Fear is a common topic in these sporadic belches. Dandruff, rare. Ah, dandruff! It's me coming off in smallish scaly pieces, a-blowin-in the wind, mingling with the junk that settles in the new settlements or on your new suit. I amused a band-mate in an airplane in 1978 or so by tilting my head ever so starboardly, scratching surreptitiously, and depositing bits of me on the traveler seated to my left. No charge! Sir, madam. Cocktails! yelled the band-mate, chuckling.
What would I do without dandruff?
I am told that habitual scalp play is classified with the OCD disorders (ATM machines), like compulsive hand-washing, rubbing raw of any accessible body part (no, not that! jeezus).
I like to think of myself as a little native American engaging in little mini-scalpings.
Okay, enough. Just let it be known, I am not a flake. Though advancing through my 60's I slowly gather more and more evidence that I am one. But the gathering of evidence belies the flakiness. Thing is, if you don't drink and don't ingest THC, you, like me, will retain at least enough clarity to be scared out of your wits pretty much all the time.
It used to be: Oh god, please don't let them find out the truth (that I am a fake). Now it's more, oh god, please don't let me find out the truth (that You are a fake). Rabbi Reblen, my cousin and truly my only remaining childhood friend said the clever thing: God delegates to Nature, and Nature has no conscience. Most folks are disturbed by the apparent presence of Evil in the world. What bugs me is the fear. Get it? "I see Evil" means "I am scared, mama!" Fear not. There is the world. It is perfect. An ongoing perfect mess.
Those who make the mistake of caring about the big world often mess up their own backyard. It is hard enough, even with a brand new push-mower, to keep the yards presentable. Syria? Be serious!
It is fashionable around these parts to be non-harming. Many younger yogic/zen friends of mine aspire, and in the aspiring they accidentally leave a messy wake. But nobody I know is throwing himself into anything like a full-tilt joust (possible exceptions, the 2 youngsters I just helped pack up to move to DC -- beware the unintended consequences is my caution to them, unspoken).
I started a list of dead friends of mine. This was a thoughtful move on my part. I thought it might help my daughter make good choices on her wedding invitation list. (Don't invite dead people -- then again, they are cheap to feed -- and in Texas, many vote!)
There are few constants in my life. There is music, for now, there is low level fear (Evil lurks), there is lonliness, and there is dandruff. There used to be writing! Now it seems I'm out of think.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Thursday, January 17, 2013
New Lease on Mystery
So, no more posts that matter. No real stuff. More just journaling. More just boring.
I was going to do a "New lease on Life" post, as a silly pun thing on the subject of leasing out a building. The bright idea of becoming a landlord. I actually expect this to happen in 3-5 years.
I am the not-so-proud co-owner of a piece of remarkable real estate. 8000 square feet literally a stone's throw from a state capitol building and also from a major major major university. Thus has the universe bestowed upon me, a fiddler, a former fiddler, still a fiddler, potential capital.
But I remember my default hero Burroughs and the seeing of exactly what is on the end of every fork(ful).
And hence to my real story: Mystery. There is no Naked Lunch, Bill B. There is only "I wonder if....."
I am fond of saying "I don't have any friends." This is absurd. My friends have started dying at an alarming rate. But there are plenty left! It's just that I never socialize with them. Some are angry, a few. Most just get that I prefer a self-inflicted life of quite restricted activity much like prison. But more the solitary confinement kind of prison. With pets.
There has been improvement with the pets. They like music, even bad music. They are less rebellious. They worry less about me. They see that my chronic melancholia is nothing really, nothing that will threaten their food and fun supply. Not soon.
I am going to take the position that there are few mysteries. I am saying that nothing surprises me anymore. I notice that a lot of people have sex and a lot don't. I notice that governments make lots of laws and enforce some, very selectively. I notice that children generally get upset when their parents live badly, but are generally more upset when their parents become ill or die. Upset, pissed off. My wise children make no attempt to change my apparently unhealthy habits. For now, there is nothing fatal going on. Though the solitary confinement is sad.
I used to say romantic things like "The only possible explanation for human existence is that we are here to help each other." Sometimes I still say that. Usually when I'm trying to have sex with someone (I like girls). Silly thing to say. The explanation for human existence is evolution, and I think I sort of understand what that means. I read a lot of SJ Gould. Some cool stuff there, no mystery though. The genetics confuses me. I skip that. Confusing does not equal mysterious.
Some things get to be called mysteries due to my confusion or incompetence. Some electronic anomalies. But these too are not mysteries. Throw away the old stuff, buy new, usually what didn't work will now work. i.e. the current will flow, the monitor will not flicker, the headphones will not feed back, the receptionist will answer the phone, the check will not bounce, the oil leak will be revealed to be benign, the tumor will be revealed to be benign, the cost of living will not go up because no one has any money, the incorrect choice will be made because the committee that makes the choice gives power to silly people who are too busy or too uncool to see right answers ... sometimes.
Why did I write all this junk????
A mystery.
I was going to do a "New lease on Life" post, as a silly pun thing on the subject of leasing out a building. The bright idea of becoming a landlord. I actually expect this to happen in 3-5 years.
I am the not-so-proud co-owner of a piece of remarkable real estate. 8000 square feet literally a stone's throw from a state capitol building and also from a major major major university. Thus has the universe bestowed upon me, a fiddler, a former fiddler, still a fiddler, potential capital.
But I remember my default hero Burroughs and the seeing of exactly what is on the end of every fork(ful).
And hence to my real story: Mystery. There is no Naked Lunch, Bill B. There is only "I wonder if....."
I am fond of saying "I don't have any friends." This is absurd. My friends have started dying at an alarming rate. But there are plenty left! It's just that I never socialize with them. Some are angry, a few. Most just get that I prefer a self-inflicted life of quite restricted activity much like prison. But more the solitary confinement kind of prison. With pets.
There has been improvement with the pets. They like music, even bad music. They are less rebellious. They worry less about me. They see that my chronic melancholia is nothing really, nothing that will threaten their food and fun supply. Not soon.
I am going to take the position that there are few mysteries. I am saying that nothing surprises me anymore. I notice that a lot of people have sex and a lot don't. I notice that governments make lots of laws and enforce some, very selectively. I notice that children generally get upset when their parents live badly, but are generally more upset when their parents become ill or die. Upset, pissed off. My wise children make no attempt to change my apparently unhealthy habits. For now, there is nothing fatal going on. Though the solitary confinement is sad.
I used to say romantic things like "The only possible explanation for human existence is that we are here to help each other." Sometimes I still say that. Usually when I'm trying to have sex with someone (I like girls). Silly thing to say. The explanation for human existence is evolution, and I think I sort of understand what that means. I read a lot of SJ Gould. Some cool stuff there, no mystery though. The genetics confuses me. I skip that. Confusing does not equal mysterious.
Some things get to be called mysteries due to my confusion or incompetence. Some electronic anomalies. But these too are not mysteries. Throw away the old stuff, buy new, usually what didn't work will now work. i.e. the current will flow, the monitor will not flicker, the headphones will not feed back, the receptionist will answer the phone, the check will not bounce, the oil leak will be revealed to be benign, the tumor will be revealed to be benign, the cost of living will not go up because no one has any money, the incorrect choice will be made because the committee that makes the choice gives power to silly people who are too busy or too uncool to see right answers ... sometimes.
Why did I write all this junk????
A mystery.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
why not
Why not post your innermost stupid middle of the night fearful crap half-thoughts?
Because somebody might read them and kill you?
Yes. That's why not.
A little metaphysics: If you believe, as I do, that the world is all that is the case (the sum of all true sentences), then there isn't much world as we like to know it. The Cartesian human predicament is very much of a predicament. Satan may be tempting us --- is. It is probably all a dream, several dreams in fact. So there are no really really true sentences. No certainty. No world.
What feels certain is when we say to our children "Good job!"
I had a good job once. I overdid it. Trudat. or Turdat.
Because somebody might read them and kill you?
Yes. That's why not.
A little metaphysics: If you believe, as I do, that the world is all that is the case (the sum of all true sentences), then there isn't much world as we like to know it. The Cartesian human predicament is very much of a predicament. Satan may be tempting us --- is. It is probably all a dream, several dreams in fact. So there are no really really true sentences. No certainty. No world.
What feels certain is when we say to our children "Good job!"
I had a good job once. I overdid it. Trudat. or Turdat.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
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