Barbie's Man

I always knew Ken was a punk.

http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/commentary/la-oe-johnson20feb20,0,6750514.story?coll=la-news-comment-opinions

Pessimism, Optimism, & Realism

Today I spoke with a good friend for a long time. He told me about an excerpt he read from Lincoln's Melancholy by Joshua Wolf Shenk. Apparently, the excerpt discussed Lincoln's pessimism, his ability to see things as they really were, and his ability to act accordingly. My friend believes that pessimists often see a thing in its entirety, rather than simply seeing the "bright side" continually. He thinks they have a tendency to weigh the "pros" as well as the "cons".

Hmph. I thought that trait belonged to the realist rather than the pessimist. But I'll be honest: sometimes I don't know where to draw the line between the two modes of thinking. I hope that I am a person who is optimistically realistic. You know, open to success without being a fool.

The realist is willing to acknowledge that there is a point at which an endeavor must be classified as "successful" or "unsuccessful". I suspect the pessimist reaches that point rather early, and throws in the towel. The optimist may also reach that point early, giving the nod of approval prematurely. Or, the optimist may refuse to make an assessment, thinking "It's early yet ... I have to give this more time," when in reality, the project is doomed to failure.

And the realist ... his eyes are focused on the goal, he walks the tightrope as best he can, telling himself "I can do this, I just know it." If he fails, or gets distracted, or simply decides he wants something else instead, he has the presence of mind to make an informed decision to stop. He stops (this is somehow different from quitting), and while discouraged or dismayed, he is not defeated. The world can rest assured that it will hear from him again. He'll be back with another plan, another goal, another dream on the cusp of fulfillment.

A wise woman once told me: "There has to be a part of you, deep down inside, that will always be okay, no matter what." She explained that this is how we avoid utter ruin in this life. We hold fast to that part of ourselves that no one but God Himself could ever diminish. And God would do no such thing, because that part is precious. It enables us to know Him and others made in His likeness. It is that part which enables us to be known in the truest sense.

I think the realist is in touch with this part of himself, and is therefore balanced, able to make the necessary adjustments in his life.

I am struggling to be a realist, constrained by neither self-doubt nor foolish aspirations.

Blogging

A couple of weeks ago I listened to a radio broadcast about blogging. I think it was a BBC news show, but I'm not really sure. Anyhow, they said that blogging was an activity that is increasing in popularity, and that for some religious people, it is a spiritual exercise. A form of prayer. That description struck a chord with me, although I do not often describe my blogging in that way. I mean, how can a word like "blog", which sounds so ... stupid and technological and just plain "made up" be associated with prayer? I don't know, but it is. In my own mind as well as the minds of the folks at the BBC.

Hopeful Expectation is my second blog. The first one isn't really worth mentioning; I think I posted about three times. I remember setting the blog up, and putting a lot of thought into developing a theme. I was really excited by the whole idea of putting my stuff on the internet, and allowing complete strangers to read it. I decided not to tell anyone that I had a blog because I didn't feel like I knew what I was doing. For some reason, I had this idea that a blogger should "know what he is doing." As I write post number seventy-something for Hopeful Expectation, I can honestly say: "I don't know what I'm doing."

I suspect I stopped writing the first blog (at least in part) because I told a good friend about it. I broke my rule about not telling anyone. Her response was "How come you didn't tell me you had a blog?" I felt her question was a rebuke. I felt embarrassed, and I didn't really know what to say. I tried to explain that my blog hadn't "found its voice" yet. I said that I wanted to figure out what the blog was really about before I told people about it.

We had this conversation near a rocky beach, standing on a boardwalk littered with LOTS of seagull droppings. I could hardly walk without stepping in it. It was cold, and right around the time we started to have the conversation about my blog, it started to rain. And my friend was visibly unhappy with me. So at that moment, blogging became too much work. There was too much shit to walk through. Cold winds and gray skies, along with a friend's hurt feelings ... I just quit writing. It wasn't very good anyway. Honestly.

Hopeful Expectation is a prayer of some sort. For what? I'm not sure. I guess it depends. I'm not entirely happy with it, and I only talk about it with some reluctance. The people who eat and drink with me, ride around in my car, and see me face-to-face on a regular basis tend to know little or nothing about this blog. It's a little difficult for me to articulate why that is. I know I don't like to pray aloud these days. Talking about my blog would seem sort of like praying out loud, or baring my soul. Yeah ... but why not to the people who already know me? Maybe I think they would know too much if they read my thoughts.

Sometimes I'm not a fan of blogging because I think my writing time would be better spent developing/perfecting stories that can be sent to a publisher. I know a few writers who are debating about blogs, and they offer compelling pro/con arguments. Without going into too much detail, I will say that I've found blogging to be a useful tool. It helps me sort through my thoughts, which is something that needs to be done if I am to write.

Last week I started a story that I feel good about, and I do believe it will find itself on a publisher's desk in the near future.

Perfect

The weather in Detroit is perfect today. Absolutely PERFECT. So I cannot blog now; that would be wrong. If your weather is as nice as mine, get away from your computer right now, and go outside. Fire up the grill, take a walk, work in your garden. Anything, as long as it's outside.

I'll catch you after my outdoor adventure is over.

Mother and Child

A photo of my grandmother holding my Uncle Oscar, c. 1935. She married my grandfather right after high school, and must have been about 21 years old in this photo. Notice the Easter basket and bunny. Uncle Oscar grew up to become an electrician for the U.S. Navy, married a lady from the Virgin Islands, and fathered six children in Boston. Grandma had another baby in 1936, and that baby eventually became my mom.

This is my favorite photo of my grandma. She looks proud to be a new mother.

I found this excerpt today. I think it's interesting in light of some of my thoughts in yesterday's post. The author is Michael Hopkin.

Besides dating our most recent common ancestor, Rohde's team also calculates that in 5,400 BC everyone alive was either an ancestor of all of humanity, or of nobody alive today. The researchers call this the 'identical ancestors' point: the time before which all the family trees of people today are composed of exactly the same individuals.This recent date is not really surprising either, Rohde says. Anyone whose lineage survived for a few generations was likely to have descendants spread all over the world. At the identical ancestors point, then, our ancestors came from every corner of the globe, although those from far afield are unlikely to have made a significant contribution to our genetic make-up.Nonetheless, the results show that we are one big family, Rohde says. As he and his colleagues write: "No matter the languages we speak or the colour of our skin, we share ancestors with those who planted rice on the banks of the Yangtze, who first domesticated horses on the steppes of the Ukraine, who hunted giant sloths in the forests of North and South America, and who laboured to build the Great Pyramid of Khufu."

See the entire article at: http://www.nature.com/news/2004/040927/pf/040927-10_pf.html

Recent Thoughts

I feel like I haven't communed with the blogosphere in a while. In other words, I ain't seen y'all in a minute! If you don't get that, don't worry; it's ... urban. I'm too tired to translate.

At this very moment I am enjoying a bottle of Miller Genuine Draft. It is "brewed from the finest hand selected hops and choice roasted malts." That's Miller's way of saying "our beer is good." And it is. It is indeed. For cheap beer.

I haven't written much lately because I've been super busy. But I have spent a great deal of time thinking about a TON of stuff. I think while I'm driving, or while I'm working, or while I'm in the shower. I'd like to share some of my thoughts from this week before I go to bed:

1) Isn't it strange how we can have a great deal of affection for people we've never met? I have pictures of my grandfather, whom I never met, and ... I feel this affection for him. I miss him, in the truest sense of the word. I really did miss him, because he died before I was born. My father told me "I'm sorry my daddy never got to see you. He would have loved you." Southerners tend to call their fathers "daddy" even after they have become adults. My father was, among many other things, a southern transplant.

So yeah ... it's a little strange for me to have this "love" for a man I've never met. My grandfather yes, but still in many ways a stranger. All I have of him are photographs, stories, my last name, a Y chromosome.

Do you wonder what your ancestors were like? I mean, what they were really, really like deep down on the inside? If they were pirates, were they pirates because that's what they wanted to be? Or did they believe that was what they had to be? If your ancestors hail from the British Isles, do you wonder if your great-grandfather to the "nth" degree was a lonely Roman soldier who fell in love (or lust) with a Celtic woman with blue tatoos on her face? Do you wonder if he wrote a letter in Latin to his mother back in Italy saying "My firstborn looks and acts like a Celt, but, oh ... I wish you could see him. You'd love him."?

Do you wonder if your ancestors traveled on the Silk Road? Did they study the Q'uran at Timbuktu? Were they proud descendants of Hebrews who converted at the time of the Spanish Inquisition? Did they lose all of their siblings to the Black Death? If you don't wonder, I do. I wonder about your family as well as mine. Maybe your family and my family are the same. Maybe politics, class, religion, or skin color made our family go in separate directions. I don't know, cousin. Do you?

2) I thought a lot about my future. Man ... talk about scary! I thought about buying and owning a home. What must it feel like to look out a window, and see your own gorgeous backyard garden, and think "Those damned rabbits keep eating my cabbages!"?

How would you pick the house? What if you couldn't find the perfect house? Would you have it built? Not me ... most of the new houses are cardboard monstrosities, four variations of the same theme, in subdivision, after subdivion, after subdivison. How sad. Would you build it yourself? I guess I would, except ... I don't know how. I'm not good with tools, or measurements, or wiring, or anything that requires my hands. Well, I'm a decent drummer, but that's a different sort of thing.

3) I thought about love, in all its forms. Remember Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis? Love can be selfish. How can we be sure that ours is not? Mine often is, and sometimes I think there's not a thing I can do about it. And when my "love" is selfish, what am I missing? Is my mind darkened? My heart? Sometimes I am selfish toward God, inwardly shouting monosyllabic words like, "NO!" and "MINE!". Just like the angry little toddler who is so defiant, yet so dependent.

I had more thoughts, but it's time for bed. If I keep writing, this post won't make any sense at all. Good night.

Peace

Earlier today I was agitated, frustrated, unable to concentrate. It was a most unproductive morning, and all I accomplished was a trip to the bank. I spent the early part of the afternoon ranting and raving on the phone about someone who offended me, and feeling pretty unhappy about my life in general. I felt unbalanced, out of step, just plain wrong. Yeah, everything was wrong. I don't know why. I have some ideas, but those theories are not for this blog. Not today at least.

I feel better now. I feel at peace. I think it's because I spent a lot of time talking to people who love me, and they allowed me to vent. After I ranted and raved, at two separate times during the day, I felt better. Relieved. I realized that some of what I was saying was wrong. It was inaccurate as well as morally wrong. I was just angry, that's all. The deep seated, abiding, furious kind of anger that's not always apparent, but boils to the surface every now and again.

It's the kind of anger people have when they wish that their lives were very different. It's the kind of anger that immobilizes, and makes it difficult to do what is necessary make a life move in the right direction.

But late in the afternoon, the anger went away, or at least subsided. I left the house, bought myself a coffee, read the newspaper. I did a little "people watching." My friend came and sat with me for an hour, and chatted about work and the people in our lives. Then we walked around outside, under the guise of finding a place where we could have a beer. Every time we came to a bar, he'd say something like "It's too crowded in there," or "I don't want to pay that much for cover, do you?". So we'd keep walking and talking, commenting on people, window displays, or whatever came into our heads.

It was cold outside. The crisp, clean sort of cold that's not uncomfortable, but makes you walk a little faster. It was entirely pleasant, and I felt thankful for my friend, and for all the other people in my life.

At one point I thought about the last woman I was with, and how after a long, pointless argument, she'd lean across the table, put her hand on my arm, and say "Baby, I don't want to argue with you about this."

She'd always look straight at me when she said that, and wouldn't let go of my arm until I nodded, or said "okay," or gave some other sign that we were on good terms. It was understood that we could pick the argument up at a later time if there was really a need. Most of the time there wasn't.

I told my friend that was a tough act to follow, and he agreed. He said that my ex was really great, and that he wished we could have made things work. Ordinarily, his comments would have made me sad, but tonight I just remembered her love, how it sustained me through rough times, and still sustains me in some ways. I became a better person because of her.

On the way home, I listened to a broadcast about a study of Alzheimer's Disease being done at a monastery. During one interview, a nun could not remember how long she had been a nun. She couldn't remember how long she'd been having trouble with her memory. She remembered that she was 75, but didn't seem sure.

I was tempted to turn it off because I have three relatives with Alzheimer's. But I kept listening, and I heard a doctor speak with compassion about the struggles that his patients have. I listened to people talk about how hard it was to see loved ones lose memories. One nun mentioned a prayer that asks God to take our memories (I'm guessing for His use or glory), and how one of the nuns couldn't say that part. She wants to hold on to her memories. The people interviewed were sad, but I also sensed that they had a certain measure of peace.

Well, I have a certain measure of peace tonight too. I'm not angry right now, just a little tired. I feel loved, and hope that tomorrow I'm able to show some love. It's the sort of thing you can't keep to yourself. Not if you expect it to thrive.

Good night. Shalom.