Dreaming the Essential

I had a dream last night. 

I was playing tour guide for a group of blue hairs on a bus.  We were driving past some kind of world’s fair – it looked pretty fantastical with all sorts of shiny, colorful rides and futuristic buildings.  I was being fairly glib, keeping the gals entertained with chatter, when we came upon what looked like a flea market. 

So, I shared the following insight: “You ever go to a flea market and come upon one of those booths that is absolutely crammed with junk – useless things that no one really needs?  Things long past their prime?  Maybe the booth has three pristine pieces of great value, but you would never know it because you can’t see beyond all the garbage?  Yeah… I’m a lot like that.”

What?

So, it’s got me thinking: Is there any truth to that?  Is it just me or is it something we all do with our lives?  Do we cover up – accidently or subconsciously – that which is valuable about ourselves with non-essential subterfuge?  Does all that floating mind debris serve as some kind of protection?  Distraction?  Procrastination device?

I think about what passes for news these days on my local morning show; sound bites doled out that are little more than commercials.  Does the fact that Hardees has a new chicken sandwich really all that newsworthy?  Or is it because Hardees happens to advertise on the channel during those hours when the station runs re-runs of ‘The Big Bang Theory’ and the like? 

Yeah, we all know the answer to that one.

And what about celebrity ‘news’?  Does Kanye and Kim really matter to anyone other than Kanye and Kim and those that make their living perpetuating that whole media scam? 

Opting out is easy.  Turn off the damn T.V.   Go on the net and get your news, right?

But wait… it’s not any better on the net. 

Huffington Post knows that in order to get to read their horribly biased piece on the latest Republican led atrocity they need to also offer you that tantalizing bit about the topless book club in New York, or the latest on Rhi-Rhi’s panties as a sidebar. 

And what about that new chicken sandwich at Hardees?  Shouldn’t we check that out?  And those K-Cup machines… I could use one of those.  And what about the Wal-Mart challenge?  I’m thinking that’s something I’m up for…

And so our minds, bodies and lives become inhabited by whatever flotsam drifts into our path, and all that junk ends up obscuring for ourselves and others what is truly important about whom we are, what we have to offer, and what our lives should be about.

I often wonder if my desire to see concerts, listen to new music, see that cool indie flick or British sitcom isn’t my way of never getting to the heart of the matter and getting on with what it is I’m here to do.  At what point do we stop hoarding such experiences and begin downsizing the amount of cultural refuse we allow to take up space in our already overtaxed minds?

I find myself frequently frustrated to the point of anger when the dogs are barking and the television is blaring and dinner needs to be made and I really should be getting the laundry in the washer and the dogs should go for a walk and why am I out of milk and where is my spare car key and that life insurance premium was to be paid on the first is sitting on the dining room table still and Mother’s Day is coming up…

So, I do end up opting out.  I surrender.  I sit my ass on the end of the couch and allow it all to eat away at me as I distract myself with some blog featuring photos of really hot men, or google+, or a rerun of ‘The Mary Tyler Moore Show’.   

It’s all a distraction, one that actually aggravates the problem rather than solving it. 

Religion does the same.  So does anonymous sex and some relationships.

So does blogging.

What is essential?  What is important?  What is germane?

So tonight, I’m going to resist checking my phone, checking the web, turning on the television, etc.  It will be hard because I achieve a weird kind of comfort watching an episode of ‘Family Guy’ while eating a bowl of raisin bran right before I go to bed.

Of course… that might explain my weird dreams, too.   

Pretty Much Sums Up 2013 for Me, So Far...

The following photos pretty much capture how I feel about the year 2013, so far.  

To say the least, things are not going very well.  

For once (!), I will spare you all the gory, petty, stupid, pointless details. 

So far, I have learned the following:


1/ Sometimes a 20 minute ride can take 5 hours.

2/ Remembering things in chronological order can be very important.

3/ Not only is it true that 'what goes around, comes around', but if you are being stupid, it may just come around again.

4/ Metaphorically, you are not 'out of the woods' unless you bring out everything you brought in.

5/ Sometimes 'telling the truth' is not a good idea.

6/ Worrying is very, very hard on the body.

7/ Sometimes the simplest of plans and the best of intentions can go horribly awry.

8/ Lawyers are very expensive.

Yes, 'smart' people make stupid mistakes.  

Things will sort themselves out.  I will know a lot more after Monday. Until then, I am going off-line and laying low.  

Everybody have a great weekend.  

Send good energy. 

- Uptonking from Wonderland Burlesque

Stumbling Towards Mediocrity

James Patterson is an awful writer.

Anyone with any appreciation for the English language, anyone who has had any firsthand exposure to the human condition, anyone who has ever held a conversation with another human being, anyone who has ever spent time on the planet earth, anyone who has experienced a moment of reality, or anyone who has ever read a ‘really good book’, will tell you – James Patterson is an awful writer.  Possibly the worst.   Certainly one of the most successful bad writers of all time.

Put it this way – he makes Stephen King look like Charles Dickens.

I have worked my way through several of Mr. Patterson’s books.  They are a mind boggling mess: narrative voices that shift without reason, characters that do things that make no common sense, dialogue that sounds as if it was translated into English from some form of ancient Gaulish by a man who speaks only Mandarin.  Chapters are short, so you feel you are really making progress.  Plots?  Well, the word ridiculous springs into mind.  Mr. Patterson is the kind of storyteller with both eyes on the clock… the story ends exactly when it is supposed to, and he is not above throwing physics, common sense, or character development into a wood chipper in order to accomplish it.  Why?  Because James Patterson is more interested in writing a lot of books than he is writing a good book.  So his work probably ends up the way it does for any one or all of the following reasons: the author is disinterested, lazy, under a deadline, or needs to pay for that new deck he put on his house in Miami/the Hamptons/San Diego/Mars.

Why do I read books by James Patterson?

Because I, too, aspire to be a mediocre writer.

My ultimate goal is to have a book I write turned into a Lifetime Television for Women Movie of the Week, starring a string of C-List actresses well past their A-List prime.  What?  It could happen.  In a world where the SyFy Channel (is that what they are calling themselves these days?) exists, there is a need for product to fill the airwaves, and why couldn’t I be one of those people who write something that plugs up one of those programming holes?

Yes, I now aspire to stumble towards mediocrity.  No longer do I pine to bask in the glow of literary praise.  No longer do I practice my Oscar acceptance speech.  No longer do I wonder what I will do for a follow-up album after I win my first Grammy.  No.  I just want to be a schleb.  And not even a wildly successful schleb like Mr. Patterson.  I will happily settle for writing a book people sometimes see at rummage sales in the free bin that was made into a movie no one remembers ever seeing.  And what has brought about this change, this acceptance, this embrace?

Because I’m a realist.  I know that may be as good as it ever gets.  I’m not unhappy about it, nor am I rendered numb or immobile by this realization.  Rather, I find myself actually working on a book that I may actually finish writing (which also seems to be one of the hallmarks of any James Patterson novel: he typed his way all the way to the end!).   I’m on Chapter 20.  I’ve been working on it for a year and a half.  One friend has been reading it as I’ve been writing and is encouraging my pipe dream by acting as my cheerleader (which I really appreciate). 

I guess it was just a matter of time.  I mean mediocrity – it’s like McDonalds; found EVERYWHERE.  So prevalent is it in our society that one’s life cannot help but be touched by it, and, therefore, one cannot help but eventually succumb to it. 

It brings to mind a line from one of my all-time favorite plays (favorite, because it is a brilliant piece of writing), Edward Albee’s ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’  It’s something Martha tells Nick: “Relax!  Sink into it.  You're no better than anybody else.”  

And that’s okay.

Accepting one’s own eventual mediocrity is such a relief – a weight lifted from your shoulders.  You can then get on to the real important things in life… like watching Lifetime Television Movies and reading James Patterson novels.