Tag: words

ghough – n. a hollow place in your psyche that can never be filled; a bottomless hunger for more food, more praise, more attention, more affection, more job, more sex, more money, more hours of sunshine, more years of your life; a state of panic that everything good will be taken from you too early, which makes you want to swallow the world before it ends up swallowing you.

I think most people have some sort of ghough, longing for more. It’s a human, and a very America, thing. There’s never enough. You wish you had something more.

As I age, I have less of this, though I do feel the passage of time. No panic about passing away yet, but I can imagine I will at some point. It’s why I find myself more willing to have adventures in life, even at a slightly uncomfortable financial cost. I never know how long I’ll be here.

Of the list above, I think money sometimes intrudes. I think about travel with my wife, or things that have to be fixed on the ranch, and I think “more money” would solve things. However, I know that’s not really the case, and I try to calm my psyche down, reminding it that I need to manage and live within constraints, enjoying and appreciating what I have.

From the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

wildred –adj. feeling the haunting solitude of extremely remote places – a clearing in the forest, a windswept field of snow, a rest area in the middle of nowhere – which makes you feel like you’ve just intruded on a conversation that had nothing to do with you, where even the gravel beneath your feet, and trees overhead are holding themselves back to a pointed, inhospitable silence.

I rarely find myself in a remote place. Except on planes, then I love looking at the remoteness of the world. I was flying back from Austin to Denver and snapped this shot. I have no idea where it is. Somewhere between Austin and Denver. Texas? Oklahoma? SE Colorado? I didn’t expect this.

I enjoy some remoteness. I find myself craving the feeling of wildred, hoping for the chance to be in a place without people, without structures, without anything nearby.

Mostly I get this these days when I have to be somewhere early and no one is up and about. It does happen in winter, snowboarding down trails on a Wednesday in the trees with no one around. I can’t wait for that this next season.

From the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

justing – n. the habit of telling yourself that just one tweak could solve all your problems – if only you had the right haircut, if only you found the right group of friends, if only you made a little more money, if only he noticed you, if only she loved you back, if only you could find more time, if only you were confident – which leaves you feeling perpetually on the cusp of a better life, hanging around the top of the slide waiting for one little push.

I find a lot of people that have justing, thinking their are quick, easy solutions just out of reach. Of they focus so much on the one thing they desire, ignoring the rest of life. Or at least diminishing it.

I try hard not to have justing. In fact, lots of comedians have helped me to view the world differently. I accept where things are, I know there is chaos and struggle and other difficulties. I have to just accept and account for them, not wish things were different. Instead, I view the world as imperfect and not always here for me but still a place to appreciate and enjoy.

I can’t always get to the gym or I don’t always eat as well as I should. I accept that and work with it, not wishing it were different. I accept my faults and frailties, and I try to nudge them in better directions, knowing they will always be there.

I remind clients of this at work. There is no perfect way to build software, and you will always have some issues. You’ll always have some staff insufficiently trained, you’ll always have some people you don’t like. Work with that imperfection and don’t think about justing.

From the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

vulture shock – n. the nagging sense that no matter how many days you spend in a foreign country, you never quite manage to step foot in it – instead floating high above the culture like a diver over a reef, too dazzled by its exotic quirks to notice its problems and complexities and banalities, while drawing from the heavy tank of assumptions that you carry on your back wherever you go.

I guess not technically a word, but two. However, as someone that has enjoyed and loves traveling, this hits home.

My wife and I have made it a point to visit other countries, aiming to see a new one each year. In the last five years, despite the pandemic, we managed 11 countries outside the US, perhaps 5 new ones.

As we travel, we’ve tried not to do too many tourist things. We do a few, but we’ve enjoyed renting an AirBnb in a neighborhood and living for a week like we might if we resided there. It’s been neat to walk around, to shop in groceries, to experience life in small, quiet sections of cities and towns.

At the same time, I often feel foreign. I’ve grown up as an American for most of my life, and its culture is very ingrained in me. My habits, my languages, my preferences, my food, it’s very colored by my US upbringing. While I do try to experiment and try new things, everything I do is compared against my American-centric thoughts.

An example. In Seattle recently, we went to a Filipino diner for breakfast, where I had Sinangag and Longganisa with eggs. I enjoyed it, and I need to make some, but it was strange not to have a more American breakfast, to not have something sweet, to not have a more salty sausage. I was in the culture, but not in it.

I’ve felt the same thing in Greece, in France, in Portugal, in India, and other places. Even i the UK I feel somewhat immersed in and outside of the culture. Floating above it like a diver over a reef.

From the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows