I many times thought peace had come,
When peace was far away;
As wrecked men deem they sight the land
At center of the sea,

And struggle slacker, but to prove,
As hopelessly as I,
How many the fictitious shores
Before the harbor lie.

-Emily Dickinson

Labels: introspection

If I want to change the message on my plates I need to submit a form in the next couple of days. I'm not necessarily wanting to change the message; it will just cost me extra if I don't do it now when my plates are up for renewal, so I'm pondering.

The only even remotely interesting ideas I've considered in the short time I've pondered the question are:

PUDL JPR (a transport vessel from Stargate: Atlantis that happens to be the same color as my car)

and

ASCNDED (the state of being in the Stargate universe where one transcends corporeal form and lives as an enlightened, immortal, god-like being)

Geeky, I know. Not something everyone will get, I know. But weigh in if you have an opinion on one or the other (or something else).

Amusingly, CTHULHU is also available (I thought for sure someone else would have snagged it), although I don't think I'd seriously consider that for a plate (as much as I enjoy the works of Lovecraft, the name doesn't fit as a plate).

Labels: introspection

It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.

It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl,
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.

And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,

As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And 't was like midnight, some,

When everything that ticked has stopped,
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.

But most like chaos, stopless, cool,
Without a chance or spar,
Or even a report of land
To justify despair.

-Emily Dickinson

Labels: introspection, poetry

Just a quick update, mostly for my mother's benefit.

I've been in a less-than-optimal mood since my last post. Nothing catastrophic or calamitous in origin, mind you. Just a pyramid made of bricks of minor annoyances. Lack of sleep. Pulled muscles. Biting my lip hard enough to draw blood (twice). Car problems. Logistical issues with art projects. House issues. Headaches. Rude people. Time. Grover Cleveland stealing my Doritos.

It's a hard-knock life. Hopefully without a rap overlay.

Labels: annoyance, introspection, stress

I've had two conversations two nights in a row with two different people (both of whom know me fairly well, not just random coworkers or anything) that have both ended with me in a kind of shocked bewilderment when the other person said something along the lines of "I'm incredibly upset that you would say that about me." As the only common denominator between the two, I'm obviously the problem, but for the life of me I can't figure out what's going on. It has me rather frustrated and more than a little paranoid (very Mr. Darcy-ish, I assure you).

Labels: introspection, stress

Fifth Amendment rules apply.

Labels: funny, introspection, social commentary

Take a single moment in time, one instant out of the last 12 billion years, and freeze the universe. Imagine it as a single, static object, a snow globe frozen solid in mid-shake. Imagine staring at a rain drop suspended in its plummet, its surface tensions, its kinetic energy held in check, its friction with the air around it, the interactions of its individual water molecules and, deeper than that, its basic atoms, and even deeper than that the subatomic particles that make up its atoms. Imagine a supernova, caught in mid-explosion, its energy displayed like a flower of light and beauty and destruction, its imperfections like ribbons snaking through its shock waves. Imagine the warped space-time of the solar system, tugged and stretched and pushed to greater and lesser extents by the masses of the sun, the planets, the moons, frozen in place like an ocean of gravity. Imagine a single blood cell, paused in mid-journey, surrounded by a swarm of its brethren as it waits for the rush of pressure to push it forward to the extremities of the body. Imagine that this single, quiet, peaceful, wondrous moment exists, always exists, if we pause to look.

Labels: introspection

The tangled webs of historical wordplay entwined within the last day of the week are complex, and possibly trivial to the unconcerned masses, but suffice it to say that it is a day named, uniquely among the largely Norse-inspired week, for a Roman deity adopted from an earlier Greek deity who, among his other charming attributes, swallowed all of his children. To honor this great paragon of parenthood, we named a planet after him.

There was some sort of sporting event of note in the state today. Its existence was presaged by mumblings at work on Friday and a cacophony of red "N" sweatshirts and flags today (along with one odd woman wearing an orange shirt with similar "Husker" markings; even a heretic such as I knows the proper color for the state's quasi-religious following). I was vaguely aware of it (more so than my usual indifference) due to friends attending and the "flexible" television scheduling that "slides" shows I might otherwise watch to later time slots. Of the actual event itself I have no knowledge.

Some gas stations, in furthering efforts to attract customers to the insides of their establishments (for, despite outrage to the contrary, gas stations make very little money off gasoline itself and instead make most of their profit from marked-up consumables), have expanded their beverage fountains. One particular place on my drive home includes not only six flavors of slushies, eight flavors of coffee and a do-it-yourself-from-pre-frozen-fruit-cups smoothie bar but also a panoply of soda flavors bordering on silly. My personal favorite addition, however, has been the "old fashioned" soda fountain flavors, dispensed at the push of a button, which allow anyone to become a connoisseur of fine carbonated masterpieces; in my case, this means a cherry vanilla Dr Pepper roughly twice as "cherry vanilla"-y as the cans in my refrigerator, a concoction with clearly visible stratified layers of red and yellow filling a full third of the cup before the final mixing. This is a luxury I find wholly unnecessary and overly indulgent in the context of global poverty and conflict, and yet I continue to plunk my dollar down on the counter.

I stood in line at Wal-Mart today for most of half an hour waiting for a photo kiosk to become available. Until this point, it had not dawned on me that anyone would actually use the primitive cropping and adjusting tools built in to such machines; compared to even the simplest photo manipulation programs (let alone Photoshop) they seem clumsy. Nevertheless, two different women patiently resized, cropped and removed red eye from, between them, over 200 photos. The Zen aspect of my mind understood for the first time that the digital revolution has not distributed itself equally, and there is likely a substantial minority, perhaps even a majority, of the population forced into digital photography without a corresponding interest in (or access to) computers, and to them the kiosk fills a void that those of us on the bleeding (or even near-bleeding) edge of digital technology take for granted. It occurs to me that my mother would likely still be using a film camera, or at best using a digital camera and taking the card directly to Wal-Mart, but for my patient prodding and explaining, and I'm probably in the small minority of people who spend time adjusting the histogram channels and other quasi-arcane-sounding hoopla. On the other hand, the petulant aspect of my mind was annoyed that their imperturbable manipulations tied up the only gateways to the actual developing process, which seems something of an efficiency issue on Wal-Mart's part. I think it's possible to send photos directly to a Wal-Mart store over the Internet. I may have to explore.

In a further degradation to one of the strong influences on my formative high school years, the SciFi Channel premiered the direct-to-tv presentation of "Highlander: The Source" tonight. In keeping with a franchise of such strong potential and fan passion, the show was of course promoted so well that I wouldn't have even known it had premiered if I hadn't looked at the television schedule tonight to see if there were any CSI reruns. For those of you unaware of the schizophrenic thrashings of the Highlander mythos, suffice it to say it has produced one classic movie, one six-season television series with some very good (and some rough) moments, two movies that were officially written out of canon, a fourth passable if not great movie and now this monstrosity, which went through multiple scripts, staff and edits over two years before being released to DVD in Europe to dismal reviews, then more edits before what was at first promised to be a theater release, then a DVD release and finally a direct-to-tv movie. It sounds like a train wreck from what I've read (Mad Max-esque future anarchy and superhuman blue-skinned villains; for crying out loud), so I'm tempted just not to watch it. Ever. The show was one of the defining influences on me in high school and college (I was wearing trench coats before they became "scary" and one of my high school yearbooks had a quote from me about being immortal, not to mention the swords and the fencing . . .), so there's a degree of sadness at the franchise's failure to live up to the fan expectations.

To those of you concerned about my online scarcity and my last few "away" messages: thanks for the concern and inquiries. No worries. I'm trudging, sometimes mechanically rather than energetically, through rugged landscapes of eddying and chaotic emotions, beautiful, in their own way, as the black clouds of a particularly impressive thunderstorm evoke primal wonder and awe despite their dark hues. The signposts have long ago rusted away to useless mockeries in the shifting sand, and it may be that the path I once believed to be linear is in fact spiraling across previous forays, a frustrating experience for which I have no immediate solution. Such are the foibles of human existence. For those who have no idea what I'm talking about, take comfort in the cryptic and nod along.

And finally, as a direct address to my MarioKart partner: Hey, Lane, I have this fantastic idea. Why don't we, and I'm just going out on a limb here, *not* punch other karts while we're crossing rickety bridges. You know, to keep us from falling in the water. Just a suggestion. (It's an inside joke; Lane is already laughing.)

Labels: introspection, lane, miscellany, social commentary, stress

Sneaking with September slinking
Autumn finds me lost in thinking
Of the twilight's starry winking and the gently drifting leaves.
Caught within the turbid turning
Of the wheel of seasons burning
"Life is short," and love discerning, and the clock gives no reprieve.

Labels: introspection, poetry

(Discovered through Cris's blog.)

Labels: introspection

Oft-checked stratagems and intentions best are but beggars,
scratching for crumbs in the dirt,
when dining in the hall of Paucity, King of Castigation.

Labels: introspection, stress

No man is an island, entire of itself;
every man is a piece of the continent,
a part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less,
as well as if a promontory were,
as well as if a manor of thy friend's
or of thine own were.
Any man's death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind;
and therefore never send to know
for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee.

John Donne
Meditation 17
Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions

Labels: introspection

This entry marks my one-thousandth post. In the words of Kyle, "go me." To celebrate, I'm making it an "open comment" entry. If you read this, post a comment (even you lurkers who never post). ;)

Labels: amusement, internet, introspection

Although hardly a revelation to certain people, I've been out of sorts lately. I don't think "combative" is the right term, but perhaps the shoe labelled "less understanding" would fit; I've been told what I call an "argument" is to most people a "squabble," but the fact remains that I've been in three of them lately, a bellwether of my recent petulance. To put it in better context, one of them was with Lisa. Lisa, the person with whom I have not seriously argued in 8 years. Over, of all things, a newspaper article of no importance to either of us. Said arguments have not been an active pursuit on my part, but rather an uncharacteristic unwillingness to be sympathetic when challenged (and all other abandoned traits aside, I certainly inherited the stubbornness that characterizes so many of my family). In any case, I've apologized in person and offered recognition of my childishness, and submit this as a public apology to anyone else with whom I've been short.

My mood didn't go unpredicted. I can't go so far as to lay claim to phrases like "I hate Christmas" or "holidays suck," but those of the inner circle are well-aware that this is not my favorite time of the year. Lisa expects the malaise like clockwork, although it has seemed in recent years to be cumulative rather than episodic, something I admit concerns me. Christmas lost any religious significance to me a decade ago, and quite honestly that aspect doesn't even register with me except when chastised for using "holidays" instead of "Christmas" (as has been done once this week), so I'll admit up front I don't have any serious attachment to these holidays. But on top of that, I think there is a handful of ingredients that bake up into the Fruitcake of Despondency(tm).

The first ingredient requires a mild disclaimer. If you feel the holiday spirit, I'm happy for you. :) This isn't meant to bring you down and don't take it as criticism. I hope to be there someday. For the time being, though, I find myself increasingly annoyed at the commercialization that seems to paradoxically bring out the worst in people in what is supposed to be the brightest season. Irritability and short tempers draped on shoppers looking for $600 gaming systems for 10-year-olds who equate Christmas with "I want it and if I don't get it I'm going to pout." For that matter, the whole idea that a 10-year-old needs a $600 gaming system more than he needs a $200 gaming system and $400 to give to a coat drive for underprivileged children. The perception that asking someone exactly what they want, going out and buying it and giving it to them somehow shows thoughtfulness, when in reality it's merely the fastest way to comply with a social expectation. The universal condemnation of anyone who points out that a great many people treat Christmas shopping as an unpleasant chore rather than a free act of love. (Cris and I had it out over this topic last week; I concede I may tilt toward "grinch" due to my mood, but really, I can't help but see the web of obligation and commercial pressure that underlies what should be a celebration of sharing and togetherness. In all seriousness, I'd be thrilled if my Christmas consisted of a peaceful dinner and an exchange of cards showing which charities we donated to in each other's names.)

The second major stressor for me is the fact that, though I dearly love my family, I am woefully unprepared to spend time with them en masse, a consequence of being out of sync with them (case in point, I'm used as the "it could be worse" example when someone is disapproving of someone else in the family; e.g., "Well, it could be worse. At least he's not an atheist/liberal/pavement head* like Jay."). There is a, shall we say, tendency toward displaying affection through criticism, amplified by the pack mentality, that is incompatible with me. I make an effort not to be overtly displeased about it, and in fact usually graciously decline to participate rather than take the bait, out of deference to family peace, but it's emotionally taxing nonetheless.

The final stressor, familiar to anyone single through the holidays, has its own shelf in the "self-help" section of the bookstore. I suppose (and in fact hope) that a few more attachments around this time of the year will eventually change my mood about it. Although I'm still not buying my kids a $600 gaming system.

------------------
*"Pavement head," for those curious, is my brother's term of faux affection, a not-so-subtle reference to the fact that I have defected from my agrarian heritage to the great land of street lights and parking lots. It's usually accompanied with something of a chortle.

Labels: family, friends, holiday, humanity, introspection, me, social commentary

One of the unfortunate drawbacks of a very public blog is the necessary censorship that accompanies it, the delicate phrasing and taboo topics that end up in back-alley IM messages under broken street lights. I was recently asked if, given the choice over, I would make this oddly uneven page of commentary public again; I didn't have an answer that satisfied any of the parties involved.

Perhaps for the above reasons I've written a long string of posts alternating between politics (a volatile topic, for certain, but one from which I do not shirk) and humorous observations, with a noticeable lack of memoir material. I may or may not work on that in the future. Suffice it to say the inevitable arrival of this most convivial of months, amplified perhaps by an event as unique as it is arbitrary, significant only because we evolved 10 fingers rather than 8 or 12, heralds yet another interval to be endured rather than enjoyed, another spectacularly brilliant mote of faceted quartz gleaming brightly as it descends the glass chute and vanishes into the past.

In less cryptic and somber news, scant feet from me, through plaster and brick walls, the 30-mph wind gusts have dropped the wind chill to -5 F. In short, it's cold.

Labels: introspection