As my Dad would often say, "If I wake up without pain, I'll know I'm dead." Now in my own old age, I know what he meant. Pain is reality. Pleasure is fleeting. Pain sticks around.
I saw a video a year ago. It was one of those travel videos. The videographer was flying north from Scotland to the Orkney Islands.
As the plane passed over the very northern tip of the Scottish mainland, he pointed out, with his camera, a lonely cabin at the end of a dirt track.
"That is the cabin where George Orwell wrote Animal Farm. It has no water or electricity, but you can rent it as an Air B&B."
I read you loud and clear. I injured my knee sleeping the other night. Not sure what I did, but it took the entire day to walk it off. And when it comes right down to it, pain pills don't really stop the pain, they just make you stop caring about it.
I've been to that cabin on my Orwell pilgrimage back in 1980. It is a desolate bit a real estate, but for a writer, it's just about the most perfect place to be. Absolutely no distractions. At the opposite end of the island is St. Michael monastery on a bit of barren rock sticking out of the sea several miles off the coast. Barely enough dirt to grow some beans is about all it has to offer. I am innately drawn to places like those, because I love the feeling of magnificent isolation. I don't think I could do a lifetime at either one, but for a time it's amazing.
I don't know that pain is enduring, but it is memorable and serves as a reality check. Pain is Universe putting the brakes on us. I racked my knee when I was 27 in a stage accident, and when the weather changes, I vividly recall the moment when that part of my body changed. Can't think of any pleasurable moments that come back like that. Curious how that works.
Rufus, It's amazing that you've been to Orwell's cabin. What a remote place it is. Time always worked for me when I needed isolation. I'd write from midnight to dawn when the world is asleep (in my area.)
My going there was somewhat of a fluke. I was looking for Loch Ness.
I write in the wee hours, as well. The Muslims are still sleeping, the cats are laid out, and Mrs. FarSide is snoring in the other room. A very conducive time to write. Most folks don't realize what a centered, concentrated effort it takes to write even 800 words, and there is one generalization about Indonesians that applies universally - they are one noisy bunch of folks. I can't even listen to soothing music or white noise. It's not easy keeping track of what you've done, where you are, and where you want to go, and it's even worse when you have characters and have to hear their voices in your head. It's a great job for a hermit or misanthrope.
No doubt, though I suspect he let the isolation get a little too far under his skin. Once you finish the manifesto, you gotta come back down out of the woods, otherwise you start to believe what you wrote.
Vonu, Opium is still from a plant. Hippies used to call marijuana "herb" and it is also a banned drug under the CSA. It's all doublespeak and playing with language and definitions.
"Through our eyes, the Universe is perceiving itself. Through our ears, the Universe is listening to its harmonies. We are the witness through which the Universe becomes conscious of its glory, of its magnificence."
Indeed. Though less poetically stated, we are the Universe's senses. Seems like a rather important job if you ask me. Somewhere in the back of my mind is a similarly poetic quote from Carl Sagan's "Cosmos".
As my Dad would often say, "If I wake up without pain, I'll know I'm dead." Now in my own old age, I know what he meant. Pain is reality. Pleasure is fleeting. Pain sticks around.
I saw a video a year ago. It was one of those travel videos. The videographer was flying north from Scotland to the Orkney Islands.
As the plane passed over the very northern tip of the Scottish mainland, he pointed out, with his camera, a lonely cabin at the end of a dirt track.
"That is the cabin where George Orwell wrote Animal Farm. It has no water or electricity, but you can rent it as an Air B&B."
I read you loud and clear. I injured my knee sleeping the other night. Not sure what I did, but it took the entire day to walk it off. And when it comes right down to it, pain pills don't really stop the pain, they just make you stop caring about it.
I've been to that cabin on my Orwell pilgrimage back in 1980. It is a desolate bit a real estate, but for a writer, it's just about the most perfect place to be. Absolutely no distractions. At the opposite end of the island is St. Michael monastery on a bit of barren rock sticking out of the sea several miles off the coast. Barely enough dirt to grow some beans is about all it has to offer. I am innately drawn to places like those, because I love the feeling of magnificent isolation. I don't think I could do a lifetime at either one, but for a time it's amazing.
I don't know that pain is enduring, but it is memorable and serves as a reality check. Pain is Universe putting the brakes on us. I racked my knee when I was 27 in a stage accident, and when the weather changes, I vividly recall the moment when that part of my body changed. Can't think of any pleasurable moments that come back like that. Curious how that works.
Rufus, It's amazing that you've been to Orwell's cabin. What a remote place it is. Time always worked for me when I needed isolation. I'd write from midnight to dawn when the world is asleep (in my area.)
My going there was somewhat of a fluke. I was looking for Loch Ness.
I write in the wee hours, as well. The Muslims are still sleeping, the cats are laid out, and Mrs. FarSide is snoring in the other room. A very conducive time to write. Most folks don't realize what a centered, concentrated effort it takes to write even 800 words, and there is one generalization about Indonesians that applies universally - they are one noisy bunch of folks. I can't even listen to soothing music or white noise. It's not easy keeping track of what you've done, where you are, and where you want to go, and it's even worse when you have characters and have to hear their voices in your head. It's a great job for a hermit or misanthrope.
Rufus, No doubt that is how Ted Kaczynski wrote his manifesto. He was all alone, holed up in that remote cabin drinking beer.
No doubt, though I suspect he let the isolation get a little too far under his skin. Once you finish the manifesto, you gotta come back down out of the woods, otherwise you start to believe what you wrote.
Rufus, I think Ted K. did believe in his manifesto. He planned to bicycle to town for beer and supplies and that was it for human interaction.
Pain can be almost completely ameliorated by the consumption of herbal anti-inflammatories.
As Captain James T. Kirk said, "I NEED my pain!"
Vonu: Opium is a great herbal anti-inflammatory, but it does cause constipation.
Opium is a Schedule II drug under the Controlled Substances Act.
Vonu, Opium is still from a plant. Hippies used to call marijuana "herb" and it is also a banned drug under the CSA. It's all doublespeak and playing with language and definitions.
I hope you can tell the difference between opium and hemlock.
Vonu: I've never seen hemlock, though some people grow it for some reason. I remember when folks would sell oregano pretending it was marijuana.
Most modern government is predominately doublespeak and playing with language, a la 1984.
The instruction manual for Stonehenge was a verbal tradition that has remained such in contrast to the Talmud which got written down.
The problem with verbal instructions is that some folks are visual learners.
Verbal traditions don't necessarily have instructions.
Visual learners must rely on television programming to get their propaganda.
If they don't understand verbal instructions, they'll need help with all electronic media.
Consciousness creates reality.
"Through our eyes, the Universe is perceiving itself. Through our ears, the Universe is listening to its harmonies. We are the witness through which the Universe becomes conscious of its glory, of its magnificence."
Alan Watts
Indeed. Though less poetically stated, we are the Universe's senses. Seems like a rather important job if you ask me. Somewhere in the back of my mind is a similarly poetic quote from Carl Sagan's "Cosmos".