Blog Bog and The Knucklehead

This week, I just want to have a word with The Knucklehead, OK? This one isn’t really for the internet audience, such as it is. I just want to have a chat with my boy. So thanks for stopping by, but we’re closed to the public this week. Nothing to see here folks… move along, that’s it… don’t forget your coat. Thanks. See you next week. Buh-bye.

Are they gone?

Ok. This blog is a failure. I mean, c’mon, I need to face some hard facts here. I’ve been making weekly posts for over five months now, and only last Sunday I finally hit 1,000 views. That’s not one post, that’s the whole blog. Not daily, either, we’re talking all-time. I’m averaging around 30 views per post, which means about a fifth of just my Facebook friends take a look each week. I have no idea if they’re even reading the entire posts; probably not. By internet standards, that’s a joke. I’m so far from “viral” I’m not even a mild head cold. I’m not even a sneeze. I’m WordPress’s runny nose. Nobody’s reading this crap.

And can you blame them? I’m not doing anything right. I mean, look around this place. I have no links to anything else. There’s no clear, concise theme. There are no interactive features. No quizzes, pictures, cartoons, or videos. Not even lists. There’s just text. Paragraphs of text. Text in a middle-aged white guy font with a page design that’s practically apologetic. Pages and pages of it. Good people, people who are smart and know these things and care about me and mean well have told me to keep my word count down around 600 per post. I get that, it makes sense. People don’t want to invest the time, and why should they? I’ve even tried to trim down, I just can’t. I get to talking about you, and the stuff just pours out like a fire hose. That’s not good writing. That’s just logorrhea.

Hits are everything on blogs, they’re the coin of the realm. They are the measure of success. I’m supposed to be marketing this blog, pushing it, selling myself, but you know I’ve never been good at that. I’ve always lacked the self-confidence for that, you know that, and I’m terrified that crippling self-esteem issues are my true legacy to you as a father. I had those cool business cards printed up, remember that? I even gave you a box of them. I figured that would be an easy way to spread the word. I handed out, like ten, before embarrassment overtook me. At handing out cards! I felt like I was imposing on people. Have you ever heard of anything so pathetic in your life?

1,000 hits. In five months. Unbelievable.

So, by any objective standards, this blog is a failure. I’m doing it all wrong, and as a result I have no real audience. Eight followers. Count ’em, eight. And I think at least three of them are just phishers, anyway.

But none of that really matters to me. I write this blog for two reasons, and I’ll keep doing it for those reasons. The first reason you already know about. The second you don’t.

The first reason is the push you gave me. You knew how much writing means to me. You knew how frustrated I was not having an outlet for that, and I think you also sensed how scared I was to try it and fail. But you gave me the encouragement I needed. And I realized that if I was going to do anything for you as a father, it was going to be by example. How could I tell you to take chances and reach for your dreams if I was too afraid to do it myself? I sort of told myself I was doing it for you. But it was really your gift to me. And it was a good gift. Because I am writing. I’m writing, and failing, and picking myself up and writing some more. Sometimes I hit on a phrase or sentence that makes me smile, and I learn from that. I’m practicing. I’m writing. That makes me a writer. I’m doing what I always wanted to do. You gave me that.

The second reason? You’re my audience. I’m doing this for you, and in the end, you alone. Sure, it would feel great to know that some parent somewhere picked up encouragement, or an idea from this that helped with their own knuckleheads. I like to imagine that from time to time. But this is really a sort of a journal for when you’re a dad. Or coach, or teacher if you don’t have any knuckleheads of your own. It’s what I was thinking when I did some of the things I did. It’s a piece of me for when I’m not around any more. It’s my way of creating something useful for you for when you need it. And it’s right here, always within reach, anytime you want. Even if just to show your own knucklehead(s) what a dork your old man was. Or, if you like, a peek at how much fun being your dad was, and is. This blog is my love letter to you, my son.

So by those standards, this blog isn’t a failure. Which means I’ll keep on going for a while.

OK, you can let everybody else back in now.

What? Jeez, they were just here a minute ago.

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4 Responses to Blog Bog and The Knucklehead

  1. Doug says:

    For my dear friend, Peter. Read this, and keep writing;
    From The Cruise of the Snark, 1911
    By Jack London
    It began in the swimming pool at Glen Ellen. Between swims it was our wont to come out and lie in the sand and let our skins breathe the warm air and soak in the sunshine. Roscoe was a yachtsman. I had followed the sea a bit. It was inevitable that we should talk about boats. We talked about small boats, and the seaworthiness of small boats. We instanced Captain Slocum and his three years’ voyage around the world in the Spray.
    We asserted that we were not afraid to go around the world in a small boat, say forty feet long. We asserted furthermore that we would like to do it. We asserted finally that there was nothing in this world we’d like better than a chance to do it.
    “Let us do it,” we said … in fun.
    Then I asked Charmian privily if she’d really care to do it, and she said that it was too good to be true.
    The next time we breathed our skins in the sand by the swimming pool I said to Roscoe, “Let us do it.”
    I was in earnest, and so was he, for he said:
    “When shall we start?”
    I had a house to build on the ranch, also an orchard, a vineyard, and several hedges to plant, and a number of other things to do. We thought we would start in four or five years. Then the lure of the adventure began to grip us. Why not start at once? We’d never be younger, any of us. Let the orchard, vineyard, and hedges be growing up while we were away. When we came back, they would be ready for us, and we could live in the barn while we built the house.
    So the trip was decided upon, and the building of the Snark began. We named her the Snark because we could not think of any other name — this information is given for the benefit of those who otherwise might think there is something occult in the name.
    Our friends cannot understand why we make this voyage. They shudder, and moan, and raise their hands. No amount of explanation can make them comprehend that we are moving along the line of least resistance; that it is easier for us to go down to the sea in a small ship than to remain on dry land, just as it is easier for them to remain on dry land than to go down to the sea in the small ship. This state of mind comes of an undue prominence of the ego. They cannot get away from themselves. They cannot come out of themselves long enough to see that their line of least resistance is not necessarily everybody else’s line of least resistance. They make of their own bundle of desires, likes, and dislikes a yardstick wherewith to measure the desires, likes, and dislikes of all creatures. This is unfair. I tell them so. But they cannot get away from their own miserable egos long enough to hear me. They think I am crazy. In return, I am sympathetic. It is a state of mind familiar to me. We are all prone to think there is something wrong with the mental processes of the man who disagrees with us.
    The ultimate word is I Like. It lies beneath philosophy, and is twined about the heart of life. When philosophy has maundered ponderously for a month, telling the individual what he must do, the individual says, in an instant, “I Like,” and does something else, and philosophy goes glimmering. It is I Like that makes the drunkard drink and the martyr wear a hair shirt; that makes one man a reveller and another man an anchorite; that makes one man pursue fame, another gold, another love, and another God. Philosophy is very often a man’s way of explaining his own I LIKE.
    But to return to the Snark, and why I, for one, want to journey in her around the world. The things I like constitute my set of values. The thing I like most of all is personal achievement— not achievement for the world’s applause, but achievement for my own delight. It is the old “I did it! I did it! With my own hands I did it!” But personal achievement, with me, must be concrete. I’d rather win a water-fight in the swimming pool, or remain astride a horse that is trying to get out from under me, than write the great American novel. Each man to his liking. Some other fellow would prefer writing the great American novel to winning the water-fight or mastering the horse.
    Possibly the proudest achievement of my life, my moment of highest living, occurred when I was seventeen. I was in a three-masted schooner off the coast of Japan. We were in a typhoon. All hands had been on deck most of the night. I was called from my bunk at seven in the morning to take the wheel. Not a stitch of canvas was set. We were running before it under bare poles, yet the schooner fairly tore along. The seas were all of an eighth of a mile apart, and the wind snatched the whitecaps from their summits, filling the air so thick with driving spray that it was impossible to see more than two waves at a time. The schooner was almost unmanageable, rolling her rail under to starboard and to port, veering and yawing anywhere between southeast and southwest, and threatening, when the huge seas lifted under her quarter, to broach to. Had she broached to, she would ultimately have been reported lost with all hands and no tidings.
    I took the wheel. The sailing-master watched me for a space. He was afraid of my youth, feared that I lacked the strength and the nerve. But when he saw me successfully wrestle the schooner through several bouts, he went below to breakfast. Fore and aft, all hands were below at breakfast. Had she broached to, not one of them would ever have reached the deck. For forty minutes I stood there alone at the wheel, in my grasp the wildly careering schooner and the lives of twenty-two men. Once we were pooped. I saw it coming, and, half-drowned, with tons of water crushing me, I checked the schooner’s rush to broach to. At the end of the hour, sweating and played out, I was relieved. But I had done it! With my own hands I had done my trick at the wheel and guided a hundred tons of wood and iron through a few million tons of wind and waves.
    My delight was in that I had done it—not in the fact that twenty-two men knew I had done it. Within the year over half of them were dead and gone, yet my pride in the thing performed was not diminished by half. I am willing to confess, however, that I do like a small audience. But it must be a very small audience, composed of those who love me and whom I love. When I then accomplish personal achievement, I have a feeling that I am justifying their love for me. But this is quite apart from the delight of the achievement itself. This delight is peculiarly my own and does not depend upon witnesses. When I have done some such thing, I am exalted. I glow all over. I am aware of a pride in myself that is mine, and mine alone. It is organic. Every fibre of me is thrilling with it. It is very natural. It is a mere matter of satisfaction at adjustment to environment. It is success.
    Life that lives is life successful, and success is the breath of its nostrils. The achievement of a difficult feat is successful adjustment to a sternly exacting environment. The more difficult the feat, the greater the satisfaction at its accomplishment. Thus it is with the man who leaps forward from the springboard, out over the swimming pool, and with a backward halfrevolution of the body, enters the water head first. Once he left the springboard his environment became immediately savage, and savage the penalty it would have exacted had he failed and struck the water flat. Of course, the man did not have to run the risk of the penalty. He could have remained on the bank in a sweet and placid environment of summer air, sunshine, and stability. Only he was not made that way. In that swift mid-air moment he lived as he could never have lived on the bank.
    As for myself, I’d rather be that man than the fellows who sat on the bank and watched him. That is why I am building the Snark. I am so made. I like, that is all. The trip around the world means big moments of living. Bear with me a moment and look at it. Here am I, a little animal called a man — a bit of vitalized matter, one hundred and sixty-five pounds of meat and blood, nerve, sinew, bones, and brain, — all of it soft and tender, susceptible to hurt, fallible, and frail. I strike a light back-handed blow on the nose of an obstreperous horse, and a bone in my hand is broken. I put my head under the water for five minutes, and I am drowned. I fall twenty feet through the air, and I am smashed. I am a creature of temperature. A few degrees one way, and my fingers and ears and toes blacken and drop off. A few degrees the other way, and my skin blisters and shrivels away from the raw, quivering flesh. A few additional degrees either way, and the life and the light in me go out. A drop of poison injected into my body from a snake, and I cease to move — forever I cease to move. A splinter of lead from a rifle enters my head, and I am wrapped around in the eternal blackness.
    Fallible and frail, a bit of pulsating, jelly-like life — it is all I am. About me are the great natural forces — colossal menaces, Titans of destruction, unsentimental monsters that have less concern for me than I have for the grain of sand I crush under my foot. They have no concern at all for me. They do not know me. They are unconscious, unmerciful, and unmoral. They are the cyclones and tornadoes, lightning flashes and cloud-bursts, tide-rips and tidal waves, undertows and waterspouts, great whirls and sucks and eddies, earthquakes and volcanoes, surfs that thunder on rock-ribbed coasts and seas that leap aboard the largest crafts that float, crushing humans to pulp or licking them off into the sea and to death — and these insensate monsters do not know that tiny sensitive creature, all nerves and weaknesses, whom men call Jack London, and who himself thinks he is all right and quite a superior being.
    In the maze and chaos of the conflict of these vast and draughty Titans, it is for me to thread my precarious way. The bit of life that is I will exult over them. The bit of life that is I, in so far as it succeeds in baffling them or in bitting them to its service, will imagine that it is godlike. It is good to ride the tempest and feel godlike. I dare to assert that for a finite speck of pulsating jelly to feel godlike is a far more glorious feeling than for a god to feel godlike.
    Here is the sea, the wind, and the wave. Here are the seas, the winds, and the waves of all the world. Here is ferocious environment. And here is difficult adjustment, the achievement of which is delight to the small quivering vanity that is I. I like. I am so made.

    • Doug, than you so much for your encouragement, and also for the magnificent Jack London excerpt. I wasn’t familiar with this, and it’s wonderful. Exactly what I was fumbling for, but much more powerful and eloquent because, well DUH, he’s Jack London! Thanks for reading and sharing this.

  2. Pingback: The Atheist and The Knucklehead, Part 1 | The Gentleman Knucklehead

  3. LCJ says:

    AWESOME, keep it up, don’t stop. Just read the last 5. DKJ told me about this, and glad I stopped by. 🙂 Will be back for more….

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