Talks of interiors

Comment after viewing a photo of someone I have never met but was somehow moved by her face.

When one talks of interiors instead of exteriors, that whole other world opens up, some of which can be captured in language and some just escapes the words we know and use. In the face of this, sometimes we are just silent, and other times we invent words or special meanings for familiar words. The experience of grief would be an example of the first; Heidegger's philosophy would be an example of the second. There is the third alternative, sometimes mine, to ask unanswerable questions and try to live with the situation of no-answer, at least not now.

from the Rubiyat

XLVI.
For in and out, above, about, below,
’Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,
Play’d in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

XLVII.
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in the Nothing all Things end in—Yes—
Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what
Thou shalt be—Nothing—Thou shalt not be less.

XLVIII.
While the Rose blows along the River Brink,
With old Khayyám the Ruby Vintage drink;
And when the Angel with his darker Draught
Draws up to Thee—take that, and do not shrink.

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.

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.

We sell no balls here

Jerry Crotti called and said to come to the gala ball. "You are one of everyone! You must."

I hung up and went to my clothes closet. Nothing. I went out to West Sixth Avenue and went into the first men's store. I was greeted, but coldly.

"Yes?"

"What have you got for a ball?"

"We sell no balls here."

"Oh, OK. I mean. What have you got here that would be suitable for someone like me to go to a ball, a formal dance, in the evening?"

"We have nothing suitable for someone like you. No, just kidding. Come on. Let's take a look over here."

He led me, off balance but relieved, to the far corner of the shop where there were tuxedos lined up, all alike but different sizes. I could see by the sleeve lengths first then the length of the jackets.

"Perhaps here is where you belong."

"I doubt it, I said not loud enough for him to hear."

"Eh?"

"Well, er, yes. Forty long and about 34 in the waist."

"We can come close to that. Would you like a conservative cut or something more dramatic, like tails."

"Having a tail, or more than one would be dramatic, wouldn't it?" I saw the look on his face and took it back. "Sorry."

"Yes, here are two possibilities. This is three hundred and fifty dollars plus tax. This is nine hundred."

"Do you have anything more modest? in price, that is?"

"This is the least expensive tux we have."

"That it may be, but I'm not sure I can afford that just for one evening. I don't go to these things often."

"Yes. Would you like to try it on?"

"Is it my size?"

"We will make it fit with some slight alterations. It is included in the price."

I went to the changing room and tried it on. I came out looking and feeling sheepish. The pants were too big around the waist and the legs were about a foot too long--each leg. The coat seemed about right, but the tails seemed a bit long.

"Are these supposed to be shorter?"

"No, that is about right. We can take the pants in and hem the legs. Let me just--"

At that he put his hand up to my crotch and I jumped. Actually my right nut took a jump and I jumped in reaction. "Hey, just a--"

He looked surprised and I composed myself. Perhaps he didn't mean it, but I was definitely put off. I didn't even think.

"This is not going to work."

"I'm sorry?"

"I changed my mind. I don't want to do this. Buy a tuxedo."

"Yes, sir. Is there something--"

"No, I have changed my mind. I didn't want to go to the gala anyway. In the first place."

"But there will be people there. Our customers love to see and be seen."

"I don't."

"Yes, well--"

"Yes. I am going to take these off." I went into the changing room and as I was removing the pants I heard at the door, "Sir? May I interest you in a tux without tails?"

"No. No. Thanks but no."

"Perhaps a sport coat and slacks?"

"No, really. I am not the type."

Silence. I guess I had thoroughly rebuffed him. Perhaps he walked away and was out of hearing range.

"Fuck. Shit. It always comes to this. I hate these social things. Why did I listen to Jerry? Waste of time." And I went on like this to myself for a few moments when I heard a tap, tap on the changing room door.

"Are you all right in there?"

"Yes, fine. Be right out."

I exited slowly thinking I might hit him in the nose if he was right there outside the door. He was standing at attention a few feet away, hand outstretched to receive the store's garments. I handed him the rejected black bundle.

"Thanks, I need to be going."

"If you change your mind, I will be here. My name is Chris, and I would be happy to assist you should you--"

"Thanks."

I walked out of the store and began thinking. Was it because I did not care for social affairs or something that the sales clerk said or did that? led me to invitation's end? I went over it all in my mind, convinced that what put me off was agreeing with Jerry's upbeat invitation and soft sell, which appealed to my ego, I have to admit. But I was wrong.

The sales clerk became my focus, and I thought that there must have been something. And then I had it. He was a chameleon. First, he stood off, formal like. then he tried to kid with me, and when he found I wasn't playing, he almost insulted me with his allusion to pop psychology. "Perhaps here is where you belong." Then he changed again, trying to probe my tastes. Finally, there was this choice of two. One way too expensive; the other at the lower end but still too pricey for me. Choosing that and having to appear in an ill-fitting pair of pants in front of him. Oh, and that upward jab into my crotch.

No. It was all too . . . too much to take. And it didn't matter that I didn't want to go anyway. Put me off. Put me off.

I can blame Jerry for starting all this. No, I just won't go. Won't say a thing. Avoid the whole thing altogether.

---

Funny sort. He looked like someone I could sell. But he danced around too much. I guess he really didn't want to buy. Kidding works with most people, but even when he kidded back, there was something reserved in his manner. I may have gone too far with what I said, but I don't think so. Maybe pleading with him in the end was going too far. But I had to try to salvage the thing. He jumped a bit when I tried to measure the inseam. I didn't touch him, but maybe he is hung low. I don't know. With some customers you can never tell. He was kind of dressed like a clown, but I didn't . . . I ignored that. I don't know what it is. But another customer will come soon.

Pack it in, pack it out

Indians walk softly and hurt the landscape hardly more than the birds and squirrels, and their brush and bark huts last hardly longer than those of wood rats, while their more enduring monuments, excepting those wrought on the forests by the fires they made to improve their hunting grounds, vanish in a few centuries. --John Muir

I thought the quote was "walk softly in the woods." Anyway, I walked softly in the Indian Peaks Wilderness heading out from Eldora back from the early to late 70s. Registration was optional and based on the idea that if you were in the area, register at entry and exit so that if missing, someone would know where to look for you. I walked with my dog Niki, a Golden Retriever, and saw no one hike in or out in those days. My son accompanied me and our dog once or twice, and either alone or with this company we encountered snow we'd posthole through till exhausted, or be enchanted with the wildflowers till delirious with the colors and relief from built-world noise . . . high up, now and then, an airliner showed its tail heading west.

Backpacker ethics, which I picked up somewhere along the line in those days, was "pack it in, pack it out." I took it a step further, pack out stuff that I found that didn't belong, such as bottle caps, aluminum beer can tabs, bits of broken glass, foil wrappers for candies or chewing gum. And I, or we, did that, depositing same in some trash at the trailhead or at home in Nederland.

Seems to me backpacker ethics like those of (my) old days should apply to everyday living, although I know this is not realistic. But as applied to one's personal relations and effects, seems like a good rule of thumb. 

Morality play

I was at the end of one hedge corridor and he, or was it she? the other. Although I could not discern in detail, I felt she had a menacing look: "Kill when I catch you." 

Whether or not to turn and run in her sight and enter or bypass the next corridor, I waited for her next move to pursue her prey. An eternity in the minute, and then she slowly advanced anticipating my defense. I had choices to make--my best bet to evade and escape. Or was it no exit no matter what?

It was with her determined, every advancing step, at the ready to alter course in order to gain her advantage, that I quickly thought to exit right and return to cross to the next corridor left. What if she ran forward in chase? or would she return to her end to exit left or right to meet me in the next lane? Either way I'd have a half length advantage if that, and how could I know if she advanced or retreated to anticipate my next position?

I exited left and quickly returned to see where she was. She stood where she'd stopped before I exited with a sinister smile aimed as if with a knowing, telescopic eye at my heart. I ran right then left up the next hedge corridor, the one leading to a door in the wall at the end. I was running fast and didn't know whether she was following. Half way up the corridor toward the door she appeared stepping slowly into view staring at me running toward her.

Must have wings, a spirit--now she was he. Escape from was hopeless and my heart beat the end was near. Survival said, "Keep trying to escape, or at a minimum prolong the chase." Reality's truth said, "Stand your ground. Let it come."

We both sang, "Fight to the end," with the refrain, "Time is, time was, but time shall be no more."

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/>.

Now, sort them!

Freud (1859-1938) was born to Jewish parents in the Moravian town of Freiberg, in the Austrian Empire (now Příbor, Czech Republic). Freud wrote phenomenological descriptions  of psychological phenomena--the conscious perceptive experiences of people. Freud theorized and stressed the importance and functions of the unconscious. Graduate of the University of Vienna, Brentano was academic advisor.

Husserl  was born to Jewish parents in the Moravian town of  Prossnitz, in the Austrian Empire  (now Prostějov, Czech Republic), 1856--1939 died Freiburg, Germany. Husserl pioneered the philosophy of phenomenology and methods of isolating the content and themes of intentional objects of consciousness. Husserl legitimized and stressed the importance and reality of the imagined, streams from the unconscious? Graduate of the University of Vienna, studies with Brentano.

Did Freud and Husserl "learn/develop" in some truly parallel ways, naturally enough because of where they came from, who they were, who they studied under, where they lived, the time they lived, etc.?

Additionally, 22.02.23.

The answer is yes. For an engaging read about these giants, see https://aeon.co/essays/brentano-who-taught-freud-and-husserl-is-a-lesson-to-us-all.

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 different breed

From "a Black Bitch" to "The Black Bullet" (God, what a fast runner), Ash continues residing here in Petrovice I with her shell-shocked owners. She continues to test the line between expulsion from and embrace into her adopted home, her savior being currently a no-nonsense Czech dog trainer who tames the beast for an hour a week, replenishing the chalice of our grace for another three days before she has exhausted patience and fifty percent of our hope. Still somewhat clueless about the terrorist in our midst and trying like hell to get up to speed also with help from the Czech dog trainer, we say, "Well, she might become civilized, if we can survive the first two years of puppy-through-puberty hell!"

This German shepherd dog (GSD) is indeed seriously different from our beloved golden retriever. We say to those skeptics who try to assert all dogs are just dogs, "You have no idea till you have one!" Fortunately, we the mystified are connected to other GSD owners who report the same, similar, and worse experiences growing through and along with their wild ones. YouTube University and books and whoever might have a word of encouragement are keeping us engaged and committed for the devoted, gentle adult Ash will be.

Time was back in November that we thought we had a cute mixed breed from some gypsy ghetto in Slovakia, but local authorities to 100 percent consensus here confirm, she is a German shepherd, and by the way the Ferrari model. (You don't just get to get in for a leisurely Sunday spin. You have to learn how to control and drive it first.)

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.

_____
* Direct quote from the founder.

A word to the wise--DRAFT

Re: free speech/expression

1. Isegoria--saying what's on your mind with a view to engage in discussion with others for a better union.

If you frame what you say in terms of this and thoroughly researched information, not opinion (one-sided "interpretation"), you are safer than otherwise.

2. Parrhesia--"the right" to shoot your mouth off anytime, anywhere, to anyone.

"John Stuart Mill argued that the chief threat to free speech in democracies was not the state, but the 'social tyranny' [or worse] of one's fellow citizens."*

What's a person to do? If you must commit parrhesia, note the above caution and guidelines and:

• Limit yourself to the best medium for expression and influence for a specific audience.
• View opposing views as worthy of hearing and understanding, if not acting upon.
• Act upon the agreed upon after listening, paraphrasing, asking questions, highlighting common ground, and, not leastly, having your brief statements heard, etc.
• View most of any other noise as theater and find there entertainment.

Shut your eyes, ears, and mouth otherwise. Someone or something will fill any void. Hold on tight if this happens and you are still passive but "invested".

_____
* https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2017/12/two-concepts-of-freedom-of-speech/546791/

Dustbin treasure?

Cleaning out the dustbin, I found this from 2007; however, the date must be earlier, around 2000, for that is when I was associated with Learnability. I put it here as a reference for myself to check to see if what I thought/did in the past still has relevance in light of today's re-newed need for "distance learning."

Let's see.

Conversion Services

[space reserved for results of assessment]

Her remaining days

Her daytime attendant would arrive early in the morning and help her dress. They then would exit the apartment as her parents felt relief and respite from the fitful night. The attendant would open the car door and she would sit quietly in the back seat. She liked riding in the car. And off they would go to the care center as they did yesterday and all days before since she was two. There her days would each be the same, but from appearances she would experience them as first and new; and the routine, the predictability, would embrace her all the days of her life, as the days embraced her parents and the silent attendant. No one knew what went on inside, or if.

Grandfather sleeps

Grandfather sat on the tree stump on the small rise above the family's sumptuous vegetable garden and looked first at it and then into the distance. His work was done. July's harvest had led to August's, and now September would come in three days. He knew he would not see it, nor the bounty that was always September and early October. Others would reap what he had sown, and that was good. With a hand slowly rising to his heart and lowering his head to look at his chest, he exhaled uttering one word that no one would hear. "Love." Then he slowly listed to the right and fell off the stump and onto the ground. He lay there, lifeless in a fetal position with a modest smile for his family, his eyes closed for eternal sleep.

Whatever could have transpired

The judge took the gavel and smacked it on the sound block resting on the ledge before him. "Court's adjourned," he said, and the assembled as well as the defendant and lawyers, prosecuting and defense, rose and stood in silence. The judge exited left and entered his chambers. All knew he would not return and that the curious drama had come to its end  No one moved, not the bailiff, jailer, nor the court reporter seemingly  knowing and bewildered at the no-decision decision. No one moved. No one had satisfaction. Contrary to everything we expect of such formal and public proceedings, the only option seemed to be to disperse. But all just stood there facing forward.

Temporary assurances

Before the snows arrived that year in late August, Mara and her newborn sans name except for "little one" settled into her aunt's family lodge. It was warm and welcoming on the now brisk mornings, and soon winter as well as homespun sympathies would ensure their home for a time, a time next year when decisions about where to go and what to do next would have to be made. The only thing Mara was relieved about was that he would not come calling, for he was somewhere out there, who knows where and who cares, really? Not so much a new life but one with temporary assurances, and that was enough, more than enough, refuge and shelter from storms of the heart.

Lizzie's mom

"Lizzie, if you're not going to live by the rules of this house, well, you can just find another mother and maid, and cook, by the way."

"You don't mean that."

"Yes, I do. There are things that are just not on. You've crossed that line, again, and I'm sick and tired of it."

"That's three cliches, mom."

"I don't care what that is. You'd better--"

"Better what?"

"Stop. Stop, I say. Where'd you get such sass?"

"From you."

"Out you go."

At that my mom's hands grabbed my shoulders and turned me around. She marched me--my cliche--to the front door and pushed me out onto the porch. She grabbed the wildly swinging screen door and pulled it shut and locked it. She looked out through the screen door, her face now a blur peering out at me.

"You're taking this. . . . Unhinged, you are. Unhinged."