Habit: An action performed repeatedly and automatically, usually without awareness.
"The intellectual idea of abstinence is not of itself sufficient. It takes sustained effort to unite the intellectual concept with that consistent form of action which is an expression of automatic attitude rather than a monument to will power.
Whatever may be the theoretical desire and intentions, the old habits do not die as quickly or as easily as one might wish, nor are they dead and buried when one wished them to be so.
The habits of year's standing are not going to quickly pass out of the picture no matter how diligent a man may be in his application of the work. He has to keep directing his mental processes in a formal and definitive manner for at least a year."
Monday, August 5, 2019
Thursday, July 25, 2019
Tell Me a Story, Seaweed
Analogy: A relationship of resemblance or equivalence between two situations, people, or objects, especially when used as a basis for explanation or extrapolation.
Often when I'm reading our literature I find some of the concepts kind of abstract. "Restraint of tongue and pen," for instance, has a lovely ring to it but what does that mean, exactly? Often a clear light is thrown on the concept when someone tells a story or uses an analogy. For instance, "I was having a minor argument with my wife last week which seemed to be winding down with no consequences when I felt the need to get in the last word and I've been sleeping on the couch ever since" - THAT makes a lot of sense to me. It brings the concept alive. That's some real world shit.
I recently flew back to The Old City for a brief visit. Because my flight arrived late in the day I decided to stay at an airport hotel and then get the trip going in earnest the next morning, clear-headed and well-rested. The one caveat in selecting the hotel was that it provided a shuttle. Unfortunately for me I didn't notice that the shuttle for my pre-paid room only operated until midnight, and my plane arrived around that time. So as soon as I landed I called their front desk and inquired about a pick-up, saying that I didn't want to miss the last shuttle. This was at 11:40.
"Oh, he's made his last stop already," the clerk said.
I was piqued. I was ticked.
"Um, your website said the shuttle ran until midnight," I pointed out with admirable calm.
"Oh, he works until midnight," she replied. "That's when he clocks out. So to clock out at midnight he makes his last run before then."
You know, I'm fine with that logic but you should then indicate that the shuttle runs until 11:30. If I can't get on the shuttle then the shuttle isn't operating. I paused for a second, debating whether or not to explain to her that I didn't give a shit what hours this guy was working - I wanted to know when the shuttle was operating. I'm not with the Department of Labor - I'm the CEO of Stevie Seaweed, LLC. You can work this guy until the blood vessels in his eyes rupture for all I care.
So I said "OK, thank you," and I hung up while she was still . . . you know . . . kind of talking. Technically I didn't lose restraint of my tongue or my pen but it was a jerkish thing to do. It was an unacceptable loop-hole.
I called an Uber which took me to the hotel for $9.80. I would have tipped the shuttle driver $5 so this wasn't a financial thing where I was incensed over the $4.80 bounty I had to pay - it was a Stevie Seaweed, CEO, being inconvenienced, thing.
There's another phrase which reads "when we were wrong promptly admitted it." Not a lot of nuance in this phrase.
When I walked into the hotel I recognized the voice of the woman behind the front desk. I explained that I was the guy who had called about the shuttle and that I wanted to apologize for being short with her. I told her it was rude. I attempted to exploit zero loop-holes. I did not attempt to explain why I was rude; namely, that her website lied to me. I just apologized.
As is my experience in these matters she was gracious. She insisted that I hadn't done anything impolite and, if I had, it could be chalked up to jet lag and a long day of travel. Possibly she was indeed a gracious person or maybe I hadn't behaved badly at all or even that she was being a good customer service representative who didn't take the shit I had dished out personally. Probably all of these apply.
I went to bed with a clear conscience.
Often when I'm reading our literature I find some of the concepts kind of abstract. "Restraint of tongue and pen," for instance, has a lovely ring to it but what does that mean, exactly? Often a clear light is thrown on the concept when someone tells a story or uses an analogy. For instance, "I was having a minor argument with my wife last week which seemed to be winding down with no consequences when I felt the need to get in the last word and I've been sleeping on the couch ever since" - THAT makes a lot of sense to me. It brings the concept alive. That's some real world shit.
I recently flew back to The Old City for a brief visit. Because my flight arrived late in the day I decided to stay at an airport hotel and then get the trip going in earnest the next morning, clear-headed and well-rested. The one caveat in selecting the hotel was that it provided a shuttle. Unfortunately for me I didn't notice that the shuttle for my pre-paid room only operated until midnight, and my plane arrived around that time. So as soon as I landed I called their front desk and inquired about a pick-up, saying that I didn't want to miss the last shuttle. This was at 11:40.
"Oh, he's made his last stop already," the clerk said.
I was piqued. I was ticked.
"Um, your website said the shuttle ran until midnight," I pointed out with admirable calm.
"Oh, he works until midnight," she replied. "That's when he clocks out. So to clock out at midnight he makes his last run before then."
You know, I'm fine with that logic but you should then indicate that the shuttle runs until 11:30. If I can't get on the shuttle then the shuttle isn't operating. I paused for a second, debating whether or not to explain to her that I didn't give a shit what hours this guy was working - I wanted to know when the shuttle was operating. I'm not with the Department of Labor - I'm the CEO of Stevie Seaweed, LLC. You can work this guy until the blood vessels in his eyes rupture for all I care.
So I said "OK, thank you," and I hung up while she was still . . . you know . . . kind of talking. Technically I didn't lose restraint of my tongue or my pen but it was a jerkish thing to do. It was an unacceptable loop-hole.
I called an Uber which took me to the hotel for $9.80. I would have tipped the shuttle driver $5 so this wasn't a financial thing where I was incensed over the $4.80 bounty I had to pay - it was a Stevie Seaweed, CEO, being inconvenienced, thing.
There's another phrase which reads "when we were wrong promptly admitted it." Not a lot of nuance in this phrase.
When I walked into the hotel I recognized the voice of the woman behind the front desk. I explained that I was the guy who had called about the shuttle and that I wanted to apologize for being short with her. I told her it was rude. I attempted to exploit zero loop-holes. I did not attempt to explain why I was rude; namely, that her website lied to me. I just apologized.
As is my experience in these matters she was gracious. She insisted that I hadn't done anything impolite and, if I had, it could be chalked up to jet lag and a long day of travel. Possibly she was indeed a gracious person or maybe I hadn't behaved badly at all or even that she was being a good customer service representative who didn't take the shit I had dished out personally. Probably all of these apply.
I went to bed with a clear conscience.
Thursday, June 13, 2019
Seaweed: Defect Master
"Whatever a person frequently thinks and reflects on, that will become the inclination of their mind."—Buddha
Whatever we regularly think colors our experience—all day, every day. Once we start to watch these thoughts, we discover that 90% of them are reruns! Others are about problems, some are about our preferences, and many are self-evaluation.
"I've lived a life full of terrible misfortune - some of which actually happened to me." Mark Twain or Samuel Clemens
Our life is shaped and determined by our thoughts. Usually we are only half-conscious of the way thoughts direct our life; we are lost in thoughts as if they are reality. We take our own mental creations quite seriously, endorsing them without reservation.
This is old stuff but I can't remember it enough. One of my daily affirmations is to think positive thoughts. I have from time to time kept an Anxiety List where I detail the worries of the day - then from time to time I review these worries. To quote Mark Twain: "What a heap of horseshit." It's very, very difficult for me to dwell on the positive. My mind tends to the defect, to the possibility of the defect.
I think this is a defect.
Saturday, June 1, 2019
Like I Have A Clue
I got a call from Willie yesterday. He mentioned that he had a couple of things that he wanted to run by me. I listened to what he had to say. I like the tendency of good AAs to listen instead of pouring out minute directions so that's what I try to do - for the most part that's really all that I want friend to do for me when I'm confused about something. Honestly, most of the actions that he had taken and the thinking that he had engaged in seemed great - healthy, measured, and reasonable. I probably would have acted in a similar fashion and if I would have done something differently that would have been unique to me, appropriate for me, perhaps, but not for him. I think that all I can do is to give someone the perspective of how I would have behaved and repeat some general, common-sense AA platitudes. Willie has a strong faith so I reminded him that a prayer to ask for guidance and good timing might help; that shit doesn't work out for me if I act when I'm angry; that disengaging from the family instead of confronting someone with something that's upsetting is not going to work well in the long run.
He'll think about this stuff but he's going to do what he wants anyway, right?
He'll think about this stuff but he's going to do what he wants anyway, right?
A Hundred Alibis
"No man who has ever passed from normal or hard drinking to chronic alcoholism, or who has shown persistently a disposition to act in an antisocial manner when under the influence of intoxicating beverages, can ever expect to be shown how to drink in a controlled manner, or to learn how by himself even after long periods of abstention. The very concept of eventual drinking, however remote, seems to be fatal to satisfactory results." The Common Sense of Drinking
"We do not like to pronounce any individual as alcoholic, but you can quickly diagnose yourself. Step over to the nearest barroom and try some controlled drinking. Try to drink and stop abruptly. Try it more than once." Big Book of Alcoholics
Try it a thousand times. Try it five thousand times. However many times you try it you can easily find someone else in AA who has tried it more. You may be able to stop all by yourself but you won't ever be able to drink normally.
Once you've turned a cucumber into a pickle you can't turn it back into a cucumber.
"One of the reasons that may make it difficult for an inebriate to reform permanently is an idealization of the past, which he futilely believes he can revive, a belief often unexpressed with which he fools himself over and over again. 'This time it is going to be different,' you may hear him say, but if you know him well you will smile." The Common Sense of Drinking
Euphoric Recall: The ability to glamorize the best, to remember the good things and not the bad, or to turn the bad things into good things. I bet part of this is human nature - we intuitively try to dwell on what's good and forget what's painful. Emotional shock.
"If you ask him why he started on that last bender, the chances are that he will offer you any one of a hundred alibis. Sometimes these excuses have a certain plausibility, but none of them really makes sense in the light of the havoc an alcoholic's drinking bout creates. They sound like the philosophy of a man who, having a headache, beats himself on the head with a hammer so that he can't feel the ache." The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous
"We do not like to pronounce any individual as alcoholic, but you can quickly diagnose yourself. Step over to the nearest barroom and try some controlled drinking. Try to drink and stop abruptly. Try it more than once." Big Book of Alcoholics
Try it a thousand times. Try it five thousand times. However many times you try it you can easily find someone else in AA who has tried it more. You may be able to stop all by yourself but you won't ever be able to drink normally.
Once you've turned a cucumber into a pickle you can't turn it back into a cucumber.
"One of the reasons that may make it difficult for an inebriate to reform permanently is an idealization of the past, which he futilely believes he can revive, a belief often unexpressed with which he fools himself over and over again. 'This time it is going to be different,' you may hear him say, but if you know him well you will smile." The Common Sense of Drinking
Euphoric Recall: The ability to glamorize the best, to remember the good things and not the bad, or to turn the bad things into good things. I bet part of this is human nature - we intuitively try to dwell on what's good and forget what's painful. Emotional shock.
"If you ask him why he started on that last bender, the chances are that he will offer you any one of a hundred alibis. Sometimes these excuses have a certain plausibility, but none of them really makes sense in the light of the havoc an alcoholic's drinking bout creates. They sound like the philosophy of a man who, having a headache, beats himself on the head with a hammer so that he can't feel the ache." The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous
Friday, May 31, 2019
And What Then?
Problem: A difficulty that has to be resolved or dealt with.
I had another long conversation with The Internal Revenue Service today. I capitalized "The" because I don't want anyone to think I was talking to "the" Internal Revenue Service or - worse yet - "A" Internal Revenue Service. This was the big one, the real deal, the I. R. of S. This was no faux IRS.
As a general observation I have to say that both conversations have been . . . not unpleasant. The two women I've talked to have been personable and polite, eager to help, pleased when they've been able to reduce my tax liability. I go out of my way to be kind to these civil servants. They're not the IRS - they work for the IRS - and it's not their fault that I fucked up my taxes. Why would I give them a hard time? Hardly seems fair.
Anyway, I've managed to whittle the tax bill down to about half of the original amount. Because the number is greater than zero it's still too much but at this point I think it's accurate; i.e., I owe this amount. Again, part of the problem was that I figured my taxes incorrectly and part of the problem was that the IRS calculated the bill incorrectly simply because they didn't have the correct information.
At the meeting today we talked about dealing with problems. Ha.
I know that when I first opened the original letter and saw that huge figure I was frightened, so I did what any self-respecting, red-blooded male would do: I got angry. I started pulling out tax documents and forms and papers, rustling them around, searching incoherently, darting this way and feinting that, with no plan or purpose, looking for facts that would allow me to weasel out of this amount. After a few minutes I did what I usually do - went out, sat in the sun for ten minutes, and calmed the fuck down. Step two was to imagine the worst possible outcome - that I owed the full amount, no matter how implausible and unlikely this would be, and sit with that possibility for a minute. When I realized that I would still be alive if this were the case then - and only then - am I able to move ahead in a coherent fashion.
Once I told my sponsor about a horrible possibility. He asked me what was the worst thing that could happen. After I told him he asked: "And what then?"
It was a good question.
I had another long conversation with The Internal Revenue Service today. I capitalized "The" because I don't want anyone to think I was talking to "the" Internal Revenue Service or - worse yet - "A" Internal Revenue Service. This was the big one, the real deal, the I. R. of S. This was no faux IRS.
As a general observation I have to say that both conversations have been . . . not unpleasant. The two women I've talked to have been personable and polite, eager to help, pleased when they've been able to reduce my tax liability. I go out of my way to be kind to these civil servants. They're not the IRS - they work for the IRS - and it's not their fault that I fucked up my taxes. Why would I give them a hard time? Hardly seems fair.
Anyway, I've managed to whittle the tax bill down to about half of the original amount. Because the number is greater than zero it's still too much but at this point I think it's accurate; i.e., I owe this amount. Again, part of the problem was that I figured my taxes incorrectly and part of the problem was that the IRS calculated the bill incorrectly simply because they didn't have the correct information.
At the meeting today we talked about dealing with problems. Ha.
I know that when I first opened the original letter and saw that huge figure I was frightened, so I did what any self-respecting, red-blooded male would do: I got angry. I started pulling out tax documents and forms and papers, rustling them around, searching incoherently, darting this way and feinting that, with no plan or purpose, looking for facts that would allow me to weasel out of this amount. After a few minutes I did what I usually do - went out, sat in the sun for ten minutes, and calmed the fuck down. Step two was to imagine the worst possible outcome - that I owed the full amount, no matter how implausible and unlikely this would be, and sit with that possibility for a minute. When I realized that I would still be alive if this were the case then - and only then - am I able to move ahead in a coherent fashion.
Once I told my sponsor about a horrible possibility. He asked me what was the worst thing that could happen. After I told him he asked: "And what then?"
It was a good question.
Thursday, May 30, 2019
Kill That Bush!
Adze: A cutting tool that has a curved blade set at a right angle to the handle and is used for shaping wood.
Pickaxe: A heavy iron tool with a wooden handle; one end of the head is pointed, one has a chiseled edge.
Mattock: An agricultural tool whose blades are at right angle to the body, similar to a pickaxe.
I wonder if there is anything else in the world that is "similar to a pickaxe?" Would would something diametrically opposed to a pickaxe be?
Three young men were working for a landscape company one summer to earn money for school or maybe for beer. It was hard manual labor, dull in every aspect, but they were young men, easily amused and able to labor in the heat and humidity with lots of bitching but little real complaint. Also, very little money but beer money, anyway.
One day they were given the task of removing some unwanted shrubbery. Bored, they devised a game to make the task more enjoyable. A physical competition, really, a game of strength, common among young men. They decided to call the game Kill That Bush. The rules to Kill That Bush were very simple: Killing the bush in question in under a predetermined number of strikes using a non-power tool of one's choosing.
A match would proceed like this . . .
They young men would ponder the bush, examining it from different angles, speculating on the depth and strength of its roots, eyeing its size.
Young man #1: "I can kill that bush in five swings."
Young man #2: "I can kill that bush in four swings."
Young man #3: "I can kill that bush in three swings."
Young man #1 (screaming): "Kill that bush!!"
At this point young man #3 would have to remove the shrubbery in three swings. Sometimes he could do it and sometimes he couldn't. I suppose there was a payoff to the competition - beer or dope or something - but that isn't important at this point.
In one contest the bidding got all the way down to two swings before the others deferred. It wasn't a very big bush but killing it in two swings is pretty righteous. The young men pondered the bush.
"Adze?" one of them asked.
"An adze is a woodworking tool," one of them answered.
"I think a pickaxe," another remarked.
"Sure, a pickaxe," came the reply. "But why not the mattock?"
This suggestion - being a good one - was met with general approval and was duly adopted. The young man circled the bush, calculating angles and root placement, speculating, figuring. His first swing was a mighty one, separating most of the roots from the bush and nearly lifting it out of the ground. There were shouts of admiration, speculation that two swings - almost a hole in one - might be enough. Sure enough, his second swing lifted the bush out of the ground. He held the mattock high in the air for a long moment, then flipped it away. Babe Ruth admiring the flight of a home run, bat in hand, strolling toward first base, before dropping his stick.
"It's over, it's over!" shrieked the young men.
Pickaxe: A heavy iron tool with a wooden handle; one end of the head is pointed, one has a chiseled edge.
Mattock: An agricultural tool whose blades are at right angle to the body, similar to a pickaxe.
I wonder if there is anything else in the world that is "similar to a pickaxe?" Would would something diametrically opposed to a pickaxe be?
Three young men were working for a landscape company one summer to earn money for school or maybe for beer. It was hard manual labor, dull in every aspect, but they were young men, easily amused and able to labor in the heat and humidity with lots of bitching but little real complaint. Also, very little money but beer money, anyway.
One day they were given the task of removing some unwanted shrubbery. Bored, they devised a game to make the task more enjoyable. A physical competition, really, a game of strength, common among young men. They decided to call the game Kill That Bush. The rules to Kill That Bush were very simple: Killing the bush in question in under a predetermined number of strikes using a non-power tool of one's choosing.
A match would proceed like this . . .
They young men would ponder the bush, examining it from different angles, speculating on the depth and strength of its roots, eyeing its size.
Young man #1: "I can kill that bush in five swings."
Young man #2: "I can kill that bush in four swings."
Young man #3: "I can kill that bush in three swings."
Young man #1 (screaming): "Kill that bush!!"
At this point young man #3 would have to remove the shrubbery in three swings. Sometimes he could do it and sometimes he couldn't. I suppose there was a payoff to the competition - beer or dope or something - but that isn't important at this point.
In one contest the bidding got all the way down to two swings before the others deferred. It wasn't a very big bush but killing it in two swings is pretty righteous. The young men pondered the bush.
"Adze?" one of them asked.
"An adze is a woodworking tool," one of them answered.
"I think a pickaxe," another remarked.
"Sure, a pickaxe," came the reply. "But why not the mattock?"
This suggestion - being a good one - was met with general approval and was duly adopted. The young man circled the bush, calculating angles and root placement, speculating, figuring. His first swing was a mighty one, separating most of the roots from the bush and nearly lifting it out of the ground. There were shouts of admiration, speculation that two swings - almost a hole in one - might be enough. Sure enough, his second swing lifted the bush out of the ground. He held the mattock high in the air for a long moment, then flipped it away. Babe Ruth admiring the flight of a home run, bat in hand, strolling toward first base, before dropping his stick.
"It's over, it's over!" shrieked the young men.
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