Tara Lyn

(About a one minute read)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tara Lyn

Love sometimes is
Too softly spoken
To be heard
Above the wind

Hearts sometimes are
Too softly broken
To be heard
Tara Lynn

Love sometimes is
Like a dance
We don’t think
We’re in

Hearts sometimes
Dance apart
Tara Lynn.


Originally published March 11, 2007 on this blog.

Late Night Thoughts: Plumbing, Girl’s Diaries, Old Age, Real Men, and More

(About a 8 minute read)

Yesterday began bright and sunny.  Then in the afternoon, it began clouding over.  When the air chilled, the squirrels absented themselves, perhaps sensing the coming storm.

Eventually, the wind rose and the grass rippled.  Pink blossoms of the redbud tree swayed against the greying sky.  A few drops twitched old leaves.  Then, for a half hour or forty-five minutes, no more drops fell.

Finally, the rain came in earnest.

It’s still raining now in the wee hours of the morning, a moderate rain.

◊◊◊

Mikolas was from Czechoslovakia, back in the day when it was under Soviet control.  He had managed to escape to West Germany, and then immigrate to the United States.

Some years after he came to America, his toilet clogged up around two in the morning.  Mikolas opened his phone book, and found a plumber who advertised 24 hour emergency service.  The plumber dutifully came out and unstopped Mikolas’ toilet with nothing more than a common plunger.

To Mikolas’ amazement, he received by the end of the month a bill for $50, which would be about $225 in today’s money.  Mikolas was struck by the genius of the man.

Consequently, Mikolas bought a plunger, and began advertising himself as an emergency 24 hour service.  Perhaps a half dozen times a month he would be woken up by a phone call.  “This is Mikolas.  How may I help you?”  If the problem was anything other than a stopped up toilet, he would say, “All of our crews are out on calls at the moment.  It will be a few hours wait.”  No one would want to wait.

But if the problem was a stopped up toilet, Mikolas would earn $50 that night.

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Some years ago, as I recall, a team of social psychologists undertook to study teenage girl’s diaries from the 1950s and 1990s.

They found many similarities, but also that the ’50s diaries significantly mentioned the girl’s concerns with self-improvement.  The girls were writing quite a bit about getting better grades, cultivating virtues, such as kindness, and developing their skills, such as sewing.

The ’90s diaries had a different focus.  Diets, body-image anxieties, cosmetics, fashions, and what the boys thought of them.

◊◊◊

It is arguable that advertising has a greater impact on culture these days than does literature.

◊◊◊

Slower thinking in old age?  Perhaps not!

A few years ago, a computer simulation of old and young brains by scientists at Tübingen University in Germany suggested that older people might be processing information as fast as younger people — but just more of it.  That is, as you age, you have more information to sort through before you can respond to something, which gives the appearance of thinking slower.

The study was conducted in 2014.  I have just now finally digested it.

◊◊◊

Your task is not to seek love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself you have built against it.  — Rumi

◊◊◊

“Failures” aren’t failures if you learn from them.  They’re progress.

It seems to me there is little or no progress in politics these days.

◊◊◊

My second wife was, on her mother’s side, a direct descendant of a samurai — or more properly, in her case, a bushi — family that had been hatamoto to the Tokugawa shogunate.  To call her family “samurai”, she told me, would be a demotion in Japanese terms.  They were bushi, warriors.

Her family of warriors had at one time owned most of the land that is now southern Tokyo, and they were still quite traditional in some ways, despite that her mother had married an American.

My ex-wife’s grandmother thought that her granddaughter should be raised as a traditionally as possible, and taught her many of the ancient attitudes, skills, and customs, such as what it meant to be bushi, and how to wield the ko-naginata, or women’s pole sword.  Since her grandmother was Tomoko’s primary caregiver growing up, Tomoko spoke no more than two dozen words of English until she was 16 and immigrated with her mother and father to the United States.

Tomoko — whose name was spelled uncommonly to reference the “To” in Tokugawa —  in many ways retained her grandmother’s teachings into adulthood.  Nothing made that clearer to me than the day I wrote my first poem to her.

Until then, I had written exceedingly few poems in my life, and I had kept none of them, so Tomoko had quietly concluded that I simply lacked any inclination or ability to compose poetry.  Then, about 12 years after we’d met, and two years into our marriage, I found my poetic voice.  Or at least, one of my voices, and I wrote a poem to her.

At the time, I was in the habit of buying her flowers on Fridays and having them delivered to her work, because she worked weekends.  So that Friday at the florists, I attached the poem to the flowers.  Then I returned to my business, and worked late until perhaps ten or eleven o’clock.  When I got home, I was shocked to find Tomoko had been crying.

It was quite unusual for her to cry, and perhaps you can imagine some of the thoughts that immediately ran through my mind when she said she was crying because of the poem!  “My god, was it that bad!”, I said, trying to cheer her up.  However, she didn’t laugh, but began explaining to me something that in it’s own way shocked me even more than her tears.

I’ve forgotten exactly how she said it, but the gist was that she now regarded me as a “true male”, a real man.  That puzzled me, of course, because I was not in the habit of doubting my masculinity, and I had assumed she wasn’t either.  But when I got to questioning her, the truth came out.

In her mind, she had never doubted that I was most of the things she expected in a man of her own class, but since I had never shown any inclination or ability to write poetry, she had assumed I was lacking in the one thing left that was necessary to make me a “true male”.   A profound sensitivity to what it means to be alive.

For Tomoko, any old male could be, say, brave, because any old male could be dull enough to not feel the intensity of life.  How could you call such bravery “true bravery” when all it might amount to is giving up a life you don’t cherish enough anyway?  She had never doubted that I was brave enough in that way.  But in her view, it took a true male to be brave while yet acutely aware of being alive.  My poem had struck her as sensitive enough that I now qualified as capable of feeling life intensely.  That is, it wasn’t entirely the poem itself that had moved her, but the intensity of it.

All of this was such foreign thinking to me that my fascination with it almost overwhelmed my shock at realizing she had up until then thought of me as somewhat less than her ideal male.  I felt a little resentful that she hadn’t told me any of this before.  But that night proved to be the beginning of a change in our relationship.

Tomoko had experienced various forms of abuse during her childhood which had almost certainly left her with a nearly full blown borderline personality disorder.

She was brilliant, and would, say, do calculus problems in her head to stave off boredom during her idle moments, but she couldn’t control her volcanic rages.  There is no real cure for BPD, which involves permanent alterations to four areas of the brain, and back then, there was no effective medication nor therapy for it, either.

So her periodic rages never went away, but during the lulls between them now, Tomoko’s respect for me — which had, it turned out, been almost perfunctory by her Japanese standards — profoundly deepened, she displayed an openness to me that hadn’t been there before, and she even became, for the first time, wholly devoted to me.

I wrote a number of other poems to her after that first one, but none of them brought about any such unexpected revelations as that first.

Late Night Thoughts: Love, Consciousness, Moralism, Red, and More

(About a 10 minute read)

The half moon is riding high tonight.  Silver light on the lawn.

The weather is warm enough now that I can leave the doors open most of the night to let the air in through the screens.   This is the stillest part of the night.  The city is for the most part asleep, so there is very little traffic on the nearby roads.  Besides, my cottage is far enough off the closest road that passing cars are usually muted.

In a couple hours, the birds will start singing.  Then a bit later, the dawn.

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One of the very few posts on Café Philos with more than 80,000 views is The Difference Between Loving Someone and Loving an Idea of Them.

The post’s core notion is that one sign we love an idea of someone, rather than love them, is that we are trying to change them to fit our notion of them.  Especially if we are trying to change them against their basic nature.

Of course, me being me, it took 600 words, two personal stories, and one reference to beer,  to get that idea out.

◊◊◊

Have you noticed how some folks seem to bill you for the love they give?  Maybe they can’t seem to say, “I love you”, without expecting you to feel obligated to them for it.  Or maybe it’s not so much when they say “I love you” as it’s when they do something for you that they charge you for it.  But they always send out a bill, and expect prompt payment on time.

My second wife was like that.  I didn’t hold it against her, I didn’t hate her for it, because I knew she got the behavior from her mother.  All the same, I couldn’t live with it, and it was one of many reasons I divorced her.

She liked to go to an all night restaurant and sit up as late as four in the morning drinking tea.  Her work hours allowed for that:  She started late in the morning and worked until late in the evening.   But mine often didn’t.  Still, she felt I was obligated to go with her because, as she explained more than once, “You have a monopoly on my heart”.  Which, if you knew her, you would have recognized as a subtle threat to cheat, to break that monopoly, unless she got her way.

Now and then, we’d have a falling out, during which times she’d burn all the poems I’d composed for her since our last falling out.  The first time, it surprised me, but afterwards, I just thought it was funny.

For the longest time, I was convinced I could change her, but in the end I was only kidding myself.   She had a lot of good qualities that woman, but the price of her love became far too great a price to pay.

 One Way to Pay a Bill

 I would rather sit beside evening waters,
Feeling air lift across my arm like lips,
Smelling moisture that could be breath
From one who comes near enough to care

Than go late into a restaurant
Where air is still as dust in a corner
And light twists through incandescence,
Malnourished, to strike at shadow with a rag.

Although if I told you this
You’d accuse me of disregarding now and forever
Your right to stay up until four with your tea;

Then some weeks later you’d accuse:
I lacked an enthusiasm for sunsets
Which deprives you of romance —

“Since I have a monopoly on your heart”,
You’d say.

I’ve lived with you and noticed
When your heart flicks on, “I love you”,
It sends a bill for the energy used,
Which it feels seldom is paid for gracefully
Or on time.

I’ve willed for your love in the absence of another,
But shouldn’t your heart account in its books
The warmth you’ve taken, now and then,
From burning my poems?

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For the most part, it seems to me the relationship between our consciousness and the rest of our mind (or brain) is like that between a monkey and an elephant.

The tiny monkey is full of pride at being atop the elephant.  It sits there stubbornly trying to direct the elephant’s path with its constant chatter, hops, and gestures.  And the monkey is always deluded into believing it is the master of the elephant.  But almost invariably,  the elephant ignores the monkey to go its own way, taking the monkey with it.

Consciousness, it so often seems to me, is almost entirely a commentator on our behaviors, and almost never the cause of them.

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Beauty is the Beautiful Lie

I’m never quite sure
When I look to horizons
If it’s brighter out there
At the dawn or the dusk.

And I’m never quite sure
When I look for the truth
If its the truth that I find
Or only my own dust.

And I’m never quite sure —
But when I listen to flowers —
Their lies seem the truest
Of the lies I’ve been told.

There lies seem the truest
Of the lies I’ve been told.

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Moralistic people are not necessarily moral people, just as you can be clownish without being an actual clown.  To be moralistic, one only needs to be swollen full of moral-sounding judgments.  “By the Faith, did you hear that Sakeenah divorced her husband! And he a good provider, too!”

I think one thing that so very often distinguishes moralistic people from profoundly moral people is that moralistic people usually think in terms of absolutes, while profoundly moral people usually think in terms of odds, or probabilities.  The former tend to see things as black and white; the latter tend to see things in shades of grey — or even better — in colors.

Which do you suppose is the more realistic?

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I am still looking for great and snerklesome blogs, by the way.  If you know of a blog that has some stand-out characteristic of it, something that makes it special or unique, please leave a link to it for me in the comments.  Even if it’s your own blog.  Especially if it’s your own blog.

◊◊◊

One of the very few things I find generally irritating about women is that so many of them undervalue, underestimate, and over-criticize themselves.

Of course, I realize it’s not their fault, that they are all-too-often trained to do those horrifyingly destructive things, and they are not to blame for it.  But spontaneous irritation doesn’t pay much attention to causes: It is a response to the fact of the matter, not to the cause of the matter.

Men do it too, but women do it more often.  Both are irritating as a cruise vacation on the River Styx when they do it.  Folks really should pay attention to Aristotle on this issue.  Aristotle believed that genuine humility was claiming for yourself no more and no less than is your due.

To him, claiming more than your due is arrogance, while claiming less is false modesty.

Of course, I am not talking about self-deprecating humor here.  I almost never find that irritating.  An ability to laugh at yourself is a precursor to wisdom.  I’ve never known a wise person who was incapable of laughing at themselves.

◊◊◊

Red

I like the red
the red of her red skirt
Her red skirt
Her red skirt outside
outside in the sunlight
outside in the sunlight
now.

◊◊◊

A young friend has been emailing me tonight for advice with a woman he’s romantically interested in.

Naturally, I told him a safe way for him to gauge her interest in him without his having to awkwardly ask her if she is indeed interested (because such frankness is so often embarrassing to both parties) is for him to quietly spread jelly on his chest and see if she offers to lick it off for him.   “If she does, Arjun, it’s a good sign!”

I pride myself on my “being there” for today’s youth.  So many adults these days refuse to impart their hard won nuggets of wisdom to the up and coming generation.  Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

But not me!

After explaining to me that she and he had very different political views, Arjun went on: “I’m more worried about losing the potential romance along with being rejected due to being perceived as unattractive than merely losing it due to something like difference in worldviews. Both scenarios wouldn’t be desirable for me, to be sure, but being seen as unattractive and rejected due to that would be painful for me.”

How would you yourself guide him?

◊◊◊

Adriana has written a good, solid blog post on the topic of whether the feminist movement should re-brand itself as the egalitarian movement.  It is, perhaps, a surprisingly important question.

I mostly agree with her points, but I’m thinking about challenging her to a mud-wrestling match to determine the truth or falsity of one of her points — a point I happen to disagree with.  I haven’t quite yet decided whether to write my own post about it, though.

You can find her article here.  It’s quite obvious she put a lot of thought and work into it, and it’s well worth a read.

◊◊◊

The sky is a pale blue-grey wash now that silhouettes the trees.  The birds are singing, their songs interweaving like the tree branches.

And now the first pinks blush on the horizon.

Late Night Thoughts: Poetry-Readings, Weltanschauung, Love, Abuse, and More

(About a 10 minute read)

Silence

You’ve spent the day into the night alone
When the moon suddenly rings
Like china dropped on a tablecloth,
Startling you.

◊◊◊

Lori decided to organize a poetry reading.  She persuaded the owner of a downtown restaurant to lend her his back patio.  Then she designed some fliers and printed them up.  Meanwhile she was going about lining up people and their poems.  When the night came, she strung up some tiny colored lights, lit the candles she’d bought for all the table tops, and turned out the patio’s main lights: A good flashlight would do to spotlight the poets.

A fair number of people showed up, but not much went well after that.  Several of the poets had weak voices that didn’t carry to the back tables, or even much beyond the front row.  Some of the others had written abominations.  Lengthy, long poems, for the most part, that lectured you on their author’s feelings, but failed to produce any feelings in you.

The most common problem, however, was that so many of the poets had shown up fully prepared to read their poems.

You can do a lot when sounding a poem.  You can dramatize it, you can chant it, you can swing it, you can sing it, you can cry it out in pain.  You can even sometimes drone it  when that adds to its meaning — but however you perform it, you shouldn’t just read it.  It’s not the newspaper.

Fortunately, the whole night was saved by a single poet.  A young woman rose up and tore something about love and the abuse of intimacy from her chest that she flung across the patio like sheets of windblown rain.  You almost cried for her, a stranger, even as you stood and pounded your hands together.

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Weltanschauung, or “worldview”, is such a grim, heavy, ponderous term that I am fairly convinced Immanuel Kant invented it around 1790 at approximately three o’clock on some cold morning — typically our weakest hour — while sleeplessly suffering from a near fatal case of indigestion brought on by an all-too-heavy Prussian Winter’s meal of greasy sausages and sauerkraut the evening before.

The concept, in my opinion, is pretentious and incorporates only the thinnest shred of psychological insight — the insight that most of us think we have a more or less coherent view of the world.

Do we really have a single coherent worldview, as Kant thought, or do we, as Whitman suggested, “contain [contradictory] multitudes”?

I’ll go with Whitman.

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My first wife was stunning.  To be sure, she couldn’t drop jaws, not quite.  But she could audibly hush a room just by entering it.   And that’s how I first noticed her.

One day, two weeks after classes had started, Jana walked into the dorm cafeteria for the first time.  She’d transferred into our university a couple weeks late from the University of London, and when she entered the cafeteria that day it was the first time anyone had seen her.

Of course, it wasn’t as if the whole, huge room of a few hundred people went silent.  But the noise level did sink so much that day that you could suddenly pick up clear snatches of conversations from all the way across the room.  And heads turned.

When the group I was eating with — males from my dorm floor — had recovered their voices, the speculations naturally began in earnest.  Who was she?  Had anyone seen her before now?  What floor did she live on?  And, most importantly: Was she the first, second, or third most beautiful woman in the dorm?

Why does our noble species of super-sized spear-chucking apes always rank things?  Isn’t it enough to say, “She’s gorgeous”, without having to say, “She’s the most gorgeous”, “The second most gorgeous”?  Why?

I opted for third most gorgeous.

As it turned out, Jana’s new home was on a women’s floor that we’d scheduled a party with for the following month.  I showed up around eight that night, and started making my way through the women folk.  That is, I start circulating with the objective of systematically saying “Hi” to every woman at the party, one after the other, and regardless of whether we’d met before or not, until I’d said “Hi” (or more than “Hi”) to every woman who was not too preoccupied with an alarmingly glowering boyfriend.

Naturally, my aim at that age was to get laid, and I was perceptive enough to know that could often enough be accomplished simply by “working the numbers” in order to find the women who had also come to the party with an aim of getting laid  — a perception that by the end of the second semester would result in my being voted in a meeting my floor’s “Whore of the Year”, a title of unquestionable distinction and honor.

The alleged distinction and honor, in my case, was marred only by the fact that my competition consisted almost entirely of engineering students. Almost to a man, they were good, decent people.  But surely to a man, they were socially awkward.  As socially awkward as they were smart.  And, as just about the lone male on the floor in possession of at least a single social skill, I would have won that title even had I never picked up a single woman all year — just for being willing to talk with women!

Towards midnight, all I could show for my efforts were some platonic conversations with a few women I was genuine friends with. They were generally long conversations because I’d lost focus on my objective (beer will do that), and I doubt now that I made it through all the women at the party.  It was about then, however, that I noticed Jana sitting off by herself.

After our introduction that night, we started dating.   Yet, for all my alleged worldliness, I felt insecure and intimidated by her beauty.   She was, after all, the most gorgeous woman I’d dated up to that time in my life, and I was quite unsure of the extent or depth of her attraction to me.  Add to that, I was nowhere near her class of physical beauty.

Of course, by thinking of her as a class or two above me in beauty, I was comparing myself to her, ranking her and me, and I didn’t have the wit or insight at that time in my life to grasp that my comparison was one of the roots of my insecurities.  For had I not compared myself to her, ranked us, and then taken that ranking seriously, I would not have thought of myself as inferior to her in looks, and felt insecure because of it.

It all came to a head on one of our dates when Jana and I were sitting in a late night deli that was packed because the bars had just let out.  Jana was wearing a cheerful T-shirt with a cartoon frog on it.  Beneath the frog were the words, “You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your Prince Charming”.

My consciousness kept returning again and again to those words, wondering if they had anything to do with me — which, of course, is routine for consciousness.  That is, it’s always trying to figure out what something has got to do with one’s self.

Finally, my simmering insecurities boiled over, “What’s with the shirt?”

“The shirt? This shirt?  What do you mean, Paul?”

“Umm…I’ve got to know.  Does that shirt have anything to do with me?  Am I one of your frogs?”

Jana burst out laughing.  It was the biggest laugh I’d gotten from her yet.  Fortunately, she wasn’t laughing at me.  She was laughing at the idea I might be a frog to her.  “No”, she said at last, “I wasn’t thinking of that at all when I put it on tonight.  I just grabbed the first thing in my closet.”  After a thoughtful pause, she added, “Besides, I’ve been thinking recently that you might be my Prince.”

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Have you ever had a friend who contacts you only when he or she is down and troubled?  A friend who perhaps never seems to want your advice so much as they want someone to dump their feelings on?  I think most of us have had such a friend at one time or another in our lives.

Here’s another question:  Have you ever read a poem — an excellent poem — about such a friend?  It seems to be a rare topic in poetry, doesn’t it?  Yet it’s such a common experience in life.

Davy D’s recent work, An Hour With Jake, is a masterful treatment of the topic.  The craftsmanship alone is excellent: I couldn’t find a word that I thought needed to be removed, nor a word that I thought needed to be added.   And the words are true, on occasion almost clinical in their accuracy.  But there is nothing brutal, nothing ugly in Davy’s poem. There are even touches of humor.

Davy not only looks at his friend Jake’s behavior, but at his own responses to Jake.  The result is greater richness and depth.  Here’s an excerpt:

scripts roll.

his, a tale of how
his wife,
his dog,
his work colleague,
don’t understand him.

mine, a crafted questionnaire
designed for glibness,
adding to the
self-help deception.

Poets ought to be experimental, in my opinion, willing to take a risk, and never expecting themselves to produce one masterpiece after the next.  That makes it all the more rewarding when one composes an excellent capture, as Davy appears to have done here.  An Hour With Jake.

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In my experience, there are at least four kinds of love.  More, if you subdivide the four.  But one thing they all have in common is that they are affirmations of something.

Sometimes they affirm something as narrow as sex, and sometimes something as broad as life itself.  But each way of loving is a way of affirming, and each way of affirming has the potential to — to one extent or another  — renew us.  I would suggest, if you are weary, seeking some kind of rebirth, great or small, then find something or someone to love.

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Do all forms of abuse have any one thing in common?  I think if they do, it may very well be this:  They are all behaviors that risk unnecessarily alienating us from ourselves.  That is, they tend to derail us from being true to ourselves, from being authentic.

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The most often way I write a poem is to sound it out loud, again and again again, as I go through the process of composing it.  I think a lot of poets must do that.  It has its advantages too.

When you’re stuck, blocked, and can’t think of how to get the creativity going again, it sometimes is sufficient to simply start sounding words and phrases in new voices.  That is, pick a persona — perhaps the way a friend talks — then sound out whatever words come to mind in her tone and rhythm of voice.

I once met a woman who was traveling the country.  For reasons I’ll never know, I imagined she was some kind of hero wandering ancient lands who’d brought tales from afar to my pathetically small village of thatched huts.  She had a way of speaking, that woman, and I tried to capture her voice in a poem.

Who Comes by Far

The horizon from the highest hill is the useless
Edge Of The World when you don’t travel.

You meet people who come by far,
So they must be heroes; so I believe you’re a Rider
Passing to the Sun’s Door…though you tell me,
You once knew so cold a land the clouds froze
And fell from the sky, and the People
Wore heavy skins.

Still, I look at your hands
Warm and dark with the candle,
And can barely imagine
What I’d think their color by Dragon’s Fire,
Leave alone the morning sun.

Then you turn in our shadows as if to say,
You’ve begun your liking of me,
So tonight you’ll stay.

Late Night Thoughts: Magic, Leadership, Feminism, Poetry, and More

(About a 9 minute read)

There are places you can visit at night in the San Luis Valley and not see an artificial light for miles.  If you stand in one of those places when the moon is down and tilt your head back until you are gazing nearly straight up, you risk falling into infinity.

I have never know a daytime sky to appear as deep, as vast, as infinite as a nighttime sky, though some of the crisp autumn blue skies of Colorado do seem to have a touch of the infinite.  Nothing, however, quite compares to stars by the thousands set in the black ocean.

Although you cannot possess the vastness of the night, you can long to possess it.  Long just as intensely as ever someone longed to requite an unrequitable love.  Long because its beauty makes you feel alive, and you want that feeling to stay with you forever.

It is wiser, though, to set aside any feelings of possessiveness.  Let them pass by you like winds without trying to cling to them or nurture them anymore than you would try to cling to or nurture those winds.  For possessiveness clung to kills the heart, kills love, even in human relationships, let alone in our relationships to nature.

To love the night so intensely that you might be in some sense renewed, reborn by it, you must be willing to let it go.

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Some years ago I took Becky’s children, Leah and Aaron, to a public Easter egg hunt.  Watching them and the other children dash about unsystematically exploring one possible hiding place after the next, and often the same hiding place they’d explored only moments before, I suddenly realized there was a sort of logic to their apparent randomness.  The logic of magic.

They were, it seemed to me, selectively picking “good” spots to explore, while ignoring “bad” spots, spots that perhaps did not seem to them magical enough to hold an egg.   And they would return to those good spots time and again, because, of course, magic.

The little legs of Easter
All hunt the same bushes
Each pair runs to check
And recheck the same spots

It’s the logic of magic
It’s found in good places
And appears where it wasn’t
Just a moment ago

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On a blog I recently came across a post by a young woman in which she expressed pride in being a leader.  She so reminded me of myself many years ago.  Had you asked me back then if I was proud of so often being the leader, I would have told you that I was, and I probably would have recited the choicest passages of my résumé, whether you wanted to hear them or not.

Then, in my 30s I finally got enough experience of people to have two or three modest, but still significant, insights into — not leaders — but followers.  It seemed to me then that there were two main (but not only) reasons people follow other people, and that neither reason was all that good of a reason for me to be proud they were following me.

Perhaps the best reason people follow is because they think their leader is going where they want to go.  People who harbor that reason won’t allow you to lead them down just any old path you want to take them.  They only go down the path they themselves want, and they stick you out front largely so you, and not them, must take the risk of being pounced on by a tiger waiting for its next meal to come loping along, full of pride at being allowed to play leader.

The second reason people follow seems to be that they themselves feel too insecure or threatened to lead themselves.  Such people would follow a chimpanzee if it promised them security.  And they are often so frightened of something that they would follow the chimp down any path the chimp chose to take, even the path to hell — just so long as the chimp kept reassuring them it was the safest route.

In either case, being a leader has less to do with special you, and much more to do with them, than your pride constantly tells you it has.  But add to all that the fact that about one-quarter to one-third of all people are such poor judges of character that they are incapable of distinguishing a wise leader from a damnable fool, and you end up with a pretty poor foundation for taking much pride in the fact people will follow you.

◊◊◊

On my second night in Colorado, I left my motel room to drive to a high place in the mountains where I got out of my car and witnessed a moon so seemingly huge that I had the absurd, yet remarkably visceral desire to see if I could touch it.  And I actually did stretch out an arm to it.   It appeared, then, to be just beyond my reach.

At the time I felt I was a refugee.  Earlier in the year, I’d gone out of business, lost my wife, my house, my friends, and most of my possessions.  It seemed to me that night that all my accomplishments in life were behind me, and that I’d been a fool to have for decades valued all those things more than I valued simply loving life.

On this mountain I’m alone
The moon a foot beyond my hand
And there’s nothing that I know
Do I ever understand?

I just wonder how it is
That all the things we ever did
Could mean so much more to us
Than the love we freely give.

For I am but a passing thing
From one moment to the next,
And with each moment’s passing
There is nothing left.

On this mountain I’m alone
The moon a foot beyond my hand
And for all the things I know
Do I ever understand?

◊◊◊

Few movements are as misunderstood these days as feminism.  Which is a bit strange because the movement is by and large based on a simple, easy to understand, ideology at its core.  That is, it’s a form of egalitarianism.  Specifically, the form of egalitarianism that asserts women ought everywhere to have the same rights, freedoms, and liberties as men.

Unfortunately for feminists, decades of anti-feminist propaganda have convinced vast numbers of people that the true core of feminism is misandry, the hatred of all things male.  And even more unfortunately, there are a few self-described “feminists” who feed and inflame that image of all feminists by themselves being actual misandrists.

What’s true of feminism, though, is true of all large movements, for every such movement has its lunatic fringe.

I wonder why.  Indeed, I quite often wonder why every movement has its lunatic fringe.  But I have yet to arrive at an answer that satisfies me.

◊◊◊

Have you ever reached the cardboard backing of a paper tablet only to find yourself torn between throwing it away and saving it for some use only god knows what?

◊◊◊

I had an uncle who grew up in the Great Depression when frugality so often meant the difference between eating three meals a day or merely two or one.  He taught me around the age of six or so never to throw away a bent nail.  “It’s a perfectly good nail.  Just hammer it out so it’s straight enough to use again.”

Shortly after my eight birthday, he taught me to shoot a rifle.  “Here’s your one bullet.  There will be no more bullets today.  Now aim well and carefully, Paul, so you hit the can with it.”

I took forever to aim, but I hit the beer can.

◊◊◊

As a rule, the more convinced we are that we are right, or have got hold of the truth, the less likely we are to have seen deeply into the matter.  So often, to look deeply is to become aware of how uncertain the truth is.

◊◊◊

The notion that our minds at birth are Tabula rasa, blank slates devoid of any innate knowledge, biases, instincts, etc., is an ancient one, dating back to at least the ancient Stoics.  It basically asserts that almost the whole of what we are as persons will be ultimately derived from our experiences in life, or from what we learn from them.   It is also a perennial idea in the social sciences.  And, last, is almost certainly nonsense.

For instance, humans have just too many ubiquitous behaviors for us not to be, at least in large part, an instinct driven species.  Moreover, we seem to be born with talents — that is, with aptitudes or predispositions — for various things.    We also seem to be born with inherent cognitive biases.  And there is at least some evidence that we even have in us at birth the rudiments of arithmetic.

All of which suggests the notion that we humans are connected to our past in much more profound ways than merely through the continuum of time.  Our DNA is ancient, and we are in so many ways, the manifestation of our DNA.

Throw Your Rockets Far

I shall not tell you Aaron at eight
Somewhere we walk in the yellow grass;
The sky huge, but our feet owning each step.
Somewhere we hear the shorebird’s cry
From a beach in Africa we never left.
Somewhere we are shaman, warrior, gatherer,
Women and men intimate with our past.

No, I shall not tell you Aaron at eight
What at eight you simply feel
On your lawn at dusk when you throw a bottle rocket
With a warrior’s grace — and hard at the moon.

Late Night Thoughts: Scam-Sharks, Poetry, Blogging, Rebirth, and More

(About a 9 minute read)

Grey skies, greyer rain.
We shelter our hearts
Together you and I
Beneath our bright
Yellow umbrella.

◊◊◊

Where are the best blogs?  I’ve come across several in the past few weeks, but not nearly enough to slake my depraved thirst for other folk’s  pleasantly twisted, often unique, vibrantly creative, or revealingly truthful perspectives on all things life.

If you know of any great blogs that fit any of those descriptions — or for that matter, are great and snerklesome in any other way — please link me to them!  I’d love to check them out!

 ◊◊◊

A young man, about 20 I would guess, recently told me that we know we are right when “the voice within” confirms we are right.  He was responding to another person’s question, “How do we know when something is true?”

I think, from what I’ve heard and read, that the notion we can discern the truth or falsity of an idea merely according to whether or not some “inward voice” tells us that it sits well with us, or feels right or true to us, is a popular one these days.

Frankly, I also suspect it is evidence of a disturbing lack of a competent education.  If that young man honestly didn’t graduate from high school knowing how — at least in principle — to sort what is true or from what isn’t true, he should consider suing his school board for negligent injury and malpractice, and name his teachers as co-defendants.

He should go for blood, too!  Settle for nothing less than hundreds of thousands.  It’s arguable that part of the foundation of any decent education is to learn what makes something true or not.

Whether the law will actually allow him to file such a suit is almost irrelevant to the fact that he does honestly deserve compensation — if he was not himself somehow to blame for being left ignorant of how to judge whether or not something is true.

He deserves it because he’s almost certainly going to pay for it again and again in the currency of messed up life decisions until he does learn.

Every politician and scam-shark out there can already smell his blood.

◊◊◊

I confess.  As you probably suspected, I just now cheerfully made up the newborn word, “snerklesome”.  I have no idea what it should mean.  Do you?  Suggestions, please!

◊◊◊

Without You

If I had this day to own
I think I could sit here for an hour
With nothing more important
Than coffee and this pen
And how much better living’s been
Without you.

I don’t do a lot these days —
It’s so crazy, but it’s fun
Just recalling what I’m missing
Without you.

It ain’t about good or bad
Or anything so grim —
I remember well your beauty —
But the mornings still have been
Lighter now without you.

◊◊◊

Is the desire for rebirth, renewal a human universal?  It seems ubiquitous enough: It’s found in every culture and society that I myself know of.  Perhaps it really is a universal, or nearly universal, trait of humans.

◊◊◊

I really do need more blogs to read.   “Please, sir, I want some more.”

(Silence)

“What? More?  The boy wants more?” Said the master bloggers in unison and disbelief.

“That boy will be hung”, said the author of a science blog. “I know that boy will be hung.”

◊◊◊

The most precious thing in life is its uncertainty.  — Kenko, Essays in Idleness (Tsurezuregusa).

Sometime around the age of 50, I began to notice how predictable, repetitious, and boring life was becoming for me.  The weariness took hold gradually, but steadily grew over the next several years until it reached something of a crisis in that I was becoming lethargic and dissatisfied under the weight of it.

Ironically, those years were still the happiest of my life up until that time.  Yet the boredom rose and began to threaten that happiness.  What to do?

I would prefer to tell you now that I found the perfect solution, but I didn’t, and I still haven’t.  I have, however, managed to greatly reduce the problem through more than one means, most of them commonsense (“Try new things”, “Break at least some of your routines”,  “Turn to the arts and sciences for fresh ideas and ways of seeing”,  “Start a guerilla war with the kids on your lawn”, etc.).  Some of them, however, are perhaps a little bit more than commonsense.

When I came across Kenko several years ago, I was struck by two things.  First, the novelty of his view of uncertainty.  Most of us, I think, are annoyed by uncertainty.  We even seem to run from it.  For instance, how often do we embrace all too tightly beliefs about the world that we cannot possibly — if we were honest with ourselves — be that certain of?  And how often do we cling to old, outdated, now worthless habits and routines for no better reason than they make our days more predictable?  We are usually inclined, I believe, to view uncertainty as anything but “precious”.

So Kenko’s view of uncertainty first struck me for a view I’d never come across before.  And in the second place, it struck me for a view I didn’t understand.  Why did he think uncertainty was so precious?  Was he really seeing something?  Something I myself had never seen before?   If so, then what could it be?

Something I’ve become acutely aware of is how we tend to turn to stone over the years: To ossify in our beliefs, daily activities, relationships, and self-identities and images.  Indeed, I’ve written about how and why our self-image can become our greatest tyrant and oppressor here.  The problem is that it does very little good to merely say to ourselves, “Don’t do it!”  That’s about as effective in practice as “Just abstain until marriage” sex-ed.

What has worked best for me to solve the ossification problem is to look for uncertainties in my self-images or self-identities.  Seeing how uncertain my notions of myself are has significantly helped me to hold at least many of those notions tentatively, lightly.  It even seems to me now that a lightness of heart or spirit begins with a lightness of self-image.

Thank you, Kenko.  You got me to barking up the right trees, sniffing the right crotches, for an at least partial solution to my problem.

◊◊◊

Is there an absolute reality?

That’s a bit different from asking if there’s an absolute truth.   Ideas are like maps, reality is like the terrains the maps refer to, and truth is a quality of the relationships between the maps and their terrain.  So when we ask, “Is there an absolute reality”, we are not really asking if there is an absolute truth.

Without an absolute reality, the notion of ever knowing all there is to know about the universe becomes impossible, even in theory.
Yet, would that be a good or a bad thing?
◊◊◊

Artists of all kinds so often think they must seek out new truths.  Perhaps their most vital service to us, however, is to make old, solid, and well-known truths once again visible to us.

For such old truths have become clichés, and few of us see much beyond the surface of a cliché, see it fresh, and as if for the first time.  Consequently, old truths so frequently have less impact than they should (for our own sake) have on our views, actions, and attitudes.

◊◊◊

Recently, I saw a man in anger destroy nearly at once several friendships that only moments before were important to him.  He did it because he felt slighted by two or three individuals, and to retaliate, he entirely broke off relations with a whole small group of people, and not just the two or three members of the group who he felt had slighted him.

“A man can only take so much”, he said.

But it was not the man who suffered the slights, it was the ego in the man who suffered the slights.  A more rational thing to have done might have been to look more deeply into the matter, for when someone slights you, they either do so accidentally, or with just cause, or with injustice.

If accidentally, forgive them.  If just, apologize and forgive them.  If with injustice, dump them and forgive them (Forgiveness is not for their sake, but for yours.  It’s unhealthy to carry around a grudge).  But whatever you do, don’t lose friendships valuable to you over such slights.  The poor fool was a puppet of his pride.

◊◊◊

We make too much of beliefs.

We are taught to make too much of them by our cultures, and then we never seem to get around to de-programming ourselves of such an insidious notion.  We are even taught that we are our beliefs.  That they are the very substance of our selves.  But a self made out of beliefs — no matter how profound those beliefs are — is a shallow, superficial self.

For beliefs — even when true — are no more than the maps we use to negotiate reality, and just like paper maps, they are not at all the reality they refer to.  A person who thinks his or her beliefs are their selves is like a hiker who thinks the trail map they hold in their hands is the trail itself.  You can’t lose your virginity by reading a textbook in biology, and you can’t really know yourself if all you know are your beliefs about yourself.

Beliefs should be worn lightly, tentatively, hesitantly.  They should never become balls and chains on our ankles.  How, then, can we dance light-heartedly through life?

◊◊◊

I Remember

I remember
Laughing under summer skies —
Would have thought we could fly —
And the winds pass on by.

I remember
Holding hands while the river flowed —
Came a time to let you go —
And the waters pass on by.

Now for all that I know
You have a good life
Filled with the stars,
The sun, and the trees.

But all that I do know —
It’s the life you should have,
So beautiful
You were to me.

Late Night Thoughts: Poets, Compliments, Change, Tragedy, and More

(About a 9 minute read) 

Boyd Stace-Walters (a self-described “worldly epistemologist and logician”, and an  occasional guest blogger on Café Philos) is quite right about the nature of poets, I think.

As he put it to me just days ago, “They can possess astonishing insights, turn the old and familiar truths into something new again with their heretical alchemy, but — alas! — they are fundamentally to the very last one of them irresponsible.

“You have only to conduct an experiment:  Simply put a dozen of them in a room together; tell them their chore — their obligation — their sacred responsibility, is to contemplate ‘truth’; throw in a case of wine so they will be content to stay in the room; then wait a few hours before you return.

“You won’t find they’ve formulated a single decent epistemology between them!  Not a one!  And not even with all that wine to lubricated the flow of logic.  Wasted that.  Far more likely they’ll all be naked and piled into a writhing heap, I dare say, more selfishly concerned with staying warm from their own body heat or something, than with a dispassionate inquiry into the nature of truth at all.”

I dare say Boyd Stace-Walters is right.  Scandalous people, poets.  Simply scandalous.

◊◊◊

Their dreams and visions poets take
And freeze them into words
To thaw the hearts and minds
Of men and women,
So they can be reborn.

Yet never ask that poets keep
A journal of their logics
For never will a poet stay
Nobly focused on such projects.

◊◊◊

The blogger known to many of us, and hopefully to Interpol, as “Mindfump” has published on the blog, 25,000 Light Years, as well as on his own blog, a rather dark post that intelligently analyzes his thoughts and feelings about compliments.

As it happens, he finds compliments to be highly problematic, and has very little praise for them.  The post is nevertheless a worthwhile read, I believe, for the frank and honest insights it provides into how compliments might be misused by those who  inflict them in bad faith, as well as how they might be understood by those who suffer from depression.

My own take on compliments is, so far as I know, as unique as it is wacky.  I seldom, very seldom, mean to flatter, curry favor with, or obligate someone by complimenting them. If I ever wish to do one of those things, I am knowledgeable enough of human nature to know how to flatter, curry, and oblige using far more effective means than compliments.

But I almost never feel a need for such nonsense because I have no one in my life I need to flatter, curry, or oblige: No boss, no wife, and my friends are a remarkably tolerant and accepting lot.   Yet, on the whole, I compliment people quite a bit.

One reason I do so is simply to signal to others — especially those who don’t know me — that “I mean no harm to you”.  But there’s a wholly more important (to me) reason I so frequently compliment others.  And that reason comes in two parts.

First — and this might admittedly be the wackiest reason for complimenting anyone that I myself have ever heard of — I enjoy figuring out positive things about people.  It’s even sort of a game that I play with myself.   The goal is to be spot on.  To be positive, but highly accurate.  I take pride in my ability, not to compliment people, but to see right into them.

I first started doing that — started looking for positives in folks — back when I employed people.  I noticed that I was at the time quite negative about my employees, that I saw their weaknesses much more readily than their strengths.

And I had the wits to recognize how that affected my bottom line.  In any leadership position, you accomplish far more if you assign tasks according to people’s strengths, than you accomplish if you don’t.  It’s almost just as simple as that.

So I realized that not seeing my employees in a positive light was very likely costing me dollars.  I solved the problem by carefully assessing each employee’s strengths in turn, and then memorizing those strengths so well that I could in an instant recite to myself at any given moment at least five work-related strengths for each person in my employ.

After leaving business, I retained that habit, and expanded considerably on it.  But none of that answers the question of why I bother to mention my assessments to others.   The short answer to that is: Because human lives are all too often tragic.

Be kind; everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. –John Watson (the quote is often mistakenly attributed to Plato).

◊◊◊

Next time I’m in a bar — at some crucial moment in the evening — I want to lean close to whoever I’m with and then, as if confiding some deeply personal thing,  whisper, “The sciences are communal efforts to arrive at reliably intersubjectively verifiable facts and predictive hypotheses”.  Then lean back, wink at them knowingly and say, “But please keep that just between us”.  And then, abruptly change the subject.

◊◊◊

I like to meditate in nature, perhaps while overlooking a river or a lake.  Water seems to draw me into meditation.   Such settings make me often acutely aware of how transient is everything, every experience, whether internal or external.  And how so often things come and go while leaving no more evidence of their passing than a ripple in the water, or a bird in flight.

Yet, at the same time, the beauty of nature affirms life despite its transience.  Transience becomes then, not an occasion for regret or sadness, but the essence of renewal, rebirth moment by moment.

Clinton Lake Before the Night

I can see the setting sun
Burning colors in your hair.

There’s nothing we can do
To keep those colors there.

I can see the raven cross
The liquid changing sky,

And in my heart I know
We too must pass on by.

I will not make you promises
That life itself will surely break,

But I can be with you this moment
In these fires on Clinton Lake.

◊◊◊

About 40 years ago I was at uni studying (as one of my two minors) Comparative Religion.  One day, after class, my professor, another student, and I got into a discussion during which I said something that startled the other student.

He was taking Comparative Religion because he aimed to be a Baptist minister like his father someday.  And although I no longer recall now what startled him, I remember the dismay on his face and the aggressive tone of voice in which he asked me, “Are you a Christian?”  It was more challenge than question.

I can only suppose he had at some point that semester concluded I was a fellow believer.  What else could explain such a strong reaction at discovering the truth?  Before I could answer, our professor turned to him and said, “Paul is not a Christian.  He’s a pre-Christian.  His worldview is as if he’s not yet heard of Christianity. Try thinking of him as an ancient Greek with a tragic worldview.”

Now and then in my life, an older, more knowledgeable or experienced person, has said something to me that I sensed was true, but that I was clueless how it was true.  That was one of those times.  I could see our professor’s words puzzled the other student, too.  But at the moment, I was more grateful that they shut him up.

Today, I believe I can make a reasonably good guess what my professor had in mind.  For about a generation and a half, tragedy flourished in ancient Athens. I don’t specifically mean here tragic plays — although those were a significant part of it all — but more comprehensively, I mean the tragic worldview.

In a nutshell, the tragic worldview consists of the notion that humans have an inherent flaw, a flaw they can never fully escape, that tends them towards self-defeat and even destruction.

The precise nature of that flaw is hotly debated among scholars, and I have my views of it, too.  I think the flaw is embedded in the nature of human intelligence.  The easiest way to describe it is, “We are smart enough to get ourselves into troubles we are not smart enough to get ourselves out of”.

To me, that’s a slightly superficial, but workable definition of the tragic flaw.  But do I really have a tragic worldview, as perhaps my professor was getting at?

In so far as I might actually know myself, the answer is yes, but with the qualification that it’s just one of a half-dozen or so worldviews that I shift between when trying to make sense of life and the world.

◊◊◊

Once I knew a woman people could not praise enough for her beauty.  Some would say, “She is beautiful!”, and place such huge weight and emphasis on their words that you felt they were trying to scorch the words on your brain with a hot iron in their enthusiasm to communicate.  And they seemed very much to mean both her body and her personality.

I knew her well enough to make a study of her, and I came to the careful conclusion that — if one were perfectly dispassionate about it — she was only a little bit above average in looks, but that she moved with such poise and grace you might never notice her more or less average features.

Yet, I also thought the full truth of her beauty lay beyond even that: She was mindful, you see.  She spoke to you with sheer attentiveness, an attentiveness that made you feel you were at that moment the most important person in the world to her, and that she cherished every second she had with you.  In the off-beat way in which I define “spirituality”, she was eminently spiritual.

What makes us feel someone is physically beautiful?  I learned from her that we can sometimes honestly believe a person is physically extraordinary because of nothing more physical than the impression left on us by her spirituality.