What Did I Mean?

Really got to use my imagination

I’m not exactly sure what I meant when I gave this Substack the title: “Trying To Keep a Rock Alive.”

Maybe the rock is a Zen thing. Like those impossibly serene boulders in Japanese gardens—still as death but somehow thrumming with a frequency you can't hear unless you've been silent for, say, ten years. I look at it. I wait. Nothing happens. It doesn't purr. It doesn't sprout legs and and go out for a run. But I keep showing up. That might be the point?

Or maybe the rock is this planet. This blue speck Hendrix called the Third Stone From The Sun. Trying to keep that rock alive? Am I trying to save this world in these times?

Is this about hope? Is it about the task we all similarly enjoy? Our daily attempt at keying into the here and now.

The stubbornness of the absurd? Camus with a houseplant. I get nothing from the rock. No feedback. It just sits there. Still, I love it. I keep it warm.

Eternity could be brief, and the entire universe could be tiny. We just don’t know. We “trudge the road of happy destiny,” trying to believe in a positive outcome lest we start looking like that “The Scream” painting.

Then there is perseverance. Not gonna give up. True grit. Despite the odds. Maybe that’s what trying to keep a rock alive is.

Because here’s what I don’t mean: I don’t mean futility. I’m not Sisyphus pushing the boulder. I’m tired. Yes. Frustrated? You know it. Am I a dumbass? Often. But giving up? Nah. I’ve made worse investments.

It’s not logical, and that’s what makes it beautiful.

I keep the rock.
I love the rock.

Though I get nothing from it, I do love my rock.

You’re too strong. Got to keep on keepin’ on.