March 11, 2013: A little-known poet named Ronald Walter Ludley had a little-known poetry book called "Why Don't You Listen?" It's a question I've been asking the people in my life for many years now ...
It's such a simple thing, and yet it's remarkable how poorly we all listen. (I don't really mean me, but I'm just generalizing here to make everyone feel good; in fact, I consider myself a rather good listener, owing to both my journalistic skills and my consummate acting ability.)
We just want to be heard -- all of us -- but heard in a certain way. A friend of mine pointed out tonight how the so-called social media forums fluorescently highlight how hungry humanity is to be heard. People grow more and more desperate to be heard with each passing day, and yet they become poorer and poorer listeners ... Isn't that funny? ... No, I guess not ...
I can only speak for myself, but I suffer on an ongoing basis from people's poor listening skills. This is a large reason why I became a writer, I think. I feel a deep need to be heard. And while it would be wonderful to spare myself all this trouble of typing out lengthy (and pithy) rants about what ails us on my Blah-ugh! forum, it's really one of the few satisfying means I have at my disposal to get that sensational sense of being really, truly heard.
Now, what does that mean? Well, really it means being able to share one's thoughts without feedback. I need to be able to share without having my comments appraised or -- much worse and annoying -- getting back those feeble attempts to fix me, to solve my problems.
Isn't it interesting how many people listen with half an ear, just waiting to tell you what's wrong and how you can fix it. They're not really listening. In fact, they're probably uncomfortable listening, which takes a degree of patience and consciousness that many people don't have. It's important -- as a listener -- to understand that most of us don't really want to be fixed. I know I don't. I just want to feel like I was heard, even if I wasn't. (Thus again, a great listener can merely be a gifted actor; what the hell does it really matter to me in the end anyway, as long as I feel listened to?!) Few frustrations are as bad as those horrifyingly well-meaning individuals who can't let you get five sentences out before they chime in with their eager advice. I've also noticed many people who have a ridiculous gift of being able to steer your shared thoughts into their own experiences, and within moments of your attempting to open up, they smoothly manage to usurp the conversation and contain it for the next nauseous 20 minutes within their own thoughtless history.
But let's not make this about me. I'm fine. I have a Blah-ugh! to voice my stupid opinions and observations. (And of course I'm being falsely humiliating, as you know, because I obviously consider my stupid opinions and observations light-years more amusing and valuable than anyone else's.)
No, I want to offer others my service in feeling that they've actually, authentically been heard. No joke. If you're struggling with this very issue, and don't know where to go to get the base satisfaction of feeling listened to, send me an email and we'll arrange a time for me to listen to you. I want you to feel you're worth that, and while I can't promise I won't be rolling my eyes or stifling laughter, I'll give my best effort to be the kind of listener that I value in my life.
If no one else is willing to listen -- and listen well -- I'll certainly be glad to ...
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
To Fill Your Gaping God Hole
March 6, 2013: It seems like the more I ignore this Blah-ugh!, the more people read it ... I'd like to know why that is, and I'd like to know who's reading it ... I mean, I'm not! I come hear every so often and ... Oh, never mind!
I'd like to say I have some passionate opinions and ideas to expound on, but I really don't. This is one of those rare times when I have next to nothing to say. To quote -- or perhaps paraphrase, for I'm too lazy to actually check -- Jack Kerouac in "On The Road," "I had nothing to offer anyone except my own confusion."
That said, if you're here reading this nonsense you're probably more confused than I am ... And I am confused, and I'm not ashamed to say it. I'm pretty much confused about everything tonight, including why I have this never-ending rash on my neck. Still, ironically, March has always been a month that for some strange reason provides me with answers. So hopefully in three or four weeks I won't be as confused. But who knows what I'll be at the end of March. I could be pregnant for all the way things have been going so strangely this decade ...
I'm also hungry. And I just ate. But I jogged this morning. That's probably accounting for some hunger, but more importantly will account for my justifying eating three corn muffins before too long. I don't know why I always get so hungry at night. It probably has something to do with not eating enough during the day, but also that unending attempt to fill what my friend Wendy Mole' once referred to as the ol' gaping god hole. In fact, that's become an understood part of the lexicon in our demented household, and I blithely explain to my kids on a regular basis -- usually in the later hours -- "I've got to get something to fill my gaping god hole," and they understand know ... Of course, sometimes I backtrack and explain the reality that nothing can really fill our gaping godholes except positive spiritual energy, or something like that, but depending on how much my gaping godhole needs filling, I may or may not bother to say much of anything constructive; instead, it's off to the kitchen again to get another frozen pizza perculating in the oven ...
As I said, I don't really have anything else to add to the discussion, or to your own attempts to fill your gaping holes with whatever weird wisdom you seek from this virtual dissertation ... I can assure you that the answer doesn't lie in frozen pizza, though I'm not entirely convinced it doesn't lie in homemade corn muffins ... But I want you to know that I'm thinking about you, and while the cold, wet snows splash your window tonight and you feel restless and irritable and discontented, I'm thinking of you, and what a fool you ... nononono I'm just kidding ... See, that's what I do ... And while it may not help your pain, it certainly assuages mine at your expense, so at least somebody's healing in this scenario ...
But seriously, I'm thinking of you tonight and how you're alright, and everything's gonna be alright ... I want you to know that ... Everything's alright ...
Start passing rumors that the world is getting better ... Don't believe that danger's lurking ... The communists are gone ... The most dangerous gun nuts are aberrations ... The economy is improving, or at least improvising ... The globe is cooling down again ... Say it with me ... All is well ... All is well ...
G'night Folks ...
I'd like to say I have some passionate opinions and ideas to expound on, but I really don't. This is one of those rare times when I have next to nothing to say. To quote -- or perhaps paraphrase, for I'm too lazy to actually check -- Jack Kerouac in "On The Road," "I had nothing to offer anyone except my own confusion."
That said, if you're here reading this nonsense you're probably more confused than I am ... And I am confused, and I'm not ashamed to say it. I'm pretty much confused about everything tonight, including why I have this never-ending rash on my neck. Still, ironically, March has always been a month that for some strange reason provides me with answers. So hopefully in three or four weeks I won't be as confused. But who knows what I'll be at the end of March. I could be pregnant for all the way things have been going so strangely this decade ...
I'm also hungry. And I just ate. But I jogged this morning. That's probably accounting for some hunger, but more importantly will account for my justifying eating three corn muffins before too long. I don't know why I always get so hungry at night. It probably has something to do with not eating enough during the day, but also that unending attempt to fill what my friend Wendy Mole' once referred to as the ol' gaping god hole. In fact, that's become an understood part of the lexicon in our demented household, and I blithely explain to my kids on a regular basis -- usually in the later hours -- "I've got to get something to fill my gaping god hole," and they understand know ... Of course, sometimes I backtrack and explain the reality that nothing can really fill our gaping godholes except positive spiritual energy, or something like that, but depending on how much my gaping godhole needs filling, I may or may not bother to say much of anything constructive; instead, it's off to the kitchen again to get another frozen pizza perculating in the oven ...
As I said, I don't really have anything else to add to the discussion, or to your own attempts to fill your gaping holes with whatever weird wisdom you seek from this virtual dissertation ... I can assure you that the answer doesn't lie in frozen pizza, though I'm not entirely convinced it doesn't lie in homemade corn muffins ... But I want you to know that I'm thinking about you, and while the cold, wet snows splash your window tonight and you feel restless and irritable and discontented, I'm thinking of you, and what a fool you ... nononono I'm just kidding ... See, that's what I do ... And while it may not help your pain, it certainly assuages mine at your expense, so at least somebody's healing in this scenario ...
But seriously, I'm thinking of you tonight and how you're alright, and everything's gonna be alright ... I want you to know that ... Everything's alright ...
Start passing rumors that the world is getting better ... Don't believe that danger's lurking ... The communists are gone ... The most dangerous gun nuts are aberrations ... The economy is improving, or at least improvising ... The globe is cooling down again ... Say it with me ... All is well ... All is well ...
G'night Folks ...
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