Mr. Miyagi died. That's too bad. Pat Morita was always good for a chuckle no matter what he was in.
Wax on. Wax off. That's life, I guess. I always feel like I'm waxing on. Always becoming. Never really sure what, but always becoming. In reality I suppose anyone over about twenty-five is waxing off little by little.
Sometimes I think of life as one of these ballistic trajectories we are so fond of analyzing in elementary Physics. Once the projectile (you) leaves the barrel of the gun (your childhood) there is no way to add more energy to it. It is accelerating toward the earth from the moment it leaves, though it continues to rise for a while because of the upward momentum that has been imparted to it. The funny thing is that there is no way to accurately estimate how much kinetic energy the projectile had when it left the gun or at what angle the gun was pointed with respect to the horizontal. Some projectiles go almost straight up, and maybe pretty high, but fall to earth roughly where they started. Others come out really fast, but the gun was pointed almost level, or even downward, and they don't go very far. Some self-destruct in the barrel of the gun. Too much gun powder? Fragile projectile? Crummy gun? Who knows?
If you're lucky, you get enough propellant to give you a good escape velocity, but not enough to damage you in the process, and you get sent off in a relatively optimum direction so that you'll rise high and go far and stay in the air for a good long time. But you never know. Some projectiles look really promising then fall apart in the air before they ever land. Others go surprisingly far after what, by all appearances, was a bum launch.
The semi-amusing concept here is that the only way to judge the quality of the launch is by the subsequent behavior of the projectile. Looked at in this way, a launch that may have been painful, traumatic, and ostensibly unpromising may turn out--judging by the results--to have been quite good. Even if the launch crew had no fucking idea what they were doing.
Pretty damn deterministic, if you ask me. Sometimes I'd like to really believe in determinism and just sit back and see what happens, but I can't. I am soon gripped with the fear that if I don't do something, and do it pretty quickly, everything will fall apart and I will land on the street with only a shopping cart in which to haul all of my precious stuff around. A true determinist would say that that fear was part of the kinetic energy imparted to me at launch time. So I am not doing anything or failing to do anything of my own free will. I don't think there's any way to ever know.
But . . .
Fear of failure is calling yoohoo and I'd better answer it even if the only point of the exercise is to make me feel less anxious.