I think, therefore I won't

Basically, the problem is one of philosophy—my philosophy. More precisely, my new philosophy: do only what you have to.

Many years ago, when I was in the seminary (yeah, it’s even hard for me to believe), one of our philosophy instructors, an intense and brilliant young man by the name of Jim Heisig, taught us this: Philosophy implies action. In other words, one cannot lay claim to holding a philosophical principle unless one is actually living a life that exemplifies that principle.

Ergo (for some reason, ‘ergo’ is a big-deal word in Philosophy 101, something to do with logic, as I recall), I am thrown into immediate conflict with writing this blog and the several others I have launched. Obviously, blogging is hardly a necessary activity. In fact, I undertand that, contrary to appearances, the vast majority of human beings on this planet do not blog. Go figure. And yet, over time, I set myself the standard of writing four blogs every week.

What the heck was I thinking?

Well, I’ll tell you what I was thinking: I needed to write. For purposes of clear writing and even clearer thinking, I wanted to write in a public forum, where my thoughts and beliefs could be subject to challenge and testing, whether anyone cared to or not. So far, no one has, but I reckon that’s due more to lack of readers rather than the strength of my notions and their presentation.

But why the (often missed) goal of a weekly schedule? Simply put, because of personal conceit—and enough said on that topic. That, and I didn’t want the blogs to appear neglected or abandoned to the many readers I don’t even have.

So, in an attempt to bring practice more into line with my recently articulated new philosophy—do only what you have to—as well as to meet the writing urges from which I suffer, I will make a weekly entry into this Uncle Genie blog, my Uncle Genie’s Other Blog and my Uncle Genie’s Deep Space blog, but it may often be only to say “Nothing.” The remaining blog, Uncle Genie’s Cook’s Book, is more casual in purpose and design and doesn’t seem to warrant scheduled tending.

After all, this was supposed to be fun, or at least anxiety reducing. Gotta get right back to where we started from. (Maxine Nightingale)

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Maggie Ott

Maggie Ott, wife of my good friend Joe Ott, has passed away after a long illness.

It's not like me to let others speak in my place, but there is a passage that repeatedly has come to mind when I've thought about Maggie, and so I'll let Henry David Thoreau speak my mind about her.

Maggie

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.   (Walden)

But in the end, words are of no purpose.

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It's that time again

Time for snowbirds to gather and get the flock out'a here. Adios, Arizona; howdy, Colorado. So, for the next few weeks or more, we'll be giving this a rest.

Enormous undertakings

I was reading something the other day and came across the word enormously. It occurred to me right then that enormous was a word that I can never remember using. What increases my certainty that I have ignored this bit of text is that I keep wanting to spell it "enourmous," making it clear that I am not familiar with the proper spelling of a rather simple word.

I'm a bit nonplussed. See, right there! Certainly nonplussed is a less familiar term than enormous, but I must use nonplussed four or five times a year. So why don't I use enormous?

Hmm-mmm?

Let me check my thesaurus for synonyms: immense, vast, colossal, giant, gigantic, Amazonian, gargantuan, monumental, huge, towering. Well, there you go. None of those terms are that common to my writing, which makes me think that I seldom have cause to discuss enormous things. Or gargantuan things, or colossal things. Maybe once or twice a year I might mention something huge or gigantic, but maybe not, either.

Okay, then. Mystery solved.

Still...

A colossal giant with a gargantuan single

eye in the center of his immense forehead
is about to crush the monumental Sydney

Opera House with his enormous left hand.

Eh, I don't care much for opera, anyway;
it's all such a huge bore.

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Time and again

Outside the Navajo Reservation, which occupies the majority of the state’s northeast quarter, Arizona, for whatever arcane reasons, remains on standard time throughout the year. This means there are no spring-forward, leap-back resettings of all the clocks twice a year.

It also means that I easily and simply can track dawn and dusk, sunrise and sunset as they migrate gradually back and forth in a steady correlation between clock and calendar.

I always resent it when those seasonal fluxes are thrown off by our national obsession with time of the clock, or o’clock, as we abbreviate it—to save time, I suppose. I don’t really have a problem with either daylight savings or standard time; I just resent the change in relation to nature.

    This female (?) coyote has been
hanging around outside the RV park
fence lately. Despite my gender
guess, I call her Bob due to her
missing tail.
    I suspect she's interested mostly
in the dogs that Park guests like to
take for walks in the same area--her
interest is more likely culinary than
companionship. Photo by Lynn Gainie

Time is such a bizarre thing, anyway. But I’m discussing that this week in my Deep Space blog, a continuation of an essay I began last week, so I guess I won’t get into it here.

While in Arizona, I especially enjoy the nearly imperceptible creep of daylight as it heralds the change of winter to summer. But I enjoy many seasonal markers; for instance, I like to celebrate solstices and equinoxes as personal holidays in every season and I usually plan some manner of outdoor activity on those days.

On the not-so-pleasant side, these lengthening days also happen to correspond to climbing temperatures here in Tucson. We’ve already seen temps in the upper 90s and it would be my fond wish to escape back to Colorado before they get any higher. If Daylight Savings Time could help with that, I might feel differently about adjusting my clocks.

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A good time

So, the other evening I’m over at the Kids’ house.

Their son, my Grandson, was his usual happily bouncing ball of irrepressible enjoyment. He had recently turned five and I’d brought along a back-ordered birthday gift, a 60-second timer designed as an educational tool for youngsters. He loved it, setting and re-setting the device, applying the timer to any and every domestic event of the evening and taking extended pleasure in the brief alarm bell at their culminations.

For the last couple years my Grandson has displayed a penchant for the mechanical and I figured he’d like the timer, plus his parents could use it to help him learn time management as he approached the kindergarten milestone. It was successful well beyond my imagining.

All around, I could not possibly think of a better way to occupy myself than being with the three of them.

I take a deep pleasure in spending time with my daughter and her husband. She is a joy to my heart and he is one of the most even-tempered, hard-working and dependable guys I’ve known. My Grandson, of course…well, if you’re a grandparent, you know what I mean.

Afterward, driving back to the RV park, a half hour run up I-10, I was thinking about a story I’d told the kids, about some family events from my past. You know the kind of story; typically it begins with something like, “I remember when…,” or, “Have I ever told you about the time…?”

But it wasn’t the story itself that occupied my thoughts; it was just one more of dozens I’d told them. In fact, I’m quite certain I’d told them this particular anecdote numerous times before—hence the glassy look in their eyes when I was telling it again. Rather, I was reflecting on the fact that I knew I’d related these particular events to them before and I went ahead and did it again anyway.

Used to be that I figured older people repeated a story because they didn’t realize they’d told you that particular tale before. Now I know that’s not the case. No, those stories are re-told just for the sheer pleasure of the re-telling, the rekindling, the re-living of cherished memories and significant emotions. It simply helps to have an audience.

Too bad, Kids. Looks like you’ll be hearing it again..

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