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The Knife edge of my life
No.. seriously.. to think that death is something horribly tragic. How ridiculous. The only thing tragic is the act of dying and the response of the living, who carry on afterward. And the living are only tragic because... now get this... THEY CAN'T LET GO. Really. Think about it. The dead, well, they're dead. They've moved on, metaphorically, metaphysically and hey, maybe even spiritually. The living, though. Man, talk about whiny butts who can't get it through their heads that it's time to give up control of something that can't be controlled anyway.
We all (most of us, anyway) are getting older. Getting older is not a glorious thing. It is not the cool thing that 40 somethings imagine it to be. They are called the golden years because your joints harden like some weird pliable metal. They are called the golden years by people trying to sell something.
Remember, in Logan's Run, going to Carousel was supposed to be your crowning achievement and we all know how that turned out.
This is NOT a pretty thing, regardless of how much we would like it to be. It can be a fun adventure, for sure. If you are lucky, you have learned a great deal from your mistakes and have gained a solid attitude that life is to be enjoyed and if you're lucky, you actually do enjoy it. It's all in the 'tude, dude. BUT it's frickin' painful and tiring. Young folks don't get you and you don't get them. You understand them and have walked the same road as they have. Doesn't mean that you 'get' them. Because they are doing things that you did and screwing up like you did and when you try to explain it to them, then you're some kind of asshole and you don't understand. Hey, kid. Death is a part of getting older. It is. It just is. And as you get older, you'll figure this out. Once you realize that simple point, you will be just that much more free.
I don't expect you to 'get it' or understand what I'm saying. Yes, you can nod all you want. Lose your mom, your dad, your sibs, your children, your uncles... lose every single one of your relatives and then tell me how much you miss the relative who, before they died, was the same relative you whined and griped and complained about. Git off the cross, someone needs the wood.
I live in a world where most of the things I do get put down or run down and there are times when I don't think I can do anything right. I live in a world where I can trace every single bit of pain and misery, of sorrow and lose back to a woman. Not a single woman, mind you. The gender. Oh, I'm not innocent, by any means. I'm sure I helped whomever it was help me make a mess of my life. I'm just saying that there is a direct correlation to my crappy life and being involved with a woman. Some woman. Any woman. Pick one or two.
Not that every single woman gives me misery. Not that every single woman brings me pain. There is just as much joy and love and caring coming from the opposite sex. Sometimes within the same minute.
Then I remember something. In this world, the most we can ever do is live. Not succeed, because if you live you succeed. Not even live well, because the most important lessons come from massively screwing up and living through it. We come into this world alone, and we ultimately die alone. Don't be preaching to me about spirituality. That is the after result. We only find out what happens after it's all said and done.
The best we can do, while we are living, is to live our lives the best way we can. Good or ill, happy or sad, we make that choice to bravely go where we go so many times and keep on going, with our chins raised high and as best as we can. We make our beds. We allow other folks to tell us how to make our beds. But we still make our beds and we lay in them.
Sometimes we point our fingers at other folks and loudly proclaim "I'm not point my finger at you, even though you are the one who put me here and made me make my bed." Sometimes we point our fingers at ourselves and say "I'm doing so good to keep my mood and attitude cheerful even though I didn't make my bed. Well, okay, I made my bed, but I was forced to make my bed by someone who held a gun to my head. Well, okay, it wasn't really a gun. It was a choice. Someone held a choice to my head. Well, okay, it wasn't someone... It was me, okay? I made that choice and I made that bed. Now get the hell away from me while I cry a bit."
yes, the last half of the above quote never happened. It is a fantasy. I've never known anyone (myself included) who will own up to their own stupidity with any sort of dignity.
Listen kids. Can you imagine the sort of world we would have if everyone would own up to their own stupidity? And not just own up to it, but accept it and move on. Where we put our egos to the side and said "hey, I may not have much, but it's a good life." And never friggin' mention whose fault it may be, because the only thing you can say is the end of Margaritaville.
"It's my own damn fault."
Own it, accept it, live it, get over it. It's okay to visit the world of shame and pity, but for god's sake, don't dwell in it. It's the really low rent, busted tire and window, broken door hinge and old tired dreams district and nobody will visit it with you for very long without sending a 911 to their dearest friend to please call my phone and give me an excuse to get the hell out of here.
Look. I love you guys. And love, I don't give a rats ass how you define it, is defined by me as being something you cannot fall out of, cannot retire, cannot give up, cannot shed like the old dead skin of an ex-whatever.
If you ever stop loving a person, place or thing as long as you're alive, you never loved that person, place or thing in the first place. The most you did was extreme like. As in "I used to really like pears, but now the taste just makes me nauseous."
And while we're on the subject, how can a person actually love a thing? Is love not a reciprocal emotion? Can we love something that does not love us back? I am not saying this is not possible. It's just a thought that came to mind.
I love the taste of my mother's pizza. It was a one of a kind thing, tied to her by years of eating it. I have found one place that made it like she did, and that place, MYPII Pizza, only came very close. Do I love the taste of my mother's pizza because of the care and effort she put into it? Do I love the taste because of the symphony of flavors that made my senses run amok with the headiness of olive oil and oregano and pepperoni and mushrooms and all the yummy goodness that made that the absolute pinnacle of pizza goodness?
My mom's pizza could not love me back. But I certainly love, in a complete experiential sense of the word love, my mom's pizza. The taste is something that, even now, after 30 some odd years of not having had it near me, I can still experience. It is forever burned in my memory and I can, to this day, smell it, taste it, and even burp it.
That my friends is my definition of love. If, after it's all said and done, you can look back and remember fondly the good, even though you can also remember, less fondly, the bad, and say "yeah. That was good times." Then you know love. Love is NOT blind. Love is awareness.
Just like paranoia.
And if you hate something, then you definitely have that potential for love there. Really strong emotions are kin to each other. You know this. If you are reading this, then you know this. Love and Hate are kept apart by the barest film of spiritual, metaphorical, metaphysical parchment paper.
The question is this: Which would you choose? And if you choose Love (and you probably will, because who would admit to choosing Hate), then by all means, Love. But Love like you mean it. Or else it's not Love. Love is like a boxcar racer going down a San Francisco hill without brakes. Hate, by the way, is the same thing.
I'm goofy. I'm a bit of a loser, see. I choose Love. And I Love fully, down hill with my arms raised above my head, laughing all the way. And I Love alone, because that's just the way we are. Us humans.
Nobody loves the same way. Nobody means the same thing when they say "I love you". It's like death. It just is. To expect anything else leads to sadness and loneliness. To expect anything else leads to frustration and disappointment.
Love without expecting anything in return. No "I love you back." No "We'll always be together." No "Thank you." No "Please." No expectations at all. Love like YOU mean it. To hell with what anybody else means, because you see... that doesn't matter at all. Love as if you're the only one who can live with how much you Love, because that's the truth of it all. You cannot expect to be loved back. Well, you can expect it, but you can also expect to be disgusted at how much the other person does not love you back - by your definition of what love means.
And that's pretty much my rant for today. I needed to write. I'm in a position where I need to say these words to myself as much as anyone, so here you get to see my internalization in action.
Just know that I love you. With a capital L. And that kids, is all I have to say about that for right now. I don't expect you to get it or to understand where all this is coming from or even to have a response of any kind.
But really, just know that, no matter where you go, no matter what you do, no matter how pissed off I may get at where you go and what you do, I will Love you. With all my heart. Because that's the only way to do it, in my book.
Till later,
Cynic
We all (most of us, anyway) are getting older. Getting older is not a glorious thing. It is not the cool thing that 40 somethings imagine it to be. They are called the golden years because your joints harden like some weird pliable metal. They are called the golden years by people trying to sell something.
Remember, in Logan's Run, going to Carousel was supposed to be your crowning achievement and we all know how that turned out.
This is NOT a pretty thing, regardless of how much we would like it to be. It can be a fun adventure, for sure. If you are lucky, you have learned a great deal from your mistakes and have gained a solid attitude that life is to be enjoyed and if you're lucky, you actually do enjoy it. It's all in the 'tude, dude. BUT it's frickin' painful and tiring. Young folks don't get you and you don't get them. You understand them and have walked the same road as they have. Doesn't mean that you 'get' them. Because they are doing things that you did and screwing up like you did and when you try to explain it to them, then you're some kind of asshole and you don't understand. Hey, kid. Death is a part of getting older. It is. It just is. And as you get older, you'll figure this out. Once you realize that simple point, you will be just that much more free.
I don't expect you to 'get it' or understand what I'm saying. Yes, you can nod all you want. Lose your mom, your dad, your sibs, your children, your uncles... lose every single one of your relatives and then tell me how much you miss the relative who, before they died, was the same relative you whined and griped and complained about. Git off the cross, someone needs the wood.
I live in a world where most of the things I do get put down or run down and there are times when I don't think I can do anything right. I live in a world where I can trace every single bit of pain and misery, of sorrow and lose back to a woman. Not a single woman, mind you. The gender. Oh, I'm not innocent, by any means. I'm sure I helped whomever it was help me make a mess of my life. I'm just saying that there is a direct correlation to my crappy life and being involved with a woman. Some woman. Any woman. Pick one or two.
Not that every single woman gives me misery. Not that every single woman brings me pain. There is just as much joy and love and caring coming from the opposite sex. Sometimes within the same minute.
Then I remember something. In this world, the most we can ever do is live. Not succeed, because if you live you succeed. Not even live well, because the most important lessons come from massively screwing up and living through it. We come into this world alone, and we ultimately die alone. Don't be preaching to me about spirituality. That is the after result. We only find out what happens after it's all said and done.
The best we can do, while we are living, is to live our lives the best way we can. Good or ill, happy or sad, we make that choice to bravely go where we go so many times and keep on going, with our chins raised high and as best as we can. We make our beds. We allow other folks to tell us how to make our beds. But we still make our beds and we lay in them.
Sometimes we point our fingers at other folks and loudly proclaim "I'm not point my finger at you, even though you are the one who put me here and made me make my bed." Sometimes we point our fingers at ourselves and say "I'm doing so good to keep my mood and attitude cheerful even though I didn't make my bed. Well, okay, I made my bed, but I was forced to make my bed by someone who held a gun to my head. Well, okay, it wasn't really a gun. It was a choice. Someone held a choice to my head. Well, okay, it wasn't someone... It was me, okay? I made that choice and I made that bed. Now get the hell away from me while I cry a bit."
yes, the last half of the above quote never happened. It is a fantasy. I've never known anyone (myself included) who will own up to their own stupidity with any sort of dignity.
Listen kids. Can you imagine the sort of world we would have if everyone would own up to their own stupidity? And not just own up to it, but accept it and move on. Where we put our egos to the side and said "hey, I may not have much, but it's a good life." And never friggin' mention whose fault it may be, because the only thing you can say is the end of Margaritaville.
"It's my own damn fault."
Own it, accept it, live it, get over it. It's okay to visit the world of shame and pity, but for god's sake, don't dwell in it. It's the really low rent, busted tire and window, broken door hinge and old tired dreams district and nobody will visit it with you for very long without sending a 911 to their dearest friend to please call my phone and give me an excuse to get the hell out of here.
Look. I love you guys. And love, I don't give a rats ass how you define it, is defined by me as being something you cannot fall out of, cannot retire, cannot give up, cannot shed like the old dead skin of an ex-whatever.
If you ever stop loving a person, place or thing as long as you're alive, you never loved that person, place or thing in the first place. The most you did was extreme like. As in "I used to really like pears, but now the taste just makes me nauseous."
And while we're on the subject, how can a person actually love a thing? Is love not a reciprocal emotion? Can we love something that does not love us back? I am not saying this is not possible. It's just a thought that came to mind.
I love the taste of my mother's pizza. It was a one of a kind thing, tied to her by years of eating it. I have found one place that made it like she did, and that place, MYPII Pizza, only came very close. Do I love the taste of my mother's pizza because of the care and effort she put into it? Do I love the taste because of the symphony of flavors that made my senses run amok with the headiness of olive oil and oregano and pepperoni and mushrooms and all the yummy goodness that made that the absolute pinnacle of pizza goodness?
My mom's pizza could not love me back. But I certainly love, in a complete experiential sense of the word love, my mom's pizza. The taste is something that, even now, after 30 some odd years of not having had it near me, I can still experience. It is forever burned in my memory and I can, to this day, smell it, taste it, and even burp it.
That my friends is my definition of love. If, after it's all said and done, you can look back and remember fondly the good, even though you can also remember, less fondly, the bad, and say "yeah. That was good times." Then you know love. Love is NOT blind. Love is awareness.
Just like paranoia.
And if you hate something, then you definitely have that potential for love there. Really strong emotions are kin to each other. You know this. If you are reading this, then you know this. Love and Hate are kept apart by the barest film of spiritual, metaphorical, metaphysical parchment paper.
The question is this: Which would you choose? And if you choose Love (and you probably will, because who would admit to choosing Hate), then by all means, Love. But Love like you mean it. Or else it's not Love. Love is like a boxcar racer going down a San Francisco hill without brakes. Hate, by the way, is the same thing.
I'm goofy. I'm a bit of a loser, see. I choose Love. And I Love fully, down hill with my arms raised above my head, laughing all the way. And I Love alone, because that's just the way we are. Us humans.
Nobody loves the same way. Nobody means the same thing when they say "I love you". It's like death. It just is. To expect anything else leads to sadness and loneliness. To expect anything else leads to frustration and disappointment.
Love without expecting anything in return. No "I love you back." No "We'll always be together." No "Thank you." No "Please." No expectations at all. Love like YOU mean it. To hell with what anybody else means, because you see... that doesn't matter at all. Love as if you're the only one who can live with how much you Love, because that's the truth of it all. You cannot expect to be loved back. Well, you can expect it, but you can also expect to be disgusted at how much the other person does not love you back - by your definition of what love means.
And that's pretty much my rant for today. I needed to write. I'm in a position where I need to say these words to myself as much as anyone, so here you get to see my internalization in action.
Just know that I love you. With a capital L. And that kids, is all I have to say about that for right now. I don't expect you to get it or to understand where all this is coming from or even to have a response of any kind.
But really, just know that, no matter where you go, no matter what you do, no matter how pissed off I may get at where you go and what you do, I will Love you. With all my heart. Because that's the only way to do it, in my book.
Till later,
Cynic