Idea: the next time someone does something nasty to you, do something nice for someone else. That way, the balance is restored, and you get to feel smug.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Pay It Backward
Idea: the next time someone does something nasty to you, do something nice for someone else. That way, the balance is restored, and you get to feel smug.
Saturday, September 24, 2016
Commonplace Things
One of my least favorite quotations is this popular one by
Jack Kerouac:
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are
mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same
time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn
like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...”
To be fair, it’s beautifully written, and Kerouac is
perfectly entitled to his own preferences.
I dislike this quotation because so many people seem to feel it’s a laudable
and relatable sentiment, and I just couldn’t disagree more.
People who “never yawn or say a commonplace thing” are
exhausting – and, ultimately, dull. The
best people don’t care about what is, or is not, commonplace; they are
concerned only with what is funny, beautiful, useful, or true. They’re not constantly chasing a high, drug-induced
or otherwise; they understand that the lows have meaning, and the middle places
have value, and that life is not a highlight reel. The best people are not terrified of mediocrity
or convention, or even a certain amount of complacency. They strive for balance, they’re interested
in process, and they’re willing to invest deeply, and consistently, in
unspectacular but important things.
The mad ones can be enormously stimulating, especially when
you’re a teenager. But it’s the sane
ones you want to give your heart to.
They’re the ones who know what to do with it.
Thursday, September 22, 2016
The Drunkard's Prayer
Let him find me when I am drinking –
That God with the bloody mind;
Let him beckon me up to heaven,
Where souls are winged and kind;
Let him speak to me of mercy,
That God who craves my death;
Let him sing his own sweet praises
With his own sweet wasted breath;
I’ll hear him out politely
(The drink will help me to);
Then I’ll tell him where I’m going
And where he can go, too.
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