Remember we were talking about baseball and its predilection for failure. We happened to be reading ESPN the Magazine and came across an article about Yankee Masahiro Tanaka, a $175 million dollar Japanese pitcher. Serendipitously for CathyBlogs, the story begins with failure, which becomes success; a couple of long home runs given up that has the crowd thinking ‘rout,’ then a mental and physical comeback that became a Yankee victory. Get the gist of that game here. As Yankees catcher Brian McCann said, "He knows when to go to max effort." When the going gets tough, the tough throw fastballs. Or make resolutions then write meandering blog posts.
We’re reading a book called ‘The Immortal Collection’ mostly for fun but it’s full of archeology and history so we might be learning something. (Since we're interested in things publishing related, it was a self-published bestseller on Amazon Spain that was translated and offered on Amazon U.S.) Anyway, in the book, the character Iago, an ancient over 10,000 years old says, ‘I’ve always favored making mistakes and then regretting them.’ We’ve been thinking of that bit of philosophy all day; don’t most of us try to avoid mistakes, only to make them then become best friends with regret? Again: we only ask the questions.* We might be asking questions about this book a long time; it seems it’s the first of a trilogy. We're not regretting that.
We promised ourselves to avoid originality, but our restless, daydreaming brain keeps worrying the words; so, well, we stole from John Donne.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
We wrote as if to a pale poet; we all know at least one, don't we?
Poet, be not proud; see, I’ve found your
Creations slim, yet not dreadful; mark that,
Even those I call the most overblown
Will die not, dear Poet; although they may kill me.
From rest and sleep they kept you (and me); still,
Small pleasure comes from knowing more will flow,
Though these are your best efforts, I know,
The best of your inspiration, and soul’s delivery.
You are slave to emotion, chance, wonder, misery,
And with pencil, paper, and laptop dwell.
A good day’s work can help you sleep well
And have better nights; why keep writing, then?
One more and more poem penned, we imagine eternally;
These poems shall live on; Poet, dare to rhyme again.
We wonder this a lot
So am I wrong? / For thinking that we could be something for real? / Now am I wrong?
Am I tripping for having a vision? / My prediction: I'ma be on the top of the world / Walk your walk and don't look back, always do what you decide / Don't let them control your life, that's just how I feel / Fight for yours and don't let go, don't let them compare you, no / Don't worry, you're not alone, that's just how we feel
* Hobby, talent, genius, failure, mistakes, regret. A litany.