By G. E. Shuman
Sometimes I think that I just don’t think like most other people think. I’m not extremely outgoing, and can spend hours alone, or with others, but without any conversation at all. Being free of conversation is probably a good thing in those times when I am alone. I, simply, sometimes, think that I think strange things, (sometimes) in those alone times. In fact, this may just be one of those times. My possible future misfortune is that I am sharing this fact with you, my readers. Read on, if you will, then feel free to write and tell me what you think about my thoughts, and whether or not I may be certifiable, in your thoughts. Of course, I’m not at all certain I’m ready for your replies, and dialing 911 is always an option for you. Regardless of the outcome and all of that, here goes.
One thing that I sometimes think about is that some things in life can be easily counted, like birthdays, pounds, debts and dollars. Other things, while being just as important in their own ways, are not so easily counted, or accounted for. It is difficult to measure a hug, a heartache or a headache in any precise way. Likewise, tears are not actually without number… they are just not numbered, nor, probably, should they be. Smiles also are never enumerated or categorized by their cause, whether by pride, or joy, or embarrassment. You have, without question, not held an ‘infinite’ number of babies in your arms, in your lifetime, nor have you shaken an infinite number of hands, even if you are a politician and it seems that you must have. Truthfully, I ask you, have you ever pondered these thoughts before? My guess is, probably not. (FYI: My straightjacket size would be XL. Extra long sleeve goes without saying. Thank you very much.)
For some unknown reason I do think about those types of things, and often. I also wonder, occasionally, how much is the weight of the printed words in a book, as that might compare to the weight of their meaning. I know, that’s weird. I may, in an idle moment, imagine the very beginning of a life, not really as happening at the moment of conception, as do most of my like-minded Christian, pro-life friends. I tend to ponder further back, in the thought that no life could come from anything else but living cells; so that each type of being truly was created just once, really, and then multiplied “after its kind.” That is why extinction is such a permanent thing; there are no more living cells to get together, to cause another dinosaur, or whatever. I also have sometimes thought that, if we do ever encounter beings from another world, they almost certainly, if they wear clothing, will not have garments with zippers in them. The zipper, to me, is clearly an ingenious invention, but one which is unique to this world. It is, after all, a strange-looking thing, and is probably not a universal answer to the problem it solves. They, (the aliens,) likely will have fixed the problem the zipper solves in some other, equally ingenious way. Maybe they have Velcro. Maybe they do not. I actually included that idea in my first novel, somehow, just because I wanted to. (I am George Shuman. I never said I was George Eliot, who was actually a woman, or George Lucas, who is not.) Please, feel free to purchase The Smoke And Mirrors Effect on amazon.com or someplace, and find out for yourself. Again, PLEASE. Okay, the aliens may have buttons. Buttons are universal in their simplicity, I think. What do you think, besides that I need to find a hobby? Too late. I have a hobby, and you are reading it.
I would love to visit the moon. I really would, and I would go right now if someone could make that happen. When I was young… very young… I was actively interested in watching all six of the Apollo moon landings. (Yes, there were six landings. Twelve Americans have walked on the moon. It wasn’t just Neil Armstrong.) I would like to be the first person back to Tranquility Base, to see that first footprint of Mr. Armstrong’s, which is, most definitely, still there, right now. I want to see those things that have become artifacts of history, and replant the American flag, if it was blown over by the blast of the lunar lander as the ascent stage lifted the astronauts back into orbit, producing the only gaseous ’breeze’ that flag will ever know. By the way, the writers of the latest Transformers movie, “Dark of the Moon”, got a lot of stuff wrong, and should be ashamed of their lack of historical accuracy. Getting it right doesn’t cost a cent more. Yes, I think about stuff like that, too. Just ask my son.
And then there are my thoughts of things like Christmas trees. I will bring our family’s twenty-ninth ’current home’ tree in through that same back door in another month or so. I know, nobody counts the years by counting Christmas trees. It’s just that twenty-nine is a lot of trees, and I am thankful for each of those Christmas’s with the best family in the world.
Also, I need to ask, while I am posing questions, why are women so beautiful and men so ugly? I can only think that maybe God tried harder the second time.
Then there is the miracle of literature, and of the written word in general. I have often pondered the fact that it doesn’t matter a whit if the writer of a book is a young person, or has been dead for many centuries; their thoughts, in print, are very much alive. I have several friends who’s lives were spent entirely in the past. There are my naughty friends, like Mark Twain, and some priceless ones, like the apostle Paul.
Lastly, before, or until the psychiatrists begin knocking on my door, (Did you make that call to 911?) I want to tell you that I am fascinated by, and think often of the idea of what is ‘me‘, and what is ‘you.‘ I once heard someone on TV say that we live, and I quote this unremembered person: “somewhere behind our eyes.” Those words have haunted me ever since I heard them, with a some soulful revelation that I haven‘t quite figured out yet, but believe. Have we not always heard that the eyes are the windows to the soul? To me, in my strange way of thinking, “somewhere behind our eyes” is really where we exist, and that fact makes me, me, and you… you. The core of individualism is certainly not the crowd. It is that solitary soul, in residence, somewhere behind our eyes.
Now you know about some of the things that I think about. I will go peacefully, if the doctors knock at my door.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
Grumpy Old Men
By G. E. Shuman
I think that, as we men age, (I can’t speak for women.) or, when we become a bit aged, we also become less and less concerned with appearances, appeal and appropriateness, as least as far as those three things abide in ourselves. We still appreciate other people’s appearance, appeal and appropriateness, but, I must ask, are ours as important as theirs? Not so much, I think. This may be simply a matter of maturing and acquiring wisdom as to what is important in life and what is not. I like to think that, as it makes me feel good. I like to feel good. Perhaps, and far more likely, it is due to our slowing down and tiring of our world of pretension and the efforts to obtain. By ‘obtain‘, I do mean the obtaining of things, but also of position, posture and power in our world. Keeping up with the Jones’s gets a bit old, as we get a bit old, (Who really cares?) and posture becomes more and more difficult. When you are fifty-something or older, sucking in your belly at the approach of an attractive younger person of the opposite sex is less than futile; it is ridiculous. You are an old dog which might as well not chase that pretty car, as you will never catch it, and would have trouble remembering what to do with it if you did. Also, at this age, the idea of attaining power is just too much work to bother thinking about anymore. Like I said, who really cares?
Personally, speaking of persons and attractions, (See the ‘sucking in the belly’ comment above.) I find myself very much attracted lately to the writings and ruminations of Mark Twain. One reason for this is that Mr. Twain’s words invariably remind me of the sayings and cogitations of my own dear paternal grandfather, Grampy Shuman. Another reason is simply that I like the man’s plain-spoken, damn-the-torpedoes style of living, and of writing. Mr. Twain said it like it was, or at least like he saw it. Lately I am inclined to not only agree with him on many subjects, but to admire, and even mimic him a bit. He was, as was my grandfather, quite aware that others might disagree with what he said, while being completely unruffled by that fact. Twain, and Gramp Shuman, had a similar way of disarming a conversational foe with the driest variety of humor, while, at the same time, destroying that person’s argument with simple facts. Over the years, both men became caring but grumpy old men, in their own ways.
Now for the bare, naked truth of the matter. In contrite confession, I must admit that I can sense, with the passing days and years, that I am feeling more and more like those two men. The proof of this is that I don’t care that I am, and am actually beginning to enjoy the idea, if only slightly.
I do appreciate most people, but in small doses and even smaller numbers, most of the time. My wife thinks that I will someday end up an old hermit, living all alone, in a dark and dank cave somewhere. She is so very wrong. My cave will be well-lit and dry as a bone. Please don’t get me wrong. My family means everything to me. I know I don’t deserve those people, would die for any one of them, and have no intention of leaving them.
Still, my position, right now, these fifty-seven years since my mother gave me birth, (No wonder she moved to Florida.) is that I am just tired. I’m not tired of life, but tired of the great mounds of never-ending stupidity that seem to accompany it. (My grandfather would have said something like that. Mark Twain actually did say: “I don’t know why God puts up with people, when lightening is so cheap.” I loved that one.) Self-centered people irritate me, pushy people aggravate me, and politicians just make me want to go out and kill something. (Sorry, to my politician-friend Michael.)
Several months ago, as my wife and I were perusing the wares of a coastal Maine gift shop, I spotted a great bumper sticker. (You know how much I love great bumper stickers.) Please don’t take this personally, as it does not apply to any of my readers. It may apply to some of my “cool” high school students. The bumper sticker read, simply: “THE OLDER I GET, THE MORE REDICULOUS YOU ALL SEEM.“ The telling thing is, I actually bought that sticker. I guess I’m earning my Grumpy Old Man degree… one day at a time. Gramp and Mr. Twain would be proud.
I think that, as we men age, (I can’t speak for women.) or, when we become a bit aged, we also become less and less concerned with appearances, appeal and appropriateness, as least as far as those three things abide in ourselves. We still appreciate other people’s appearance, appeal and appropriateness, but, I must ask, are ours as important as theirs? Not so much, I think. This may be simply a matter of maturing and acquiring wisdom as to what is important in life and what is not. I like to think that, as it makes me feel good. I like to feel good. Perhaps, and far more likely, it is due to our slowing down and tiring of our world of pretension and the efforts to obtain. By ‘obtain‘, I do mean the obtaining of things, but also of position, posture and power in our world. Keeping up with the Jones’s gets a bit old, as we get a bit old, (Who really cares?) and posture becomes more and more difficult. When you are fifty-something or older, sucking in your belly at the approach of an attractive younger person of the opposite sex is less than futile; it is ridiculous. You are an old dog which might as well not chase that pretty car, as you will never catch it, and would have trouble remembering what to do with it if you did. Also, at this age, the idea of attaining power is just too much work to bother thinking about anymore. Like I said, who really cares?
Personally, speaking of persons and attractions, (See the ‘sucking in the belly’ comment above.) I find myself very much attracted lately to the writings and ruminations of Mark Twain. One reason for this is that Mr. Twain’s words invariably remind me of the sayings and cogitations of my own dear paternal grandfather, Grampy Shuman. Another reason is simply that I like the man’s plain-spoken, damn-the-torpedoes style of living, and of writing. Mr. Twain said it like it was, or at least like he saw it. Lately I am inclined to not only agree with him on many subjects, but to admire, and even mimic him a bit. He was, as was my grandfather, quite aware that others might disagree with what he said, while being completely unruffled by that fact. Twain, and Gramp Shuman, had a similar way of disarming a conversational foe with the driest variety of humor, while, at the same time, destroying that person’s argument with simple facts. Over the years, both men became caring but grumpy old men, in their own ways.
Now for the bare, naked truth of the matter. In contrite confession, I must admit that I can sense, with the passing days and years, that I am feeling more and more like those two men. The proof of this is that I don’t care that I am, and am actually beginning to enjoy the idea, if only slightly.
I do appreciate most people, but in small doses and even smaller numbers, most of the time. My wife thinks that I will someday end up an old hermit, living all alone, in a dark and dank cave somewhere. She is so very wrong. My cave will be well-lit and dry as a bone. Please don’t get me wrong. My family means everything to me. I know I don’t deserve those people, would die for any one of them, and have no intention of leaving them.
Still, my position, right now, these fifty-seven years since my mother gave me birth, (No wonder she moved to Florida.) is that I am just tired. I’m not tired of life, but tired of the great mounds of never-ending stupidity that seem to accompany it. (My grandfather would have said something like that. Mark Twain actually did say: “I don’t know why God puts up with people, when lightening is so cheap.” I loved that one.) Self-centered people irritate me, pushy people aggravate me, and politicians just make me want to go out and kill something. (Sorry, to my politician-friend Michael.)
Several months ago, as my wife and I were perusing the wares of a coastal Maine gift shop, I spotted a great bumper sticker. (You know how much I love great bumper stickers.) Please don’t take this personally, as it does not apply to any of my readers. It may apply to some of my “cool” high school students. The bumper sticker read, simply: “THE OLDER I GET, THE MORE REDICULOUS YOU ALL SEEM.“ The telling thing is, I actually bought that sticker. I guess I’m earning my Grumpy Old Man degree… one day at a time. Gramp and Mr. Twain would be proud.
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