Hitting-the-Line Interruptions

This one is dangerous, hard to tell. I love my girlfriend, need her, need her desperately; yet I still need my own integrity, my lifelong devotion to my grail, whatever the cost: the more so since I’ve already sacrificed my life for it, my career, my family, my livelihood …
And Bonnie knows it; except she can’t really, not and still live: proud to be an American, a Christian, civilized, human …

Yesterday we were watching Wimbledon: Tsonga beat Federer, Murray beat Lopez, Nadal was beating Fish …

Nadal was wowing the world, hitting the lines, getting to everything, hitting with power, hitting from what had seemed a hard to impossible position … For years I’ve seen Federer as the greatest player of all. The world has come to agree with me. But right now Nadal (and Djokovitch) have been the best. Awesome.

And as I watched Nadal (Fish too playing at his highest level) I had a sunny memory of the moment in my golf game when when I realized that I’d reached a new level of control.

Golf or tennis, it’s similar. First you just try to get the ball over the net, or the ball on the fairway. Then you try to get the ball both over the net and in the legal landing area: within the lines. Then you try to hit the ball farther: drive 180, 190, 200 … still in the fairway.

You hit a lot of balls any damn where before you can control where they go. Well, I got my tennis balls within the lines in my twenties. Then I hit deeper. Then I gained some modicum of control over whether I was hitting the ball back cross court or down the line, to my opponent’s forehand or her backhand …
But I was forty-two before I hit my first golf ball. So: hitting in bounds, hitting to the fairway, hitting it further … all were pretty special. But then one day, playing not at my home course, Lido Beach, Long Island, I was playing in Maryland, on the course my mother had moved onto, and for the first time in my short golf carer I was in the fairway a soft wedge, maybe a gently chipped 8 iron from the green: close enough to see the slope of the green, the Maryland course having a slope, more than did Lido Beach greens … And for the first time in my golf life I thought not just about hitting the ball onto the green, but where on the green to hit it: below the hole, to the left of the hole: hit it so it releases, and rolls toward the hole … Hit it, just … there! just thusly!

I wanted to share this warm memory with my darling Bonnie. We were watching her TV in the day room: between the kitchen and the dining room; not the TV in the bedroom with use for DVDs in the evening. The day room has a pair of daddy and mommy upholstered chairs on either side of a table: for drinks, coffee, snacks … To the left, westward, is Bonnie’s fabulous view of the lake (which I considerably widened) (from like 80 degrees to like 120 degrees, by prunning, by pulling Spanish moss …) Behind the views are also nice, more lake, neighbors … But of course with Wimbleon on we’re concentrating on London, on Nadal …

I moved the daddy chair’s foot stool to Bonnie’s side, so I could confide my joy into her ear and still not miss a play between Fish and Nadal. I talked about the experts’ control of the ball, was just about to extend to my simile about golf, and thereby to my own shinning story: I did get the ball more or less below the green and running toward the hole, for short third stroke, a putt, a birdie, when the network cut for a commercial. Some clown walked the street with a falcon on his wrist-glove, Bonnie, for the Nth time, said the commercial was “stupid,” and got up and left the room.

The first thing I told Bonnie about myself, a year and three quarters ago, when she first invited me to her house (2009), was how I hated being interrupted, how my whole life was a series of interruptions: by the school, by the university, by the army, by the government … by the FBi-judge-jailers … Bonnie saw how it was true, that civilization depends on the authority of the secular forces (or religious forces, no difference anymore) to interrupt fresh perspectives, to substitute yesterday’s rehearsed error for today’s original insight …

And ever since, she too interrupts me! Doesn’t trust what she doesn’t let me complete-the-statement-of enough to let me state it. She too assumes that she can life well enough without what Jesus might have said had we not crucified him to worry about actually hearing it …

A hard way to put it, a self-dramatizing way, yes, I know. But justified, I insist.
The majority are interrupters, a tiny minority are the interrupted.
Tell those doing the interrupting that they’re interrupting and they’ll continue the interruption.
[2012 07 09 Streamlining a bit, tightening up, aglow from Federer’s 7th crown yesterday, watching from the same setting described above, I qualify: everyone gets interrupted, no one likes it. Many had nothing unique or important to say whether they were interrupted or not. That’s of little importance, compared to this: some of those interrupted, perpetually, had crucial things to say. We limit the deck, reduce it, throw away chances as though they were extras: and don’t know it. Old old old old habit.]

The warm thoughts I’d wanted to share about that golf birdie as a first may have ben trivial compared to my offer of an affordable internet in 1970 as an alternative to the monopolies of the interrupters, still: the interrupters can never know what they’re interrupting cause they’re not paying attention! (Or, they are paying attention: to their own privileges, and to nothing else.)

They’re rehearsing their mantra:

I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe.

I’m getting away with it. I’m getting away with it …
Away with it.

The question remains, are the monkeys who neither see nor hear (because they have their eyes and ears covered) listening to god? (to Life?) or to the devil? (Death?)

My beloved knows how I relate her to the Mary Magdaline of the old gospel of Mark, the one who had supported Jesus’ ministry, who, upon being told by the angel that “Jesus is risen, go and tell the disciples,” doesn’t: she is afraid, she goes home, she hides.
She’s a dud; but doesn’t the suffering savior need her anyway?! a little female flesh if nothing else.

I wish I could talk clearly about these things and leave my family, my loved ones, out of it. But I can’t. At least I haven’t found a way.

Next session I’ll comment on why I’m putting this link in the Social Epistemology / Homeostasis section. Meantime, reason it out yourself. Of course you’ll have to know my homeostasis theory to do so.

PS Watch out for Judgment. God may introduce documents hitherto suppressed. Then what will the kleptocrats look like?
The dastard at the end of The Constant Gardener: as his memo is read in the cathedral!

2015 10 10 I must double check the half a dozen homeostasis posts:
1) unconscious: the Temple in its naiveté actually believes that if god were heard from they would cooperate, not sabotage.
2) instinctive.

We sabotage our sentience by taboos of imagination, the judge can’t imagine that the guy crucified on his watch would turn out to be god.
Sentience is partial, not total, but the less-than-geniuses imagine themselves to be complete: the species if not the individual.

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About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
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