Epiphany Now?
"And then one day you find/ten years have got behind you." -- Pink Floyd
Now that I've taught my HAL9000 how to sing "Daisy" again, it is time to make up for lost ground. Oh, who am I kidding, I took a secret delight in having my computer crash on me. Like having a garden filled with weeds only to have someone burn it down. Maybe I'm sick, it's been suggested by a few intelligent people here and there. But I caught up on other things, like reading, from actual books made from murdered trees, and writing that didn't require the use of an electronic QWERTY matrix.
As far as reading goes, I finished Philip Pullman's trilogy His Dark Materials and was blown away. How I hungered for something like that when I was a teenager but all I got was Ayn Rand instead. Ayn Rand was fun, but I would have much preferred Pullman's touch. I loved His Dark Materials so much I Amazoned the trilogy to my 12-year-old niece, who is just the right age. I'll grant you, the story is a tough one, one that I've struggled with most of my adult life. This sense of complete and utter alienation that cloys like a wet T-shirt: that I was never right, that I never belonged, that I was always too smart for my stupid friends and too stupid for my smart friends. That when I was a child I was driven to wear the mantle of an adult, and when I became an adult all I wanted to be was a child again. The latter lasted far longer than the former. I'm not sad to say that: it merely is, and that's all there is to it. The scales bend this way, then that way and then they slow. And, if you look hard enough, concentrate hard enough, you finally see the balance.
In his acknowledgements at the end of the last book, The Amber Spyglass, Pullman writes, "I have stolen ideas from every book I have ever read. My principle in researching for a novel is 'Read like a butterfly, write like a bee,' and if this story contains any honey, it is entirely because of the quality of the nectar I found in the work of better writers." Brilliant.
Since we're on the Muhammad Ali-like homage, here's a building-sized Adidas ad I studied near Astor Place one fine day in February. I found out later that the quote was attributed to "The Greatest" himself:
Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they've been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It's an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It's a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary.
Impossible is nothing.
Much more nourishing than Nike's Just do it.
Ecce Homo. Here I am, someone who has, with some certain amount of shame but also with a certain amount of pride, backed himself into a Henry Miller corner. Was it on purpose? Was it by accident? Was it just what happened? At this point, who knows and who cares. I have done bad things that seemed good at the time, and good things that seemed bad at the time. I'm a journalist who is in his 30s who took to journalism because he incessantly wrote things in a journal and dreamed of things that seemed impossible. But where is the real story here, gentle readers?
I'll try to keep this blog updated more frequently, even if it is just with the spewing of the day's frustrations. But there is other work to be done. And now I know it needs to be done, as if my life depended on it. Thanks to all of you who have made my life Heaven, and Hell, and everything in between.
Now that I've taught my HAL9000 how to sing "Daisy" again, it is time to make up for lost ground. Oh, who am I kidding, I took a secret delight in having my computer crash on me. Like having a garden filled with weeds only to have someone burn it down. Maybe I'm sick, it's been suggested by a few intelligent people here and there. But I caught up on other things, like reading, from actual books made from murdered trees, and writing that didn't require the use of an electronic QWERTY matrix.
As far as reading goes, I finished Philip Pullman's trilogy His Dark Materials and was blown away. How I hungered for something like that when I was a teenager but all I got was Ayn Rand instead. Ayn Rand was fun, but I would have much preferred Pullman's touch. I loved His Dark Materials so much I Amazoned the trilogy to my 12-year-old niece, who is just the right age. I'll grant you, the story is a tough one, one that I've struggled with most of my adult life. This sense of complete and utter alienation that cloys like a wet T-shirt: that I was never right, that I never belonged, that I was always too smart for my stupid friends and too stupid for my smart friends. That when I was a child I was driven to wear the mantle of an adult, and when I became an adult all I wanted to be was a child again. The latter lasted far longer than the former. I'm not sad to say that: it merely is, and that's all there is to it. The scales bend this way, then that way and then they slow. And, if you look hard enough, concentrate hard enough, you finally see the balance.
In his acknowledgements at the end of the last book, The Amber Spyglass, Pullman writes, "I have stolen ideas from every book I have ever read. My principle in researching for a novel is 'Read like a butterfly, write like a bee,' and if this story contains any honey, it is entirely because of the quality of the nectar I found in the work of better writers." Brilliant.
Since we're on the Muhammad Ali-like homage, here's a building-sized Adidas ad I studied near Astor Place one fine day in February. I found out later that the quote was attributed to "The Greatest" himself:
Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they've been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It's an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It's a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary.
Impossible is nothing.
Much more nourishing than Nike's Just do it.
Ecce Homo. Here I am, someone who has, with some certain amount of shame but also with a certain amount of pride, backed himself into a Henry Miller corner. Was it on purpose? Was it by accident? Was it just what happened? At this point, who knows and who cares. I have done bad things that seemed good at the time, and good things that seemed bad at the time. I'm a journalist who is in his 30s who took to journalism because he incessantly wrote things in a journal and dreamed of things that seemed impossible. But where is the real story here, gentle readers?
I'll try to keep this blog updated more frequently, even if it is just with the spewing of the day's frustrations. But there is other work to be done. And now I know it needs to be done, as if my life depended on it. Thanks to all of you who have made my life Heaven, and Hell, and everything in between.
posted by Doc Paradox at 7:45 PM
3 Comments:
Thanks, Doc. Your post was the shot in the arm I needed this Tuesday morning before I start the anger management group.
I guess nobody really tells us when to run...we have to pull our own triggers (or hang on in quiet desperation).
Glad I could help, Myrna. So, were you leading this anger management group or were you participating in it?
Well, technically I was leading it...but you know what they say:
Physician, heal thyself.
By the way, tonight's post is pretty raw. Like I said before, you've got guts.
with respect
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