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Tuesday, June 24th, 2003
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7:05 pm - Journals are Kept
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 I have to admit it; I really have no idea how to keep a journal. The thoughts I keep, so dimly formed, seem to whisk away when I try to set them in words. Like a cloud of gnats on a summer evening, reaching for my thoughts only drives them away, and they seem to love to bite at me even while dodging my grasping fingers. Add to that the fact that I have found journals are not written, like stories or songs. Journals are kept. This implies a relationship that requires some care and upkeep, even a little nurturing. This would explain my very dysfunctional relationship with my journal. And the reason I must keep trying to keep one.
It is that splendid ache (the very one that followed me through all of childhood) that finally moves me to write. An overarching pain that feels like memory, but is more like loss. It is the oldest and most egregious cliché that an artist must suffer. I am no artist, and pardon the grammar, but why do I have to feel bad to write good? What fomenting chemical nudges the neuron that taps the consciousness on the shoulder and says, "I think he's ready now"? Or maybe its, "I think he's had enough."
I believe it has something to do with "making meaning." Through prose or poetry I seek to form handholds and footholds for myself. With these words I wage a war against ambivalence and indifference. Sometimes when I write, a pure, exclusive music plays through my head and I am wiser and younger and much more handsome. But other times, other times when I get it just right, I will meet myself somewhere out there. And in that darkness, making friends just seems like the best course.
There are no heroes, there are no bullies. Left with only ourselves, we find our enemies both larger and closer than we had even feared. And our friends, so close we resemble one another, feel like family. Later I'll pick up the page, read, and not believe a single word.
current mood: melancholy
current music: pure, exclusive music
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(3 prior convictions | any convictions?)
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| Tuesday, June 10th, 2003
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1:45 pm - Naked Picture of Me
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I'm off to Ireland for nine days. Last chance for requests of baubles/trinkets/fae artifacts/rocks, etc.
In the spirit of ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) andrewducker (more on this here) and to keep everyone going until my return, I hereby post the following naked picture of me, taken by my girlfriend, adjusting the thermostat to compensate the 103 degree temperature in Arizona - one of the very reasons I flee to Ireland. (She dared me to do it.)
In what (I propose) shall henceforth be known as a Duckerism, I tantalizingly hide the naked picture behind an LJ cut, tempting one and all to click the link.
( you know you wanna )
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(15 prior convictions | any convictions?)
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| Friday, May 23rd, 2003
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4:55 pm - Off to Eire!
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Its a done deal; on June 11 I set off for the Emerald Isles. Still in a bit of shock, as the details have just shaken out and virtually no time is left for anticipation. Trying to get used to the new digital camera, sos the photos don't ALL come out goofy. Ennis, Ireland, my soon to be home for nine days, has a web cam that I have been monitoring like a CIA agent; I check the heft and bulk of the denizens coats, measure the glow of the cab lights on the rain soaked streets when they pick up the last pub-goers (at 4am!). I try to remind myself that Jameson's and Guiness are not the full measure of Ireland, yet my watering mouth betrays me...
 Most especially, I've focused my attentions on a lone stone bench in the right-most foreground of the webcam, which no one seems to sit upon. This seems unnaturally wrong to me. Naturally I'm planning some form of public disturbance at an appointed time for the benefit of family and friends once I arrive. Nothing too controversial, of course. Streaking is probably out of the question; even at night with the weather good, possible comments about the "wee people" would be just too much to bear.
I have been so sequestered for the past few months on a big web site project, I have had little time for anything, much less self. This should provide a needed break, and reawaken some old interests as well. I will happily take requests from any LJ'ers with a fondness for the country to bring back baubles and setch (namely, Bird O' Paradox). Just lemme know.
current mood: anxious
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(5 prior convictions | any convictions?)
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| Wednesday, October 2nd, 2002
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2:54 pm - Journaling
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Why does anyone keep a journal? A recent topic of interest here on LiveJournal. People mentioned lots of potential reasons; for the practice, for the vanity, for the release, even for the social benefits. I often wonder about my own reasons. Does it serve some actual need, or just my ego? And is there even a difference between the two?
One fear I've had since childhood - though it has matured mightily with the years - is the fear of dying before I've said all I needed to say. Before I've expressed in some way all that I've needed to express. I call this "the fear of being buried with my mouth open." If you gagged even a little just then, you probably have the same fear.
Maybe the need/desire to keep a journal is identical to the need/desire to simply write. Countless writers, great and small, have been asked throughout the years the question: Why do you write? My favorite answer, still:
Because it feels so good when you stop.
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(11 prior convictions | any convictions?)
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| Wednesday, March 13th, 2002
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3:56 pm - Cosmic Quilting
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I read a journal entry today about "good-byes" that deeply touched me from birdofparadox. This is not unusual, as much of what she writes is moving. I won't go into it here, as it isn't, after all, my journal. And it wasn't just the journal entry, but more the collective synergy of several entries that moved me. The thread: instead of saying goodbye, try TBC (for To Be Continued...).
Karlita lent the special yarn, Birdofparadox wove in some of her own and Traceroo contributed even more, tying together a few of the ends... and the cosmic quilt grew! Never to be finished, mind you; to be perpetually continued. As it grows larger, I imagine the girls as children, romping beneath the quilt with their flashlights and books, making waves in the folds, and noises like the ocean. Beyond that quilt, absolutely nothing else exists; or at least nothing that can breach the warmth and light that is beneath those covers.
This is, I think, the best of LJ; people who care lending their voices to make fearful poetry out of fears. If we could take those comments and bottle them, champagne and shiraz would remain on the shelves.
I imagine myself stealing in on them, lifting one corner of the fabric, saying pardon my intrusion, but, thank you dear ladies - how you inspire me! But, I cannot. Instead I tuck my own flashlight under my arm, turn off the light and close the door. I turn the sign over on the door, which does not say "Do Not Disturb." It says "To Be Continued..."
current mood: grateful
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(11 prior convictions | any convictions?)
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| Monday, March 11th, 2002
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3:57 pm - Today is Add Friends Day
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I'm feeling very delinquent today. Today I set my hand to adding "Friends" to my "Profile." In true maverick desperado style, I simply added them on a whim, without so much as a polite query first. I did not ask, cajole or plead. Neither did I deliberate for more than, um, okay, a few hours. I just did it, and scorned the consequences. What's more, I might do it again!
Do I care if these said "friends" add me back? Do I fear being spurned, turned away like a leper, outcast unclean! Not really. After all, they really don't know me. Come to think of it, I really don't know them either. But, that's what makes this act so outlandish; so hellaciously brazen!
Tonight, even more chaos! Maybe I will break into the local recovery clinic, and steal all the positive affirmations off of the bathroom mirrors...
current mood: accomplished
current music: Eagles - Desperado
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(6 prior convictions | any convictions?)
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| Tuesday, March 5th, 2002
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2:23 pm - Men vs. Women
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According to anthropologists, men and women have been trying to get along for about five million years. That is, if you accept the evolutionary model. If you tend toward the creationist model, it could be a great deal longer or shorter; depending upon how you interpret that "one day is as a thousand years" line.
 No one is quite certain where the trouble initially began, but it might have had something to do with fire. Or, the original assigning - and subsequent misunderstanding - of hunter/gatherer roles. Early cave pornography might have played a part, but again, this is all conjecture. We don't really know how it all began; we only know that it must have been some cataclysmic event to so greatly affect us today.
Again, creationists tend to point to the "apple debacle," though this is almost certainly an unnecessarily biased account. It could just as easily have been a fig, peach, or some other fruit. Regardless, the much-maligned fruit endures much criticism to this day. (Some thought has even been given lately to the notion that the adage "an apple a day" was a reference to the early days in the Garden, as the Almighty was often referred to as "The Doctor," or even "Dr. 'G'" by both Adam and Eve.)
For eons, matriarchal societies in Tanzania and the Amazon have passed along an oral tradition that ascribes Woman as the first created. According to the Awapoohie, it was actually Eve who did the naming, and when the Creator finally pointed to the leaf-clad man cowering behind the aardvark, she said "Him? Why he's a damn?" God, of course, stopped her right there, but in deference to her exalted position eventually accepted her first choice. At least the first part of her first choice, or so the story goes.
Although there is very little real evidence to support such oral histories, many archaeologists have adopted this new image of Adam as an emasculated, hen-pecked, neurotic Neanderthal. Quite a reversal from the earlier bucolic, grass-skirt-chasing Cro-Magnon guy. If true, the expression "throw me a bone," may actually date back much farther than originally thought, although the fossil record is pretty spotty here, as well.
In any event, the topic of Men vs. Women is too large to adequately treat here in my journal, so I will have to postpone additional arguments and evidences for future postings. In the meantime, please consider the following topics for further study.
Future posting possibilities:
"Men are really from Mars, Women are really from Venus," explorations on a theme proposed by Erich von D?niken in his book, Chariots of the Gods.
"Manhood Lost," a science-fictional account of the emasculation of man throughout the ages.
Also, the remarkable evolution of moods is a study of surpassing interest, as it is altogether unclear how the basic instincts of Fear, Hunger and Sexual Arousal eventually mutated into such complex and astoundingly diverse moods as "Bad Hair Day," "That time of the month," and "Verklempt." (It should be noted that, despite the millennia, the basic instincts have remained pretty much the same for most men.)
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(7 prior convictions | any convictions?)
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| Wednesday, February 20th, 2002
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2:20 am - Adulthood
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WeeTanya in her journal (and in her wonderful "wee" way), asked some very good questions about adulthood. Judging from the responses she has received (at last count approaching 50), it is a topic we all find rather compelling. Rather than clutter her journal with my nonsense, I've decided to include my thoughts, and the thoughts of others, here:
Some of us look at the "coming of age" as a rights issue. The psychiatrist Thomas Szasz says, "A child becomes an adult when he realizes that he has a right not only to be right but also to be wrong."
And then there's the economic factor, indicated by Kenneth Branagh: "Adults are just children who earn money."
Virginia Woolf sees adulthood as a rite of passage into humanity: "One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of fellowship with other human beings as we take our place among them."
Very counter to Woolf's thinking is this by Jean Rostand, so typically French: "To be adult is to be alone."
For the journalist Sydney Harris, it's a deepened sense of responsibility: "We have not passed that subtle line between childhood and adulthood until we move from the passive voice to the active voice-that is, until we have stopped saying 'It got lost,' and say, 'I lost it.'"
Sometimes, I'm not at all sure adulthood is so devoutly to be wished. Despite countless verses extolling the virtues of responsibility and righteous adult conduct, Christ has said in Matt 18:3 (NIV), "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."
For me, the journey to adulthood is elusive; I want to play the adult, but the act of playing in itself is a childlike act. Perhaps adulthood, like happiness, is a virtue; a choice you must make every morning when you wake up, and continue making for the rest of the day. A sort of "fake it till you make it" proposition. Maybe we will never know adulthood until it has long passed into old age, and only then through a kind of gilded reverie.
Or maybe the question itself is moot. Don Barthelme: "The distinction between children and adults, while probably useful for some purposes, is at bottom a specious one, I feel. There are only individual egos, crazy for love."
I'm not sure when, or if, I will ever pass from childhood to adulthood. I may just decide to skip from childhood to childhood, continually barking my shins and maintaining an artful disorder to my life. But if ever I do make the transition, I think it will be that moment when, like the poet Jon Anderson, I can look at a picture of myself as a child and say:
"Good friend, believe me, here I am
perhaps your best intention."
And still crazy for love.
current mood: hopeful
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(2 prior convictions | any convictions?)
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| Wednesday, February 13th, 2002
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2:12 pm - Valentine's Day
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I am talking to myself again. I can hear myself talking, but I can't hear you hear it. I have nothing really to say, but I keep talking anyway.
I wonder if the day will come when we simply stop talking to one another, and talk only to ourselves. There is a beguiling comfort to this thought: fewer confrontations (barring those with our own selves), fewer attempts to seek approval (and thus be forced into "agree/disagree" mode by even the most innocent "Isn't this a great day-ers!"). More time to tend our own gardens, fulfill our own expectations, research our own interests. Think of all the shopping. And for our own selves!
There would be a deeper silence, certainly. But would this be so bad? Into that silence what dreams may come, what music might play; our own thoughts might eventually become clear enough to hear, making even our own voices unnecessary. There would be no confusion about where you begin and I end. No chat, no email, our lives would be one blessed blog. And if we felt the need for commentary, we could easily arrange that. We could post our statement, then wait a few moments; take lunch, take a nap, and then revisit the post with a fresh outlook.
Above all, and most importantly, all of that care reserved for special occasions (like Valentine's Day) could be allocated for ourselves. Soon the day will come when we all will be talking only to ourselves.
I wonder if that day has already come.
current mood: ambivalent
current music: my own voice
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(1 prior conviction | any convictions?)
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| Friday, February 1st, 2002
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2:41 pm - OMG
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It's February! It's been a month and I'm still here! I have neither succumbed to A) Ambivalence, nor B) Boredom, and find myself busily engaged in the upkeep of my journal. Who'd a thunk it?
I have surpassed my own low expectations, and have even met a few other friendly souls out here in the ether... What at first seemed like just another solitary activity has actually become a rather social event. Well, social for me that is. Here's to many more months, words, and solitary activities.
current mood: surprised
current music: Ryan Farish - Hampton Blvd.
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(2 prior convictions | any convictions?)
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| Wednesday, January 30th, 2002
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3:37 pm - Snowfall in the Desert!
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It is snowing! Snowing! Not just sleeting or hailing. Big, fluffy globs of cotton drifting down like some angelic pillowfight. In a land where temperatures reach above 118 degrees fahrenheit in the summer, snow is such a rarity, all the desert dwellers tend to gather at their windows, point and pronouce the most childlike phonemes.
I ran to my door, stuck out my arm and let flakes gather in my hand. Then, quickly before they melted, I pressed my hand to my face to feel the ice on my whiskered cheeks and lips. Snow! I abandon all adult pretense when such events take place. My inner child unzips his coat and emerges brazenly into the open to snap at the flakes like a dog after soap bubbles. The adult within can only mumble, weakly, "I wonder what the neighbors are thinking."
Let it snow, snow, snow!
current mood: excited
current music: Philippe-Alexandre Bélisle - Horizon
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(1 prior conviction | any convictions?)
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1:52 pm
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| Tuesday, January 29th, 2002
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2:56 pm - Fiction
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 Ah, the gentle art of discourse is not lost on LiveJournal.? Those pseudo-intellectual ramblings projected as if to an unseen audience (and probably more suited for a Greek dithyramb) are found in abundance here.? And I find it comforting.? After all, I?ve been doing it for years, and folks just thought I was talkin? to myself.? But, I was actually discoursing to *them*, he said, sweeping his arms outward, palms up, to encompass the entire invisible amphitheatre.?
What follows is, most assuredly, a discourse:
The word "fiction" is derived from the Latin word ?fingere,? which means to shape, or form.? By this definition even the most sacred works might be termed fiction - not because they are false, but because they were ?formed? with words.? This might mean that we, also, participate in fiction more often than we think; for whether we seek to tell the truth or prevaricate, we are shaping and forming our own accounts of things.? ?
For me, to write is to make meaning.? Neither a contrived, arbitrary meaning, nor a transcendent meaning granted only to prophets and poets.? Making meaning does not necessarily mean finding answers to me;?nor does it mean finding Truth.? Just a simple shaping with words.? By poetry, fiction, metaphor and symbol I hope to form handholds and footholds for myself.? I write to sometimes purge, sometimes rebuke, sometimes mourn.? I try not to proselyte or persuade too much in my writing, but even those activities are valid.? Writing for me is a very subjective and solitary act, partly out of selfishness and partly out of necessity.?? ?
However, recently I had the pleasure of meeting and traveling with the mystery writer J.A. Jance and her husband, Bill Schilb, who reminded me of yet another reason for writing: to entertain.? What a difference that one reason makes!? In addition to the purging, rebuking and mourning, don't forget to entertain!? The best stories can do all of these things.? (For those literary types who find the word too frivolous, substitute the word ?engage? for ?entertain.?? Literary types *love* the word ?engage.?)?
Writing to entertain [engage]!? What a concept!? Suddenly, all of my earlier, stoic reasons for writing look like so much self-aggrandizing.? And, most importantly, the act itself becomes altered; what was a ponderously holy chore now becomes a delight.
I still resolutely believe we each must make our own meaning.? But, I also believe we each must share that meaning with others, however we may.? I have a dream that someday, someone (no doubt Amish) will eventually gather up all these scraps of meaning and sew up one immense, cosmic quilt: Into which folds we will all someday crawl, to remain warm and comforted forever.
current mood: chipper
current music: Angels of Venice/Carol Tatum - Lionheart
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(4 prior convictions | any convictions?)
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| Tuesday, January 22nd, 2002
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5:41 pm - Disconnected...
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For the past FIVE days my internet connection has been fading in and out like a Star Trek landing party with a bad transporter lock. When it is active it screams; I clocked a best ever 3.1MBps on a bandwidth test site(!) and have been hitting at about 2.2 on average. The next minute, I can't connect to the POP email server. Sheeesh. I hope they get this straightened out soon: I've got work to do, bills to pay, games to play.
Suddenly the reality soaks in and I realize I am being a spoiled, petulant little netizen. Was I actually better off limping along at 24KBps with my dialup? A humble but steady connection that served me well for a few years? No, of course not! I'm darned lucky, by golly, and haven't the right to complain A tall!
Fortunately, I won't let that stop me.
current mood: frustrated
current music: Musicessence - Metro
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(5 prior convictions | any convictions?)
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| Monday, January 21st, 2002
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3:12 pm - Journal entries...
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I have become quite addicted to reading other journal entries. Even the most mundane posts bring to me a welcome feeling of "otherness;" that I've just stepped briefly into someone else's life. I love this LJ playground, a community of kids from the whole-world neighborhood laughing, crying, and tumbling down grassy hills. (And, being the shy child that I am, I feel more comfortable meeting them on the playground than visiting their houses with my furtive knock.)
Whether their expressions are of outrage, mild annoyance, giddy lovesickness or abject goofiness, I feel a kinship with even the most un-Knightmagely fellow journalists. I feel so often completely different from everyone, that's its kind of nice to be reminded of the similarities.
For instance, I'm not a big fan of pop-culture, finding little use for the trinkets and objets d'art so many of us here find precious. Yet many of these diary entries are steeped with just that - a common dailiness and materialism; reporting excitedly about "things" they have bought, seen, and done that in no way interests me. Yet, I do find myself interested, in much the same way I find myself more compelled by a speaker's mannerisms and delivery than the actual message.
Imagine a child holding out her treasures, polished rocks or a miniature piano; it is her wonderment in sharing that so completely charms me. The objects in her hands then become ensorceled and imbued with power. So, too, these journal entries have become a folk magic that lulls and entrances me. I feel I've been invited into your room to look over your coolest stuff, and find the warmth and acceptance of that invitation far more tangible than the objects you point out with such animation.
I long ago decided I loved people, but that I loved them best when I wasn't looking at them. I now find this world where the looking is less important than the hearing, and it suits me just fine.
my hope was the coat I wore in winter
and wished I could wear in summer
my fear was the skin I wore all year round
and like most sports, love was just
another game I could never play
current mood: nostalgic
current music: Richard Burmer - Walking The Summer To Sleep
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( any convictions?)
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| Saturday, January 19th, 2002
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12:19 pm - Is this working?
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Internet connection down for TWO days, very hopeful this works!
current mood: determined
current music: Brenda Russell - Piano In The Dark
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( any convictions?)
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| Sunday, January 13th, 2002
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11:35 pm - The Photograph of Myself
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Well, another weekend come and gone and I have not set foot outside my door. I'm sure if I were imprisoned somewhere, I would gaze longingly at the trees, sky and sunlight and desire above everything to be outside. As it is, I look through my window at the sunlight on the leaves, silently, passively acknowledge the beauty, and go right back to my computer. What is it about this screen with all the pretty colors that makes me feel more connected to the world than the simple feeling of planting my feet on pavement or grass? Lately I have had zero desire to be physically active in any way.
What once was a strong, moderately muscular body has softened into the build of a retired CPA. No offense to retired CPA's. I have even recently developed the habit of incurring "looking injuries." I get up in the morning, look out my window and BAM! my neck is out for the next three days. And, I may need to embark on a full-on, aggressive exercise regimen just to develop the stamina to get a workout. Forget the idea of making myself attractive to the opposite sex. My only hope now, is that I can become so "uncool" that I will eventually qualify as "hot." Okay, enough of the self-deprecating humor... Still, I'm proud to be an American where at least I know I'm free?
In closing, a few lines from the poem "The Photograph of Myself," by Jon Anderson:
?But it's not real, the boy, myself, looking out at me
but not seeing; and the garden which never grows.
Good friend, believe me, here I am, perhaps your best intention.
My hand can hold now your entirely small body. I can love you.
You are the friend's son, myself, to whom I speak and listen.
current mood: depressed
current music: Sheena Easton - When He Shines
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( any convictions?)
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| Friday, January 11th, 2002
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2:19 pm
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I'm trying to write a joke...
"Boris Zoloft and Ivan Prozac were walking down the street the other day..."
That's all I got for now.
current mood: moody
current music: Steelhouse Lane - All or Nothin'
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( any convictions?)
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| Thursday, January 10th, 2002
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4:50 pm - Windows Media Player Skin - Portals
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 This skin rocks!? I?m a big skin fan for media players, but I seldom feel moved to advertise that fact in a public place (not that my journal is attracting any notice whatsoever, but it is on the web). And here on LJ pop culture seems to rule, so here's my contribution to it.
Yet, I feel this skin deserves recognition for its sheer brilliance: it exudes a mythopoeic feel, gilded and bejeweled it belongs to some ancient, yet technologically superior and decadent race.? Could this be Odin's personal communicator? His palm pilot? His gameboy, maybe? ?Well, I just had to include it here for your worship as well.? A good idol is hard to find these days... (Odin?s gonna be wanting it back real soon, and I hate to piss him off.)
current mood: impressed
current music: Amethystium - Autumn Interlude
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( any convictions?)
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12:49 am - Concierge
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So I get this email yesterday from a woman purporting to be the concierge of a swank and rather famous resort here in town, the text of which follows:
"I'm writing to you in regards to a guest's request for advanced instruction in Word perfect . You came highly recommended and I would love to speak with you about what you can offer. Our guest will be staying with us Jan 21-24 and is very flexible on time."
I am perplexed. The email was sent to an old domain name, the address so badly mangled it was a wonder it found its way to me. (Thank God for the "default" catch-all mailbox I setup so long ago.) Yes, I am a trainer. And, yes, I do make "house calls." But, aside from the slightly suggestive nature of the email, I am a bit excited about who this guest might be. Paula Abdul, Sharon Stone, Liv Tyler and many others have stayed here recently.
I told a friend that I had half a mind to call the concierge and say, "No, I can't make it, and you tell Ms. Tyler that I won't stand for being stalked any more! And that goes double for her little elfin* friend, too!" Okay, I didn't say it was the better half of my mind. I couldn't reach the concierge at all today, so will try again tomorrow. This gives me more time to ruminate and concoct all sorts of equally ludicrous but satisfying scenarios? If I find out that this is some elaborate hoax, I will have blood.
*Okay, this is a reference to the rumored relationship between Arwen and Legolas during filming of The Lord of the Rings. And yes, I know Tolkien spells it "elven," but I couldn't resist. You'll notice I did spell "Tolkien" correctly?
current mood: quixotic
current music: Irina - Kamchelaya
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( any convictions?)
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