'I Don't Know What That Is'

I have a friend who I have had the privilege of getting to know really well, as I've being working with him for the last 10 months.  

He's very laid back, and he rarely ever gets uptight about anything.  It's a quality that I find fascinating.  But the biggest thing that he's taught me (without him knowing I was learning) is the funny little phrase "I don't know what that is."

The way it is with most of us (if you don't feel comfortable with pointing fingers, I can just point at myself) is that when we (or rather I)  don't know something,  the last thing we want to do is admit it.   Like seriously, I absolutely hate it when someone else knows more about computers than I do.   Not because it's wrong for them to be better at it,  but because I hate having to admit that I don't know it as well.   We don't want to look stupid. So usually,  I'll nod in understanding and do my utmost to prove that I know everything about it through my posturing. Even when I don't have a clue what you're saying.

But my friend when he is talking to friends will freely admit that he has no clue what they are talking about.  And he will say so.  I know for me, it totally took me back.  But he wasn't ashamed that he didn't know it,  rather he just recognized it.  Making no apologies.  

Why do we (or I, if you're still uncomfortable)  always have to pretend that we (I) know everything?  Or if not everything, than most of everything?  Why do we pretend that if there was some knowledge we are missing, it's  just a bit,  and even at that, not very relevant?

I think we all need to learn to say "I don't know what that is."  Because that's way more mature.  We need to realize that knowledge isn't what makes us who we are.

A Very Merry Christmas (Part 1)

In the past,  I've always loved Christmas with the tree,  the presents, the warmth, the presents, the joy, and uh . . . the presents.  Needless (I hope) to say,  the joys that come with Christmas have changed as I've matured. (Don't laugh)  Instead of presents,  it's the friends that give me joy.  Instead of wishing eagerly for breakfast to hurry up and be made,  I now wish it would take longer so I can stay in bed.  One of the things that has dissipated over time as well,  is that intense anticipation.  For that,  I am most thankful. . . I couldn't stand it as a kid.

But even more so than before,  this Christmas is different.  More important.  It hasn't been the best organized Christmas I've ever had, ( I finished buying gifts yesterday. I think.)  In fact, we didn't even set up the tree till about two weeks ago.

It's not the presents, (at least the presents under the tree, mind you)  'cause I know that I'm getting less wrapped packages then ever before.  And that one of them is a book.

Maybe part of  it is my expectations.  This year I find that I'm thankful with the thought that I don't have to work tomorrow, at home or otherwise.  I find that people could give me socks, and I would still be (moderately) happy, as I won't have to buy any for myself for at least another month.  And sleeping-in sounds like music to my soul. . .

I think the truth of it is this.  I'm happy and completely satisfied with everything.  This last month has been a month of miracles.  It's almost like I've opened all my presents early.  And I am simply delighted with what I've received.  And when I stop to consider all that I even had before that . . . why would I want more?

Let's see,  I've got (starts ticking fingers):
-Family.  A family who values me even when I am playing caveman in my room.
-Friends.  The best friends that anyone could possibly even hope for.
-Music
-A Drivers Licence
-I'm able to write.
-A car (Even if it doesn't run, it's still mine.)
-A God who loves me.

What else do I need?

The Art of Friendship

Right now I'm reading a fascinating little book called "The Art of Friendship : 70 simple rules for making meaningful connections." It's been quite interesting actually, and I would recommend it as a decent read. A fair amount of it I think we all know, at least unconsciously. But this little book (It's really short.) manages to express the techniques that we generally follow without knowing in a way that is quite applicable in your life. There are a couple points I might disagree on, but mostly just out of personal preference. Due to the copyright, I'm not really allowed to share any of it online, other than perhaps one of the qoutes.

    "Do not save your loving speeches

    For your friends till they are dead;
    Do not write them on their tombstones,
    Speak them rather now instead."


I thought that was interesting, especially after some of my more recent conversations. . .
Anyway,  I hope you guys are ready to be my test subjects. = P

Oh! And on a side note,  I've also been greatly enjoying another recent literary excursion:  "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies"  Very creative, since it keeps most of Jane Austen's manuscript.  And it's definitely a lot more interesting.

Heart

This is some music that really speaks to my heart.


New Again



A Million Stars

The Continuing Tale of Layne B. Huber (esq.)

It hath been a great length of time since I have halted to pen down any of that which I have been living through recently.  Methinks this would perhaps be less because nothing is happening to myself, rather than it would perhaps not interest others greatly.  One comes to the conclusion however, that after all this blog is in fact, mine, and therefore here to mainly serve the purposes of Yours Truly.   In addition the openness of this forum perhaps discourages discourse.  Mayhaps I should re-examine my unrestricted readers policy.  .  .

Perhaps the greatest excitement to me has been mine recent purchase of mine new digital computing device (computer).   It has highly emphasized mine feeling of the grand emotions of Christmas, with having to wait for mine package of long expectation to arrive.   Now, for those of ye who are perhaps less knowledge able about computer systems,  I will keep this description simple, with a more complex explanation thereafter.   

For thou who most likely would not understand the complexities of the specifications (just cause of thy lack of study) :   It has cost myself roughly $850.00  in currency.  It is squarish, made by HP,  and it allows me the use of two monitors at once.  

I find that myself is frightfully tired as of a sudden,  and therefore that the more detailed description shall have to wait upon my whims.  

Indeed,  it would seem somewhat insane to speak of such things at such an hour.  I question my sanity, as I have often.   But time is a sparse commodity,  as one and all knows,  so mayhaps that giveth excuse enough?   

But let me point out how this purchase of mine is fantastic, besides the obvious excitement of buying something new.  See. . .  the soonest Yours Truly had figured that he would be able to purchase a new system was sometime near the end of the Year of our Lord 2010,  and for at least double the cost.   So it's is a huge blessing from the afore-mentioned to have the opportunity to get it now for so much less and to be able to get it now. 

And that is but the merest of blurbs in this serial. 

   

 

Snow

My car wouldn't start the other day,  due to some battery issues. So I hooked up my dad's charger, and took my Mom's car to work.  And then when I came home,  everything was covered in snow!  The drifts were even higher on Saturday, but the wind took some of it away. . .

I dug it out today,  but it took close to an hour.  I think my Dad's charger is toast though. . .

Star Lit

Cough.  So this is my attempt at something similar to poetry.  It actually turned out surprisingly long.  It's sort of like a cross between haiku and half a dozen other ways to say things.  But I think I'll call it "fool poetry."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stars sparkle gently in the cold dark winter of space, their gentle forms sometimes faint to the point of non-existence, sometimes bright as a shout of laughter.

Darkness spans the void between celestial points. Incalculable and cold, with promise strangely written upon its form. Beauty through darkness. And beyond, more small sharp points of blazing fire. Heaven from a distance, hell from up close.

Here we stand, upon our own point of incandescent light. A point that is faint as the faintest star, floating through darkness like a dignified sailing vessel of archaic design. Neither rope, nor sail, nor rudder in its form. A ship that wanders contentedly upon the eddies and swells of space, time, and gravity.

Here we are, standing upon a globe spinning faster than it has any right to be. A ship whose inner sanctions remain darkened, full of mystery, full of beauty, full of fear. That which is lighted seems as though perhaps too luxurious in scope for such a wanderer. And yet all that we poor sailors see is the need to complain.

Here we are, singular, solitary beings. Sailors upon a ship without rudder, and without sails. Less sailors, and more corked bottles, wandering upon the eddies and swells of space, time, and gravity. But not contentedly. Inside each bottle, kept dry from the ravages of time, sits a paper. Old, brown, and marked with black and gold ink.

Each bottle whispers silently in the darkened hull of the sinking ship, as the water gurgles softly around them. Corks yearning to be pulled, papers begging to be opened. To be read. For what is writing, if not read? Or a plea for help without a rescuer? Some bottles whisper silently louder than others, but their papers are eaten away by water. A message lost, ink seeping into nothingness.

Here are our souls. A little scrap of paper. For to be known is to be loved, and to be loved is to be known, and to be read is to live, and to live is to be read. But some corks are too tight, and will not be removed by this poor sailor, and some corks have been too weak, and let the water in. But here is a dry parchment. The text is tired and worn, but in a flourish that astonishes it flows across the paper, round and round, and up and down. Some is black ink, some is gold.

Darkness and light flow and surround, and no matter how fast you read, more text forms upon the bottom, ceaseless. A message whose inner sanctions remain darkened, full of mystery, full of beauty, full of fear. Fascination either overwhelms, or puts one farther away. But ever the paper calls in deep silence. Ever a plea, read me, know me, be me, love me. Some hands crumple paper, and drop them into the waters to shred, stories lost. Some hands cherish. Keep the papers and hold them. Read them, know them, be them, love them.

For I can think of no better way to be than that of a reading sailor upon a ship that wanders in darkness and light and joy and death.

Stars sparkle gently in the cold dark winter of space, their gentle forms sometimes faint to the point of non-existence, sometimes bright as a shout of laughter, flowing round the ghost outline of a ship.

/