Category Archives: ritual

On bookstores

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I’m always up for going into the next bookstore. I’ve been addicted to books my whole life, but I don’t see that as a bad thing. I don’t necessarily need to be looking for any particular book. I am always content with just browsing through the novels, perusing the non-fiction, rejecting any and all self-help books (none of them work anyway). Hard cover, soft cover, trade paperbacks, I don’t particularly care as long as the whole book is there. Old, new, books are always a new adventure, even when they are old. I can read titles, leaf through random volumes, dawdle over a well-written preface, linger over an undiscovered novel that I had no idea existed at all. I am capricious, following no line of logic or organized pattern of searching. Real discovery occurs when you break-out of pre-established lines of thought or prejudice, adopting a chaotic, non-linear anti-process for discovering new titles. Bookstores, especially independent bookstores, or even better, used bookstores, are a savage jungle of titles, authors, and narratives, meta and other. Upon entering a bookstore I don’t always have an objective in mind, and I have no problem with walking out empty-handed. At this point in my life, I have enough books to serve me for a good long time, and some books need to be left behind for future reading endeavors. Yet, you never know when you might come across something new (or old) that really speaks to you. You have to be open to everything when you walk into a bookstore.

On bookstores

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I’m always up for going into the next bookstore. I’ve been addicted to books my whole life, but I don’t see that as a bad thing. I don’t necessarily need to be looking for any particular book. I am always content with just browsing through the novels, perusing the non-fiction, rejecting any and all self-help books (none of them work anyway). Hard cover, soft cover, trade paperbacks, I don’t particularly care as long as the whole book is there. Old, new, books are always a new adventure, even when they are old. I can read titles, leaf through random volumes, dawdle over a well-written preface, linger over an undiscovered novel that I had no idea existed at all. I am capricious, following no line of logic or organized pattern of searching. Real discovery occurs when you break-out of pre-established lines of thought or prejudice, adopting a chaotic, non-linear anti-process for discovering new titles. Bookstores, especially independent bookstores, or even better, used bookstores, are a savage jungle of titles, authors, and narratives, meta and other. Upon entering a bookstore I don’t always have an objective in mind, and I have no problem with walking out empty-handed. At this point in my life, I have enough books to serve me for a good long time, and some books need to be left behind for future reading endeavors. Yet, you never know when you might come across something new (or old) that really speaks to you. You have to be open to everything when you walk into a bookstore.

On scary movies

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I am currently watching “The Frankenstein meets the Wolf Man.” (1943) One of the multiple, cheap, and tawdry sequels that are so common in the film industry. The studios made all of those sequels, cheap and tawdry, because there was so much money to be made. No matter how bad the films were, they still made tons of money. They made/make money because people loved to be scared, to experience the vicarious thrill of fear that they do not have in their own lives. All scary films are about fear, and yet modern society is quickly becoming scary enough all by itself. Perhaps scary movies are more about the fears we harbor in our sub-conscience than about the ones we face daily on the freeways, at work, or at school. Most of these “monster” movies are based on the beauty and the beast dialectic, and this movie is no different. The beauty here is IIona Massey, a stunning blond actress from Budapest, and she plays opposite both the monster and the wolf man. The voice of reason and modern science is played by Dr. Mannering, the stand-in for the dead Dr. Frankenstein. The problem with making loads of sequels is that in each movie most of the characters are killed, maimed, or burned–often dismembered or frozen, and so you often need an entirely new cast for each film. Characters don’t carry over from movie to movie unless they can’t die or are already undead. The absurdity of life presented by the irrational story lines of most monster movies is a metaphor for the more abstract absurdity that makes up our everyday lives. The frightening part of the Frankenstein movies is the irrational, murderous nature of the crowd, the angry town’s people who want to lynch anything that moves, shouting, screaming, and whining about everything. The truly frightening part of these films occurs when you can’t see a difference between how the crowd acts in the film and how crowds act in real life. Real life, however, is often much more tragic, much more arbitrary than anything that Hollywood could ever dream up. The survivors of riots, earthquakes, and hurricanes can testify to the terrifying reality of the destructive nature of life on earth. Maybe we go to the movies to watch horror pictures and monster movies because, when the film is over, we know we can just get up and walk out.

On scary movies

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I am currently watching “The Frankenstein meets the Wolf Man.” (1943) One of the multiple, cheap, and tawdry sequels that are so common in the film industry. The studios made all of those sequels, cheap and tawdry, because there was so much money to be made. No matter how bad the films were, they still made tons of money. They made/make money because people loved to be scared, to experience the vicarious thrill of fear that they do not have in their own lives. All scary films are about fear, and yet modern society is quickly becoming scary enough all by itself. Perhaps scary movies are more about the fears we harbor in our sub-conscience than about the ones we face daily on the freeways, at work, or at school. Most of these “monster” movies are based on the beauty and the beast dialectic, and this movie is no different. The beauty here is IIona Massey, a stunning blond actress from Budapest, and she plays opposite both the monster and the wolf man. The voice of reason and modern science is played by Dr. Mannering, the stand-in for the dead Dr. Frankenstein. The problem with making loads of sequels is that in each movie most of the characters are killed, maimed, or burned–often dismembered or frozen, and so you often need an entirely new cast for each film. Characters don’t carry over from movie to movie unless they can’t die or are already undead. The absurdity of life presented by the irrational story lines of most monster movies is a metaphor for the more abstract absurdity that makes up our everyday lives. The frightening part of the Frankenstein movies is the irrational, murderous nature of the crowd, the angry town’s people who want to lynch anything that moves, shouting, screaming, and whining about everything. The truly frightening part of these films occurs when you can’t see a difference between how the crowd acts in the film and how crowds act in real life. Real life, however, is often much more tragic, much more arbitrary than anything that Hollywood could ever dream up. The survivors of riots, earthquakes, and hurricanes can testify to the terrifying reality of the destructive nature of life on earth. Maybe we go to the movies to watch horror pictures and monster movies because, when the film is over, we know we can just get up and walk out.

On getting up early

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Obviously it’s late, so this is not going to be pretty. I hate getting up early for anything, and I especially hate getting up early for either any early morning meeting or an early morning flight. For years I taught class at 8:00 a.m. What was I thinking. I love to stay up late and wrap the darkness around me as I write. Fatigue seems to release the creative juices, knocks down some of the internal editor’s walls, and let’s the imagination just wander aimlessly through the blind alleys of my mind. But if I have to get up early, I’m going to feel bad and sleepy, which is a horrible combination. I was not made for seeing sunrises. I was made for admiring sunsets. I know all of that stuff about the early bird, but I’m just not buying it. What a horrible metaphor, catching the worm and all. You need any worms? Not me. To sleep the sleep of the just plain tired and not worrying about the morning rush half hour is a great pleasure. Driving to work with all the crazies who slept too long and are now speeding to work is just plain dangerous. Between drinking their coffee, putting on their make-up, texting, eating an egg-whatever, and juggling the children, these people are just plain dangerous. No, it’s better to head into work after 8:00 a.m. and it’s even better when you head in after 9:00 a.m. If I can just sleep a few more minutes, drink another couple of sips of coffee, eat my toast while it is still hot, I am a much happier camper. Rushing around in the morning is for the birds, people who don’t plan well, and the frantic. I would rather not associate with that boiling morass of multi-taskers, and go to work in my own sweet time. This does require, however, a bit of discipline because otherwise no one would come in at all, sleep the day away, and nothing would ever get done. On second thought, that doesn’t sound completely awful at all.

On getting up early

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Obviously it’s late, so this is not going to be pretty. I hate getting up early for anything, and I especially hate getting up early for either any early morning meeting or an early morning flight. For years I taught class at 8:00 a.m. What was I thinking. I love to stay up late and wrap the darkness around me as I write. Fatigue seems to release the creative juices, knocks down some of the internal editor’s walls, and let’s the imagination just wander aimlessly through the blind alleys of my mind. But if I have to get up early, I’m going to feel bad and sleepy, which is a horrible combination. I was not made for seeing sunrises. I was made for admiring sunsets. I know all of that stuff about the early bird, but I’m just not buying it. What a horrible metaphor, catching the worm and all. You need any worms? Not me. To sleep the sleep of the just plain tired and not worrying about the morning rush half hour is a great pleasure. Driving to work with all the crazies who slept too long and are now speeding to work is just plain dangerous. Between drinking their coffee, putting on their make-up, texting, eating an egg-whatever, and juggling the children, these people are just plain dangerous. No, it’s better to head into work after 8:00 a.m. and it’s even better when you head in after 9:00 a.m. If I can just sleep a few more minutes, drink another couple of sips of coffee, eat my toast while it is still hot, I am a much happier camper. Rushing around in the morning is for the birds, people who don’t plan well, and the frantic. I would rather not associate with that boiling morass of multi-taskers, and go to work in my own sweet time. This does require, however, a bit of discipline because otherwise no one would come in at all, sleep the day away, and nothing would ever get done. On second thought, that doesn’t sound completely awful at all.

On washing the car

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A most worthless past-time has never been invented. I’ve seen the guys who spend every weekend washing their vehicles, waxing them, polishing up the chrome, making their cars shine. I get it–these vehicles are an extension of their egos. I’m not even going to talk about those people who pay to have their cars washed by others–disgusting. Nevertheless, cars go out into the world, cars get dirty, cars drive through every bit of crap and dirt and pollution that contaminates our environment; these things never vary. I haven’t washed my car in several months; it’s not a habit of mine, and every time it rains, the car just gets a little more dirty. Finally, the back end of my red car had turned gray, so it was time to go to the car wash. Washing a car is bit like painting the Golden Gate Bridge, no matter how often you do it, the car will still be dirty. Other than pride, wanting to show off, why would we possibly wash our cars? Yes, you do want to get the bird excrement off of the paint so the paint doesn’t start to flake off, but just regular dirt doesn’t have that much of an influence on the paint job. In fact, doesn’t the dirt protect the paint from further harm? Now my car is a nice, bright, candy-apple red, again. But I still can’t figure out what drove me to wash my car; it’s only going to get dirty again.

On washing the car

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A most worthless past-time has never been invented. I’ve seen the guys who spend every weekend washing their vehicles, waxing them, polishing up the chrome, making their cars shine. I get it–these vehicles are an extension of their egos. I’m not even going to talk about those people who pay to have their cars washed by others–disgusting. Nevertheless, cars go out into the world, cars get dirty, cars drive through every bit of crap and dirt and pollution that contaminates our environment; these things never vary. I haven’t washed my car in several months; it’s not a habit of mine, and every time it rains, the car just gets a little more dirty. Finally, the back end of my red car had turned gray, so it was time to go to the car wash. Washing a car is bit like painting the Golden Gate Bridge, no matter how often you do it, the car will still be dirty. Other than pride, wanting to show off, why would we possibly wash our cars? Yes, you do want to get the bird excrement off of the paint so the paint doesn’t start to flake off, but just regular dirt doesn’t have that much of an influence on the paint job. In fact, doesn’t the dirt protect the paint from further harm? Now my car is a nice, bright, candy-apple red, again. But I still can’t figure out what drove me to wash my car; it’s only going to get dirty again.

On morning

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Normally, if anything is indeed “normal,” my mornings are about rushing around, showering, slurping a bit of coffee, the martyrdom of shaving, toast (I like toast), and joining the crazy rush on the highways that lead to work. Sometimes I buy gas to break up the routine, but usually morning is pretty routine and crazy stuff. This morning, Saturday, was not about any of that. I am now enjoying my third cup of coffee, I’ve enjoyed home-made pancakes with the family, I’ve stalked around on facebook a bit, looking at new baby pictures, a wounded (he’s okay) cat and the fleur-de-lis on the helmets of my hometown football team. The town of St. Peter, Minnesota was founded by French Bourbons in the eighteenth century, ergo their colors are blue and white and their emblem is the fleur-de-lis. Funny how we never really escape our pasts no matter how hard we try. This morning, a Saturday morning, is both relaxing and contemplative because I don’t have to chase off to be somewhere on time. I often wonder about how much damage we do to ourselves by trying to meet deadlines, getting to work “on-time,” or by just rushing off in a general and haphazard fashion. Nothing about a Monday through Friday morning is either relaxing or positive. Perpetually late, myself, sometimes I wonder if I was born five minutes late and I’ve never been able to make up that time. Most mornings remind me of a perpetual chase for some totally undefined goal or fuzzy mirages, amorphous shapes of desire and envy. When I wake up I am not in any kind of shape to do anything important, and I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one. Sometimes people go to bed late, or they sleep poorly, have nightmares, toss and turn. Getting up to an alarm is a form of legal torture that, after a number of years or decades, leaves an indelible scar–you end up a retired person who can’t sleep anymore after six a.m. So, ironically, when you have mornings on which you don’t have to get up, you can’t sleep anyway. The chaotic mornings of contemporary life cannot be a healthy way of starting the day. Sleep experts keep reminding us all that most people don’t ever get enough sleep and are permanently sleep-deprived, short-tempered, cranky, and irked. Road rage cannot be far behind. Not this morning, however. With a certain amount of glee, I turned off the alarm last night as I went to bed, and got up this morning when I felt like it. The coffee tastes better if you can sip it. The anxiety of facing crazy commuter morning traffic is gone, and I can unload the dishwasher and clean up the kitchen in peace. All of the negativity of a normal, work-a-day, morning is just not there. No kids to wake up and chase off to school, no stop and go traffic jam to deal with at the school, no speeders trying desperately to make it to work on time because they got up late. Overdosing your brain on locally produced cortisol only leads to more stress, which is bad for your whole body, leaving you feeling empty and hungover, cranky. Perhaps the lesson of Saturday morning is bigger and broader than it initially seems: maybe all mornings should be a bit more like Saturday and a lot less like Monday.

On morning

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Normally, if anything is indeed “normal,” my mornings are about rushing around, showering, slurping a bit of coffee, the martyrdom of shaving, toast (I like toast), and joining the crazy rush on the highways that lead to work. Sometimes I buy gas to break up the routine, but usually morning is pretty routine and crazy stuff. This morning, Saturday, was not about any of that. I am now enjoying my third cup of coffee, I’ve enjoyed home-made pancakes with the family, I’ve stalked around on facebook a bit, looking at new baby pictures, a wounded (he’s okay) cat and the fleur-de-lis on the helmets of my hometown football team. The town of St. Peter, Minnesota was founded by French Bourbons in the eighteenth century, ergo their colors are blue and white and their emblem is the fleur-de-lis. Funny how we never really escape our pasts no matter how hard we try. This morning, a Saturday morning, is both relaxing and contemplative because I don’t have to chase off to be somewhere on time. I often wonder about how much damage we do to ourselves by trying to meet deadlines, getting to work “on-time,” or by just rushing off in a general and haphazard fashion. Nothing about a Monday through Friday morning is either relaxing or positive. Perpetually late, myself, sometimes I wonder if I was born five minutes late and I’ve never been able to make up that time. Most mornings remind me of a perpetual chase for some totally undefined goal or fuzzy mirages, amorphous shapes of desire and envy. When I wake up I am not in any kind of shape to do anything important, and I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one. Sometimes people go to bed late, or they sleep poorly, have nightmares, toss and turn. Getting up to an alarm is a form of legal torture that, after a number of years or decades, leaves an indelible scar–you end up a retired person who can’t sleep anymore after six a.m. So, ironically, when you have mornings on which you don’t have to get up, you can’t sleep anyway. The chaotic mornings of contemporary life cannot be a healthy way of starting the day. Sleep experts keep reminding us all that most people don’t ever get enough sleep and are permanently sleep-deprived, short-tempered, cranky, and irked. Road rage cannot be far behind. Not this morning, however. With a certain amount of glee, I turned off the alarm last night as I went to bed, and got up this morning when I felt like it. The coffee tastes better if you can sip it. The anxiety of facing crazy commuter morning traffic is gone, and I can unload the dishwasher and clean up the kitchen in peace. All of the negativity of a normal, work-a-day, morning is just not there. No kids to wake up and chase off to school, no stop and go traffic jam to deal with at the school, no speeders trying desperately to make it to work on time because they got up late. Overdosing your brain on locally produced cortisol only leads to more stress, which is bad for your whole body, leaving you feeling empty and hungover, cranky. Perhaps the lesson of Saturday morning is bigger and broader than it initially seems: maybe all mornings should be a bit more like Saturday and a lot less like Monday.