Thing One and Thing Two: some personal stuff

If a tree falls in the forest and there is nobody to hear it, the laws of physics dictate that it will make a sound. However with nobody to hear that sound, the tree will not be assessed for its value as a part of the ecosystem and its future, shaped into a product or a carving, might also be in doubt. The fact that you read what I write gives value to the words, and for that I can never be grateful enough.


I write quite a bit. I'm in spitting distance of 400 newspaper columns and then there are the other bits and pieces I write for this blog. I don't give away much of myself though. Most of what I write is relatively impersonal gonzo polemic, aside from a couple of short stories and a bit of poetry from time to time.

I'm going to change that and take down some of the impersonal walls that I have become so adept at building.

Two things happened during the week that shook me a bit.

Thing One

About a day or two ago, I was doing the Facebook routine of spinning down the page and adding a few bits and pieces to my page. One of the pictures identified me as being weird. I clicked on it automatically because, superficially, it looked good. I am weird? Right?

Not really.

I looked at the post after a while and decided to remove it. I am not weird, I decided. In fact, the only weird thing was that I felt that I had insulted myself. Weird is easy enough. It is a filter that stops people, denser particles if you will, from becoming friends and imposing their own dull values on things. I felt at that point, that I don't have to proclaim my 'weirdness', indeed shouldn't.

I think about things that a lot of people don't think about, and choose to form my own opinions. I throw them open to whoever wants the words. They get comments on Facebook, and my blog, as well as in the street, from newspaper readers. There is no need for me to be defensive about what I think.

Weird is a bad word. I adopted it decades ago in response to playground taunts, the best defense then, but not now. I am happy to think differently or not toe the line of repetitive posts of the same images and aphorisms. Life is nothing a series of perceptions filtered through the brain. Why should I denigrate my mind and soul by associating myself with 'weird'.

The thing that shook me was the amount of growing up that happened in those two minutes.

No, I'm not weird.

Thing Two

About three or four days ago, I did the Zeebly thing and got a profile of myself deduced from my Facebook page. Most of it is obvious. I care deeply for philosophy, books and writing. According to the thing I am into travel, but that is a byproduct of posts concerning a travel website. My idea of a getaway is a day doing nothing but reading and sleeping. I haven't had one of those days in about forever.

The things that forced me to reassess myself were two personal characteristics it reported: 'strong-willed' and 'confident'. 'Strong-willed' is a survival tactic which gets jobs done when there are hard times. 'Confident'? Not really. Most of the time I am hammered by doubts about the verity of my feelings and the value and effect of the things I do.

Zeebly tells me I am mildly introverted. Actually, I am intensely introverted. Facebook has brought me into contact with some wonderful people with whom I want to talk and interact. Still, I am most content  in one-on-one situations, and even then I have a way of withdrawing into my head.

There was a reference to 'loving'. I scored high there. Even though I am a wallflower, I can care for others. Reading, the well-being of kids, animals, various aspects of development, non-specific spirituality and the environment are very important to me. Full marks to Zeebly for that one.

Excited? Yes. New ideas keep me going. Without them, life is tedious and unappetizing mush: serotonin and synaptic activity lead to purpose and fulfillment.

Happy? I had to think about that one long and hard. Actually I am a good dissembler. I find happiness from time to time, but not often enough.

The importance of my family taken as a given, the next thing that makes me most happy, writing, also makes me the most unhappy. I have never really wanted to do much else than write, stories in particular. I recently began writing stories and was gobsmacked. I enjoyed reading the fiction I write. I enjoy the exercise of untangling and reconstructing the words. And, to my slack-jawed shock, one has been published and one has two have been accepted for publication.

The other side lies in not getting to it enough, as I dog-paddle in the rising tide. That and the knowledge that I have spent all that time working in the hopes of getting the time and security to do it. Sad. And stupid.

I have become a work-machine, a construct of responsibilities, duties, outputs, decisions, strategies, tactics, proactive paranoia, constant learning and often difficult and rapid adaptation. It goes with the other side of things, survival in professional territory.

Unfortunately a lot of wonders that my head gives to me get short-shrift along the way, the ideas that want to be pursued and pinned down, and the compelling magic that shows up in the grey moments before sleep.

Without writing my head wants to burst. Putting the things down in words and sentences removes them from my mind for a while, alleviates headaches. This new thing, the confidence of knowing that if I make the effort I can tell stories that I and others want to read, adds to the congestion in my head.

If you have read this far, here's a word of thanks.

If a tree falls in the forest and there is nobody to hear it, the laws of physics dictate that it will make a sound. However with nobody to hear that sound, the tree will not be assessed for its value as a part of the ecosystem and its future, shaped into a product or a carving, might also be in doubt.

The fact that you read what I write gives value to the words, and for that I can never be grateful enough.