What Do You Want?

“I can teach anybody how to get what they want out of life. The problem is that I can't find anybody who can tell me what they want.” —Mark Twain

I’m embarrassed by the number of books on my shelf that share the basic theme of “getting what you want out of life.” You know that ones that start: 5 Easy Steps to This, or 7 Keys to That. And you know what’s even more embarrassing? I’ve read every one of these Be Successful, Be Happy, Be Pretty, Be Blessed, etc. books on that shelf.

I haven’t seen the movie “Gone Girl”; yet. I read the book, and upon completing it, threw it across the room. But I will see the movie. I want to see what director David Fincher does with Gillian Flynn’s screenplay. I’m thinking that the most terrifying thing about this story is there doesn’t seem to be a character in it who has a single worthy aspiration.

“Death of a Salesman” is story sort of like that. Poor Willy Loman. I can’t think of a fate worse than having your own son stand over your grave and proclaim of you, “He had all the wrong dreams!”

So, if Mr. Twain could make good on his bold promise,
what would you tell him you want?

I think it is a “big picture” question—you know; not a question like: what do you want to do this weekend, but rather, what do you want them to say about you at your funeral.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been involved in a project called “Storyline”. One of the things I’m learning is that stories (and each of our lives is a story) are either comedies or tragedies. That sounds so reductionist;at first, I refused to accept it. But it’s not as simple as it sounds, even though it’s basically about happy endings and sad endings.

Why would anyone choose a tragic story for their own life? An example: in 30+ years of working with teenagers, many times I saw kids choose a destructive path, sometimes, at least partly, to spite their parents for divorcing and fracturing their family. Not to say that happens every time—it’s just an example.

Many times tragic stories seem to be the only option someone has. Gilda Radner of the original cast of “Saturday Night Live” wrote upon learning of her terminal cancer: “I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned the hard way, that some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle and end.”

Back to the abiding words of Mr. Twain, and his scenario of having a mentor or guide who can, not only tell someone how to get what they want out of life, but help them discover what they REALLY want; consider this advice:

Walk right side: safe,
Walk left side: safe,
Walk middle: SQUISH!
—Mr. Miyagi

Not only did Mr. Miyagi show Daniel-san how to win tournament, and get girl; he taught him to aspire to a balanced life. (And to economize speech by eliminating parts of speech like prepositions and articles.)

There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots, the other, wings. —Goeth

Maybe that’s what I would tell Mark Twain: I want roots and wings. And I want to be known as someone who helped others find their roots and wings. If that’s not too much to ask. Oh, and it would be really useful to learn that rapid hand-rubbing thing Mr. Miyagi does to help aching joints and muscles.

The Interrobang

There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it. —Alfred Hitchcock

Harper, our middle grand-girl

Interrogatio is Latin for "a rhetorical question" or "cross-examination";
Bang is printers' slang for the exclamation mark. 

Symbols—those little marks that represent something, that tell a bit of a story, that create identity.

For example, if you see a little stylized fish on the back of someone’s car, you assume that they (or the car’s previous owner) professed to be christian. You don’t assume though that the person’s religious convictions extend to more courteous driving or less road rage than their non fish bearing counterparts. And to be fair, we can’t really ask “WWJD” when it comes to driving, because we don’t have any record that Jesus ever drove anything (except the occasional evil spirit—from a person to a pig).

I like symbols. I think they’re interesting. I’ve yet to find a symbol however, that I was so affiliated with that I would have it tattooed on my person, but I have held allegiance to a few symbols over the years, enough at least to wear them as jewelry.

The Peace Sign was one. (Or, as it was called by “rednecks” back in the day: “the footprint of the American chicken.”)

For me, the symbol probably had something to do with my adolescent need to “belong.” It was like the brand of the 60s counter-culture movement and a tribe that was very accepting. Maybe I wore it out of wishful thinking—hoping that somehow if we rallied around the dream of peace I might not get drafted and end up in a jungle in Southeast Asia fighting in a war I didn’t understand.

When that war finally ended, I put the peace sign in a box with my “McGovern for President” button, and my idealism. I still have that box and occasionally drag it out and remember the old days “better than they were.”

Today, if I were to wear a symbol or give serious consideration to symbol-style tattoo, it would be an interrobang. The interrobang has an interesting history. You should Google (v.) it. The interrobang is a punctuation mark that actually appeared on Remington typewriters briefly. It really never made it’s mark though. (Although it is still included in many fonts on your computer.) It was a combination of a question mark and an exclamation point.

As I hinted at the beginning of the post the interrobang would be used at the end of a hypothetical question, being asked with a sort of gusto, like: “Wow, did you see that?!” or “What the what?!” You get the idea, right?!

Just as the peace sign was a good symbol for me in my first coming-of-age, the interrobang serves me well now, in my second.

There was once a day of youthful confidence; swagger, if you will. Today it seems like everything I used to feel certain of, in an exclamatory kind of way, also has a certain question to it. For example, say we’re trekking across country, my Amazing-Missus might ask, “Do you have any idea where we are?” And I reply, “Of course I do! I think?” Or the doctor asks, “How are you doing?” “Great!” I exclaim. “Aren’t I?”

That picture at the beginning of this post, of our middle grand-girl, Harper; her dad took that and commented about her “eye of the tiger” look. She will be 3-years old Saturday. I hope she always keeps her eye-of-the-tiger, strength-of-her-convictions swagger. Some will see it and call it "strong-willed". Her Pops will see it and will remember a day when he had it. A day when he thought Peace was attainable. A day when he was less squishy about his certainties.

Autumn

I LOVE AUTUMN. A few days ago, on the autumnal equinox (first day of fall), I thought I should write a post on About Pops about this amazing point in time. But then I remembered, I already had. It’s called Aequus Nox and you can read it by clicking this link.

Let me add this: another thing I love about fall is the return of favorite shows. “The Blacklist” is the one I’ve looked forward to most. It is spellbinding. Not only is it full of great story-telling, and rich characters, but it is one of those shows that make great use of music. Each episode ends with a song that is almost always new to me. The song is always apropos to the theme of the episode emotionally and sometimes lyrically. The song, along with the cliffhangers, pulls you forward, anticipating next Monday’s episode.

Last Monday, the first episode of the new season did not disappoint; at all. It was full of glimpses of the intrigue to come.

But, my favorite part was that final song. Thankfully I had recorded the program because I had to find my phone, rewind a bit, fire up “Shazam”, and purchase that song.

It’s a song by a group of youngsters that call themselves Ages And Ages. The song is called “Divisionary: Do the Right Thing.” Fortunately, NPR has already discovered this group, brought them in for a “Tiny Desk Concert” and posted it for us all to see, hear and enjoy.

There are several songs on this video. The “Divisionary” song is at the 3:50 mark. Watch them all, but watch this one for sure.

Straight From Growing Up to Growing Old

IF YOU TELL A WOMAN that Scientists at Newcastle University in the UK have discovered that girls tend to optimize brain connections earlier than boys; that the researchers concluded that this may explain why females generally mature faster in certain cognitive and emotional areas than males during childhood and adolescence*, the woman will likely say something like: "I could have told you that."

IF YOU TELL A MAN about that same research, he's likely to say something like: "Hey do you know why Helen Keller played the piano with only one hand?”

I’m not going to lie; sometimes the close personal scrutiny I put myself through as I reflect on my second-coming-of-age can be a bit painful. For example, it has dawned on me that in a lot of ways I have remained, well; immature. While it’s been years since I lit a fart on fire, to this day I would much rather sit in a public place making fun of other people than I would engage in deep talk about socio-political B.S over “senior” coffee with a bunch of old geezers at McDonalds.

Is that narcissistic of me? No. Not in the classical sense anyway—where poor old Narcissus became stuck in time when entranced by his own beauty upon seeing his reflection in a pool of water.

I’m not saying that I’ve grown past adolescent self-absorption. Nor, am I saying that I’ve grown up much at all. I’ve just grown older. Wiser too? The jury’s still out.

I love a good growing-up story.

So, about my chronic immaturity: Part of it I attribute to being a dude. Part of it comes from the fact that I’ve spent most of my working years with teenagers and young adults (and I treasure those years). Part of it comes from fear—the fear that once I step over the threshold and start having adult conversations about stuff like social security, medicare, obamacare, and who-gives-a-care; once I start feigning indignation over hilarious, slightly inappropriate jokes, and wearing socks with sandals… there will be no turning back.

I imagine that for most normal people, maturing is a process. But, somehow it seems to me to be like an Exit on a freeway. Like at some point I have to realize, I’m sixty-something and there are these big signs that are saying, “Last Chance! Take this Exit! Food, Gas, Restrooms, Moccasins, Cracker Barrel and Maturity.”

So what was Robert Frost really feeling when he wrote his defining poem:

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN
By Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

If I could, I would sit down with Robert Frost over a Cafe Au Lait, or a pint of ale, and I would say something like, “So, Mr. Frost, it was like a fork-in-the-road experience for you too?” And then we would talk deeply about life and stuff.

And then I would say something like: “Talk about your life-defining stories, have you seen “Tommy Boy”?!

P.S.: Helen Keller played the piano with only one hand because she sang with the other one. (I know; I'm hopeless, but I think Helen herself would find that funny.)

*http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/the-athletes-way/201312/scientists-identify-why-girls-often-mature-faster-boys