An Absurdly Beautiful Day


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the ruined temple next door to our house

 

The weather is perfect. There’s a soft drone of crickets and insects who live in the grass. The Goldfish have already gobbled the food I gave them.  It’s late enough in the morning that the roosters have calmed down. A lone dog barks in the distance. A few cars pass by on the road outside.

 

If I can’t be happy today, when can I be happy? I’m not under criminal investigation. Nobody’s suing me. I don’t owe anybody money. I’m in good health, after a breakfast with friends I’ll probably go swimming and then get a massage.

 

 

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No Regrets


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What do I really enjoy doing? Writing and Acting. Why don’t I do more of it? Because it’s hard and nobody’s paying me to do it.

How much time do I have left in this lifetime? Dunno, maybe fifteen or twenty years. Why don’t I spend that time writing and acting? Because it’s hard and nobody’s paying me to do it.

How absurd. People who work in hospice say that just before death, almost everyone tells whoever is within earshot (and it may just be a whisper) that they wish they had done what they really wanted to do with their life rather than what other people expected them to do. It’s a continual lament by concert pianists who ended up working in offices, oil painters who worked in department stores, poets who taught school.

I guess if ever there was a time to do the things I really want to do, it’s today.

“Waking up to who you are involves letting go of who you imagine yourself to be.” – Alan Watts

Gone and Completely Forgotten


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I will not be remembered long after I die, for my Facebook posts will cease, and that is the way most of the world knows me. Where I am, what I’m doing (or not) and most importantly, what my political views are. I’ve never had many strong views about politics, other than a lingering bad taste in my mouth caused by Nixon and a general distrust of those who profit from war, a category that seems to include almost everyone except me. Facebook, on the other hand, seems to thrive on political opinions.

But as to the real me, the whole me, the me that doesn’t translate into social media posts, I don’t expect my legacy will linger long. If somebody doesn’t tell Facebook or Google that I’ve passed, I suppose my blogs will linger for a few years while my Facebook pages continue to accrue likes, until someone realizes there’s no money to be made off me any longer. No, I will never pay to boost this post. Stop asking.

Then, when my pages are hacked and over run by those who copy identities in order to sell copies of Ray Ban and Oakley sunglasses online, a bot somewhere will close my accounts. No servers will store my data for free. My entire electronic library of silly stories and goofy pictures will vanish in a wisp of electrons.

Ex Libris Dan Coffey. My profile picture will go dark. My electronic wallpaper will curl.

GETTING ORGANIZED


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I’m trying to disentangle myself from all my confused, shortsighted, and unprofitable affairs before I leave this world. I don’t want to leave a mess behind for someone else to clean up.

Not that I’m in ill-health. To the best of my knowledge, I’m in the best physical condition I’ve been in years. Like all of us, I’m not getting any younger, and sixty-eight is a perfectly reasonable age at which to simply drop dead.

When my mother died, she left behind no mess at all. Everything was neatly handled and packaged. My father dropped dead while walking the dog. He had just turned sixty-four. Fortunately for his chemistry students at the community college, he had just finished grading their final exams and entered their final grades in his grade book.

I’m more at peace now than I’ve been in a very long time. I have fewer things to be anxious about. I’m not necessarily happier than I’ve ever been, but I am less worried than at any time I can recall, and that seems odd because I’m also closer to death than I’ve ever been.

Aren’t you supposed to fear death?

I don’t.

I’m more curious than apprehensive. Dying is sort of like traveling to a foreign country that nobody knows anything about. Will it be fun? Will the inhabitants be nice to me? Whatever it’s going to be like, my advance opinions about it don’t matter in the least regarding the outcome. It is what it is. And it isn’t what it isn’t. Will I meet Grandma and my long-deceased pet kitten in the Great Beyond? Dunno. Either way, it won’t be a tragedy if my expectations are dashed. On the other hand, it may be better than I’ve ever let myself imagine.

Facebook Time-Out Jail


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Facebook has informed me that I can’t post for the next 24 hours because there has been unusual activity on my account. All of a sudden I’m invisible. The main way I’ve been communicating with the outside world has been removed.

If I’m not the guy who posts funny pictures on Facebook, who am I? I can’t promote my blogs, because unless I link to them on Facebook, nobody knows they exist.

I was once put in quarantine for posting a picture of a woman’s breasts. It was a woman of old Siam, back before World War II when the Japanese took over and the lackey collaborator in charge of the country decided that from now on Thai women had to cover their breasts in public. A great loss for the nation. A boon for bra manufacturers.

I hope they get to the bottom of this soon. Probably some Pakistani guy sitting in a cave stealing passwords and identities.

 

 

Inconvenient Truth Meets Manufactured Consent.


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Nobody wants to hear about who killed Kennedy or who did 9/11. Not current, not sexy. Tin foil hat stuff.

Surely no one believes the official narrative, right? I know I don’t. Even so, nobody wants to hear about it anymore.

My attempts to encourage debate on social media end up getting nowhere. No new evidence means no debate, simply people in entrenched positions calling each other names.

The only points I can score with anyone who disagrees with me are that the Invasion of Iraq was contrived and misguided. People will grant you that. Beyond that point, all debate ends because there isn’t a common ground of agreement from which to proceed. It would be like trying to get an atheist to debate the proposition, “are we saved by grace or works?”

It seems that we aren’t simply bored by the questions but afraid of what the answers might obligate us to do. We might have to change everything. We might have to hold trials of rich and powerful people who are still alive and active. These might make waiting for Trump’s impeachment seem quick and easy in comparison.

Mark Twain said “it’s easier to fool people than to convince them they’ve been fooled.” He lost a fortune investing in a complicated pants-pressing machine, and had money problems until the day he died. A lot of his public speaking tours late in life were by necessity rather than choice. So he knew what he was talking about.

How does a nation come to grips with its past? Stalin is still popular with some elderly Russians, members of cult religions that are convinced the world is ending keep their faith even after the fateful day passes. Women stand by men who beat them and molest their children. It’s hard to admit you made a wrong turn a long while ago and you’re simply going to have to retrace your steps and start over.

But what’s the alternative? To live a lie is to court perpetual disquiet. It gets worse over time, never better.

Nations and people need to have a certain degree of integrity in order to avoid cruelty. Deception leads to violence because the lie must be defended at all costs. If our country is allowed to keep its secret lies, then for decades, maybe centuries, it will have to defend those lies. It will become neurotic, then psychotic, and not know why.

We are the stewards of our democracy. There’s nobody else who can take the job. We the people. If we’re afraid to face the truth, then we will be complicit in our descent into the hell that awaits those who are afraid to get and stay real. We will act out in all sorts of ways, none of which will seem to be connected to our self-deception.

RULES FOR THIS GROUP


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ABILITIES YOU MUST HAVE IN ORDER TO JOIN THIS GROUP

You must be able to swim ten meters underwater on one breath.

You must be able to derive square roots without the aid of a calculator.

You must know which of these three words is not a word: irregardless, irrespective, immaterial.

Explain in fewer than 100 words why most harmonicas are sold in the key of C but most blues songs are written in B flat or E.

You must be able to whistle.

You must be able to recall the seven cardinal virtues and the six deadly sins.

You must be able to find on the map Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania.

You must not be Vitamin B deficient.

You must be able to discern the difference between the Elmore James songs “Look on Yonder Wall” and “The Sky is Crying”

You must be immunized against Mad Cow disease and Epstein-Barre syndrome.

You must speak at least three languages besides your native tongue.

You must have spent at least a week in Albania.

You must believe that Artie Shaw’s band was at least the equal of Benny Goodman’s.

You must certify that the concept of spending your retirement years “kicking back in some beach community” sounds stultifying.

You must attest that you lost “that Christmas spirit” years ago and find most holiday promotions tiresome at best.

You must wake up in the middle of the night at least twice a month convinced that your body is riddled with cancer and it’s too late to do anything about it.

You must miss the character actors one used to frequently see in movies and on television fifty years ago more than the “stars” who got top billing and most of the attention.

You must admit to yourself and to others that you find the act of yodeling unmusical and watching old men in lederhosen perform it, distasteful.

You must refuse to accept the notion that all religions have some value, and are at least partially good.

You must get down on your knees and beg God for mercy.

You must admit the fact that you are hopelessly addicted to social media, and that its impact on your life has been almost wholly negative, except for providing a way to stay in touch with old friends, but the more you see or hear about them the more you realize there’s a reason you lost touch with them in the first place, and the only reason you log on so frequently is because you have absolutely nothing else going on in your life to fill the seemingly bottomless void that social media attempts to address.

ACTIONS YOU MUST TAKE IN ORDER TO LEAVE THIS GROUP

You must obtain written permission to do so from a group administrator. If you don’t know one, you must ask around.

If you can’t contact a group administrator, you must petition the National Security Agency for a Release From Page Membership (form 1099A-EX) or hire counsel to do the same.

If you are under the age of sixteen, or over the age of sixty-five, you must also ask that prayers be said for you at the Vatican, preferably on Holy Tuesday, a slow day during Holy Week, which as everyone knows, culminates with Easter Sunday.

If you are Vitamin B deficient, or suffer from restless leg syndrome or a transient certainty that nothing matters anymore, then there is no point in trying to leave this group, for we shall never let you go!

If your name is, or used to be, “Barnabas” then you have already automatically been kicked out of this group.

If you have ever attended a Bing Crosby Road Movie Film Festival and found Dorothy Lamour to be more interesting than either Bing or Bob, then write that in block lettering on a four by six inch card and mail it first class to PO Box 35446, Radio City Music Hall, New York, New York 10045. Allow six to eight weeks for processing, and your name will be expunged from this group.