My Cousin Sue (Cousin is capitalized and there is no comma between the two words. Just so we're clear) wrote a short essay on the (in)famous words of Master Yoda..."Do, or do not. There is no try." You can read it here: As a Star Wars dork and also someone who enjoys thinking and writing about shit like this, I have just poured a whiskey and am diving head-first into it. I mean, this is far from the first time I've ever pondered these words, but the first time sharing them. Let's chat.
Yoda's words center around the word "try". "Try" is an attempt, no? An attempt has an outcome, correct? Cousin Sue (we will refer to her, lovingly, as CS) touched on "trying" not having to mean half-assing. In Luke's case, during the Dagoba scene in "Empire", he most certainly was half-assing it. "Alright, I'll give it a try" Luke says in his whiney, loser voice after Yoda's about fucking had it with him. This is in reference to Yoda telling him to lift the X-Wing out of the swamp with the Force, explaining to him that he "must unlearn what he has learned", clearly meaning that things that seem impossible are possible with the Force...or in real life, with determination, practice, and knowledge. So, half-assing, Luke was. Let's go back to "try". CS is learning to play classical guitar...which I think is tops. In my eyes, and Yoda's apparently, she is not trying to play classical guitar, she is playing classical guitar. You either play it, or you don't play it. How good you are at something doesn't really matter to me. If you keep doing it with determination, learn something every time you pick up that guitar, and practice your ass off, you will become accomplished at it. But as soon as you pick up that guitar with a goal in mind and half-assedness far out the window, then in Master Earl and Yoda's eyes, you play classical guitar. Susan, do you play classical guitar? "Yes" should be the first thing that comes out of her mouth. Now, if she would like to elaborate further on her progress, continued interest, or skill level, she may feel free to do so as to not come off as something she is not. She could say something like, "Yes. But I just started. There is quite the learning curve." Or, "Yes. But it's not going too well. I may take a break and pick it back up in a year or so." Or, "Yes. I absolutely love it. Never thought I could do something like this." So I guess what we need to figure out, is what is the difference between a try and a do? To try is to attempt, or put effort into accomplishing something. To do is to perform an act. So it looks like Meriam sees it as a "success" or a "failure". I prefer the absolutes. While putting effort into something, you are doing. If you fail while putting effort into something, you are still doing, and gaining valuable knowledge in the process, I might add. If there is no effort, if there is no attempt, you are not doing. If you whine about shit like Luke and have no heart, no ambition, no effort inside you, you are not doing. You are going through the motions or half-assing. There is no do. How you represent that "do" means something, too. If you do a bunch of shit poorly, but just tell people that you do a bunch of shit, without elaborating on your success, then that's just a character flaw. And Jedis shouldn't have that kind of character flaw. Matt, are you a writer? "Yes. I've got some blogs, nothing major." Not, "I try to on occasion." Matt, do you barbecue? "Yes. Been doing it for several years. Got a little business. I dig it." Not, "Yeah, I dabble." Matt, do wrap your own Christmas presents? "Yes. But I'm fucking awful at it." Not, "I try to, but I suck." Matt, do you eat healthy? "No. But I'm eating better". Or, "sometimes" will also work in a pinch. Slight differences probably, but own what you do, own what you're good at, own what you're okay at, and own what you suck at. "Try" is a copout word used to degrade or lessen something that you do. Own your do, elaborate as necessary. I vote for using idioms such as, "Give it a do", "Do it on for size", and "if at first you don't succeed, fucking do it again." A try is a do. Success or failure is secondary.
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Tonight I'm a single dad. My kids are properly tucked into bed at the expected hour. I've got whiskey and a fireplace. Yes ma'am.
* I don't like egos. We all have one to some point, especially me. You have to have a bit of one or else you'll get eaten alive. Or maybe ego isn't the term I'm looking for..maybe it's confidence. But that's essentially ego, isn't it? Just carried differently, I suppose. I've worked in industries where ego is king. You are surrounded by fly fishermen, climbers, paddlers, who all scrum to be on top. They claw to undermine peers, form a bro-club straight out of 5th grade, scrap for Instagram likes, try to create a "brand" for themselves, get free gear for bragging rights...all for ego. It's who they are. They lose their true self behind the longest beard they can grow, and become "fly fisher man" or "climber man". It's all they do, all they have. Their job, their friends, their existence is entrenched in this hobby. I guess I got caught up in that a bit years ago, and it can be addictive. Attention, followers, likes, people in the industry--peers and customers alike, know you or want to know you. It's a micro-spec of recognition in a tiny subculture, but it's one you're immersed in and the attention is tasty. It feeds the ego. It makes you want to focus more on attention and noise rather than self and zen. I'm not sure you can have it both ways. I'm not sure you can plan a trip to the river by yourself with the sole intention of escaping modern life while having videos, IG-quality pics, potential "sponsorships", river reporting, influencing, and/or bro-ing in mind. They cancel each other out. And I think I've realized this in my "older" age, that it's all pretty goddamn stupid. I got into fly fishing for myself and my dad. It just happened...organically. There are very few pictures of me fly fishing before the social media age, so I clearly was never in it for the recognition. But I'll be honest, the recognition was kind of cool, as very little as there was. But now I've come out on the other side, ego-free again. Well, maybe not entirely ego-free. I'm still better than everyone. Epilogue (kind of): I work among teachers and other educators now (so I'm clearly better than you). Very few egos. Just good folks trying to help kids. I like that. Egos are checked at the door. We don't scrum for attention, followers, pseudo-sponsorships, or free gear. We just do our job. Confidently. * It's no secret that I adore big dumb rock. I adore it, man. As I type this, AC/DC is screaming "Let There Be Rock" in my newly purchased JBL headphones (birthday present to myself). Now, my brain doesn't completely shut off when listening to BDR, but close. More so, it takes me back to riding shotgun in Vinnie's '64 Chevy Impala or Boner's baby-blue '65 Mustang, blasting 70s and 80s rock so loud it would make your ears bleed. No cell phones. No internet. No Spotify. Just a tape deck and the best backseat speakers a junior in high school could swing. Girls? Sure, man. Hope they like Van Halen. Sweet. They do. Big Dumb Rock is not a guilty pleasure of mine. I don't feel guilty at all. In fact, I think more people should give it a try. And hey, it's not too late to drive around, sans cell phone, and blast Dio at an uncomfortable sound level. Crack a handy road-sixer, take a puff off a hand-roll, drive through some poor sap's front yard, make out with someone on the hood of your car, shoot a couple bottle rockets out the window....get into some good, clean fun. Just do it while listening to some Big Dumb Rock. Embrace the BDM. You'll be glad you did. * If you are reading this, you probably know that I enjoy barbecuing. Sometimes I make some money doing it. I've got my methods, and that's cool. And I think I'm okay at it. But am I a "Pit Master"? That's got to be most ridiculous fucking term I've ever heard for someone who cooks meat over a fire. Pit Master? And I'm guessing "Pit Masters" are usually self-appointed. We just had a discussion about ego, man, so please drop the term "Pit Master" from your vocabulary. Especially if you run the Traeger on your patio from your phone. No offense. * Jameson Irish Whiskey is good. I'm a bit ashamed to say that, seeing as how I take pride in my taste buds and general choices in brown liquors. But it's so easy and satisfying to sip. Granted, I usually partake in my "expensive" stuff first, then cruise on some maintenance whisk afterwards if the evening looks like a more-than-one-glass night--as is the case tonight. But still, after wetting my whistle with the good stuff, the Jame-o has a sweet, peppery taste that I wouldn't mind dipping rare pieces of steak in. It's kind of like the Arby's of whiskey. You can get it anywhere, it's mass-produced, but it's still pretty fucking good. Good night. I haven't talked about Cliff at all since he died back in May. Too personal, too fresh, too sad, still. Yeah, he was a dog. And it's easy to say, "He was just a dog. Get the fuck over it." And I get that to a point. But you, obviously, have never had a dog quite like Cliff. And when you absolutely needed to get away from the general public and humans in general, Cliff was absolutely the friend that you needed to take with you to find that cleanse. Right now, I'm peopled out and need a fresh cleanse, but I don't have my co-pilot anymore to accompany me.
A fresh cleanse in the past meant me and my buddy heading up towards the Never Summer Wilderness atop the Poudre Canyon, finding "our spot" to set up camp, catch a couple trout, split a package of cheddar brats, watch a campfire for hours, and discuss hot topics like why people suck so terribly. My phone doesn't work up in that part of the mountains, thankfully, so it "forced" me to lay in my hammock with Cliff right next to me within petting reach, sipping on whisky and listening to the Allmans. No distractions, aside from the occasional car in the distance. Typically, the sound of the river would drown even the motorists out. That place was the perfect spot on this earth to take a breather from humans, reset, and figure out what's important. And with the best dude on this earth. He wouldn't just lay there asleep, or constantly grab a stick wanting to play, or whatever distraction...he would listen. He would engage, physically and emotionally. He'd look at you. He'd nudge you with his snoot when it was time to retort. He would lay his head on your chest when he felt you were sad or exhausted or upset. And later in the evening, when the whisky and other treats had swept rough moods under the pine cones, he would get up and shuffle and wag to Van Halen or Motorhead or whatever other release tune we had cocked and loaded. Whatever a spirit animal is, he was it. He was my bro. As I write this, it's winter. It's gray. We're getting another foot of snow tomorrow. And that's fine--it's Colorado in winter and we desperately need the precipitation. But it's got me jonesing for mild evenings around a fire, far from the general public, and with my guy. My guy that's been on so many fishing trips with me. As a pup--a 100lb pup--he would follow my fly line during every cast, while up to his ribs in cold mountain water. When a trout was hooked, he would become ridiculously interested and meet the fish about seven feet in front of me to check it out thoroughly before it went into the net. As I released fish, Cliff's head would immediately go under the water to see where it went. It was adorable. And genuinely on-brand for this kindred spirit of mine and April's. I'm peopled-out right now. I'm tired of everyone. I'm not being an asshole about it, I don't think, I'm just worn out. I need a breather. Far away. But it just doesn't appeal the same without Cliff. He put everything into perspective with his silence, his eye contact, his snoot nudges, his giant paw on my knee. Cliff was the big lummox that dragged me down into the river at said spot in the mountains one evening. That was a rough night. After cursing his existence, I tried to drink away the pain a of soon-to-be back surgery fall, but it didn't work. It just made my break-down of camp and drive down the mountain that much more challenging. But he was there for me. Ears back and giant brown eyes, he knew he goofed. He knew he pulled too hard in a fast river while lashed to me. On the way down the hill that night, while I could hardly move, he laid his head on the center console while in the backseat. He was present and concerned. That's Cliff's heart. The kids have been talking about getting another dog, but I'm not ready. I knew Cliff for 13 years. We were very close, clearly. We fished every river in Colorado together. Camped all over the damn place. Explored Missouri and Nebraska with the family. He would hike with April weekly, join us at breweries, play with our neighborhood kids, greet guests at our giant barbecues. He was just the goddamn best. And I'm not ready to "replace" him. It'd be like going out and finding a new best friend if Kevin or Bryan or Vinnie fucking died. Not that easy, man. I miss that sonofagun every damn day. I was actually fishing in Montana when he passed. He wouldn't get up to say goodbye before I left, and I just thought he was pissed that I was going without him. Thought he was pouting, by not getting up from laying in the backyard to come say goodbye. I gave him some shit. Told him I'd be back soon and would take him fishing. Stop pouting, Cliffy. No, he was sick. I got to FaceTime with him from 700 miles away. He licked the screen, said goodbye. That was it. God bless my wife and kids and neighbors for helping with the loss while I was gone. I hate people, but not them. I've had a lot of dogs in my life. Some cats. Some other critters. And they're all just pets. Some pretty good pets. But Cliff wasn't a pet...he wasn't just a dog. He was as good of a friend as you can find. And as much of tough time that I'm having with people right now, I think of Cliff while writing this, and it makes things a little better. Because he loved unconditionally. He understood and forgave. He showed more empathy than most humans I know. He loved being around us and loved being alive. I miss all or our times together, especially at our little camping grove atop the Poudre Canyon. But goddamn, am I glad we had them. From now on, when I have a sinking spell caused from mankind, I'm going to think about Cliff. He made everything better. Miss you, old man. |
AuthorI am Earl. Archives
May 2024
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