Category: Thinking, thinking

All Those Spectrums

Whenever I read about the stages of coping with grief, aging, or ASD, I think more generally about spectrums. My overall philosophy is that everything in existence is on a spectrum. Those spectrums generally have multiple sub-spectrums.

Fer instance, my body is on several spectrums. The spectrums are about my body shape, physical age, genetics, and conditioning. Some of the things are on spectrums that I can’t do anything about (genetics) and knowing this helps me adjust my other efforts and expectations.

The spectrum of time is fun to think about because now because the past in the same instant that the future becomes now. What a spectrum!

Emotions and socializing have multiple spectrums, too. I think of Johari spectrums instead of Johari windows. Nothing wrong with the windows, except for the conceptions that some have that these things are fixed within those panes, but my impressions are that we slide along, changing through the day, depending on circumstances, like whether we’re supervising, socializing, working alone, etc., but also circumstances such as who we’re dealing with, and our what’s going on with our body. Yes, it’s complex.

Naturally I think of these spectrums while writing. I appreciate that I have multiple spectrums about my work in progress and my writing prowess in general. My writing spectrums include ranking my grammar and punctuation, word-smithing, story-telling, and creativity. There are also spectrums for how well I create characters, portray action scenes, create settings, etc.  Yes, it’s complex.

Think about it came about because on the editing spectrum for my novel in progress, I feel pretty damn good. Meanwhile, on my story-telling spectrum, I feel far less confident. I’m anxious and worried about whether the story I’m trying to tell will emerge from how I tell it. I’m in the middle regarding its creativity and settings, because I see how I’ve built from the foundations that others have set.

But again, thinking of these things regarding my writing as spectrums enable to visualize my strengths and weaknesses, and helps me assess where I need to improve.

Enough of this stuff. You may say that I’m overthinking, over-analyzing, and over-complicating things. You may be right. It works for me, however, so who cares? Find your way — or don’t. It’s your choice.

Time to write edit like crazy, at least one more time.

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Rebel, Rebel

As I was dressing today, I decided to wear brown shoes.

Like many people — not — my shoes choice drives my attire. As my grandmother used to say, “Start at the feet, and dress up.” (She didn’t.)

Season, weather, and plans drive my shoe choice. I’ve found that I’m uncomfortable in sandals in the fall and winter, usually because the day starts out nippy and doesn’t get warm. I’m not much of a sandal person anyway. 

Which takes me to the brown shoes. 

Once I decided to wear brown shoes, the pants and shirt were easy, since it was cool, forty degrees, sunny, with sixty-two degrees anticipated as the high. Since I was wearing brown shoes, I needed a brown belt, right?

Time out. Wait. Hang on. 

Why did I need a brown belt?

Because that’s how I’ve been socialized, normalized, and conditioned. Brown shoes, brown belt. I heard it from Mom, wife, girlfriends, and others. It’s like, why? WTF difference does it make? 

So guess what this rebel did?

If you guessed that I put on black shoes and a black belt, you’re wrong. I’m wearing a black belt with brown shoes. 

Yeah, pretty far out, right?

I’m such a rebel.

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Incomplete States

What’s –

  • Known
  • Suspected
  • Established
  • Doubted
  • Explained
  • Said
  • Happening

The complexities are a challenge to keep aligned. Just when you think you have them, they –

  • Change
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Some Dreams

I spy little dreams

secreted behind the schemes

coming and going today

 

Little dreams

hiding in the dark

fearing the people

that break them apart

 

Some dreams

aren’t meant to be

but who could say which one

 

Some dreams 

are down to essentials

like

I just want to live

and find love

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Coupling

It’s been three joyous writing (and editing) days. Having one such day always energizes and intoxicates me. Returning to life’s normal routines and patterns afterward is deflating.

But then, coupling three days together feeds the highs, giving me a sensation of feeling invincible and omnipotent. It’s empowering but frightening because it must be kept in context for what it is.

That energy can’t help but spill over into other things. It stirs something that’s deeper and more primal in me. The short and long of it is that I’m accomplishing, creating something tangible from my mind’s energy and my physical exertion, and that is rewarding. I set a goal, and I’m working toward accomplishing that goal. When successful progress and its accompanying energy continues over three days, this sense parlays into a belief that I can do anything, because, hey, look how good the writing and editing is progressing. Woo-hoo.

Common sense helps ground me. Writing (and editing) and the rest of life aren’t the same. Thinking of this reminds me of some hotel chain’s commercials. They went along the lines of, “Let me operate.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“No, but I got a great night of rest.”

It’s all about how you feel, and the self-confidence that it stirs. I think the chain was Holiday Inn Express.

Meanwhile, however, some of my mind views all this with deep suspicion. “Maybe you’re fooling yourself,” at least one advisor whispers. “You’re probably not that good.”

It’s an amusing proposition because it demands that I hold two contrary ideas in mind, that I am that good, and that I’m not that good. Parts of my writing is probably amazing, and parts are probably crap. This is a draft, and I’m the writer, and I wrote it for me, so if I enjoy it as a reader, mission accomplished. It’s natural that others will dislike it, not get it, enjoy it or not, decide that it’s, “Okay,” (shudder), or love it. None of that’s within my control except that I wrote it for me, and I enjoy it.

Am I conning myself? You bet! But I think I’m also being realistic. I know, too, that I’ll probably encounter days when I feel sick about reading what I wrote because it needs a lot of work.

Accepting that I must stop now is a reluctant choice. I love the immersion of writing and editing my novels. I know myself, though, and my writing process, and its capricious nature. I know that going out on a high helps sustain progress because I feed off expectations created by past success.  It at least makes it easier to get to the document the next day.

So, sadly, but joyously, time to stop writing editing like crazy, one more time.

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Friday’s Theme Music

I started this morning by streaming some old ELP, “Welcome back my friends, to the show that never ends, we’re so glad you could attend, come inside, come inside.” Any ELP fan recognizes that opening from one of the Brain Salad Surgery “Karn Evil 9 Impressions” (1973).

But the stream drifted, bringing in “Still…You Turn Me On” from the album. I also enjoy thinking about the song’s enigmatic lyrics. It’s like they’re singing about trying to understand someone, and failing while guessing at who they are, and despite that, being attracted to them.

Many of us find ourselves in like situations in life, trying to understand others, and sometimes loving or hating them for reasons that we can’t explain.

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The Greeting Card Dream

I’ve been dreaming, but most of it’s been the standard surviving storms, climbing mountains, and flying stuff. This dream last night was odd, so I thought it worth thinking more about, which translates to writing about it.

I was creating a greeting card. Nothing special about that. It’s something that I’ve done off and on on computers for decades. In this one, though, I was creating a greeting card with the outline of Oregon on the cover. It was a cut-out showing a photo of me with my wife.

Trying to figure out what should go inside, I realized I didn’t know the card’s expected recipient. Closing it to think, I looked at the card’s front and saw that I’d printed, “Wish you were here.” I realized the photo was of us when we were younger.

That made me laugh. Someone was calling me (off dream, if you will). I said, “Just a minute. I’m not done.”

Then, looking at the card, I thought, that could be the basis for a clever line of cards.

End dream.

I woke up smiling.

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The Days

It happened on a Monday

I thought it was a Sunday

not the change I sought

When it came Thursday

it was supposed to be Tuesday

the man told me, that’s what I’d bought

I hunted Friday and found Saturday

a tattered day if I ever knew one

So I hung onto Wednesday

the only real friendly day

drunk like another day doesn’t matter.

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Bowling Pin

On some days, he feels like he’s a target, maybe a bowling pin, set up and knocked down. If that was so, someone would have to be setting him up and rolling the ball that knocks him down. He wonders, the gods don’t bowl, do they?

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The Real Time

Well, they’ve done it, they’ve changed their clocks, setting the time back an hour, “Falling back,” as they like to say in America.

It’s an easy task that he does before going to bed. He has five clocks to change. It’s amazing that the house has five clocks. One is mechanical and battery operated. The rest, on the thermostat, bedroom clock-radio, microwave, and stove, are electronic. Strange that they must be changed manually, but there you go. He confirms, while doing his task, that the guest room clock radio is unplugged. That’s to save energy. He smiles at that.

The household has four televisions. It’s a ridiculous number for a couple who spends a few hours with the TV at night, and always watch together. But there’s been a progression, so the older flat screen digital televisions find homes in the master and guest bedrooms. Neither room had a television before. Each television has time built into its systems. Software manages falling back for him. Same with the Fitbits, computers, tablets, VCR, and phones, but not the cars.

Time is everywhere. For days after going through the change, he thinks, “What is the real time? It’s actually really seven now.” He thinks about how this change affects the daylight, and the temperatures he endures, which affects how he dresses, and his daily plans. He likes the light arriving earlier but he misses the late day light.

He wonders, in the end, what the real time is. His body isn’t certain. One thing he notes: the cats admirably adjusted to the change.

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