180 million things I hate about you: on the American dream and the month of February.

Women's better health, and the continuing upward climb of the American Negro across the nation's workplaces, schools and communities, among other sundry assorted items.  In the interim, does it not seem business as usual, this continual swerve, such as "#thestruggle", as we put bags of money into holes in our own walls, and the weather wearily trudges along, alternating between sweat and frost like so many hummingbird-heart schoolgirls.

Or, as it were, in the "entitlement" conversation: the better health of the American Negro and the diminuatives amongst all of us, and of them, I stand on the edge and look, inward, towards the very core of the struggle, though my eyesight fails to permeate the inner layers, and I see, perhaps, but complaints, rather than a "street-level reality".  A clutch in my guts as I purse to pull and struggle at the halter, but such as it is, nothing is uncommon, I suppose, as in nothing that has not vexed anyone else.

Which is usually much more than enough to turn upward the toes of any good man.

Asking him of the plight of women, he would agree, without substance I think, being essentially a vapor among the throng that may or may not support various birthing privileges or abortion access guised under an umbrella of various other services, and the wolves they were tossed towards don't advance, but wait for the diminuatives to rush unto them.  And its the same intonation as to talking of gas prices or the weather, one would think, the concerns from outside that circle, and the vessels of trade, the wares of commerce and industry, and all that.

The optimistic upward climb, that as success and status increases, beguiling Fox News, the climber's altruism responds inversely.  As if to say, "I don't listen to Donald", and he had 180 million subscribers, or something thereabout, people listening to the person the outwardly claim they don't listen to, just a sort of Sissyphus orbital to pull them down into a more helpful position, I would say, just like jigsaw puzzle pieces in a little cardboard box.  With ever the promise of daylight at the end of the tunnel, unless one of the select unwanted and inconvenient few, "chosen".

Sissyphus pushed, not that he was accomplishing a simple task, but think, not that the item would be uplifted, but that both would be upon the precipice ultimately, and further more, most of his existence, the item, left alone, would have crushed him to death.  So he pushed, and the philosopher is distracted so by the futility of the thing, but what of the social meaning, or the utilitarian meaning, other than just spending time, pulling frozen peas and carrots from a freezer, to a chef, and then, after those are finished, to turn around again and get more.

If Sissyphus is a lost cause, then aren't we all?

I mopped the floor, and it was similar seeming futility, that some wizard or pyrotechnic would make a robot to do the job more efficiently, but it was that same compounding continuum of human use that was my boulder to struggle with, that done once was not final at all.  Five days a week it would be done, over and over, a few stray footprints being as the boulder on the mountain.

Following your own heart-felt, blissful truth.

Of course, it was incumbent upon the New York Times to proclaim God dead, and Nietzsche taking up the slogan himself, said so ruefully, that he would be replaced with something.

"Listen to your parents" became

"Listen to your hearts", and finally, the poison drought:

"Follow your bliss".

And then, noise systematically sandwich smashed into categories and different folders, directories, buildings in the science department.

"Follow your own truth."

Until, at long last, no truth whatsoever, and no life matters particularly.

I reasoned this in part under the auspices of a tempest, with network access down, and my brain left to its own desserts, Epictetus and some other.

At long last, a two cent printed circuit dictating my existence?  I relent and take to the woods, in the Unabomber Bridal Chamber, with an Oliver mechanical typewriter, and plenty of spleen: spleen and caffeine.

And in the meantime, I owe no one nothing, under the Democrats, nothing but to love them: live and let live.

Replacing the essential core of man with something cheap and undignified, perhaps the way of those in Cathay, or something, to do the chop-chop motion, that people can be stacked like cords of firewood drying in the sun, beetles and so forth crawling around on them, that superficial dampness beneath, something of the leeching of lifewater from the earth.

But God was not dead, and in the meantime, our own truths meant precious little when there was advertising time to sell.  Nietzsche would have been impressed or totally galled by how they whore to the sponsors.

But even the spirit American, the romanticists, and the thinkers, dirty little toenails and potato grease on their chins, still: to thine own self....

And then something of the very awareness of the Akashic record, and disappearing peoples of old, and various technologies lost, but tantalizing us, leaving a residue beneath even the numerous sands of time.....

Trying to make a program of life, a downward push on the society, befuddling the Aristocracy and so forth, a communal unhappiness that we butter our cheapest breads with at the morning table: marxism and communism, conflict theory, class warfare, to the extent that we have raided our enemies' cupboards.

That of late, Smithfield, Chinese, celestial, old Cathay, and the eternal churn of bodies, as the world cedes every advantage to the dishonest player, in the name of his own conscience, and the girls are barred from universities, and my dance class begins to meet in secret: things banned by the politbureau, gyrations that they hate so well.

The downward pressure of one's own bliss, the communal dystopia, the grayness and indecency of total equality among the classes of people, and the assistants telling the old one what to say, the old eight-prong king, and the presses running night and day with narrative, and the endless bending to advertisers and the corporate masters, some 20 million thrown at the top, the board, the chowder society, the ballet set.......

Ne hou ching me ming zi...

They were saying just yesterday, if the younger black adults were to support a given party, that given party would have to come across with things that mattered to that particular set of voters.  And the eternal struggle: the engineered balancing of racism versus wide-open borders, the greatest city in the world nearing a fall in the face of indigent migrants....

They balanced this such that no platform is particularly palatable, and is just a line of talk for various outlets.

 

near the end of autumn in the southeast.

This time of year in the southeastern United States has these mid-morning thaws, in which a thin veneer of overnight or early morning frost beings to melt in the brilliant near-winter sunlight.

This thaw is like the renewing of the mind, the growing midday temperature being a kind of growing hope, a kind of destiny enlarging and increasing with the advance of the clock.

And overnight?  Like the caterpillar entering his little cocoon for later, a kind of "gone to earth" type of wish for rejuvenation, and during the day, the romance is to come as the thaw comes, the ice "effervescing", turning from white to clear, a thin skin of frost becoming water, and the clear water then evaporating in the later midday.

We're in a kind of bated breath that happens between Thanksgiving and Christmas, when the advertisers are wanting our money, and the loved ones are beginning to impinge upon our time: baking, shopping, the red velour ribbons, green wreaths of cedar or pine, and the white oak leaves are our version of snow across the SEC.

Review: The Merry Wives of Windsor.

 

The Merry Wives of WindsorThe Merry Wives of Windsor by William Shakespeare
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A comedy without a lot of Shakespeare's usual verbal flourish, which should be far from off-putting for the modern reader, because it means this one is more accessible than some of his other plays.

History says that the English queen suggested that she wanted to see a comedy featuring John Falstaff, and here Shakespeare complies in what could be called "John Falstaff and the Merry Wives of Windsor".

Accessible, somewhat physical, and somewhat also "adult" featuring humor regarding infidelity and jealousies, with of course, a stock wedding featuring a daughter torn between her parents' choices in suitors for her: but that's really just a subplot, in the long run.

View all my reviews

The God of Hope providing Peace and Joy to the believer.

If only it were worded this way.  But here are three King James Version verses stringed together from different books.

"Now the God hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that ye may abound in hope, through the power of the Holy Ghost.

Now unto him that is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that worketh in us.

And God is able to make all grace abound toward you; that ye, always having all sufficiency in all things, may bound to every good work."

This was:

Romans 15:13

Ephesians 3:20

2 Corinthians 9:8

Shuffling the verses often makes a great message, but may or may not damage the context of the passage.

Productivity: DRICE method for productivity and Google Workspace Calender with Metrics("Time Analysis")

lenny@substack.com has a piece from Darius Contractor on the "detailed RICE framework", which can be applied to pretty much any question-decision-action cycle, not just in business.

Also, Google Workspace has added schedule metrics("Time Analysis") to Google Calendar in Workspace.  It looks good, and without the paid account or pro account, one has to use add-ins for such info.

One can look back and get tabulations and even graphs of time spent and comparisons of time spent at various things, even color coded.

 

as always

site email: abaddon1215@gmail.com

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Henry David Thoreau and Walden

"Screw you all.  I'm going to live in the woods for a while."

He took him to the woods, for lack of much else of substance to do.  He was classically educated, Ivy League, studying Greek, reading Homer in the Greek, as was the fashion of the day, that so much of the curricula bedrock of the day dovetailed with the Ancient Greek language.

He started a school that failed, and for a time, he was even Ralph Waldo Emerson's housekeeper, just earning a wage and on occasion writing a book.

A unique man, educated, but in plain language, he could justify at length so much of his own existence.

Consider it: a person without a proper career.  In today's age of goals and devices, one works a career towards a dream home, and then, Dr Martin Seligman and others have studies that indicate that the peak of happiness in this modern existence is a vacation of at least one week.  So the dream is to take a break from the dream, maybe.

Thoreau took most of a year, near Concord Massachusetts, camped-out in a self-built cabin on the edge of Walden Pond.  He had some 30 dollars in groceries, mostly staples, as he seemed to live on a kind of hard-tack or "hoe-cake" or something, a simple fritter of sorts of simply flour and water.

His approach seems to be an outsider's look, as in an earlier writing, the "Two Weeks...", in a chapter on "Sundays", he looked at religion from what seemed to be an outsider's perspective, uniquely original, taking on eyes of someone seeing for the first time, and explaining as if speaking to someone with no knowledge of the thing.  Clinical, like, and a nice little time capsule for the modern era.

There was, of course, the "Two Weeks On The Potomac and Merrimack Rivers" and his "Cape Cod", in which he gave a nice naturalist view of the flora and fauna of the countryside, though he dips less into that literary vein in Walden.

The ultimate bit of minimalist philosophy, perhaps, in a man, not of property or stature, with perhaps a bit of an odd reputation.  And of the modern era, we note that his work survives so-called "counter culture" because he was an abolitionist, in the present lensing of history: one of the "good guys".  A day laborer quite often, working a harvest, helping raise a barn, for his income, then finding fame in posterity later as an author, eclipsing to an extent the Transcendentalist Emerson in his lasting influence.

Indeed, a first edition of such a book as Walden would be a great prize for my own person if I were not such a downcast poor day laborer myself, but I have annotated copies in plain print, and a digital Thoreau, "Complete Works", with of course, access to Thoreau with Gutenberg holdings and the Walden Pond Society.

In reading Walden, we have kind of an intoxication of neuroplasticity, pathways in the brain being routed, something in the unique quality of the writing, the originalist kind of perspective, the renaissance man of the youngling America, and we find that thinking can be intoxicating, and thinking about thinking is an even higher intoxication, as Thoreau talks about laying in the mid-morning sun on the bank of the lake, and so forth, having his idle time outside of tending his garden, reading Homer.  

Consider this somewhat "contemplative", a time of being lost in one's thoughts.  As is said in the King James, "God man made upright, but man has sought many devices".  I note the overbearing presence of the cell phone in modernity.  Android now gives the casual user a usage report weekly, tallying total hours of usage, and even presenting in terms of metrics, a comparison of week-to-week numbers.

Thoreau was minimalist, before minimalist was cool, and a "contemplative" but not in the religious sense.

Note that Civil Disobedience is not mentioned here.  It's a work for its own page, I think, worthy of so much mention for not only its substance, but its influence in the history of American Civil Rights.

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180 million things I hate about you: on the American dream and the month of February.

Women's better health, and the continuing upward climb of the American Negro across the nation's workplaces, schools and communities...