Day 324

7PM:

The yellowing of a book. It denotes distortion, age, imperfection. But without that yellowing,  without that age, it has experienced nothing. It has experienced no sun, no brightness, no beautiful sunrises or sunsets.

Today, having somewhat gained a day by not having to work for my butcher and choosing to postpone my schoolwork, I indulged in a forlorn love.  Today, having had a yesterday like too many others – prepping breakfast for students before the sun came up and donating blood with a smile on my face when the rain and sun came down, having my feelings be ignored by my workplace all the while in between (yesterday’s little piece of blackness-dodging referred to this ignorance of care) – I indulged in books. To best facilitate this, I picked up one of the Flemings, knowing it would require full engagement to keep my ass on the ground. When I picked up the next one, I realized that where I had placed my Bond books, there was a top and bottom yellowing. The middle was pristine. The middle though had never beared witness to the amazingness that the world has to offer.

I could live somewhere easier. I could marry someone easier. I could vocation somewhere easier. I could stay pristine that way. But I would never know sunrises or sunsets. I would never know life. I would never know love.

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Day 290

7PM:

DO NOT LOOK AT THIS AGAIN!!!

Now that that is over with…

While it is true that my comments about Summer Reading are stuck in time, static and representative of the me in that moment, it is important to express how they impact me now.  Otherwise, and this would be a correction to yesterday, the commentary becomes meaningless, the writings become meaningless if I never comment.  And then I’m just one of those self-important douche-bags who start to bemoan the art (or make sound installations that make no noise…).

As such, I will reiterate – DO NOT LOOK AT THIS AGAIN, and in doing so, the words will always represent trueness and possibility.


So, the rest of the story is a dystopian mess, but Ursula K. LeGuin’s short story “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas” has a point here:

Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas?
They were not simple folk, you see, though they were happy. … They were not less complex than us. The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy.

There is nobility in being strong, in not falling down.  However, there is nobility in peace, in quiet, in calm, in Tz’u.  There is no nobility, no honour in exhaustion, martyrdom that leaves you without power or capability to continue being a good person, being a Don.  There is no nobility in destruction and the dead tell no tales.  The dead get one celebration; the living celebrate every day they are grateful and appreciative.

And in the “weirdest finds” category (kind of like the one workable item in an otherwise crap-tastic antique shop), we have Tracy Hickman’s Wayne of Gotham:

“Gotham balances on the edge of an abyss, and I alone feel the weight of holding it precariously there.  What kind of a life is that?”

“An important life,” Alfred urged.  “A necessary life.  A life given so that others might live theirs.”

I’m the guardian.  Who guards the guardian? (220)

Doesn’t Wayne’s life suck as a result?  He is stuck being for the world, not of it, and as such, loses pieces of his care, of his potential, of his power of Tz’u.  If you care about the concept of people more than people themselves, losing sight of people, then disconnection is imminent, cynicism is resolved to and a life of lovelessness is guaranteed.

While not as good as his first novel (The Imperfectionists), Tom Rachman’s The Rise and Fall of Great Powers does include some truisms that we would be stupid to neglect:

According to the world, capitalism had won [the Cold War], but Humphrey called it a tie at best.  He couldn’t see capitalism lasting.  What was the point of any system, he asked, if it only encouraged the worst in humanity, elevating self-interest to a virtue? (61)

In the same vein as Batman, it is not a life of Tz’u, a life of love — fuck that, it is not a LIFE to neglect care and ignore Intentional Acts of Niceness in the way or system in which you live (that’s why veganism suits me fine).

Family meant nothing more than did random names in a telephone directory.  The relations that counted were those of choice, which made friendship the supreme bond, one that either party could sever, and all the more valuable for its precariousness. (73)

It is not a LIFE to take the quality of bonds for granted and not be intentional or aware of that precariousness, thereby taking the people for granted.

Her only unease was a hovering sense of responsibility – that she ought to be looking after someone.  But there was no one anymore, just herself, which seemed so frivolous. (371)

It is not a LIFE to live without people-purpose, to live without love.

She resolved to blunt her flintier side, not to assume that she understood people entirely, and to accept that to be surprised or disappointed or even betrayed was not a catastrophe.  It could be a revelation to learn that you were wrong (372).

It is not a LIFE to lose the humanity in you, in the way you live, by trying to predict perfectly, to control wholly, to try to out-think the universe, to allow your head to dictate your nature (a la Tao of Pooh).  Give the universe its due, it has been around much longer than you.

At the beginning of this literary trek, the world lost a legend, Maya Angelou.  No books of her’s were read, but her words are loudest:

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Intentional Acts of Niceness = focus on the people, not the act; focus on what is meaningful to them, on how it will make them feel; love people the way that you can, but as much in the way that they will receive it.

“You may not control all of the events that happen to you but you can decide not to be reduced by them.”

Gratitude and Appreciation = “what’s one good thing about your day?” — looking at the best of the world, as opposed to the worst; there will be shit thrown at you, but you can decide to cry or make mudpies – I will make mudpies!

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

Writing has helped me immensely.  Putting a stopper in myself, keeping it inside, also keeps the blackness in, keeps its torment and its toxicity and its absolute power over emotion.  Writing this down, connecting with other writers, communicating with my wife, talking to my support system (when I could), these things released pieces of the blackness that held onto my silence.  I try to ensure that my students have the same ability to share, the same ability to release pieces of their blackness with a safe space, an ever-present ear and a kind word.

“One isn’t necessarily born with courage, but one is born with potential. Without courage, we cannot practice any other virtue with consistency. We can’t be kind, true, merciful, generous, or honest.”

It is interesting how the wisest words often are shared by the wisest ones.  While different and generationally distant, Taoism, Winnie the Pooh (Benjamin Hoff) and Maya Angelou all believe in Tz’u.  They all believe that care, kindness, truth, generosity, honesty and goodness, that these things all start with being courageous, with being able to manifest the first step, and then the second step, and then the third.  By doing courageously – which sometimes means doing without knowing the outcome, which probably means falling down and getting back up, and which definitely means being frightened and not having that stop you – that potential for care becomes limitless, infinite.

“Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.”

Love conquers all.

Day 289

7PM:

The commentary will stay in my head, because after yesterday’s post, I know that if I comment, that the comment is static, is a stop.  Without comment, the commentary will sound different each time I read these.  The commentary becomes infinite, is never limited, always has possibility.

As promised…

So, the rest of the story is a dystopian mess, but Ursula K. LeGuin’s short story “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas” has a point here:

Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas?
They were not simple folk, you see, though they were happy. … They were not less complex than us. The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy.

And in the “weirdest finds” category (kind of like the one workable item in an otherwise crap-tastic antique shop), we have Tracy Hickman’s Wayne of Gotham:

“Gotham balances on the edge of an abyss, and I alone feel the weight of holding it precariously there.  What kind of a life is that?”

“An important life,” Alfred urged.  “A necessary life.  A life given so that others might live theirs.”

I’m the guardian.  Who guards the guardian? (220)

While not as good as his first novel (The Imperfectionists), Tom Rachman’s The Rise and Fall of Great Powers does include some truisms that we would be stupid to neglect:

According to the world, capitalism had won [the Cold War], but Humphrey called it a tie at best.  He couldn’t see capitalism lasting.  What was the point of any system, he asked, if it only encouraged the worst in humanity, elevating self-interest to a virtue? (61)

Family meant nothing more than did random names in a telephone directory.  The relations that counted were those of choice, which made friendship the supreme bond, one that either party could sever, and all the more valuable for its precariousness. (73)

Her only unease was a hovering sense of responsibility – that she ought to be looking after someone.  But there was no one anymore, just herself, which seemed so frivolous. (371)

She resolved to blunt her flintier side, not to assume that she understood people entirely, and to accept that to be surprised or disappointed or even betrayed was not a catastrophe.  It could be a revelation to learn that you were wrong (372).

At the beginning of this literary trek, the world lost a legend, Maya Angelou.  No books of her’s were read, but her words are loudest:

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

“You may not control all of the events that happen to you but you can decide not to be reduced by them.”

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

 “One isn’t necessarily born with courage, but one is born with potential. Without courage, we cannot practice any other virtue with consistency. We can’t be kind, true, merciful, generous, or honest.”

“Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.”

Day 288

8PM:

What we encounter, they leave impressions, marks.

For the last four months, I have been doing a book “competition” – it started as something else, but mutated into a self-care challenge, something that kept me doing something without doing something.  I have shown these marks, these impressions, in different posts since May.  Some of these marks have left cuts, speaking to the demon, the blackness inside of me.  Some of these marks have helped exorcise some of those demons.  And some of them are yet to be determined.

These impressions are only as important as my impression of them.  I listened to the words, heard what I wanted to hear depending on how I was feeling at that time.  Depending on what order in which I read them, the impressions would have been dramatically different, could have changed.  The marks look different depending on what I was ready to get from the words at that particular moment in time.  As Tom Rachman wrote in The Rise and Fall of Great Powers: “Tooly avoided talking to Noeline about him, dwelling instead on what linked them: books.  They had read hundreds of the same works, yet in a completely different way.  Tooly took a book as the creation of one particular brain, while Noeline viewed text as context, each work the fruit of its times, sown by manifestos, fertilized by historical events, harvested in orchards that petered out, burst forth again, producing a landscape known as the Culture.  Such classification, Tooly argued, wrecked a work – akin to seeking the soul of a girl by dissecting her body” (160).

The impact of such works, of such words, are just as much about us as they are of what happens around the works.  Neither one took into account the reader, the one who ultimately takes the words off of the page, digests them in their synapses and uses those articles to speak to the inner workings of their soul.

This weekend marks the end of my four-month Summer Book Challenge.  This weekend will allow a peering in to how some of the works I have read – that my ME has collected – have spoken and been heard by the inner workings of my soul.

Are you ready?

Day 272

9PM:

I am a sucker for a good book – everyone’s definition of which is different, I’m sure.  For me, my good book has character development, absolutely.  Plot, definitely.  Well-developed metaphors that don’t bash you over the head with either complexity or simplicity (I’m speaking to you, Alchemist), we’re good to go (and while we’re on that note, gestatious dialogue for the purpose of self-importance or even worse, simply “waiting for Godot” = BAH!).

I’ve kept track of the books I’ve read since the beginning of May.  Kind of a reclaiming of my love for books that I didn’t know was as intense as it has been (goes to show how intentional routines or structures can retrain your brain, reconnect those pathways, rebuild your bridges so that the emotions reemerge — exposure therapy, anyone?).  Book 15 was Wuthering Heights initially a verbose read about a collection of characters that seemed unredeemable and not sympathetic in the slightest.  Through the first quarter of the novel, I wanted them all to fall – they were all assholes!  Either self-indulgent, insolent, incredulously ill-mannered (using my book words now!), none of these characters had an iota of my sympathy, my connection.  That is, until Catherine Earnshaw’s passionate speech to Nelly, the house servant (always a good source for true information), on Pages 83 & 84:

“‘I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you.  What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here?  My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff’s miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning; my great thought in living is himself.  If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger; I should not seem a part of it. … Nelly, I am Heathcliff!  He’s always, always in my mind – not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.'”

Love redeems her, at least in the reader’s eyes.  To that point she is more insufferable and after that point she may continue to be, but in that moment, love redeems her for me.  That is the power of love, because how can someone who loves like that, who cares for another like that, who feels the good emotions like Catherine describes, how can that person be completely unsympathetic, completely undeserving of connection, completely incapable of redemption.  The foreward similarly describes this feeling, this time of the character Heathcliff, stating, “No man who loves as he loves can be thoroughly evil.  We stay with Heathcliff until the very end” (vii).

The darkness of Emily Bronte’s novel foreshadows that she will fall, that they all will as good tragedies go.  However, she will not fall in readers’ eyes, because of love.