...after seven months of roller coaster freedom. The time has finally come.
I met with Dr. Yee today to see about an editing job. She'll call me back at the end of the week and let me know if she chooses me. I've got no positive intuitions about it. From the way we said goodbye, I have a feeling I may not be chosen. But that's all out of my hands now. So we'll see.
In the meantime, I'm selling art, or at least training to again ($8/hr training--bullocks). If you want to see what kind of art, go to www.lassenmaui.com, and you'll see how very exciting it is indeed. There are actually a few I like, so that's good. I'll always think about those when I'm selling his other work.
I've decided to work on changing my "personality." I'm going to challenge myself to get rid of that shy/timid gig and look everyone in the eyes always. And take what I need when I need it and if I'm not getting it, ask. And what I want too. I think I was a bit walked over in my last job but I never really did anything about it. I'm going to try to focus on what I want and what I need too. And I won't be submissive around my bosses just because they are my bosses. I've spent way too much of my life being submissive. I've spent way too much of my life looking out for everyone around me, in some ways, making sure there's peace. I don't want peace anymore, I don't think. I'm going to figure out once and hopefully for all just how to take care of myself in a public/social setting. And I'm going to become a killer sales person. And never lie. If that's possible. Because this time my paycheck is dependent one-hundred percent on me. So if I want to get paid, I've got to sell. I guess I'll learn the ups system, which we never had at our old gallery. I'm going to have lots of energy and be very animated. So there.
I guess I'm saying goodbye to one period of my life and welcoming in another. Change is good but it ain't easy. I've been dragging my feet trying to accustom myself to the idea of going back to the daily grind. I've had it pretty easy I guess, these past days. I'm going to miss all the time I've had to play on the Internet, reconnect with friends and shits. I guess it's all good. For sure it is.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Saturday, June 23, 2007
You want city strange?
These nights on Oahu (March '07) are windy and cool and often starless. When rain clouds hang so low over street lamps that they collect on them a dirty mud color at night, this feels like City. Cities aren’t bad, are they. Half of the world’s population lives in cities, it seems. City is where history is often decided, which Whats will take place and Where and When. Cities are full of the forgotten. Of the tiny people, the poor, the Black, the Mexican, the Chinese, the Pilipino, the underdogs, the Mutts and Mixes, the immigrants. Crowds, hoards, masses piled like an 1800s hairdo miles up and miles out, rat nested and chemically sprayed for a full-bodied appearance, the outside layer combed smoothly and perfectly into place for social status. I love crowds—colorful, opaque, writhing.
The best parts of the city are the crowds because they offer something the villages, the countryside, even the suburbs don’t; that is, “centrality…privacy…the satisfaction of being a fly in the ointment” (Franzen, “First City,” pp. 193-4). In his How to Be Alone, Franzen quoted Jane Jacobs from her In Death and Life who quoted Paul Tillich “who believed that the city, by its very nature, ‘provides what otherwise could be given only by traveling; namely, the strange.’”
You want some City strange?
A month ago, dressed to impress in all black and heels for an interview with a company I never did impress, I was waiting at a bus stop on Kapiolani Blvd., for #3, headed home. There were a handful of city lifers hanging around, a bit greyer for the daily wear of concrete and exhaust, but generally normal. There was an Asian businessman, professional and shiny-shoed, sitting straight-backed on the bench; there was a king-sized local woman with her five bags and her child, as an afterthought; a bent, tiny, squinty Pilipino grandma stood next to the pole, vying for first dibs in bus chairs. And, there was a bum who frequents this particular stop. All of us were waiting (minus the bum) and all of us were unaware of what, I assume, none of us expected then but probably won’t ever forget.
Take my point of view, for instance: I’m standing back a bit from the bench to smoke and rifle through my bag for two bucks bus fare. I look up and notice the bum, with his back to me, holding a bottle down there, you know where. Looked an awful lot like he was taking piss, and OK, I’ve seen a man doing it before, but sad and slightly inappropriate, and certainly, sir, you should go find a tree, I thought. But too busy looking for my dollars, Ah hah! and doh-the wind plucks a buck right out of my hand. And here’s me—should I go grab it? It’s still flipping along; how would I look chasing a one dollar bill, tripping over my heels? Is that greedy and unsophisticated? Or just normal? But then, swoosh, the dollar flings out into six lanes of traffic and that’s that. I still have two more, anyway, so no worries.
I look up to find a trash bin for my smoke and again I notice something different about the bum. He’s facing me this time, with both his hands behind him, holding a plastic bag to his rump. It can’t be. I look around and see the same horror dawning on all the other faces. Definitely is. Slowly we all step back and back and back, inch away, while the poor Asian businessman, with his back to the bum, must have caught wind of the bag’s contents a foot from his head by a breezy whiff. He stood up stiffly and left the block altogether as swift as his shiny shoes could carry him.
That’s one of the stranges City has to offer. You probably won’t see that anywhere else. The City’s strange is also unique in that you share the strange with others but the others remain silent and irrelevant to you; you don’t talk to strangers, you just coexist and go about minding your own business, everyone else is a threat or a nuisance. So you get no closure to such encounters. In the countryside, I’m sure we’d all be laughing together on the bus. In the suburbs, we’d all be calling the police and feeling highly offended. But in the City, we quietly go our own way; some of us pretend it didn’t happen; others go home and recount what a strange thing happened to them today.
The best parts of the city are the crowds because they offer something the villages, the countryside, even the suburbs don’t; that is, “centrality…privacy…the satisfaction of being a fly in the ointment” (Franzen, “First City,” pp. 193-4). In his How to Be Alone, Franzen quoted Jane Jacobs from her In Death and Life who quoted Paul Tillich “who believed that the city, by its very nature, ‘provides what otherwise could be given only by traveling; namely, the strange.’”
You want some City strange?
A month ago, dressed to impress in all black and heels for an interview with a company I never did impress, I was waiting at a bus stop on Kapiolani Blvd., for #3, headed home. There were a handful of city lifers hanging around, a bit greyer for the daily wear of concrete and exhaust, but generally normal. There was an Asian businessman, professional and shiny-shoed, sitting straight-backed on the bench; there was a king-sized local woman with her five bags and her child, as an afterthought; a bent, tiny, squinty Pilipino grandma stood next to the pole, vying for first dibs in bus chairs. And, there was a bum who frequents this particular stop. All of us were waiting (minus the bum) and all of us were unaware of what, I assume, none of us expected then but probably won’t ever forget.
Take my point of view, for instance: I’m standing back a bit from the bench to smoke and rifle through my bag for two bucks bus fare. I look up and notice the bum, with his back to me, holding a bottle down there, you know where. Looked an awful lot like he was taking piss, and OK, I’ve seen a man doing it before, but sad and slightly inappropriate, and certainly, sir, you should go find a tree, I thought. But too busy looking for my dollars, Ah hah! and doh-the wind plucks a buck right out of my hand. And here’s me—should I go grab it? It’s still flipping along; how would I look chasing a one dollar bill, tripping over my heels? Is that greedy and unsophisticated? Or just normal? But then, swoosh, the dollar flings out into six lanes of traffic and that’s that. I still have two more, anyway, so no worries.
I look up to find a trash bin for my smoke and again I notice something different about the bum. He’s facing me this time, with both his hands behind him, holding a plastic bag to his rump. It can’t be. I look around and see the same horror dawning on all the other faces. Definitely is. Slowly we all step back and back and back, inch away, while the poor Asian businessman, with his back to the bum, must have caught wind of the bag’s contents a foot from his head by a breezy whiff. He stood up stiffly and left the block altogether as swift as his shiny shoes could carry him.
That’s one of the stranges City has to offer. You probably won’t see that anywhere else. The City’s strange is also unique in that you share the strange with others but the others remain silent and irrelevant to you; you don’t talk to strangers, you just coexist and go about minding your own business, everyone else is a threat or a nuisance. So you get no closure to such encounters. In the countryside, I’m sure we’d all be laughing together on the bus. In the suburbs, we’d all be calling the police and feeling highly offended. But in the City, we quietly go our own way; some of us pretend it didn’t happen; others go home and recount what a strange thing happened to them today.
Friday, June 22, 2007
shaking in my boots
I'm sitting at my table with the computer stuck in front of my face or my face stuck in front of the computer. My hands glued to the keyboard. My ass glued to the cushioned wooden chair. Any part of me possible glued down as much as possible because I'm shaking in my boots, if I had boots on, seriously. My insides are jiggling around trying to fall out and I have to hold them in. Like when you have to squeeze in a terd. So I'm gluing myself down.
The reason? I took a job today. The one I wrote about yesterday. Art sales. After seven fucking months, I've got a job. Hurray, right? Doesn't sound half bad, either. I bet I could make pretty good money. Big Bossman X said he expects his sales people to take home at least a couple G's every two weeks. $3000-$4000/mo ain't half bad, right? But I said yes, and I have to start monday or tuesday.
De ting is, I'm also in conversation with a woman who could potentially give me a job that would further my career dream. An editing/proofreading job. She told me today, when I begged her to and after I took the job and started immediately to regret it and feel an ominous cloud with an angry stormy personality inch its way overtop of me who, I know, is going to start raining on me alone whenever i move, like in the cartoons. Oh yeah, she told me today she could make a space to interview me early next week.
But Bossman X told me he needed me to start asap because he's already under heat from the artist for being understaffed. This job I just took is all about the money. Three times in our conversation he told me how important money is to this corporation... "As long as you make money, then I make money. That makes everyone happy..." and "I hope we can make this a financially viable relationship" and "As long as you're making money, it's all good." God. Why the focus on making money. But the artist who's work I will be selling was called, by my interviewer, "a commecial artist" as opposed to a fine artist. So I guess it's all about the money. And whatever. Isn't that why we all work, ultimately? Ok, but still, I hope Dr. Editing Lady writes me back soon so I can call my Money Mongers back and tell them to either postpone my work start date or goodbye.
Because...guh.
I'm drinking coffee which doesn't help. I want to scream which would probably help but my neighbors might be put out. I better stop writing, it's making me even more nervous.
The reason? I took a job today. The one I wrote about yesterday. Art sales. After seven fucking months, I've got a job. Hurray, right? Doesn't sound half bad, either. I bet I could make pretty good money. Big Bossman X said he expects his sales people to take home at least a couple G's every two weeks. $3000-$4000/mo ain't half bad, right? But I said yes, and I have to start monday or tuesday.
De ting is, I'm also in conversation with a woman who could potentially give me a job that would further my career dream. An editing/proofreading job. She told me today, when I begged her to and after I took the job and started immediately to regret it and feel an ominous cloud with an angry stormy personality inch its way overtop of me who, I know, is going to start raining on me alone whenever i move, like in the cartoons. Oh yeah, she told me today she could make a space to interview me early next week.
But Bossman X told me he needed me to start asap because he's already under heat from the artist for being understaffed. This job I just took is all about the money. Three times in our conversation he told me how important money is to this corporation... "As long as you make money, then I make money. That makes everyone happy..." and "I hope we can make this a financially viable relationship" and "As long as you're making money, it's all good." God. Why the focus on making money. But the artist who's work I will be selling was called, by my interviewer, "a commecial artist" as opposed to a fine artist. So I guess it's all about the money. And whatever. Isn't that why we all work, ultimately? Ok, but still, I hope Dr. Editing Lady writes me back soon so I can call my Money Mongers back and tell them to either postpone my work start date or goodbye.
Because...guh.
I'm drinking coffee which doesn't help. I want to scream which would probably help but my neighbors might be put out. I better stop writing, it's making me even more nervous.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
oh what a beautiful morning
oh what a beautiful day. i got this beautiful feeeeling. everything's going my way. hurray.
Woke up this morning reeling with dizzy from a goodbye party we went to last night and too much house wine. Knocked a brand new toilet paper role into pee water, dammit, and couldn't quite figure out how to cut a papaya in half. After B left for work, I sat on a chair and read one woman's entire "life story." I found it on Sam's blog, one of the Other Cool People who Blog (mostly on Blogger) links "a very funny Brooklyn blogger who I randomly discovered one day." It was excellent and took me two and a half hours to read start to finish.
All morning, a little sugar ant was gnawing the back of my brain--I had this interview hanging over my head. Strangely, when Bruce of Lassen galleries called me yesterday, he told me to come over any time between 9 a.m. and 3 p.m., just call ahead. I had a good feeling from our conversation on the phone and have never had an interview set up that way where I wander in at my leisure, which is a good thing. After I finished La Ketch's story, I pulled myself together a little, took a shower, ignored the mess in the house, put on some mascara and a polite interview outfit and called Bruce. He said come over in the next thirty minutes. Great.
Grabbed my purse. Made sure keys and phone were inside. Always. How many times I've locked my keys in the wrong place. Grabbed our smelly soggy garbage bag and started down the stairs. Half way down, I realized that I had no clue where I was supposed to be going and the info was still in my other bag in the house, so, still slightly dizzy and a hair slower than normal, I climbed back up the stairs. Left the garbage on the stairwell, though. Sorry neighbor. And even though I'm not superstitious, I like to play along with some of the Jugo superstitions I've been introduced to. One of them is: never go back in the house once you've left. It's bad luck. And if you absolutely have to, sit down for a spell, trick the house into thinking that you already came home. So here I am, suffering back up the stairs mumbling to myself it doesn't matter. i'm not superstitious anyway. fuck it.
I started to unzip my purse to grab my keys but wait! I saw that lo and behold I had left the door unlatched. I had left my door wide open. What good luck to have forgotten something! as it turns out. I guess the house was calling me back and wouldn't fuck with me today, right. So I grabbed the address and the garbage bag and started making my way to the Waikiki Shopping Plaza on Kalakaua and Seaside (which is great because it's right next to starbucks, and I wanted to buy a coffee afterwards, and it's right next to my bank, and I needed to deposit a check for B).
Today is glorious, as the days often are here in the summer. High blue sky fly shimmering greens and yellows with pink and white flowers petals fluttering down on top of pedestrians walking, wandering, shopping, lost in an out of shades and shadows playing games with light, sunny warm hot but windy, hair flinging to the left and the right. Altogether exhilerating weather. Made me think of the song. Oh what a beautiful morning, Oh what a beautiful day. (Or is it wonderful, anyway, that's neither here nor there, because it could only be beautiful today and that's what I was singing, out loud which I don't do often, but who can help it).
'
Usually I'm nervous walking into interviews. But I've had so many rejections in the last seven months that I've finally realized it's not personal. Whether I get the job or not. And I'm not a screw up because I can't find a job, I just haven't found a niche yet, right? I think, in the end, what it comes down to, is a first-impressions sort of vibe the interviewer and the interviewee beef up in the five to thirty minute session they have together. So, for some reason, maybe the rejections thing, or maybe because Bruce sounded so kind and laid back over the phone yesterday, I wasn't nervous on my way over and I wasn't nervous when I walked in. I made sure I removed my $3 sunglasses before stepping in and I remembered to smile and look him squarely in the eye as I introduced myself. But I said I was looking for Steve. It rushed out of my mouth before I had a chance to remind myself it was Bruce, not Steve, that I needed to meet. But anyway, Bruce and I awkwardly laughed together about it. Then I sat on a couch and waited while he finished up some emails.
He asked me a few questions. Let me know that he knew where Ivory Coast was, which surprised me for a moment and I didn't have a proper response. Not that he knew where the Ivory Coast was, but that that was the first thing he chose to say to me. After about four minutes, he said, "I don't make the final decisions around here, but I go by my gut, my intuition when I make a decision." (Pause. And there's me with expectant eyes, knowing what's coming next and hoping I'm as smart as that.) "I like you." Uhh...smile...feign surprise. "thanks," humbly. "And I'm going to tell Bossman X of this and recommend you to him." From there, the rest of the interview proceeded as though I were already "a part of the family" he termed it. He even had me pretend to sell to him, as though he were a client and I the salesperson. That was a mistake on his part. Way to shatter your first impression of me. How I flopped that one. See, it's not that I'm a terrible sales person or that I hate to talk in front of people. It's just this habit of fear in front of bosses and a strange paralysis I feel when I'm put on the spot. It was all I could do to clamp my mouth shut for a few deep breaths so I wouldn't spew out excuses as to why I would not do this for him and then to actually convince myself that, yes, I needed to try to pretend to sell this painting to him, so do it, dammit, Anna, speak and sell. Unfortunately, he definitely got the other side of me impression, the natural timid/fear side.
So the interview ended after he showed me around a little and he again said he'd recommend me and I left. That was that. I went to the bank and got a coffee. And I feel grand. I think it would be cool. In the end, it doens't matter so much what you are doing, as long as there is daily challenge involved and mostly, you gotta get a long with and actually like your coworkers and bosses. This seems like its a potential. Plus, I'm gonna have to learn japanese. Apparently Lassen is a rock star in Japan.
I'm not really happy with this post, but I'm not going to erase it. Fuck it.
Woke up this morning reeling with dizzy from a goodbye party we went to last night and too much house wine. Knocked a brand new toilet paper role into pee water, dammit, and couldn't quite figure out how to cut a papaya in half. After B left for work, I sat on a chair and read one woman's entire "life story." I found it on Sam's blog, one of the Other Cool People who Blog (mostly on Blogger) links "a very funny Brooklyn blogger who I randomly discovered one day." It was excellent and took me two and a half hours to read start to finish.
All morning, a little sugar ant was gnawing the back of my brain--I had this interview hanging over my head. Strangely, when Bruce of Lassen galleries called me yesterday, he told me to come over any time between 9 a.m. and 3 p.m., just call ahead. I had a good feeling from our conversation on the phone and have never had an interview set up that way where I wander in at my leisure, which is a good thing. After I finished La Ketch's story, I pulled myself together a little, took a shower, ignored the mess in the house, put on some mascara and a polite interview outfit and called Bruce. He said come over in the next thirty minutes. Great.
Grabbed my purse. Made sure keys and phone were inside. Always. How many times I've locked my keys in the wrong place. Grabbed our smelly soggy garbage bag and started down the stairs. Half way down, I realized that I had no clue where I was supposed to be going and the info was still in my other bag in the house, so, still slightly dizzy and a hair slower than normal, I climbed back up the stairs. Left the garbage on the stairwell, though. Sorry neighbor. And even though I'm not superstitious, I like to play along with some of the Jugo superstitions I've been introduced to. One of them is: never go back in the house once you've left. It's bad luck. And if you absolutely have to, sit down for a spell, trick the house into thinking that you already came home. So here I am, suffering back up the stairs mumbling to myself it doesn't matter. i'm not superstitious anyway. fuck it.
I started to unzip my purse to grab my keys but wait! I saw that lo and behold I had left the door unlatched. I had left my door wide open. What good luck to have forgotten something! as it turns out. I guess the house was calling me back and wouldn't fuck with me today, right. So I grabbed the address and the garbage bag and started making my way to the Waikiki Shopping Plaza on Kalakaua and Seaside (which is great because it's right next to starbucks, and I wanted to buy a coffee afterwards, and it's right next to my bank, and I needed to deposit a check for B).
Today is glorious, as the days often are here in the summer. High blue sky fly shimmering greens and yellows with pink and white flowers petals fluttering down on top of pedestrians walking, wandering, shopping, lost in an out of shades and shadows playing games with light, sunny warm hot but windy, hair flinging to the left and the right. Altogether exhilerating weather. Made me think of the song. Oh what a beautiful morning, Oh what a beautiful day. (Or is it wonderful, anyway, that's neither here nor there, because it could only be beautiful today and that's what I was singing, out loud which I don't do often, but who can help it).
'
Usually I'm nervous walking into interviews. But I've had so many rejections in the last seven months that I've finally realized it's not personal. Whether I get the job or not. And I'm not a screw up because I can't find a job, I just haven't found a niche yet, right? I think, in the end, what it comes down to, is a first-impressions sort of vibe the interviewer and the interviewee beef up in the five to thirty minute session they have together. So, for some reason, maybe the rejections thing, or maybe because Bruce sounded so kind and laid back over the phone yesterday, I wasn't nervous on my way over and I wasn't nervous when I walked in. I made sure I removed my $3 sunglasses before stepping in and I remembered to smile and look him squarely in the eye as I introduced myself. But I said I was looking for Steve. It rushed out of my mouth before I had a chance to remind myself it was Bruce, not Steve, that I needed to meet. But anyway, Bruce and I awkwardly laughed together about it. Then I sat on a couch and waited while he finished up some emails.
He asked me a few questions. Let me know that he knew where Ivory Coast was, which surprised me for a moment and I didn't have a proper response. Not that he knew where the Ivory Coast was, but that that was the first thing he chose to say to me. After about four minutes, he said, "I don't make the final decisions around here, but I go by my gut, my intuition when I make a decision." (Pause. And there's me with expectant eyes, knowing what's coming next and hoping I'm as smart as that.) "I like you." Uhh...smile...feign surprise. "thanks," humbly. "And I'm going to tell Bossman X of this and recommend you to him." From there, the rest of the interview proceeded as though I were already "a part of the family" he termed it. He even had me pretend to sell to him, as though he were a client and I the salesperson. That was a mistake on his part. Way to shatter your first impression of me. How I flopped that one. See, it's not that I'm a terrible sales person or that I hate to talk in front of people. It's just this habit of fear in front of bosses and a strange paralysis I feel when I'm put on the spot. It was all I could do to clamp my mouth shut for a few deep breaths so I wouldn't spew out excuses as to why I would not do this for him and then to actually convince myself that, yes, I needed to try to pretend to sell this painting to him, so do it, dammit, Anna, speak and sell. Unfortunately, he definitely got the other side of me impression, the natural timid/fear side.
So the interview ended after he showed me around a little and he again said he'd recommend me and I left. That was that. I went to the bank and got a coffee. And I feel grand. I think it would be cool. In the end, it doens't matter so much what you are doing, as long as there is daily challenge involved and mostly, you gotta get a long with and actually like your coworkers and bosses. This seems like its a potential. Plus, I'm gonna have to learn japanese. Apparently Lassen is a rock star in Japan.
I'm not really happy with this post, but I'm not going to erase it. Fuck it.
Monday, June 18, 2007
life is as simple as you make it
Just finished reading i heard the owl call my name, a book by Margaret Craven published in 1973, $2.25. The idea of the story reminds me a lot of Siddhartha (even though the last time I read that book was 11 or 12 years ago) even though the stories are not really alike at all. The book, in the form of a story, answered a few questions I've been pushing around a pan of butter lately without lighting the stove. The simplest answer is: Life is as simple or as complicated as you make it. And the less complicated you make life, the more deeply and fully you will live it and experience the lives of others around you.
That's what I aim for myself, I think.
That's what I aim for myself, I think.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
brush away the cobwebs
It's 10:04 Saturday morning. An exhilerating kind of day outside, a bit windy, a bit stormy, and a bit high blue sunny sky-y. Came back from the farmer's market about an hour ago. It's one of our highlights of the week. We stop at starbucks on the way and buy a coffee, then we hustle over there, the top of diamond head, the top of this side of Oahu. It's always sunny above diamond head, no matter the weather down below by the sea or up above in the higher mountains. We go and mingle with other locals, push and shove our way through long lines (cut sometimes...uh oh), we buy fresh, steamy bread from Baile (a local Asian patisserie chain on the island) and fresh tomatoes from a tomato farm and papayas and green onions and alfalfa sprouts and baby spinach and zuchini, or patlijan. Bojan rushed off to work after I made him a lunchy and I cleaned the house. It feels good to straighten clutter, make the bed, dust the teli and tables. It feels good to brush out the cobwebs, feels like I brushed out the cobwebs from my head and my chest and my gut (from my attics and my basements and from my living room). Now I'm sitting on our La-Z-Boy in front of my communication box wondering how to fill the rest of my day. Walk, cook? Yes cook. Find some nice recipe. That's what I'll do next. Did I tell you I'm quitting smoking. On my birthday. Happy 27th, Anna. I heard, four or five years ago, that a woman is at her physical peak at the age of 27, at least she can be. And what am I doing, smoking, killing myself. Eh. I can't wait to get past the hump of it and really really be smoke free. But for the next month, at least, I'm gonna enjoyyy my smokes. This will be the first, and I think last, time that I ever quit smoking.
Happy Saturday.
Happy Saturday.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
reevaluating
a few blogs ago I rambled on and on about arguments and words and misdirection. But, I haven't read any of the books some of the recent blogversations were addressing. I'm reading a book on philosophy right now, Sophie's World, by Jostein Gaardder and I just read an article linked to Sweet Jane's most recent blog written by Aronson (published in The Nation). Altogether, I'm starting to feel like some of the safe, quiet categories i've set up and been living within in order to make my life most peaceful on the spiritual/philosophical front are being shaken just a bit.
The book I'm reading has given an incredibly brief and shallow overview of the history of philosophy, starting with ancient myths, moving on to the natural philosophers, to Socrates/Plato/Aristotle, to the Christian era, to the middle ages, to the renaissance, the reformation, the baroque period, and so on. The thing that's good about the book is the feeling it offers from seeing so much history in a few pages, in a few pictures. Most of the food of philosophy, I imagine, is left out, but the view of history it has given me makes me wonder where we're at in the philosophical movement, now. What part is our generation playing? We're an in-between generation, aren't we? Our parents are the last-ish of the baby boomers, on the edge of the World-War influenced mind set. We were born right around the same time as the computer; we've grown up with the Internet, with increasing globalization. Our world has become significantly smaller than it was when our parents were growing up. Our grandparents didn't even have personal telephones, per se. Or easy access to cars, or televisions when they were young. Now we carry around these tiny little phone thingies that connect us to most of the world in a split second. I think we're right in the middle of a transition era. Where ideas are bubbling and brewing but nothing, as of yet, no new thoughts on how to view the world, or philosophies, have been established or agreed on. (But maybe that's every generation....I bet.)
Somewhere swishing around my brain is an identity crisis (to use a dramatic term) I can't pinpoint or define. This global world, this over-done and overwhelming amount of information constantly bombarding us, this incredibly easy access to communication and loss of the personal (email, fax, automation recordings) has helped me paint a world in which I'm finding it hard to fit in. I can't help feeling, every once in the blink-of-an-eye like a pawn, like I'm just another reactionary product of my generation.
So I have decided to begin educating myself. So I can seriously join conversation. I'm wondering if anyone has any good suggestions of books. I started reading The End of Faith this Christmas and I'm going to finish that first, but after that, if anyone has any recommendations, please pass them on.
Sweet Jane quoted Aronson's last argument in her most recent blog "Readers Poll" and I'll write it again here: "And--I save for last the touchiest question of all--shouldn't all Americans be instructed in the great religious and secular traditions, as well as their greatest books? After all, achieving literacy in both religion and secularism might allow us to discuss them more intelligently." I have chosen up to now, probably partly as a knee-jerk reaction to how I lived previously, a mode of ignorant quiet. But I do love information and I don't want to argue based only on emotion forever. I want to know what and why (and it's been a long time since I've said that...eh).
The book I'm reading has given an incredibly brief and shallow overview of the history of philosophy, starting with ancient myths, moving on to the natural philosophers, to Socrates/Plato/Aristotle, to the Christian era, to the middle ages, to the renaissance, the reformation, the baroque period, and so on. The thing that's good about the book is the feeling it offers from seeing so much history in a few pages, in a few pictures. Most of the food of philosophy, I imagine, is left out, but the view of history it has given me makes me wonder where we're at in the philosophical movement, now. What part is our generation playing? We're an in-between generation, aren't we? Our parents are the last-ish of the baby boomers, on the edge of the World-War influenced mind set. We were born right around the same time as the computer; we've grown up with the Internet, with increasing globalization. Our world has become significantly smaller than it was when our parents were growing up. Our grandparents didn't even have personal telephones, per se. Or easy access to cars, or televisions when they were young. Now we carry around these tiny little phone thingies that connect us to most of the world in a split second. I think we're right in the middle of a transition era. Where ideas are bubbling and brewing but nothing, as of yet, no new thoughts on how to view the world, or philosophies, have been established or agreed on. (But maybe that's every generation....I bet.)
Somewhere swishing around my brain is an identity crisis (to use a dramatic term) I can't pinpoint or define. This global world, this over-done and overwhelming amount of information constantly bombarding us, this incredibly easy access to communication and loss of the personal (email, fax, automation recordings) has helped me paint a world in which I'm finding it hard to fit in. I can't help feeling, every once in the blink-of-an-eye like a pawn, like I'm just another reactionary product of my generation.
So I have decided to begin educating myself. So I can seriously join conversation. I'm wondering if anyone has any good suggestions of books. I started reading The End of Faith this Christmas and I'm going to finish that first, but after that, if anyone has any recommendations, please pass them on.
Sweet Jane quoted Aronson's last argument in her most recent blog "Readers Poll" and I'll write it again here: "And--I save for last the touchiest question of all--shouldn't all Americans be instructed in the great religious and secular traditions, as well as their greatest books? After all, achieving literacy in both religion and secularism might allow us to discuss them more intelligently." I have chosen up to now, probably partly as a knee-jerk reaction to how I lived previously, a mode of ignorant quiet. But I do love information and I don't want to argue based only on emotion forever. I want to know what and why (and it's been a long time since I've said that...eh).
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Intro to Forrest, Part II
This is not part of Soul and Meat, but aren’t there days when you feel like trying to define yourself. It’s fun to find out what comes out of your brain. I usually get the urge right around my birthday time every year. This year, it’s been kicked into gear a little early because of our Soul and Meat assignment.
- I had, relatively recently, an attack of cystic acne out of nowhere that I know of. The guy whose book I read about changing my skin suggested taking pictures of my face every week from the same angle. I did for a long time. I erased most of them. They are not very nice to look at and most pictures showed only the downward spiral. If the moon looked in the mirror, she might have seen a face very similar to mine, only less pink, green, yellow, and red. A few weeks into this experience, when my acne was probably at its worst most infected peak (in January), I was too embarrassed to come out of my bedroom and face my roommates of two years; it took me about two months to feel comfortable going out of the house by myself shopping or just walking without the protective distraction of another person’s presence. I never wore my hair down before this attack of the acne bacteria, now I never wear my hear up (which, incidentally, from far away must make me look like a porn star potential or something because the hoots and howls from cars that I secretly longed for in moments of self doubt or jealousy during my life pop up on me pretty often now—luscious long blond hair must mean luscious lips, both up above and down below the skirts. Eh). It’s been a strange experience, I guess, these few months of incredibly distracting and massive acne—severely painful and itchy. I put myself through all sorts of physical cleanses—fasts and liver flushes and enemas and salt baths. I’m done with most of that now, but I certainly pulled some understanding and some grounding out of it all. I’m left with acne worse than pre-cyst but much better than my cyst days. I’m left with scars all over my face that will probably take years and several operations to fix. But I got ah-hah on a lot of ideas I’d only ever preached before. So that’s good. Experience teaches better than any words ever will.
- Love hurts. A friend of mine once sent me a CD in which was a song in which the singer mentioned that in catholic school a nun told him, “fear is the heart of love.” He turned and never went back to that school. But the statement irks me. Fear is the duality of love. Without love there is no fear, without fear there is no love. That, I think, may be true. I’ve found that the deeper is my love for an individual (family first, lovers too and friends) the more their pain hurts me, the more I am afraid of failing them, of not being there when I need to be there, of hurting them because I am weak, or even worse, selfish. It sounds ridick and head-in-the-clouds, but it’s how I feel especially at night lying in bed on a nervous end-of-day or in especially quiet times when I’ve been alone for too long or when someone I love tells me of something they don’t understand and that hurts and I have no words of response, no quick fixes or relevant advice, when I know their itch, know that I feel some of the same shit and haven’t fixed it in me, but I know, at least, that I’m ok with it, that I’ve figured out how to live with it, even if I haven’t figured out how to change it in me. God, how love hurts some days. And makes me feel deep fear. But then, if you don’t live inside of life’s duality, maybe you jip yourself. Right?
- Lover love is like flying to the moon and back in a space shuttle and floating in zero gravity out there, it’s like traveling around the world having the best craziest adventures and meeting the coolest people on every continent in every country, it’s like an incredibly good book that only comes around once or twice in ten years, it’s like helping someone without motive and making them feel like a hundred bucks, it’s like eating your favorite food—a whole table-full of it—and not being physically affected, it’s like finding intimacy or forgiveness with those you can’t seem to breach that emotion with in real life or reach that point with, it’s like standing on the edge of a cliff on the edge of the world with the wind whipping your hair and a blue sunny could-flecked sky above you, its’ like the first smell of fall, it’s like the height of fall in all its full-leaved golden-crimson-opal-evergreened New England rolling hills glory with the smell of apple cider and crackling fires warming hearths wafting on the evening breeze while you sit outside on the stoop alone and exhilarated and just then a bald eagle flies over head of you and you just catch a clear glimpse of it through the earthy trees as a squirrel throws an acorn on your head and a bear rumbles by in the brush and your kitty sits at your ankles talking love talk and giving you sweet eyes. Lover love is actually better than any of that. It can’t be compared, can it.
- Good music comes pretty close, and especially enjoying it with someone who can explain it to you, describe the details of the musician(s)’s life, tell you exactly why it should be enjoyed and how, even though, of course, you will enjoy it only how you will enjoy it. Doing something that makes you feel good about yourself also comes close, like doing the laundry when you don’t feel like or making a kick-ass dinner of baked garlic chicken that your lover loves even though you think you’re a shitty cook, especially when he tells you you’re not, and you believe him because he’s the most honest person you’ve ever met. But then, that’s cheating because your lover is involved in the comparison and it can’t count.
- I keep smoking because I’m afraid if I quit I’ll gain weight. I’m ashamed of it but wish I wouldn’t feel that way or worry so much about my body.
- The best feelings in the world: completely forgetting yourself in a moment; dancing without fear; great sex; a cigarette after a couple beers; flying in your dreams when it’s just for fun; swimming in perfectly clear and very deep water (pool or ocean); stepping out of a sauna or hot tub into cool fall-fresh air; looking out the window in the morning from a warm cozy winter house after a big snow fall; the physical let down after very difficult and constant physical exertion; the thrill of a violent destructive storm; being lost in a crowd at a concert when the music steals the room and the band is good people; a gentle bear hug when you’re sad; seeing a momma or a dad taking care of their child gently and with love when they think no one is watching; witnessing integrity; climbing a really steep mountain all the way to the top and then seeing the view; lying under the Christmas tree watching the rainbow tree lights and the flickering lights of candles throw their dances on the white walls feeling family around you listening to Mrs. G’s Christmas story and then listening to the Drummer Boy song; being taken care of when you can’t take care of yourself; taking care of someone you love when they can’t take care of themselves; knowing you are not alone; the rare vista of this life you have when you know very simply and completely that you love yourself.
Anyway, I'm getting tired. It's nearly midnight and I'm nearly done with my hormone balancing tea. I must sleep.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Intro to Forrest
- My name is Anna, but Forrest is good
- I live in Waikik with my B and every night around 10 o'clock trolley-loads of Japanese kids drive through our neighborhood screaming and honking and I don't understand
- I grew my hair out and am blond again
- My parents are missionaries (I spent the first halfish of my life in Abidjan). I used to be embarrassed about that, now I'm proud of them
- I know wyd and tcd from college (wyd and I were roommates for two years. The second year we had an apt together where the three of us sat around watching wyd play cool video games for hours on end)
- I'm about to turn 27, which I think is a good age to be
- I'm in love with my B; have been with him for 3 years and 3 months (our anniversary is wyd's birthday, eh); three days after we met I felt like I'd known him always (maybe in a past life) and he's the most beautiful man I've ever met. He makes me want to be a better person
- I'm more or less unemployed. I'm in between here and there these days, have a lot of extra time on my hands trying to start my own thing, which makes me feel like a blog stalker sometimes
- I want to be a freelance editor and writer
- I'm nervous to share my opinion around so many smart, intellectual, well-read, rational, witty, cool, funny people
- I love to cry; I cry to deal with a lot of things, even good things, and that's embarrassing sometimes
- I have no local friends this summer that are my own (not counting B, obviously)
- I don't think about labels too often, that was one thing I shrugged off with the baby that drained away in the bath. But if I had to label me...um...I can't. I don't think most days that I believe in god, or at least not the God I grew up with. I pray once a year to god or the universe. Sometimes I find it interesting to think about reincarnation and other lives. I don't like being told my future, but i'm very curious when someone says they know something and so I ask anyway. I'm not superstitious but its fun playing superstition games in my daily life. I don't really know. I read once about a desert father, I think, who's goal was to sit and let anyone with any story, any kind of person, come to him and be and fill up from his attentive, calm, loving presence. I wanted to be like that for a long time; not sit on a pile of sand and wait for people to come, but be a person anyone can come to for refreshment or advice. I still don't want to ever judge someone again for what they believe (I know I can't help it, but I can work on it)
- I don't believe too much in politics. I think its a game the very rich people play and there's not much I can do about it. Better to live my daily life and exist within that which is relevant to me and those in my world.
- I smoke like a fish. Crap.
- I love to go on long walks and walk very fast
I guess that's all for now.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
happiness
Earlier today I walked down to Starbucks on Kuhio Ave.--recommended for my sanity. I took a coffee and the paper to do my crosswords/sudoku/astrology and sat outside on the patio. At one point I was staring off into space, in a good way, thinking good thoughts and a man drove up to the front door in his motorized wheelchair. He was an older Black man, maybe in his fifties, and we made eyecontact for a split second. I glanced at the door to see if it was wheelchair friendly and it wasn't so I stood up to open it for him. He smiled real big and jolly-like and gave me the knuckle fist and said thanks.
I've been thinking lately, being relatively unemployed and all, about developing a "happy system" or program. A way, or a list of things I can do, to keep me positive about life. Because when I'm positive, I'm more productive, and I'm a much better housewoman for my man. I've started depending on him, when he walks in the door after a heavy day of physical labor, to bring me out of my funk. That's not fair. For all I know he's gonna start dreading coming home. That would really really suck. So here I am stirring up my brain, throwing in different ingredients, trying to find the exact right recipe to be happy, and a man, by no means past the prime of his life, stuck with unworking legs, so happy to be alive made me happier to be alive.
That's pretty cool. Makes me realize how little I understand, yet, of this life.
I've been thinking lately, being relatively unemployed and all, about developing a "happy system" or program. A way, or a list of things I can do, to keep me positive about life. Because when I'm positive, I'm more productive, and I'm a much better housewoman for my man. I've started depending on him, when he walks in the door after a heavy day of physical labor, to bring me out of my funk. That's not fair. For all I know he's gonna start dreading coming home. That would really really suck. So here I am stirring up my brain, throwing in different ingredients, trying to find the exact right recipe to be happy, and a man, by no means past the prime of his life, stuck with unworking legs, so happy to be alive made me happier to be alive.
That's pretty cool. Makes me realize how little I understand, yet, of this life.
Somebody help
I'm blog illiterate and i have tried and tried to figure out how to set up links to other blogsites on my blog page. It's irritating to have to continuously type in everybody's url's everytime I want to check out your blogs. So, how do I do it?
Monday, June 4, 2007
Just reread Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close
Amazing. I cried at the end. Again. I didn't remember most of the story. Hm.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Browsing--Religion as...uh
(1:38 am). I've been browsing back along some of your blogsies. I see what you're saying about the "flurry" of conversations that have fluttered about lately. A lot of them surrounding religion and atheism, god and self, Sam Harris and moderates, etc....
After I left. Well, I don't remember everything. I don't remember much, actually, of the inbetween times. Whatyoudream and thecrazydreamer may vaguely remember my breakup right around that time (the email, even though he lived 30 minutes away, saying in so many words that he didn't want to "get in the way of Jesus" in my life, that I had too many serious questions, and that he should probably abandon me in order to show me his God's love bestlike, and then the subsequent horrid car accident). That's just about the time, less than a month later, that I deconverted myself. (It was gradual too. The deconversion itself was immediate and final and took place within a few minutes. But I didn't immediately become an atheist. In fact, I will absolutely stand by not being one now either. I won't take on any more labels. I left all of that in the trash and it's most likely completely decomposed by now or at least carried away and transformed into nourishment in chubby little ants, rats, and cockroaches, may death be persistent in their search and destruction.)
I don't remember a lot of the details afterward. I don't remember what thought processes I went through. It was me against way too many people at that point. I kept it quieter even though I didn't hide it from anyone (except maybe boyfriend because he wasn't even wor--well hell, I guess I still have some issues around him.) Whatyoudream, i think, was running pretty spiritually parallel to me at the time which was a godsend (pun intendeded), but three sisters and a brother weren't, dad and mom weren't, boyfriend ditched me because i didn't pray with him (or something), profs weren't, most of my friends at school or home weren't. I remember early on feeling grief at the great loss, loss of so many years, loss of so much potential education, loss of my entire life as I knew it, loss of most of my cognitive definitions of the world in which I lived, loss of that intriguing supernatural otherworld that I'd spent so much time pondering and fearing, loss of my family, loss of my family, loss of my family. I remember not understanding anymore how to perceive the world. Where did the color go. Everything became black and white, literally. Beats me if I could pick out color or beauty. Life everlasting, or loss thereof, bothered me a bit. But not too much.
I spent the summer right after that in Connecticut with my family. That was a summer full of open depression--just finished college, ex didn't want me back (a different one), had no religion, read Love in the Time of Cholera (what was i thinking) and White Hotel (I hid that one under my mattress and I swear it disappeared one day before I got to finish it. I have no idea who stole it...was it another sneaky sibbling or mom or dad still trying to protect me. oh horror such literature), and family was smack dab in the middle of excruciating counselling sessions... plus we were house sitting for a relative of Otto Preminger and the house was filled with sexual books, art and objects, lamps formed like a human body with the light swith where the penis should be which my mother very consideratly draped with a small cloth, penile paintings glaring over the dining room table, sketch books by famous artists of whores and rape and pedophilia. Anyway, those were dark days. Couldn't find meaning in anything, not books, not literature, not art, not music, not religion or non-religion, not even love and family and intimacy. I wrote a lot though.
I ended up taking off for Hawaii to get away from the glaring eyes of all my Christian ex-friends or readjusting friends in CT. That's the hub of my parent's ministry in the US. The church that first sent my dad and us off to the mission field. That's where all our old "friends" live and where we always came back to over the years. We had all the connections there, free doctors, free dentists, free vacation cabins, free vehicles (mostly large, ugly, obnoxious vans without ac or heat-what the), cheap rent, and so on, all because of my parent's job. So that's where the not being a Christian hurt the worst. Even though I said nothing to anyone but my parents and closest friends, within a month most everyone in all my parents' closest circles knew confidentially, which meant most everyone within each of their closest circles knew confidentially, of course, which meant everyone that knew me or knew of me, knew. God.
Hawaii was an intentional departure from anything that reeked of Christianity or of previous acquaintanceship with Anna (except my childhood friend, K, who also had recently deconverted). I got what I wished for too. I ran into every off-the-grid religion you can imagine, but no one talked about Christianity. Not even to curse it or offer it as a measure for something else. Very quickly my thoughts and arguments and bitternesses and hatreds for my experiences surrounding my previous faith faded away. I don't know that I spoke about Christianity more than 7 times in 7 months. And that, only when someone wanted a real answer to the question what is it my parents do.
I met my boy there, too. His parents are nominally Orthodox. Liberal orthodox, if you want to place them, or maybe world-religioners. And not very outspoken about it. In fact, not a bit outspoken. No secrets or stifled stories. Just simply something very private. If you want to ask Muslim priests in Iraq to pray for you and yours, that's fine. If you want to ask you friend to have a buddhist pray over you and yours, that's fine too. But keep it to yourself, it is a personal and private matter. I've become very quiet about it all, around my boy and his. Even around my family. We're outspoken who can speak louder than the other happy go lucky fucks. But still I don't like too much anymore to talk about it all. (Or maybe I just think that because I've sure been wordy these last few blogs. Hmm. Ok, I know what it is.) I don't mind talking about a person's personal experience of religion or non-religion, or a discussion of philosophies behind where we are now or how we got here. But I don't remotely like the I'm right/you're wrong discussions. They don't make sense to me.
I learned, throughout my life, that people are people. Bottom line. How good you are or how bad you are has nothing to do with what you say you believe or what you can convince people of and everything to do with what you hold and know inside you. How happy and fulfilled you are has nothing to do with how much other people agree with you (except maybe a certain few...but even better than agreeing is a trust that comes with knowing that she will take your words and sift out the good, throw away the bad, at all times, trust you and you trust her). There is a point where it feels necessary to validate a point, to seek affirmation or just have a good old discussion, to play devil's advocate for the sake of it, or do it because you sincerely disagree with your mate, but when those discussions become personal, that's when it all goes to pot. When rationalism and sanity fly right out the window with whatever warm snuggle energy might have been left in the room. When I hear in a voice a desperate need to convince, then I think they are still afraid.
So anyway, I know I started the whole thing with commenting on the blogversations that have been going on. And I directly don't compare them to what I just talked about. I have personal, family-related experiences that occastionally cause a strong reaction in me. But, i guess what I'm saying is...there is a taste of it there, within the words. Of wordiness or unnecessary or off-focus. (And I hope I don't offend anyone.) I mean, what's the point, now, of rehashing the bad stuff from before, of defining just why we are now so right. And who's to say tomorrow I don't become completely and seemingly irreversibly convinced by another way of thinking. I mean, I really was convinced. I think we all were. By Christianity. From the last nerve in my left pinky toe, to the last blackhead on my forehead, to my beating heart convinced. And now, I am convinced that I will never think so narrowly again. But I don't know... it's all confusing to me. In some ways. And just quiet in others.
After I left. Well, I don't remember everything. I don't remember much, actually, of the inbetween times. Whatyoudream and thecrazydreamer may vaguely remember my breakup right around that time (the email, even though he lived 30 minutes away, saying in so many words that he didn't want to "get in the way of Jesus" in my life, that I had too many serious questions, and that he should probably abandon me in order to show me his God's love bestlike, and then the subsequent horrid car accident). That's just about the time, less than a month later, that I deconverted myself. (It was gradual too. The deconversion itself was immediate and final and took place within a few minutes. But I didn't immediately become an atheist. In fact, I will absolutely stand by not being one now either. I won't take on any more labels. I left all of that in the trash and it's most likely completely decomposed by now or at least carried away and transformed into nourishment in chubby little ants, rats, and cockroaches, may death be persistent in their search and destruction.)
I don't remember a lot of the details afterward. I don't remember what thought processes I went through. It was me against way too many people at that point. I kept it quieter even though I didn't hide it from anyone (except maybe boyfriend because he wasn't even wor--well hell, I guess I still have some issues around him.) Whatyoudream, i think, was running pretty spiritually parallel to me at the time which was a godsend (pun intendeded), but three sisters and a brother weren't, dad and mom weren't, boyfriend ditched me because i didn't pray with him (or something), profs weren't, most of my friends at school or home weren't. I remember early on feeling grief at the great loss, loss of so many years, loss of so much potential education, loss of my entire life as I knew it, loss of most of my cognitive definitions of the world in which I lived, loss of that intriguing supernatural otherworld that I'd spent so much time pondering and fearing, loss of my family, loss of my family, loss of my family. I remember not understanding anymore how to perceive the world. Where did the color go. Everything became black and white, literally. Beats me if I could pick out color or beauty. Life everlasting, or loss thereof, bothered me a bit. But not too much.
I spent the summer right after that in Connecticut with my family. That was a summer full of open depression--just finished college, ex didn't want me back (a different one), had no religion, read Love in the Time of Cholera (what was i thinking) and White Hotel (I hid that one under my mattress and I swear it disappeared one day before I got to finish it. I have no idea who stole it...was it another sneaky sibbling or mom or dad still trying to protect me. oh horror such literature), and family was smack dab in the middle of excruciating counselling sessions... plus we were house sitting for a relative of Otto Preminger and the house was filled with sexual books, art and objects, lamps formed like a human body with the light swith where the penis should be which my mother very consideratly draped with a small cloth, penile paintings glaring over the dining room table, sketch books by famous artists of whores and rape and pedophilia. Anyway, those were dark days. Couldn't find meaning in anything, not books, not literature, not art, not music, not religion or non-religion, not even love and family and intimacy. I wrote a lot though.
I ended up taking off for Hawaii to get away from the glaring eyes of all my Christian ex-friends or readjusting friends in CT. That's the hub of my parent's ministry in the US. The church that first sent my dad and us off to the mission field. That's where all our old "friends" live and where we always came back to over the years. We had all the connections there, free doctors, free dentists, free vacation cabins, free vehicles (mostly large, ugly, obnoxious vans without ac or heat-what the), cheap rent, and so on, all because of my parent's job. So that's where the not being a Christian hurt the worst. Even though I said nothing to anyone but my parents and closest friends, within a month most everyone in all my parents' closest circles knew confidentially, which meant most everyone within each of their closest circles knew confidentially, of course, which meant everyone that knew me or knew of me, knew. God.
Hawaii was an intentional departure from anything that reeked of Christianity or of previous acquaintanceship with Anna (except my childhood friend, K, who also had recently deconverted). I got what I wished for too. I ran into every off-the-grid religion you can imagine, but no one talked about Christianity. Not even to curse it or offer it as a measure for something else. Very quickly my thoughts and arguments and bitternesses and hatreds for my experiences surrounding my previous faith faded away. I don't know that I spoke about Christianity more than 7 times in 7 months. And that, only when someone wanted a real answer to the question what is it my parents do.
I met my boy there, too. His parents are nominally Orthodox. Liberal orthodox, if you want to place them, or maybe world-religioners. And not very outspoken about it. In fact, not a bit outspoken. No secrets or stifled stories. Just simply something very private. If you want to ask Muslim priests in Iraq to pray for you and yours, that's fine. If you want to ask you friend to have a buddhist pray over you and yours, that's fine too. But keep it to yourself, it is a personal and private matter. I've become very quiet about it all, around my boy and his. Even around my family. We're outspoken who can speak louder than the other happy go lucky fucks. But still I don't like too much anymore to talk about it all. (Or maybe I just think that because I've sure been wordy these last few blogs. Hmm. Ok, I know what it is.) I don't mind talking about a person's personal experience of religion or non-religion, or a discussion of philosophies behind where we are now or how we got here. But I don't remotely like the I'm right/you're wrong discussions. They don't make sense to me.
I learned, throughout my life, that people are people. Bottom line. How good you are or how bad you are has nothing to do with what you say you believe or what you can convince people of and everything to do with what you hold and know inside you. How happy and fulfilled you are has nothing to do with how much other people agree with you (except maybe a certain few...but even better than agreeing is a trust that comes with knowing that she will take your words and sift out the good, throw away the bad, at all times, trust you and you trust her). There is a point where it feels necessary to validate a point, to seek affirmation or just have a good old discussion, to play devil's advocate for the sake of it, or do it because you sincerely disagree with your mate, but when those discussions become personal, that's when it all goes to pot. When rationalism and sanity fly right out the window with whatever warm snuggle energy might have been left in the room. When I hear in a voice a desperate need to convince, then I think they are still afraid.
So anyway, I know I started the whole thing with commenting on the blogversations that have been going on. And I directly don't compare them to what I just talked about. I have personal, family-related experiences that occastionally cause a strong reaction in me. But, i guess what I'm saying is...there is a taste of it there, within the words. Of wordiness or unnecessary or off-focus. (And I hope I don't offend anyone.) I mean, what's the point, now, of rehashing the bad stuff from before, of defining just why we are now so right. And who's to say tomorrow I don't become completely and seemingly irreversibly convinced by another way of thinking. I mean, I really was convinced. I think we all were. By Christianity. From the last nerve in my left pinky toe, to the last blackhead on my forehead, to my beating heart convinced. And now, I am convinced that I will never think so narrowly again. But I don't know... it's all confusing to me. In some ways. And just quiet in others.
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