Why is it that the person who most needs to realize - "Hey! I talk too much!" - is the last person to recognize that in themselves, even in the course of conversations about other people who are talking too much?
['scuse me as I creep off to consider how this is true in my own life. . . .]
One day, I'm going to pick what I'd really like instead of what my husband wants and - while he's busy repeating that I should really suit myself because he's so easy to get along with - see how easy he really is to get along with when faced with something like this, say, in the living room.
Is it fuzzy thinking, or is there really no substantive difference between homosexual "marriage" and polygamous "marriage" when it comes to what our society will allow as marriage?
In a recent post - Til Death - Georgetown Professor Patrick Deneen points out the questionable foundation of the recent California Supreme Court's In re Marriage Cases decision which presumes to establish a "right" to homosexual marriage. The basis for their decision is individual liberty and personal autonomy.
. . . the constitutionally based right to marry . . . must be understood to encompass the core set of basic substantive legal rights and attributes traditionally associated with marriage that are so integral to an individual's liberty and personal autonomy that they may not be eliminated or abrogated by the Legislature or by the electorate . . . . These core substantive rights include, most fundamentally, the opportunity of an individual to establish - the the person with whom the individual has chosen to share his or her life - an officially recognized and protected family . . . [opinion at p. 6]
Deneen aptly notes, however, that marriage is really more based on the voluntary abrogation of individual liberty and autonomy, in self-sacrifice.*
When we base a "right" of marriage on liberty - and a so-called liberty to choose whatever I like - on what basis do we prohibit any choice, so long as it is freely made? Why not polygamy? Why not child marriage? Yes, child marriage brings up the additional element of competency to choose but with the increasing panoply of rights and freedoms being given children, is it not just a matter of time before they - too - will be seen as at liberty to choose as they will?
Having chosen in "liberty", it is not a great distance to unchoose in "liberty."
Maybe the bigger question is the proper basis for marriage. Is it based in liberty? Or is based on a voluntary servitude - a sacrifice - for the good of the other and the community?
Having been persuaded to discuss the question of homosexual marriage in terms of liberty, I perceive we have greater "liberties" looming. Just waiting in the wings. . . .
Maybe somewhere in Texas, for example. ____________________________________ *He also makes a really interesting point about a Hegelian recognition as legitimacy instead of individual justification, but I will leave that as an aside. . . . Another aside I'd like to point out is the California Court's apparent assumption that marriage - and "right" to marry - is constitutionally based.
Life here has been a bit frazzled. For some reason, he resists taking pain medication until the last possible moment when he reaches the "I wish I were dead" stage.
Food has been impossible - rather, chewing food has been impossible - for him so I have been concocting a succession of as-nutritious-and-delicious-as-I-can-possibly-make-it soups, pureed by my trusty stick blender. Last night was a bacon, potato, garlic, roquette (aka arugula/rocket) and cheese concoction. Today, he had to resist assorted chilis - at a chili cook-off we had already committed to. That, and the overkill at an Italian two-year-old's birthday party. Yes, that was family.
Today is his birthday. We are meeting close friends we [nonetheless] have not seen in a long time.
"I can drink, but I can't eat." the king said, setting up the date. "I have surgery the next day." [can you say "root canal"? eek.]
"You're kidding!" was the retort, laughing.
"No. Not kidding."
"Drink, but not eat?!"
"Yep. Drinking is good. At the moment. That, and the narcotics."
Hoo boy. I can hardly wait for life to be back to normal. Meanwhile, we have a date up at the local pub for a couple of pints, by prescription.
From yesterday, I did not get to the garden store for pots. So, neither blue nor green pots arrived - and hmmm, yellow, too, Lee Anne? That does sound pretty!
Neither was the complaint written, but I have the forms and the release of lien was done.
It's a start.
We're entertaining today - six for dinner - which I hope will not mean that I get absolutely nothing else done. Further to the 'work like an ant', I should like to add an unshakeability, a casual easiness to hospitality that I don't always manage to pull off. It is not the same thing as negligence, mind you, where carelessness is renamed a lack of fussing. I've noticed, however, that overdoing things can become oppressive. The ten different cheeses instead of one - or two - nice ones, and choice of 3 different desserts and unlimited aperitifs, is just too much.
My goal is to be ok if we run out of food. Not that any of us is in any danger of starving to death. . . . thank God.
Hospitality is such a strange thing. It's another one of those balance points that you can miss on opposite sides: the too little as well as the too much. I tend to miss on the too much side. . . . which causes me to hesitate inviting people over (because it's such a lot of work), which flips me back over to the too little side. Jack [C.S. Lewis] was right when he said we're like drunkards who fall off one side of a horse, only to climb back up and fall off the other.
Here it is 10:30, however, and I have yet to stir towards tackling any of my ant-tasks of the day. Time to move.
I woke up this morning with no proper clue of the "now what."
It was before dawn, because I have at least one more day before I've officially acclimated to being back on U.S. East Coast standard time. Whatever you call it. Greenwich minus 5.
I had time to take myself to task that I don't spend as much time praying as I used to when I was still single. My husband uses his time being first up in the morning well: he makes coffee, and he prays. Not me. I sleep until he calls, then I drink coffee.
Bleary-eyed.
Don't get me wrong, I don't think I've ever done much praying first thing in the morning. My brain isn't really working properly yet. I used to find the best time was walking to work or the library - a good half hour each way. (Uphill both ways. Just kidding. . . .) But one doesn't do much walking in the United States. And driving in urban traffic isn't exactly conducive to meditative states.
So this morning I stayed in bed and turned my thoughts towards prayer. It was kind of hard going. With each new topic, my mind would race off ahead - sort of like an over-eager Golden Retriever. Before I knew it, I was conducting a legal defense, designing the final lace touches to my Pi Shawl, cooking, finishing a short story, and remembering childhood friends. Then I'd be gently nudged back to "Oh, yeah. I'm sorry. Here I am! You were saying?"
I came away with three things today.
1. Feed the birds.
2. Call your brother. (I have some good things to say to him)
3. Submit a proposal to the ________ conference.
At which point I went off a bit on what the proposal would be about, and before I knew it, I was out of bed and bustling about like the ridiculous woman I can be. . . . All busy. Eventually I made it downstairs, where the coffee was made and our reading this morning continued in the book of James, where today's heading said - and I am not making this up - "Listening and Doing"
OK, so I fed the birds. I'm about to call my brother. Then just the 300 word summary to pull together.
How hard could that be? [giggle. . . . hoo buoy. right. ] Kind of feels nice, though, to think that I will have done all that is really required of me today. Anything else is pure gravy!
so, have you checked out the Viva Viagra commercial yet?
No?
Well - here it is for you. Or one of them, anyway. . . .
The band is pretty good.
You can tell I'm of a flippant disposition today. I haven't been doing the countdown and I discovered today that I'm already in the speed-up 10, 9, 8, 7 mode. . . . I still haven't made it through the dissertation all the way. May God have mercy on my poor. . . . [man! I can't even think of the word! What do you call it when you put things off? Right. That word] _________ing . . . . soul.
Today, via the Happiness Project, I came across an article about not adding value to other's ideas. I'd never heard it expressed this way, but I know exactly what they mean. I've always called people like that "dream cuckoos". They're people who try to deposit their own, unformed yet overgrown, awkward fledglings into the little dream nest you have labored over, to then crowd out or even devour your own little dreamlets. . . .
I've known quite a few of these people - there's one in my family (and it's not the king. . . .) - and I tend to give them a wide berth. Actually, I learned some time ago not to air early ideas at all. You've got to give them time to gestate first, or else they can get so mangled up that they'll never draw breath even if they do manage to see the light of day.
Do I try to "add value" to others' ideas?
I often want to. Sometimes I'm tempted to. But I usually default back to a cheerleading role fast enough, with an apology for trying to put my own oar in. I just remember how I feel when others start to try and hijack one of my dreamlets. Although sometimes people can come up with some good ideas! It's such a balance.
This was a difficulty I had with the whole academic process, by the way - as I realize just now, talking through it. I am of an artistic temperament, and tend to 'create' alone. The academic, however, also relies on community by which to work out ideas, sort through objections, and come up with consensus on solutions. This really is pretty antithetical to the artistic process, although - granted - artists also interact not only with one another, but also perhaps to an audience.
All this to say that I am not really looking forward to the viva insofar as it approaches an "adding value" process by which I must suffer the "good ideas" of others who have not spent 5 years on this. Even as I write this, I am very well aware of how unfair the suspected charge is. I know the internal examiner, and he's just great. He gives you lots of room for your own ideas, and with him it's always about the student and never about himself. He's one of the most generous people I know that way. His attitude also tends to rub off on others, so that before you know it, a room full of "Look at me!" students has become a very affirming exploration group.
I'm just not used to group explorations. They tend to go places I'm not that interested in. Or maybe it's just that I am boring, and they won't go there with me! In any event, I'm used to solo jaunts. . . .
Off now, to find something to munch on while I do some reading.
PS - the missing word, above, is "procrastinating". Right.
There was a huge storm last night, which left me grateful to be inside, warm and dry under the covers trying to sleep. Unfortunately, the howling wind and claps of thunder made that rather difficult.
Today my actual best friend is coming over to go see the greenwood happenings and thereafter have a bit of a birthday lunch. We don't see much of each other any more. She's relatively newly married, as well, and what with her own house constructings and running a business she doesn't get a lot of free time. I miss hanging out with her. It's hard, then, to just enjoy time together when you do get it, because you feel like there's so much ground to cover - first, to catch up, and then to make up for the fact that you suspect you won't be seeing each other for another month or two!
I remember someone once saying how ridiculous they found the concept of "quality time" - when used as an excuse for spending a small amount of time with one's kids, for example. . . . [grammar question: does "one's" properly have an apostrophe there, for the possessive, or does that signify a contraction?]
Anyway, this person said something to the effect that more often than not it's really the spending of time with someone that counts - not just the supposed 'quality' of it. Granted, the quality counts, too, but not as much as we might like to think. You can't cultivate a friend from scratch by just spending one quality day a year - for example - with them. At some point, you just have to spend time. Riding in a car saying nothing. Skipping stones. Shopping for food together, perhaps, or going your separate ways in a bookstore (and meeting up afterwards to inspect acquisitions), enduring the boring recital because it's her kid and she asked that you go with her.
I don't excel at this, by any stretch. In fact, I'm pretty bad about it. Luckily, I've spent so much time with C over the years that I can get away with some patchy stretches. . . . every now and again, anyway. I think it's time to replenish the time-spent-together cache.
More reading today - I hope to get through 2 more chapters and then finish the dissertation tomorrow. At that point, I should have a better idea as to which works of my main author I wish to re-visit and in what order.
I went to Germany on a whim, I'd say, if I didn't know [now] how important it really was. At the time, though, I didn't know why I was going, I just knew I had to. Ostensibly, it was to attend a 'by-invitation-only' conference I had invited myself to.
I spent 3 days in the Atlanta airport on a stand-by buddy pass ticket, trying to get a flight to Germany. I'm still in touch with at least one of the people I met during that time.
Ultimately, I flew via Dublin - a most creative routing - courtesy of the Delta manager who finally took pity on me and got me on the last plane out before they suspended all buddy pass tickets for the rest of the week, they were so backed up. A year later, I would be living in Dublin.
The conference came and went - apparently without incident except for a passing reference to 'conscience' which I would work on for the next five years - and I found myself in Frankfurt at the end of the whole affair with nothing to do and no set place to stay for the weekend. An American woman I'd tried to steer clear of at the conference found out I was at loose ends and said "You must come back with me and stay at the castle!"
I have a rule: never turn down an invitation to a castle.
So an hour later, I found myself in her banger of an old Volvo station wagon, heading to a small village outside of Heidelberg. The morning I was to leave, we were up before dawn. A light dusting of snow had fallen, and my hostess had prepared coffee and a light breakfast. We ate by candlelight. I've never had candles at breakfast before. It was lovely! The sun slowly rose and took over from the candles. Now, whenever I'm up before dawn - or when it's a horrible bleak drear of a morning - I light candles and think of her.
Like this morning.
The sun is well up now, but the candles are still burning in the darkened living room. My checkered mug has only half a slug of coffee left and it's time to get up and moving and start the day. I'll blow the candles out when I get off the sofa. It's been too long since I've seen my friend, though, and it's been nice to think of her this morning.
Now is the time of year when I find that money questions seriously compete with a joy to the world state of mind.
In no time flat, a "token" gift can add 50 bucks to my cash outlay. [so you do the math for, say, ten token gifts!] Not to mention the question of the NON-tokens, for which I struggle to overcome a current cultural equation indicating a direct correlation between degree of affection/love and amount of cash outlay.
In other words: if I don't spend a bundle, I must not care very much.
Add to this a general drowning in things - stacks of articles, books I can't put away, resurrected crafts I'm starting to dig out again, Christmas cards waiting for addresses and personalized notes [damn - I don't think I have time to write up one of those 'what-we've-been-up-to-all-year' one-pagers, can I really just write Wishing you the best for the upcoming year! and be done with it? And hey! They haven't contacted me, either, so why is it always my fault for not having been in touch, I'd like to know?! Simmer down there now. . . . sigh]
You get the picture.
On top of that, I finally got the kitchen guy to give me an actual number for the kitchen design he's been working on, off and on for a year, for the house being built. Can you say "way over budget"? Well, I can. It's way over budget. And when I pointed that out, he got - well - a bit snitty with me. No more Mr. Nice Guy - now I get 'business-like' emails and the proposal is in contract form rather than proposal form. Sort of a 'sign or else' format. . . .
Oh - and the countertop is suddenly - mysteriously - no longer included.
sigh.
Emancipated son #1 continues his financial drama and has asked that I review a contract for his new employment elsewhere. As expected, it was draconian and incomplete and succeeded in pissing me off. I hate bad contracts. It's almost easier just to start from scratch. Anyway, the final indignity was to be told (having asked a bunch of questions) that I was overthinking the matter, and that this is just a simple arrangement, all that was needed was to make sure the legal 'mumbo-jumbo' was in order.
Right.
Funny how people view the law. It's 'mumbo-jumbo' at the start, when good will and best intentions still prevail. But when the will and the intentions have gone south - to hell in a handbasket - then suddenly the 'mumbo-jumbo' becomes important. The lawyers are still blamed - don't get me wrong - but it's because the parties didn't want to deal with what the 'mumbo-jumbo formality' was actually saying, to the extent that it does not mirror the "simple arrangement" the parties like to think they actually had. . . . . What's really going on, is that the parties have not thought through the details of their "simple arrangement", and decided what will happen if things do go wrong. . . . [which inevitably, they do. Sooner, or later].
Pessimism is an occupational hazard to practicing law.
Anyway - and a partridge in a pear tree to you, too!
Ah - I haven't thought of that song in ages. Nor have I posted any music in a while!
OK - let's go see what I can find on YouTube.
Here 'tis! Police's Synchronicity(looking pretty dated these days. . . .)
But no. . . . actually the word I was looking for IS 'serendipity': the occurrence and development of events by chance, in a happy and beneficial way,
whereas 'synchronicity' is: the simultaneous occurrence of events that appear significantly related, but have no discernible causal connection.
Well now. . . . but there are elements of synchronicity as well: significantly related, but no clear causal connection. . . .
What am I talking about? How just the right things - people, thoughts, information, opportunities - seem to come out of nowhere at just the right time.
Or maybe it's just my corvid-tendency to pick up bright shiny things and take them home, where they all then live together in a way that makes a (to me) surprisingly coherent pattern. And maybe it's just the superficial shininess that has dazzled my eyes and deceived me into thinking there's a greater unity underlying the whole?
Today, one Grim posted an article about military post-traumatic stress, here, at a site called Black-Five.
It opened my eyes to a whole new field of connection that is not only "happy and beneficial", but also significantly related, albeit with no clear causal connection.
A story about a supposed "non-practicing" pedophile in California some months ago led me to an article about the impotence of law, which introduced me to a whole new world of incredibly thoughtful, intelligent, encouraging and plain old fun people associated (often by marriage) with the military. I won't bore you with the complicated connections, but I'll tell you that they're quite astonishing. I've been so enriched by their thoughts!
Just today, I learned that Adorable Device is reading a book about Alice Williams - sister to William James - for her dissertation in English lit.
William James had a sister?! William James' thought appears in my dissertation, on law, ethics, and theology - for the proposition of religious experience as the connector between an individual and values/convictions. I'm ordering the book on the sister.
And it's indirectly through Lemon Stand that I found my way (by way of a path I no longer recall. . . .) to Grim's posting on post-traumatic stress. I think this might be really important with respect to the connection between the soldier and an ethics that makes sense - namely one that is more than just a series of rules written by know-nots in the no-danger-zone.
Grim has also posted on a surfer dude's amazing physics theory of just about everything which, like the last theories to catch my attention: John Nash's equilibrium in game theory and "fuzzy logic" - by whoever is responsible for that - strikes me as "related" to how we view the world, our role in it, and what we can, should, or will do.
Here's a picture of E8 - which forms the basis for surfer dude's theory - "the most elegant and intricate shape known to mathematics - a complex, eight-dimensional mathematical pattern with 248 points first found in 1887, but only fully understood by mathematicians this year after workings, that, if written out in tiny print, would cover an area the size of Manhattan."
Wierd, huh?
It reminds me of the yoke of a fair isle knitted sweater. . . .
Who'da thunk it! The Meaning of Life preserved in a traditional knit pattern. . . . I'm not at all surprised.
Meanwhile, Non-essential Equipment reports that some parents are boycotting Shrek 3 because it is supposedly pro-life - if you can imagine. Mustn't have that around the children!
Not to worry, though. Nee reports that she's seen the movie often enough* to repeat the "dialogue" verbatim, together with the various sounds of scatological bodily functions, and she has seen no hint of an overt "pro-life" agenda hidden therein. So there you have it: There is no cause for alarm!
*I believe the actual number of viewing times was, at the time of publication, 3654. Give or take a few. . . .
well, that's a formidable entry. Or barrier! Wonder what it's to be.
It's Saturday, the toughest part -or day - of being 'on deadline' [as the king says] and having to be out of usual life. We have our usual Saturday routine - I know I've written about this before - where the king goes to the drycleaners and stops by the wine shop and the artisanal cheese place (where they know him by name) and picks up fresh bread and cheese and wonderful olives of several colour types and little mini-baguettes with fresh ham and brie on them for lunch. Then, we decide whether we're having Oranginas or white wine.
Today, white wine. I'm gonna need all the help I can get, which is probably why I should have stuck with Orangina, but I have never exactly been the 'prudent' type. Now I'm upstairs with chapter one ("The Re-Write") and the king is doing laundry*, heading out to get dinner (we're having company!?) and will then settle in for some college ball.
I'm hiding the fact that I'm writing 'other' stuff - he doesn't know that I've started this site. . . . And it's going to be a little tough telling him! And harder every day. I have no idea how to do this. I see now that I already have some 60 [60?! Try over 80!!!] postings, each of one which was done 'in secret' as to him. Not consciously. We really have no secrets. But I've not told him about this. I'm not sure why I have wanted to keep properprophet so private. It's funny: no one I "know" knows about this place. Not yet. And I'm a little careful about sharing sites I have posted comments on with my 'real life' friends, for fear that they'd find this place. What's the deal with that?
This is one of the questions I think I had early on about "who" we are, when we're prophet, or Non-Essential Equipment, or Adorable Device of Destruction, or Mir, or Lemon Stand - although some of those women give an indication as to who they are. It's funny to think about the images we've chosen to camp out under. Machinery, plywood stands, butterflies, corvids, weapons, regret . . . .
I remember reading an article about 'avatars' - I think it was when I first came across Second Life, which believe it or not was part of my research! Turns out that Judge Posner (the 7th Circuit Court of Appeals Judge who thinks that academic moral theory is worthless with respect to making judicial determinations) appeared on Second Life to talk up a new book. You can see an illustrated transcript here.
So - you see - I am working! Stop to think, too, that "avatar" means "incarnation", which is very relevant to theological dissertations! sigh.
Anyway, I think the whole thing of secrecy or anonymity or virtual 'life' or whatever you want to call it has to do with consequences. I can control virtual consequences. If I piss someone off, or they don't like me, or I don't like them it's easy: no more contact. Delete messages (or don't allow them in the first place!) Don't visit. Deny access.
We can't do that in real life. And in real life, the people who know me can read what I've written and say "________, would you ever get real?!!! Stop messin' around and start writing! Kwitcher bitchin. . . . ." And that would be horrible.
So, on the one hand, I can control adverse consequences and on the other, I can presume on the goodwill of strangers. But not forever. At some point, you have to become friends. Or not.
Who was it said: "I love mankind; it's people I can't stand!"
That's how we are in the 'blogosphere'. Or: how we are at our worst in the blogosphere. . . . Because I think we can also make friends. I've read about people who have. And I know how I feel about the people who've come alongside me these last few weeks. . . .
By the way. . . . is there an uglier word than "blog"?! Or "blogosphere"?!!!! Barf. Who thought of that? I hate that word. It curdles my bone marrow to think of calling myself a "blogger".
I am a WRITER.
Best go get some writing done. (*the king's mum has already had confidential discussions with him about this, asking "Is everything OK in your marriage. . . . .? Bless her heart. . . . ahem. . . . .)
Today's is Elizabeth Perry's 1000th consequtive posting of sketches and musings over at Woolgathering and as part of her online celebration, I am posting my own sketch.
I lost my wedding band this spring. I was out in the garden, preparing urns for a new batch of annuals to be nestled in with the evergreen ivy. It wasn't until hours later - washing my hands - that I realized it was gone.
"Where were you?" he asked, when I came back in an hour later, still crying, still without it (meaning 'where had I been where I could have lost it'). I shrugged, helplessly. I'd been everywhere. We looked everywhere. We dug up everything I'd planted. We sieved the dirt. Over the next week we bought and read the manual for a metal detector and struggled manfully with said detector. We dug up the plants again. I cried some more.
I wrote about it; dreamed about it; prayed about it; pondered the why's and wherefore's of it. Not to mention the where-the-hell-is-it?!!'s. I couldn't find it and it didn't turn up. We still look for it, walking in the garden. My empty left ring finger was a mute accusation of my carelessness. How could I not have felt it slip off?! Strangely, I felt like I had failed as a wife. This was the symbol of our marriage - our treasure - and I had proven untrustworthy in guarding it. I lost it! Way to go. . . .
No, I didn't tell the king that. But neither did I press to get another one made. I started feeling unreliable with respect to my engagement ring and rarely put that on. . . . Fine. I didn't wear rings before I got married - just a few years ago - so what's the big deal? I won't wear rings now. Clearly, I'm not to be trusted with them.
Still, when I least expected it, a wave of loss would wash over me and I would finger my married ring finger, feeling the missing ring like I hear people who've lost limbs still feel them. How silly to feel such desolation over a ring. A piece of metal. OK - platinum metal, and have you checked the prices on platinum lately?! But still. I just missed my ring.
Last week, in the middle of dissertation hell, the king and I went out onto the porch for a happy hour glass of wine before dinner. The squirrels have been at work in my garden and urns, busily burying and unburying nuts and such. I scolded one of them who came within earshot: "I better not catch you in my urns! I'll whup your butt!" The king and I laughed. "Unless, of course, you find and return my ring," I added. "Then you can dig in the urns all you want!"
"You really think you're going to get it back, don't you?" the king asked.
"Well, I hope I will." I said. "I'd kind of lost hope there, for a while, but now I find myself looking again, quite expectantly. Almost as if it will be brought to me and left on the front steps. . . . But I haven't found it yet." I smiled. So did he. He went inside a moment and came back out.
"I didn't know when to give this to you." he said. "Now seems the best time." He placed a little box on the concrete bench we use as our coffee table on the porch. I started crying. (and I've started crying again, thinking about it. . . .)
I can't believe he had another ring made for me. Just like the first one. The one that's lost in our garden. The one that matches his.
This one is just a little different, though - I can't quite put my finger on it. But it's growing on me. Like a second chance.
I used to sing a cappella. Maybe I will again. Post-dissertation.
My singing mates at the time heard a lot about my "best" friend, M. They never saw her, though. One day one of the guys said: "I don't think M even exists. I think she's your imaginary friend" and he started talking with his index finger wiggling up and down next to his face, as if that were M - my imaginary friend.
They had a great time with M, my imaginary friend. Years later, one of the guys actually met M, and reported to the rest that she did - in fact - exist. Without face time, though, she was soon forgotten, and remained my imaginary friend, as far as the guys were concerned.
Funny thing: she eventually became more and more imaginary because we never saw each other. We didn't have the same interests. I didn't have to deal with it until I finally got married, when I had to decide whether to ask M - the official best friend - or C, the actual best friend to be my best maid.
Yesterday, online, there were several articles about how Facebook costs employers well over a hundred million dollars a day and the phenomenon of virtual friends - and whether they were real. Isn't it strange that we're right back where we started from in first grade? Wanting friends, and making them up, if necessary. I play my part here, posting my bit daily, and checking in on N, S, LA, C, J, M, A, V. . . and hoping to hear from them, too.
It's a way of coping, I guess. Still, I worry about the seduction of pseudo-relationships. They're a lot easier on my mind. After all, I'm in charge! Sort of. . . . But that's not how life goes. Certainly it's not how friendships go. Ah well. Back to Chapter 5.
I realize I've set myself up with this talk of 'truth'. . . .
I feel obligated to tell it, now, having talked about 'croakings of a truthful nature'. This, even though there's no relational accountability - not yet, anyway.
I find this interesting. Even though no one knows who I am, I feel an obligation to tell the truth. ESPECIALLY since I SAID I was going to tell the truth. . . . What's THAT about? (I'll leave for another time ramblings about how anonymity affects relationship.)
A writer I like has been writing about a difficult relationship that seems to me to BE difficult because the two in the relationship have strayed into what I've been calling the 'unenforceable' in some of my writing and thinking. It's the area of the free gift - freely chosen; freely given. The moment you either expect it or demand it, it vanishes like one of the 'little people'. Giggling on its way. Maddening and sobering in the sudden absence of its magical presence. But you will search for it in vain. The only thing you can do is accept it when it is given. And it is never just offered. . . . It's always given, even if it is not accepted.
Paradoxical?
Yes. In a way, it's like truth. Truth is given - not imposed. The moment you interrogate it, cross-examine it, demand it or take it for granted (in the sense of 'expecting' it) it can flee - slip just out of your grasp, right between your fingers. You can't hold on to it or mold it, but you CAN always accept it when it offers itself.
That's the lesson here, I think: always to have open hands for the truth; always to have open hands for the 'unenforceable' free gift. Because the minute you stop accepting, so often you also stop giving, yourself. And when you're not giving, the inexorable law is still that you get what you give - so, "nothing", in that case. But neither is it cause and effect, here! You can't 'give to get'. Motivation counts, and you don't always 'get back' from the one you gave to. Add 'time' to the equation and you can see that we can't work the sum.
Why bother, then?
It's the 'set up', isn't it? I've tasted now of truth and the free gift. I can't live without it. But I can't enforce it. All I can do is give it. And then accept it - wherever it is offered.
Here's the truth for me, today: as fun as this is, I have work to do. Work that I've put off by all the known writing-avoidance techniques I've ever known or read about (and don't send me any more, please! grin. . . . ). But here's the truth for me, today:
There was a huge storm last night, which left me grateful to be inside, warm and dry under the covers trying to sleep. Unfortunately, the howling wind and claps of thunder made that rather difficult. 
It was many years ago. 
Here's a picture of E8 - which forms the basis for surfer dude's theory - "the most elegant and intricate shape known to mathematics - a complex, eight-dimensional mathematical pattern with 248 points first found in 1887, but only fully understood by mathematicians this year after workings, that, if written out in tiny print, would cover an area the size of Manhattan."
