In the world of the dreamer there is solitude: all the exaltations and joys came in a moment of preparation for living. They took place in solitude. But with action came anxiety and the sense of insuperable effort made match the dream, and with that came weariness, discouragement and the flight into solitude again. And then in solitude, in the opium den of remembrance, the possibility of pleasure again.
The above quote is from Anais Nin's Children of the Albatross. I first heard it in the opening footage of Incubus' tour documentary dvd, Look Alive. Brandon Boyd reads those words over a montage of video clips of the band members enjoying some free time, surfing, skate boarding, spending time with pets, re-charging themselves before coming back together to work through all the preparation necessary to launch a world tour. Brandon compares the feeling of Nin's quote to the "daunting" effort involved in preparing to hit the road. I find I can apply those words to my own life, as well, especially lately with all the details I'm having to plow through in making the decision whether or not to buy Shaharazade's.
The restaurant. Well. At this point, things are moving very slowly. It's tricky because I haven't told my current employer, so I can't make phone calls while I'm at work. I called in sick Friday a week ago (I actually was sick) and took advantage of the time to call a financial planner, then on Saturday I spent the afternoon with a neighbor who once owned an ice cream shop/cafe, then that Sunday I went up to Shaharazade's for breakfast and had the chance to introduce myself to the wife/owner (up till this time I've only talked to the husband/owner). I think she was a bit peeved because she had just stopped in to collect her husband so they could go to church and I caught her on her way out the door. Oh well. Then, on Monday, I called a bank loan officer to discuss what's required to apply for a loan and what some of my options might be, and called a second financial planner as a possible alternative to the first. On Thursday, I sent the owners of Shaharazade's an e-mail with a looong list of questions about the business and a request for their financial statements. But this is where it gets really hard for me. All of the phone calls wear me out, I'm just not used to talking that much and having to answer question after question, much less think of the questions I need to be asking. And anything financial is stressful for me, so I'm fighting my own resistance to dealing with this part of the situation. I keep telling myself, though, that if I can't handle the financial process of obtaining the restaurant, what on earth will I do if it becomes mine and I'm responsible for all of it? So this process is a good test. If I can buck up and get through everything I have to deal with (figuring out whether I can afford it, getting a loan, working with a lawyer and the current owners on a contract, fixing up my condo, renting my condo, finding a new place to live, learning the restaurant biz), then I would hopefully be able to deal with anything that comes at me once I'm a "restauranteur".
This past weekend was a serious struggle against Nin's "weariness, discouragement, and the flight into solitude". It's very easy for me to get stressed and frustrated and begin to feel that I should just forget this whole thing and stick with my boring, meaningless, yet very stable and well-paying, job. And then I get frustrated with that. On top of that, I've been needing to get out on my bike or to wander in the woods or something. I've really lost my connection to the outdoors over the last few months and that's having a bad effect. The cold I picked up the week before last triggered some extreme asthma symptoms and I've been coughing and wheezing since then. In spite of that, I was determined to get out and ride on Sunday because all last week the weather forecast was for sunshine and 60 degrees that day. On Saturday while I was at work, though, things turned around and it ended up raining all day Sunday. So instead of riding my bike, I watched tv (I had never seen Bridges of Madison County before. Damned sad movie, and the wrong thing for me to have watched on that particular day), went for a drive to get some lunch (at a very cool place called Beans in the Belfry), then came home and watched more tv and tried not to dissolve into anxiety-induced tears. I should have forced myself to do yoga or some other form of exercise, but between feeling so fucking blah because of stress and the weather, and still having some breathing issues, it was way too easy to just be a morose lump instead.
And on top of everything else, I've had a couple of slaps in the face lately that contributed to my being so shaken up over the weekend. I've mentioned before how much I love to drive, and how obeying the speed limit is something I don't love to do. This has caused me trouble before, back in my early twenties, when I received a warning from the MVA that I had too many points on my license. Since then, I'd fallen into a pattern of getting speeding tickets just far enough apart that points from the last ticket were almost ready to fall off my license. I've been slipping up the last year or so, though, and got another one of those little warnings from the MVA. Then, last month, I got two tickets over the course of one weekend, one of them courtesy of a brand-spanking new camera set-up in the small town of Poolesville. The irony is that small towns and residential areas are just about the only places in which I do normally obey speed limits. I received notice of the camera-generated ticket just this past Saturday, and paranoid visions of some MD traffic judge cutting up my driver's license contributed to Sunday's black mood. And, of course, I had to go out and drive to feel better. (Seriously, does anyone know if there's a such thing as Speed-Demon's Anonymous?)
The other factor contributing to a state of dukkha on that day was logging into my bank's website and finding out that some fucking moron had somehow gotten ahold of my check card number and used it to rack up charges of over $700 to Sprint (I don't have phone or any other kind of service through Sprint) and The Children's Place (I certainly don't have any children). So I called customer service and they immediately invalidated my check card, before I'd had the chance to pay any of my bills on-line or make it to the ATM to withdraw any money. Fortunately, grocery-store bank branches are open on Sunday (genius idea on someone's part) so I was able to get some cash. But this was just one more bit of anxiety I didn't need to deal with. Especially when finances are very much on my mind. Having something like that in my banking record might not work in my favor at a time when I'm going to be applying for loans, y'know?
So, I've been struggling to continue taking action and not revert back to Nin's world of the dreamer. In moving beyond that "preparation for living", I'm having to face so many issues I'd rather avoid and so many stresses of my own making. And consequence is one hell of a bitch.
Consequence
Blink and you miss a beat,
Keep one of your eyes open at all times.
Think that you're on the brink?
The shit hasn't even begun to hit the fan.
Consequence, you'll see, will be
stranger than a gang of drunken mimes.
Situation has a stink,
Better clear the air before your son
becomes a man.
Blink, everything's been augmented,
You've been left so far behind.
I think, for sure, next time you should
wear a pair of eyes in the back of your head.
Consequence, you've seen, has been
stranger than sci-fi of any kind.
Situation baffles me,
I guess it's true you too are one of
the walking dead.
You better think fast!
Cause' you never know what's comin'
around the bend.
You better not blink!
For consequence is a bigger word
than you think.
It's bigger than you or me.
April 7, 2008
March 16, 2008
Redefining moments
It's been an interesting two weeks since I wrote about Shaharazade's being up for sale. A handful of days in Florida for a work-related software convention gave me the opportunity to visit family and talk to my parents about the situation. They were very encourgaging and proved to be a good sounding board off of which to bounce my thoughts. I came away with an extensive list of questions to ask the current owners, and a feeling of confidence that I might actually be able to handle such a potentially crazy enterprise. At this point, it all hinges on the question at the top of that list I've put together: What was the current owner's personal income from the restaurant last year? If it's an amount I could comfortably live on, then I'm going to begin the process of pursuing this. Trouble is, these people are hard to get ahold of. Messages to the e-mail address at the shop's website have all bounced back and phone messages left with staff have been slow to be passed on. Through a few conversations this morning, though, I learned the following:
-- The owners apparently don't spend much time in the shop, as their daughter runs it for them. I know that the husband/owner usually stops in on Sunday mornings, so I planned to have breakfast there today. Of course, I just missed him and his daughter wasn't working, but I was told that my phone messages had been passed on.
-- The owner of a store down the street gave me the low-down on the restaurant's kitchen-- It's supposedly so tiny that they have propane-powered heating elements instead of a stove. Considering the quality of their food, that knowledge (if it's accurate) gives me profound admiration for the kitchen staff. It also tipped me off to what's probably one of the greatest challenges of running the place.
-- Another shop owner, of the awesomely funky Lost Dog coffee shop (my second favorite place in Shepherdstown), informed me that the husband/owner of Shaharazade's is also the town mayor, which gives me another possible avenue of contact.
I also made sure to walk past the realty office that's advertising the restaurant and get their phone number. So, I'm hopeful of talking to someone this week. With my luck, I'll find out that they've already accepted another offer, but at this point even that would be a relief. See, I'm following my typical pattern on this: Once I get an idea or a desire in my head, I grasp it tenaciously and become obsessed and impatient to see it through to fruition. And if that impatience goes on too long, I either become excited and slip into irrationality, or discouraged and blow the whole thing off. Since talking to my parents, it's been more of the former than the latter. I've been allowing myself to visualize life as the owner of Shaharazade's, and to wonder about such things as where I'd end up living if this comes to pass (and yes, I've already googled rental properties in the area). At the moment, I can feel the physical manifestation of that anxious excitement-- an intermittent tightness in my chest as if a fist were wrapped around my sternum and trying to yank it out from between my ribs. It's unsettling, to say the least. No wonder I have such issues with dukkha. But I'm trying my damndest to squelch the grasping and remain calm until I can get enough information to rationally decide whether to move forward or just let go.
In the meantime, I've been exploring that feeling of confidence that began in Florida, as well as just where I am at this point in my life. It's not that I'm generally lacking in confidence (I've been known to occasionally border on arrogance. Yes, me. Really!), but the growing realization that I'm at a crossroads and that I need to step out of complacency into something unknown has led me to a questioning state of soul-searching that challenges my self-assurance. I'm a slave to stability. I've had only three full-time jobs in my life. I spent 7 years at the first and only left because the company went bankrupt. After 9 years at the second job, I faced a situation similar to what I'm experiencing now, except that I ended up completely despising that job and crying in the car during morning commutes until I found my current position. In September I'll have been at this job for 9 years, so I'm apparently coming up on my version of the "Seven (or so) Year Itch". That's apparently my life-change cycle. Roughly every seven to nine years, I go through the same round of questions: What and how much can I handle? What and how much am I willing to handle? Is this [idea that I'm pursuing] the right direction for me? If I decide that it's not, or if it just doesn't work out, what else do I want to/am able to do? Will this choice drag me to the depths, or will it bring out latent strengths buried by complacency? Just how do I want to re-define myself?
Redefine
Imagine your brain as a canister filled with ink,
now think of your body as the pen where the ink resides.
Fuse the two, KAPOW! What are you now?
You're the human magic marker, won't you please surprise my eyes?
It's in your nature, you can paint whatever picture you like,
no matter what Ted Koppel says on channel 4 tonight.
So modify this third rock from the sun,
by painting myriads of pictures with the colors of the one.
I'm sick of painting in black and white
My pen is dry and I'm all uptight
So sick of limiting myself to fit your definition
Picture the scene, where whatever you thought
would, in the blink of an eye, manifest and become illustrated.
You'd be sure, man, that every line drawn reflected a life that you loved
not an existence that you hated.
So, must we demonstrate that we can't get it straight?
We've painted a picture, now we're drowning in the paint.
Figure out what the fuck it's about,
before the picture we painted chews us up and spits us out.
I'm sick of painting in black and white
My pen is dry and I'm all uptight
So sick of limiting myself to fit your definition
Redefine
All of this has put my head in a whirl and created a hell of a distraction, which is obvious by the way I've just been babbling. And of course, it's affecting me at work. It was very hard to focus at the convention in Florida. There were moments when I was seriously interested in what I was learning and how I could apply it at work, but just as many others when I was day-dreaming and thinking of questions to ask the owners of Shaharazade's.
I did have one moment of peace, though. The convention takes place at a resort/convention center in St. Pete Beach, which is not a bad spot considering that it's Florida. It's right on the beach (and I lucked into a room with a view) about a mile and a half up from the somewhat fabulous Don Cesar hotel. Tradition at this convention includes an after-dinner stroll down the beach for drinks at the Don's swanky bar. Up till this year I'd resisted that tradition, but this time around I decided that I should finally see the place. If you're into 100 year old cognac and expensive cigars, it's your kinda place. Me, I had two ginger ales, said my goodnights to the group, and headed out to the beach to stroll back to the resort alone.
After the chaos of three days with family, a whirlwind of software seminars, and the Big Issue I've been pondering, that solitary night-time walk along the Gulf of Mexico was wonderfully refreshing. I passed a few other people, but none walked as close to the water as I chose to. About halfway along, I caught up with a group of sandpipers scuttling along the edge of the surf. I followed them for a while, losing sight of them against the water in the dim light, then glimpsing them again as they ran from the tide flowing up the beach. Farther along, just before the spot where I needed to turn away and head up to the resort, was a heron stalking along through the breakers. He was engrossed in hunting and ignored me as I squatted on the sand to watch him. How he was able to see anything in that dark water is beyond me. To me, he was barely more than a long, pale silhouette against the grey and black gradients of flat sea, horizon, and midnight sky above. But observing his focus and determination served to center me, however briefly, and I hope to hold on to the image when I feel that damned fist closing around my sternum.
-- The owners apparently don't spend much time in the shop, as their daughter runs it for them. I know that the husband/owner usually stops in on Sunday mornings, so I planned to have breakfast there today. Of course, I just missed him and his daughter wasn't working, but I was told that my phone messages had been passed on.
-- The owner of a store down the street gave me the low-down on the restaurant's kitchen-- It's supposedly so tiny that they have propane-powered heating elements instead of a stove. Considering the quality of their food, that knowledge (if it's accurate) gives me profound admiration for the kitchen staff. It also tipped me off to what's probably one of the greatest challenges of running the place.
-- Another shop owner, of the awesomely funky Lost Dog coffee shop (my second favorite place in Shepherdstown), informed me that the husband/owner of Shaharazade's is also the town mayor, which gives me another possible avenue of contact.
I also made sure to walk past the realty office that's advertising the restaurant and get their phone number. So, I'm hopeful of talking to someone this week. With my luck, I'll find out that they've already accepted another offer, but at this point even that would be a relief. See, I'm following my typical pattern on this: Once I get an idea or a desire in my head, I grasp it tenaciously and become obsessed and impatient to see it through to fruition. And if that impatience goes on too long, I either become excited and slip into irrationality, or discouraged and blow the whole thing off. Since talking to my parents, it's been more of the former than the latter. I've been allowing myself to visualize life as the owner of Shaharazade's, and to wonder about such things as where I'd end up living if this comes to pass (and yes, I've already googled rental properties in the area). At the moment, I can feel the physical manifestation of that anxious excitement-- an intermittent tightness in my chest as if a fist were wrapped around my sternum and trying to yank it out from between my ribs. It's unsettling, to say the least. No wonder I have such issues with dukkha. But I'm trying my damndest to squelch the grasping and remain calm until I can get enough information to rationally decide whether to move forward or just let go.
In the meantime, I've been exploring that feeling of confidence that began in Florida, as well as just where I am at this point in my life. It's not that I'm generally lacking in confidence (I've been known to occasionally border on arrogance. Yes, me. Really!), but the growing realization that I'm at a crossroads and that I need to step out of complacency into something unknown has led me to a questioning state of soul-searching that challenges my self-assurance. I'm a slave to stability. I've had only three full-time jobs in my life. I spent 7 years at the first and only left because the company went bankrupt. After 9 years at the second job, I faced a situation similar to what I'm experiencing now, except that I ended up completely despising that job and crying in the car during morning commutes until I found my current position. In September I'll have been at this job for 9 years, so I'm apparently coming up on my version of the "Seven (or so) Year Itch". That's apparently my life-change cycle. Roughly every seven to nine years, I go through the same round of questions: What and how much can I handle? What and how much am I willing to handle? Is this [idea that I'm pursuing] the right direction for me? If I decide that it's not, or if it just doesn't work out, what else do I want to/am able to do? Will this choice drag me to the depths, or will it bring out latent strengths buried by complacency? Just how do I want to re-define myself?
Redefine
Imagine your brain as a canister filled with ink,
now think of your body as the pen where the ink resides.
Fuse the two, KAPOW! What are you now?
You're the human magic marker, won't you please surprise my eyes?
It's in your nature, you can paint whatever picture you like,
no matter what Ted Koppel says on channel 4 tonight.
So modify this third rock from the sun,
by painting myriads of pictures with the colors of the one.
I'm sick of painting in black and white
My pen is dry and I'm all uptight
So sick of limiting myself to fit your definition
Picture the scene, where whatever you thought
would, in the blink of an eye, manifest and become illustrated.
You'd be sure, man, that every line drawn reflected a life that you loved
not an existence that you hated.
So, must we demonstrate that we can't get it straight?
We've painted a picture, now we're drowning in the paint.
Figure out what the fuck it's about,
before the picture we painted chews us up and spits us out.
I'm sick of painting in black and white
My pen is dry and I'm all uptight
So sick of limiting myself to fit your definition
Redefine
All of this has put my head in a whirl and created a hell of a distraction, which is obvious by the way I've just been babbling. And of course, it's affecting me at work. It was very hard to focus at the convention in Florida. There were moments when I was seriously interested in what I was learning and how I could apply it at work, but just as many others when I was day-dreaming and thinking of questions to ask the owners of Shaharazade's.
I did have one moment of peace, though. The convention takes place at a resort/convention center in St. Pete Beach, which is not a bad spot considering that it's Florida. It's right on the beach (and I lucked into a room with a view) about a mile and a half up from the somewhat fabulous Don Cesar hotel. Tradition at this convention includes an after-dinner stroll down the beach for drinks at the Don's swanky bar. Up till this year I'd resisted that tradition, but this time around I decided that I should finally see the place. If you're into 100 year old cognac and expensive cigars, it's your kinda place. Me, I had two ginger ales, said my goodnights to the group, and headed out to the beach to stroll back to the resort alone.
After the chaos of three days with family, a whirlwind of software seminars, and the Big Issue I've been pondering, that solitary night-time walk along the Gulf of Mexico was wonderfully refreshing. I passed a few other people, but none walked as close to the water as I chose to. About halfway along, I caught up with a group of sandpipers scuttling along the edge of the surf. I followed them for a while, losing sight of them against the water in the dim light, then glimpsing them again as they ran from the tide flowing up the beach. Farther along, just before the spot where I needed to turn away and head up to the resort, was a heron stalking along through the breakers. He was engrossed in hunting and ignored me as I squatted on the sand to watch him. How he was able to see anything in that dark water is beyond me. To me, he was barely more than a long, pale silhouette against the grey and black gradients of flat sea, horizon, and midnight sky above. But observing his focus and determination served to center me, however briefly, and I hope to hold on to the image when I feel that damned fist closing around my sternum.
March 2, 2008
Synchronicity, or just a pipe dream?
Main Entry: pipe dream
Function: noun
Etymology: 1896, from the fantasies brought about by the smoking of opium
Definition: an illusory or fantastic plan, hope, or story
So, a few weeks ago I followed one of my favorite routines of cruising up to Shepherdstown, WV, for tea and breakfast at Shaharazade's. Afterwards, I went for a stroll through town. Shep'town appears at first glance to be just one more tiny little historic country town, with a tiny little main street of slightly crumbling historic buildings. But a closer look reveals that the street-level of those buildings is full of some pretty chi-chi shops and restaurants, and at least three of those store-fronts are home to realty offices that plaster their windows with very expensive listings, which I normally ignore because I think it's disgusting that housing should cost that much, even if it is historic. I have the impression that much of the staff of Shepherd University (after which the town is named) and the visiting parents of many of the students apparently have significant disposable income, and the town seems happy to oblige them.
So, anyway, after breakfast on that particular day a few weeks ago, one of those listings jumped out and grabbed my attention as I was walking by. Being offered for a mere (relatively speaking) $75,000 was my beloved Shaharazade's! In the following weeks, I inquired of the staff when I was there and left phone messages for the owners, but got no information. This morning, though, I was there again and one of the owners came in just as I was finishing my meal. I had been hoping for just such an opportunity and chatted with him for a bit. It seems that, even though the business is doing just fine, there are too many other issues going on in his and his wife's lives and something had to give. They're apparently semi-retired and decided to take away the "semi-" part in order to have time to deal with things.
I've been thinking about this a lot. I probably wouldn't be if I weren't going through this phase of being dissatisfied with both my job and where I live, but I am fed up with both and so very ready for a change. But...
1) I'd have to sell my condo to have the money to do this. I could probably, possibly, find a place to rent for a decent price out thataways (an hour or so farther west of DC), but to get a decent price for my condo I'd have to throw several thousand dollars into fixing it up. Even then, the current housing market situation means that I wouldn't get anywhere near what I could have a few years ago, or what I might if I waited for this economic slump to end. I'm guessing, in it's current state, I could get more than double the price of the restaurant, but less than triple. Would that be enough to buy the business, find a place to live, and make the venture successful? And then there's the timing of it all to consider. Who knows how long my condo would take to sell? Would the owners of Shaharazade's wait that long? Or would I have to take out a loan and then pray that the condo sold quickly? Could I even take out a loan for that amount before selling the condo?
2) Even more importantly, I know jack-shit about the restaurant industry. I've got a quarter-century in luxury retailing under my belt, including sales, management and administration, and I'm sure some portion of that knowledge and experience would translate into running a restaurant. But what about the rest? There's so much I don't know, and that's the part that scares the bejeezus out of me. The place comes with all equipment, inventory, staff, etc, and the current owner is willing to assist whomever takes over. But I have no idea how long the learning curve would be. I've read Anthony Bourdain's books, and I've heard the horror stories from that industry. What if I were to take this plunge and have it fail in less than a year? What the hell would I do then?
Not to mention the fact that Shaharazade's is my sanctuary, the place that I've run to these many months when I've needed a serene, comfortable place to read, write, think, and escape. If I were to take over the business, how long would it take for it to turn from calm sanctuary to stressful nightmare?
So I've spent the past couple of weeks wondering whether this is one of those synchronous opportunities I wrote about so recently, or just a crazy, unrealistic, impractical pipe dream. How the hell to tell? There are just too many questions. Could someone out there please tell me whether or not I'm a lunatic to consider this with any degree of seriousness? Or could I actually make this work? Is this a leap I should take, or would I just end up screwing myself?
Where's a fucking Magic 8-Ball when I need it?
While I'm stuck here driving myself to distraction over this little fantasy of mine, here's some Incubus for y'all to chew on:
Pendulous Threads
Mend this careless thread, it’s gone askew.
(Thread on my sweater is pendulous, step back & pull it.
Watch it unravel faster than a speeding bullet.)
Or pull & see how much we can undo.
(Thread on my sweater is pendulous, step back & pull it.
Watch it unravel faster than a speeding bullet.)
On a burning bridge, your options are minimal at best.
Depending on where you’re standing
& how much breath is in your chest.
If it came down to it
would you high-tail home & hide?
Or dance on fire & enjoy the ride?
Mend this careless thread, it’s gone askew.
(Thread on my sweater is pendulous, step back & pull it.
Watch it unravel faster than a speeding bullet!)
Or pull & see how much we can undo.
(Thread on my sweater is pendulous, step back & pull it.
Watch it unravel faster than a speeding bullet!)
At the heart of it all,
that innermost, your fiery core,
there’s an amassing armor
& it’s building you into a bore.
Life’s a match in a gas tank,
don’t ever mourn the ebbing tide,
just dance on fire & enjoy the ride!
Hey!
(Chorus)
Function: noun
Etymology: 1896, from the fantasies brought about by the smoking of opium
Definition: an illusory or fantastic plan, hope, or story
So, a few weeks ago I followed one of my favorite routines of cruising up to Shepherdstown, WV, for tea and breakfast at Shaharazade's. Afterwards, I went for a stroll through town. Shep'town appears at first glance to be just one more tiny little historic country town, with a tiny little main street of slightly crumbling historic buildings. But a closer look reveals that the street-level of those buildings is full of some pretty chi-chi shops and restaurants, and at least three of those store-fronts are home to realty offices that plaster their windows with very expensive listings, which I normally ignore because I think it's disgusting that housing should cost that much, even if it is historic. I have the impression that much of the staff of Shepherd University (after which the town is named) and the visiting parents of many of the students apparently have significant disposable income, and the town seems happy to oblige them.
So, anyway, after breakfast on that particular day a few weeks ago, one of those listings jumped out and grabbed my attention as I was walking by. Being offered for a mere (relatively speaking) $75,000 was my beloved Shaharazade's! In the following weeks, I inquired of the staff when I was there and left phone messages for the owners, but got no information. This morning, though, I was there again and one of the owners came in just as I was finishing my meal. I had been hoping for just such an opportunity and chatted with him for a bit. It seems that, even though the business is doing just fine, there are too many other issues going on in his and his wife's lives and something had to give. They're apparently semi-retired and decided to take away the "semi-" part in order to have time to deal with things.
I've been thinking about this a lot. I probably wouldn't be if I weren't going through this phase of being dissatisfied with both my job and where I live, but I am fed up with both and so very ready for a change. But...
1) I'd have to sell my condo to have the money to do this. I could probably, possibly, find a place to rent for a decent price out thataways (an hour or so farther west of DC), but to get a decent price for my condo I'd have to throw several thousand dollars into fixing it up. Even then, the current housing market situation means that I wouldn't get anywhere near what I could have a few years ago, or what I might if I waited for this economic slump to end. I'm guessing, in it's current state, I could get more than double the price of the restaurant, but less than triple. Would that be enough to buy the business, find a place to live, and make the venture successful? And then there's the timing of it all to consider. Who knows how long my condo would take to sell? Would the owners of Shaharazade's wait that long? Or would I have to take out a loan and then pray that the condo sold quickly? Could I even take out a loan for that amount before selling the condo?
2) Even more importantly, I know jack-shit about the restaurant industry. I've got a quarter-century in luxury retailing under my belt, including sales, management and administration, and I'm sure some portion of that knowledge and experience would translate into running a restaurant. But what about the rest? There's so much I don't know, and that's the part that scares the bejeezus out of me. The place comes with all equipment, inventory, staff, etc, and the current owner is willing to assist whomever takes over. But I have no idea how long the learning curve would be. I've read Anthony Bourdain's books, and I've heard the horror stories from that industry. What if I were to take this plunge and have it fail in less than a year? What the hell would I do then?
Not to mention the fact that Shaharazade's is my sanctuary, the place that I've run to these many months when I've needed a serene, comfortable place to read, write, think, and escape. If I were to take over the business, how long would it take for it to turn from calm sanctuary to stressful nightmare?
So I've spent the past couple of weeks wondering whether this is one of those synchronous opportunities I wrote about so recently, or just a crazy, unrealistic, impractical pipe dream. How the hell to tell? There are just too many questions. Could someone out there please tell me whether or not I'm a lunatic to consider this with any degree of seriousness? Or could I actually make this work? Is this a leap I should take, or would I just end up screwing myself?
Where's a fucking Magic 8-Ball when I need it?
While I'm stuck here driving myself to distraction over this little fantasy of mine, here's some Incubus for y'all to chew on:
Pendulous Threads
Mend this careless thread, it’s gone askew.
(Thread on my sweater is pendulous, step back & pull it.
Watch it unravel faster than a speeding bullet.)
Or pull & see how much we can undo.
(Thread on my sweater is pendulous, step back & pull it.
Watch it unravel faster than a speeding bullet.)
On a burning bridge, your options are minimal at best.
Depending on where you’re standing
& how much breath is in your chest.
If it came down to it
would you high-tail home & hide?
Or dance on fire & enjoy the ride?
Mend this careless thread, it’s gone askew.
(Thread on my sweater is pendulous, step back & pull it.
Watch it unravel faster than a speeding bullet!)
Or pull & see how much we can undo.
(Thread on my sweater is pendulous, step back & pull it.
Watch it unravel faster than a speeding bullet!)
At the heart of it all,
that innermost, your fiery core,
there’s an amassing armor
& it’s building you into a bore.
Life’s a match in a gas tank,
don’t ever mourn the ebbing tide,
just dance on fire & enjoy the ride!
Hey!
(Chorus)
February 24, 2008
On Smile Lines and loving-kindness
A few mental ramblings that came to me while wandering through the woods today. As is so often the case, it began with a song...
Smile Lines or, High School Never Ends
Met my match today
Felt the blood rushing and mingling
A curious and enigmatic thing
Now spiders in my dreams...
Synchronicity weaves like a web when
You were meant to be a meal!
I want you bad!
I want you bad!
I understand why they say,
"High school never ends"
I'll never act my age
But you can tell by the lines in my smile
That I have been around for awhile
So, insecurities
Are about as useful as trying
To put the pin back in the grenade
I want you bad!
I want you bad!
I understand why they say,
"High school never ends"
This isn't coincidence
There's no such thing
This isn't coincidence, no
This isn't coincidence
It's no such thing.
This isn't, no...
I want you bad!
I want you bad!
I understand why they say,
"High school never ends"
My interpretation of these lyrics is that Brandon's speaking to some woman he's met and to whom he's intensely attracted. And that's fine. As such, it's a perfectly respectable boy-meets-girl type of rock song, with the typical Boyd-esque twist that Incubus fans know and love. But disregard the chorus and there's so much more to it. Looking between the lines of lust to those references to synchronicity and insecurity is a great jumping off point for mental meanderings.
I've discussed synchronicity a bit recently with various friends, and it's something that I wonder about often. But what exactly is it?
Synchronicity, since Jung's introduction of the concept in 1951, has remained among the most original and controversial ideas in analytical psychology and, at times, one of the most difficult to grasp. The title of Jung's work on the subject, Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle, provides the term's definition: Synchronicity is a principle that links events acausally, that is, in terms of the subjective meaningfulness of the coincidence, rather than by cause and effect. Thus, understanding synchronicity and synchronistic events requires a way of thinking almost entirely foreign to Western culture, a way of thinking that does not separate the physical world from interior psychic events. The phrase that often occurs with regard to Jung's concept of synchronicity is unus mundus, Latin for "one world". Synchronicity requires that one consider the world a unified field in which subject and object are fundamentally one, two different manifestations of the same reality.
(A Guided Tour of the Collected Works of C.G. Jung, Robert H. Hopcke)
So, where do we draw the line between coincidence and synchronicity? How do we know when something's truly synchronous and when it's just chance? Is it ever really just chance? I've come to the conclusion that coincidences are what's left of those "curious and enigmatic" moments that we notice yet do nothing with. If we take something from it, if we use the moment as a springboard of some kind, then it's synchronicity. You just have to be aware enough to realise it.
Did you ever observe to whom the accidents happen? Chance favors only the prepared mind. -- Louis Pasteur
"I'll never act my age..." Every now and again, I stop to think about the fact that I'm addicted to a band made up of people significantly younger than me, the majority of whose fanbase is even younger than them, and I wonder whether I should feel weird about that. There are times when it does feel curious to be so inspired by the wisdom of someone younger. Aren't I supposed to be the wiser? And I often feel a definite generation gap when reading posts at the Incubus forum. I frequently sense that many of the people who post there are going through that "I'm cooler than thou (and I'm working so hard to maintain that cool!)" phase that I know I went through in my 20's. At this point, I just don't worry anymore about being cool or accepted. "Insecurities are about as useful as trying / to put the pin back in the grenade" If I post something there that brands me as a dork, if I'm too eager in expressing my appreciation for the band, so what? "You can tell by the lines in my smile / that I have been around for a while" and I've earned the right to be a doofus when I wanna be. I'd like to think that I'm too busy watching out for synchronous events to bother with trying to be cool.
While sitting in the woods scribbling my thoughts on the song above, I found some notes for another blog I'd planned to post a while back that never came to fruition. But now's as good a time as any. On another rambling day, I did post that I'd begun reading Brad Warner's book Sit Down and Shut Up and that I couldn't wait to find out his take on the Buddhist concept of metta, or loving-kindness. Most of the descriptions of metta that I've read have given me serious pause. This one particular concept has been the hardest thing for me to grasp about Buddhism. The traditional Western translation, "loving-kindness" is the stumbling block. It reminds me of that bumper sticker that reads "Practice random kindness and senseless acts of beauty." I think of folks with that bumper sticker as 'random senseless' people, and I don't really wanna be one of them. I want to be able to maintain my off-beat, sometimes cynical, sense of humor and my curmudgeonliness. I also, though, want to be able to treat other people with respect, occasionally even graciousness. So, when I got to the chapter in SD/SU in which Brad addresses metta, he blew me away.
Up until reading SD/SU, I had apparently only been exposed to a small part of the Metta Suttra. There are entire meditation practices devoted to this particular suttra, and the recommended mantra goes along these lines:
"May all beings be happy,
may all beings be secure,
may all beings be happy minded and
may their hearts be wholesome."
But Warner took it one step further. Reading his chapter on metta was the first time I'd ever seen the entire suttra:
This is what should be accomplished by the one who is wise,
who seeks the good and has obtained peace:
Let one be strenuous, upright and sincere, without pride,
easily contented and joyous;
Let one not be submerged by the things of the world;
Let one not take upon oneself the burden of riches;
Let one's senses be controlled;
Let one be wise but not puffed up;
Let one not desire great posessions even for one's family;
Let one do nothing that is mean or that the wise would reprove.
May all beings be happy.
May they be joyous and live in safety.
All living beings, whether weak or strong, in high or middle or low realms of existence, small or great, visible or invisible, near or far, born or to be born, may all beings be happy.
Let no one deceive another, nor despise any being in any state; let none by anger or hatred wish harm to another.
Even as a mother at the risk of her life watches over and protects her only child, so with a boundless mind should one cherish all living things, suffusing love over the entire world, above, below and all around without limit; so let one cultivate an infinite goodwill toward the whole world.
Standing or walking, sitting or lying down, during all one's waking hours let one cherish the thought that this way of living is best in the world.
Abandoning vain discussion, having a clear vision, freed from sense appetites, one who is made perfect will never again know rebirth in the cycle of creation of suffering for ourselves or for others.
Ok, so I can kind of understand why most books and magazine articles don't usually print the entire thing. It's freaking long. But focusing only on the brief wish that "may all beings be happy, etc" leaves out all that great stuff about how you get to the point of being able to wish such a thing for all those beings who, basically, act like assholes much of the time. And Warner uses a different translation for metta:
The word metta is hard to translate and is usually given as "loving-kindness". "Benevolence" may be a better translation, since it's a little less drippy sounding.
Thank you, Brad, oh so much. And, since the book is basically an explanation of the Zen Buddhism taught by the 13th century monk Dogen, he goes on to mention that, in all of Dogen's writing, the Metta Suttra is never mentioned. Apparently, Dogen preferred to teach compassion instead of love, and boiled that practice down to four basic elements: free giving, kind speech, helpful conduct, and cooperation. The trick to following these prescriptions is, of course, to remember that we're all here trying to accomplish the same thing-- a happy life. In that sense, we're all one, as in Jung's unus mundus. Like synchronicity, metta "requires that one consider the world a unified field in which subject and object are fundamentally one, two different manifestations of the same reality".
There's a lot to strive for in living according to the Metta Sutra, but goodwill and benevolence are way easier for me to reach towards than "loving-kindness". So, to anyone who's bothered to read this far: May you be happy, secure, and wholesome (even if you are one of those 'random senseless' goofballs).
Smile Lines or, High School Never Ends
Met my match today
Felt the blood rushing and mingling
A curious and enigmatic thing
Now spiders in my dreams...
Synchronicity weaves like a web when
You were meant to be a meal!
I want you bad!
I want you bad!
I understand why they say,
"High school never ends"
I'll never act my age
But you can tell by the lines in my smile
That I have been around for awhile
So, insecurities
Are about as useful as trying
To put the pin back in the grenade
I want you bad!
I want you bad!
I understand why they say,
"High school never ends"
This isn't coincidence
There's no such thing
This isn't coincidence, no
This isn't coincidence
It's no such thing.
This isn't, no...
I want you bad!
I want you bad!
I understand why they say,
"High school never ends"
My interpretation of these lyrics is that Brandon's speaking to some woman he's met and to whom he's intensely attracted. And that's fine. As such, it's a perfectly respectable boy-meets-girl type of rock song, with the typical Boyd-esque twist that Incubus fans know and love. But disregard the chorus and there's so much more to it. Looking between the lines of lust to those references to synchronicity and insecurity is a great jumping off point for mental meanderings.
I've discussed synchronicity a bit recently with various friends, and it's something that I wonder about often. But what exactly is it?
Synchronicity, since Jung's introduction of the concept in 1951, has remained among the most original and controversial ideas in analytical psychology and, at times, one of the most difficult to grasp. The title of Jung's work on the subject, Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle, provides the term's definition: Synchronicity is a principle that links events acausally, that is, in terms of the subjective meaningfulness of the coincidence, rather than by cause and effect. Thus, understanding synchronicity and synchronistic events requires a way of thinking almost entirely foreign to Western culture, a way of thinking that does not separate the physical world from interior psychic events. The phrase that often occurs with regard to Jung's concept of synchronicity is unus mundus, Latin for "one world". Synchronicity requires that one consider the world a unified field in which subject and object are fundamentally one, two different manifestations of the same reality.
(A Guided Tour of the Collected Works of C.G. Jung, Robert H. Hopcke)
So, where do we draw the line between coincidence and synchronicity? How do we know when something's truly synchronous and when it's just chance? Is it ever really just chance? I've come to the conclusion that coincidences are what's left of those "curious and enigmatic" moments that we notice yet do nothing with. If we take something from it, if we use the moment as a springboard of some kind, then it's synchronicity. You just have to be aware enough to realise it.
Did you ever observe to whom the accidents happen? Chance favors only the prepared mind. -- Louis Pasteur
"I'll never act my age..." Every now and again, I stop to think about the fact that I'm addicted to a band made up of people significantly younger than me, the majority of whose fanbase is even younger than them, and I wonder whether I should feel weird about that. There are times when it does feel curious to be so inspired by the wisdom of someone younger. Aren't I supposed to be the wiser? And I often feel a definite generation gap when reading posts at the Incubus forum. I frequently sense that many of the people who post there are going through that "I'm cooler than thou (and I'm working so hard to maintain that cool!)" phase that I know I went through in my 20's. At this point, I just don't worry anymore about being cool or accepted. "Insecurities are about as useful as trying / to put the pin back in the grenade" If I post something there that brands me as a dork, if I'm too eager in expressing my appreciation for the band, so what? "You can tell by the lines in my smile / that I have been around for a while" and I've earned the right to be a doofus when I wanna be. I'd like to think that I'm too busy watching out for synchronous events to bother with trying to be cool.
While sitting in the woods scribbling my thoughts on the song above, I found some notes for another blog I'd planned to post a while back that never came to fruition. But now's as good a time as any. On another rambling day, I did post that I'd begun reading Brad Warner's book Sit Down and Shut Up and that I couldn't wait to find out his take on the Buddhist concept of metta, or loving-kindness. Most of the descriptions of metta that I've read have given me serious pause. This one particular concept has been the hardest thing for me to grasp about Buddhism. The traditional Western translation, "loving-kindness" is the stumbling block. It reminds me of that bumper sticker that reads "Practice random kindness and senseless acts of beauty." I think of folks with that bumper sticker as 'random senseless' people, and I don't really wanna be one of them. I want to be able to maintain my off-beat, sometimes cynical, sense of humor and my curmudgeonliness. I also, though, want to be able to treat other people with respect, occasionally even graciousness. So, when I got to the chapter in SD/SU in which Brad addresses metta, he blew me away.
Up until reading SD/SU, I had apparently only been exposed to a small part of the Metta Suttra. There are entire meditation practices devoted to this particular suttra, and the recommended mantra goes along these lines:
"May all beings be happy,
may all beings be secure,
may all beings be happy minded and
may their hearts be wholesome."
But Warner took it one step further. Reading his chapter on metta was the first time I'd ever seen the entire suttra:
This is what should be accomplished by the one who is wise,
who seeks the good and has obtained peace:
Let one be strenuous, upright and sincere, without pride,
easily contented and joyous;
Let one not be submerged by the things of the world;
Let one not take upon oneself the burden of riches;
Let one's senses be controlled;
Let one be wise but not puffed up;
Let one not desire great posessions even for one's family;
Let one do nothing that is mean or that the wise would reprove.
May all beings be happy.
May they be joyous and live in safety.
All living beings, whether weak or strong, in high or middle or low realms of existence, small or great, visible or invisible, near or far, born or to be born, may all beings be happy.
Let no one deceive another, nor despise any being in any state; let none by anger or hatred wish harm to another.
Even as a mother at the risk of her life watches over and protects her only child, so with a boundless mind should one cherish all living things, suffusing love over the entire world, above, below and all around without limit; so let one cultivate an infinite goodwill toward the whole world.
Standing or walking, sitting or lying down, during all one's waking hours let one cherish the thought that this way of living is best in the world.
Abandoning vain discussion, having a clear vision, freed from sense appetites, one who is made perfect will never again know rebirth in the cycle of creation of suffering for ourselves or for others.
Ok, so I can kind of understand why most books and magazine articles don't usually print the entire thing. It's freaking long. But focusing only on the brief wish that "may all beings be happy, etc" leaves out all that great stuff about how you get to the point of being able to wish such a thing for all those beings who, basically, act like assholes much of the time. And Warner uses a different translation for metta:
The word metta is hard to translate and is usually given as "loving-kindness". "Benevolence" may be a better translation, since it's a little less drippy sounding.
Thank you, Brad, oh so much. And, since the book is basically an explanation of the Zen Buddhism taught by the 13th century monk Dogen, he goes on to mention that, in all of Dogen's writing, the Metta Suttra is never mentioned. Apparently, Dogen preferred to teach compassion instead of love, and boiled that practice down to four basic elements: free giving, kind speech, helpful conduct, and cooperation. The trick to following these prescriptions is, of course, to remember that we're all here trying to accomplish the same thing-- a happy life. In that sense, we're all one, as in Jung's unus mundus. Like synchronicity, metta "requires that one consider the world a unified field in which subject and object are fundamentally one, two different manifestations of the same reality".
There's a lot to strive for in living according to the Metta Sutra, but goodwill and benevolence are way easier for me to reach towards than "loving-kindness". So, to anyone who's bothered to read this far: May you be happy, secure, and wholesome (even if you are one of those 'random senseless' goofballs).
February 22, 2008
I really need to begin reading my spam e-mail more often
Received this today at work:
_____________________________________________________________________________
Primacy is accorded to synchronic linguistics, and diachronic linguistics is defined as the study of successive synchronic stages. Saussure's clear demarcation, however, is now seen to be idealised. In practice, a purely synchronic linguistics is not possible for any period before the invention of the gramophone.
$1000 in Gambling Chips
The findings of historical linguistics are often used as a basis for hypotheses about the groupings and movements of peoples, particularly in the prehistoric period. In practice, however, it is often unclear how to integrate the linguistic evidence with the archaeological or genetic evidence. For example, there are a large number of theories concerning the homeland and early movements of the Proto-Indo-Europeans, each with their own interpretation of the archaeological record.
Get it Here: http://www.magiefeu.info
The sociolinguist William Labov famously recorded the change in pronunciation in a relatively short period in the American resort of Martha’s Vineyard and showed how this was the result of social tensions and processes.[1] Even in the relatively short time that broadcast media have been available, we can observe the difference between the ‘marked’ pronunciation of the newsreaders of the 1940s and the 1950s and the more neutral, ‘unmarked’ pronunciation of today. The greater acceptance and fashionability of regional accents in the media may also reflect a more democratic, less formal society.
Fascinating stuff, huh?
February 19, 2008
Entering the Nebula
Over the weekend, I began reading The Artist's Way, A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity (Julia Cameron). My friend Leo has been telling me about this program for a few months and I couldn't make up my mind whether I was willing to check it out or not. I tend to shy away from anything that could be classified as "New Age" or "self-help". I'm just too much of a cynical pragmatist for most of that stuff. But various things that Leo told me about this really struck a chord. So when I happened to see a copy one day when we were in a nifty used bookstore in Baltimore, the moment spurred and I added the book to my purchase.
Unfortunately, it then sat on my desk for weeks while I went through my recent brain-dead "my job sucks and kittehs turned my brain to mush" period. As much as the idea of it appealed to me, it sounded like work and that made me apprehensive because I am, after all, a natural-born sloth. Over this past weekend, though, I finally dragged the book out to Shaharazade's with me and began reading through it.
Within the first two pages of the introduction, Cameron snagged me. She begins by discussing how The Artist's Way is a spiritual path to unblocking our natural creativity and this, of course, requires references to that word I have such issue with: "God". She immediately acknowledges, though, that many people might have these issues and encourages an open mind:
Remind yourself that to succeed in this course, no god concept is necessary. In fact, many of our commonly held god concepts get in the way. Do not allow semantics to become one more block for you. (Right there, she spoke directly to me)
When the word God is used in these pages, you may substitute the thought good orderly direction or flow. What we are talking about is a creative engergy. God is useful shorthand for many of us, but so is Goddess, Mind, Universe, Source, and Higher Power... The point is not what you name it. The point is that you try using it. For many of us, thinking of it as a form of spiritual electricity has been a very useful jumping-off place.
Aaahh, I can handle that. Bless her for getting that out of my way right off the bat. From that point on, I had my highlighter out and was dog-earing pages left and right. From there, she moves into describing the tools of the program, the first of which is referred to as morning pages. The idea is to sit down first thing every morning and write three pages of stream-of-consciousness for the purpose of clearing out the mental cobwebs. This writing becomes both a meditation and an opportunity for the right brain (the artistic side) to get a little exercise. The morning pages are a place to confront our internal Censor (our left brain) and come to terms with it, to let the Censor know that, as much as we appreciate it's efforts to protect us from shame and ridicule, we're ready to chance those things for the sake of allowing our artistic side a creative release.
I, of course, have yet to actually do any morning pages, but I'm working up to it. Really, I am.
Also, of course, reading this stuff immediately triggered the Incubus connection. That band has come to represent to me the epitomy of creativity. The five of them seem to continuously be creating some form of art, from Mike Einzinger's orchestral work-in-progress, to Ben Kenney's solo albums and recent tour with bandmate Chris Kilmore, to Jose Pasillas' painting... to Brandon Boyd. What does Brandon not do, artistically? The man sings, obviously, and writes the wonderful poetry that is Incubus' song lyrics. But the guy also plays a mean djembe, as well as a bit of guitar (admittedly badly); paints and draws; snaps great photos; and writes. In addition to creating albums and touring with Incubus, he's participated in at least one art show and has produced two books of artwork and journalistic scribblings. It wouldn't be at all surprising to see him turn next to acting or even something as far-fetched as interpretive dance. I imagine Brandon as a living, breathing conduit just crackling with that creative spiritual electricity that Julia Cameron says courses through all of us. As such (and I've said this before), he's a tremendous inspiration. He embodies for me the full potential of the artistic right brain, and will likely serve as my muse as I progress through the nebula that is The Artist's Way.
Nebula
Do you enjoy your sight inside?
Disconnect and let me drift
Until my upside down is right side in
Society must let the artist go
To wander off into the nebula
Wander off into your nebula, see your nectarine of
Multiplicity cum like orgasmatron on overdrive
Wander off into your nebula, your tangerine of
Electricity is ripe and on the vine, so pick your prize
In little black book do I confide...
Upon return, I conjure what was seen
I let it pulse and boil within my limbs
I lay my pencil to the porous page
And let my lunatic indulge itself
Wander off into your nebula, see your nectarine of
Multiplicity cum like orgasmatron on overdrive
Wander off into your nebula, your tangerine of
Electricity is ripe and on a vine, so pick your prize!
Unfortunately, it then sat on my desk for weeks while I went through my recent brain-dead "my job sucks and kittehs turned my brain to mush" period. As much as the idea of it appealed to me, it sounded like work and that made me apprehensive because I am, after all, a natural-born sloth. Over this past weekend, though, I finally dragged the book out to Shaharazade's with me and began reading through it.
Within the first two pages of the introduction, Cameron snagged me. She begins by discussing how The Artist's Way is a spiritual path to unblocking our natural creativity and this, of course, requires references to that word I have such issue with: "God". She immediately acknowledges, though, that many people might have these issues and encourages an open mind:
Remind yourself that to succeed in this course, no god concept is necessary. In fact, many of our commonly held god concepts get in the way. Do not allow semantics to become one more block for you. (Right there, she spoke directly to me)
When the word God is used in these pages, you may substitute the thought good orderly direction or flow. What we are talking about is a creative engergy. God is useful shorthand for many of us, but so is Goddess, Mind, Universe, Source, and Higher Power... The point is not what you name it. The point is that you try using it. For many of us, thinking of it as a form of spiritual electricity has been a very useful jumping-off place.
Aaahh, I can handle that. Bless her for getting that out of my way right off the bat. From that point on, I had my highlighter out and was dog-earing pages left and right. From there, she moves into describing the tools of the program, the first of which is referred to as morning pages. The idea is to sit down first thing every morning and write three pages of stream-of-consciousness for the purpose of clearing out the mental cobwebs. This writing becomes both a meditation and an opportunity for the right brain (the artistic side) to get a little exercise. The morning pages are a place to confront our internal Censor (our left brain) and come to terms with it, to let the Censor know that, as much as we appreciate it's efforts to protect us from shame and ridicule, we're ready to chance those things for the sake of allowing our artistic side a creative release.
I, of course, have yet to actually do any morning pages, but I'm working up to it. Really, I am.
Also, of course, reading this stuff immediately triggered the Incubus connection. That band has come to represent to me the epitomy of creativity. The five of them seem to continuously be creating some form of art, from Mike Einzinger's orchestral work-in-progress, to Ben Kenney's solo albums and recent tour with bandmate Chris Kilmore, to Jose Pasillas' painting... to Brandon Boyd. What does Brandon not do, artistically? The man sings, obviously, and writes the wonderful poetry that is Incubus' song lyrics. But the guy also plays a mean djembe, as well as a bit of guitar (admittedly badly); paints and draws; snaps great photos; and writes. In addition to creating albums and touring with Incubus, he's participated in at least one art show and has produced two books of artwork and journalistic scribblings. It wouldn't be at all surprising to see him turn next to acting or even something as far-fetched as interpretive dance. I imagine Brandon as a living, breathing conduit just crackling with that creative spiritual electricity that Julia Cameron says courses through all of us. As such (and I've said this before), he's a tremendous inspiration. He embodies for me the full potential of the artistic right brain, and will likely serve as my muse as I progress through the nebula that is The Artist's Way.
Nebula
Do you enjoy your sight inside?
Disconnect and let me drift
Until my upside down is right side in
Society must let the artist go
To wander off into the nebula
Wander off into your nebula, see your nectarine of
Multiplicity cum like orgasmatron on overdrive
Wander off into your nebula, your tangerine of
Electricity is ripe and on the vine, so pick your prize
In little black book do I confide...
Upon return, I conjure what was seen
I let it pulse and boil within my limbs
I lay my pencil to the porous page
And let my lunatic indulge itself
Wander off into your nebula, see your nectarine of
Multiplicity cum like orgasmatron on overdrive
Wander off into your nebula, your tangerine of
Electricity is ripe and on a vine, so pick your prize!
February 10, 2008
Going nowhere fast
First off, I have to offer sincere apologies to any friends I've been ignoring lately. There are conversations I've let lag, congratulations I should have extended, sympathy and a "virtual shoulder" I haven't offered. But I'm experiencing a terrible sense of deja vu lately that's caused me to backslide and get a little too caught up again in my own narrow little world.
The biggest thing going on is the kittens. On Friday a week ago, I brought home the second of them, Olive (who was really the first, but the timing of all of this has been a bit skewed). Aside from an hour or so that I let her loose so they could check each other out, she had to be confined in the bedroom, as she'd just been spayed and couldn't be running or jumping around until she'd healed, much less tussling with a fellow kitten. So, for the most part, the two of them spent that couple of days poking their paws at each other through the gap under the bedroom door. By Monday, though, little Alec was lethargic and not eating or drinking. He wanted nothing but to remain curled up asleep in his cat bed, and was like a limp dishrag when I picked him up. It was just a little too similar to the goombah's condition when he got ill last fall, so I packed Alec off to the vet that day. That afternoon, the diagnosis was that he had both sinus and urinary tract infections accompanied by a high fever, and they wanted to keep him overnight on fluids and antibiotics. On Tuesday, I was told that he was eating and his fever had reduced enough for him to come home. But he wasn't better. He ate and drank a few times, and in between I used the syringe from his antibiotics to get more water down his throat so he wouldn't become dehyrdrated.
By Friday morning, he was lethargic again. Back to the vet. The news later that day was that the vet had no clue what was causing the fever and that they couldn't control it. They had given ice water enemas to my poor little, 5 month old, 4 lb kitten throughout the day, but nothing would bring down his temperature. As of yesterday, though, the fever seemed to have broken and he was eating again. The vet wanted to keep him over this weekend, though, for observation and intensive antibiotic treatments. As for the other one, now that her spay stitches are out and she's free from confinement, Olive has had me all to herself. She's been alternately spoiled rotten and cried over a little bit whenever I've thought about how she was supposed to be getting to know her buddy Alec during these past two days. I've become amazingly attached to these two little kittens over the last two weeks, and I think that Alec's going to hold a special place in my heart if he survives this (it gives me a fucking pang to use that 'if').
On top of all this feline drama, work is sucking big time again. Or perhaps I'm just not dealing well with the usual suckage because I'm stressed over the kittens. I don't know. What I do know is that I go into work feeling totally un-focused, un-directed and, increasingly, incompetent. The administrative division of the store is currently understaffed and we had a rough holiday season, so there are no plans to add anyone and re-balance the workload. We're also not buying much in the way of merchandise, which makes a portion of my job as inventory manager/assistant buyer a tad obsolete. On top of that, my supervisor is going through a crisis of her own, trying to set up new profit & loss reports while dealing with the responsibilities left open by our staffing situation. The result is that she's both losing touch and micro-managing at the same time. She delegates things to me periodically, but then takes them back. Or, she'll make me responsible for something that I really don't want to be involved in, and then take over a project that's specifically within the scope of my position. What makes it all really unbearable is finding out that the owners of the store don't seem to care. They're focused on the sales and merchant side of the business, and have pretty much washed their hands of our little administrative world. It's confusing, frustrating and demoralizing. Writing my self-review this week is gonna be tons of fun.
So, needless to say, I've gotten stuck back in that "sleeping limb" state I described a few weeks ago. Despite the new friendships I've formed and the great experiences I've had in recent months, I've let myself descend into a rut of physical slothdom, avoiding my usual outdoors pursuits and doing absolutely nothing productive to improve my home, my work situation, or my life in general. I've lost the energy for it. Instead, I've been narcotizing myself by spending my days off cruising my beloved back-country roads and hanging out in my favorite coffee/tea shops. Feels good, but gets me nowhere. I know from experience that all of this is temporary, but for as long as it lasts it'll be a struggle to avoid becoming as self-absorbed and self-pitying as I was this time last year. I probably could (should?) reach out to all those new friends of mine for whatever help they might be inclined to offer, but I'm just not used to doing that. Instead, habit makes me retreat back into seclusion to try and figure it out on my own. At least there's always music to suit the mood...
Nowhere Fast
Will I ever get to where I'm going?
Will I ever follow through with what I had planned?
I guess it's possible that I have been a bit distracted
and the directions for me are a lot less in demand.
Will I ever get to where I'm going?
If I do, will I know when I am there?
If the wind blew me in the right direction
would I even care?
I would.
I take a look around; it's evident the scene has changed.
And there are times when I feel improved upon the past.
Then there are times when I can't seem to understand at all
and yes it seems as though I'm going nowhere...
really fucking fast.
Not Brandon's best bit of poetry, but the passion in his vocals makes the words intensely meaningful.
The biggest thing going on is the kittens. On Friday a week ago, I brought home the second of them, Olive (who was really the first, but the timing of all of this has been a bit skewed). Aside from an hour or so that I let her loose so they could check each other out, she had to be confined in the bedroom, as she'd just been spayed and couldn't be running or jumping around until she'd healed, much less tussling with a fellow kitten. So, for the most part, the two of them spent that couple of days poking their paws at each other through the gap under the bedroom door. By Monday, though, little Alec was lethargic and not eating or drinking. He wanted nothing but to remain curled up asleep in his cat bed, and was like a limp dishrag when I picked him up. It was just a little too similar to the goombah's condition when he got ill last fall, so I packed Alec off to the vet that day. That afternoon, the diagnosis was that he had both sinus and urinary tract infections accompanied by a high fever, and they wanted to keep him overnight on fluids and antibiotics. On Tuesday, I was told that he was eating and his fever had reduced enough for him to come home. But he wasn't better. He ate and drank a few times, and in between I used the syringe from his antibiotics to get more water down his throat so he wouldn't become dehyrdrated.
By Friday morning, he was lethargic again. Back to the vet. The news later that day was that the vet had no clue what was causing the fever and that they couldn't control it. They had given ice water enemas to my poor little, 5 month old, 4 lb kitten throughout the day, but nothing would bring down his temperature. As of yesterday, though, the fever seemed to have broken and he was eating again. The vet wanted to keep him over this weekend, though, for observation and intensive antibiotic treatments. As for the other one, now that her spay stitches are out and she's free from confinement, Olive has had me all to herself. She's been alternately spoiled rotten and cried over a little bit whenever I've thought about how she was supposed to be getting to know her buddy Alec during these past two days. I've become amazingly attached to these two little kittens over the last two weeks, and I think that Alec's going to hold a special place in my heart if he survives this (it gives me a fucking pang to use that 'if').
On top of all this feline drama, work is sucking big time again. Or perhaps I'm just not dealing well with the usual suckage because I'm stressed over the kittens. I don't know. What I do know is that I go into work feeling totally un-focused, un-directed and, increasingly, incompetent. The administrative division of the store is currently understaffed and we had a rough holiday season, so there are no plans to add anyone and re-balance the workload. We're also not buying much in the way of merchandise, which makes a portion of my job as inventory manager/assistant buyer a tad obsolete. On top of that, my supervisor is going through a crisis of her own, trying to set up new profit & loss reports while dealing with the responsibilities left open by our staffing situation. The result is that she's both losing touch and micro-managing at the same time. She delegates things to me periodically, but then takes them back. Or, she'll make me responsible for something that I really don't want to be involved in, and then take over a project that's specifically within the scope of my position. What makes it all really unbearable is finding out that the owners of the store don't seem to care. They're focused on the sales and merchant side of the business, and have pretty much washed their hands of our little administrative world. It's confusing, frustrating and demoralizing. Writing my self-review this week is gonna be tons of fun.
So, needless to say, I've gotten stuck back in that "sleeping limb" state I described a few weeks ago. Despite the new friendships I've formed and the great experiences I've had in recent months, I've let myself descend into a rut of physical slothdom, avoiding my usual outdoors pursuits and doing absolutely nothing productive to improve my home, my work situation, or my life in general. I've lost the energy for it. Instead, I've been narcotizing myself by spending my days off cruising my beloved back-country roads and hanging out in my favorite coffee/tea shops. Feels good, but gets me nowhere. I know from experience that all of this is temporary, but for as long as it lasts it'll be a struggle to avoid becoming as self-absorbed and self-pitying as I was this time last year. I probably could (should?) reach out to all those new friends of mine for whatever help they might be inclined to offer, but I'm just not used to doing that. Instead, habit makes me retreat back into seclusion to try and figure it out on my own. At least there's always music to suit the mood...
Nowhere Fast
Will I ever get to where I'm going?
Will I ever follow through with what I had planned?
I guess it's possible that I have been a bit distracted
and the directions for me are a lot less in demand.
Will I ever get to where I'm going?
If I do, will I know when I am there?
If the wind blew me in the right direction
would I even care?
I would.
I take a look around; it's evident the scene has changed.
And there are times when I feel improved upon the past.
Then there are times when I can't seem to understand at all
and yes it seems as though I'm going nowhere...
really fucking fast.
Not Brandon's best bit of poetry, but the passion in his vocals makes the words intensely meaningful.
January 30, 2008
I haz a kitten...
A kitten has turned my brain to mush. Here's the deal:
A week and a half ago, I wandered into PetSmart just to kinda begin to decide whether maybe I was starting to be ready to perhaps think about adopting another cat. Figured I'd see what sorts of cats were up for adoption. So, there's this beautiful little 5 month old female tortoiseshell named Olive, who seems to have a very sociable, lively, yet sweet personality (i.e., she wasn't a huddled up, quivering bundle of nerves hiding in the back of her cage). Olive and I bonded a bit, and I talked for a while to the woman who's currently fostering her. Then I left and spent the rest of the day thinking about whether I was ready to replace the Goombah.
I called the next day to say I wanted Olive. She hadn't been spayed or gotten all of her shots yet, and I had family visiting from out of town the next weekend, so the plan was that I'd go back to PetSmart on the 26th for an adoption interview (they take this very seriously), then pick her up on Feb. 2nd to bring her home when we were both ready.
So, when I went back to PetSmart on the 26th for my interview, there was another very appealing little one there: A lilac oriental shorthair male named Alec, also 5 months old. He was sleek, mellow and calm, yet still sociable. And he was all ready to go home with just the right sucker, er, someone. So, my adoption interview for one cat suddenly turned into an interview for two, and my out-of-town family's entertainment that day ended up being coming over to my place to play with Alec the kitten. And I'm still picking up Olive on the 2nd to bring her home, as well.
Here I am four days later, totally enamored and unable to find time to blog, or even to think about anything meaningful. I've spent the last few days finding that mellow little Alec is a Jekyll & Hyde demon in disguise. But he's soooooo cuuuute!! To top it all off, a thread over at the Incubus forum led me to this evil place: LOLCATS.COM. So, for a while at least, this will be the most profound blogging I'm capable of---
January 13, 2008
More impermanence in WV
Went cruising in West Virginia again today and took the road past the burned down trailer. The center of the yard's been cleared, with all the junk ranged about in an assortment of piles. I pulled over to take a closer look and found myself under the nonchalant scrutiny of a handful of feral-appearing cats perched on the nearest scrap pile. And yes, the basketball hoop is still there.
At the upper edge of Harper's Ferry, across the railroad tracks, is a rutted gravel road that runs along the edge of the Potomac River for a mile or two. Just before reaching a small creek that feeds into the river, two abandoned trailers sit along the edge of the road. (Has anyone ever figured out just what it is about WV and trailers?) The spot seems to be popular with local fishermen, as the river is wide and flat at that point, before breaking up into rapids as it flows through the chunks of what used to be Dam 3. Once the road crosses over the creek, it splits. To the left, it becomes paved and turns into Engle Moler Road. To the right is what's left of the upstream end of the old gravel road-- closed off by a wire gate, yet apparently still occasionally traveled somehow. I felt adventurous today, so I parked the car and took a meander along that old section of road. At first the only thing creepy about the walk was the sudden bank of grey clouds that had covered the sun, but I added to the ambience by humming the tune to "Duelling Banjos". The first strange finding was a fire ring perched right smack at the edge of the water, stacked with blackened, still-smoking logs. Granted, those logs may have been smouldering for days, and the river was high from recent rain, but I couldn't help wondering why someone would build a fire right smack on the edge of the water. A bit further on, I spied something white hanging from a tree limb a bit off the path. Now, I've spent a lot of time in the woods, and I'm frequently asked whether I get scared hiking by myself. Actually, I'm much more comfortable and feel more secure in the depth of the woods than I do in some of the neighborhoods near my home. But the sight of something human-related and out of place in a spot like that puts me on edge. Shot gun shells on the ground don't phase me. A white plastic grocery bag hanging from an out of reach tree limb, weighted down by a dark, unidentifiable lump in the bottom of the bag, does. Suddenly, the innocent abandoned road along the river felt a little too "Blair Witch". It was good to be out tramping around and exploring, though, so I pressed on, visions of snotty, frightened teenagers and Ned Beatty in his tighty-whiteys alternating in my head. Another few dozen feet along and there suddenly appeared to be a structure of some sort in the trees ahead. Sure enough, it was the ruins of a once-whitewashed stone house. Near a tree on the other side of the road was a faded stop sign. Beyond that was an old speed limit sign that read 15mph. The area then opened out into what may have been someone's front yard, though the road appeared to continue on the other side. Just off the center of this area was a fountain of sorts. Someone had rigged a pipe from a spring in the rocks uphill from the river, run it down the hill, under the open area, and up from the ground through a hunk of concrete, where another section of pipe was connected to divert the water into an old drainage pan (such as you'd use to change the oil in your car). The pan was set on top of a grating that was balanced across the open top of an old metal barrel, and the water overflowed from the pan and through the grating into the barrel in an eerily artistic way. After circling this jury-rigged fountain, I followed the pipe up a set of crumbling stone stairs and through the foundation of an old building to its source at the base of a small, jumbled cliff. At some point in time, someone had obviously not only installed the piping, but also maintained the source of the spring. Small bits of screen had been installed to protect the water from falling leaves and debris as it flowed down various crevices in the rock. As I turned to head back, I narrowly missed stepping on a big pile of shit. I didn't inspect it carefully enough to identify it as animal or human, but it's placement was puzzling. I mean, what intelligent creature craps so close to a water supply? (Various beer cans scattered nearby might provide a pertinent clue to that question.) I hung around for a bit, peeking into the nooks and crannies of an overgrown garden and then, when I'd had my fill of being creeped out, pointed myself back downstream for an uneventful hike back to the car, leaving the place behind just as others before me had done.
(Note: I hope that anyone reading this got the references to Deliverance. I'd hate for people to think that I normally go around imagining Ned Beatty's tush.)
At the upper edge of Harper's Ferry, across the railroad tracks, is a rutted gravel road that runs along the edge of the Potomac River for a mile or two. Just before reaching a small creek that feeds into the river, two abandoned trailers sit along the edge of the road. (Has anyone ever figured out just what it is about WV and trailers?) The spot seems to be popular with local fishermen, as the river is wide and flat at that point, before breaking up into rapids as it flows through the chunks of what used to be Dam 3. Once the road crosses over the creek, it splits. To the left, it becomes paved and turns into Engle Moler Road. To the right is what's left of the upstream end of the old gravel road-- closed off by a wire gate, yet apparently still occasionally traveled somehow. I felt adventurous today, so I parked the car and took a meander along that old section of road. At first the only thing creepy about the walk was the sudden bank of grey clouds that had covered the sun, but I added to the ambience by humming the tune to "Duelling Banjos". The first strange finding was a fire ring perched right smack at the edge of the water, stacked with blackened, still-smoking logs. Granted, those logs may have been smouldering for days, and the river was high from recent rain, but I couldn't help wondering why someone would build a fire right smack on the edge of the water. A bit further on, I spied something white hanging from a tree limb a bit off the path. Now, I've spent a lot of time in the woods, and I'm frequently asked whether I get scared hiking by myself. Actually, I'm much more comfortable and feel more secure in the depth of the woods than I do in some of the neighborhoods near my home. But the sight of something human-related and out of place in a spot like that puts me on edge. Shot gun shells on the ground don't phase me. A white plastic grocery bag hanging from an out of reach tree limb, weighted down by a dark, unidentifiable lump in the bottom of the bag, does. Suddenly, the innocent abandoned road along the river felt a little too "Blair Witch". It was good to be out tramping around and exploring, though, so I pressed on, visions of snotty, frightened teenagers and Ned Beatty in his tighty-whiteys alternating in my head. Another few dozen feet along and there suddenly appeared to be a structure of some sort in the trees ahead. Sure enough, it was the ruins of a once-whitewashed stone house. Near a tree on the other side of the road was a faded stop sign. Beyond that was an old speed limit sign that read 15mph. The area then opened out into what may have been someone's front yard, though the road appeared to continue on the other side. Just off the center of this area was a fountain of sorts. Someone had rigged a pipe from a spring in the rocks uphill from the river, run it down the hill, under the open area, and up from the ground through a hunk of concrete, where another section of pipe was connected to divert the water into an old drainage pan (such as you'd use to change the oil in your car). The pan was set on top of a grating that was balanced across the open top of an old metal barrel, and the water overflowed from the pan and through the grating into the barrel in an eerily artistic way. After circling this jury-rigged fountain, I followed the pipe up a set of crumbling stone stairs and through the foundation of an old building to its source at the base of a small, jumbled cliff. At some point in time, someone had obviously not only installed the piping, but also maintained the source of the spring. Small bits of screen had been installed to protect the water from falling leaves and debris as it flowed down various crevices in the rock. As I turned to head back, I narrowly missed stepping on a big pile of shit. I didn't inspect it carefully enough to identify it as animal or human, but it's placement was puzzling. I mean, what intelligent creature craps so close to a water supply? (Various beer cans scattered nearby might provide a pertinent clue to that question.) I hung around for a bit, peeking into the nooks and crannies of an overgrown garden and then, when I'd had my fill of being creeped out, pointed myself back downstream for an uneventful hike back to the car, leaving the place behind just as others before me had done.
(Note: I hope that anyone reading this got the references to Deliverance. I'd hate for people to think that I normally go around imagining Ned Beatty's tush.)
January 12, 2008
A good quote
This was on the tab of my Good Earth Sweet & Spicy tea bag this morning and I thought it was worth sharing:
“Fight for your opinions, but do not believe that they contain the whole truth, or the only truth.”
I've read Dana's memoir Reminiscences of the Civil War. I don't recall forming the impression from that, though, that he was so pithy.
On another note: I've realized that I can access Blogger at work, which I can't do with MySpace. This is a potentially hazardous discovery. If I'm lucky, they'll catch me and block it soon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
