But what does it mean? DRAFT

The question that in a particular way irritates me is when someone asks the meaning of something. I'm not referring to my language students, or my wife, who ask for the meaning of X; theirs is, I believe, honest inquiry. They do or did not understand the language used.

I'm not bothered when my reprimanders ask, "What is the meaning of this?" They were probably curious about what I said or did. That, if tedious for me to explain or give the history of or rationale for that something doesn't bother me in the sense I am referring to, although why wasn't it obvious, I ask myself.

What I am irritated by is the question of the meaning of something that assumes you can definitively expound on that something which is inherently open to multiple, valid interpretations. This places the question so encountered in different kinds of contexts I have experienced, the personal and the academic.

"Why did she refuse his advances? He's such a wonderful catch, not to mention--but I do--the highest quality of eligible human being?"

"What is the meaning of the French Revolution?"

Or for that matter the meaning of almost anything.

When people have posed such questions, I have the feeling they are acting rhetorically, that they already have their answer and await foolish notions to set you, er me, straight, which in the end is perhaps just as valid a response on their part, if not also foolish,. Alternatively, they ask, and by doing so show us self-importance(?) in stating such clever things without answering. Strongly suspecting the latter or former, I most often let them have the floor give them little to nothing of my mind--except perhaps their cue to begin expounding their shtick: "I don't know," followed by "Does anyone?" A cue sure to launch them onto whatever it is they are on about.

We don't know so very much that what we think we do not only pales, but also can be seriously interrogated if re-approached.

Is this my assessment of the states of our knowledge of things a product of my age and stage in life, because I can see the flaws and insufficiencies better now than earlier in life? In other words what is the meaning of my skepticism of what I, also we I believe, know?

I don't know, but before you give me your answer, er interpretation that you are sure is the meaning, ask, I suggest: "What is the meaning of knowing?"

One answer to this inquiry is yet another: Does it matter? 

Because it does matter, one meaning is I have not given up the fight at my age--I am still in the caring stage of things of this world, thanks kindly.

 

Bye and bewildered

"Are you as beautiful inside as what I see before me?"

She gave him a quizzical look as she pressed her hand flat on her neck, not so much in oh-how-sweet-a-compliment as to cover the scar from a knife attack, now but five years ago. She then gave a look that could be mischievous and said, "What you see is what you get, all of me, the what and the who."

He said, "I see. I mean I--" 

"You should be. Start over? or are we done?"

He shuffled a bit, "I mean I'm sorry. That came out wrong."

To which she offered, "I'd like to think that was nice, and true. But maybe you didn't see me exactly. Like you meant to get to know me, on the off chance, get my name or phone number or something."

"Sorry again. Appearances can be--just you are very pretty. I was hoping--"

"Start over. My name's Mary. And yours?"

"Roger."

"Roger that."

"I don't know what to say now."

"You made a good start. Either a philosophical question or something nice that any girl would like to hear."

"I meant . . . I would like to get to know you".

"So let's talk about the other part. People are beautiful on the inside even if the outside is not what some would say is attractive or pretty or--"

"You're right, except when they're not. There are some people we just should avoid, particularly nowadays."

"You're talking about all the shootings and -isms and stuff?"

"Not just these days, 'cause hasn't it always been true that some we like, some we don't. Some are fine and others are, what can I say? deceptive?"

"True. But Roger, what is truth?"

"Oh, boy--"

"You started it. Don't you agree? Some things are true and other things are not."

"Yes. Are you talking about disinformation, things like that?"

"Could be. But I was thinking about getting a compliment again. Philosophy is for philosophers, and I'm not. Just a pretty girl. You said so."

"Beautiful, and I'm beginning to--"

"What? I guess I have to prove something more? You don't just go on appearances, do you?"

"Do I have to--"

"Answer? Of course. I seldom hang out with people who only go on appearances. There's a whole lot wrong these days with people who do that."

"Okay, okay. I'll be honest. I just really wanna hook up with you".

"And I thought it was going so well. You're a nice looking guy. Really. But I'm not sure--"

"About?"

"Gotta go, Roger."

"Bye?"

Writing contest entry no. 1

 Didact in the Playhouse, or I'm Game

We act and play in simulated realities but not for keeps. Thus no urgency even though on the world's stage, "Let's get outta here" is arguably the most frequent line spoken. So from this mark to the next on today's, or this evening's, stage we act or are acted upon; and it doesn't matter whether we have confidence and command of our lines or feel our wordless cameo appearance but irrelevant fluff. Or does it?

With that prologue, attend.

"We’re running out of time," Janie said to Alice. "We've got a babysitter to rescue." Janie gave her husband a look to concur.

Alice, after checking if he was still there, said "Okay, give me a sec."

"He's cute, not a knuckle dragger I don't think. What's to lose?"

Alice said she could die, to which Janie replied, "At your age, premature. Just give him a line and he'll say something then off you go. Break a leg."

Janie stood silent then added, "Try a little brash, sassy or something. Go. We'll wait till it looks like you've hooked him."

Alice took a silent, deep breath, shrugged in recognition that what she was about had little promise of success and walked towards her prey? No, not so much that as perhaps a subject for play, or was it lust?

"Got a sure-fire line for me?"

Her target had his back to her, but he heard something, turned and asked, "Sorry, you say something?"

Alice almost audibly, "That won't do." She raised her voice. "I said do you have something you want to say to get my attention? You know, get me to talk to you, like pick me up or something."

Calmly his reply came. "Umm, you're talking to me already."

Alice didn't miss this beat. The following scene ensued.

ALICE: Want to play the game or should I go?

TARGET: I would like to taste the flavor of what's on your lips.

ALICE: Nice but not good enough. Try again.

TARGET: You don't look your age.

ALICE: Something else? How am I supposed to take that?

TARGET: You're wearing bobby socks. Makes you look young. My mom still wears 'em like in her teens, dates her.

ALICE: Wait. So you're telling me I am older because my socks make me look younger? Or the other way round. Or, or what? I'm not sure what you mean.

TARGET: No good, huh?

ALICE: You're supposed to flatter me or something.

TARGET: There are rules? The object according to you is--

ALICE: Yes but this is not how it's supposed to go.

TARGET: You started it.

ALICE: I guess I can give up.

TARGET: I like it when tall girls threaten short men.

ALICE: I didn't mean it like that. You're not short, are you?

TARGET: I'm sitting on a stool and you're standing over me, which I like. There's a start. Wanna play dominatrix . . . kid?

ALICE: This really isn't--

TARGET: Okay start over.

ALICE: Got any clever words for a girl who really wants to talk to you but is really, really feeling irrelevant right now? (Pause) What's the matter? Now you say something.

TARGET: I'm thinking.

ALICE: Hey, you could . . . say something. This is supposed to be snappy, spontaneous, funnnn.

TARGET: Okay a minute. Naughty?

ALICE: Naughty would do.

TARGET: I would like to kiss your left nipple.

ALICE: I don't have one.

TARGET: That was clever.

ALICE: No, really. I don't have one.

TARGET: Show me.

ALICE: Game over.

TARGET: It was just getting good.

ALICE: No. Too naughty.

TARGET: I give up. You keep coming up with rules after I break 'em.

ALICE: Don't give up. We can start again. What's your sign?

TARGET: My name is Brad.

ALICE: I said sign, dummy.

BRAD: Just cutting to the chase. What's your real name?

ALICE: Alice, and I'm a Virgo.

BRAD: Really? I didn't think virgins--

ALICE: Sounds risky again. Do you treat all your girlfriends this way?

BRAD: Now we're making progress.

ALICE: I meant are you always so difficult?

BRAD: This is like the beginning of our first argument. First we meet, have a little chat, exchange names, jump into a relationship and now this. That's progress.

ALICE: Naughty, quick. Fooled me from over there. But now I think you should buy me a drink or something.

BRAD: Your place or mine?

ALICE: Brad, I'll have the same as you. And that drink--when I get back or playacting's over. I have to visit a mirror and say bye to my friends.

BRAD: That a threat or promise? about games.

ALICE: Promise sounds nicer. But you don't know if I'm nice or . . . yet. Could be naughty, depending.

BRAD: I'm betting nice. All my friends are nice.

Intermission. Although it seems more than familiar, this scene disguises. Lines delivered appear to reveal but at the same time hide what we would know. What we can see and hear carries more, more than we can consume in the succession of moments, because most plots move apace with little reflection. 

Thought experiment: If we found ourselves in such a situation, would we be conscious of our own full import and export? Forget it: just an aside signifying nothing. 

ALICE: I was thinking. A girl kind of wants to be romanced a before you get into, you know, personal questions. You're a mystery but not very romantic.

BRAD: I'm a guy. Guys think about sex or nothing. If you ask for an off-the-top response, that is what you'll probably get.

ALICE: I know.

BRAD: So is there a problem?

ALICE: No. I'm back, aren't I? Do I have a drink?

BRAD: I ordered but you'll have to threaten the waitress.

ALICE: I'm not really serious about threatening anyone. It was just part of . . . whatever.

BRAD: Are we still playing?

ALICE: Doesn't feel like it. Would you like another crack at playing?

BRAD: Not right now. I like to take things slower, I guess. You?

ALICE: How many girlfriends do you have?

BRAD: Only you.

ALICE: Game again?

BRAD: No, dance. Dancing is more like truth. Games are somehow not real. Fun, but not real.

ALICE: Okay. How many girlfriends?

BRAD: I said only you, but that really isn't true, is it? We just met.

ALICE: You're right. I hate it when someone else is right. I guess I started it. Almost turned into a fight. But I only left for a little while, to check the, um, mirror. Doesn't have to end this way.

BRAD: No. What did you see in the mirror?

ALICE: I think I saw a girl with a chance. A chance for something. Something more than she's had, more than she deserves? So I took a chance. Am I wrong?

BRAD: But you don't know anything about me.

ALICE: Tell me then.

BRAD: Well, I have a lot of girl friends but no girlfriends. I'm a geek. Computers. I come here to have a bite and relax. If I don't, my diet goes to hell.

ALICE: Smart, disciplined, sounds good.

BRAD: Yes, and I'm okay with it, me. I like what I do, how I manage. So what do you do?

ALICE: I come to places like this and try to meet guys like you.

BRAD: I don't try to meet guys.

ALICE: That could mean--

BRAD: Yes, I'm quiet and private.

ALICE: Sounds boring. What about reaching out, spontaneity?

BRAD: You saw what comes from spontaneous.

ALICE: I see your point.

BRAD: Your job, really.

ALICE: I work for a magazine. Proofreader, no less and no more, unfortunately. But I don't always talk correctly.

BRAD: Do you usually say what you mean?

ALICE: Sure. Except when I try to--

BRAD: Pick on guys like me.

ALICE: No. Pick up guys like you.

BRAD: And this is really how you spend your time? picking up . . . I mean other than sleeping, eating and editing?

ALICE: Not editing. I wish. That's what I meant about nothing more.

BRAD: Then tell me about career ceilings and all of that.

ALICE: Let's dance. This is nice music. You like music?

BRAD: No.

ALICE: But you can dance?

BRAD: Teach me. Guys like girls to lead.

ALICE: Okay, Guy. Come on.

Brad went the men's room mid-lesson, and Janie asked what he was like. Alice said she couldn't tell.

JANIE: He can't dance.

ALICE: No, but that's not everything. He's cute. He always seems to have something else on his mind. I don't know. He talks non-sequiturs.

JANIE: I don't have to guess what's on his mind. So you'll be here when he gets back from the loo. We're about to go. You're not going to bolt?

ALICE: No, I'll be here. I still have this drink he's going to pay for.

JANIE: Mercenary. But see, you're hooking--.

ALICE: All's fair! but two ships passing. In fact we're just playing around.

JANIE: You the speed-dater only slower about it.

ALICE: You know me. I don't think I'm a predator exactly.

FRIEND: Eat or get eaten.

ALICE: This is nothing about survival. It's all irrelevant. Not even talking about real stuff.

JANIE: Well have fun. Girls' night out, nothing serious.

ALICE: I kind of like him, though. I don't know why.

JANIE: Time to find out. Here he comes.

ALICE: Stay here a moment.

JANIE: We gotta go soon. Give me a signal.

ALICE: It's not like that, yet.

JANIE: He's more than cute. But can he read and write?

ALICE: Talking is enough to start.

JANIE: I could think of--

ALICE: Shh.

BRAD: Hello.

JANIE: Hi.

BRAD: Two pretty girls, women. Sorry, you are?

ALICE: Janie was just going.

JANIE: But you said--

ALICE: I changed my mind.

BRAD: Janie. That's a nice name.

JANIE: Thanks. You're Brad. Alice was just telling me.

ALICE: Nothing. Janie has a very jealous husband over there. If he sees her talking to you much longer, he's gonna come over and punch somebody's lights out.

BRAD: I've done nothing.

JANIE: Neither have I. Besides, the old married guy needs an incentive now and then.

ALICE: I give up.

BRAD: So how do you two know--

ALICE: We work together. At the date-rape crisis center. Right, Janie?

JANIE: Yea, umm, right. We see a lot of that stuff 'round here.

BRAD: Date-rape crisis center? Didn't know there was such a thing.

ALICE: Yes. Well, we just got going. We got a grant . . . from a foundation. Yea. I mean yeah!

BRAD: And how did you guys get involved in something like that? I hope not personal experience, as victims I mean. Could be traumatic. I knew a guy who says he got raped at a party.

JANIE: Really? How does that work? I mean you usually think--

ALICE: Yea. We don't see much of that. In fact, I don't think we ever--

JANIE: Yea, but we just started. We just got the grant. Getting the office and crisis line going and stuff.

BRAD: What's the number?

ALICE: 867-5948. Want to write it down? 800 867-5948.

JANIE: No one will answer. There's nobody there. We're not really open yet. (Aside) That's your number, stupid.

ALICE: He won't remember.

BRAD: 867-5948.

ALICE: But you won't need it. Victims call. And girls who are a bit bewildered about what might have happened.

BRAD: Right. Well, I guess I won't be needing your number either.

JANIE: Want mine?

ALICE: Look sharp. Your husband is headed over here. Bye.

JANIE: I guess someone decided I've served my social function. Nice to meet you, Brad. Maybe we'll see you again?

BRAD: Should I call the hot-line to get hold of you?

ALICE: Stop it. Good-bye, Jane.

JANIE: Bye Alice. See you at the, er, office.

BRAD: Seems nice.

ALICE: Yes, very. Now as I was saying--

BRAD: Yes, what were you saying? I had popped off to the men's room. No, we had just finished dancing. Well, I finished before I started. You're pretty good on your feet. I guess running away if there is danger would be pretty easy for you. You know, date rape and weird stuff these days. Stalkers, for example. Best to go to some island somewhere and never come back . . .

ALICE: Do you think about things like that?

BRAD: Not seriously. You? Like the date-rape crisis center and all that?

ALICE: No. We don't work there, if there is such a thing.

BRAD: I figured.

ALICE: But the number is good.

BRAD: 800 867-5948.

ALICE: There's no 800.

BRAD: I thought I'd get a free call, if I decided I needed help.

ALICE: Do you think you might need help? for something?

BRAD: I would like some help with a little project I'm doing. My fig pig.

ALICE: Sorry. What?

BRAD: I am making a pig out of fig branches and grape vines. I need someone to hold parts together while I tie them with string and wire. It' hard to do two things at once.

ALICE: Why? I mean why are you making this pig? Is it like a sculpture, or something for school or a competition?

BRAD: No. Just wanted to do something with my hands. Most of the time I'm in my head. You know, numbers and code in front of a computer. It's a nice change. To do something where you can touch the result.

ALICE: Oh. A pig, then. Touch. I see.

BRAD: Kind of a conversation stopper, isn't it?

ALICE: Nooo. But--

BRAD: But you don't know what to say, right? I know it's weird. People have their weird side. What's yours?

ALICE: I'm not making any pigs right now, or anything. I'm . . . I'm talking with you. That is my project right now. And it seems to be going . . . well, going. What else do you do when you are not doing your job or fabricating pigs? Are you into music? No, you told me you weren't. So tell me what.

BRAD: Sounds like a job interview. Are you--

ALICE: No. Sorry. (Pause) I better go.

BRAD: You just went.

ALICE: Not that. I meant--

BRAD: Tell me about you. I'll interview you. I'm looking for a non-profit, altruistic, shy do-gooder. Are you that person? Or? Talk to me.

ALICE: I like it when you do the talking.

BRAD: You're a follower not a leader? I don't believe it. You came over here to pick me up, teach me to dance.

ALICE: Did not.

BRAD: Did too.

ALICE: Wasn't like that.

BRAD: Was.

ALICE: Okay I was trying. How my doing?

BRAD: You like to play games. I know that.

ALICE: Pretty sharp, for a sportsman.

BRAD: You can't keep changing the subject. What sports, for example, do you like to do.

ALICE: Geesh. You're tough. Where's Janie?

BRAD: There walking out the door. You were saying?

ALICE: I do aerobics. That's not exactly a sport. At least I don't think so. And I walk a lot. I love walking actually. Probably doesn't count. Let's see. I like to watch some sports.

BRAD: How about we take a walk then sometime?

ALICE: That would be nice. Won't your girlfriends mind?

BRAD: They won't.

ALICE: How many did you say you had?

BRAD: I didn't say.

ALICE: Well?

BRAD: Jealous already? We just met.

ALICE: Right. You're right again. So what's your number?

BRAD: I have yours.

ALICE: Yes. Right. Okay, then . . . good enough. I better be going. I'm not very good at this. Lack of practice.

So the players played, and on that note of her readiness to quit? and move on, and his sense of an ending, or a beginning, Brad found Alice's eyes looking into his. He said, "We’re running out of time," a sentiment the sound of which was not in the manner of "childish treble, pipes and whistles,"--nerves before the limelight--but more in the feeling-tone of a "wistful ballad made to his mistress's eyes." 

The windows to their souls averted in time to arrest a beat awkward between not-yet intimates.

Brad decided to decide: "We can take a walk now." To which she replied, "I don't even know you." Brad said he didn't know her either and added, "I have an emergency number you can call."

Alice, looking down, softly said, "Funny. Funny guy." He then asked her if she was ready, and she said, drawing it out while considering a nothing-something, "Well. . . . . "

BRAD: I guess that wasn't so hard.

ALICE: What?

BRAD: Nothing. Let's get outta here. We need to decide where to go.

Alice looking down again nodded twice then said, "So. Then I'm game." She then looked up and smiled. Brad seemed pleased and got up from his seat.

We playact in seemingly simulated realities. However, there is urgency. "We're running out of time." So from this mark here to the next there we act or are acted upon. Whether we have confidence and command of our lines or feel our cameo appearance but irrelevant fluff, this choral voice suggests, "Let's not rush outta here." All's well that proceeds and ends well.

With curtain's close there's no re-dos or next performance. The promise of today's is that it's a one-off. If the scene's all too familiar, we still reveal who we are as we say our lines. Alice and Brad have found the bard was not just posing language games but presenting a secret to self relevance. 

Or if you will and think all this talk nothing good or bad, have it as you like.

What was my Dad thinking?

My father didn't tell me he died. However he left me a chalupa. Informed after the fact by a New York lawyer, who, I trusted, had administered his estate correctly, I wish Dad had been more forthcoming. I didn't know what a chalupa was or what to do with one. Was it a recipe he picked up in Mexico for a spicy dish? No, couldn't be; and it wasn't, although in a sense it was, spicy dish that is.

To be clear Dad gave me a rustic house slash log cabin remotely located in his adopted, faraway land. I was puzzled. I already had a place to live, which was his. He had inherited it from my mother when she passed. He said he'd like me to have it some day. I assumed this would eventually sort itself out. So what need had I of a house I would never visit or call home?

He and I were not close, but we loved each other as sons and fathers should under the circumstances. He left to travel the world in my early teens. We kept in touch by mail and the annual phone call. He was communicative in several languages, I believed; I am born, bred, and based permanent-like in one provincial village, thoroughly monolingual. I live on independent means courtesy of my mother's estate, and I do things like read and write to make sense of my world and avoid entanglements. Mail correspondence with my dad worked well for me. Phone calls were awkward and consisted of sharing seasonal pleasantries like, "Merry Christmas."

I found what Dad left me in the Czech Republic was near a village of the genus type "secludus extremus." As for the chalupa, I would become the owner under one condition. I had to physically inspect it and its contents. I then could take possession or dispose of it and contents as I wished.

Thus began a series of exertions for me in spite of an armchair curiosity I suffer from. I'm a sedate a-social thud. So I travel virtually. It's fine to learn about the world and people from the comfort of your recliner, but to find out what I had been bequeathed I had to get up and out and interact and do the unthinkable, which would entail all manner of I knew not what. I would have to lock the door behind me and with backpack leave my village, get to the next, catch a bus then plane, and then endure mysterious country entry and exit rites and currency exchanges. Then I had to make it to a dot on some country lane in what is now Czechia.

In short, I had to move my rear to claim ownership of something from a father I would like to have known better. Perhaps I could if I went to that faraway place and carry out what seemed like my father's considered last wish. Daunting for the stationary and indecisive but to satisfy strong curiosity to gain a better than vague knowledge of my father, I broke out of my box.

What my father told me about Czechoslovakia did not jive with the country I encountered. I dimly realized from Dad's letters that he hadn't told me what I needed to know today, or any particularly intimate details of the life he led. If he shared more than the usual small talk, it was about a communist country where he began the rest of his life after me and my mother.

I had to get a passport, but then I needed a visa. I had to get to an airport, but the closest was New York. I flew over-long over water and then some land, but upon landing found making transfers and connections tasks I could manage albeit without cosmopolitan grace.

After arriving at Prague's Ruzyně airport, I found a bus I was told went to the city center. I found signs and sights and sounds and smells not remotely akin to those I had believed normal and universal. It's a miracle that eventually I found my way out of Praha and its centrum but almost clueless how exactly to get where I was headed. The place was called, I translate, By-the-Little-Creek (close enough). I asked someone on a train by pointing to my map, noticing that a number words on the map had no vowels. How can one find the way in a country with only consonants?

What By-the-Little-Creek sounds like as I heard it was: uoo poe tooch kuu. This village's name sounds better when pronounced by natives. U Potůčku. Wait, I'll explain.

In Prague I went to the American Embassy and met with someone who decoded the papers I had received from Dad's stateside lawyer. I couldn't determine all the legalese myself, but I was assured the last will and testament was proper and valid. Another document was a Czech translation of the will with addenda of drawings and copies of deeds in German. Although everything was in order he said, one detail appeared in the Czech translation that wasn't in the English original. My Dad wanted me to evict the current occupant of his weekend country cottage before I occupied or disposed of it. The U. S. official cautioned that she had rights under Czech law even though she didn't own the place or pay rent. Last name was Nováková.

I said I would decide whatever about that if I found this U Potůčku. He asked me if I thought I would need someone to help get there and translate. I said no, since he wasn't really offering and I felt emboldened. My modest international experience to that point had gotten me this far. I'd been able to ask in English, and point, without much embarrassment for the bits of information I needed. Anything about a squatter I thought I could handle myself. Little did I appreciate the challenges stemming from that detail.

Before venturing into the interior, I toured Prague and walked around mostly lost. I was pleased I found my way back to my hotel each evening. My obligatory beginner tourist's lesson involved changing money on the street. Short story short, I lost a painfully large amount. I watched the guy count out the bills in his language, but he thumbed through them so fast I got lost in the sounds he made and confused about how many crowns I should get for my dollars already stuffed into his pocket.

Regional train, then one-car toot-toot train, then bus, and then three kilometers on foot brought me to my destination, almost. My country place was another kilometer from U Potůčku's smokey pub where I managed to get, what else, a beer. I finally arrived and was greeted by the gorgeous apparition of a young woman dressed, I was told later, for "tanning on the sun" or tending the kitchen's vegetable plot--visualize t-shirt and bikini panties. She said good-day, I guessed. I didn't know the proper reply. I was a stranger stunned by the view, all but lost in a strange land face to face with a native.

Shocked and smitten, a lecher and wanna-be intimate? in that order and all at once, I was taken by the amusement ride thus far. At the moment I didn't know how to get on or off or to just wait till the ride called for another token.

How long I stared I don't know but eventually asked if her name was Nováková. She said yes in English, and I felt deliverance from any routine I had ever embraced back home; and I hoped that the pastoral heavenly being I was seeing would wrap me in eternal bliss. I told her my name and she "just knew it." Then she said she'd put something on.

She said, "Wait right there," which was outside the metal fence on the side of the dirt lane leading to this Eden with young Eve still resident. I wondered if she would let me pass through the gate and invite me in if she already knew me and my mission.

I had my backpack and no plans for where to stay. I didn't even know how to find such a place. Asking as I was walking through U Potůčku got a reply beyond decoding--might have been halting German. It wasn't Czech, which now I had a novice's ear for, because I didn't hear that machine-gun stream with almost no inflection and no readily detectable separate words. I arrived at Dad's cottage naive, speechless, helpless. Tereza intuited right off, knew why I was there; and after initial words, I accepted her offer to stay and did for more than a week.

Tereza was pretty and sexy in dress and manner. She was about my age. Although greatly distracted, I discovered a delightful, lively, open, and humorous conversationalist with no trace her native language was other than English. I complimented her on everything, like the foolish foreigner I was, praises she readily and gracefully accepted.

Tereza, her mother and my Dad were a Prague family that spent weekends and summers at his cottage. Tereza's mother preferred her Prague flat that she received during the early days of restitution in the 90s. Dad and mother Hanka met in the 80s before any revolutions. Tereza preferred the countryside, because she had her own space and could work a coveted job as librarian serving three nearby villages. She had unnamed suitors and friends locally, and in Prague. She graduated from Charles University in classics and languages. She spent her free time reading in two languages. She also tutored the occasional student who needed to pass an English exam.

I picked out of this stream what was most surprising. "So you're my sister."

"You didn't know? I thought Dad told you all about us." Tereza added she was pleased she now officially had a real life American brother.

"It's great. I never thought we'd meet and now we have. America is a Czech girl's dream to visit and earn money. Many do it illegally by disappearing from tour buses and finding work."

Although I was somehow pleased to have a new relation, I thought my Czech sister should have rights to where she lived and grew up. My claim on Dad's weekend cottage lessened in value to me as did my hope for a closer male-female--I don't know what to call it.

Tereza did not say By-the-Little-Creek but used Czech. She said Uoo-poe-tooch-kuu wasn't the center of the world but "quite satisfying." She told me later what she said after that, because she lost me at Uoo-poe-tooch-kuu. For the record she believed she would never be able to travel beyond her country given her income.

You can't imagine how the sounds from her lips struck me. The o's and oo's and u and uu's seduced my ears. This siren soothingly beckoned me in the most sensual way to come hither, although she didn't actually. It was just the way she said it. The rounding of the lips when making the sounds provided the visual complement to the incesticide I wanted to commit. I was transported. Tereza noticed something in my look.

"Did I say something I shouldn't have?"

I answered with what was eating me that moment. "Sister?"

"Step-sister, not biological," she clarified.

I don't remember what was said after that or what happened next. However I grew less conflicted about the house. She should be able to live there. She should own it. What were the chances of a closed homebody like me to have anything to do with this foreign country and a step-sister who deserved a gift from the man who was more father to her than he was for me? Thus I made a decision.

Suffice to say that the days I spent in U Potůčku with Tereza were heavenly, and I had a fleeting idea how we might make things work with us. But I was conscious enough even after quiet talks and other intimacies that I was not suited to some trans-national, distance relationship or foreign property ownership. Plus she had those suitors.

She touched on that subject during my visit and made me realize I was not just in a foreign land, I had stepped into terribly unfamiliar cultural waters, waters with troublesome differences from the conservative and religious currents I grew up with. It seems from what she said and what I could absorb from my brief observations in U Potůčku proper that attitudes about sex and a god or God conflicted with my sense of these things. I guess if you wear your country and culture for so many years and you have certain ways you live and believe, the very different is very hard to see, understand, and adopt. Maybe my Dad did. I didn't think I could even though Tereza opened me to new possibilities and brought out another self from this reticent one. And why did Dad bequeath me this home? Was I to evict this attractive and endearing relative? I couldn't imagine.

Tereza walked with me the kilometers to the bus where I would begin the many hours returning to the U. S. I told her then that even though I fulfilled my obligation under Dad's will to visit and inspect, I wanted to correct a perceived wrong. She should consider the cottage hers, and she could live there as long as she liked. One day, if I could manage it, she would officially own my Czech country cottage.

"I might come back and visit to make it official. I would like to."

For the rest of the walk and standing side by side before boarding the bus, she was silent. I finally said, "Best get walking. You have a ways back home." She said I did too. We hugged and I boarded the bus.

With a few missteps and getting lost once in Prague and again in the Frankfurt airport, I returned home, and after some weeks I filed the legal documents away and sorted the souvenirs I had collected on my trip--a canceled bus ticket that cost all of five crowns, the Prague hotel receipt showing the extra (double) charge for being a foreigner, the postcard I bought of a couple embracing in Old Town Square.

Soon the months passed, and I had started looking into another travel adventure. I got bit by the bug, but an easier, safer adventure was what I was considering. All the while Tereza didn't let me forget what we had. First I got postcards asking when I would return. I didn't answer most of them, but one time wrote I was thinking about touring the American West. I was back in my indecisive and hypothetical musings as well as hardly pursuing social interaction as normal people go about such things.

Two weeks before Christmas a letter came listing all the Czech traditions for the season and how much time people had off through the first of the year. Tereza was free through Sylvester (New Years) and into the first weeks of the year. She invited me to please come for the holidays and signed off, "Your loving sister." Her kind and thoughtful letter went unanswered. I could go into rationalizations for not writing, but that would be repeating myself.

One false spring morning in late February, I was on the porch sweeping off last fall's leaves which had swirled into corners and lay there awaiting this procrastinator. A voice called from the other side of my wood fence. "Ahoj," I heard. I looked up and for a moment thought no one says that except where there is water and boats. Then I jumped off the porch and opened the gate realizing who was calling. "Ahoj ty vole," Tereza said with a devil in her eye (rough translation, hi you bastard).

We hugged warmly. I was very glad to see her and she looked great, of course, and well rested.

"What brought you--"

"I went to New York City. Had to go to the Czech Embassy. I always wanted to take a bite of the Big Apple first hand. It's not fun alone. I wished you were with me so I came here."

"That's nice but--"

And then she looked directly into my eyes serious-like. "I'm here to assert my rights."

I thought she must have been pregnant and was coming to make me an honest man, or it must be money to subsidize her lifestyle. Village librarians can't earn enough for travel and New York. All Americans are rich, she once said as if she believed it.

She broke the train of my private conjectures, for she surely saw panic in my demeanor. I asked her to step into the yard, and she lobbed the bomb.

"Our father had two wills, one in Czech for you, one in English for me. Yours enforceable in my country. Mine enforceable in yours. You got our weekend cottage, going to give it to me, remember? Dad's English will gave me this house here."

She looked past me as if to say, "Nice digs."

She had this smirk and said with false concern, "Now whattaya going ta do?"

She added softly, "Uoo-poe-tooch-kuu," in the sexiest tone and manner possible. Rounded lips and, you know. I laughed and said I was sorry I didn't answer her letter. She said something in Czech, which I am not supposed to think, write, or ever say. Then she put her arm around me and reflected that there must be some expression for the dilemmas we now faced, but she didn't know what it was. I didn't either.

We both beamed at each other--she with joy and optimism about the future, me with lust, to be honest, and uncertainty--also honest. I continued smiling and silent as we mounted the steps to a future entangled as step-brother and -sister.

As we entered her house I said, "This all was carefully calculated. What ever was our father thinking?"

Tereza smiled. "I guess we'll figure it out."

The opposite of love is hate?

If I love, that is an enduring feeling or state of being I have, and it shows itself in acts of kindness, affection, attraction, the desire to be in the company of, to incorporate (consume?) somehow. From food to females, and other subjects I would include but can't now think of, one might say in my case that he loves and this is a good and positive feeling he experiences and reveals repeatedly through word and deed.  

If we think of love as a force or energy which causes certain acts, and perhaps self-sacrifices, the opposite, a force also, is easily hate. Hate has no disposition to be kind, show affection, attract. Hate endures, as in the case of love, but with the object to eliminate, avoid, and continue avoiding. It is a negative force, perhaps more a rationally-driven than an emotionally-driven one, and once one has this attitude or perspective or disposition, it no longer takes up much space in conscious attending, or doesn't have to. If it does, it is then a hatred in need, in need of destroying or hurting perhaps.

I love because I do. I hate because I have decided not to like, love, or have anything to do with an object or a person or a people. Hate seems to be the equal but opposite force of love, but perhaps slightly, qualitatively different beyond its negative charge.

If love and hate are seen as states of being more than forces which impel and compel us to certain deeds and decisions, then the opposite is really the absence of that state. The opposite then of love is not-love, a kind of vacuum. The opposite of hate is perhaps not-even-the-recognition-of something or someone, a kind of ignorance or obliviousness, also a vacuum, albeit invoked from time to time as a suspect object or subject creeps into awareness.

Given this perspective, which will surely not sway the tide of the prevailing received conception of love and hate as opposites, we have a curious condition. If one is in the state of not-love, then the world, except for a few friends, relations and relationships, does not love, for example, me. By the same token, except for the very few in my tiny psychological and physical spaces, everyone else has no feeling for or about or against me, unless they include me, an individual, in the generalized other. 

If we don't bring entities from the glimmer of awareness into consciousness, we have no actionable feelings. It is as if the world, the vast majority of it, whatever conception of the world we have, doesn't exist at all unless brought to mind. It and they are hardly subjects or objects to be concerned with or about, which in the main makes love and hate local and personal phenomena.

There are those, and I was one of them, who venture out into the world to spread love (compassion, goodwill, direct assistance). Obviously there are also those who choose to go out and commit hate. In these cases, all we accomplish is to widen tiny circles of influence. By venturing out, we may also weaken the relations that we have already made through our love, or our hate. That’s but an hypothesis. Extraordinary acts of love and hate we become aware of from time to time, and these no doubt have some influence on the affairs of the world. The abstract and impersonal can be forces in the world, but they are of a different order, perhaps one might call them political.

But the condition remains. My love or hate or friendly or unfriendly dispositions--who knows or cares about these? no one. And this is because the opposites of these define the sphere of personal feelings. The rest is dark matter. It is there but no one sees, hears, smells, tastes, or touches it. Nor can they unless they come through the ether and are psychologically closer.

The opposite of love is not hate but a vacuum, and this is perhaps scary. The opposite of hate is also a vacuum, and perhaps that is something good or not; at least it feels to me a more sure thing. If there is someone or something to hate, we define ourselves. We have shape and contours and borders. If there is someone or something to love, we also have definition, but in its or his or her absence we are without completion, less well defined.

My way of--DRAFT

"Phenomenology studies conscious experience as experienced from the subjective or first person point of view."

Phenomenological Descriptive Analysis

To hold experience still in order to study it, it needs recording. For this discussion that would be a text. And to study that text, one also needs words to describe and analyze and comprehend selected, specific phenomena thought to be represented by and through the text. The result of study would thus be lost to the ether if not another text with (which to de-construct and understand). That secondary text, if produced with care, valid method, and sound foundations for description and analysis, we can call a phenomenological descriptive analysis.

Writing.

Writing is the act of one person recording streams of words on-/into a medium (e.g., paper, digital document, dictation recorder). Editing, proofreading, and formatting for greater ease of comprehension are also forms of writing.

All other albeit related activities are not, in this view, writing per se. Writing is not thinking about something without recording for a reader to access. It is not the spontaneous idea one must remember to be sure to include later. It is not following a writing process such as is taught in schools and colleges. It is not some aspect of the psychology of writing such as where or when one does it, associated rituals, choosing preferences for inscription method, promoting or marketing writing-as-product (e.g., article, book), and so forth.

Evidence of having written is a text someone can read.

Subjective view.

The standard points of view are three--the position of the speaker/narrator in relation to what is written. These reduce to "the subjective or first person point of view". A text in first person point of view is clearly within the boundary of conscious experience as experienced by _I_, the first person. A second person point of view is a first person speaking, thus their conscious experience captured as it were in process, verbatim, "I am speaking to you". Access to the second person is directly from and through the first person, the one that address an other. Third person is what a(ny) speaker/writer, a first person, holds in consciousness and represents as such to communicate to an audience such as a  reader.

Description.

Any text, simple or complex, answers the question of what is/was it like to experience something.

Text is a description of a phenomenon or phenomena. Phenomena as conscious-experience-as-experienced knows no bounds. However, a phenomenon contained in a larger text may be worth holding in consciousness and studying in order to comprehend, in the sense of completeness and understanding of what and how something is or was for the percipient-writer.

Text takes countless forms. Each can be seen as description. For example:

• A letter of complaint describes a correspondent's experience and how an altered  state of that reality really would be better.
• A poem presents images and sentiments and thoughts sharable among others through its construction and words--see what I see, feel what I feel, think what I think in this special way I have made it accessible for to you.
• A personal memoir tells us what life was like at that time with me.
• The company policy memorandum makes the case for or answers the question of how it would or should be in present and future experience.
• A work of historical fiction describes how it could realistically have been in people's experience.
• The peer reviewed scientific article describes what was done/experienced and how and what happened as a result, and what the meaning of the phenomenon might be--an invitation to experience along-with and consider for yourself (and perhaps a world however large or small).

A text can be in present tense, such as I am experiencing such and such about what I have in my focus now. It can be reflexive in that I am conscious that I am conscious of myself experiencing such and such. It can be reflective in the sense that this is how it was for me when I experienced that. Although there are refinements to this mirror-like reflecting self, in process versus at a point after having experienced, the nature of the text for all practical purposes is the basis for the description of the what and the how of experience.

A text taken as a whole is a description or an as-accurate-as-can-be image including feeling-tones and the like. Such may include other elements as narrative structure, chronology, attitude toward one or more parts of an experience, factual details, and so forth. And that whole is primary data to disclose or uncover an object or objects in consciousness--phenomena. The choices for which phenomena should be the subjects for analysis and description depends upon the need to fix more certain than in generalized fashion the understanding of same.

Meaning.

". . . [P]henomenology is the study of . . . appearances of things, or things as they appear in our experience, or the ways we experience things, thus the meanings things have in our experience."*

Integral to understanding meaning has to do with the structure and content of primary data word streams constituting the phenomenon, and this can only be known by a methodical taking apart and putting together what and how of the experience including considerations of whether or not the given data is comprehensive enough to reveal in clarity and fullness and boundaries of the phenomenon we would know and understand better. Structure refers to parts and how they interrelate in order to comprise the whole. Content refers to themes and qualities that are deemed to be essential to the understanding of the experience of the phenomenon.

To be continued.

_____
Sources.

* Stanford Encyclopedia Of Philosophy. 2021. Plato.Stanford.Edu. https://plato.stanford.edu.

"Phenomenology Online » Writing". 2021. Phenomenologyonline.Com. http://www.phenomenologyonline.com/inquiry/writing/.

** Illustration source. Husserl. (2021) Optionals IAS Mains Philosophy Phenomenology (Husserl)(History and Problems of Philosophy) Questions 1 to 1 - DoorstepTutor. Retrieved April 13, 2021, from https://www.doorsteptutor.com/Exams/IAS/Mains/Optional/Philosophy/Questions/Topic-History-and-Problems-of-Philosophy-0/Subtopic-Phenomenology-Husserl-6/Part-1.html

Rabbit hole

Hypothesis:

A. Creative illness (Freud, Ellenberg) = dark night of the soul (Christian mystics) = spiritual emergency (Grof, S. and C.).

B. These similar psychological phenomena grow out of a similar "cause" or process: phenomenological-psychological reduction (Applebaum), contemplative meditation (e.g., Dominican prayer), altered states of consciousness (Wilber, Tart, and others), and Freud's psychoanalysis (in his case, his self-analysis).

Next step: Go deeper, including comparisons among descriptions for each concept (e.g., columns and rows mapping(?) characteristics).

References (partial list, draft form):

Which The Phenomenologist. (2021) Key ideas: Applebaum on the phenomenological reduction - PhenomenologyBlog. Retrieved April 03, 2021, from https://phenomenologyblog.com/?p=616

Ellenberger, Henri F. (1970). The Discovery of the Unconscious: The History and Evolution of Dynamic Psychiatry. New York: Basic Books.

Grof, C., & Grof, S. (2017). Spiritual emergency: The understanding and treatment of transpersonal crises. International Journal of
Transpersonal Studies, 36 (2). http://dx.doi.org/10.24972/ijts.2017.36.2.30

Itself Because Not. (2021) The Concept of ''Creative Illness'' - Physicists and Artists Have Found a Common - Sleep and Health Journal Chicago. Retrieved April 03, 2021, from https://www.sleepandhealth.com/concept-creative-illness-physicists-and-artists-ha/

Charles Rycroft. (2021) Freud's Creative Illness | by Charles Rycroft | The New York Review of Books. Retrieved April 03, 2021, from https://www.nybooks.com/articles/1985/05/30/freuds-creative-illness/?lp_txn_id=1232790

Smith, David Woodruff, "Phenomenology", The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2018 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), URL = <https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2018/entries/phenomenology/>.

Black dung beetle or?

Will I return after this? and if I have a choice, who would I be? come back as?

One, I have to take a look at what this life has been and if I demonstrated the highest and best capabilities known and available to me to match or exceed. After all isn't it about that? to be all that you can be and more before saying, "See ya next time"?

If it is not about this, life is for whatever reasons we come up with not all of which are lofty. There are those who embrace whatever and hell with all else. Consider the effects of that; don't look too hard. Not that this always leads to messes and worse for others or the world, but this posture or belief or whatever it is has no other reason but satisfy-me-here-now.  

Of course aspiration and just-let-fly and points between assume we can make rational choices, although even in full awareness, we surely don't always make the best ones. We just live, and without 24/7 vigilance, because this is impossible, drift along--mostly--the easiest, most convenient byways. Some have embraced the me-path, mostly. Some have chosen or drifted towards more other- or ascent-oriented paths.

I chose and drifted and was guided to follow less-me paths, although I had to learn lessons that put resurgent-me (a horribly selfish ego) back on a better way, or the best I could find at the time, too often having strayed from what worked best and was, in hindsight, the decidedly better.

So the question: What worked, or what conditions did I find myself in and how did I use or advantage my better self given what I forged or came my way? Given that honest and accurate assessment, I can begin to answer who would I be, or who I would come back as?

It would be nice to know in awareness some options and future conditions before finding a new self with years and years ahead as a black dung beetle in sisyphian hell.

I have no complaint about living-to-thriving this time round. But the purpose, the meaning . . . would that next time I could see that part more clearly and live like or as that. And the form and life's necessities would fit that function.

Is it possible that those who believe this is it and all we will ever have will not come back and we who have questioned, perhaps believed in the possibility of coming back and the like or the as of it will be afforded the opportunity? In other words, the promise is you get what you expect or hope for. Those who take care in this go round get another go.

Rest in that still point, for now.

Draft from a 2011 computer folder

[. . . slightly edited and excerpted. What got me going then? vs. now as it would be more obviously justified.]

 In street and alley what strange tongues are these,/ Accents of menace in our ear.
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich, The Unguarded Gates, 1882

I refer here not to different languages but to language distorted, seemingly intentional and decidedly intentional. These voices have gained greater and greater prominence. The slants this way and that on who and what and when and where and why have directly threatened and struck the alarms of coming terror and pending totalitarianism, although the speakers are not the ones we fear but the energies and machinations behind these messengers.

Are the messengers themselves part of the conspiracy? To be sure in that they speak the distortions, contrary to facts and accurate memory. So those to blame, if blame it is, are these mediums as well as the nameless making up the hoards who would move us off center and towards an agenda of uncertain rationality and often insanity. Can we speak of particulars? of people and events in detail to support this claim? Surely, but my beef is not with these things but with the accents of menace who would fill our ears with rotting offal and outright garbage.

[Long quotation about socialism here from Wikipedia, including this, "Created . . . with the purpose of building a classless society."]

Those people and forces at play to move us in a direction counter to fact, to reason, to the most accurate understandings of things past, they wish to build a one-class society in the image of imagined or contrived truths and skewed values. Danger. Therein lies our peril, while at the same time the mediums abhor the notions of socialism, including efforts at reforms that look at what is and pose what could be. Reform to these is less and regress, but less means more and regress means what it was, which is to say how it is, some imagined status quo as they would have it. Such entrenchment under the guise of adjustment and change merely keeps them on their podia.

Would they stop talking were their pictures of what is or what should be become manifest? Once a distorter, always a distorter. Or, in normal parlance, probably not. The power felt by creating discord seduces; they will ride a new horse warning that the red coats are coming without ever having seen one, or substantiate-able evidence that that (new) menace lies in wait. They will do so because of that power, or the felt power that the attention, money or other "gain" has brought them.

Goofballs we can dismiss. Clever twisters and those who reinforce common misunderstandings and half truths--they are evil and we should also dismiss.

Where are the champions, that is to say, experts in knowledge, who tell it as it is and was and can correct the accents, the distortions? Without making the same performative error by killing off the opposition, literally or figuratively, how can we interrupt the most influential flows of misinformation?

I have long said that if you want to change the relationship with the other, you have to change the pattern of communicating with them. The usual approach is to try to directly affect them; doesn't work. People convinced they are right do not change. Talk till the proverbial come home merely consoles you and makes you the opposite "right", and thus not open to understanding, and change--if that is what is warranted.

We change our understanding on any side not by direct frontal assaults but by undermining the strength of the floors upon which the other stands. That is to say, if what has been distorted is left to stand on a weak foundation without attack at what's below, history will eventually make error fall. However, in whole or in part the process can be accelerated.

The time has come for acceleration, and in the case of accents that menace--

Two conditions must prevail along with undermining. One, a greater than and opposite offensive needs to be mounted to change the direction of the onslaught as, two, the onslaught needs to be exposed for what it is. In the case of accents of menace, this means to tell the most accurate truth in the most convincing fashion and to explain the errant ways. Take the stage away from them.

[Long rant here, unintelligible.]

I suspect, on the other hand, that in the case of political impotence or inability, you find new things to direct your feelings toward. And thus you find yourself changing from reading the news and the leaks to reading other things. After all there is more to the panoply of phenomena than power influence and preoccupation of what the other should or should not be doing. It is then about me and my small circle. It is about what we do and experience outside this more public and fractious world. It is about different truths and realities, more personal and private ones. And if not about health or physical well being, it will be about culture and beauty.

So it is I find myself turning again to what I will call art and expression and the richness of what I see, hear, taste, smell, and can touch. Life and living become important again. I bottle up emotions in certain aspects of my life and my history and what I can see if I look outward and find disturbing. I let them, my emotions, have free reign in matters of beauty and love and appreciation and understanding. I do not have to understand a mendacious world, only a world that is immediately around and inside me.

I have this peace now. I wish it for you.

A voyage at sea to change perspectives--DRAFT

[06.08.20 Updated. The following was composed from notes provided as background and philosophy to a business enterprise involving sea voyages infused with new challenges for participants-as-crew from which to become, or become again, full-bodied self-aware and to make resolves to act on their dreams. In a phrase, to experience inspiration (again).

These words have been provided for that enterprise's use, should they find them descriptive of what their effort currently envisions. I take no credit for what I have tried to express for others more enlightened and inspired than I.]

Embrace meaning and direction to live life to the max. Such sage advise notwithstanding, we confine ourselves sometimes in our own perspective, and as that doesn't help us survive and thrive, we become stuck and perhaps temporarily lost. To be confused about or to lack meaning prevents living life as we would, in concert with the highest and best expression of ourselves. We become immersed in a seeming fishbowl with blurred vision to where we are and what is beyond.

By contrast, floating at a unique but ever changing point on life's ocean of endless horizons in all directions and immeasurable heights above and depths below, appears attractive and reassuring. Some may be content to ride the winds and currents. But for others infinite possibilities overwhelm, and not content in a timeless, aimless float, are compelled to know where they are and where they can go, and then set off decisively on their journey.

Give me a compass. Calculations performed at twilight bring clarity of location and direction in daylight. The coordinates using one's star illuminate a sense of self and the singular environment in which one lives. It is as if one would use the heavens to navigate in a sea of possibilities using present location, one's chosen star, and the horizon ahead.

There are no ready answers for moving out of darkness or uncertainty except first to use the knowledge and awareness of now you, body and soul, are here. Informed by experience plus acquired knowledge and expertise nested in values and beliefs show the possibilities and the ways to head. As and after you articulate your own place and aimed-for possibilities, framing anew results. The fresh air of renewed perspective lets you breathe and refresh your spirit, in a phrase, to be inspired. Would that we could accelerate our purpose by feeling and smelling and breathing that fresh air and having the body-felt experience of being alive that comes from succeeding at new challenges.

Show me how to use the sextant you are suggesting. The metaphorical sextant requires your current position. You find, or re-discover that by sensing yourself where you are in the clearest terms possible. Language is a primary means for people to express who they are to themselves. Your unique identity composed of knowledge, skills, experience, attitudes and personal characteristics, including talents, has to be described for self realization and vitality. To know thyself is not automatic. All aspects need to be examined anew and brought together again. A separate time and place can aid this process, as can some guidelines for completing the task.

The sextant requires a point in the heavens to light the way. This is the second element--what you are about, meaning or purpose, your star. You know in your heart what that is--the light in your eyes that others say they see, the flame that burns eternally inside and you feel the burn almost physically. It is that which haunts and starves your soul if ignored or delayed. It is something you are driven to do something about, to get on with, without which you cannot feel fulfilled. If you are not clear what that is, you are perhaps staring at what is so close it is hard to focus. Sometimes we need different mirrors that other eyes provide to help us realize what was there all along, perhaps from fellow travelers and catalysts, who have different perspectives on what we think we are about.

To complete the triangulation with an imaginary sextant requires a horizon or navigation point in the distance. Although always advancing as you move toward it, at any given time you can fix that point, which sets direction, maps your journey, and readies the sails for your journey. As the sages have also said, the trip takes you rather than the other way round. And in surrendering to the charts of your voyage bequeaths power and  motivation to embark and persist. The optimism that results reconnects you to the goodness of being, and being who you are. Although you may not need it, it is reassuring to have the support of fellow travelers and those who have gone before, call them catalysts, as you conquer new challenges to strengthen the resources you have within.

Oh, to escape from my fears of facing me, much less venturing forth through new experiences.  How to re-kindle the confidence that lets one explore endless possibilities with curiosity and benefit from new and refreshing experiences? You can do it alone, and essentially we all do. But with the support of compassionate and in their own right expert fellow crew members in a safe and supportive environment for rejuvenating you, uncertain seas become less threatening, calm, and sure; and prevailing gentle breezes of accomplishment will power you and whatever your enterprise on your way.

There may be occasional miscalculations. You can always re-calibrate and correct your course. Whatever seems to impede an important and necessary trip is temporary and perhaps illusory. Having or recalling when you felt inspiration to reach for your star keeps you oriented and on course.

Voyage at sea. The literal sea calls to some as a particularly apt venue through which to acquire new or renewed meaning and a clearer focus on living life as you would. It is a time and place away to focus on what it is you want and need in life. Some will not find the sea as their chosen way out of the doldrums or fishbowl. But for those who find this way of adventure to understanding and purposeful action, and given the invitation to join others on such a journey, a decision to board ship is but a nanosecond's consideration. Promised rewards earned through dedication and work toward what will fulfill await.

Know that taking readings with your sextant often requires a bit of coaxing and practice. Experiencing something new, yet others have safely traveled through before, changes perspectives and will tax you, but the taxes are minimal. Others have gone before and can attest to the tried and trusted ways out of so-called fishbowl perspectives, which are by definition limiting.

The distance between my perspective today and the perspective of who I think I should be is the intensity of inspiration. The moment I developed a new prospective with the least toll on myself and my environment is the feeling of inspiration.*

Although others have taken a sea voyage before and found themselves by surrendering in pursuit of their outer limits of what is comfortable and familiar, and their experiences have necessarily been different because they were different people and not you, anticipate that your voyage will certainly be unique. Encountering different perspectives on the journey and having entirely unique experiences along your way enrich one's ability to accept and adapt with the least resistance and the least threat to the essence of you. Going beyond one's patterned perspective will introduce you to new and different ones that will assuredly enrich what it is you aspire to do with the time we have to live life to the max.

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* Direct quote from the founder.