This blog exists for one reason and one reason only: to keep me from drowning myself in the river, or overdosing again. Those of you looking for a more a noble purpose, please surf on. I have tried to kill myself twice, and I'd rather not try again. So this is my attempt to not try again. And that was my attempt to write a grammatically correct sentence in English. Let's hope I do better with the first goal.
The name of the blog is the best piece of advice I ever received in my life. It wasn't meant as advice, and it only barely squeaks by my college calculus professor's consistent admonition, "don't make a hard problem out of an easy problem," This particular piece of advice came from a fellow undergraduate--I never knew his name--who staffed the computer lab where I typed up my honors thesis on a computer which required two 5 1/4 inch floppies: one to run the operating system and the other to hold one's data. The one to hold the data could only hold about 100 pages of text. My thesis was 99. So, when I wanted to save it, I first had to delete the original saved file in order to make room on my floppy (apparently it never occurred to me that I was legally allowed to own more than one floppy disk at a time). Naturally, I broke out in hives during the several seconds it took to delete the older file and save the new one. What if the power went out? What if there was an earthquake? What if, God forbid, the kid who manned the lab rounded the corner and said in his flattest, Marvin-the-Paranoid-Android impersonating monotone:
"The system is about the crash. Save what you can."
Sadly, this was something he said often. Happily, it never happened when I was in the midst of resaving my thesis, and miraculously I eventually (and when I say eventually, trust me, I mean e-ven-tu-al-ly) graduated. And then I experienced far worse computer debacles, all of my own making, but that's for another blog. Or not. Not, I'm thinking.
I have this thing about the world. I'm rather fond of it. And you may have noticed, it's a total fucking mess. It's been mid-crash for quite a while now. I no longer think the crash is something that's going to happen all of a sudden. I've had my heart broken by too many of you apocalypse-promising-snake-oil-salesmen. But I can see with crystal clarity now, the system is crashing. We can try to stop it, or we can save what we can. I've spent most of my adult life trying to do the former, in various acid-indigestion-producing, alcoholism-inspiring manners. I'm now firmly in the camp of "save what you can," partly because I no longer think what us humans in the First World call "the world" is savable, but mostly because my liver can't handle the booze.
I'm sick of rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. You want to get out your fiddle and serenade us with "Nearer My God to Thee," good on you! I'll be over here throwing as many people as I can into life boats (and trying to locate at least ONE more door that Leonardo DiCaprio can climb on to).
(Just to clarify: by "world," I do not mean "planet." Earth is going to be fine. She's a planet for Christ's sake. We're the ones who are totally screwed).
About me: I'm sort of what you might call pathologically empathetic. I also seem capable of understanding man's inhumanity to wo/man about as well as a microbe from Mars would. I find myself returning again and again to a line from a poem by the amazing Sherman Alexie:
"I am waiting for someone to tell the truth."
I intend to use this forum to tell my truth--no relation to The--as I understand it, in the given moment. If and when it changes, I'll let you know. As long as you're civil, I promise to listen to your truth and take it to heart, whether I respond or not.
I am also a depressed, anxious person with borderline personality disorder, or so the docs tell me. So, there's that. And I may or may not be struggling with alcohol addiction, depending on whom you ask and what day of the week it is. So, when reading this, please do consider the source.
Because the other system I'm talking about is me. I feel, most days, like I'm walking along a narrow bridge over a bay full of starving crocodiles. Some days, the bridge feels wide enough, kinda, justa barely. Some days, I feel like a tightrope walker. On those days I probably won't post, because I'll be too busy not getting eaten.
Not that I claim to have remotely his skill in writing, but I'm rather a fan of Derrick Jensen, and in particular his book, A Language Older Than Words. (You should read it. Now. Go ahead, I'll wait). Either Derrick or his editor did a masterful job on that book, weaving the personal and the political like a coherent, soul-punching dream. I'm making no promises in terms of that kind of quality, but that's my inspiration. Personal and political. It may be a bit too navel-gazing and full of First World Problems at times. I'll just make a blanket apology for that right now. I'm a First Worlder; we're kind of addicted to our navels. But I'll try--I will--to remember that this is a public document, and therefore should maybe have something of use to the public, or at least something to say about navels other than mine.
Thanks for reading.
The name of the blog is the best piece of advice I ever received in my life. It wasn't meant as advice, and it only barely squeaks by my college calculus professor's consistent admonition, "don't make a hard problem out of an easy problem," This particular piece of advice came from a fellow undergraduate--I never knew his name--who staffed the computer lab where I typed up my honors thesis on a computer which required two 5 1/4 inch floppies: one to run the operating system and the other to hold one's data. The one to hold the data could only hold about 100 pages of text. My thesis was 99. So, when I wanted to save it, I first had to delete the original saved file in order to make room on my floppy (apparently it never occurred to me that I was legally allowed to own more than one floppy disk at a time). Naturally, I broke out in hives during the several seconds it took to delete the older file and save the new one. What if the power went out? What if there was an earthquake? What if, God forbid, the kid who manned the lab rounded the corner and said in his flattest, Marvin-the-Paranoid-Android impersonating monotone:
"The system is about the crash. Save what you can."
Sadly, this was something he said often. Happily, it never happened when I was in the midst of resaving my thesis, and miraculously I eventually (and when I say eventually, trust me, I mean e-ven-tu-al-ly) graduated. And then I experienced far worse computer debacles, all of my own making, but that's for another blog. Or not. Not, I'm thinking.
I have this thing about the world. I'm rather fond of it. And you may have noticed, it's a total fucking mess. It's been mid-crash for quite a while now. I no longer think the crash is something that's going to happen all of a sudden. I've had my heart broken by too many of you apocalypse-promising-snake-oil-salesmen. But I can see with crystal clarity now, the system is crashing. We can try to stop it, or we can save what we can. I've spent most of my adult life trying to do the former, in various acid-indigestion-producing, alcoholism-inspiring manners. I'm now firmly in the camp of "save what you can," partly because I no longer think what us humans in the First World call "the world" is savable, but mostly because my liver can't handle the booze.
I'm sick of rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. You want to get out your fiddle and serenade us with "Nearer My God to Thee," good on you! I'll be over here throwing as many people as I can into life boats (and trying to locate at least ONE more door that Leonardo DiCaprio can climb on to).
(Just to clarify: by "world," I do not mean "planet." Earth is going to be fine. She's a planet for Christ's sake. We're the ones who are totally screwed).
About me: I'm sort of what you might call pathologically empathetic. I also seem capable of understanding man's inhumanity to wo/man about as well as a microbe from Mars would. I find myself returning again and again to a line from a poem by the amazing Sherman Alexie:
"I am waiting for someone to tell the truth."
I intend to use this forum to tell my truth--no relation to The--as I understand it, in the given moment. If and when it changes, I'll let you know. As long as you're civil, I promise to listen to your truth and take it to heart, whether I respond or not.
I am also a depressed, anxious person with borderline personality disorder, or so the docs tell me. So, there's that. And I may or may not be struggling with alcohol addiction, depending on whom you ask and what day of the week it is. So, when reading this, please do consider the source.
Because the other system I'm talking about is me. I feel, most days, like I'm walking along a narrow bridge over a bay full of starving crocodiles. Some days, the bridge feels wide enough, kinda, justa barely. Some days, I feel like a tightrope walker. On those days I probably won't post, because I'll be too busy not getting eaten.
Not that I claim to have remotely his skill in writing, but I'm rather a fan of Derrick Jensen, and in particular his book, A Language Older Than Words. (You should read it. Now. Go ahead, I'll wait). Either Derrick or his editor did a masterful job on that book, weaving the personal and the political like a coherent, soul-punching dream. I'm making no promises in terms of that kind of quality, but that's my inspiration. Personal and political. It may be a bit too navel-gazing and full of First World Problems at times. I'll just make a blanket apology for that right now. I'm a First Worlder; we're kind of addicted to our navels. But I'll try--I will--to remember that this is a public document, and therefore should maybe have something of use to the public, or at least something to say about navels other than mine.
Thanks for reading.
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