The "Secret" Is Out

Today tastes like Starbucks' coffee with nondairy creamer. Burnt and unsatisfying, yet undeniably popular.

The big movement in metaphysics is positive visualization, backed up with quantum physics for a blend of soft science (QP can be brought in and discussed without recourse to mathematics, unlike solids and liquids or chemistry) and feel good fantasy¹. Cf What the Bleep Do We Know and Down the Rabbit Hole.

The latest installation is The Secret. Basically, it's another flick about the law of attraction, with a heavy materialistic spin. Want more money? Believe you already have it, and it will come to you! Want fame? Believe and it will be there! Want a really good parking space? See it in your mind's eye, and have it!

And if you don't, then clearly there's some negative energy that you need to get cleared out before you will be basted in butter and wrapped in warm blankies.

Ahem. So, since I am a believer in synchronicity, and the universe has thrown this theme at me three-four times in the last couple of weeks (I HEAR YOU ALREADY) I'm gonna blog this and see what comes².

See, the straw that sent the camel to the chiropractor came when two people whom I admire very much on the web (One has more creativity in her little finger than I do in my whole brain, it seems) ('Tother writes and advises well enuff that I spent some of my very own buckage on her books. I didn't even look for them remaindered on Overstock, or used on eBay, that's how willing I was to actually support the writer and not the stockist) took up the issue of positive visualization. It seems One sat down with The Secret and thought her little hiney off and visualized herself into third eyestrain, and surprise! Nothing happened. The Perfect Life (TM) did not fall from the ceiling into her very lap.

'Tother was a little confused by the things people were spending their energy wishing for--I lifted the parking space from 'Tother's report of the movie. < hangs head shamefully> 'Tother wondered about the extreme hype of "If you want it, you can have it--but you can't doubt it for a minute." Uhm, how can you avoid doubt? Even for a minute? We are complex beings, after all.

And yeah, technically I should link their blogs here, since I'm having the temerity to disagree with them in public. But I don't disagree with them so much as I'm thinking that they're throwing out the bathwater before doing a nose count to make sure the babies are all out.

So spank me in the comments. I'm a big girl. I can take it.

See, you gotta remember with all the positive visualization/magical thinking processes that the addendum is "Wish in the one hand and spit in the other." In other words, wishing will only open up your hand to possibilities. Doing is the thing that will actually get your hand full.

Dear One, I'm going to address you directly, because you spelled out your story so clearly. (Besides, 'Tother hasn't disabled comments on her blog, so I could reply to HER directly. (And I did.)) You visualized yourself in an office job. But you hate office jobs, remember?? You suffered for a couple of years doing a temp job. You wrote in your blog that you felt strong resistance just VISUALIZING this outcome. So I can imagine just how many steps you took to start making it come true.

Did you even get out of zazen long enought to check the want ads?

Yeah, like that.

You didn't "create right" in the sense that you stood at the canvas and imagined having a completed painting. Subject matter? Oh, something. Composition? Yeah, it'd have colors, and spaces, and stuff. Line? There'd be lines, I guess.

And then you walked away from the canvas, disgusted by the LACK OF PAINTING, angry that the painting WAS NOT THERE IN FRONT OF YOU--before even putting charcoal to canvas to start a sketch, or paint to pallete, never mind brush to canvas. You refused to do any of the WORK that needs to come after the visualization; you created in the passive sense. You imagined, just as you thought "they" were telling you to do. However, you forgot that "they" also say you have to get up and DO in order to make this work.

Positive thinking is a TOOL--it will no more get you the result you want than laying the can opener next to the can on top of the stove will get you a hot lunch. You have to USE the tools to get the results.

And yes, the hard part of positive thinking (positive action) tends to get glossed over in the mainstream media, tends to get blown by in the sound bites, and is NEVER used to sell the literature--no more than McDonald's is going to flog actual calorie content of the latest Big Fat McBurger and recommended calorie intakes for the average human being in its advertising. No one wants to hear that you can eat ONE meal and get all your kCals for the day (and your fat for the week!!) out of that.

No one wants to hear "eat right and exercise and you can be healthy and as fit as you're gonna git." No, we wanna hear about the magic pill that will make you six inches taller, 25-50 pounds slimmer and 10 years younger while you sleep and eat anything you want in unlimited portions. So that becomes the sales line--you need to do the research and find out what the caveats are.

Heinlein was right -- TANSTAAFL³.

I'm not sure where your sense of surprise and indignation comes from.

Love, Spike



1. What's wrong with feeling good? Nothing, so far as I'm concerned. What have you lost but an opportunity to feel bad? If belief in an Imaginary Friend gets you through the long dark teatime of the soul that man is heir to, then feel free--but don't expect me to set a plate for Ralphie, or to shake his hand.

Unless, of course, I can see Ralphie too.

2. Gareth has said, on more than on occasion, that I am the sort of person things happen to. And yeah, that's true to a certain extent, because I am the sort of person who has connections like a spider in her web. I am on many many mail lists with people who share one or more of my esoteric interests, and have many equally esoteric interests of their own. So I ask someone if she knows X, and suddenly the list erupts with sources for X.

Or, in the course of being interested in a particular producer of yarn, I'll get an e-mail where that producer is looking for folks who design, and like her product. Stuff happens all around you IF you keep your eyes open for it.

3. For you non-fans: There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch. See The Moon is a Harsh Mistress. Or better yet, read it.

Tied Up In Knots

This rant has been a while in coming, so if it bursts out of your screen and crawls down your throat screetching, please try to be understanding. Fend it off with a mug of cocoa and a warm cinnamon roll. Thanks.

I practice yoga. Well, I practice practicing yoga, I'm not a deadly serious practitioner of the eightfold path. I do some hatha, but I don't take classes wiht the Big Names of Yoga, nor do I make pilgramages to India to study at backwater shalas because anything else is "inauthentic."

And because I can learn from the written word, and know enough to keep my ego off the mat, I subscribe to a couple of magazines. Or rather, used to subscribe, because frankly, I'm never going to be limber enough to be happy with people who can talk out of both sides of their mouth at once.

You see, there's a tremendous emphasis in the text of the articles (and the essays, and the related conversations) about our duty as the Enlightened to walk softly on the face of the earth--don't eat meat, for in order to produce one pound of steak it takes ten pounds of grain, which could feed ten people for ten days, instead of one fat hog (that's you, o USDA taxpayer, do you feel GUILTY YET??) for one meal. Don't wear leather, that's cruel. Don't wear "unnatural" textiles, for they are poisonous and wasteful. And so on, so on, so forth. ¹

And that's fine, as far as it goes. I can turn that off and get the good out of the pieces that I come here for. I am one of the Untouchables--I eat meat, I wear leather, and no, I don't feel bad about my choices. I own them, and I own whatever results comes from those choices. I own the possibility that I may choose (or be required to choose) differently in the future.

But what gets my goat (and I thought I'd finally rid myself of the Noxious Flock) is the sheer number of advertisements for stuff. Actually, for STUFF. (Where's the HTML code to make that burst out of the screen, laughing maniacally, spouting fireworks like a Catherine Wheel?)

STUFF like $50 tank tops. STUFF like $180 yoga pants. STUFF like mats, mat bags, and music, all endorsed by the Big Names of Yoga. Will buying this CD make achieving full Padma Shirhasana 3 easier? By golly, looking at this ad it will--but only if I also purchase the tank top, pants, and mat.

And here's the part that finally made my carefully suspended disbelief fall right out of Mool Bandha and into my lap. The Winter issue took up the flag for an anti-mindless consumption holiday season. (Editorial: Deep cleansing releasing breath; we KNOW you're going to celebrate Christmas/Hannukkah, regardless of what we say, so you might as well keep in mind that this is a season of giving, not of receiving, AND CERTAINLY NOT OF BUYING STUFF STUFF AND MORE STUFF for the sake of giving and receiving. Namaste, you unenlightened slugs.) And whaddaya know, instead of the ad on every third page, it was a half ad every OTHER PAGE, with a big section on how this one company was giving away ten percent of its profits on every sale to this one charity!! Woo-hoo!!! You can buy all your goodies through them and know that you are doing good in this world, doncha feel all warm and fuzzy NOW! Look, look!!! One of the REALLY BIG NAMES is a spokesmodel for this company!! Why, just reading this ad should kick your kharma up a notch or two!

And, okay, they had one thing that struck my fancy. A niceish necklace, wrapped around and around the spokesmodel's wrist, just as I enjoy doing with antique paste necklaces. No prices listed in the ad, so I went to the website.

Holy craparoonie. $350 for wood, turquoise, and coral?? For WOOD, with ACCENTS of turquoise and coral????

I do a lot of DIY, and I'm a careful shopper. I am the first to admit I know what materials cost, but not what THINGS cost. If I can get it secondhand (like classic jewelry--diamonds have no provenance) (or silk shirts--once to the drycleaner, and they're just as clean as they'll ever be again) then I do it. I'm not consuming any new resources by doing so--these have already been made. If it's leather or fur in good condition (you'd be amazed at what a pawn shop can have) then I'm not killing another being just to wear it on my back three-five times a year. I know all the secondhand places that specialize in designer jeans, and as long as somewhat worn is chic, I'm good. (When they HAVE to be hard new blue, well, I guess I'll just be out of touch for a while.)

But Spike, the company donates ten percent of their profits to charity? Why would you deprive the charity of their cut? How can you be so unfeeling?

Well, let's do a little math. The jeweler donates ten percent of their profits. Since their asking price includes their profits, the raw materials, the labor, the shipping (of material to the factory, of the finished items to the warehouse), storage space, advertising costs--spokemodel time (you don't think that the Big Name donated her time to go pose for the ads, do you?), photographer's time,printing and binding and mailing cataloges, and probably designers' fees and coffee, you know that the final donation will be substantially less than ten percent of their asking price. But let's go with that for argument's sake. $35 to charity.

The fact that I can make the same sort of lariat in pearls with accents of coral and turquoise plus give $35 to charity for less than a third of what they're asking for really honks me off. How stupid do they presume their customer to be??

If you want the article, buy the article. If you want to donate to charity, donate. But don't let yourself get fooled into thinking that ten percent of profits to whatever charitable organization represents serious goodwill on the part of the manufacturer. Suppliers will offer ten percent off their ASKING PRICE just to entice you to purchase.

Needless to say, I'm practicing letting go this season. One of the things to go will be my subscription to yoga magazines. If I feel the need to find new poses/receipies/information--I'll go to the used bookstore where I can pick them up for a buck apiece, already printed, already used once and being tossed aside.

Walking a little lighter now. Om shanti, ya'll.

1. I'm not going to get into the fuel it takes for the machinery to grow the grain, or the fuel and other chemicals needed for the fertilizer, or for the amazing costs of watering a cotton field or any of that. Someone else may take up the agricultural screed and relate the doleful facts of just how much it costs to farm in a green and sustainabler way--and how much MORE the consumer has to put out to acquire. That's not the point of this particular rant; that's why all my facts are not in order, cross-indexed and footnoted.

Oh, Dear

I don't normally snark about the fugly designs foisted upon unwitting consumers/craftspeople; there are many better blogs about that. But sometimes you run across something that tastes like unsweetened coffee yoghurt--



Yup. A knit skirt, courtesy of the fall Knitty e-zine.

Now, I've no real beef with knit skirts, if they're actually functional. However, they seldom are. And this one is worse than usual.

We'll dispense of the usual caveats that the model in the picture is a size 00, and disappear when she turns sideways, so the skirt makes her look appealing and voluptuous. Never mind what it does for anyone over a size 4. Or, god forbind, someone with a belly to match her curvy bottom. This is standard operating procedure when dealing with fitted garments, anyway.

The big ooops with a knit skirt is that knitting stretches. (Please picture that text on fire, flashing and rotating like Linda Blair's head in The Exorcist. KNITTING STRETCHES. Thank you.)

Because knitting stretches, big baggy sweaters grow bigger and baggier, sleeves slowly take on the look of elbows, and tights loosen. The fiber makes a difference in just how fast the droop happens, but all knits will eventually succumb to gravity. Even Lycra tights with elastic threaded through the knitting bag in the seat and knees eventually.

And an inelastic fiber--with no stretch and snap back to it--will bag the second you bend. This skirt is knit in bamboo yarn--lovely heavy cool linen-like bamboo yarn. Bamboo yarn that is nigh-onto completely inelastic. I knitted a lace stole in the stuff, and didn't need to block it open at all.

So the second the model sits down in that skirt, she'll have a second ass at about mid-thigh when she stands up. Oh, and she'll crush her pretty ribbon corsetery, too. So she can't get in a car to go out clubbing to show off the skirt she hand-knit (and her sexy body) because she'll look bedraggled and dumpy as soon as she gets up off the seat. And once there, she'll have to keep on dancing because sitting in this skirt will be the kiss of death.

All those long hours knitting stockinette stitch round and round and round for a garment you can only put on to parade around the living room in.

The name of the garment? Glad you asked--"Intolerable Cruelty." At last--truth in advertising.

"Censer," Said the Censor

First I should thank my fan base, especially those who have my e-mail address and my snail mail address who very gently kick me in the head and remind me that there are really people who read my blog; who will come back and come back and see the same rant, and then get up and yell at me to keep writing, even when the words come slow and hard and I can’t think about anything except what isn’t getting done while I sit here and twiddle the keys.

Thank you.

Second, common wisdom in the blogosphere says you shouldn’t let your nearest and dearest know your blog address. It changes what you write, they say, makes you less authentic. It’s like Heisenberg’s uncertainty principal—people should either know what’s up in your life because they’re living it right next to you, but not know where you blog about it; or should know your spot on the web where you keep the diary that’s read by any passing stranger, but not know who you are.

Some of my skinterface friends who blog (and no, I don’t generally read theirs) comment that it’s weird when a stranger remarks on their choice of colors, or words, or asks what the next project is going to be—just as if they knew them, they say. (And how’s THAT for a typically convoluted sentence??) But in some ways, I find it odder to get an email from someone who knows me in real life—or a comment from a RL person that harks back to what they read on my blog—because I don’t talk about what I blog about. It’s all about separation of virtual and real, yolk and white, church and state.

But, not being one to listen to common wisdom, I let everyone know my blogaddress, even the folks who know the face behind the lunchbox. And now I find myself in the queer position of being afraid that no one reads this . . . and being equally afraid that someone I know WILL read this.

So I end up with the unbearable lightness of blogging. If I post what’s really on my mind, will I end up with my nearest and dearest fretting over what I said? Angered that they got it over the net, instead of directly from me? What, don’t I trust them??? (Yes, and no. When you put your heart near someone else’s hand, you trust them implicitly, but at the same time, this doesn’t mean you want them knowing all there is to know.)

And as you know if you’ve been reading this blog, when I write, I open my mouth and my heart falls out. Here’s the downside of authenticity and letting it all hang out—it ain’t pretty. It may clash with your public persona. And so I end up self-censoring, and if I don’t have a post about fluffy bunnies and the latest knitting project, I end up not saying anything out loud.

Which is great for filling journals, but gets no space filled here. And the weeks go by, and the weeks go by, and suddenly it’s been over a month and both mailboxes start to pile up with people saying “Just what the hell happened, Spike?”

And I come up with plans to do better; plans that only require a perfect world to come to fruition.

I had forgotten how good it is to have space to think again. Thanks for the kick in the pants, Bonnie Rae. I needed that.

The Nature of Envy

Was thinking this morning (a dangerous thing to do, sans coffee) about how we admire someone who can do a thing well if it is a thing we think we can do, and how we envy those who do things that we believe to be beyond our abilities.

Case in point: I have a dear friend who had an amazing figure (and yes, liked to make sure the whole world knew it). And I envied her her twenty-two inch waist, and her six pack abs, and her long shapely legs.

And I envied her because I thought it all came naturally--like a gift from some benevolent figure beyond for being a perfect person. I never thought about what would be required to maintain that body. Well, I knew she taught aerobics classes, but still, I worked out, too. It just wasn't fair, and I envied her.

And then time and childbearing have done what they do--right now, we're either neck and neck or I may actually be a couple of inches thinner here and there. And I found out that not only did she teach aerobics, she taught two classes five days a week, and maintained a workout schedule of her own, and monitored her weight every single day. If she went up a pound, she'd diet it right off that day.

Then, as I said, she had kids, and dropped the classes, and now she's working to get back to where she was. And guess what? It's just as hard for her as it has been for me. We run the stairs together at work--down seven flights, around the block, up eight flights and back down one--three times a day. And while I could make it to the top from day one, she'd have to stop at three, then five when we first started.

Now I admire her perseverence as she eats her two lettuce leaves at lunch, as she gets up and gets me moving by putting on her walking shoes, as she hauls it up the stairs and glories in the process--"Look! My pants! I can fasten them now!!!"

And I think about how I used to envy people who wrote long flowing prose so effeortlessly. I'd sweat blood over each sentence, wringing prose out of my fingertips.

Then I started journalling. Three pages longhand, morning and evening. Now I find it hard to stop sometimes, when the words begin to roll. I'm doing a mail art project where I share a journal with a virtual friend (as opposed to a virtual stranger?) (Am I sharing secrets with a bunch of virtual stragers when I blog? Why, indeed I am!) Each of us takes turns writing for a few pages, then sends it off to the other for filling. And I notice that her entries are separated by wide expanses of nothing to say, while I'm jotting away on one page each night. I forced myself to stick to that one page, because otherwise I'd end up filling the whole book in short order.

And I find myself admiring people who write professionally, who are willing to step up and face that endless blank page every morning. To trust that there will be enough to fill this page, and the next page, and one hundred pages down the road because just as fast as you write, another page scrolls up, waiting to have little black marks put on it.

And I used to be furiously envious of those who create art. Who draw, or sculpt, who produce objects with interesting form and occasional function. That's part of why I write--language is more natural to me than visual. About ten-twelve, I decided that since I couldn't reproduce objects on paper with photographic realism, I obviously couldn't draw. So I focused my efforts on what I saw as a strength and a pleasure (and what was rewarded as an aptitude) and naturally I got better at it.

And then I discovered ATC's and decos and such, and I feel pretty good about my abilities in collage (if it floats, it needs wings or some means by which to float)and I've drawn a few bits and bobs here and there (and even had the courage to SWAP them,)and I think if I really settled down and focused my efforts on learning to draw, I could do that, too. (All the Flybabies say it in chorus, "You can do ANYTHING for fifteen minutes!!")

So--what do you envy? And is it possible, just possible, that the desire is indeed within your grasp?

But then I discovered ATC's

So this is February . . .

Today tastes like vanilla-flavored sand, mists on a busy city street, and bacon. Not very good bacon at that--half-done and chewy rather than crunchy. Send it back.

Li'l Brudder was in town to visit last week, so part of it's missing him and his particular take on the world. We were raised by the same parents in the same house, but in two very different families.

He left a book I had meant to purchase one of these days, but never got 'round to. Sometime the universe is like that. You address the sky, explaining that you need fruit. And what lands in your outstretched palm looks like a cross between a football and a pine cone, and smells like garlic, melon, and last week's gym socks.

"So what the hell is this? And what do I do with it??"

Comes the answer: "Durian fruit. Eat it."

And so you do, although you had apples in mind. Other times, you send your request out, and what you get back is a rusty skeleton key. So, grumbling about how this always happens to YOU, you pocket the key and keep on putting one foot in front of the other . . . until you happen upon a rusty gate with a huge old padlock . . . that the key fits into.

And when you unlock the gate, and swing it open, you come into an orchard of apples, where the windfalls clutter the ground and wasps buzz drowsily around, drunk on the fermented juices. The trees are old and untended, bowed under the sheer weight of their goods. So you pick a handful, and stuff a couple into your pockets for later.

Other times, you get exactly what you needed in exactly the form you anticipated.

The book? Getting Things Done, by David Allen. Li'l Bruddah insists that it's changed his life for the better. So I guess we'll see.

Finishing Weekend and Cyber Monday

On the one hand, I've been doing the rugged individualist thing, and finishing gifts and goodies that are truly one-of a kind. Pix next post; see below for this week's excuse.*

On the other, I've been doing my bit for the economy, and shopping for mass merchandise on line.

I've noticed that gift certificates have become accepted as gifts in and of themselves. There are snazzy envelopes, little stuffed toys that are made to hold a gift card, multiple layers of presentation--because, after all, it's about having stuff on and under the tree to gloat over during Advent, and to open on the Big Day. I'm not sure whether to celebrate the beginnings of common sense here, or to mourn the death of innovation.

Finding out what people want without asking is an art form in and of itself. Figuring out who's close enough to know their interests and hobbies (and the stash they already have; determining where to get a book on Egyptian fly-tying; and then keeping your cards close until all is torn asunder are all skills that take years to master.

Unfortunately, who has time for that anymore? And who has space for all the stuff you want, never mind all the stuff you receive? "Dear Aunt Ermintrude: Thank you for the SpongeBob underpants. I will think of you every time I wear them under my Armani suit to opening arguments. Perhaps they will bring me luck." At least with a gift card, if I wind up with SpongeBob on my lingerie, it was my whimsical choice, not a dotty aunt's memories of her beloved little niece from thirty years ago.

*No pix this time because I can't get on the floor. Threw my back out badly; the chiropractor may make it so I don't walk like Groucho.

Took a slow walk around the block for mobility's sake--if you don't move it, you will lose it--and was thinking "This is what it's like to be old." There was water on the sidewalk from the sprinklers watering a winter lawn. While the bike path was dry, that would mean stepping off the curb, and then back up onto it. Walking over the wet sidewalk meant staying on the flat, but risking slipping and not being able to get back up. Walking over the wet lawn meant a softer place to fall, but still slippery.

And pondering these options, I realized that this was why you'd see a senior standing at a decision tree like this, mulling over the best of the bad lot. Perhaps I'll remember this the next time I see a little old lady standing and shaking her head at a puddle in her path.

Pick What You Want, and Pay For It

Toady tastes like root beer that's been left out on the porch overnight--and now it's three in the afternoon.

Hot, sticky, cloying, flat.

It's review time at work, so all the bosses are snippy, and nothing can be done right.

And this leads into priorities and settling and the connections between them.

Settling used to be the worst thing I could imagine. Getting stuck with less than you really wanted simply because it was comfortable, and change is inherently disturbing. But at the same time, you do need to choose what is maximally importnat in your life.

Do you want six adorable stairstep children? Then you need to make hatching and rearing the brood your main priority--not a high-octane career (because those often require you to work late at the office, or drag work home with you, or work on the weekends) and realize that there won't be cash for exotic vacations for all eight of you--unless the other parent makes it their mission to support the family and keep you all in nametags for the weekly dinner with the breadwinner.

And some may say that the homemaker in the above scenario settled for that role. A shame about Pat, getting a degree and all that work, just to marry and raise children. Do you think the eight year old is into Proust yet?

But Pat made the choices that led to that life--agreed to marry Kim, agreed to be the one to stay home and care for the brood--heck, agreed that children and a big family were worthwhile goals in life, and that kids need to be raised by parents, not daycare. And agreed that a high-octane career and hundred mile an hour lifestyle was not what was desirable because of the choices that are precluded by that.

So I'm working in a career path that I outgrew years ago, and am frustrated by a job I can do in my sleep. And yet--the very banal nature of what I do allows me to do other things on the side and in the corners of my head, such as blog to keep the writing flowing, and do paper artsy stuff for fun and trade, and design knitwear for fun and profit.

If I had a higher-powered job, I'd have to yield focus to that in order to keep the gravy train from overturning. If I took a creative job, I'm afraid the muse would simply go hide in the bathroom with the door locked.

So am I settling, or is it simply that my priorities are to earn enough bread to make a well-rounded life?