"The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest." ~~ E.B. White
It is said that animals are most dangerous when wounded. This animal – me – was recently wounded by the unexpected death of my sister. I am in a take no prisoners mood, particularly with a small number of people whose shit treatment of me I have, until this morning, let slide. Life and its attending challenges are tough enough without having to deal with self-absorbed, no conscience wimps, who profess to all the world they are caring, loving people. Perhaps it was the likes of these folk that led to the term lip-service.
An old friend of mine once told me I was too patient with people. This may be true. That said, when someone with a lot of patience runs out of patience, the result is not pretty. Nor should it be. This morning I fired off a few emails ripping into a few of the above referenced wimps. While I took no pleasure in writing them, I don’t regret a single word, not even a syllable.
Setting aside the fact his beard makes Ted Cruz look like he was interrupted while eating roadkill, I have a hard time figuring out how he can lead a happy life.
I don’t think a human being can be driven by a lust for power and a sick venomous dishonesty, as evidenced by recently accusing Democrats of wanting to give voting rights to “illegal aliens” and “child molesters,” and be a happy human being at the same time. That much greed and dishonesty and cruelty coursing through your being does not result in nirvana.
That Senator Roadkill knows his charges are rubbish, doesn’t matter to him. If you can give the guy a pass who called your wife ugly, said your Dad helped assassinate President John F. Kennedy, no one should be surprised you scarf down roadkill.
To be clear, I don’t think any member of any party would want to give voting rights to illegal aliens and child molesters. Then again, perhaps Senator Roadkill doth protest too much.
If ever there was a fear that had a justified place in the human experience, it is the fear of intimacy. This pen is not referring to sex. People have sex every day in this land and beyond without a single iota of emotional intimacy. Sex and love-making are two different worlds.
This pen is talking about emotional and intellectual intimacy. I’m talking about allowing oneself to fbe yourself with another person and trusting it is safe to do so. No relationship of any kind can be a healthy, flourishing place to be if both people can’t fully be themselves with each other.
When you’ve absorbed enough wounds in life, such intimacy feels like an impossibility. However, because it feels like an impossibility does not mean it is one. For many of us, myself included, taking the risk of trusting is not a chump change endeavor – not by any measure. There is a close-to-my-heart saying I believe in. It’s okay to be afraid, don’t let it scare you. Meaning, if any of us wait for the fear to pass before we take the risk, we will remain stuck in place.
I have a relationship with my past wounds, my history. And, if there is one thing that gets my back up, it’s the very notion of giving my past wounds decision-making power. Yes, caution and patience are worthy allies. And with them at my side, I’ll be damned if I will allow my history to obliterate the possibility of a deeply loving relationship.
This week a dream I thought would never come true, is going to come true. The party who is making this dream come true has asked to remain anonymous, and so I shall call this party, the angel.
If I was offered a brand new Jeep Wrangler or a new Porsche, neither would stand a chance against the full 20-volume set of the Oxford English Dictionary.
The OED is, without question, the summit of all English Language Dictionaries. Work began on it in 1857. For a time the project was called, “A New English Dictionary on Historical Principles; Founded Mainly on the Materials Collected by The Philological Society.” It was not until 1884 the dictionary began to be published in installments. It was then referred to as, “The Oxford English Dictionary,” though the name of the publication was not formally changed until 1928.
For one who writes in English (or gives it a go), the OED is an absolute feast of knowledge. Language is the material I use to create, report, observe, make a fool of myself, and, at times, not.
The angel had asked me a couple of months ago, or thereabouts, if there was anything the angel could do for me. The underpinning to the offer was the angel’s belief that I had done a lot for others, and so, is there anyway the angel could help me?
Finally, a week or two ago, I wrote to the angel and asked if the angel would consider starting a go-fund-me page to raise the funds for purchasing the full OED set. It runs around $1,200 to $1,400. In less than 24 hours, the angel let me know the angel had covered the cost of the OED, and it was on its way.
I cried when I learned this; tears of joy you can be sure. There was even a moment when I nearly shook my head to make sure I was awake, and I was!
There are no words to adequately express how moved and grateful I am to this angel for making this dream of mine come true. Then again, if there are words to fully thank them, I will soon have the right dictionary in which to find them!
