I don't write enough. There I said it. I don't write enough.
I am not only talking about this blog. There are vast swaths of my existence that are unexplored, unrecorded, lost to the ages. And some (few) of them just might be interesting. But do I write them down? Do I share my knowledge/experience/views? No.
All my life, I have imagined myself to be a writer. My therapist once told me that the greatest hope of my recovery/destiny/calling would have something to do with my writing, and I do not write.
I compose an intentionally low-threshold theme for a blog--Random Ignorant Musings and What Had At Lunch--with the explicit goal of simply getting myself to write--and I don't write. People who love me ask me to write, and I do not write.
Meanwhile people all over Facebook and the Blogopia are all writing 25 random things about themselves willy-nilly. A friend, just for the heck of it, writes 50 random things. And they were interesting. I was glad to read them.
And this introverted intimacy-phobe who doesn't let anyone get to know him except strangers craves an even more anonymous form of writing. But then, I never write in my blank bound journal either.
I come up with themes, I write a few hundred words, and I throw them away because my expectations are too high.
Well, that is enough. I am self-indulgent. I am writing something. I don't care.
Okay, I do care. And I already feel guilty for writing this whiny screed, but I am not letting the voices in my head win.
Onward and upward!
Lunch today was Visiting Parents Sandwiches: we never eat plain lunchmeat sandwiches unless my parents are visiting, because we are much more self-indulgent than that with our food choices. But my parents help us to live simply: bread from the corner convenience store, two extra wide slices of turkey, one extra-wide slice of ham, processed cheese, butter, and mustard. Generic Lays-equivalent chips. Diet Coke. And a snickerdoodle, home-baked from a refrigerator pull-apart package, so that the cinnamon makes this square on top of the round cookie. Oh, and my sandwich got the guilty lettuce--no one else would take the last slice that Mom had brought all the way from home. It sat in the cooler in her trunk for days, but it was quite well refrigerated by all the miserable weather.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Friday, October 31, 2008
1133rd
I had the tremendous honor last night of saying the invocation and benediction at the community sendoff of the 1133rd National Guard transportation unit, who are heading toward their second tour of duty in Iraq.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
horse racing
This morning, once again, the conversation on my NPR call-in show was on the topic "Can John McCain win?"
This is a useful conversation to have in small doses. And it is very useful to insiders and campaign workers. They need to have this conversation.
But the general public should only rarely be involved in this conversation. (Arguably it is useful during the primary season.) The question that most people should be concerned about is not "CAN win?" but "SHOULD win?"
Then (God-willing) we would talk about issues, leadership styles, relevant personal information, and such, rather than polling, leads, margins, and all the "objective" data that is only useful for self-fulfilling prophesies.
We are talking about meta-campaign stuff that is not actual democracy, but horse racing. And I am frustrated with it. Humbug.
I recognize that it is harder for media to maintain an image of objectivity when they report on qualifications and issues rather than horse-racing. But I wish we were talking about meaty things instead of fluff.
Anyway, back to the campaign for a few more weeks.
Breakfast today was yummy bread from a Wisconsin monastery: Sinsinawa Mound's Honey Wheat, toasted with butter, and their Large Cinnamon Loaf, toasted with butter. Also, a bit of generic egg substitute, scrambled with milk and microwaved in a Pyrex dish.
This is a useful conversation to have in small doses. And it is very useful to insiders and campaign workers. They need to have this conversation.
But the general public should only rarely be involved in this conversation. (Arguably it is useful during the primary season.) The question that most people should be concerned about is not "CAN
Then (God-willing) we would talk about issues, leadership styles, relevant personal information, and such, rather than polling, leads, margins, and all the "objective" data that is only useful for self-fulfilling prophesies.
We are talking about meta-campaign stuff that is not actual democracy, but horse racing. And I am frustrated with it. Humbug.
I recognize that it is harder for media to maintain an image of objectivity when they report on qualifications and issues rather than horse-racing. But I wish we were talking about meaty things instead of fluff.
Anyway, back to the campaign for a few more weeks.
Breakfast today was yummy bread from a Wisconsin monastery: Sinsinawa Mound's Honey Wheat, toasted with butter, and their Large Cinnamon Loaf, toasted with butter. Also, a bit of generic egg substitute, scrambled with milk and microwaved in a Pyrex dish.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Bindi the tragic girl
I'm writing an especially ignorant blog tonight, O true believers. I've never even seen the show I'm going to talk about. But I have seen the commercials, and in today's drive-by culture that's enough, right?
Is anybody else bothered by this "Bindi the Jungle Girl" show? It's apparently an award-winning nature show on Discovery Kids starring Bindi Irwin. She's a cute little kid with pigtails and total innocence in the video I've seen.
Yet I can't watch a moment of the commercial without thinking of her father's tragic death. For Bindi is the daughter of Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, who spent his life putting himself in alarming proximity to dangerous animals for the sake of entertaining video. And while filming a show he suffered a fatal stingray barb to the heart. Classic illustration of Pride, Fragility of Man Before Nature, Thinning the Herd, and all that sort of thing.
And I think about the fact that the guy had kids, and I get sad. And then I see that this show exists, and I wonder about the thought process involved:
Producer #1: Crikey! Bummer, right?
Producer #2: Eh, and a pity about the little girl.
Producer #1: I wish there was something that we could do for her.
Producer #2: Well, we don't know how to do anything but produce tragically hazardous Nature Gone Wild television programs.
Producer #1: Let's give her her own show, then! That'll make her feel better.
Producer #2: Sure, let's build the whole show around her, so that she is absolutely indispensible. And if she ever throws a tantrum on the set, or has feelings about the show that she doesn't know how to deal with, we can just threaten to film a stingray episode!
Producer #1: That's a good one! How do you think she'd look with a boa constricter around her neck?
For lunch I had deli ham and deli balogna on Wonder Bread with mustard, butter, and mayo. Also, leftover cornbread. And a Diet Coke.
p.s. Slightly less ignorant: I looked it up, and apparently Bindi began filming the show before her father's tragic death. Which makes it a bit less creepy, but how could she go on with the thing? And how can all these people make their profit by a show where all the economic incentive is to put this girl closer and closer to the tragedy of her father, while on camera? And if she lets her pain get to her, and quits the show, then she is supposed to feel like a washed-up celebrity? What else can she do with her life at this point?
I'm also reminded of the creepy video of Steve Irwin feeding a crocodile while holding his infant son with one arm. Allegedly the child was in no danger.
Is anybody else bothered by this "Bindi the Jungle Girl" show? It's apparently an award-winning nature show on Discovery Kids starring Bindi Irwin. She's a cute little kid with pigtails and total innocence in the video I've seen.
Yet I can't watch a moment of the commercial without thinking of her father's tragic death. For Bindi is the daughter of Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, who spent his life putting himself in alarming proximity to dangerous animals for the sake of entertaining video. And while filming a show he suffered a fatal stingray barb to the heart. Classic illustration of Pride, Fragility of Man Before Nature, Thinning the Herd, and all that sort of thing.
And I think about the fact that the guy had kids, and I get sad. And then I see that this show exists, and I wonder about the thought process involved:
Producer #1: Crikey! Bummer, right?
Producer #2: Eh, and a pity about the little girl.
Producer #1: I wish there was something that we could do for her.
Producer #2: Well, we don't know how to do anything but produce tragically hazardous Nature Gone Wild television programs.
Producer #1: Let's give her her own show, then! That'll make her feel better.
Producer #2: Sure, let's build the whole show around her, so that she is absolutely indispensible. And if she ever throws a tantrum on the set, or has feelings about the show that she doesn't know how to deal with, we can just threaten to film a stingray episode!
Producer #1: That's a good one! How do you think she'd look with a boa constricter around her neck?
For lunch I had deli ham and deli balogna on Wonder Bread with mustard, butter, and mayo. Also, leftover cornbread. And a Diet Coke.
p.s. Slightly less ignorant: I looked it up, and apparently Bindi began filming the show before her father's tragic death. Which makes it a bit less creepy, but how could she go on with the thing? And how can all these people make their profit by a show where all the economic incentive is to put this girl closer and closer to the tragedy of her father, while on camera? And if she lets her pain get to her, and quits the show, then she is supposed to feel like a washed-up celebrity? What else can she do with her life at this point?
I'm also reminded of the creepy video of Steve Irwin feeding a crocodile while holding his infant son with one arm. Allegedly the child was in no danger.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
silence is golden
While looking for James P. Carse's book "The Religious Case Against Belief" (I'll probably end up having to actually buy this one. The local library and bookstores are too small.) I stumbled upon an earlier piece he had written called "The Silence of God." It's not what you think, some modernist Job-like rant against an absent God who owes us something.
Rather, the book praises silence. A particular kind of silence: the expectant silence of a good listener. The silence that lets you speak, share, and perhaps surprise the listener and yourself. I like this kind of listening. I crave this kind of listening. I seek to do this kind of listening ("be the change..."), though I'm not as good at it as I want to be.
It's hard to be a good listener. Most of us want to be God, that is, to be the one with something to say. And so it is hard to stop everything else long enough for someone to actually say something to you. Especially if they don't couch it with entertainment.
One of the most annoying things I do is to complete people's sentences, because I am too impatient to wait for them to finish. Maybe this would be fine if I always got it right. But all too often I don't know where they are going, and my impatience is offputting enough that I miss out on the surprise someone would have given me.
With books and movies and art I usually seek out things that will surprise me, or teach me, or reveal something I haven't noticed before. And with people I often seek out the weirdos and freaks and outcasts who most people wouldn't want to listen to. But with the people I am closest to, I have often done a poor job of letting them actually tell me who they are.
But the need for a good listener is primal. Many of us crave it so much that we become performers, defensively seeking always to entertain so that people will keep listening. I took a job where, periodically, people have to listen to what I say, and it is the most satisfying part of my week. But maybe all I really want is for someone to pay attention.
(Theologically, Carse's argument suggests that God is a benevolent player, creating us as toys/fellows who are interesting to behold. And the whole point of our existence is therefore to BE, as fully as possible. This may be an argument against the value of divine foreknowledge: if the Creator really wants to listen to us being ourselves, it might spoil the fun if there could be no surprises. )
There is an excerpt of Carse's book availble on the internet that reads like a study guide. I can't recommend it. It is so tersely written that I could only skim it, dipping into random paragraphs in turn, like a set of Confucian analects, rather than continuous reading. I strongly suspect that I am misrepresenting what he has to say. But that's because I'm not as good at silence as I'd like to be, even as a reader.
Lunch yesterday was leftover brisket, personally smoked by my favorite father-in-law. We made it into sandwiches, with rich and sassy barbecue sauce. I strongly suspect I'll have the same thing for lunch today.
Rather, the book praises silence. A particular kind of silence: the expectant silence of a good listener. The silence that lets you speak, share, and perhaps surprise the listener and yourself. I like this kind of listening. I crave this kind of listening. I seek to do this kind of listening ("be the change..."), though I'm not as good at it as I want to be.
It's hard to be a good listener. Most of us want to be God, that is, to be the one with something to say. And so it is hard to stop everything else long enough for someone to actually say something to you. Especially if they don't couch it with entertainment.
One of the most annoying things I do is to complete people's sentences, because I am too impatient to wait for them to finish. Maybe this would be fine if I always got it right. But all too often I don't know where they are going, and my impatience is offputting enough that I miss out on the surprise someone would have given me.
With books and movies and art I usually seek out things that will surprise me, or teach me, or reveal something I haven't noticed before. And with people I often seek out the weirdos and freaks and outcasts who most people wouldn't want to listen to. But with the people I am closest to, I have often done a poor job of letting them actually tell me who they are.
But the need for a good listener is primal. Many of us crave it so much that we become performers, defensively seeking always to entertain so that people will keep listening. I took a job where, periodically, people have to listen to what I say, and it is the most satisfying part of my week. But maybe all I really want is for someone to pay attention.
(Theologically, Carse's argument suggests that God is a benevolent player, creating us as toys/fellows who are interesting to behold. And the whole point of our existence is therefore to BE, as fully as possible. This may be an argument against the value of divine foreknowledge: if the Creator really wants to listen to us being ourselves, it might spoil the fun if there could be no surprises. )
There is an excerpt of Carse's book availble on the internet that reads like a study guide. I can't recommend it. It is so tersely written that I could only skim it, dipping into random paragraphs in turn, like a set of Confucian analects, rather than continuous reading. I strongly suspect that I am misrepresenting what he has to say. But that's because I'm not as good at silence as I'd like to be, even as a reader.
Lunch yesterday was leftover brisket, personally smoked by my favorite father-in-law. We made it into sandwiches, with rich and sassy barbecue sauce. I strongly suspect I'll have the same thing for lunch today.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
returns
Okay, so there's this Batman movie. It has gotten some press. You may have heard of it.
And I so am frustrated with Heath Ledger for spoiling the plan. Christopher Nolan has expressed in interviews that he imagined the thing as a trilogy. And the ambiguous ending of Ledger's character, together with the otherwise-unjustified appearance of the Scarecrow at the beginning of the film, suggests strongly that Ledger was meant to appear in the third film. How dare he succumb to that Olson twin's death-dealing? Grr.
And does anybody else feel like the film was still an origin story? The first movie was clearly an origin story, but this year's model still felt like it spent all but its last few seconds setting up the situation that the director really wants, with Batman all cool and underground and forced into hiding and stuff. Batman was always cooler when he was a loner, hated by the law enforcement establishment (except Gordon, usually), instead of the Super-Friend heroic public figure we get in most of his eras.
Maybe the third film will have him finally set in a world, instead of setting up one. And to me, the world the third film will inhabit (if it keeps moving in the same direction) is awfully similar to the emotional situation for the original "Dark Knight Returns" graphic novel by Frank Miller, minus the futuristic setting.
Sorry for the fanboy post. Just trying to write something rather than nothing.
Breakfast today was English muffin with Promise and syrup, coffee, and a bowl of generic honey nut cheerios, generic grape-nuts, rejected Alpha-Bits and way too much milk (which is probably why the four-year-old rejected the Alpha-Bits).
And I so am frustrated with Heath Ledger for spoiling the plan. Christopher Nolan has expressed in interviews that he imagined the thing as a trilogy. And the ambiguous ending of Ledger's character, together with the otherwise-unjustified appearance of the Scarecrow at the beginning of the film, suggests strongly that Ledger was meant to appear in the third film. How dare he succumb to that Olson twin's death-dealing? Grr.
And does anybody else feel like the film was still an origin story? The first movie was clearly an origin story, but this year's model still felt like it spent all but its last few seconds setting up the situation that the director really wants, with Batman all cool and underground and forced into hiding and stuff. Batman was always cooler when he was a loner, hated by the law enforcement establishment (except Gordon, usually), instead of the Super-Friend heroic public figure we get in most of his eras.
Maybe the third film will have him finally set in a world, instead of setting up one. And to me, the world the third film will inhabit (if it keeps moving in the same direction) is awfully similar to the emotional situation for the original "Dark Knight Returns" graphic novel by Frank Miller, minus the futuristic setting.
Sorry for the fanboy post. Just trying to write something rather than nothing.
Breakfast today was English muffin with Promise and syrup, coffee, and a bowl of generic honey nut cheerios, generic grape-nuts, rejected Alpha-Bits and way too much milk (which is probably why the four-year-old rejected the Alpha-Bits).
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
travellin' through
I finally watched "Transamerica" tonight, and my wife is right. That is just my sort of movie. Humane, cynical about humanity but generous towards humans, and funny little moments about how little we know ourselves and each other.
I have too many commitment issues to get a tattoo; I can hardly imagine what it would be like to desire gender reassignment surgery. Yet the film raises all sorts of useful questions about who we really are, who we pretend to be, the lies we tell one another and ourselves. And the way that most of us just want somebody to see us for once. To pay enough attention to get us. And yet we keep cutting ourselves off from those who might be able to get to know us that well. Because it's dangerous to be close. It's hazardous to let somebody in--because you never know if you can trust them.
And sometimes the most open people in the world can be the most guarded. I think of a Pedro Almodovar movie where the lead character talks about how drag queens are the most natural people in the world because they have constructed their entire nature from scratch. This is not an exact quote.
Anybody interested in constructing some new reality?
Lunch today was Perkins--coffee and this biscuits and sausage gravy platter from a special menu that emphasizes breakfast all day, as if that were not the whole reason I go to Perkins in the first place. Along with all the fatty things, I ordered my scrambled eggs made with Egg Beaters. A drop in the bucket. And did I mention the best condiment of all: really slow service. They seem to have forgotten my order altogether, and the whole rest of the party was almost finished with their meal before I got mine. And it tasted so good because of the embarassment and hunger. Mmm.
I have too many commitment issues to get a tattoo; I can hardly imagine what it would be like to desire gender reassignment surgery. Yet the film raises all sorts of useful questions about who we really are, who we pretend to be, the lies we tell one another and ourselves. And the way that most of us just want somebody to see us for once. To pay enough attention to get us. And yet we keep cutting ourselves off from those who might be able to get to know us that well. Because it's dangerous to be close. It's hazardous to let somebody in--because you never know if you can trust them.
And sometimes the most open people in the world can be the most guarded. I think of a Pedro Almodovar movie where the lead character talks about how drag queens are the most natural people in the world because they have constructed their entire nature from scratch. This is not an exact quote.
Anybody interested in constructing some new reality?
Lunch today was Perkins--coffee and this biscuits and sausage gravy platter from a special menu that emphasizes breakfast all day, as if that were not the whole reason I go to Perkins in the first place. Along with all the fatty things, I ordered my scrambled eggs made with Egg Beaters. A drop in the bucket. And did I mention the best condiment of all: really slow service. They seem to have forgotten my order altogether, and the whole rest of the party was almost finished with their meal before I got mine. And it tasted so good because of the embarassment and hunger. Mmm.
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