I haven't posted in far too long. I hope this will be the first in many nights of writing, because, while saying a little a lot doesn't always mean much, it's all I have.
Each year on Halloween I try to consider the dead. The dead who have influenced my life, or who've influenced the world and, by extension, me.
What's it like, I wonder, to be great and facing death? Is it easier, staring down the shadowy path, knowing you've accomplished wonders, that history has already remembered you? Or do you resist, wish for more time to do even more of what you dearly love? Does a genius die wishing for two more lifetimes to empty his potential?
There's a story that, when Beethoven was on his deathbed, lighting struck during the storm outside. When the thunder came, he raised up, shook his fist at the heavens, then fell back and died.
I don't want to die. I don't want anyone I know to die, especially those I care about. For those who have, I try to carry them with me. I try to let them fill me with their lives, as if I was an unfinished painting and they're brushing varicolored pigments into my empty spaces, swirling textures into my maturing life.
That's what I do for them. In my future, I am a compendium of spectres.
Each year on Halloween I try to consider the dead. The dead who have influenced my life, or who've influenced the world and, by extension, me.
What's it like, I wonder, to be great and facing death? Is it easier, staring down the shadowy path, knowing you've accomplished wonders, that history has already remembered you? Or do you resist, wish for more time to do even more of what you dearly love? Does a genius die wishing for two more lifetimes to empty his potential?
There's a story that, when Beethoven was on his deathbed, lighting struck during the storm outside. When the thunder came, he raised up, shook his fist at the heavens, then fell back and died.
I don't want to die. I don't want anyone I know to die, especially those I care about. For those who have, I try to carry them with me. I try to let them fill me with their lives, as if I was an unfinished painting and they're brushing varicolored pigments into my empty spaces, swirling textures into my maturing life.
That's what I do for them. In my future, I am a compendium of spectres.
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Tuesday, September 23, 2008, 05:46 PM - General
I haven't posted any interesting links lately, which is funny since this is a "web log". Early web logs were often sites where people posted web links they liked, as well as web journals, later becoming the crazy, self-interested medium for self-expression that we see today.COMPUTER STUFF
Montastic Need basic website uptime monitoring?
Pingdom Willing to pay a little bit for more features? I like this one.
Hack Your Canon PowerShot to Add Superpowers
12 Sly Web Tricks That Put You In Control
ARTSY STUFF
A Small Anthology of Poems
Cinematic Titanic
The Big Snit This is simply one of the funniest animated short films I've ever seen. "Always shaking your eyes!!"
SCIENCE STUFF
For the Brain, Remembering Is Like Reliving
World's Tiniest Snake
30 Abstract Satellite Images of Earth
OTHER STUFF
Just Say What You Want--Puhleeze! Well written, good advice.
Find A Grave I discovered actor Darren McGavin died on my birthday, and other strange things you can search for..
Sekanjabin recipe A great little refreshing Iranian drink, introduced to me by a good friend here in the states when I was a teenager.
I have just managed a feat of such utter stupidity that it should silence all those (and they are legion) who claim that I have a reasonable amount of brains in my skull, and know how to use them. In fact, there might as well be week-old oatmeal in my cranial cavity.
I have been stung by a dead wasp.
Now, to be fair and honest, I killed this wasp, and it deserved, in insectoid karmic fashion, to exact retribution. Yet I also--and this is where my IQ heads toward the calorie count of Aqua Fina--attempted to kick the wasp's carcass off of the carpet with my bare feet. And, just before the kicking, I thought, "Wouldn't it be ridiculous if I kicked it right in its stinger?" Without even a clap of ironic thunder, or a rim shot, I felt this little pain near my big toe.
No. I hadn't done it. Not really. Right?
I finished scooting the broken body of that murderous, yet clearly innocent of intention, fiend across the carpet by means of a cardboard box that was standing exactly nine inches away the entire time. I walked around. I tried to ignore the nagging tickle. I ascended the stairs. I brushed at my foot, thereby breaking the top off the stinger, and then looked at the spot and saw what could have been a thorn, but just had to be the last hurrah of the wasp's time on earth.
Okay, I'll pull the rest out with my tweezers. Which are...where? Some bag? Some box? My girl friend's apartment? Canada? The irritation in my foot is enhanced by the irritation in my mind. I realize I'm the definition of ridiculous, and consider calling a few friends and asking them to ridicule me while the getting's good.
Finally, the tweezers are found. Now, if there was only good enough light to see by. The bedroom? Nope, just finished painting, only a floor lamp. The bathroom? No, the Jurassic abomination that was the light fixture above the (equally horrific) medicine cabinet is mostly taken apart, and the remaining globe--much like the one-lamp-eyed invaders in War of the Worlds--offers no comfort.
In the kitchen, I can see well enough, get the thing out, squeeze a Seurat-sized drop of blood, and decide I should disinfect the ridiculous--that word again!--puncture wound. Okay, I'll use some alcohol. Which is...where? No more searching. No more. I go to the refrigerator and pull out an open bottle of Greek Retsina wine that was probably undrinkable when it was bottled, and only continued to mature into a potion fit for dares and refinishing. I dab some on my toe and re-cork the bottle, to--and I mean this, sincerely--enjoy later.
There are some events that are meant to be revealed to the world, and damn the deprecations.
And so, I give
you: me, wag.*
Charles: 0
Life and Wasps: 1
* Referencing a poem by John Berryman....
Dream Song 14
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no
Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as Achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
I have been stung by a dead wasp.
Now, to be fair and honest, I killed this wasp, and it deserved, in insectoid karmic fashion, to exact retribution. Yet I also--and this is where my IQ heads toward the calorie count of Aqua Fina--attempted to kick the wasp's carcass off of the carpet with my bare feet. And, just before the kicking, I thought, "Wouldn't it be ridiculous if I kicked it right in its stinger?" Without even a clap of ironic thunder, or a rim shot, I felt this little pain near my big toe.
No. I hadn't done it. Not really. Right?
I finished scooting the broken body of that murderous, yet clearly innocent of intention, fiend across the carpet by means of a cardboard box that was standing exactly nine inches away the entire time. I walked around. I tried to ignore the nagging tickle. I ascended the stairs. I brushed at my foot, thereby breaking the top off the stinger, and then looked at the spot and saw what could have been a thorn, but just had to be the last hurrah of the wasp's time on earth.
Okay, I'll pull the rest out with my tweezers. Which are...where? Some bag? Some box? My girl friend's apartment? Canada? The irritation in my foot is enhanced by the irritation in my mind. I realize I'm the definition of ridiculous, and consider calling a few friends and asking them to ridicule me while the getting's good.
Finally, the tweezers are found. Now, if there was only good enough light to see by. The bedroom? Nope, just finished painting, only a floor lamp. The bathroom? No, the Jurassic abomination that was the light fixture above the (equally horrific) medicine cabinet is mostly taken apart, and the remaining globe--much like the one-lamp-eyed invaders in War of the Worlds--offers no comfort.
In the kitchen, I can see well enough, get the thing out, squeeze a Seurat-sized drop of blood, and decide I should disinfect the ridiculous--that word again!--puncture wound. Okay, I'll use some alcohol. Which is...where? No more searching. No more. I go to the refrigerator and pull out an open bottle of Greek Retsina wine that was probably undrinkable when it was bottled, and only continued to mature into a potion fit for dares and refinishing. I dab some on my toe and re-cork the bottle, to--and I mean this, sincerely--enjoy later.
There are some events that are meant to be revealed to the world, and damn the deprecations.
And so, I give
you: me, wag.*
Charles: 0
Life and Wasps: 1
* Referencing a poem by John Berryman....
Dream Song 14
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no
Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as Achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
Where have I been? Some of you know, I purchased a house last month, and am pretty busy getting it ready for moving in to. I expect to assume a stable orbit in September.
Oh, if anyone hears of any work for me, it'd be nice to, you know, pay for this new domicile.
Oh, if anyone hears of any work for me, it'd be nice to, you know, pay for this new domicile.
Several months ago I came across Randy Pausch's time management lecture, and read about his now-famous Last Lecture. Since then, Prof. Pausch has been in the news quite a bit, since his lectures had a special context: he had been diagnosed several months earlier with incurable cancer.
Prof. Pausch achieved, in my opinion, what very few people do who present inspirational and motivational messages. He wasn't fake. He wasn't in it for the money. He didn't lie.
In fact, he would have--and did--say that he wasn't unusual, that lots of people were in his situation. When faced with impending death, time management isn't a buzz phrase any more. Achieving your dreams, balancing your life and your work, all take on urgency and clarity.
I miss this man I never met. I'll live my life better because of his example.
Randy Pausch web site <- difficult to access right now.
Carnegie Mellon University commencement speech
Dr. Gabriel Robins' site about his friend. <- It was this site that first lead me to Prof. Pausch.
Prof. Pausch achieved, in my opinion, what very few people do who present inspirational and motivational messages. He wasn't fake. He wasn't in it for the money. He didn't lie.
In fact, he would have--and did--say that he wasn't unusual, that lots of people were in his situation. When faced with impending death, time management isn't a buzz phrase any more. Achieving your dreams, balancing your life and your work, all take on urgency and clarity.
I miss this man I never met. I'll live my life better because of his example.
Randy Pausch web site <- difficult to access right now.
Carnegie Mellon University commencement speech
Dr. Gabriel Robins' site about his friend. <- It was this site that first lead me to Prof. Pausch.
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