Not Winning Jackpot Nullifies My Narcissism                                                  

                    draeko damen      Damen Smith Linked In_01

At the risk of coming off incredibly more conceited than the title suggests, even from an early age, I was made to think there was a difference between me – and those telling me – that I was somehow unusual. Harry Potter has had it happen to him. You’ve had it happen to you. It’s probably something that happens to all academics. Most of us have had it said to us at least one point in our lives, by parents (not mine), or a teacher, or our best friends and lovers. My parents weren’t of that generation that even knew they were supposed to be the beacons of inspiration to their children.  Fortunately, as I’ve hinted at earlier, it’s not always the parents that warm your heart or inspire your mind to achieve beyond the sum of all your parts. Mine left this type of motivation to the outside world, to the streets, to nature, to God, and (most importantly) Santa, all of whom somehow convincing me that I was special. Although the latter rarely showed up.

I was led to believe that I was one step before short yellow bus, and a little close to being a very touching ABC afterschool… special.

Yep. At one point I was certain (with some scientific method applied) that I was psychic, possessed innate elemental gifts, a whisperer to the four-legged, and that I had a unique place in the universe. As child of the 60’s, growing up in the 70’s, such deductions were gotten fairly. With all the mojo and hoo-doo of that age, how could I have not eventually come to this way of thinking? Still, even though most of those hippy-based hopes have waned since my innocence crashed in 2008, there are still glaring remnants of it behind my smile, staring back full in the mirror.

So at least once a week, sometimes even twice depending on any “disposable cash” – and I am speaking in relative terms her, because my ducats are not, by any stretch of the imagination, ‘disposable’. Truth, I should be mentally insane right now, as penny pinchy as Jack Benny, and only spending anything when it’s essential. And then only after Congressional oversight. With my ‘disposable’ change, comes the purchase of a lottery ticket.

Sometimes it’s Lotto. Mostly it’s Powerball and Mega Millions. Never have done Scratch though.

An even line between narcissistic delusions of grand entitlement and distracted hope, the numbers are either carefully conceived or calculated, occasionally picked randomly en route, or they are derived from objects with digits beyond the 7-Eleven window. Aware that it’s almost a one in a 300 million chance of winning if I play, all those numbers would be reduced to total zero if I do not. So with that cheap preschool number two pencil (sometimes bringing one of my own, sometimes putting the number two because it’s the type of pencil) my vanity is then indulged. With this minute scribbler comes an existential confidence that I’m somehow chosen by heaven to win. Size does not matter.

After that deed is done. I fantasize about what I would do if I woke up a Monday multimillionaire. Those who took me in when I had nowhere to go. Those who gifted me with a coat for the cold, the people and learning institution to whom I am in debt, I would thank them and the Academy. Where would I live? Would I build or just buy? Would I stay where it is too very often rainy and gray? Would I, mere hours later, ride out in that R8, the one that’s taunted me from behind that show window? A road trip? Orthodontic work? Electrolysis? Hair transplant? There would definitely be yoga and a gym membership in the plan.

The odds are astronomical. But so is life. The universe loves me. There’s magic in my bones.

But what about these poor, unfortunate souls who actually won?  I would hope to have a bit more savvy than that. Still, that delusional narcissism is in here. It hints that I may one day be there, either through hard work or windfall.

The work has been hard! Today was the perfect day, me doing perfect thing. Stars are properly aligned – somewhere. I am set.

It is now the next day. And though it’s not the first thing done, having taken a walk out for some chai with a friend who’s letting me couch surf a bit, at last the Internet browser is engaged, the beach head of the lottery page invaded.

Scattered on the sands lay the torn remnants of red and white shredded tickets, the casualties of torn dreams. The cold slap in the face of surf and tide reminds, with a sobering wet, that neither life nor universe is fair.  The screech of a gull frustrated that its paper and not mana, suggests that maybe it’s about impartiality.

Why even contribute to the “poor man’s tax?” The motivation is quite primitive. Playing feels like hope. Maybe there are even varying degrees of faith, a faith in chance, along with egocentric conviction in one’s own uniqueness.

My needs so few these days, any lottery jackpot would be more than enough to reach comfort in retirement. Phyllis Diller (rest in peace) said, during her 2006 with Home Media Magazine, “Now that I’m really old, I realize one of the things it takes a lot of money to buy is silence.”<source of quote>

After watching that interview, that statement always stuck with me. Growing through a loud, often socially challenging background, the silence of libraries with sunlight and lots of alpine foliage is what I’ve continuously coveted. The rain is gone at the moment. Gold from the sky, illuminates the green all around me. Mostly conifer, some deciduous, it’s a welcomed kind of green.

It’s time to go about my day, mindful of debt, my soul chastened, not a muggle, and certainly not in possession of any practical magic.

 

 

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The Sheer Barbarism of Local News

With a new outlook in life, a death of the old, and a birth of the new, I’ve come to find my voice. I’ve come to notice more things that I had heretofore ignored or had just taken for granted, like most of us seem to be doing.

Yesterday, on my first Mother’s Day, I was watching the local news at a friend’s house, on whose couch I’ve been surfing for the past two weeks, and I remembered why I stopped watching local news in my previous life.

Local news sucks major dingleberry.

There was one report of a truck losing control and running up a ramp and injuring one person.

Yeah. That’s terrible. And it would suck to be the person driving that truck, just as it would most definitely stink to high heaven to be the person on the other side of that grill.

But why is this news? Why does anyone other than the immediate family members or the emergency response teams involved need to know about this? Either of which would have their own notification systems in place. So, what’s the point of reporting this?

Why would every other person, not involved with this need to know that it happened? If either person has a family or an ICE, no doubt they’d be notified.  And as horrific an event as this is, there is no reason why I or you need to know of it.

Why is this news?

It isn’t.

It’s an event that occurred that some talking heads have deemed worthy to bring into our living rooms, not to build empathy – because this is not the Age of Empathy at all, but the Age of the Villian – but to boost their ratings.

And you get a clear idea of the callousness behind this horse-toothed reporting when they boast of being “the first to report it”.

This is madness beyond reckoning. And it needs to stop.

And the scariest part of it all is: turning off the local news, lowering their coveted ratings, would only result in them “creating” news. No, I’m not calling out “fake”.  But ala the Rodney King Riots and the irresponsible reporting thereof, I’m calling this out as being needlessly alarmist for the sake of them being on the air, for the sake of sponsors hawking local car insurance or second rate plumbing services.

Hey, we’ve all got to eat.

But my take: If it’s not relevant to national security, and overall public health and safety, or national politics, then we don’t need to hear about it.

#turningofflocalnews

Draeko Dahmen

Time Flies Relatively Fast

Forgive me Father for it has been nearly two months since my last BLOG post.

I have been to San Franciso, back to Seattle, to Pittsburgh, back to San Francisto, to Venice Beach, and now three hostels later, I am in San Diego.

The range of incredible people, with whom I have had the incredible opportunity to engage conversationally, exceeds my current ability to process and transcribe into words.

This past month has been on the edge of purgatory.

Where I go next week, that will determine which edge.

I’m looking at at least one hail Mary.

 

The Little Things…

This photo up top is of my temporary art table.

Yep.

That is my bed.

That’s Archimedes in the background. He’s a little bi polar. He doesn’t talk or anything, but he’s been with me through thick and thin over the past 8+ years.

archimedes(bullet point 01)

(He does suprisingly well in the spinning cycle.)

Sitting in his lap, (in the first photo) that’s another little varmint I picked up. I chose to name him Ros Ghoul. (the ears of some comic book nerd is burning right now)

Is it weird to look into the eyes of a stuffed toy and see within them a sparkle of unbridled joy? No matter what their caregiver may be experiencing, those things mirror the pleasure we have for living that I think at one point was within all of us. Those of us who are adults now.

Still, I like to think of them, Archimedes Polium (his full name) and Ros, both as horcruxes of the positive magic. (Harry Potter fan nerd-gasm happening somewhere now) All my best vibes into these guys.

Oh yeah, art table. Working on one of my heroes right now, two of them actually. I just went back to do a once over her (the hero) before the shading process. All four heroes of the team should be done by the weekend.

Auditing Old Files…

I found this one today, written in 2009.

 

Mankind alone presents such a colossal threat to our selves that survival of most, or even a fraction, of the species seems very unlikely. The ignorance of this threat is so compounded by our own sense of importance that the rallying cry among even the very best and brightest of us is, “Save the Planet”.

 

Canvassers of Green Peace – eerily only seen around the market places and never near the foliage of city parks or camping grounds – have in their clutched hands, on those laminated notebooks, that same plea/command in that big bold green san serif font, “Save the Planet”.

 

Yes, even those of us committed to forestalling mankind’s part in global destruction seem oblivious to the fact that we can’t save the planet. It is the planet that is constantly saving us.

 

Through war, plague, or cosmic impact, the planet Earth will exist. It may cease to be the Big Blue Marble, but it will continue to exist with or without us. As it has shown and clearly demonstrated in its 4.5 billion year old geological record, it has. In the worse case scenario, a new life matrix, a new world order of an ecosystem sooner or much later would eventually reaffirm itself. At first, it was the single cells, then the multi-cellular entities, then fish and amphibian, then the reptiles, and currently the mammalians. Perhaps after the next massive level of destruction, the world would fall onto the insectivorid.

 

My apocalyptic view reflects both scenarios of apocalypse, man-caused and geologic.

 

The human system of things cannot possibly endure. It is too myopic. It relies way too much on religiosity, mysticism, or technological optimism to save us from the rigors that pollution and geocentric exploitation has wrought (or will) upon us.

 

The planet Earth, it is a dynamic sphere that, in its entire existence, has never displayed an average climate. It is a dynamic sphere that has a dark history of extinction level cataclysms, a world of shifting tectonic plates on continental scales, grumbling super volcanoes, restless oceans, and bi-polar wind systems.

 

To believe that there will never again be another great destruction, to not see the distinct possibility of another impending doom, is beyond any concept I can fathom of wise reasoning. To me, it is a given.

 

But to fret and lament beyond the urgings for us to acknowledge and seed the stars, in my opinion, represents an even more profound insult to life.

 

In the blink of an eye, the lowly gnat has to live an entire life cycle. It flies and mates with glee in the warmth of a sun that will one day betray us all. For the brief moment that it lives, its clings to that life to ensure its kind lives on for yet another brief moment in time, and its offspring will do the same.

 

The sparrows soar with joy on the wind that will one day devastate them, even knowing that within this capricious time of calm, they could be taken from the heavens by a diving hawk beyond their purview of senses.

 

And humans, we dance despite the hardships in our lives. We love today with the hopes of a forever, because we have today.

 

Yes, the world will end. Be it tomorrow, 2012, or 5 billion years from now when our sun goes nova, it will end. It and we are finite.

 

Knowing this and accepting this makes every second of living just that much more the worthy enterprise that it is…more miraculous, and…much more enlivening. I see the world and all life within it as fascinating phenomenon. I believe the challenges which all organisms face within their myriad and collective environments as necessary challenges. These are contests borne of the rule that drives survival of the fittest and the undeterred ever adjusting direction of evolution. It goes down to the single cells, this protocol of tooth and claw. I see the universe as neither fair or cruel, or as human friendly.

 

There is a balance of natural forces that work on a marriage of equals and opposites.

 

The universe is what it is. It is cold and hot. And everything that exists within it is natural; else it would not exist within it.

 

Perhaps one day man will reach beyond the clouds and stars and this time establish a strong handhold. Perhaps one day we will have the wisdom to take all of our eggs out of this one basket.

 

We can only hope and work towards that.

 

The ele-mental’s diary 7/21/2009

Patriot from the Shadows

Moments of insecurity, in a world so shaken.
We wonder.
How tomorrow will be, though we endeavor to appreciate the Now.
Moments of clarity, in a world waiting bated.
The thunder.
In our dreamboxes and Pandoran lifestyles, on the eve of precedence, the calm cushions us.
The sun itself offers a rare warmth to its autumn beam this day.
What clouds or what beams come dawn, we shall face come what may.

May Not

Letting ambition go without compromising your well-being and of those who depend on you for whatever reasons seems kind of titanic and iceberg the more I think of it.

My father instilled in me the fear of listening to the silence.

He was the kind of dad who would bellow out your faults and short comings knowing full well you the kid was off in the dark within earshot.

What my mom, either of them, actually thought at the time, I can but yet fathom, some inklings that give her less justice than perhaps she deserves.

The jury is still out on that one.

Listening to the heart beat of my life.

I want to have talent in the world without ambition. I also want a broad and diverse expression of artistic endeavors, and discussions.

Heartfelt discussions.

Heated discussions.

Is there some ledger in human history that has set the definition, the standard, of what civil means?

And how could you possibly enforce it, without becoming uncivil?

Are boundaries essential?

I don’t know.

Would it be ambitious to seek out that answer?

I don’t know.

Intelligence without ambition would….?

How could a scientist convince himself that he is not psychic?

Are there tests?

And on what standards would these tests be based?

There are no tests.

Serendipity may simply not be exclusive to a chosen few. On the contrary, it may be equally as inverse.

And if that is the case, then there are more so-called psychics than a few.

Or none at all?

Hmm.

Still, there is a lot to be pondered when viewing these other psychics in the glow of their electronic PDAs- actually calling them personal data assistants is being kind.

Would I feel any differently if everyone were reading books and magazines and newspapers?

I do not know.

Probably.

Looks and sounds to me that we are simply afraid to look at each other, is all.

But humans, we are in fact a scary bunch. There may be a good reason or two not to look at one another.

I am brought back to letting go of ambition.

Is there not survival in ambition?

To become a monk walled up within his own thoughts, I say no.

Ambition may represent particles and the universe expanding.

We are not isolated from universal quantum activity, are we?

Meanwhile, I can’t think of any hugs to give.

Not deep filial hugs any way.

Just platonic ones.

How long has it been exactly?