Monthly Archives: July 2008
After awhile, blogging gets stale…thoughts and observations become redundant. It is a indicator for change, I guess. Hell, I’m not giving up blogging—I just need a way to make it fresh and new for me. I think I need to write about what I love.
How? I’m not sure. What exactly will I write about? Again, not sure. All I know is that I’m growing bored with the current state of affairs around here.
I need to change and evolve.
Or maybe I just need a break. Yeah, I need a break. Be back in a few days!
(DISCLAIMER FROM RANDI’S LAWYER: SHE IS NOT LIABLE FOR ANY ANTI-SOCIAL BEHAVIOR ‘INSPIRED’ BY THIS TITLE.)
I know I should never take my own personal philosophy from a fictional psycho/sociopath….but there is a point to be made with that one simple question.
People feel passionately about politics, religion, and human rights–issues that directly impact lives. People should feel strongly about quality of life and where we, all of humankind, are going.
But some people, who tend to have extreme characteristics in their nature, take everything about themselves and the causes so near and dear to their heart far too seriously. I think that particular brand of people are going to end up bitter and “mentally” old before their time. My message for the day is this: It’s perfectly natural to look at social and personal quanderies through the lens of humor, to dissect the problem with joviality, and to serve up an observation with a peppering of good-natured and appropriate comedy.
I should know because I was once a “serious” person, who was well on the path to bitterness and complete misery. I still am a serious and earnest person, to some extent, but I’ve learned that laughing and trying to find something humorous in a given issue or situation actually helps me cope with life’s annoying curveballs. 🙂
Humor is a powerful tool. Use laughter to persuade rather than harsh, derogatory words. You’ll find it works. (But don’t ask me to be funny; I’m only hilarious unintentionally!)
On a personal note….This week has kicked my ass, wrote my name on it, then kicked it some more. I need this weekend. I need it to recuperate what is left of my energy and sanity….Damn rat race.
I watched a very depressing documentary (I love documentaries) last night. Not only was it depressing for me, it’d also bring down anyone that has compassion for the last category of people that are ‘allowed’ to be picked on. The MORBIDLY obese.
I Eat 33,000 Calories A Day was the name of the documentary, although the four people profiled typically imbibed 14,000 to 15,000. 14,000+ calories a DAY! I think–at most–I’ve had 3000 in one day. These people spend hundreds of dollars on food in a week.
They eat because it makes them feel good to eat. They eat for comfort. They eat to relax enough to fall asleep. It’s quite sad, actually, to see people use food as a substitute for love and human companionship, or as a way to cope with reality. They really can’t stop themselves from compulsively over-eating. I felt frustrated. I wanted to tell them that they are abusing their health in favor of a few Twinkies.
What angers me is the people who look after them….they are enabling these people to kill themselves with food. Believe me, that’s a long, painful way out of this world. As a caretaker said, “He’d just order fatty food anyway, so we just fix up what he wants to eat.” (The question was: Why do you just let him eat?)
Wrong answer, buddy. The right answer would be to take away the phone, make the guy get UP to eat and arrange to have psychatric help available for his food addiction–and not cater to his mental illness. Would any one allow a druggie access to drugs? No! Of course not. Everyone needs to start treating food addiction like drug addiction–with therapy and understanding and a good wake up call when necessary.
Sometimes, you have to be strong for a person until they can be strong for themselves. And I stress that it is necessary to retain love and respect for the individual being cared for. Try to understand their suffering and give them hope so that they can beat their addiction.
I hope I don’t sound unsympathic, but people like these need real help and being an enabler isn’t helping—it’s hurting the food addicts.
I think I know why some people believe in a strict vengeful God; the image of a firm, authoritative figure imparts a feeling of security, which is what many humans look for in uncertain times. (As if there ever has been a “certain” time.) Some Most people like the confining reassuring structure of rules set in stone. It explains, at least in their point of view, how people should behave and how society should be.
Religious dogma does not take into account the psychology of individuals. Rather, it assumes that everyone must think and be alike. (Conformists unite!) Those that are different are shunned and ridiculed. In extreme strains of religion, people who refuse to obey and conform are killed.
What about people with mental illness–like schizophrenics–who have lost touch with reality? Are they they to be judged for a condition that isn’t their fault? What about people with “personality” disorders? (I’m not sure if personality disorders are due to a biological predisposition. Or if it is caused by abuse. I think a little of both, actually. The Mayo Clinic seems to think so.) And how about the other developmentally challenged folk….the ones that are sweet and special, but don’t quite grasp the advanced concepts of religion and faith. Are all these individuals doomed to the nether regions of hell because they lack the psychological capacity to embrace faith?
Lots of religious zealots look down on transsexuals. I don’t. I honestly think there is a genetic reason for not only transgendered but for gay people as well. Why? I think hermaphrodites–who deserve love also–are the missing link between straight and gay, men and women, transgendered and the rest of us. That’s my crackpot theory; take it for what it’s worth.
I knew a hermaphrodite and he had decided to live as a man, even though he had lady bits. He could have lived life as a woman too, he was that pretty. I do remember being attracted to him. I guess he would have been perfect for a bisexual. Unfortunately, he liked guys. C’est la vie.
Anyhow, I digress. The point is, that religion doesn’t cover situations like those mentioned above. It assumes–and assuming is a dangerous thing.
After reading the headlines in my state-wide newspaper, The Oregonian, I have decided that we are all making a trip to a hot place where we get pitchforks poked at us in uncomfortable spots. And we’re all going to arrive there in style; ala a basket. I just hope someone brings salsa and tortilla chips.
First, and this is disturbing on more than just the abortion level, Colorado has an amendment on their ballot that says a fertilizied egg should have the same rights as a person. The measure implies that the “murder” of an egg would be the same as killing a person.
Here it is:
Be it Enacted by the People of the State of Colorado: SECTION 1. Article II of the constitution of the state of Colorado is amended BY THE ADDITION OF A NEW SECTION to read: Section 31. Person defined. AS USED IN SECTIONS 3, 6, AND 25 OF ARTICLE II OF THE STATE CONSTITUTION, THE TERMS “PERSON” OR “PERSONS” SHALL INCLUDE ANY HUMAN BEING FROM THE MOMENT OF FERTILIZATION. Read the rest of this entry
Some stories take me to a dark place where it’s, quite frankly, scary as all hell. Others, well, they are as Homer would say: sacrilious. I tend to poke and prod at the established religions to provoke thought–and there are quite a bit of thoughts that would offend others.
Well, that’s what art is about. Art is edgy, unsafe, thought-provoking. Art, even the written kind, is supposed to get a reaction. The art best remembered is controversial.
I keep holding myself back. Maybe I’m afraid to let other people know I push the boundaries. Hmm. I wonder why. Who knows? Maybe it all ties into my fear of failure.
What say you?
Note: This is a totally made up story. The man, though, is someone I see everyday on my way to hop on the bus heading for home.
Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. –Plato
I headed home and, as usual, I noticed the old man in his wheelchair with a cardboard sign as he sat near my bus stop. It was easy to see why he sat in a wheelchair; he had no legs from the mid-thigh down. The pants were cut off and crudely sewn back together to avoid the use of clothing pins, which could be dangerous if he had impaired circulation around his stumps. His clothes looked like they saw better days–five years ago– and his eyes carried a pain that obviously haunted him for years. Phantom pain is a horrible thing. Believe me, I know. I watched my grandfather suffer with it until he died.
I read the cardboard sign, which bore as many wrinkles as his aged face, particularily around his piercing yet pain dulled eyes , and felt a pang of compassion. It said simply: I’m hungry. Please help if you can.
He glanced up at me and smiled, “Mind sparin’ a buck so’s I can get sumthin’ at that McDonald’s ‘cross the street?” The old man’s voice was gruff and amiable. His friendly smile stood testament to the fact he was human and I responded to it. I have to respond with compassion to those less fortunate. Even if they played a part in what brought them to it. No one really wants to be destitute and unloved.
“Well, I guess could use something to drink. I’ll be right back.” I dashed across the street and got him a Big Mac meal and a soda for me to consume.
He grinned at me and accepted his meal. “Thank ya, miss. You’re a good ‘un.” He ate in silence as I sipped at my drink. He shared some antecotes about life on the street and life in general. Some of his hard-won wisdom made sense to me and other bits I filed away for future reference. Unless I forgot them, that is.
“You know, it’s been a long time since anyone’s taken the time to listen.” He said, thoughtfully. “It almost means more to me than the food.”
The dogtags that hung around his neck caught my attention and I wanted to ask him about his past, but it wasn’t my place. “Yeah, I’ve been lonely too. I know how it feels.” I said as I looked at my watch. The bus, as was often the case, hadn’t shown up yet. It was late.
“Why is it that with a city full of people some of us are alone?” He mused.
“I guess that people are afraid to take risks, to get to know others they might think aren’t…” I searched for a good word to use….”normal. Like them.”
He grunted. “Spose there’s a grain of truth to that. Most people ’round here seem to be more concerned with makin’ a buck than lookin’ down at their feet to talk to someone like me.” He snorted. “Think I’m beneath them or sumthin’ .”
“Well, you’re as human–maybe more so—than they are.” I would have said more, but the bus pulled up. “Hey, I got to go. The next bus won’t show up until an hour and a half from now.”
He nodded in understanding. “Hell, I’m glad you just took the time to smile at me. See ya around, miss.”
I watched him wheel off and hoped that I would see him again.
Then I dashed across the street and onto the bus.
I’m a creative person who is most happy when left alone while writing. I need, really need, to write for my own state of well being. Writing is a passion of mine, it’s the one thing that motivates my lazy self. It’s an outlet for the dark part of me that rages and despairs….yet hopes that everything will work out. Yes, my muse is rather angsty, and yes, that annoys me. Sometimes, for me anyhow, writing is a lot like lancing a boil; it gets all the negative stuff out into the open and OUT of my system. Pleasant metaphor, I know, but it’s accurate.
But lately, it’s been hard for me to connect with my inner muse (I think it’s pouting right now) and actually sit down and write creative fiction. I’m not suffering writer’s block, exactly, I’ve just felt rather fidgety whenever I’ve tried to write. And I’ve been getting easily distracted lately. I think it’s because I’ve been playing far too much WoW and also feeling the effects of financially induced ‘cabin fever’.
Writing’s also like regurgitating in that what you write is a result of what you take in. (What is it with me and unpleasant analogies today?) Writers have to absorb experiences in order to be inspired enough to ply their craft. Don’t worry, I’ll spare you the analogy of what I call bad writing…
My inner critic, what I call The Beast Within, has been tearing to shreds every little idea that I’ve come up with. No story idea seems good enough to explore, the setting is odd, the actual wording is too weird, the characters are too whiny. OK, so TBW has me with the whiny characters, but I know that most story ideas are good–or could be made good through proper character development and hard work. The execution of said ideas is where it often goes wrong with me.
Well, I guess it’s time for me to put my nose to the grindstone keyboard. As long as I keep trying, I’ll never be a failure. Right?
Be who you are and say what you mean because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind. [Dr. Seuss]
However, I would like to take this opportunity to say that I am going to start pushing the boundaries of my limited little social circle of one. (Not counting my cyber buddies.)
I took out an ad in the paper. Yeah. I’ve resorted to the most desperate means to meet people; a personal ad. Not for romance, but simply seeking a few like minded individuals to hang out and do geeky things. Like movie watching or game playing (NOT World of Warcrack!).
We’ll see how this “social” experiment goes.