Tony Bertauski's Blog, page 15
July 13, 2012
The Sword and the Cute Little Turquoise Shirt
I was at a softball camp. It was a sea of bat-wielding, glove-bearing females. A game got started. The coaches were shouting and clapping and people were stomping and sliding. I asked my sister-in-law which one was the head coach.
She's the one with a sleeveless turquoise shirt and white shorts that go to the knees.
Oh. Turquoise. And something else. And... could you point at her?
All I know is people were wearing clothes. That's it. No colors or styles or brands. Hell, I couldn't tell you if they all had both eyes. There were people on the field playing softball and they were wearing clothes. That's all I took in.
Action, first. Details, second.
A reviewer once commented on my writing. She pointed out the difference between male and female authors.
FEMALE AUTHOR
Jake stood 6-foot. His tan scalp beaded with perspiration that tracked into his ice-blue eyes. His callused hand rested on the hilt of his weapon, the gold rings glittered with rubies and emeralds clicking on the metal handle in a rhythm not to be mistaken for nervousness. But anticipation. His fingernails were chipped, broken and soiled with blood. The same blood smeared across his blue tunic that fit snugly across his chest. The leather boots -- the heels worn through -- strapped up to but not over his knees. The nostrils of his wide nose flared. He smelled an enemy. The rings tapped the sword as he unsheathed it...
MALE AUTHOR
The sword is 4' long. Jake cut the other guy's head off with it.
I suppose she has a point.
She's the one with a sleeveless turquoise shirt and white shorts that go to the knees.
Oh. Turquoise. And something else. And... could you point at her?
All I know is people were wearing clothes. That's it. No colors or styles or brands. Hell, I couldn't tell you if they all had both eyes. There were people on the field playing softball and they were wearing clothes. That's all I took in.
Action, first. Details, second.
A reviewer once commented on my writing. She pointed out the difference between male and female authors.
FEMALE AUTHOR
Jake stood 6-foot. His tan scalp beaded with perspiration that tracked into his ice-blue eyes. His callused hand rested on the hilt of his weapon, the gold rings glittered with rubies and emeralds clicking on the metal handle in a rhythm not to be mistaken for nervousness. But anticipation. His fingernails were chipped, broken and soiled with blood. The same blood smeared across his blue tunic that fit snugly across his chest. The leather boots -- the heels worn through -- strapped up to but not over his knees. The nostrils of his wide nose flared. He smelled an enemy. The rings tapped the sword as he unsheathed it...
MALE AUTHOR
The sword is 4' long. Jake cut the other guy's head off with it.
I suppose she has a point.
June 28, 2012
Drunk on Numbers
Hello. My name is Tony. I'm addicted to numbers.
I ran a free promo for The Annihilation of Foreverland on Amazon. Before I did that, I was selling 10, maybe 20, a month. Days would go by with the same number of sales. Forget making money, I couldn't give them away.
Amazon's free promo changed that.
Day 1: 9,500 copies, downloaded.Day 2: another 5000.Day 3: add 3,500.
18,000 people have my book!
Here's where the addiction kicked in. Every time I refreshed my reports, the numbers grew. I mean every friggin time. There were times I refreshed immediately, I'm talking 3 seconds, and the numbers changed. I sat on the couch, shouting to my wife: there goes another 10. Ooo, that was a big one, 22. Holy crap, 30! I just moved 30!!!
The spiral of addiction got a grip on me. I became jaded, I needed more. I needed confirmation the whole world wanted this book. A million wasn't enough. If I didn't move a book every second, then something was wrong... SOMETHING'S WRONG... THEY HATE ME!!!
There was a problem. I took control. I only check the numbers 5 times a day now. That's absurd -- only 5x a day -- but that's down from 30,000. I'm not cured, but I'm managing my addiction. I'm drinking beer, not whiskey.
I'm 4 days out of the free promo and sales -- real sales, the kind that makes money -- have picked up. The numbers aren't rolling in when they were free, but they are moving. I'm making money. The book is getting recognized. I've received great reviews -- even an email from someone out of the blue that never heard of me and LOVE THAT BOOK.
I can deal with that.
My name is Tony and I'm addicted to the numbers.
And I hope it gets worse.
I ran a free promo for The Annihilation of Foreverland on Amazon. Before I did that, I was selling 10, maybe 20, a month. Days would go by with the same number of sales. Forget making money, I couldn't give them away.
Amazon's free promo changed that.
Day 1: 9,500 copies, downloaded.Day 2: another 5000.Day 3: add 3,500.
18,000 people have my book!
Here's where the addiction kicked in. Every time I refreshed my reports, the numbers grew. I mean every friggin time. There were times I refreshed immediately, I'm talking 3 seconds, and the numbers changed. I sat on the couch, shouting to my wife: there goes another 10. Ooo, that was a big one, 22. Holy crap, 30! I just moved 30!!!
The spiral of addiction got a grip on me. I became jaded, I needed more. I needed confirmation the whole world wanted this book. A million wasn't enough. If I didn't move a book every second, then something was wrong... SOMETHING'S WRONG... THEY HATE ME!!!
There was a problem. I took control. I only check the numbers 5 times a day now. That's absurd -- only 5x a day -- but that's down from 30,000. I'm not cured, but I'm managing my addiction. I'm drinking beer, not whiskey.
I'm 4 days out of the free promo and sales -- real sales, the kind that makes money -- have picked up. The numbers aren't rolling in when they were free, but they are moving. I'm making money. The book is getting recognized. I've received great reviews -- even an email from someone out of the blue that never heard of me and LOVE THAT BOOK.
I can deal with that.
My name is Tony and I'm addicted to the numbers.
And I hope it gets worse.
June 10, 2012
Playing in Traffic
A Zen teacher once compared sitting practice to a busy road.
Before practice, we're standing in the middle of traffic. Cars are swerving and trucks honking and we're hopping from one foot to the other trying to stay alive.We're always one step away from roadkill. It can be overwhelming. Sometimes depressing.
Hopeless.
But then we sit. We practice to clarify of our life, our understanding. We learn to be present rather than caught up in headlights and shiny colors. And, slowly, our view changes. We see the traffic from above. We see the patterns, of where it's been and where it's going. And the more we practice, the higher our viewpoint becomes.
When I read a novel, my viewpoint is hundreds of feet above the road. My perspective is fresh and new. Pristine. I see the story unfolding and the characters developing. I notice the plot holes and character inconsistencies. I can point out typos. I can tell what needs to change.
As a writer, though, I'm toeing the white line.
All I see are trucks and cars. I smell the exhaust and hear the tires grinding pavement. It's what makes it a joy, but I have no perspective. I'm in the middle of it without a view and that's what makes writing difficult.
These ideas, these characters and stories are in my head and they make perfect sense to me because I can see them and hear them. How can I get you to see and hear them, too? When am I saying too much or not enough? When am I just boring?
Good writers play in the traffic and make it look fun.
Before practice, we're standing in the middle of traffic. Cars are swerving and trucks honking and we're hopping from one foot to the other trying to stay alive.We're always one step away from roadkill. It can be overwhelming. Sometimes depressing.
Hopeless.
But then we sit. We practice to clarify of our life, our understanding. We learn to be present rather than caught up in headlights and shiny colors. And, slowly, our view changes. We see the traffic from above. We see the patterns, of where it's been and where it's going. And the more we practice, the higher our viewpoint becomes.
When I read a novel, my viewpoint is hundreds of feet above the road. My perspective is fresh and new. Pristine. I see the story unfolding and the characters developing. I notice the plot holes and character inconsistencies. I can point out typos. I can tell what needs to change.
As a writer, though, I'm toeing the white line.
All I see are trucks and cars. I smell the exhaust and hear the tires grinding pavement. It's what makes it a joy, but I have no perspective. I'm in the middle of it without a view and that's what makes writing difficult.
These ideas, these characters and stories are in my head and they make perfect sense to me because I can see them and hear them. How can I get you to see and hear them, too? When am I saying too much or not enough? When am I just boring?
Good writers play in the traffic and make it look fun.
May 26, 2012
Being a Robot Ain't So Bad
I'm not saying I want to be one. But here's how it will happen.
Nanobots are the size of a skin cell. Bill Gates, et al. will find a way to use them to fight disease, soothe the nervous system, repair brain damage, you name it. Sounds like a good deal. I'm in.
Then soon nanobots will be used to replace cells. They function and divide just like organic blood cells, replicating the DNA of the cells they're replacing. Your kidney stopped working? Nanobots rebuild it, slowly replacing the organic cells that are flushed out. In a month, you have an artificial kidney that works like aces.
Nanobots now target the brain. They repair damaged tissue, restore healthy synaptic pathways, activate creative and intellectual byways. And since they're nanobots, you don't need to buy a computer.
YOU ARE THE COMPUTER.
Want to send a text? Just think it at me. Want to speak Japanese? Download it from Rosetta Stone. Want to play guitar like Jimi Hendrix?
Yeah, Jimi.
Nanobots put you in complete control of your nervous system. You no longer need to feel unnecessary pain. Addiction no longer exists. Overeating is a thing of the past. Reprogram your taste buds and broccoli tastes like tenderloin. Broken bones heal quickly and flesh wounds rapidly vanish.
Don't like feeling agitated? Depressed? Angry? Ancient history, we now control our emotions. We decide what we want to feel... curious, happy, joyful, courageous. We are whatever we want to be.
Here's the problem.
At what point do you become a machine? When do you cease to be real? 25% nanobot? 50%? There are people today with artificial legs, ears, hearts... are they less human?
The bottom line: Who am I?
We need to ask that question every day, every breath. Am I my body? My thoughts? My emotions? If I decide what I want to feel, who is deciding that?
In The Discovery of Socket Greeny, I posit a future of nanotechnology that spawns a new race of duplicates: nanobot-humans that view organic humans as imperfect and cancerous. They make the argument that God created humankind in His image and humankind created the duplicate. Therefore, God created the duplicate race.
Move over, human. Evolution works that way.
For more speculative science-fiction regarding nanotechnology, check out Post-Human by David Simpson and Feed by MT Anderson.
Nanobots are the size of a skin cell. Bill Gates, et al. will find a way to use them to fight disease, soothe the nervous system, repair brain damage, you name it. Sounds like a good deal. I'm in.
Then soon nanobots will be used to replace cells. They function and divide just like organic blood cells, replicating the DNA of the cells they're replacing. Your kidney stopped working? Nanobots rebuild it, slowly replacing the organic cells that are flushed out. In a month, you have an artificial kidney that works like aces.
Nanobots now target the brain. They repair damaged tissue, restore healthy synaptic pathways, activate creative and intellectual byways. And since they're nanobots, you don't need to buy a computer.
YOU ARE THE COMPUTER.
Want to send a text? Just think it at me. Want to speak Japanese? Download it from Rosetta Stone. Want to play guitar like Jimi Hendrix?
Yeah, Jimi.
Nanobots put you in complete control of your nervous system. You no longer need to feel unnecessary pain. Addiction no longer exists. Overeating is a thing of the past. Reprogram your taste buds and broccoli tastes like tenderloin. Broken bones heal quickly and flesh wounds rapidly vanish.
Don't like feeling agitated? Depressed? Angry? Ancient history, we now control our emotions. We decide what we want to feel... curious, happy, joyful, courageous. We are whatever we want to be.
Here's the problem.
At what point do you become a machine? When do you cease to be real? 25% nanobot? 50%? There are people today with artificial legs, ears, hearts... are they less human?
The bottom line: Who am I?
We need to ask that question every day, every breath. Am I my body? My thoughts? My emotions? If I decide what I want to feel, who is deciding that?
In The Discovery of Socket Greeny, I posit a future of nanotechnology that spawns a new race of duplicates: nanobot-humans that view organic humans as imperfect and cancerous. They make the argument that God created humankind in His image and humankind created the duplicate. Therefore, God created the duplicate race.
Move over, human. Evolution works that way.
For more speculative science-fiction regarding nanotechnology, check out Post-Human by David Simpson and Feed by MT Anderson.
May 20, 2012
F'n Thank You
My dad wanted a roast.
He turned 70 and wanted us to roast him in front of people. His idea.
Some folks figured I would go off. After all, I have a history of going over the top of the inappropriate high bar. He was not a perfect father. I was not a perfect son.
You might be putting flame to gun powder.
When I was in my 20s, I sat next to a high school English teacher on a plane. She seemed good. Nice. I got to thinking, my high school English teacher wouldn't remember me. If she did, it would NOTbe fondly. I passed notes during classes, cheated off my future sister-in-law, and looked out the window. A lot.
But I worked my ass off on that term paper. It was sink or swim and I got a C. I was thrilled. I don't think I passed her class by a whole lot, but here I was 10 years later trying to write for a career and recalling how much I learned in her class. She wasn't burnt out, like high school teachers can get. Not jaded or hollow. There was something genuine about her. I sure as hell didn't recognize it then, but -- 10 years later -- I did.
So I wrote her a letter. I told her all that.
She wrote me back. I don't think she remembered me, but that didn't matter. It was important that she heard it. Even if it was 10 years late.
So when my dad's roast arrived, I was humbled.
Humbled to have the opportunity to make him laugh. Humbled to tell him that, despite all the shit, he really mattered to me.
Humbled to say, F'n thank you, Pop.
It was a roast, after all.
He turned 70 and wanted us to roast him in front of people. His idea.
Some folks figured I would go off. After all, I have a history of going over the top of the inappropriate high bar. He was not a perfect father. I was not a perfect son.
You might be putting flame to gun powder.
When I was in my 20s, I sat next to a high school English teacher on a plane. She seemed good. Nice. I got to thinking, my high school English teacher wouldn't remember me. If she did, it would NOTbe fondly. I passed notes during classes, cheated off my future sister-in-law, and looked out the window. A lot.
But I worked my ass off on that term paper. It was sink or swim and I got a C. I was thrilled. I don't think I passed her class by a whole lot, but here I was 10 years later trying to write for a career and recalling how much I learned in her class. She wasn't burnt out, like high school teachers can get. Not jaded or hollow. There was something genuine about her. I sure as hell didn't recognize it then, but -- 10 years later -- I did.
So I wrote her a letter. I told her all that.
She wrote me back. I don't think she remembered me, but that didn't matter. It was important that she heard it. Even if it was 10 years late.
So when my dad's roast arrived, I was humbled.
Humbled to have the opportunity to make him laugh. Humbled to tell him that, despite all the shit, he really mattered to me.
Humbled to say, F'n thank you, Pop.
It was a roast, after all.
May 7, 2012
Bad Reviews Sting Like a B*
No one likes a bad review.
A bad review cuts. It burns. It stings like a thousand angry bees. A bad review is like an emotional iron maiden.
I recently got one. It wasn't so much a bad review. More like a beating.
It wasn't for one of my novels, it was in another line of work. The review used the words colossal waste of time and insulting...
It was a beatdown.
No one is immune to bad reviews. Someone out there isn't going to like the way you do things, the way you say them or present them. Or they just don't like you. It will happen. No way around it. Bad reviews are part of the creative game -- writing, painting, photography, design, teaching. At some point, someone will call your work stupid, unimaginative, or hack.
Or a colossal waste of time.
A bad review, though, could be your best review. It could be the one that cuts through your blind spots. It's the one that might push you where you need to go.
Experience the ugly feeling. Open to the heartache as someone else's opinion shreds your ideas about who and what you are. Let the initial firebomb burn your attachments to praise and attaboys until they're ash. Notice where you're getting your value.
I'm a good person if they love me.I'm worthwhile if I succeed.I exist if someone values me.
All thoughts.All attachments.
Attachments don't feel so bad when we get yummy feelings, like when we're good. The bad review is like a forest fire, burning through the hubris of attachment (good or bad) to start anew. It hurts. It burns. But if we let it, we grow.
The person that annoys you in the office, the relative that steps on your last nerve, the bad review that stabs... we practice to be grateful for them. They are Buddhas. They show us our deficiencies, they bring our attachments into the light for us to see.
I read my bad review. I experienced the gut-wrenching reaction. I noticed the thoughts (see above).
Read and repeat. And notice.
And when the ash settled, I saw where I could be a better teacher. I saw where I could improve what I was doing.
And I still hate bad reviews.
A bad review cuts. It burns. It stings like a thousand angry bees. A bad review is like an emotional iron maiden.
I recently got one. It wasn't so much a bad review. More like a beating.
It wasn't for one of my novels, it was in another line of work. The review used the words colossal waste of time and insulting...
It was a beatdown.
No one is immune to bad reviews. Someone out there isn't going to like the way you do things, the way you say them or present them. Or they just don't like you. It will happen. No way around it. Bad reviews are part of the creative game -- writing, painting, photography, design, teaching. At some point, someone will call your work stupid, unimaginative, or hack.
Or a colossal waste of time.
A bad review, though, could be your best review. It could be the one that cuts through your blind spots. It's the one that might push you where you need to go.
Experience the ugly feeling. Open to the heartache as someone else's opinion shreds your ideas about who and what you are. Let the initial firebomb burn your attachments to praise and attaboys until they're ash. Notice where you're getting your value.
I'm a good person if they love me.I'm worthwhile if I succeed.I exist if someone values me.
All thoughts.All attachments.
Attachments don't feel so bad when we get yummy feelings, like when we're good. The bad review is like a forest fire, burning through the hubris of attachment (good or bad) to start anew. It hurts. It burns. But if we let it, we grow.
The person that annoys you in the office, the relative that steps on your last nerve, the bad review that stabs... we practice to be grateful for them. They are Buddhas. They show us our deficiencies, they bring our attachments into the light for us to see.
I read my bad review. I experienced the gut-wrenching reaction. I noticed the thoughts (see above).
Read and repeat. And notice.
And when the ash settled, I saw where I could be a better teacher. I saw where I could improve what I was doing.
And I still hate bad reviews.
April 22, 2012
Hobba Lobba Da (Let Me Explain)
My brain said Happy Holidays.
My mouth said Hobba Lobba Da.
My acquaintance -- passing me in the mall -- was a little confused. I just kept walking. Once you throw something like that at a person, there's no recovery. Just keep on trucking.
Recently, I did it again.
This time, it was only a word, just one goddamn word, that changed everything. One wrong word caused so much more damage than an innocent little Hobba Lobba Da.
In my gardening column for Charleston's Post and Courier, I wrote about Japanese beetles. They're an invasive species that causes oodles of damage on trees and shrubs. Here's what happened.
My brain wrote: "They eat everything, especially roses."My stupid fingers wrote: "They eat everything, except roses."
Ouch.
There's no taking that back. There's no stopping my friend in the mall and saying, "Oh, hey, Carl... yeah, sorry about that weird thing I just said, I don't know what happened. Maybe I'm having a stroke. Anyway, what I MEANT to say was Japanese beetles eat everything ESPECIALLY ROSES!!!!!!"
No, I wrote it and now it's out there. Forever and ever.
Those in the know, horticulturists and such, will read it. They'll laugh, cut my picture out, and throw dirt at my dumb face because everyone, EVERYONE, knows that Japanese beetles LOVE ROSES!!!!!!!!!!!
So I'll run an explanation in my next column. I'll tell my readers that I had a stroke and that things are okay now.
And then I'll write that the world is flat.
My mouth said Hobba Lobba Da.
My acquaintance -- passing me in the mall -- was a little confused. I just kept walking. Once you throw something like that at a person, there's no recovery. Just keep on trucking.
Recently, I did it again.
This time, it was only a word, just one goddamn word, that changed everything. One wrong word caused so much more damage than an innocent little Hobba Lobba Da.
In my gardening column for Charleston's Post and Courier, I wrote about Japanese beetles. They're an invasive species that causes oodles of damage on trees and shrubs. Here's what happened.
My brain wrote: "They eat everything, especially roses."My stupid fingers wrote: "They eat everything, except roses."
Ouch.
There's no taking that back. There's no stopping my friend in the mall and saying, "Oh, hey, Carl... yeah, sorry about that weird thing I just said, I don't know what happened. Maybe I'm having a stroke. Anyway, what I MEANT to say was Japanese beetles eat everything ESPECIALLY ROSES!!!!!!"
No, I wrote it and now it's out there. Forever and ever.
Those in the know, horticulturists and such, will read it. They'll laugh, cut my picture out, and throw dirt at my dumb face because everyone, EVERYONE, knows that Japanese beetles LOVE ROSES!!!!!!!!!!!
So I'll run an explanation in my next column. I'll tell my readers that I had a stroke and that things are okay now.
And then I'll write that the world is flat.
April 8, 2012
Death by Pink Dobber
Bingo. It's not for kids.
It was a large room divided by a dingy plexiglass wall. On one side, smoking. The other side, second-hand smoking.
We bought packets of bingo boards and colorful dobbers to blot out the numbers. We caught dirty looks as we found seats next to a wrinkled old woman. She was 120 years old and double-fisted with dobbers and 36 bingo boards.
No lie.
She will kill you.
The number caller was up in a boxed in podium left over from a 1970s skating rink DJ booth. He would lip the mic and his words sounded like Alexander Graham Bell's first phone call. He spit something through the speakers and the old woman's hands were a blur. WHAPWHAP!
Dobber ink everywhere.
"Ahaharigh, ahright, nexx game, next game... posgaestam... postetsemagp."
Did he say postage stamp?
SSHHHHHH!
I whispered, What's postage--
"Firsnumb, firsnmber B5B5."
WHAPWHAPWHAPWHAPWHAPWHAPWHAP!
Next game, same thing. And the one after that. We got shooshed 10 times. And then it happened. It was game four that one of us hit. BINGO!!!!!!!
A short wrinkled man (they were all wrinkled) counted out the money in his hand while a cigarette teetered between his lips. We high-fived. But it was all hate from the rest of the room. It beamed through the plexiglass wall like a smoky heatwave. The old woman looked up, then stabbed her card with pink dobbers like a contract killer.
We took the money and ran.
It was a large room divided by a dingy plexiglass wall. On one side, smoking. The other side, second-hand smoking.
We bought packets of bingo boards and colorful dobbers to blot out the numbers. We caught dirty looks as we found seats next to a wrinkled old woman. She was 120 years old and double-fisted with dobbers and 36 bingo boards.
No lie.
She will kill you.The number caller was up in a boxed in podium left over from a 1970s skating rink DJ booth. He would lip the mic and his words sounded like Alexander Graham Bell's first phone call. He spit something through the speakers and the old woman's hands were a blur. WHAPWHAP!
Dobber ink everywhere.
"Ahaharigh, ahright, nexx game, next game... posgaestam... postetsemagp."
Did he say postage stamp?
SSHHHHHH!
I whispered, What's postage--
"Firsnumb, firsnmber B5B5."
WHAPWHAPWHAPWHAPWHAPWHAPWHAP!
Next game, same thing. And the one after that. We got shooshed 10 times. And then it happened. It was game four that one of us hit. BINGO!!!!!!!
A short wrinkled man (they were all wrinkled) counted out the money in his hand while a cigarette teetered between his lips. We high-fived. But it was all hate from the rest of the room. It beamed through the plexiglass wall like a smoky heatwave. The old woman looked up, then stabbed her card with pink dobbers like a contract killer.
We took the money and ran.
March 25, 2012
When Cubs Lose
2000 miles, we flew.
2000 miles to the Chicago Cubs lose three games in classic Chicago Cubs style.
Ugly baseball. Sloppy, busch league mistakes. The regular season hasn't even started and Cubs fans were already chanting "WE 'TILL NEXT YEAR!"
But Chicago Cubs baseball isn't about baseball. At least not on this trip.
In somewhat of a semi-annual event, I've met family to watch the lovable losers drop one meaningless spring training game after another while we sit in the stands soaking up the Arizona sun and foamy cups of overpriced beer.
We gamble dollar bills on dropped fly balls.
We burn through boxes of cigars.
We suffer cramps from laughing.
5 Bertauskis.
And we leave on Sunday, boarding planes that fly in different directions, anxious for the next trip and remembering next year, ALWAYS NEXT YEAR, we could be world champs.
But my father and uncle are near 70. My brother and I near 40. My cousin, 33.
How many next years are there?
It doesn't matter. Cubs baseball isn't about winning. It's about everything else.
Can't wait 'till next year.
2000 miles to the Chicago Cubs lose three games in classic Chicago Cubs style.
Ugly baseball. Sloppy, busch league mistakes. The regular season hasn't even started and Cubs fans were already chanting "WE 'TILL NEXT YEAR!"
But Chicago Cubs baseball isn't about baseball. At least not on this trip.
In somewhat of a semi-annual event, I've met family to watch the lovable losers drop one meaningless spring training game after another while we sit in the stands soaking up the Arizona sun and foamy cups of overpriced beer.
We gamble dollar bills on dropped fly balls.
We burn through boxes of cigars.
We suffer cramps from laughing.
5 Bertauskis.And we leave on Sunday, boarding planes that fly in different directions, anxious for the next trip and remembering next year, ALWAYS NEXT YEAR, we could be world champs.
But my father and uncle are near 70. My brother and I near 40. My cousin, 33.
How many next years are there?
It doesn't matter. Cubs baseball isn't about winning. It's about everything else.
Can't wait 'till next year.
March 10, 2012
29029 Feet of Pain
Mt. Everest. The highest point in the world. And people climb it. They lose fingers and toes, spend days without sleep and an oxygen-deprived brain. Why?
George Mallory once gave a succinct answer. "Because it's there."
That doesn't do it for me.
No one ever described Everest as "fun".
I live a life of relative comfort. House, wife, kids, dogs, cars, food. Toothache, I got a dentist. Stomachache, I got CVS. Boredom, I got Netflix.
Somewhere along the way, though, there can be an underlying sense of wanting... more. That there's got to be more to life than living the dream. There's got to be more to it than house-wife-food. And so begins the search. Be it spiritual or otherwise, an attempt to get more meaning.
Great teachers have many quotes that capture the folly of our struggle. Occasionally, one will pop into mind when the time is right. When I read about some crazy bastard climbing 29029' into the sky, I remembered one such quote.
Your life is not about you.
Maybe there's some sense to these mountain climbers. Maybe it's their search. There's a purpose to allowing discomfort in order to seek higher meaning. How good and comfortable and yummy something feels should not necessarily be our compass. Peace, joy, and virtue can reside in the pain and suffering as well as rapture.
Many have said that the truth can be found at home, at centers of worship, in the garden. Can be found 29029' in the air. Some claim the truth is elusive, that it might be easier to find on top the mountain than our everyday life. Nonetheless, it's there. Always there.
I hope so. Because I'm not climbing Everest.
George Mallory once gave a succinct answer. "Because it's there."
That doesn't do it for me.
No one ever described Everest as "fun".I live a life of relative comfort. House, wife, kids, dogs, cars, food. Toothache, I got a dentist. Stomachache, I got CVS. Boredom, I got Netflix.
Somewhere along the way, though, there can be an underlying sense of wanting... more. That there's got to be more to life than living the dream. There's got to be more to it than house-wife-food. And so begins the search. Be it spiritual or otherwise, an attempt to get more meaning.
Great teachers have many quotes that capture the folly of our struggle. Occasionally, one will pop into mind when the time is right. When I read about some crazy bastard climbing 29029' into the sky, I remembered one such quote.
Your life is not about you.
Maybe there's some sense to these mountain climbers. Maybe it's their search. There's a purpose to allowing discomfort in order to seek higher meaning. How good and comfortable and yummy something feels should not necessarily be our compass. Peace, joy, and virtue can reside in the pain and suffering as well as rapture.
Many have said that the truth can be found at home, at centers of worship, in the garden. Can be found 29029' in the air. Some claim the truth is elusive, that it might be easier to find on top the mountain than our everyday life. Nonetheless, it's there. Always there.
I hope so. Because I'm not climbing Everest.
