Another recommendation from the Easy Spinner . . .
http://weemousieswit.blogspot.com/
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
So, I’m Depressed. So What?
I say I’m depressed. Not right now, about a particular thing, but depressed, period. But what does that mean?
Most essentially, in the first place, I inherited from my mother and her mother a hyper-active panic response. There’s a little place at the stem of the brain that controls the “fight or flee” response. Theirs, and mine, err on the side of great caution and tend to panic quickly, and frequently. It can be in response to something appropriate, like some kind of emergency, or it can be to something ordinary, like an electric bill that seems a little high.
Secondly, I, like many people in my milieu growing up, spent most of my time afraid of one thing or another. This left me with fear as a default position.
There is a chemical reality to each of these conditions. Maybe other people, maybe you, find it easy to maintain an even keel in life. I, on the other hand, am constantly responding to things with inappropriate chemical reactions that leave me with shaking hands, a tightening in the stomach, a whistling in my ears, red cheeks, a pounding heart, general tremors, near tears, with uncomfortable, deeply negative ideation.
In blogging, I have read, you should get to the point in two hundred words or less. That was about two hundred words.
So at this point in time I am depressed, as usual, but now I am also in a blind funk, due to the fact that fate has been twisting my nipples with great impudence for over a month now. It has all left me desperately trying to find reasonable responses to the preposterously disrespectful input coming from numerous directions. And “reasonable” is not something that I am good at when life presents anything like aggression, or contention, or condescension, or weird, otherworldly ambiguity.
So wish me luck, my friends, dealing with this bullshit tomorrow, and in the days to come.
Most essentially, in the first place, I inherited from my mother and her mother a hyper-active panic response. There’s a little place at the stem of the brain that controls the “fight or flee” response. Theirs, and mine, err on the side of great caution and tend to panic quickly, and frequently. It can be in response to something appropriate, like some kind of emergency, or it can be to something ordinary, like an electric bill that seems a little high.
Secondly, I, like many people in my milieu growing up, spent most of my time afraid of one thing or another. This left me with fear as a default position.
There is a chemical reality to each of these conditions. Maybe other people, maybe you, find it easy to maintain an even keel in life. I, on the other hand, am constantly responding to things with inappropriate chemical reactions that leave me with shaking hands, a tightening in the stomach, a whistling in my ears, red cheeks, a pounding heart, general tremors, near tears, with uncomfortable, deeply negative ideation.
In blogging, I have read, you should get to the point in two hundred words or less. That was about two hundred words.
So at this point in time I am depressed, as usual, but now I am also in a blind funk, due to the fact that fate has been twisting my nipples with great impudence for over a month now. It has all left me desperately trying to find reasonable responses to the preposterously disrespectful input coming from numerous directions. And “reasonable” is not something that I am good at when life presents anything like aggression, or contention, or condescension, or weird, otherworldly ambiguity.
So wish me luck, my friends, dealing with this bullshit tomorrow, and in the days to come.
Monday, February 2, 2009
My Personal Chat With Lord Jesus
I have always been disposed to wonder about our world. Not, generally, wondering about how great our world is, no, more like wondering how it got so ruinously bad, or what purpose could possibly be served by it being so terrible. The instant events occurred when I was nineteen years old.
I was in the U.S. Navy at the time. I was proud to be in the Navy of Stephen Decatur and Admiral Halsey, but my pride of place was somewhat overshadowed by the facts of the Vietnam War and my complete lack of military bearing. I lived in a room with one other nineteen year old on a land base where I worked as a delivery driver, some indication of the Navy’s confidence in me.
We were allowed to drink beer in the E.M. Club (“Enlisted Men’s”) even though we were in a state (Nevada) with a drinking age of 21. Most people don’t understand how important alcohol is to keeping soldiers and sailors happy, but the Navy did. Plus, any evening that we were not on the watch list we were allowed to go into town (Las Vegas). Most people in Vegas thought it was discourteous to refuse drinks on the basis of age to active duty servicemen who were willing to pay for them. So there was drinking.
I had a buzz one night and turned in about 11: p.m. I say, “turned in,” but I had quite the little case of insomnia at the time and “turning in” was more like killing the lights, sitting up at the end of the bed, and smoking cigarettes, 20 cents a pack, $1.90 for a carton, wondering how I got into this mess, or sometimes considering topics slightly more challenging. My room-mate came in after a while, dead drunk. He was a slightly built and slightly educated farm boy from Iowa who had no prior experience of drinking. He greeted me with obscenities, collapsed on the bed and rolled over, passing out in his clothes, shoes included.
I remember thinking, what kind of life is this? I quietly spun off in the direction of more philosophical thoughts; after a while I moved onto the theological. I began to wish, as I sometimes did, that life had a purpose and that God answered prayer, like I had been taught at school. All of this, all of it, was completely silent, and I was totally awake, sitting up, soberer than most judges. Finally, I flippantly thought to myself, ok, Mr. Jesus, how about it? what is all this shit about? Offering any free advice these days?
Thereupon my room-mate sat up and faced me with his feet on the floor. He no longer sounded drunk, and he addressed me directly with greater content and organization than he had ever displayed before, and never did again. He explained to me quite patiently that although I was “charming,” he made it sound like some kind of a disease, I would never amount to anything, because life required more than that. I clearly remember him saying, “you’ll always get along, but you’ll never be happy.” Then he rolled back over and passed out again, still in his clothes and shoes. The lights had been out all this time, and I’d been silent through the whole thing. The next day he remembered nothing, and was all the way back to his dip-shit self.
Did Jesus talk to me through that idiot that night in Las Vegas long ago? Some people would have thought so. I just figured that he was sick of my condescending bullshit and decided to give me the verbal finger at just the opportune moment.
I was in the U.S. Navy at the time. I was proud to be in the Navy of Stephen Decatur and Admiral Halsey, but my pride of place was somewhat overshadowed by the facts of the Vietnam War and my complete lack of military bearing. I lived in a room with one other nineteen year old on a land base where I worked as a delivery driver, some indication of the Navy’s confidence in me.
We were allowed to drink beer in the E.M. Club (“Enlisted Men’s”) even though we were in a state (Nevada) with a drinking age of 21. Most people don’t understand how important alcohol is to keeping soldiers and sailors happy, but the Navy did. Plus, any evening that we were not on the watch list we were allowed to go into town (Las Vegas). Most people in Vegas thought it was discourteous to refuse drinks on the basis of age to active duty servicemen who were willing to pay for them. So there was drinking.
I had a buzz one night and turned in about 11: p.m. I say, “turned in,” but I had quite the little case of insomnia at the time and “turning in” was more like killing the lights, sitting up at the end of the bed, and smoking cigarettes, 20 cents a pack, $1.90 for a carton, wondering how I got into this mess, or sometimes considering topics slightly more challenging. My room-mate came in after a while, dead drunk. He was a slightly built and slightly educated farm boy from Iowa who had no prior experience of drinking. He greeted me with obscenities, collapsed on the bed and rolled over, passing out in his clothes, shoes included.
I remember thinking, what kind of life is this? I quietly spun off in the direction of more philosophical thoughts; after a while I moved onto the theological. I began to wish, as I sometimes did, that life had a purpose and that God answered prayer, like I had been taught at school. All of this, all of it, was completely silent, and I was totally awake, sitting up, soberer than most judges. Finally, I flippantly thought to myself, ok, Mr. Jesus, how about it? what is all this shit about? Offering any free advice these days?
Thereupon my room-mate sat up and faced me with his feet on the floor. He no longer sounded drunk, and he addressed me directly with greater content and organization than he had ever displayed before, and never did again. He explained to me quite patiently that although I was “charming,” he made it sound like some kind of a disease, I would never amount to anything, because life required more than that. I clearly remember him saying, “you’ll always get along, but you’ll never be happy.” Then he rolled back over and passed out again, still in his clothes and shoes. The lights had been out all this time, and I’d been silent through the whole thing. The next day he remembered nothing, and was all the way back to his dip-shit self.
Did Jesus talk to me through that idiot that night in Las Vegas long ago? Some people would have thought so. I just figured that he was sick of my condescending bullshit and decided to give me the verbal finger at just the opportune moment.
YouTube - Free - Ride on a Pony
Free always had a style. The very simple parts dovetailed together without embellishments. All four of them, in my opinion, had some real guts for White people.
This cut comes after they were thunderstruck by the Band's album, "From Big Pink." They look different, and the songs took on an entirely different character.
Under-rated band.
YouTube - Free - Ride on a Pony
This cut comes after they were thunderstruck by the Band's album, "From Big Pink." They look different, and the songs took on an entirely different character.
Under-rated band.
YouTube - Free - Ride on a Pony
Sunday, February 1, 2009
The Vietnamese Monk In Thailand
This week I was in Sakon Nakorn for a couple of days of R’n’R before teaching a class in neighboring Nakon Panom. I rode around town in bicycle taxis, shopped here and there, passed on eating dog (which is available at some restaurants and markets here), and visited the two temples that were recommended in the guide book. One of them was a kind of museum to a famous dead Phra Ajan (“Monk Teacher”).
It was very nice. The museum part was a modern building with bio’s and artifacts, lots of daily-use items, including spittoons, all very simple but belonging to the monk. It’s still a teaching-temple. I got there in the middle of a day-long series of outdoor lectures by the current teaching monk. All of the participants were dressed all in white and sat respectfully in a deeply shaded grove. The place was beautifully landscaped.
One very friendly monk came over to talk to me and my guide on this occasion. He was very chatty, speaking almost non-stop in Thai and fair English. He was seventy-two years old, he stood about 5’ 2.” He said some very surprising things. He said he had some special medicine that would enable him to live 1,000 years, I wished him good luck with that.
He also praised communism and suggested that what Thailand really needed was communism. He highly praised the communist government of Lao (the temple itself was a very beautiful Lao style temple, see picture above, coincidence? I wondered). Then he went into high-gear amazement and started praising the American CIA! He called them “friends” and said it would be great if they came to Thailand.
Later my guide told me that he was Vietnamese, and that his Thai wasn’t much better than his English, heavy accent. So I figure he was one of ours during the troubles and came to Thailand afterwards, maybe after some re-education, given his praise for communism.
He seemed like a nice guy, but it may have been in the manner of the nice Chinese guy in “The Manchurian Candidate” who taught the American soldiers to kill each other when they saw the Queen of Hearts.
It was very nice. The museum part was a modern building with bio’s and artifacts, lots of daily-use items, including spittoons, all very simple but belonging to the monk. It’s still a teaching-temple. I got there in the middle of a day-long series of outdoor lectures by the current teaching monk. All of the participants were dressed all in white and sat respectfully in a deeply shaded grove. The place was beautifully landscaped.
One very friendly monk came over to talk to me and my guide on this occasion. He was very chatty, speaking almost non-stop in Thai and fair English. He was seventy-two years old, he stood about 5’ 2.” He said some very surprising things. He said he had some special medicine that would enable him to live 1,000 years, I wished him good luck with that.
He also praised communism and suggested that what Thailand really needed was communism. He highly praised the communist government of Lao (the temple itself was a very beautiful Lao style temple, see picture above, coincidence? I wondered). Then he went into high-gear amazement and started praising the American CIA! He called them “friends” and said it would be great if they came to Thailand.
Later my guide told me that he was Vietnamese, and that his Thai wasn’t much better than his English, heavy accent. So I figure he was one of ours during the troubles and came to Thailand afterwards, maybe after some re-education, given his praise for communism.
He seemed like a nice guy, but it may have been in the manner of the nice Chinese guy in “The Manchurian Candidate” who taught the American soldiers to kill each other when they saw the Queen of Hearts.
The Difficulty Of Speaking Slowly And Simply
It is a fact that only people who are highly educated and/or highly sensitive to language can speak slowly and use only simple language. Other people always speak in their normal manner, in any situation, and confronted with someone who fails to understand them all they can think to do is speak more loudly.
I confront this problem all the time, especially people of the “other” type.
In Sakon Nakorn on Thursday, I got a call from the guy who would pick me up and drive me to my class on Saturday. I knew what the call was about, because I heard the words for “pick-up” and “teach.” Beyond that I didn’t understand a word the guy said. He could understand me pretty well, and he got frustrated because I seemed to be asking the same simple questions over and over.
I wanted him to say, slowly, “I will pick you up on Saturday at 7:00 am,” which I could have understood very well, but what he said was more like:
“so, I’ll swing by the hotel about an hour before your class, I might be a little late, I have to pick up another professor at the airport, but we’ve got plenty of time, you’d be surprised, the road is pretty good and on Saturday there won’t be much traffic, so maybe 7:30, but don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to eat before class.”
And he said it very, very fast.
I must have asked him twenty times to speak slowly and use simple words, but the response was always a hurricane of vernacular. Even if I asked, in painfully slow, simple Thai, “you pick me up what day?” he would respond in volumes instead of just saying, “Saturday.” Finally we got there, and I repeated, for clarity, “So, you will pick me up on Saturday, at 7:00 o’clock, right?” He answered like, duh! that’s what I’ve been saying for ten minutes!
Some people are just unreasonable.
I confront this problem all the time, especially people of the “other” type.
In Sakon Nakorn on Thursday, I got a call from the guy who would pick me up and drive me to my class on Saturday. I knew what the call was about, because I heard the words for “pick-up” and “teach.” Beyond that I didn’t understand a word the guy said. He could understand me pretty well, and he got frustrated because I seemed to be asking the same simple questions over and over.
I wanted him to say, slowly, “I will pick you up on Saturday at 7:00 am,” which I could have understood very well, but what he said was more like:
“so, I’ll swing by the hotel about an hour before your class, I might be a little late, I have to pick up another professor at the airport, but we’ve got plenty of time, you’d be surprised, the road is pretty good and on Saturday there won’t be much traffic, so maybe 7:30, but don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to eat before class.”
And he said it very, very fast.
I must have asked him twenty times to speak slowly and use simple words, but the response was always a hurricane of vernacular. Even if I asked, in painfully slow, simple Thai, “you pick me up what day?” he would respond in volumes instead of just saying, “Saturday.” Finally we got there, and I repeated, for clarity, “So, you will pick me up on Saturday, at 7:00 o’clock, right?” He answered like, duh! that’s what I’ve been saying for ten minutes!
Some people are just unreasonable.
YouTube - I Know You Got Soul (Bobby Byrd)
Soul Brother Number One-And-A-Half! When I was criminally abusing Napster, Bobby Byrd had nothing at all in the for-sale catalog and drew few results on any searches. Evidently he made something of a comeback before he died last year. I hope he made some money.
And let's remember that James Brown, although he could be very hard on mere band members, always remembered his friends.
YouTube - I Know You Got Soul (Bobby Byrd)
And let's remember that James Brown, although he could be very hard on mere band members, always remembered his friends.
YouTube - I Know You Got Soul (Bobby Byrd)
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