Truth, Rage, and me

The Truth is elusive. The Truth we seek in therapy, in church, in spiritual contemplation, meditation, friendship, love.
Who the heck knows?
But every once in a while, you get a new angle from somebody. You were pretty convinced you had it right, then random guy out of nowhere gives you a gratuitous but nevertheless noteworthy shakeup. New Truth.

Here's mine. I've been inclined to think of myself as the sum of my defects (and others as the sum of theirs). This is defective. But I have been making some progress reducing the life-ruining aspects of my character defects. I have been seeking balance, trying to return to my authentic reliable self. Honest.
And as part of this work, this journey, I have dared to look up "rageaholic" in Wikipedia and man that article pissed me off.
And the H Simpson thing is funny (addicted to rageaghol). Anyway, it's real progress for me to be looking at rage and finally getting the obvious but hitherto elusive Truth about it. To wit: Rage is not OK, and some less obvious forms it can take were interesting to see in that dumb article, and none of them are OK either.
Cussing, gossiping, hyper-criticizing...and on up to throwing shit. Not OK. Rage. Bad, scary, overwhelming to me.

So here I am living as that overwhelmed guy on stage with Bob S. tonight. And when he introduces Ollie, Ollie is doing his "I've been up for 6 days, living on caffeine" funny as all get out routine. And then it's my turn, and Bob and I interact a bit, I mention rage, and Bob very sincerely says something to the audience like "So I think Danny has this outer layer of really smart guy, then a thin layer of rage, and then under that this really big glowing golden core --- no seriously Danny is one of the sweetest guys I know." And he meant it.
And it's true ladies and gentlemen.
Bob is smart.
Smarter than me.
One more thing. Hungry Man frozen dinners are f'in great! Especially the Salisbury Steak.

Exactly How Boring is Philosophy?

There was a guy named Gilbert Ryle. And a lot of the philosophy guys I knew in the late 60's when I went to school for that really deplored Ryle. He had this "knowing how vrs knowing that" thing. Damned if I can remember. The innovative part, though, was the knowing how. I think Ryle held that lofty confusions about the nature of Knowledge get more manageable when we see that much of our knowledge is (merely) knowing how to tie our shoes (I think somehow that was a favorite example).
Personally, I was a late shoe-tire. That's right, shoe-tire. Late at a lot of stuff. I am almost universally acknowledged to be incredibly young/immature for my age. You are as old as you feel. Do not be confused though. You are not necessarily as old as what you feel. What you feel is probably only seconds old, yet as old as the hills.
I miss Freud. I miss Jimi Hendrix and Janis. And I even miss Gilbert Ryle. I do not like David Sedaris, though I'm sure he's very good. I don't like Henry James anymore either. And I usually dislike writers like Cormac Mcarthy and TC Boyle who roll around in their virtuosity. Their "knowing how," to tie my shoes up nicely. My bestest hobby used to be reading. Now my hobby is people, and let me tell you, it is exhausting. They are completely unpredictable, except that they pretty much all get pissed if you fall asleep while reading them. Books are so much easier. But they do not move me now. No risk with books.
No glory. No roller coaster. No fallen arches.

You Average American Woman, you, if you had thoughts like mine your head would know how to have those thoughts. And what a luminous waste of time it is most of the time. Still, somebody's got to play hookie from the work of the world and write silly songs and silly blogs and be lazy on all fronts and try to wreak havoc with some success on the lives of the decent and indecent alike.

I am such a disappointment. But it's all good. My work now is to be lazy! Making up for years of over-achievement with daily garbage du jour! Justice would have me utterly alone and lonely any minute now. Any minute now......

It all feels like a rehearsal. Like practice. But there is no big concert. I am learning nothing really -- learning how to do nothing. (I'm sure this is false by the way). But it only sucks if people are hurt. And mostly when people are hurt, they just hurt and I don't owe them an apology.

That's how boring philosophy is. And it's never over. Sometimes there is a cover charge. But you can get on the guest list.
Namaste.

Cereal, as a Heart Attack

I spoke with a friend of mine this week. She was very distraught, rude to customers at her retail job -- very unlike her. What's goin on? I asked. She had read the coroner's report on the recent death of her husband. Sudden heart attack, completely shocking -- "He was at the doctor's two weeks before, and he said he was fine!"
Doctors. Can't live with em.
I noticed, to continue this tack, that I felt kinda ok with my life and ailments until I looked me up in the DSM 4. Then I became a statistic, and I didn't like that at all. I am a real live human. Goddammit. It made me feel very small and desperate to read a description of my symptoms, my life!, in an encyclopedia. Kind of the opposite of googling yourself. You haven't done anything cool and unique in the DSM 4. Or 5, for that matter.

I ate a potato.
I threw away half.
I bought Donettes. God, they rule!
I felt ill and had cravings.
I felt sad and almost cried.
I cried.
I played and played and played the music.
I wrote and wrote and wrote for someone else.
Then I wrote for me, and that felt really good. And someone else liked that music.
I bought a set of strings. And a funny shoulder rest with yellow screw-in parts.
I wrote a thoughtless email. And then sent it.
I took a yoga class and threw up in my mouth.
I saved someone's life.
I deliberately rear-ended a Bonneville.
I broke things.
I took pills for hypertension every day for almost twenty years.
Thank God for that!
?
I was "there" for a friend.
I had no friend.
I had a body for years.
I got older and still had that body.
I failed to fulfill promises.
I forgot your name.
I forgot my name.
I named my forgetting.
I named it Silas.

Whan That Aprille With His Shoures Soote

Something is simultaneously really wrong and really right with me. The same thing. My stomach is jumpy, and it is definitely emotional. I feel like a girl. I felt myself, and I definitely do.
It seems I have no control over certain feelings, yet I seem to have lots of control. This says little.

Only this.

Human Life is precious. Automobiles are not. Diamonds are hard, not precious. Human life is precious. And hard. This is why it is so painful to be alone. "I like my privacy....I've surrounded myself with things I like....I'm quite comfortable with myself as company.....Don't like intruders......." etc
Bullshit.
I hate my own head. I love my own head. I have no monkees in my head. Merely simian thoughts.
Which dog me.
And make me rude.

April Fools.