3-D Yin Yang

Conversations

“One of the significant features of the dialogical (dialectic) method is that it emphasizes collective, as against solitary, activity. It is through the to and fro of argument amongst friends (or adversaries) that understanding grows (or is revealed). Such philosophical pursuit alongside and within a full education allows humans to transcend their desires and sense in order to attain true knowledge and then to gaze upon the Final Good (Agathon).”

   

http://infed.org/mobi/plato-on-education/

Guardian Angel 06

Lichen near Bronson, Florida

Fun With Words

I am now a fan of “mawkish,” which replaces “corny” for the stuff I like. Maybe the Norse chose “maggot” because they felt that maudlin sentimentality was disgusting. But for me the sickly-sweet flavor of an over-ripe banana is associated with the best things, not the sickening ones.

As a child, I upchucked in the parking lot of a movie theater from excitement over the pleasure to come. 

And on Aunt Allye’s shoes when she told me "the sea dogs were coming to get me" during my first visit to a wild and stormy Atlantic ocean. She was my favorite aunt because she was loving and kind-hearted and embraced her mean streak.

That paragraph was a double digression.  Neither fear (and revenge?) nor admiration for a family role model has anything to do with the theme. But I’ll keep it for now because an iconoclast can’t help but break the rules.

In my adolescence, sexual excitement registered in the stomach as the beating wings of stoned butterflies. Naturally on my wedding night I threw up ... an obvious reaction if you think about it. 

My psyche has been gifted with visceral stirrings in anticipation of bliss.

Dear John,

You are quite correct about that devilish old Facebook. This morning I woke up, scrolled through my friend's posts and landed up here:

The word mawkish is interesting. This word leaped into my poor tired brain after a brief scan of my Facebook newsfeed made me briefly want to hurl. Anyway, it appears to refer to both a schmaltzy emotion and an unpleasant flavor, although there is no emotion or flavor called "mawk." In my very literal brain, if one is going to be mawk-ish, one should have some psychological or gustatory equivalent of "mawk." Turns out we don't have one, (although there is a programming language called Mawk which I have to believe does not inspire either copious weeping or projectile vomiting). So I looked up the derivation of the word and Merriam-Webster thinks it is "probably" derived from the old Norse word for "maggot" although the word was first used in 1697 when presumably most Old Norsemen were long dead. Who revived the word and why? This was post-Old-Norsemen and pre-Facebook. What happened in 1697 that inspired someone to make up a word that can be used to describe both an "insipid" flavor and excessive sentimentality? And why is this word derived from the Old Norse word for fly larvae? Does this presume that the inventor has either sampled fly larvae and found it to be unpleasant or had an emotion which he felt resembled the psychological state of a prepubescent insect?
Note to self: Do not think before coffee. It only brings heartache and brain freeze.

Dear Not John,

There's a diarist on Daily Kos whose handle is Hunter. I wrote him and said I could tell when he was the author of a piece before reading the by-line confirmed it. Your words have the same blend of spirit, wit, bile, profanity, polish and passion. It's a recipe for the kind of language that could save the world if only the politicians would be willing to speak it.

Seems I buried the lead as usual (which may be where it belongs): I love what you said, but you must know by now that Facebook IS of the devil ... aside from the inspiring quotes and cute-as-all-get-out kittens and news from friends flung afar. And then there is Twitter, where the destructive horror of uninhibited, uncensored, anonymous social networking is mitigated by the limitation of 140 characters. To bully or insult one must at least be succinct.

I will bring this to a close as I have a slight ache in my jaw from clenching my teeth during a night disturbed by worries. Did I offend my niece when I wrote her that I really liked her housemate but that although I would be willing to kiss his toes to prove my devotion a blow job is out of the question? Or how the actors would feel and what I'd do if nobody else showed up at a performance of Hamlet I’m going to see this Saturday?

Silly worries. Foolish worries. Trivial worries. There has to be a better way to spend the night. But there’s no better way to spend the morning than to have a raving rant with you.

Not yet a saint

Good morning. This is Thursday, October 23, 2014 and I (who am Not-John) am making my first blog entry on this site.

I am working on my personal and spiritual growth and development. This is a source of great merriment for everyone since, frankly, I am not very good at it.

Here is an example from yesterday:

In times of personal crisis, my children turn to facebook to vent their spleen. I love them, but this is not pretty. Yesterday one of them had a “bad country Western song” moment. If he’d had  enough money for a Margarita, he could have salted it (yea verily) with his tears.

A friend of his made a comment (innocuous so far).

My child made a comment back (it was intended to be funny).

His friend did not grasp the subtleties of a “yo momma” joke.

His friend became righteously indignant about my child’s disrespect for his momma, (who I am sure is a fine woman and would not approve of what I considered a rather emotionally immature response consisting of such choice phrases as “I hope you burn in hell motherfucker. You are a dick.”)

The poor bastard didn’t see it coming. I am on edge. I did not have sufficient coffee in my system to think first and write later. The following is my deeply spiritual response:

“ *Sigh* You know what? I've said this before when there's facebook drama and I will say it again. And D.M. you live in fucking Michigan. You have no idea what is going on here. Your argument is invalid and you can un-friend me if you like. I got enough shit on my hands to start a pig farm without having a pile-on festival. I love my kids - all of them - even when they hate each other. Even when shit gets real. Even when they do things that are dumb. I know I've done plenty of dumb things myself. Just because my dumb things are different from [insert son’s name] dumb things does not make me spiritually superior. I am trying to put out positivity because you do get back what you give out. If you can't say something even remotely useful, stay the hell off my pig farm. You are not helping and I refuse to continue to be everyone's fucking collateral damage. Think for one minute about being a mom or a dad who loves two kids who are at each other's throats over stuff you will never know the whole truth of. Then think about other people in public saying really shitty things and just fanning those flames. You know who gets hurt? Not you. You aren't family and you aren't even in Florida. Who gets hurt is [insert son’s name]’s kids and his mom and dad and the people who are working really hard to bring some light and healing into this situation. THAT is who gets hurt. Your target is just going to get mad. But everyone else around that person feels like they've just been hit with a fucking axe. Because everything we've said or done, every prayer that is being said, every act of kindness and forgiveness we have been working and throwing out to the universe just gets blown to shit. You are not involved. You can sit up in Michigan being self-righteous and not one turd will land in your lap. Good for you. I'm here and I'm dealing with the turds first hand (if you will pardon the pun). Help out or go away. Not your monkeys, not your circus.”

Yup. I said this in a public post. It is clear that I have a little more work to do in order to qualify for sainthood.

Unsubscribe Me.

 

I've given what I can, and I'm getting depressed because money in politics sucks, be it from the wicked big nabobs or us little suckers. Either way, elections are up for sale.

I will continue to vote progressive, and for the lesser of two evils when necessary (the smooth-talking, phony baloney bullshit artist with a good heart over the smooth-talking, phony baloney bullshit artist with no heart). But not much will change until campaign finance is reformed ... which probably means never.

Eyeball Fungus

Dear Miss Standish

Well, now, the shit has hit the fan, has it not? Or as another friend likes to say, “Oh, Lord, there’s another turd in the punchbowl.”

Don’t bother to read the comments on the article, though I expect you already have. Some are snarky.  Some bash the famous film guy. Some are from disappointed film freaks, who enthusiastically support you and the theater.

I’m guessing all the opinions are presumptuous, as we rarely have first-hand knowledge and truth is therefore mostly hearsay. So here’s mine. Relying only on intuition and supposition I came up with these theories, which I think make sense:

1. Film guy is a perverse, cruel, amoral, sadistic, manipulative sociopath. His movies celebrate such people and I never really liked them ... the movies or the characters. (I try to give small credence to physiognomy, but he surely does look the part.)

2. The bad lady is a jealous, passionless, phony LA hipster who is intimidated by your good cheer and enthusiasm ... another sociopath who must sabotage people who remind them of their own deficiencies.

3. Film guy is clueless and believes whatever lie the bad lady tells him.

4. Film guy is fucking the bad lady.

5.  She has the goods on him for blackmail.

If any of these theories holds water it may be that what has happened is a “cosmic boot” ... as Aunt Gail likes to call those times when the universe gives us a painful kick in the ass that forces us out of a situation so that a better one can manifest. 

Who knows? It may actually be best in the long run not having to deal with ugly film guy. Or he may wise up and get one of his sociopathic actor friends to run the bad lady over with his car. Or that this is a kick in the butts of the staff and theater fans. And don’t forget ... they say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.

Whatever the case, know that we are sending positive vibrations your way, along with the firm the belief that you will not only survive, but prevail.

Much love,

Uncle John

Jane and Blanche

This is Shit.

I wrote a blog entry. I didn’t like it. It was OK as therapy, and easy to put in a photo, and maybe well expressed, but it’s not what I want. It’s a conversation that’s fun and exciting. This is just a statement. All about me. The cheese doesn’t want to stand alone.

I took out gender pronouns and named no names in trying to protect the guilty, but should the black Irish bigmouth ever read it her feelings might be hurt. And the Mafia reference would not doubt be problematic. Oh, well. I’m afraid the feelings of family and friends cannot be avoided without editing. Or repercussions from the Illuminati. And that’s self-censorship. And hard work. And counter-productive. Catch 22.

Sometimes people should feel the pain or anger your opinion causes, but ought that be inflicted face to face? I don't want to know if they're hurt or mad, but shouldn't I? And when and when not? And the wisdom to know the difference.

Maybe at some point a website would be the solution. People must sign up to read it and can be disallowed if ... "Danger, danger, Will Robinson!" Or readership by invitation. But flexible websites cost money. Facebook  allows us to accept friend requests or not. But Facebook sucks.

Over-thinking again. All is well. Even when it’s not.

Sporting Hibiscus

Let My Spirit Speak

Last night I went to a birthday party at Indian Shores. The hosts were friends I’d made in junior high school. The honoree was my ex. I rode over with our surviving son. Other guests were a black Irish firebrand with a big mouth, an artist who grew up down the street from me with the gentle spirit of a songbird, and a stunning fashion model of a certain age from a Mafia family.

We grunted and grinned over real Italian spaghetti made by a real Italian, garlic bread made by the atheist bigmouth, an artistic salad made by the artist, the incredible chocolate cake made by the hostess, vanilla ice cream made by the host, and flan made by the white-haired beauty from Mars.

I enjoyed the company, for the affection, and for the conversations about our families and their dysfunctions, corporal punishment, making art, calculus, quantum paradoxes... and the usual books, movies, TV, recipes, and children.

Why are there always friends who bring you down? How do they do it? And why? Sometimes their motive is altruistic. They just want to help ... your health and your nicotine addiction, your baked beans with crisper bacon, your dog with a diet.

More than once I’ve considered taking one in particular off my list. But 45 years prevents it, when that one introduced me to Joplin, Hendrix, Morrison and dope smoking and has had me screaming with laughter many happy times.

Sadly, the years have brought the dreaded constipation. Talk with my son and the artist was about the necessity, and difficulty, of freeing one’s self from inhibition so as to embrace intuition. To shock or evoke disagreement is inevitable when trying to make a cosmic connection to a clear inner voice, and feeling a thought or act of the moment break free.

Inhibiters need not be avoided entirely ... only the toxic few. But to be a member of the inner circle, please do not judge, correct, advise, or suggest a change of course when one is flying in the zone where neither right nor wrong disturbs the currents.