Regret is Aimless Whining

I am a naturally regretful person. Usually a day or so after I've had a conversation with a person, I revisit the discourse in my mind and pore over the things I said with the scrutiny of an auditor. And then I realize that I'm an ass because I say the stupidest things.

Here's how my porings-over usually go:
When I said "such and such", I can see how it could've been interpreted as "some other such and such"...that would explain why my partner-in-discourse seemed to laugh nervously just after I said it. Good Heavens! How I've humiliated myself! What must he think of me after having heard that sputtered nonsense? Or maybe it wasn't nonsense... Perhaps it was even insulting to him since he believes in "this thing" and my statement was a callous assault on his foundation of understanding. I am truly an ass' ass.

I've been working really hard at curbing this self-destructive tendency, but old habits die hard.

I was at the 7-Eleven a few minutes ago and my favorite cashier was there--a Filipino lady with a genuine smile and a penchant for intellectual honesty. We'd previously had a series of short conversations about her origins, her present situation, and her opinion of the difference. Since I know that she prefers her homeland to her current habitation, and that I am much of the same opinion, I asked her "Do you ever feel that you're wasting time?"

She responded with an emphatic "No! You have to make the best of what life gives you." Bear in mind that my question was asked after her admission that she'd not visited her home in 8 years and that her father died and was buried in her absence.

What a poison regret is. What fruit does this labor bear other than nuggets of grief? To regret is to wish that the past were not so. What else can be done to the past, but to pull out memories for contemplation? Don't mourn unchangeable things. Take charge of your capacity to manipulate those things still-changeable!

Abandoning Reality

I do not know this to be true and I do not believe it is a thing that can be known as true: the acceptance of faith is not an abandonment of reality, but a deeper acceptance of it.

We all have this "thing" in our perceptions that causes us to take pause from time to time; sometimes we smell that the meat smells bad, so we throw it out; sometimes we feel that turning down this road is dangerous, so we take another; sometimes we perceive a threatening aura from a person, so we avoid him; sometimes we "know" that a thing is bad and we steer clear of it and other times, we "know" that a thing is good and we embrace it. I'm not talking about math, physics or any other form of demonstrable science that we embrace as the final answer to life's unknowns... I'm talking about the gut--that sensation that can be known, but only right now.

There lies what seems to be the difference, but what turns out to be the eventual link between, knowledge and faith: certainty. Have you ever known a thing to be true, yet had no demonstrable evidence to back it up? Have you ever felt, in your core, that an unseen compass was pointing the way? That's faith. It cannot be explained and it cannot be known, insomuch as it can't be repeated.

What is faith's chore in our lives? Is it a holdover from primitive man, or is it imperative to our existence?

Stories

I'm going to write again with no goal in mind. Let's see what happens.

So my daughter and I like to tell each other stories. I'll tell one, then she'll tell one, and so on. Usually each consecutive story builds upon the previous one, as if each telling entails a chapter. She'll sometimes ask me to tell a story when I'm not feeling in the story-telling mood, but I'll often acquiesce because it's a simple request and stories are easy enough to make up, right? Yes! I used to not think so, but the pressure to make up tales has taught me a valuable lesson: just go with it.

I think I have a fear of being wrong, or doing the wrong thing. That would explain why I'm hesitant to just make up a story on the spot--I don't want to tell a crappy story. I like to take my time when I convey messages...to make the most out of every word in every sentence. Yet, every time I've reluctantly told her a story (i.e. made it up on the spot), it seems to have worked out.

On our most recent story-telling adventure, we were driving home from the Atlantis Shuttle launch, and just as I was settling down for a nice quiet drive, it happened..."Papa, would you tell me a story?"

...

"Allright, Baby. Give me a second to think about it." At that instant, I realized that to her, telling stories was a very important experience. How easy would it have been to say "No, Dear. Not right now"? Very... she's such a sweet child that she would've taken that rejection with calm. But how kind would it have been to say that (and, yes, I've said it before)?

So I told a story, and I decided to create a theatric atmosphere to boot, with effort given to intonation, different voices, and volume at applicable times. And do you know what? She really enjoyed it--she even told me that I was getting better at telling stories! Boy howdy... and all it takes is flickin' off some inner demons.

So what did I do differently? I told my inner-perfectionist to take a hike. And only now, as of this writing, do I realize what a jerk he can be sometimes.

Why I Like Alcohol

I think my meandering psyche has finally stumbled upon something significant--at least to me. I'm a bit drunk at this point; not smashed and not sober--somewhere in the "happy zone", and I don't think it makes a bit of difference as to the validity of the point that will be made somewhere below (should I have reason to contradict this statement when viewing it as a sober fellow, I will duly correct any errors yet leave them bare for the scrutiny of anybody who gives a damn).

I've wondered for some time now why I like to drink (and also why so many people think drinking is necessarily bad, but that's another post). Last week, I was on my way to get some more beer and cigarettes when I spotted a congregation of Alcoholics Anonymous folks hanging out in front of their meeting place. Since I was once ordered to attend six-months worth of AA meetings in my youth, I have a respect for the group and its patrons. So I stopped and chatted with a guy there for a while. I tried to find out why he stopped drinking, and why he might think I ought to stop too. He told stories of cocaine abuse and losing jobs because of insobriety, etc; yet none of these things spoke to me. I walked away from that encounter with only food-for-thought (that drinking suppresses fear that should only be conquered by the sound-of-mind and not the drunk, but that should be yet another post).

But it's been on my mind now, so I've been thinking of it lately.

Then it hit me, out of nowhere (yes, I know that is the cliche's cliche, but it cannot be more succinctly stated). I realized that I yearn for the irrational. I have, in recent times, come to largely embrace an empiricist philosophy. If I can't understand a thing, then I have little reason to put any stock in it. Yet I have a gut feeling that there is a world out there that exists beyond reason and fact. When I drink, I can enter this world. I can abandon empiricism and the necessity of fact. I can leave behind all the responsibilities of being real in a real world. Most importantly, I can experience being irrational in a very real way. It doesn't cut-loose bonds to reality, it enlivens bonds that have withered from disuse.

Is this an alcoholic's excuse to continue drinking, or another footfall in the homecoming of a wayward soul?

...or both?