An impossible task is to find a person whose life is mistake free. Goes with the concept of free will. The ultimate test of evaluation is the landing zone, when all the dust has settled and the clearest picture is finally available for viewing and analysis.
To turn back the clock and do things differently is impossible rubbish. More appropriate is to to colonize with the Wizard Of Odds and discuss with him the keys to ascertaining motive and the ultimate consequences of everything.
At any given point in time, we are the product of our experiences, more so as our journeys in life extend the boundaries of learning.
Motive is the key to everything. It formulates the difference between good and bad. It provides for either damnation or aquittal. It explains. It formulates and molds relationships. It makes things clearer, easier to see, easier to understand. It puts everything in perspective. It facilitates the jettisoning of guilt. Most of all, it defines relationships.
Friendship is the penultimate chapter of one's analysis of another, thus rendering the conclusion almost immaterial since it merely mirrors that which precedes it. It is the result of everything else. The bad bumps in life are dealt with by finding the circumstances of mitigation, of which there are many, as long as one is receptive to shedding the condemnation of self-serving and replacing it with self-affirmation.
If looking back once caused you distress, then don't. Replace memories of the past with the comfort of how things are now which, you will find, is the taste that lingers the longest. Fuck the naysayers and, at long last, give yourself a break. If no malice was intended, get off the conscience elevator at the top floor for the world of descent is not your calling. Who says so? The impeachable you and only you can bring yourself down.
If you recognize one true friendship, available to you right now, grab it and hold on. Enjoy the benefits which you have been blessed to receive. They are never-ending and will always attest to the inescapable fact that, somewhere along the line, you have done something right. You've got a friend to lean on and to support when it's your turn. A bond of mutual affection. Love and respect.
You are lucky people. You have never let malice come on board. There's much to enjoy.
Thursday, December 25, 2014
Monday, May 12, 2014
CAPTAIN EVERYTHING
One day, not so very long ago, the Lord decided to visit his assembly line to personally check on heavenly quality control. After all, his work product inevitably reflected on his preferences and ability to stay with the times which he was consistently adjusting, hopefully for the better.
What caught his eye was something He didn't see. The male species, although not wanting completely,nevertheless lacked an " oomph", something really special, something, that when seen, would prompt a proclamation of his own talent, such as an uncontrollable response of "oh. my God." So, he decided to get involved, just this one time.
His chief angels provided him with a luxurious drawing board, without paint brushes if you please, for his fingers would do the talking. And the Lord set himself to the task of creating a perfect man, of whom he could be proud and to whom he could point with satisfaction as an illustration of his work product.
He made this man handsome in an unique way. That is, he made him look so gorgeous that he would not just look good but would outshine whatever his surroundings might be at any time or in any place. The face would be more than just noble; it would reflect and perfectly blend in with a dash of cuteness and an ample touch of royalty. His features would pass the test of being viewed from all angles, in dim light or bright, while making sure that none of this would be adversely effected by his wardrobe. He would make women drool and men shiver with envy regardless of what he wore. He would be the epitome of classism.
The hair was important. The Lord had to admit to being frustrated by the way men groomed their hair. It was almost as if it were a crime to bring brush or comb into the ritual of toilette. The more unkempt the better seemed to be the the preferred fashion, with hair finger-formed into a slept-in mess drawing raves. Having the hair pointed straight down to and over the eyes was also something the Lord rejected. So---what did he do? He made his creation so handsome that whichever hairdo he chose, mohawk or shoulder length, on any occasion, only magnified his beauty.
He endowed his creation with success and the confidence to handle everything with extreme aplomb, causing the world to look up to him further still. He granted him the ability to always say the right thing at the right time. And, for the ultimate finishing touch, he provided him with an extraordinary woman whose beauty and success almost rivaled his.
And when the Lord pushed back to observe his work, he was very pleased with himself--if he did say so himself. For he had created a man as close to perfection as one man could be. He was charming and classy at the same time; never to be overly-ostentacious but rather to attract people who would become instant followers. He seemed to have everything but in an oh-so-winning way. An inevitable candidate for Mount Rushmore
He had created Tom Brady.
What caught his eye was something He didn't see. The male species, although not wanting completely,nevertheless lacked an " oomph", something really special, something, that when seen, would prompt a proclamation of his own talent, such as an uncontrollable response of "oh. my God." So, he decided to get involved, just this one time.
His chief angels provided him with a luxurious drawing board, without paint brushes if you please, for his fingers would do the talking. And the Lord set himself to the task of creating a perfect man, of whom he could be proud and to whom he could point with satisfaction as an illustration of his work product.
He made this man handsome in an unique way. That is, he made him look so gorgeous that he would not just look good but would outshine whatever his surroundings might be at any time or in any place. The face would be more than just noble; it would reflect and perfectly blend in with a dash of cuteness and an ample touch of royalty. His features would pass the test of being viewed from all angles, in dim light or bright, while making sure that none of this would be adversely effected by his wardrobe. He would make women drool and men shiver with envy regardless of what he wore. He would be the epitome of classism.
The hair was important. The Lord had to admit to being frustrated by the way men groomed their hair. It was almost as if it were a crime to bring brush or comb into the ritual of toilette. The more unkempt the better seemed to be the the preferred fashion, with hair finger-formed into a slept-in mess drawing raves. Having the hair pointed straight down to and over the eyes was also something the Lord rejected. So---what did he do? He made his creation so handsome that whichever hairdo he chose, mohawk or shoulder length, on any occasion, only magnified his beauty.
He endowed his creation with success and the confidence to handle everything with extreme aplomb, causing the world to look up to him further still. He granted him the ability to always say the right thing at the right time. And, for the ultimate finishing touch, he provided him with an extraordinary woman whose beauty and success almost rivaled his.
And when the Lord pushed back to observe his work, he was very pleased with himself--if he did say so himself. For he had created a man as close to perfection as one man could be. He was charming and classy at the same time; never to be overly-ostentacious but rather to attract people who would become instant followers. He seemed to have everything but in an oh-so-winning way. An inevitable candidate for Mount Rushmore
He had created Tom Brady.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
UNFULFILLED COVENANT
This was not good. He was afraid of the unknown and now was very frightened. The pain was excruciating and escalating, from his chest down and through his left arm. He was not a stupid man and realized he could be facing the end.
Oh, no. Not now. Age be damned, he was not ready. Too many things yet to do. He had the capacity to recall all aspects of his life, the good times and the bad, and there were plenty of both. Wrong turns and wave crests. He would have handled so many things so differently.
A sense of a state of slow motion, suspended from everything. He began screaming out.
"I need more time; a second chance with the wisdom of benefitting from mistakes. I would see things more clearly. I'd be less naive, less afraid, more able to say "stop" and not be fearful of the consequences. To hell with being driven by the opinions of others, I'd do the right thing and know what that was. But it's too soon for me. I need more time."
Who was he talking to?
He was about to pass out from the pain as millions of thoughts flashed through his brain. He should have been more religious, less uncertain on the question of a deity. He had not, necessarily, been blasphemous but rather inconsistent. In good times, he believed; when bad things happened, a swirl of rejection. But he had never ignored the covenant of faith, which is the relationship between God and man, and had accepted the covenant of destiny, which is what men make of themselves. And that's why he needed more time.
He heard his name being called out. Over and over. An echo at first, then increasingly steadier. He opened his eyes and immediately took heed that the pain was gone. He had come through it but felt differently. Newly calibrated. He had been given an extension.
Was this really a second chance? No matter. He would make it so.
The opportunity of more time, but not to tarry.
Oh, no. Not now. Age be damned, he was not ready. Too many things yet to do. He had the capacity to recall all aspects of his life, the good times and the bad, and there were plenty of both. Wrong turns and wave crests. He would have handled so many things so differently.
A sense of a state of slow motion, suspended from everything. He began screaming out.
"I need more time; a second chance with the wisdom of benefitting from mistakes. I would see things more clearly. I'd be less naive, less afraid, more able to say "stop" and not be fearful of the consequences. To hell with being driven by the opinions of others, I'd do the right thing and know what that was. But it's too soon for me. I need more time."
Who was he talking to?
He was about to pass out from the pain as millions of thoughts flashed through his brain. He should have been more religious, less uncertain on the question of a deity. He had not, necessarily, been blasphemous but rather inconsistent. In good times, he believed; when bad things happened, a swirl of rejection. But he had never ignored the covenant of faith, which is the relationship between God and man, and had accepted the covenant of destiny, which is what men make of themselves. And that's why he needed more time.
He heard his name being called out. Over and over. An echo at first, then increasingly steadier. He opened his eyes and immediately took heed that the pain was gone. He had come through it but felt differently. Newly calibrated. He had been given an extension.
Was this really a second chance? No matter. He would make it so.
The opportunity of more time, but not to tarry.
Friday, February 14, 2014
PLEASE TELL ME I'M NOT NUTS
What brought this post to a head was watching the Charlie Rose show tonight. His guest was the creator of House of Cards. What he had to say is immaterial It was, rather, his hair.
I take note of the new styles of today and am not offended because there is no discernible intent to harm. But there comes a point where I must scratch my head and ask, "what the hell is going on here?"
This guy looked as if he had just rolled out of bad, went immediately to the mirror and concluded that his hair looked too normal and required a further touch of madness. He therefore used his fingers to most closely resemble the Frankenstein monster.
The sides of his hair had no recognizable pattern or direction and seemed to be trained towards his nose. The front of his hair had the distinction of pointing left and right and up, all at the same time. I couldn't take my eyes off this styling except to conclude that this guy was certifiable.
One thing I am not is a square. I am not the hippest of them all but, dammit, have some idea of what's happenin' and this is not an isolated incident but rather a trend in men of all ages. I don't dig the wet look and, indeed, appreciate the casual appearance but, heavens, a cat should attempt some maneuvering of sanity in his personal toilette. Walk naked but style your hair to, in some way, resemble an inhabitant of Earth.
But, then again, it may be me who's out of step.
Although, I doubt it.
Next, a tablet shall be invented which will cause pregnancy. A man will be walking down the street and someone will say, "See that guy? His father's a pill."
And who knows, pants may soon be introduced that are made of wood. No more zippers--just swingin' doors.
Anything is possible. Yesterday, I saw a fellow trying to insert a cigarette into the driver's door lock. I approached and pointed this out to him, whereupon he looked up at me and said, with a thick tongue, "oh m'god, I swallowed my key."
Bye bye. Buy bonds.
I take note of the new styles of today and am not offended because there is no discernible intent to harm. But there comes a point where I must scratch my head and ask, "what the hell is going on here?"
This guy looked as if he had just rolled out of bad, went immediately to the mirror and concluded that his hair looked too normal and required a further touch of madness. He therefore used his fingers to most closely resemble the Frankenstein monster.
The sides of his hair had no recognizable pattern or direction and seemed to be trained towards his nose. The front of his hair had the distinction of pointing left and right and up, all at the same time. I couldn't take my eyes off this styling except to conclude that this guy was certifiable.
One thing I am not is a square. I am not the hippest of them all but, dammit, have some idea of what's happenin' and this is not an isolated incident but rather a trend in men of all ages. I don't dig the wet look and, indeed, appreciate the casual appearance but, heavens, a cat should attempt some maneuvering of sanity in his personal toilette. Walk naked but style your hair to, in some way, resemble an inhabitant of Earth.
But, then again, it may be me who's out of step.
Although, I doubt it.
Next, a tablet shall be invented which will cause pregnancy. A man will be walking down the street and someone will say, "See that guy? His father's a pill."
And who knows, pants may soon be introduced that are made of wood. No more zippers--just swingin' doors.
Anything is possible. Yesterday, I saw a fellow trying to insert a cigarette into the driver's door lock. I approached and pointed this out to him, whereupon he looked up at me and said, with a thick tongue, "oh m'god, I swallowed my key."
Bye bye. Buy bonds.
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