Friday, April 30, 2010
Layout...
Still trying to find the best layout format for my blog. Same content, same blog, new look, or looks, or constant evolving format or whatever.
Books From My Past
There are a lot of books that I read as a high school student that I've decided to back to, now, as an adult. As a high school student I read for a couple of primary reasons. First, and probably foremost, was the need for entertainment. I grew up in a house with no cable. We had a TV, we watched lots of movies, but the constant flow of media into my life was stymied when my mom cut off the tap when I was in kindergarten. Then, as the Internet began to get huge, as a senior, my dad fought tooth and nail to keep it out of the house. (My parents now have cable and Internet). Second I read to escape the brutal reality of high school itself. I was not popular and I had some social failings that I attempted to compensate for with theatre and choir involvement. But nearly everyday of high school was a renewed focus on my failings and insecurities and like all boys who are just over weight and chose to play soccer rather than football--and irregardless of skill or passion--I always felt as though I lived in the shadows of more successful students. So I read. I read everything I could find and I read all the time. Lewis, and Sinclair, Hemingway, I tried Dickens and Hugo, Mailer, Vonnegut, in addition to the assigned reading for English classes which I also took extreme pleasure in. Reading was never a chore or an assignment for me, as a rule, it was fun and it was escape and it was never, ever school. But much of what I read was beyond me, outside the realm of my vernacular and lexicon and now, as an adult, I'm taking time to re-read much of that literature that shaped my formative years.
I'm starting with Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms, and the things I didn't see in high school are so apparent to me now. It is everything I love about Hemingway--the sparse language that creates such a rich and complex text, the way all the passages of dialogue have to be read a second time to catch the subtext and double meanings of the characters and their interactions. Hemingway was a brilliant writer and took a great deal of risks, in his time, while his peers allowed themselves to be engrossed in language and description, Hemingway paired it all down to the simplest writing devices he could and the result is a legacy of story telling and narrative that has informed the collective consciousness of the writers who come after. I intend to write more about A Farewell to Arms after I've finished, but let me say it is a fantastic novel.
On deck is Norman Mailer's novel The Naked and the Dead, a novel I read as either a junior or sophomore and I am eager read it again. It is one of the novels that shaped the American reaction to World War II and deserves another look, besides Mailer being an integral part, in my opinion, of the modern American cannon. So, more on that, once I've read it, of course.
I'm starting with Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms, and the things I didn't see in high school are so apparent to me now. It is everything I love about Hemingway--the sparse language that creates such a rich and complex text, the way all the passages of dialogue have to be read a second time to catch the subtext and double meanings of the characters and their interactions. Hemingway was a brilliant writer and took a great deal of risks, in his time, while his peers allowed themselves to be engrossed in language and description, Hemingway paired it all down to the simplest writing devices he could and the result is a legacy of story telling and narrative that has informed the collective consciousness of the writers who come after. I intend to write more about A Farewell to Arms after I've finished, but let me say it is a fantastic novel.
On deck is Norman Mailer's novel The Naked and the Dead, a novel I read as either a junior or sophomore and I am eager read it again. It is one of the novels that shaped the American reaction to World War II and deserves another look, besides Mailer being an integral part, in my opinion, of the modern American cannon. So, more on that, once I've read it, of course.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Great Writers
I think often on good writing and good writers. I've read, in my opinion, works by some of the finest writers of our time and before. They each smack of authenticity in their works and they take deep, frightening risks with language, characters, and themes. Cormac McCarthy, Raymond Carver, Ernest Hemingway, Larry McMurtry, Ivan Doig, E. Annie Proulx, and many, many others have written about the state, life, and future of people going about ordinary lives in extraordinary circumstances and events. It isn't always the grand story or complex plot that pits "everyman" against all odds, rather the organic and natural way life unfolds before them. Stephen King writes to aspiring writers in his book On Writing that to really become a writer you have to study those that have come before you. Read. Read. Read. The great quote from Issac Asimov: "If I have seen further than others it is because I have stood on the shoulders of giants." So humbling in nature, that to really see beyond our limited horizon of experience we have to first see what the greats have seen.
So I read. I read and read and read and I read widely. I try at any rate. I take in what great and small authors have set down in print and draw out stories, lessons, technique, and elements of craft to take to the next novel or use as I begin my next project. More often than not, after a great novel or exquisite short story I leave feeling inspired and motivated to create something of its equal, something grand and insightful and for moments all to brief I sit at the computer or at my notepad and begin with gusto and focus the next great opus of our time only to see it fall flat and dissipate in forgotten files and ink smeared notes. I have similar reactions to great photographs, paintings and songs. Art so full of life and meaning that i am moved to inspiration only to once again fall flat and loose the drive to create, then I feel like absolute shit. I am easily distracted, i am a procrastinator, i am decidedly lazy though not without drive and discipline...of sorts. It is an enigma that haunts and colors my life.
I recognize so clearly that we are not all intended to be great artists--in its very broadest sense--but most have a clear definition of the art that moves and inspires our inner hearts and deep recess' of our souls. There is a twang of truth to the art that can move my heart and soul, there has to be, i am so cynical and jaded with the world at large and i confess that i am always alert for, and eager to point out, the lies and surface beauty that surrounds me. It must be part of the reason i find myself where i do in this season of unemployment: frustrated, depressed, discouraged, slipping to hopelessness.
Personally I have always had a sunny disposition, my cynicism and distrust was balanced, albeit crudely, with sunny optimism. Generally, i have always believed that things would work out for the best and that people meant well, and that their intentions were more or less good. I have always believed the best of the world. But inactivity has always been my poisoned apple and the poison effects my self-confidence first and then my mind and presently i am paralyzed with fear and insecurity. It is with great will that i break free of the poison, into bursts of activity and production but it always ready to take me back and the slide is almost inevitable. A job I hate or no job at all. I am in a desperate search to find something in this life that authenticates who I am--the vocation vs. occupation debate.
I read the works of great writers, I listen to the music of great musicians, I enjoy the paintings, photographs, poems, and design of great artists. There is a world that moves me. It is honest, accessible, visible, and poignant and it informs the life I live. I don't know what I want from a career but i pray that the way I make my living is in my vocation, what i was intended for, and not the first occupation that comes along.
So I read. I read and read and read and I read widely. I try at any rate. I take in what great and small authors have set down in print and draw out stories, lessons, technique, and elements of craft to take to the next novel or use as I begin my next project. More often than not, after a great novel or exquisite short story I leave feeling inspired and motivated to create something of its equal, something grand and insightful and for moments all to brief I sit at the computer or at my notepad and begin with gusto and focus the next great opus of our time only to see it fall flat and dissipate in forgotten files and ink smeared notes. I have similar reactions to great photographs, paintings and songs. Art so full of life and meaning that i am moved to inspiration only to once again fall flat and loose the drive to create, then I feel like absolute shit. I am easily distracted, i am a procrastinator, i am decidedly lazy though not without drive and discipline...of sorts. It is an enigma that haunts and colors my life.
I recognize so clearly that we are not all intended to be great artists--in its very broadest sense--but most have a clear definition of the art that moves and inspires our inner hearts and deep recess' of our souls. There is a twang of truth to the art that can move my heart and soul, there has to be, i am so cynical and jaded with the world at large and i confess that i am always alert for, and eager to point out, the lies and surface beauty that surrounds me. It must be part of the reason i find myself where i do in this season of unemployment: frustrated, depressed, discouraged, slipping to hopelessness.
Personally I have always had a sunny disposition, my cynicism and distrust was balanced, albeit crudely, with sunny optimism. Generally, i have always believed that things would work out for the best and that people meant well, and that their intentions were more or less good. I have always believed the best of the world. But inactivity has always been my poisoned apple and the poison effects my self-confidence first and then my mind and presently i am paralyzed with fear and insecurity. It is with great will that i break free of the poison, into bursts of activity and production but it always ready to take me back and the slide is almost inevitable. A job I hate or no job at all. I am in a desperate search to find something in this life that authenticates who I am--the vocation vs. occupation debate.
I read the works of great writers, I listen to the music of great musicians, I enjoy the paintings, photographs, poems, and design of great artists. There is a world that moves me. It is honest, accessible, visible, and poignant and it informs the life I live. I don't know what I want from a career but i pray that the way I make my living is in my vocation, what i was intended for, and not the first occupation that comes along.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Prince of Tides
I finished Prince of Tides, by Pat Conroy, and it has taken a place as one of the better novels i have ever read. I wouldn't categorize it as the best but I have a hard time picking a "best" novel, there are so many great authors who have published great works that i can not narrow center in on one best novel. But Prince of Tides is truly fantastic.
A brief disclaimer without spoiling the novel: this is not a story for the week of heart. It deals with some of the darker aspects of man and the truly horrible things one human can do to another. It isn't constant, it doesn't plague the novel, but there are some brutal scenarios played out in the novel and as you read be prepared for the worst. That said, the novel unfolds beautifully and draws the reader into the rich and painful southern world of Tom Wingo.
To surmise, the novel is primarily set in New York where the youngest son, a second born twin and third child, is reliving the abusive and atrocious story of his past to his sisters psychiatrist while she recoups in a mental hospital after slitting her wrists. This would be a repeat attempt at suicide. Tom is in New York on the heals of a lengthy spell of unemployment after being fired as a teacher and coach after a nervous breakdown. An event which caused him to withdraw deep into his own insecurities and fears as a way of coping with his lost passion and perceived masculinity. His wife is consequently pushed away and on the shirt-tails of the news his sister has attempted suicide she reveals to him she is having an affair with a fellow doctor. Tom leaves for New York to help his sister by revealing the dark secrets of an abusive childhood. In the process he re-discovers who he is and by helping his his sister (Savannah) he helps himself. It becomes a great twin metaphor of connectivity that as Tom is hurt and shamed (through out) and hides it, the real life reflection is lived through Savannah, finally, as she sees ghastly hallucinations it is as though the fear and shame of her family haunt her personally and finally as she begins to attempt suicide on the eve of leaving for New York city, where she makes her mark as a great feminist poet.
The greatness of Conroy's novel isn't the darkness of humanity or the honest and candid portrayal of abuse and fear. Rather it is the honest way he binds the siblings, Luke, Savannah, and Tom, in an alliance against the world that works so hard to oppress them. There are very few passages of beautiful prose in the novel though it is laced with little observations by Tom, as the narrator, that reveal the complex layers of Conroy's prose. The novel is a whole and to dissect it in parts is unfair to the story and the author but having read it i feel a renewed sense of hope about the value of survival and the tenacity of the human spirit.
In my own life i have witnessed the ease with which the human spirit can be broken, shattered like a rock going through plate-glass. I have also seen the triumph of the same spirit lifted off the floor and put back together. Prince of Tides may have a fairy tale ending but it reflects the tenacity and durability that is often hidden beneath our fragile lives. I have always believed in redemption and hope but at times it takes truly great artists to help me renew the drive to the end.
I highly recommend Prince of Tides, by Pat Conroy.
A brief disclaimer without spoiling the novel: this is not a story for the week of heart. It deals with some of the darker aspects of man and the truly horrible things one human can do to another. It isn't constant, it doesn't plague the novel, but there are some brutal scenarios played out in the novel and as you read be prepared for the worst. That said, the novel unfolds beautifully and draws the reader into the rich and painful southern world of Tom Wingo.
To surmise, the novel is primarily set in New York where the youngest son, a second born twin and third child, is reliving the abusive and atrocious story of his past to his sisters psychiatrist while she recoups in a mental hospital after slitting her wrists. This would be a repeat attempt at suicide. Tom is in New York on the heals of a lengthy spell of unemployment after being fired as a teacher and coach after a nervous breakdown. An event which caused him to withdraw deep into his own insecurities and fears as a way of coping with his lost passion and perceived masculinity. His wife is consequently pushed away and on the shirt-tails of the news his sister has attempted suicide she reveals to him she is having an affair with a fellow doctor. Tom leaves for New York to help his sister by revealing the dark secrets of an abusive childhood. In the process he re-discovers who he is and by helping his his sister (Savannah) he helps himself. It becomes a great twin metaphor of connectivity that as Tom is hurt and shamed (through out) and hides it, the real life reflection is lived through Savannah, finally, as she sees ghastly hallucinations it is as though the fear and shame of her family haunt her personally and finally as she begins to attempt suicide on the eve of leaving for New York city, where she makes her mark as a great feminist poet.
The greatness of Conroy's novel isn't the darkness of humanity or the honest and candid portrayal of abuse and fear. Rather it is the honest way he binds the siblings, Luke, Savannah, and Tom, in an alliance against the world that works so hard to oppress them. There are very few passages of beautiful prose in the novel though it is laced with little observations by Tom, as the narrator, that reveal the complex layers of Conroy's prose. The novel is a whole and to dissect it in parts is unfair to the story and the author but having read it i feel a renewed sense of hope about the value of survival and the tenacity of the human spirit.
In my own life i have witnessed the ease with which the human spirit can be broken, shattered like a rock going through plate-glass. I have also seen the triumph of the same spirit lifted off the floor and put back together. Prince of Tides may have a fairy tale ending but it reflects the tenacity and durability that is often hidden beneath our fragile lives. I have always believed in redemption and hope but at times it takes truly great artists to help me renew the drive to the end.
I highly recommend Prince of Tides, by Pat Conroy.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Books
It has come to my attention, actually my wife has acutely pointed it out, that my blog has become a collection of self-indulgent delves into the dark part of my being. "It is a candid reflection of my condition," is my general response.
"Yes," she said, "but no one is going to read it if it just brings them down."
Oh. Right. Readers.
Readers are important for me. They are, as a matter of fact, the entire reason i succumbed to blogging in the first place. It has become a way for me to release all the anxiety and depression that i have been struggling with, but originally it was to be an outlet that i was sharing (am sharing) with an invisible, mostly, readership. I love that. It gives me a great sense of accomplishment and purpose when i carve out another posting on my blog. But i don't want to be read as a dark depressing ego maniac who can't get beyond the dark frustration of unemployment or the despair of looking forward for a career.
The truth is i find a great deal of pleasure in a great number of things. Some of those things (blog appropriate) are reading, food, and mt. biking. I also like movies, dates with my wife, time with my children, and cash in my wallet. So, as an exercise in the pleasures of life i would like to take time, weekly, to focus on what i love in life so as not to get lost in what i hate. Today's topic: books (at this point I will try to make it brief).
I picked up two books from the library this week: Drop City by T.C. Boyle and The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy. I gotta be honest, and i don't care what award it won/was nominated for, I dropped Drop City less than three chapters in. It read like a self indulgent hippie cliche and i was struck first and foremost at the way in which the "hippies" were portrayed. People with the privilege and luxury to abandon society, then leach off of it (collective pool of food stamps), then proclaim they have no need for it. Briefly, Drop City (surmised from the dust flap) is a novel about a hippie commune called Drop City that pulls up roots in California and relocates to Alaska. Allegedly it becomes a story about the clash and eventual alliance between two fringe aspects of American society that exist in radically different dichotomies. I don't have patience for the hippies of today, i certainly don't have time for a glorified retrospective. I will say, on Boyle's behalf, he is undoubtedly, however, a very talented writer. Not the greatest, not even close, but talented none-the-less and i will be moving onto one of his other novels soon. I have heard that his short stories are good too, so i will read those as well, me being a lover of short stories. The Prince of Tides has been an altogether different experience.
Prince of Tides thus far (I am half-way through) is an epic. It is one of the most challenging and moving novels i have ever read and each page draws me to the next. His gift of language and the honest style with which he portrays the Wingo family in S. Carolina is refreshing and beautiful. I am shocked and disappointed that i haven't read his novels before now. He reminds me of a more refined David James Duncan (thinking of Brothers K) and a more honest and approachable John Updike (thinking of In the Beauty of the Lillie's). It may not be wise to share thoughts on novels before they are finished but i have a feeling that Prince of Tides will not disappoint and I look forward to writing more about it upon completion.
"Yes," she said, "but no one is going to read it if it just brings them down."
Oh. Right. Readers.
Readers are important for me. They are, as a matter of fact, the entire reason i succumbed to blogging in the first place. It has become a way for me to release all the anxiety and depression that i have been struggling with, but originally it was to be an outlet that i was sharing (am sharing) with an invisible, mostly, readership. I love that. It gives me a great sense of accomplishment and purpose when i carve out another posting on my blog. But i don't want to be read as a dark depressing ego maniac who can't get beyond the dark frustration of unemployment or the despair of looking forward for a career.
The truth is i find a great deal of pleasure in a great number of things. Some of those things (blog appropriate) are reading, food, and mt. biking. I also like movies, dates with my wife, time with my children, and cash in my wallet. So, as an exercise in the pleasures of life i would like to take time, weekly, to focus on what i love in life so as not to get lost in what i hate. Today's topic: books (at this point I will try to make it brief).
I picked up two books from the library this week: Drop City by T.C. Boyle and The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy. I gotta be honest, and i don't care what award it won/was nominated for, I dropped Drop City less than three chapters in. It read like a self indulgent hippie cliche and i was struck first and foremost at the way in which the "hippies" were portrayed. People with the privilege and luxury to abandon society, then leach off of it (collective pool of food stamps), then proclaim they have no need for it. Briefly, Drop City (surmised from the dust flap) is a novel about a hippie commune called Drop City that pulls up roots in California and relocates to Alaska. Allegedly it becomes a story about the clash and eventual alliance between two fringe aspects of American society that exist in radically different dichotomies. I don't have patience for the hippies of today, i certainly don't have time for a glorified retrospective. I will say, on Boyle's behalf, he is undoubtedly, however, a very talented writer. Not the greatest, not even close, but talented none-the-less and i will be moving onto one of his other novels soon. I have heard that his short stories are good too, so i will read those as well, me being a lover of short stories. The Prince of Tides has been an altogether different experience.
Prince of Tides thus far (I am half-way through) is an epic. It is one of the most challenging and moving novels i have ever read and each page draws me to the next. His gift of language and the honest style with which he portrays the Wingo family in S. Carolina is refreshing and beautiful. I am shocked and disappointed that i haven't read his novels before now. He reminds me of a more refined David James Duncan (thinking of Brothers K) and a more honest and approachable John Updike (thinking of In the Beauty of the Lillie's). It may not be wise to share thoughts on novels before they are finished but i have a feeling that Prince of Tides will not disappoint and I look forward to writing more about it upon completion.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Status: SNAFU
I've been letting the daily blog go. I've, actually, let it go. It seems to me that being unemployed has left me with little or nothing to say on a daily basis. I am sure that it is connected to useful productivity in some regard. When i was working, full time, i lead very productive and purposeful days. Now i sit at home for extremely large swaths of time and watch the paint peel...not really, but it feels like it at times. I was struck this morning, as i got out of bed, at how desperate i am becoming for something that resembles purpose for getting out of bed. It is easy, frighteningly easy, to lapse into a cycle of sleeping late into the morning and letting the day get a couple hours head start. When the day has the lead i never feel like i get it back and for the rest of the day I'm two hours behind everyone else. I hate that, but what can you do? There seems to be no reason to wake up with my alarm, to get moving during the day, to push forward at all.
I want to be a writer but i don't write. I want to be an artist but i don't create. I want to be a professional but i have no skills. I am tired of being a carpenter, i look for carpentry work, inquire about the few and scattered positions, but my heart is not really in it. The thought of working for someone else has begun to have a similar effect as sour milk but the reality of working for myself is bleak and frightening as well. I live a life wrapped up in the fears and insecurities of my mind and my reaction to adversary and desperation is to reach out for what is familiar and comforting. In the case of unemployment it is carpentry. There are not enough superlatives for me to describe how disgusted i am with my reaction to this crisis. My wife constantly tells me that I'm too hard on myself, perhaps i am, but the world is moving forward with or without me and i hate being left behind.
Yet, i am hung up on the fulcrum of my problem and that is how i go forward. I have lost the capability to make a decision about the nature of a career. I feel a deep desire to create in an artistic setting, I always have, and i have always turned to writing to feed that desire but perhaps my creative medium can take a new shape? I don't know, i have no other, apparent, artistic talents at my disposal right now. I'm losing focus.
Some days i wake up with the rain running all over the face of Bellingham and i want to scream FUCK IT!!! out to the world. Some days Bellingham is washed in sun and i have the same reaction.
I want to be a writer but i don't write. I want to be an artist but i don't create. I want to be a professional but i have no skills. I am tired of being a carpenter, i look for carpentry work, inquire about the few and scattered positions, but my heart is not really in it. The thought of working for someone else has begun to have a similar effect as sour milk but the reality of working for myself is bleak and frightening as well. I live a life wrapped up in the fears and insecurities of my mind and my reaction to adversary and desperation is to reach out for what is familiar and comforting. In the case of unemployment it is carpentry. There are not enough superlatives for me to describe how disgusted i am with my reaction to this crisis. My wife constantly tells me that I'm too hard on myself, perhaps i am, but the world is moving forward with or without me and i hate being left behind.
Yet, i am hung up on the fulcrum of my problem and that is how i go forward. I have lost the capability to make a decision about the nature of a career. I feel a deep desire to create in an artistic setting, I always have, and i have always turned to writing to feed that desire but perhaps my creative medium can take a new shape? I don't know, i have no other, apparent, artistic talents at my disposal right now. I'm losing focus.
Some days i wake up with the rain running all over the face of Bellingham and i want to scream FUCK IT!!! out to the world. Some days Bellingham is washed in sun and i have the same reaction.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
I have Not Abandoned My Post
I have not abandoned my post, as it were. This past week has seen an influx of variables that have conspired, one to the other, to cloud my mind and keep me from the computer. A cloudy mind is not new to me, of course, nor is it hard to distract or destroy my motivation. Especially recently. But excuse upon excuse (injured while mt. biking, son's one year birthday, relatives visiting, etc...) and i have lapsed, tragically, into inactivity as far as the blog is concerned. I will be back with a full post soon, hopefully tomorrow. I just have to wake up with my alarm.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
A Long Period of Unemployment
The past two-ish months have been filled with long days. Settling into the cycle of unemployment and swallowing your pride as help filters in along the way has been exhausting. Really, almost as challenging as working. No, more. The stress levels involved with unemployment makes work related stress look like a day at the spa. There are, of course, peaks and valleys. Some days epitomize despair and frustration and some days are an emotional flat line. But the over reaching feeling is frustration. Gradually i have seen my confidence (in finding a job) levels plummet, the want adds are laced with jobs i am either not qualified for or pay so little it makes unemployment insurance look like a golden ticket.
The job market is discouraging. The process of career counselling and rethinking what it is i want to do for a job is also a bit discouraging. I am really searching for my vocation, a career that, not only am i well suited for, i am passionate about and excited about. I had thought of teaching, i wrote last week or the week before that my mind was settled. Well, the Bellingham school district just let go of over 100 teachers. An old friend posted a news clip on Facebook and the headline read 1000's of Oregon teachers without jobs. No one is hiring carpenters but I'm not too interested in that. Identifying my passions is a challenging process. Balancing interests with realistic job prospects is a must for me and my family, i can't go through retraining only to land in an empty job market flooded with applicants. There is a sense of impatience and urgency building pressure within but i feel no closer to moving on than i did two months ago. All I've got is a long list of rejected resumes.
Excitement at a time of change gave way to frustration and despair and now the frustration and despair share mental space with acceptance and all three emotion groups continue to swap back and forth and weave a strange web in my mind. I am almost trapped in a web of my creation and am beginning to lack the confidence or energy to cut my way out.
The job market is discouraging. The process of career counselling and rethinking what it is i want to do for a job is also a bit discouraging. I am really searching for my vocation, a career that, not only am i well suited for, i am passionate about and excited about. I had thought of teaching, i wrote last week or the week before that my mind was settled. Well, the Bellingham school district just let go of over 100 teachers. An old friend posted a news clip on Facebook and the headline read 1000's of Oregon teachers without jobs. No one is hiring carpenters but I'm not too interested in that. Identifying my passions is a challenging process. Balancing interests with realistic job prospects is a must for me and my family, i can't go through retraining only to land in an empty job market flooded with applicants. There is a sense of impatience and urgency building pressure within but i feel no closer to moving on than i did two months ago. All I've got is a long list of rejected resumes.
Excitement at a time of change gave way to frustration and despair and now the frustration and despair share mental space with acceptance and all three emotion groups continue to swap back and forth and weave a strange web in my mind. I am almost trapped in a web of my creation and am beginning to lack the confidence or energy to cut my way out.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Empty
Its Wednesday. The stark truth. The only day it is not supposed to rain, this week, but at this time the skies are grey. I feel rather empty this morning, devoid of mental prowess or energy to write at this blog. I can't explain exactly except go back to empty.
All of me feels empty. I guess that is all I've got to say this morning.
All of me feels empty. I guess that is all I've got to say this morning.
Monday, April 5, 2010
A Long Ways to Go
My 30th birthday passed quietly last week. I wrote about it a couple of days ago as well, but I've had a chance to reflect on 30. As my birthday drew near the sense of urgency to figure my life's path and lay down the route to a career and financial success began to crumble away. It is possible that this was a mental coping mechanism, as i had (have) no concrete paths, just strong inclinations, to walk down. Perhaps it was the reality of the nature of decisions and vision in that i need time to figure out the right career to pursue. I'm not sure. Of course, i am still haunted by the need to discover what it is I want to spend the greater portion of my life doing to make money, but the urgency has abated.
I've been reflecting on turning 30, the years of accumulated knowledge and bits of wisdom I've picked up along the way. I should interject here and say that i am by no means at a pinnacle of any sort, but there are some things I've learned that do seem to make the world go 'round.
I think the biggest thing I've learned is that sometime talking doesn't do any good. Perhaps i alluded to this when i wrote on politics a month or so ago, but when people feel so strongly one way or the other, typically they are not interested in a dialogue, and it doesn't matter what they feel strongly about. It could be a redneck at a rodeo with a white trash muscle car. It could be an activist at the same rodeo with PETA signs. It could be health care reform or campaign finance. Could be politics or religion. It could be the color blue. It could be anything. With people so entrenched in their sense of entitlement and justice there is nothing the other side, or a moderate observer, can say, as a means of dialogue and discussion, to disagree with out spurring on a defensive, aggressive outburst. Of course, this isn't always true, some people are interested in dialogue and compromise, realizing that nothing is ever achieved through extremism except the escalation of anger that leads to violence, pain, and jail. I think what I'm saying is that I've learned to be confident in my beliefs and views and i don't need the constant affirmation of others to propagate a one-sided, closed mind set/world view and I'm not afraid of the people who think differently than me. It is our differences, after all, that make the world such an interesting place to live, love, learn, and grow.
Of course, I should confess, i am not the perfect moderate. I get defensive and angry and i have a sense of justice that typically puts me in the right. I strive for moderation, to see the world from both sides, to allow room for dialogue and discussion, but i still have a long way to go. Also, i should say, that i am not against the passions people have for their beliefs. I encourage those. We should be people of conviction and passion, we should have strong beliefs and views and we should hold tightly to them. . . just not at the expense of alienating people around us. So i find i have a fine line to walk.
There is a fine balance between the passion and conviction of beliefs and the perverted sense of justice and activism that creates closed minded, defensive outlooks on the world at large and therein i have walked the gamut. From reactionary, defensive christian college student (at a very liberal university) who was, frankly afraid of dialogue, to a mellowed carpenter who has had a lot of time to think through the belief structures of others in life's perpetual grind. Because of the God i love and serve, i have chosen to walk the line and i try not to alienate people because of my beliefs. I am not afraid of the world nor the people who believe differently than me. What i have learned is to embrace diversity and enter into dialogue as it is appropriate and available. What i have learned and what i practice are, of course, two separate things.
I am only 30, I still have a long ways to go.
I've been reflecting on turning 30, the years of accumulated knowledge and bits of wisdom I've picked up along the way. I should interject here and say that i am by no means at a pinnacle of any sort, but there are some things I've learned that do seem to make the world go 'round.
I think the biggest thing I've learned is that sometime talking doesn't do any good. Perhaps i alluded to this when i wrote on politics a month or so ago, but when people feel so strongly one way or the other, typically they are not interested in a dialogue, and it doesn't matter what they feel strongly about. It could be a redneck at a rodeo with a white trash muscle car. It could be an activist at the same rodeo with PETA signs. It could be health care reform or campaign finance. Could be politics or religion. It could be the color blue. It could be anything. With people so entrenched in their sense of entitlement and justice there is nothing the other side, or a moderate observer, can say, as a means of dialogue and discussion, to disagree with out spurring on a defensive, aggressive outburst. Of course, this isn't always true, some people are interested in dialogue and compromise, realizing that nothing is ever achieved through extremism except the escalation of anger that leads to violence, pain, and jail. I think what I'm saying is that I've learned to be confident in my beliefs and views and i don't need the constant affirmation of others to propagate a one-sided, closed mind set/world view and I'm not afraid of the people who think differently than me. It is our differences, after all, that make the world such an interesting place to live, love, learn, and grow.
Of course, I should confess, i am not the perfect moderate. I get defensive and angry and i have a sense of justice that typically puts me in the right. I strive for moderation, to see the world from both sides, to allow room for dialogue and discussion, but i still have a long way to go. Also, i should say, that i am not against the passions people have for their beliefs. I encourage those. We should be people of conviction and passion, we should have strong beliefs and views and we should hold tightly to them. . . just not at the expense of alienating people around us. So i find i have a fine line to walk.
There is a fine balance between the passion and conviction of beliefs and the perverted sense of justice and activism that creates closed minded, defensive outlooks on the world at large and therein i have walked the gamut. From reactionary, defensive christian college student (at a very liberal university) who was, frankly afraid of dialogue, to a mellowed carpenter who has had a lot of time to think through the belief structures of others in life's perpetual grind. Because of the God i love and serve, i have chosen to walk the line and i try not to alienate people because of my beliefs. I am not afraid of the world nor the people who believe differently than me. What i have learned is to embrace diversity and enter into dialogue as it is appropriate and available. What i have learned and what i practice are, of course, two separate things.
I am only 30, I still have a long ways to go.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Easier Written Than Done
Yesterday was my 30th birthday and the day itself was just fine. My wife went far out of her way to make sure i had a good day and she did a splendid job. A nice breakfast, followed by a great ride on the local trails. Then out to lunch and quiet afternoon and the day culminated with dinner at a local Italian restaurant we like--D'Anna's Italian Cafe--with some great food, a 1/2 carafe of chianti, a shared tirimasu and an espresso. Great day, if i could turn 30 more often. The day was great but i still can't quite wrap my head around 30 and i think that has more to do with the context of life right now, everything being scattered and up in the air.
I feel like a can of spay paint, a rattle can i sometimes call it. In that the little ball is rattling around in my brain and i have to be shaken up and frequently to be productive but unlike a rattle can, with me I'm never sure what color is going to spray out the nozzle. Thoughts and ideas and interests and desires and dreams and goals are all pin-balling their way around my mind, sometimes to the point of breaking free of my skull and splitting me wide open. It is a constant struggle for me to contain individual threads of my mind long enough to explore and expand them individually and consequently i am guilty of perpetually starting stories and threads of thought and then loosing them completely to another and another. I do not know how novelists like Michner write what they write. The years of research and considerable breadth of his work is absolutely mind blowing to me. That's okay, historical fiction is not my thing, I'm fine with that. But i wish i could figure out what my thing was.
In the run up to 30 i have felt this sense of urgency about me, the need and desire to overcome my indecision and foggy vision for the future. That didn't really happen. Each day brings me closer to a new career and a new direction but the path i have to walk is no clearer now than it was three months ago, the days are long and fraught with frustration and a bit of boredom and the job market/outlook is bleak. Furthering my education, for the purpose of educating, is first on my list now but i don't have a passion or desire to teach, per-se. Is this an echo? I have a passion and desire to read and write and the ultimate goal is to live as a writer. But that means i have to write. Write. Write.
Write more than this blog, more than the random thoughts that are banging around in my head. More that the scribbles of notes that litter my notebooks and post-it notes. I have to be committed to writing and finishing what i start. I have to begin to contain the jumble of crashing asteroids that cloud my mind into organized, focused, and completed thoughts.
Easier written than done.
I feel like a can of spay paint, a rattle can i sometimes call it. In that the little ball is rattling around in my brain and i have to be shaken up and frequently to be productive but unlike a rattle can, with me I'm never sure what color is going to spray out the nozzle. Thoughts and ideas and interests and desires and dreams and goals are all pin-balling their way around my mind, sometimes to the point of breaking free of my skull and splitting me wide open. It is a constant struggle for me to contain individual threads of my mind long enough to explore and expand them individually and consequently i am guilty of perpetually starting stories and threads of thought and then loosing them completely to another and another. I do not know how novelists like Michner write what they write. The years of research and considerable breadth of his work is absolutely mind blowing to me. That's okay, historical fiction is not my thing, I'm fine with that. But i wish i could figure out what my thing was.
In the run up to 30 i have felt this sense of urgency about me, the need and desire to overcome my indecision and foggy vision for the future. That didn't really happen. Each day brings me closer to a new career and a new direction but the path i have to walk is no clearer now than it was three months ago, the days are long and fraught with frustration and a bit of boredom and the job market/outlook is bleak. Furthering my education, for the purpose of educating, is first on my list now but i don't have a passion or desire to teach, per-se. Is this an echo? I have a passion and desire to read and write and the ultimate goal is to live as a writer. But that means i have to write. Write. Write.
Write more than this blog, more than the random thoughts that are banging around in my head. More that the scribbles of notes that litter my notebooks and post-it notes. I have to be committed to writing and finishing what i start. I have to begin to contain the jumble of crashing asteroids that cloud my mind into organized, focused, and completed thoughts.
Easier written than done.
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