Posts
I often feel like a kid with a curbside lemonade stand, hoping that someone will stop by. Best lemonade in town. Yessiree. But hope alone doesn't make cars pull over, or any passersby slow down. So I run around putting up signs all over the neighborhood. And I wave wildly as cars zip past. And nothing.
Such is the writer’s life…at least, this writer’s life.
And I have to preface all this by expressing my sincere gratitude to you for being here. My—and every writer I know of not already enshrined on Mt. Olympus—continuing problem is how to get more people to read what I write.
The 200 million or so blogs currently flooding cyberspace all stem from one gentleman by the name of Evan Williams realizing way, way back in the mists of time—August of 1999, to be exact—that a website could be updated by just typing text into a text box. And thus was the genie released from the bottle.
Writers (like, let’s see…who might we use as an example? Oh, yes…me) using blogs as a means of attracting new readers to his (or her) books face the same odds of being spotted as a single given pebble on a beach. It ain’t easy.
Of my three major blogs, one (“A World Ago”) has run its course but remains up for anyone who might stumble across it or happens to do a web search on Dorien Grey (which, again, is why I use my name on so many things: not so much for vanity as to make it easier to find). I have just about run out of relevant photos for “Dorien Grey: a Life in Photos” and will be putting that one on hiatus as well. Which at the moment leaves only this one you are reading now. I’m very pleased that it has a nice solid core of people like yourself, who are kind enough to read it regularly.
But I’m sure there are others out there who might enjoy it as well, and how to reach them is the source of considerable frustration. I’m of course tempted, since word of mouth is the best of all possible advertising tools, to ask you to mention it to your friends who might relate to it as you do. But that would come close to being an imposition, and I am already indebted to you for being here at all.
I currently have three major blogs designed to attract new readers to my books: "A World Ago", (1. http://www.doriengrey.blogspot.com) consisting of letters written to my parents while I was in the Navy shortly after the South rejoined the Union; "Dorien Grey and Me" (http://www.doriengreyandme.blogspot.com), random bubbles from the La Brea Tar PIt which is my mind and, in an attempt to get prospective readers to feel they know me as an actual person, "Dorien Grey: a Life in Photos" (http://www.doreingreyphotolife.blogspot.com). I also have several ancillary blogs on Amazon and Authorsden and....
So here we are again at the lemonade stand, with me waving my arms and jumping up and down yelling "Hey! Here I am! Take a look! Try it, you'll like it!" And..... Each of my blogs has a respectable readership, and I am truly grateful to every single person who takes the time to look at them. But I keep expecting that there has to be some way to increase the readership. (I keep seeing posts on various sites mentioning regularly having 13,952 hits pwer day or some such, and my mind boggles.)
So I am more than open for suggestion as to what I might do to bring in more readers for my books. More readers...Hmmm....how about you?
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
The "Worthless" Syndrome
There are those who devote far too much time reflecting on their weaknesses and shortcomings, examining each through a magnifying glass as though they were so many insects-on-pins in a display case. Alas, I am one of them. And while, way down deep, I know I am not being fair to myself, and that I’m not really all that bad, it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve always measured myself against others and inevitably come up short. And I’m talking about it here because, once again, I think I am not totally alone in these negative assumptions.
Though I cannot be absolutely sure from whence my lifelong, deep-rooted sense of inferiority and unworthiness come from, other than my tendency toward melodrama, I think I have put something of a handle on it.
It most certainly was not the result of my parents’ actions. They loved me unconditionally and never criticized me any more than I’m sure any parent criticizes a child. But I think it largely stems from the fact that I have always lived in a world of dreams. I don’t think I ever fully was able to separate fairy tales and Santa Claus and all the wondrous things that I found in books from real life. I expected myself to have all the sterling qualities, all the marvelous talents and abilities that the heroes in books and movies had.
I was, I felt, a great disappointment to my father because of my total inability to grasp the concept of organized sports, which he loved. The fact that I was also what I’ve always unkindly referred to as a “motor moron”—totally lacking in the hand-eye coordination which leads to physical grace—created a very real sense of self-loathing, echoes of which remain with me to this day.
I looked around me and saw how easily other people seemed to be able to interrelate, how effortlessly they understood what was expected of them by life and society, did wonderful things with astonishing grace, and comparing myself to them, how could I not have felt less than they. I could not understand why I could not be what everyone else seemed to be. So many of the things I ached to be, even as a child…graceful, talented, handsome, at ease in any situation, able to fit in anywhere…I knew I was not and never could be. Therefore, obviously, I was inferior and unworthy.
And of course growing up in a world in which the thought of a boy knowing he truly, purely loved other boys was inconceivably disgusting and perverted and disgusting and sick certainly didn’t help. (One of the reasons I had abandoned organized religion by the time I was twelve was because it was constantly drummed into my head that people like me were doomed to the fires of hell for all eternity for my sins. If God considered me to be an abomination, then by what logic should I believe in God?)
I suspect one of the reasons I concentrate so strongly on my own flaws is because I do not feel qualified to comment on the flaws of others. And besides, I know my own so very much better. And I truly do realize that I am not nearly as bad as I insist upon making myself out to be. It’s just that I expect so very much more out of life…and myself…than it is realistic to expect.
Which brings us back to the vast gap between the mind and the body. The mind can do anything. The body has to rely on muscles and nerves and joints and the infinite complexities of the connections between them all. Some bodies are better able to do things than others. And while mine has always been very good to me, and I am infinitely grateful to it, it is simply not able to meet the physical demands my mind makes upon it. And in the end…literally…it is the body which has the final say.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
Though I cannot be absolutely sure from whence my lifelong, deep-rooted sense of inferiority and unworthiness come from, other than my tendency toward melodrama, I think I have put something of a handle on it.
It most certainly was not the result of my parents’ actions. They loved me unconditionally and never criticized me any more than I’m sure any parent criticizes a child. But I think it largely stems from the fact that I have always lived in a world of dreams. I don’t think I ever fully was able to separate fairy tales and Santa Claus and all the wondrous things that I found in books from real life. I expected myself to have all the sterling qualities, all the marvelous talents and abilities that the heroes in books and movies had.
I was, I felt, a great disappointment to my father because of my total inability to grasp the concept of organized sports, which he loved. The fact that I was also what I’ve always unkindly referred to as a “motor moron”—totally lacking in the hand-eye coordination which leads to physical grace—created a very real sense of self-loathing, echoes of which remain with me to this day.
I looked around me and saw how easily other people seemed to be able to interrelate, how effortlessly they understood what was expected of them by life and society, did wonderful things with astonishing grace, and comparing myself to them, how could I not have felt less than they. I could not understand why I could not be what everyone else seemed to be. So many of the things I ached to be, even as a child…graceful, talented, handsome, at ease in any situation, able to fit in anywhere…I knew I was not and never could be. Therefore, obviously, I was inferior and unworthy.
And of course growing up in a world in which the thought of a boy knowing he truly, purely loved other boys was inconceivably disgusting and perverted and disgusting and sick certainly didn’t help. (One of the reasons I had abandoned organized religion by the time I was twelve was because it was constantly drummed into my head that people like me were doomed to the fires of hell for all eternity for my sins. If God considered me to be an abomination, then by what logic should I believe in God?)
I suspect one of the reasons I concentrate so strongly on my own flaws is because I do not feel qualified to comment on the flaws of others. And besides, I know my own so very much better. And I truly do realize that I am not nearly as bad as I insist upon making myself out to be. It’s just that I expect so very much more out of life…and myself…than it is realistic to expect.
Which brings us back to the vast gap between the mind and the body. The mind can do anything. The body has to rely on muscles and nerves and joints and the infinite complexities of the connections between them all. Some bodies are better able to do things than others. And while mine has always been very good to me, and I am infinitely grateful to it, it is simply not able to meet the physical demands my mind makes upon it. And in the end…literally…it is the body which has the final say.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Chewing Gum
There are few words more guaranteed to have people roll their eyes to the ceiling than: “Now, when I was a boy…”, usually followed by a rambling account of how much better (or worse, depending on the teller and/or the circumstances of the telling—I’m sure good cases can be made for both points of view) life was than it is today.
But I do remember that at one time the worst thing in the world for a student would be to be sent to the principal’s office for a chewing gum in class. If there was an occasional altercation between boys, it involved fists, not guns or knives. I cannot remember one single incident of a girls engaging in a physical confrontation.
There was, I’m sure, a lot of hurtful gossip, since gossip seems to be in our genes, but there was no internet upon which to post gratuitous cruelty for all the world to see.
I often jot down a few lines for a prospective blog, then hit “save” and wander away. I began this entry on the morning of the shootings at NIU, and as I wrote the first sentences, listening to the then-breaking news, the reports were saying that 18 had been shot, but luckily that there appeared to be only one dead. I remember thinking “Only one”?, as if one didn’t really count. Well, that gradually changed as the deaths rose. Still, compared to Virginia Tech, only six dead, as though it were all some sort of grotesque game with a gigantic scoreboard: Virginia Tech, 32; NIU 6. Virginia Tech wins by a landslide!
As our world grows ever more inured to death, destruction, and misery, we as individuals also become inured to it. Six dead, or thirty-two dead, or 250,000 dead? Really too bad, but shit happens. Until it happens very close to home, to someone we know.
The harsh reality of life is that good news does not get anywhere near the attention of some tragedy or other. Perhaps it is because we consider our own lives so lacking in excitement that we look for it in the misery and misfortunes of others. And it can be argued that the news media, a bottom-line (and frequently bottom-feeding) industry, while frequently blamed for using whatever titillation it can to attract more readers or viewers and therefore more advertisers is only giving the public what it wants..
Still, there should be limits. I find it equal parts stupifying and infuriating when swarms of reporters, like pirana with microphones and cameras, swarm the home of some pretty young—usually blonde, always white—coed who has just been brutally murdered. What has become of our humanity when some bright-eyed reporter shoves a microphone in the faces of the grieving family to ask: “And how did you feel when you found out your daughter was dead?” There is no font or typeface large enough to print the appropriate “DUH!”
I freely admit that I find myself mesmerized by accounts of major disasters, but for me the fascination lies not in the physical suffering of the victims, but in the bravery and nobility so often displayed out by those involved. It is for me a reminder that all is not lost, and that we can, under duress, rise above our circumstances and show a glimmer of what we should all be, all the time.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
But I do remember that at one time the worst thing in the world for a student would be to be sent to the principal’s office for a chewing gum in class. If there was an occasional altercation between boys, it involved fists, not guns or knives. I cannot remember one single incident of a girls engaging in a physical confrontation.
There was, I’m sure, a lot of hurtful gossip, since gossip seems to be in our genes, but there was no internet upon which to post gratuitous cruelty for all the world to see.
I often jot down a few lines for a prospective blog, then hit “save” and wander away. I began this entry on the morning of the shootings at NIU, and as I wrote the first sentences, listening to the then-breaking news, the reports were saying that 18 had been shot, but luckily that there appeared to be only one dead. I remember thinking “Only one”?, as if one didn’t really count. Well, that gradually changed as the deaths rose. Still, compared to Virginia Tech, only six dead, as though it were all some sort of grotesque game with a gigantic scoreboard: Virginia Tech, 32; NIU 6. Virginia Tech wins by a landslide!
As our world grows ever more inured to death, destruction, and misery, we as individuals also become inured to it. Six dead, or thirty-two dead, or 250,000 dead? Really too bad, but shit happens. Until it happens very close to home, to someone we know.
The harsh reality of life is that good news does not get anywhere near the attention of some tragedy or other. Perhaps it is because we consider our own lives so lacking in excitement that we look for it in the misery and misfortunes of others. And it can be argued that the news media, a bottom-line (and frequently bottom-feeding) industry, while frequently blamed for using whatever titillation it can to attract more readers or viewers and therefore more advertisers is only giving the public what it wants..
Still, there should be limits. I find it equal parts stupifying and infuriating when swarms of reporters, like pirana with microphones and cameras, swarm the home of some pretty young—usually blonde, always white—coed who has just been brutally murdered. What has become of our humanity when some bright-eyed reporter shoves a microphone in the faces of the grieving family to ask: “And how did you feel when you found out your daughter was dead?” There is no font or typeface large enough to print the appropriate “DUH!”
I freely admit that I find myself mesmerized by accounts of major disasters, but for me the fascination lies not in the physical suffering of the victims, but in the bravery and nobility so often displayed out by those involved. It is for me a reminder that all is not lost, and that we can, under duress, rise above our circumstances and show a glimmer of what we should all be, all the time.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Falling Short
Some time ago, I received a totally unexpected package from a woman writer whom I’d met through a couple of the many on-line lists to which I belong. This woman’s posts were always charming, caring, and cheerful. Yet I knew she had gone through a very rough battle with cancer, and she and I had corresponded a few times as fellow cancer survivors.
When I opened the package, I found a delightful little ceramic statuette of two cats snuggling atop a book. I can’t describe how touched by and appreciative of this small act of gratuitous kindness I was. I have the statuette directly to one side of my computer monitor and it serves as a daily reminder of even a small act of kindness can mean.
It also reminds me, should I ever forget it, that I’m not a very nice person, sometimes. I am far too self-absorbed (which you may have noticed from these blog entries), often thoughtless, too quick to judge, too quick to speak and too slow to listen, too often petty. I do not express my appreciation for things or people nearly as often or as strongly as I should, have not one scintilla of patience, and do not suffer those I consider fools gladly. I often disappoint, embarrass, and shame myself by falling so short of being the person I—and others—expect me to be. My temper frequently has a very short fuse. I have rock-bound opinions and attitudes which I would never tolerate in others, and I’m sure drive those around me to distraction.
And yet for all this, I have never knowingly, deliberately set out to hurt anyone. To cheat or rob or take unfair advantage of another human being is truly incomprehensible to me. That there are so many people who seem to go out of their way to inconvenience or harm others, who are incapable of common courtesy, let alone respect, care, concern, or compassion for anyone but themselves astonishes and deeply saddens me. I would, had I the chance, gladly pass judgement on these people, and it would be harsh indeed—which, it could be argued, would make me no better than them.
People who take obvious pleasure in duping and swindling others without one single thought or qualm about the effect of their actions deserve a special place in Hell. (Granted, I also cannot comprehend how so many people can be so gullible as to fall for these schemes.)
It could be argued that predators and prey are part of the balance of nature, and that since man is biologically an animal, we are subject to that same balance. The Nigerian barrister offering complete strangers millions of dollars is no different than a lion in wait by a waterhole for a passing gazelle. The huxters, shills, and con artists who flood every email “in” box are merely pirana waiting for something living to fall into the water.
Among humans, those without common sense are natural prey for those without morals, conscience, or scruples. But it is axiomatic that without an ample supply of prey, the preditors would have nothing to feed on, and both groups, sadly, seem to be increasing exponentially.
Man is the only animal with a concept of the future and the ability to shape it. I can be better than I am: we can be better than we are. The question is, are we willing to put forth the effort? I find it infinitely disheartening to realize that, from even a cursory look at the world around us, the answer seems to be “no.”
Well, I’m not the rest of the world. I’m me. And I can try to be better. Hey, it’s a start.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
When I opened the package, I found a delightful little ceramic statuette of two cats snuggling atop a book. I can’t describe how touched by and appreciative of this small act of gratuitous kindness I was. I have the statuette directly to one side of my computer monitor and it serves as a daily reminder of even a small act of kindness can mean.
It also reminds me, should I ever forget it, that I’m not a very nice person, sometimes. I am far too self-absorbed (which you may have noticed from these blog entries), often thoughtless, too quick to judge, too quick to speak and too slow to listen, too often petty. I do not express my appreciation for things or people nearly as often or as strongly as I should, have not one scintilla of patience, and do not suffer those I consider fools gladly. I often disappoint, embarrass, and shame myself by falling so short of being the person I—and others—expect me to be. My temper frequently has a very short fuse. I have rock-bound opinions and attitudes which I would never tolerate in others, and I’m sure drive those around me to distraction.
And yet for all this, I have never knowingly, deliberately set out to hurt anyone. To cheat or rob or take unfair advantage of another human being is truly incomprehensible to me. That there are so many people who seem to go out of their way to inconvenience or harm others, who are incapable of common courtesy, let alone respect, care, concern, or compassion for anyone but themselves astonishes and deeply saddens me. I would, had I the chance, gladly pass judgement on these people, and it would be harsh indeed—which, it could be argued, would make me no better than them.
People who take obvious pleasure in duping and swindling others without one single thought or qualm about the effect of their actions deserve a special place in Hell. (Granted, I also cannot comprehend how so many people can be so gullible as to fall for these schemes.)
It could be argued that predators and prey are part of the balance of nature, and that since man is biologically an animal, we are subject to that same balance. The Nigerian barrister offering complete strangers millions of dollars is no different than a lion in wait by a waterhole for a passing gazelle. The huxters, shills, and con artists who flood every email “in” box are merely pirana waiting for something living to fall into the water.
Among humans, those without common sense are natural prey for those without morals, conscience, or scruples. But it is axiomatic that without an ample supply of prey, the preditors would have nothing to feed on, and both groups, sadly, seem to be increasing exponentially.
Man is the only animal with a concept of the future and the ability to shape it. I can be better than I am: we can be better than we are. The question is, are we willing to put forth the effort? I find it infinitely disheartening to realize that, from even a cursory look at the world around us, the answer seems to be “no.”
Well, I’m not the rest of the world. I’m me. And I can try to be better. Hey, it’s a start.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Spam and Pond Scum
How many times have I said I don’t understand something? Too many to count, I’m sure, but it seems like just about when I think the pond scum of this life cannot possibly be more infuriatingly obnoxious they, like a mutant virus, come up with something new.
The latest thing seems to be the deliberate planting of computer viruses via “Comments” on websites. I”ve caught three in the past week on my photo blog alone. Fortunately either I or the computer have caught them, but in one case not before I had to sit and wait while my computer examined every single file (some 154,000 of them).
There are two clues: one is, when someone legitimate wants to post a comment, the computer tells me so, and asks if I want to publish it or not. With the outhouse-overflow crowd, it just automatically shows up, and anyone opens the comment at his or her own peril. Fortunately, just clicking on “Comments” will take you to a window which says something like “click here.” The moral is, do not “click here”. I catch them as soon as I can, and I just don’t get that many comments (I’m not sure if that is good or bad).
I’m truly curious as to what motivates these sub-humans? Do they think they are being clever by trying to disrupt other people’s lives and damage their computers? Probably. Or are they just showing off their self assumed brilliance by doing something no one with any sense of decency or concern for other people would ever consider doing? Someone once said: “Those who can’t create destroy.”
Your average, run of the mill “Make her scream with pleasure” and “Our pills cure all disease” or “Genuine Rolex Watches: $4.25" spam messages, which are received by the hundreds each week (I recently read that 70 percent of all internet traffic is spam), are generally spotted and automatically set aside to be thrown into the cyber sewer. But some get through,, and I suppose it’s rather on the same principle of its taking millions of sperm to have just one fertilize the egg. I cannot for the life of me conceive how or why these spammers think anyone with a single living brain cell can fall for their garbage, but obviously someone, somewhere, must. The tens of billions of dollars sitting in Nigerian banks awaiting your response to Barrister M’Gombego’s urgent post must be going somewhere.
While I would love nothing better than to be appointed Ruler of the World, I fear I would be perhaps just a tad harsh on these people. We (note I’m using the royal “We” already) would begin by duct-taping their hands to their thighs, and forbidding them, under penalty of death, to get within 100 miles of a working computer or any other form of electronic device.
But I think the thing that bothers me most about spam and spammers and those who with total impunity wander around trying to make other people’s lives miserable is their anonymity and the sense of helplessness I feel knowing that there is absolutely nothing I can do to prevent them from doing whatever they choose to do.
I like to think of myself as a compassionate man, but I have my limits, and on the other side of those limits rage the fires of hell.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
The latest thing seems to be the deliberate planting of computer viruses via “Comments” on websites. I”ve caught three in the past week on my photo blog alone. Fortunately either I or the computer have caught them, but in one case not before I had to sit and wait while my computer examined every single file (some 154,000 of them).
There are two clues: one is, when someone legitimate wants to post a comment, the computer tells me so, and asks if I want to publish it or not. With the outhouse-overflow crowd, it just automatically shows up, and anyone opens the comment at his or her own peril. Fortunately, just clicking on “Comments” will take you to a window which says something like “click here.” The moral is, do not “click here”. I catch them as soon as I can, and I just don’t get that many comments (I’m not sure if that is good or bad).
I’m truly curious as to what motivates these sub-humans? Do they think they are being clever by trying to disrupt other people’s lives and damage their computers? Probably. Or are they just showing off their self assumed brilliance by doing something no one with any sense of decency or concern for other people would ever consider doing? Someone once said: “Those who can’t create destroy.”
Your average, run of the mill “Make her scream with pleasure” and “Our pills cure all disease” or “Genuine Rolex Watches: $4.25" spam messages, which are received by the hundreds each week (I recently read that 70 percent of all internet traffic is spam), are generally spotted and automatically set aside to be thrown into the cyber sewer. But some get through,, and I suppose it’s rather on the same principle of its taking millions of sperm to have just one fertilize the egg. I cannot for the life of me conceive how or why these spammers think anyone with a single living brain cell can fall for their garbage, but obviously someone, somewhere, must. The tens of billions of dollars sitting in Nigerian banks awaiting your response to Barrister M’Gombego’s urgent post must be going somewhere.
While I would love nothing better than to be appointed Ruler of the World, I fear I would be perhaps just a tad harsh on these people. We (note I’m using the royal “We” already) would begin by duct-taping their hands to their thighs, and forbidding them, under penalty of death, to get within 100 miles of a working computer or any other form of electronic device.
But I think the thing that bothers me most about spam and spammers and those who with total impunity wander around trying to make other people’s lives miserable is their anonymity and the sense of helplessness I feel knowing that there is absolutely nothing I can do to prevent them from doing whatever they choose to do.
I like to think of myself as a compassionate man, but I have my limits, and on the other side of those limits rage the fires of hell.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Northern Memories
And life goes on. Last week's aerial shots of the N.I.U. campus, ambulances clustered around a classroom building all had a surreal quality for me, trying to peer through the haze of fifty years and link what I was seeing on the TV to what I remember of Northern when I first enrolled there as a freshman in 1952. Oh, Lord, what a different world!
I’m sure I’ve talked about some of this in earlier blogs, but if you’ll indulge me again: When I arrived at Northern in September of 1952, it was one of a group of State Teachers Colleges, and it’s name was, indeed, Northern Illinois State Teachers College. The total enrollment was around 2,500 if that. Women outnumbered men several-fold. I moved into the just-completed men’s dormitory building, Gilbert Hall…which was so new they had not yet finished laying the sod for the spacious lawns in front of the building.
The campus very much resembled a park. In the center of a large pond in the middle of the campus was a small island on which graduations were held.
There were probably 10 buildings on campus: the brand new dorms, Gilbert Hall and Neptune Hall, Adams Hall, Glidden, the beautiful Sven Parson Library, the Science Building (both made of yellow limestone), the Administration building, and McMurray school in which student teachers got to practice what would become their life’s work. Reavis Hall was built in the previously empty spaces west of the main campus while I was in service and opened when I returned.
Across the street to the north side of Gilbert hall were half a dozen long army-barracks type buildings which housed married students and a few offices, including that of the Northern Star, the campus paper for which I wrote several articles movie reviews and, after returning from the Navy, had a weekly column.
The Administration Building, with its mediaeval tower which still serves as the campus “logo” contained offices, a few classrooms, the school auditorium and, in the floor of the entry, the school seal, which was, by tradition, never to be walked on.
There was also a small building just on the edge of campus closest to the town of DeKalb which served as the Student Union.
It was an insular world: small, warm, familiar, and comfortable, filled with friends and laughter and, most important of all, an innocence which, for the rest of the world and now for Northern, has been destroyed forever.
Today, there is a 14-story tower which houses the Student Union and a hotel for campus visitors.
The campus has spread out to the west into what was, when I was there, farmland. There’s a stadium now and more buildings than I could count. The aerial shots of the campus, showing the Cole Hall, mainly focused on this new part of the campus, showing places that simply did not exist when I was a student. And on the part of the campus with which I was most familiar, the lawns are largely gone. New buildings stand cheek-to-jowel. I have no idea if the pond and the island are still there, but I might tend to doubt it.
Gilbert hall is now an office building, the rooms in which I and my friends lived and gathered and laughed and studied and dreamed are now cubicles for the campus bureaucracy.
It’s odd to see Northern now. It’s still my school, and I am part of its past. But I am not part of its present. And I know that those attending Northern now…more than ten times the number of when I enrolled…have their own friends, their own places to gather, to talk, to laugh, and, I hope, to build wonderful memories which will last them for the rest of their lives.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back
I’m sure I’ve talked about some of this in earlier blogs, but if you’ll indulge me again: When I arrived at Northern in September of 1952, it was one of a group of State Teachers Colleges, and it’s name was, indeed, Northern Illinois State Teachers College. The total enrollment was around 2,500 if that. Women outnumbered men several-fold. I moved into the just-completed men’s dormitory building, Gilbert Hall…which was so new they had not yet finished laying the sod for the spacious lawns in front of the building.
The campus very much resembled a park. In the center of a large pond in the middle of the campus was a small island on which graduations were held.
There were probably 10 buildings on campus: the brand new dorms, Gilbert Hall and Neptune Hall, Adams Hall, Glidden, the beautiful Sven Parson Library, the Science Building (both made of yellow limestone), the Administration building, and McMurray school in which student teachers got to practice what would become their life’s work. Reavis Hall was built in the previously empty spaces west of the main campus while I was in service and opened when I returned.
Across the street to the north side of Gilbert hall were half a dozen long army-barracks type buildings which housed married students and a few offices, including that of the Northern Star, the campus paper for which I wrote several articles movie reviews and, after returning from the Navy, had a weekly column.
The Administration Building, with its mediaeval tower which still serves as the campus “logo” contained offices, a few classrooms, the school auditorium and, in the floor of the entry, the school seal, which was, by tradition, never to be walked on.
There was also a small building just on the edge of campus closest to the town of DeKalb which served as the Student Union.
It was an insular world: small, warm, familiar, and comfortable, filled with friends and laughter and, most important of all, an innocence which, for the rest of the world and now for Northern, has been destroyed forever.
Today, there is a 14-story tower which houses the Student Union and a hotel for campus visitors.
The campus has spread out to the west into what was, when I was there, farmland. There’s a stadium now and more buildings than I could count. The aerial shots of the campus, showing the Cole Hall, mainly focused on this new part of the campus, showing places that simply did not exist when I was a student. And on the part of the campus with which I was most familiar, the lawns are largely gone. New buildings stand cheek-to-jowel. I have no idea if the pond and the island are still there, but I might tend to doubt it.
Gilbert hall is now an office building, the rooms in which I and my friends lived and gathered and laughed and studied and dreamed are now cubicles for the campus bureaucracy.
It’s odd to see Northern now. It’s still my school, and I am part of its past. But I am not part of its present. And I know that those attending Northern now…more than ten times the number of when I enrolled…have their own friends, their own places to gather, to talk, to laugh, and, I hope, to build wonderful memories which will last them for the rest of their lives.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back
Friday, February 15, 2008
N.I.U.
Although I graduated an incomprehensible 50 years ago this year, my college years were among the happiest of my life. Northern Illinois University was my school. It still is.
New entries are posted every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
New entries are posted every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Bye, Bye, Baby
Here we go again. Sitting at the computer, minding my own business, when the radio begins playing “Bye, Bye Baby” from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (or, in my case, Blonds), and suddenly it is 1953 and I am back at Northern with my friends Zane and Stu. I had a terrible crush on Zane, and we had just gone to see the movie version of the musical. For some reason…my mind was accountable only to itself even in 1953…I associated the song “Bye, Bye, Baby” with Zane. I still do, to this day.
I think Zane and Stu and I thought of ourselves as something like the gay Three Musketeers. Stu was incredibly talented in a number of areas, but a classic case of A.D.D. before anyone knew what Attention Deficit Disorder was. He was always starting grandiose projects and never finishing them. Very tall, thin, and with red hair, Stu's flambouyance stood out anywhere he went and his sexual orientation was not too terribly hard to guess. He was the campus cut-up at college, but away from campus, among people he did not know, he attracted a lot of attention. Though his reaction to being stared at was to defiantly kick up the flamboyant level several notches, I knew it hurt him.
Zane was to the theater born. Actor-handsome, and of Greek heritage, he shortened his real first name from Zenon to Zane. He was suave and confident, and represented a lot of the things I wanted to be. And, as I say, I had a huge, unfortunately unrequited, crush on him.
One night, in one of their rooms,they decided that they should practice their make up skills on me, and brought out a makeup kit they’d borrowed from the drama department. I wasn’t particularly wild about the idea…especially when they brought out the lipstick and eyelashes, but went along. About half an hour later, they declared they were done and told me to stand up. Stu then brought over a mirror, faced away from me. Holding it up in front of my face he turned it around to give me the full effect of their efforts---a rather tarty-looking woman. I fainted. Literally.
We had made plans to meet in New York during summer break. I was totally excited by the prospect, but my father was not, and we had a number of rows over it. Finally he gave in: “Okay, so go to New York with your queer boyfriends.” That was the first time my dad had ever said anything like that, and I was truly shocked. He had met Stu and Zane many times and had never said a word against them. He of course knew full well that I was also queer, and I guess he was just afraid that three gay boys alone in the big city of New York might get into more trouble than we had bargained for.
We had made reservations at a hotel called, if I remember, the St. James. Stu and Zane were to arrive a day or so before me. When I arrived and checked in, they were not in their rooms, and I decided to go out exploring by myself. Naturally, I headed for Times Square, which in 1953 was not quite what it is in 2008. And there, in a city of 8 million people, as I walked down 42nd St., I looked across the street to see Zane and Stu.
My memory for such momentous events in my life is usually very clear, but for some reason I cannot recall details of our stay, or even be absolutely sure that this was my first trip to New York. I imagine it was. In any event, I know we had to have had a marvelous time. And if it was my first time I do remember that the first show I ever saw on Broadway was Rogers & Hammerstein’s Me & Juliet, which used the music Hammerstein had used for the immensley popular TV series, Victory at Sea, and Cole Porter’s Can-Can.
Oh, to be 19 and with friends in New York City again!
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
I think Zane and Stu and I thought of ourselves as something like the gay Three Musketeers. Stu was incredibly talented in a number of areas, but a classic case of A.D.D. before anyone knew what Attention Deficit Disorder was. He was always starting grandiose projects and never finishing them. Very tall, thin, and with red hair, Stu's flambouyance stood out anywhere he went and his sexual orientation was not too terribly hard to guess. He was the campus cut-up at college, but away from campus, among people he did not know, he attracted a lot of attention. Though his reaction to being stared at was to defiantly kick up the flamboyant level several notches, I knew it hurt him.
Zane was to the theater born. Actor-handsome, and of Greek heritage, he shortened his real first name from Zenon to Zane. He was suave and confident, and represented a lot of the things I wanted to be. And, as I say, I had a huge, unfortunately unrequited, crush on him.
One night, in one of their rooms,they decided that they should practice their make up skills on me, and brought out a makeup kit they’d borrowed from the drama department. I wasn’t particularly wild about the idea…especially when they brought out the lipstick and eyelashes, but went along. About half an hour later, they declared they were done and told me to stand up. Stu then brought over a mirror, faced away from me. Holding it up in front of my face he turned it around to give me the full effect of their efforts---a rather tarty-looking woman. I fainted. Literally.
We had made plans to meet in New York during summer break. I was totally excited by the prospect, but my father was not, and we had a number of rows over it. Finally he gave in: “Okay, so go to New York with your queer boyfriends.” That was the first time my dad had ever said anything like that, and I was truly shocked. He had met Stu and Zane many times and had never said a word against them. He of course knew full well that I was also queer, and I guess he was just afraid that three gay boys alone in the big city of New York might get into more trouble than we had bargained for.
We had made reservations at a hotel called, if I remember, the St. James. Stu and Zane were to arrive a day or so before me. When I arrived and checked in, they were not in their rooms, and I decided to go out exploring by myself. Naturally, I headed for Times Square, which in 1953 was not quite what it is in 2008. And there, in a city of 8 million people, as I walked down 42nd St., I looked across the street to see Zane and Stu.
My memory for such momentous events in my life is usually very clear, but for some reason I cannot recall details of our stay, or even be absolutely sure that this was my first trip to New York. I imagine it was. In any event, I know we had to have had a marvelous time. And if it was my first time I do remember that the first show I ever saw on Broadway was Rogers & Hammerstein’s Me & Juliet, which used the music Hammerstein had used for the immensley popular TV series, Victory at Sea, and Cole Porter’s Can-Can.
Oh, to be 19 and with friends in New York City again!
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Alienation
For someone whose life revolves around words, I find the inability to put emotions into words to be infinitely frustrating, yet there are so many fundamental pieces of myself that I simply cannot express. My feeling of alienation, for one. And yes, I realize that I am hardly the only human who feels alienated.
A lot of it goes back to a recent blog entry on my infinite capacity for being unable to understand so much of life.
I live in a world of heterosexuals, yet I am not heterosexual. I have never been heterosexual. I never will be heterosexual, and I have never for one minute of my entire life ever wanted to be heterosexual. And while I have been raised and lived and worked and socialized with heterosexuals all my life, I have never understood them. All those things heterosexuals simply accept as perfectly normal: grow up, get married, have kids, go to weddings and baby showers…are totally alien to me.
It of course all boils down to the latter half of the words “heterosexual” and “homosexual”: “sexual.” While I consider my lifelong attraction to men to be perfectly natural (for me), I honestly and in all sincerity simply do not and cannot comprehend the physical attraction between men and women and how profoundly it affects their day-to-day functioning. And it is the multiple and complex ramifications of that attraction which rules our world.
Recognizing that heterosexuality is at the very foundation of our race only serves to emphasize that I am not like everyone else. Because of the fact that without heterosexuals our race would perish, and that were it not for my parents being heterosexual, I never would have been born rather strongly sets me apart from the rest of our species. (Yes, I also know I’m not the only homosexual in the world, and I’m sure that many if not most gays and lesbians share my sense of alienation. We are, after all, outnumbered 9 to 1.)
Perhaps this sense of alienation is something inbred into everyone, and we, being individuals, simply don’t realize it. The old saying “No man is an island” isn’t exactly true. We are all islands in a vast sea of the unknown. Each of us goes through life only really knowing ourselves (and it can be effectively argued that most people can’t really even say that).
I suppose it is only natural, because we each experience problems and frustrations and an infinite number of stumbles and glitches and niggling little irritations, not to realize that everyone else goes through the same thing. Few people, forced to resorting to using a pipe wrench to open a stubborn jar lid, mention the fact to others. So we look around at everyone else happily holding up opened jars and never give an instant’s thought to how many pipe wrenches might actually have been involved.
We are led, from infancy, to believe that the world is a far more homogenous place than it is, and that anything out of what we are led to believe is the ordinary, means we and we alone in experiencing this or that particular situation. Nobody else seems to have any real problems. Everybody else seems to breeze through life calmly, always knowing how to react in any given situation. Few people seem to question the status quo. (“I can’t do this? Okay.” “That isn’t allowed? Okay.”)—in fact, few people question anything. Saves a lot of thinking that way.
All of which does little to change my belief that I am truly set apart from the rest of the world.
As James Thomson's wonderful poem “Once in a Saintly Passion” says... “Then stooped my guardian angel, and whispered from behind: 'Vanity, my little man: you’re nothing of the kind.'”
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
A lot of it goes back to a recent blog entry on my infinite capacity for being unable to understand so much of life.
I live in a world of heterosexuals, yet I am not heterosexual. I have never been heterosexual. I never will be heterosexual, and I have never for one minute of my entire life ever wanted to be heterosexual. And while I have been raised and lived and worked and socialized with heterosexuals all my life, I have never understood them. All those things heterosexuals simply accept as perfectly normal: grow up, get married, have kids, go to weddings and baby showers…are totally alien to me.
It of course all boils down to the latter half of the words “heterosexual” and “homosexual”: “sexual.” While I consider my lifelong attraction to men to be perfectly natural (for me), I honestly and in all sincerity simply do not and cannot comprehend the physical attraction between men and women and how profoundly it affects their day-to-day functioning. And it is the multiple and complex ramifications of that attraction which rules our world.
Recognizing that heterosexuality is at the very foundation of our race only serves to emphasize that I am not like everyone else. Because of the fact that without heterosexuals our race would perish, and that were it not for my parents being heterosexual, I never would have been born rather strongly sets me apart from the rest of our species. (Yes, I also know I’m not the only homosexual in the world, and I’m sure that many if not most gays and lesbians share my sense of alienation. We are, after all, outnumbered 9 to 1.)
Perhaps this sense of alienation is something inbred into everyone, and we, being individuals, simply don’t realize it. The old saying “No man is an island” isn’t exactly true. We are all islands in a vast sea of the unknown. Each of us goes through life only really knowing ourselves (and it can be effectively argued that most people can’t really even say that).
I suppose it is only natural, because we each experience problems and frustrations and an infinite number of stumbles and glitches and niggling little irritations, not to realize that everyone else goes through the same thing. Few people, forced to resorting to using a pipe wrench to open a stubborn jar lid, mention the fact to others. So we look around at everyone else happily holding up opened jars and never give an instant’s thought to how many pipe wrenches might actually have been involved.
We are led, from infancy, to believe that the world is a far more homogenous place than it is, and that anything out of what we are led to believe is the ordinary, means we and we alone in experiencing this or that particular situation. Nobody else seems to have any real problems. Everybody else seems to breeze through life calmly, always knowing how to react in any given situation. Few people seem to question the status quo. (“I can’t do this? Okay.” “That isn’t allowed? Okay.”)—in fact, few people question anything. Saves a lot of thinking that way.
All of which does little to change my belief that I am truly set apart from the rest of the world.
As James Thomson's wonderful poem “Once in a Saintly Passion” says... “Then stooped my guardian angel, and whispered from behind: 'Vanity, my little man: you’re nothing of the kind.'”
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
Friday, February 08, 2008
Songs Redux
I was recently informed by my cable/internet provider that the company was going digital and that I had to have a digital cable box attached to every television set in my home, at a cost (hinted at but I don’t think ever specifically stated, $2.50 per month). I did not see the need for anything other than what I already have, and I certainly did not need to spend another $2.50 a month for something I didn’t want in the first place. Foolish me.
I now have a digital converter box for my TV, and will be spending $2.50 per month for the privilege. However, after all my bitching and moaning, I discovered that with the conversion to digital, I now have available, through my TV, 40 music channels. Everything to Christian Rock (one of my favorites, as you can imagine), through Jazz and Hip-hop (close seconds to Christian Rock)
However, it also contains Big Band, Standards, Light Classical, Classical, and Show Tunes. I guess I can afford the $2.50. So now I get up in the morning, turn on the computer and, passing through the living room to make coffee and let my cat out of the bathroom (a long story), I turn on the TV to one of the music channels...usually Show Tunes.
While I’ve not been really up on musical theater for several years now, and therefore do not recognize many of the songs, they also have all the classics from Oklahoma on. They’ve just played a couple of my all-time favorites: “What I Did for Love” (A Chorus Line), “‘Til Him” (The Producers), “Somewhere” (West Side Story). Anyone who knows me can clearly spot a pattern here: I’m a sucker for songs which, to me, speak particularly strongly to gays. They haven’t yet played…that I”ve heard, anyway…“I Am what I Am” (La Cage aux Folles), but I’m sure they will at some point. And if by any remote chance they might play “Tell Me, Please” )from Boy Meets Boy —a delightful gay musical that originated in New York and which I saw six times in L.A.—, I will be a happy man indeed.
While the words “song” and “music” are synonymous, they are two pieces of a whole: “music”, to me, implies a broader and somewhat more elevated range. “Music” carries with it the signature of the human race as one of our finer qualities: songs are music on a smaller, more personalized scale.
Songs have significance to different people for different reasons. First, and almost universally, it has to have a pleasant melody, and second, universally, the words have to have some special appeal or meaning to the listener. Where one first hears a song, under what circumstances, with whom it is heard or with whom the listener relates it…influence an individual’s reactions.
There are a few songs that have a power which transcends its words and its music: “God Bless America” and “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” are perhaps the two prime example for Americans. Yet I doubt they have nearly the same impact on non-Americans. Such songs reach deeply into our national psyche and trigger powerful emotions we lump together under another powerful emotion: “patriotism.” Songs are often closely tied to specific times…World War II, the big bands, rock and roll…which become part of their appeal.
Your taste in songs…and in music…may differ vastly from mine. But the thing is that we each recognize its power to move us, and its impact on our lives. Play it again, Sam.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
I now have a digital converter box for my TV, and will be spending $2.50 per month for the privilege. However, after all my bitching and moaning, I discovered that with the conversion to digital, I now have available, through my TV, 40 music channels. Everything to Christian Rock (one of my favorites, as you can imagine), through Jazz and Hip-hop (close seconds to Christian Rock)
However, it also contains Big Band, Standards, Light Classical, Classical, and Show Tunes. I guess I can afford the $2.50. So now I get up in the morning, turn on the computer and, passing through the living room to make coffee and let my cat out of the bathroom (a long story), I turn on the TV to one of the music channels...usually Show Tunes.
While I’ve not been really up on musical theater for several years now, and therefore do not recognize many of the songs, they also have all the classics from Oklahoma on. They’ve just played a couple of my all-time favorites: “What I Did for Love” (A Chorus Line), “‘Til Him” (The Producers), “Somewhere” (West Side Story). Anyone who knows me can clearly spot a pattern here: I’m a sucker for songs which, to me, speak particularly strongly to gays. They haven’t yet played…that I”ve heard, anyway…“I Am what I Am” (La Cage aux Folles), but I’m sure they will at some point. And if by any remote chance they might play “Tell Me, Please” )from Boy Meets Boy —a delightful gay musical that originated in New York and which I saw six times in L.A.—, I will be a happy man indeed.
While the words “song” and “music” are synonymous, they are two pieces of a whole: “music”, to me, implies a broader and somewhat more elevated range. “Music” carries with it the signature of the human race as one of our finer qualities: songs are music on a smaller, more personalized scale.
Songs have significance to different people for different reasons. First, and almost universally, it has to have a pleasant melody, and second, universally, the words have to have some special appeal or meaning to the listener. Where one first hears a song, under what circumstances, with whom it is heard or with whom the listener relates it…influence an individual’s reactions.
There are a few songs that have a power which transcends its words and its music: “God Bless America” and “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” are perhaps the two prime example for Americans. Yet I doubt they have nearly the same impact on non-Americans. Such songs reach deeply into our national psyche and trigger powerful emotions we lump together under another powerful emotion: “patriotism.” Songs are often closely tied to specific times…World War II, the big bands, rock and roll…which become part of their appeal.
Your taste in songs…and in music…may differ vastly from mine. But the thing is that we each recognize its power to move us, and its impact on our lives. Play it again, Sam.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Stupidity vs. Ignorance
In one of my little epiphanies, while pondering the fact that our society seems to like the Titanic, sinking in the frigid sea of stupidity, and the amazing ignorance of the simplest of facts…like where to find the lifeboats… was to realize that stupidity is simply deliberate ignorance. An old saying came to mind: “He who knows not, and knows not he knows not, he is stupid: shun him. He who knows not and knows he knows not, he is ignorant: teach him. But he who knows and knows he knows, he is wise: follow him.”
There is an ad running on TV about a young woman who is grateful to some company or other because people there help her father read his mail “because he never learned how.” This is, on the surface, touching. However, I fear my reaction is always: “For God sakes, man, if you can’t read, learn!” There was no indication of any mental impairment to keep this man from doing so.
A common objection illiterate adults make to the prospect of learning is that it is embarrassing. I can certainly understand this, but imagine it would be far less embarrassing than having to rely on others to read things to them.
Having thus said, I just remembered that when I first moved to L.A. I met a nice young guy whom I started seeing. One time we were going somewhere and got lost. I pulled up to a phone booth and asked him to go look up the address. He went into the booth and came out five minutes later saying he couldn’t find it. There were a couple other similar incidents until he finally admitted that he could not read! I was shocked. The poor kid was excruciatingly embarrassed by his inability, but he said he didn’t want to learn now because he was too ashamed. Dear Lord!!
Ignorance is correctable. Stupidity is not. The fact that our educational system (“Children is our future,” as our beloved leader once said) is failing miserably and teeters dangerously on the brink of being a gigantic stupidity factory. And it is a frighteningly slippery slope. Parents who were not themselves properly educated produce children (“Be fruitful and multiply” seems to be one of the few biblical instructions most people pay any real attention to) who are, if possible, even more stupid than their parents.
Ignorance is frustrating. Stupidity is frightening. There is precious little we, as individuals, can do to halt the relentless advance of stupidity, but there is one thing any one of us can do: read, and do whatever we can to encourage others to do the same. For a child, one of the most effective tools in combating ignorance is a library card. But it is equally important for adults, and each of us can help keep ignorance from morphing into stupidity by the simple act of giving books for every occasion calling for a gift. When you finish a book, do everything you can to pass it on to someone, or donate it to a library, a hospital, a nursing home, anywhere there is a chance someone else may share your pleasure...and learn something.
Of course, as a writer, I have a vested interest in people reading. But whether you read my books or not, please read. When you hold a book, the future is, indeed, in your hands.
There are outstanding exceptions to the stupidity factor, of course, but it does seem that the ratio of stupidity to ignorance seems to be growing steadily in favor of stupidity. We all are ignorant of so very many things, and there seems to be more and more out there that we really should know how to handle in order to stay afloat. But this is, again ignorance, and can be overcome if we have the time and feel the effort is worth it. The problem is that so few people do think it’s worth it.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Plwase come back.
There is an ad running on TV about a young woman who is grateful to some company or other because people there help her father read his mail “because he never learned how.” This is, on the surface, touching. However, I fear my reaction is always: “For God sakes, man, if you can’t read, learn!” There was no indication of any mental impairment to keep this man from doing so.
A common objection illiterate adults make to the prospect of learning is that it is embarrassing. I can certainly understand this, but imagine it would be far less embarrassing than having to rely on others to read things to them.
Having thus said, I just remembered that when I first moved to L.A. I met a nice young guy whom I started seeing. One time we were going somewhere and got lost. I pulled up to a phone booth and asked him to go look up the address. He went into the booth and came out five minutes later saying he couldn’t find it. There were a couple other similar incidents until he finally admitted that he could not read! I was shocked. The poor kid was excruciatingly embarrassed by his inability, but he said he didn’t want to learn now because he was too ashamed. Dear Lord!!
Ignorance is correctable. Stupidity is not. The fact that our educational system (“Children is our future,” as our beloved leader once said) is failing miserably and teeters dangerously on the brink of being a gigantic stupidity factory. And it is a frighteningly slippery slope. Parents who were not themselves properly educated produce children (“Be fruitful and multiply” seems to be one of the few biblical instructions most people pay any real attention to) who are, if possible, even more stupid than their parents.
Ignorance is frustrating. Stupidity is frightening. There is precious little we, as individuals, can do to halt the relentless advance of stupidity, but there is one thing any one of us can do: read, and do whatever we can to encourage others to do the same. For a child, one of the most effective tools in combating ignorance is a library card. But it is equally important for adults, and each of us can help keep ignorance from morphing into stupidity by the simple act of giving books for every occasion calling for a gift. When you finish a book, do everything you can to pass it on to someone, or donate it to a library, a hospital, a nursing home, anywhere there is a chance someone else may share your pleasure...and learn something.
Of course, as a writer, I have a vested interest in people reading. But whether you read my books or not, please read. When you hold a book, the future is, indeed, in your hands.
There are outstanding exceptions to the stupidity factor, of course, but it does seem that the ratio of stupidity to ignorance seems to be growing steadily in favor of stupidity. We all are ignorant of so very many things, and there seems to be more and more out there that we really should know how to handle in order to stay afloat. But this is, again ignorance, and can be overcome if we have the time and feel the effort is worth it. The problem is that so few people do think it’s worth it.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Plwase come back.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Why?
Why is there so much I do not understand, and so little I do?
It is Sunday morning, as I write, and I have retreated to the computer to find refuge from all the screaming, shouting, arm-waving, jumping-up-and-down and “Wow! Oh Boy! Whoopee!” surrounding some sort of organized sports activity apparently going on later today. Why is it that I simply cannot comprehend what all the whoop-la is about? Why is it that I don’t care? In all fairness, I must that I can indeed get all enthused seeing Bart Favre or Tom Brady when they are not anywhere near a football field, but my enthusiasm has nothing whatever to do with sports.
How is it that I cannot understand how, when one person in a crowded room suddenly begins making a fool of him/herself, everyone else is embarrassed or cowed, but does nothing to interfere? Why do not I?
Why do far too many people seem to find it impossible to think for themselves, opting instead to swallow whole the illogical, irrational, and often harmful nonsense regurgitated by people whose right to do so is in itself not understood? Why should I do or think something simply because I am told to do or think it?
How is it that masses of people hang on every belch or hissy-fit thrown by some drug-addled “celebrity” as though it had any real meaning to the survival of the world? How is it that those same people can tell you what Lindsay Lohan had for lunch, where she ate, and with whom but cannot find China on a map?
Exactly who told those countless number of evangelical Christians, radical Muslims, and other religious extremists that they were empowered to speak for God? I rather doubt it was God, but you’d never know that from the reactions of the extremists’ followers.
Why, on a more personal level, am I incapable of dealing with any device having moving parts? Why are all instruction manuals completely unintelligible to me? Why do I so often insist on speaking first and thinking later? How can something I had in my hand 30 seconds ago suddenly completely disappear and be impossible to find?
Why am I not the person I so desperately want to be: kind, generous, and thoughtful, rather than being ruled by selfishness and egocentricity? Why do I spend so much time living in the past rather than living in the present? Why do I want so much from life and yet seem incapable of giving back to it?
When presented with four or five opposing views, why am I so often unable to pick one, instead of sometimes two or three?
Why do I firmly believe that life is far too short to worry about the vast number of things most people worry about? And why can I not take my own advice?
Please submit your answers to any or all of the above to me at your earliest convenience. I will be most grateful.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
It is Sunday morning, as I write, and I have retreated to the computer to find refuge from all the screaming, shouting, arm-waving, jumping-up-and-down and “Wow! Oh Boy! Whoopee!” surrounding some sort of organized sports activity apparently going on later today. Why is it that I simply cannot comprehend what all the whoop-la is about? Why is it that I don’t care? In all fairness, I must that I can indeed get all enthused seeing Bart Favre or Tom Brady when they are not anywhere near a football field, but my enthusiasm has nothing whatever to do with sports.
How is it that I cannot understand how, when one person in a crowded room suddenly begins making a fool of him/herself, everyone else is embarrassed or cowed, but does nothing to interfere? Why do not I?
Why do far too many people seem to find it impossible to think for themselves, opting instead to swallow whole the illogical, irrational, and often harmful nonsense regurgitated by people whose right to do so is in itself not understood? Why should I do or think something simply because I am told to do or think it?
How is it that masses of people hang on every belch or hissy-fit thrown by some drug-addled “celebrity” as though it had any real meaning to the survival of the world? How is it that those same people can tell you what Lindsay Lohan had for lunch, where she ate, and with whom but cannot find China on a map?
Exactly who told those countless number of evangelical Christians, radical Muslims, and other religious extremists that they were empowered to speak for God? I rather doubt it was God, but you’d never know that from the reactions of the extremists’ followers.
Why, on a more personal level, am I incapable of dealing with any device having moving parts? Why are all instruction manuals completely unintelligible to me? Why do I so often insist on speaking first and thinking later? How can something I had in my hand 30 seconds ago suddenly completely disappear and be impossible to find?
Why am I not the person I so desperately want to be: kind, generous, and thoughtful, rather than being ruled by selfishness and egocentricity? Why do I spend so much time living in the past rather than living in the present? Why do I want so much from life and yet seem incapable of giving back to it?
When presented with four or five opposing views, why am I so often unable to pick one, instead of sometimes two or three?
Why do I firmly believe that life is far too short to worry about the vast number of things most people worry about? And why can I not take my own advice?
Please submit your answers to any or all of the above to me at your earliest convenience. I will be most grateful.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Paper Dreams
There is a trinity of dreams. First and chief among them is the collective dreams of our race, which guide us toward a better future and urge us to strive to make them come true. That not all these dreams have not yet been realized never stops us from having them. We are an indomitable race, and we are patient.
Second is the only form of dreams most people are aware of: those we have as individuals while we sleep, which are considered by some scientists to be a form of subconscious mental housekeeping…a way each of us tries to resolve inner conflicts and deal with the waking world around us. I’ve talked about those before in an earlier blog.
The third of the trinity of dreams is what prompted this entry: those dreams which are conceived in the mind of individual artists, musicians, and writers and translated into forms which can be understood and shared by others.
I’ve always considered books to be a writer’s dreams set to paper: I know mine are. They are formed, as are all dreams, in the imagination. But unlike sleep dreams, the writer has some degree of control over them. If unable to direct the dream’s every aspect, at least the writer can consciously influence them by nudging them in certain directions. I know that some writers plot out every single step and detail of a story before actually sitting down to write. It works for J.K. Rowling,, who has made more money from transcribing her dreams of Harry Potter into more money than I will ever see in ten lifetimes. But it would never work for me. The element of spontaneity, both in sleep dreams and writing, is far too crucial for me.
If writing can be compared to flowing water, the detailed-plotting method seems to be like one of Los Angeles’ drainage canals—straight as an arrow and contained within concrete walls. I prefer mine to be like a meandering river: I know where it’s going, but while I can see the bends coming up, I have no idea what lies beyond them. And I am always aware that I am not on the journey alone: the reader and I are Huck and Jim on the raft, flowing through the story together. I can’t imagine it being any other way.
People frequently ask where I get the ideas for my books…and even my blogs…and my answe is always the same: I quite honestly have no idea. They just appear. (If I can be allowed another metaphor here, I’ve often likened my “creative process” to be like the gas bubbles rising to the surface of a tar pit. I’ll be minding my own business, thinking of almost anything except where my next story/blog idea is going to come from, when I’ll be aware of something rising to the surface. I’ll watch while it emerges and forms a bubble of thought and finally bursts, leaving me with a topic or plot idea.) I love it!
For me to try to explain how these bubbles form and exactly how I handle them when they do appear is as impossible as explaining how we dream what we dream when we’re asleep.
All dreams are born and are nourished in the nursery of the subconscious, and there they remain until they are ready to emerge, either as a sleep dream or as a book or a painting or a sculpture or a symphony. Dreams are our humanity, and I cherish them, whatever form they take.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
Second is the only form of dreams most people are aware of: those we have as individuals while we sleep, which are considered by some scientists to be a form of subconscious mental housekeeping…a way each of us tries to resolve inner conflicts and deal with the waking world around us. I’ve talked about those before in an earlier blog.
The third of the trinity of dreams is what prompted this entry: those dreams which are conceived in the mind of individual artists, musicians, and writers and translated into forms which can be understood and shared by others.
I’ve always considered books to be a writer’s dreams set to paper: I know mine are. They are formed, as are all dreams, in the imagination. But unlike sleep dreams, the writer has some degree of control over them. If unable to direct the dream’s every aspect, at least the writer can consciously influence them by nudging them in certain directions. I know that some writers plot out every single step and detail of a story before actually sitting down to write. It works for J.K. Rowling,, who has made more money from transcribing her dreams of Harry Potter into more money than I will ever see in ten lifetimes. But it would never work for me. The element of spontaneity, both in sleep dreams and writing, is far too crucial for me.
If writing can be compared to flowing water, the detailed-plotting method seems to be like one of Los Angeles’ drainage canals—straight as an arrow and contained within concrete walls. I prefer mine to be like a meandering river: I know where it’s going, but while I can see the bends coming up, I have no idea what lies beyond them. And I am always aware that I am not on the journey alone: the reader and I are Huck and Jim on the raft, flowing through the story together. I can’t imagine it being any other way.
People frequently ask where I get the ideas for my books…and even my blogs…and my answe is always the same: I quite honestly have no idea. They just appear. (If I can be allowed another metaphor here, I’ve often likened my “creative process” to be like the gas bubbles rising to the surface of a tar pit. I’ll be minding my own business, thinking of almost anything except where my next story/blog idea is going to come from, when I’ll be aware of something rising to the surface. I’ll watch while it emerges and forms a bubble of thought and finally bursts, leaving me with a topic or plot idea.) I love it!
For me to try to explain how these bubbles form and exactly how I handle them when they do appear is as impossible as explaining how we dream what we dream when we’re asleep.
All dreams are born and are nourished in the nursery of the subconscious, and there they remain until they are ready to emerge, either as a sleep dream or as a book or a painting or a sculpture or a symphony. Dreams are our humanity, and I cherish them, whatever form they take.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)