Chronicling Life

I wonder how many other people "go all philosophical" as they get older. How many people become aware of the things they did or didn't do during the course of their lives?  How many people remember things they are sorry they got mixed up in or sorry they missed out on? I would guess that it doesn't happen to as many as it should. If so, it's probably fleeting. They may be better for absence of it--who knows?

Not everyone has the level of introspection that I have, which is good. If everyone was over-thinking shit all the time nothing would ever get done. I like to think that my level of thought (call it analyzing, worrying, pondering, or whatever) is good for my life. I like to think that the fact that I do mull things over creates a more positive place for me and those around me. How? By the fact that I'm always carefully considering things before doing them or saying them. Ramifications, perceived reactions, fairness, honesty--all sorts of things go through my mind when I'm making choices. I try to think before I act. It drives me crazy sometimes. I know it drives other people crazy as well. My level of impulsiveness is sometimes so low I wonder if it can be measured. Cursed with thought? Hobbled by an overactive mind?

I have had many, many regrets in my life, and one of them is that I never kept a journal of any kind when I was younger. I would dearly love to be able to read what was going through my mind at various points in my life. Imagine being able to go to the "table of contents" of your life, select a time period, and zip right to it. It could be something as mundane as what I ate for lunch or what kind of weather we had that day, but it could have also given me some insight as to how I responded mentally or physically to something that happened to me during a particular day. Fell down and skinned my knee riding a bicycle? Angry at having to write "I will not..." a thousand times because someone did something to punish the whole class? Sick and home from school? Scared and alone in a strange place? All of these things I remember tidbits of, but it would be so interesting to be able to get a feel for how they affected me at that time. Hell, maybe it would scare the hell out of me to be suddenly looking though my eyes during a traumatic moment.  I didn't know I would like to write about things as I got older and more thoughtful. Had I known or aspired to it, I would have kept journals. I would have taken more writing and English classes. I would have focused my energies instead of just squandering life and living like a selfish, part-time hedonist.

Or would I?

Creative Arts Trifecta

As one of the early computer users, I have been surfing the internet since it's very beginning.  I have watched its evolution.  I have watched it blossom and grow, and have watched it morph over and over--as if each time it was trying to find a foothold or a reason for its existence.  It has grown from a simple place where businesses would pay some tech-savvy person to put up websites that were little more than a picture or two and contact information.  Personal sites were mainly available to only the nerds of the time, and represented things like clubs, associations, and hobbyists.  The internet--in its infancy--was made up of very few fonts or colors.  It was very boring.  We were limited by the web browser software, the internet connection speeds, and the computer hardware itself.  But we didn't know we were hobbled because at that time it was brand new in every way.

When the Google era came into existence, it was an "awakening" of sorts.  Suddenly, there were free platforms at our disposal--things that the common man could use freely without much difficulty. Some people (such as myself) placed themselves out there for the world to see in the form of blogs.  Many of us were probably not really sure why we did it.  I know I really didn't.  I guess we did it because we could.  We were looking for something. We didn't know what.  It was a new, exciting place and people were the new explorers.

The internet has become a potentially dangerous place.  In the blink of an eye the unwary traveler can find him or herself in a dark alley filled with badness that can steal your identity, infect your computer, or bombard you with undesirable email.  The wonder of the internet is gone.  Seldom am I ever surprised or pleased by what I find on the internet.  It has become a ubiquitous resource and a tool.  It has become a place where too much information is shared, and and a place where we know too much about each other.  In the beginning of the internet there was no interaction.  Now there is too much interaction.  It has lost its original luster.  We have become shallow people living for the moment.  We have lost our depth.  We have lost our culture.

Or so I thought.  It's refreshing to find that in the right hands, the internet can also a wonderful place.

As I've aged I've become more of a lover of the arts.  Whether it's traditional art like painting, drawing, or sculpting, or something like movies, books, music, or anything else that falls into the creative arts, I love them all.  Recent history has led me down multiple paths that all converged in one place:

The Creative Arts Trifecta.

Like any Trifecta, it's made up of three parts.  In my case, it's music, literature, and visual arts.

Music:  Radio Paradise.  Since I first discovered this online radio station several years ago, it has always been near and dear to me.  It is playing almost constantly when I'm home.  It gets substantially more play time than my TV does.  What makes them so good?  The same thing that makes all the winners of my Trifecta shine: they go above and beyond just being "good enough."  They don't just slap music onto an online play list and let it run, they take pains to put songs together that flow nearly seamlessly from one to another.  Sometimes it's the sound, tempo, or instrument and that provide the link between the songs, and other times it may be the song meaning or the vocal style.  It's not possible to please everyone 100% of the time when it comes to music, but when they hit their groove on a relaxing evening there's nothing finer than that moment.  What's more, they do it all with no commercials.  It's not unusual to hear something unique, something new, or something rare when you're listening.

Literature:  Brain Pickings.  This is a relatively new find to me.  I'm constantly amazed at the things that are carefully researched and posted by Maria Popova, the person behind this great site.  Her love for books becomes apparent when you read what she has assembled every week.  It's comprised of book content, illustrations (she loves the artwork as much as I do!), and stories about the authors themselves.  I have been inspired to find many of the books she has featured on there and have not been disappointed.  My favorites have been books about writing, written by the writers themselves.  Very interesting stuff.  I recommend you sign up for her newsletter.  If you do you'll get a very interesting compilation that she personally created, delivered to your email inbox every Sunday morning at 8am.  Well, it's 8am Pacific anyway...  While it's a free site, I can easily see myself becoming a subscriber very soon.  As I said, her love for books shines in her work.

Visual Arts:  Colossal.  This is the newest find of my Trifecta.  It never ceases to amaze me.  It might be the work of a unique artist, amazing photography, street art, unusual products, or anything visually pleasing or striking in some way.  All of the things on the site are presented in great detail--at the very least with great pictures, but many times with moving GIF files or movies (don't miss the movies!) as well.  When you spend some time on this site it shows you just how creative humans can be.  The talents and the ideas that come from people is sometimes nothing short of amazing.

Turn off your Facebook, turn on Radio Paradise, close your eyes, and get lost.  Think about things.  When you feel like opening your eyes, visit Colossal.  When your mind has been juiced with inspiring art, slow it down with a visit to Brain Pickings and get lost all over again.

You won't be sorry.

My Mind's Room

I wish I could see through to the darkness in the distant corners of my mind. Truth is, I'd be happy just to be able to make out the walls.

When I sit and stare out the window as I often do, my mind starts wandering. I find myself formulating analogies, making comparisons, coming up with descriptions, and all kinds other ways of explaining my shortcomings and idiosyncrasies. I am my own psychologist. One of things I have come to grips with is the fact that I have a bad memory. I would so dearly love to write about my entire childhood and be able to recollect every nit-picking detail about it, but can anybody really? Sometimes I'm under the impression that people can because I read things that they have written that can only be explained by an above-average memory. Well, either that or they are just good a spinnin' a yarn. What if--even though it appears to be a complete memory to me (the reader)--the person that wrote it is feeling the same sense of incompleteness and frustration that I feel? As the reader I would never know that would I? After all, how can you feel badly about missing out on a particular item at a yard sale if you never knew that item was there in the first place?

It frustrates me because I feel the desire to get my words down about a memory, but I just can't remember quite enough detail. I can't quite recollect enough about the particular slice of my life that's on my mind to be able to tell how much of it's fact and how much is fiction. I just can't remember it. Why wasn't I paying more attention? Why didn't I take notes?  Why didn't I keep a journal?  I know why:  Neither of my parents were literary people. I had no role model.

I sometimes feel like my mind is a dark, dusty, cavernous room with one naked, cobweb-draped light bulb hanging in the middle of it. There is an old piece of string hanging from the pull chain, but I can't find it until I wave my arms blindly around me and I feel it brush my hand. With a slow tug on the string, the long, mechanical 'click' sends yellow light from the naked filament almost reluctantly, as if I've bothered it somehow by awakening it from its slumber. I look around the room, but it doesn't illuminate much. I can dimly see a few artifacts of my life scattered about--each one dragging a dull bit of a distant memory into the light where I can see it better. I can't see all the corners of my mind's room. I can make out a wall here and a wall there, but I can't even make out how big the room really is. I can't see everything in it. I'm afraid to leave the safety of the dull, yellow light--knowing that if I shuffle away from it my body will block what little light there is and keep me from seeing anything in that direction. I take cautious steps away from it, craning my eyes, trying--hoping--to see more. I want to see everything.

But it's no use. The light bulb is dim. It won't show me the farther reaches of my memory. I can't see enough to know if I've seen all there is to see in that direction. I would be happy to be able to see more experiences in the distance, or be able to see farther than I can see. I would love to be able to see all the details.

I tell myself: "It's no use. You will never see the corners. The light bulb in your mind is not replaceable with a brighter one. The best you can hope for is to clean some of the dust off of it and make it brighter. Or, maybe if you stand long enough you will accustom yourself to the dimness and be able to see a little farther." No--it's no use--the details just aren't there.

I'll just continue to feel my way along the floor of my mind, purposefully shuffling so I don't inadvertently step on anything of importance, collecting things I find as I go.

At least my mind's room is not completely empty.

Me and Movies

When I watch a movie I focus on it. When the lights go down and I hit the "play" button, the isolation panels go up. I don't want interruptions of any kind. If the doorbell rings I will probably reluctantly answer it, but that's only because I know whoever out there can hear my movie and knows I'm home. If the phone rings, however, it's another matter entirely. When I was married I would usually answer the phone because I would be expected to, but inside I would have annoyance or anger. "Who the hell is bothering me with a stupid phone call? Can't they see I'm in the middle of a movie?" Of course they can't. That wouldn't stop me from clenching my teeth about it when it would happen. For these reasons, really prefer watching a movie in a theater. In that setting, you're forced to turn off all interruptions like phones before the movie starts. That's the way movies should be watched.

I like lots of different kinds of movies. Although I do like your typical "guy" movies, I also like deep, emotional movies. Actually, they tend to be the ones that I dread interruptions the most while they are playing because the movie will have my interest and my emotions. I may be into the movie on a much deeper level than usual, which would mean I was probably captivated. I like many, many types of movies. My taste in them runs quite the range. I think my favorites are the "surprise hits" I never heard about. The ones I had no idea of how good they might be or sometimes not even knowing a lot of what they were about. I like the ones that get me misty-eyed from feeling, the ones that make my palms sweat from drama, and the ones that make my heart race from action. Movies I don't like? I don't like to see gore. I also don't like movies that are too centered on one character or scene, like those that could easily be performed as a play on stage. I don't like bad acting. There are too many really, really good actors out there for a director to subject their audiences to substandard performances from people that should never have gotten the job. There are famous actors that I can't stand, and unknown actors that I've watched and loved. There are actors that used to be good but should have retired at the top of their game, and actors that have steadily gotten better with each role they have undertaken.

To me, movies are an escape and an artful expression. They are a chance to witness a story told and expressed the way someone else perceived it. Movies are especially riveting to people that don't have very good imaginations. Although well-written books are the best way to make the imagination run wild, movies are great for one reason: They are a crash course of storytelling. They are a full-throttle, nonstop conglomeration of sensory input that crams an epic story into your mind, complete with sights, smells, and emotions. I like old movies and new movies, simple and complex, amazing and ordinary, laughing or crying. They are an art form that I can escape into for a couple of hours. I treasure those hours

 

Secrets and Being Sneaky

To quote Nobel prize-winning author, Gabriel García Márquez:

"All human beings have three lives: public, private, and secret."

Being sneaky and secretive is something that seems like it has always been a part of me. I seemed to always be learning ways to get away with things. I remember constantly being harped on by my dad, as he'd hurl things like, "watch what you're doing!" or "pay attention!" or other "get yer head outta yer ass" type comments. Through those admonishments and my desire to avoid getting into a situation that would bring trouble I learned what to do or not to do to stay in the clear. I learned I could mess with practically anything I wasn't supposed to mess with if I did it right. All I had to do was note exactly how things were placed, how they were stacked, direction they were facing, and all those sorts of things before I got into something I wasn't supposed to be getting into.

I also got good at being quiet. Stealthy might be a better description. When you live in an older house, there are squeaks and noises that the house makes as you interact with it. I learned things like, turning a particular doorknob made a squeak if you turned it the usual direction, but was totally quiet if you turned it the other way instead. I learned to navigate the entire house avoiding floor squeaks.  It's not that I was trying to get away with anything (well okay--I'm sure I was occasionally up to no good), it was mostly just my way of celebrating the solitude of an empty house by not adding a single sound to it. I'm the same way outside. When I'm walking alone, I don't whistle, shuffle, or anything like that. I tread lightly. I don't try to be quiet--I just am. I just feel I have to be. When I'm alone in the woods, such as in a special place I like to go in the summer to be without clothes, I walk carefully, choosing to avoid making any sounds. It just seems wrong to make a sound in those kind of conditions--almost sacrilegious. It's almost as if I walk like I'm stalking prey.

As I grew a little older, siblings became more intrusive into my privacy. Everyone knows the firstborn child doesn't have to learn sharing until their first brother or sister comes along, then their world suddenly has new rules. Confusing rules. They also struggle with the fact that they are no longer the center of attention in their family. That fact may have something to do with my comedic nature. I think I realized I had to earn the attention instead of it just automatically being there like it always had been previously. I don't know how I was at sharing. I'm sure I had some trouble with it. Most kids do. Anyway, as I got older I started to value my space. I had places and things that were mine and mine alone, and I made sure it was understood. I remember having a box of "treasures" that I kept a watchful eye on. There was nothing in it of any value. It was just my personal stuff. My private things.

I began to appreciate quiet, private time away from the mainstream more and more as I got older. When I was a teen and had the usual problematic mix of raging hormones and anti-authority, I had a growing desire to strike out on my own. I couldn't wait until I was old enough to have my own place. A place that would be mine and mine alone. A place where I didn't have to be sneaky to be private. A place where I could do anything I wanted to, any time I wanted to, and would never have to worry about having to explain my actions or whereabouts to anyone. I wanted freedom.

Now I'm older, and I'm no less sneaky. Actually, maybe even more so.  I have secret pictures, alternate email addresses, and private stories. This blog itself is a prime example. Very few people in my life know of its existence. Some secrecy seems to be a part of me that I need.

It's my individuality.

Lone Survivor

As an avid reader and movie-watcher, some of my favorite tales are those that take place in a post-apocalyptic world. I have romanced the notion of my being one of the last people on earth many times. Although I know I'm carrying my love for solitude to the extreme, it seems to be an exciting combination of personal survival and abandoning societal rules and standards. Becoming nomadic out of necessity, moving through empty towns that were once bursting with human activity, gathering what I need to add to my hoard to ensure my survival. I think I would like the notion of being able to wear no clothing as I existed as a lone wanderer.

There are plenty of flaws in such a dream, and I know that any world that rises up and casts mankind from its shadow would be no less hostile to me--it's only survivor. Maybe even more so. Still, it's an interesting fantasy, albeit one of loneliness, hunger, danger, and fear. Maybe what I need is something in my life to just mix things up. A drastic change perhaps. Realistically, I think I would like to live somewhere in a desert situation, like southern Utah or northern Arizona for example. Off the grid so to speak.
 

The traps of man are the things that we have brought upon ourselves. We've painted ourselves into a corner we can't get out of. We've escalated our needs and wants to an unhealthy level. We are so busy just keeping upright on the treadmill we've created that we don't know how to get off. Everyone walks around with their face cast downward, eyes glued to their little electronic umbilical cord, not realizing that we've given our freedom away little by little. Incrementally, our love for all things electronic has placed us in a rut. We unknowingly embraced a digital world that is tailor-made for eavesdropping, information-gathering, and identity-stealing. One of these days the collective population will wonder how we could have let this happen. I know how it happened because I was there, and it's simple: because it was fun. It was new and exciting. To be so plugged in to the rest of the world was amazing! Little by little we have gotten to the point that we are announcing every single thing we do and everywhere we go all day long to the rest of the world.

Yeah, it would be nice to unplug and regress back away from society and just spend my time unclothed and unencumbered.

 

The Passive Exhibitionist

During a recent bit of introspection and self-analysis, I coined a new term. I am what I call a "passive exhibitionist." I don't force myself on people, but I will place myself in hopes that someone notices me. If it's a party or gathering of some kind I might be figuratively in the background during conversation, but I'll make a quip or answer a question that will steer the conversation. The idea is to do something to put the focus will be on something involving me. I will feign surprise or nonchalance, but unabashedly tell a tale, throwing my comedic slant on the delivery. After the right amount of interaction, I will duck out or wander away at a point where the timing is appropriate. It's a "don't overstay your welcome" kind of thing. I don't want to dominate a conversation, but I do want to be the focus for a short time.

A few people that know me know I'm a nudist. I would just as soon never wear clothes. The truth is, my passive exhibitionist streak exists there too. I will choose to be bare in a place where it's not completely out of the ordinary, but there still might be a very small chance of discovery--like my back yard for example. When I'm lying in the sun I sometimes hope someone will stumble upon me. There have been many times where I will leave my robe on the chair in the dining room when I'm going to go out to the garage for something and make the trek completely bare. I know--based on the time of day and nobody being home or whatever--that there is a chance I could be caught, but it's highly unlikely. I might walk out to the wood pile behind the garage to get some wood, and purposely leave my robe loose in hopes it comes open on the way back when my hands are full. Sure, I could be caught, but it would look innocent enough.

My writings follow kind of a parallel. I put secretive things about me on display. I bare my soul to the world, knowing the chance of anyone really reading it are probably very slim.

The internet has enabled me. I am able to hide behind the anonymity of my choosing if I so desire. I can be anyone I want to be, and be as public or private as I want to be. I can post things like this blog to a place where I'm not covering up my identity, nor am I announcing it publicly. There are also those times I have created a persona that was anonymous just so I could post things and live a little dangerously. I had no particular plan or goal, I just wanted to put myself out there a little further than usual. Every time I have ever done that I have eventually deleted my account. The thrill I initially had when I started always wore thin and suddenly seemed dangerous.