Thank you......I look forward to the book you are working on (growing in the quiet of a 4 am world 👍❤️). And thank you for...seeing Leonard Bernstein conduct! Perfect music to counter construction noise (magnificent drums!!)
I’ve been up since around 4:20 (no symbolism in the time), to enjoy several cups of coffee and predawn darkness before spring arrives. Lately, I have trying to follow your example by omitting anger from my reactions to life. Among other benefits, it occurs to me that foregoing anger may free up more time and energy to focus on things that matter. Then perhaps I can refocus on the things that really matter. Such a narrowing and sharpening of focus might be of value to those who feel the need to include their favorite pronouns in their email signature block or legislate against wokeness.
On a related topic (to anger, I mean); I recently abandoned Twitter for reasons we might all understand, and migrated (!) over to Mastadon. I recommend it; far, far kinder, gentler, funny site. A lot of scientists, artists, professors, smart folks. And I really don't miss the shouting, anger, echo chambers, trolls, and silos.
I'm fine with trying to omit anger but when responding to angry, ignorant, insulting comments on a science oriented list, I find it difficult to stay above the fray and descend into those depths.
Speaking of pronouns you would need no "she/ her/ hers" in the youtube video of The Rite of Spring since the orchestra consisted of he/him/his and possibly they/ them/ theirs.
Loved today's early-morning thoughts. I too have discovered the peace and quiet that exists before sunrise. I'm enjoying it now. Please send up flares when that new book comes out. I'll get in line.
We all know that there's no way to remodel quietly, and unless you reside in the Vanderbilt Mansion, you're going to be living cheek by jowl. Knowing that it's fair doesn't make it any more bearable, but at least you get to exercise your determined cheerfulness. It reminds me of a Pot Shots postcard by Ashleigh Brilliant, "Force Yourself to Relax."
At our age it seems easy to be grateful and lighthearted, and to skip out the door like Dangerous Dan McGrew. But we have grandchildren who are going to experience profound disruptions in the prime of their lives as the would runs out of resources. Somehow saying "I'm too old to care about that" seems very uncaring in the worst sense of the word.
I care to live simply as I can, to avoid waste, to get by on less, to walk lightly and make minimal impact in the world, but I choose not to live in dread, not to agonize, not to give up wonder and delight.
My TV's white noise is my only aid. If I have bad dreams that come from the cat sitting on my hip and or gunfire on my white noise channel. Stay cool. I arise at 4 E T and I consider what kind of slap I'd get from dad for the half of wokeness that is universally without merit. My friends consider the 21st century 2 or 3 too many, but I am an appreciator of the abuse of antibiotics. I also like to make the font on this boxy thing so big I can take my glasses off and lose them. Be Cool. agin...
I'm still working on how one extends cheerfulness and positivity in every action except toward the guys across the hall just trying to earn a living. Now, if you were living in an assisted care facility with 24/7 reruns of "It's A Wonderful Life", then I'm on your side. But, you exist in the idea you are a man of the people (not peephole), so why the animosity toward Labor?
My degree is (was?) in Radio and TV but I am eschewing the news shows with their alarmed and breathless newscasters casting every word like WW3 was just declared!! (extra urgency indicated by the two !!). IF something is happening that I need to know (like an impending blizzard or the collapse of Crypto-What?) someone who loves me will call. When the breathless do invade my tranquility, I am most often greatly relieved that they have to painstakingly scour the farthest edges of the world (and space) to come up with some Terrible Tidbit: which means that NOTHING horrible happened in my part of the globe today. They have to fill the time slot with something! And when they go on and on trying to make something out of a nothing, such as the friendly dog who walks the route with the mailman, my mind relaxes: No catastrophic emergency occured today. (Yippee) I am waiting (breathlessly) for the day when the reporter opens with "Folks, great news today: we don't have enough news to fill the time slot, so for your listening pleasure, we invite you to listen to this lovely piece by Mozart." One day...
Bravo!! or is it Brava !! Dear Meg? I couldn't agree with you more. The love of my life looks at me with clear disdain each evening at the newzz hour(?), but I can't quietly hide my dis-interest.
I know all too well the scourge that is noisy neighbors.
For years I lived in a small apartment in downtown Toronto, kitty corner to such offenders. A husband and wife, they had a troublesome dynamic. He was a controlling tyrant; she seemed, sadly, his professional victim. On Sunday mornings, ridiculously early, this jerk insisted on playing Wagner operas at head-crushing decibel levels. Not only did I grow to actively despise all things Wagnerian but this ritual sparked my lifelong suspicion of any and all early morning activity.
One particular Sunday at dawn Wagner blared so loudly that it actually knocked a lovely picture off my wall and sent it crashing to the floor. Sounds cliched but it happened. Loins girded, I headed next door, seething, and told the neighbor what had happened, that the picture was irreplaceable - it was... I brought it back from Nairn in Scotland - and that my fury was a culmination of months of putting up with his wretched behavior. He was utterly nonplussed and shrugged his shoulders, which sent me into further paroxysms.
I'd like to tell you he relented after that and chose to play only Gershwin thereafter, and strictly from 2 pm on. Alas, it would be untrue.
Here is a poem I wrote about these neighbors many years later that I called "Apartment 110." Writing it gave me a renewed perspective on my Wagner period.
Apartment 110.
You find the family you need.
Marilyn, a somewhat cured agoraphobic and hoarder,
in the one bedroom to my right,
appeared at my apartment door one night at 3 am
and announced “Never get married,”
before turning on her heel.
She told me at that same door that I needed
only five pieces in my wardrobe. Black and white. A mix. Classics.
Don’t bother with the rest.
When I tried quitting smoking I enlisted her
to help wean me off, agreed she would ration me,
leave three cigarettes
in my milk chute every day.
First day they were burned to nubs by noon.
She suspected her European husband was a spy
and lived in fear of him,
a slippery tyrant who played Wagner every Sunday morning.
So loud it once knocked a picture off my wall, breaking it.
Thank you......I look forward to the book you are working on (growing in the quiet of a 4 am world 👍❤️). And thank you for...seeing Leonard Bernstein conduct! Perfect music to counter construction noise (magnificent drums!!)
You have somehow cleansed your soul and mind and taken a righteous stance as told by the Bard in "Macbeth":
"Out out brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
But those damnable fools full of noise next door will move onto another scene, during Act Infinity.
Very good. Very good.
I love to use these lines when responding to idiotic statements made in the cooonets section of articles in the Bangor Daily News:
"It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
I have no idea what you are talking about in the first two paragraphs of this article. Am I alone in this incomprehension?
Not alone, but lonely.
They're crystal clear to me, fwiw.
I’ve been up since around 4:20 (no symbolism in the time), to enjoy several cups of coffee and predawn darkness before spring arrives. Lately, I have trying to follow your example by omitting anger from my reactions to life. Among other benefits, it occurs to me that foregoing anger may free up more time and energy to focus on things that matter. Then perhaps I can refocus on the things that really matter. Such a narrowing and sharpening of focus might be of value to those who feel the need to include their favorite pronouns in their email signature block or legislate against wokeness.
On a related topic (to anger, I mean); I recently abandoned Twitter for reasons we might all understand, and migrated (!) over to Mastadon. I recommend it; far, far kinder, gentler, funny site. A lot of scientists, artists, professors, smart folks. And I really don't miss the shouting, anger, echo chambers, trolls, and silos.
I'm fine with trying to omit anger but when responding to angry, ignorant, insulting comments on a science oriented list, I find it difficult to stay above the fray and descend into those depths.
Thank you for your beautiful essays.
I am age 73, and I rise at 4:30 AM MST.
Here in Prescott, AZ. we are very fortunate to have an independent bookstore, Peregrine Book Company.
To quote Mr. Dylan, "May you stay forever young".
Speaking of pronouns you would need no "she/ her/ hers" in the youtube video of The Rite of Spring since the orchestra consisted of he/him/his and possibly they/ them/ theirs.
Loved today's early-morning thoughts. I too have discovered the peace and quiet that exists before sunrise. I'm enjoying it now. Please send up flares when that new book comes out. I'll get in line.
Start the revolution! Let us simply find the small joys of life.
We all know that there's no way to remodel quietly, and unless you reside in the Vanderbilt Mansion, you're going to be living cheek by jowl. Knowing that it's fair doesn't make it any more bearable, but at least you get to exercise your determined cheerfulness. It reminds me of a Pot Shots postcard by Ashleigh Brilliant, "Force Yourself to Relax."
I still have an Ashleigh Brilliant postcard (somewhere) stating ‘Constant Change is Here to Stay.’ it’s been a good motto for 50 years.
At our age it seems easy to be grateful and lighthearted, and to skip out the door like Dangerous Dan McGrew. But we have grandchildren who are going to experience profound disruptions in the prime of their lives as the would runs out of resources. Somehow saying "I'm too old to care about that" seems very uncaring in the worst sense of the word.
I care to live simply as I can, to avoid waste, to get by on less, to walk lightly and make minimal impact in the world, but I choose not to live in dread, not to agonize, not to give up wonder and delight.
My TV's white noise is my only aid. If I have bad dreams that come from the cat sitting on my hip and or gunfire on my white noise channel. Stay cool. I arise at 4 E T and I consider what kind of slap I'd get from dad for the half of wokeness that is universally without merit. My friends consider the 21st century 2 or 3 too many, but I am an appreciator of the abuse of antibiotics. I also like to make the font on this boxy thing so big I can take my glasses off and lose them. Be Cool. agin...
I hate white noise, but my middle-aged kids require it. Sigh.
I'm still working on how one extends cheerfulness and positivity in every action except toward the guys across the hall just trying to earn a living. Now, if you were living in an assisted care facility with 24/7 reruns of "It's A Wonderful Life", then I'm on your side. But, you exist in the idea you are a man of the people (not peephole), so why the animosity toward Labor?
It was brief. I have zipped my mouth.
My degree is (was?) in Radio and TV but I am eschewing the news shows with their alarmed and breathless newscasters casting every word like WW3 was just declared!! (extra urgency indicated by the two !!). IF something is happening that I need to know (like an impending blizzard or the collapse of Crypto-What?) someone who loves me will call. When the breathless do invade my tranquility, I am most often greatly relieved that they have to painstakingly scour the farthest edges of the world (and space) to come up with some Terrible Tidbit: which means that NOTHING horrible happened in my part of the globe today. They have to fill the time slot with something! And when they go on and on trying to make something out of a nothing, such as the friendly dog who walks the route with the mailman, my mind relaxes: No catastrophic emergency occured today. (Yippee) I am waiting (breathlessly) for the day when the reporter opens with "Folks, great news today: we don't have enough news to fill the time slot, so for your listening pleasure, we invite you to listen to this lovely piece by Mozart." One day...
Bravo!! or is it Brava !! Dear Meg? I couldn't agree with you more. The love of my life looks at me with clear disdain each evening at the newzz hour(?), but I can't quietly hide my dis-interest.
Love it! “In the world ye shall have troubles (and annoying construction), but be of good cheer, Christ has conquered the world.”
So many people now living haven’t a good idea of the size of a VW, having never squeezed into one with five other high school students.
LOL! Loved my bugs, hate the new bug inposters.
Dear Garrison -
I know all too well the scourge that is noisy neighbors.
For years I lived in a small apartment in downtown Toronto, kitty corner to such offenders. A husband and wife, they had a troublesome dynamic. He was a controlling tyrant; she seemed, sadly, his professional victim. On Sunday mornings, ridiculously early, this jerk insisted on playing Wagner operas at head-crushing decibel levels. Not only did I grow to actively despise all things Wagnerian but this ritual sparked my lifelong suspicion of any and all early morning activity.
One particular Sunday at dawn Wagner blared so loudly that it actually knocked a lovely picture off my wall and sent it crashing to the floor. Sounds cliched but it happened. Loins girded, I headed next door, seething, and told the neighbor what had happened, that the picture was irreplaceable - it was... I brought it back from Nairn in Scotland - and that my fury was a culmination of months of putting up with his wretched behavior. He was utterly nonplussed and shrugged his shoulders, which sent me into further paroxysms.
I'd like to tell you he relented after that and chose to play only Gershwin thereafter, and strictly from 2 pm on. Alas, it would be untrue.
Here is a poem I wrote about these neighbors many years later that I called "Apartment 110." Writing it gave me a renewed perspective on my Wagner period.
Apartment 110.
You find the family you need.
Marilyn, a somewhat cured agoraphobic and hoarder,
in the one bedroom to my right,
appeared at my apartment door one night at 3 am
and announced “Never get married,”
before turning on her heel.
She told me at that same door that I needed
only five pieces in my wardrobe. Black and white. A mix. Classics.
Don’t bother with the rest.
When I tried quitting smoking I enlisted her
to help wean me off, agreed she would ration me,
leave three cigarettes
in my milk chute every day.
First day they were burned to nubs by noon.
She suspected her European husband was a spy
and lived in fear of him,
a slippery tyrant who played Wagner every Sunday morning.
So loud it once knocked a picture off my wall, breaking it.
Furious, I headed over.
When he answered the door I saw, instantly,
the chaos Marilyn had been living with
all this time.