STC

"I could inform the dullest author how he might write an interesting book — let him relate the events of his own life with honesty — not disguising the feelings that accompanied them.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1797).

Since I have recently been "accused" of being a bit of a "confessional poet," I felt the need (after looking up what it meant) to post a bit about whether or not I would consider myself one. I was able to find this lovely quote by Mr. Coleridge that pretty much summed up what I hope to achieve with this blog. Of course, I had no idea that I was attempting to place myself in such exalted company, and clearly I can not make a rhyme to save my life. I was pleasantly surprised that Coleridge is to be considered a confessional poet, his poetry was some of the first that I was ever "exposed" to as a child, and I still remember some of it quite well. "The Pains of Sleep" (http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/stc/Coleridge/poems/Pains_of_Sleep.html ) remains one of my favourite poems, and when sober I can almost quote the entire first verse. Not bad since I last read it about 15 years ago. "Dejection: An Ode" and "This Lime Tree Bower, My Prison" are also some of my favourite poems. Clearly, Coleridge had a problem, it was called being addicted to opium, and his stated reason for writing one of his most famous poems Kubla Khan is that he was high as a fucking kite at the time. His excuse for not finishing the poem is even lamer, he was interrupted by a "gentleman from Porlock" i.e. he fucking came down off his high, and his "muse" deserted him.

However, this is not a post about my man love for Coleridge. I think I have made that pretty plain. It is a post (I hope) about what I am trying to accomplish. I realize that there are not a vast number of actual "events" in this blog, and perhaps that means I am not following Coleridge's advice. Instead, I try to, with honesty, attempt to detail my thoughts, reactions, or missteps in relation to the event whose details I ,with malice of forethought, blur. I hope that I am not the dullest of "authors" (not really sure blogging counts as being an author). Since this is my "confession" I believe I get to decide the exact format, and I choose to gray out the events, and to not disguise the feelings that accompany them. I think it is more important to detail the feelings that struck me after I missed that absolute sitter with the keeper beaten, than to detail the lovely cross I wasted, and the crowd's justified poor reaction to my folly. I am sure there are people would could also claim that my honesty is in question as well, and that may be a crime that I am guilty of. The honesty part is a big step. First, you have to realize that you must be honest with yourself, and conclude that you are not the hero of every story/event in your life. In fact, sometimes you are quite obviously the most villainous fellow in the room. Sometimes you are not even the most important person/object in the event. This is a hard concept to wrap my mind around since I hope that I would at least be the star of my own life, but sometimes I am merely the Peter Ustinov to some upstaging bastard's Kirk Douglas. To thine own self be true sometimes has to mean that you must truthfully admit you were a proper bastard in a certain situation. How else can you confess? False confessions (and I have be told I have seen a lot of them) are just some fool's way of making themselves feel either better or more important than they actually are. Perhaps, as Peter O'Toole (as Henry II in the Lion in Winter) "my life, when written, will read better than it lived." I am not convinced that is necessarily a bad thing. After all, it does imply that someone took the time, and thought you were important/interesting enough to write down your life's story. We all have, in some respects, our own set of "Notes from the Underground," and it might not matter to anyone else in the world but the person writing the notes. Even the most mundane things could, in theory, be made to be engrossing. I believe that is what Coleridge is trying to say. Do not concern yourself with the idea that the details would bore a vulture to death, concern yourself with the feelings, and then worry about how to turn them into something that other people, who are as "Idle as a Painted Ship Upon a Painted Ocean," would want (or better yet feel compelled to) read.

Me and Trash Can #1947

Tragedy has struck. It seems that sometime around 9:00 a.m. today person(s) unknown made off with my trash can. Since today is trash pick up day, I strongly suspect that the mob, err Fat Tony, err no the lawfully licensed and bonded trash company has stolen my trash can. Of course I can not prove it because I did not witness it myself, nor after canvassing the neighbor have found anyone willing to come forward, and say that they saw the incident. As Denzel Washington put it so well "it is not what you know, it is what you can prove." As of right now I cannot prove who took it my trash can, but I am pretty sure I know. After all, who the fuck steals a trash can? I have waited a good while to "report" this abduction to the authorities (who do you call when some can naps your trash can?) in the hopes of receiving a ransom note or a list of demands that I would need to meet in order to obtain the safe return of old #1947 unhurt. No note has been forthcoming, no demands have been expressed. In a panic/rage I called the first authority I could think of. They, of course, directed me to someone else. I called the second "group" and they informed me that "the missing cart will be located and returned in 1 to 10 business days." The bloody things is not MISSING, it has been STOLEN, CAN NAPPED I tell you. This is a CRIME, and I demand justice, or at least my fucking trash can back. #1947 has, to my knowledge, not run up any major gambling debts, has not been sneaking around with other trash can's women or men (I confess I am not sure if #1947 is a male or female. How does one check without being rude?). No, #1947 has, in our two year relationship, been a solid (waste) citizen, never once complaining about the foul stuff that I crammed down its throat. He/she took being wheeled to curb without comment, even when I was clumsy/drunk a time or two and banged him/her into the car or wall. Now all I can do is sit forlonly as the sleet pelts down, and stare at the last known location (i.e. my curb) that I left #1947, wonder what terrors he/she is being subjected to my the manics that are cruel enough to can nap a man's trash can three days before Boxing Day, when #1947 will be sorely needed/missed.

Dawn's Watch

Dawn breaks and my watch begins. Fancy little line isn't it? A little over dramatic, but hey it is 7 fucking o'clock in the morning. My "watch" is not nearly as dangerous as it sounds nor is it as dangerous as the Night's watch. I do not have to face the things that go bump in the night while they are bumping in the night. I have the pleasure of dealing with these things after they have stopped bumping (for the most part at least). My watch is not exactly on the front line, we stand a middling distance behind a certain blue wall that, at places, is too thin. However, most of them do their best, and we are grateful for the attempt, but they can not solve or stop every thing, and dawn always breaks. When dawn breaks me and my companions attempt to sort all the night's problems out as best as we can. Sometimes it appears that we are trying to bail out the ocean with a very, very, small spoon, but nevertheless we try. Those that we defend, I, for one, do not love, but someone seems to think that I do a passable job at it, and I have not been relieved of my job yet. We are not perfect, just like any other organization we have our share of people that are depriving a village of a perfectly good idiot, and we have people who's brilliance can be at time utterly breath taking to watch. I, like the vast majority of my companions, fall somewhere in the middle (probably on the low middle, but still near enough to call the middle, I can at least SEE the middle when I look up), neither too stupid to live or too smart for our own good. We are the few deep breathes that everyone must take after waking up from a bad dream with no one by their side. We try to calm, and make sense of the situation (for the most part). Most of us are not the fighting type, which is why we are on Dawn's Watch to begin with. We understand that "man" is born to hate, and in some respects, still at times an animal. Luckily for me by the time I see them most of them are in cages already. Of course they will tell you that they do not deserve to be, and it was all just a "big misunderstanding" or that they "did not do it", or "the other person is lying". These are the "excuses" that I get the pleasure of hearing most often. On occasion someone will come up with a novel approach, and at times those are truly mind boggling, but in a weird way appreciated. The "space alien" excuse can provide a little humour, or maybe a challenge in its own unique way. I am not exactly sure when my "watch" will end, I do know that when it does someone will take my place. The "things that go bump in the night" do not stop. If it is cold they slow down, but they do not stop. They have always been there, and they will always be there. It is incumbent on people like myself (the big hero, ha ha) to attempt to thin their numbers, but we are encumbered by all sorts of limitations some good, some bad. They even made us swear on oath when we signed up for this watch. It isn't for life, though some of us do serve for the majority of their lives, but I still consider it to be a pretty serious thing. At times, it is hard to remember the words, other times it is difficult to follow the spirit of the words. However, I said the words, and for this dawn, and for as many dawns as I am allowed, I will be here trying to sort out things that go bump in the night.

The Way

No this is not some post about Taoish principles, and how to achieve enlightenment. The above picture is a snapshot of the nearly 9,000 mental defectives that braved 40 degree temperatures to run the annual St. Jude marathon in my fair city. Now, I am not a runner never have been, and never will be. I think people who run for the "fun"of it are mentally defective and dangerous to society as a whole. However, as I sat for nearly an hour stuck in traffic because the route of this "race" managed to close down parts of three MAJOR streets (all always very busy) in my fair town, I begin to think about being in the way. Clearly to me, and the rest of the poor bastards stuck in our cars watching these idiots stagger past (some of them were looked like they were 100 years old and about to die. why in the name of all good sense you would run a marathon at that age boggles the imagination) THEY were in the way. In the way of traffic, in the way of all normal, right-thinking citizens that choose to DRIVE rather than run on streets. I did take a moment to realize that to them I guess the cars we were driving were in the way. In the way of them trying to commit suicide by running. The idea hit me that no matter where you are in the world/universe, you are probably in someone else's way. Lingering in a doorway while you try to figure out the mysteries of higher math? Trust me you are in the way of some other bastard who just wants to get into the room. Trying to decide which particular brand of toilet paper you want? You are in the way of some person who just LOVES Angel Soft, and will not use anything else. Children are fantastic at being in the way. They are like free radicals. Straight lines and children are not friends. They walk, toddle, stagger, or fall in all sorts of random ways and directions (another reason to not like the little germ factories). I find this extremely frustrating, but I also think that perhaps I need to realize that these rules do apply to me as well. Although, I do not linger in doorways (Trust me, I tried it one day just to see the appeal, and I just did not like it so much), and I do not spend too much time pondering my choice of toilet paper. I am pretty sure I am still somehow in some other person's way. I am sure they are standing behind me as I struggle over the "ketchup" and "catsup" dilemma, thinking just pick one fat boy, and move on with your life. Still even with this in mind, I seriously wanted to run down a few of these mental defectives today, if only to put a couple of them out of their misery.

Who Knew?

Yet another reason for me to be madly in love with Greta Garbo!


Your result for The Nationality Preference (W. Euro)

Swedish Girls (sans goats)

9% Italian, 9% German, 36% English, 73% Swedish, 27% Spanish and 45% French!

Seems like you're into ultra-fair skin types with very, very delicate features and light hair. In the northern country of Sweden, these traits are very common (as well are health spas, by the way). Some famous swedish beauties include Greta Garbo, Ingrid Bergman, Mini Anden, and Victoria Silvstedt. Sweden is one of the world's largest exporters of up and coming models.


http://www.okcupid.com/tests/the-nationality-preference-w-euro-test

The "What Type of Intellectual are You?" Test

Yes I was/am this damn bored.



The Dialectician


You are The Dialectician!You've accepted long ago that gaining knowledge is a lifetime project. In fact, in your mind, you've just barely scratched the surface. But you feel an urge to learn everything you can from whomever you meet, and to encourage others on their own pursuits.People may find you unconvincing, or are so confident in their knowledge they don't recognize the challenges you can produce. But the dialectician has usually been recognized as ahead of his time, eventually.


http://www.okcupid.com/tests/the-what-type-of-intellectual-are-you-test