Mindful destruction and me (I’m a baseball bat kind of guy)

Posted: October 1, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I’m not an artist.

And I’m certainly not a creator (my kids and debris aside).

I’m a smasher, a breaker of things, a “that’s not supposed to be in there, Sam” kind of guy.

No, actually I’m a baseball bat kind of guy.

Baseball bats are the place to be, a way to dance and the means of rhythm that coincides with deep and hearty impact in the soul.

Here’s one of my former favourites (once named ‘Old Slugger’), which caught fire one enchanted evening:

It’s natural to enjoy a stick, a good stick, a stick that makes your walk home from work a good one.

And aiming approximately at the planet, swinging wildly (the only way to do it) and bracing yourself for your own impact, this is about enjoying a collision that reminds you of who you are.

I prefer apples.

Preferably slightly rotten (for the spread) but I’m prepared to again spend to have the freshest ingredients.

Baseball bats and apples.

Also bananas, pineapples and occasionally a roast chicken.

This is the relationship I have with fresh fruit and poultry.

Impacts so deep I feel like I’m part of their diet. An unnecessary 5-a-day.

I can’t fix this smashed plant pot in the shape of a classic VW campervan. I can’t superglue it in the right places, and I can’t marry up the many pieces to be flush.

I can smash it again though, and we can all enjoy the pieces (or I buy a new one, most likely).

I moved onto a chair today, two big wicker inherited buggers that took up more room than the total mass of my family combined.

With hammer and axe, as well as sinew and love, I tore them to pieces, and have just finished. There’s sweat, foul language and bits of wicker everywhere. My children were told to stay out of daddy’s deconstruction area.

I now have pieces of the wicker chair up on my wall. Does that count as what you’d want to consider creation?

I didn’t build the wall, but I did nail something I broke to it.

Really, I need to learn how to use superglue.

But I can’t deny in me the ‘back home’ sensation of laying a baseball bat into something. It’s the future, and I’d like to think I’m a part of that.

It’s not helpful, but it does, I believe, make us feel better.

So let’s strive for this measured mindful destruction in the long-term, and meanwhile, let’s pay attention to those who now how to superglue, build walls and fashion wicker chairs.

I suppose, someone needs to make the baseball bats, but till then there’s always sticks on the way home from your walk.

Thanks for reading.

Yours, swinging wildly at the planet,

Sam

The Evolution of the Stick and Why it Matters to Me

Posted: February 18, 2015 | Author: | Filed under: culture | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Once I was afraid – I was petrified.

So I armed myself and although the fear is still painfully real – at least I can express it with a bang so loud you can smell it.

Baseball bats.

“Baseball bats” is undoubtedly my favourite quote for a South African to say.

And that’s not the end of my opinion of baseball bats (oh brother – brace yourself).

You see, for a long time, as I mentioned earlier, I have had a distinct fear in my life of being eaten.

For me, the food chain is still very real and skin-splittingly apparent, though I may adjust to this fear better than other owing to being a cannibal.

Of course, I’m not about to eat someone any minute these days…but…should the bombs begin to drop and the lights start to flicker and the SPAM not make it to the shelves I rely on so heavily to find grub upon – you’re a gonna and I’m starting with your toes because even in times like these I still believe in the entrée.

Perhaps a tad off course from my original intent of direction, but I am glad to be rid of the burden of secret cannibalism and the fact that I’d start with your feet.

In a daring return to my original path, I may as well incorporate my cannibalism into my love of the great stick known as the baseball bat.

So, with anarchy rising out the window, and the window being full of other predators attempting to get in and chew (us)…I see two options.

  1. Lift my baseball bat from its snug bedding beneath the bed and wrap it thoroughly about the skulls, brains and all other neck-up interior sundry of the invading bears/lions/wolves whilst allowing you a fair few minutes to make the best use of either my turned back or the door.
  2. Retrieve the baseball bat from its nether-bed slumber and go about tenderising you in the hope of a satisfying last meal for a least something if not me. As for the intruding beasts of slaughter; close the window and ignore them viciously.

From the two options there you may have taken note of the reality inflicted upon both scenarios; the present presence of a baseball bat.

The baseball bat – the evolved stick that grew a handle and a capacity to devastate the nearby environment as best we can with either a pleasant or beastly temper…and thumbs.

Our thumbs have been utilised most completely, I feel, in their ability to grip a stick close to heart (of us), near to brain (of dinner) and right into the middle of something curious we’ve happened upon and are now righteously prodding as only our species knows how.

I have intentions, sweet friends, of bringing about a return of the walking stick known best as the staff.

Find a fault in the plan for me. Please.

Naturally, make them discardable, in that when the primal urge to inflict our thumbs into a scenario currently happening to us (or ‘us’ happening to a scenario) we may abandon our weighty-wood and proceed either high-tree bound or deep sea swam.

They would be tremendous as an additional weight to increase applicable strength in the arms, core, back and legs. This is therefore a health benefit although naturally it will somehow be a carcinogenic of some variety…because it’s a thing…and things give you cancer.

It would be decorative and can be added to by the owner of by trusted buddies of whom you are pleased to see them whittling your possessions – rarely do you receive this opportunity so embrace with all the hands you have.

A near-lost martial art of stick/staff fighting would return to the lonely fields of dueldom, wherein battles would largely end owing to bashed knuckles being a jolly-good cause for sportingly abandoning the day and instead seeking an alliance with your newly-made knuckle-basher pal.

You could pole-vault to meetings.

When you’d need a stick, you’d have one and this is likely the greatest reason for the invention yet. Having what you need; epitome of success of comfort.

And finally – I can get my chiselling-graffiti business on the up and up and further; bringing about a polite amount of affluence and thereby bring about…a brand new, super cool baseball bat.

And I’d even let you have a go on it.

I feel we’ve travelled far from the stick being a thing merely held, to the item of primal delight I now see it as, following a sincere and loving revert to our more ape-ish ways.

Now we have a grip around one end and I enjoy smashing the shit out of fresh fruit with it.

I believe I am doing things precisely as I should be, with a comforting baseball bat in hand and a grin held firmly between my nose and chin.

As for the true evolution; it is thus.

Once we prodded with sticks, and now we do it again.

Wonderful.

Sam.