Go without a coat; find out what cold is. Go hungry; keep your existence lean. Wear away the fat, get down to the lean tissue and see what it’s all about. The only time you define your character is when you go without. In times of hardship, you find out what you’re made of and what you’re capable of. If you’re never tested, you’ll never define your character.
We have time for everything
Sleep, run back and forth,
regret we made an error and err again
judge others and absolve ourselves,
we have time to read and write,
edit what we wrote, regret what we wrote,
we have time to make projects and never follow through
we have time to dwell in illusions and stir through
their ashes much later.
We have time for ambitions and diseases,
to blame destiny and details,
we have time to look at the clouds, at the ads, or some random accident, we have time
to chase away our questions, postpone our answers, we have time
to crush a dream and reinvent it, we have time to make friends,
to lose them, we have time to take lessons and forget them
soon after, we have time to receive gifts and not understand them. We have time for everything.
No time, though, for a little tenderness.
When we’re about to do that, too, we die.
~ Octavian Paler (1926-2007. Romanian writer, politician, journalist and activist.)
“I talk about love, forgiveness, social justice; I rage against American materialism in the name of altruism, but have I even controlled my own heart? The overwhelming majority of time I spend thinking about myself, pleasing myself, reassuring myself, and when I am done there is nothing to spare for the needy. Six billion people live in this world, and I can only muster thoughts for one. Me.”
“You don’t know anyone at the party, so you don’t want to go. You don’t like cottage cheese, so you haven’t eaten it in years. This is your choice, of course, but don’t kid yourself: it’s also the flinch.
Your personality is not set in stone. You may think a morning coffee is the most enjoyable thing in the world, but it’s really just a habit. Thirty days without it, and you would be fine. You think you have a soul mate, but in fact you could have had any number of spouses. You would have evolved differently, but been just as happy.
You can change what you want about yourself at any time. You see yourself as someone who can’t write or play an instrument, who gives in to temptation or makes bad decisions, but that’s really not you. It’s not ingrained. It’s not your personality. Your personality is something else, something deeper than just preferences, and these details on the surface, you can change anytime you like.
If it is useful to do so, you must abandon your identity and start again. Sometimes, it’s the only way.
Set fire to your old self. It’s not needed here. It’s too busy shopping, gossiping about others, and watching days go by and asking why you haven’t gotten as far as you’d like. This old self will die and be forgotten by all but family, and replaced by someone who makes a difference.
Your new self is not like that. Your new self is the Great Chicago Fire—overwhelming, overpowering, and destroying everything that isn’t necessary.”
You can buy Julien Smith’s book: The Flinch@ Amazon for free. “A book so important we refuse to charge for it.” Julien Smith has delivered a surprise, a confrontation, a book that will push you, scare you and possibly stick with you for years to come. Julien Smith is a New York Times bestselling author and speaker who has been involved in organizing online communities for over 15 years, from early BBSes and flashmobs to the social web as we know it today. Along with being the co-author of Trust Agents, one of the social web’s most recognized books, he is a contributor to GQ, Sirius Satellite Radio, Cosmopolitan, the CBC, and more. Julien’s work is often about leaning into discomfort and pain, into self-examination and discipline, intending both to provoke and unbalance. The lessons from The Flinch came from self-defense professionals, security experts, weightlifters, parkour practitioners, and more. (I’ve downloaded the book.)
Whenever I reach out to touch that one, it scurries away.
—Laura Kasischke, opening lines to “Riddle” from Space, in Chains
Laura Kasischkewas awarded the 2011 National Book Critics Circle Award in poetry for Space, In Chains. She is currently a Professor of English Language at the University of Michigan. She attended the University of Michigan (MFA 1987) and Columbia University.
Zeke is up early. Which means his keeper (Susan) is too. She’s at the kitchen table sipping coffee and reading The Times. He’s looking up at her, being cute, sitting like Royalty, waiting for a hand-out. It’s Banana today. Dog loves bananas. Who knew?
He watches me warily. It has become the weekend routine. He sits between his Mom’s legs. Growls at me. Signaling, No way in H*ll I’m going out with you. No Way. Fur is up at the back of his neck. I approach. “Let’s go Bud. Let’s go for a run.” He shows me his teeth…and emits a low raspy growl. And then another. Yep. Pure bred running dog. This is what it’s come to.
On with the gear. Accessories first. Garmin GPS. iPod. Ear Phones. Water bottle into black waist pouch. Then on with the suit. Black running pants. Black rain slicker. Black Baseball cap (not water proof). Red and Black Brooks running shoes. Batman is ready. The Dark Knight Rides. He’s off.
Mile One. It’s drizzling. But manageable. Light rain and mist. Feels refreshing on the skin. Miles. I’m going to do Miles today.
Friday Night’s postcomes to mind. His music still coursing through me. I downloaded John Butler’s Tin Shed Tales - – a collection of live music from his solo/acoustic tour of Australia in 2012.
John Butler opens with a monologue: ”It’s a song about mental illness. A feel good #. (Crowd laughs) I call it ‘the grass is greener’ syndrome. It’s never enough. Ever. It gets old. It’s boring. It’s scary. It’s scary to wish for things. To hope for things. To pray for things. And then to get things…But it’s not that, is it? It just one more thing. And another. And another. And it keeps on going and going and going….We are lucky. So fortunate…Maybe with all of this abundance we have, I’d be content with the most simple things, our friends, our family, our health.“
↓ click for audio(John Butler – “Better Than”)
The song opens with banjo. Then with hands clapping. Then with the boom boom boom of the base drum. Then the harmonica comes in. I’m hooked. And now fully alert.
All you want is What you can’t have And if you just look around man You see you got magic So just sit back relax Enjoy it while you still have it Don’t look back on life man and only see tragic Because you could be better than that Don’t let it get the better of you What could be better than now Life’s not about what’s better than…
The man is speaking to me. To me.
There are those moments in your life…so Sharp. So Vivid. So technicolor. So alive.
When you feel your chest fill…fill with gratitude.
This moment. Right now.
Up Pear Tree Point Road.
The Heavens open. Rain comes down. Big rain.
Shoes splashing.
Dark Knight removes his hat.
I close my eyes. And look up. And feel. Feel the cool rain. A cleansing wash. Body tingling.
Pick ‘em up. Put them down. Pick ‘em. Put them down. Faster. Faster. Faster.
What could be better than now Life’s not about what’s better than You can be better than that
Time Check: 11 miles flat. 1 hour and 50 minutes.
Better than my best distance this year.
Nap Time.
“Better Than”
John Butler
All you want is
What you can’t have
And if you just look around man
You see you got magic
So just sit back relax
Enjoy it while you still have it
Don’t look back on life man and only see tragic
Because you could be better than that
Don’t let it get the better of you
What could be better than now
Life’s not about what’s better than
You can be better than that
Don’t let it get the better of you
What could be better than now
Life’s not about what’s better
All the time while you’re looking away
There are things you can do man
There’s things you can say
To the the ones you’re with
With whom you’re spending your today
Get your gaze off tomorrow
And let come what may
Because you could be better than that
Don’t let it get the better of you
What could be better than now
Life’s not about what’s better than
You can be better than that
Don’t let it get the better of you
What could be better than now
Life’s not about what’s better
All I know is sometimes things can be hard
But you should know by now
They come and they go
So why, oh why
Do I look to the other side
‘Cause I know the grass is greener but
Just as hard to mow
Life’s not about what’s better than.
All you want is
What you can’t have
And if you just look around man
You see you got magic
So just sit back relax
Enjoy it while you still have it
Don’t look back on life man and only see tragicBecause
You could be better than that
Don’t let it get the better of you
What could be better than now
Life’s not about what’s better than
You can be better than that
Don’t let it get the better of you
What could be better than now
Life’s not about what’s better than
Credits: John Butler photograph by Rene Huemer @ legends.ca. “Better Than” Lyrics: azlyrics.com. And of course, the highly recommended Album by John Butler: Tin Shed Tales
“We yearn for silence, yet the less sound there is, the more our thoughts deafen us. How can we still the noise within?…In Vipassana you concentrate on sensation in stillness, sitting down, not necessarily cross-legged, though most people do sit that way. And sitting without changing position, sitting still. As soon as you try to do this, you become aware of a connection between silence and stillness, noise and motion. No sooner are you sitting still than the body is eager to move, or at least to fidget. It grows uncomfortable. In the same way, no sooner is there silence than the mind is eager to talk. In fact we quickly appreciate that sound is movement: words move, music moves, through time. We use sound and movement to avoid the irksomeness of stasis. This is particularly true if you are in physical pain. You shift from foot to foot, you move from room to room. Sitting still, denying yourself physical movement, the mind’s instinctive reaction is to retreat into its normal buzzing monologue — hoping that focusing the mind elsewhere will relieve physical discomfort. This would normally be the case; normally, if ignored, the body would fidget and shift, to avoid accumulating tension. But on this occasion we are asking it to sit still while we think and, since it can’t fidget, it grows more and more tense and uncomfortable. Eventually, this discomfort forces the mind back from its chatter to the body. But finding only discomfort or even pain in the body, it again seeks to escape into language and thought. Back and forth from troubled mind to tormented body, things get worse and worse. Silence, then, combined with stillness — the two are intimately related — invites us to observe the relationship between consciousness and the body, in movement and moving thought.”
This essay by Tim Parks is worth reading in its entirety. You can find it at this link. Parks references his book Cleaver in the essay. The book was chosen as a Sunday Telegraph Book of the Year. It is one of the funniest novels that I have read. You can read my review of Cleaver at this link.
“The outcome of my days is always the same; an infinite desire for what one never gets; a void one cannot fill; an utter yearning to produce in all ways, to battle as much as possible against time that drags us along, and the distractions that throw a veil over our soul.”
“But please remember, I don’t sit around wondering how people see the world, or how they feel about things. I don’t attempt to express their feelings. I only write about the way I feel. I mean, I’m not arbitrator of public tastes or opinion. I don’t have a following of people who are waiting for my next word. I hope I never have that kind of following. People should be waiting for their own next word, not mine.”
- Elvis Costello
Elvis Costello, 59, born Declan Patrick Macmanus, is an English singer-songwriter. He was born in London. He has won multiple awards in his career including a Grammy. He has been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. In 2004, Rolling Stone ranked Costello number 80 on their list of the 100 Greatest Artists of All Time. Costello’s first broadcast recording was alongside his dad, also a musician, in a television commercial for R. White’s Lemonade (I’m a Secret Lemonade Drinker). His father wrote and sang the song; Costello provided backing vocals. Costello married Canadian piano-vocalist Diana Krall in May 2003, and married her at the home of Elton John. Krall gave birth to twin sons, Dexter Henry Lorcan and Frank Harlan James, on 6 December 2006 in New York City. A vegetarian since the early 1980s, Costello says he was moved to reject meat after seeing the documentary The Animals Film (1982), which also helped inspire his song “Pills and Soap” from 1983′s Punch the Clock). (Source: Wiki)
“I wouldn’t describe myself as lacking in confidence, but I would just say that … the ghosts you chase you never catch.”
John Malkovich
John Gavin Malkovich, 59, was born in Christopher, Illinois. His paternal grandparents were Croatian. He is an American actor, producer, director, and fashion designer. Over the last 30 years of his career, Malkovich has appeared in more than 70 motion pictures. For his roles in Places in the Heart and In the Line of Fire, he received Academy Award nominations. He has also appeared in critically acclaimed films such as Empire of the Sun, The Killing Fields, Dangerous Liaisons, Of Mice and Men, Being John Malkovich, and RED, and has produced numerous films, including Juno and The Perks of Being a Wallflower.
My philosophy is: It’s none of my business what people say of me, and think of me. I am what I am, and I do what I do. I expect nothing, and accept everything. And it makes life so much easier.
Thomas Saliot, 45, is a French painter who lives “between Marrakech and Paris.” He has been painting for the last 20 years. Thomas allowed me to share a few of his stunning works in this post. Find Thomas’ web site here. See more of Thomas’ paintings below.
Dread.
It started in the shower.
Stomach sour – doing loop de loops.
Northern Michigan.
Late November, 1980s.
The morning shower is followed by a long walk in the dark from the dorm.
Square into the teeth of a wicked Northern Michigan wind.
Mitts. Goose down coats. Parkas. Sorel boots.
Students filing in for the 8:00 am class.
I find a seat in the middle-back. Need to get invisible.
I’m below the stoners and the drunks, adorned with hoodies.
I’m above the whizz-bangs, a**-kissers and kids with coke bottle glasses.
Three weeks earlier the Professor kicks off his class with ground rules. “A full letter grade is determined by your class participation, frequency and quality.”
Red Pencil in hand.
He’d put a tick mark next to each name who’s hand would go up.
He’d hang over his journal scribbling after a noteworthy comment.
I’m sitting.
And shredded in half.
One half with head down to avoid being called on. Coward.
The other half, The Angry Man – a full letter grade down before taking a single exam.
I’m half way through the term.
I’ve managed to avoid being called on.
And managed to avoid making a single comment.
No.
Correction.
I’ve managed to avoid making an attempt to make a single comment.
I’m glaring at his journal.
Wonder how many others have white space next to their names.
The classroom discussion turns to fishing.
A sweet spot.
I lift my head.
I sit up in my seat.
I sit up tall in my seat.
Professor is going on about trout fishing in Montana.
He’s backing his boat down an asphalt ramp.
He asks: Has anyone launched a boat off a ramp?
My heart is pumping.
Now.
Do it.
NOW.
My arm shoots up.
The Professor acknowledges me.
The entire class, hundreds of eyeballs weighing down on me. “No Sir. Not backing down an ashfalt ramp but…”
I went on with my story.
A kid from the front of the class is frantically pumping his hand in the air.
He looks up the stadium seating and shouts: “Ashfalt?”
I repeat: “Ashfalt, yes.”
He repeats: “You’ve never launched a boat down an Ashfalt ramp?” “That’s right. I’ve never backed a boat down an Ashfalt ramp.”
The Professor and Class burst out laughing.
I slump in my chair, puzzled. Dazed.
I note that the Professor doesn’t lift his Red Pencil.
The girl sitting next to me, red-faced, taps my shoulder and hands me a note:
“I’d like to answer all my phone calls, return all emails in a timely manner and mean the how-are-yous; not hide my broken hallelujahs, not save my gratitude for characters in books. Put love on sale, like I should…I’d like to whisper to only a few souls under a blanket instead of shouting at hundreds over these virtual rooftops. I’d like to inhale people and exhale skin, explore huggability and memorize the art of breathing…I’d like to get up once a week with no other agenda than laziness in bed, no time, no musts or shoulds or have tos. Eat breakfast for dinner, juice for lunch, and talk to trees, and cry, walk backwards, love my solitude, and understand my doing by undoing.”
“I think
I grow tensions
like flowers
in a wood where
nobody goes.
Each wound is perfect,
encloses itself in a tiny
imperceptible blossom,
making pain.
Pain is a flower like that one,
like this one,
like that one,
like this one.”
- Robert Creeley, ”The Flower”
Robert Creeley (1926 – 2005) was a major American poet of the 20th century. He was born in Arlington, MA and was a teacher, a scholar, and a fierce presence: “I look to words, and nothing else, for my own redemption either as a man or poet.” He lost the sight in one eye in a car accident when he was two years old. The loss of his eye and his father, both early in life, affected Creeley profoundly. For the first half of his life he travelled as an outsider, his heavy drinking often leading to brawls with friends and strangers. Creeley was sometimes an angry young man who wanted “the world to narrow to a match flare”. Unable to sign up for World War II because of his sight problem, he joined the American Field Service and drove ambulances in India and Burma. He returned home with two medals…Just days before he died, he gave his final reading — in Charlottesville, Virginia — breathing from what he called “portable wee canisters of oxygen about the size of champagne bottles”. In between the poems Creeley said very simple things that rang true: “There has been so much war and pain during the last century. We need to learn how to be kind; kindness is what makes us human.”