Not for nuthin', but suppose God decided to grant every living person one wish?
An aside before I continue: this premise is meant to set up a thought exercise. If you're looking for, or afraid of, any form of either proselytizing or blasphemy, look elsewhere. I'm decidedly indifferent (if such a thing is possible) about religion and all its attendant Supreme Beings. I just need an omnipotent foil for the sake of argument. I suppose I could have used Q from "Star Trek:The Next Generation," but God requires no backstory
Anyway ...
So God grants everyone a wish, with some particular caveats. Your wish has to be as creative as possible. Granted, there's bound to be a lot of overlap, what with several billion people all wishing for one thing or another. But it can't be the usual things people pray for, like peace on earth or goodwill toward others or hitting the lottery or wishing that your boss suffer a sudden bout of spontaneous combustion or that the random meteorite cut loose from the Oort Cloud should make a beeline straight for your drunk stepbrother's noggin.
Actually, the last one is at least somewhat creative, if not entirely original, so that would pass muster. And it would have to, because that's the other caveat -- if you don't conjure up something beyond the usual trite pleadings directed toward heaven, you forfeit your wish. Of course, God gets to decide what's sufficiently creative because -- well, you know, the Master of the Universe/Creator of All Things thing.
I frankly don't know what my wish would be in a case like that. Hopefully there would be some time granted to ponder the possibilities. And since this is my thought experiment, let's take that as a given. So God presents you with an arbitrary deadline (as many deadlines are), and you go off to think about what you really, really, really want. And you know what I really, really, really want?
I don't want it to be something that God could create or cause to occur simply with an "I Dream of Jeannie" blink or a finger snap.
I want it to be something so fraught with consequences that even God would say, "Wow. That's a tough one."
Therein lies the thought exercise. What would constitute a conundrum for God?
The purpose of this isn't to elicit random Facebookesque (Facebookian? Facebookish?) responses for no discernible reason, like those posts that say, "List a street name in the Bronx without an E in it," (I really saw that, by the way -- and I could almost see the pride bursting through the screen from everyone who bent their brains to come up with "Boston Road.")
Rather, this is the kind of weird shit that goes through my mind in times of existential crisis. Which is pretty much always for me. As I ponder how to confront my own challenges, it makes me wonder whether I'm overreacting to the trivial or failing to sufficiently emphasize the profound. I get confused because the line between the two is somewhere on the quantum level.
The result: I've come up with a trivial thought experiment about a profound question that is ultimately nonsensical. So am I wasting my time pondering trivially profound nonsense about a scenario that can't possibly happen?
Yes! And I love it. God help me.
By the way, it's not really relevant to the philosophical musings, but I did come up with a wish. I don't know if this would be a conundrum for an allegedly all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful entity, but depending on your point of view, the consequences for me would either be wonderful or horrific.
My wish would be for the Almighty to sit down with me and recite, to the final digit, the value of pi.
Some would interpret that as Heaven: assuming pi has no resolution, you'd be seated beside the Almighty forever. But you have to assume that listening to an eternal recitation of pi would be Hell in Heaven.
Probably better than I forfeit my wish. But that would lead to another existential blog about some other trivially profound nonsense.
I love a paradox.
Wednesday, March 9, 2016
Friday, March 4, 2016
The Battle of the Bulge
Ok, that's a cheap and clichéd headline, found on scribblings about weight loss ever since the real Battle of the Bulge was fought, but I gotta tell ya -- it really is a battle.
On the advice of one of my doctors (and I have several), I've taken up calorie-counting. I also keep track of my daily steps on the Fitbit tracker my wife bought me for my last birthday. It's been great for my weight. It's been murder on my nerves.
It's easy to get obsessive about every excess joule and every moment spent seated. I overheard someone at a gathering recently declare, "sitting is the new smoking," and I've been antsy in my chair ever since.
Eating had been a reliable, pleasurable experience for me once, when I was young and my metabolism could handle it. Now it's an exercise in getting enough exercise to indulge myself, and even my self-indulgence is greatly tempered. I went out for a couple of beers the other night, but I was unable to bring myself to order more than one, fearful that an additional 148 calories would prove fatal. The idea of one more beer was almost as mortifying as the thought of ordering a light beer -- and my gut is telling me, figuratively and literally, that that day is coming very soon.
The flip side of this is that all of my angst has brought about considerable weight loss. I don't want to say exactly how much I weigh for fear of putting a whammy on my ultimate goal, but I'm down more than 20 pounds in the last few months. But the discipline required to achieve that loss has not come, as many insisted that it would, with some sense of Zen generated by treadmill-boosted endorphins. If anything, it's been the opposite.
In short, I've traded stress eating for stress dieting.
I suppose I could just take off the damned Fitbit, which I wear day and night (to measure the quality of my sleep), but it has somehow psychologically fused itself to my left wrist. I've convinced myself that life as we know it, perhaps even whatever life exists throughout all dimensions of spacetime, will come to a screeching halt if I don't make it to 70,000 steps every week.
I'm also become convinced that the food industry is entwined in a vast conspiracy with the pharmaceutical industry. If you eat stuff that's bad for you, there's no shortage of drugs to combat your diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure, intestinal gas and halitosis. Eat stuff that's good for you and there's no shortage of mind-altering meds to ease the depression caused by a constant diet of stuff that tastes like cardboard or artificial turf.
Plenty of healthy foods that taste good, you say? It's a con, I say! If it's low in carbs, it's probably high in sodium. If it's low in sodium, it's probably high in sugar. Fruit, you say? Fruit's fine. I like fruit. But one plum too many and you're doubled over from the bloating. Insane in the methane!
Yes, there are foods that are low in carbs, sodium and sugar that don't generate enough gas to power a small car. All you have to do is develop an affinity for the taste of wallpaper paste.
If not for nuthin' else, at least I've figured out why I've had severe writer's block in the last few months. I'm hungry!
Anyway -- gotta stop now. Off to the gym. I have 7,757 steps to go today.
On the advice of one of my doctors (and I have several), I've taken up calorie-counting. I also keep track of my daily steps on the Fitbit tracker my wife bought me for my last birthday. It's been great for my weight. It's been murder on my nerves.
It's easy to get obsessive about every excess joule and every moment spent seated. I overheard someone at a gathering recently declare, "sitting is the new smoking," and I've been antsy in my chair ever since.
Eating had been a reliable, pleasurable experience for me once, when I was young and my metabolism could handle it. Now it's an exercise in getting enough exercise to indulge myself, and even my self-indulgence is greatly tempered. I went out for a couple of beers the other night, but I was unable to bring myself to order more than one, fearful that an additional 148 calories would prove fatal. The idea of one more beer was almost as mortifying as the thought of ordering a light beer -- and my gut is telling me, figuratively and literally, that that day is coming very soon.
The flip side of this is that all of my angst has brought about considerable weight loss. I don't want to say exactly how much I weigh for fear of putting a whammy on my ultimate goal, but I'm down more than 20 pounds in the last few months. But the discipline required to achieve that loss has not come, as many insisted that it would, with some sense of Zen generated by treadmill-boosted endorphins. If anything, it's been the opposite.
In short, I've traded stress eating for stress dieting.
I suppose I could just take off the damned Fitbit, which I wear day and night (to measure the quality of my sleep), but it has somehow psychologically fused itself to my left wrist. I've convinced myself that life as we know it, perhaps even whatever life exists throughout all dimensions of spacetime, will come to a screeching halt if I don't make it to 70,000 steps every week.
I'm also become convinced that the food industry is entwined in a vast conspiracy with the pharmaceutical industry. If you eat stuff that's bad for you, there's no shortage of drugs to combat your diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure, intestinal gas and halitosis. Eat stuff that's good for you and there's no shortage of mind-altering meds to ease the depression caused by a constant diet of stuff that tastes like cardboard or artificial turf.
Plenty of healthy foods that taste good, you say? It's a con, I say! If it's low in carbs, it's probably high in sodium. If it's low in sodium, it's probably high in sugar. Fruit, you say? Fruit's fine. I like fruit. But one plum too many and you're doubled over from the bloating. Insane in the methane!
Yes, there are foods that are low in carbs, sodium and sugar that don't generate enough gas to power a small car. All you have to do is develop an affinity for the taste of wallpaper paste.
If not for nuthin' else, at least I've figured out why I've had severe writer's block in the last few months. I'm hungry!
Anyway -- gotta stop now. Off to the gym. I have 7,757 steps to go today.
Friday, February 26, 2016
Clearing Out the Cobwebs
This has been slow-going, trying to get this blog up to speed again.
I find myself so overwhelmed by my own ruminating that I can't seem to sort out what I want to say. It's sort of like this exchange between Albert Brooks (as the character Daniel Miller) and Rip Torn (Bob Diamond) in "Defending Your Life":
Miller: Where were you? I'm just curious.
Diamond: I'd tell you, but you wouldn't understand.
Miller: Don't treat me like a moron. Try me.
Diamond: I was trapped near the inner circle of thought.
Miller: I don't understand.
Diamond: I told you ...
I often feel as if I'm trapped near the inner circle of thought. It accounts, in part, for my reputation as aloof, sometimes smug. I can get so pensive at times that it seems as if I'm disengaged. It's the other way around -- sometimes I'm so engaged in trying to unravel one issue or another that I find it difficult to express myself. Hence, writer's block.
It's also why I haven't yet done anything to promote this blog. Sure, it's out there for anyone who happens to stumble across it, but I haven't advertised it to friends or family or the general public. At the moment, I'm writing this for the mere exercise of writing, the act of putting thoughts in a readable format (remember when we called that "putting thoughts on paper"?) Eventually, I'll feel sufficiently comfortable with sharing my perspective that I'll get around to addressing specific topics, beyond my my writer's block, that is.
I've come to realize that the problem is my sense of vulnerability -- the reasons for which I hope to get into in future posts -- is hindering my ability to share. Writing in any form is a deeply personal act. Even if you're not writing about yourself, all writers reveal some part of themselves in their words. Doesn't matter whether it's a memoir, a novel, a biography or a news story. The way in which writers approach the topic at hand always exposes something about their psyches, hard as they may try to conceal it.
I was trained in journalism -- newspapers, specifically -- and I liked it because it provided some measure of detachment. I could exercise my craft under the cover of objectivity. It was not, I told myself and others, about me, but about the day's news. But as I've gone back and looked at my writing, I realize that everything I've ever written had a little bit of me in them. I'll bet some computer whiz could cook up an algorithm that would figure out all of my biases and hangups and fears based on how I wrote the lede or turned a phrase or structured my stories, regardless of whether the personal pronoun was ever used.
I've also come to realize that I've been missing one thing in my overall outlook on life that I had in abundance back in the day: a sense of boldness, at least when it came to writing. I approached every assignment, every project, every essay with the unshakeable knowledge that I could write anything. I have no shortage of doubts about my abilities, but until the last few years I was fearless when I sat down to write. But a few years back, for a whole lot of reasons, my confidence was shot to hell, and when the trepidation extended to my belief in my skill as as a writer, well ... game over.
So figure me, if you come across this, for these navel-gazing posts. I've always been reluctant to slap a PTSD diagnosis on myself, but there's no doubt I'm working through some old trauma. Be patient as I take a few baby steps on the road back to writing. I'll be back on my feet soon.
I find myself so overwhelmed by my own ruminating that I can't seem to sort out what I want to say. It's sort of like this exchange between Albert Brooks (as the character Daniel Miller) and Rip Torn (Bob Diamond) in "Defending Your Life":
Miller: Where were you? I'm just curious.
Diamond: I'd tell you, but you wouldn't understand.
Miller: Don't treat me like a moron. Try me.
Diamond: I was trapped near the inner circle of thought.
Miller: I don't understand.
Diamond: I told you ...
I often feel as if I'm trapped near the inner circle of thought. It accounts, in part, for my reputation as aloof, sometimes smug. I can get so pensive at times that it seems as if I'm disengaged. It's the other way around -- sometimes I'm so engaged in trying to unravel one issue or another that I find it difficult to express myself. Hence, writer's block.
It's also why I haven't yet done anything to promote this blog. Sure, it's out there for anyone who happens to stumble across it, but I haven't advertised it to friends or family or the general public. At the moment, I'm writing this for the mere exercise of writing, the act of putting thoughts in a readable format (remember when we called that "putting thoughts on paper"?) Eventually, I'll feel sufficiently comfortable with sharing my perspective that I'll get around to addressing specific topics, beyond my my writer's block, that is.
I've come to realize that the problem is my sense of vulnerability -- the reasons for which I hope to get into in future posts -- is hindering my ability to share. Writing in any form is a deeply personal act. Even if you're not writing about yourself, all writers reveal some part of themselves in their words. Doesn't matter whether it's a memoir, a novel, a biography or a news story. The way in which writers approach the topic at hand always exposes something about their psyches, hard as they may try to conceal it.
I was trained in journalism -- newspapers, specifically -- and I liked it because it provided some measure of detachment. I could exercise my craft under the cover of objectivity. It was not, I told myself and others, about me, but about the day's news. But as I've gone back and looked at my writing, I realize that everything I've ever written had a little bit of me in them. I'll bet some computer whiz could cook up an algorithm that would figure out all of my biases and hangups and fears based on how I wrote the lede or turned a phrase or structured my stories, regardless of whether the personal pronoun was ever used.
I've also come to realize that I've been missing one thing in my overall outlook on life that I had in abundance back in the day: a sense of boldness, at least when it came to writing. I approached every assignment, every project, every essay with the unshakeable knowledge that I could write anything. I have no shortage of doubts about my abilities, but until the last few years I was fearless when I sat down to write. But a few years back, for a whole lot of reasons, my confidence was shot to hell, and when the trepidation extended to my belief in my skill as as a writer, well ... game over.
So figure me, if you come across this, for these navel-gazing posts. I've always been reluctant to slap a PTSD diagnosis on myself, but there's no doubt I'm working through some old trauma. Be patient as I take a few baby steps on the road back to writing. I'll be back on my feet soon.
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Grammy a Break
I didn't watch the Grammy Awards last night.
Nothing against the artists, mind you. (Well, maybe some of the artists -- but I'll keep a lid on the hatin' for now.) I admire the talent and drive that got them where they are, for the most part. And in many cases -- though not all -- they deserve the accolades.
It's not the awards per se that I'm against. It's the show itself.
The industry and its fans would argue that a big, glitzy, glamorous extravaganza is a fitting tribute to the people who have become internationally famous and the people around them who pushed them to greater heights. It's celebratory, they would say.
It's masturbatory, I say.
Entertainment is an ego-driven business, and the bigger the ego, the greater the need to be stroked. Maybe I'm just getting grumpier as I get older, but I no longer have the patience to sit for three hours watching people fawning over themselves. That goes for all awards shows -- Grammys, Emmys, Oscars, you name it.
It's possible that I've lost patience because in my current job, I've become much more aware of how the sausage is made. I don't want to call out anyone in particular, but there are plenty of household names out there who are much more the product of marketing and promotion than actual talent. That's not to say they don't have any talent -- I certainly couldn't do what most of them do. But in many cases their talent isn't any greater than someone struggling below the radar. They just managed to surround themselves will people who saw an exploitable resource. And believe me, once that resource is thoroughly tapped out, those people whose lives are envied by millions get thrown out faster than moldy cheese.
But even if I hadn't been exposed to the inner workings of the entertainment world, I still don't think I'd be very interested in awards shows. I find self-indulgence very disquieting, which could explain why I haven't done better in my career. I'm more inclined to look away than gawk at people who go through life saying, "Look at me! Look at me! I'm fabulous! I'm brilliant! Revel the spectacle that is me!" I respond very poorly to people who demand attention and respect, but I'm very loyal to people who quietly earn it. So when I admonish artists to just shut up and play, it's not a diss. Don't tell me what you got. Show me.
Nothing against the artists, mind you. (Well, maybe some of the artists -- but I'll keep a lid on the hatin' for now.) I admire the talent and drive that got them where they are, for the most part. And in many cases -- though not all -- they deserve the accolades.
It's not the awards per se that I'm against. It's the show itself.
The industry and its fans would argue that a big, glitzy, glamorous extravaganza is a fitting tribute to the people who have become internationally famous and the people around them who pushed them to greater heights. It's celebratory, they would say.
It's masturbatory, I say.
Entertainment is an ego-driven business, and the bigger the ego, the greater the need to be stroked. Maybe I'm just getting grumpier as I get older, but I no longer have the patience to sit for three hours watching people fawning over themselves. That goes for all awards shows -- Grammys, Emmys, Oscars, you name it.
It's possible that I've lost patience because in my current job, I've become much more aware of how the sausage is made. I don't want to call out anyone in particular, but there are plenty of household names out there who are much more the product of marketing and promotion than actual talent. That's not to say they don't have any talent -- I certainly couldn't do what most of them do. But in many cases their talent isn't any greater than someone struggling below the radar. They just managed to surround themselves will people who saw an exploitable resource. And believe me, once that resource is thoroughly tapped out, those people whose lives are envied by millions get thrown out faster than moldy cheese.
But even if I hadn't been exposed to the inner workings of the entertainment world, I still don't think I'd be very interested in awards shows. I find self-indulgence very disquieting, which could explain why I haven't done better in my career. I'm more inclined to look away than gawk at people who go through life saying, "Look at me! Look at me! I'm fabulous! I'm brilliant! Revel the spectacle that is me!" I respond very poorly to people who demand attention and respect, but I'm very loyal to people who quietly earn it. So when I admonish artists to just shut up and play, it's not a diss. Don't tell me what you got. Show me.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
First Thing in the Morning Is the Last Thing I Need
Why is it that so many writers are (or claim to be) at their best in the morning?
You've read the quote, or some variation of it: "I get up every morning at 4:30, scan the headlines, do a little research, then I write until about 8 a.m." Then there's the litany of holistic exercises to feed the creative soul -- going for a morning swim in the ocean, hiking the backcountry, taking a brisk walk or some other stress-reducing activity.
It's that kind of account of personal drive that contributed to my turn away from writing for a long time. I've never been that disciplined, and I figured that if I couldn't approach the craft like a 13th Century scribe locked up in a monastery then I obviously wasn't sufficiently serious about the craft.
But here's the thing -- it's not the time of day that matters. It's all about AAA -- anxiety, anger and adrenaline. For me to be at my creative best, I need to be stressed out by a fast-approaching deadline or so pent-up about one thing or another that I need to find a way to express myself.
That's why I've taken to my keyboard at this moment, near 5 o'clock in the afternoon -- because someone said something that triggered an emotional response in me. What was said is not important. In the greater scheme of things, it was trivial, actually. But it was enough to send me looking for a convenient place to express myself, so here I am.
Suppose, you may ask, that my emotional trigger had been fired at 5 a.m. rather than 5 p.m.? Wouldn't that inspire me to jump out of bed and fire up the laptop?
Nope. It would inspire me to roll over and go back to sleep.
Sleep has been an unfortunate response to emotional trauma for me over the years (unfortunate because it's ultimately counterproductive). When I come under severe stress, my whole being shuts down, mentally and physically. If there's a bed or a sofa nearby, that's where I'll take my refuge.
At the moment, though, taking refuge is slumber is not an option. So I'm indulging myself with a bit of rambling prose. It's an emotion-dump more than an effort to impart wisdom or be entertaining, so I apologize for being self-indulgent.
My purpose in blogging about this is really more for archival reasons that anything else. I'm hoping that writing about my mental process will, in the future, aid my writing process. Maybe I can look back someday and recapture this for something more creative. As for anyone else who might read this, well, I don't want to leave you hanging, so here's a takeaway for you:
The early bird catches the worm, but who wants worms?
You've read the quote, or some variation of it: "I get up every morning at 4:30, scan the headlines, do a little research, then I write until about 8 a.m." Then there's the litany of holistic exercises to feed the creative soul -- going for a morning swim in the ocean, hiking the backcountry, taking a brisk walk or some other stress-reducing activity.
It's that kind of account of personal drive that contributed to my turn away from writing for a long time. I've never been that disciplined, and I figured that if I couldn't approach the craft like a 13th Century scribe locked up in a monastery then I obviously wasn't sufficiently serious about the craft.
But here's the thing -- it's not the time of day that matters. It's all about AAA -- anxiety, anger and adrenaline. For me to be at my creative best, I need to be stressed out by a fast-approaching deadline or so pent-up about one thing or another that I need to find a way to express myself.
That's why I've taken to my keyboard at this moment, near 5 o'clock in the afternoon -- because someone said something that triggered an emotional response in me. What was said is not important. In the greater scheme of things, it was trivial, actually. But it was enough to send me looking for a convenient place to express myself, so here I am.
Suppose, you may ask, that my emotional trigger had been fired at 5 a.m. rather than 5 p.m.? Wouldn't that inspire me to jump out of bed and fire up the laptop?
Nope. It would inspire me to roll over and go back to sleep.
Sleep has been an unfortunate response to emotional trauma for me over the years (unfortunate because it's ultimately counterproductive). When I come under severe stress, my whole being shuts down, mentally and physically. If there's a bed or a sofa nearby, that's where I'll take my refuge.
At the moment, though, taking refuge is slumber is not an option. So I'm indulging myself with a bit of rambling prose. It's an emotion-dump more than an effort to impart wisdom or be entertaining, so I apologize for being self-indulgent.
My purpose in blogging about this is really more for archival reasons that anything else. I'm hoping that writing about my mental process will, in the future, aid my writing process. Maybe I can look back someday and recapture this for something more creative. As for anyone else who might read this, well, I don't want to leave you hanging, so here's a takeaway for you:
The early bird catches the worm, but who wants worms?
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
Let's Try This Again
Back when I was trying -- unsuccessfully -- to carve out a freelance career while I was between jobs (read: unemployed), I created a blog just to keep the neurons firing between bouts of despair. I created a more elaborate website than this spartan Blogger page, and spent a lot of time tweaking it and trying to make it pretty. Essentially, it was a way to fill time.
I let it go after I re-entered the full-time work force. That was my first mistake.
I had thought that the original iteration of Not 4 Nuthin' was a failure because few people read it. That should have never been the point. From the get-go, it should have been about the writing, not the reading. "A writer writes," according to the scribe's bible, but I resisted that age-old mantra because I thought writing for its own sake was an exercise in futility. Wrong.
So as I resurrect Not 4 Nuthin', in this stripped-down, no-frills version, let's make it clear from the outset: this blog is for me. It is my therapy. It's meant to empty out that swirling, whirling, twirling onslaught of dreams, fears, wisdom and nonsense that is the maelstrom of my brain. No nods toward legacy, no income goals, no worries about search-engine optimization or traffic or "content" (which may I add is the most loathsome appropriation of a word ev-ver).
Maybe someone else will get something out of this as "content" (ewwwwwww) falls out from between my ears. Maybe I'll throw in a pretty picture now and again to break up the gray. Eventually, I might even make this blog looks like it was created later than the early '00s. But for now, it's just me and my mind. And that's not for nothing.
I let it go after I re-entered the full-time work force. That was my first mistake.
I had thought that the original iteration of Not 4 Nuthin' was a failure because few people read it. That should have never been the point. From the get-go, it should have been about the writing, not the reading. "A writer writes," according to the scribe's bible, but I resisted that age-old mantra because I thought writing for its own sake was an exercise in futility. Wrong.
So as I resurrect Not 4 Nuthin', in this stripped-down, no-frills version, let's make it clear from the outset: this blog is for me. It is my therapy. It's meant to empty out that swirling, whirling, twirling onslaught of dreams, fears, wisdom and nonsense that is the maelstrom of my brain. No nods toward legacy, no income goals, no worries about search-engine optimization or traffic or "content" (which may I add is the most loathsome appropriation of a word ev-ver).
Maybe someone else will get something out of this as "content" (ewwwwwww) falls out from between my ears. Maybe I'll throw in a pretty picture now and again to break up the gray. Eventually, I might even make this blog looks like it was created later than the early '00s. But for now, it's just me and my mind. And that's not for nothing.
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