True tests for the obsessive-compulsive.....
Last minute bookings for a 4 day 3 night tour in north Vietnam. What the hell happened to Bangkok? Chinese New Year . . . . Songkran . . . . must book now . . . . Cripes. Everything in Asia sounds wicked expensive to the cheapskate American.
A mere Twenty-thousand bahts? Hey, what's that? Crap, I haven't even received my tax refund yet and here I am dickering about a few measely bahts. Get a grip man, it's only money. Hanoi or no Hanoi I'm gonna go . . . and I'm gonna have a good time dammit. My friends say, "Go with the flow Jim." Is that upstream on the Chao Phraya or downstream? Sans paddle?
I received an e-mail from my good friend in Kuala Lumpur the other day. It brightened my day. Seems a cultural nuance, combined with some stubborn American pride had parted us for a while. I learned a valuable lesson from this. Sometimes you just gotta bite your pride. Being right or wrong is NOT the issue where friendship is concerned.
She sent me a travel log exerpt of her Morocco trip. Anne has a way of painting a picture in my head of her travels and adventures. I shared her log with a friend.....one of those staunch New Englanders who have never left the boundaries of New Hampshire and think the world is still flat, risking falling off the earths crust into an abyss if you venture beyond the Connecticut River. She loved it and had a hundred questions, ninety-nine of which I could not answer.
I need to learn to go with the flow, but to me, it's like a fine balance. On one side of the balance beam is uptight and on the other is lack of responsibility. Another one of life's hurdles. You either sail over them, trip on them, or cheat and try and skirt them. If you cheat, you pay the price bigtime. It's an adventure full of risks. I think I'll have some Durian fruit . . . . -Jeeem-
Tuesday, January 29, 2002
Monday, January 28, 2002
Dominique has done it again. In her recent posting (Rant) she mentions the traffic problem for Montrealers. This set me off thinking about the Philippines again. From a different, misplaced Texan gone Yankee, perspective I see Quebec as right about where it oughta be. While growing up in a border city in the desert southwest, I ended up wandering across the border into Mexico more often than was considered normal. I loved Ciudad Juarez and became very excited with exploring a foreign country.
Traffic in Mexico sounds just like Dominique's recant of Montreal knee nudgers. When I arrived in Manila this last May, I saw this third world country as a carbon copy of Mexico and felt right at home. I began coining the term, "Organized Chaos," in reference to the observed bedlam that always seemed to move and work itself out even when there appeared to be no structure, traffic lights, stop signs or rules.
Once, upon return to Manila after a week in the southern jungle of Mindanao, I was in a taxi heading to Ermita when I noticed the taxi driver nudge the side view mirror on a Jeepney in his haste to get ahead of the slower moving traffic that lay before him. The Jeepney driver didn't lose his cool, but rather glanced a sidelong glance at the taxi driver and merely straightened his side mirror again. The taxi driver looked at me in his rear view mirror and smiled a knowing smile, breaking all language barriers with the implication that he had just gotten away with a mild, "Hit and Run."
I never observed road rage in the Philippines, probably because pride is an overriding factor in the Southeast Asian society and their culture does not condone violent acts. Our society seems to not only condone it, but nurse it and breed it. Why is that? What do we benefit from it? Do Asians possess some genetic trait that exonerates them from the propensity for rage? I think we can learn something from the Asians.
The traffic situation? I'm afraid it's here to stay in the bigger cities. I too learned to become an expert at gauging the distance between a coming car and the time it takes to run to the other side, regardless of traffic lights. You either learn to survive in this world or get taken out. Tonight, at the Sanbornton town line, a deer was on the road in front of me. If it hadn't been for my quick thinking (having hit one a few years ago) I would have hit him as rather than run away from my truck, he ran into my lane. I hit the brakes and luckily he bounded away. Are we intruders in their world or are they intruders in ours? Are Montreal pedestrians intruders in the drivers world or are the drivers intruders in the pedestrian world? -Jeeem-
Traffic in Mexico sounds just like Dominique's recant of Montreal knee nudgers. When I arrived in Manila this last May, I saw this third world country as a carbon copy of Mexico and felt right at home. I began coining the term, "Organized Chaos," in reference to the observed bedlam that always seemed to move and work itself out even when there appeared to be no structure, traffic lights, stop signs or rules.
Once, upon return to Manila after a week in the southern jungle of Mindanao, I was in a taxi heading to Ermita when I noticed the taxi driver nudge the side view mirror on a Jeepney in his haste to get ahead of the slower moving traffic that lay before him. The Jeepney driver didn't lose his cool, but rather glanced a sidelong glance at the taxi driver and merely straightened his side mirror again. The taxi driver looked at me in his rear view mirror and smiled a knowing smile, breaking all language barriers with the implication that he had just gotten away with a mild, "Hit and Run."
I never observed road rage in the Philippines, probably because pride is an overriding factor in the Southeast Asian society and their culture does not condone violent acts. Our society seems to not only condone it, but nurse it and breed it. Why is that? What do we benefit from it? Do Asians possess some genetic trait that exonerates them from the propensity for rage? I think we can learn something from the Asians.
The traffic situation? I'm afraid it's here to stay in the bigger cities. I too learned to become an expert at gauging the distance between a coming car and the time it takes to run to the other side, regardless of traffic lights. You either learn to survive in this world or get taken out. Tonight, at the Sanbornton town line, a deer was on the road in front of me. If it hadn't been for my quick thinking (having hit one a few years ago) I would have hit him as rather than run away from my truck, he ran into my lane. I hit the brakes and luckily he bounded away. Are we intruders in their world or are they intruders in ours? Are Montreal pedestrians intruders in the drivers world or are the drivers intruders in the pedestrian world? -Jeeem-
Sunday, January 27, 2002
I have discovered a phenomenon of mine. It's not a big thing, but it is an oddity and rather peculiar. I am going to cook a meal for a friend today. I have massive amounts of food supplies here, including spices, eggs, fish, vegetables, potatoes, rice and the like; however, in my minds eye, I have a recipe that ALWAYS includes ingredients I DO NOT possess at home. So, it's off to the local market for MORE food.
Looking at cookbooks doesn't help either. In fact it usually makes things worse. Cookbooks ALWAYS contain either an ingredient I do not possess or an ingredient I have never heard of. I am discovering that my kitchen is way too small for the type of cooking I do.
Regarding books . . . I recently read Dave's blog (Diary of a Mad Monk) about people who blather on about the books they have read. Eeek! I do that sometimes. So, immersed in my shallow trough of guilt I have to say that anyone who knows me, knows I collect the damn things. This includes cookbooks. Dave's comments caused me to take a look at this, especially when he said he had read ALL of his books and some of them more than once. Not so for me. Oh, I've read some of them, but mostly I collect them. I tell myself that I will get around to read them and usually do.
This morning I decided not to buy any more cookbooks for the simple reason that I mentioned above. First off, I have enough of them and always end up looking up a recipe that does not tickle my fancy completely. I always end up closing the book, getting an idea of my own in my head, and making my own recipe that often is the farthest thing from the original found in the cooking book. Often, much better tasting. Christ, the cookbook would often have me hopping on a plane to the Florida Keys to select a particular type of lemon or traveling to Southeast Asia for a certain type of fish sauce that will impart the particular type of flavor that is unique of the recipe. The "Joy of Cooking" is world renown for this. Some cookbooks even impose guilt to those who would even THINK of substitution.
So, I'm making a citrus marinade for haddock today. I'm gonna use some fruit juice for a sweet flavor and some subtle lime to impart the flavor I think I want. Maybe I'll throw some lemon in there too with a bit of lime zest for looks. Screw the cookbooks. MAYBE I'll start selling them on Half.com so I'll have the extra money for that Southeast Asian fish sauce I'm looking for.
Speaking of Southeast Asian fish sauce, as you guys know I'm traveling to Southeast Asia again. Bangkok, Thailand this time. I have totally lost interest in the United States as I have seen most of it and I'm not impressed. The further away, the more dangerous, the more culturally diverse the better, as far as I'm concerned. I wanna see a green water buffalo again. I wanna ride in one of those rickety looking tricycle jobbies for pocket change as I watch the foreign scenes float by. I want to smell those acrid smells and walk along dimmly lit paths past street vendors hawking their wares and selling scrumptious looking tidbits that are cooking-as-you-speak and that you don't dare ask what you're getting.
I remember being in Laguna, just south of Manila while visiting with Ping Ping and Ronnie, Cely's sister and brother-in-law. I had two days left before my return to the U.S. after two weeks in PI and was wicked self-absorbed in my impatient American bullshit. We were hanging around waiting at Ping and Ronnie's and I was sick of waiting. We did a lot of that while there, but it always paid off. I later learned, upon returning to the U.S. that we Americans are slaves to the clock, whereas Filipino people are not. Anyway, I convinced Cely to take a walk with me and we strolled around the neighborhood in Laguna.
Laguna is upper middle class, in my opinion, as far as the Philippines goes. It is nice and the only thing standing out are the high security wrought iron fences, high walls and metal gates to protect from looters. We strolled by trees bearing fruits I had never seen before, by flowers that were not only fragrant but were bursting with color and beauty. Several blocks away we came upon a basketball court and watched some Filipino boys running about the cracked cement court, in a heated and sweaty game of hoops.
Eventually, we came upon a business section and toured through a pet store that sold fish for home aquariums and finally, a small cubby where a woman had set up a temporary shop to cook her local delicacy that smelled . . . . Oh-so-good. I remember standing there watching as she carefully turned the fried looking snacks on a metal grate as they sizzled. They looked delicious and I came close to buying a couple of them when I suddenly asked Cely what they were. Before she had a chance to answer, I playfully laughed outloud saying, "They look like batter fried chicken feet." Guess I spoke too soon. "That's what they are," said Cely. Needless to say, I did not feel like a culinary adventurer that day.
That same evening I consumed mass quantities of Jack fruit, a local fare that grows on trees and looks like huge greenish brown tumors hanging oddly about. Some of these fruits measure two to three feet in length and a foot or more in girth. We purchased a hunk of one at a local market and at a restaurant, our waitress offered to cut it up into individual serving sizes for us. After woofing down my plate of sizzling pork sisig, I inquired of Ronnie how to eat this interesting looking fruit. I first must describe how it looked when open and sliced up . . .
The fruit has white, fibrous bands runing through it, encasing the yellow edible part and hiding the huge, brown oval seeds. The yellow "meat" was smooth in texture and shiny. The taste was a delicious blend of vanilla and banana with almost a spice flavor that escapes description. I loved it and I'm NOT a fruit eater. At a certain point during the meal, Ronnie cautioned against eating too much Jack fruit as it is not easily digestible. The next morning I wished Ronnie had made his statement a tad earlier as Cely and I both were suffering some powerful stomach pains as payment for the wonderful taste of Jack fruit. -Jeeem-
Looking at cookbooks doesn't help either. In fact it usually makes things worse. Cookbooks ALWAYS contain either an ingredient I do not possess or an ingredient I have never heard of. I am discovering that my kitchen is way too small for the type of cooking I do.
Regarding books . . . I recently read Dave's blog (Diary of a Mad Monk) about people who blather on about the books they have read. Eeek! I do that sometimes. So, immersed in my shallow trough of guilt I have to say that anyone who knows me, knows I collect the damn things. This includes cookbooks. Dave's comments caused me to take a look at this, especially when he said he had read ALL of his books and some of them more than once. Not so for me. Oh, I've read some of them, but mostly I collect them. I tell myself that I will get around to read them and usually do.
This morning I decided not to buy any more cookbooks for the simple reason that I mentioned above. First off, I have enough of them and always end up looking up a recipe that does not tickle my fancy completely. I always end up closing the book, getting an idea of my own in my head, and making my own recipe that often is the farthest thing from the original found in the cooking book. Often, much better tasting. Christ, the cookbook would often have me hopping on a plane to the Florida Keys to select a particular type of lemon or traveling to Southeast Asia for a certain type of fish sauce that will impart the particular type of flavor that is unique of the recipe. The "Joy of Cooking" is world renown for this. Some cookbooks even impose guilt to those who would even THINK of substitution.
So, I'm making a citrus marinade for haddock today. I'm gonna use some fruit juice for a sweet flavor and some subtle lime to impart the flavor I think I want. Maybe I'll throw some lemon in there too with a bit of lime zest for looks. Screw the cookbooks. MAYBE I'll start selling them on Half.com so I'll have the extra money for that Southeast Asian fish sauce I'm looking for.
Speaking of Southeast Asian fish sauce, as you guys know I'm traveling to Southeast Asia again. Bangkok, Thailand this time. I have totally lost interest in the United States as I have seen most of it and I'm not impressed. The further away, the more dangerous, the more culturally diverse the better, as far as I'm concerned. I wanna see a green water buffalo again. I wanna ride in one of those rickety looking tricycle jobbies for pocket change as I watch the foreign scenes float by. I want to smell those acrid smells and walk along dimmly lit paths past street vendors hawking their wares and selling scrumptious looking tidbits that are cooking-as-you-speak and that you don't dare ask what you're getting.
I remember being in Laguna, just south of Manila while visiting with Ping Ping and Ronnie, Cely's sister and brother-in-law. I had two days left before my return to the U.S. after two weeks in PI and was wicked self-absorbed in my impatient American bullshit. We were hanging around waiting at Ping and Ronnie's and I was sick of waiting. We did a lot of that while there, but it always paid off. I later learned, upon returning to the U.S. that we Americans are slaves to the clock, whereas Filipino people are not. Anyway, I convinced Cely to take a walk with me and we strolled around the neighborhood in Laguna.
Laguna is upper middle class, in my opinion, as far as the Philippines goes. It is nice and the only thing standing out are the high security wrought iron fences, high walls and metal gates to protect from looters. We strolled by trees bearing fruits I had never seen before, by flowers that were not only fragrant but were bursting with color and beauty. Several blocks away we came upon a basketball court and watched some Filipino boys running about the cracked cement court, in a heated and sweaty game of hoops.
Eventually, we came upon a business section and toured through a pet store that sold fish for home aquariums and finally, a small cubby where a woman had set up a temporary shop to cook her local delicacy that smelled . . . . Oh-so-good. I remember standing there watching as she carefully turned the fried looking snacks on a metal grate as they sizzled. They looked delicious and I came close to buying a couple of them when I suddenly asked Cely what they were. Before she had a chance to answer, I playfully laughed outloud saying, "They look like batter fried chicken feet." Guess I spoke too soon. "That's what they are," said Cely. Needless to say, I did not feel like a culinary adventurer that day.
That same evening I consumed mass quantities of Jack fruit, a local fare that grows on trees and looks like huge greenish brown tumors hanging oddly about. Some of these fruits measure two to three feet in length and a foot or more in girth. We purchased a hunk of one at a local market and at a restaurant, our waitress offered to cut it up into individual serving sizes for us. After woofing down my plate of sizzling pork sisig, I inquired of Ronnie how to eat this interesting looking fruit. I first must describe how it looked when open and sliced up . . .
The fruit has white, fibrous bands runing through it, encasing the yellow edible part and hiding the huge, brown oval seeds. The yellow "meat" was smooth in texture and shiny. The taste was a delicious blend of vanilla and banana with almost a spice flavor that escapes description. I loved it and I'm NOT a fruit eater. At a certain point during the meal, Ronnie cautioned against eating too much Jack fruit as it is not easily digestible. The next morning I wished Ronnie had made his statement a tad earlier as Cely and I both were suffering some powerful stomach pains as payment for the wonderful taste of Jack fruit. -Jeeem-
Saturday, January 26, 2002
Received an e-mail from my friend Celerina a couple of days ago. She has made the decision to stay single for the rest of her life. Cely didn't explain much, just that she had a boyfriend but it wasn't looking good for him. Trouble is when a Filipino woman says something like that, and knowing Cely, she probably ain't kidding. Course I had nothing to do with that decision of hers . . . right? Humm . . . she did say something to the effect, but I ain't taking no blame.
Caused me to think of a book I read by May Sarton once (sorry Dave - I tried not to mention any books I'd read). Anyway, May Sarton lived a solitary life in Maine and wrote about it. I remember getting lost in her beautiful descriptions of her surroundings and her deep thoughts. Just think how good of a blogger she woulda been.
Being recently of the unattached persuasion again, I gotta say that the feeling was/is a good one. I could feel the stress melt away. Relationships are stressful no matter how you chalk em up. Or is it just me? (Suddenly the earth tips on it's axis as billions of heads nod in unison) But, a solitary life? No. I don't think so. It's an interesting thought but I just don't think I could do it or would want to. Perhaps I just need to get into an unstressful relationship (Suddenly the earth tips back as billions of heads tip back in howls of gutteral laughter). -Jeeem-
Caused me to think of a book I read by May Sarton once (sorry Dave - I tried not to mention any books I'd read). Anyway, May Sarton lived a solitary life in Maine and wrote about it. I remember getting lost in her beautiful descriptions of her surroundings and her deep thoughts. Just think how good of a blogger she woulda been.
Being recently of the unattached persuasion again, I gotta say that the feeling was/is a good one. I could feel the stress melt away. Relationships are stressful no matter how you chalk em up. Or is it just me? (Suddenly the earth tips on it's axis as billions of heads nod in unison) But, a solitary life? No. I don't think so. It's an interesting thought but I just don't think I could do it or would want to. Perhaps I just need to get into an unstressful relationship (Suddenly the earth tips back as billions of heads tip back in howls of gutteral laughter). -Jeeem-
When I was just a kid, my dad always sat at the diningroom table in the morning, reading the El Paso Herald Post newspaper. He also watched baseball and football on T.V. on the weekends. Several times a day, when he wasn't working or drinking, he was working on crosswords. He owned this old, tattered and worn crossword dictionary with scribblings in the back of words and definitions that evidently never made press time.
My dad was a drunk but he was smart. Anytime I asked how to spell something he said, "Look it up in the dictionary!" I never did. To me, he seemed to know everything about everything. I learned a lot from my dad.
I was never a newspaper reader. Oh, I occasionally picked one up, here and there when one was laying around, but it usually was either to check the movie listings or read the funny papers. I didn't watch the news on T.V. much either. I suck at crosswords. I couldn't tell you when the superbowl is playing or tell the difference between a running back and a tight end.
What I did inherit, it seems, are his bad traits. Funny how that worked out huh? But, lately I noticed that every morning, come hell or high water, I sit at the diningroom table and read the news on my laptop. Nothing much else has changed except I do look words up, but on my computer using my American Heritage CD dictionary.
Times goes on and things change but not much really, if you just stand back and take a closer look. I've noticed that I seem to be pretty up to date on the news. I don't have kids, so I naturally wonder if I had a son or a daughter if they would perceive me as I perceived my dad.
Recently I heard somebody bitching about the weather here and a thought popped into my head. I heard them out and then felt it was my civil duty to bring to their attention a recent news event. I commented in a rather sarcastic manner, "Well, at least you didn't run into a lava flow in your driveway." The "bitcher" just didn't get it. You know why? (heh, heh, heh) They OBVIOUSLY were not current with the news.
Another thing my dad used to say to me was, "Don't you get too big for those pants you're wearing," referring to my boastful tendencies as a child.
So here I am, bringing this seriously news-deficient individual up-to-date on the current events in the small town of Goma in Zaire. I could almost feel those pants of mine getting tight.
"Zaire? You mean Congo," he says.
"No. I mean Zaire. Goma is in Zaire, not the Congo, near the border of Rwanda," I spouted.
"Ah. The country name was changed back to the Democratic Republic of the Congo in 1997 after the country was taken over by rebel leader Laurent Kabila."
Suddenly my pants were so tight my legs turned numb. This sucked. "Oh I see," I said, or something to that effect. When I got home I looked at the copyright of my Reader's Digest Atlas of the World. 1983 it said. Damn.
Guess this news biz is a bit more multi-dimensional than I thought. Time for me to get a new, more up-to-date atlas.
Think I'll get one on CD.
-Jeeem-
My dad was a drunk but he was smart. Anytime I asked how to spell something he said, "Look it up in the dictionary!" I never did. To me, he seemed to know everything about everything. I learned a lot from my dad.
I was never a newspaper reader. Oh, I occasionally picked one up, here and there when one was laying around, but it usually was either to check the movie listings or read the funny papers. I didn't watch the news on T.V. much either. I suck at crosswords. I couldn't tell you when the superbowl is playing or tell the difference between a running back and a tight end.
What I did inherit, it seems, are his bad traits. Funny how that worked out huh? But, lately I noticed that every morning, come hell or high water, I sit at the diningroom table and read the news on my laptop. Nothing much else has changed except I do look words up, but on my computer using my American Heritage CD dictionary.
Times goes on and things change but not much really, if you just stand back and take a closer look. I've noticed that I seem to be pretty up to date on the news. I don't have kids, so I naturally wonder if I had a son or a daughter if they would perceive me as I perceived my dad.
Recently I heard somebody bitching about the weather here and a thought popped into my head. I heard them out and then felt it was my civil duty to bring to their attention a recent news event. I commented in a rather sarcastic manner, "Well, at least you didn't run into a lava flow in your driveway." The "bitcher" just didn't get it. You know why? (heh, heh, heh) They OBVIOUSLY were not current with the news.
Another thing my dad used to say to me was, "Don't you get too big for those pants you're wearing," referring to my boastful tendencies as a child.
So here I am, bringing this seriously news-deficient individual up-to-date on the current events in the small town of Goma in Zaire. I could almost feel those pants of mine getting tight.
"Zaire? You mean Congo," he says.
"No. I mean Zaire. Goma is in Zaire, not the Congo, near the border of Rwanda," I spouted.
"Ah. The country name was changed back to the Democratic Republic of the Congo in 1997 after the country was taken over by rebel leader Laurent Kabila."
Suddenly my pants were so tight my legs turned numb. This sucked. "Oh I see," I said, or something to that effect. When I got home I looked at the copyright of my Reader's Digest Atlas of the World. 1983 it said. Damn.
Guess this news biz is a bit more multi-dimensional than I thought. Time for me to get a new, more up-to-date atlas.
Think I'll get one on CD.
-Jeeem-
Thursday, January 24, 2002
Saw six fully grown, wild turkeys yesterday, right outside my office window. They were casually strolling up the sidewalk, oblivious to being watched. Huge birds, and with a weird feather sticking out of their chest. That was an awesome gift to see. Not something you see every day, especially up that close.
The plan for Bangkok is running into snags. I hate snags. I like things to go the way I want them to go. ....... so there. -Jeeem-
The plan for Bangkok is running into snags. I hate snags. I like things to go the way I want them to go. ....... so there. -Jeeem-
Wednesday, January 23, 2002
The new "relationship" was over almost as quick as it began. But, rather than focus on losses I am concentrating on what I have learned in the process. This is a good thing and one of those, slap-yourself-on-the-forehead type, "I coulda had a V-8," sorta things where you learn some useful tools. So, life goes on and I'm happy and content once again.
Seems people actually read my stuff. Thanks to Dominique for her helpful comments and salutations. The fact that people are actually reading my stuff is both inspiring and terrifying at the same time. I've got some good ideas but unfortunately my employment and school assignments are getting in the way. -Jeeem-
Seems people actually read my stuff. Thanks to Dominique for her helpful comments and salutations. The fact that people are actually reading my stuff is both inspiring and terrifying at the same time. I've got some good ideas but unfortunately my employment and school assignments are getting in the way. -Jeeem-
Sunday, January 20, 2002
I have lived a rather "colorful" life in my forty-six years on this earth. Most people I meet around here don't really believe me when I mention some of the things I have done, experienced or seen. I used to be quite the risk taker but have naturally slowed down in my middle age. Many challenges have presented themselves to me over the years.
Most recently I have met a new challenge. Two of them actually. Both are female, one being thirteen and the other eleven. They hate me. Actually, I don't think they actually hate me as much as they just don't want me around their mother. Recently the mother and I went out to dinner at a local Friendly's. We took the youngest. At first she was a sweet, cute little eleven year old . . . . . then, well have you ever seen the exorcist with Linda Blair?
Suddenly this little girl child became a she devil in disguise, vomiting blackish-greeish bile and spouting slanderous quips as her head revolved on it's axis. I managed to get through it, but I'm not a kid person and I find it difficult to see a little girl whom I thought had a connection with me, turn into a hateful and repulsive shedemon from the lower depths of hell.
I've done and seen a lot of things but I'm finding this very, very difficult. The mother tells me it is a natural occurance and that the two she-devils are really just little girls protecting their mother. I'm thinking of opting out. For the first time in my life I feel I may surrender and retreat in cowardice. Wave the white flag and silently go into a flaming dive, crashing into the mountains. This is tough. Why hadn't I ever read about this phenomenon before? Surely a book exists somewhere. Instructions for the foreign male intruder who ventures across the threshold of feminine territory.
Maybe if I just light some more of these candles and say a couple more chants, they will go away. -Jeeem-
Most recently I have met a new challenge. Two of them actually. Both are female, one being thirteen and the other eleven. They hate me. Actually, I don't think they actually hate me as much as they just don't want me around their mother. Recently the mother and I went out to dinner at a local Friendly's. We took the youngest. At first she was a sweet, cute little eleven year old . . . . . then, well have you ever seen the exorcist with Linda Blair?
Suddenly this little girl child became a she devil in disguise, vomiting blackish-greeish bile and spouting slanderous quips as her head revolved on it's axis. I managed to get through it, but I'm not a kid person and I find it difficult to see a little girl whom I thought had a connection with me, turn into a hateful and repulsive shedemon from the lower depths of hell.
I've done and seen a lot of things but I'm finding this very, very difficult. The mother tells me it is a natural occurance and that the two she-devils are really just little girls protecting their mother. I'm thinking of opting out. For the first time in my life I feel I may surrender and retreat in cowardice. Wave the white flag and silently go into a flaming dive, crashing into the mountains. This is tough. Why hadn't I ever read about this phenomenon before? Surely a book exists somewhere. Instructions for the foreign male intruder who ventures across the threshold of feminine territory.
Maybe if I just light some more of these candles and say a couple more chants, they will go away. -Jeeem-
Oh man . . . .I'm fulluv piss and vinegar today!
Who comes up with those hygiene product names? Seriously! I was thinking of it after strolling through the local Rite Aid the other day. Casually, I'm coursing through the long array of feminine products, amazed that a whole isle can be devoted to maxi, super maxi, thin, extra thin, extra-thin super absorbent, extra-thin super absorbent with wings, super maxi thins with wings, and the list goes on. Shelves and shelves of this stuff. Then I came to the feminine hygiene products.
VAGISIL. God help us.
Can you imagine a bunch of men sitting around a huge table in a New York marketing firm, high atop the city, in three-piece business suits, saying, "What are we going to call it?"
Then some young preppy type scribbling on a yellow notepad looks up with a sly grin on his face and says, "I've got it! Let's call it VAGISIL."
Pan to the other sly grins popping up around the table . . . . and suddenly it is unanimous.
Jesus. Imagine . . . "PRICE CHECK ON VAGISIL ISLE SIX!" There couldn't have been a woman on that board. No way.
Summers Eve? Now that was a decision made by women. Men NEVER would have come up with that.
What about CRUEX? A panel of women in business suits, most newly divorced and currently involved in child custody suits. You think? Gotta be. -Jeeem-
Who comes up with those hygiene product names? Seriously! I was thinking of it after strolling through the local Rite Aid the other day. Casually, I'm coursing through the long array of feminine products, amazed that a whole isle can be devoted to maxi, super maxi, thin, extra thin, extra-thin super absorbent, extra-thin super absorbent with wings, super maxi thins with wings, and the list goes on. Shelves and shelves of this stuff. Then I came to the feminine hygiene products.
VAGISIL. God help us.
Can you imagine a bunch of men sitting around a huge table in a New York marketing firm, high atop the city, in three-piece business suits, saying, "What are we going to call it?"
Then some young preppy type scribbling on a yellow notepad looks up with a sly grin on his face and says, "I've got it! Let's call it VAGISIL."
Pan to the other sly grins popping up around the table . . . . and suddenly it is unanimous.
Jesus. Imagine . . . "PRICE CHECK ON VAGISIL ISLE SIX!" There couldn't have been a woman on that board. No way.
Summers Eve? Now that was a decision made by women. Men NEVER would have come up with that.
What about CRUEX? A panel of women in business suits, most newly divorced and currently involved in child custody suits. You think? Gotta be. -Jeeem-
Wednesday, January 16, 2002
I have to come up with a research proposal. Suddenly, my busy mind is bare blank. Funny phenomenon that is. Perhaps I should pretend I don't have to do a damn thing and I will come up with something. I have thought about doing a research project on the efficacy of road crossing in the squirrel population.
The other day I was coming home and saw something in the road. Slowing down as I approached the object, I realized it was a grey squirrel. There he (or she) was, flat out on his back, bushy tail splayed out and his little paws up in the air. He was in the middle of the road. The thought crossed my mind, "What an insult to wildlife," here is this beautiful little animal, lying in the middle of the road, awaiting the final insult of a huge snow tire to squish any remaining life out of him and spread him out over the tarmac.
I began to ponder human existence. What is our final insult? To be riddled with bullets while out of our environment in a foreign country fighting a war that shouldn't be happening? Lying on a hospital bed eaten up with disease? Wandering from room to room, out of our minds with Alzheimers? Dragging our cardboard box from alley to alley in search of safety and solace in our homeless predicament? Lying in a snowbank, clutching our chest with a snow shovel by our side?
I wanna go out in style. I like the squirrel idea for a research project. How does one interview a squirrel? -Jeeem-
The other day I was coming home and saw something in the road. Slowing down as I approached the object, I realized it was a grey squirrel. There he (or she) was, flat out on his back, bushy tail splayed out and his little paws up in the air. He was in the middle of the road. The thought crossed my mind, "What an insult to wildlife," here is this beautiful little animal, lying in the middle of the road, awaiting the final insult of a huge snow tire to squish any remaining life out of him and spread him out over the tarmac.
I began to ponder human existence. What is our final insult? To be riddled with bullets while out of our environment in a foreign country fighting a war that shouldn't be happening? Lying on a hospital bed eaten up with disease? Wandering from room to room, out of our minds with Alzheimers? Dragging our cardboard box from alley to alley in search of safety and solace in our homeless predicament? Lying in a snowbank, clutching our chest with a snow shovel by our side?
I wanna go out in style. I like the squirrel idea for a research project. How does one interview a squirrel? -Jeeem-
Tuesday, January 15, 2002
Oh..... the serving cart? You were wondering about it weren't you? Common sense would tell you that I ended up dropping it off at the carnival on the way, pushing it at a carny who looked hungry. Everything has a purpose. -Jeeem-
What a difference a few days can make. More snow in the forecast. I'm beginning to think I have seasonal affective disorder. I have the blahs. Do you remember my post about clipping strings? Well, once again, my procrastination has caused those damn strings to get out of control. I'm getting overwhelmed. The snow doesn't help.
I missed my first class on social research and I'm paying the price. Good grief. I just want the damn degree thank you. What do you mean I have to put some work into this? My research proposal appears to escape me at present. Perhaps if I look for it, I'll find it. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind. Somewhere in those convoluted folds and deep crevices, there has to be a research project idea laying there, waiting to be found.
My energy level is low. I awoke this morning from a terrifying dream. My whole body was into it. I was struggling for my life. A dream friend and I had made a plan to meet back at the hotel (The Plaza - a good name for a hotel) and I took the wrong elevator. I got out of the elevator and walked into a cafe, took a serving cart loaded down with flat cakes and fruit (it seemed the thing to do) and pushed it right out of the cafe/restaurant. Suddenly I realized that I did not know where I was. I asked directions to the Plaza Hotel and a man pointed in the direction of a bridge. One of those bridges that part in the middle to allow boats to pass. I made my way to the bridge and finally could see the hotel, which was a mere mile away. How the hell did that happen? How did I get so damn far from that hotel that should have been in the same building I was in when I got into the elevator.
The guys at the bridge terminal had to have been screwing with me. I watched the bridge lower and cars pass over, heading in the direction of the hotel. I put my thumb out. Most of them were business people. Some looked French. One woman looked like the hairy creature on the Adams family with hair down over her face, cascading down to her waist. None of them stopped. I saw the opportunity and decided to run for it, only to discover that I was moving like I was immersed in a viscous jelly. I reached the end of the bridge only to feel it begin to move.
There I was, dangling on the end of this massive iron structure and screaming at the top of my lungs. I began whistling loudly to try and get the attention of the bridge workers. I never saw their faces but somehow knew they were getting a kick out of this. I awoke in a sweat, sitting bolt upright, breathing like I had been immersed in water for way too long. It sucks waking up like that.
Wonder what Freud would have made of that one? Probably would have suggested some sexual deviance deeply seated in my brain. Somewhere in those convolutions where my research project is hiding. -Jeeem-
I missed my first class on social research and I'm paying the price. Good grief. I just want the damn degree thank you. What do you mean I have to put some work into this? My research proposal appears to escape me at present. Perhaps if I look for it, I'll find it. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind. Somewhere in those convoluted folds and deep crevices, there has to be a research project idea laying there, waiting to be found.
My energy level is low. I awoke this morning from a terrifying dream. My whole body was into it. I was struggling for my life. A dream friend and I had made a plan to meet back at the hotel (The Plaza - a good name for a hotel) and I took the wrong elevator. I got out of the elevator and walked into a cafe, took a serving cart loaded down with flat cakes and fruit (it seemed the thing to do) and pushed it right out of the cafe/restaurant. Suddenly I realized that I did not know where I was. I asked directions to the Plaza Hotel and a man pointed in the direction of a bridge. One of those bridges that part in the middle to allow boats to pass. I made my way to the bridge and finally could see the hotel, which was a mere mile away. How the hell did that happen? How did I get so damn far from that hotel that should have been in the same building I was in when I got into the elevator.
The guys at the bridge terminal had to have been screwing with me. I watched the bridge lower and cars pass over, heading in the direction of the hotel. I put my thumb out. Most of them were business people. Some looked French. One woman looked like the hairy creature on the Adams family with hair down over her face, cascading down to her waist. None of them stopped. I saw the opportunity and decided to run for it, only to discover that I was moving like I was immersed in a viscous jelly. I reached the end of the bridge only to feel it begin to move.
There I was, dangling on the end of this massive iron structure and screaming at the top of my lungs. I began whistling loudly to try and get the attention of the bridge workers. I never saw their faces but somehow knew they were getting a kick out of this. I awoke in a sweat, sitting bolt upright, breathing like I had been immersed in water for way too long. It sucks waking up like that.
Wonder what Freud would have made of that one? Probably would have suggested some sexual deviance deeply seated in my brain. Somewhere in those convolutions where my research project is hiding. -Jeeem-
Thursday, January 10, 2002
A heavy snow has created a winter wonderland here. It is beautiful and for once, I am able to enjoy it as I don't have an issue with driving in it due to my new purchase of a truck. I also hired a contractor to plow and sand my driveway, so even that is not an issue. I actually love this time of year and it is one of the reasons I came to the East coast in the first place.
I used to see the postcards of New England on the racks in stores, while living in the desert southwest and would get this surreal feeling when looking at them. They seemed to me to out of reach . . . unachievable. Now I see scenes like those on the postcards, as a daily occurance. I'm in a good mood just being around the beauty of it today.
The cultural thing raised it's ugly head again yesterday for me. A client I am working with making excuses for his repulsive behavior by writing it off as a cultural thing. We had a connection of sorts due to my latino background and got into a good discussion about using your culture as an excuse for your lousy and unacceptable behavior. Funny that this issue should pop up again so soon for me as I struggle with it greatly.
There is a large difference in this society between being "macho" and the latino counterpart called "machismo," that I will agree. It is a state of mind but a stubborn one at that and not as accepted as it once was.
When I was in the Philippines, I became aware that once in the Filipino culture, it was widely accepted for a man to have a mistress in addition to his wife. Now, times have changed and this practice is not so widely accepted. Basically, I think there are rights and wrongs in this world and too much is swept under the rug of "culture" as a license to hurt or affect others. -Jeeem-
I used to see the postcards of New England on the racks in stores, while living in the desert southwest and would get this surreal feeling when looking at them. They seemed to me to out of reach . . . unachievable. Now I see scenes like those on the postcards, as a daily occurance. I'm in a good mood just being around the beauty of it today.
The cultural thing raised it's ugly head again yesterday for me. A client I am working with making excuses for his repulsive behavior by writing it off as a cultural thing. We had a connection of sorts due to my latino background and got into a good discussion about using your culture as an excuse for your lousy and unacceptable behavior. Funny that this issue should pop up again so soon for me as I struggle with it greatly.
There is a large difference in this society between being "macho" and the latino counterpart called "machismo," that I will agree. It is a state of mind but a stubborn one at that and not as accepted as it once was.
When I was in the Philippines, I became aware that once in the Filipino culture, it was widely accepted for a man to have a mistress in addition to his wife. Now, times have changed and this practice is not so widely accepted. Basically, I think there are rights and wrongs in this world and too much is swept under the rug of "culture" as a license to hurt or affect others. -Jeeem-
Sunday, January 06, 2002
I once read a book about wasting time. It was geared at looking at some of the different things we do (or don't do) in a given day and how we end up wasting valuable time. I think about this subject more and more as I grow older. Last night was an example. I spend the better part of four hours working on a Windows XP glitch that was bugging the hell out of me. Everytime I tried to type in a new URL or fill in an on-line form, my laptop began to become possessed, whole sentences appearing in the URL window or the fill in boxes as if I was receiving chat messages from the abyss.
I eventually solved the problem after countless hours on a Windows support system, finding that others, it seems, were having the same trouble. A simple maneuver of removing the speech recognition system, which was picking up outside sound and converting it into text. Four hours. Now what could I have accomplished in four hours? Seems ridiculous to me, but I am glad I solved the problem.
I bought some new brain wave coffee for the task of writing in this blog. The stuff tastes like shit but it sure does get the old neurons firing at a rapid rate. I'm not sure how I began thinking about compartmentalization, but I know that I was thinking about a book I once read (I suck at remembering titles and authors) about this guy who had this wicked, organized life. It caught my interest because I'm like that, to a degree. A person once said to me, of my tendency towards organization that at the time was bordering on obsessive / compulsive, "The only order in a disordered life." I have never been the same since I heard that statement. It bothered me at first.
My home is organized to a degree, but to a more involved extent, my mind is rather compartmentalized. I often think in pictures and metaphors and have trouble verbalizing my thoughts, whereas I seem to be better at putting them down on paper or "screen" in the written word. I catagorize things. Problems in my life get placed in to catagorical "boxes" labeled various ways like, "Top Priority," "Put It Off," "Medium Problematic," etcetera. I often envision a handful of "strings" hanging, all of various lengths representing the extent of the problem or issue, and my goal is to clip them off.
You can't clip all of them at once. You have to select which one to approach first. Sometimes I approach a problem in the wrong order. The more I am on top of clipping the strings, the more relaxed and at peace I am. Sometimes I get lazy and procrastinate on the clipping process. Lately this has been true.
I should know better than to bite off more than I can chew, but I do it all the time. Often, I think I need a change and I jump into something, thinking it is going to be the solution to all my problems (strings). The strings never go away. One string may represent the dishes in the sink. One may take on the value of a bill unpaid. It requires constant prioritization.
Jesus, I hope this doesn't sound nutty. Oh well, so what if it does . . . . right? How do you like that denial? Ha. This morning I was thinking of a governor. No, not the political type, the little things used to hold things back. I remember being on a go-cart track once and knowing that they place governors on the carburetors so crazy idiots like myself wouldn't end up killing himself or others. I turned around in my seat and fiddled with the thing, bending it back and in minutes was screaming down the track and passing other drivers like Mario Andretti. I got flagged aside and thrown out. It was worth it though.
My brain seems to have this governor built into it. When I was shooting dope in the past, I had quickly found that Heroin and other opiates made that governor disappear. Temporarily, naturally, but ZAP! it was gone. I just didn't have a care in the world and the world was great and you were my friend and everybody was my friend and I felt good and nothing mattered except I felt good and I loved everything and everyone and life was just fucking awesome!
No, I'm not romancing the stone here. I just remember that feeling so vividly, even now. That's what made getting clean and sober so difficult. I had to deal with that damn governor. I couldn't mess with it or I'd get thrown out of . . . . . . . society? You can't cheat. In reality, life is in TECHNICOLOR. I never cared for technicolor. Life on life's terms.
I'm still trying to think of a way to mess with that little governor. Somehow turn around in my seat when nobody is looking and bend it back. Problem is, society is a big governor. Can't do this . . . . can't do that . . . .should, would, could, better not, don't, won't, stop, halt, no swimming, no loitering, no talking, no shoes, no shirt, no service.
There are those of us who comply in life and there are those of us who are always trying to break the rules. Rules are to be broken . . . . . right? What exactly is the RULE BOOK? The laws? The Bible? Morals? Who makes the rules? What if we didn't have a governor? Is that governor our conscience? Anyway, l once found a way around the governor, except I got myself into a whole lot of trouble in doing so. Trouble was dope was not legal. Must be wrong because it was destroying me in so many ways. Maybe you just can't cheat the governor. My governor is a pretty flimsy one. I know others who have a titanium reinforced one. Bummer.
Well, I am wired to the hilt now. Angie would be proud of me. She's back on-line after a record year in the U.K., selling booze. Peter is got me back on the marquee again so I'll make him a proud man. Gotta go, more strings to clip! -Jeeem-
I eventually solved the problem after countless hours on a Windows support system, finding that others, it seems, were having the same trouble. A simple maneuver of removing the speech recognition system, which was picking up outside sound and converting it into text. Four hours. Now what could I have accomplished in four hours? Seems ridiculous to me, but I am glad I solved the problem.
I bought some new brain wave coffee for the task of writing in this blog. The stuff tastes like shit but it sure does get the old neurons firing at a rapid rate. I'm not sure how I began thinking about compartmentalization, but I know that I was thinking about a book I once read (I suck at remembering titles and authors) about this guy who had this wicked, organized life. It caught my interest because I'm like that, to a degree. A person once said to me, of my tendency towards organization that at the time was bordering on obsessive / compulsive, "The only order in a disordered life." I have never been the same since I heard that statement. It bothered me at first.
My home is organized to a degree, but to a more involved extent, my mind is rather compartmentalized. I often think in pictures and metaphors and have trouble verbalizing my thoughts, whereas I seem to be better at putting them down on paper or "screen" in the written word. I catagorize things. Problems in my life get placed in to catagorical "boxes" labeled various ways like, "Top Priority," "Put It Off," "Medium Problematic," etcetera. I often envision a handful of "strings" hanging, all of various lengths representing the extent of the problem or issue, and my goal is to clip them off.
You can't clip all of them at once. You have to select which one to approach first. Sometimes I approach a problem in the wrong order. The more I am on top of clipping the strings, the more relaxed and at peace I am. Sometimes I get lazy and procrastinate on the clipping process. Lately this has been true.
I should know better than to bite off more than I can chew, but I do it all the time. Often, I think I need a change and I jump into something, thinking it is going to be the solution to all my problems (strings). The strings never go away. One string may represent the dishes in the sink. One may take on the value of a bill unpaid. It requires constant prioritization.
Jesus, I hope this doesn't sound nutty. Oh well, so what if it does . . . . right? How do you like that denial? Ha. This morning I was thinking of a governor. No, not the political type, the little things used to hold things back. I remember being on a go-cart track once and knowing that they place governors on the carburetors so crazy idiots like myself wouldn't end up killing himself or others. I turned around in my seat and fiddled with the thing, bending it back and in minutes was screaming down the track and passing other drivers like Mario Andretti. I got flagged aside and thrown out. It was worth it though.
My brain seems to have this governor built into it. When I was shooting dope in the past, I had quickly found that Heroin and other opiates made that governor disappear. Temporarily, naturally, but ZAP! it was gone. I just didn't have a care in the world and the world was great and you were my friend and everybody was my friend and I felt good and nothing mattered except I felt good and I loved everything and everyone and life was just fucking awesome!
No, I'm not romancing the stone here. I just remember that feeling so vividly, even now. That's what made getting clean and sober so difficult. I had to deal with that damn governor. I couldn't mess with it or I'd get thrown out of . . . . . . . society? You can't cheat. In reality, life is in TECHNICOLOR. I never cared for technicolor. Life on life's terms.
I'm still trying to think of a way to mess with that little governor. Somehow turn around in my seat when nobody is looking and bend it back. Problem is, society is a big governor. Can't do this . . . . can't do that . . . .should, would, could, better not, don't, won't, stop, halt, no swimming, no loitering, no talking, no shoes, no shirt, no service.
There are those of us who comply in life and there are those of us who are always trying to break the rules. Rules are to be broken . . . . . right? What exactly is the RULE BOOK? The laws? The Bible? Morals? Who makes the rules? What if we didn't have a governor? Is that governor our conscience? Anyway, l once found a way around the governor, except I got myself into a whole lot of trouble in doing so. Trouble was dope was not legal. Must be wrong because it was destroying me in so many ways. Maybe you just can't cheat the governor. My governor is a pretty flimsy one. I know others who have a titanium reinforced one. Bummer.
Well, I am wired to the hilt now. Angie would be proud of me. She's back on-line after a record year in the U.K., selling booze. Peter is got me back on the marquee again so I'll make him a proud man. Gotta go, more strings to clip! -Jeeem-
Thursday, January 03, 2002
A new year, a new relationship. Relationship? Whoops! Wasn't supposed to call it that. Dating, we are dating . . . .hummm. Funny thing about words, they can take on all sorts of different meanings depending on what you want. I wasn't in a relationship and had no commitment, but had to break-up to see another person. Build up, break down, build up, break down. Sad actually. Sad and difficult.
I remember watching a movie or reading a book long ago and the statement was, "A man and a woman can never be just friends." Well, I am sure many would contest that, but I would have to add that if there is an attraction, the above statement could be true.
I'm seeing someone else. The same old feelings are there. I guess I felt my feelings would change over the years and I would become jaded and bitter. Love would not be the same. Well, it hasn't changed. I am happy to say that I am just as giddy, just as lovestruck as when I was a teenager. My old experiences seem to want to crowd out some of those feelings and convince me of some sort of nasty reality that I don't want to take a look at.
I recently read, "Reality bites." Well, that is true, but thank God I am not as reality based as I would like to think I am. I am a risk taker and risk takers experience life to it's fullest. Thank God. -Jeeem-
I remember watching a movie or reading a book long ago and the statement was, "A man and a woman can never be just friends." Well, I am sure many would contest that, but I would have to add that if there is an attraction, the above statement could be true.
I'm seeing someone else. The same old feelings are there. I guess I felt my feelings would change over the years and I would become jaded and bitter. Love would not be the same. Well, it hasn't changed. I am happy to say that I am just as giddy, just as lovestruck as when I was a teenager. My old experiences seem to want to crowd out some of those feelings and convince me of some sort of nasty reality that I don't want to take a look at.
I recently read, "Reality bites." Well, that is true, but thank God I am not as reality based as I would like to think I am. I am a risk taker and risk takers experience life to it's fullest. Thank God. -Jeeem-
Wednesday, January 02, 2002
Okay, it's the new year. The big 2002. Time for some changes. I gotta lose some of this flab that I have acquired and blame on the cold weather and my good cooking. It certainly isn't my fault. I am making some New Year's resolutions. Never really did that before as I always thought it stupid and corny. So, I'm getting stupid and corny in my old age . . . so what?
I am adjusting to my laptop. It was confusing at first . . . the PC, the laptop, the PC, the laptop . . . decisions, decisions. Actually, I feel very grateful that I should have to make such decisions. I need to simplify though. Did I NEED the laptop? Well, no. I don't particularly like admitting that but I have resolved myself to TOTAL, BRUTAL honesty this year. At least when writing in this blog.
I was already a pretty honest sort, so I thought, until I discovered my propensity to convince myself of things that certainly were not true. I vow from this point forward to "attempt" to be totally and brutally honest with myself.
Now, one might immediately contemplate that this idea is commendable, righteous even. Hummmm. An interesting thought. What a claim. Here lies a man who was totally and brutally honest with himself and others. He died without friends. Ha.
Does one need to always be honest to himself or others? This brings to mind the 9th step of Alcoholics Anonymous . . . . "Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others." Sounds like one hell of a loophole for a person like me, so capable of rationalization. "Nope. Gonna skip this guy cause it would SURELY injure him!" Ah, so one would think that our existence in life could not be had without a little rationalization and justification.
To be totally honest both to self and others, would certainly make things interesting wouldn't it? I certainly would NOT be where I am right now if I had been totally honest in life. Would you? How the hell did I get on this subject? Oh, my New Years resolution. Well, to hell with it. I'm human you know.
It's been a while since I wrote words down. It feels funny at first but it really gets rolling after awhile. Coffee helps immensely. My friend Peter (Naked Blog) in Leith, Scotland (to the right of Edinburgh) says he likes my stuff. I guess I really needed to hear somebody likes it. It gave me the extra "UMMPH!" I needed to get started again. Peter writes brilliantly and is published. I love reading his stuff and recently told him that his words remind me of how much I don't know, which brings me to yet another thought . . .
I have a fear of dying dumb. Well, not "dumb" actually, but educationally challenged. That is the politically correct phrase I guess. So, that brings me to the REAL subject of this blog. My TRUE New Year's resolution (see, you thought I was being honest before). I am going to attempt to read more, write more and submit more. I know I've got it in me.
One of my first hero's in the writing field was a woman named Claire Robson. She is a published writer from England who taught a little informal amateur writer's course a few years back at the Poet's Cafe in Plymouth, New Hampshire. I learned a lot from that small course and I also began to develop my first feeling that I could actually write stuff that people would read.
One night Claire said, "You can't publish anything if you don't submit anything." Duh. Sounds pretty simple right? Not so. My brain, I've learned, has a gigantic editor in it that I need to avoid. So, I will write. Some of it I will write here, some on paper. Some of it will suck. Some of it will shine. If nothing else I will be able to say I've written. Nothing gained, nothing lost.
Happy New Year. -Jeeem-
I am adjusting to my laptop. It was confusing at first . . . the PC, the laptop, the PC, the laptop . . . decisions, decisions. Actually, I feel very grateful that I should have to make such decisions. I need to simplify though. Did I NEED the laptop? Well, no. I don't particularly like admitting that but I have resolved myself to TOTAL, BRUTAL honesty this year. At least when writing in this blog.
I was already a pretty honest sort, so I thought, until I discovered my propensity to convince myself of things that certainly were not true. I vow from this point forward to "attempt" to be totally and brutally honest with myself.
Now, one might immediately contemplate that this idea is commendable, righteous even. Hummmm. An interesting thought. What a claim. Here lies a man who was totally and brutally honest with himself and others. He died without friends. Ha.
Does one need to always be honest to himself or others? This brings to mind the 9th step of Alcoholics Anonymous . . . . "Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others." Sounds like one hell of a loophole for a person like me, so capable of rationalization. "Nope. Gonna skip this guy cause it would SURELY injure him!" Ah, so one would think that our existence in life could not be had without a little rationalization and justification.
To be totally honest both to self and others, would certainly make things interesting wouldn't it? I certainly would NOT be where I am right now if I had been totally honest in life. Would you? How the hell did I get on this subject? Oh, my New Years resolution. Well, to hell with it. I'm human you know.
It's been a while since I wrote words down. It feels funny at first but it really gets rolling after awhile. Coffee helps immensely. My friend Peter (Naked Blog) in Leith, Scotland (to the right of Edinburgh) says he likes my stuff. I guess I really needed to hear somebody likes it. It gave me the extra "UMMPH!" I needed to get started again. Peter writes brilliantly and is published. I love reading his stuff and recently told him that his words remind me of how much I don't know, which brings me to yet another thought . . .
I have a fear of dying dumb. Well, not "dumb" actually, but educationally challenged. That is the politically correct phrase I guess. So, that brings me to the REAL subject of this blog. My TRUE New Year's resolution (see, you thought I was being honest before). I am going to attempt to read more, write more and submit more. I know I've got it in me.
One of my first hero's in the writing field was a woman named Claire Robson. She is a published writer from England who taught a little informal amateur writer's course a few years back at the Poet's Cafe in Plymouth, New Hampshire. I learned a lot from that small course and I also began to develop my first feeling that I could actually write stuff that people would read.
One night Claire said, "You can't publish anything if you don't submit anything." Duh. Sounds pretty simple right? Not so. My brain, I've learned, has a gigantic editor in it that I need to avoid. So, I will write. Some of it I will write here, some on paper. Some of it will suck. Some of it will shine. If nothing else I will be able to say I've written. Nothing gained, nothing lost.
Happy New Year. -Jeeem-
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