Welcome to my mind. You'll find yourself amused, amazed, appalled and afraid.
I usually insert new items at the front. Usually.
Intermittently under construction...
A dialogue is not made of two monologues.
[tbw: nostalgia, retro-futures, 1950's SF, ...]
Many people feel they can't (or shouldn't) become writers because their experiences are so ordinary; they believe their stories wouldn't interest anyone. They are wrong. Ordinary life itself is important. Ordinary life is the bedrock upon which every civilization rises or falls.
Assholes abound.
A weather front is approaching, bringing with it some promised rain. The clouds are preceding, filling the sky with shades of light ash and dark charcoal. The higher clouds have smeared the sun into a large, bright spot, the only white in a field of gray; no longer is that orb a sharp, distinct circle set in blue. The lower clouds, dashing across the sky, are all irregular and shifting patches of shadow.
This is a November sky, come early. To my eye, the sun is wane and impotent, with its bright, glory days of summer only a memory. The wind chills me, but is not itself cold. I feel summer is over.
Gathering flocks of autumn sweep by and pivot with the wind, small black dots with wings. A forlorn bumblebee struggles to keep herself aloft, barely able to reach the few late flowers that remain. The offerings must be meager, yet she patiently visits each blossom seeking its treasure.
It is Fall, when trees shed leaves like tears.
The moon is magical. She was my first love, you know. The beauty of a night bathed in moonlight speaks directly to my soul. There it was, 3:00 AM. The rain clouds had blown away and the sky was as clear as a crisp October morning could make it. I felt like waltzing around my lawn (literally - waltzing with a partner). Sadly, a dance partner was not to be found at that hour and place. Mind you, I hate dancing and I have to be dragged onto a dance floor. But such is moonlight.
(For another sample of my feelings about the moon, see my poem Luna.)
Willows bend with the wind where an oak would break. But it's not easy being a willow in a culture that demands proof of ones oakhood.
'Weed' only means 'in the wrong place'. Some 'weeds' have the most beautiful blossoms.
That someone has to be blamed is not a point of view to which I subscribe. We are all only human. Everyone may have the best of intentions and still everything can go to hell. And that, my friends, is another reason we must be forgiving.
Mender of Souls -- now there is a job description to be coveted!
Where is the dividing line between an open-minded respect for differences and hypocrisy? And who gets to draw it?
(Wish I could remember where...)
A story is a lie that speaks a truth too potent to be told any other way.
I was watching the sun sinking lower, settling into the west, casting ever longer shadows. The west is the horizon of endings and departures and remembrance. It urges healing and patience, quiet and peace.
I too would have passed into the West with the Elves. I am not a Hobbit; of that, I am sure: the simple pleasures are not satisfying enough. Nor am I a Dwarf: material possessions are a means, not an end. And the world of Men is oft times unpleasing to me. I am kindred to Elves, more a child of the stars than the sun.
Breaking down my life into semi-traditional periods:
| Years | Ages | Length | Description | Alternate Grouping | (Alt. Len.) |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1957-1963 | 0-5 | 6 | Pre-school | Childhood | 11 |
| 1963-1968 | 6-10 | 5 | Elementary school | ||
| 1968-1971 | 11-13 | 3 | Patten Junior High School | Adolescence | 7 |
| 1971-1975 | 14-18 | 4 | Katahdin High School | ||
| 1975-1979 | 18-22 | 4 | Massachusetts Institute of Technology | Young Adulthood (my single years) | 7 |
| 1979-1982 | 22-24 | 3 | Honeywell Information Systems | ||
| 1982-1990 | 25-32 | 8 | Engagement, Marriage, & Family | As it says. | 8 |
| 1990-1991 | 33 | 1 | The Gordon Institute | "The Year From Hell" | 1 |
| 1991-2001 | 34-44 | 10 | USARL/ONTOS/SYBASE | Recent Past | 10 |
| 2001-2002 | 44-45 | 2 | Writing Unpack My Heart | "Mid-Life" | 4 |
| 2003-2004 | 46-47 | 2 | Writer's Block; Work Sucks | ||
| 2005-???? | 48-? | ? | The Future | ? | ? |
(Written the last day of August.)
Today is a beautiful late summer's day, with the tiniest hint of autumn in the air to add a sense of value and rarity. The breeze is strong and cool, but the sky is clear, the sun warm, and the grass is still soft between my toes. It is a perfect day for a picnic. A formal picnic, with a broad checkered cloth to spread over the grass on the bank of some river, and a wicker basket to sit by one side. If the hour is early, I'd have packed egg-salad sandwiches and a thermos of iced tea. If the afternoon is long, then some cheese and a bottle of wine are in order. Most of all, the company of a good friend is needed.
Why don't we make time to share these kinds of days more often?
A great epigram I saw on AMAZON.COM: formerly youthful person.
All groups and communities define themselves by identifying those whom they exclude. The ultimate human sanction is excommunication -- expulsion from the community.
Be moderate in all things, including moderation. Be wary of eliminating passion, for that is dangerously close to eliminating feeling, and living.
Youth is idealistic. Rather than tolerate the imperfect, they would rather do without. They are alienated by weakness, stupidity and hypocrisy. (I certainly was.) The idealists reject imperfection, seeking the best. But this is an imperfect universe; nothing is perfect. The only true perfection is perfect nothingness. The mature have learned that pain and emptiness are neither necessary nor desired; albeit, they are sometimes unavoidable. The pragmatists accept imperfection, seeking the better. They embrace the world as it is. Or am I just old?
Q: Why did the analyst object to his own regression therapy?
A: He was afraid of being Jung again.
Some of the elements of love: affection, respect, candor, empathy and trust.
Primum non nocere.
I'm 97 and 19/2300 % pure.
My Sybase sabbatical of 2002 was both more and less than I expected. I did not accomplish as much as I imagined. I did not imagine I needed as much rehabilitation as I did. What exactly I will do about the latter discovery is yet to be determined. But I am going to straighten out my priorities before I wake up one day and realize I'm lost and can't find my way back.
It took me the better part of two weeks to unwind enough to feel I was on vacation. And then I re-discovered that "summer break" feeling I used to know every year as a child in school. I felt I had time to be myself again; I had time to do, or not do, what I wished. I hadn't realized how beholden I was to the priorities of others until I was away and could look back to see where I had been. My time off gave me exactly what was intended: an opportunity to rest, reflect and re-energize. But it also provided the insight that returning exactly to what I had escaped from was not acceptable.
Repairing what I see as being wrong will not happen overnight. Yet the first step of seeing that there is something wrong has been taken. Thus change becomes possible.
When I vacation at the beach (cam), I maintain a strict regimen. My typical day:
(It takes discipline, but somehow I manage. >grin<)
Send a SASE and you'll get back a postmarked SASE!
Dogs make good boy scouts. Or is it vice versa?
"When the news breaks, we fix it."
One of the major attractions of a water bed (for me) is that it provides a cozy, warm sleeping environment. In The Grand Scheme of Things(1), it was not one of life's major crises, but annoying nonetheless. One afternoon I noticed that whoever had been digging around in the corner of our bedroom last had accidentally unplugged the water bed heater. Water beds need their heater. I plugged everything back in, but knew the bed would still be chilly come evening. Bummer.
1 The Grand Scheme of Things is a trademark of God2 Enterprises.
2 God is a wholly owned subsidiary of The Goddess Productions.
She has given so much, too much I think. At some point she dutifully surrendered her happiness, how own needs, and with them all that was vital within herself. But, eventually, the endless and empty days will end. I will not mourn the passing; in her death we will both find solace. My grieving is for her living.
Contented and well-adjusted peple do not become writers. Writing is difficult. (See also, my discussion in my page about my novel on My Writing: Why.)
It's not being a writer that's scary; it is having readers that is scary.
We need to regularly stop the doing and pause fully and long enough to experience the being, to sit still and air out the dusty corners of our souls, and to tend our spiritual hoeing and weeding.
Warm toes are happy toes.
Just when did it become a sin to be bored?
It takes a village to elect an idiot.
I grew to appreciate why writers move away to a secluded beach house or lock themselves in a small attic somewhere. There is little more frustrating than to have immersed oneself into a character's world and be vividly seeing that world through their eyes and then be interrupted. "Daddy, may I go down the street to play?". "Daddy, what are you doing?". "What should we have for supper, dear?". Grrrrrr.
We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.
(An idea from French scientist and Catholic philosopher Pierre Teilhard De Chardin, who had his works banned as being "dangerous".)
(I e-mailed this proem to my best friend one day last spring.)
There is a place, too far away I think for me to ever actually take you, that I will show you nonetheless.
It is not beautiful, or majestic, or mystically imbued.
It is an ordinary spot in a small Maine wood, unremarkable, rarely visited.
Indeed, after the spring thaw and in most years, it is too wet and muddy to visit.
But in arid years, you can stand on the dry wash of little brooklets and look up through the trees at a half-open sky.
When that sky is summer blue and the wind steady yet warm, the sharpness of time and place softens and is relaxed.
I have stood there with my sisters the trees, listening to them whisper with my brother the wind, and -- a child of the sky -- raised my arms to embrace a moment of eternity.
I stood over Maine bedrock, still, at peace.
If you travel the by-ways of my soul, you will find this place, and a few others like it, contained there.
Part of my soul remained behind in exchange.
These places are not where I have been; they are who I am.
I believe life should be centered about intimate connections. Intimate not necessarily in the sexual sense, although I am a person with a strong need for physical intimacy, but intimate in the emotional and intellectual senses. Periods of loneliness have been a dominant experience of my life. I am still trying to make and strengthen the connections I crave.
I don't believe in Five Year Plans, for living any more than for national economies. Central (Pre-)Planning is too inflexible, unable to adjust and adapt to the realities of unfolding events. The FutureTM is the unexpected, the unknown. If it could be reliably predicted, it wouldn't be "the future" anymore.
I've found my life keeps taking unexpected turns, heading off in whole new directions, sometimes from on the smallest of decisions or chances. And while there are broad currents in our lives, shifting from one stream to an adjacent, seemingly parallel one can ultimately lead to totally divergent destinations. In the mathematical sense, I believe life is chaotic: small changes in initial conditions lead to arbitrarily large variances in the results. This is true even if day to day life is smooth, continuous, and unturbulent.
There's a popular adage that goes "If you want to make God smile, tell Him your plans."
© 1997-2006 Roland F. McKenney
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