Granny's Games

Granny still lives! At least, as a "construct" she does. "Brain play" is the issue. We humans make things up and believe them, and then we give credence to their supposed significance and pray to them, pay obeisance, and even sacrifice our natures to their perceived wants. Is that not what the Greeks and Romans did? They took their beliefs very seriously! But now we study their gods, and even dare scoff at their ignorance, their fanciful-mess, their ignobility!

Yet...

Granny was spurned by me. We were across the country being driven from having a maple-pancake breakfast and still dreaming of securing this new place at Selleck Way when I dared, from the back-seat, scoff: "As if one's ancestors are leaning over one's shoulder and guiding you!" In that moment I was more-keen to support the existentialist driving the car than I was being sensitive to the supportive spirits hovering around my sensibilities. My old friend the driver conjoined: "Yes. A bunch of molecules and atoms; all dispersed and unidentifiable, that'll be me. End of story. All else is Brain-Play!" Still, at that moment in the car something dire enveloped me. It was a foreboding. Poised as we were on the precipice of a delicate financial negotiation to secure our desired new home, I'd proven sacrilegious. I'd denounced my Gran-(nee) Selleck! And what's more, the other persons in the car knew precisely what and whom I was talking about! Still, I doubt that any one of them felt what I felt. They perhaps gave it no more thought. But all the rest of that day, my betrayal of my Granny lingered in me.

'Selleck Way' had struck me as providential from the outset. The street with my Granny's maiden name on it had guided me toward my new abode! Surely it was a sign? (And more than just a signpost, ha!) Surely Granny Selleck, my dear long-departed 'Dorothy', was monitoring me, steering me to more-better choices, being an angel in my care! But did I care back? Did I offer her sufficient gratitude? Did I acknowledge her 'presence' and her guardianship in my life? Well, certainly I did by telling my closest ones of the coincidental name! Certainly I did by telling my wife, my brothers, my sister, just how pleased I was to be living, potentially, on Selleck Way.

And then the deal fell through. That same night of my having denounced Granny at breakfast, all of six months ago, the email came through from the Realtor. We'd lost the deal; the prospective buyers of our old place were not able to get their grand piano into it, and so their conditions were not met. And we were back to 'square one.'

Square one. It's as though life itself is a game. We negotiate and create contracts and pray that our needs will be met. We bargain and manipulate and orchestrate and manage. We are not the product of our own making (only); we are the product of chance and coincidence and influence and 'who one knows'. And that Granny was so linked to Selleck Way and that I'd mocked at her influence was the reason, I felt it somewhere in my bones, that I now had lost the opportunity to purchase my dream home! And on the aeroplane, the next day, going back across the country from our visit with our friends near that maple farm, I sent hopeful thoughts toward Granny. I sent little prayers of contrition, of apology, of regret. Somehow, I felt, I was in the wrong.

It took nearly six months before the reversal of our ways. With our old house at last again sold, we yet again bid on Selleck Way, and won! Yes, Granny has been very gratefully acknowledged along the way. Thing is, those same 'across the country' friends recently visited, and though his 'brain-play' became a Granny-Game about Much-Ado, it was our conversationally re-construing co-valent bonding that left its mark. Atoms conjoin. Ghosts hover. Angels abound. Throughout history spirits (and demons) and Left-and-Right and the intersection between them has plagued mankind. Been a heart-hurt? Yes. Yet manufactured Saints and Santas and Goblins and Fairies invest themselves. So too for all our gods galore. Brain play? Indeed! 

Eminence Arriving Imminently!

Out damned spot!

Anxiety invigorates the moments. Guest are about to arrive! Did Ben Hur receive such a welcome? Did Alexander? What of Caesar, or Napoleon, or even Hitler? Were palm leaves not spread before the passage of Jesus? Which house was not prepared for guests? Which city does not take into account the imminent arrival of eminent foreigners? Who does not think of the right food, the right drink, the right bedding, the cleanliness and tidiness and presentation (if not perfection) of at least one's best? We do try to impress. We do want to please. We do hope to make our guests comfortable and at ease and so satisfied that they may even come back! (Above all else, let us not be shamed.) Anxiety dictates the preparations; if not the presence of the moments we have with a guest. Let's give 'em a parade! And at best, everything looks as if it was easy, as if 'regular'. (Paint the slum.) After all, isn't this the way we 'always' live!

The shells with which we clothe ourselves can be complex indeed. We do not like to be seen naked, let alone vulnerable. The unexpected knock at the door can send us scurrying to tidy up, if not ourselves, then at least our hair, our living rooms or our kitchens. A single speck on the floor can have us bending, even at the last moment, to retrieve the strand of hair, the crumb, the dried-up drop. We'd prefer to be spotless. Is that what the concept of original sin gives us, this sense of being so imperfect that we must scrub away at every evidence of our living existence, as though we leave no footprints at all in the warp and woof of time? Our exoskeletons are built to belie our innards. We puff ourselves up in finery and pomp. We paint our walls and decorate the doors to our private parts of life. And those we do let inside, we show most preferably that which we want them to see; meanwhile the closets hide quantities of the untidy and the unresolved and even the indelicate. Who wants to see our dirty laundry? Who wants to inspect our soiled cloisters? Who dares invade our closed cupboards? Yet which of us does not have the very swirl of life's necessities attending us? We are perpetually caught in the need for balance between what is, what is desired, and what can be obtained. History itself grew into us with the evolution of our needs; we deceive and lie and exaggerate. As a collective we understand these implicit things. But as individuals? It remains an issue of comparisons.

Outward appearances perpetuate one's position in the status quo. The lawn is mowed, or not. The car is washed, or not. The type of car itself can be an issue. So too can the state of one's garden. It all is referenced to the self; it all can be taken so personally! One has 'made it', or not, by comparisons, most usually. And somewhere deep inside, perhaps subconsciously, one is driven to anxiety over whether one really does meet another's expectations. Paradise lost? A mother or father's inability unconditionally to love? A series of being bullied by others, by the media, by society itself? We live in states of inauthenticity for the sake of serving expectations. If not entirely because of our own making, then because of wanting to please or obey those in close relationship to us. "Go clean up your room; guests are coming!" has an enduring ring.

Yet surely the conventions of compassion, courtliness, fellowship, frankness, and purity of mind ought to suffice for any meeting between oneself and an 'other', no matter the hierarchical stance of their eminence. Surely we needs but be authentic, sincere, and caring of any other, with little fear that they will judge our city, our village, our house, our attire, our furniture, or our place of living. Surely? Still, afore any guest's arrival, we clean up, tidy up, and ensure that all is 'perfect' for their presence. (Still.) Thing is, how to do so without the attendant anxiousness, without the evident subjectivity of worrying about the recipients' opinion of oneself. How best just to give accordance to an 'other's' presence, and let the chips fall where they may, surely? Then again, oh dear, surely I didn't miss a spot?

Humbly Human?

We repackage our lives according to our wants. An erstwhile friend wrote: “As for the verbal agreement and handshake, it feels like the New South African handshake and a Zuma verbal agreement.” And he was right. Disappointment and hurt bit in his text. I felt guilty. My betrayal, my inconsiderateness, sat uneasily. I still stew. I felt ill. Yet my reaction to being called to task is reflexive; I've so many excuses! Where I grew up the consequences for actions were hardly ever worth the price of honesty! One learned to conceal, never (ever) to rat, to reveal, or to lay blame. Still, since being utterly perfect is always impossible, I’m learning to accept others' flaws too.

A verbal agreement? Oh my goodness, I actually, truly, entirely forgot about that! In my current state of predicament I sought an escape route that served me, and since I had no physical record of contractual obligations, I acted out of my own self-interest. I (unconsciously) forgot my words! No wonder he is mad at me! But, well, what of him? Is he aware that his holding me accountable impinges severely on my immediate circumstances? Yet I know it's not really him; it is me. I am guilty. (A promise is a promise.) Would he possibly accept my apology?

Yet in my time I've failed others too, in fact, failed in all of the 'deadly vices'. Even now, here in my seventh decade, I’m yet to master all moments to be 'perfect,' unconscious of intentionality as I may be.

My laziness hurts me, and others. I do not letter-write nearly as much as I should. I do not make the effort to attend social venues, funerals, meetings, or obligations as I might. Nor do I paint all the ideas that come to mind, or write down many thoughts. I all too often do not follow up on idle promises: "See you soon!" I forget some of my promises. I do not follow up on some of my momentum. I am fallible. But at least, when questioned, I'll own up, and try to make amends.

My survival instincts do not take into sufficient account the presence of others. I can at times neglect to ask if anyone else would like the last chocolate. I will take more than my share. Yet when caught, I'll do what I can to make amends, to provide for the other, to make it up to them.

My greed is too big. Because of it I have excluded others, marginalized others, seen to it that I ‘get’, even when they don't. And yes, there is in me a desire for more. I purchase things beyond my possible rate of consumption. I seek things out that I do not really need. But at the very least, when challenged about my selfish wants, I'll apologize, and offer to share, or to amend.

My arrogance can prevent me being humble enough. I grow impatient with slow talk, with idle talk, with chit-chat, with what I deem non-productive or time wasting. As such, I find those who do not offer much energy toward the exploration of life (as an alternative to a recounting of it,) of less immediate value than my own care. (Yet I do try allowing each simply ‘to be as they be’.)

Intractability occasionally creates insufficient room for me to check on myself. l can on quite rare occasions 'lose it.' Some sort of atavistic rage takes over and I simply don't give a damn about the results of my actions, such that I might swear in public, or kick a can, or even say ugly things. But I'll apologize soon as I realize it. And certainly, I will pay for any damages. If I can.

My self-satisfaction does not always consider the needs of others. At times I’ve not given the necessary consideration toward my partner, or allowed for the subjectivity of an 'other'. When treating an ‘other’ as 'object,' I’ve taken from them or acted out of my selfishness. Yet, yes, sometimes I have amended. Still, should the record be revealed, there’d be many ‘wronged’.

My deceit is horrid. Most unconscionable of all, I've lied and cheated and stolen as I still grow up, intentionally. (Small things are as guilty as bigger ones.) This is larger than unintentionally forgetting a promise! One knowingly breaks integrity. One thinks one can get away with it, but conscience, that niggle of the evolving spirit, knows there is no release until one understands not only how to stop, but to forgive the self, and all others too. Regrets? Yes; where I knew better!

A verbal agreement? It is not so good when one is imperfect. Fallible. But at least I’m learning. Caring. Wanting to make amends. I am forgiving. I am inclusive, accepting, absorbing, assimilating and integrative. I want to improve, to get more-better. I want to help. I want to be interested, to show interest, to act from care. I want to be honest and clear and sincere and authentic. I need to make mistakes, yes, but hopefully ones of oversight, not intentionality. In this case, I did not ‘intend’. That's what kind of human I am: Imperfect, always, but trying. You?

Friends Forever?

'What kind of friend are you?' Disappointment and hurt bit in his text. I felt guilty. My betrayal, my inconsiderateness, sat uneasily. I still stew. I felt ill. Yet my reaction to being called to task is reflexive; I've so many excuses! Where I grew up the consequences for actions were hardly ever worth the price of honesty! One learned to conceal, never (ever) to rat, to reveal. Still, since being utterly perfect was always impossible, I gradually learned to accept others' flaws too.

'What kind of friend are you?' Well, what of him? Actions and interests that he might've shown me ought to've been more-better, more considerate, more.....  But I know it's not really him; it is me. I am guilty. And I've failed others too, in fact, in all of the 'deadly vices'. Even in my seventh decade I’m yet to master all moments to be 'perfect,' conscious of intentionality as I may be.

My greed is too big. Because of it I have excluded others, marginalized others, seen to it that I ‘get’, even when they don't. And yes, there is in me a desire for more. I purchase things beyond my possible rate of consumption. I seek things out that I do not really need. But at the very least, when challenged about my selfish wants, I'll apologize, and offer to share, or to amend.

My arrogance prevents me being humble enough. I grow impatient with slow talk, with idle talk, with chit-chat, with what I deem non-productive or time wasting. As such, I find those who do not offer much energy toward the exploration of life (as an alternative to a recounting of it,) of less immediate value than my own cares. (But I do try to allow for each to simply ‘be as they be’.)

My laziness hurts me, and others. I do not letter-write nearly as much as I should. I do not make the effort to attend social venues, funerals, meetings, or obligations as I might. Nor do I paint all the ideas that come to mind, or write down many thoughts. I all too often do not follow up on idle promises: "See you soon!" But at least, when questioned, I'll own up, and try to make amends.

Intractability occasionally creates insufficient room for me to check on myself. l can on quite rare occasions 'lose it.' Some sort of atavistic rage takes over and I simply don't give a damn about the results of my actions, such that I might swear in public, or kick a can, or even say ugly things. But I'll apologize soon as I realize it. And certainly, I will pay for any damages. Certainly.

My survival instincts do not take into sufficient account the presence of others. I can at times neglect to ask if anyone else would like the last chocolate. I will take more than my share. Yet when caught, I'll do what I can to make amends, to provide for the other, to make it up to them.

My self-satisfaction does not always consider the needs of others. At times I’ve not given the necessary consideration toward my partner, or allowed for the subjectivity of an 'other'. When treating an ‘other’ as 'object,' I’ve taken from them or acted out of my selfishness. Yet, yes, sometimes I have amended. Still, should the record be revealed, there’d be many ‘wronged’.

My deceit is horrid. Most unconscionable of all, I've lied and cheated and stolen as I still grow up, intentionally. (Small things are as guilty as bigger ones.) One forgets a promise! One breaks integrity. One thinks one can get away with it, but conscience, that niggle of the evolving spirit, knows there is no release until one understands not only how to stop, but to forgive the self, and all others too.

'What kind of friend?' Imperfect. Fallible. Learning. Caring. Wanting to make amends. I am forgiving. I am inclusive, accepting, absorbing, assimilating and integrative. I want to improve, to get more-better. I want to help. I want to be interested, to show interest, to act from care. I want to be honest and clear and sincere and authentic. I need to make mistakes, yes, but hopefully ones of oversight, not intentionality. That's what kind of friend I am: Imperfect, always, but trying. You?

Being Busy

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

I am no Knight in Shining Armour. I’m no KISA. Rather, I’m a little like Sir Pellinore who creaks onto the stage of Camelot, rough-made wooden dog in tow (as I once directed it), presenting a pleasant but befuddled countenance of all. Sir Pellinore is in search of the Holy Grail. So am I. And while Pellinore settles into Camelot and at last has his creature comforts supplied for him while being inner-free, I needs perpetuate my nesting, yet one more time. It seems that nesting requires repetition after repetition. Besides the hauling of the life-long items of my accoutrements, there is the replacing of things life had needed at each pit-stop; a mattress; a barbecue; a TV; a vacuum cleaner; paint for the damaged wall; yet again the building of bookcases; yet again the acquiring of materials and fabrics and a shower rod and fixing plumbing and the making of a new bed frame. Yes, moving is an ongoing process until, well, until one has entirely moved. And then, for how long does one stay? And even while staying there is always so much ‘stuff’ to do! Indeed, it is as the Buddha says, “Before enlightenment, hauling water, chopping wood; after enlightenment, chopping wood, hauling water.” Yes, I am no KISA. I’ve no time to shine my armour. The pieces of it lie in little rust heaps behind me, o’er-looked on the long-past battlefields of my passage. Or put on shelves.

Sir Barry is dying. It is no easy passage. Lung cancer has him reduced to a man in a cave, the curtains drawn, his life curtailed to waking moments in which he may be distracted from his demise by the news on TV. No friends may visit. No socializing is permitted. He does not want to be remembered as the fallen knight. He knows that our love for him is for our memory of what he was, a knight in shining armour doing battle for others. Instrumental at the Council Table, an advocate for the least advantaged, and a man who tackled the problems of life with alacrity, with expertise, with energy and zeal, Sir Barry exemplified the KISA that we men try to be, the Knight in Shining Armour. But now he lies dying. And we may not see him. And his demise is a long-slow dreadful thing indeed, especially for his Lady Carolyn, his most beloved, beleaguered, and perpetually attendant M’Lady. 

Of what use the news to you? We all have friends who face death. We all have stories of ourselves and of others who are enduring the great passages of life, the battlefields that last a day, an hour, but are nevertheless battlefields indeed. Narrow escapes are just that; time contracted into a crack in the roadway over which one may trip into the face of oncoming traffic, except that one ‘just in time’ managed to avoid, to skirt, to o’er-leap, or to skip over the problem. And of what use bruiting it all abroad? Who needs to know? Why should it matter that Sister Carol has palliative patients who may drain all the love and care she can give, over and over, so that she learns to be a conduit between her God and his courtiers, giving and giving, and in her very giving finding fulfillment of her being; her natural calling. Did Mother Joan not find her husband’s long-hidden daughter to be an angel, indeed?

Question marks can go astray. We forget the thread of our connections to others. We forget why we’re doing something, writing something, reading something. What is that we’re looking for? Does one's Innesfree really exist within the context of the distractions and the busy-ness of living life itself? And even then, when found, as the poet says, there is work to do!

Indeed, with twins on the way; with a stroke to overcome; with an unexpected lay-off; with cancer at the foreground of worry; with persistent financial hardship; with the ravages of addiction always just at bay; friends carry their battle-swords at the ready, their armour sometimes not as polished as one may expect. We all are too busy! But we each are searching for Innesfree. And even then, when found, there’s still a lot of 'stuff', indeed, to do! Anon!       

An Annotated Anguish

Aden was a pleasant memory. And then things changed. Yesterday, March 04, 2016, I happened to note on the BBC news an article about the shootings, the brutality. So very different from my childhood memory of Aden, 1963. Yesterday, nineteen people in an old age home, many of them the caring nuns, were first handcuffed, and then shot in the head. Deliberately. And for me the horror of it, even so far away, continues to resonate. My souvenir of a beaded belt (on which Aden is spelt, kept all these 50 plus years,) hangs on the wall in my studio. It was a memoir of alien innocence. Now it is a memoir of alien sin. And sin, for me, is defined by intentional harm.

Lists of the brutal and bad people in our history are easily made. Hitler. Idi Amin. Pol Pot. Stalin. Among others. It is the intentional infamy behind their crimes that resonates. That, and the sheer amount of people they've affected. Will a Donald Trump be next? A surprising many are against Obama. Yes, history will show the record of a person’s progress. Boadicea. Eva Peron. Hillary Clinton. Alexander. Napoleon. Justin Trudeau. But what of the individual recruit or conscript into an Army that then threatens the family and welfare of all concerned with the inductee for disobedience? And what of individual actions by a single person forced to carry a bomb, a gun, carry out a horrific command? How does time treat that person, and why are so many intentionally harmful acts, evil acts, so readily committed and so easily forgotten? Who forces whom? What small acts do I not do?

Forgotten? Yes, it is now the 8^th day of March, 2016. Aden, for me, fell on March 04. Who recalls that ‘bit of news’? Who is there among those I know that are affected by this tragedy of handcuffing and shooting nuns and elders? Who knows of or has ever been to Aden? Who else 'feels' this tragedy?

Forgotten? Yes: “Boudica's husband Prasutagus ruled as a nominally independent ally of Rome and left his kingdom jointly to his daughters and the Roman emperor in his will. However, when he died his will was ignored, and the kingdom was annexed. Boudica was flogged, her daughters raped, and Roman financiers called in their loans.

In AD 60 or 61, when the Roman governor Gaius Suetonius Paulinus was campaigning on the island of Anglesey off the northwest coast of Wales, Boudica led the Iceni, the Trinovantes, and others in revolt.^[2]” ~ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boudica

Time smudges on. Other things take our interest. We grow not necessarily indifferent, not really insensitive, not actually ignorant, but we grow accepting and including and absorbing and come to integrate all that happened and happens as part of the deal of living. The deal? Yes, there is nothing perfect, nothing absolute (except taxes and death), and there is nothing guaranteed. You live; ‘you takes yer chances.’ Oversensitivity (particularly in Dabrowskian terms) will cripple you. The daily news is too full of horror and pain and insuperable accounts of grim and gore. We are making history. It won’t ever be a verdant tapestry of paradise. The lion and the lamb and the dragon and the bear will not be friends.

I see through my father’s glasses. He died in 2004. I have the pair of spectacles that were taken off his fallen body and placed on a shelf. And just today, this morning, I fished them out for the first time from my own history and through his view saw my 1963 Aden belt yet again. Clearly. Dad and I were once there, in Aden, then in Egypt, then in... but who really cares? We see through our own eyes. And history, in the end, is the collective visions of mankind. We make of life as we will, until our own end. It’s an individual that must make choices. Now there’s challenge that can appear alien, indeed.

Kicked By Kindness

Falling off your pathway is like being kicked. It yanks you into imbalances. It forces reaction. The surprise is disintegrating. The unexpectedness is discombobulating. The hardship scatters your senses. Sensibility goes awry. It sucks. For who has not fallen? Who has never been kicked, emotionally, verbally, directly, metaphorically? It is not an advent reserved for the disfavoured, for the poor, for the malcontent, or for kings; it is a thing of chaos and disorder. No, it is not always dependent on consequence. It does not necessarily depend on one's own responsibility or actions. The kick comes at you unexpectedly, dealt by date; by circumstance; by chance. And what was, is no longer. The vicissitudes of life can verily vanquish its victims. (Say what?)

Yet not all are vanquished. (And not all are undeserving). There are many who see the advent of misfortune as an opportunity to redirect, to alter course, to adjust, accommodate, to flow with the go. There are many who'd make of their disintegration a positive thing.

Dabrowski (1981) has it that unless we take disintegration and make a hierarchical shift within it we in actuality only change the physical circumstances of our lives to better (or worse) but are in effect essentially unmoved within. We bring our old judgments and dissatisfactions and gripes and growlies with us; we are not really changed. The addition of more rooms to our house, or more zeros to our paycheques makes us happier, yes, but does not change our essence. We remain myopic or bigoted or racist or offensive or defensive or victimized or belligerent. The change we experienced was mostly material. We grew on a horizontal plane. We now may know more, have seen more, have been to more places, but are not fundamentally affected. We are what we are. As such, Dabrowski's Theory of Positive Disintegration dwells much on the dynamisms inherent in our being, and does not predict much for the potential of one who is not essentially auto-telic, or a person not passionate about self-direction, about meta-cognition.

A 2013 research report by Kaplan on Kahan and Nyhan about our collective brain-based reaction to our evolution comes in a short essay review at this link: http://www.alternet.org/media/most-depressing-discovery-about-brain-ever . It essentially states that we do not change, despite being giving the facts that contradict our present behaviours. We are so acculturated to the status quo that we hardly can become a unique individual; we hardly can break free from what everyone else is doing and thinking and being in our immediate society, if not our global one. Being ‘a child of the universe,’ as stated in Desiderata, does not quite do it for us. We see ourselves too much attendant on the doings-on of our own immediate Petri-dish. (No, a melt-down or two on the highway of life may not quite suffice. Nor, necessarily, will walking the St. James Way.)

When delivering the bad news to another, when directly responsible for implementing a change in their lives that might adversely affect them (or conversely make life yet more-better for their having to break from their obligation to an old paradigm), we give a kick that is disintegrating.... (So sorry, but may it turn out positively for you, truly!) At the end of it all, reaction might be tempered into response. And at the end of it all, no matter what, the direction one takes from the unexpected blow is up to you. You alone are the action, or the receiver, whether or not the ball is in your court. You alone make the lemonade from... And sometimes, even the kindness behind bad news can feel like a kick, indeed.

How to turn it into positive disintegration? Evolution itself is dependent on acquiring new habits. And evolution is dependent on change, one by one by one by two, by yet more. Always.