What Are Words For?

Not much for me to offer right now. Sorry about that, dear readers. The thing that brought me to the keyboard, to write, is that today was the first day of June, 2012. Hardly anything of significance, but I had this nagging anxiety about letting the first day of the new month pass by with nothing to show for it. My very anemic output in May had something to do with this I am sure. I feel itchy and anxious when I have written too little.

Neil Gaiman said something to the effect that if you only write when you are inspired, you might make a decent poet but you won't succeed as novelist. I think a little of that may be at work on me, even though I have never had any serious claim to being a novelist. 

I'd like to be a novelist. The editing exercises I have indulged in this week have planted some doubts in my head as to whether that is possible for me. I have written a few substantial short stories and a lot of really short stories, even a lot of what I guess might be called flash fiction, too. Or maybe mini-stories? The file I have compiled of the short fiction is approaching 120 pages and over 64,000 words, but it is in no way a novel. Or a novella. Or a truly definable group of long short stories.

But I am not done yet. I have another short story I need to edit, and a connected series of them I need to stitch into one longer version. Then there is the memoirs I have collected, mostly related to my experiences of 2003 with the twins and the NICU, in a separate file. Then I need to start on the slice-of-life stuff I have written...

...then the stuff I don't even know how to classify...

The glaring trait that leaped out at me today, in the midst of reading through my back catalog, is that I don't have a specific genre I most closely identify with. It is the jack-of-all-trades phenomenon rearing its head.  So what to do? I observe, I think, I overhear, I experience. I get ideas and then the chatter starts in my head so I write it down. Sometimes it comes out as fiction, sometimes non-fiction, sometimes a blur of the two.

I don't know what to do with it all. This troubles me. Trying to sort it all out is a full-time job on its own. And I still want to write for the sake of writing! Time, please!

Oh, and another thing. I went through every single one of the 906 previous posts of mine, in the last two-and-a-half days. This was to sort out and identify the pure fiction pieces I wanted to collate. What I noticed is that over the course of time from October 2008 to the present is that my fiction output tapered off dramatically through 2011 to now, dwindling in frequency and in length. I don't know if that is a function of decreasing energy or attention span, but it made me uneasy.

What is becoming of the world if I cannot find more good stories in it?

My challenge is to find the inspiration for new stories and the discipline to write them even when I do not feel like writing. I must work at the writing, so the writing will work for me. So it is written, so it must be.

Not The Bed For Me

It happened again.  That thing, with the word.  You know, a word that just pops up in your head, maybe you don't know what it means, maybe you do, but the point is, it won't leave you alone until you do something with it.  My most famous example to date is lachrymose, meaning "given to tears or weeping" or "tending to cause tears".  That humdinger seized hold of my brain in the depths of an all-nighter I pulled in my college days.  It looped and looped until I had to go look it up, and say it out loud.

Well, a similar thing happened today.  This time the word was catafalque.  It means "an ornamental structure sometimes used in funerals for the lying in state of the body" or "a pall-covered coffin-shaped structure used at requiem masses celebrated after burial".

Whew.  That is a big one.  This one came to me as I was working through my lunch hour, sandwich in one hand and the other shuffling papers and pecking at the keyboard.  It had nothing to do with the tasks at hand, nor was it a descriptor for any projects I was working on.  In my career as an architect, I have never once designed a catafalque.  Probably never will.  I have no frickin' clue why I thought of the word.  I was unsure if it was even a real word, until I arrived home and looked it up.  It was then I realized I had more than likely read it somewhere, possibly years ago, and it decided to come back. Now I have to do something with it.  Write a poem or a story.

Because if I don't, it will nag me until I do.  

(sigh)

Why is my brain so weird?

Learning Logos

I have been blessed to receive, through the graces of a good friend, a copy of A Year with Thomas Merton, a profound and elegant collection of daily meditations by the Thomas Merton, the famed Trappist monk who was also an author, poet and civil rights activist.  This man of contemplation died in 1968, but somehow he read my heart.

There is much to be said about what I have read so far, but I today I wanted to say that I have learned a new word, gleaned from the July 9th meditation entitled "Heat and Zen Quiet".  The word is kerygma, defined as "the proclamation of religious truths" or "the apostolic proclamation of salvation through Jesus Christ".  Thomas Merton used it to describe the heat of the day he was experiencing:

"It calls for one of those nature poems, a kerygma of heat such as the Celts never had."

Brother Merton showed me the word.  This use of kerygma was masterful.  It is the use of a word in a nontraditional way, by someone who truly understood the original meaning.

In spite of the vestiges of my Christian upbringing,  upon reading that sentence and checking the definition, I felt the pangs of jealousy and inadequacy.  This is not unusual, sometimes, when taught a lesson you didn't know you were about to learn

Sunday morning, and I am basking in the afterglow of enlightenment.  The burn will fade, leaving me with the warmth of knowledge, all thanks to a Trappist who knew me before I knew myself.

On Reading Together

If ever I needed any reminder that I am a lucky man in some ways, it would be this:  I learned to read at an early age, and I still love it.

If I had not received a glowing reinforcement of that reminder, it was tonight.  Her Royal Cuteness wanted to see some funny animal videos before bedtime, so I indulged her.  When I informed her that we would have to cut it short if she wanted to read some books before lights out, I was expecting a little of the ol' "whine and jeez" party.  Much to my delight, she didn't fuss.  She said straight away that she wanted to read, and she leapt off the couch to pick out some books.

Tonight, we had time for two.  Wee Lass said I should read the first one, but that she was going to read the second one, to me.  So she did, in its entirety, with minimal input from myself.

I can unequivocally say that this was one of the greatest gifts I have received as a father.  I can't quite put into words the pride and joy I felt listening to my daughter read.  She did a great job, with some flair, and we had some giggles along the way.

Voices are powerful instruments, and I was blessed to hear a concerto of words.  This is the stuff of life.

Bonfire of My Vanity

I was engaged in some redactive exercises on some of my writing tonight, something I tell myself to let alone but rarely heed that advice.  I guess its true that a writer is never really finished with anything.  There is always something that can be tweaked, a phrase rewritten or even a pesky typo to correct.  Often when I reread something I wrote previously, I cannot resist the urge to "fix" something.  It is a hard habit to break.

So as I wrote earlier, I was doing the editor dance, going over some older posts, and I discovered a curious thing.  It was not a mistake, it was more of an absence.

It was an absence of comments on a post I wrote back in January.  Not that I flatter myself to think that all that I write will always get people to respond with something, but that was the first time since probably 2008 that a post I wrote garnered the big goose egg.

I am embarrassed to say that it bothered me a little.  I tried to set it aside, but vanity got the better of me and I really do want to know what (if anything) you, the readers I am most fortunate to have, might think of this:

SPIDER

To be fair the original post was on a Saturday, and I know full well people have much more important things to do than to feed my tottering ego.  But I am a curious fellow, so if you have some spare moments...

Tidbits From The Gumbo Pot, Edition the Second

Wow.  The first edition of 'Tidbits from the Gumbo Pot' came out in February 2009. That was two years ago.  Holy shite.

Well, here goes.  A glimpse behind the curtain of Gumbo.  Herewith, I give you some screen shots that caught my attention, in Go.og.les sidebar.  Things usually get weird in the "More About" sections...

How I got from bird watching to swearing and Scrabble,  I'll never know.

Nothing says fun like a spraying, constipated cat!

So that's my take on a little randomness for your Tuesday.  If you have any insights as to why stuff like this shows up in my sidebar (psychological, not algorithmic) please let me know.  Gumbo can be made from a whole lot of things, but these? I don't know...

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Malaise.  Ennui.  Apathy, even.  I sat down to write tonight, because that is what I do, being the alone-type loner that I am, and tired.  Oh, and short on cash.  So a big night out is not in the cards.

But it has been difficult lately.  I like, no, I LOVE to write.  Probably explains why I am so good at putting together business letters and reports and clever memos on topics big and small.  I actually enjoy that sort of thing.  Especially if it involves pure research.

I love to write for the sheer joy of it, too.  More so than just plain writing for mundane purposes.  I feel the pressure in my head daily, ebbing and flowing throughout the day.  It tracks closely with my mood and energy level, and my internal "weather".

But lately, my friends, it has been a bit of a strain.  It has been like having a fistful of kindling but no matches, and realizing that maybe you didn't want the hassle of starting a fire anyway.  But you know you need the heat, so you try rubbing sticks together just the same.

An even better analogy just occurred to me, because I just had a serious plumbing problem occur, and I have pipes on the mind.*  Lately for me, writing has been like turning the taps on to a slow drip to keep the water moving so the pipes don't freeze.  No one likes to waste the water (especially those who have to pay the bill) but it sure beats burst plumbing.

Maybe its the winter doldrums.  Maybe its the slow thinking brought on by cold and stress and fatigue.  All I know is that, as much as I would like sometimes to just put the pen down or the keyboard away and rest a bit, I feel like I would burst if I didn't write something.

So this is it for the night.  Too tired for a political rant, too dulled for a zingy comedy bit, even a little too worn out to write about how I think I may have (sort of, maybe) flirted with the waitress as I ate dinner tonight** (I was too tired and lazy to cook), this will have to do.

The pipes may be really cold, but the important thing is to keep them flowing.  Write, write, write...if you want to be a writer.  That's what I tell myself.

*It involved three drains, a sluggish garbage disposal, one tub besmirched by backed-up tea leaves and egg shells, one gallon of Drano and vigorous plunging.  I hope I got it all.
**Perhaps another time.

But True Happiness Comes With A Side of Mash

Sometimes, these things write themselves.  Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls and those undecided, I pass along to you The Secret, courtesy of g.oog.le targeted ads in my sidebar:

 

 
Perhaps I'll change my handle to Irish Bangers...

The GoodFather Clause

Sometimes, nice things just arrive out of the blue, catching me completely by surprise.  Like this weekend, when I received a gift most cool, from this righteous dude, Jeff at GoodFatherBlog.  He took a shine to my post of last Saturday, "On Not Reading Books, Occasionally" and decided it warranted some recognition.  To wit, I am humbled and honored to be the first recipient of the GoodFatherBlog Seal of Approval:

I don't need no Good Housekeeping or UL Listing...I've got the GF seal!

Thank you, GoodFather!  Truly a great way to start off the week.  So please drop by Jeff's place (link above) and drop some luv.  Tell Jeff that Gumbo sent you, and that's gets you a digital coupon for 20% more good karma!

That Which I Hope Never Comes True

"Aphasia is the inability to use or understand language (spoken or written) because of a brain lesion."

I took that quote from the delightful word blog, Words, Words, Words (and Phrases), because it struck me deeply when I read.  Scriptor Senex (the blogger of aformentioned blog) has been providing wonderful nuggets of language for some time, and I get a kick out of the new (and sometimes not so new) words that he brings to our attention. Subfusc is a good recent example.  Go on, click through and read for yourself!

Sometimes, though, like the wreckage thrown up by the sea during a storm a word pops out and really grabs me in a visceral way. "Aphasia" is one of those words.  I read and re-read the sentence many times, and each time I had two reactions: 1) That really can't be, can it? and 2) That frightens the hell out of me!

The inability to use or understand language because of a brain lesion...or for that matter, ANY reason gives me a full-on case of the yammering fantods.  I know it can happen, I know I've heard the word used in context, but seeing it so succinct and stark on the page made me shiver.

It also made me give thanks that I can use and understand language.  I love language, words, phrases, even if my depth of knowledge is woefully incomplete and my mastery of technical issues is far from professional.  Language, language, language: the keys to understanding the world and making sense out of it.  I need language, crave it, fear it, and love it.

I wondered what I would do if I suddenly became aphasic.  How would I say what I want to say?  How would I empty my mind, so that I would not go mad?

My Big Bro was asked once, if he were to lose a sense, would he rather go blind or go deaf.  He said he would rather go blind, because he could not imagine a world in which he could not listen to music and hear things like birdcalls.  He said he could take not seeing, but to not hear music?  Too scary to contemplate.

I understand what he meant.  I feel the same way about words and language.  I hope I never experience the condition of aphasia...but at least I know there is a word for it.  That's something I'm likely to never forget!

Pleased to Meet You, Won't You Guess My Name?

Assignment, Part Deux:

Continuing along with the them of yesterday's post, on the class assignment I am working on,  I am (was) supposed to write a post introducing my blog and myself.  Welllll...I am pleased to recall that I had already done something (or several such somethings) already right here on Irish Gumbo.

But it never hurts to have a refresher, does it?

To wit, I dug up some previous posts of mine in which I explained or attempted to explain a little bit about myself.  So if one is so inclined as to dive into the mental Loch Ness that is the brain of Irish Gumbo, please go for a linky drive on the following bloggy backroads:

Irish Gumbo, Explained

Portrait of Irish Gumbo As a Punk Rocker

Dudes Who Lunch, Or What I Learned About My Animal Nature

So if you are interested, the above can hopefully offer some insights into This Person Who Blogs.  Or at the very least, you can point and laugh at the dork who writes this stuff!

-----

This is one of the things about blogging I find fascinating:  this recursiveness, the ability to metablog, to figuratively step through the looking glass.  Dr. Wesch was right in some ways...nothing for it but to dive in!

A Gringo in America

Bonus night at the burrito joint, thought Colin McInerney as he stood in line for a weekly installment of frijoles and carnitas, Not one but two, count 'em, dos, ponytails workin' the line.  Rosa and Carmelita, the Burrito Sisters.

He fingered the worn bills in his pocket.  It was a nervous habit, exacerbated by the butterflies making lazy loops in his belly.  That he was nervous just made him flustered, and he could tell by the heat there was a flush creeping up his neck and over his face.  The ears in particular felt hot, like fleshy heat sinks riveted to his head.  Colin blinked rapidly from the effort of trying to appear calm.  The effort was tremendous, that of trying to catch glimpses of the pretty ladies behind the counter without being caught in the attempt.

There were gaps in the line of people, odd voids shaped by the heads and shoulders of the other customers standing alongside one another.  Colin was using them as a sort of hedgerow in which he could hide and see without being seen.  He hoped.  Every so often one would look his way.  It took all his concentration to avoid flinching, like he had been hit by rubber bullets from an invisible riot gun.  Still, anyone close would have seen the jerks and twitches, the rapid side-to-side motion of Colin's head, and would probably be wondering what sort of nervous affliction he was carrying.

The line moved forward.  Colin was next up to the counter.  The Captain of the Comal, as Colin had dubbed the man working the griddle, was a friendly sort.  "Colin, amigo! Good to see you!" called the Captain; Colin liked it because it made him think of what Cheers would have been like if it had been set in a cantina, and Norm walked through the door.  On another level, Colin thought it was a nice touch considering just how many of his weekly calories came from this place.  Of course, the Captain was the only person he had the nerve to actually talk to on his many visits.

"Hey, Captain, que pasa!  Gimme the usual, please."  The Captain slapped a tortilla on the griddle and closed the lid.  "This time, add a double scoop of the frijoles, please".

Out of the corner of his eye, Colin had seen the first counter woman, the one he called Rosa (the cashier lady he called Carmelita, although he had no idea why; they didn't wear name tags and if had heard someone call her name he hadn't really been paying attention), glance over at him when the Captain had called his name.

"She knows I'm here, at least.  Probably knows I've been staring," Colin muttered to himself, suddenly feeling warmer as the Captain ladled the beans and meat onto the tortilla and slid it down the counter over to Rosa.  He gulped.  He was next, and he would have to look her in the eye.

He inched down the glass to look up into a pair of the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen,  perfectly sized roundels of mahogany-colored stained glass.  She was smiling at him in that way peculiar to the front lines of fast-food joints everywhere: friendly, perhaps, but not overly so and looking a bit clip-on.

He didn't care.  She was talking to him.  Brown eyes, ponytail and corporate polo shirt just so, and Colin hoped he could get the toppings without sounding like what he was: a dork with a crush.  Her eyes seemed to get bigger as he stared at her.  Her lips, that lovely smile, began to part and Colin knew what was going to happen next.  She was going to ask him what he wanted on his burrito.  He gulped.  She spoke.

"What would you like on it?" she said, in English tinged with the hues of Mexico.  Colin blinked, once, twice.  His mouth opened. 

"What would I like? You, of course.  Just you.  Come out from behind the counter, right now, and let me kiss you on the mouth, twine my fingers in that ponytail.  Rosa.  Is that your name?  Not that it matters.  Your name could be anything and I would love it.  Just like you.  Love you, that is.  Am I being too forward?  I hope not, I hope I'm not bothering you, because really, I am in love with you.  Just like that.  I come in here every week and you, well, you are one of the reasons I do that.  Because its stupid and silly and I can't help myself.  So please? Let's leave here and get married and live somewhere where its warm in the winter and we can sleep with the windows open. Please?"

Colin blinked again, suddenly realizing his jaw was hanging slack.  Oh, shit, did I say all that out loud? he wondered. There was a rustle of impatience in the line behind.  Rosa was staring at him, half-bored and half-annoyed.

"Sir?  What you like on your burrito?" she repeated.

"Uh, the mild salsa, lettuce, cheese and guac, please," he squeaked.  His neck flushed hotter and he wondered if anyone could see him glowing.  Rosa swiftly added the toppings and rushed the burrito over to the counter.  Colin looked away, embarrassed, but felt a little relieved that she had already turned her attention to the next customer.  He pulled the bills from his pocket to pay.  A fine tanned hand at the end of a fine tanned arm put his meal on a tray and slid it across the counter.  Colin froze momentarily, then jerked a little at the voice.

"Any chips and salsa with that? A drink?"  Carmelita asked, a feminine bell calling the faithful to prayer.  Colin looked up across the counter...and into a pair of the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen,  perfectly sized roundels of emerald-colored stained glass, and a ponytail the color of ravens.  She was smiling.

Oh, lord, groaned Colin inwardly, here we go again...

"What would I like? You, of course.  Just you..."

My First Slip

Today was a weird-letter day.  Not a red-letter or regular letter.  Just weird.  Well, maybe what I really mean is slightly unsettling, rather than full-bore, freakout kind of weird.  It started with my alarm clock, which I actually slept to this morning.  That is pretty strange.  But then it was just a washed out, dislocated 'two-feet-to-the-side-of-myself' feeling, all day.

The weather was no help.  It started out weakly sunny, and then the sky sort of...congealed...is the only way I could think of it.  Congealed into lumpy clouds, and the air started to turn into thin syrup.  I was hoping it would get cooler without the sun, but the grayer the sky, the warmer the temperature.  Not blazing hot but enough combined with the humidity to lay on some lassitude.

Then the rains came.  Not cloudbursts, torrents or gully washers.  The rain was just enough to require the wipers on continuous.  And to bring out the inner moron in two-thirds of the driving public.  A simple errand was simple no longer; it only took longer.

When I arrived home,  I felt bleahhhh.  I also swore all the birds in my immediate vicinity were staring at me.  This wasn't helped when one of the first songs I heard after turning on the tunes tonight was re:stacks by Bon Iver, and there is a lyric in there involving a crow that really threw me off my feed.

Okay, I hear the sighs, I see the eyerolls...why is he telling us all this?  Simply this:

Today I received my first official rejection e-mail (letter) for a piece I submitted earlier this summer.  Now that isn't earth-shattering news, especially to anyone who writes for their daily bread, or is trying to write for the bread.  I have been advised to expect it, to not take it personally, to keep it at hand at least know that someone took the time to respond.

I know all that...but, still...combined with the events of the day, it did put me a little further in the weeds.

Nothing a little music therapy and an attitude adjustment couldn't help.  The e-mail did indicate that I had made it to the final round of consideration, and the final decisions were not easy due to the wealth of good material that had been submitted.  I was also forbidden to be discouraged (thank you, cher Angie!) and that I should submit more, including poetry.  That was pretty nifty!

I also took a tip from my writer/editor friend Rich (who writes stories and a novel and even a play, and also writes cool stuff HERE), who mentioned he has been printing out his rejection letters and wallpapering his office.  So that is what I did.  I printed out the letter and will hang it up where I can see it from wherever I am writing at the moment.  Gotta start somewhere...

Una pequeña petición, por favor:  Another reason I am blathering all this is because my little writing boat is stuck on a sandbar.  I'm flailing away with the oars and just can't get going.  I have an idea for another in my Henry David line of stories, but it refuses to gel, it won't show its face...and it's making me anxious.  So with that in mind, meine Lieblinge, can you spare a brother a story idea?  Anything, anything at all?  A topic?  Even a sentence fragment?  Maybe that could be the spark that lights my fire, and burns off the funk.  And funk-free gumbo is good for us all!

Wearing My App on My Sleeve

You never get a second chance to make a first impression they say,
well, hellfire, I'm in a mess o' trouble because I can't bring myself
to try the first time so what the hell is to be done?  Carrying around
my laptop with my picture as the screensaver

won't cut it in most society, many societies, 'cause they would think
"What an eccentric performance!" just like on Monty Python
Oh, no, I know! I know! I got it!  Maybe I could velcro an iPad to my jacket
sort of like that video where the guy stuck one to his bike and his wall and stuff

Yeah, that's the ticket, I'll look like a new Social Media bling version of Flava Flav
without the hat or the glasses or the Chronic problem, but I'd have the clock
except it wouldn't be a clock, it would be a digital media filter, hopefully,
there will be an app for that.  Wouldn't that be grand?

And its my idea! How do I copyright this?  I don't want to carry my laptop
like an over-sized electronic biz card, that just screams geeeeeek
and I wouldn't want anyone to think I was a geek, no uh-uh
I have enough problems meeting peoiple as it is, especially women

but jesus, man, what am I going to do?  I won't have a filter, I don't have a filter
wait, it isn't a filter it's a screen, an electronic screen that lets me guard my social butterfly
Hah! I'm no butterfly, or maybe that's the problem: I want to be a butterfly, but I think
I'm a larva, so tell me when you see me, what buttons will you push on my touchscreen?

Please, I hope you hit the one that convinces you that I am really alright to know...
or maybe it needs to convince me, instead.

Seven Views of Mount Gumbo

Connect: Unit on. Signal acquired. Broadcast NOW:

ONE
Today my favorite local radio station, WTMD, did a continuous broadcast of the "Top 100 Beatles Songs as selected by Rolling Stone Magazine".  They literally took the Rolling Stone list and played them all.  The number 2 song was "I Want To Hold Your Hand".  Wee Lass and I heard it on the way to dinner.  Rather, she heard a version of it.  The part where they sing 'I can't hide'?  She said to me "Daddy, is he saying hyena?".  I am amused.

TWO
At the bookstore tonight after dinner, we were sitting on the floor in the art section, looking through books on artists. Why? Because my lively daughter has already learned about Wassily Kandinsky in her kindergarten art class, and she wanted to see some more of his paintings.  I am amazed.

THREE
Later in the photography section, we are again sitting on the floor, paging through a book on Ansel Adams because daddy secretly wishes he had been Ansel Adams.  Wee Lass is fascinated and begins commenting on the photographs.  We both were engrossed and entranced.  She begins to understand why I take my camera so many places.  I am humbled and realize I'll never be Ansel Adams.

FOUR
It is bedtime, and Her Royal Lightness asks to read some books.  We have two old favorites (well, two for her; "The Little Mermaid" has become a Sprockets guest, and I am Dieter) and a new book: "Skippyjon Jones and the Big Bones".  I blaze through the Little Mermaid, settle in with "Wabi Sabi" and really hit the big time with Skippyjon Jones.  I really dig the Skippyjon, and I really, really dig her laughter as we read with the silly accents and clap our way through some of the singing bits.  I am calmed.

FIVE
Earlier this afternoon, I had occasion to hang upon my bare walls, three framed photographs of mine.  Suddenly, this house of mine changed character, and some of the echoes faded away.  Standing there in the afternoon light, adjusting the prints to level, I held my breath with the realization that maybe, just maybe...this place is becoming a home.  I was soothed.

SIX
Bouncing around on the digital ocean tonight, I had occasion to laugh, cry, smile and testify.  Truly a grounding, humbling and pleasing experience.  I was slightly overwhelmed at the number of stories that have come to intersect with mine, and I really felt the need to jump in the car and go visit some of the people who have come to enhance my life.  I was again humbled.

SEVEN
Sitting down to write, a strange sensation washed over me.  Part anxiety, part exhilaration, at the realization of just how important to me words and music and pictures have become to my, to my life.  Today I discovered that Wee Lass finds it hilarious when I sing Beatles songs in a voice like that of Eric Cartman.  Today I discovered that I like it when she laughs at me.  Today, side by side with my daughter and reading books...that was a good day.  Read, sing, write: this is a good life.

Gumbo gets Inked!

Get It Here!

What a fine way to get Wednesday going!  My story "Running Lights" is featured today at Indie Ink!  Please take a few moments and check it out.  While you are there, browse the other writers and artists, drop some comment love.  Good stuff, people, good stuff!

An Answer Not To Be Found In The Magic 8-Ball

Do cows get bored?

On Not Knowing What I am Doing

Okay, ten minutes...go!

I gave myself a little push, said "Take ten minutes and just write something, then stop!" I have avoided those types of exercises in the past, because I hated the idea of having to stop on an artificial deadline. Then I thought "Yeah, but isn't all of life on some kind of deadline?"

Totally derailed my train of thought. No, not derailed, wrong word, let us say redirected onto a different track. I avoided this stuff in the past because it seems to me in the past so much of the angst I feel about getting things done is predicated on deadlines, because I have always been a firm believer in the "work on it until it is finished" approach, not the "work on it until the timer says to stop working on it".

I once worked with a gentleman who often joked that "There's never time to do it right, but there is always time to do it over!". At which point everyone laughs heartily and says stuff like "Good one!" or "What a kidder!" The real problem was that he believed it, and acted accordingly. The slapdash approach to doing anything drives me nuts, and that was a particularly bad example. Wait, it is a good example of what is a bad example. It always frustrated me that if we just took the time to do it right the first time, which may take a little bit longer than rushing through something, we wouldn't have to waste time doing something over, and thereby wasting more time and resources.

It still gets on my nerves. I have struggled mightily with this problem, in the workaday world. Everything is linked to efficiency, which is tied to productvity which (you saw this coming) is linked to money.

Yeah, okay, we all want to make money. This is an unavoidable fact of immersion in a money economy. The catch to that is it ends up being about pursuing the money to keep making money, which repeats ad nauseaum.

Earlier tonight (the night I am writing this) I saw a short video called "The Resolution Will Not Be Televised" by Jay Smooth*. In it, he says "My eighth resolution would be, Spend as much time as possible doing one thing at a time". Hells to the yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about! I would love to do that because it fits in with my natural inclination. It fits in with what makes me focused and comfortable: being able to do one thing at a time, and do it well. Therein lies my greatest calm, my inner peace. Inner peace: a beautiful butterfly which has yet to alight on my soul.

And that, dear readers, is my ten minutes. Fifteen, actually, because I had to fix the links, but still...

*It's on his blog, illdoctrine.com, a 'hip-hop video blog' hosted by the aforementioned Mr. Smooth (grin). I found quite good. A special thanks to the lurvely Anndi at transition, for bringing Jay to my attention. Word, Anndi!

Some People Need Practical Advice

 "Don't get run over by a bus!" 

- George Carlin

My daughter is nothing if not observant. She is very quick to pick up on the wrongs of others (witness the recent "language incident" involving a deity and an exclamation) and she is a keen student of what people and animals can do. She gets a lot of conversational mileage out of commenting on birds flying, squirrels and chipmunks eating nuts, and all sorts of animals running. She will very often mime the actions she has seen or compare herself to whatever furry or feathered beastie happens to be the topic du jour. In turn, I get to hear some unique commentary from the mouth of the princess. To wit, on the way to school earlier this week:

"Those birds are fast, daddy."

"Yes, they are."

"You know who is fast, daddy?"

"Who, sweetpea?"

"Bongo. (Bongo is her cat) He runs really fast!"

"Yep, he's speedy sometimes."

"I am too! I'm fast, but not as fast as Bongo. He's good at running up the stairs, daddy. That's because he has four legs. But I don't run up the stairs."

"No, sweetie, you should be careful going up the stairs."

"Daddy, you should be careful going down the stairs, too. Don't run, so you don't crash your face into the rail."

So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, your Wee Lass safety tip of the day. No one wants to crash their face, into rails or anything else!

Hold On, Let Me Check...Uh, No?

Rare is the day that I do not see something interesting on my way driving to and from the Big City wherein I earn my daily bread, and last Monday was no exception. The parking lot of the building where I work slopes down to a busy road, and when leaving I often have to stop and wait for traffic to clear.

Idling at the bottom of the slope, on a bluish workday evening, I was absentmindedly staring across the road when a bright pink blur passed in front of my car. It was a Dodge Intrepid, and it was a brilliant shade of Pepto-Bismol. Clean, too.

Wow, I thought, you don't see that very often. A courtesy shuttle for a "gentlemen's club", perchance?

So I turned right out of the parking lot, and found my car right behind the Bismolmobile. It sort of looked like a taxi that had been retired from service. I was looking for any faded taxi sticker marks or company name when I noticed the bumper sticker on the back. There it was, big as day, and it read:

"HONK IF YOU GOT A BA-DONKA-DONK!" 

I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Nope, still there.

I'm slightly sad to say, I did not honk. But only slightly.

I hadn't been that bemused since a few years back, when I saw a guy wearing a shirt that announced in big, bold caps: DON'T ASK ME FOR SHIT! Roger that, Sparky, you needn't worry that I'd ask you for anything, least of all THAT...