AWW ~2/23/11
non-subject ~reinvention
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1974. Late spring or early summer. 2:00 AM.
Myself and Cathy and Bill Bailer were on the playground at Jaycee Park in Hickory, the Jaycee Park over near Highway 321 where the 321 bridge crosses Lake Hickory. After driving over the bridge there was a small marina on the right. Not a fancy one but more like a place for George Dickel fisherman.
Down the dirt road, after passing the dirt driveway that led to the marina, there were small lake cottages. Not the fancy lake houses for the rich, but the musty cottages where some time during my teenage party years I landed at one of those cottages. Seems like a bearded man named Mac in his 30s owned the place.
But this time in the late spring at Jaycee Park was before I ever visited Mac's cottage by the lake.
Cathy and myself and Bill sat in the giant wooden barrel on the playground at the park. I was 15; Cathy was 16; and Bill was 18 or 19. Bill was good friends with Ricky Holster, who was in his 20s and drove a green Porsche. Bill and Ricky were both handsome and known as ladies' men. There were also known to have dope.
I felt privileged to be sitting in the giant playground barrel with Bill Bailer. I was now part of the cool group, the "freaks", as opposed to the "jocks." And now Bill was gonna supply my first experience with marijuana. I felt like I was being initiated into a world where only the brave dare enter, the world of the mind and the expansion of consciousness to discover what is truly real.
Bill's family lived down the street from Cathy's family. I was spending the night with Cathy and we had snuck out to meet Bill at his house. We waited quietly outside his house at the rendezvous time. Cathy and I were a bit early.
I was a master at sneaking out of the house at night. I'd started when I was in 6th grade some three years previously. Mostly I'd meet up with boyfriends in the woods or climb into their houses and sleep in their beds. Then I'd leave in the wee morning hours to walk or ride my bike back home. Oh the many stories. Running from the cops and hiding in the field, almost wrecking my mother's car before I ever had a license, drinking Boone's Farm wine over behind Viewmont School in the playground, being destructive by throwing dirt clods at cars, stealing milk from porches and raiding corn from gardens. Antics that gave me an adrenalin high.
Now I was going for a different kind of high, on a different playground.
Cathy, Bill, and I loaded into Bill's VW bug and Bill drove the short trek to Jaycee Park. I recall hearing the song "Keep on Truckin'" by Eddie Kendricks. It must have been playing on Bill's radio in the VW; we would have all kept quiet at the park.
Jaycee park was equipped with big swings and little swings, various kinds of monkey bars, sturdy plastic animals big enough for adults to ride that were mounted on staitonary heavy-duty springs so one could sway side to side and back and forth, plastic-type pony swings which hung from heavy chains from swing set bars, a big spiral slide, a few other regular slides, a playground merry-go-round where one could make themselves dizzily sick, a gigantic slide that went all the way down one of the hillsides and was scary, a couple sand boxes, and the giant slat-wood barrel that was mounted so that a person, if she was short enough, could stand in it and walk making it spin.
The Jaycee Park playground was a regular visitng place day and night throughout my party years.
So, I smoked dope for the first time that night, or rather morning. But I didn't feel the effect. I pretended I did to a point, but I was more high from the danger of sneaking out and doing something illegal. Maybe my adrenalin high cancelled out any effect from the Mary Jane.
Mary Jane. That was the name of the mare I was riding when I fell off, or got thrown off, five years prior to my first toke.
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February 23, 2011
February 21, 2011
Uncle Fred Took Pictures
How can I go back in time to recall what I seem unable to remember?
I asked myself last week, "Carol, what is your first memory?" Well, more accurately it would be..."What is your youngest memory?"
I must answer that I am not sure.
It seems I have no recollection from my first four years. Even if I do, I would wonder how much is my recollection and how much has been planted there by photographs.
My favorite uncle was Uncle Fred. Uncle Russell was right up there with Fred, but Uncle Russell died when I was around six years old, I think.
Uncle Fred was a photographer and was one of Daddy's brothers. He was easy-going. When I was around Uncle Fred, I felt calm. He had a gentle laugh and his gait when he walked was poised without being snobbish. It's like he had soft shoes.
I liked Uncle Fred's Jaguar. I think it was white on the outside with tan leather interior. The dash board had all sorts of gauges and lights. I felt like a secret agent when I got to ride in it, which wasn't often because Uncle Fred lived at Daytona Beach and we lived in North Carolina.
Almost every summer our family would visit Daytona, until I was 18 years old.
Fred always had white hair. Perhaps it was silver at one time, but I remember it always being white.
Fred was married to Lucille. I liked Aunt Lucille but she seemed rather spacey and too girlie for me. I was a tomboy and wasn't the girlie type.
Aunt Lucille helped in the photography studio. She would help prepare people before a photo shoot and, up until color film was up to standard, she'd add color by hand to the photographs, enhancing the various hues.
Lucille had a parrot that could sing "Dixie."
Uncle Fred took me to Cape Canaveral when I was around 10 years old. I'll always remember riding the tour bus through the facility and seeing the eight-foot long windshield wipers on one of the gigantic trucks that hauled part of the rocket to the launch pad.
Fred always enjoyed watching the night launches from a restaurant on the mainland.
I last saw Uncle Fred in 2007. He was 92, I think, and still living at home. Same mannerisms, though a bit more cynical. He had only recently given up golf - said his eyes were bad.
He died within a year of that visit.
I hope I've inherited his longevity. So far, I'd say his genes are on my side. That I'm still alive is pretty amazing.
*****************
I asked myself last week, "Carol, what is your first memory?" Well, more accurately it would be..."What is your youngest memory?"
I must answer that I am not sure.
It seems I have no recollection from my first four years. Even if I do, I would wonder how much is my recollection and how much has been planted there by photographs.
My favorite uncle was Uncle Fred. Uncle Russell was right up there with Fred, but Uncle Russell died when I was around six years old, I think.
Uncle Fred was a photographer and was one of Daddy's brothers. He was easy-going. When I was around Uncle Fred, I felt calm. He had a gentle laugh and his gait when he walked was poised without being snobbish. It's like he had soft shoes.
I liked Uncle Fred's Jaguar. I think it was white on the outside with tan leather interior. The dash board had all sorts of gauges and lights. I felt like a secret agent when I got to ride in it, which wasn't often because Uncle Fred lived at Daytona Beach and we lived in North Carolina.
Almost every summer our family would visit Daytona, until I was 18 years old.
Fred always had white hair. Perhaps it was silver at one time, but I remember it always being white.
Fred was married to Lucille. I liked Aunt Lucille but she seemed rather spacey and too girlie for me. I was a tomboy and wasn't the girlie type.
Aunt Lucille helped in the photography studio. She would help prepare people before a photo shoot and, up until color film was up to standard, she'd add color by hand to the photographs, enhancing the various hues.
Lucille had a parrot that could sing "Dixie."
Uncle Fred took me to Cape Canaveral when I was around 10 years old. I'll always remember riding the tour bus through the facility and seeing the eight-foot long windshield wipers on one of the gigantic trucks that hauled part of the rocket to the launch pad.
Fred always enjoyed watching the night launches from a restaurant on the mainland.
I last saw Uncle Fred in 2007. He was 92, I think, and still living at home. Same mannerisms, though a bit more cynical. He had only recently given up golf - said his eyes were bad.
He died within a year of that visit.
I hope I've inherited his longevity. So far, I'd say his genes are on my side. That I'm still alive is pretty amazing.
*****************
February 20, 2011
More
I run across so many blogs that I like. I could spend all day of every day just reading and commenting on blogs! But alas, I really can't...due to life.
I have been trying to figure out how to categorize the blogs I visit. Some have to do with cult or abuse recovery. Some are people's stories. Some are written for encouragement. Some are controversial. Some are Way believer blogs. A couple have to do with backpacking. Many of them overlap in these categories.
Overlap. That is what life is. A person doesn't fit in one compartment.
I personally don't like to pigeon hole people. We are such fascinating creations. Each of us with depth and understanding, sometimes more than we give ourselves credit for. And sometimes less...ha!
I think it was Emerson that stated something like, "Each man I meet is my superior in some way. In that I learn of him."
We each are more than the category in which we or others place our selves.
**********************
I have been trying to figure out how to categorize the blogs I visit. Some have to do with cult or abuse recovery. Some are people's stories. Some are written for encouragement. Some are controversial. Some are Way believer blogs. A couple have to do with backpacking. Many of them overlap in these categories.
Overlap. That is what life is. A person doesn't fit in one compartment.
I personally don't like to pigeon hole people. We are such fascinating creations. Each of us with depth and understanding, sometimes more than we give ourselves credit for. And sometimes less...ha!
I think it was Emerson that stated something like, "Each man I meet is my superior in some way. In that I learn of him."
We each are more than the category in which we or others place our selves.
**********************
February 19, 2011
cre-ate to art-cee
Hm. I have only posted one entry on toss & ripple in February. Yet I have been writing elsewhere, mainly in my personal journal.
I haven't felt like sculpting a piece of writing. I haven't felt like trying to develop scenes so that a reader could, at least partly, envision what is in my mind. I haven't felt like detailing to that extent. Yet in writing this small entry, perhaps some sculpting will take place.
In visual art, there are different genres. Iconic. Pop. Abstract. Conceptual. Anime. Graphic. And more. Within the various genres, there is a multitude of styles, each as original as the soul designing it.
I read somewhere recently where someone stated that art is a form of love when the art blesses another,or something like that. I thought, "That isn't art." Perhaps to some it is, but not to me.
During my decades as a Way believer all visual art, music, and prose was to be "a blessing" and needed to "line up with the Word." In other words, any artistic design could not contradict the doctrine, the "right teaching" of The Way.
In The Way, we were taught that man cannot "create" because to "create" is "to make something out of nothing." Perhaps The Way is correct in their definition. The etymology of the word "create" comes from a word that means to "produce, bring forth, beget." Yet mankind is creative; that is, s/he begets an idea, often out of necessity. That necessity being physical, emotional, spiritual, psychological, or whatever "...al" one wants to come up with.
Art is expression.
For me, that's it.
Whether or not the piece is disturbing or edifying is beside the point altogether. Whether one interprets it as loving or hating, is beside the point as well.
Well, is it a form of love if it evokes feelings of anger or hatred?
An art piece is a tiny string from the tapestry of one's soul. That's not to say that string isn't important; yet it is only a snippet of a life. Art honors the various aspects and emotions of our humanity - "the good, the bad, and the ugly." Art can remind us to never forget, including atrocities and blessings.
Life moves; it isn't stagnate. Life changes. As it does, so might someone's expression of that life.
Now where was I when I started writing?
Ah yes, art genres.
"So," I said to myself about 10 minutes ago, "Why not just blog something abstract? No need to detail, unless the detail decides to display itself."
I'm preparing for a new business endeavor which shall begin in April and May. I'll get my training in April. Go backpacking along the Appalachian Trail for a couple weeks in May. Then dive in once I'm back from the trail. The business will be a family endeavor.
Family endeavors. My 20-year old son and I are going backpacking also in March on Cumberland Island off the coast of Georgia. It's one of the ten protected National Seashores in the USA.
There be armadillos, wild horses, and alligators that roam the island.
Nature, the grandest of all art museums.
********************
I haven't felt like sculpting a piece of writing. I haven't felt like trying to develop scenes so that a reader could, at least partly, envision what is in my mind. I haven't felt like detailing to that extent. Yet in writing this small entry, perhaps some sculpting will take place.
In visual art, there are different genres. Iconic. Pop. Abstract. Conceptual. Anime. Graphic. And more. Within the various genres, there is a multitude of styles, each as original as the soul designing it.
I read somewhere recently where someone stated that art is a form of love when the art blesses another,or something like that. I thought, "That isn't art." Perhaps to some it is, but not to me.
During my decades as a Way believer all visual art, music, and prose was to be "a blessing" and needed to "line up with the Word." In other words, any artistic design could not contradict the doctrine, the "right teaching" of The Way.
In The Way, we were taught that man cannot "create" because to "create" is "to make something out of nothing." Perhaps The Way is correct in their definition. The etymology of the word "create" comes from a word that means to "produce, bring forth, beget." Yet mankind is creative; that is, s/he begets an idea, often out of necessity. That necessity being physical, emotional, spiritual, psychological, or whatever "...al" one wants to come up with.
Art is expression.
For me, that's it.
Whether or not the piece is disturbing or edifying is beside the point altogether. Whether one interprets it as loving or hating, is beside the point as well.
Well, is it a form of love if it evokes feelings of anger or hatred?
An art piece is a tiny string from the tapestry of one's soul. That's not to say that string isn't important; yet it is only a snippet of a life. Art honors the various aspects and emotions of our humanity - "the good, the bad, and the ugly." Art can remind us to never forget, including atrocities and blessings.
Life moves; it isn't stagnate. Life changes. As it does, so might someone's expression of that life.
Now where was I when I started writing?
Ah yes, art genres.
"So," I said to myself about 10 minutes ago, "Why not just blog something abstract? No need to detail, unless the detail decides to display itself."
I'm preparing for a new business endeavor which shall begin in April and May. I'll get my training in April. Go backpacking along the Appalachian Trail for a couple weeks in May. Then dive in once I'm back from the trail. The business will be a family endeavor.
Family endeavors. My 20-year old son and I are going backpacking also in March on Cumberland Island off the coast of Georgia. It's one of the ten protected National Seashores in the USA.
There be armadillos, wild horses, and alligators that roam the island.
Nature, the grandest of all art museums.
********************
February 14, 2011
Rereading Me
*********************
Technology. An ever evolving entity, sometimes monstrous and overwhelming. A behemoth, that if we don't regulate in our lives, can swallow us in its gadgetry and information overload. We can become a cog in the machinery; or rather, a byte in the architecture.
I utilize a statistics tracker on my blogs. I don't pay for the service, and after 500 hits I have to start the tracking process over. Thus losing the previous tracking information. I could pay and upgrade to accomodate more than 500 hits. I could figure out how to install a different type of free tracker which might track more hits; but the information isn't valuable enough for me to spend bucks on, and I don't feel like learning how to install something different. I'm happy to simply adjust my tracker to 0 at 500 hits and start again. (I can look up all-time total hits on my Wordpress blogs.)
I typically check my stats daily. It's interesting to see how visitors arrive at my blogs, the odd searches that lead to certain entries.
Sometimes, upon checking my stats and seeing what a visitor has read, I'll click on that same entry and reread what I wrote in the past. It's fun. Plus, I get to correct in typos I happen to see.
To reread entries is similar to reading a journal. After all that is how blogs got started. When I read some of my older entries, it is a reminder. "Re-mind-er"....to mind again, which makes me think of to "care" again and to "mine" again. "Mine," like a diamond or ruby or coal miner. And also "mine," like in me, my self, and "mine."
I've been known to then post these re-found entries onto a discussion forum or similar community-type online venue. "Re-found"....to found again. "Found" like in "start." Which is literally what happens when I copy and paste my entry from here onto an online discussion forum - I "start" a new topic. It might get discussed and it might not.
Technology, that ever evolving microscopic macrocosm. Microscopic as in tiny bytes relaying amorphous soul bits - that is our thoughts. Macrocosm as in universal - the ability of a tiny chip to hold vast amounts of information and to even be able to communicate it using giant geometric bodies in orbit around our earth.
To me, one being almost clueless as to how the world wide web works, it seems that a day will come then the internet crashes. That at some point the capacity will be saturated. Or perhaps technological weapons will simply destroy satellite systems and we will again have to use wood to heat the water.
Our water heater broke last night. Really it did. The floor got quite wet. Today, I'll shower at the neighbor's house or take a super quick shower at home.
Tonight man versing IBM's computer, Watson, can be viewed on the Jeopardy game show. I wonder who wins?
I think it will be Watson.
*****************************
Technology. An ever evolving entity, sometimes monstrous and overwhelming. A behemoth, that if we don't regulate in our lives, can swallow us in its gadgetry and information overload. We can become a cog in the machinery; or rather, a byte in the architecture.
I utilize a statistics tracker on my blogs. I don't pay for the service, and after 500 hits I have to start the tracking process over. Thus losing the previous tracking information. I could pay and upgrade to accomodate more than 500 hits. I could figure out how to install a different type of free tracker which might track more hits; but the information isn't valuable enough for me to spend bucks on, and I don't feel like learning how to install something different. I'm happy to simply adjust my tracker to 0 at 500 hits and start again. (I can look up all-time total hits on my Wordpress blogs.)
I typically check my stats daily. It's interesting to see how visitors arrive at my blogs, the odd searches that lead to certain entries.
Sometimes, upon checking my stats and seeing what a visitor has read, I'll click on that same entry and reread what I wrote in the past. It's fun. Plus, I get to correct in typos I happen to see.
To reread entries is similar to reading a journal. After all that is how blogs got started. When I read some of my older entries, it is a reminder. "Re-mind-er"....to mind again, which makes me think of to "care" again and to "mine" again. "Mine," like a diamond or ruby or coal miner. And also "mine," like in me, my self, and "mine."
I've been known to then post these re-found entries onto a discussion forum or similar community-type online venue. "Re-found"....to found again. "Found" like in "start." Which is literally what happens when I copy and paste my entry from here onto an online discussion forum - I "start" a new topic. It might get discussed and it might not.
Technology, that ever evolving microscopic macrocosm. Microscopic as in tiny bytes relaying amorphous soul bits - that is our thoughts. Macrocosm as in universal - the ability of a tiny chip to hold vast amounts of information and to even be able to communicate it using giant geometric bodies in orbit around our earth.
To me, one being almost clueless as to how the world wide web works, it seems that a day will come then the internet crashes. That at some point the capacity will be saturated. Or perhaps technological weapons will simply destroy satellite systems and we will again have to use wood to heat the water.
Our water heater broke last night. Really it did. The floor got quite wet. Today, I'll shower at the neighbor's house or take a super quick shower at home.
Tonight man versing IBM's computer, Watson, can be viewed on the Jeopardy game show. I wonder who wins?
I think it will be Watson.
*****************************