Last Tuesday I attempted to attend an open mic here in the city. The previous week I hadn't gone, due to having a terrible cold. Dave was still extremely sick last week, so I went alone. I thought I remembered the route well enough: take the train thus far, then take the bus to the appropriate street. What I didn't realize was that two completely different buses pull in at that train station, one heading north-south, the other heading east-west. Last Tuesday, I took the wrong one. I rode for several miles, guitar wedged awkwardly between my knees, hopeful but nervous. Increasingly more nervous, as street after street went by and the neighborhoods become less and less recognizable.
When I finally realized I was going the wrong way, I took the same bus back in the opposite direction, thinking that had been the problem. But looking out again at block after block of unfamiliar buildings, I knew somehow I was still going the wrong way. By this time it was about an hour after the event was supposed to have begun, and I gave up. Got off the bus, walked into a local Burger King and got myself some food.
I was so angry with myself I could barely have spoken, if there'd been anyone around to talk to. So I sat at a table in the Burger King and started to write in my Anatomy of Trust notebook, which in a pinch doubles as a "random thoughts" journal if I'm stranded without other sources of blank paper. Part of what I wrote was:
I chose to get fixed on trust and personality because I believe, believe now and believed then, that those were the avenues by which the things I feared arrived at me. [...] I could understand the people well enough to get by. But I knew I'd never be free from the things I feared until I understood the relationships.
And still self-sabotaging after all these years.
What does it mean when I get myself lost?
Only when I'm on the way to do something I really want and which will be really good for me. Only then.
Here I sit in a damn Burger King, miles from the pub, because it seemed my visual memories of having made a bus & train trek there once before were sufficient.
Relationships that scare me?
How about my relationship with me?
Getting around in Chicago is, in fact, a pretty straightforward endeavor. The whole city is laid out on a grid with the occasional diagonal street for ease of navigation. Madison is zero north and south, State is zero east and west, and address numbers increase in every direction as one travels away from those axes. Every major intersection is labeled with the address of each street, and every minor intersection with the names of both streets. The only way you can get lost is by forgetting where you're going, or by not knowing where you are--whether you're north or south, east or west.
The interior of the mind is a little more fluid, though. Any understanding we have of ourselves is framed in the form of a story, a story arc. "First this happened to me; I became like this because of it" or "I did this in that situation, and discovered that this was a part of me." Ursula LeGuin once wrote that the fantasy story reflects the journey into the self; the language of fantasy is the symbolic language understood by the unconscious. There is no grid. There are no streets with numbers, no buses that declare which direction they're going and their ultimate destinations in a soothing recorded voice every time they pull up to a stop. Just a story, with as much exposition and character development as you're able to pack into the limitations of the frame.
After my experience of navigation fail I was pretty upset. I cried on Dave's shoulder a bit when I got home. He hugged me, made me tea, and told me not to be so hard on myself. It was still tough for me to calm down. The navigation fail itself wasn't so bad; all I lost was a few hours of my time, time which could have been much better spent, and the cost of some bus fare. What scared me was the self-sabotage. I've worked hard to break that habit, to re-train all the parts of myself that depended on it. Clearly that work is not finished. But it was frustrating and infuriating to me, because I do feel like I've made a lot of progress. I even have lots of nifty aphorisms and catchphrases to encourage myself when confronted with an unpleasant personality-construction problem. There's that wise saying by the late Douglas Adams, "The more something is designed never to break, the more difficult it is to get at when you need to repair it." Or my personal favorite of the catchphrases I've come up with: "If you feel stupid, it means you just got smarter." That one's my motto.
But what I'm trying to do, in seeking out local open mics, finding opportunities to play my songs in front of new people, is something new for me. The goal is to get out of my existing comfort zone and into the larger world. One small step in a very positive direction. Whatever fearful, pessimistic parts of me are tied into those old bad habits, perceived that this act is the thin edge of a wedge. There's creative work kept secret, and then there's creative work brought to the attention of others. Once I gain the confidence to step out in front of an audience, to make a small little place for myself in my local musical community, who knows where it might end? It's a categorical shift, from singing in my apartment to singing in a local bar. So once the shift is made, once I'm comfortable in front of a small, casual, local audience, whatever hard work and effort is required to get a bigger audience is only a matter of degree. At least, that's the way I perceive it--so by the same measure, that's the way my unconscious fears perceive it.
I had a dream last week that I think bears on this subject. I was standing around on a sidewalk in a dingy neighborhood, part of a group of local people. Some of us smoked cigarettes, others spoke of inconsequential things in low tones. But we were all weighed down by fear: this neighborhood was ruled by some evil, authoritarian government, and anyone even suspected of opposing them would be dealt with severely. So instead of going anywhere or doing anything, we all just stood around hoping nothing bad would happen.
So, in my dream, I got mad. I started smacking myself in the forehead with the flat of my palm, the way you do when you realize you've done something incredibly stupid. The thought wasn't one I "thought out loud" to the point of putting it into words, but I felt as though I was in the wrong place, that this wasn't somewhere I was supposed to be.
After a goodly number of forehead smacks, the scene shifted. I was standing in an upstairs room in a large and run-down building. The walls and ceiling were black, not as though they'd been painted that way, but as though they were stained by years of accumulated soot and grime. Debris was scattered all over the floor. Now, in this part of the dream, I had telekinesis. I could move stuff around just by pointing at it and willing it to move. When I looked up at the ceiling I noticed an enormous rectangular vent shaft, like the kind that's connected to a furnace or fireplace to take out the hot air. But instead of leading outside the building, as other ventilation ducts I've seen always do, it curved around sharply. Just a few feet from the room's single, grimy window, it ended in a grille which pointed right back into the middle of the room. I poked around the inside of the ventilation duct with a little telekinetic force and realized that it was almost completely choked off. I was glad I didn't have to physically put my hand in there to clear it out. Who knows what spiky nasty bits were wedged in there along with the soot and ash? But still, it puzzled me, because even if I managed to clear out the vent shaft--an arduous task even with telekinesis!--it would still be blowing all that hot air and soot and ash right back inside the room.
Later on that week I had an appointment at my local mental health place, and found myself describing this dream to the doctor. (She's not my permanent therapist; I'm still in the intake and evaluation phase. Still, why pass up a perfectly good human sounding board?) And after I'd talked it out, it occured to me: "That's a pretty good image for what I do with my anger. Because I'm not too comfortable expressing or even feeling anger, except towards myself." It's still a problem whose solution I've yet to find.
But having a clear idea what the problem is can be helpful in finding ways to circumvent it, and get good stuff done anyway. Most psychological issues aren't things you can clear up easily or quickly. And while it's true that the mind, like the body, isn't exactly a machine, if you find out something isn't working the way it should, it's nice to know what it is so that you can avoid using it when possible. If your ankle's sprained, you try not to put your full weight on it. And if some part of your motivations are sprained, you try not to lean too hard on your own initiative in that area.
So this Tuesday I went out by myself again. But this time I was a half hour early, and armed with detailed directions. This time, I made it there.
And I had a wonderful time! There was a nice couple there, who'd also come to perform. They lent me a pair of maracas, so I got to accompany everybody who played as a miniature rhythm section. I got invited to two other open mics, and some guy gave me his phone number, saying "we should totally jam sometime." May have been not entirely musical in nature, but hey, at least I made an impression.
One of the open mics to which I was invited was on Thursday, at a small tavern on the south side. Navigation success again! And again someone came up to me and gave me their phone number. Only this time it was a lady, who talked with me for awhile about music and was very encouraging. One of the people from Tuesday night showed up, late in the evening, and I got to introduce him to a couple of the people I'd met. Even though it was my first time at that place, I was already starting to feel at home.
Best of all the guy running the Thursday night open mic came up to me as everyone was getting ready to leave, and told me he'd actually been recording the entire night. He said once he'd gotten a chance to chop up the sound file, he could email me mp3's of the songs I played. Once I get those, I will totally send them to y'all! And/or post them somewhere!
It reminds me of the kind of thing that always happens in fantasy stories.
Step one. Fall into perilous bog. Get covered in yucky mud and almost eaten by crocodile.
Step two. Find way to circumnavigate perilous bog.
Step three. Find hidden ruins which contain treasure.
Step four. Use treasure to buy things. Things you like!
Showing posts with label true story thursdays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label true story thursdays. Show all posts
True Story Thursday vol. 6: The irony's the thing
Hast heard the criers on this April morn? Tis Talk Like Shakespeare Day in our fair burg, as our fair-hearted Duke Daley hath lately made known. By my troth, the Duke's as fair of heart as he is fair of face. And a ruddier snout ne'er graced a trough in all of Iowa! He's third or second of that lilied name to have stretched the mantle of our governance across his doughty shoulders. Which means, i'faith, twas the sixth or fourth tongue by that name to declare a holiday while his erstwhile boon companions took a holiday in shackles.
(cue Elizabethan laugh track--complete with some yahoo in the back shouting "Zounds! That's fulsome!")
Okay, okay, I've had my fun. Writing Shakespearean style is cool, but exhausting! Without television and the internet as means of standardizing quips and catchphrases, Brits in Shakespeare's day had made witticism into a kind of sport. Being up on the latest turns of phrase was, I imagine, the cultural equivalent of being about to quote sports statistics (By the way, Amber, the Toronto Blue Jays currently lead their division at 11-5, so your pick of them to win the AL east looks good!) or make jokes by slightly altering quotes from popular TV shows (Mmm...snowclones). So writing in Shakespearean and doing it right means not just Elizabethan grammar and idioms--it means biting political commentary couched in elaborate but carefully non-treasonous insults!
Hence, rest of post = not Shakespearean.
Instead I will write about the delicious irony that has me (ironically) in a very good mood these last few April morns. Last week or this weekend, Pearl mentioned to me that the workplace of a friend of hers is hiring--a friend who works right here in the city! So on Monday I filled out an online application for them. It's a call center and the pay's not fantastic, but I figure, what the heck. I've applied for equally un-lucrative things, and if they're hiring right now that's my principal concern.
On Tuesday, I got a cold. A really wicked bad cold, complete with a nasal passages that were more effectively blocked than an NHL goal net and a sore throat that killed my voice and felt like I'd eaten steel wool every time I swallowed. Did I mention the job I applied for consists entirely of talking?
On Wednesday, the place called me up to schedule an interview. By that point I could actually croak out complete sentences, thanks to my fever having broken in the night. So was able to talk to the recruiter lady anyway, and we set up an interview for me on Monday.
If I hadn't been sick, I'd've set it up for tomorrow. But still! They are hiring and I will possibly be working soon! And despite the inconvenience I definitely appreciate the irony. Haven't been sick all year that I can remember until this week. Hey, who knows, maybe this'll be just the thing to rev up my immune system so I don't get sick after possibly getting a job.
(cue Elizabethan laugh track--complete with some yahoo in the back shouting "Zounds! That's fulsome!")
Okay, okay, I've had my fun. Writing Shakespearean style is cool, but exhausting! Without television and the internet as means of standardizing quips and catchphrases, Brits in Shakespeare's day had made witticism into a kind of sport. Being up on the latest turns of phrase was, I imagine, the cultural equivalent of being about to quote sports statistics (By the way, Amber, the Toronto Blue Jays currently lead their division at 11-5, so your pick of them to win the AL east looks good!) or make jokes by slightly altering quotes from popular TV shows (Mmm...snowclones). So writing in Shakespearean and doing it right means not just Elizabethan grammar and idioms--it means biting political commentary couched in elaborate but carefully non-treasonous insults!
Hence, rest of post = not Shakespearean.
Instead I will write about the delicious irony that has me (ironically) in a very good mood these last few April morns. Last week or this weekend, Pearl mentioned to me that the workplace of a friend of hers is hiring--a friend who works right here in the city! So on Monday I filled out an online application for them. It's a call center and the pay's not fantastic, but I figure, what the heck. I've applied for equally un-lucrative things, and if they're hiring right now that's my principal concern.
On Tuesday, I got a cold. A really wicked bad cold, complete with a nasal passages that were more effectively blocked than an NHL goal net and a sore throat that killed my voice and felt like I'd eaten steel wool every time I swallowed. Did I mention the job I applied for consists entirely of talking?
On Wednesday, the place called me up to schedule an interview. By that point I could actually croak out complete sentences, thanks to my fever having broken in the night. So was able to talk to the recruiter lady anyway, and we set up an interview for me on Monday.
If I hadn't been sick, I'd've set it up for tomorrow. But still! They are hiring and I will possibly be working soon! And despite the inconvenience I definitely appreciate the irony. Haven't been sick all year that I can remember until this week. Hey, who knows, maybe this'll be just the thing to rev up my immune system so I don't get sick after possibly getting a job.
True Story Thursday vol. 5: Hooray paperwork!
They say the world looks down on the bureaucrats
They say we're anal, compulsive and weird
But when push comes to shove you gotta do what you love
Even if it's not a good idea
~ Futurama
A lady walks up to a man and greets him tentatively, with a question mark at the end of his name. He is wearing a suit and tie; he's been waiting for her to arrive. While trying very hard to keep his expression calm and courteous, he stands up much too hastily and loses control of his coat. Still, the two manage to shake hands. He stammers an apology that sounds a little too loud in the quiet room. She gives him a polite smile, and replies with something diplomatic.
Is this a couple on a blind date? No, no!
This scene took place in the lobby of the employment agency I visited this morning. I, like stammering guy, was there to fill out reams of paperwork, interview a recruiter, and take a few tests which verified our ability to type, correct spelling and use Microsoft Office programs. I wish nervous guy well. Though I can't help wondering the reason for his nervousness. Does he need a job with great urgency? Never done this sort of thing before? Socially anxious? I suppose I'll never know.
But the guy inadvertently gave me some confidence. The recruiter who interviewed me was the same one who spoke to him (and to his relief, let him know where to hang up his coat!), so I felt like my own less visible nervousness was no big deal. Which made me even less nervous! And though he was in the computer skills testing room when I got there, he was still there when I'd finished. Which made me mentally add weight to the "extremely recent college grad who hasn't worked with a recruiting agency before" possibility. And yes, also made me feel better.
Much props to Mom for getting me in touch with this agency. They are the first one this year that has given me the opportunity to come in and fill out paperwork and take tests. And I am good at filling out paperwork and taking tests. Which I think is due to practice. Lots and lots of practice.
Also I like doing it. For that, I'm not so sure. Could be I'm just a weirdo who likes paperwork.
See, the jobs I've done that I liked best--or the most enjoyable parts of the jobs I didn't like so much--involved lots and lots of filing. Some examples! Taking numbers off invoices and turning them into paid bills. Having a computer tally up people's hours from their punch in / punch out logs. Typing up contracts from handwritten notes. Proofreading legal documents. Taking miscellaneous heaps of paper and creating an organized filing system out of them. Giving a filing system a complete overhaul because one or two or ten or two hundred pieces of paper out of an entire filing cabinet need to be removed or replaced with other, slightly different pieces of paper. Being able to get paid to do these things makes me happy.
An orderly system can be a beautiful thing. When people are standing around an office arguing about what to do next, being able to dig in a drawer, point to a piece of paper and say "This is how we handled this problem last time, and it didn't work, so let's not do it again!" or "We have exactly enough money and/or time to try so-and-so's idea, and it might turn out awesome, so maybe we should do it!" You can also get wonderful stories out of pieces of paper. If you're on the phone with a vendor, say, and you have all their invoices neatly arranged in a binder in front of you, can you tell them you're sure they raised the price on widgets. Or that you ought to get a discount on wingdings because you buy so many.
But every system is ordered only up to a point--and that too is a beautiful thing. There's no such thing as complete control, even over documents. Especially when you have to try and exert it yourself. No matter how much work you put into it, you will eventually run across a folder where the client simply never filled out their ABC Form. Maybe the professional in charge of that client had taken the form out to review it four years ago, spilled coffee all over it, and threw it away, and now both the professional and the client are no longer with the company and there's no way to get it back. Even when you're the person generating the paperwork. The one time you forget to hand-write the date entered, date paid and check number on an invoice, that's the check the vendor loses in the mail. Which it turns out the check-signer handwrote, rather than generating through the computer system. So now there's NO record of it in the office and the bank is closed...ah, you get the idea.
For me, people trying to use a filing system is a microcosm of the dynamic tension between order and chaos, freedom and safety.
Try to make a system that covers every single angle, write little notes on everything where the pre-set forms don't give you enough information, and you never get any work done. Besides, you always end up needing types of information you didn't think to record because you didn't know you'd need it. You start seeing all your work processes in terms of the information you already have. You won't think to contact a new client in a new way, work out a different type of deal with a vendor, or redistribute duties among your employees. You sit behind a desk dotting every t and crossing every i but never actually making any products or helping any customers. More order means more safety, but too much order becomes a trap.
Too little order has its own set of problems. You can never find anything when you need it; you don't know how much you owe or how much you've got coming. You don't know who works well for you and who is messing with you, which procedures are a waste of time and which are working. Sure, you never have to stop to fill out forms and put them in order. And you have all that nice empty cabinet space. And pretty soon you will have a nice, big empty space where your office used to be, and your employees will go work for other people who know what's going on.
Now, in my mind I toss around ideas, attempt to retain sequences, weigh emotional states against one another. Poke my personality to see what can be moved, what sticks, what I want to leave in the same place and what needs changing. I wonder where too little surveillance ends and too few escape routes begins. I try various things with varying results. I want to see how other people do it; get ideas, compare notes. But this is just not doable. How people hold themselves together on a daily basis is, on the one hand, incredibly personal and private. And on the other hand, there so much going on inside any given person at any moment that talking it through, writing it down, any possible means of communication, leaves out a whole sweeping universe of subjective context and reduces it to a few scraps of symbol and expression. Words, gestures, tones.
Much like all the many actions, personalities, decisions that go into running a business are distilled into a system of files. And a business is bigger and slower and clunkier than a human personality. It may not hold still, but you can catch glimpses of its inner workings. You can see which parts of itself it distills into a few scraps of symbols printed on paper. You can get ideas.
So every filing system I get to work with is a practicum. (Well, ok. If I stretch it that far, in a sense everything everybody does is a practicum: an attempt to put to practical use things one had only known about in theory.) An applied, full-bodied approach developed by an organism not identical to a human being, but one created by human beings so that it shares many of their characteristics. And all the information being wrangled is exterior to myself--generated by other people, belonging to them. I'm still aware (at times painfully aware!) that in the end all the symbols on those pieces of paper represent real people whose real lives will be or have been affected by what got recorded and how. But I can look at an organization's filing system, and see the balance it strikes between order and chaos. Then I can look at how the people treat each other, how good a job they do working together. And get ideas of what kind of culture generates what kind of document system.
If a company has a culture I really like and want to emulate, I can try to adopt some of their stragies for information control. If a company has a culture that I dislike, I can look at their strategies for information control and try to avoid mimicking them.
So that is a big part of the reason I like paperwork and filing so much. It helps me find ways to resemble things that make me happy and avoid things that frighten me!
They say we're anal, compulsive and weird
But when push comes to shove you gotta do what you love
Even if it's not a good idea
~ Futurama
A lady walks up to a man and greets him tentatively, with a question mark at the end of his name. He is wearing a suit and tie; he's been waiting for her to arrive. While trying very hard to keep his expression calm and courteous, he stands up much too hastily and loses control of his coat. Still, the two manage to shake hands. He stammers an apology that sounds a little too loud in the quiet room. She gives him a polite smile, and replies with something diplomatic.
Is this a couple on a blind date? No, no!
This scene took place in the lobby of the employment agency I visited this morning. I, like stammering guy, was there to fill out reams of paperwork, interview a recruiter, and take a few tests which verified our ability to type, correct spelling and use Microsoft Office programs. I wish nervous guy well. Though I can't help wondering the reason for his nervousness. Does he need a job with great urgency? Never done this sort of thing before? Socially anxious? I suppose I'll never know.
But the guy inadvertently gave me some confidence. The recruiter who interviewed me was the same one who spoke to him (and to his relief, let him know where to hang up his coat!), so I felt like my own less visible nervousness was no big deal. Which made me even less nervous! And though he was in the computer skills testing room when I got there, he was still there when I'd finished. Which made me mentally add weight to the "extremely recent college grad who hasn't worked with a recruiting agency before" possibility. And yes, also made me feel better.
Much props to Mom for getting me in touch with this agency. They are the first one this year that has given me the opportunity to come in and fill out paperwork and take tests. And I am good at filling out paperwork and taking tests. Which I think is due to practice. Lots and lots of practice.
Also I like doing it. For that, I'm not so sure. Could be I'm just a weirdo who likes paperwork.
See, the jobs I've done that I liked best--or the most enjoyable parts of the jobs I didn't like so much--involved lots and lots of filing. Some examples! Taking numbers off invoices and turning them into paid bills. Having a computer tally up people's hours from their punch in / punch out logs. Typing up contracts from handwritten notes. Proofreading legal documents. Taking miscellaneous heaps of paper and creating an organized filing system out of them. Giving a filing system a complete overhaul because one or two or ten or two hundred pieces of paper out of an entire filing cabinet need to be removed or replaced with other, slightly different pieces of paper. Being able to get paid to do these things makes me happy.
An orderly system can be a beautiful thing. When people are standing around an office arguing about what to do next, being able to dig in a drawer, point to a piece of paper and say "This is how we handled this problem last time, and it didn't work, so let's not do it again!" or "We have exactly enough money and/or time to try so-and-so's idea, and it might turn out awesome, so maybe we should do it!" You can also get wonderful stories out of pieces of paper. If you're on the phone with a vendor, say, and you have all their invoices neatly arranged in a binder in front of you, can you tell them you're sure they raised the price on widgets. Or that you ought to get a discount on wingdings because you buy so many.
But every system is ordered only up to a point--and that too is a beautiful thing. There's no such thing as complete control, even over documents. Especially when you have to try and exert it yourself. No matter how much work you put into it, you will eventually run across a folder where the client simply never filled out their ABC Form. Maybe the professional in charge of that client had taken the form out to review it four years ago, spilled coffee all over it, and threw it away, and now both the professional and the client are no longer with the company and there's no way to get it back. Even when you're the person generating the paperwork. The one time you forget to hand-write the date entered, date paid and check number on an invoice, that's the check the vendor loses in the mail. Which it turns out the check-signer handwrote, rather than generating through the computer system. So now there's NO record of it in the office and the bank is closed...ah, you get the idea.
For me, people trying to use a filing system is a microcosm of the dynamic tension between order and chaos, freedom and safety.
Try to make a system that covers every single angle, write little notes on everything where the pre-set forms don't give you enough information, and you never get any work done. Besides, you always end up needing types of information you didn't think to record because you didn't know you'd need it. You start seeing all your work processes in terms of the information you already have. You won't think to contact a new client in a new way, work out a different type of deal with a vendor, or redistribute duties among your employees. You sit behind a desk dotting every t and crossing every i but never actually making any products or helping any customers. More order means more safety, but too much order becomes a trap.
Too little order has its own set of problems. You can never find anything when you need it; you don't know how much you owe or how much you've got coming. You don't know who works well for you and who is messing with you, which procedures are a waste of time and which are working. Sure, you never have to stop to fill out forms and put them in order. And you have all that nice empty cabinet space. And pretty soon you will have a nice, big empty space where your office used to be, and your employees will go work for other people who know what's going on.
Now, in my mind I toss around ideas, attempt to retain sequences, weigh emotional states against one another. Poke my personality to see what can be moved, what sticks, what I want to leave in the same place and what needs changing. I wonder where too little surveillance ends and too few escape routes begins. I try various things with varying results. I want to see how other people do it; get ideas, compare notes. But this is just not doable. How people hold themselves together on a daily basis is, on the one hand, incredibly personal and private. And on the other hand, there so much going on inside any given person at any moment that talking it through, writing it down, any possible means of communication, leaves out a whole sweeping universe of subjective context and reduces it to a few scraps of symbol and expression. Words, gestures, tones.
Much like all the many actions, personalities, decisions that go into running a business are distilled into a system of files. And a business is bigger and slower and clunkier than a human personality. It may not hold still, but you can catch glimpses of its inner workings. You can see which parts of itself it distills into a few scraps of symbols printed on paper. You can get ideas.
So every filing system I get to work with is a practicum. (Well, ok. If I stretch it that far, in a sense everything everybody does is a practicum: an attempt to put to practical use things one had only known about in theory.) An applied, full-bodied approach developed by an organism not identical to a human being, but one created by human beings so that it shares many of their characteristics. And all the information being wrangled is exterior to myself--generated by other people, belonging to them. I'm still aware (at times painfully aware!) that in the end all the symbols on those pieces of paper represent real people whose real lives will be or have been affected by what got recorded and how. But I can look at an organization's filing system, and see the balance it strikes between order and chaos. Then I can look at how the people treat each other, how good a job they do working together. And get ideas of what kind of culture generates what kind of document system.
If a company has a culture I really like and want to emulate, I can try to adopt some of their stragies for information control. If a company has a culture that I dislike, I can look at their strategies for information control and try to avoid mimicking them.
So that is a big part of the reason I like paperwork and filing so much. It helps me find ways to resemble things that make me happy and avoid things that frighten me!
True Story Thursdays vol. 4
Back when my blog was known about and/or read by very few and commented on by virtually none, I had the luxury of sitting back and theorizing about what I thought my imaginary audience was thinking. This provided me with a great deal of text which was a lot of fun to write but very likely a great big snore to read. Now that I have an only partially imaginary audience which contains a few more real people whom I know in real life, I've been all in a tizzy over what to write about. I've promised Amber to lay off with the imagining what hypothetical people might be thinking and talk more about things I know personally. Can I write words that are interesting and funny without trying to wrap words around the thoughts of imaginary people? Or will this place go back to being an indecipherable and sometimes slightly creepy online diary like it was in the early days?
Because when you get right down to it, the sum total of things I actually know stuff about is rather small. I don't have a lot of local activities that get me out of the apartment, and don't have the expertise to write about politics or cultural events or even bring a historical perspective to the issues which intrigue me the way Geds does. I am sometimes good at making words with shiny, rhymey sounds, sometimes good at blathering on in a pompous-sounding way about things that happen inside my brain or the hypothetical brains of others, and occasionally I notice a fun new book or game or website that seems worth spewing words about. I've also occasionally written about sports under my "football fridays" tag, which starting tomorrow will finally switch over the first futility friday in honor of my nearly-beloved Chicago Cubs. (Heh. Almost said "kick off" the first futility friday. Save that football terminology for the fall, woman!)
So this Thursday's true story will be about what I've been up to lately: traveling through a magical country called Job Search Land. In hyperbole, which is the best kind of bole!
The capitol city of this country is called Employment Agencyville. The people are friendly, the travel agents' business cards are stacked in neat little racks at their front desks, and the water in the water coolers is free. But it is hard to get one of them to actually sit down with you and review your qualifications! I took a walk around downtown and visited several agencies a couple of weeks ago, sometimes to drop off my resume, other times just to see if there was an opportunity tucked away in their back pocket they'd simply forgotten to tell me about. But alas, pickings truly were slim. Apparently immigration into Job Search Land has been hectic in recent months, and they just can't find enough boats, planes, and goat-drawn rickshaws on which current residents may flee. Once, I'd stopped an Agent's office while she was on the phone and couldn't speak to me right away, and I caught a look at her board of positions needing to be filled. And she wasn't lying--it was more than half empty, meaning very few nations in the Empire of Workplaces are accepting immigrants of any kind. Of course, it's always worthwhile to visit Agencyville, and check in on them once in awhile to make sure they don't forget you exist. (Job Searchians all look the same after awhile.) Still, the tourist attractions become dull once you've seen them, the restaurants all close promptly at five pm, and eventually you find yourself standing on a street corner looking at the bum selling newspapers and thinking, "hey, that guy has a job! I wonder how you get a gig like that?" At that point I knew it was time to explore other parts of the Land.
I then took a long sojourn in the populous but low-rent suburb of Craigslistia. They have an entire district devoted to the very type of job I'm after, and for the bulk of February I wandered its boards with great gusto. Craiglistia is like a great market bazaar, crammed with postings bearing colorful descriptions on their big sandwich-board signs which promise speedy exit from Job Search Land for the right applicant. I forwarded my information to many a contact person, and trudged to and fro for many a sunny afternoon, waiting for someone to get back to me.
My walkin' fingers began to get tired after a month or so, and I recently decided to abandon Craiglistia for the more exclusive suburb of Employer Websiteton. Empoyer Websiteton is a vast, manicured garden of gated communities, each with their own applicant entry requirements, and each with its own short list of possible berths for emigration. Some companies are large, and though their requirements are stringent, an applicant on the move can hope to be considered for an interview if there is a strong enough correlation between the responsibilities printed on the posting and the information contained in the all-important Passpo--I mean, Resume. Others are smaller and lower-tech, but seem to entice with the promise of speedy turnaround times and the feel-good vibe of automatic application-received emails.
It is still my fond hope to leave Job Search Land for a destination not too far from downtown Chicago, that is, within the reach of our fair city's excellent public transit network. Something administrativey, ideally perhaps at a place of learning. Where sneakily, at night, I can add further educational baubles to my Passpo--I mean, Resume. So that during my next sojourn in this Land I can explore even more avenues of escape. Ones that offer the fabled, mytic treasures of Paid Holidays or even, dare I say, the fearsomely enchanted Sword of Medical and Dental Benefits!
Because when you get right down to it, the sum total of things I actually know stuff about is rather small. I don't have a lot of local activities that get me out of the apartment, and don't have the expertise to write about politics or cultural events or even bring a historical perspective to the issues which intrigue me the way Geds does. I am sometimes good at making words with shiny, rhymey sounds, sometimes good at blathering on in a pompous-sounding way about things that happen inside my brain or the hypothetical brains of others, and occasionally I notice a fun new book or game or website that seems worth spewing words about. I've also occasionally written about sports under my "football fridays" tag, which starting tomorrow will finally switch over the first futility friday in honor of my nearly-beloved Chicago Cubs. (Heh. Almost said "kick off" the first futility friday. Save that football terminology for the fall, woman!)
So this Thursday's true story will be about what I've been up to lately: traveling through a magical country called Job Search Land. In hyperbole, which is the best kind of bole!
The capitol city of this country is called Employment Agencyville. The people are friendly, the travel agents' business cards are stacked in neat little racks at their front desks, and the water in the water coolers is free. But it is hard to get one of them to actually sit down with you and review your qualifications! I took a walk around downtown and visited several agencies a couple of weeks ago, sometimes to drop off my resume, other times just to see if there was an opportunity tucked away in their back pocket they'd simply forgotten to tell me about. But alas, pickings truly were slim. Apparently immigration into Job Search Land has been hectic in recent months, and they just can't find enough boats, planes, and goat-drawn rickshaws on which current residents may flee. Once, I'd stopped an Agent's office while she was on the phone and couldn't speak to me right away, and I caught a look at her board of positions needing to be filled. And she wasn't lying--it was more than half empty, meaning very few nations in the Empire of Workplaces are accepting immigrants of any kind. Of course, it's always worthwhile to visit Agencyville, and check in on them once in awhile to make sure they don't forget you exist. (Job Searchians all look the same after awhile.) Still, the tourist attractions become dull once you've seen them, the restaurants all close promptly at five pm, and eventually you find yourself standing on a street corner looking at the bum selling newspapers and thinking, "hey, that guy has a job! I wonder how you get a gig like that?" At that point I knew it was time to explore other parts of the Land.
I then took a long sojourn in the populous but low-rent suburb of Craigslistia. They have an entire district devoted to the very type of job I'm after, and for the bulk of February I wandered its boards with great gusto. Craiglistia is like a great market bazaar, crammed with postings bearing colorful descriptions on their big sandwich-board signs which promise speedy exit from Job Search Land for the right applicant. I forwarded my information to many a contact person, and trudged to and fro for many a sunny afternoon, waiting for someone to get back to me.
My walkin' fingers began to get tired after a month or so, and I recently decided to abandon Craiglistia for the more exclusive suburb of Employer Websiteton. Empoyer Websiteton is a vast, manicured garden of gated communities, each with their own applicant entry requirements, and each with its own short list of possible berths for emigration. Some companies are large, and though their requirements are stringent, an applicant on the move can hope to be considered for an interview if there is a strong enough correlation between the responsibilities printed on the posting and the information contained in the all-important Passpo--I mean, Resume. Others are smaller and lower-tech, but seem to entice with the promise of speedy turnaround times and the feel-good vibe of automatic application-received emails.
It is still my fond hope to leave Job Search Land for a destination not too far from downtown Chicago, that is, within the reach of our fair city's excellent public transit network. Something administrativey, ideally perhaps at a place of learning. Where sneakily, at night, I can add further educational baubles to my Passpo--I mean, Resume. So that during my next sojourn in this Land I can explore even more avenues of escape. Ones that offer the fabled, mytic treasures of Paid Holidays or even, dare I say, the fearsomely enchanted Sword of Medical and Dental Benefits!
True Story Thursdays vol. 3
What brings a man to face the sun
One morning with a loaded gun?
A faith in truth, a faith in lies
It matters not--the soldier dies
~my father
So. Suicide.
The View From Hell just linked to an interview with a man who had attempted suicide. The guy's best friend came to visit him, put a mic on him, and they just had an honest chat about why. What he was feeling, what his thoughts were. The man later did kill himself, but thanks to his friend, his words are there for us to hear.
Listening to that interview was a surreal experience for me. It didn't make me sad, exactly. I could empathize with Brian, could wish that there had been some way for him to transform himself, find a new way towards life and love and happiness. But each person has to find their own path to happiness in life--and since this man couldn't, and I wasn't there, who am I to say that another way was open for him?
It's hard for me to write about this, and not only because of Dad's death by suicide last year. These are the kinds of emotions, the kinds of thoughts that I usually can only express in poetry or lyrics. I recently attended an open mic with my younger sister, where we both performed songs that came from that same creative pain, the need to take our feelings of loss and hurt and separation and give them some kind of external form.
There's a point in the interview above where the suicide's friend says something like, "it was then that his pain ended, and ours began." Maybe that's how you know you're still alive, still gasping for breath against the tides of fate and time. Even when you can't tell the difference between the pain the comes with new growth and the pain of destruction, as Dad used to say, "pain is a message." Part of that message is that there's still something alive in you, something alive enough to grow, or to be destroyed.
I've held on to two kind of contradictory mindsets ever since it happened.
The first is the rational, up-where-I-can-reach-it part that says it was the pain that was too much for him, pain I couldn't take away, that no one could have.
There was physical pain. From worsening diabetes, from years of smoking, from the buildup of stress that took its toll on an aging body, and from old injuries, both minor and dire. A fleshly testament to "things that never happened" that very much did happen. A kneecap, for example, shot off by an agent who never existed, who'd come to Chicago in 1968 to distribute lethal weapons to the student protesters at the Democratic National Convention. The body of that agent--a few fractions of a second slower on the draw than my father--was disappeared, the weapons confiscated, the protest went on without a massacre, the midnight hospital visit chalked up to a "range accident" in the wee hours of a night when all the ranges were closed. He didn't mind about the secrecy, wasn't proud of the fact that on that night it took killing to prevent more killing. It was work that needed to be done, it got done, and that was enough. But Dad limped for the rest of his life.
There was emotional pain--from being squeezed out of a life-changing business deal by corruption in the organization he was trying to improve, from a bitter decade-long divorce that left him and Mom both bankrupt and us girls with a laundry list of emotional scars that he either failed to prevent or helped to cause, depending on which incidents you want to look at and how you want to look at them. There was an apartment full of research sources for projects that never got finished--a series of novels, a better bullet, a recoilless rifle barrel, a painstakingly-crafted theory on the role human life might play in the larger universe. But there was always something more pressing, more urgent, something driving him onward away from those things. Always, there was that something inside that wouldn't let him stop, take a deep breath, and focus all that brainpower on creating the things that really moved him, rather than just thinking or talking them out.
I tell myself, have been telling myself, that these were the reasons. That stroke that took away his half his range of motion, left him to painstakingly type his final emails one letter at a time because his hands weren't steady enough to write them out, that was just the wind knocking over the first domino in a long, straight line. They'd been stacked up and ready to go for a long time, and there wasn't a damn thing any of us could have done about it.
But the emotional part of me is still sure, deep down in there, that it can't have been that simple. That there had to have been some magic words I could say, some magic set of actions I could stumble upon, that would have helped him jump across the gap in his mind, to escape that thing that inexorably drove him. He said often that he didn't fear death. What he feared, and didn't talk about as much, was the people he cared about not being prepared to face life and meet its challenges.
So, say my nagging emotions, I could have given him more of a reason to stay. Could have made him feel like I still needed him, like I wasn't ready to go out and face the world on my own yet. Could have sat for four or five hours every night and listened raptly to all his stories about the adventures that never happened, the inventions that never got built, the extravagant, world-changing schemes we would embark on "if I win the lottery, or the deal goes through."
But it wouldn't have been honest. The stories and schemes depressed me and made me feel inadequate. Here I was at the age of twenty-six, having accomplished, in my own eyes, nothing special, where he at the same age had already had more exciting, action-packed adventures than you could fit into a long-running TV series. When he talked about what could be done to change the world given vast resources, I saw his experience of having had them, of seemingly being able to conjure them out of thin air, of knowing which people to ask and how to ask them, how to get everyone moving in the same direction. I was just feeling my way into the idea of getting all of myself moving in the same direction. It wouldn't have been right to turn my whole life into a sham in a desperate bid to convice him it wasn't the right time for him to die if he was bound and determined that it was.
Reminds me of a scene from the novel Komarr. This doesn't spoil a major plot point for this novel, but if you haven't read the series, trust me, Lois tells it better. The protagonist, Miles, is a short fellow with a helluva limp whose forceful personality makes up for what he lacks in size. Years back, in another novel, he helped engineer a mass escape from a prison camp. As the shuttles were taking off, packed to the gills, one of the prisoners who'd wedged herself in the doorway next to him fell out. He reached out to try to grab her hand as she fell, but their fingertips just barely touched, and he couldn't grab ahold of her. She fell to her death, while Miles and everyone else was lifted to safety. The memory haunted him, appearing in nightmares, and he tortured himself with the idea that if he'd just reacted a fraction of a second more quickly, he could have pulled her to safety.
In one scene in this novel, Miles and another character are walking near a riverbank in a park, and she slips and starts to fall toward the water. Flashing back to that horrible memory, Miles grabs her arm, determined not to relive the other woman's death. But because of the difference in their size and weight, what actually happens is that Miles is pulled down into the stream right along with her.
It's a metaphor I use surprisingly often, both in my own thoughts, and in talking out difficult emotional experiences with other people. If I had turned myself inside out trying to pull Dad back from the brink, most likely what would have happened is that he would still have died, but I would have been left to face his death emotionally and spiritually bankrupt. I can't know what would have happened if I had acted differently. But the thing I most regret, the thing I grieve about, isn't something I did. It's something he did. Something that was his decision to make. And I can't let myself take that decision away from him, even inside my own mind.
In some circumstances, taking emotional responsibility for things beyond your control can empower you to change your outlook on them. You look at something that happened in the past, or that was the result of actions that other people didn't intend to turn out the way they did (and hence aren't sorry for), and you take the blame on yourself because you haven't got any other place to put it. Once you've done that, you feel like you have power over the memory, over the experience. It's not accurate--assigning blame never really is--and it's probably not the best strategy, but sometimes that little edge of feeling like you have control is all you've got to pull yourself away from a toxic stew of emotional backlash that threatens to consume you. Once you've gotten a little bit of distance, it becomes possible to sort out all the real reasons why things happened the way they did. It becomes possible to reposition your anger and disbelief a little bit without totally cracking up or acting out against someone else--someone who's maybe hurting just as badly, or who couldn't handle the weight of your feelings without cracking up themselves.
Here, though, I know I can't hang on to that responsibility forever. Dad did what he did for his own reasons, and though I think I've got a pretty good idea of what they were, I can't go through my whole life never letting myself be angry with him because I think I know exactly what he was thinking. I can't make up an imaginary Dad (even if it's composed of, say, 78% of what real Dad was thinking) and mourn the fact that I didn't say the magic words that would have made him change his mind.
All I can do is live. Pull myself up out of every hole I find myself in, and try my damnedest not to paint myself into any corners. Live well, and grow, and change. Live so that whenever I face death, whether it comes to me or I go to it, one thing I won't leave my mourners is a long list of deeds undone.
One morning with a loaded gun?
A faith in truth, a faith in lies
It matters not--the soldier dies
~my father
So. Suicide.
The View From Hell just linked to an interview with a man who had attempted suicide. The guy's best friend came to visit him, put a mic on him, and they just had an honest chat about why. What he was feeling, what his thoughts were. The man later did kill himself, but thanks to his friend, his words are there for us to hear.
Listening to that interview was a surreal experience for me. It didn't make me sad, exactly. I could empathize with Brian, could wish that there had been some way for him to transform himself, find a new way towards life and love and happiness. But each person has to find their own path to happiness in life--and since this man couldn't, and I wasn't there, who am I to say that another way was open for him?
It's hard for me to write about this, and not only because of Dad's death by suicide last year. These are the kinds of emotions, the kinds of thoughts that I usually can only express in poetry or lyrics. I recently attended an open mic with my younger sister, where we both performed songs that came from that same creative pain, the need to take our feelings of loss and hurt and separation and give them some kind of external form.
There's a point in the interview above where the suicide's friend says something like, "it was then that his pain ended, and ours began." Maybe that's how you know you're still alive, still gasping for breath against the tides of fate and time. Even when you can't tell the difference between the pain the comes with new growth and the pain of destruction, as Dad used to say, "pain is a message." Part of that message is that there's still something alive in you, something alive enough to grow, or to be destroyed.
I've held on to two kind of contradictory mindsets ever since it happened.
The first is the rational, up-where-I-can-reach-it part that says it was the pain that was too much for him, pain I couldn't take away, that no one could have.
There was physical pain. From worsening diabetes, from years of smoking, from the buildup of stress that took its toll on an aging body, and from old injuries, both minor and dire. A fleshly testament to "things that never happened" that very much did happen. A kneecap, for example, shot off by an agent who never existed, who'd come to Chicago in 1968 to distribute lethal weapons to the student protesters at the Democratic National Convention. The body of that agent--a few fractions of a second slower on the draw than my father--was disappeared, the weapons confiscated, the protest went on without a massacre, the midnight hospital visit chalked up to a "range accident" in the wee hours of a night when all the ranges were closed. He didn't mind about the secrecy, wasn't proud of the fact that on that night it took killing to prevent more killing. It was work that needed to be done, it got done, and that was enough. But Dad limped for the rest of his life.
There was emotional pain--from being squeezed out of a life-changing business deal by corruption in the organization he was trying to improve, from a bitter decade-long divorce that left him and Mom both bankrupt and us girls with a laundry list of emotional scars that he either failed to prevent or helped to cause, depending on which incidents you want to look at and how you want to look at them. There was an apartment full of research sources for projects that never got finished--a series of novels, a better bullet, a recoilless rifle barrel, a painstakingly-crafted theory on the role human life might play in the larger universe. But there was always something more pressing, more urgent, something driving him onward away from those things. Always, there was that something inside that wouldn't let him stop, take a deep breath, and focus all that brainpower on creating the things that really moved him, rather than just thinking or talking them out.
I tell myself, have been telling myself, that these were the reasons. That stroke that took away his half his range of motion, left him to painstakingly type his final emails one letter at a time because his hands weren't steady enough to write them out, that was just the wind knocking over the first domino in a long, straight line. They'd been stacked up and ready to go for a long time, and there wasn't a damn thing any of us could have done about it.
But the emotional part of me is still sure, deep down in there, that it can't have been that simple. That there had to have been some magic words I could say, some magic set of actions I could stumble upon, that would have helped him jump across the gap in his mind, to escape that thing that inexorably drove him. He said often that he didn't fear death. What he feared, and didn't talk about as much, was the people he cared about not being prepared to face life and meet its challenges.
So, say my nagging emotions, I could have given him more of a reason to stay. Could have made him feel like I still needed him, like I wasn't ready to go out and face the world on my own yet. Could have sat for four or five hours every night and listened raptly to all his stories about the adventures that never happened, the inventions that never got built, the extravagant, world-changing schemes we would embark on "if I win the lottery, or the deal goes through."
But it wouldn't have been honest. The stories and schemes depressed me and made me feel inadequate. Here I was at the age of twenty-six, having accomplished, in my own eyes, nothing special, where he at the same age had already had more exciting, action-packed adventures than you could fit into a long-running TV series. When he talked about what could be done to change the world given vast resources, I saw his experience of having had them, of seemingly being able to conjure them out of thin air, of knowing which people to ask and how to ask them, how to get everyone moving in the same direction. I was just feeling my way into the idea of getting all of myself moving in the same direction. It wouldn't have been right to turn my whole life into a sham in a desperate bid to convice him it wasn't the right time for him to die if he was bound and determined that it was.
Reminds me of a scene from the novel Komarr. This doesn't spoil a major plot point for this novel, but if you haven't read the series, trust me, Lois tells it better. The protagonist, Miles, is a short fellow with a helluva limp whose forceful personality makes up for what he lacks in size. Years back, in another novel, he helped engineer a mass escape from a prison camp. As the shuttles were taking off, packed to the gills, one of the prisoners who'd wedged herself in the doorway next to him fell out. He reached out to try to grab her hand as she fell, but their fingertips just barely touched, and he couldn't grab ahold of her. She fell to her death, while Miles and everyone else was lifted to safety. The memory haunted him, appearing in nightmares, and he tortured himself with the idea that if he'd just reacted a fraction of a second more quickly, he could have pulled her to safety.
In one scene in this novel, Miles and another character are walking near a riverbank in a park, and she slips and starts to fall toward the water. Flashing back to that horrible memory, Miles grabs her arm, determined not to relive the other woman's death. But because of the difference in their size and weight, what actually happens is that Miles is pulled down into the stream right along with her.
It's a metaphor I use surprisingly often, both in my own thoughts, and in talking out difficult emotional experiences with other people. If I had turned myself inside out trying to pull Dad back from the brink, most likely what would have happened is that he would still have died, but I would have been left to face his death emotionally and spiritually bankrupt. I can't know what would have happened if I had acted differently. But the thing I most regret, the thing I grieve about, isn't something I did. It's something he did. Something that was his decision to make. And I can't let myself take that decision away from him, even inside my own mind.
In some circumstances, taking emotional responsibility for things beyond your control can empower you to change your outlook on them. You look at something that happened in the past, or that was the result of actions that other people didn't intend to turn out the way they did (and hence aren't sorry for), and you take the blame on yourself because you haven't got any other place to put it. Once you've done that, you feel like you have power over the memory, over the experience. It's not accurate--assigning blame never really is--and it's probably not the best strategy, but sometimes that little edge of feeling like you have control is all you've got to pull yourself away from a toxic stew of emotional backlash that threatens to consume you. Once you've gotten a little bit of distance, it becomes possible to sort out all the real reasons why things happened the way they did. It becomes possible to reposition your anger and disbelief a little bit without totally cracking up or acting out against someone else--someone who's maybe hurting just as badly, or who couldn't handle the weight of your feelings without cracking up themselves.
Here, though, I know I can't hang on to that responsibility forever. Dad did what he did for his own reasons, and though I think I've got a pretty good idea of what they were, I can't go through my whole life never letting myself be angry with him because I think I know exactly what he was thinking. I can't make up an imaginary Dad (even if it's composed of, say, 78% of what real Dad was thinking) and mourn the fact that I didn't say the magic words that would have made him change his mind.
All I can do is live. Pull myself up out of every hole I find myself in, and try my damnedest not to paint myself into any corners. Live well, and grow, and change. Live so that whenever I face death, whether it comes to me or I go to it, one thing I won't leave my mourners is a long list of deeds undone.
True Story Thursday vol 2.
I've been reading far too much Miller & Lee lately, so I'm afraid my prose for this entry will be in the mode of Liadens talking about other Liadens. For me, this style of writing is something I associate with wry good humor. When I read or write it I am always alert for little puns, little refreshing or fun things to be read between the lines of an otherwise straightforward statement. I've been having a weird day for inside-the-brain snarking at myself, mainly because I'm still sick and that tends to make one cranky. So I figure a True Story Thursday done Liaden style will help me feel better and drain away some of the snark.
A couple of weeks ago I encountered an individual named John.
He was an older fellow; I'd've guessed him at early to mid fifities. Short, Caucasian, vaguely heavy in an American sort of way. Graying brows, a hat he professed himself too embarrassed to remove, a nose just on the bulbous side of normal. Prominent blue eyes which sat squarely on that odd little edge between total intensity of focus and utter lack of expression. Mind locked up like a bank vault below the public level, sense of space hypervigilant. His clothing had been chosen with the same sort of slovenly exactitude I myself have employed when low on self-confidence and/or desiring to appear an unattractive target to would-be beggars and thieves. We were standing in line at a McDonald's. I found his hamburger order to be so unusual--no cheese, no condiments, double onions--that I couldn't resist a quick visual scan for curiosity's sake. As I had made eye contact with him, he felt it appropriate to engage me in conversation. Not being otherwise busy during my lunch break I decided to see where this went.
Within a few minutes the talk had degenerated into the sort of life story-swapping chiefly sought out by those whose current levels of human interaction have been far, far below their preference for a considerable time. To make a comparison among persons I have known well, John's manner of interacting could be compared to Myke. Save Myke was always more circumspect, more aware, and more cautious of how he spilled his emotions. I found John's way of interaction, his eagerness to reveal all within himself as readily as may be, to make himself of service in any way possible, made me miss the kid. That nostalgia was a good part of why I continued to lunch in his company for some few days.
Which is not to say that I found John's company disagreeable for himself. Only that, as Douglas Adams has noted, doing anything whatsoever a person wishes is a very strong grip to have on them, indeed. And that the more intense and obvious became John's desire to be of service to me in some way, any way, the more cool I felt inclined to be. Inclined especially to be more protective of my personal information--phone number chiefest of all. He had flat out asked, as though he had every expectation not to be refused, that we exchange cell phone numbers the first time we met. So another aspect of this man I found interesting was his seeming (perhaps, pretended? twittered my mental antennae) total ignorance of the true balance of obligation. This balance being: that the person who does a favor puts the receiver in his debt. That his eagerness to have me owe him a debt, even a small and informal debt such as may go unremarked between friends, aroused primarily my suspicion. And not the gratitude for his solicitousness he seemed to think was the natural response.
Needless to say I insisted from the outset, and continued to insist, on paying for my own lunch.
I was intrigued by this person; I wished to know the depths of his self-awareness regarding the structure of his actions. Here was one who was at every turn positive, encouraging, complimentary. (Though quite defensive on the subject of compliments. He seemed to take the word "flattery" for an insult and was painfully certain to insist that all he said was heartfelt and genuine. With which I readily concurred, that aspect of truth being entirely beside the point.) Was this behavior the result solely of low self-esteem--the sort which leads a person to believe others always their superiors, and themselves fortunate to be noticed? Or did he seek to place myself in his debt in order that he might, through the manipulation of emotional bonds, seek to direct or even constrain me in some way?
It is rare to find a male so adept in the latter art that he will practice it knowingly upon the unwary. But I confess myself half convinced. After nearly two weeks of meeting for lunch every day, I had refused to budge on the subject of contact information. I was always vague on the subject of making plans for anything other than lunch, with or without a third person present. He had run up against certain hard limits on content areas I was unwilling to discuss. (And the content areas in which those hard limits were discovered, indeed, cemented my suspicion even further.) So it came about that on a Thursday two weeks ago he told me, professing his regret, that he would be busy on Friday and could not make lunch. We agreed to lunch again Monday at the same time and location. That Monday, and the entire week following--whether out of habit or curiousity or on the off-chance the poor man had been on the level and merely taken ill, I cannot say--I undertook to be in the usual meeting place at the usual time. He was not.
In truth, I am uncertain how to react. To send my prayers into the taig, for the health of a friend gone missing? Or to gloat over my perspicacity and peruse the Wanted postings to see if I recognize a sketch?
A couple of weeks ago I encountered an individual named John.
He was an older fellow; I'd've guessed him at early to mid fifities. Short, Caucasian, vaguely heavy in an American sort of way. Graying brows, a hat he professed himself too embarrassed to remove, a nose just on the bulbous side of normal. Prominent blue eyes which sat squarely on that odd little edge between total intensity of focus and utter lack of expression. Mind locked up like a bank vault below the public level, sense of space hypervigilant. His clothing had been chosen with the same sort of slovenly exactitude I myself have employed when low on self-confidence and/or desiring to appear an unattractive target to would-be beggars and thieves. We were standing in line at a McDonald's. I found his hamburger order to be so unusual--no cheese, no condiments, double onions--that I couldn't resist a quick visual scan for curiosity's sake. As I had made eye contact with him, he felt it appropriate to engage me in conversation. Not being otherwise busy during my lunch break I decided to see where this went.
Within a few minutes the talk had degenerated into the sort of life story-swapping chiefly sought out by those whose current levels of human interaction have been far, far below their preference for a considerable time. To make a comparison among persons I have known well, John's manner of interacting could be compared to Myke. Save Myke was always more circumspect, more aware, and more cautious of how he spilled his emotions. I found John's way of interaction, his eagerness to reveal all within himself as readily as may be, to make himself of service in any way possible, made me miss the kid. That nostalgia was a good part of why I continued to lunch in his company for some few days.
Which is not to say that I found John's company disagreeable for himself. Only that, as Douglas Adams has noted, doing anything whatsoever a person wishes is a very strong grip to have on them, indeed. And that the more intense and obvious became John's desire to be of service to me in some way, any way, the more cool I felt inclined to be. Inclined especially to be more protective of my personal information--phone number chiefest of all. He had flat out asked, as though he had every expectation not to be refused, that we exchange cell phone numbers the first time we met. So another aspect of this man I found interesting was his seeming (perhaps, pretended? twittered my mental antennae) total ignorance of the true balance of obligation. This balance being: that the person who does a favor puts the receiver in his debt. That his eagerness to have me owe him a debt, even a small and informal debt such as may go unremarked between friends, aroused primarily my suspicion. And not the gratitude for his solicitousness he seemed to think was the natural response.
Needless to say I insisted from the outset, and continued to insist, on paying for my own lunch.
I was intrigued by this person; I wished to know the depths of his self-awareness regarding the structure of his actions. Here was one who was at every turn positive, encouraging, complimentary. (Though quite defensive on the subject of compliments. He seemed to take the word "flattery" for an insult and was painfully certain to insist that all he said was heartfelt and genuine. With which I readily concurred, that aspect of truth being entirely beside the point.) Was this behavior the result solely of low self-esteem--the sort which leads a person to believe others always their superiors, and themselves fortunate to be noticed? Or did he seek to place myself in his debt in order that he might, through the manipulation of emotional bonds, seek to direct or even constrain me in some way?
It is rare to find a male so adept in the latter art that he will practice it knowingly upon the unwary. But I confess myself half convinced. After nearly two weeks of meeting for lunch every day, I had refused to budge on the subject of contact information. I was always vague on the subject of making plans for anything other than lunch, with or without a third person present. He had run up against certain hard limits on content areas I was unwilling to discuss. (And the content areas in which those hard limits were discovered, indeed, cemented my suspicion even further.) So it came about that on a Thursday two weeks ago he told me, professing his regret, that he would be busy on Friday and could not make lunch. We agreed to lunch again Monday at the same time and location. That Monday, and the entire week following--whether out of habit or curiousity or on the off-chance the poor man had been on the level and merely taken ill, I cannot say--I undertook to be in the usual meeting place at the usual time. He was not.
In truth, I am uncertain how to react. To send my prayers into the taig, for the health of a friend gone missing? Or to gloat over my perspicacity and peruse the Wanted postings to see if I recognize a sketch?
True Story Thursday
marriedtothesea.com
And if I swallow anything evil
put your finger down my throat
~The Who
So last night I ended up going back to the hospital again. At around 11:30pm. I gave up on getting treated and still being able to work today. Ended up getting home around 2am, with a blood draw mark on my other hand, no medical help, and the conviction that I'd behaved very foolishly. Driven Dave to distraction and waffled on what to do or not do. My brain was less than no help. Every new little twinge was met with: Is it deadly? Am I imagining it? Can I afford it? Can I afford not to be able to afford it? Can I has a cigarette now?
While waiting to be processed for registration I had a very bad time. Breathing became much more difficult, so I started forcing deep breath after deep breath. I learned a little later it was the considered opinion of the nurses that I was merely hyperventilating. If that was a panic attack, sirrah, it was the worst I've ever experienced. At one point my lips and chest and arms and legs were simultaneously trembling and numb, my left hand crooked into a claw I could not straighten, and I was weeping with fear because no matter how deeply I breathed I could not get enough air. The nurse said I was hyperventilating and should try to just relax and breathe normally. The same advice, mind you, that Dave has given me on the previous couple of occasions I've had attacks of shakes and difficulty breathing. However, as this was happening, a man was wheeled in on a guerney, having recently arrived by ambulance. I heard the EMTs remark he was probably on PCP. He was twitching, disoriented and aggressive; he tried to fight anyone who came near him and lurched off the guerney, tumbling to the floor inches from where I was sitting. Needless to say his situation was a danger to others as well as himself, and all hands nearby focused upon getting him subdued and settled and moved to a place where he could begin to be treated.
I was ashamed that I could not move out of the way and equally ashamed that I could not make my symptoms go away at will, as the nurse appeared to think they should. I am well accustomed to being perceived to be faking it. This was one of those times.
Sure enough, after a period of breathing normally, squeezing my left hand between my knees, and rubbing my forearms as best I could to encourage normal circulation, the shakes and numbness gradually subsided. The nurses directed me to sit in the pre-registration area, and there I concentrated on emptying my mind, not forcing breath one way or the other, and remaining still. Only a few times did I have a frightening chest and neck constriction like before, and after half an hour or so those, too gradually subsided.
So, blood sample drawn, urine sample produced, registration forms filled out, I went to sit in the waiting room with the very large crowd who had gotten there before me. It was by then almost 1:30 in the morning. I'd overheard one of the male nurses remark that this was far from the most crowded night they'd had this week. Ended up chatting with a guy who said he'd been at the hospital having various things treated since very early in the morning, but had been in the waiting room this time since 6:30pm. I started the conversation with "What are you in for, if you don't mind me asking?" We talked about illnesses and injuries for a few minutes. His were all injuries; as he told it he'd been jumped in an alleyway by five guys, four wearing ski masks and the fifth not someone he recognized. Later at one point he asked, "You got health insurance?" and I said, "Hell no, if I had health insurance I'd be at the rich people hospital across the street," which got a chuckle. I'd been wanting to use that line all week.
On my way out I talked to a different guy, who was smoking near the entrance. He was like, "You're leaving, and you ain't been seen yet?" I explained that since I'd thought it was a penicillin allergy, if I had been right, I'd be dead by then. He sympathized; he was allergic to penicillin himself. Said the experience was awful, your lungs fill up with water like that (fingersnap).
It's a strange sentiment to come away with, but what I said to myself as I walked home was this: People are smart. People use all the perspectives they have all the time, they do as much as they know how with the information they have, and all the time they are looking for how to go on. Never underestimate them. I thought on all the people I'd met that day and how each in their own way was very smart indeed. (Well, maybe the guy who lurched off the guerney and tried to fight all the EMTs wasn't having a very smart time. I don't know what's going on with that guy. Hope he gets help and/or does some very smart things, if there are any available for him to do.)
The silent implication being: I'm people too. And however dumb I feel, I am not dumb all the time. Never underestimate me either. That's what Dave told me when I got home: be smart about yourself, be smart about taking care of yourself.
I felt worse for scaring him like that than I do for the wasted time and money. Sure, I was scared too. Still am. But I'm a person who is hyperaware of myself. It's far too easy to let that hyperawareness slide over into panic when there's something wrong I don't know how to fix. And as the inside of my mind becomes gradually more hospitable, I'm bound to start paying more close and dreadful attention to the workings of my body. Which has been manifesting as a kind of hypochondria where I freak out way more than is necessary over a genuine but not life-threatening illness. I don't want to become addicted to hospitals the way Tyler Durden was to support groups.
I have got to start another epic poem. It is probably the only thing that will occupy enough of my attention-paying dealies to ameliorate this situation. Especially since I do have a serious respiratory illness and need to try and take my stupid penicillin, even if I have to work up to full dosage gradually. Can't afford to go running over to the ER for a six-hour wait and a big, fat bill every time I feel like I can't get enough air. I think I will call one of my aunts for advice tonight. Maybe then I won't feel such a fool.
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