Daily

Daily: (adv) every day, day by day

 

He died on his way to buy a new suit.

She passed away in the beauty shop, waiting to get a perm in her hair.

The carload of kids coming from the prom saw no problem with drinking seven beers before they drove home.

Sitting on his desk, where he was found crumpled over, deceased from a heart attack, were plans for his new house.

There are philosophies that challenge you to think and dream about the future.

There are belief systems that contend we are at the mercy of our ancestors.

There is capitalism, which is always talking about five-year goal plans.

There are relatives who are intensely interested in what you want to do when you grow up.

There are calendars printed every year, with the assumption that you will be there as a customer later on.

Yet, just as it begins—unpredictably—It ends.

So what is our best way of thinking? How do we approach life on Earth with gusto, without overshooting the limitations of our own lifespan?

When do we look foolish and when do we look ill-prepared?

Daily. Probably the most intelligent words—seven of them—ever spoken were:

“Give us this day our daily bread.”

It doesn’t allow much kindness toward stockpiling or for those who wish to sleep in and “take it on tomorrow.”  They may eventually end up a day late if not a dollar short.

Trying to live your life in the encapsulation of twenty-four hours is exactly how it is envisioned in its construction.

Think of it:

We wake up. It’s like being born.

We prepare for the day—similar to going to school.

We arrive at work. Our lifespan.

We return home to eat dinner and relax, slowing down, simulating our later years.

We lay down and sleep, very similar to dying.

Yes, your life and my life is acted out every single day in a microcosm, with dramatic flair.

  • Stop thinking about the decade.
  • Ignore the year.
  • Walk away from those who are monthly planners.
  • Spurn the week.

Step into the day and look for opportunities to let the events grant you a lifetime of fulfillment.

Customer

Customer: (n) a buyer; patron

I have settled an age-old conflict in my well-traveled mind.

I am weary of philosophy, bored with theology, lack the “self” to give to “help”—and I’m allergic to politics.

I have decided life is not nearly as complicated as pundits, theologians and Madison Avenue may wish to portray. You just have to decide one quandary:

Am I the customer and God the store owner?

Or am I running a little storefront and God is the customer?

Am I trying to impress God with my wares, my righteousness, my worship and my Bible study? Or is God running a pretty magnificent manufacturing plant, and merely wants me to come in and enjoy the process, learn the assembly line, pick a car of my choice which will propel me in life—and be thrilled with the quality?

You do see the difference, don’t you?

In one scenario, I am a sniveling shopkeeper, certain that the customer is going to show up, despise my ambiance and find my products inferior.

In the other case, I arrive with great anticipation to a well-oiled operation, and it’s my job to enjoy the good stuff and admire the hell out of it.

If heaven is going to be about God and me discussing my attempts at purity and goodness on Earth, it’s gonna be a snoozer.

But if I show up as a satisfied customer from one of his plants to the Central location to be further wowed by the Boss’s management skills and ingenuity?

Then, gee.

It’s almost worth dying.

 

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Cure

Cure: (n) a method or course of treatment, as for disease

“I’m not sick.”

This is what I used to tell my mother on the days I wanted to go to school, go out and play or pursue some activity which was being halted because of “under the weather.”

Then there were the days I said, “I am sick.” I was trying to avoid a test, a bully or was too lazy to get out of my bed.

It carries over.

If everybody who was sick sought treatment, more people would get well. And if all the people who are truly well would cease to be paranoid hypochondriacs, we would probably spend a whole lot less money on medical treatment in America.

How do you know you need a cure?

When can you confirm there’s some sort of difficulty, impediment or disease which is keeping you from your best?

The problem with the medical field is the same situation presented by the political arena and also carries through into religious circles.

Cures are developed which are advertised and aren’t necessarily suited to the afflictions.

Politicians try to convince everybody that the economy, terrorism or health care are our three greatest issues. Are they? Will they bring a cure to our ills? Or is the dilemma actually that we still want to kick the shit out of each other?

In medicine, they get so excited about certain advancements and cures that they try to use them as a panacea for all conditions, while the conditions that really beset us—obesity, drug addiction and lack of physical activity—continue to hang around, making us sicker and sicker every day.

And in religion, a savior is offered who doesn’t seem to bring any more insight, wisdom or opportunity our way once we’ve been baptized and born again in our further confusion.

What is the cure?

Three steps:

  1. Ease the symptoms. Make people more comfortable.
  1. Find out where it hurts.
  2. Treat as lightly as possible. Don’t assume it’s a flesh-eating bacteria.

That seems to be the best cure. It’s one that people will tolerate.

Even though we’re all dying and will ultimately end in the grave—as dust and ash—we don’t need to do it every day.

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Crumple

Crumple: (v) to give way suddenly; collapse

I love living.

I am downright silly about my enjoyment of breathing.

I am not looking forward to dying.

I am not one of those noble souls who believes I am going to a better place, but instead, have cast my lot in constructing my own “better place” here.

Along with this devotion to inhaling and exhaling comes a certain amount of hypochondria.

It’s true.

I’m not crazy. Nor do I become a nervous wreck about every sneeze or discoloration of a wart.

But I have been known, as a young father, to scream at my children because they caught colds or the stomach flu and were dangerously threatening me with them. On occasion, this reaction has flirted with irrational.

Of late, I have had some good, long talks with myself about refusing to crumple over every little symptom that might temporarily invade my body space.

I am perfectly aware that not every headache is a brain tumor.

Indigestion crops up without foretelling of a heart attack.

And having an occasional bout with bleary eyes due to fatigue does not forewarn of blindness.

You see, I know all these things.

But trying to get my “knower” to make the short journey to my “feeler” is often implausible.

So I am aware that I’m healthy, but I still often try to mimic sick.

On these occasions, I crumple—getting a few tears in my eyes while considering my demise and how sad it will be to those I love, and even mankind as a whole.

It is foolish.

It is childish.

But when I get into one of these crumple fests, it doesn’t help me to know that I’m foolish and childish.

I just need to roll over in the morning, take a deep breath, realize that my lungs are clear, my heart is beating, and God bless America:

“I gots me another day.”

 

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C


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Corpse

Corpse: (n) a dead body, usually of a human being.

Sorting through a cavalcade of thoughts, I think I have finally arrived at a couple of notions that seem to hold true in spite of my own personal ridicule of them, and history proving that they’re ridiculous.

One such inkling is that I don’t really mind dying—I would just like to do it well and not have a bunch of people staring at my corpse.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

I don’t want to come to the end and be chicken shit or do something stupid like squeal like a squirrel.

I don’t want to have a gun pointed at me, and in a fit of weakness push a nearby child forward to take my bullet.

I don’t want to suffer, but I also would like to have the honor of “last words.”

But mostly…

It’s the corpse thing.

I learned a long time ago to stop bitching about my body and just focus on my body of work.

I got dealt an interesting accumulation of haphazard DNA possibilities. So I don’t want a bunch of people staring at my fractured and now-breathless frame, making judgments.

I don’t want to look “natural.”

I don’t want some technician in a morgue taking a peek at my penis.

(I know it’s silly.)

I don’t want two doctors shaking their heads as they stare down at my blob, speaking to one another in hushed tones about how I could have extended my life if…

None of us were meant to be “a corpse.”

We were just meant to die, and once dead, as quickly as possible, to shed our skin, and somewhere, somehow, possibly become a new creature.


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Commitment

Commitment: (n) the state or quality of being dedicated to a cause, activity, etc.

Religion gets in the way of my faith.

Politics robs me of my freedom.

Budgets take the joy out of money.

Discussing morals makes me too weak to enjoy sin.

Every time a committee gets together and decides something, a little piece of me ends up dying.

So I have become a rebel with a cause. The cause is to maintain the integrity of my sanity. So here are my commitments:

  1. I will pursue good cheer all the days of my life to avoid being obnoxious.
  2. I will notice when people do good and blind myself to stupidity.
  3. I will create something every day.
  4. I will appreciate the efforts of others, and linger for a moment to celebrate with them.
  5. I will stop talking about God and try to impersonate Him.
  6. I will continue to think of life as a comedy club instead of a prison.
  7. I will not put anything in my body that struggles to come out.
  8. I will laugh more than I cry, and all my crying shall end in laughter.
  9. I will avoid becoming adult because only children can truly lead us.
  10. I will honor these commitments and commit myself to pursuing not to be committed.

 

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Bowie Knife

Bowie knife: (n) a long knife with a blade double-edged at the point.

His name was Jim Bowie.Dictionary B

If he lived in your town, you would look at him as the guy who doesn’t have a job–always working a scheme, and you certainly wouldn’t want him dating your sister.

He probably wouldn’t even have made the pages of history had he not ended up in a little mission in San Antonio, Texas, called the Alamo. He arrived there defeated, rejected, running from the law and sick as a dog.

He was known for the big intimidating knife he carried–gaining a reputation by some lethal use.

Jim was with a bunch of other misfits who decided to make a stand in a poorly defended and somewhat meaningless piece of property. History has deemed this to be brave, but if you take a close look, it was just a bunch of macho stupidity. They could easily have fallen back, joined Sam Houston and been part of the victory instead of finding themselves burned up on a mass grave.

Sometimes I don’t know why Americans think that doing “bold maneuvers” is the definition of patriotic manliness. Discretion is not only the better part of valor, but it also enables you to do more things in life … so you’re known for something other than dying and carrying a big, bad-ass knife.

 

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Bonsai

Bonsai: (n) an ornamental tree or shrub grown in a pot

Once upon a time, in a kingdom where bank accounts were not depleted, I had some extra money burning a hole deep in my right pocket of selfishness.Dictionary B

It was scary.

I went over the bills three or four times just to make sure I hadn’t missed something, but at the end of my calculation, I discovered that I was temporarily endowed with abundance.

I wanted to do something lavishly weird–and not just lavish, like buying several cans of whipped cream, but weird. Something that would give others pause, but then they would feel foolish for questioning the wealthy fellow and his eccentric choices.

I hunted, I searched and I found a gentleman who sold bonsai trees.

I knew nothing about them. But I felt like owning one was a symbol of prosperity. So I bought two. Double the potency.

The fellow tried to explain to me the care of these plants and I listened with the attention span of a three-year-old who has to pee but also wants to ride the roller coaster.

When I got home with my bonsai trees, I realized that I had completely forgotten everything he said, and had left the literature behind, trusting my memory.

Then came that great, ridiculous American assertion: how hard can it be?

  • So I watered them
  • I trimmed their little branches (having remembered this being part of the process)
  • And every day when I returned, they looked a little worse

It was like watching your Grandma die of old age. I was concerned but totally helpless.

Then inexplicably, they developed tiny insects which started eating away at the bark.

It took about five weeks, while I heroically tried to give CPR to these dying new friends, but eventually they turned brown–and for some reason, started to stink.

I threw them both into a big garbage bag, took them out to the curb and said good-bye.

I can’t swear to it, but I thought I heard one of them, from within the bag, gasp, “Murderer.”

 

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Asthma

Asthma: (n) a respiratory condition marked by spasms in the bronchi of the lungs, causing difficulty in breathing.dictionary with letter A

ne of the sure signs of dying is difficulty in breathing, which is followed by the surest sign of dying, which is not breathing.

So I can’t imagine a more terrifying condition than asthma, which simulates your death for you over and over again, just in case you forgot what it might be like.

I’ve only had shortness of breath once or twice in my life, and I can tell you, it was mortifying.

Death would not be so bad if you didn’t have to stop breathing. The body just downright objects to that.

I have been underwater for a few more seconds than my lungs appreciated, trying to surface, praying prayers in every single language I knew, including a few I made up, desperately paddling my way to get to oxygen again.

I think because movies have treated asthma as a condition which is handled with an inhaler or some sort of medication, we don’t really pick up how horrifying it must be to be unable to get air into your lungs.

So all of my concern and prayers go out to those who experience this condition, and have been victimized by it–and also a quick prayer for a cure.

I like to breathe.

When I was a kid I didn’t even enjoy going under water and holding my breath to compete with others, to see who could last the longest. I’ve never participated in a contest while going through a tunnel to see who could hold their breath through the whole experience.

I’m pretty well addicted to about 45 inhales and exhales every minute.

 

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Abyss

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter A

Abyss: (n.) a deep or seemingly bottomless chasm.

For some reason, this particular scene really got inside me and registered.

Honestly, I watch a lot of things in movies that don’t impact me at all.  This is why I’m not fond of fantasy. I’m not looking for a way to escape reality–I’m looking for a way to make my present situation fantastic.

But when I watched the movie, The Abyss, and I saw the two characters trapped at the bottom of the ocean, needing to cross a large breadth of water to get to safety, knowing that one of them would not be able to achieve the task and would have to be carried, and that the best way to perform that and give the other one the chance was to have that one individual propelled literally as dead weight–it put a chill down my spine.

Obviously, there was great acting. But just the THOUGHT of being willing to die, placing my trust in another person to revive me on the other side, was absolutely horrifying to my spirit. And as I watched the flick, I found myself needing to turn away because the suspense and danger of it rattled me so.

I realized that I could never trust anyone quite that much. First of all, we would have to agree that the worst part of dying is being there for it. What happens after death is beyond our meager comprehension, and before death is just what we call Tuesday.

But to allow yourself to die, hoping that someone has the power to resurrect you, is probably the essence of what we deem faith.

After all, maybe to the angels in heaven, the earth appears to BE an abyss–a deep, dark chasm of misunderstanding. And I guess in some strange way we’re all supposed to die to this life in order to gain new discovery about ourselves and even eternity. But it doesn’t make it any less scary. It doesn’t make it easier to suck your last–trusting that everything’s going to be okay.

People tell me all the time that they’re not afraid to die and they’re “ready to meet Jesus.” I don’t know whether I believe them or not.

I guess I’m ready to meet Jesus, too.  I just wish it was at Starbucks.