"I had lunch with and old friend last week," she told me. "And she asked me when was the last time I was happy. I had to think and decided it was two years ago."
I have to admit to being no less than stunned. I try to keep the temperature of my friends, from both near and afar. But I didn't really see this coming. Two years without happy just didn't seem like her. She always tried to present strong and self reliant. And to just admit to a dearth of happiness caught me off guard.
But it's something I ponder quite often. I have long kept my mind on a paraphrase that I think is Emerson. In essence, "most men lives of quiet desperation."
It was just not what I wanted. And nothing like what I'd hope for my friends. Even if I can't label myself happy, I'd like to see it in them.
I do watch closely. In the immediate vicinity, I watch eyes and actions. I see when they openly laugh. I see when their eyes glitter. We all have ups and downs, but when laughter and glitter are gone for too long, I wonder about their happiness.
I do it from afar. I read old girlfriends' blogs trying to get a handle on their lives. I quickly understand I'm much more confessional in what I write in public. But just sitting to put anything down says something to me about their strength, which I believe comes from happiness. I drop hints in emails. Some people like to keep a little emotional distance. They like email for that exact reason. But subject matter and phrase of expression can tell a lot even in those block letters.
I fail to keep too close tabs on my happiness on purpose. Maybe I don't want to know. Because it frustrates me. Maybe it's part of what makes me watch for everyone else's happiness. Because I fully understand, it's hard.
I've been financially secure and it didn't bring happiness. I've had success and didn't find it created happiness. I've been in love and found a modicum of happiness but not the type we seem to believe from fairy tales. I've been told I refuse happiness. I'm not that self aware to agree or disagree.
Now lack of happiness cannot be called unhappiness. I guess I call the in between the state of just being. Maybe that's Emerson's "quiet desperation." It's never where I've wanted to be. I've often told people who claim I inflict my challenges upon myself that I understand it's easier to ride the high middle rise in the road, but I'd rather bounce from bar ditch to bar ditch just because it's more fun to see what's everywhere.
My original friend told me the story to see if I could up with recommendations for happiness. I haven't stopped thinking about it in the weeks since. I just have no answers. Not for her or myself. I sometimes wonder if I'd be standing in the middle of happiness and never even know it. But I'd like to try. Just so I could tell someone else all about it.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Breaking it down
As a writer, I'm a collector of fragments. Sometimes, I sit down and just spew. But other times I'll collect a few words or phrases that I like the way they go together. Or I'll throw down a few lines that try to capture an emotion I can't quite get my hands around at that time.
When I hit that spot where I emotionally crave to write, but can't quite get anything useful out, I'll sometimes visit my fragment graveyard and try to dig up old stuff. And it can be truly old stuff.
For instance, I was pushing through some old papers recently and came upon an aborted attempt that I recognized immediately. It was a girl who could never quite commit, who always tried to always keep me from investing too much in our time together and always seemed to have a guarding hand over her heart and an eye on the door. But I couldn't identify the feeling that was she and me those years ago when I threw down a few lines and saw them just peter out as I got lost.
I thought maybe I knew myself a little better now, maybe had a better perspective on everything. So I began to try. But just couldn't find it. With years of distance and hard lessons learned, still I couldn't get the feeling. I could get the situational description, but just no feeling that made it alive.
In the background, I heard two girls talking. They were in the early 20s and they were trying to understand why not only the boys they cared about acted the way they did, but why they themselves took the actions they did. They used examples, "he does this" and "I keep doing that." They knew both genders felt, but couldn't see it reflected correctly in the actions. I had to see the parallels in what both they and I were wrestling.
I thought maybe I'm looking from the wrong angle. And that was what I tried. Instead of remembering my experience and looking for my feeling, I turned the tables and looked at it from the female viewpoint. I found all the same actions fit exactly, but it was easier to put them in emotional context. I couldn't find the feeling in it until I tried to describe someone else's feeling instead of summon up my own.
Sometimes the fragments have to be broken just one more time before you see how they really fit together.
When I hit that spot where I emotionally crave to write, but can't quite get anything useful out, I'll sometimes visit my fragment graveyard and try to dig up old stuff. And it can be truly old stuff.
For instance, I was pushing through some old papers recently and came upon an aborted attempt that I recognized immediately. It was a girl who could never quite commit, who always tried to always keep me from investing too much in our time together and always seemed to have a guarding hand over her heart and an eye on the door. But I couldn't identify the feeling that was she and me those years ago when I threw down a few lines and saw them just peter out as I got lost.
I thought maybe I knew myself a little better now, maybe had a better perspective on everything. So I began to try. But just couldn't find it. With years of distance and hard lessons learned, still I couldn't get the feeling. I could get the situational description, but just no feeling that made it alive.
In the background, I heard two girls talking. They were in the early 20s and they were trying to understand why not only the boys they cared about acted the way they did, but why they themselves took the actions they did. They used examples, "he does this" and "I keep doing that." They knew both genders felt, but couldn't see it reflected correctly in the actions. I had to see the parallels in what both they and I were wrestling.
I thought maybe I'm looking from the wrong angle. And that was what I tried. Instead of remembering my experience and looking for my feeling, I turned the tables and looked at it from the female viewpoint. I found all the same actions fit exactly, but it was easier to put them in emotional context. I couldn't find the feeling in it until I tried to describe someone else's feeling instead of summon up my own.
Sometimes the fragments have to be broken just one more time before you see how they really fit together.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
A cooling fire
Three deaths in the Austin community were related this last week. Stephen Bruton, Bud Shrake and Poodie Locke all touched based on an 80s movie called "Songwriter," via writing, appearances and the presence of Willie Nelson in the film.
But their passing is a major reminder. Although their deaths are punches to the heart for those who knew them personally, they should also be a persistent tap on the shoulder for those of us who loved an Austin they represented on a much wider scale.
The three were key components to an Austin that was about art, be it music or letters. They were also about life that is like music, impressive and inspiring to be done hard, fast and full but with a realization of the critical component that is the easy, quiet spaces in between.
And although it may sound like old man nostalgia, I fear it's an Austin that is almost gone.
It's an Austin that's been fading. I picture it in the mid-1970s. I didn't even live here, but had to visit every three months or so from Dallas-Fort Worth for another baptism. It was a time of transition for all of Texas. Generations had grown up if not entirely rural, with a deep tap to the rural roots. But cities were exploding and those base values were proving more and more difficult to keep in sight.
It was then and here in Austin that an amalgamation which already had an excellent base took hold. It recognized the value of urban knowledge, but didn't disdain country. It wasn't just in music, although that was a key outlet. It was in literature that used Texas as a base to talk about the modern human condition. The two artistic communities intertwined, maybe too often over potions and powders that were bound to run down the consumers. But it was like shooting stars burning unbelievably bright to astound viewers.
Austin was a place where it was possible. The atmosphere was more tolerant for odd and misbehavior. Someone looking for their voice could simply afford it. There were affordable places to nurture and visit and take a chance.
I find it very hard to find anymore. Simple survival in Austin is much tougher. It seems the more we struggle to simply stay alive, the less ability and remaining will we have to live and express life.
At the same time old wood frame houses sheltered by 100-year-old oaks crumble under the weight of 40-story condominium towers, written words seem to become lighter and lighter. Finding a hearty affordable meal is washed away with wine and sushi bars and music becomes less about lyrics and more about rhythms only. Country life is considered owning a mini-ranch in Dripping Springs close enough to the new HEB to fetch a quart of milk at 9 p.m. Living the quick and dangerous life is subordinate to ensuring you're in line with the decibel limit and curfew.
There are other icons of Austin as an artistic place for whom timing is ticking away. And there's simply not that many I can identify who look to take their place when the torch is passed. I just hope the fuel isn't running out and that torch isn't extinguished.
But their passing is a major reminder. Although their deaths are punches to the heart for those who knew them personally, they should also be a persistent tap on the shoulder for those of us who loved an Austin they represented on a much wider scale.
The three were key components to an Austin that was about art, be it music or letters. They were also about life that is like music, impressive and inspiring to be done hard, fast and full but with a realization of the critical component that is the easy, quiet spaces in between.
And although it may sound like old man nostalgia, I fear it's an Austin that is almost gone.
It's an Austin that's been fading. I picture it in the mid-1970s. I didn't even live here, but had to visit every three months or so from Dallas-Fort Worth for another baptism. It was a time of transition for all of Texas. Generations had grown up if not entirely rural, with a deep tap to the rural roots. But cities were exploding and those base values were proving more and more difficult to keep in sight.
It was then and here in Austin that an amalgamation which already had an excellent base took hold. It recognized the value of urban knowledge, but didn't disdain country. It wasn't just in music, although that was a key outlet. It was in literature that used Texas as a base to talk about the modern human condition. The two artistic communities intertwined, maybe too often over potions and powders that were bound to run down the consumers. But it was like shooting stars burning unbelievably bright to astound viewers.
Austin was a place where it was possible. The atmosphere was more tolerant for odd and misbehavior. Someone looking for their voice could simply afford it. There were affordable places to nurture and visit and take a chance.
I find it very hard to find anymore. Simple survival in Austin is much tougher. It seems the more we struggle to simply stay alive, the less ability and remaining will we have to live and express life.
At the same time old wood frame houses sheltered by 100-year-old oaks crumble under the weight of 40-story condominium towers, written words seem to become lighter and lighter. Finding a hearty affordable meal is washed away with wine and sushi bars and music becomes less about lyrics and more about rhythms only. Country life is considered owning a mini-ranch in Dripping Springs close enough to the new HEB to fetch a quart of milk at 9 p.m. Living the quick and dangerous life is subordinate to ensuring you're in line with the decibel limit and curfew.
There are other icons of Austin as an artistic place for whom timing is ticking away. And there's simply not that many I can identify who look to take their place when the torch is passed. I just hope the fuel isn't running out and that torch isn't extinguished.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Karmic balance
My friends probably believe I use the word "karma" too much. But I can't avoid it. Not from habit, but evidence. I almost never fail to see some balance that eventually comes.
Statisticians would likely say if you look and wait long enough, you're bound to dig up correlations. But last night was the perfect example of how it just seems to balance out.
I went to catch up with a friend at a downtown establishment. It is the same spot where I last spent meaningful time with another long-time friend, someone who I in ways considered a mentor. It had been years since I'd been to the site, probably because that same friend wound up committing suicide.
Having arrived a few minutes early, I took the opportunity to make a call checking on a pregnant acquaintance. With minutes of my having made that call, she gave birth to a little girl.
Right there in those few minutes, I confronted sad death and had it salved with beautiful birth. It balances.
Statisticians would likely say if you look and wait long enough, you're bound to dig up correlations. But last night was the perfect example of how it just seems to balance out.
I went to catch up with a friend at a downtown establishment. It is the same spot where I last spent meaningful time with another long-time friend, someone who I in ways considered a mentor. It had been years since I'd been to the site, probably because that same friend wound up committing suicide.
Having arrived a few minutes early, I took the opportunity to make a call checking on a pregnant acquaintance. With minutes of my having made that call, she gave birth to a little girl.
Right there in those few minutes, I confronted sad death and had it salved with beautiful birth. It balances.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Living and dying are words
An acquaintance recently noted a difference she sees between a writer and a content provider.
It's an interesting division to me. I've been tagged as a writer for more than 30 years. During most of that time, I could be labeled professional writer because someone was willing to write me a check for it.
During that same amount of time, I've taken tons of criticism for what I've done. Not just the constructive "I'd do it this way" type of review, but comments that suggest those writing the checks and myself have been fooling ourselves. My most cherished is "you write too conversationally."
See, I don't think I need to follow the very specific constraints of someone with an odd name like Strunk to consider myself a writer. To me, writing is expression. For pay, usually to express information, like in newspapers. Sometimes to just get something off my chest. And to me, the proper placement, or even use, of commas, colons and assorted punctuation shouldn't be what rule applies, but what gets the point across easiest.
I also believe there is something hardwired I don't understand. I was very surprised in my teen years to discover I had an ability to convey emotion with written words. I don't really know how that happens, but people have told me repeatedly they can feel the words or are moved to smile at them. Yes, I consider humor a major emotion.
But lately, I haven't found many words to express emotions. I know the emotions are there, but making that connection to the right word has been beyond difficult. I've kept putting out words as I believe writing is a muscle that atrophies if not used. But I know I've been a content provider.
I think it has a lot to do with how my life has gone lately. I'm not sure I've been living. Maybe subsisting is the proper description. Maybe even hiding. But living is not near the right word.
It's happened before for little periods. Sometimes I've felt in overload. Sometimes I've just slipped into fleeing, for unexpected periods almost not able to deal with people or myself. Sometimes life's flow takes its own little break.
But this is a combination of the worst of those and nothing at all to do with the latter. I've behaved jaded and cynical and distant from others and myself. It's frustrating. And the punishment is I've got nothing real to say about anything.
Most people would see this recognition and recommend stopping the disturbing action. But it isn't that easy. It's really a cause and affect without an ability to define which comes first. Obviously, not living creates a vacuum of subject. At the same time, not having that examination and expression makes me less interested in being part of the human experience. Living gives life to writing, not writing makes living feel like dying.
It's an interesting division to me. I've been tagged as a writer for more than 30 years. During most of that time, I could be labeled professional writer because someone was willing to write me a check for it.
During that same amount of time, I've taken tons of criticism for what I've done. Not just the constructive "I'd do it this way" type of review, but comments that suggest those writing the checks and myself have been fooling ourselves. My most cherished is "you write too conversationally."
See, I don't think I need to follow the very specific constraints of someone with an odd name like Strunk to consider myself a writer. To me, writing is expression. For pay, usually to express information, like in newspapers. Sometimes to just get something off my chest. And to me, the proper placement, or even use, of commas, colons and assorted punctuation shouldn't be what rule applies, but what gets the point across easiest.
I also believe there is something hardwired I don't understand. I was very surprised in my teen years to discover I had an ability to convey emotion with written words. I don't really know how that happens, but people have told me repeatedly they can feel the words or are moved to smile at them. Yes, I consider humor a major emotion.
But lately, I haven't found many words to express emotions. I know the emotions are there, but making that connection to the right word has been beyond difficult. I've kept putting out words as I believe writing is a muscle that atrophies if not used. But I know I've been a content provider.
I think it has a lot to do with how my life has gone lately. I'm not sure I've been living. Maybe subsisting is the proper description. Maybe even hiding. But living is not near the right word.
It's happened before for little periods. Sometimes I've felt in overload. Sometimes I've just slipped into fleeing, for unexpected periods almost not able to deal with people or myself. Sometimes life's flow takes its own little break.
But this is a combination of the worst of those and nothing at all to do with the latter. I've behaved jaded and cynical and distant from others and myself. It's frustrating. And the punishment is I've got nothing real to say about anything.
Most people would see this recognition and recommend stopping the disturbing action. But it isn't that easy. It's really a cause and affect without an ability to define which comes first. Obviously, not living creates a vacuum of subject. At the same time, not having that examination and expression makes me less interested in being part of the human experience. Living gives life to writing, not writing makes living feel like dying.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Pay attention to me
Maybe it's only been about a week to 10 days. But I'm ready on this day to declare the swine flu panic (don't you love how the name changed when an interest group complained) was a media invention.
I'm not usually a black helicopter kind of person. I like to believe I'm even more informed than the average guy. But this wolfpack journalism where half of newspapers and newscasts were dedicated to a single issue seemed to lead government to come blazing with both barrels which led to the circle being completed with more coverage.
Theories on why: People were tiring of economic news and tuning out. A basic disease is easy for journalists to understand and reflect, certainly simpler than economics or world politics. The flu can be illustrated with cute children having check ups. Politicians can say "we're here for you" in such an issue.
But at the base of how much coverage was needed is simple math. As of this May 3, estimates are there are about 24 million people in Texas. And 43 cases of this flu. If that is the ratio that calls for such major news action, I'd bet on about 100 other diseases that should demand even greater review.
I'm not usually a black helicopter kind of person. I like to believe I'm even more informed than the average guy. But this wolfpack journalism where half of newspapers and newscasts were dedicated to a single issue seemed to lead government to come blazing with both barrels which led to the circle being completed with more coverage.
Theories on why: People were tiring of economic news and tuning out. A basic disease is easy for journalists to understand and reflect, certainly simpler than economics or world politics. The flu can be illustrated with cute children having check ups. Politicians can say "we're here for you" in such an issue.
But at the base of how much coverage was needed is simple math. As of this May 3, estimates are there are about 24 million people in Texas. And 43 cases of this flu. If that is the ratio that calls for such major news action, I'd bet on about 100 other diseases that should demand even greater review.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Gotta love the British
Maybe it stems from centuries on that cold, dank island. Maybe it comes from a society that has so long had such huge gaps between haves and have nots. But I gotta love the British for simply being naturally quirky.
Quirky is a big thing with me. I cannot stand those who put it on as a pretense. There's a lot of that in current bands, their suit of "we're weird because we play instruments." The truth is, quirky comes from just who you are. It tends to not be a reflection of something of the past and the quirky usually can't identify themselves as such. They just are.
So when I find organic quirky, I revel in it. For example:
A good example was on the world page of the Dallas Morning News one recent day. It included two stories on British actions I found particularly indicative of the natural quirk.
The first was of a couple who had been visiting Windsor Castle. The queen's residence is one of the most popular tourist destinations in the nation. These two decided to celebrate their visit by having sex - on the castle's front lawn. The report was the two had "been drinking a lot of champagne" and not only weren't cognizant of the number of tourists in viewing vicinity, but in fact didn't realize "exactly where they were." In the name of full disclosure, the woman was an American, but it's likely she was heavily influence her British paramour. And in the quirky British way, the two were charged with "outraging public decency." This despite the fact several in view expressed their outrage by taping the act for future posterity.
The second was on the British poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy. The story focused on the fact she is not only the first woman to hold the post, but tacks on the fact she is openly lesbian. But the quirk is in her remuneration. The poet laureate gets $8,500, which she donated to a poetry contest. But she also gets sherry from the Sherry Insitute of Spain. Only the British would understand reaching the muse might take a nip of sherry or two. Imagine the United States of Religious Rightists' reaction to boozing up an American writer on the tax dole.
I bet it would outrage the public decency. But then we American are pretentious in our quirky expression.
Quirky is a big thing with me. I cannot stand those who put it on as a pretense. There's a lot of that in current bands, their suit of "we're weird because we play instruments." The truth is, quirky comes from just who you are. It tends to not be a reflection of something of the past and the quirky usually can't identify themselves as such. They just are.
So when I find organic quirky, I revel in it. For example:
A good example was on the world page of the Dallas Morning News one recent day. It included two stories on British actions I found particularly indicative of the natural quirk.
The first was of a couple who had been visiting Windsor Castle. The queen's residence is one of the most popular tourist destinations in the nation. These two decided to celebrate their visit by having sex - on the castle's front lawn. The report was the two had "been drinking a lot of champagne" and not only weren't cognizant of the number of tourists in viewing vicinity, but in fact didn't realize "exactly where they were." In the name of full disclosure, the woman was an American, but it's likely she was heavily influence her British paramour. And in the quirky British way, the two were charged with "outraging public decency." This despite the fact several in view expressed their outrage by taping the act for future posterity.
The second was on the British poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy. The story focused on the fact she is not only the first woman to hold the post, but tacks on the fact she is openly lesbian. But the quirk is in her remuneration. The poet laureate gets $8,500, which she donated to a poetry contest. But she also gets sherry from the Sherry Insitute of Spain. Only the British would understand reaching the muse might take a nip of sherry or two. Imagine the United States of Religious Rightists' reaction to boozing up an American writer on the tax dole.
I bet it would outrage the public decency. But then we American are pretentious in our quirky expression.
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