I was surfing the link list, looking for some inspiration, and clicking on links to links of links, and all of a sudden I came to the following realization, unspectacular though it may be:
There seem to be a lot more blogs by submissives than there are blogs by Dominants.
Part of this is that there are simply more submissives than Dominants. I have read, one place, that the number is something like seven subs for every 3 Dom/mes.
One might thus expect a baseline of 70% of D/s blogs to be by submissives, assuming that the blogging subset (!) exists in the same percentage as the D/s population at large. (And the much bigger assumption that the 7/3 ratio is accurate.)
By My anecdotal reckoning it's a lot closer to 90%.
Why should that be? Several possibilities:
1. submission is easier to write about than Dominance.
2. submission is more interesting to read about than Dominance.
3. submissives are naturally more introspective and analytical than Dom/mes.
4. submissives read more blogs, thus comment on more blogs, thus their blogs are better publicized and linked to.
5. A submissive can be ordered to do a blog, thus making submissive blogs more likely.
And any number of other possibilities.
I'm not sure I really put much faith in any of those I listed above.
It's the blogging equivalent of a PTA bath. You don't want to go another day without posting something. But you stare at the mocking white new post screen for ten minutes and . . . nothing. And you havn't got all night.
In desperation you figure you'll toss a picture up there. Just this once. You'll be more inspired to do a real post next time.
Honest.
The voice seems to come from a little red devil on your shoulder.
"Go ahead . . . . it's going to feel good. Do it. You're having a rough week . . . you deserve a post off."
This past week, two sports stories transcended sports and found their way into the mainstream media.
1. Olympic swimming god Michael Phelps was photographed with a bong.
2. Sports Illustrated reported that Alex Rodriguez tested positive for steroids in 2003.
Phelps issued the expected corporate apology . . . I'm sorry I let down all the widows, orphans and baby koalas for whom I had been a role model, I promise never to do it again, I'll gladly narc on the person or persons the weed was obtained from, just ask me, and any fan who would like his or her car detailed please e-mail me and I'll send you a gift certificate to Jiffy Wash.
It was a nice piece of PR hackwork -- for better or worse publicists have had a lot of practice issuing these endorsement-saving (they hope) apologies on behalf of athletes. But most of them involve something more serious than being photographed with a bong.
And that's the essence of Minority Report, Part 1. Once, just once, could one of these guys just admit they smoke weed and skip the meaculpa, which, let's face it, no one believes anyway? Phelps will smoke weed again -- he'll just be more careful about the circumstances and the company next time.
I understand it's against the law . . . but consider -- of alcohol, tobacco, and marijuana -- which has the highest social cost? Marijuana is a distant third. The "gateway drug" argument is easily debunked (or universally applicable, equally as devastating to the argument).
Anti-drug ads urge our children to "live above the influence." I wonder, will an athlete ever live above the influence of sponsorship dollars? I am guessing not. Some addictions are way too strong to break.
*****
A-Rod tested positive for steroids in 2003. This is a big deal because, a) it's A-Rod, b) he's on the Yankees, c) he's an easy target because he cares too damn much what people think, and d) he has denied using steroids (smartly, however, not in front of Congress, as Dumbest Living Human Rafael Palmiero did).
Back in 2003 baseball did mass tests, for the sole purpose of determining if steroid use was widespread enough to warrant an actual "policy" and/or further steps. 5-7% of the players tested, tested positive. The results were never meant to be published, in terms of who had tested positive and who hadn't. In fact, a court order sealed the 2003 results.
Well, someone leaked the A-Rod information to a reporter and the story breaks.
I assume the story is accurate. Sports Illustrated is not looking to invite a massive lawsuit for reporting something so damaging and then having it turn out to be false. A Rod has not denied it to this point.
My problem comes in here. Whoever leaked the information to the reporter knowingly broke the law. The reporter accepted and relayed information she knew to have been illegally obtained.
Why doesn't that matter? I understand it has no bearing on A Rod's guilt, innocence, or legacy. But it's a small example of how the press, in its boundless arrogance, has lost touch with the common good, and with the people they so condescendingly claim to ultimately act on behalf of, when in fact they pursue career objectives with the same single-minded zeal as the most aggressive drug company sales rep.
So, by all means, everyone who wants to trash A-Rod, have a ball. But let's not pretend that it was "journalism" that caused the story to ever become a story.
[My thanks to iris, who contributed to this post.]
There's a great scene in The Godfather where the Corleone family contemplates an uncertain future. Don Vito lies in a hospital bed, clinging to life after an assassination attempt by other forces in organized crime who see Don Corleone as standing in the way of their entry into the massively lucrative heroin business.
At one point, a young Michael Corleone suggests to Tom Hagen, the consigliere, and to his older brother Sonny, running the family in the Don's absence, that their problems will be solved if they assassinate a certain New York City police captain and the mobster who's facilitating the Mafia's entry into the drug trade.
Michael suggests that they agree to a meeting -- a meeting at which Michael will kill the police captain and the heroin distributor. The following exchange then ensues:
Sonny: What are you gonna do? Nice college boy, didn't want to get mixed up in the family business. Now you want to gun down a police captain. Why? Because he slapped you in the face a little? What do you think this like the Army where you can shoot 'em from a mile away? No you gotta get up like this and, badda-bing, you blow their brains all over your nice Ivy League suit. C'mere. [Kisses Michael on the head] Sonny: You're taking this very personal. Tom, this is business and this man is taking it very, very personal. Michael Corleone: Where does it say that you can't kill a cop? Tom Hagen: Come on, Mikey... Michael Corleone: Tom, wait a minute. I'm talking about a cop that's mixed up in drugs. I'm talking about a - a - a dishonest cop - a crooked cop who got mixed up in the rackets and got what was coming to him. That's a terrific story. And we have newspaper people on the payroll, don't we, Tom? [Tom nods] Michael Corleone: And they might like a story like that. Tom Hagen: They might, they just might. Michael Corleone: [to Sonny] It's not personal, Sonny. It's strictly business.
The scene is both funny and chilling. Chilling because of the way Pacino somehow manages to convey the well-hidden steel beneath the surface, the subtle but absolute willingness to do absolutely anything, perfectly ordered and compartmentalized, even to the extent of murder.
I of course see a lesson in there . . . an important insight into the nature of Dominance.
When I look back at the mistakes I've made as a Domme, I can trace almost every one to a failure to separate "business" from personal.
What exactly does that mean, though? Especially since I Myself have written several times that I can't truly dominate without love being present, that the emotional aspect is so important?
To distinguish personal from business means to separate what jeopardizes One's goals and what does not, when evaluating a situation. It means to take into account everything that led up to the current moment, and to consider, then act, accordingly, with the wisdom and judgement the submissive has earned by committing him or herself to One.
If there is a situation, a mistake in judgement, some faux pas or other, the Dom/me needs to use the most important advantage the unequal power relationship affords Him or Her: The power to take a brief pause, to allow that consideration and analysis to happen, before speaking or acting. The Dom/me who punishes, physically or verbally, without taking that pause is making a mistake.
The distinction might seem picky, or strained. These are interpersonal relationships, after all, not commercial enterprises. But to Me, there is a mission, an objective, a desired future state to be attained. And the pursuit of that desired future state, while it happens in an emotional arena, is not in and of itself emotional. And as such, when the One with the greater power lets His or Her emotions take precedence over the objective, then in a very real sense those being led are temporaril without a Leader. And that's nowhere for one being led to be, even for a moment.
One does need to be able to express One's anger sometimes, of course. But the wise Dom/me bears in mind that punishment should always be business, never personal . . . and that One needs, always, to find another outlet, another venue, to release that negative emotion.
"You don't like my music You don't have to use it Funkin is a thing that all of us release You don't have to get it All you do is let it Then you'll know exactly how to groove"
from "Get The Funk Outta My Face," The Brothers Johnson
There's another side to last night's post.
Just as it's easy to lose the message, to lose sight of the important things and lapse into a kind of drearily ritualized half-listening, half-being . . . it's possible also that we're too quick to think, to sincerely believe, even, that we have lost sight of the important things and sadly, to then act accordingly.
And even more amazing, to Me, is the insidiousness of this (sometimes) false idea. It's so subtle, so stealthy, so . . . nearly invisible, that this post didn't even occur to Me until this afternoon.
Consider. I think about these things, these kinds of ideas, all the time. And, I like to think I've got a brain or two. I consider every word I publish on this blog, multiple times. After posting last night's entry, I thought I'd nailed it. I was sad, because the conclusion of that post, which seemed inescapable at the time, felt sad to Me. But I felt that "Reputation And Substance" was all I needed to say on the subject.
In the words of a great philosopher, "Go figure."
It is just as likely that we only think we've lost our way as it is that we might actually have lost our way. Even if it's really difficult to be able to tell when we're really lost and when we only think we're lost . . . that's cause for massive relief and celebration. And thus the Brothers Johnson snippet that introduced this post.
"You don't have to get it . . . all you do is let it . . . "
Everyone not living under a rock knows that Bruce Springsteen was the halftime entertainment at the Super Bowl last night.
Bruce is a source of some (good-natured) back and forth between iris and Myself. iris is a huge Bruce fan; I, on the other hand, feel that Bruce jumped the shark a long time ago. I don't know if it's ever-unchanging wardrobe, the vapid forays into political commentary, or just that his music isn't nearly as good or powerful as it once was, but Bruce does little for Me these days.
So, last night, predictably, iris and I had diverging views about the halftime show. [Disclaimer: I missed almost all of the first song.] iris loved it; I thought the song selection was regrettable at best [the ultra-lame "Glory Days" as the closer?], and Bruce's performance at times veered between haphazard [a very raggedly "Born To Run" was close to disgraceful] and hokey [adjusting lyrics for the city/event and the tried and true audience vocal segment].
But it got Me to thinking. Often, when we are listening to an artist that we've come to love, we not only forgive a lot, but we reach a point where if we're not careful, we find ourselves simply listening to the artist's reputation, and responding to that, instead of to the emotional intent of the music.
It's something I wonder and worry about in D/s terms. It's been a long time the girls have been with Me. I say the same things, in different ways, granted, but I say them . . . a lot. Does it get old? Or have I made it old, worse yet? What part of indifference belongs to the teacher and what to the student? Have I lost the emotional underpinnings of all this?
Or am I completely off base here? Maybe My worries are totally unfounded.
Like many women I've got a peculiar relationship with My hair, specifically its color. All of us have a friend who changes hair color on a whim. If you're like Me you don't totally understand that friend, but you envy her more than a little bit.
I'm in a comfort zone with My own nearly black locks. Over time one's hair becomes one's personality, one's self, really, in a non-superficial way that men will never understand. So I like who I am and I'm OK with My hair.
But I think about those who play with their hair color -- and how I often wish I could just change on a whim like that. If My hair now "is" Me, then, changing it significantly makes Me . . . Someone else?
What if I were to (gasp) go blonde? Who would I become then? Would I "have more fun?" [Studies show that women with blonde hair do get more attention, socially/sexually. I'm still young enough to think that's not a terrible thing.] I know My IQ wouldn't suddenly drop 20 points; that's just an unfortunate cliche . . . ummm . . . what was I saying?
Who am I kidding? I'm simply not Suddenly Go Blonde For The Hell Of It Girl.
But I know her, very well. And I know she stole my boyfriend in the 10th grade.
"Look into my eyes, what do you see? Cult of personality I know your anger, I know your dreams Ive been everything you want to be I'm the cult of personality Like Mussolini and Kennedy I'm the cult of personality"
--Living Colour, "Cult of Personality"
A visitor to the channel the other night said something along the lines that he was "glad I was paying attention to the blog again." Well, hold yer horses there, Pilgrim . . . a few posts does not "attention" make, but thank you . . . and I do hope to keep this up.
But paying attention to the blog isn't all fun and games. When I was ignoring this blog, I was able to also ignore the fact that I have like, nine readers, three of whom are collared to Me and kinda have to read it. Paying attention means being reminded that some girl posts a photo of her cellulite for Half Naked Thursday Afternoon or whatever it's called and it gets 24 comments. Or a post about random promiscuity will garner readership and comments like crazy (extra points for bareback).
OK, I get it. I really do. This might not be a sex blog, but it's "competing" in that marketplace. And a sex blog has got to have some sex in it. Or embarrassing personal details and revelations. My dry little insights are clearly not cutting it in this hyper-exposedhyper-sexualized circus that blogging has become. If you want to be a blog star you have to give the people what they want!
I just have to find My voice . . . perhaps something like . . .
"I was trying for the eleventh time to fix My panty wedgie, and getting wet thinking about the grocerybagger at SavMart, when I realized something very important about the nature of Dominance and submission . .. "
"Now I don't know but I been told it's hard to run with the weight of gold Other hand I heard it said it's just as hard with the weight of lead"
from "New Speedway Boogie," The Grateful Dead
I'm always saying that lessons come at the oddest times from the most mundane things. I say it and think it so often that sometimes I wonder if it's really true or I've just convinced Myself of it and can no longer differentiate lessons from well, random stuff.
Then something happens like what happened tonight. I was driving home and the voices on the radio were hurting My ears in that odd, hard to put words to way that sometimes happens. So I switched to the CD.
Song lyrics stick in Me, or wash over Me, or take Me back to somewhere, or shove Me forward, or, like tonight, just give Me a perfect little jewel of a lesson. I just have to be in the right place at the right time.
And tonight was apparently that right place right time . . . traffic came to a stop at just the right time, and those lyrics above could really seep inside Me.
So what's the wonderful perfect lesson?
More of a reminder than a lesson, really: Burdens are burdens. They all entrap and enervate us, despite how beautiful they might seem on the surface. It's folly to carry them around with us. Likewise, the ugly packages are no more worth lugging around, either. The beautiful ones make us feel important and proud when we carry them; the ugly ones make us feel noble and strong. Both are illusions. Let go.
I actually heard a good chunk of President Obama's speech today.
He's a good speaker . . . he has just enough of the gospel preacher thing without going over the top (and that's not easy to do), he's thorough without being long-winded, inspiring without sounding hokey.
I think he said all the right things . . . and it's kind of hard not to, really, in January 2009. America's current problems make an Inaugural Address kind of a slam dunk for anyone with any intelligence and soul at all. But still, to mix My sports metaphors, fastballs right down the middle get fouled off all the time -- if Obama didn't knock his out of the park today, at the very least he hit a one-hop liner off the wall in a clutch situation.
I do wonder if any of this historic change in American politics portends any real change in America, though. I don't mean on any of the "big" issues . . . the economy will get fixed, partially, and fix itself, partially, We will figure out a way to gracefully exit Iraq and Afghanistan. Etc.
The change I wonder about and keep waiting for (foolishly, perhaps), is the fundamental shift wherein we reverse the places of sex and violence in our society. Corny, perhaps, to point this out for the 1,393,884th time, but a movie can show the most sickening acts of violence and cruelty and be rated PG-13, while a slang word for the procreative act or a bared breast is an automatic "R." The unsuccessful Culture War the Right waged for years didn't just acknowledge the ass-backwards places of sex and violence in this country, it embraced that perversion (and cynically relied on it). That they failed was less because the great mass of people rejected it but more because people didn't care all that much to embrace change of any kind.
Apathy -- America's single greatest weapon!
So I'm hopeful today, on many levels . . . but not particularly sanguine about the prospect that our twisted and tragic view of sex and violence will get straightened out any time soon.
When I decided to pay attention to the blog again, I wasn't thinking about one unpleasant chore.
I refer to the link list over there to your right. It's been close to a year since I've really looked at it. I must have loads of dozens of dead or stale links.
I see that saratoga is going strong. The thoughtful and considerate swan commented on yesterday's post, so she's around, obviously . . . I look forward to going over there and catching up. What's become of nina? Geisha, if you're out there, send Me a message on yahoo.
I am going to go through the link list . . . doing so is not only good blog management and good manners, but going through it after a long hiatus isn't unlike dumping out a shoebox full of snapshots on the floor and touching on the memories and emotions, recalling what inspired Me in the first place to add that link.
Time to start the cleanup . . . I'm dressed for it!
I. Wow, June 22 was the last time I posted . . . by My own standard that makes this a "dead blog." Obviously standards aren't what they used to be here in #EPB land.
The goal . . . is to post on a regular basis, honest. As with all goals, though, the striving is actually the important thing.
II. It's hard to be "Dominant" when you're apologizing. Sometimes.
In the normal course of life, there are the "trivial" type apologies -- "sorry I ran over your foot" . . . "sorry I washed your red shirt in the bleach load" . . . "sorry I ate the last Dorito." Sometimes we mean them, sometimes we don't, but on some level we understand that the social fabric relies on observance of various well-understood norms. All of us, Dominant, submissive, or neither, follow these norms to a greater or lesser degree, and the degree to which we follow them more or less assigns us our place on the continuum that stretches from "nice guy/girl" to "bastard/bitch." And presumably we're more or less happy with, or unaware of, our particular place.
Then there's the more involved apologies. Those that involve emotions, but not emotions of people we're romantically/sexually involved with. Apologizing to friends can be a sticky affair, but it depends more on the wronged party, really. If the person we're apologizing to wants to be difficult, and we're more on the "nice" side of the continuum, the apology can get fairly long, drawn out, and start to feel semi-humiliating after a while. If the person we're apologizing to is healthy and gracious, well, then, apologizing is a relative snap, because both parties realize that it's not about undoing the wrong -- it's about making the gesture that acknowledges what both parities already know about who was wrong and why.
Sex and love of course complicate the matter exponentially. It's often impossible to keep the current wrong straight from the laundry list of wrongs the wronged party is keeping, consciously or otherwise, in his or her head. And vice versa -- some people don't know what they're apologizing for at any given moment, or much care, in extreme cases.
Bring Dominance and submission into it and there's a very different cast to things. Does a Master/Mistress ever apologize to a slave? Said that way, the entire concept sounds ludicrous.
But this isn't Gor or the Planet of the Blondes . . . real people interacting in real ways can and do, despite their best efforts, give offense.
And I do at times find it difficult to apologize to My girls, even when I really feel as though I should.
Knowing it's difficult, though, helps Me a lot to actually go ahead and do it. I could be kidding Myself, but I don't think so. I think that having the ability to embrace sufficient humility to be able to apologize when it's called for . . . makes Me better, as a Domme and as a person.
I haven't dropped off the face of the earth. But I have obviously neglected the blog for a little while.
I've dropped YouTube Tuesday as an every-week thing . . . it began to feel like real work, it was beginning to distort what I felt this blog should be about, and judging from the response it won't be missed anyway.
It's one of those phases of life when all creative energy seems to simply vanish, and that more than anything is the reason thata there's been so little posted here lately.
"Stuff Happens" is the operating principle of the universe. Stuff is happening. But along with that principle comes the related one, "It will pass."
I watch a lot of TV. So I watch a lot of commercials. Many of them are funny, many are easily dismissible, some are silly, and a very few rise to the level where one's left wondering what's being sold to whom, and why.
Such is the case with the following Cadillac commercial, featuring Kate Walsh of Grey's Anatomy.
There are two spots with the actress. One is the pseudo-clever "when you turn your car on, does it return the favor?" spot -- kind of stupid of basically harmless.
The other one is the "favorite things" commercial. Ms. Walsh is tooling along in her Caddy CTS, and she begins listing off some of her supposedly favorite things.
"Gossip magazines . . . dark chocolate . . . "
All righty then. Establishing Ms. Walsh's "girly" credentials. I had no idea they were in doubt, but OK, for anyone watching the ad who might not somehow know, Kate Walsh is female, and what's more, she's a "regular" type girl -- she reads Us in the checkout line just like you (if she ever actually did her own grocery shopping of course, but you get the idea).
The litany of favorite things continues . . .
"Italian shoes . . . "
Oh, hold on now. She might be a "regular girl" but let's not get crazy here -- you can only covet those Manolos -- Kate Walsh can actually buy them, and does so without calling for a 22% payday advance loan. So, fuck off, regular girls.
Kate! Get back on message! Quick!
"Definitely a Kansas City ribeye . . . "
Whoa . . . a left turn there and aimed squarely at the guys. Fellers, this ain't no shrinkin' violet do your laundry type girl . . . this here's a fire-breathin' CTS-drivin' WOMMIN! Woman enough to fuck you and your best friend, make you look bad in the board meeting the next morning, and . . .
"pulling up to the boys' club . . . in one of these."
Kate looks over at the two chumps in the next car, smiles, then a high-heel-shod foot (Italian shoes, bitch!) stomps the accelerator. The music swells and in no time Kate is doing 117 in a 35 mph zone in her CTS.
While very well-made, and certainly expensively produced, not even counting Ms. Walsh's fee for swearing undying allegiance to a car she doesn't drive in real life, it's a horrendous commercial.
The target market clearly isn't 31-old female stars of hit TV shows . . . that's a bit too small a segment. In fact, like almost all car ads, it's not targeted at females at all. I know a fair number of successful women -- none of them drive high-performance sports sedans (or coupes . . . I'm not bothering to look up how many doors a CTS has). Or, and this is important, if they do they don't identify that way. Meaning, some might drive BMWs or Mercedes, but not because they are "performance" cars per se.
So let's give GM credit and assume they are not selling to a non-existent market. (I realize that I could be assuming facts not in evidence, but let's go with it.)
If this ad is aimed primarily at men, then what exactly is being sold, and how? What does this ad say to men?
1. You're a loser. Look at you sitting there with a boner over a car ad, for Christ's sake. 2. And while you are never getting any action from a TV show hottie like Kate Walsh, drive this car, and who knows? 3. There really are women who like sex. Just not sex with you. 4. But you can dream. Buy a Cadillac CTS.
Most advertising is based on two concepts: Come hither. Drop dead. Mixing the two can make for great ads, but more often makes for a mess. And like most big-dollar advertisers, GM makes the mistake of thinking that production values, name talent, and some oblique form of sex is what weds the two concepts best.
Billy Joel is a shining example. He can give you the chills with "Captain Jack" . . . then make you shake your head with tired hackwork like "Still Rock 'N' Roll To Me." Brilliant satire ("The Entertainer," "Angry Young Man") stands elbow to elbow in the catalog with "She's Always A Woman To Me," perhaps the single worst song by an otherwise good artist in modern musical history. That the same person created "Scenes From An Italian Restaurant" and "Uptown Girl" is baffling, and somehow sad.
That's My Bill Joel Problem. But the good outweighs the bad, certainly. Tonight's clip is Joel's brilliant "Ballad Of Billy The Kid." The clips from classic Westerns are a little bonus.
"Well, he never traveled heavy Yes, he always rode alone And he soon put many older guns to shame And he never had a sweetheart But he finally found a home Underneath the boothill grave that bears his name"
No compilation of 80s videos would be complete without a contribution from Prince. Tonight's selection is "1999."
It's easy to get caught up in the persona, the outfits, the girls, and the total over-the-topness of Prince and lose sight of the fact that he is an extremely talented and influential musician and songwriter. In a way he was too good for the 80s, but in another of course he was absolutely perfect for them.
Some readers may remember when 1999 seemed like a long time in the future.
"I was dreamin' when I wrote this So sue me if I go too fast But life is just a party And parties weren't meant to last War is all around us My mind says prepare to fight So if I gotta die I'm gonna listen to my body tonight Yeah, they say two thousand zero zero party over Oops out of time So tonight I'm gonna party like it's 1999"
I've been out of touch a couple of days, having been with a good friend for her father's wake and funeral.
Our rituals surrounding death, morbid and unnecessary though they often seem, do have the (positive?) side effect of bringing various emotions to the surface in the observer(s).
These emotions are often surprising.
I watched My friend over the past couple of days and at times I found Myself actually envious of her uncomplicated grief, the crushing sadness of losing her father untempered, unmitigated by any laundry list of confusing, conflicting feelings getting in the way.
I was envious too of her ability to let others be there for her, to accept the sincere concern we offered, to simply and completely sink down into our love and empathy the way one gives one's self up to a soothing bath. Envious of her grace in just allowing herself to be comforted.
I felt vaguely wrong in feeling envious of those things, until the lesson behind it all was made clearer.
During the funeral Mass, I found Myself crying for no apparent reason. I usually tune out during those times when circumstances mandate My presence in a church, but the relative darkness and the solemnity of the ritual are at least soothing.
The Gospel was one commonly used in funeral Masses, Luke 24:1-8. This passage recounts what happened on the Sunday after the Crucifixion, when women came to Jesus' tomb:
But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, the women came to the tomb, bringing the spices which they had prepared. And they found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. And it happened that while they were perplexed about this, behold, two men suddenly stood near them in dazzling apparel; and as the women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, the men said to them, "Why do you seek the living One among the dead? He is not here, but He has risen. Remember how He spoke to you while He was still in Galilee, saying that the Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, and be crucified, and the third day rise again." And they remembered His words.
The words washed over Me but that one insistent question lodged itself in My mind: Why do you seek the living One among the dead?
And I realized that that is something that we do in our lives, again and again: Constantly put ourselves through futile exercises, nonsensical efforts with as much as chance of succeeding as looking for the living among the dead. Death, being and feeling so final, drives the simple lessons home with great force at moments like that.
I cried, and couldn't stop for some time. Normally, even at a funeral Mass, I would've made more effort to stop. This time, though, I didn't feel the need to . . . the more I cried the deeper I could feel the lesson penetrating Me, penetrating to that place where words can't reach.
My friend, in the midst of her crushing grief, understood this lesson much better than I. She sought the comfort the living could provide in the face of the awesomeness and finality of death; her sadness and her response to the efforts of those who love her was complete, rational, and totally of its time and place. It was that rare thing-in-itself that lies outside the boundaries of our reflexive system of reason.
The thought that maybe this time I had truly learned that lesson caused Me to stop crying.
It's a cliche to say "no one writes songs like _____ any more," but no one's writing songs like Joni Mitchell any more, or executing them like her, either.
Tonight's clip is a live version of "Coyote," one of the last great Joni songs before she lost her way in the jazz morass, never to return.
"Coyote," for Me, encapsulates a longing, a sweet pain so intense it defies words, even defies thought at times.
Alleged trivia fact: The "coyote" in question is actor/playwright Sam Shepard.
"I tried to run away myself To run away and wrestle with my ego And with this flame You put here in this Eskimo In this hitcher In this prisoner Of the fine white lines Of the white lines on the free, free way"
Summer's coming. And summer means that Jimmy Buffet, by forces of nature unknown to Me, racks up his customary $100 million or so in concert grosses.
I don't get it and never will. But OK, grab your blanket and your Mike's Hard Lemonade or similar portable intoxicant, pony up your $118 or whatever a Buffet ticket will go for this summer and have at it.
Not to say that Herr Buffet is totally without redeeming social value. I've always liked "Cheeseburger In Paradise." Buffet is as clever as he is shrewd.
"Tried to amend my carnivorous habits. Made it nearly seventy days, Losin' weight without speed, eatin' sunflower seeds, Drinkin' lots of carrot juice and soakin' up rays. But at night I'd have these wonderful dreams Some kind of sensuous treat. Not zucchini, fettuccini, or bulgur wheat, But a big warm bun and a huge hunk of meat. Cheeseburger in paradise. Heaven on earth with an onion slice. Not too particular, not too precise. I'm just a cheeseburger in paradise."
(Margarataville(tm) Frozen Dinners are available in your local supermarket. Ask for them by name!)
.jpg)
