Excerpted from Failing Forward: Turning Mistakes into Stepping Stones for Success by John C. Maxwell, ©2000 (via)
People change in four different seasons:
When they hurt enough they have to.
When they see enough they are inspired to.
When they learn enough that they want to.
And when they receive enough that they are able to.
Joe Rogan used to be a very different human being. I don't know what happened to him.
"I fell in love with Tibet because their essential mission was to keep a continual stream of prayer. To me they kept the world from spinning out of control just by being a civilization on the roof of the world in that continuous state of prayer. The prayers are etched on wheels, they feel them with their hands like braille and turn them. It's spinning prayer like cloth. That was my perception as a young person. I didn't quite understand the whole thing but I felt protected. We grew up at a time when nuclear war seemed imminent with air raid drills and lying on the floor under your school desk. To counterbalance that destruction was this civilization of monks living high in the Himalayas who were continually praying for us, for the planet and for all of nature. That made me feel safe." ~Patti Smith in an interview with Thurston Moore for "Bomb Magazine," 1996 (via dzgrizzle)
I suppose I would describe it as "half full" if I'm filling the cup, and "half empty" if I'm draining the cup.
But really, I just see it as half a cup. Sometimes, if you're baking, that's exactly the right amount.
I don't see it as a litmus test for optimism or pessimism.
From the epilogue of Buck 'Em: The Autobiography of Buck Owens with Randy Poe, ©2013:
Friday, March 24, 2006 was one of those nights he didn't feel up to playing.
After telling the Buckaroos he wouldn't be joining them onstage that evening, Buck walked out of the Crystal Palace and headed for his car, ready to drive back to his ranch for some much-needed rest. But as he was walking through the parking lot, a couple from Bend, Oregon, spotted the singer and excitedly told him they had driven over seven hundred miles to see him perform that night.
Buck Owens-- a showman to the very end-- turned around went back inside his Crystal Palace, strapped on his Telecaster, and stayed on the bandstand for an hour and a half.
The final song he sang on that final night was "Big in Vegas"-- the one about a man who dreams of having his name in lights, a man who dreams of getting standing ovations. For the man in the song, they are only dreams. For Buck, every dream he'd ever dreamed had come true. There were no more mountains to climb.
When the song ended, he received one last standing ovation, said good night to the crowd, and headed home.
Buck Owens passed away in his sleep in the early morning hours of March 25, 2006.
Two weeks ago our lawn mower failed catastrophically. Somehow it began pumping oil and gas out through the air filter, smoking and clogging and just generally Not Working. I’ve never seen a mower do that before. Now I’m no mechanic, but I realized that our mower was Broke.
Well, I don’t ever buy anything on impulse, so I started researching mowers and brands and features and prices and considering my options, and while I was doing all that Mona went out and bought us an electric lawn mower with a rechargeable battery.
I really wasn’t even considering an electric model, but now that I’ve used one I don’t think I’ll ever go back. It’s just as powerful as a traditional gas-powered mower, and it’s roughly the same price, but there’s no gas or oil or air filters to bother with, it’s lighter, and it’s a lot quieter. It has a five year warranty-- not bad.
So I guess there’s something to be said for impulsiveness.
Excerpted from Buck 'Em: The Autobiography of Buck Owens with Randy Poe, ©2013:
Back in February of '64, while "Love's Gonna Live Here" was still sitting at the top of the country charts, the Beatles were having their first number one pop hit in America with "I want to hold your hand." Oh man, I can't tell you how angry some country artists got when the Beatles started having so much success. There were plenty of older country stars going all the way back to the '50s that thought rock & roll was the worst thing that ever happened. They said it was the Devil's music. They didn't just think that it was turning kids into juvenile delinquents-- they thought was turning kids away from country music. Which it was. And when the Beatles came along, you can bet that teenagers wanted to hear the Beatles a lot more than they wanted to hear Eddy Arnold or Ernest Tubb.
If you were a country singer, you weren't supposed to like rock & roll. But I never was one to follow other people's rules, and I never believed that you had to like one kind of music to the exclusion of all other kinds. I like Bill Monroe and Bob Wills and Lefty Frizzell and George Jones, but I like Little Richard and Elvis and Chuck Berry and the Beatles, too.
I like pretty much every genre of music. The key thing for me is that I want an emotional element-- I want to feel the love or the happiness, or the loss or frustration. I want to really connect with the song.
I remember watching American Bandstand all those years ago and the dancers would rate a song they had just danced to: "It has a really good beat, I give it a nine!" Without exception, I hated those songs.
(An aside: it is never terribly difficult to figure out what book I'm reading.)
Excerpted from Buck 'Em: The Autobiography of Buck Owens with Randy Poe, ©2013:
Speaking of the radio, the reason my Capitol records sounded the way they did-- real heavy on the treble-- was because I knew most people were going to be listening to 'em on their AM car radios. In fact, in those days, even the radio in most people's houses was an AM radio. And of course, those early transistor radios were all AM radios, too.
When I told Ken Nelson why I was going for that trebly sound, he didn't waste any time. He had the tech guy at Capitol Studios install some little mono speakers in the control booth. When we'd mix my singles, we'd always play 'em through those little speakers to make sure that sound really cut through loud and clear.
At the time, nobody else was doing anything like that, but it just seemed like common sense to me. And it was one more reason that you knew it was a Buck Owens record as soon as it came on the radio-- because it just didn't sound like those other records that always came out sounding like the bass player was standing in front of the singer.
There's an oldies AM radio station I listen to in my car because the songs sound the way they did when I heard them for the first time.
Richard Brautigan's most successful novel was Trout Fishing in America, but I think The Abortion has some of his best prose.
The excerpt below is one of my favorites:
She had put a pot of coffee on before she had gotten into the tub and I was standing there watching it perk and watching her bathe at the same time through the open door of the bathroom.
She had her hair piled and pinned on top of her head. It looked beautiful resting on the calm of her neck.
We were both tired, but not as nervous as we could have been facing the prospects of the day, because we had gone into a gentle form of shock that makes it easier to do one little thing after another, fragile step by fragile step, until you've done the big difficult thing waiting at the end, no matter what it is.
I think we have the power to transform our lives into brand-new instantaneous rituals that we calmly act out when something hard comes up that we must do.
We become like theaters.
I was taking turns watching the coffee perk and watching Vida at her bath. It was going to be a long day but fortunately we would get there only moment by moment.
"Is the coffee done yet?" Vida said.
I smelled the coffee fumes that were rising like weather from the spout. They were dark and heavy with coffee. Vida had taught me how to smell coffee. That was the way she made it.
I had always been an instant man, but she had taught me how to make real coffee and it was a good thing to learn. Where had I been all those years, thinking in terms of coffee as dust?
I thought about making coffee for a little while as I watched it perk. It's strange how the simple things in life go on while we become difficult.
"Honey, did you hear me?" Vida said. "The coffee. Stop daydreaming and get on the coffee, dear. Is it done?"
'I was thinking about something else," I said.
Excerpted from an article by Michele Lago published to the Huffington Post about the death of her sister:
It is the smaller, daily stuff though that really gets me. I wish she could see how my daughter’s fluffy ponytail looks just like hers did while running. She needs to know that the “Real Housewives” now has a Salt Lake City franchise, and we must discuss. Her son is an exceptional artist. I wear distance glasses now and it’s annoying. The Chicks came out with an awesome album last year she would love. My garden is blooming and I want to show off my flowers. Mom and Dad miss her terribly. There are countless books and podcasts to share. I eat buttered popcorn in her honor often and finally discovered the perfect moisturizer she needs to try. Pop culture trends are changing, but so much hasn’t. Crispy bacon is still the most delicious food.
You can read the full article HERE.
Excerpted from Candide by Voltaire, ©1795:
"I was in hopes," said Pangloss, "that I should reason with you a little about causes and effects, about the best of possible worlds, the origin of evil, the nature of the soul, and the pre-established harmony."
At these words, the Dervish shut the door in their faces.
During this conversation, the news was spread that two Viziers and the Mufti had been strangled at Constantinople, and that several of their friends had been impaled. This catastrophe made a great noise for some hours. Pangloss, Candide, and Martin, returning to the little farm, saw a good old man taking the fresh air at his door under an orange bower. Pangloss, who was as inquisitive as he was argumentative, asked the old man what was the name of the strangled Mufti.
"I do not know," answered the worthy man, "and I have not known the name of any Mufti, nor of any Vizier. I am entirely ignorant of the event you mention; I presume in general that they who meddle with the administration of public affairs die sometimes miserably, and that they deserve it; but I never trouble my head about what is transacting at Constantinople; I content myself with sending there for sale the fruits of the garden which I cultivate."
Having said these words, he invited the strangers into his house; his two sons and two daughters presented them with several sorts of sherbet, which they made themselves, with Kaimak enriched with the candied-peel of citrons, with oranges, lemons, pine-apples, pistachio-nuts, and Mocha coffee unadulterated with the bad coffee of Batavia or the American islands. After which the two daughters of the honest Mussulman perfumed the strangers' beards.
"You must have a vast and magnificent estate," said Candide to the Turk.
"I have only twenty acres," replied the old man; "I and my children cultivate them; our labour preserves us from three great evils—weariness, vice, and want."
Candide, on his way home, made profound reflections on the old man's conversation.
"This honest Turk," said he to Pangloss and Martin, "seems to be in a situation far preferable to that of the six kings with whom we had the honour of supping."
"Grandeur," said Pangloss, "is extremely dangerous according to the testimony of philosophers. For, in short, Eglon, King of Moab, was assassinated by Ehud; Absalom was hung by his hair, and pierced with three darts; King Nadab, the son of Jeroboam, was killed by Baasa; King Ela by Zimri; Ahaziah by Jehu; Athaliah by Jehoiada; the Kings Jehoiakim, Jeconiah, and Zedekiah, were led into captivity. You know how perished Crœsus, Astyages, Darius, Dionysius of Syracuse, Pyrrhus, Perseus, Hannibal, Jugurtha, Ariovistus, Cæsar, Pompey, Nero, Otho, Vitellius, Domitian, Richard II. of England, Edward II., Henry VI., Richard III., Mary Stuart, Charles I., the three Henrys of France, the Emperor Henry IV.! You know——"
"I know also," said Candide, "that we must cultivate our garden."
"You are right," said Pangloss, "for when man was first placed in the Garden of Eden, he was put there ut operaretur eum, that he might cultivate it; which shows that man was not born to be idle."
"Let us work," said Martin, "without disputing; it is the only way to render life tolerable."
The whole little society entered into this laudable design, according to their different abilities. Their little plot of land produced plentiful crops. Cunegonde was, indeed, very ugly, but she became an excellent pastry cook; Paquette worked at embroidery; the old woman looked after the linen. They were all, not excepting Friar Giroflée, of some service or other; for he made a good joiner, and became a very honest man.
Pangloss sometimes said to Candide:
"There is a concatenation of events in this best of all possible worlds: for if you had not been kicked out of a magnificent castle for love of Miss Cunegonde: if you had not been put into the Inquisition: if you had not walked over America: if you had not stabbed the Baron: if you had not lost all your sheep from the fine country of El Dorado: you would not be here eating preserved citrons and pistachio-nuts."
"All that is very well," answered Candide, "but let us cultivate our garden."
I'm taking a break from politics. It upsets me. The bad guys always win, and-- despite what they teach you in school-- there's not a damn thing that can be done about it.
I'm off to cultivate my garden.
Candide by Voltaire is (of course) in the public domain, and can be read online or downloaded for free from Project Gutenberg HERE or Standard Ebooks HERE.
