A little less than a week ago, I wrote something simply too dark to post here, as indicated by its title "Embrace the Insanity."
It was really Rickie talking to himself about just letting the demon in his head that he'd learn to manage go. To take a break from what can be the exhausting ongoing chore of control. To just be.
Of course, if I wrote it, I tried it. And I still can't process the result.
Without picking and choosing, I went down unexpected trails. I had to react on my feet instead of using experience. I felt the rush of adventure and maybe the fear of not knowing next. Even as the visceral part of me knew it was in situations it craved because they were unknown, the observer part of me was in the corner reviewing.
For almost all my life, I've kept Observer in the corner. He never forgets, he always comes around later to speak up, sometimes to even say "I've told you so before and will again." But he had to be second to Visceral.
I don't believe in regret. It's all about choices and consequences to me. Visceral was sort of a given choice every time. Observer was the expressor of the consequences. But they went in that order.
Except on the holiday I'd deemed for insanity embrace. The demon began to dance. He worked up a decent sweat. Visceral was in his prime. And Observer spoke up. Maybe it's better to say he expressed. It was almost as if he was just at the side shaking his head and taking notes for the consequences symposium.
I listened. I didn't really want to. In honesty, I'd covered my ears throughout the evening. But at a critical juncture, at the crossroads, I saw Observer's eyes. In there, I didn't see a need to control, but concern. Not concern that would reject me or even be disappointed, just concern that what I wanted wasn't what was happening. It wasn't happening with me, but to me.
I asked Visceral to take a seat. He argued, he even struggled some. And he's strong. But I told him it had to happen.
Observer didn't congratulate me. To this point, he hasn't really spoken up on what happened and the whys. But he also didn't have to note consequences.
I think I did embrace the insanity. The thing is, there's a chance the insanity has changed.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
The sounds of silence
I've noticed an annoying speech pattern recently. People are afraid of silence.
It's highly recognizable in television commercials. Too often, that means marketers find young people speak this way - as that's the only ones they try to address outside the nightly national news - or the agency people are all that age and reflecting their own cadence. Either way, it means this is the way the next - or is it current - generation speaks.
The style is to refuse to let there be silence, to never end a thought and begin another. The speaker reaches the end of a thought and says "sooooo" until the next thought is expressed. Or says "annnnd" at the end of each thought. It ranges from the people fishing for love in EHarmony testimonials to the philanthropist who gives away shoes thanks to his cell phone.
I have a friend in which I recognize this too. Although I've known him for a decade and a half, he seems to squirm if common conversation lulls. "Sooooo," he'll say out of the blue. Worse is when he spouts "it is what it is." Even he's noted this annoyance, but utilizes it like a heroin addict taps methadone for relief.
Silence in conversation lets us process. It lets the less aggressive have a chance to chime in. It lets the conversation current drift and move somewhere else.
Maybe that's why this trend exists. There are people who need to not be required to think through their comments, to hold the stage forever and to control it all.
Or maybe they're just afraid they'll hear themselves in the silence and it will embarrass them.
It's highly recognizable in television commercials. Too often, that means marketers find young people speak this way - as that's the only ones they try to address outside the nightly national news - or the agency people are all that age and reflecting their own cadence. Either way, it means this is the way the next - or is it current - generation speaks.
The style is to refuse to let there be silence, to never end a thought and begin another. The speaker reaches the end of a thought and says "sooooo" until the next thought is expressed. Or says "annnnd" at the end of each thought. It ranges from the people fishing for love in EHarmony testimonials to the philanthropist who gives away shoes thanks to his cell phone.
I have a friend in which I recognize this too. Although I've known him for a decade and a half, he seems to squirm if common conversation lulls. "Sooooo," he'll say out of the blue. Worse is when he spouts "it is what it is." Even he's noted this annoyance, but utilizes it like a heroin addict taps methadone for relief.
Silence in conversation lets us process. It lets the less aggressive have a chance to chime in. It lets the conversation current drift and move somewhere else.
Maybe that's why this trend exists. There are people who need to not be required to think through their comments, to hold the stage forever and to control it all.
Or maybe they're just afraid they'll hear themselves in the silence and it will embarrass them.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Hope
On the 40th anniversary of Woodstock, I was watching tributes. It's nice to see the time when hope was so high, everything seemed possible and righting wrongs seemed a generation's mission. It was also fascinating for me personally to see the strength and struggle it took to enjoy the event, took me back to my own version of Woodstock and the odd circle that occurred.
Despite how I feel some mornings, I'm too young to have experienced Woodstock. But less than a decade later, I joined forces with a friend to leave Dallas-Fort Worth for Austin and an outdoor event we'd heard about there.
As near as I can recall, it was an odd amalgamation of bands. I think it was the Steve Miller Band high-flying off its album "Fly Like An Eagle." It was The Band with its ties to Bob Dylan and unknowing to us on the verge of dissolution with one of the best concert movies ever, "The Last Waltz." It was the band Chicago in its heyday. And it was a California band that was touring supporting a self-titled album and was working on something it gave us previews of called "Rumours."
Like many outdoor events in those days, the ticket sales and basic requirements didn't match up. The road to the venue was a two-lane country path that was soon jammed to immovability with thousands. Almost everyone abandoned cars and walked miles to the site, the bands' tunes wafting over hills somewhere in Austin I still can't identify. It was that walk that created camaraderie, all of us suffering together and sharing information on the music as we struggled to the site. We were joined, supportive, hopeful.
Years later when I called Austin home, I found that a curmudgeonly co-worker who tried to hide a gentle soul and with an eclectic past had been one of the promoters of that show. He cussed about the difficulties and financial loss, I told him the feeling I walked away with. I think he liked it.
One day, I found that man was gone. He wasn't young, but from all I can tell, he wound up taking his life. It's likely he was sick and didn't want to suffer. It's even more likely he simply lost hope.
In these days, I feel that way sometimes. The world's unsteady, the nation is vitriolic and intolerant in its disagreements, the economy seems to sit upon me like a bully on a playground. I look at the macro and micro and feel hopeless.
That night watching the Woodstock documentary, I enjoyed the old hope. I recalled the feeling of the Austin show that occurred after the hippie hope had been pummeled by stupid war, social revolt and assassination. I thought of the karma that let me tell the man who had given me that experience that I'd held on to it.
And I thought hope is something that survives because you don't know what will happen. And that unknown can be uplifting when it occurs. You've just got to find the strength to wait for it.
Despite how I feel some mornings, I'm too young to have experienced Woodstock. But less than a decade later, I joined forces with a friend to leave Dallas-Fort Worth for Austin and an outdoor event we'd heard about there.
As near as I can recall, it was an odd amalgamation of bands. I think it was the Steve Miller Band high-flying off its album "Fly Like An Eagle." It was The Band with its ties to Bob Dylan and unknowing to us on the verge of dissolution with one of the best concert movies ever, "The Last Waltz." It was the band Chicago in its heyday. And it was a California band that was touring supporting a self-titled album and was working on something it gave us previews of called "Rumours."
Like many outdoor events in those days, the ticket sales and basic requirements didn't match up. The road to the venue was a two-lane country path that was soon jammed to immovability with thousands. Almost everyone abandoned cars and walked miles to the site, the bands' tunes wafting over hills somewhere in Austin I still can't identify. It was that walk that created camaraderie, all of us suffering together and sharing information on the music as we struggled to the site. We were joined, supportive, hopeful.
Years later when I called Austin home, I found that a curmudgeonly co-worker who tried to hide a gentle soul and with an eclectic past had been one of the promoters of that show. He cussed about the difficulties and financial loss, I told him the feeling I walked away with. I think he liked it.
One day, I found that man was gone. He wasn't young, but from all I can tell, he wound up taking his life. It's likely he was sick and didn't want to suffer. It's even more likely he simply lost hope.
In these days, I feel that way sometimes. The world's unsteady, the nation is vitriolic and intolerant in its disagreements, the economy seems to sit upon me like a bully on a playground. I look at the macro and micro and feel hopeless.
That night watching the Woodstock documentary, I enjoyed the old hope. I recalled the feeling of the Austin show that occurred after the hippie hope had been pummeled by stupid war, social revolt and assassination. I thought of the karma that let me tell the man who had given me that experience that I'd held on to it.
And I thought hope is something that survives because you don't know what will happen. And that unknown can be uplifting when it occurs. You've just got to find the strength to wait for it.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
The Goatman and my innocence
Sounds like an early, bad Bruce Springsteen song, huh?
It was 40 years ago that the Goatman "terrorized" the Lake Worth area outside Fort Worth. He really was just a hulking bunch of hair that scared good behavior back into parking teenagers and now seems was likely some high school offensive lineman with a wig and 1969 summer hippie hair running prank.
The event was very clear to me in part because I lived in the burg right next to Lake Worth, White Settlement. It was transition time for a 12-year-old, the cusp of teenagerness and moving from elementary school into junior high. I remember peddling my bicycle into the area where the Goatman was sighted - during the day only, of course - and wondering if during the sunshine he crouched in the surrounding areas through which I peddled.
The bicycle had high rise handlebars and a gold banana seat with silver flecks. It was so flashy that if a child chose it these days there would likely be questions about his sexual orientation. But in 1969 it was almost standard issue and we seemed to believe that 12-year-olds didn't have an established orientation to consider.
The timeline made me think of that bicycle and our relationship even further. Even in the two years prior to Goatman time, I put miles and miles on those wheels, disappearing for entire days peddling over next to the then unnamed Bobcat Canyon where I knew every trail in the woods, along the gates of the then General Dynamics plant where unknown to me research was on for the next generation fighter plans and up to the fences along Carswell Air Force base where B-52s still made the earth rumble like California earthquakes and the rumor was they had atomic weapons just in case.
I probably peddled through creeks poisoned with the metals from the plants, dodged commuters along too small roads who drove gas guzzling vehicles and was always far from anyone who could identify me and who I was with. And there was simply no such thing as a bicycle helmet. It was my hair in the wind (yes, there was a time I had lots of hair) and crashes that left elbows and shins bleeding but from which I just got up.
It's that innocence that's lost. What child could ride without a helmet anymore, much less for hours and wandering miles without his parents knowledge, much less accompaniment? It's a time that made me feel free and to instill a still-sought thrill for wandering aimlessly and anonymously. In that period I think I found a lust for unexpected adventure, for heading out and dealing with what I find when I get there. I still long for it.
But in our world we can't have children with free range, or Goatmen. We lock down their brains with helmets and curfews and limitations and danger. We round up search parties and infrared and satellites for Goatmen.
We just don't have an appreciation for the unknown anymore. And that seems to be a big blow to innocence.
It was 40 years ago that the Goatman "terrorized" the Lake Worth area outside Fort Worth. He really was just a hulking bunch of hair that scared good behavior back into parking teenagers and now seems was likely some high school offensive lineman with a wig and 1969 summer hippie hair running prank.
The event was very clear to me in part because I lived in the burg right next to Lake Worth, White Settlement. It was transition time for a 12-year-old, the cusp of teenagerness and moving from elementary school into junior high. I remember peddling my bicycle into the area where the Goatman was sighted - during the day only, of course - and wondering if during the sunshine he crouched in the surrounding areas through which I peddled.
The bicycle had high rise handlebars and a gold banana seat with silver flecks. It was so flashy that if a child chose it these days there would likely be questions about his sexual orientation. But in 1969 it was almost standard issue and we seemed to believe that 12-year-olds didn't have an established orientation to consider.
The timeline made me think of that bicycle and our relationship even further. Even in the two years prior to Goatman time, I put miles and miles on those wheels, disappearing for entire days peddling over next to the then unnamed Bobcat Canyon where I knew every trail in the woods, along the gates of the then General Dynamics plant where unknown to me research was on for the next generation fighter plans and up to the fences along Carswell Air Force base where B-52s still made the earth rumble like California earthquakes and the rumor was they had atomic weapons just in case.
I probably peddled through creeks poisoned with the metals from the plants, dodged commuters along too small roads who drove gas guzzling vehicles and was always far from anyone who could identify me and who I was with. And there was simply no such thing as a bicycle helmet. It was my hair in the wind (yes, there was a time I had lots of hair) and crashes that left elbows and shins bleeding but from which I just got up.
It's that innocence that's lost. What child could ride without a helmet anymore, much less for hours and wandering miles without his parents knowledge, much less accompaniment? It's a time that made me feel free and to instill a still-sought thrill for wandering aimlessly and anonymously. In that period I think I found a lust for unexpected adventure, for heading out and dealing with what I find when I get there. I still long for it.
But in our world we can't have children with free range, or Goatmen. We lock down their brains with helmets and curfews and limitations and danger. We round up search parties and infrared and satellites for Goatmen.
We just don't have an appreciation for the unknown anymore. And that seems to be a big blow to innocence.
Monday, August 3, 2009
For what it's worth
Lately I've been doing a lot of considering of my view of the value of the written word.
Previously, I've always held fast that if it was worth writing down, it should have impact. It should cause thought or laughter or feeling.
I know this review has arisen from my finally giving in to Facebook and to the inundation of Twitter in our society. I disdained the Facebook habit of telling me what you had for lunch or your mundane plans for a Saturday afternoon. I took special exception to the character limitations in Twitter. At first glance, there just didn't seem to be enough room to express in that limitation, and therefore we got mired in minatue.
I had to give second thought when I considered some of the great statements of Anglo literature. They are small phrases. "To be or not to be," for example.
Then again, they don't stand alone. None of them. The phrases that are critical to our feeling and thinking and part of our vocabulary are outtakes from something larger. Even Ben Franklin's greatest pithy quotes are from entire volumes of Poor Richard's Almanac.
I also considered if I'm just being elitist. Facebook and Twitter, like copious numbers of other Internet opportunities, have let anyone and everyone with a computer speak out. That should be a good thing, the benefit of widespread viewpoints.
But, again, it's not used to express. It's used by far the most often to just speak. Maybe babble is a better word.
I'm glad I did Facebook. I found mountains of former acquaintances. I got to see the faces of some very important to me whom I hadn't viewed in years. But I think it's like all the other information we all have to plow through everyone day. We have to cut through the volume to find the importance.
I just hope it doesn't become so much garbage we never discover the rose by whatever written name that smells as sweet.
Previously, I've always held fast that if it was worth writing down, it should have impact. It should cause thought or laughter or feeling.
I know this review has arisen from my finally giving in to Facebook and to the inundation of Twitter in our society. I disdained the Facebook habit of telling me what you had for lunch or your mundane plans for a Saturday afternoon. I took special exception to the character limitations in Twitter. At first glance, there just didn't seem to be enough room to express in that limitation, and therefore we got mired in minatue.
I had to give second thought when I considered some of the great statements of Anglo literature. They are small phrases. "To be or not to be," for example.
Then again, they don't stand alone. None of them. The phrases that are critical to our feeling and thinking and part of our vocabulary are outtakes from something larger. Even Ben Franklin's greatest pithy quotes are from entire volumes of Poor Richard's Almanac.
I also considered if I'm just being elitist. Facebook and Twitter, like copious numbers of other Internet opportunities, have let anyone and everyone with a computer speak out. That should be a good thing, the benefit of widespread viewpoints.
But, again, it's not used to express. It's used by far the most often to just speak. Maybe babble is a better word.
I'm glad I did Facebook. I found mountains of former acquaintances. I got to see the faces of some very important to me whom I hadn't viewed in years. But I think it's like all the other information we all have to plow through everyone day. We have to cut through the volume to find the importance.
I just hope it doesn't become so much garbage we never discover the rose by whatever written name that smells as sweet.
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