I’ve got a short non-fiction story entitled “Killing Karma” published in a new Online Literary Journal called Hitchlit Review. Check out all the great stories and poetry. It’s worth a read.
Have you ever had a friend tell you they are proud of you, or tell you that you should be proud of yourself or your accomplishments? On the few occasions it’s occurred with me it always throws me off. It seems like something a parent should say to a child, or something you should say to someone that you feel may have low self-esteem. Tell them you’re proud of them―make them feel good.
This happened to me recently and I really had to think about what they were saying because my first response was something like this. “What the hell do you mean you’re proud of me? You think I need a compliment or something?”
Sometimes I have to point my finger at myself and realize it’s me that has the problem. Why should I be the only one that’s proud of my accomplishments? It may go much deeper. I think being proud, or having pride is an odd concept that gets intermingled with self-esteem. Often those who appear the proudest of themselves are using it as a cover for their own low self-esteem.
So how does one find healthy pride? Not being an expert on this I have concluded that healthy pride has more to do with self-honesty than anything else. Few of us are capable of carrying out a self-assessment in an honest manner. Not because we don’t want to, but because we can only use the tools we have and those include all the self-protective mechanisms we’ve spent years working on.
Perhaps, pride is a humble acceptance of those talents that others have identified in us, and that we personally know come from our true selves and not some manufactured identity or mask we create so that others will believe something about us that is not true.
Unfortunately, that narrows the field of those with true pride. We live in a world of people who strive to emulate identities they have found on the internet, or in movies, or perhaps their favorite rock band―A world where many people define their own happiness on whether a team of professional athletes on a sports team wins or loses―a world where few have identified who they personally are, but strive to be something they are not. Are these people being honest with themselves—about who they are? Or are they hiding their true selves by pretending to be something they are not?
I realize this is an uncomfortable thought but the reason I’m bringing it up is because I believe in order to create literature, art, or music, beyond simply crafting it, 100% self-honesty is required. True art will be the result of self-honesty, and pride will be a non-evasive by-product of knowing that one has produced that art, regardless of whether anyone recognizes it or not. The ultimate compliment comes when someone is proud of being associated with what your self-honesty has produced. You too will know when that compliment is an honest one, or simply someone blowing smoke because they feel they have something to gain from you.
I suggest looking deep into your upbringing, all the good, the bad, the dysfunction, the pain, and the happiness and find that true self. I know this is not easy for me, but it is something I’ve committed to strive for. Forget about someone else’s successes, failures, and experiences and find your own. Then you will produce your best work and be proud of it. So will those around you.
As we follow the arrow of time, you and I share something. We write, not only to touch the world with our thoughts, but to feel the spirit of those who read our words. While Jung called it the Collective Unconscious, some call it Quantum Consciousness; some see it as a spiritual gift. Regardless of the term, our souls are interconnected.
For you who read my blogs, my curiosity as to your creations motivates me to read your stories. And the beauty of these stories, and photos, and thoughts, stimulate memories, and emotions, such that I feel I’ve known you before. In some cases, I have been close to you, though unknowingly at the time, and in other cases, I was near your energy before you were born. Nonetheless, I sense the verve of your soul as we trade our written word, art, and emotions.
Yes, it’s true we are not being profiled by Enquirer magazine; we are not on the red carpet, but then, that’s not why we write. You and I only know about each other; we are the soul seekers. We seek to know the passions of another, we seek to share our depths, and out of our collective unconscious we create new souls in our fiction and express them in our art, and share them in our literature. We live in a transcendent plane that few understand, and we do not understand why they cannot share our visions as they rush through their lives.
As technology evolves and the internet allows global thought sharing, we become one in the world. Today I stopped by one of my fellow blogger’s site, Alex Markovich. I perused his stories, took in his art, and my mind was taken back forty years when I was a high school exchange student in Sweden. This was the time of the “Cold War”, and The Soviet Union was behind the “Iron Curtain.” I went on a two week student tour through Finland into what we called “Russia.” We forfeited our passports at the border and were told not to go outside the city limits of the two cities we visited, Moscow, and St Petersburg, or Leningrad as it was then.
In those two weeks, at 18 years old, I learned that the people, the smiles, the artists, and the salt of the earth are the same everywhere and it changed my future. It’s no secret in today’s world that you and I have this curiosity about other cultures, lives, hopes, and dreams, but forty years ago our access to one another was limited. Today, we blog, we publish, and we share globally. It’s a beautiful journey, and I am thankful to each of you who share your journey; I am thankful when you take a moment and allow me to share mine.
In a fiercely political world with upheaval, fighting, and global power plays we must continue to seek one another, and promote the higher plane of existence that the human experience deserves. It’s we who share the beauty that surrounds us who must fill and spill our cups of energy onto the world to draw the human collective unconscious to our appreciation of this gift of life. And you and I will share the peace we create.
No, this is not a political post, it’s about life.
I live on the West Coast in Washington State. Every Presidential election, it seems the winner is announced before my State’s votes are even counted. It may just be me, but with age I become more indifferent about the elections. Today, I look at the lineup and wonder what our world has come to.
After every election, I wait for things to be better, but it seems that in the end, other than seeing my taxes go up for one reason or another, the world goes on, both sides attack the other, and my life is about the same. The Democrats try to convince the world that the Republicans are idiots, and the Republicans try to convince the world that the Democrats are stealing their liberties. Each cycle, it seems that what used to be considered a form of civil service creates more wealth for politicians, and the rich Republicans and the rich Democrats get richer, or make someone else richer, somehow using us to do it.
Most of us are putting forth labor so they can reach their goal of going from average Joe to rich politician. Still, we continue to listen to their ideals and allow them to manipulate how we choose or keep friends. We debate the issues with emotion, argue with fervor, and promote those ideals we have been manipulated to identify with. In the end, it’s often wealth and lobbying that influences what comes out of the politicians mouths, regardless of the party, with the end goal of influencing our thoughts.
Today, I’m sitting in my brother’s home as he and his family face the effects of a Terminal Brain Tumor. He can no longer make it to the restroom alone and his wife needs help because she can only do so much. His children, one in college, and one out in the work force are home for the weekend to help. Life, not on hold, but coming to an end. Priorities now straight, and somehow Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump, neither of which has anything to offer the world in my opinion become trivial background noise, a place I hope they remain every day.
A terminal diagnosis does wonders for understanding priorities in life, and it turns out that most of them are not out in the world trying to fix world problems. In fact, for those who have families that they love, and families that love them, priorities might all be right at home. Such a diagnosis is fodder for consideration that, while we have our armchair debates about the world’s problems, most of us never resolve our own issues. On the rare occasion that we are given a terminal diagnosis we might have the chance.
Today, I would appeal to each one of you to cast aside your political discussions, turn towards your family, childhood friends, and for a minute realize that civilizations, the world, capitalism, socialism, and great societies have been running their cycles for thousands of years, and individuals have minimal to no effect on the course a society takes from start until collapse once the wheels are set in motion. If your political debates and discussions make you feel you’re having an influence, continue on, but a deeper perspective may help you focus on the areas where you can have an influence. An interesting book, “The Lessons of History”, Will & Ariel Durant, summarizes these cycles of civilization in a short concise manner.
Don’t wait for your terminal diagnosis, or for that of one close to you to find your priorities and where you can make life meaningful. First, take a close look at the presidential candidates and ask yourself if they’re worthy of much of your time or thoughts. Second, realize that today’s the day to take care of those close to you without the influence of any institution. Do it from your own heart in your own way.
This may seem a trivial post, but I don’t believe it is. My vehicle has a Bluetooth operation that allows it to read my texts. I find it verbalizes emojis. An example is if someone texts me with a sentence like “Thank You (smiley face emoji).” I hear an emotionless woman’s voice say: “Thank you, Smiley Face” .
Recently Facebook took a new step in evaluating posts. Where it used to be a thumbs-up or thumbs-down they have now added emojis to the evaluation key. So what does this have to do with literature? I’m not sure yet, but something tells me it will have an effect. Internet chat started, and texts facilitated the odd means of communication that we have now including TU, CU, OMG, LOL, IMHO, LMAHO, TTYL,TMI, SLAP, B3, IDC, BFF, and more than I can count, but now we also have the emoji configured every way imaginable.
Even as an old guy I can accept this, but when my emotionless voice message interpreter in my vehicle says to me “I’m at *$, LOL, Where U, **// 459 4EAE,” it still throws me off. Now that we have an emoji every couple words I’m more confused because the emotionless female voice in my vehicle says things like “I’m at *$, happy face where U frown face, **// 459 blush face 4EAE”. Then I ask myself why I can’t understand this simple English language.
I recently read that a 12 year old girl faces charges for posting gun, bomb, and knife emojis on Instagram. As text acronyms and emojis filter into our everyday language it will be interesting to see where and how they land in our literature over the next ten or fifteen years. Perhaps there will be a crime novel such as “The Emoji Killer”.
Last year I began attending a writers’ group. We read what we write and criticize each other. It’s a healthy experience, but it seems people don’t like to beat up on their peers. They’re too nice. I love it when someone beats my writing up. Not because I’m a masochist, but because that’s the only way I really learn. Kick my butt, I say, and they say my writing’s pretty good. No, I say, lay it on me. But they don’t. That’s not my confession though.
Here it is: I attend a writers’ group because when I criticize someone’s writing, it causes me to look much deeper into my own. There’s nothing more humbling then telling someone they shouldn’t use too many adverbs, or whatever, (in front of a group) then realizing that I’ve made the same errors and my writing is up next.
As corny as it sounds, the real benefit, for me at least, of attending the writer’s group is that it makes me a better self-editor. It took me a few years of writing before I started this because I tend to be a loner and prefer to live in a cocoon and write in a corner somewhere. Not to mention, there’s always someone cocky in these groups who believes he or she is God’s gift to the literary world just waiting to be discovered.
I’m wondering if anyone else out there attends writing groups and whether or not they find any benefit. If so, let me know.
In the name of life I must discuss death as the news I wish to deny arrives. This is not something new; it is something natural, something all around us, something we all experience within ourselves at some point, yet we clutch onto life, beg for life, and wonder why we are such cowards near death. It’s been overwritten, over studied, and over discussed. Yet, I discuss it.
It can never be the same for one lover to lose a lover as compared to another. The loss of a father, a sister, a brother, or a friend is as unique an experience to each of us as our own fingerprints that reflect who we are. When death draws near we deny, we run, we avoid, we pretend and we pray.
The medical world builds an army of vaccines and medicines and chemotherapies and radiations and sends them into battle, but when the battle is lost we cry, we beg, and turn to the charlatan for a new bottle of snake oil. And so it is, today, as my younger brother who together with his family fights and prays and kicks and screams and denies the cancer that reminds us our consciousness is no more than a guest in a body that allows us to see the whims of the universe for a moment in time on this planet, a spot in the galaxy somewhere in a space that we cannot understand.
And he steps into that dimension where we shall all one day join those who’ve come and gone, yet we do not understand what it means regardless of whether we know that it’s true, or whether we have faith, or have nothing. He fights that battle with honor and courage, and for his children and wife he fights as he reaches that ultimate resignation that this universe sends. A reality we all continue to deny, but one that reminds us that we must tell our stories, write our novels, and complete that which we have to offer this universe before it’s too late.