I don't want to talk to you anymore,
I'm afraid of what I might say.
I bite my tongue everytime you come around,
'cause blood in my mouth beats blood on the ground.
Hand over my heart, I swear I've tried everything in my power.
Two weeks and one hour I slaved, and now I've got nothing to show.
Oh, if only you'd grow taller than a brick wall.
From now on I'm gonna start holding my breath when you come around
and you flex that fake grin, cause something inside me has said more than twice
that breathing less air beats breathing you in!
I don't want to talk to you anymore,
I'm afraid of what I might say.
I bite my tongue every time you come around,
'cause blood in my mouth beats blood on the ground.
Hand over my mouth, I'm earning the right to my silence.
In quiet, discerning between ego and timing.
Good judgement is once again proving to me
that it's still worth its weight in gold.
So from now on I'm gonna be so much more wary when you start to speak
and my warm blood starts to boil,
that seeing you is like pulling teeth and hearing your voice is like
chewing tin foil.
I don't want to talk to you anymore,
I'm afraid of what I might say.
I bite my tongue everytime you come around,
'cause blood in my mouth beats blood on the ground.
High fives to better judgement. By saying less, I will gain more.
Low twos to you, my fickle friend who brought the art of silent war.
So, I'm still riffing on the remorseful theme begun in my last entry. That episode involved a failure to act. This particular drama revolves around the failure to refrain from action. During a conversation in which I was debating whether to stir up trouble in a message board thread, a friend told me "there's a difference between impishly perverse and straying into malicious territory".
Of course, it's not like I don't know this already. But having it pointed out by a friend made it sobering. My mouth (or, here on the intarwebs, my fingers) more than occasionally gets me in trouble. Driving in traffic, at message boards, even sometimes at work, my shadow overtakes my persona and acts out. Snarled curses at the steering wheel, sarcasm intended as humor that comes off merely as snide, general snarkiness that slips out like verbal diarrhea. But I'm in my 40's, for crying out loud. Shouldn't I have gained the maturity and experience to control these urges? And yet, perhaps it's not so shadowy after all. There's heredity at work behind these nasty impulses. I grew up with parents who consistently reverted to sarcasm and insult to deal with stress or conflict (and still do). My brother and I quickly learned to do the same. It's probably no wonder that writers such as Ambrose Bierce and movies like Dangerous Liaisons are favorites of mine. But at this point in my life, I don't want to be that way anymore. As another friend recently wrote at her own blog:
"It was a place I needed to go to survive... Even when I no longer required it, a piece of me remained, inextricably tied there. Finally and cautiously I moved beyond it. I haven't fully examined what it means to live where I now reside, joy is still sometimes elusive and love even more so, but I am happy to be here. These old feelings have awakened in me a desire to move further away from them, to continue to search out experiences of joy and light"
Sometimes it seems that this behavior is worse during times of worry, stress, or depression. I've overcome the slothful symptoms of depression I wallowed in over the past winter/spring, is this how it's manifesting itself now? In a dropping of my guard, lowered vigilance that allows bitterness, resentment, and spite to roll off my tongue disguised as wit or righteousness? Or, again, am I just fooling myself? Am I just afraid to admit that I'm too weak to control myself?
In another discussion prompted by the post at that other friend's blog, she talked about the realization that being alone isn't good for her. As she put it, her usually full schedule is "a concerted effort to get out of myself." Maybe that's my issue, as well. I've generally chalked my solitary ways up to misanthropy, but maybe there's more. I've always known that I sometimes don't play well with others. Don't get me wrong, I fully enjoy the time spent with friends and the things we do together. But the only time I feel true contentment is in solitude. Working, driving in traffic, any situation in which ego can be involved, sets me up for the slip into shadow land. In brooding the other night over not helping a person in need, I stepped back at one point and watched myself. It dawned on me that the contentment I find in being alone is perhaps due to the fact that, with no other people to deal with, there are no stumbling blocks for my ego. By myself, I don't have to worry about intention or whether I'll say or do the right or wrong thing. But in escaping to solitude and avoiding those challenges, there's also less opportunity for growth, isn't there? There've been times in the past when I've considered doing some sort of volunteer work to get out of myself and away from my own ego. Literacy, in particular, is an issue close to my heart and I've considered learning to tutor. But do I have the patience for it?
Another possibility would be to find a local sangha. That indeed might be what I need. I wrote at the beginning of this year about how I felt I had made some progress in my attempts to follow the Buddhist Eightfold Path:
1. Right View: "to see and to understand things as they really are"
2. Right Intention: "commitment to ethical and mental self-improvement"
3. Right Speech: "to tell the truth, to speak friendly, warm, and gently and to talk only when necessary"
4. Right Action: "to act kindly and compassionately, to be honest"
5. Right Livelihood: "one should earn one's living in a righteous way and that wealth should be gained legally and peacefully"
6. Right Effort: "1. to prevent the arising of unarisen unwholesome states, 2. to abandon unwholesome states that have already arisen, 3. to arouse wholesome states that have not yet arisen, and 4. to maintain and perfect wholesome states already arisen"
7. Right Mindfulness: "to be aware of the process of conceptualisation in a way that we actively observe and control the way our thoughts go"
8. Right Concentration: "wholesome concentration, i.e. concentration on wholesome thoughts and actions"
Sounds fairly simple, doesn't it? But now I think that Buddhism for me is like kicking drugs or alcohol. I'll find something, some book or magazine article, that resonates and wakes me up for a bit and I'll go along fairly well, making headway in forebearance and letting go of ego. But then I'll fall off the wagon and the dark nasties will begin poking up their heads and taking over my thoughts and speech. Perhaps, like a junkie, I need to admit that I can't do it alone and go find myself a meditation center or sangha where I can re-commit to the Path and have reinforcements to help keep me on it.
A final confession: I have to admit I've been hesitant to write about these things. I want to be honest here, and there is value in exploring these issues in writing. Blogging is free therapy. But I've begun to develop relationships with the handful of people who read these entries, and I do worry that confessional posts of this sort will affect their opinion of me. Then again, perhaps they can help me. The conversations we have are another way of getting out of myself and seeing things from another perspective. And, as my friend did with her comment the other night, they can remind me of what constitutes Right View and Right Speech. Maybe together we can share some "high fives to better judgement".
I remember a conversation I once had with a former friend. We had gotten onto the subject of the duality of human nature, something that's been a thorn in my side over the years. Without going into specifics, I mentioned to him that I was troubled by the contradiction of dualities in my own personality, and he responded that he often felt the same. He went on to describe how he was often surprised that he could have both a creative side and a more cerebral, scientific side. At that, I took an internal step back and then allowed the conversation to just peter out. He didn't grasp the darker aspect that I was referring to, and I wasn't comfortable bringing it to light with someone who might not understand.
Today something happened that's upheaved that duality in an unsettling way. After leaving work this evening, I was rushing along the sidewalk, swerving and darting around slower pedestrians as I usually do. As I approached the corner at which the subway station's located, I saw a man brace his arm against the wall and lean forward. At a quick glance, he appeared slightly disheveled in his baggy jeans and t-shirt, and a bit on the thin, almost sinewy, side. I kept going, thoughts focused on my day off tomorrow, and the idea of getting out for some play-time on a summer day. Rounding the corner, out of the corner of my eye, I think I saw the man fall over to the ground. No, I know that I saw him fall. But I was moving too quickly, was mere steps from the escalator and momentum carried me along. I made it all the way to the turnstile before the thought hit me that I should have stopped to find out what was happening to him. But, caught up in my rush, I again kept going, assuring myself that there were so many people on the corner, surely someone else helped him.
But the scene keeps coming back to me. I should have stopped. Even once I was down in the subway station, it would have taken moments to head back up the escalator to make sure that someone was helping him, or to check on him myself if no one else had. Should I have? Can I be so sure that someone else of the dozens of people on the street stopped to help him? Someone must have.
But the fact that I kept walking and so quickly convinced myself that someone else did what I should have is disturbing. It's not like I'm a stranger to my faults, I've spent time exploring my shadow and usually believe that there's not a nasty thing about myself of which I'm not aware. Like many other people, I'm easily distracted from my better nature by wants and needs or by stress. It's so easy to slip into moments in which I'm petty, selfish, angry, and uncharitable. And yet I know that better nature is there, as well. Or am I just fooling myself? This is one of my greatest fears, to be exposed as a fake, to learn that I'm not as good a person as I think I am, to find that I'll turn a blind eye when helping another keeps me from fulfilling my own wants... Despite what I've learned about my hidden, darker nature over the years, today's episode has brought me fully face to face with this fear that I've managed to avoid.
One of the basic tenets of Buddhism is that by putting the needs of others before our own, by turning our attention from constant awareness of our own self to awareness of others, we can begin to find relief from suffering. This is, of course, a gross over-simplification of only one element, but it's one of the first elements of Buddhism to which I was exposed. The moment I read of this idea, it made so much sense to me that this alone is what made me choose to explore the philosophy of Buddhism. And I have seen for myself, in moments here and there, the truth of this idea. For this concept to resonate so strongly within me, there must be at least shreds of benevolence and compassion in my nature. Right?
How is it possible that such violently opposed impulses can reside in the same psyche? From the destroyer/mother persona of Kali, to Stevenson's Jekyll and Hyde, to Anakin Skywalker's fall to the Dark Side, mythology and literature is full of such contradictions in our selves. Such duality is an element of Jung's shadow archetype. We subvert our awareness of those aspects of our self that make us "bad", convinced that we're good and ready to grasp at any justification for our occasional lapses. Is it possible to really accept and deal with those darker elements in such a way that our "good" side is not poisoned by them?
And, synchronicity strikes again. As I was typing this, I received an e-mail from my mother, who was forwarding me one of those "Thought For the Day" things. Those things are as often inane as they are insightful, so I often delete them without reading. But I took a moment to look at this one, and found it soberingly appropriate:
One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, 'My son, the battle is between two 'wolves' inside us all.
One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.
The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.'
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: 'Which wolf wins?'
The old Cherokee simply replied, 'The one you feed.'
I'm not even entirely sure why I've written about this. I'd like to think that it's because writing allows me the chance to review and analyze the motivations behind my behavior, in the hopes that such understanding of my nature will lead me to choose more wisely in the future. But is it really more of an attempt at confession? "Bless me, Blogger, for I have sinned. I ignored a man in need today..." Have I described this situation in the hopes that one of my (few) readers will post a comment reassuring and condoning me? Today's act, or lack thereof, doesn't deserve such easy expiation. But it also doesn't deserve my self-serving, self-pitying angst. Buddhism would tell me to show as much compassion for myself as I failed to show for the man who collapsed by the subway, to recognize that I acted unwisely and to use my regret as a reminder, so that next time I can respond from my better nature. But I have a feeling that guilt will win out, for a while at least. Should give me some interesting things to think about during tomorrow's indulgent bike ride in the glorious summer weather.
Since the Tour de France began yesterday, it's an appropriate time to babble about cycling. I am an unabashed fan of bicycle racing in general, and the Tour in particular. Yes, I know all about the doping issues, but you know what? I find it hard to get kinked up about it. I was incredibly upset when one of my favorites, Floyd Landis, was accused of doping after winning the 2006 Tour, and hearing recently that he lost his case and the yellow jersey left me feeling sad and dismayed. But overall, I'm just cynical enough to feel that, until other sports are regulated as intensively as cycling is, these guys should be able to do whatever the hell they feel they need to. And, I'm just naive enough to believe that not all of them are doing it. And Dick Pound and WADA made such asses out of themselves so many times over the last two years that they've shredded their integrity and left me rooting for the riders. Ultimately, though, as a viewer there's no way of knowing whether the racers you're watching are doped or not, so why not just enjoy the drama? Whether it's the battle of wills on a mountainous stage, or the adrenaline of a crazy finish line sprint, the Tour is just plain exciting. (And when it's not exciting, it can be just plain funny.)
As for my own riding, this year started out as a hard one for me. I've said before that I'm not a terribly strong rider, but I felt that I made significant gains last year in both distance and strength and even began planning to get an upgraded bike that would help me to grow further. This past winter/spring, though, set me back much farther than I realized. I knew I had been slacking off due to stress (Hell, I only exercised three measly times in March. Three!!), but I honestly didn't feel that I'd lost that much strength and aerobic capacity until I got back on the bike. It was a serious slap in the face. Within a couple of rides, I felt like I'd gone back to square one, where I'd been a few years ago when I first decided to make cycling a focused pursuit. I'm still using higher gears than I did back then and maintaining a slightly higher average speed, but I've yet to ride anywhere near the distances I routinely did last year. By this time in 2007, I was logging anywhere from 25 to 40 miles at a time. So far this year, I've averaged less than 20 miles per ride. So it's been discouraging, but there have been a couple of rides on which I've begun to feel a re-connection to the bike, and that gives me hope that the strength and distance will come back if I just keep getting back out there. Time on the saddle is what it's going to take, and that's been the biggest challenge of all.
Today's ride, though, was a good one. I hit the C&O Canal towpath near White's Ferry for just over 20 miles round-trip. The towpath is an easy ride in that it's basically entirely flat, but a sometimes rough ride in that you're dealing with gravel, rocks, roots and mud pits. Most folks pedal along at a sedate pace, but the solitude and ease of the towpath often stimulate me to push a little harder. While today's ride was short by last year's standards, I was happy to be able to maintain an average speed of almost 15mph, and got in one sprint that hit 22mph. Any roadies who happen to read this are probably smirking at that, but y'all just remember-- the guys in the TdF could blow you on your ass. There's always someone faster than you, no matter what speed you ride. Besides, Bike Snob NYC has validated me, so there:
Another reason people are apprehensive about riding bicycles is that they perceive it as being difficult. The fact is that it’s only as difficult as you make it. Unfortunately, though, most people are completely delusional when it comes to cycling. Many cyclists think that they’re just a pair of Zipps, a Cervelo, and a few expensive coaching sessions away from going pro. Similarly, many non-cyclists don’t bother because they think it takes strength, dedication, and training to be a good cyclist. The reality is that both types of people are completely delusional—the cyclist is much weaker than he thinks he is, and the non-cyclist is much stronger than he thinks he is. So just get on the bike and have fun at whatever speed you choose. The fitness will happen by accident.
Another article I found recently that doesn't validate my riding style had a stronger impact on me:
Now that regular unleaded is more than four bucks a gallon, I don’t take the car for granted. From sheer necessity, the bike has become my primary form of transportation.
This situation has made me wax philosophic on the incredible amount of time I have spent on my bike going nowhere, just riding in big circles. Thousands of times, I have put the bike on the roof-rack, driven to town, done a loop or two with my buddies, and driven home. There were certainly dividends in the form of fitness, recreation, and good times with friends, which is significant. But now I think of the amount of calories vaporizing into nothingness that I myself have been responsible for, it’s mind-boggling. Multiply that by millions of cyclists every day and think of the heat entering the atmosphere, the CO2 we’re expiring, and the sheer amount of energy going nowhere. Yikes.
I have to admit, I'm one of those people who throws the bike on the roof-rack. Part of what I enjoy so much about cycling is going somewhere else to do it. It should be obvious by now to anyone who's read much of this blog that I take every opportunity I can get to go somewhere else. Wanderlust spurs me to drive to different surroundings than those I see every day in order to explore and view scenery that's more beautiful &/or interesting. What I need is to convince myself that the bike will allow me to explore what's familiar, to see new and different things in what I currently consider mundane. That, and that it'll help me to get over my dread of hills. The rollers within a few mile of home are just big enough to kick my ass severely. Instead of avoiding them, I should get out there, let them break me down and re-build me into a stronger rider. But I'm just not masochistic enough to look forward to that with anything but reluctance. And, unfortunately, the suburban neighborhoods nearby are less than scenic. So what will it take to break through the excuses? I've yet to figure that out, but I'm hoping for inspiration.
The lyrics of today's song have nothing to do with the subject, but the rollicking music conveys the exuberance I feel when on the bike, pounding through the mud and tree roots on the towpath. So, folks, I give you Rogues. Enjoy!
I’m keeping an eye on the future, An eye on the past, And the present in my pocket Just in case I need a door… Into a brave new world Where all solutions end up with my head Buried to my neck in sand.
Enough, enough bowing down to disillusion! Hats off and applause to rogues and evolution! The ripple effect is too good not to mention! If you’re not affected, you’re not paying attention! It’s too good, too good, not to have an effect.
I’m keeping an eye on the pulse, An ear to the track, And penance in a locket I’m dropping from the highest floor. When it hits ground I watch it smash to pieces. Songs of liberation echo from the dust, the dust.
Enough bowing down to disillusion! Hats off and applause to rogues and evolution! The ripple effect is too good not to mention! If you’re not affected, you’re not paying attention! It’s too good, too good, not to have an effect!
Enough, enough, enough, enough, enough! Enough bowing down to disillusion! Hats off and applause to rogues and revolution! The ripple effect is too good not to mention! If you’re not affected, you’re not paying attention! It’s too good, too good, too good… yes.
I've begun to accumulate unfinished drafts of blogs: a business trip to Las Vegas a month ago, a recent weekend in Philly, babblings about cycling... In working on each, I've suddenly reached a point at which I've wondered what the fuck kind of bullshit I was spouting, and why? I have nothing new, original or profound to say, really. Does anyone? Centuries of writers have said it all before. So those of us saying it now are just repeating the same stuff, except that some of us fake it better than others. Some have a way with words that makes it sound new and fresh, or that reminds us of how profound such rambling thoughts can be, or that's at least entertaining. Every now and again I fancy myself to possibly be a decent writer, or at least one of those who can fake it reasonably well, but in the moments in between I'm sure I'm just fooling myself.
Sitting on the square at Fells Point earlier today (literally, as I had forsaken nearby benches in favor of the curb), watching the masses of tourists who sprouted out of nowhere when the overcast skies suddenly cleared, I couldn't help but question (yet again) the concept of inter-connectedness. In my shorts, t-shirt and hiking boots, I blend visually with the crowd, yet the association ends there. I feel no kinship to the young lovers, young parents with infants and toddlers, older parents with teens, or to any of the middle-aged folk who would be my chronological peers. Worse, I have little to no interest in being connected with any of these strangers, yet at the same time I wonder just where that leaves me in this paired-up, species-perpetuating world.
My Buddhist readings tell me that this sense of separation is an illusion, a construct of my mind. The "self" that feels so alienated from the crowd does not truly exist, it's merely a story we tell ourselves, a costume, as it were, that we wear for our time on the stage. And when I think of what's beneath the superficial surface, when I imagine the muscle and bone and organs that make us all up, I do see that we are indeed all the same. But that mental construct, that "personality" that we each create, is a strong force. The thoughts, feelings, and actions of that creation cause us to not only feel separate and different, but cause others to often perceive of us in that way, as well, and to treat us accordingly.
Pardon Me
A decade ago, I never thought I would be, At twenty three, On the verge of spontaneous combustion. Woe-is-me. But I guess that it comes With the territory, An ominous landscape of never ending calamity. I need you to hear, I need you to see, That I have had all I can take, And exploding seems like A definite possibility to me.
So pardon me while I burst into flames, I've had enough of the world And it's people's mindless games. So pardon me while I burn And rise above the flame. Pardon me, pardon me. I'll never be the same.
Not two days ago, I was having a look In a book and I saw a picture of a guy Fried up above his knees. I said, "I can relate," Cause' lately I've been thinking of Combustication as a welcomed vacation from The burdens of the planet Earth, Like gravity, hypocrisy, And the perils of being in 3-D, And thinking so much differently.
So pardon me while I burst into flames, I've had enough of the world And it's people's mindless games. So pardon me while I burn And rise above the flame. Pardon me, pardon me. I'll never be the same.
Well, that helped. Incubus in 80's rock band regalia on Mad TV (go back and watch the video) brings a smile to my face, no matter how deep into dukkha I've allowed myself to descend. Plus, I've been wanting to write about this song for a while. It's still one of Incubus' most powerful songs, and the perfect soundtrack to a dark mood. Cranking the stereo and shouting out the chorus is one of those wonderfully cathartic experiences that music so frequently provides. Yet, as with so many of Brandon's lyrics, there's a sense of hope behind the frustration and angst. It's not a suicidal song by any stretch. While it seems to promote immolation as an escape (figuratively, if not literally), the line "pardon me while I burn and rise above the flame" implies a phoenix-like renewal. The explosion of emotional "flame" is a cleansing one that allows a return to a more sane, balanced acceptance of the world's burdens.
So what's behind my latest (surely temporary) batch of depression? Crappy, unpredictable, overcast weather on the three-day holiday weekend, for one, making it tricky to go out and hike, bike or kayak. The possibility of getting rained on is one thing. I'll hike in rain because I only have myself to dry off and clean afterwards, but I'm none to keen on cleaning a wet, muddy bike. And kayaking is not a terrific idea when there's a supposedly high probabability of scattered thunderstorms. I can think of a dozen excuses to not get out and do something on grey days such as we've had this weekend. I practically had to force myself just to drive up to Baltimore for lunch today. So, not only am I suffering from endorphin withdrawal, I've begun to suspect that I may also be susceptible to S.A.D., though it seems to affect me any time the sky is overcast rather than just during winter.
Additionally, work has been incredibly boring again and the tea-shop/restaurant idea is back on the table. I finally got the 2007 financial statements from the owner of Shaharazade's, along with an explanation for the delay (waffling as to whether they really wanted to sell, then a family crisis that re-convinced them that they do need to). So I'm back to hunting for a financial advisor to help me figure out whether this thing would be financially feasible (especially in the current economic climate), and to wishing I had someone who could help me figure out whether I'm prepared to deal with the non-financial aspects of it.
On top of these other things, it seems that Incubus is apparently planning to take a very extended break now that they've finally ended 1 1/2 years of touring for their last album, Light Grenades.
"I'm of the mind to say it wouldn't be a bad thing to disappear for a year or two years," [Brandon Boyd] said. "A lot of people would say culture moves too fast and you need to remind people, but I would argue there's not any rush. Maybe they'll be a sex scandal or an arrest or something to keep us in the news."
While I'm happy for the band to be exploring different territory and learning new things, I feel as if I'm losing my muse. No Brandon for one or two years? There damned well better be a sex scandal or arrest at some point, though I think I'd much prefer a new book. In the meantime, I'd better begin exploring some new territory, myself. To that end, I recently picked up some new music: The White Stripes Icky Thump and The Essential Leonard Cohen.
I've wanted to get into White Stripes for a while now. There's something about their sound that's very appealing to me. Icky Thump's been in the car cd player for a week now. It's great, creative, fun, cool-sounding stuff, though I doubt either Jack White's lyrics or voice will ever move me in the way that Brandon's do (Edit: I should know better than to make such predictions).
It's actually thanks to Brandon that I gave Leonard Cohen a try. During a radio takeover of Philly's Y-Rock radio station, he played Cohen's So Long, Marianne and described Cohen as "one of the coolest mo-fo's out there". A glance through a book of Cohen's poetry in a bookstore confirmed that the guy is, indeed, pretty damned cool. The man's not only a revered songwriter, he's also a poet and novelist, and spent several years in seclusion at a Zen center. His lyrics are wonderfully beautiful, and his voice is flat-out sexy (later tunes are sung in a much lower, more gravelly pitch than earlier pieces like So Long, Marianne). But the music that accompanies his songs, unfortunately, does nothing for me. It's a product of its period. The acoustically rendered tunes are ok, but those with lilting female backing vocals just sound so very dated. I may just have to get into Cohen's books and leave the music alone. Or, maybe that's something Brandon should do during the band's hiatus, an album of Leonard Cohen covers, done Incubus-style...
It would appear that I can still spout a tremendous lot of bullshit when I get going. Being in a black state of mind seems to make it easier. Perhaps tomorrow the weather will allow me to get out on the bike and "burst into flames" and get back to normal.
The Big Read thinks the average adult has only read six of the top 100 books they've printed below.
1) Look at the list and bold those you have read. 2) Italicize those you intend to read. 3) Underline the books you LOVE. (Apparently you can't underline on Blogger so, like Chrys, I'm going to star the ones I LOVE). 4) Reprint this list in your own blog so we can try and track down these people who've read 6 and force books upon them.
1. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen 2. The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien 3. Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte * 4. Harry Potter Series - JK Rowling * 5. To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee 6. The Bible (I had parts of it read to me as a child) 7. Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte 8. Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell 9. His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman 10. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens * 11. Little Women - Louisa M Alcott 12. Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy 13. Catch 22 - Joseph Heller * 14. Complete Works of Shakespeare (I haven't read the complete works yet, but I've made it through a hefty percentage of them, hence the star) 15. Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier 16. The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien 18. Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger 19. The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger 20. Middlemarch - George Eliot 21. Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell (Does having seen the movie about a dozen times count?) 22. The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald 23. Bleak House - Charles Dickens 24. War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy 25. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams (the first one) 26. Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh * 27. Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky 28. Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck * 29. Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll 30. The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame 31. Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy (Maybe, one day) 32. David Copperfield - Charles Dickens 33. Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis 34. Emma - Jane Austen 35. Persuasion - Jane Austen 36. The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis 37. The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini 38. Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres 39. Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden 40. Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne 41. Animal Farm - George Orwell 42. The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown 43. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez 44. A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving 45. The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins 46. Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery (the first one) 47. Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy 48. The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood * 49. Lord of the Flies - William Golding 50. Atonement - Ian McEwan 51. Life of Pi - Yann Martel 52. Dune - Frank Herbert 53. Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons 54. Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen 55. A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth 56. The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon 57. A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens 58. Brave New World - Aldous Huxley 59. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time - Mark Haddon 60. Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez 61. Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck 62. Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov 63. The Secret History - Donna Tartt 64. The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold 65. Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas 66. On The Road - Jack Kerouac 67. Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy 68. Bridget Jones' Diary - Helen Fielding 69. Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie 70. Moby Dick - Herman Melville 71. Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens 72. Dracula - Bram Stoker 73. The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett 74. Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson 75. Ulysses - James Joyce * 76. The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath 77. Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome 78. Germinal - Emile Zola 79. Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray 80. Possession - AS Byatt 81. A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens 82. Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell 83. The Color Purple - Alice Walker 84. The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro 85. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert (Started it in Lit class, didn't finish...) 86. A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry 87. Charlotte's Web - EB White 88. The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom * 89. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 90. The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton 91. Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad 92. The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery 93. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks 94. Watership Down - Richard Adams 95. A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole 96. A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute 97. The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas * 98. Hamlet - William Shakespeare 99. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl 100. Les Miserables - Victor Hugo (Another one I started but didn't finish)
Interesting list. I'm surprised at how many of those I've read, and by how many of them I've never even heard of. Of course, though, like any "top 100" list, it's at least partially subjective, no matter what group of people compiled it.
It was stinking hot in the mid-Atlantic region yesterday, so I decided a visit to the Baltimore Museum of Art would be a great way to beat the heat. And the timing turned out to be right, as this was the last weekend of their Looking Through the Lens exhibit on photography of 1900-1960. The museum's an interesting mix of historical/cultural items, classical art, and modern, abstract works. Picked up a few cool quotes and some decent photos while wandering the sculpture garden and the exhibits.
This small building is located at the corner of the museum grounds along St. Paul Street. Interestingly, the interiors of the windows are covered with newspaper pages.
"The experiment lies with the spectator in his willingness to accept what his eye conveys to him.... The success of the experiment is in proportion to the desire to discover and enjoy." Man Ray
Click to view full size
There was an entire room dedicated to Jim Dine, with the striking skull piece, A Side View in Florida, as the focal point upon entering the room. From a museum pamphlet--
"It is tempting to codify Dine's various symbols, and occasionally the artist has identified specific meanings: ...the raven as a friend and alter ego that first appeared in a dream, the skull as the artist's voice crying to come out..."
Click to view full size
The piece below was mesmerizing. It was almost like a giant, self-automated spirograph, scratching its eternal pattern on the white-washed wall. What's so unusual about it, though, is that there's a microphone attached somewhere on the thing, and the sound of its scratching is played through speakers mounted to the ceiling above it. Hearing as well as seeing the movement of it gives the thing a strange sort of inanimate life.
And from artificial life to organic death... For the untitled work below, Zoe Leonard ate 3 bananas, 3 oranges, and 1 grapefruit, then stitched the skins back together. The placard next to the piece explains that a museum's purpose is generally to preserve works of art for perpetuity, but Leonard specifically requested that the skins be left alone, exposed to the degrading effects of the air. Her intention is, apparently, to cause the observer to "reflect upon the desire for timelessness and to contemplate the processes of decay and disappearance".
Click to view full size
This painting was a surprise to me. I've been familiar for a long time with some of the works of Gustav Klimt, but this is very atypical to the pieces he's known for. It makes me think of so many of the forests I've hiked, serene and peaceful, yet darkly moody when the sun hits a certain position in the sky and only small glimpses of light penetrate the density of the trees.
"Irreverence is the champion of liberty and its one sure defense." Mark Twain
I tend to shy away from all of the questionnaires and such that are rampant at MySpace and Facebook. I figure I've provided quite a bit of info about myself on my profile page, and I'd rather have people ask for anything else they'd like to know. That initiates a dialogue, and that's what I'm on the 'net for. Not just to blab about myself (though this blog might indicate otherwise), but to put myself out there and get a response, to share with others, to learn and be exposed to new things by the folks I meet through the intarwebs. So those MySpace questionnaires with a hundred and a half questions have always struck me as a little cheesy and defeating the purpose of truly sharing information.
That said, I've always loved the questionnaire from Bernard Piveau that James Lipton uses at the end of interviews on Inside the Actors Studio. It's brief, it's simple, and sometimes there's something to be said for brevity. So, here goes:
What is your favorite word?There are sooooo many. Love of words is what compels me to read and write. But there is one word that I use pretty frequently, so it probably qualifies as a favorite-- Why?
What is your least favorite word?No
What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?Curiosity
What turns you off?Ignorance
What is your favorite curse word?This is the question everyone loves, right? I don't know that I could choose just one curse word. What I enjoy is stringing a bunch of expletives together. There's just a nice, satisfying emotional release from all that vulgarity rolling off my tongue, like letting loose with something along the lines of "goddamn, simple-assed, mother-fucking prick" when someone cuts me off in traffic. That's good stuff.
(Though it does make me a bad Buddhist. And now I'm wondering if I should have set this blog for Adult Content...) What sound or noise do you love?Spring Peepers
What sound or noise do you hate?Car alarms. Hearing one of those things can set me off on one of my strings of expletives.
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?Travel writer
What profession would you not like to do?Any type of political office
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?"Hah! See? You were wrong!!"
Three years ago this month I accomplished one of the few goals I've had in life (goals beyond that of just having a good life, that is). I drove across the U.S. along rural Route 50, from one coast (almost) to the other. It was a terrific adventure that left me craving more. Additional trips have been in the planning stages since then (most specifically, cruising the west coast along Route 1), but have yet to come to fruition. Maybe one day.
Until then, I'll continue re-living this one periodically. I created a website at the time as a journal of the trip, but now, in remembrance, I'm posting it here. The first day or two are up as of this evening, and the rest will be added a day or two at a time over the coming week. To check it out, just click on the label below for Route 50, or navigate through the 2005 entries in the Contents section over there to the right. Enjoy!
My father once said those words to me, back when I was a kid. I had stolen something from a friend, a bright red rabbit's foot. Her mother called my parents that night and I went before the firing squad. Of course, I denied, denied, denied. My parents were furious. At school the next day, my friend told everyone and, despite my continued denials, I ended up ostracized by the entire sixth grade. After several days, I cracked under the pressure. I left for school one morning with the rabbit's foot in my pocket and headed far enough up the road that I figured my parents were no longer watching from the door. Then I doubled back, to the little cul-de-sac at the turn in the road, and pitched the rabbit's foot as far as I could into the woods.
Unfortunately, my father was standing by the front window at the time. He confronted me in a rage when he came home from work that night, before sending me down into the woods with a flashlight to find that damned foot. "Remember this," he told me, "Somebody's always watching you."
But who's watching in the lonely places?
The light sucked and the camera somewhat sucks, therefore these photos are not terrific.
This portion of road was driven, not walked. And my little Honda Civic handled it like a champ.
So, as I mentioned in this morning's post, I did go to Shaharazade's this afternoon. They were empty when I got there, but while I was eating, several groups of out-of-towners (presumably in town for their offsping's graduations from Shepherd U) came in to look around. I also heard the waitresses discussing the reservations for that evening (a 10-top and a couple of 4-tops). So business seems to be good. The owner popped his head out of the kitchen at one point. I probably should have spoken with him, but I was enjoying my meal and my book too much to shift into business mode. Plus, I'm feeling a bit peeved with him. Especially after one of the out-of-towners asked the waitress if "this is the place that's up for sale" and she responded in the affirmative.
But life just keeps spiraling through its never-ending circles...
Circles
You saw me lost and treading water
I looked pathetic
I looked as helpless as a stinger without a bee
But underneath my presentation, yeah
I knew the walls were coming down
And the stones that fell were aiming away from me
Hey, what would it mean to you?
To know that it'll come back around again
Hey, whatever it means to you
Know that everything moves in circles
I saw you standing in my headlights (blink, blink, blink)
I thought I'd run you down for the weight you left on me
Instead I pushed rewind, reversed and drove away
Seeing you disappear in my rearview
Brought to me the word reciprocity
Hey, what would it mean to you?
To know that it'll come back around again
Hey, whatever it means to you
Know that everything moves in circles
Round and round we go
Who could've known it'd end so well
We fall on and we fall off
Existential carousel
Spin!
All images and text herein (excepting song lyrics, quoted material, and otherwise attributed images) are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. Feel free to use my words or photos, but please link back to the post from which you pulled them. Like anyone else, I find it gratifying to be acknowledged for my work. Thank you.
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