Friends, I've given and I've given, and, frankly, I am given out. I have nothing left to give. My very survival demands a hiatus from all this, and that's what I must take. I was left with no other choice.
I want you to know that I appreciate all your well-wishes. And other words of encouragement. Including one very encouraging, "Attaboy" that someone sent in. I don't know if he knew that Grandpa used to say that to me when I was opening birthday presents or not, but obviously it's a word that touches an important emotional place in my psyche, and so of course I was briefly overcome.
But what would the internet be without a few scurrilous knaves trying to ruin it for everyone else? So naturally I got a few discouraging responses, dissing me and my efforts here. They neither like nor appreciate me, it seems. One called me "clearly developmentally challenged" and ended his missive with several frightening death threats. Of course these are the ones that linger in my memory, much more than the encouraging ones.
I tell myself that's the price of being out there. If you just stay in your shell, no one notices you. But if you have things to say -- and a spirit brimming with insights, as I have -- you feel like you cannot be contained, no matter how many brutes and bullies you have to pass by. It's a lot like what we had to face in school. Organized gangs right there in class making careful note of who raised his hand and who didn't, then beating up the more studious among us. I was bullied into silence from first grade up. It wasn't till college that I offered my first peep since kindergarten, and I have to tell you, it was interesting to finally hear what my voice sounded like in a classroom setting.
So I came here, but now I have to pull back. Not because of bullies but out of sheer exhaustion. I've been plumbing the depths, going deep into realms of intellect both natural and supernatural. That's not an easy thing. Then add to it the strain of putting out my newsletter as well as the real life meetings. I thought I was a people person, but it turns out I'm not really. Let's not do that again. I've been yawning ever since. That means I don't like doing something.
Please let me have this hiatus and spend it in peace. Let me try to get a grip. I promise I will do my best and not let you down.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Much Revealed Before Hiatus
I'm surrounded by drinks. I have a nearly full glass of milk, about 3 inches in a glass of orange juice, and a full, big cup of coffee that was freshly ground. I have them here at my desk like buttons on a dash board. With my keyboard and screen being like the pedals and steering wheel. The milk and orange juice are over here on my left like Paul and George, respectively. And the coffee is on my right like John. That's a lot of drinks!
These are the kinds of details that probably should be kept private. But something compels me to shout them from the rooftop. It could be that there's a little exhibitionist in all of us. Even someone like the bearded lady has the compulsion. The skinniest man, the fattest lady, gorilla girl. I went to a sideshow once that had an 80-year-old woman in a leopard spot bikini and another guy putting needles through the flab on his neck. One of these made me feel faint.
If they can do it, what's going to keep me down on the farm? Have I not feelings too? Am I alone to stew privately in my own juices, forcibly contained by the dictates of ritual purity and family pride? If there's bloodletting to be done -- and our species craves the deed -- wouldn't mine run as deep and red as any other man's? I've set myself up to strut with the best of them. Of course I do it at my level, as any man must. For, as has been revealed, I am the local man. I do the deed at the local level, on my own sod, within my own tiny castle.
Over the years I've revealed much. But now it's time to pull back. Those posts -- if studied -- would fill in many of the blanks, answer many questions about my life, questions, perhaps, you never knew you had. But as you dig, as you explore, the answers will come in quick procession. So that you could say, This thing is true of him, or, This thing is false. I've definitely done my part! (I've overdone it!) Now, somehow, you're going to have to make it on your own. You might yet luck out -- I can't promise it -- and I will be back. Or it might be worse than I originally stated; my hiatus may become permanent retirement. What more can I give? We shall see!
But know this, I really don't want anyone to feel frustrated. Or that I'm being abrupt. Of course I have love for each one of you. If it seems like I'm being selfish, then so be it. But soften it a bit. There's an instinct for self preservation in all of us, and that's all I'm doing. Because I can't be expected to be here all the time, putting these things forth. That would be too much for anyone, including me. Unfortunately there's only so much of me to go around. And when it's gone, it's gone. It's like a rummage sale, quickly picked over and difficult to restock.
Anyway, there's no reason to be dreading the future in such a dramatic way quite yet. I've only been on hiatus -- what? -- two days, this is the third day proper but only the second full day. So that's 2½ days, not very long, certainly not long enough for despair to completely take over. Anything could happen in the next month, or year. I could catch up on my sleep, I could be completely recharged, I could meet a special someone, I could win the lottery. There's no telling what might happen. And in a negative way, too. The brain tumor that I fear I have might actually be there and I'll be gone. They might medicate me and drive away my spirit. I could be a zombie, staggering around the half acre and peeing on fence posts.
The key thing is to give me my space. That's all I'm asking. Let me take this hiatus and see what happens. If I'm back, hooray! If it stretches out and becomes full retirement, then find something in that to brighten your life as well. The thought of retirement is something I like. You get to have a cap with fish hooks and lures on it that says you're retired. And there is a very special license plate for the retired, but I can't remember what it says.
These are the kinds of details that probably should be kept private. But something compels me to shout them from the rooftop. It could be that there's a little exhibitionist in all of us. Even someone like the bearded lady has the compulsion. The skinniest man, the fattest lady, gorilla girl. I went to a sideshow once that had an 80-year-old woman in a leopard spot bikini and another guy putting needles through the flab on his neck. One of these made me feel faint.
If they can do it, what's going to keep me down on the farm? Have I not feelings too? Am I alone to stew privately in my own juices, forcibly contained by the dictates of ritual purity and family pride? If there's bloodletting to be done -- and our species craves the deed -- wouldn't mine run as deep and red as any other man's? I've set myself up to strut with the best of them. Of course I do it at my level, as any man must. For, as has been revealed, I am the local man. I do the deed at the local level, on my own sod, within my own tiny castle.
Over the years I've revealed much. But now it's time to pull back. Those posts -- if studied -- would fill in many of the blanks, answer many questions about my life, questions, perhaps, you never knew you had. But as you dig, as you explore, the answers will come in quick procession. So that you could say, This thing is true of him, or, This thing is false. I've definitely done my part! (I've overdone it!) Now, somehow, you're going to have to make it on your own. You might yet luck out -- I can't promise it -- and I will be back. Or it might be worse than I originally stated; my hiatus may become permanent retirement. What more can I give? We shall see!
But know this, I really don't want anyone to feel frustrated. Or that I'm being abrupt. Of course I have love for each one of you. If it seems like I'm being selfish, then so be it. But soften it a bit. There's an instinct for self preservation in all of us, and that's all I'm doing. Because I can't be expected to be here all the time, putting these things forth. That would be too much for anyone, including me. Unfortunately there's only so much of me to go around. And when it's gone, it's gone. It's like a rummage sale, quickly picked over and difficult to restock.
Anyway, there's no reason to be dreading the future in such a dramatic way quite yet. I've only been on hiatus -- what? -- two days, this is the third day proper but only the second full day. So that's 2½ days, not very long, certainly not long enough for despair to completely take over. Anything could happen in the next month, or year. I could catch up on my sleep, I could be completely recharged, I could meet a special someone, I could win the lottery. There's no telling what might happen. And in a negative way, too. The brain tumor that I fear I have might actually be there and I'll be gone. They might medicate me and drive away my spirit. I could be a zombie, staggering around the half acre and peeing on fence posts.
The key thing is to give me my space. That's all I'm asking. Let me take this hiatus and see what happens. If I'm back, hooray! If it stretches out and becomes full retirement, then find something in that to brighten your life as well. The thought of retirement is something I like. You get to have a cap with fish hooks and lures on it that says you're retired. And there is a very special license plate for the retired, but I can't remember what it says.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
My First Full Day Of Hiatus
It's Easter Sunday. Perhaps there could be no greater day than Easter Sunday to rest from my blogging labors. I didn't pick it like that; it just happened by happenstance, but who knows, maybe it was destined, or at least an unconscious thought in my mind guiding me toward this decision to set the blog aside and go on hiatus. To leave the tomb, as it were, and ascend on high toward a more paradisaical place called "time off." I have entirely left behind this body of death and have been translated into the kingdom of retirement. Free time. To kill time. To make quite an ado about nothing except killing time. To have time off. Time for myself alone.
I know the decision came to me suddenly. But it's just as I said yesterday, I've known it for a while: "I've known it for some time. I knew it weeks ago," were my precise words. But weeks ago I hadn't yet made the decision. Weeks ago I hadn't even knowingly thought of taking this much-needed break. In fact, when I look back weeks ago, I was right in the thick of it, in the midst of the excitement of Old Faithful. There was no real thought of taking a break then, a breather, as I now have taken. And think about it, those were overwhelming days; if anyone needed a break, it was me, but I kept right on chugging along. Or, as the old song has it, I "kept on chooglin,' chooglin', chooglin'"...
I probably shouldn't have "kept on chooglin'" through it all, but I can't really say I regret it that much now. Because the things of those days also seemed right at the time. I can look back in hindsight with the best of them, believe me, but I know how little regrets are good for, because you can't change the past. The key thing is what you do with regrets. You make them productive by projecting them into the future. That is, you consider that you will regret the things coming if if you do them, so you don't do them. That is when a hiatus is demanded!
A hiatus is like a tourniquet on an arm seeping blood; the time to staunch the flow of your precious lifeblood is now before you're completely on empty. And one other illustration, not to belabor the point too much, comes to mind -- a similar figure -- how you can't drive a car on empty for very long. For as we all probably know, without proper fueling, constantly topping off your tank, you can't go far, because fuel is the very lifeblood of your vehicle.
I've been working harder than I should be. To be constantly expected to come up with examples for things like that ... it wears on me. And without a breather, a hiatus, I'll continue to be worn out, dried out, worn ragged, and will barely be able to surmount an honest effort even to stagger to a collapsing point near the finish line. I'll be waving the white flag of surrender long before that terrible point. Like today, or yesterday. Yesterday was when this important step was taken, when I announced my hiatus.
Now I am into the first full day of my break. And it's going great so far, with very few regrets. Please understand. It's not that I don't want to be here. It's just that I can't be. I need to have this time off. Perhaps it won't be forever. I can't make promises.
I know the decision came to me suddenly. But it's just as I said yesterday, I've known it for a while: "I've known it for some time. I knew it weeks ago," were my precise words. But weeks ago I hadn't yet made the decision. Weeks ago I hadn't even knowingly thought of taking this much-needed break. In fact, when I look back weeks ago, I was right in the thick of it, in the midst of the excitement of Old Faithful. There was no real thought of taking a break then, a breather, as I now have taken. And think about it, those were overwhelming days; if anyone needed a break, it was me, but I kept right on chugging along. Or, as the old song has it, I "kept on chooglin,' chooglin', chooglin'"...
I probably shouldn't have "kept on chooglin'" through it all, but I can't really say I regret it that much now. Because the things of those days also seemed right at the time. I can look back in hindsight with the best of them, believe me, but I know how little regrets are good for, because you can't change the past. The key thing is what you do with regrets. You make them productive by projecting them into the future. That is, you consider that you will regret the things coming if if you do them, so you don't do them. That is when a hiatus is demanded!
A hiatus is like a tourniquet on an arm seeping blood; the time to staunch the flow of your precious lifeblood is now before you're completely on empty. And one other illustration, not to belabor the point too much, comes to mind -- a similar figure -- how you can't drive a car on empty for very long. For as we all probably know, without proper fueling, constantly topping off your tank, you can't go far, because fuel is the very lifeblood of your vehicle.
I've been working harder than I should be. To be constantly expected to come up with examples for things like that ... it wears on me. And without a breather, a hiatus, I'll continue to be worn out, dried out, worn ragged, and will barely be able to surmount an honest effort even to stagger to a collapsing point near the finish line. I'll be waving the white flag of surrender long before that terrible point. Like today, or yesterday. Yesterday was when this important step was taken, when I announced my hiatus.
Now I am into the first full day of my break. And it's going great so far, with very few regrets. Please understand. It's not that I don't want to be here. It's just that I can't be. I need to have this time off. Perhaps it won't be forever. I can't make promises.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
I'm Going On Hiatus
Well, dear friends, I suppose you knew it would eventually come, and now it has. The time when I need to pull back a little -- and I hope I get back to it -- and take a breather.
I've been writing this blog faithfully for some years now. Really, it's been a joy. Didn't we rock and roll!? We sure did! LOL, I'm thinking back over some of the gettin'-down here. It's been a blast. A few of you pitched in, and that was good.
And we've grown. I know I've grown. Before I was so shy I really couldn't warm up to any of you. You came around, signed up for my newsletter, then I heard from several of you, letters of encouragement, interesting stuff. There was a couple of real life meetings that went from guarded to awkward; let's not do that anymore. Keep it at the newsletter level -- or just the faithful reader level. I believe I kept it real.
The big problem with real life meetings is ... well, there's lots of problems. My life as seen through the squeezed lens of short blog posts seems thick and rich with excitement and wonder. But when you get to the humdrum of day to day, minute to minute activities, it's not really that great. And the people I met, while they meant well, weren't much better at carrying on a relationship beyond the initial excitement of our meeting. We do a lot of sitting and a lot of personal scratching in these parts and that doesn't translate in company.
But I don't want anyone to think I'm disappointed in you. I'm not. I'd just rather keep things, like I said, at the newsletter level. And now, to be brutal about it, not even that. I need a break and I'm taking one.
Maybe Grandma and I will do some traveling. Maybe we'll take in a few shows. It's her golden years, and I'm getting a little silver myself around the temples. We need to take our time while we have it. Because you know there's another hiatus out there waiting for us all! I mean death. That's the big one. So what you're going to do, you need to do quickly. Time is not waiting. And I can prove it. I made coffee today and it took about seven minutes. Had to rinse the pot, grind the beans, heat the water, mix and stir, then wait and pour. I thought, Wow! Seven minutes of my life is now expended on that very simple task! And I'm expected to go pour my guts out on my blog as well? Which will take me around 20 minutes, plus maybe another 10 minutes editing? Then work on my newsletter? Then decline a few real life meeting requests?
So you can see it's all weighing on me. It's like the weight of the world. And on top of that, it's time to take my dog out. And I have to wait around for her to pee and do her other thing. All this time my life is wasting away. Of course I need a hiatus! The biggest tragedy is that I've waited this long to claim what I need; because I've known it for some time. I knew it weeks ago.
Anyway. This is a tough moment for me. But I want to make a clean break. I'll tell you like I'm telling myself, I'll be back. Let me get some R & R. And you do the same. Don't depend on me to live your life for you. OK? Step out. Live! Have some excitement of your own! You can do it! Promise me. And I'll promise you something, that I'll be thinking of you and all you mean to me. Each one of you is precious. And no one can take that away.
So, farewell. Grandma Slump blog, over and out. ... I'll just let it trail off like that.
I've been writing this blog faithfully for some years now. Really, it's been a joy. Didn't we rock and roll!? We sure did! LOL, I'm thinking back over some of the gettin'-down here. It's been a blast. A few of you pitched in, and that was good.
And we've grown. I know I've grown. Before I was so shy I really couldn't warm up to any of you. You came around, signed up for my newsletter, then I heard from several of you, letters of encouragement, interesting stuff. There was a couple of real life meetings that went from guarded to awkward; let's not do that anymore. Keep it at the newsletter level -- or just the faithful reader level. I believe I kept it real.
The big problem with real life meetings is ... well, there's lots of problems. My life as seen through the squeezed lens of short blog posts seems thick and rich with excitement and wonder. But when you get to the humdrum of day to day, minute to minute activities, it's not really that great. And the people I met, while they meant well, weren't much better at carrying on a relationship beyond the initial excitement of our meeting. We do a lot of sitting and a lot of personal scratching in these parts and that doesn't translate in company.
But I don't want anyone to think I'm disappointed in you. I'm not. I'd just rather keep things, like I said, at the newsletter level. And now, to be brutal about it, not even that. I need a break and I'm taking one.
Maybe Grandma and I will do some traveling. Maybe we'll take in a few shows. It's her golden years, and I'm getting a little silver myself around the temples. We need to take our time while we have it. Because you know there's another hiatus out there waiting for us all! I mean death. That's the big one. So what you're going to do, you need to do quickly. Time is not waiting. And I can prove it. I made coffee today and it took about seven minutes. Had to rinse the pot, grind the beans, heat the water, mix and stir, then wait and pour. I thought, Wow! Seven minutes of my life is now expended on that very simple task! And I'm expected to go pour my guts out on my blog as well? Which will take me around 20 minutes, plus maybe another 10 minutes editing? Then work on my newsletter? Then decline a few real life meeting requests?
So you can see it's all weighing on me. It's like the weight of the world. And on top of that, it's time to take my dog out. And I have to wait around for her to pee and do her other thing. All this time my life is wasting away. Of course I need a hiatus! The biggest tragedy is that I've waited this long to claim what I need; because I've known it for some time. I knew it weeks ago.
Anyway. This is a tough moment for me. But I want to make a clean break. I'll tell you like I'm telling myself, I'll be back. Let me get some R & R. And you do the same. Don't depend on me to live your life for you. OK? Step out. Live! Have some excitement of your own! You can do it! Promise me. And I'll promise you something, that I'll be thinking of you and all you mean to me. Each one of you is precious. And no one can take that away.
So, farewell. Grandma Slump blog, over and out. ... I'll just let it trail off like that.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Imagination #9
Number 9, number 9, number 9, number 9, number 9.
Cue the music, something metallic, rising in volume, with a piercing scream. Skidrow's national anthem pipes in with a police call and sirens. It's another case for the fly by night lawyer, Amestic D'Buse, to get his greedy little paws on. She pulled a knife on him. Both ran out just as everything started crumbling and dissolving.
In a bed on the upper floor, our lady of the night stuffs towels in bed holes to soften the springs. They make an impact. She has a masked man who says strictly, "Do not look upon me in my heat." That's getting technical. What's he got to hide? He likes it blue.
Respectable citizens cruise the entrance to this foul district, peeking down, wondering what there might be to see. Give me one good case of staggering and something reprehensible and I'll be happy. Maybe a mad drunk throwing a chair through a window. How about that pizza place?
I've imagined myself in that one dive, the last one out. Even the lowlifes knew enough to get out. I'd be bellying up to the bar just in time to get the call. "It's for you," and I'm like, Who Knows I'm Here? Then I hear his accusing voice from before, "I know where you go, and I know what you do there." No, no, no, it's my first time!
The neon sign at the fly by night carpet store flickers. Get that sucker fixed! It's pollution. It's mental anguish. It'll give me a seizure if I look at it twice. I wouldn't buy carpet from you. I'd be afraid to sign the papers. I won't sign anything.
What about the pizza from down the street? He kneads the dough like a strangler. With persistence. He's angry. It's rotty. It's scuzzy. He laughs with mania -- that's M-A-N-I-A, so sexy. The oven is open and shut, open and shut, fanning the flames.
Cue the music, something metallic, rising in volume, with a piercing scream. Skidrow's national anthem pipes in with a police call and sirens. It's another case for the fly by night lawyer, Amestic D'Buse, to get his greedy little paws on. She pulled a knife on him. Both ran out just as everything started crumbling and dissolving.
In a bed on the upper floor, our lady of the night stuffs towels in bed holes to soften the springs. They make an impact. She has a masked man who says strictly, "Do not look upon me in my heat." That's getting technical. What's he got to hide? He likes it blue.
Respectable citizens cruise the entrance to this foul district, peeking down, wondering what there might be to see. Give me one good case of staggering and something reprehensible and I'll be happy. Maybe a mad drunk throwing a chair through a window. How about that pizza place?
I've imagined myself in that one dive, the last one out. Even the lowlifes knew enough to get out. I'd be bellying up to the bar just in time to get the call. "It's for you," and I'm like, Who Knows I'm Here? Then I hear his accusing voice from before, "I know where you go, and I know what you do there." No, no, no, it's my first time!
The neon sign at the fly by night carpet store flickers. Get that sucker fixed! It's pollution. It's mental anguish. It'll give me a seizure if I look at it twice. I wouldn't buy carpet from you. I'd be afraid to sign the papers. I won't sign anything.
What about the pizza from down the street? He kneads the dough like a strangler. With persistence. He's angry. It's rotty. It's scuzzy. He laughs with mania -- that's M-A-N-I-A, so sexy. The oven is open and shut, open and shut, fanning the flames.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
The End Of My Imagination?
This is a tough one to write. I've wadded up and thrown away three false starts. I'm up pacing the floor.
I look at my clock clown above my desk, hung on top of my other clown, and see the time is speeding by. The ticking sounds loud. I was in the other room and thought I heard the constant drip drip drip of water somewhere. It turned out to be the clown clock making noise right through the wall. It's maddening and not helping a bit.
Have I reached the end of my imagination? It feels shot, spent, wasted, drained, annihilated, and obliterated. I could continue to do sociological and psychological analysis on my Skidrow obsession. But there's only so far that takes me. This is like a microbiologist looking at fleas in a microscope everyday. They're definitely worth looking at but not everyday.
I'm a little bummed out that I had to see Skidrow crumbling and dissolving. As much as I hate Skidrow on one level, it was actually nice to have it there. I can even envision Skidrow being cleaned up and becoming a tourist attraction. With big plywood pictures of some of its characters and a hole where tourist kids can stick their heads through. Make it fun. But think about it, there's the Skidrow type of person, and he or she would just end up somewhere else to make a new Skidrow, one that the tourists would avoid.
It takes a special kind of brazen person to actually go to Skidrow. And it takes a really creepy person to make it his permanent hangout. But for all that, you want it to be there. It's something you know about. It's something that everyone knows about and likes to peek at. I seriously don't know anyone who is truly disgusted about Skidrow at some level.
As for its crumbling and dissolving, I guess I can take some relief in this truth, that it actually does still exist, because the crumbling and dissolving I saw was only in my imagination. It really is still there. So that's some consolation.
Now that I think of it, why was I so bummed out just because my imagination had the place crumbling and dissolving? I think I got reality and fantasy mixed up! That's weird. But if anyone should know better, it'd have to be me, since I was the person doing the imagining! It does exist! I don't have to imagine it crumbling and dissolving! I can imagine it any old way I want! I can back up and see it not only still there, but thriving! How wonderful! It lives that I may peek another day!
The woman at the end of the bar. She never existed, so she's safe, not crumbled, not dissolved. The two guys playing pool. They don't exist, so they're safe. The same for the bartender. And the pizza guy. He's not the devil; he doesn't even exist. The bartender yet lives to mix drinks tomorrow and every day yet to come!
My imagination lives on! As good as ever!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Imagination Times Two
This is a beautiful situation. It all started with my first imaginary visit to Skidrow. Then I explored the experience from every conceivable angle. I was thinking that might be it for me. That time would be my only taste of glory. From that point on it'd all be commentary.
There would be a certain joy in that. To live vicariously through the experiences of others is time-tested and honorable. It's what the professional historian does. He has no life of his own. He relishes the history that others have made. And of course we know from psychiatry that psychiatrists are constantly troubled by transferring their emotions to their patients and trying, usually in vain, to live in a more exciting fantasy world.
As for myself, if I could have been a librarian or museum curator, I would have been very happy, tinkering with the works of other men or the artifacts of society and culture in general. That is a life of commentary, because it involves a lot of explanation of definite facts and some generally agreed upon theories. But it also allows enough leeway that any fool who's been on the job for a while can make educated guesses and impress the rubes during tours. So you're not entirely tied down.
I could be happy with that, as I say. But since all this relates to my first imaginary visit to Skidrow, which was my own experience, it seems like I would be selling my potential short by merely commenting on it the rest of my life. The obvious question would be: Why not multiply your experiences? Now, after yesterday, I've proven it can be done! Hence my second imaginary visit to Skidrow, which had an excitement all its own. A very special excitement!
I'm just now rereading it. Wow! I wrote that? The thought of everything crumbling and dissolving like that is awesome. Someone might say that's just wish fulfillment. That because I was forbidden by others and my own scruples from going to Skidrow, why not dissolve it to attain victory over the temptation of going there? I won't even going to listen to the suggestion. Skidrow, I will confess, gives me a lot of pleasure. It would be my wish, actually, that Skidrow were much bigger, as it'd give me that much more to wonder at, scold, and avoid. That wouldn't make it a bigger temptation. It's just like how I said I liked to ride by the jail and see the ne'er-do-wells hanging on the bars. It hasn't been the same since they moved to the new jail, took away the public aspect, and instituted strict privacy rights.
I will contend instead that Skidrow crumbled in some way to thwart me from enjoying it. But there is a more objective side to its crumbling that is unrelated to me. The people there know they deserve judgment. So the disappearance of the patrons -- the pool players, the bartender, and the woman -- shows that they have received a word on their judgment, and were wise to escape. This was their true ideal, you see -- they knew better -- but they waited until it was almost too late. I'm stunned at this fact, that these lowlifes knew enough to get out, while I -- this is amazing -- lingered there in ignorance. The way it worked out was such that it seemed like I was destined to survive. But you can't ignore the fact that the crumbling and dissolving took place while I was still on the premises. My fascination was there but not the same conviction of warning that they had. So in that way it did crumble to thwart me.
Now, once we got toward the end of the block we see the flipside of the bar patron's experience. This is the reprobate -- a symbol perhaps of the devil -- who knows it's all dissolving but stays right in the thick of it and even in some real way is responsible for its collapse. My own sense of what's going on in that scene is this, that the scuzzy pizza guy is indeed responsible for the block's demise. But it means that he himself will perish in the collapse. Interesting!
It's really quite the scene. He's "opening and closing the oven repeatedly and laughing." He knows the penalty and hastens it with his rash actions. His laughter shows he's out of his mind in opposition to all that is right and fair. Then I conclude with an interesting italicized "Somehow..." I don't know how he's doing it or even why. But read it again: "Somehow he is destroying the only world he's ever known, this block." Powerful. Powerful stuff.
I love that. "The only world he's ever known." Is he a normal person? Apparently not. If he were normal, wouldn't he have known some other world? He surely would have had parents who didn't live in the pizza parlor. Surely he would have gone to school, and perhaps loved or at least lost at love. How did he wind up as a cook in a pizza parlor? These are questions either to be left to mystery or to be imagined at some point in the future when I'm not quite as exhausted. The way, though, that I say it -- "the only world he's ever known" -- if that's not an exaggeration, and it doesn't sound like it is, clearly preludes his being anywhere else but Skidrow. Is he above history? Is he a symbolic representation of evil? It seems likely, because who among mortals could have such a thing said of him?
Well, I am tired. But I made it. We made it, together! And my first burst of imagination -- my first imaginary visit to Skidrow -- has now met its match, rather its partner with my second imaginary visit to Skidrow. Life definitely goes on ... and I'm loving it!
There would be a certain joy in that. To live vicariously through the experiences of others is time-tested and honorable. It's what the professional historian does. He has no life of his own. He relishes the history that others have made. And of course we know from psychiatry that psychiatrists are constantly troubled by transferring their emotions to their patients and trying, usually in vain, to live in a more exciting fantasy world.
As for myself, if I could have been a librarian or museum curator, I would have been very happy, tinkering with the works of other men or the artifacts of society and culture in general. That is a life of commentary, because it involves a lot of explanation of definite facts and some generally agreed upon theories. But it also allows enough leeway that any fool who's been on the job for a while can make educated guesses and impress the rubes during tours. So you're not entirely tied down.
I could be happy with that, as I say. But since all this relates to my first imaginary visit to Skidrow, which was my own experience, it seems like I would be selling my potential short by merely commenting on it the rest of my life. The obvious question would be: Why not multiply your experiences? Now, after yesterday, I've proven it can be done! Hence my second imaginary visit to Skidrow, which had an excitement all its own. A very special excitement!
I'm just now rereading it. Wow! I wrote that? The thought of everything crumbling and dissolving like that is awesome. Someone might say that's just wish fulfillment. That because I was forbidden by others and my own scruples from going to Skidrow, why not dissolve it to attain victory over the temptation of going there? I won't even going to listen to the suggestion. Skidrow, I will confess, gives me a lot of pleasure. It would be my wish, actually, that Skidrow were much bigger, as it'd give me that much more to wonder at, scold, and avoid. That wouldn't make it a bigger temptation. It's just like how I said I liked to ride by the jail and see the ne'er-do-wells hanging on the bars. It hasn't been the same since they moved to the new jail, took away the public aspect, and instituted strict privacy rights.
I will contend instead that Skidrow crumbled in some way to thwart me from enjoying it. But there is a more objective side to its crumbling that is unrelated to me. The people there know they deserve judgment. So the disappearance of the patrons -- the pool players, the bartender, and the woman -- shows that they have received a word on their judgment, and were wise to escape. This was their true ideal, you see -- they knew better -- but they waited until it was almost too late. I'm stunned at this fact, that these lowlifes knew enough to get out, while I -- this is amazing -- lingered there in ignorance. The way it worked out was such that it seemed like I was destined to survive. But you can't ignore the fact that the crumbling and dissolving took place while I was still on the premises. My fascination was there but not the same conviction of warning that they had. So in that way it did crumble to thwart me.
Now, once we got toward the end of the block we see the flipside of the bar patron's experience. This is the reprobate -- a symbol perhaps of the devil -- who knows it's all dissolving but stays right in the thick of it and even in some real way is responsible for its collapse. My own sense of what's going on in that scene is this, that the scuzzy pizza guy is indeed responsible for the block's demise. But it means that he himself will perish in the collapse. Interesting!
It's really quite the scene. He's "opening and closing the oven repeatedly and laughing." He knows the penalty and hastens it with his rash actions. His laughter shows he's out of his mind in opposition to all that is right and fair. Then I conclude with an interesting italicized "Somehow..." I don't know how he's doing it or even why. But read it again: "Somehow he is destroying the only world he's ever known, this block." Powerful. Powerful stuff.
I love that. "The only world he's ever known." Is he a normal person? Apparently not. If he were normal, wouldn't he have known some other world? He surely would have had parents who didn't live in the pizza parlor. Surely he would have gone to school, and perhaps loved or at least lost at love. How did he wind up as a cook in a pizza parlor? These are questions either to be left to mystery or to be imagined at some point in the future when I'm not quite as exhausted. The way, though, that I say it -- "the only world he's ever known" -- if that's not an exaggeration, and it doesn't sound like it is, clearly preludes his being anywhere else but Skidrow. Is he above history? Is he a symbolic representation of evil? It seems likely, because who among mortals could have such a thing said of him?
Well, I am tired. But I made it. We made it, together! And my first burst of imagination -- my first imaginary visit to Skidrow -- has now met its match, rather its partner with my second imaginary visit to Skidrow. Life definitely goes on ... and I'm loving it!
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
My Imagination Is Going Back In
Yesterday I had a very important choice to make:
I've decided I have no other choice than to double down on that day, not exactly making it a shrine but giving it a special twist, by supplementing it and building on its glory. I think this is the best way for things to work out, because it both pays tribute to my imaginary visit to Skidrow and renews the visit's promise on another day.
Let me hasten things along to save time. At this moment I'm going into a trance. There. It is achieved.
I'm now driving toward my destination. My heart is beating as I approach. I can see the last vestiges of respectable society, businesses that have no reason for shame. They sit on the square as ladies and gentlemen would sit, aware of their natural propriety. But off to the northwest -- ah, there it is -- I see the openings of that block. Here is where I usually drive by slowly in order to peek down it to see if anyone's having troubles. Occasionally you'll see someone stagger or pounding on a parking meter. It's not my desire that people suffer, but it's always good to have someone of high morals observe and reckon it to their account. That might sound holier than thou, but in this present trance, a very heavy one, I am less able to censor my thoughts.
I'm adrift in thought. I hope I'm able just to type this. Yes, fingers on the home row. Everything before me is going slowly. I'm reticent to turn on that block because I know the teaching I got growing up. This block -- Skidrow -- was forever spurned except for peeking.
OK, I'm turning down the street now. Again, the film, as it were, slows to a snail's pace. I'm able to discern the looming buildings with their sordid past. I think once again of the sociology of the lower class losing their stake at the upper class saloon and winding up down here. To plat out their dismal future of pool halls, saloons, brothels, fly by night carpet stores, scuzzy pizza parlors, bail bondsmen, and shady lawyers. The buildings ache with a dreadful history. It's a burden they can't shuck.
I pass the alley and note the garbage can tipped and garbage strewn about. Someone must have been looking for a used needle. To suck off whatever drops of moisture from the drug that everyone else might have missed. The wind back there has trapped a few wads of paper which swirl in a corner.
I'm especially eager to reenter that bar. I get to the front door. It seems to be locked but just a jiggle of the knob allows me to enter. There's no sign of life. But the pool table is just how I left it the other day. Some smoke still drifts around the light but there's not a soul in sight.
I look around. The bartender isn't there, but his wet rag is still on the bar. At the end of the bar, the woman isn't there either, but there's a fresh drink is on the bar as though she just now left it.
I'm in a mental stir at the thought of this. Where'd everyone go? I'm stunned to hear a sudden cracking sound. I look up and rafters are splitting and disintegrating. The bar itself is dissolving. I'm running for the door even as the floor is giving way behind me. Outside I run across the street to my car, as the entire block called Skidrow is caving in, crumbling to dust.
In my car, I gun it. But in the present slow motion movement, I'm barely moving. Fast enough, though, to avoid any judgment. Toward the end of the block I see the scuzzy pizza guy, opening and closing the oven repeatedly and laughing. Somehow he is destroying the only world he's ever known, this block.
I'm shaking my head now, the trance being shaken off. Isn't it remarkable how the people knew enough of their predicament to escape? They were like birds, able to turn without planning it.
Now I have a choice to make. Do I press on toward new imaginary ventures? Or do I fixate so firmly on the last one that my life becomes a shrine to its memory?
I've decided I have no other choice than to double down on that day, not exactly making it a shrine but giving it a special twist, by supplementing it and building on its glory. I think this is the best way for things to work out, because it both pays tribute to my imaginary visit to Skidrow and renews the visit's promise on another day.
Let me hasten things along to save time. At this moment I'm going into a trance. There. It is achieved.
I'm now driving toward my destination. My heart is beating as I approach. I can see the last vestiges of respectable society, businesses that have no reason for shame. They sit on the square as ladies and gentlemen would sit, aware of their natural propriety. But off to the northwest -- ah, there it is -- I see the openings of that block. Here is where I usually drive by slowly in order to peek down it to see if anyone's having troubles. Occasionally you'll see someone stagger or pounding on a parking meter. It's not my desire that people suffer, but it's always good to have someone of high morals observe and reckon it to their account. That might sound holier than thou, but in this present trance, a very heavy one, I am less able to censor my thoughts.
I'm adrift in thought. I hope I'm able just to type this. Yes, fingers on the home row. Everything before me is going slowly. I'm reticent to turn on that block because I know the teaching I got growing up. This block -- Skidrow -- was forever spurned except for peeking.
OK, I'm turning down the street now. Again, the film, as it were, slows to a snail's pace. I'm able to discern the looming buildings with their sordid past. I think once again of the sociology of the lower class losing their stake at the upper class saloon and winding up down here. To plat out their dismal future of pool halls, saloons, brothels, fly by night carpet stores, scuzzy pizza parlors, bail bondsmen, and shady lawyers. The buildings ache with a dreadful history. It's a burden they can't shuck.
I pass the alley and note the garbage can tipped and garbage strewn about. Someone must have been looking for a used needle. To suck off whatever drops of moisture from the drug that everyone else might have missed. The wind back there has trapped a few wads of paper which swirl in a corner.
I'm especially eager to reenter that bar. I get to the front door. It seems to be locked but just a jiggle of the knob allows me to enter. There's no sign of life. But the pool table is just how I left it the other day. Some smoke still drifts around the light but there's not a soul in sight.
I look around. The bartender isn't there, but his wet rag is still on the bar. At the end of the bar, the woman isn't there either, but there's a fresh drink is on the bar as though she just now left it.
I'm in a mental stir at the thought of this. Where'd everyone go? I'm stunned to hear a sudden cracking sound. I look up and rafters are splitting and disintegrating. The bar itself is dissolving. I'm running for the door even as the floor is giving way behind me. Outside I run across the street to my car, as the entire block called Skidrow is caving in, crumbling to dust.
In my car, I gun it. But in the present slow motion movement, I'm barely moving. Fast enough, though, to avoid any judgment. Toward the end of the block I see the scuzzy pizza guy, opening and closing the oven repeatedly and laughing. Somehow he is destroying the only world he's ever known, this block.
I'm shaking my head now, the trance being shaken off. Isn't it remarkable how the people knew enough of their predicament to escape? They were like birds, able to turn without planning it.
Monday, April 6, 2009
A Very Special Imagination
Already, the other day is quickly becoming the past, and as the past, it's no longer fresh in my mind. I'm very busy, hoping to document the details of it before it completely fades from memory. I might need to skip the next few days entirely just to dwell on it in order to accentuate its features more and hopefully keep its memory alive.
Of course I'm very happy that I had that time of imagination; I'm talking about my imaginary visit to Skidrow. But how to preserve and rightfully commemorate it, that is my struggle at this time. For it's those special times that make life worth it, times of inspiration and decisiveness, times of insight and the mind's grandeur. Not like ordinary time. You think of ordinary time and what is it? Solitaire and eating apricots? Stoking the fire? Bringing in the mail? A glass of water? Barely a fit memory in the bunch!
Let's say the next few days are ordinary days. If I take those days and dedicate them to memory of the other day I might keep it closer. Like by studying and making note of that day. What I ate. How I was sitting when the inspiration hit. What the weather was like. How freely the inspiration flowed. If I knew everything about it -- which I will seek to know -- then I might more likely be able to repeat it when I look at the present and see the same conditions. Today's not one of those days. That's why I'm lurching from topic to topic, barely able to find the right word. But that day -- we'll call it inspired -- I was in the grip of something powerful, really thinking the thoughts that are not ordinarily given over to men.
Am I proud of that day? Am I proud of that piece? Well, I do feel proud, but let me back up a minute. Even more I feel humbled, just as I said a moment ago, that I was in the grip of something powerful, and, therefore, wasn't even really myself entirely. I was the tool of higher forces that seem like they were going to have their way whether I was the instrument in their hands or someone else. To be chosen like that, then, is a humbling thing, leaving our ordinary feelings of pride very far behind.
Also, I've paid something of a price for that day. I don't know if you've ever had a day like that. But one thing that happens is that you want to recapture it. You want to remember it in such detail, and preserve it to such an extent that you even seek to give up living in the present moment. You become very past-oriented, to the extent that the precious experiences of life in this moment are wasted. You're always chasing that first high, as it were. And it takes more and more hours in the days following than ever were spent in that first moment. Like this thing with me, it seems like I ought to be able to recapture it very well; I have the same mind, the same heart. What's the hold up? The higher forces? Perhaps, but I'm thinking of them as really just another dimension of myself that is generally obscure. I'm not really thinking of them as higher forces, like some kind of little winged creatures bestowing imagination on me.
Probably what I should be doing is simply letting that other day be past. And instead of chasing its great high, be striving with my imagination toward other glories. With the idea in that being to make all time transformed, worthwhile. To forget the past, then, to remember it? No, not to forget but not to worry about remembering. To make this moment the time in which I excel, then to excel in such a great way that I need to spend three days worrying about this latter time rather than the previous time. I'll know it was worthwhile when it's something that blocks me as this time has, then has to be overcome.
Well, today was definitely a thought piece. And a necessary one. Now I have a choice to make. Do I press on toward new imaginary ventures? Or do I fixate so firmly on the last one that my life becomes a shrine to its memory?
Of course I'm very happy that I had that time of imagination; I'm talking about my imaginary visit to Skidrow. But how to preserve and rightfully commemorate it, that is my struggle at this time. For it's those special times that make life worth it, times of inspiration and decisiveness, times of insight and the mind's grandeur. Not like ordinary time. You think of ordinary time and what is it? Solitaire and eating apricots? Stoking the fire? Bringing in the mail? A glass of water? Barely a fit memory in the bunch!
Let's say the next few days are ordinary days. If I take those days and dedicate them to memory of the other day I might keep it closer. Like by studying and making note of that day. What I ate. How I was sitting when the inspiration hit. What the weather was like. How freely the inspiration flowed. If I knew everything about it -- which I will seek to know -- then I might more likely be able to repeat it when I look at the present and see the same conditions. Today's not one of those days. That's why I'm lurching from topic to topic, barely able to find the right word. But that day -- we'll call it inspired -- I was in the grip of something powerful, really thinking the thoughts that are not ordinarily given over to men.
Am I proud of that day? Am I proud of that piece? Well, I do feel proud, but let me back up a minute. Even more I feel humbled, just as I said a moment ago, that I was in the grip of something powerful, and, therefore, wasn't even really myself entirely. I was the tool of higher forces that seem like they were going to have their way whether I was the instrument in their hands or someone else. To be chosen like that, then, is a humbling thing, leaving our ordinary feelings of pride very far behind.
Also, I've paid something of a price for that day. I don't know if you've ever had a day like that. But one thing that happens is that you want to recapture it. You want to remember it in such detail, and preserve it to such an extent that you even seek to give up living in the present moment. You become very past-oriented, to the extent that the precious experiences of life in this moment are wasted. You're always chasing that first high, as it were. And it takes more and more hours in the days following than ever were spent in that first moment. Like this thing with me, it seems like I ought to be able to recapture it very well; I have the same mind, the same heart. What's the hold up? The higher forces? Perhaps, but I'm thinking of them as really just another dimension of myself that is generally obscure. I'm not really thinking of them as higher forces, like some kind of little winged creatures bestowing imagination on me.
Probably what I should be doing is simply letting that other day be past. And instead of chasing its great high, be striving with my imagination toward other glories. With the idea in that being to make all time transformed, worthwhile. To forget the past, then, to remember it? No, not to forget but not to worry about remembering. To make this moment the time in which I excel, then to excel in such a great way that I need to spend three days worrying about this latter time rather than the previous time. I'll know it was worthwhile when it's something that blocks me as this time has, then has to be overcome.
Well, today was definitely a thought piece. And a necessary one. Now I have a choice to make. Do I press on toward new imaginary ventures? Or do I fixate so firmly on the last one that my life becomes a shrine to its memory?
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The Points Imagination Raises
I've been very focused, giving over my imagination to some of the details in the piece I wrote about my imaginary visit to Skidrow. It arose from my imagination and it provokes my imagination even further, so imagine that!
The men playing pool is only one part of the whole story, of course, as would be the woman at the end of the bar. They are all fascinating characters and we could develop the possible relationships between them. Do they know her? Probably. Have they perhaps developed or shared any deeper times of intimacy? It would be my guess that she hasn't been particular, nor have they. None of them sounds like he or she has maintained a strict sense of hygiene or kept their lusts under wraps. For them it's Live every moment to the max, you're just an animal anyway.
The setting is another part of the story. And I've just been rereading my original piece, reviewing how I set the scene, delving into, hoping to glean what we can from the hopes and dreams, then motives and actions of the various ones responsible for coming up with the block that later came to be called Skidrow. I think I have it exactly right, that you have to originally imagine the place as vacant. Back before there were buildings, like when the Indians lived in this area, you had just nature. Deer probably roamed these parts, rabbits, various scrub bushes sprouted up. Then came the white man, laying out his cities and towns. They started with the businesses you see in westerns, the saloon, the blacksmith, the doctor's office, the sheriff's office.
But if they had saloons, then that would lead to brothels, or at the very least, hotel rooms you could rent for an hour, and right there -- boom -- you've got the foundations of Skidrow. Let's envision it, though. What would make the district later called Skidrow susceptible to such naming? What are the sociological underpinnings to this? My theory would have to be its location in relation to the classier districts.
The classier districts would have higher rent, higher income, a more upscale clientele. But your lower class folks, people more into quickies and a knife to the gut, would have to go somewhere. So they're getting off the train, taking the main path to the classier districts, they lose their money in a card game, they still haven't learned their lesson, they're in a tailspin, they're thirsty, seeking female companionship, wanting to win back their stake, so where can they go? They seek out their fellow losers who've withdrawn from the higher class areas over to the lower rent digs. It's almost automatic; it's scuzzed out just that fast!
I'm coming up with some different conclusions, but these sound right. In my original post, recall, I seemed to have the builders and entrepreneurs building with a sense of ideals, with no apparent idea about what their district would become. But that might need to be nudged a bit. Who would know better than they the socioeconomic dynamics of classy and scuzzy? So you use a shabbier wood, shabbier building products, cut corners, keep it cheap over there, knowing those folks will always be with us.
It's like Skidrow would be the most predictable thing in the world.
The men playing pool is only one part of the whole story, of course, as would be the woman at the end of the bar. They are all fascinating characters and we could develop the possible relationships between them. Do they know her? Probably. Have they perhaps developed or shared any deeper times of intimacy? It would be my guess that she hasn't been particular, nor have they. None of them sounds like he or she has maintained a strict sense of hygiene or kept their lusts under wraps. For them it's Live every moment to the max, you're just an animal anyway.
The setting is another part of the story. And I've just been rereading my original piece, reviewing how I set the scene, delving into, hoping to glean what we can from the hopes and dreams, then motives and actions of the various ones responsible for coming up with the block that later came to be called Skidrow. I think I have it exactly right, that you have to originally imagine the place as vacant. Back before there were buildings, like when the Indians lived in this area, you had just nature. Deer probably roamed these parts, rabbits, various scrub bushes sprouted up. Then came the white man, laying out his cities and towns. They started with the businesses you see in westerns, the saloon, the blacksmith, the doctor's office, the sheriff's office.
But if they had saloons, then that would lead to brothels, or at the very least, hotel rooms you could rent for an hour, and right there -- boom -- you've got the foundations of Skidrow. Let's envision it, though. What would make the district later called Skidrow susceptible to such naming? What are the sociological underpinnings to this? My theory would have to be its location in relation to the classier districts.
The classier districts would have higher rent, higher income, a more upscale clientele. But your lower class folks, people more into quickies and a knife to the gut, would have to go somewhere. So they're getting off the train, taking the main path to the classier districts, they lose their money in a card game, they still haven't learned their lesson, they're in a tailspin, they're thirsty, seeking female companionship, wanting to win back their stake, so where can they go? They seek out their fellow losers who've withdrawn from the higher class areas over to the lower rent digs. It's almost automatic; it's scuzzed out just that fast!
I'm coming up with some different conclusions, but these sound right. In my original post, recall, I seemed to have the builders and entrepreneurs building with a sense of ideals, with no apparent idea about what their district would become. But that might need to be nudged a bit. Who would know better than they the socioeconomic dynamics of classy and scuzzy? So you use a shabbier wood, shabbier building products, cut corners, keep it cheap over there, knowing those folks will always be with us.
It's like Skidrow would be the most predictable thing in the world.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
What A Great Imagination
I'm still wound up -- I haven't unwound yet -- from my imaginary visit to Skidrow a couple days ago. I've looked back at it, what I wrote, well over a hundred times, and each time I'm filled with many different emotions and memories. It touches me to read it, the complexity of the various relationships and settings (1), and yet the simplicity and sparseness of description that allows for the reader to fill in the scene from his or her own imagination.
It's a five star production. Is there room for growth? I'm not saying there's not; progress is good. But I think I did it in such a way that whatever growth I may yet attain will be only for the purpose of making better what is already very excellent. If you haven't read it yet, I urge you to do so. It's really like you're there, and that's what good writing is meant to do. They were right when they said I had imagination; I might add, I also have the wherewithal to do something with it.
A lot of people have an imagination, of course. But look and see if they have the wherewithal to do something with it. In general, they don't. They're stifled at some point. Maybe stage fright, always second guessing themselves, fear of censure. Usually this comes from issues that were first raised during potty training. But it goes on from there, like when they draw a complete blank during tests, or are withdrawn during school dances. Not me. It's just like how I ended yesterday's reflections on the previous day's post, by pumping my fist and shouting "Yeah! Yeah!" It's not just that I can do it, I know I can do it.
When you know you can do something, nothing can stand in your way. I'm the same in, say, climbing. I can climb trees, houses, trellises, up on roofs, up poles, lookout towers, ladders -- you name it. I do have fear, but I term it cautionary fear; I know that a part of good climbing is to respect heights; it's not just to be reckless. Someone reckless can't climb that well because, being likely to fall they're too afraid. There's some value in being reckless, in that you have initial confidence. But when recklessness fails is when that confidence lacks caution. I hew the middle path. That's why I can climb so well. See what I'm saying? You know you can do it. And caution allows you to succeed.
And I think I exercised very reasonable caution when it came to Skidrow. I didn't actually go there, although I confessed I like to drive on the south of that block and peek down it, but I went there in my imagination. I knew I could do it that way; I kept my caution, which kept the danger in check; and I came out with something that has now stood unchallenged (except my own suggested tweaks) for two days. No one has challenged me, because what could they reasonably say?
When I challenge myself it's just to improve what's being done. Progress is something I believe in. I feel this is a very important subject. I shall have more to say.
It's a five star production. Is there room for growth? I'm not saying there's not; progress is good. But I think I did it in such a way that whatever growth I may yet attain will be only for the purpose of making better what is already very excellent. If you haven't read it yet, I urge you to do so. It's really like you're there, and that's what good writing is meant to do. They were right when they said I had imagination; I might add, I also have the wherewithal to do something with it.
A lot of people have an imagination, of course. But look and see if they have the wherewithal to do something with it. In general, they don't. They're stifled at some point. Maybe stage fright, always second guessing themselves, fear of censure. Usually this comes from issues that were first raised during potty training. But it goes on from there, like when they draw a complete blank during tests, or are withdrawn during school dances. Not me. It's just like how I ended yesterday's reflections on the previous day's post, by pumping my fist and shouting "Yeah! Yeah!" It's not just that I can do it, I know I can do it.
When you know you can do something, nothing can stand in your way. I'm the same in, say, climbing. I can climb trees, houses, trellises, up on roofs, up poles, lookout towers, ladders -- you name it. I do have fear, but I term it cautionary fear; I know that a part of good climbing is to respect heights; it's not just to be reckless. Someone reckless can't climb that well because, being likely to fall they're too afraid. There's some value in being reckless, in that you have initial confidence. But when recklessness fails is when that confidence lacks caution. I hew the middle path. That's why I can climb so well. See what I'm saying? You know you can do it. And caution allows you to succeed.
And I think I exercised very reasonable caution when it came to Skidrow. I didn't actually go there, although I confessed I like to drive on the south of that block and peek down it, but I went there in my imagination. I knew I could do it that way; I kept my caution, which kept the danger in check; and I came out with something that has now stood unchallenged (except my own suggested tweaks) for two days. No one has challenged me, because what could they reasonably say?
When I challenge myself it's just to improve what's being done. Progress is something I believe in. I feel this is a very important subject. I shall have more to say.
Friday, April 3, 2009
My Fun Imagination
That was fun -- but I probably don't have to tell you, it was exhausting -- yesterday when I wrote about my imaginary visit to Skidrow. I felt like I was sweating blood. I definitely had a trickle of it on my forehead. There were some scary parts. At one point my nose was running.
My nose has been running in the last hour too. I'm not 100% sure why, because my abilities to diagnose things as a physician are still in their formative stages. Since I'm having olfactory hallucinations, though, the nasal drip is probably related to that. Everything's fairly tame as far as "the hallies" are going. So please don't think you're about to lose me. I haven't had it checked out. But I swear, if I do see any other signs of a brain tumor, I will go to the doctor, or, at the very least, see what I can get for it over the counter.
What I'm doing for it now is simply blowing my nose -- I blew my nose, let's see, about 35 minutes ago. Then there wasn't a waste basket, so I'm thinking, should I just put the tissue anywhere, like here or there? No, I thought, because my room's getting to be a pit, with books and papers and things strewn about. I'm wearing a jacket so I just stuck the tissue in my pocket, thinking I would dispose of it properly when I got near a waste basket, but then when I did I forgot, so I still have it in my pocket.
OK, getting back to my fun imagination. I had the whole thing yesterday of the imaginary trip to Skidrow -- I'm calling it a visit. I've thought of it a hundred times since. I really liked (in a clinical way only) the setting of the bar that I visited in my imagination. I've been wondering if I was too hard on the woman at the end of the bar. I mentioned how soiled and rumpled her dress was, and more than a little insinuated she was a hooker. I called her loose and seemed to suggest that she'd been bed hopping through most of the day. Maybe I shouldn't have layed it on so thick.
Some of the rest -- were I to read it in someone else's imaginary blog -- I might say sounded like a lot of cliches from movies we've all seen. But in my case, since I know what I imagined, I was trying to sidestep the movie cliches. A million of them occurred to me. The guys at the pool table. I could have described them as tattooed, mustachioed, swarthy, sweaty, beady-eyed, greasy-haired, shiftless, disheveled; chalking their sticks repeatedly, pacing around the table looking for angles, using the bridge at key moments in the game; casting menacing shadows from the light above, etc. But I didn't say that. I kept it subtle yet evocative of a thousand images, when I said, simply, "Two lowlifes are busy smacking the balls." That's just right as far as I'm concerned.
If I overdid it at all, it'd have to be with the guy making the pizza at the scuzzy pizza parlor. But I was getting near the end and I think I was just overeager to leave the reader with a memorable image, like a dagger to the heart. A dagger to the heart is something you don't forget. So, yes, rereading it just now...
I can see where I should have ended it, or what could have been excluded easily. Just omit everything from "I'd guess he hates" through "I also happen to be." That's a lot more evocative. Reading it like this I get goosebumps: "Down the block I see the scuzzy pizza parlor. A cook smacks the dough like he's mad at someone. He probably is. There are some very sad thoughts taking place down that block." That's a thing of beauty.
So, that's it for the day. My fun imagination wins out again. [Pumping my fist in the air]. Yeah, yeah!
My nose has been running in the last hour too. I'm not 100% sure why, because my abilities to diagnose things as a physician are still in their formative stages. Since I'm having olfactory hallucinations, though, the nasal drip is probably related to that. Everything's fairly tame as far as "the hallies" are going. So please don't think you're about to lose me. I haven't had it checked out. But I swear, if I do see any other signs of a brain tumor, I will go to the doctor, or, at the very least, see what I can get for it over the counter.
What I'm doing for it now is simply blowing my nose -- I blew my nose, let's see, about 35 minutes ago. Then there wasn't a waste basket, so I'm thinking, should I just put the tissue anywhere, like here or there? No, I thought, because my room's getting to be a pit, with books and papers and things strewn about. I'm wearing a jacket so I just stuck the tissue in my pocket, thinking I would dispose of it properly when I got near a waste basket, but then when I did I forgot, so I still have it in my pocket.
OK, getting back to my fun imagination. I had the whole thing yesterday of the imaginary trip to Skidrow -- I'm calling it a visit. I've thought of it a hundred times since. I really liked (in a clinical way only) the setting of the bar that I visited in my imagination. I've been wondering if I was too hard on the woman at the end of the bar. I mentioned how soiled and rumpled her dress was, and more than a little insinuated she was a hooker. I called her loose and seemed to suggest that she'd been bed hopping through most of the day. Maybe I shouldn't have layed it on so thick.
Some of the rest -- were I to read it in someone else's imaginary blog -- I might say sounded like a lot of cliches from movies we've all seen. But in my case, since I know what I imagined, I was trying to sidestep the movie cliches. A million of them occurred to me. The guys at the pool table. I could have described them as tattooed, mustachioed, swarthy, sweaty, beady-eyed, greasy-haired, shiftless, disheveled; chalking their sticks repeatedly, pacing around the table looking for angles, using the bridge at key moments in the game; casting menacing shadows from the light above, etc. But I didn't say that. I kept it subtle yet evocative of a thousand images, when I said, simply, "Two lowlifes are busy smacking the balls." That's just right as far as I'm concerned.
If I overdid it at all, it'd have to be with the guy making the pizza at the scuzzy pizza parlor. But I was getting near the end and I think I was just overeager to leave the reader with a memorable image, like a dagger to the heart. A dagger to the heart is something you don't forget. So, yes, rereading it just now...
Down the block I see the scuzzy pizza parlor. A cook smacks the dough like he's mad at someone. He probably is. I'd guess he hates himself, at some level. This was my big chance at life, and I ended up on Skidrow, making pizzas for lowlifes, which I also happen to be. There are some very sad thoughts taking place down that block.
I can see where I should have ended it, or what could have been excluded easily. Just omit everything from "I'd guess he hates" through "I also happen to be." That's a lot more evocative. Reading it like this I get goosebumps: "Down the block I see the scuzzy pizza parlor. A cook smacks the dough like he's mad at someone. He probably is. There are some very sad thoughts taking place down that block." That's a thing of beauty.
So, that's it for the day. My fun imagination wins out again. [Pumping my fist in the air]. Yeah, yeah!
Thursday, April 2, 2009
An Imaginary Trip To Skidrow
[The events and descriptions in this article about Skidrow are imaginary. None of my morals was violated in its writing.]
There is a place I never want to go, where I should never go. That is Skidrow, that section of our town, a block, mostly one side of the block, that is given over to derelicts, bars, and fly by night carpet stores.
I used to drive by the jail and look at the prisoners holding on to the barred window. That's another place I never want to go, except to look at prisoners in their misery. When it comes to Skidrow, even though I never want to go there, I still like to drive by and peek down that street to see if anyone's in the gutter.
In this particular trip [which did not really happen], I came toward it from the south and drove down that block. I might describe it like this: It is as though a film was slowed down and my pace became very slow, languid to the point of all noise and happenings in the vicinity being, respectively, like a low growl and only incrementally occurring. The only thing moving at normal speed was me personally, not in progress in my car, but in my mind and my eyes. I could look about rapidly, taking in each detail. I could process the information thus received with blazing speed.
First, I look at the buildings. It occurs to me that they must have been built by actual optimistic builders. Carpenters, bricklayers. Was it their dream to build what would later become such a scuzzy part of town? I doubt it. They would have been contracted to do the work based on the investments of one or more entrepreneurs at the time, who had their individual hopes for what the district would be.
The entrepreneurs' primary goal would surely have been to make money, either with their own businesses in the area or by renting and possibly selling the buildings to other merchants. Whether it would make a difference to them what the businesses were and what sort of place it became in time, of course I can't say entirely. But just as there are scumbags in our present generation, it's reasonable to assume that some of these entrepreneurs (and merchants) of that earlier time were also scumbags.
Let's just say it up front. Any man who wishes to open a brothel, just to mention one business, is a scuzzy guy. The same goes for plenty of these lowlife businesses that polite society wishes would go away and not exist. Bail bondsmen, bars, fly by night carpet stores, tattoo parlors, brothels, pool halls, very rundown pizza parlors, fences, drug runners -- it's enough to make my skin crawl. Vermin businesses. The buildings are shabby. There's a tipped over garbage can in the alley.
In this imaginary drive, I see some of the denizens of this district, coming out of bars, patting each other on the back. One guy has his right leg behind him, his foot on the building. He smokes.
I direct my eyes on this one bar and imagine myself going in. There's a cigarette setting on the side of a pool table. Smoke drifts up and confuses the light. Two lowlifes are busy smacking the balls. The bartender wipes glasses. He stands in front of many bottles of liquor. A loose woman with a low, husky voice sits at the other end. She looks up at the TV, sometimes paying attention to a professional wrestling show. Usually she's worrying that glass, almost drunk down to the ice cubes, and alternately puffing at a "ciggie." It's like she's waiting for someone, like she probably does several times a day. I notice the dress is rumpled and not clean. There are other patrons working through their paychecks, receiving liquor by the drink.
Down the block I see the scuzzy pizza parlor. A cook smacks the dough like he's mad at someone. He probably is. I'd guess he hates himself, at some level. This was my big chance at life, and I ended up on Skidrow, making pizzas for lowlifes, which I also happen to be. There are some very sad thoughts taking place down that block.
There is a place I never want to go, where I should never go. That is Skidrow, that section of our town, a block, mostly one side of the block, that is given over to derelicts, bars, and fly by night carpet stores.
I used to drive by the jail and look at the prisoners holding on to the barred window. That's another place I never want to go, except to look at prisoners in their misery. When it comes to Skidrow, even though I never want to go there, I still like to drive by and peek down that street to see if anyone's in the gutter.
In this particular trip [which did not really happen], I came toward it from the south and drove down that block. I might describe it like this: It is as though a film was slowed down and my pace became very slow, languid to the point of all noise and happenings in the vicinity being, respectively, like a low growl and only incrementally occurring. The only thing moving at normal speed was me personally, not in progress in my car, but in my mind and my eyes. I could look about rapidly, taking in each detail. I could process the information thus received with blazing speed.
First, I look at the buildings. It occurs to me that they must have been built by actual optimistic builders. Carpenters, bricklayers. Was it their dream to build what would later become such a scuzzy part of town? I doubt it. They would have been contracted to do the work based on the investments of one or more entrepreneurs at the time, who had their individual hopes for what the district would be.
The entrepreneurs' primary goal would surely have been to make money, either with their own businesses in the area or by renting and possibly selling the buildings to other merchants. Whether it would make a difference to them what the businesses were and what sort of place it became in time, of course I can't say entirely. But just as there are scumbags in our present generation, it's reasonable to assume that some of these entrepreneurs (and merchants) of that earlier time were also scumbags.
Let's just say it up front. Any man who wishes to open a brothel, just to mention one business, is a scuzzy guy. The same goes for plenty of these lowlife businesses that polite society wishes would go away and not exist. Bail bondsmen, bars, fly by night carpet stores, tattoo parlors, brothels, pool halls, very rundown pizza parlors, fences, drug runners -- it's enough to make my skin crawl. Vermin businesses. The buildings are shabby. There's a tipped over garbage can in the alley.
In this imaginary drive, I see some of the denizens of this district, coming out of bars, patting each other on the back. One guy has his right leg behind him, his foot on the building. He smokes.
I direct my eyes on this one bar and imagine myself going in. There's a cigarette setting on the side of a pool table. Smoke drifts up and confuses the light. Two lowlifes are busy smacking the balls. The bartender wipes glasses. He stands in front of many bottles of liquor. A loose woman with a low, husky voice sits at the other end. She looks up at the TV, sometimes paying attention to a professional wrestling show. Usually she's worrying that glass, almost drunk down to the ice cubes, and alternately puffing at a "ciggie." It's like she's waiting for someone, like she probably does several times a day. I notice the dress is rumpled and not clean. There are other patrons working through their paychecks, receiving liquor by the drink.
Down the block I see the scuzzy pizza parlor. A cook smacks the dough like he's mad at someone. He probably is. I'd guess he hates himself, at some level. This was my big chance at life, and I ended up on Skidrow, making pizzas for lowlifes, which I also happen to be. There are some very sad thoughts taking place down that block.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Pull The Plug
Pull the plug. The patient is dead. The patient is barely breathing. All hope seems about gone. He's slipping away. He's looking to the left, where dying people always look. Or to the right, where they sometimes look. He's clawing at the air. His eyes are rolled back in his head.
I'm looking down. I can hear the death rattle. That tells you something, that his air flow is restricted. Too much gunk somewhere. The lungs are like breathing sacks, but if they're full of mucous they can't move freely. The death rattle takes place when the fullness is nearly complete, when suctioning doesn't do any good because the production of harmful byproducts is too great.
I'm looking down. Thinking how it always goes with them. They're in a bad way. It raises a question. I always have this question. Why do we talk about "they" and "them"? It's the same as in our nature. We're all wired to fail. The system can't go on. Everything's in a state of permanent decay. I've got cavities in my teeth. I've probably got free-floating rogue cells too. The doctor's not really checking you entirely. He taps your knee and sees your reflexes are OK. That means you're OK.
I look right at the cranium, the forehead area, about at the hairline or an inch or so above the hairline. Where is the soul going to exit? Will it be going through that spot, or more from the back of the head? We don't know, except my intuition tells me it's one of those places. Maybe the center of the head. Definitely the head. Unless it's somewhere else. They weighed a body and determined the soul weighs .0010 of an ounce.
I stare into the closed eyes of the dying man. I concentrate. I send the rays of concentration. I try to communicate with the soul without speaking. "Soul, hear me. Be released."
A nurse comes in. "Follow the light!" she says loudly. "Go to Jesus!" she says. She actually said that. "We'll get along OK," a family member says. "Don't worry." "We love you."
Someone steps in to moisten his lips. You don't want to die with dry lips. I don't know anyone who would.
I'm looking down. I can hear the death rattle. That tells you something, that his air flow is restricted. Too much gunk somewhere. The lungs are like breathing sacks, but if they're full of mucous they can't move freely. The death rattle takes place when the fullness is nearly complete, when suctioning doesn't do any good because the production of harmful byproducts is too great.
I'm looking down. Thinking how it always goes with them. They're in a bad way. It raises a question. I always have this question. Why do we talk about "they" and "them"? It's the same as in our nature. We're all wired to fail. The system can't go on. Everything's in a state of permanent decay. I've got cavities in my teeth. I've probably got free-floating rogue cells too. The doctor's not really checking you entirely. He taps your knee and sees your reflexes are OK. That means you're OK.
I look right at the cranium, the forehead area, about at the hairline or an inch or so above the hairline. Where is the soul going to exit? Will it be going through that spot, or more from the back of the head? We don't know, except my intuition tells me it's one of those places. Maybe the center of the head. Definitely the head. Unless it's somewhere else. They weighed a body and determined the soul weighs .0010 of an ounce.
I stare into the closed eyes of the dying man. I concentrate. I send the rays of concentration. I try to communicate with the soul without speaking. "Soul, hear me. Be released."
A nurse comes in. "Follow the light!" she says loudly. "Go to Jesus!" she says. She actually said that. "We'll get along OK," a family member says. "Don't worry." "We love you."
Someone steps in to moisten his lips. You don't want to die with dry lips. I don't know anyone who would.
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