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 |   Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| I have always liked crows. I don't trust them, but I do like them. I like those videos of crows sliding down a snowy roof and then doing it again and again just for fun. I like that they take time out of standing over carrion in the road and daring the cars to run them down to just relax and engage in some childish recreation. And this is, of course, because they are essentially children. I have always thought of them as being like perpetual adolescents. A crow is a bit of a bully amongst other birds, after all. A crow isn't afraid of your car, he is afraid of other crows seizing on his lucky find of roadkill. He doesn't step aside until the last minute to show you he's not afraid of you,but he doesn't go far because he doesn't want to share. Big Bird shares. Crows don't. And they hang out at the mall. Typical teenagers. But I just read that a crow is the intellectual equal of a seven-year-old human. That sounds great until you think about flocks of seven- year-old children flying over your head, pooing on you and then caw-cawing about it (let's face it, potty humor is big with seven-year-olds). Seven-year-old children who can remember your face if you make an enemy of them, and are equipped with a pointy beak to poke your eyes out. Maybe I don't really like crows, after all. But don't tell them that. |
| If you want to feel a real sort of despair about the state of humankind, just read the comments section of any article or video posted on the internet. ANY article or video. News, opinion, lifestyle, fashion, motherhood... doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if the commenters are for or against, there is plenty of stupidity, hatred, bias and anger on both sides of every issue. It doesn't have to be about politics to get people riled up, it can be about anything. There are plenty of people willing to hate and abuse people they don't even know about almost anything from their choice of swimwear to their weight or their child-rearing abilities. The internet has become a place for unhappy and emotionally unstable people to take it all out on strangers. It is the easy outlet for misplaced anger. This is the real problem with society. Humans are just real jerks, sometimes. Failure to recognize that is what makes some people think that humans can solve global problems when they can't even stop hating one another over TikTok videos. |
| After nearly a quarter century on the internet, my hands are numb. Not from typing. From sitting on them, trying not to type. So many idiotic comments, so many people looking for a fight, so much anger and so much effort to refrain from responding. I honestly don’t even care if they act this way because they are unhappy, insecure or just don’t have a life. Something deep down inside me at my most basic Viking DNA level wants to trample them, to stomp on their petty opinions, to gargle with the blood of my enemies. But I don’t. I don’t because you can’t win a fight against an open wound. You might score a point, you might manage to pour a little lemon juice into it, maybe pick the scab and get it bleeding, but in the end you will be the one who suffers. Things get messy, and it’s hard to get those bloodstains off your soul. But there’s a little lingering itch, like a mosquito bite that will flare up again if you accidentally scratch it. So the battle of conscience against instinct goes on and on. And the thought that haunts you is that the troll may think he has won because you didn’t hit back. That’s why forgiveness is almost always our last thought in these situations. Because, we worry, this turning the other cheek business might look like running away. Being the bigger person is not entirely satisfying. And, your hands get numb. |
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