." Also, the Lynyrd Skynyrd song "The Breeze," ("Well, now, they call me the Breeze...").
I was laughing inwardly (as opposed to "lol" or Laughing Out Loud), was because I was thinking of the one-liner my friend Scott gave me... "I used to worry about what other people thought of me, until I realized they don't." I just thought, popular music is funny sometimes, and it's easier to get away with saying stupid shit than it is in real life. Like, "People keep talkin' 'bout me, baby..."
Really? Does anyone, at any age, believe other people spend a lot of time thinking or talking about them?
I know, I know. I'm probably making way too much of it, but isn't making way too much of not much kind of what blogging is all about? Pretending like I have something new or important to say, when everyone knows there's nothing new under the sun. A lot of re-packaged old stuff that seems new, but trust me, it's not.
It's fun to think that someone else is going to notice the salsa spot half the size of a dime on my shirt sleeve, but no one will. I'll change shirts in the belief that others are paying attention to me, but they're not. They're thinking about whether or not they have any spots on their clothing. At least in my culture that's how it goes.
I was laughing inwardly (as opposed to "lol" or Laughing Out Loud), was because I was thinking of the one-liner my friend Scott gave me... "I used to worry about what other people thought of me, until I realized they don't." I just thought, popular music is funny sometimes, and it's easier to get away with saying stupid shit than it is in real life. Like, "People keep talkin' 'bout me, baby..."
Really? Does anyone, at any age, believe other people spend a lot of time thinking or talking about them?
I know, I know. I'm probably making way too much of it, but isn't making way too much of not much kind of what blogging is all about? Pretending like I have something new or important to say, when everyone knows there's nothing new under the sun. A lot of re-packaged old stuff that seems new, but trust me, it's not.
It's fun to think that someone else is going to notice the salsa spot half the size of a dime on my shirt sleeve, but no one will. I'll change shirts in the belief that others are paying attention to me, but they're not. They're thinking about whether or not they have any spots on their clothing. At least in my culture that's how it goes.
06 January 2011
Learning by Frustration
I like things. I like things that work.
This is a side-door, sneaky, dishonest way of saying that I hate things that don't work.
I'll get right to the point. This morning I'm frustrated (again) by computers, specifically the two ancient laptop/notebook/whatever computers I own. We'll call one the Little White One and the other we'll call The Other One. They're both PCs, not Macs.
I know the Little White One is about six years old. I'm not sure how old The Other One is, but I know it's four or more years old, and that's why both of them are ancient. Not old, ancient. That's just the way it is in the tech world, right?
I like to wake up about 4:00 a.m., walk a mile, come home, build a fire in the fireplace, find my glasses, and sit down on the couch with a Thermos of coffee and a little white Styrofoam cup that I keep refilling. I do this because that way I can drink an entire Thermos of coffee one tiny cup at a time and not feel like I had a big ol' cup of coffee. But mainly I do it because I have a very difficult time finishing things I start (including cups of coffee) and that way, if my coffee sits too long and gets cold, I merely take the top off the Thermos, pour the tepid coffee back in, and voila! A Thermos of coffee just a little less hot than it was before, but still hot.
Back to the point. The Little White One connects to our wireless internet connection, but it's really slow. So all the stuff I said about wanting to be patient, well, I really don't want to be patient when it comes to computers. I want them to work and I want them to work right now.
The Other One connects to the internet sometimes and sometimes it doesn't and I don't know why. I do know that it frustrates the hell out of me because I get caught up in this vortex of trying to fix the connection, with just enough little pop-up messages to give me hope, and end up spending an hour or more accomplishing nothing. Nothing except changing my mood from serene to frustrated and angry.
I have no more time to complain about this this morning, so I'm going to work.
God bless the slow Little White One.
This is a side-door, sneaky, dishonest way of saying that I hate things that don't work.
I'll get right to the point. This morning I'm frustrated (again) by computers, specifically the two ancient laptop/notebook/whatever computers I own. We'll call one the Little White One and the other we'll call The Other One. They're both PCs, not Macs.
I know the Little White One is about six years old. I'm not sure how old The Other One is, but I know it's four or more years old, and that's why both of them are ancient. Not old, ancient. That's just the way it is in the tech world, right?
I like to wake up about 4:00 a.m., walk a mile, come home, build a fire in the fireplace, find my glasses, and sit down on the couch with a Thermos of coffee and a little white Styrofoam cup that I keep refilling. I do this because that way I can drink an entire Thermos of coffee one tiny cup at a time and not feel like I had a big ol' cup of coffee. But mainly I do it because I have a very difficult time finishing things I start (including cups of coffee) and that way, if my coffee sits too long and gets cold, I merely take the top off the Thermos, pour the tepid coffee back in, and voila! A Thermos of coffee just a little less hot than it was before, but still hot.
Back to the point. The Little White One connects to our wireless internet connection, but it's really slow. So all the stuff I said about wanting to be patient, well, I really don't want to be patient when it comes to computers. I want them to work and I want them to work right now.
The Other One connects to the internet sometimes and sometimes it doesn't and I don't know why. I do know that it frustrates the hell out of me because I get caught up in this vortex of trying to fix the connection, with just enough little pop-up messages to give me hope, and end up spending an hour or more accomplishing nothing. Nothing except changing my mood from serene to frustrated and angry.
I have no more time to complain about this this morning, so I'm going to work.
God bless the slow Little White One.
04 January 2011
Survival
Okay, so I over-edit when I write and can't seem to get anything posted or published or whatever it's called.
I know one thing, these sites with tabs and drop-down menus and drill-down lists of endless choices all arranged neatly and logically, could not have been created by a brain like mine in less time than it would take a room full of monkeys with laptop computers to type the complete works of Shakespeare.
I now have 14 minutes before I need to start the process of getting out the door to work. Make that 13 minutes.
I'm surviving today, like I did yesterday and, if it's meant to be, like I will tomorrow. So are you. Whatever you're doing, whatever you've done, whatever you will do, you do as part of the way you survive. It works for you. When it stops working, you'll stop doing it and try something else. It may take a while, it may even take years, but if you like being alive enough, you will eventually adapt your behavior in order to survive.
Living is surviving, but not the other way around. I've seen the sun come up and go down a few times and I've survived 53 summers in the Sonoran Desert. I don't know much about living, but I know a little about surviving.
I now have two minutes before I need to put my lunch in my bag and go do what I've done for most of the past 35 years - show up to survive.
I know one thing, these sites with tabs and drop-down menus and drill-down lists of endless choices all arranged neatly and logically, could not have been created by a brain like mine in less time than it would take a room full of monkeys with laptop computers to type the complete works of Shakespeare.
I now have 14 minutes before I need to start the process of getting out the door to work. Make that 13 minutes.
I'm surviving today, like I did yesterday and, if it's meant to be, like I will tomorrow. So are you. Whatever you're doing, whatever you've done, whatever you will do, you do as part of the way you survive. It works for you. When it stops working, you'll stop doing it and try something else. It may take a while, it may even take years, but if you like being alive enough, you will eventually adapt your behavior in order to survive.
Living is surviving, but not the other way around. I've seen the sun come up and go down a few times and I've survived 53 summers in the Sonoran Desert. I don't know much about living, but I know a little about surviving.
I now have two minutes before I need to put my lunch in my bag and go do what I've done for most of the past 35 years - show up to survive.
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