You know you're getting older the first time you tell your youngest cousin "Geez, you've gotten tall."
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
Winter's Heat
The signs of oncoming winter: fewer leaves, more sugar, less daylight, more precipitation, less time at work, more time on holiday... But in one aspect, all things run contrary to the natural workings of the world. From mid-October to late February, I go into heat.
I don't know if it's the temperature or the spirit of sharing, but something switches in my body, and I become a moody, hormonal mess who is ready to jump on the hunt for lovin'. Rarr... For the last three years, I attempted dating during this season. Before that, I used the snowy weather as an excuse to get others into the hot tub. Invariably, the results were as follows: disappointment, disappointment, disappointment, disappointment, a little bit of longing, and a lot more disappointment. I'm detecting a pattern here...
In any case, as the sun goes down and the Christmas lights come up (yes, they're already up in Glendale), I'm feeling the stirrings again: the discontent, the longing, the lust, the madness, the fear of not being good enough for someone I haven't even pictured in my mind yet. It's all coming back at once, just in time for the holidays.
It's the most wonderful time of the year!
The big difference this year is that I'm not using the internet to find anyone. No internet, no find, no date, no projection of expectations, no disappointment. But the heat is on. Woof. There's a knock at the door and a threat to blow the house down, but this little pig needs to stay practical, put the kettle on, and keep warm with wolf tea this year. The house is still under construction. Until it is built, there shall be no breaching of doors or chimneys.
I don't know if it's the temperature or the spirit of sharing, but something switches in my body, and I become a moody, hormonal mess who is ready to jump on the hunt for lovin'. Rarr... For the last three years, I attempted dating during this season. Before that, I used the snowy weather as an excuse to get others into the hot tub. Invariably, the results were as follows: disappointment, disappointment, disappointment, disappointment, a little bit of longing, and a lot more disappointment. I'm detecting a pattern here...
In any case, as the sun goes down and the Christmas lights come up (yes, they're already up in Glendale), I'm feeling the stirrings again: the discontent, the longing, the lust, the madness, the fear of not being good enough for someone I haven't even pictured in my mind yet. It's all coming back at once, just in time for the holidays.
It's the most wonderful time of the year!
The big difference this year is that I'm not using the internet to find anyone. No internet, no find, no date, no projection of expectations, no disappointment. But the heat is on. Woof. There's a knock at the door and a threat to blow the house down, but this little pig needs to stay practical, put the kettle on, and keep warm with wolf tea this year. The house is still under construction. Until it is built, there shall be no breaching of doors or chimneys.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
One Year Since
I admit, I'm a little off on time. Technically, it should have been last Saturday that I noted the one-year milestone for this blog; however, as I was about 300 miles north without access to the internet, let alone electricity, now is as fine a time as ever to look back.
The launch of this blog was, as are many of my hare-brained ideas, met with utter ambivalence, though it did once cause a prodigious argument on my Facebook profile, back when I had one. It became utterly critical for me to keep writing and publishing, writing and publishing, always with humor at the forefront because, I figured, no one wanted to read anything else; life was depressing enough without me adding to it. It took less than a month for me to start obsessively monitoring the weekly view statistics, cranking out more entries when I didn't get enough responses on the previous ones. I wanted feedback. I wanted dialogue. I didn't get it. People were hung up on the title. Finally, that's when I realized how tired I was of the constant posting and the constant monitoring, of setting myself up to use my personal information to please other people. I was giving myself away and getting nothing in return. At least whores get money for their services.
It's taken me a year at least to realize that I don't actually have to please anyone. Mostly, this came from re-reading The Way to Love, which I don't feel obligated to chronicle chapter by chapter anymore. Check it out if you want to learn more. From it, I have learned two truths that are gut-wrenching in their difficulty, based on my ingrained habits, or programming:
However, I do sometimes still feel alone. It's not easy converting your love for a physical human to a love for something intangible: a feeling, an idea, or a deity. Yet, I seldom feel alone when in solitude; it is when I am around people that the feeling strikes. I spent my birthday camping in northern California, alone. I had no problem driving, dining, or sleeping alone; nor did it bother me not to have a cake and presents. In fact, it was lovely all around. The trouble came at dinner time the second night, when I was camping at Mount Madonna. I was alone at my table, surrounded by people chatting with each other. Need I say more on the matter?
So, after a year of delving into the inhibitions surrounding Asperger's, I've reached the following status: I am now secure enough to choose Will over Obligation and start building my social base, but after the years of a false journey, I am disillusioned enough to see no real point in building such a base up again. People are too busy for me, and I for them. A thousand moments of solitude eventually drown out a moment of loneliness.
Though the foundation and the walls are built, there is still an empty space inside. Building on the progress of the last year, the new quest will be to find what will best fill that space.
The launch of this blog was, as are many of my hare-brained ideas, met with utter ambivalence, though it did once cause a prodigious argument on my Facebook profile, back when I had one. It became utterly critical for me to keep writing and publishing, writing and publishing, always with humor at the forefront because, I figured, no one wanted to read anything else; life was depressing enough without me adding to it. It took less than a month for me to start obsessively monitoring the weekly view statistics, cranking out more entries when I didn't get enough responses on the previous ones. I wanted feedback. I wanted dialogue. I didn't get it. People were hung up on the title. Finally, that's when I realized how tired I was of the constant posting and the constant monitoring, of setting myself up to use my personal information to please other people. I was giving myself away and getting nothing in return. At least whores get money for their services.
It's taken me a year at least to realize that I don't actually have to please anyone. Mostly, this came from re-reading The Way to Love, which I don't feel obligated to chronicle chapter by chapter anymore. Check it out if you want to learn more. From it, I have learned two truths that are gut-wrenching in their difficulty, based on my ingrained habits, or programming:
- I don't have to please anyone.
- Pleasing another person fuels a desire for further pleasure and becomes, above all other things, a chain. Realizing this has made it so much easier to overcome my fear of talking to people. Not giving a shit what they think about me, because there is nothing they can do to ruin me, has made dealing with people so much less stressful than ever before.
- Happiness is not a destination.
- I devoted nine years of my life to the search for a "soulmate." In so doing, I lost a great deal of my creativity, my focus, and my self-esteem. What I learned is that the soul does not need or even have a mate. Can we call the Enlightened Ones who did not marry "incomplete?"
However, I do sometimes still feel alone. It's not easy converting your love for a physical human to a love for something intangible: a feeling, an idea, or a deity. Yet, I seldom feel alone when in solitude; it is when I am around people that the feeling strikes. I spent my birthday camping in northern California, alone. I had no problem driving, dining, or sleeping alone; nor did it bother me not to have a cake and presents. In fact, it was lovely all around. The trouble came at dinner time the second night, when I was camping at Mount Madonna. I was alone at my table, surrounded by people chatting with each other. Need I say more on the matter?
So, after a year of delving into the inhibitions surrounding Asperger's, I've reached the following status: I am now secure enough to choose Will over Obligation and start building my social base, but after the years of a false journey, I am disillusioned enough to see no real point in building such a base up again. People are too busy for me, and I for them. A thousand moments of solitude eventually drown out a moment of loneliness.
Though the foundation and the walls are built, there is still an empty space inside. Building on the progress of the last year, the new quest will be to find what will best fill that space.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
The Way to Love (Part 2)
Moving right along, I'm a mere five pages into the book, and already I'm back at the chapter that gave me the most trouble. It starts with a quote from the book of Luke (14:26): "If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple."
In my ongoing search to not just be "good" but also to be "content," I've attempted putting this into practice by itself, and it's only led me to be bitter toward my family and my friends when they don't play by my rules. "Hate them, treat them disdainfully, and you'll be free" was the philosophy. But when it comes to seeking happiness, that really doesn't work. On re-reading, the point was sort of along the lines of a superhero movie: Those people and things you hold most dear are also the most dangerous to your personal well-being. I look at the recent death of my roommate's grandfather. She and her mom spent the better part of four months living with the grandparents and their cantankerous adopted son. It challenged some relationships and ruined others because of the obligation to help those who refused to be helped. The obligation, the commitment, was for family. Now, the family principle is one that I struggle with, because in so many of the religious "guidelines" I read, the central path to God, the Dharma, or what have you, is independent of family and other earthly "ties." So this is troubling.
"Hate" is a strong word that's thrown around loosely, and it doesn't work for me. I don't hate my parents. I don't hate my life. Is this why I'm not perpetually happy? As I read on, the terminology fit my tastes a little more. De Mello suggests not that we renounce our family, our friends, our ambitions, or our possessions all at once - he points out that violently ending a tie binds it to you forever - but rather to realize that they are attachments, that they are not eternal, and that, should they go away or turn against us, we should be ready. Perhaps "ready" is too pessimistic a term, but in all actuality, nothing lasts forever. Eventually, the whole human race will go extinct, for Pete's sake. But that's beside the point.
The book suggests making a list of all one's worldly desires and, having done so, addressing each of them with the following phrase: Deep down in my heart I know that even after I have got you I will not get happiness. So let's do that. What all do I want that's making me miserable?
For the majority of today, I was sitting in a beautiful place, watching bunnies and butterflies and listening to birds and distant laughter, yet part of me was horrifically worried that someone would be trying to contact me via the cell phone I had intentionally turned off and locked in the trunk. Suddenly, there was a whole explosion of unintended worries: Who could be calling? Why? What could I be getting done? Who will hold me accountable for what I'm not getting done? Are all the people here wondering why I've been sitting here so long? Do they approve? That's six thoughts desperate for approval in the span of a squirrel's hop. Thought trains like this, or rather, Big Brain Bangs (BBBs) are more frequent than I wish I had to admit. They go something like this:
In my ongoing search to not just be "good" but also to be "content," I've attempted putting this into practice by itself, and it's only led me to be bitter toward my family and my friends when they don't play by my rules. "Hate them, treat them disdainfully, and you'll be free" was the philosophy. But when it comes to seeking happiness, that really doesn't work. On re-reading, the point was sort of along the lines of a superhero movie: Those people and things you hold most dear are also the most dangerous to your personal well-being. I look at the recent death of my roommate's grandfather. She and her mom spent the better part of four months living with the grandparents and their cantankerous adopted son. It challenged some relationships and ruined others because of the obligation to help those who refused to be helped. The obligation, the commitment, was for family. Now, the family principle is one that I struggle with, because in so many of the religious "guidelines" I read, the central path to God, the Dharma, or what have you, is independent of family and other earthly "ties." So this is troubling.
"Hate" is a strong word that's thrown around loosely, and it doesn't work for me. I don't hate my parents. I don't hate my life. Is this why I'm not perpetually happy? As I read on, the terminology fit my tastes a little more. De Mello suggests not that we renounce our family, our friends, our ambitions, or our possessions all at once - he points out that violently ending a tie binds it to you forever - but rather to realize that they are attachments, that they are not eternal, and that, should they go away or turn against us, we should be ready. Perhaps "ready" is too pessimistic a term, but in all actuality, nothing lasts forever. Eventually, the whole human race will go extinct, for Pete's sake. But that's beside the point.
The book suggests making a list of all one's worldly desires and, having done so, addressing each of them with the following phrase: Deep down in my heart I know that even after I have got you I will not get happiness. So let's do that. What all do I want that's making me miserable?
- A spouse/partner
- A group of reliable friends
- Approval from:
- My parents
- My extended family
- My friends
- My acquaintances
- My employer/coworkers
- Complete fucking strangers
- My inner voice/God
- Success/Influence
- As a writer
- As an actor? Performer?
- Financial (money for travel)
- Travel (happy without?)
- The garden
- The collections
For the majority of today, I was sitting in a beautiful place, watching bunnies and butterflies and listening to birds and distant laughter, yet part of me was horrifically worried that someone would be trying to contact me via the cell phone I had intentionally turned off and locked in the trunk. Suddenly, there was a whole explosion of unintended worries: Who could be calling? Why? What could I be getting done? Who will hold me accountable for what I'm not getting done? Are all the people here wondering why I've been sitting here so long? Do they approve? That's six thoughts desperate for approval in the span of a squirrel's hop. Thought trains like this, or rather, Big Brain Bangs (BBBs) are more frequent than I wish I had to admit. They go something like this:
The Appearance BBB
- Find defect (zit, flab, unwanted hair)
- Sign of age, wasting away
- Unattractive
- Will not attract mate
- Will live and die alone
- UNHAPPY
- Make a mistake (at work or in writing)
- I was careless
- I don't care - why not?
- I'm lazy and have no sense of responsibility/concentration
- I never accomplish anything of consequence
- I will live and die alone
- UNHAPPY
- Friend cannot hang out
- Friend doesn't like me
- Friends never hang out: none like me
- People in general don't like me
- I'm an unlikable person
- I will live and die alone
- UNHAPPY
If we cut out all the extra fluff, we can pare this down to "To live and die alone is an unhappy existence." While I could point out that no one with an active imagination can truly live alone, that might defeat the purpose. To point out that nearly everyone dies alone, or rather, not in the company of those they love, helps a little more. What has bugged me lately is the work, which I've considered a distraction to keep me from thinking about my perceived lack of love. The question I've never, up until this point, asked myself is, "Is this the sort of work I'm meant to do?"
As mentioned before, I'm clinging to an idea of what I should be, when the fact is, I may not be so well suited to that idea after all. The inability to let go of that idea has brought my focus to unhappiness, but letting go brings with it the fear of "What comes next?" There is so much fear surrounding this, which comes out of the belief that I need approval... of EVERYONE. So maybe, this is my first thing to address. What things are there to do, which others might not approve of, but which are good for my soul? This can't be something that will earn me praise or a cheap thrill from another source, even myself (Yay, Kyle!), but the point is, as today demonstrated ten years ago, any day could be your last. Why go out wishing for what you want when what you need has been there all along? There are a lot of things I could stand, not to eliminate from my life, but to loosen the hold. This will probably solidify better as I read on.
As mentioned before, I'm clinging to an idea of what I should be, when the fact is, I may not be so well suited to that idea after all. The inability to let go of that idea has brought my focus to unhappiness, but letting go brings with it the fear of "What comes next?" There is so much fear surrounding this, which comes out of the belief that I need approval... of EVERYONE. So maybe, this is my first thing to address. What things are there to do, which others might not approve of, but which are good for my soul? This can't be something that will earn me praise or a cheap thrill from another source, even myself (Yay, Kyle!), but the point is, as today demonstrated ten years ago, any day could be your last. Why go out wishing for what you want when what you need has been there all along? There are a lot of things I could stand, not to eliminate from my life, but to loosen the hold. This will probably solidify better as I read on.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
The Way to Love (Part 1)
I'm re-reading The Way to Love by Anthony de Mello on account of a realization the other day. I'm smart, something my peers, professors, and parents have all admitted, even myself. However, pure intelligence comes at a high cost, that of the soul. By soul, I mean that energy that not only gets a person out of bed in the morning but also instills joy and a sense of purpose. Read it as you will.
This thought train started rolling last week when my friend, who has asked me to write a short musical for him, asked a simple question: Would you like to work with a lyricist? Immediately, the thorns shot up, the mask was back, and I slunk back into the corner with my poisonous jaws at the ready, while inside my lair of instant defense, the worm that already lingered there began to gnaw at me again. With every nibble came the crippling doubts of why I had failed so spectacularly at this one task when I had promised to succeed. All of this took place in the span before I could even form a rational thought, and I sputtered a little, asked instead to work with a musician, and went home feeling miserable. Why? It wasn't that he had said anything with intent to offend or put me down; it was the fact that I had shat out inferior material and presented it as something to be proud of. It was a song, yes, but it was soulless.
To be a skilled craftsman, artist even, a person needs feeling and expression, a message, if you will. What I've noticed in my work as of late is that an idea will spring into my head, and I'll start writing it without thinking it through. I've never completed a full outline, and it shows when the piece falls apart at the end of Act 1, where I lose my patience. By then, I revert back to form: "Stick to the form, and you'll get through it. End your Act 1 at page 15, your midpoint at 60, and your end before 120. It does not matter what you lose in the process." Oftentimes, the idea may not have had an actual meaning behind it, but it seemed cool at the time and became a commitment, for which I held no love or interest, like my past attempts at dating. Without love, there was only commitment, and from that commitment came soulless things, things about which I still hang my head to this day, years after the fact. I commit because I crave success, but even more than I crave success, I crave approval.
The first chapter of the booklet addresses this directly. It asks the reader to compare the feeling of receiving praise with the feeling of taking in a gorgeous sunrise. One is fleeting and leaves a person wanting more, while another is simply satisfaction. Screenwriting, in which I have my degree, demands commitment for success in a business where soul is only as deep as a pocketbook. I have committed myself to writing because I gave up on veterinary medicine. I was afraid to have responsibility for an animal's life, and in the process of giving up that goal, I lost responsibility for my soul.
I entered writing as a relative newcomer. I did not have an all-consuming passion for movies and, honestly, I still don't. In fact, I don't have much passion for anything anymore. At age 23, having not yet produced something I am proud of or that has evoked any kind of meaningful response from anyone else, I have deemed myself a failure and resigned myself to the remainder of my life as a worker ant, occasionally churning out pages to satisfy the writer's group and hopefully one day get noticed and asked by rich men to write soullessly for money. I don't have my money or connections. I never made those real connections in college. I observed the other writers, either with jealousy or resentment, and never took the time to learn from them. Their perceived success on and off the page amounted to my failure, and that was it.
The fact of the matter is, the picture is enormous, and my eyes are glued to a scuff on the frame. It's like when I was in my single-digit years, rock climbing with my dad, and I suddenly let go of the rope and the rock to hang precariously by my dad's belay and examine a particularly fascinating species of lichen. I get called an asshole on occasion on the road for misjudgments of distance. My focus is on the minute. When I write a story, I will occasionally get stuck on a scientific question that will send me on a three-hour internet hunt, which, by the time I finish, I realize I didn't need to take anyway. I'm in a constant state of distraction from a goal I haven't even really made concrete yet.
In summation, my illusion is I need to have fulfilled two things already: to be a genius and to start a socially-condemned relationship and make it work 'til death do us part. It's quite simple, really. Just write something that's not only brilliant, but also that people will read/watch again and again and incorporate into their personal philosophies and cultures that have been shaped by countless other sources for thousands of years like J.K. Rowling. After all, according to Chris Ciccone, you only have to be a genius once. Next up, I have to find a man who genuinely loves and cherishes me tantamount to my own feelings and be at my beck and call yet understanding that I need lots of space. And it needs to happen three years ago!
After a while, you can only lie to yourself for so long. You can only crank out so many half-assed pages and force so many half-baked relationships before the pressure becomes absurd and the victim mentality takes hold. The recoil continues. The nightmares about insufficient sleep end with a clenched jaw, receding gums, and TMJ disorder, among others. And for what? Out of this whole flea-bitten circus, what good does it do anybody? I tell myself I have let go of fame-lust and love-lust, but it is always there, in waking and sleeping, always adding pressure, always reminding me that I'm not doing what I want to be doing, that I'm not where I should be. I should be successful, dammit! Why am I not?
My brother gave me this book for Christmas two years ago. I read it in two days, loved it, and then gradually perverted the message for the subsequent two years. I had to give up all hope of success, all hope of love, and turn instead to the invisible figure of God. After all, isn't that better than everything else? It was better to withdraw from people and shut myself up than to be a part of the clingy world. The thing was, the book never said anything like that. This first chapter, a heavy four pages long, points out that there are fleeting joys and substantial joys, but we are programmed to pursue the fleeting ones. I am at peace when I go for a drive and see the history of California. I tear my hair out writing pages that I don't even like, and I beat down on myself for not being good enough or accomplished enough to talk to someone I find attractive. There is this rancid bitterness that piles up from time to time, because, deep down, I know that what I am pursuing cannot, in and of itself, bring me contentment. I could write a renowned screenplay and then be pushed back into obscurity immediately after. I could start a great relationship and lose him to cancer shortly thereafter. The focus needs to be on something greater. If I'm going to write, it has to be for a reason other than fame. If I'm going to have a relationship, it has to be for something other than sex and sharing insecurities. There needs to be something bigger, and right now, I can't figure out what that bigger thing is. Maybe re-reading this book will help.
This thought train started rolling last week when my friend, who has asked me to write a short musical for him, asked a simple question: Would you like to work with a lyricist? Immediately, the thorns shot up, the mask was back, and I slunk back into the corner with my poisonous jaws at the ready, while inside my lair of instant defense, the worm that already lingered there began to gnaw at me again. With every nibble came the crippling doubts of why I had failed so spectacularly at this one task when I had promised to succeed. All of this took place in the span before I could even form a rational thought, and I sputtered a little, asked instead to work with a musician, and went home feeling miserable. Why? It wasn't that he had said anything with intent to offend or put me down; it was the fact that I had shat out inferior material and presented it as something to be proud of. It was a song, yes, but it was soulless.
To be a skilled craftsman, artist even, a person needs feeling and expression, a message, if you will. What I've noticed in my work as of late is that an idea will spring into my head, and I'll start writing it without thinking it through. I've never completed a full outline, and it shows when the piece falls apart at the end of Act 1, where I lose my patience. By then, I revert back to form: "Stick to the form, and you'll get through it. End your Act 1 at page 15, your midpoint at 60, and your end before 120. It does not matter what you lose in the process." Oftentimes, the idea may not have had an actual meaning behind it, but it seemed cool at the time and became a commitment, for which I held no love or interest, like my past attempts at dating. Without love, there was only commitment, and from that commitment came soulless things, things about which I still hang my head to this day, years after the fact. I commit because I crave success, but even more than I crave success, I crave approval.
The first chapter of the booklet addresses this directly. It asks the reader to compare the feeling of receiving praise with the feeling of taking in a gorgeous sunrise. One is fleeting and leaves a person wanting more, while another is simply satisfaction. Screenwriting, in which I have my degree, demands commitment for success in a business where soul is only as deep as a pocketbook. I have committed myself to writing because I gave up on veterinary medicine. I was afraid to have responsibility for an animal's life, and in the process of giving up that goal, I lost responsibility for my soul.
I entered writing as a relative newcomer. I did not have an all-consuming passion for movies and, honestly, I still don't. In fact, I don't have much passion for anything anymore. At age 23, having not yet produced something I am proud of or that has evoked any kind of meaningful response from anyone else, I have deemed myself a failure and resigned myself to the remainder of my life as a worker ant, occasionally churning out pages to satisfy the writer's group and hopefully one day get noticed and asked by rich men to write soullessly for money. I don't have my money or connections. I never made those real connections in college. I observed the other writers, either with jealousy or resentment, and never took the time to learn from them. Their perceived success on and off the page amounted to my failure, and that was it.
The fact of the matter is, the picture is enormous, and my eyes are glued to a scuff on the frame. It's like when I was in my single-digit years, rock climbing with my dad, and I suddenly let go of the rope and the rock to hang precariously by my dad's belay and examine a particularly fascinating species of lichen. I get called an asshole on occasion on the road for misjudgments of distance. My focus is on the minute. When I write a story, I will occasionally get stuck on a scientific question that will send me on a three-hour internet hunt, which, by the time I finish, I realize I didn't need to take anyway. I'm in a constant state of distraction from a goal I haven't even really made concrete yet.
In summation, my illusion is I need to have fulfilled two things already: to be a genius and to start a socially-condemned relationship and make it work 'til death do us part. It's quite simple, really. Just write something that's not only brilliant, but also that people will read/watch again and again and incorporate into their personal philosophies and cultures that have been shaped by countless other sources for thousands of years like J.K. Rowling. After all, according to Chris Ciccone, you only have to be a genius once. Next up, I have to find a man who genuinely loves and cherishes me tantamount to my own feelings and be at my beck and call yet understanding that I need lots of space. And it needs to happen three years ago!
After a while, you can only lie to yourself for so long. You can only crank out so many half-assed pages and force so many half-baked relationships before the pressure becomes absurd and the victim mentality takes hold. The recoil continues. The nightmares about insufficient sleep end with a clenched jaw, receding gums, and TMJ disorder, among others. And for what? Out of this whole flea-bitten circus, what good does it do anybody? I tell myself I have let go of fame-lust and love-lust, but it is always there, in waking and sleeping, always adding pressure, always reminding me that I'm not doing what I want to be doing, that I'm not where I should be. I should be successful, dammit! Why am I not?
My brother gave me this book for Christmas two years ago. I read it in two days, loved it, and then gradually perverted the message for the subsequent two years. I had to give up all hope of success, all hope of love, and turn instead to the invisible figure of God. After all, isn't that better than everything else? It was better to withdraw from people and shut myself up than to be a part of the clingy world. The thing was, the book never said anything like that. This first chapter, a heavy four pages long, points out that there are fleeting joys and substantial joys, but we are programmed to pursue the fleeting ones. I am at peace when I go for a drive and see the history of California. I tear my hair out writing pages that I don't even like, and I beat down on myself for not being good enough or accomplished enough to talk to someone I find attractive. There is this rancid bitterness that piles up from time to time, because, deep down, I know that what I am pursuing cannot, in and of itself, bring me contentment. I could write a renowned screenplay and then be pushed back into obscurity immediately after. I could start a great relationship and lose him to cancer shortly thereafter. The focus needs to be on something greater. If I'm going to write, it has to be for a reason other than fame. If I'm going to have a relationship, it has to be for something other than sex and sharing insecurities. There needs to be something bigger, and right now, I can't figure out what that bigger thing is. Maybe re-reading this book will help.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Aether
It's easy to forget there are stars when you live in Los Angeles. Let me rephrase. It's easy to forget there are stars in the sky when you live in Los Angeles. Night in the city doesn't really turn dark, just orange.
I ended up spending the weekend at my grandparents' house in southern Utah. The total population of the town where they live is approximately 120. The air is clear, the sounds are soft and natural, and there are stars. There are so many stars.
I stood on the deck for about half an hour, gazing up at them, feeling overcome with an emotion I thought I'd lost: wonder. They're still there. The Milky Way still flows. The Big Dipper still points north to Polaris. There are still tiny, blinking satellites weaving among them like alien ants.
I think that most people, myself included, spend the majority of their lives looking ahead, looking back, or looking around. It's easy to forget to look up, past the glass and rooftops, into the deep vastness, wherein lives the grand Mystery that puts all one's own tiny problems into perspective. There, nestled in the star fields, sits a profound peace that only requires a glance. I have been gone too long. That's a trend I do not wish to continue.
I ended up spending the weekend at my grandparents' house in southern Utah. The total population of the town where they live is approximately 120. The air is clear, the sounds are soft and natural, and there are stars. There are so many stars.
I stood on the deck for about half an hour, gazing up at them, feeling overcome with an emotion I thought I'd lost: wonder. They're still there. The Milky Way still flows. The Big Dipper still points north to Polaris. There are still tiny, blinking satellites weaving among them like alien ants.
I think that most people, myself included, spend the majority of their lives looking ahead, looking back, or looking around. It's easy to forget to look up, past the glass and rooftops, into the deep vastness, wherein lives the grand Mystery that puts all one's own tiny problems into perspective. There, nestled in the star fields, sits a profound peace that only requires a glance. I have been gone too long. That's a trend I do not wish to continue.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Little Armenia
I've moved into an interesting neighborhood. It's a lot safer than the areas I'm accustomed to inhabiting. There are no bars on the windows, and I'm the only person who still puts a security bar on his steering wheel at night. It's also very Armenian.
I have no judgments to make on Armenia or its culture, because I have never been exposed to it until now, so I have no idea what to make of it. What I have gathered from recent interactions is that it is a proud and friendly culture, notwithstanding the hell it's been through. There is one couple in particular, however, that have left me scrambling to sort out the underlying meanings of their actions, sort of how I imagine a lot of people scramble to sort out the underlying meanings of my own...
My first introduction to this couple came as a knock at my door around 8:00 at night. They're an amiable, older couple, so I wasn't immediately scared that I was about to be shot to death in my doorway (remember, this area is safer than I'm used to). The moment I opened the door, the first thing they asked me was, "Are you Armenian?" There was no "Hi, we're your neighbors, the Jonesians," or "Welcome to the complex," so all I could really say was, "No, but I'm not a bad guy. I promise." They shrugged and introduced themselves, saying in very broken English that they used to be friends with the woman who lived in the apartment before me. There was a certain humble dignity to them that I admired, but there wasn't much time to do so before they excused themselves for the night and left me thoroughly puzzled.
Yesterday, the old man walked past me while I was futzing about in my pseudo garden. We exchanged nods, and I went back to what I was doing. Two minutes later, he set three kitchen knives on the ground in front of me. I didn't even hear him coming; suddenly, there were three knives on the ground by my hand. He smiled and nodded, so I suppose he meant well by it. Still, I wasn't sure quite how to respond. Maybe this is how people feel when I give them random gifts or favors, but I'd never thought of depositing knives in front of people working in their gardens.
Now, of course, there is the question of how to respond. It would be courteous to give them something back, but I don't quite have utensils to spare. I'm sure there are all sorts of cultural do's and don't's to gift giving with Armenian folks, but I have to wonder whether the internet is 100% effective at spelling them out. I suppose I could bake them some paklava, but I have no idea if that would be appropriate or not, especially if I end up burning it. Who knows? Maybe food will transcend the cultural-linguistic boundaries. I could take pictures of the process in which I make the pastries with their knives. Then again, they might misinterpret my meaning.
I have no judgments to make on Armenia or its culture, because I have never been exposed to it until now, so I have no idea what to make of it. What I have gathered from recent interactions is that it is a proud and friendly culture, notwithstanding the hell it's been through. There is one couple in particular, however, that have left me scrambling to sort out the underlying meanings of their actions, sort of how I imagine a lot of people scramble to sort out the underlying meanings of my own...
My first introduction to this couple came as a knock at my door around 8:00 at night. They're an amiable, older couple, so I wasn't immediately scared that I was about to be shot to death in my doorway (remember, this area is safer than I'm used to). The moment I opened the door, the first thing they asked me was, "Are you Armenian?" There was no "Hi, we're your neighbors, the Jonesians," or "Welcome to the complex," so all I could really say was, "No, but I'm not a bad guy. I promise." They shrugged and introduced themselves, saying in very broken English that they used to be friends with the woman who lived in the apartment before me. There was a certain humble dignity to them that I admired, but there wasn't much time to do so before they excused themselves for the night and left me thoroughly puzzled.
Yesterday, the old man walked past me while I was futzing about in my pseudo garden. We exchanged nods, and I went back to what I was doing. Two minutes later, he set three kitchen knives on the ground in front of me. I didn't even hear him coming; suddenly, there were three knives on the ground by my hand. He smiled and nodded, so I suppose he meant well by it. Still, I wasn't sure quite how to respond. Maybe this is how people feel when I give them random gifts or favors, but I'd never thought of depositing knives in front of people working in their gardens.
Now, of course, there is the question of how to respond. It would be courteous to give them something back, but I don't quite have utensils to spare. I'm sure there are all sorts of cultural do's and don't's to gift giving with Armenian folks, but I have to wonder whether the internet is 100% effective at spelling them out. I suppose I could bake them some paklava, but I have no idea if that would be appropriate or not, especially if I end up burning it. Who knows? Maybe food will transcend the cultural-linguistic boundaries. I could take pictures of the process in which I make the pastries with their knives. Then again, they might misinterpret my meaning.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Driven Duck Says: Work, Work, Work
By crikey, it's been a while since I've put a post in here. Life updates: I'm finally settled into my new apartment, still vehemently single, and still working in LP. What do all of these have in common? More alone time! Whoo hoo!
To be quite honest, the first few weeks of coming home to a quiet, ratless apartment and making real meals in my own kitchen have been quite wonderful. It's only when I go elsewhere, such as work, where this seems pathetic. All the isolation I don't feel in my quiet apartment or on my adventures alone comes up in droves when I'm at work. For instance, last Friday, one of the HR staff came over to LP to deliver invitations to a baby shower for one of the other HR folks. She wanted to make sure "the whole team" was included. She didn't even address me (actually, she averted her eyes), even though I helped out in HR through the busy holidays. I understand that the role of a temp excludes one from certain perks of being at a company, but to be excluded from "the whole team" was a jab I wasn't expecting to receive.
Let's also take yesterday, for example. We had a volunteer fair at work. I shopped around to see if I could find something meaningful to take up my time. One of the groups was handing out kids' backpacks to be filled with school supplies and returned. I asked to participate (mind you, this is a charitable cause, not for self benefit), but my request was met with, "Sorry, we don't have enough supplies for temps." I mean, I get it, but after working there for nearly a year, it feels strange to have felt like part of something only to be reminded that I'm not.
Right now, what's keeping me on edge about this job isn't that it could end soon but that it could keep going. My boss is going on maternity leave in November, which means I may be recruited to cover into next year. That's easily another six months in a position where there is literally no room to transition to part of "the team." I have really mixed feelings about this. I do get a steady paycheck; I don't get benefits of any kind. I have started to grow accustomed to the area's amenities and the people, but is it all just a grand cage?
Also in question is my trip to El Camino, which I had considered taking after my assignment expired. I don't know when or if it will expire. Some might say "Take the journey; live your dream!" while others would caution "Build your nest egg; journey later." The rumor is that I can only be a temp there for a total of 18 months, but who knows what validity lies in rumors? Either way, the state of things is that I'm getting paid to help out a team to which I don't belong, which makes me feel much lonelier among people than I do when I actually am alone. There's also the alienating issue of my coworkers assuming I'm not only straight but also a womanizer, but that's the subject of a different post altogether. In the mean time, there have been no official talks of extending my position past July 29th , only more rumors. If I have no other offers by then, I will stay; if my time is up with nowhere pressing to go, I will write for a month and walk El Camino in September, Insh'allah.
To be quite honest, the first few weeks of coming home to a quiet, ratless apartment and making real meals in my own kitchen have been quite wonderful. It's only when I go elsewhere, such as work, where this seems pathetic. All the isolation I don't feel in my quiet apartment or on my adventures alone comes up in droves when I'm at work. For instance, last Friday, one of the HR staff came over to LP to deliver invitations to a baby shower for one of the other HR folks. She wanted to make sure "the whole team" was included. She didn't even address me (actually, she averted her eyes), even though I helped out in HR through the busy holidays. I understand that the role of a temp excludes one from certain perks of being at a company, but to be excluded from "the whole team" was a jab I wasn't expecting to receive.
Let's also take yesterday, for example. We had a volunteer fair at work. I shopped around to see if I could find something meaningful to take up my time. One of the groups was handing out kids' backpacks to be filled with school supplies and returned. I asked to participate (mind you, this is a charitable cause, not for self benefit), but my request was met with, "Sorry, we don't have enough supplies for temps." I mean, I get it, but after working there for nearly a year, it feels strange to have felt like part of something only to be reminded that I'm not.
Right now, what's keeping me on edge about this job isn't that it could end soon but that it could keep going. My boss is going on maternity leave in November, which means I may be recruited to cover into next year. That's easily another six months in a position where there is literally no room to transition to part of "the team." I have really mixed feelings about this. I do get a steady paycheck; I don't get benefits of any kind. I have started to grow accustomed to the area's amenities and the people, but is it all just a grand cage?
Also in question is my trip to El Camino, which I had considered taking after my assignment expired. I don't know when or if it will expire. Some might say "Take the journey; live your dream!" while others would caution "Build your nest egg; journey later." The rumor is that I can only be a temp there for a total of 18 months, but who knows what validity lies in rumors? Either way, the state of things is that I'm getting paid to help out a team to which I don't belong, which makes me feel much lonelier among people than I do when I actually am alone. There's also the alienating issue of my coworkers assuming I'm not only straight but also a womanizer, but that's the subject of a different post altogether. In the mean time, there have been no official talks of extending my position past July 29
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Una Carta de Carlitos
Remember my kid? Well, if not, go here first then hurry right back. I got a letter from Carlos, er, his mom because he's not old enough to write letters yet. This is technically the second letter from Chile, but as I was in the middle of script-writing madness, I missed writing about the last one. His mom is so proud of his intelligence; in fact, apparently the whole family is intelligent, even the dog. Actually, she emphasizes that the dog is "very" intelligent.
Even though there are only two letters per year, it's still quite extraordinary to get a response from someone living in not only a completely separate hemisphere but also a completely different state of being. Nonetheless, it seems education is transcending all ways of life. Carlos is excelling in his early classes and is showing a knack for sports and art. Eeexcellent... Padrino Kyle may have to find ways of fostering these talents.
I'm trying to figure out what to write next. I've been practicing writing in Spanish, which has been fun, and I've been sending pictures from my adventures. Of course, for me, it's dreadfully difficult to write at a 6-year old's level, though I was able to ask him last time whether "Hay nieve allá durante el invierno?" to which his mom replied "No tenemos nieve. Ya que solo en la cordillera nieva. Él aún no lo conoce." She says she is very proud of me for graduating college. I think she has the same dream for Carlitos. I have no idea whether Carlos' older brother, who is my age, has graduated college. Maybe I'll ask that in the upcoming letter. Oh, and he colored a picture of an elephant for me. I'll have to add it later, once I've unpacked my scanner. Warm fuzzies.
Even though there are only two letters per year, it's still quite extraordinary to get a response from someone living in not only a completely separate hemisphere but also a completely different state of being. Nonetheless, it seems education is transcending all ways of life. Carlos is excelling in his early classes and is showing a knack for sports and art. Eeexcellent... Padrino Kyle may have to find ways of fostering these talents.
I'm trying to figure out what to write next. I've been practicing writing in Spanish, which has been fun, and I've been sending pictures from my adventures. Of course, for me, it's dreadfully difficult to write at a 6-year old's level, though I was able to ask him last time whether "Hay nieve allá durante el invierno?" to which his mom replied "No tenemos nieve. Ya que solo en la cordillera nieva. Él aún no lo conoce." She says she is very proud of me for graduating college. I think she has the same dream for Carlitos. I have no idea whether Carlos' older brother, who is my age, has graduated college. Maybe I'll ask that in the upcoming letter. Oh, and he colored a picture of an elephant for me. I'll have to add it later, once I've unpacked my scanner. Warm fuzzies.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Farol Verde
I finally decided to put to use the two free AMC theatre tickets that have been hanging on my wall since November. They went toward a viewing of Green Lantern, one of the summer superhero movies on my list but predominantly the only one for which I could find a viewing buddy. As far as superhero movies are concerned, what it lacked in character development, dialogue, and continuity, it possessed in imaginative set pieces. As usual. But that's not the point of this post.
The mythos of the Green Lantern franchise is that the universe is built upon the conflict of two powerful energies: Will and Fear (think light side and dark side of the force). Those that succumb to fear are quite literally consumed by it, and the journey/wandering/stroll of our protagonist requires him to overcome such basic human fears as jumping off a towering skyscraper and facing a giant Androssian monster. While I'd love to go on about how many times I've found myself in the same situations, I'll focus a little more on something more general.
I've written about fear a lot in this blog: the fear of making eye contact, speaking out of line, being thought stupid or threatening, etc. My good friend in Germany related a story to me in which he made sustained eye contact with a guy at a bus stop, which then led to a mutual smile and a sort of rapport. Of course, I countered with the theory that, unlike Germany, America is as paranoid, if not more so, than I am. Therefore, sustained eye contact with a stranger on the street would be nicht gut. Yet he advised me to try it. Three seconds. Four, even. An eternity for me. But he presented it as a challenge. Damn it!
So, for the past week I've started to force a full second of eye contact. I've started talking to people with whom I don't normally associate, including the Adonis-type at work who may or may not have been flirting with me in February. And you know what? I get smiles out of it! People respond pleasantly. I mean, it takes quite a bit of reading to determine whether it's an appropriate time to talk to somebody, but an impromptu chat with a stranger is actually very empowering. You sustain eye contact with somebody, and suddenly, you're on their level. You no longer have to worry that your head is going to swell up like a giant tumor and your eyes glow yellow out of fear (see the movie), because in the end, to misquote Hamlet, words are just that: Words, words, words. There really is no need to look further than necessary into them.
I'm going to keep practicing eye contact. It's getting easier as I continue my adventure to see the Historical Landmarks of California and have to ask directions and information from complete strangers. Still, as of yet, these have been older, humble types, not as intimidating as the younger, firebrand sorts that breed so much insecurity in me. I'll take it one step at a time, a question here, an observation there, maybe even a compliment, troublesome though they may be. It takes time to learn how to conjure a racetrack out of pure energy, so if I keep viewing this as a journey or challenge, I just might be more enthusiastic to overcome it.
The mythos of the Green Lantern franchise is that the universe is built upon the conflict of two powerful energies: Will and Fear (think light side and dark side of the force). Those that succumb to fear are quite literally consumed by it, and the journey/wandering/stroll of our protagonist requires him to overcome such basic human fears as jumping off a towering skyscraper and facing a giant Androssian monster. While I'd love to go on about how many times I've found myself in the same situations, I'll focus a little more on something more general.
I've written about fear a lot in this blog: the fear of making eye contact, speaking out of line, being thought stupid or threatening, etc. My good friend in Germany related a story to me in which he made sustained eye contact with a guy at a bus stop, which then led to a mutual smile and a sort of rapport. Of course, I countered with the theory that, unlike Germany, America is as paranoid, if not more so, than I am. Therefore, sustained eye contact with a stranger on the street would be nicht gut. Yet he advised me to try it. Three seconds. Four, even. An eternity for me. But he presented it as a challenge. Damn it!
So, for the past week I've started to force a full second of eye contact. I've started talking to people with whom I don't normally associate, including the Adonis-type at work who may or may not have been flirting with me in February. And you know what? I get smiles out of it! People respond pleasantly. I mean, it takes quite a bit of reading to determine whether it's an appropriate time to talk to somebody, but an impromptu chat with a stranger is actually very empowering. You sustain eye contact with somebody, and suddenly, you're on their level. You no longer have to worry that your head is going to swell up like a giant tumor and your eyes glow yellow out of fear (see the movie), because in the end, to misquote Hamlet, words are just that: Words, words, words. There really is no need to look further than necessary into them.
I'm going to keep practicing eye contact. It's getting easier as I continue my adventure to see the Historical Landmarks of California and have to ask directions and information from complete strangers. Still, as of yet, these have been older, humble types, not as intimidating as the younger, firebrand sorts that breed so much insecurity in me. I'll take it one step at a time, a question here, an observation there, maybe even a compliment, troublesome though they may be. It takes time to learn how to conjure a racetrack out of pure energy, so if I keep viewing this as a journey or challenge, I just might be more enthusiastic to overcome it.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
You Know... (Part Four)
You know you're giving off the wrong vibe when young, attractive, Chinese students flock to your brother and even your parents to have pictures taken with them over the course of the trip, but the only photo request you receive is from a grinning 60-year old man.
You know you're hanging with the wrong crowd when after two minutes of recounting your adventures in China, you're interrupted by a half-hour monologue on personal drama and food, and the conversation is over.
You know there's a good reason for being paranoid when your boss hides a camera on his desk, films you brushing crumbs from your shirt into the trash can, and shows the entire office how, from that angle, it looks like you're taking a piss.
You know you're hanging with the wrong crowd when after two minutes of recounting your adventures in China, you're interrupted by a half-hour monologue on personal drama and food, and the conversation is over.
You know there's a good reason for being paranoid when your boss hides a camera on his desk, films you brushing crumbs from your shirt into the trash can, and shows the entire office how, from that angle, it looks like you're taking a piss.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Googly Eyes
So I'm back from China. Technically, it was almost a week ago, but you know how things go when you have a thousand pictures to upload, three blogs and a website to update, a full-time job, an apartment to find, and roommates to avoid. This is a comment on the latter, plus a few other things. But to preface this rather gloomy musing, watch this first. If you actually come back to the blog after watching it, well, cool!
Christopher Walken is about as awesome as it gets. When you're done reading here, go watch his dance video to the tune of "Weapon of Choice." But I digress. I'm here to talk about googly eyes. No, not quite the same googly eyes adorning cactus, shrub, and palm in this greenhouse; I mean the principle of googly eyes: inventing a way to know where you stand with people.
After three days in China, I noticed how regularly I was making fun of people, the customs, and especially my other family members. Ninety percent of my sense of humor is based on pointing out flaws in others and exploiting the shit out of those flaws. I try not to make them overtly mean-spirited, but one of the nastier parts of Asperger's, the one that has cost me a lot of friends over the years, is not recognizing when that line is crossed. That's a topic for another blog post. I want to talk about googly eyes.
Snarky remarks, showing attitude, dealing back double what's dealt unto you: these are my googly eyes. By keeping people mildly amused, annoyed, or even angry at me, I know exactly where I stand with them. My default assumption about other people is that they don't like me, even when I do nice things for them; ergo, it's become second nature to adopt behaviors that enforce their dislike so I don't have to play the guessing game. This helps me to avoid more complicated emotions like Love, Empathy, or even Like, and to keep people at a distance with the conviction that, if we were to build something great without googly eyes, I would ultimately destroy it anyway. They who hope for little are seldom disappointed. Therefore, bring on the snarkasm.
My roommates and I are finishing up our time together, and honestly, I can't wait. We were great friends for years, until last November, after an attempted favor went disastrously south, spawned a monster. Conditions were laid out before me; I had to change a number of my behaviors. Having self esteem half the size of a public school teacher's paycheck, I asked one thing in return: tell me when I do something wrong. Since then, we have sunk into a silent war over the dishwasher. I have learned, by watching them silently correct the positions of what I put in the dishwasher, how to put the glasses in correctly, load the dishes from back to front, wash all dishes by hand before putting them in the dishwasher, and avoid washing all plastic items because they'll melt.
The latter is where I'm drawing the line. There is a measuring cup and a spatula sitting in the sink as I type. They have been there for four days. The evening before they appeared, I put them in the dishwasher. Good plastic. Durable. It won't melt; I promise. Yet, after months of ignoring my one condition of verbal openness in favor of passive aggression, I've decided to leave them in the sink. They took them out of the dishwasher; they can put them back if they so desire. These are my googly eyes, and so I know at all times where I stand with them. By the time our lease runs out and I find my own place, I don't expect to see or hear from them again, but I know they will leave with a bad final impression of me.
Is it my fault? Some of it is, but for the fact that this venom has been building so steadily to the point that one roommate hasn't looked me in the eye for two or three months, there's more to this than the position of dishes. And it feeds me. And it feeds my worldview. And it lets me retain my fear of plants, er, people. And it lets me resent them for being. And it keeps me well supplied with googly eyes, for anger is something I understand, and surrounded by anger, though it fills me with endless negativity, I feel secure.
Christopher Walken is about as awesome as it gets. When you're done reading here, go watch his dance video to the tune of "Weapon of Choice." But I digress. I'm here to talk about googly eyes. No, not quite the same googly eyes adorning cactus, shrub, and palm in this greenhouse; I mean the principle of googly eyes: inventing a way to know where you stand with people.
After three days in China, I noticed how regularly I was making fun of people, the customs, and especially my other family members. Ninety percent of my sense of humor is based on pointing out flaws in others and exploiting the shit out of those flaws. I try not to make them overtly mean-spirited, but one of the nastier parts of Asperger's, the one that has cost me a lot of friends over the years, is not recognizing when that line is crossed. That's a topic for another blog post. I want to talk about googly eyes.
Snarky remarks, showing attitude, dealing back double what's dealt unto you: these are my googly eyes. By keeping people mildly amused, annoyed, or even angry at me, I know exactly where I stand with them. My default assumption about other people is that they don't like me, even when I do nice things for them; ergo, it's become second nature to adopt behaviors that enforce their dislike so I don't have to play the guessing game. This helps me to avoid more complicated emotions like Love, Empathy, or even Like, and to keep people at a distance with the conviction that, if we were to build something great without googly eyes, I would ultimately destroy it anyway. They who hope for little are seldom disappointed. Therefore, bring on the snarkasm.
My roommates and I are finishing up our time together, and honestly, I can't wait. We were great friends for years, until last November, after an attempted favor went disastrously south, spawned a monster. Conditions were laid out before me; I had to change a number of my behaviors. Having self esteem half the size of a public school teacher's paycheck, I asked one thing in return: tell me when I do something wrong. Since then, we have sunk into a silent war over the dishwasher. I have learned, by watching them silently correct the positions of what I put in the dishwasher, how to put the glasses in correctly, load the dishes from back to front, wash all dishes by hand before putting them in the dishwasher, and avoid washing all plastic items because they'll melt.
The latter is where I'm drawing the line. There is a measuring cup and a spatula sitting in the sink as I type. They have been there for four days. The evening before they appeared, I put them in the dishwasher. Good plastic. Durable. It won't melt; I promise. Yet, after months of ignoring my one condition of verbal openness in favor of passive aggression, I've decided to leave them in the sink. They took them out of the dishwasher; they can put them back if they so desire. These are my googly eyes, and so I know at all times where I stand with them. By the time our lease runs out and I find my own place, I don't expect to see or hear from them again, but I know they will leave with a bad final impression of me.
Is it my fault? Some of it is, but for the fact that this venom has been building so steadily to the point that one roommate hasn't looked me in the eye for two or three months, there's more to this than the position of dishes. And it feeds me. And it feeds my worldview. And it lets me retain my fear of plants, er, people. And it lets me resent them for being. And it keeps me well supplied with googly eyes, for anger is something I understand, and surrounded by anger, though it fills me with endless negativity, I feel secure.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Marriage Mirage
I try not to write about other people in this blog, because eventually it will come back to bite me in the ass. However, though isolated I may be in waking, the Dreamworld is full of people influencing me in ways they would never imagine while awake. For cases like these, I must maintain anonymity. I'll refer to the persons in question as X and Y. Like the chromosomes.
Rock on.
I understand that a long dream is normally around five minutes but feels like an age. The one that concluded last night's slumber was a doozy on the sense of wellness. In it, Person Y announced his plans to marry Person X. Their relationship was widely known and supported, they had stable jobs, and they were very much meant for each other from the start. The issue was that I never saw or spoke to Person Y throughout this entire dream. My job was to go pick up the bride-to-be at a party.
When I arrived, there were about five brides-to-be, all about the same age and description. Somehow, I knew which one was the right bride, but I couldn't bring myself to approach her. How would I introduce myself? What if she was truly charming? I wanted something to be wrong with her, and she morphed through all phases of crassness. I lingered on this for a long time.
I'm at a stalemate when it comes to romance. When I see a happy couple, I'm filled with two emotions: bitterness that they've found their other halves and hubris that I am still free to do what I like without accounting to another person. These are easily the two strongest emotions I've been feeling the last few months. I know I'm unsuitable for a relationship, because of my cynicism, paranoia and need for solitude, but the longing still presents itself at times. The happiness that surrounded the prospective union of Persons X and Y left me feeling empty on awakening, though it is important to me that I not find myself entangled in another naive, possessive, loveless mockery of a "relationship." Each additional day that I've been single feels like a landmark, and truly, when I am adventuring alone, I barely miss other people at all. But it's in the planning and the aftermath, when I ponder what it could have been like with someone else, that I feel very sad.
However, because of the steps I have taken in the last few months/years, I decided I was not going to let this resurgence of self-pitying emotions spoil my day. I combined a few techniques in the shower: the feeding of the demons and the cleansing radiance. I gave the loneliness demon a morsel of my angst, and it went away. I envisioned myself as a blazing light cracking through the gunk the demon left behind, and when I got out of the shower, I felt clean in more ways than one. Nonetheless, I still wish I could find a more lasting approach to this, preferably a social one that doesn't turn the social experience into an obligation but marries the need for companionship with the desire for freedom. Maybe it will be there when I wake up next.
Rock on.
I understand that a long dream is normally around five minutes but feels like an age. The one that concluded last night's slumber was a doozy on the sense of wellness. In it, Person Y announced his plans to marry Person X. Their relationship was widely known and supported, they had stable jobs, and they were very much meant for each other from the start. The issue was that I never saw or spoke to Person Y throughout this entire dream. My job was to go pick up the bride-to-be at a party.
When I arrived, there were about five brides-to-be, all about the same age and description. Somehow, I knew which one was the right bride, but I couldn't bring myself to approach her. How would I introduce myself? What if she was truly charming? I wanted something to be wrong with her, and she morphed through all phases of crassness. I lingered on this for a long time.
I'm at a stalemate when it comes to romance. When I see a happy couple, I'm filled with two emotions: bitterness that they've found their other halves and hubris that I am still free to do what I like without accounting to another person. These are easily the two strongest emotions I've been feeling the last few months. I know I'm unsuitable for a relationship, because of my cynicism, paranoia and need for solitude, but the longing still presents itself at times. The happiness that surrounded the prospective union of Persons X and Y left me feeling empty on awakening, though it is important to me that I not find myself entangled in another naive, possessive, loveless mockery of a "relationship." Each additional day that I've been single feels like a landmark, and truly, when I am adventuring alone, I barely miss other people at all. But it's in the planning and the aftermath, when I ponder what it could have been like with someone else, that I feel very sad.
However, because of the steps I have taken in the last few months/years, I decided I was not going to let this resurgence of self-pitying emotions spoil my day. I combined a few techniques in the shower: the feeding of the demons and the cleansing radiance. I gave the loneliness demon a morsel of my angst, and it went away. I envisioned myself as a blazing light cracking through the gunk the demon left behind, and when I got out of the shower, I felt clean in more ways than one. Nonetheless, I still wish I could find a more lasting approach to this, preferably a social one that doesn't turn the social experience into an obligation but marries the need for companionship with the desire for freedom. Maybe it will be there when I wake up next.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Practice
I spent the weekend in Spokane, watching about 1200 caps and gowns file up, across, and off stage. My grandma told me to yell for my brother when he came into view. I found that I couldn't. Seriously. I could not raise my voice.
In 2009, while doing a documentary on the placebo effect, I had my aura read by two different people in two different states. Both readers noticed my crown chakra (mental) was ablaze with energy, while my throat chakra (communication) was about the size of an amoeba or Donald Trump's charm. I've been getting steadily quieter over the years too. I sound perfectly intelligible to myself, because what I say registers clearly in my mind, but it's rare anymore that I don't have to repeat a phrase two or three times to be understood. It gets unnecessarily frustrating.
The cause is two-fold: one, I don't want to be disruptively loud as I was growing up, and two, I prefer most conversations to be private without bystanders leaping into the dialogue at the first convenience. The issue is that my concept of volume is shot to hell. As a child, I was a screamer, an exclaimer, a singer, etc. In short, I was loud all around. It drove many people nuts, particularly the adults in my life, who invariably told me to tone it down. After a while, especially during the pivotal 6th grade year, which saw the first big blow to my self-esteem, I learned that it was better to be silent, discreet, inconspicuous and therefore hidden from critical eyes.
Where this presents a problem is in real social situations, like graduation, or a sports game, or really any exchange in which more than two people are involved. I can't hold my own in these situations. I don't know how to barge in, cut people off, or make my point. I'll start to say something, but it's either too quiet or devoured by the existing momentum of another's soliloquy. I may have a very good idea in mind, but I just can't get it heard. This has been a great contributing factor to my ongoing isolation; it's not that I want to be in the spotlight all the time, but to actually be included, heard, welcomed would be so very nice. Nonetheless, this has remained elusive over the years.
A runner's legs grow thick and strong, a swimmer's arms as powerful as legs. That which is not used atrophies. Such is the case with my voice. There is this need inside me to shout, proclaim, sing, project, SPEAK for crying out loud, but my voice does not follow my heart and stays timid and weak, still afraid of sixth grade disapproval, despite the extraordinary progress I've made in other fields. I understand the mantra of "Practice, practice, practice," but I have no direction to motivate me through the mire of imagined criticism. I'm afraid to sing in my own room and car, for Pete's sake, out of fear for disturbing others with a sound not unlike a cat with its tail caught in a garden edger. Yet, I want to be loud again, badly, and I'd rather not wait until the magical age of 75 when all inhibitions go to shit and I can say and do whatever I want while people understand that I'm just old then smile and nod. Maybe I just need a better grasp of what it is I want to say. What do I want to say?
In 2009, while doing a documentary on the placebo effect, I had my aura read by two different people in two different states. Both readers noticed my crown chakra (mental) was ablaze with energy, while my throat chakra (communication) was about the size of an amoeba or Donald Trump's charm. I've been getting steadily quieter over the years too. I sound perfectly intelligible to myself, because what I say registers clearly in my mind, but it's rare anymore that I don't have to repeat a phrase two or three times to be understood. It gets unnecessarily frustrating.
The cause is two-fold: one, I don't want to be disruptively loud as I was growing up, and two, I prefer most conversations to be private without bystanders leaping into the dialogue at the first convenience. The issue is that my concept of volume is shot to hell. As a child, I was a screamer, an exclaimer, a singer, etc. In short, I was loud all around. It drove many people nuts, particularly the adults in my life, who invariably told me to tone it down. After a while, especially during the pivotal 6th grade year, which saw the first big blow to my self-esteem, I learned that it was better to be silent, discreet, inconspicuous and therefore hidden from critical eyes.
Where this presents a problem is in real social situations, like graduation, or a sports game, or really any exchange in which more than two people are involved. I can't hold my own in these situations. I don't know how to barge in, cut people off, or make my point. I'll start to say something, but it's either too quiet or devoured by the existing momentum of another's soliloquy. I may have a very good idea in mind, but I just can't get it heard. This has been a great contributing factor to my ongoing isolation; it's not that I want to be in the spotlight all the time, but to actually be included, heard, welcomed would be so very nice. Nonetheless, this has remained elusive over the years.
A runner's legs grow thick and strong, a swimmer's arms as powerful as legs. That which is not used atrophies. Such is the case with my voice. There is this need inside me to shout, proclaim, sing, project, SPEAK for crying out loud, but my voice does not follow my heart and stays timid and weak, still afraid of sixth grade disapproval, despite the extraordinary progress I've made in other fields. I understand the mantra of "Practice, practice, practice," but I have no direction to motivate me through the mire of imagined criticism. I'm afraid to sing in my own room and car, for Pete's sake, out of fear for disturbing others with a sound not unlike a cat with its tail caught in a garden edger. Yet, I want to be loud again, badly, and I'd rather not wait until the magical age of 75 when all inhibitions go to shit and I can say and do whatever I want while people understand that I'm just old then smile and nod. Maybe I just need a better grasp of what it is I want to say. What do I want to say?
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Re-bloom
I had a really nice surprise today at work. My supervisor apologized to me. It's not something I'm used to, so the occasion really stood out.
Here's the scenario: we had to reorder some record boxes from storage. My job was to search for the box numbers in our database, E-mail them to my supervisor, and she would take it from there. So I did, and I checked it twice, sort of like Santa, but not.
Today, I was informed that I'd ordered the wrong boxes, a big faux pas, because to reorder boxes costs about $50 per box. Though confused, I was sure I had made the mistake out of sheer laziness and prepared to enter the classic area of self-punishment. Still, my supervisor wanted me to re-verify in the database, which I did. Much to our mutual surprise, the numbers were wrong in the database, hence the apology. Much to my greater surprise, the error was not my own.
Over the years, I've grown accustomed to accepting blame for a lot of things, whether or not I'm actually responsible for them. Since my memory of each step of a monotonous process isn't fantastic, I err on the side of criticism because I simply do not have the instant recollection to say with 100% conviction that the error was not my own. At that point, I jump on the criticism bandwagon and start berating my work, my work ethic, my memory, how I'll never really be a good employee, etc. It's basically a frenzy to assure myself that I'm not stupid, just lazy, but not lazy, just tired, but not tired, too stressed, which leads to a whole new surge of criticism and compounds the latter problem.
In the past year, these trains of thought have begun occurring less frequently, but when I do jump on one of them, it does start down a lot of the same tracks. I'm obsessed with assuring people that I'm not stupid, that I'm not lazy, that I'm not mean, that I'm not emotionally invested, that I'm not a writer, that I don't take part in the USC-UCLA rivalry, that I'm not attracted to anyone, that I'm not religious, that I'm not an atheist, that I'm not like a Californian, that I'm not like a Utahn, that I'm not like an American, that I'm not like an Earthling... Toot toot!
And so today, this simple sentence, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to blame you," knocked me right off the train. The strange revelation that I did the job right reminded me of one thing that I am: thorough. To me, it was greater than a compliment, because it wasn't intended to be such and was thus devoid of all insincerity or social compulsion, just good manners. It boosted my confidence, and I'm ready to keep doing good work. I mean, hell, they've already extended my assignment by a month and a half, so I can't be that awful, right?
I came home at the end of the day, and found that all three buds on my orchid had bloomed. Most people throw away their orchids after the flowers wither, but I kept this one for a year, and now, it is beautiful again. There's one more thing I can do. I wonder what else is out there.
Here's the scenario: we had to reorder some record boxes from storage. My job was to search for the box numbers in our database, E-mail them to my supervisor, and she would take it from there. So I did, and I checked it twice, sort of like Santa, but not.
Today, I was informed that I'd ordered the wrong boxes, a big faux pas, because to reorder boxes costs about $50 per box. Though confused, I was sure I had made the mistake out of sheer laziness and prepared to enter the classic area of self-punishment. Still, my supervisor wanted me to re-verify in the database, which I did. Much to our mutual surprise, the numbers were wrong in the database, hence the apology. Much to my greater surprise, the error was not my own.
Over the years, I've grown accustomed to accepting blame for a lot of things, whether or not I'm actually responsible for them. Since my memory of each step of a monotonous process isn't fantastic, I err on the side of criticism because I simply do not have the instant recollection to say with 100% conviction that the error was not my own. At that point, I jump on the criticism bandwagon and start berating my work, my work ethic, my memory, how I'll never really be a good employee, etc. It's basically a frenzy to assure myself that I'm not stupid, just lazy, but not lazy, just tired, but not tired, too stressed, which leads to a whole new surge of criticism and compounds the latter problem.
In the past year, these trains of thought have begun occurring less frequently, but when I do jump on one of them, it does start down a lot of the same tracks. I'm obsessed with assuring people that I'm not stupid, that I'm not lazy, that I'm not mean, that I'm not emotionally invested, that I'm not a writer, that I don't take part in the USC-UCLA rivalry, that I'm not attracted to anyone, that I'm not religious, that I'm not an atheist, that I'm not like a Californian, that I'm not like a Utahn, that I'm not like an American, that I'm not like an Earthling... Toot toot!
And so today, this simple sentence, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to blame you," knocked me right off the train. The strange revelation that I did the job right reminded me of one thing that I am: thorough. To me, it was greater than a compliment, because it wasn't intended to be such and was thus devoid of all insincerity or social compulsion, just good manners. It boosted my confidence, and I'm ready to keep doing good work. I mean, hell, they've already extended my assignment by a month and a half, so I can't be that awful, right?
I came home at the end of the day, and found that all three buds on my orchid had bloomed. Most people throw away their orchids after the flowers wither, but I kept this one for a year, and now, it is beautiful again. There's one more thing I can do. I wonder what else is out there.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Easter Sunday
I can't remember what I did last Easter. I think I was staring at the screen, growling over my thesis and wishing I could be frolicking about like a bunny hopped up on chocolate creme eggs. Pun intended. Not being raised religious, Easter has pretty much been another time for presents and goodies, basically like Christmas and Halloween all in one (after all, the Easter Bunny scared the crap out of me). Fast forward a decade or so, and it's taken on new meanings, not the least of which being the end of my Lenten experiment.
I'll start with that first. How did my Lent go? Did I make it all forty days without processed sugar? No. What, Kyle? You caved? Not exactly. I had crazy nightmares about being duped into indulging in sugar, and I have a six-inch pile of deferred confections on my desk at work to prove it. Nonetheless, it is absolutely astonishing how sugary the American diet is. These were my three downfalls: salmon sprinkled with brown sugar, a chicken sausage flavored with maple syrup, and finally, and most diabolically, a piece of kettle corn deposited into my hand by a vendor at the Poppy Festival, and instinctively put into my mouth and chewed before I even realized what it was. Yikes, yikes, yikes.
Nonetheless, I learned a valuable lesson from this experience: that there is no pleasure in life that cannot be replaced by something better. Despite the onslaught of "I'm sorry," "You poor thing," "I could never do that," et cetera (notwithstanding the fact that this was my decision and not some punishment thrust upon me), I upped my fruit consumption, focused on improving the variety of my diet overall, and even starting to lose some of my sweet tooth. My gums have even stopped bleeding when I floss! TMI? Whatever! This is freaking awesome, and I have to call the bluff of anyone who says "I need my ___."
But aside from the physical aspect of things, the Easter holiday is based on the resurrection of Jesus and thus is a time for great celebration and hope for new life. This is an aspect I'd never associated with the holiday, so I decided I would go to a service today. Combining goals, I arranged to visit the Self Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine for a group meditation and service. Unfortunately, the website did not mention that the service would be canceled for the holiday and replaced by a much bigger, much earlier event. C'est la vie. Not to be daunted on this day of new life, I kept searching.
The temple garden, dedicated to religions of the world, is rightly hailed as one of the most beautiful in the state of California. Straight away, I found a lovely tiled bench on the lake shore, sat, and watched the fountain bubble, the turtles courting each other in the water, the ripples, the callas, and suddenly, the most miraculous thing happened: I was calm. The chaos that had filled my mind for the past few weeks was gone, replaced by that pair of turtles caressing each other's faces.
As I moved from the bench to the Windmill Chapel, I became aware of a new mentality. I felt free from the rush; I didn't have to go anywhere. I could just sit and listen. I could feel the air of bodies coming and going. I could hear their breathing. A woman entered behind me and began to talk but cut herself off. Normally, this sort of action in a quiet space would have irritated me disproportionally, but this time, I had only one question: What did she just discover that made her cut herself off? It's the sort of idea I'd entertained a few times before, but I'd never really felt before now that people can still discover, still wonder, if not about the same things that I wonder. It was the effect of the silence, stripping away the misanthropic cloud to remind me that I am among people, that I am one of them... that I belong with them.
As I left the chapel, feeling renewed, I reflected on that which truly fills me with wonder. Mist. Sunsets. Stars. Tears. And on thinking of them, the realization occurred to me that all the stress I'd put myself through, all the sacrifices I thought I was making for good, all the self-denial I'd made for the wrong reasons, did not matter. I did not have to do anything; the way I live my life is my choice. Then I came to understand the name of the place, and I left in peace on a bright Easter Sunday.
I'll start with that first. How did my Lent go? Did I make it all forty days without processed sugar? No. What, Kyle? You caved? Not exactly. I had crazy nightmares about being duped into indulging in sugar, and I have a six-inch pile of deferred confections on my desk at work to prove it. Nonetheless, it is absolutely astonishing how sugary the American diet is. These were my three downfalls: salmon sprinkled with brown sugar, a chicken sausage flavored with maple syrup, and finally, and most diabolically, a piece of kettle corn deposited into my hand by a vendor at the Poppy Festival, and instinctively put into my mouth and chewed before I even realized what it was. Yikes, yikes, yikes.
Nonetheless, I learned a valuable lesson from this experience: that there is no pleasure in life that cannot be replaced by something better. Despite the onslaught of "I'm sorry," "You poor thing," "I could never do that," et cetera (notwithstanding the fact that this was my decision and not some punishment thrust upon me), I upped my fruit consumption, focused on improving the variety of my diet overall, and even starting to lose some of my sweet tooth. My gums have even stopped bleeding when I floss! TMI? Whatever! This is freaking awesome, and I have to call the bluff of anyone who says "I need my ___."
But aside from the physical aspect of things, the Easter holiday is based on the resurrection of Jesus and thus is a time for great celebration and hope for new life. This is an aspect I'd never associated with the holiday, so I decided I would go to a service today. Combining goals, I arranged to visit the Self Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine for a group meditation and service. Unfortunately, the website did not mention that the service would be canceled for the holiday and replaced by a much bigger, much earlier event. C'est la vie. Not to be daunted on this day of new life, I kept searching.
The temple garden, dedicated to religions of the world, is rightly hailed as one of the most beautiful in the state of California. Straight away, I found a lovely tiled bench on the lake shore, sat, and watched the fountain bubble, the turtles courting each other in the water, the ripples, the callas, and suddenly, the most miraculous thing happened: I was calm. The chaos that had filled my mind for the past few weeks was gone, replaced by that pair of turtles caressing each other's faces.
As I moved from the bench to the Windmill Chapel, I became aware of a new mentality. I felt free from the rush; I didn't have to go anywhere. I could just sit and listen. I could feel the air of bodies coming and going. I could hear their breathing. A woman entered behind me and began to talk but cut herself off. Normally, this sort of action in a quiet space would have irritated me disproportionally, but this time, I had only one question: What did she just discover that made her cut herself off? It's the sort of idea I'd entertained a few times before, but I'd never really felt before now that people can still discover, still wonder, if not about the same things that I wonder. It was the effect of the silence, stripping away the misanthropic cloud to remind me that I am among people, that I am one of them... that I belong with them.
As I left the chapel, feeling renewed, I reflected on that which truly fills me with wonder. Mist. Sunsets. Stars. Tears. And on thinking of them, the realization occurred to me that all the stress I'd put myself through, all the sacrifices I thought I was making for good, all the self-denial I'd made for the wrong reasons, did not matter. I did not have to do anything; the way I live my life is my choice. Then I came to understand the name of the place, and I left in peace on a bright Easter Sunday.
Monday, April 11, 2011
A Thousand Feet in the Air
Whew! Okay, I'm back after quite the hiatus. Where have I been, you ask? I've been face-down in the pages of a script. I received a follow-up E-mail from one of the Script List folks, basically asking me, "Dude, where's your script?" I decided it was time to stop putzing around and get the thing done.
And now, it's done! I sent in all 120 pages, rewritten to death and resurrection, this morning, and now, there is so much potential ahead. With this weight taken from my shoulders, I have leaped a thousand feet into the air, but it is important, on my way down, to find a place to land.
Writing a really great script requires a firm grasp on human emotion, something I struggle to understand on a daily basis. The way to reach the intense anger, joy, and sadness depicted in movies is foreign to me, owing to spending so much time isolated in my head. I can handle complex systems; I can create cultures down to the assistant to the middle shaman in charge of sprinkling shaved rodent hair over the heads of ceremonial dancers, but for the life of me, I cannot be satisfied with my characters' reactions. I can write "She YELLS" or "He breaks down," but I can never tell if the situations surrounding those short statements would, in the real world, elicit such responses. I have no gauge, and it's made writing an incredibly frustrating process.
Emotional people fascinate me. When I see someone cry or laugh out loud or really lay into someone, I'm almost paralyzed with wonder and sometimes end up having to give account for my staring. When friends are emotional, I struggle to relate, but being unable to do so, I resort to intellectualism. "Interesting" is a favorite, non-committal word. The roots of this are many, but the fact of the matter is, while I can feel emotion inwardly, my inability to express it outwardly, like those fascinating people I observe, is inhibiting me from getting my work to reach beyond the system and touch the heart of the reader.
I used to write scenes that made me want to cry, but I believe they were in prose. When I can get inside the character's head (my realm), it works, but in the screenplay format, where all is visual and audible, without scent, touch, or thought (which must be depicted visually on film), I'm stuck. I cannot convey the emotion as I want, nor can I get my readers to understand the emotional depth that I had envisioned. So, sticking with New Year's Resolutions, I've got to figure out how to open the bottle of tears and let the words flow out. This next script had better make someone react, or so help me, I will figure out how to express my annoyance off the page.
And now, it's done! I sent in all 120 pages, rewritten to death and resurrection, this morning, and now, there is so much potential ahead. With this weight taken from my shoulders, I have leaped a thousand feet into the air, but it is important, on my way down, to find a place to land.
Writing a really great script requires a firm grasp on human emotion, something I struggle to understand on a daily basis. The way to reach the intense anger, joy, and sadness depicted in movies is foreign to me, owing to spending so much time isolated in my head. I can handle complex systems; I can create cultures down to the assistant to the middle shaman in charge of sprinkling shaved rodent hair over the heads of ceremonial dancers, but for the life of me, I cannot be satisfied with my characters' reactions. I can write "She YELLS" or "He breaks down," but I can never tell if the situations surrounding those short statements would, in the real world, elicit such responses. I have no gauge, and it's made writing an incredibly frustrating process.
Emotional people fascinate me. When I see someone cry or laugh out loud or really lay into someone, I'm almost paralyzed with wonder and sometimes end up having to give account for my staring. When friends are emotional, I struggle to relate, but being unable to do so, I resort to intellectualism. "Interesting" is a favorite, non-committal word. The roots of this are many, but the fact of the matter is, while I can feel emotion inwardly, my inability to express it outwardly, like those fascinating people I observe, is inhibiting me from getting my work to reach beyond the system and touch the heart of the reader.
I used to write scenes that made me want to cry, but I believe they were in prose. When I can get inside the character's head (my realm), it works, but in the screenplay format, where all is visual and audible, without scent, touch, or thought (which must be depicted visually on film), I'm stuck. I cannot convey the emotion as I want, nor can I get my readers to understand the emotional depth that I had envisioned. So, sticking with New Year's Resolutions, I've got to figure out how to open the bottle of tears and let the words flow out. This next script had better make someone react, or so help me, I will figure out how to express my annoyance off the page.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Sweet Tooth
I'm getting zombie teeth. You know the type, long, sharp, hungry for the brains of... well, maybe not the third level there, but I'm getting, as they say, long in the tooth. I'm 23; this doesn't normally happen until after 40. So what is the deal?!
Back in October (Around Halloween time... Ooo, zombies...) I wrote up my hypothesis for the digestive issues I'd been experiencing: that they were caused by the reawakening of a latent dairy allergy. This was quickly disproven by the fact that the issues persisted for a while, notwithstanding the use of orange juice for cereal (which is pretty darn good anyhow). Now, it's gone from the middle of the tract to the top, and I'm a little miffed.
It turns out that periodontal disease is pretty darn common, somewhere around 75% of adults get it. In this case, the gums recede until the roots are exposed and sometimes require dental extraction. Not my cup of tea. Oh, and by the way, it seems that the issue has intensified since joining the adult work force and upping my consumption of tea. Turns out, that's a factor. I've also been upping my sugar consumption. It seems that's not only a factor in my mouth but also in my gut. Excess sugar consumption feeds bacteria, which then produce toxins that can kill gum tissue and upset the stomach. Oh really? Tell me more! All that rigorous tooth-brushing I've been doing to massage the gums and clean up the teeth has actually been stressing out the gums even more! It's a zombie trio, and they've caught my chompers by surprise!
A couple of things will need to happen here. I don't think the tissue can regrow, but the shrinkage can be stopped. Fortunately, my smile (when I show it) is unaffected, but I really don't like the idea of going full-zombie. Fortunately, next week is the start of Lent, which gives me a great opportunity to give no processed sugar a test run. That means 40 days of no dessert. Yikes. This will require some serious creativity. I may even include 40 days of no tea and incorporate a new, softer toothbrush. At this rate, I can only hope that this plan succeeds where "no dairy" failed so miserably. Updates in April. Now if only I could find someone willing to consume all the sugary delectables piled up around my apartment...
Back in October (Around Halloween time... Ooo, zombies...) I wrote up my hypothesis for the digestive issues I'd been experiencing: that they were caused by the reawakening of a latent dairy allergy. This was quickly disproven by the fact that the issues persisted for a while, notwithstanding the use of orange juice for cereal (which is pretty darn good anyhow). Now, it's gone from the middle of the tract to the top, and I'm a little miffed.
It turns out that periodontal disease is pretty darn common, somewhere around 75% of adults get it. In this case, the gums recede until the roots are exposed and sometimes require dental extraction. Not my cup of tea. Oh, and by the way, it seems that the issue has intensified since joining the adult work force and upping my consumption of tea. Turns out, that's a factor. I've also been upping my sugar consumption. It seems that's not only a factor in my mouth but also in my gut. Excess sugar consumption feeds bacteria, which then produce toxins that can kill gum tissue and upset the stomach. Oh really? Tell me more! All that rigorous tooth-brushing I've been doing to massage the gums and clean up the teeth has actually been stressing out the gums even more! It's a zombie trio, and they've caught my chompers by surprise!
A couple of things will need to happen here. I don't think the tissue can regrow, but the shrinkage can be stopped. Fortunately, my smile (when I show it) is unaffected, but I really don't like the idea of going full-zombie. Fortunately, next week is the start of Lent, which gives me a great opportunity to give no processed sugar a test run. That means 40 days of no dessert. Yikes. This will require some serious creativity. I may even include 40 days of no tea and incorporate a new, softer toothbrush. At this rate, I can only hope that this plan succeeds where "no dairy" failed so miserably. Updates in April. Now if only I could find someone willing to consume all the sugary delectables piled up around my apartment...
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Lovely Lady Liberty
I just finished uploading my photos from the long weekend in Sequoia National Park. Lots of people were excited to see them. Of course, a fraction of those "lots" actually knew I'd been to Sequoia.
In the weeks preparing for this trip, I'd gone through a lot of internal debating (big surprise there), mainly on the subject of whom I could invite to accompany me on this trip. It had to be someone available, someone with whom I could get along for three straight days, someone who could get along with me for three straight days, and someone with whom I could feel comfortable sharing a bed for two nights. The list narrowed and narrowed and narrowed until I was left with one person: myself.
Of course, this less than ideal decision presented a number of other concerns. What if I got stranded in the snow without cell phone reception? What if I went hiking in the foothills and either fell or encountered a cougar? The thought of being alone in the wilderness frightened me; I felt it was my destiny to die out there, but I was going to go anyway.
When I actually got there, the fear melted away. The place was so beautiful. If this were my time, I'd gladly take this as my place. Over the course of the next three days, I set my own schedule, ate where I wanted, took as long as I wanted for photography, and felt wholly free to interact with everyone I met along the way, mostly travelers from Europe. I was not alone; I was not lonely. Of all the feelings I felt most strongly, freedom was the chief.
I've spent much of my life and most of my school years holding back from doing things because I wanted someone to go with me. A combination of indecision on my part and indifference on the part of others kept me indoors, on the computer, away from real experience. I loved it and hated it. It was fuel cell for my fantasy but a prison for my reality. However, since graduation, since logging off of Facebook, since ending my utter reliance on other people to have fun, I'm doing more and I'm having more real experiences.
I realize that I am failing miserably at my New Year's Resolution to make 2011 the year of the relationship, that shying away from others is contrary to the mission of this blog (to overcome the isolating symptoms of Asperger's), but to be honest, the feeling of freedom standing in the snow, surrounded by a cathedral of red trees and nothing else but the sound of silence, was supreme. I felt happy. I felt whole. I did not have to give account to anybody.
Of course, this leaves me with one final dilemma: Where is that line between freedom and loneliness? Would I have benefitted more from bringing someone along, or was this the right choice? I suppose the only way I can know is by going on more adventures, seeing who's interested in joining me, and putting forth the effort to meet new people who might be more interested. Fortunately, I still have the freedom to make those decisions.
In the weeks preparing for this trip, I'd gone through a lot of internal debating (big surprise there), mainly on the subject of whom I could invite to accompany me on this trip. It had to be someone available, someone with whom I could get along for three straight days, someone who could get along with me for three straight days, and someone with whom I could feel comfortable sharing a bed for two nights. The list narrowed and narrowed and narrowed until I was left with one person: myself.
Of course, this less than ideal decision presented a number of other concerns. What if I got stranded in the snow without cell phone reception? What if I went hiking in the foothills and either fell or encountered a cougar? The thought of being alone in the wilderness frightened me; I felt it was my destiny to die out there, but I was going to go anyway.
When I actually got there, the fear melted away. The place was so beautiful. If this were my time, I'd gladly take this as my place. Over the course of the next three days, I set my own schedule, ate where I wanted, took as long as I wanted for photography, and felt wholly free to interact with everyone I met along the way, mostly travelers from Europe. I was not alone; I was not lonely. Of all the feelings I felt most strongly, freedom was the chief.
I've spent much of my life and most of my school years holding back from doing things because I wanted someone to go with me. A combination of indecision on my part and indifference on the part of others kept me indoors, on the computer, away from real experience. I loved it and hated it. It was fuel cell for my fantasy but a prison for my reality. However, since graduation, since logging off of Facebook, since ending my utter reliance on other people to have fun, I'm doing more and I'm having more real experiences.
I realize that I am failing miserably at my New Year's Resolution to make 2011 the year of the relationship, that shying away from others is contrary to the mission of this blog (to overcome the isolating symptoms of Asperger's), but to be honest, the feeling of freedom standing in the snow, surrounded by a cathedral of red trees and nothing else but the sound of silence, was supreme. I felt happy. I felt whole. I did not have to give account to anybody.
Of course, this leaves me with one final dilemma: Where is that line between freedom and loneliness? Would I have benefitted more from bringing someone along, or was this the right choice? I suppose the only way I can know is by going on more adventures, seeing who's interested in joining me, and putting forth the effort to meet new people who might be more interested. Fortunately, I still have the freedom to make those decisions.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Feb 14: V-Day
A day that will live in infamy... Yes, I am mixing up my Pearl Harbor with my stormin' Normandy, but that aside, yes, today marks the second year since the end of my last official relationship. Two years of deliciously drippy cynicism, which reminds me of something I've often speculated on Valentine's Night: how many people across the world are, at this very moment, having sex? Additionally, how many people across the world are having sex simply because it is socially mandated that February 14th be a day of sex?
I mean, let's face it, Valentine's Day is specifically designed for men to disguise their carnal lustings, mask their pelvic thrustings, and put on a bit of a show for their significant others in the hope that such show will lead to aforementioned lustings and thrustings. Suddenly, those hearts and roses seem a little... icky, no?
Nonetheless, I have just returned from a lovely (non-sexual) evening in with myself. The show was extraordinary. I made a special dinner for myself, equipped with such exotic dainties as blueberry-coated goat cheese, slipped on my slippers and my chair-back massager, and tuned in to Pan's Labyrinth, which was, admittedly, still as sad and disturbing as when I last saw it four years ago. Nonetheless, as sad and pathetic as this scene may seem to the observer, it was actually surprisingly nice. I gave up my worries, my deadlines, and my stresses for a few hours to just enjoy being there. There was no one to impress, nor was there anyone to please. It was just pure relaxation and pure fantasy.
What's making it easier for me is that I've learned an important distinction. Valentine's Day used to be painful for me because I felt it reminded me of the lack of love in my life. What I've learned is that love is not lacking in my life; it's romance. There's a difference. Valentine's Day is the day of romance, the show, the penis masquerade, but it is not the day of love. I don't believe that, for anyone living a full life, there is a single "Day of Love," unless you want to count a wedding day, but that's a whole other post. Just listen to some Rent or Reg Presley, and you'll know what I'm talking about. Happy Valentine's Day, all.
I mean, let's face it, Valentine's Day is specifically designed for men to disguise their carnal lustings, mask their pelvic thrustings, and put on a bit of a show for their significant others in the hope that such show will lead to aforementioned lustings and thrustings. Suddenly, those hearts and roses seem a little... icky, no?
Nonetheless, I have just returned from a lovely (non-sexual) evening in with myself. The show was extraordinary. I made a special dinner for myself, equipped with such exotic dainties as blueberry-coated goat cheese, slipped on my slippers and my chair-back massager, and tuned in to Pan's Labyrinth, which was, admittedly, still as sad and disturbing as when I last saw it four years ago. Nonetheless, as sad and pathetic as this scene may seem to the observer, it was actually surprisingly nice. I gave up my worries, my deadlines, and my stresses for a few hours to just enjoy being there. There was no one to impress, nor was there anyone to please. It was just pure relaxation and pure fantasy.
What's making it easier for me is that I've learned an important distinction. Valentine's Day used to be painful for me because I felt it reminded me of the lack of love in my life. What I've learned is that love is not lacking in my life; it's romance. There's a difference. Valentine's Day is the day of romance, the show, the penis masquerade, but it is not the day of love. I don't believe that, for anyone living a full life, there is a single "Day of Love," unless you want to count a wedding day, but that's a whole other post. Just listen to some Rent or Reg Presley, and you'll know what I'm talking about. Happy Valentine's Day, all.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Swish Flip Swish
I've concluded that a sure-fire solution to the desires of any sympathy-seeking person is to take a job in filing. In the last three weeks that I have been filing at Disney, I have received apologies from my boss, my coworkers, and even random passers-by. "I'm sorry," runs the line, "I couldn't do that."
I don't understand the outpouring of pity. I started filing before I was old enough to work...legally. I organize for amusement. Of course, this is an odd little character trait by itself, but there is one further argument for filing that actually occurred to me in the midst of the swish flip swish of pages.
Filing is actually an ideal day job for a creatively minded person. What a paradox, I know! How can such a mindless, monotonous activity possibly contribute to the well being of a creative person? It's for that very reason! It's mindless, but, what's more, it's meditative! I can sit there for hours with nothing but the swish flip swish and shut off all of my brain except the creative side. While the senses focus on the pages, the mind focuses on the concepts. Since starting this job, my at-home productivity, after a day of brainstorming, is booming.
So to my covey of well-wishers, I raise a palm and say, "There is no need for your pity, for filing and I are old friends, and the more time we spend together, the more we get done. Now you may return to your exhaustion and groans on another Monday's monotone, while I and my files frolic in the silence of the mind. Boom!"
I don't understand the outpouring of pity. I started filing before I was old enough to work...legally. I organize for amusement. Of course, this is an odd little character trait by itself, but there is one further argument for filing that actually occurred to me in the midst of the swish flip swish of pages.
Filing is actually an ideal day job for a creatively minded person. What a paradox, I know! How can such a mindless, monotonous activity possibly contribute to the well being of a creative person? It's for that very reason! It's mindless, but, what's more, it's meditative! I can sit there for hours with nothing but the swish flip swish and shut off all of my brain except the creative side. While the senses focus on the pages, the mind focuses on the concepts. Since starting this job, my at-home productivity, after a day of brainstorming, is booming.
So to my covey of well-wishers, I raise a palm and say, "There is no need for your pity, for filing and I are old friends, and the more time we spend together, the more we get done. Now you may return to your exhaustion and groans on another Monday's monotone, while I and my files frolic in the silence of the mind. Boom!"
Thursday, January 27, 2011
You Know... (Part Three)
You know you're getting older when the quality of your day hinges upon the quality of your morning BM.
You know you're getting older when your coworkers no longer asked if you're seeing anyone but whether you're married or have kids.
You know you're a mythology nerd when every radio advertisement for Harrah's Rincon evokes thoughts of peacock feathers and jealous rage.
You know you're getting older when your coworkers no longer asked if you're seeing anyone but whether you're married or have kids.
You know you're a mythology nerd when every radio advertisement for Harrah's Rincon evokes thoughts of peacock feathers and jealous rage.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Supersecret
It is good to be back in the workforce again after the three-week hiatus. It turns out, my name came up in a discussion of temps back at Disney, and one Ghostbusters reference later, they gave me a call.
The return was bittersweet; one of my coworkers had suffered a heart attack and another had been found dead at home a few days before. It's really served as an important reminder that any given day could be the last I see someone and therefore need to appreciate these days more. On the brighter side, my return has been hailed by a storm of delight from former coworkers and even some people with whom I'd never spoken a day in my life. It's kind of cool when people notice you're gone.
In any case, whereas I once complained about being isolated in the center of everything, now I am isolated in the back corner of everything, which suits me just fine, because I have now entered Loss Prevention, or as I like to call it, the Crime Fighting Division! Even though my responsibilities are mostly filing and spreadsheets, it has been really cool so far to have a part in the rounding up of swindlers and vagabonds, Old West style (with additional technological advancements). A sheriff's badge has been suggested. And considered.
On a side note, now that I have to get up at 5:00 for this job, what I thought would be a gross inconvenience has turned out to be very useful. I now have more time in the evenings to write, and so far, productivity is skyrocketing. Again, it is good to be working.
The return was bittersweet; one of my coworkers had suffered a heart attack and another had been found dead at home a few days before. It's really served as an important reminder that any given day could be the last I see someone and therefore need to appreciate these days more. On the brighter side, my return has been hailed by a storm of delight from former coworkers and even some people with whom I'd never spoken a day in my life. It's kind of cool when people notice you're gone.
In any case, whereas I once complained about being isolated in the center of everything, now I am isolated in the back corner of everything, which suits me just fine, because I have now entered Loss Prevention, or as I like to call it, the Crime Fighting Division! Even though my responsibilities are mostly filing and spreadsheets, it has been really cool so far to have a part in the rounding up of swindlers and vagabonds, Old West style (with additional technological advancements). A sheriff's badge has been suggested. And considered.
On a side note, now that I have to get up at 5:00 for this job, what I thought would be a gross inconvenience has turned out to be very useful. I now have more time in the evenings to write, and so far, productivity is skyrocketing. Again, it is good to be working.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Implanted
It is fitting that I should meet the unexplained en route to a lecture by Dr. Roger Leir via northbound 101. Traffic moved at a crawl, which gave me ample time to observe the heavens. Somewhere between the Silver Lake Boulevard and Vermont exits, I observed a bright light zooming toward the west, much like a helicopter would, only much faster, brighter, and without a single blinking light. I was elated to see so bright a shooting star in the midst of downtown Los Angeles and planned to watch it until it disappeared. It didn't. In fact, it slowed down, turned north, and vanished over the Hollywood Hills over the course of ten seconds.
I'm quick to conclude aliens. This is the second unidentified object I've seen in the skies over LA (the first being a whirligig-shaped object hovering over Montecito Heights in broad daylight). I like to think humans aren't alone in the universe. I like to think we're not the supreme sentience in this universe. Argue for God, argue for Angels, argue for Aliens. There is something out there. As part of my ongoing quest for a belief system, I decided this lecture/service for the Mutual UFO Network (MUFON), held at the Unitarian Universalist Church in Studio City, would be one not to miss.
I will skip the details of how many of the flock bore an uncanny resemblance to aliens themselves to focus on the subject of this talk. Dr. Leir is one of the world's leading researchers into the physical evidence of an extraterrestrial presence, chiefly through the removal of implants. Trained as a podiatrist, he discovered his first implant during surgery on a patient who had come into his office complaining of foot pain. An X-ray revealed something unusual in his foot next to his toe, and on removal, the object was found to be metallic. There were no signs of scarring, nor had there been an immune response. It was just there.
Dr. Leir's lecture detailed two such objects that he had removed recently. The first emitted radio waves between 14.74965 and 17.68658 MHz, but were not radioactive. Its elemental composition was found to be an iron base with traces of Gallium, Germanium, Iridium, and other rare metals; it was meteoric. When removed, it crumbled; when placed into a serum of the patient's blood, it reassembled. An investigation of the patient's home revealed extraordinary anomalies: bromine-enriched soil, a magnetized avocado tree and boat, and an apparent unipole, in which only one magnetic pole is observed.
A scanning electron microscope (SEM) analysis of the second object detailed its structure. When removed, it was in an oil-filled tissue capsule with a high concentration of lauric acid, an antibacterial compound. The group was unable to cut the device with diamond-tipped tools and had to resort to a laser. This was not meteoric, but a collection of microscopic carbon tubes arranged in such a way as to appear organic. For the conceit of an implant, it did not look like a device at all, but in the field of nanotechnology, that's apparently the point.
I list only the facts of the case as they were presented via PowerPoint. Images and statistics were presented; the matter was scientific to its core. How, then, is there still doubt to be had? Why, despite the number of studies done on the subject, is the existence of extraterrestrial life such a moot point in the mainstream community? I assume it is because the three steps of abduction, implantation, and return have not been recorded chronologically; the devil is in the details. On that note, there are plenty of scientists who believe in the Devil, and angels. There is zero physical evidence for the latter beings, but let us compare, for a moment, an angel encounter and an alien encounter.
The Bible is full of angels, delivering messages from above, accompanied by fire. They either visit their subjects at home (the Virgin Mary) or take them away to change them (Moses). People continue to report extraterrestrial beings in their room, or taking them away on high to change them. So why is it that those who have been visited by an angel become saints and leaders, while those who have visited by aliens become shunned and denounced by greater society?
One could argue that aliens are less likely to speak to their abductees, whereas the sole purpose of angels is to speak. One could argue further that aliens do not seem wholly benevolent, whereas an angel is required to be so. Nonetheless, is the veracity of these claims not subject to faith? Isn't the disdain for alien hypotheses the same as that for Galileo's - a resistance to those hypotheses that decrease the cosmic importance of humanity?
I look at Dr. Leir's cases, and I appreciate the evidence for what it is. Though I have not seen the cause but only the effect, the idea of extraterrestrial influence appeals to me, not only because three different psychics have offered the view that I am somehow part alien, but also because I believe their existence would increase the grandeur of "God's" creation far beyond "people." If there are other "people" out there, tracking us, changing us, shaping us, then is that not itself a question of angelic/demonic intervention? Does it prove or disprove God?
My question for Dr. Leir was cut off by the end of the program, but I was able to ask him half of it: If these are truly instances of a higher power implanting these devices into people, what are the consequences of removing them? Wouldn't these beings be angry? Do the objects ever reappear? Do mysterious things happen to you? All he was able to tell me was that his patients had experienced a tremendous sense of freedom after the objects had been removed from them. That was all. Is not the notion of freedom itself, amidst countless causes and stimuli, a matter of faith?
I'm quick to conclude aliens. This is the second unidentified object I've seen in the skies over LA (the first being a whirligig-shaped object hovering over Montecito Heights in broad daylight). I like to think humans aren't alone in the universe. I like to think we're not the supreme sentience in this universe. Argue for God, argue for Angels, argue for Aliens. There is something out there. As part of my ongoing quest for a belief system, I decided this lecture/service for the Mutual UFO Network (MUFON), held at the Unitarian Universalist Church in Studio City, would be one not to miss.
I will skip the details of how many of the flock bore an uncanny resemblance to aliens themselves to focus on the subject of this talk. Dr. Leir is one of the world's leading researchers into the physical evidence of an extraterrestrial presence, chiefly through the removal of implants. Trained as a podiatrist, he discovered his first implant during surgery on a patient who had come into his office complaining of foot pain. An X-ray revealed something unusual in his foot next to his toe, and on removal, the object was found to be metallic. There were no signs of scarring, nor had there been an immune response. It was just there.
Dr. Leir's lecture detailed two such objects that he had removed recently. The first emitted radio waves between 14.74965 and 17.68658 MHz, but were not radioactive. Its elemental composition was found to be an iron base with traces of Gallium, Germanium, Iridium, and other rare metals; it was meteoric. When removed, it crumbled; when placed into a serum of the patient's blood, it reassembled. An investigation of the patient's home revealed extraordinary anomalies: bromine-enriched soil, a magnetized avocado tree and boat, and an apparent unipole, in which only one magnetic pole is observed.
A scanning electron microscope (SEM) analysis of the second object detailed its structure. When removed, it was in an oil-filled tissue capsule with a high concentration of lauric acid, an antibacterial compound. The group was unable to cut the device with diamond-tipped tools and had to resort to a laser. This was not meteoric, but a collection of microscopic carbon tubes arranged in such a way as to appear organic. For the conceit of an implant, it did not look like a device at all, but in the field of nanotechnology, that's apparently the point.
I list only the facts of the case as they were presented via PowerPoint. Images and statistics were presented; the matter was scientific to its core. How, then, is there still doubt to be had? Why, despite the number of studies done on the subject, is the existence of extraterrestrial life such a moot point in the mainstream community? I assume it is because the three steps of abduction, implantation, and return have not been recorded chronologically; the devil is in the details. On that note, there are plenty of scientists who believe in the Devil, and angels. There is zero physical evidence for the latter beings, but let us compare, for a moment, an angel encounter and an alien encounter.
The Bible is full of angels, delivering messages from above, accompanied by fire. They either visit their subjects at home (the Virgin Mary) or take them away to change them (Moses). People continue to report extraterrestrial beings in their room, or taking them away on high to change them. So why is it that those who have been visited by an angel become saints and leaders, while those who have visited by aliens become shunned and denounced by greater society?
One could argue that aliens are less likely to speak to their abductees, whereas the sole purpose of angels is to speak. One could argue further that aliens do not seem wholly benevolent, whereas an angel is required to be so. Nonetheless, is the veracity of these claims not subject to faith? Isn't the disdain for alien hypotheses the same as that for Galileo's - a resistance to those hypotheses that decrease the cosmic importance of humanity?
I look at Dr. Leir's cases, and I appreciate the evidence for what it is. Though I have not seen the cause but only the effect, the idea of extraterrestrial influence appeals to me, not only because three different psychics have offered the view that I am somehow part alien, but also because I believe their existence would increase the grandeur of "God's" creation far beyond "people." If there are other "people" out there, tracking us, changing us, shaping us, then is that not itself a question of angelic/demonic intervention? Does it prove or disprove God?
My question for Dr. Leir was cut off by the end of the program, but I was able to ask him half of it: If these are truly instances of a higher power implanting these devices into people, what are the consequences of removing them? Wouldn't these beings be angry? Do the objects ever reappear? Do mysterious things happen to you? All he was able to tell me was that his patients had experienced a tremendous sense of freedom after the objects had been removed from them. That was all. Is not the notion of freedom itself, amidst countless causes and stimuli, a matter of faith?
Monday, January 10, 2011
Parkour
As part of my New Year's Resolution to mix up my athletic activities, I checked out a Parkour club in Santa Monica on Saturday. For those unfamiliar with the sport of Parkour, check out the following video:
Assuming someone actually stuck with my humble blog instead of searching for more videos of the like, I'll continue. Three days after the fact, I can still feel the three hours of leaping with some intensity. The most basic introduction to Parkour worked muscle groups I didn't even know I had, finger muscles, for instance. But what a workout.
By way of introduction, I and the other three newbies had to practice our kongs, or cat jumps. This introduction consisted of us running cat style across the grass. I don't mean scuttling around on all fours. I mean friggin' Sabertooth.
In any case, I never thought my body could move that way without strings; in many ways, it still can't. Nonetheless, this is one of the most essential moves to Parkour, especially when it comes to vaulting. One of the main elements to a kong (and one of the parts I had the most difficulty accomplishing) is the positioning of the legs inside the span of the arms, whereas I'm accustomed to the opposite. I was hesitant to try the technique while vaulting and instead opted for the side vault. It'll be something to work up to.
Shortly thereafter came the jumps, my favorite part. The most important part of the jump, I very quickly learned, is the landing, and boy, is there ever more to landing than just staying on your feet. It's all about moving with the impact to absorb it as much as possible, or to roll it. I hit it like a board, and I had to sit out for a bit. Nonetheless, I got the hang of some basic precision jumps (from sidewalk to low railing), and I absolutely loved the Tic Tacs, where we would use the momentum from leaping onto a stone obelisk to vault onto the upper stairs by the Santa Monica Pier. I won't lie that the excited tourists with their cameras did a bit for my ego, even though they were all focused on the advanced traceurs.
Honestly, taking into consideration the past few years of minimal-impact activity and the potential for injury jumping back into high-impact activity, I don't know how deeply I'll be able to delve into Parkour. Will I be able to do any of the flips? Will I dare? I think it may take a few years, but the other question is, will I have that kind of time and motivation? We will see. I had fun, the workout was great, and there is potential for a friend base. Next weekend is rain, but the weekend after, I may try it out again.
Assuming someone actually stuck with my humble blog instead of searching for more videos of the like, I'll continue. Three days after the fact, I can still feel the three hours of leaping with some intensity. The most basic introduction to Parkour worked muscle groups I didn't even know I had, finger muscles, for instance. But what a workout.
By way of introduction, I and the other three newbies had to practice our kongs, or cat jumps. This introduction consisted of us running cat style across the grass. I don't mean scuttling around on all fours. I mean friggin' Sabertooth.
In any case, I never thought my body could move that way without strings; in many ways, it still can't. Nonetheless, this is one of the most essential moves to Parkour, especially when it comes to vaulting. One of the main elements to a kong (and one of the parts I had the most difficulty accomplishing) is the positioning of the legs inside the span of the arms, whereas I'm accustomed to the opposite. I was hesitant to try the technique while vaulting and instead opted for the side vault. It'll be something to work up to.
Shortly thereafter came the jumps, my favorite part. The most important part of the jump, I very quickly learned, is the landing, and boy, is there ever more to landing than just staying on your feet. It's all about moving with the impact to absorb it as much as possible, or to roll it. I hit it like a board, and I had to sit out for a bit. Nonetheless, I got the hang of some basic precision jumps (from sidewalk to low railing), and I absolutely loved the Tic Tacs, where we would use the momentum from leaping onto a stone obelisk to vault onto the upper stairs by the Santa Monica Pier. I won't lie that the excited tourists with their cameras did a bit for my ego, even though they were all focused on the advanced traceurs.
Honestly, taking into consideration the past few years of minimal-impact activity and the potential for injury jumping back into high-impact activity, I don't know how deeply I'll be able to delve into Parkour. Will I be able to do any of the flips? Will I dare? I think it may take a few years, but the other question is, will I have that kind of time and motivation? We will see. I had fun, the workout was great, and there is potential for a friend base. Next weekend is rain, but the weekend after, I may try it out again.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Family Friends
There was a concept discussed in my Religions of China class during my sophomore year of college that really struck me: filial piety. Filial piety is the respect of the child for the parent, and it is one of the utmost virtues set forth by Confucius. Basically, it is the responsibility of the child to uphold the family name, honor the parents, take care of them, and ensure male heirs. I had trouble with all of these, the least reason of which being that I won't be producing any heirs in the near or even the distant future. By societal standards, since I won't be continuing my family name, I will be doing them dishonor. I took this to heart, and since that class, I've felt responsible for the emotional well-being of my parents.
While reading Boundaries has helped me draw the necessary lines and allow my parents responsibility for their own well being, a big boost came this morning over brunch at Mimi's when it finally clicked to me that my parents had a lot of friends and that they could actually go out and do things with their friends and have a lot of fun. This hadn't occurred to me when they announced their joining a wine club. This hadn't occurred to me when my dad texted me pictures from mountain running with his friend. It only occurred to me when my mom announced that she and my dad had been invited to spend some time in their friends' beach house in San Diego, just parents because none of the kids would be available.
It's kind of funny when I think about the little prison of naiveté in which I've kept myself locked for so long. I seriously believed that being an empty nester was the end of the world, and well, let's be honest here, after watching my dad fall asleep on the couch at 7:45, I'd begun to wonder. Nonetheless, the realization that both of them can still go out and have fun, even when I don't call, promises to be very liberating. They want me around; they don't need me around. If I choose not to accept an invitation home, they won't be permanently wounded. It all sounds so silly, but I'm actually excited, not because I want to see my parents less, but because I don't have to bend over backwards to keep them happy.
While reading Boundaries has helped me draw the necessary lines and allow my parents responsibility for their own well being, a big boost came this morning over brunch at Mimi's when it finally clicked to me that my parents had a lot of friends and that they could actually go out and do things with their friends and have a lot of fun. This hadn't occurred to me when they announced their joining a wine club. This hadn't occurred to me when my dad texted me pictures from mountain running with his friend. It only occurred to me when my mom announced that she and my dad had been invited to spend some time in their friends' beach house in San Diego, just parents because none of the kids would be available.
It's kind of funny when I think about the little prison of naiveté in which I've kept myself locked for so long. I seriously believed that being an empty nester was the end of the world, and well, let's be honest here, after watching my dad fall asleep on the couch at 7:45, I'd begun to wonder. Nonetheless, the realization that both of them can still go out and have fun, even when I don't call, promises to be very liberating. They want me around; they don't need me around. If I choose not to accept an invitation home, they won't be permanently wounded. It all sounds so silly, but I'm actually excited, not because I want to see my parents less, but because I don't have to bend over backwards to keep them happy.
New Workout Regimen
One of the fun features of Asperger's is a tendency to set a routine and adhere to it viciously, and nowhere has this been better expressed than in my gym attendance in the past four years: weight training Monday through Friday, alternating push and pull. Occasionally, the thought occurs to me to change routines, and so I do. Then I continue that routine rigorously for months on end, long after it has lost most of its efficacy.
I'd like to mix things up a little more this year, chiefly because my body is screaming for more cardio and flexibility work. The years of weights have made me dreadfully stiff. So, here's a tentative new weekly schedule. It will probably fluctuate (in fact, I hope it does), but at least there's a basic structure to it.
Sunday
Stretching. Yoga, maybe?
Monday
Weights: Pushing exercises.
Tuesday
Weights: Pulling exercises.
Wednesday
Cardio: Running, jump rope, or whatever else comes to mind.
Thursday
Weights: Pushing exercises.
Friday
Weights: Pulling exercises.
Saturday
Cardio: Running and/or hiking.
I'd like to mix things up a little more this year, chiefly because my body is screaming for more cardio and flexibility work. The years of weights have made me dreadfully stiff. So, here's a tentative new weekly schedule. It will probably fluctuate (in fact, I hope it does), but at least there's a basic structure to it.
Sunday
Stretching. Yoga, maybe?
Monday
Weights: Pushing exercises.
Tuesday
Weights: Pulling exercises.
Wednesday
Cardio: Running, jump rope, or whatever else comes to mind.
Thursday
Weights: Pushing exercises.
Friday
Weights: Pulling exercises.
Saturday
Cardio: Running and/or hiking.
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