2 March 2011
What kind of man am I?
Not the kind I thought I'd be. But not the kind I feared I'd be, either. I consider myself a coward--afraid to take hard steps toward being a better person--but I know I'm far less a coward now than I have been in years past. I have learned over and over that more regrets are generated by chances not taken than those taken. I have no idea how those things I've opted out of in life would have changed me, but I'm pretty clear that this path, the one without the risks I decided not to take, has become less spectacular than I imagined.
But what is that a comment on, the choices I made or the expectations I had? It's not hard to understand how one's choices affect the direction of one's life, not at my age, but it's very difficult to know whether my expectations were in line with the direction I was comfortable starting in, which also begs the question: were my skills and confidences suited, or even applied, to the goals I made?
Truth is I made no goals, not real ones anyway. I followed a motivated crowd right to the edge, but when they all took flight on wings well-prepared, I went right over the cliff. I relied heavily on positive words given me by mentors, but had no substantial understanding of their meaning. I'd only adopted those goals of my friends which sounded close enough to be within reach, but still lofty enough to impress my parents, and pretended to my teachers and counselors that I knew how to realize them. Because my method was twice-flawed, my end was twice-doomed.
Now, twenty years later, I'm so far along a path I barely know how to navigate I have no clear memory of what led me this way. I still have a token idea of who I was when I started, and what brought me to this place, but no real clarity and no real direction. When I think I get these ideas, I realize more often than not that I'm only seeing an old reflection of a situation that seems familiar, not anything real. What I think I've learned only has meaning in the moment. The most objective clues I have are the trail of breadcrumbs I've left, marking the way with scars of the people I've hurt or used over the years. It's a pitiful map that, when seen for what it truly is, reveals only the circular wanderings of someone who is hopelessly lost.
(unfinished)
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Poem: To My Love
6 January 2006
When I'm with you, I find
All the things in my mind
That would tear me apart cease to be.
When your smile comes my way
All my nights turn to day.
All the Joy in the world is for me.
When with you, Bliss wakes
And my fearless hands shake
Afraid that I'll say the wrong thing.
When your eyes meet mine
There is no other time
That I feel happiness dawning.
With you in the room
My mirthless heart blooms
All my world turns from darkness to light.
And when you have gone
I'm completely alone
My poor heart aches cold in the night.
When I'm with you, I find
All the things in my mind
That would tear me apart cease to be.
When your smile comes my way
All my nights turn to day.
All the Joy in the world is for me.
When with you, Bliss wakes
And my fearless hands shake
Afraid that I'll say the wrong thing.
When your eyes meet mine
There is no other time
That I feel happiness dawning.
With you in the room
My mirthless heart blooms
All my world turns from darkness to light.
And when you have gone
I'm completely alone
My poor heart aches cold in the night.
Bereavement
21 February 2006
Family is a mirror you keep covered. Relatives you never see, whether you'd choose to or not, do not know you. They remember the newborn, the toddler, the awkward teen. There are always a few from the wedding and baby showers, but still you're not a real person to them; after all those times are about being a couple or parent.
Changes you make, real changes, to your soul and to your life, go unnoticed, unless they make trouble. Big events like death or divorce are heard about and taken notice of like an accident on the highway. Feel bad, move on, and forget about it, but never take into consideration that someone else's life could be completely ruined, at least for the moment.
But my life is no one else's (this much I have been painfully aware of) and I have lived my life without serious regard to how most of these relatives have existed day to day. Why should I be so surprised to discover that they, too, have done the same?
Maybe this means I don't know who I am yet, to be so upset that when I walk into a room full of people who have supposedly known me all my life and find that they really know nothing about me. Of course there are lots of people I don't know, attached to people who were probably newborns or toddlers I can remember, but do not recognize now. And babies have been born that I might hear the names of, and people have married, and divorced, and died. And I feel bad and move on. And forget. Because the kids need to get their dinner, or there was a fight and bitterness lingers, because the kitchen needs picking up or the groceries need putting away. Because my life is happening right now, right in my face, and the people whose lives are ruined, even if only for that moment, and despite their status as 'family', are just other people, like so many faces I pass on the road during the commute every day.
The tragedy of it all is astounding. As children we all grew up together playing in Grandma's backyard, or sneaking out during a sleepover, or getting someone to buy us cigarettes. Now things like this are only distant memories, and the cousins you did them with are like characters in a book you read years ago. These things will never happen again, and the people you did them with are just other commuters, other homeowners, other people with kids you might pass in the store. No matter how fond those distant memories are, the things that make you who you are, the things that make you unique and interesting, will never be shared with or understood by anyone except...yourself.
Exceptions apply, but I do not speak in ideals here. That is for the Good One. The things that make ME unique will only ever be understood by ME. And now I've become bitter.
There will be another episode to pull the cover down, the main event as it were. I will make I am neatly groomed and my tie is pleasant to glance at, knowing that these are the only things people will see when they look at me and think of who I am. And then they'll go about their lives once more, remembering that the newborn I was, the carefree toddler I was, the pain-riddled teen I was, has grown into a man who has a nice haircut and seems to have turned out just fine.
It is selfish of me to think this is important; it is arrogant of me to even pass judgment on them for doing it.
Family is a mirror you keep covered. Relatives you never see, whether you'd choose to or not, do not know you. They remember the newborn, the toddler, the awkward teen. There are always a few from the wedding and baby showers, but still you're not a real person to them; after all those times are about being a couple or parent.
Changes you make, real changes, to your soul and to your life, go unnoticed, unless they make trouble. Big events like death or divorce are heard about and taken notice of like an accident on the highway. Feel bad, move on, and forget about it, but never take into consideration that someone else's life could be completely ruined, at least for the moment.
But my life is no one else's (this much I have been painfully aware of) and I have lived my life without serious regard to how most of these relatives have existed day to day. Why should I be so surprised to discover that they, too, have done the same?
Maybe this means I don't know who I am yet, to be so upset that when I walk into a room full of people who have supposedly known me all my life and find that they really know nothing about me. Of course there are lots of people I don't know, attached to people who were probably newborns or toddlers I can remember, but do not recognize now. And babies have been born that I might hear the names of, and people have married, and divorced, and died. And I feel bad and move on. And forget. Because the kids need to get their dinner, or there was a fight and bitterness lingers, because the kitchen needs picking up or the groceries need putting away. Because my life is happening right now, right in my face, and the people whose lives are ruined, even if only for that moment, and despite their status as 'family', are just other people, like so many faces I pass on the road during the commute every day.
The tragedy of it all is astounding. As children we all grew up together playing in Grandma's backyard, or sneaking out during a sleepover, or getting someone to buy us cigarettes. Now things like this are only distant memories, and the cousins you did them with are like characters in a book you read years ago. These things will never happen again, and the people you did them with are just other commuters, other homeowners, other people with kids you might pass in the store. No matter how fond those distant memories are, the things that make you who you are, the things that make you unique and interesting, will never be shared with or understood by anyone except...yourself.
Exceptions apply, but I do not speak in ideals here. That is for the Good One. The things that make ME unique will only ever be understood by ME. And now I've become bitter.
There will be another episode to pull the cover down, the main event as it were. I will make I am neatly groomed and my tie is pleasant to glance at, knowing that these are the only things people will see when they look at me and think of who I am. And then they'll go about their lives once more, remembering that the newborn I was, the carefree toddler I was, the pain-riddled teen I was, has grown into a man who has a nice haircut and seems to have turned out just fine.
It is selfish of me to think this is important; it is arrogant of me to even pass judgment on them for doing it.
Untitled Poem
3 March 2006
When I sit quietly
My life opens up
Like so many pages of a book
The pages do not fit
From here to there
But I know they are all mine.
Some are boldly writ' upon
In brightly colored ink
While most are simply penciled in
Crossed out, erased or written over
Though some thoughts may be
None are ever truly changed, or forgotten
Though things of beauty all around
May be, they are never to be seen.
My self denial censors all true goodness.
When I sit quietly
My life opens up
Like so many pages of a book
The pages do not fit
From here to there
But I know they are all mine.
Some are boldly writ' upon
In brightly colored ink
While most are simply penciled in
Crossed out, erased or written over
Though some thoughts may be
None are ever truly changed, or forgotten
Though things of beauty all around
May be, they are never to be seen.
My self denial censors all true goodness.
down
15 March 15 2006
Days like this I don't even know why I'm here.
Of course I know why I'm *here*, but I mean why I keep going the way I do. Why I stay in this spot. I can't remember why I'm supposed to feel good or happy, or when I think of "good" reasons, why they apply to me.
Today I am an empty shell.
Days like this I don't even know why I'm here.
Of course I know why I'm *here*, but I mean why I keep going the way I do. Why I stay in this spot. I can't remember why I'm supposed to feel good or happy, or when I think of "good" reasons, why they apply to me.
Today I am an empty shell.
Inner Child
16 March 2006
Boy am I a project. Mind is blank but I feel like something is BANGING on the walls to get out. I know the screaming person in the closet. I know this terrified child.
I look in the mirror each morning and watch myself fall. I age, and I will look dignified, but I will still be a child. A small, scared face looks back at me every day. I have learned to love this child, but I know not how to bring him out, to heal him. I know his name, but his heart is a mystery.
Every day he tells me how he feels, and I know not how to listen. Though sometimes I allow him to react for me. Sometimes, it's easier, at least for the moment. Sometimes, I allow him to feel, because I do not know how.
He is a beautiful boy in a rust-colored knit sweater, with a lopsided smile, delicate cheekbones, an angled jaw, and thick blonde-brown hair. He smiles innocently and boldly and it is not a nice smile. But it is genuine. His eyes are eager to please, and eager to achieve. And for a while, he will do both. But it will cost him his innocence, his courage, his genuineness, his smile. It will cost him the ability to see what's before his eyes and name it. He will pay the rest of his life for what he has, and it will never be enough, and he'll never know why.
This boy is with me. He finally has someone to love him, even though I'm still figuring it all out. Gentleness, humor, love, and respect. And I, for one, will never leave him.
Boy am I a project. Mind is blank but I feel like something is BANGING on the walls to get out. I know the screaming person in the closet. I know this terrified child.
I look in the mirror each morning and watch myself fall. I age, and I will look dignified, but I will still be a child. A small, scared face looks back at me every day. I have learned to love this child, but I know not how to bring him out, to heal him. I know his name, but his heart is a mystery.
Every day he tells me how he feels, and I know not how to listen. Though sometimes I allow him to react for me. Sometimes, it's easier, at least for the moment. Sometimes, I allow him to feel, because I do not know how.
He is a beautiful boy in a rust-colored knit sweater, with a lopsided smile, delicate cheekbones, an angled jaw, and thick blonde-brown hair. He smiles innocently and boldly and it is not a nice smile. But it is genuine. His eyes are eager to please, and eager to achieve. And for a while, he will do both. But it will cost him his innocence, his courage, his genuineness, his smile. It will cost him the ability to see what's before his eyes and name it. He will pay the rest of his life for what he has, and it will never be enough, and he'll never know why.
This boy is with me. He finally has someone to love him, even though I'm still figuring it all out. Gentleness, humor, love, and respect. And I, for one, will never leave him.
Hey Hey, My My
The first "she" and the second "she" are different "she"s.
* * * * *
7 April 2006
"Rock and Roll will never die. That's what Neil says." He's right, dearie.
My oldest friend is in trouble and I can't do anything about it. I can't support her because I can barely support myself and my own. I can't see her because she lives in a blue-collar armpit city, which I also love, but is far away. I can't hug her and tell her how I miss her wit, her humor, her endless compassion.
She is a brilliant, beautiful, proud woman whom I have never properly known. We meet in tangents of our lives during special events, then we once again part ways. Her life and her passions are a mystery to me, as mine no doubt are to her. My relationship with this friend is a perfect example of how many of my friendships conduct themselves. Fortunately, I am intimately connected with this woman, and she will not fade away like others have. Still, although she is always somewhere on this earth, and I take great comfort in that, she will not always be here, and our time together should be appreciated. I need to show my love more.
* *
She was adamant last night, and I reluctantly accepted. I regret this. Despite my body's participation, my head was somewhere else. It was behind the wall. What shape would I be if I were 2-dimensional? Circular (but not a perfectly round one; more like the one Spongebob drew after Squidward berated him in art class), with my heart somewhere in the center, separatred from everyone else. My life cycle keeps on repeating, always following the same familiar contours. I occasionally hammer out a new niche, but then I come to rely on it so much that it becomes part of the same daily business. So that's where I was. And she said she had a good time, and that's great, I really truly am happy about that part, but I never got mine. I never got mine.
Out of the blue and into the black.
I have so many thoughts to uncollect and drudgingly express to no one. An hundred indecisions, Visions and revisions. What a train wreck. I may be a bit fustian but my point stands: I have not taken care of myself these last several days, and I have not taken the time to properly address it.
I'm not being completely fair. I did start something I needed to do. I did make that appointment. I have kept the kitchen counter clean, and the office. Posts are up to date. I am not a train wreck. But it's just me that isn't. Outside my circle, my perception fades. Maybe "wreck" is just the wrong word.
I read about Hawking's brane theory last night. I wonder how much work I really have to do. I thought I knew once; I didn't really, but I could get my head around the kinds of things I needed to accomplish, and had faith that once I did them, I'd be ready for what's next...but now I can't say either is the case. Maybe it's the antibiotics. On top of heartburn and that yucky taste in my mouth, I have felt energetically odd since I started on them. Maybe it was the bite, though I doubt it because trust was retored almost immediately. Maybe it's sex, but again I doubt this because I've learned to cope well without jeopardizing outside issues. But I always suspect sex anyway, because it's a natural enemy.
I am rambling with thoughts of Prufock, monomer injections, and strawberry summers. I am not safe from myself today. A pot of tea, flannel pants, Harry Potter, and my fuzzy blanket are a perfect prescription, with intermittent naps and ball-tossings with the dog. I should have taken the rain as my first clue. Take two o' dese and call me in da mo'nin.
* * * * *
7 April 2006
"Rock and Roll will never die. That's what Neil says." He's right, dearie.
My oldest friend is in trouble and I can't do anything about it. I can't support her because I can barely support myself and my own. I can't see her because she lives in a blue-collar armpit city, which I also love, but is far away. I can't hug her and tell her how I miss her wit, her humor, her endless compassion.
She is a brilliant, beautiful, proud woman whom I have never properly known. We meet in tangents of our lives during special events, then we once again part ways. Her life and her passions are a mystery to me, as mine no doubt are to her. My relationship with this friend is a perfect example of how many of my friendships conduct themselves. Fortunately, I am intimately connected with this woman, and she will not fade away like others have. Still, although she is always somewhere on this earth, and I take great comfort in that, she will not always be here, and our time together should be appreciated. I need to show my love more.
* *
She was adamant last night, and I reluctantly accepted. I regret this. Despite my body's participation, my head was somewhere else. It was behind the wall. What shape would I be if I were 2-dimensional? Circular (but not a perfectly round one; more like the one Spongebob drew after Squidward berated him in art class), with my heart somewhere in the center, separatred from everyone else. My life cycle keeps on repeating, always following the same familiar contours. I occasionally hammer out a new niche, but then I come to rely on it so much that it becomes part of the same daily business. So that's where I was. And she said she had a good time, and that's great, I really truly am happy about that part, but I never got mine. I never got mine.
Out of the blue and into the black.
I have so many thoughts to uncollect and drudgingly express to no one. An hundred indecisions, Visions and revisions. What a train wreck. I may be a bit fustian but my point stands: I have not taken care of myself these last several days, and I have not taken the time to properly address it.
I'm not being completely fair. I did start something I needed to do. I did make that appointment. I have kept the kitchen counter clean, and the office. Posts are up to date. I am not a train wreck. But it's just me that isn't. Outside my circle, my perception fades. Maybe "wreck" is just the wrong word.
I read about Hawking's brane theory last night. I wonder how much work I really have to do. I thought I knew once; I didn't really, but I could get my head around the kinds of things I needed to accomplish, and had faith that once I did them, I'd be ready for what's next...but now I can't say either is the case. Maybe it's the antibiotics. On top of heartburn and that yucky taste in my mouth, I have felt energetically odd since I started on them. Maybe it was the bite, though I doubt it because trust was retored almost immediately. Maybe it's sex, but again I doubt this because I've learned to cope well without jeopardizing outside issues. But I always suspect sex anyway, because it's a natural enemy.
I am rambling with thoughts of Prufock, monomer injections, and strawberry summers. I am not safe from myself today. A pot of tea, flannel pants, Harry Potter, and my fuzzy blanket are a perfect prescription, with intermittent naps and ball-tossings with the dog. I should have taken the rain as my first clue. Take two o' dese and call me in da mo'nin.
On Nerdery
This was very obviously written before it was cool, even desirable, to be a nerd...let alone proudly label yourself one.
* * * * *
13 April 2006
This morning at the gas station I saw someone who caught my eye. It was a young man, very light build, and dressed too conservatively. He had shorter hair and glasses. He was a classic nerd*. And right then I recognized myself, ten, maybe five years ago. And today. I watched him closely, and noticed something very important. It wasn't his appearance that made him so...well, nerdy. It was his awkwardness, his stance, the way he carried himself and looked nervously around, wondering who may be near him, judging. I felt this way only...hell, I still feel this way. But I was also aware of the vast physical difference between myself now and myself then. I am 40 pounds heavier than I was ten years ago (only four inches bigger around the waist), and still considered light/average build. I don't necessarily wear my hair any different, I'm still wearing glasses, and still have no sense of fashion, but I see myself very differently, more confidently, now than I did then. More than that person at the gas station.
* [For the record, I have always hated the word "nerd". I was called that name incessantly from grade 6 on, and vehemently defend anyone else to whom the moniker is assigned. I'm not condoning the use of the word at all, but I have to start with some frame of reference. These thoughts have to come out.]
There have been years of experiences to account for this change of self-opinion. I have earned my place in my self-designed social template. And I know that my own standards for myself are still higher than those around me. So other people like me, think I'm funny, good looking, interesting, even sexy. How did I become this way?
I cannot quantify what the experiences were or did. I know there has been heartbreak, betrayal, denial, sacrifice, and exploration. I know that I have been on my knees begging for understanding and forgiveness. I know that I would never live the last 10 years of my life the same way again, ever. Maybe the gas station guy will go through that, too. The way his eyes searched for approval in the faces of others, the way his half smile waited for a positive response. I know these eyes and that smile. I still cast them around, waiting for others to answer. And I still close up when I perceive that they will not approve. I retract the smile I just offered, wishing I'd never tried. Wishing I could just disappear. Some days, I am still just that nerdy, awkward young man, who does not know how to talk to other humans, how to act in public, how to like himself.
I'm going to ramble now, dear audience, so be prepared.
But I do like myself. That's the bottom line. That's what my dad always says in his three-quarter drunken fits, when he's still barely rational enough to put sentences together and hold his opinion at the same time. "The bottom line is..." and I catch myself using it at select times. Maybe just to prove to myself that something is true. Like because I heard it used in his context, I can justify what I don't quite believe by adding it as a tagline.
But I do like myself. It's not something I don't quite believe, it's a real truth. Of course there are days I don't, but they number few compared to my normal, and what I have believed to be healthy, state of mind. I am worth the effort to get to know. I am worth improving. I deserve the best. I have much to share with this world and my fellow humans, and I regularly try to do so. I am practical and decently intelligent, I'm compassionate and mostly humble. I enjoy the outdoors, fine arts, and a well-crafted wooden thing. I can install junction boxes and change oil, and also map out the rhyme scheme of a poem. I can recite Jabberwocky, Prufrock, and the first lines of Moby Dick and The Hobbit. Children and dogs like me, and I can communicate with both. I take decent care of myself physically. I am a good kisser and a generous lover.
None of these things are invented by me to make myself feel better; they are all truths I'd tell anyone, and verifiable by people I know. Yet why do I constantly shoot myself (my recovery, my success, my education, my productive days, etc) in the foot with doubt and/or self-destructive behavior? What is it that I fear? How can I be so critical of what I am not, when the list of things I am should be enough to make anyone happy?
* * * * *
13 April 2006
This morning at the gas station I saw someone who caught my eye. It was a young man, very light build, and dressed too conservatively. He had shorter hair and glasses. He was a classic nerd*. And right then I recognized myself, ten, maybe five years ago. And today. I watched him closely, and noticed something very important. It wasn't his appearance that made him so...well, nerdy. It was his awkwardness, his stance, the way he carried himself and looked nervously around, wondering who may be near him, judging. I felt this way only...hell, I still feel this way. But I was also aware of the vast physical difference between myself now and myself then. I am 40 pounds heavier than I was ten years ago (only four inches bigger around the waist), and still considered light/average build. I don't necessarily wear my hair any different, I'm still wearing glasses, and still have no sense of fashion, but I see myself very differently, more confidently, now than I did then. More than that person at the gas station.
* [For the record, I have always hated the word "nerd". I was called that name incessantly from grade 6 on, and vehemently defend anyone else to whom the moniker is assigned. I'm not condoning the use of the word at all, but I have to start with some frame of reference. These thoughts have to come out.]
There have been years of experiences to account for this change of self-opinion. I have earned my place in my self-designed social template. And I know that my own standards for myself are still higher than those around me. So other people like me, think I'm funny, good looking, interesting, even sexy. How did I become this way?
I cannot quantify what the experiences were or did. I know there has been heartbreak, betrayal, denial, sacrifice, and exploration. I know that I have been on my knees begging for understanding and forgiveness. I know that I would never live the last 10 years of my life the same way again, ever. Maybe the gas station guy will go through that, too. The way his eyes searched for approval in the faces of others, the way his half smile waited for a positive response. I know these eyes and that smile. I still cast them around, waiting for others to answer. And I still close up when I perceive that they will not approve. I retract the smile I just offered, wishing I'd never tried. Wishing I could just disappear. Some days, I am still just that nerdy, awkward young man, who does not know how to talk to other humans, how to act in public, how to like himself.
I'm going to ramble now, dear audience, so be prepared.
But I do like myself. That's the bottom line. That's what my dad always says in his three-quarter drunken fits, when he's still barely rational enough to put sentences together and hold his opinion at the same time. "The bottom line is..." and I catch myself using it at select times. Maybe just to prove to myself that something is true. Like because I heard it used in his context, I can justify what I don't quite believe by adding it as a tagline.
But I do like myself. It's not something I don't quite believe, it's a real truth. Of course there are days I don't, but they number few compared to my normal, and what I have believed to be healthy, state of mind. I am worth the effort to get to know. I am worth improving. I deserve the best. I have much to share with this world and my fellow humans, and I regularly try to do so. I am practical and decently intelligent, I'm compassionate and mostly humble. I enjoy the outdoors, fine arts, and a well-crafted wooden thing. I can install junction boxes and change oil, and also map out the rhyme scheme of a poem. I can recite Jabberwocky, Prufrock, and the first lines of Moby Dick and The Hobbit. Children and dogs like me, and I can communicate with both. I take decent care of myself physically. I am a good kisser and a generous lover.
None of these things are invented by me to make myself feel better; they are all truths I'd tell anyone, and verifiable by people I know. Yet why do I constantly shoot myself (my recovery, my success, my education, my productive days, etc) in the foot with doubt and/or self-destructive behavior? What is it that I fear? How can I be so critical of what I am not, when the list of things I am should be enough to make anyone happy?
A Message to My Male Coworkers
Written long ago, but this message will never lose its relevance. (Edited for content.)
* * * * *
July 14th, 2006
Turns out they were right. Your mothers, sisters, wives and girlfriends all did know what they were talking about when they told you to put up the seat. Leaving your pee all over the place where someone else may have to sit (even you, imagine that) is nasty. NASTY. Even worse? Having to wipe up someone else's pee before placing your bare butt (up until then possibly the cleanest part of your body, provided you stayed dressed that day) on the seat of a communal toilet.
Big news: there's a urinal in the same room. On the off chance someone's using it when you walk in, and you can't wait, go right ahead and pee in the toilet. But don't be nasty: either prevent the mess or clean it up!
Guys, we all have to work together in the same building. Occasionally, we have to share the bathroom. Between two urinals and four toilets, there's plenty of capacity for everyone to do their business. Believe it or not, you aren't entitled to an easier bathroom experience than any of the the rest of us. Let's all take responsibility for our own business.
Thanks.
PS- Also, to all you gross individuals who don't wash their hands after peeing, I know who you are. You think you're alone because I don't make much noise behind the partition. But you're not. I recognize your shoes. Even you, Mr. Big Man Manager who sits near me and sneers at everyone with less experience and education than yourself...yes, you know who you are...you can wash your damn hands. Everone uses the same handle on their way out, and none of us (I'm wagering even you) want to get another man's germs and microscopic pee splatters on our hands on the way out. So find your way next to Godliness. Please. And don't make faces at me when I won't shake your hand; it's not me who's being rude.
* * * * *
July 14th, 2006
Turns out they were right. Your mothers, sisters, wives and girlfriends all did know what they were talking about when they told you to put up the seat. Leaving your pee all over the place where someone else may have to sit (even you, imagine that) is nasty. NASTY. Even worse? Having to wipe up someone else's pee before placing your bare butt (up until then possibly the cleanest part of your body, provided you stayed dressed that day) on the seat of a communal toilet.
Big news: there's a urinal in the same room. On the off chance someone's using it when you walk in, and you can't wait, go right ahead and pee in the toilet. But don't be nasty: either prevent the mess or clean it up!
Guys, we all have to work together in the same building. Occasionally, we have to share the bathroom. Between two urinals and four toilets, there's plenty of capacity for everyone to do their business. Believe it or not, you aren't entitled to an easier bathroom experience than any of the the rest of us. Let's all take responsibility for our own business.
Thanks.
PS- Also, to all you gross individuals who don't wash their hands after peeing, I know who you are. You think you're alone because I don't make much noise behind the partition. But you're not. I recognize your shoes. Even you, Mr. Big Man Manager who sits near me and sneers at everyone with less experience and education than yourself...yes, you know who you are...you can wash your damn hands. Everone uses the same handle on their way out, and none of us (I'm wagering even you) want to get another man's germs and microscopic pee splatters on our hands on the way out. So find your way next to Godliness. Please. And don't make faces at me when I won't shake your hand; it's not me who's being rude.
Hope?
No longer current news, but still very relevant thoughts.
* * * * *
6 October 2006
A few days ago I discovered I was only 5 degrees of separation from Emily Keyes, the 16 year old girl who was killed by the school shooter in Colorado last week.
This doesn't increase my reaction to the tragedy, or the reaction to any of the recent others, but it brings it closer to home. How soon will it be before someone I know personally has an experience like this? What if it happens to my family? What if it happens to me?
Millions of people have asked themselves that same question recently, and all have likely come to the same conclusion: I can do nothing to stop it.
As big a fan as I am of the idea that one person can change the world through positive energy and action, my ability to affect my fellow human beings is limited to those I can reach with my hands and, to some degree, my voice. But this certainly does not constitute control. If someone next to me on the bus kills everyone in a convenience store later that night over $20, I cannot blame myself.
This is a human plight. We have a need to take responsibility; we tell ourselves that a few kind words may have altered the mood or eased some pain, and XYZ tragedy could have been avoided. When we say this to ourselves...we are probably right in some cases. But we live in such fear that our personal bubble will pop or become polluted by contact with a stranger, or even with someone not so strange, that we talk ourselves out of reaching out. We are so afraid of each other that we dare not interfere. Or is it fear of exposure, and potential disapproval? Regardless of the reason, the result is the same: isolation and all its children: prejudice, fear, greed.
We all need safe places...physically, emotionally, etc., but wouldn't it be nice if we helped contribute a bit more? Jeez I'm starting to sound like John Lennon. (What, don't flatter myself? Fine...) But...just think about it a little. One day, it might all pay off, on that day when someone else decides the course of the rest of your days on this earth.
* * * * *
6 October 2006
A few days ago I discovered I was only 5 degrees of separation from Emily Keyes, the 16 year old girl who was killed by the school shooter in Colorado last week.
This doesn't increase my reaction to the tragedy, or the reaction to any of the recent others, but it brings it closer to home. How soon will it be before someone I know personally has an experience like this? What if it happens to my family? What if it happens to me?
Millions of people have asked themselves that same question recently, and all have likely come to the same conclusion: I can do nothing to stop it.
As big a fan as I am of the idea that one person can change the world through positive energy and action, my ability to affect my fellow human beings is limited to those I can reach with my hands and, to some degree, my voice. But this certainly does not constitute control. If someone next to me on the bus kills everyone in a convenience store later that night over $20, I cannot blame myself.
This is a human plight. We have a need to take responsibility; we tell ourselves that a few kind words may have altered the mood or eased some pain, and XYZ tragedy could have been avoided. When we say this to ourselves...we are probably right in some cases. But we live in such fear that our personal bubble will pop or become polluted by contact with a stranger, or even with someone not so strange, that we talk ourselves out of reaching out. We are so afraid of each other that we dare not interfere. Or is it fear of exposure, and potential disapproval? Regardless of the reason, the result is the same: isolation and all its children: prejudice, fear, greed.
We all need safe places...physically, emotionally, etc., but wouldn't it be nice if we helped contribute a bit more? Jeez I'm starting to sound like John Lennon. (What, don't flatter myself? Fine...) But...just think about it a little. One day, it might all pay off, on that day when someone else decides the course of the rest of your days on this earth.
Addict
This post may be deleted very soon.
* * * * *
20 October 2006
I am an addict. Call me whatever you want: criminal, freak, deviant, pervert, et cetera. Neither your opinion nor your label changes what I know I am.
Would you like to know what else I am/have been? An honor roll student, a scholarship recipient and graduate of one of the country's leading college prep schools, an award-winning author, a poet, a cadet and mid-ranking adult officer in a military auxiliary youth organization, a Sunday School teacher, and a scouting volunteer. I am a good, intelligent, passionate, creative, articulate, spiritual and self-aware man.
I haven't done these things to try to hide my dysfunction, but because I think they are the right things to do. My addiction alone doesn't disqualify me from any role I choose. I have crossed lines before, and broken laws, and hurt people (adults) to meet my needs in the wrong ways. I've been selfish and childish and decietful and destructive and all manner of ugly in the way I've handled my life and my connections with fellow humans. But...
Every day I get a new chance to be a different person. Most days I make good choices, some days not so much. I move on because there is only one alternative in this world. Every day ends, whether good or bad, and a new one starts right after it. Every action I take is a tangent of the whole curve of my life, and no single one can characterize it all. Recently I choose well more often than not, and of that I'm proud.
* * * * *
20 October 2006
I am an addict. Call me whatever you want: criminal, freak, deviant, pervert, et cetera. Neither your opinion nor your label changes what I know I am.
Would you like to know what else I am/have been? An honor roll student, a scholarship recipient and graduate of one of the country's leading college prep schools, an award-winning author, a poet, a cadet and mid-ranking adult officer in a military auxiliary youth organization, a Sunday School teacher, and a scouting volunteer. I am a good, intelligent, passionate, creative, articulate, spiritual and self-aware man.
I haven't done these things to try to hide my dysfunction, but because I think they are the right things to do. My addiction alone doesn't disqualify me from any role I choose. I have crossed lines before, and broken laws, and hurt people (adults) to meet my needs in the wrong ways. I've been selfish and childish and decietful and destructive and all manner of ugly in the way I've handled my life and my connections with fellow humans. But...
Every day I get a new chance to be a different person. Most days I make good choices, some days not so much. I move on because there is only one alternative in this world. Every day ends, whether good or bad, and a new one starts right after it. Every action I take is a tangent of the whole curve of my life, and no single one can characterize it all. Recently I choose well more often than not, and of that I'm proud.
The Place I'm In
31 October 2006
The place I'm in has strings being played with screeching tones. Ambient sounds are drowned by an otherwise silent player, callously demanding my attention through his craft. I try to be polite, but I'm not really interested, even though the melody is lovely.
The place I'm in has muted sounds. The world moves around me and I am simply carried by the water. Echoes of what might be interesting and alarming and touching reach my ears and are not picked up.
The place I'm in is filled with mediocre women. Though some might be called beautiful, my own perception is that of a faceless horde intent on drowning me in their wiles. I cannot close my eyes, but I still control my mind, at least for the moment.
The place I'm in is vast and lonely. It is an empty warehouse that has not been swept; remnants of former contents, both rich and valuable, apparent all around. But now in ruins.
The place I'm in has chest-high walls. I can see over and beyond when I dare to look, but this is not often. I put the walls there to protect myself, and now I cannot recall how I might venture through. Sometimes I tell myself it's cozy here, but what I'm really protecting myself from is a healthy fear of failure.
The place I'm in smells distantly of dust and roses, like an abandoned gazebo taken over by the garden. Wafts of sunny breeze are here, somewhere, but I can't ever catch one; they're too far away.
The place I'm in has strings being played with screeching tones. Ambient sounds are drowned by an otherwise silent player, callously demanding my attention through his craft. I try to be polite, but I'm not really interested, even though the melody is lovely.
The place I'm in has muted sounds. The world moves around me and I am simply carried by the water. Echoes of what might be interesting and alarming and touching reach my ears and are not picked up.
The place I'm in is filled with mediocre women. Though some might be called beautiful, my own perception is that of a faceless horde intent on drowning me in their wiles. I cannot close my eyes, but I still control my mind, at least for the moment.
The place I'm in is vast and lonely. It is an empty warehouse that has not been swept; remnants of former contents, both rich and valuable, apparent all around. But now in ruins.
The place I'm in has chest-high walls. I can see over and beyond when I dare to look, but this is not often. I put the walls there to protect myself, and now I cannot recall how I might venture through. Sometimes I tell myself it's cozy here, but what I'm really protecting myself from is a healthy fear of failure.
The place I'm in smells distantly of dust and roses, like an abandoned gazebo taken over by the garden. Wafts of sunny breeze are here, somewhere, but I can't ever catch one; they're too far away.
Broken
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. IX. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Letter to Dad
This was supposed to be a 55, but turned out to be more like a 68 before it was even finished. I decided I didn't want to make it shorter; it deserves full expression.
* * * * *
Dear Dad,
Last night I dreamt we were hectically busy, and supposed to meet you somewhere, but couldn’t. We did our business, and I tried to think of the time, when all was settled, that I’d be able to apologize in person for ditching you. Then, outside the dreamscape, I realized I hadn’t seen you in a long, long time. Then I asked myself why. Then I remembered.
I miss you, Dad.
Love,
Son
* * * * *
Dear Dad,
Last night I dreamt we were hectically busy, and supposed to meet you somewhere, but couldn’t. We did our business, and I tried to think of the time, when all was settled, that I’d be able to apologize in person for ditching you. Then, outside the dreamscape, I realized I hadn’t seen you in a long, long time. Then I asked myself why. Then I remembered.
I miss you, Dad.
Love,
Son
Friday, March 11, 2011
Announcement
When she said it, the universe stopped. The bottom dropped out from under the life I’d been building, we’d been building, for the last twenty years. My soul shuddered, and nothing else in the room existed—there were no sounds, no people chatting at tables, no waitresses in their smart white shirts. It was over.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. VIII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. VIII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Parting
The day they told us what was going to happen, I had no visible reaction. While everyone around me reeled in emotion, I was stoic, a model of tragic calm. It was only after, when the relatives had flown home and the house was empty and the mirrors all uncovered, that I began to weep.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. VII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Word Count Tool
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. VII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Word Count Tool
Friday, February 25, 2011
Poem Excerpt
I'm sorry
I'm too busy
Trying to control
The bleeding from
The exit wounds
Of the last few things you said
To respond with words that might
Appease you
If such words exist at all
I'm too busy
Trying to control
The bleeding from
The exit wounds
Of the last few things you said
To respond with words that might
Appease you
If such words exist at all
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Masterful
Failing this bad is an art form; you should see some of my previous work. I’ve left wrecks they could write an article about in Time magazine, or that would make an episode of Entertainment Tonight. If people got paid for this stuff, I’d be a billionaire.
The method is simple: be hopelessly empty inside.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. VI. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-man.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Memories
This one time, when we were little, playing by the big tree, Danny poured dirt in my sister’s ear, and she got a earache, and had to go to the doctor, and themergency room, and Danny got in trouble, and groundeded. But I didn’t get in trouble, even if I did say to do it.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. V.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. V.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Farewell Letter
23 February 2009
Dear N---,
Before you leave our family for good, I want to let you know that, for all the good and bad times between us, you were a very important part of our family while you were here.
We both know why it had to end, but we'll remember it in our own ways. Maybe you'll never feel like your home was here; maybe you'll never really know what we were trying to do, or the kind of parents we wanted to be. Maybe you'll try to forget us, and maybe later you'll say you hate us for sending you home early. I can't change any of that.
Regardless of how you might feel about Mom and me, never ever forget the kids. They will never forget you, and you will always be their brother, no matter how old you all get or how far away you may be. They were not part of the problems we had, so if you have any bad feelings at all, don't blame them. They love you. Please love them back.
So now as you head back home, you'll have lots of time to think about what happened, and why things happened the way they did. I'm all done lecturing you on rules and telling the truth--don't worry. Nothing can change what's already happened.
But now you have a future to think of.
During your six months with our family, I think I've seen many parts of who you are. I've seen your soft, boyish side who likes cartoons and comic books. I've seen the way you get along with kids, and play with the dogs. I've seen how smart you are, when you really want to understand something. And I've seen what you are willing to sacrifice to get what you want.
Not all of these pieces make the whole person you are, but they are all parts of you. Not all of these pieces fit together well, either.
Soon you will be a man. I don't know what your culture teaches about manhood, but I'll tell you what I believe. Being a man means owning all the pieces of who you are. It means even if you don't understand a part of yourself, you don't pretend it isn't there, and you take responsibility for the things it makes you do, whether they're good or bad. It also means growing--seeing when something is bad, and learning what to do about it.
Every person has to go through this, man and woman. But it's especially important for a man. So many forces will tear you apart as you become an adult--sex, friends, career, family--and you will not be allowed to fail. Pay attention to how the world sees men--those who succeed, and those who don't. Don't think you will succeed all the time, because you won't. Don't fear failure--it will come whether you like it or not. How you deal with it will make the difference. Will you let your failures beat you? Will you stop trying to be better?
You should know that ignoring a failure or problem--pretending it doesn't exist--does not make it go away.
There is also a time in every man's life when he must realize that he is alone in the world, and no one else can be held responsible for his actions. You are near this time. Yes--you will always have people around you who will love you, and help you--but the longer you rely on them to make problems go away, or fix what went wrong, the longer it will take before you are truly a man.
I believe in you, N---. I know that you can succeed in life, if you really want to. I know you have what it takes to survive when others would fall. But you must know fully who you are, and accept every part of yourself, before that can happen.
I wish you all the best in life. Though today might not be the best day, it will end and better days will come. You will be in school very soon, doing things that will start a whole new life. You will be with friends again. And best of all you will be home, home with your family who loves you more than anything.
We will miss you, N---, all of us. Make the best of the lessons life gives you, keep rolling no matter what. Because I know that once you find the right direction, you will be unstoppable.
Sincerely,
(signed)
Dear N---,
Before you leave our family for good, I want to let you know that, for all the good and bad times between us, you were a very important part of our family while you were here.
We both know why it had to end, but we'll remember it in our own ways. Maybe you'll never feel like your home was here; maybe you'll never really know what we were trying to do, or the kind of parents we wanted to be. Maybe you'll try to forget us, and maybe later you'll say you hate us for sending you home early. I can't change any of that.
Regardless of how you might feel about Mom and me, never ever forget the kids. They will never forget you, and you will always be their brother, no matter how old you all get or how far away you may be. They were not part of the problems we had, so if you have any bad feelings at all, don't blame them. They love you. Please love them back.
So now as you head back home, you'll have lots of time to think about what happened, and why things happened the way they did. I'm all done lecturing you on rules and telling the truth--don't worry. Nothing can change what's already happened.
But now you have a future to think of.
During your six months with our family, I think I've seen many parts of who you are. I've seen your soft, boyish side who likes cartoons and comic books. I've seen the way you get along with kids, and play with the dogs. I've seen how smart you are, when you really want to understand something. And I've seen what you are willing to sacrifice to get what you want.
Not all of these pieces make the whole person you are, but they are all parts of you. Not all of these pieces fit together well, either.
Soon you will be a man. I don't know what your culture teaches about manhood, but I'll tell you what I believe. Being a man means owning all the pieces of who you are. It means even if you don't understand a part of yourself, you don't pretend it isn't there, and you take responsibility for the things it makes you do, whether they're good or bad. It also means growing--seeing when something is bad, and learning what to do about it.
Every person has to go through this, man and woman. But it's especially important for a man. So many forces will tear you apart as you become an adult--sex, friends, career, family--and you will not be allowed to fail. Pay attention to how the world sees men--those who succeed, and those who don't. Don't think you will succeed all the time, because you won't. Don't fear failure--it will come whether you like it or not. How you deal with it will make the difference. Will you let your failures beat you? Will you stop trying to be better?
You should know that ignoring a failure or problem--pretending it doesn't exist--does not make it go away.
There is also a time in every man's life when he must realize that he is alone in the world, and no one else can be held responsible for his actions. You are near this time. Yes--you will always have people around you who will love you, and help you--but the longer you rely on them to make problems go away, or fix what went wrong, the longer it will take before you are truly a man.
I believe in you, N---. I know that you can succeed in life, if you really want to. I know you have what it takes to survive when others would fall. But you must know fully who you are, and accept every part of yourself, before that can happen.
I wish you all the best in life. Though today might not be the best day, it will end and better days will come. You will be in school very soon, doing things that will start a whole new life. You will be with friends again. And best of all you will be home, home with your family who loves you more than anything.
We will miss you, N---, all of us. Make the best of the lessons life gives you, keep rolling no matter what. Because I know that once you find the right direction, you will be unstoppable.
Sincerely,
(signed)
Friday, February 11, 2011
Untitled 55
"Take it down, then," she mumbled. "I don't even care anymore."
John looked sidelong at the old photograph. It was a happy couple: a handsome man, now a stranger, and John's wife, who, while not much older than her photographed version, looked considerably more aged as she sat weeping at the table.
"Nevermind," he sighed.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. IV.
John looked sidelong at the old photograph. It was a happy couple: a handsome man, now a stranger, and John's wife, who, while not much older than her photographed version, looked considerably more aged as she sat weeping at the table.
"Nevermind," he sighed.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. IV.
The List
The story behind this album is that, after graduating high school, Rosanne went on tour with her dad, the legendary Johnny Cash. In a conversation with him about music, he kept mentioning songs, to which Rosanne would reply, "I don't know that one." It happened frequently enough to disturb the Man in Black to the point of jotting a list he called "100 essential country songs." The songs on my new CD are thirteen items on that list.
In the liner notes (a main reason I still love the actual, physical media), Rosanne mentions the songs as part of her musical geneology: those songs which came before and helped shape the songs she'd discovered and loved in her own time. I have to admit: of the thirteen, only two of the songs are familiar to me, and all of them are somewhat obscure (in my limited musical experience) and not exactly my genre of choice. However, if Johnny Cash made the list, and Johnny's in *my* musical geneology, then obviously every song he thought of that day on the tour bus is also part of mine.
This led me to think of making my own list, and as I drove my daughter to her dance class last night, the need for this was confirmed. I put on the CD and had her listen to Heartache by the Numbers, a duet Rosanne sings with Elvis Costello. The song itself is catchy enough, and their version includes such a deep and rhythmic guitar solo I thought for sure the little girl in the back seat would find something to appreciate. When it was all over, she said to me, "What's so special about that?"
My dear girl, you are *so* missing out.
And so I present my list of 100 Essential Rock Songs. It isn't so much a list of songs essential to understanding or appreciating rock (I'm vastly underqualified to make such a list), but those songs which have helped define and shape the person I've become, at least up until now. They all have some special quality or meaning that I consider essential, and therefore all have at least a small connection to my Core.
Don't flame me; I know there are egregious, almost criminal omissions. About half the list popped spontaneously into my head during the remaining ten minutes of the car ride to dance class, and had to be reconstructed later. About a quarter of it came from a quick perusal of the musical library on my computer, and the rest came from sources outside my immediate reach, because, though I can certainly come up with 100 songs I think are amazing and awesome, I know there are songs that have shaped me which I own no copies of, and haven't heard in many years, so I went looking for some of those. Some of these are personal favorites, some are what I think is representative of the artist's work, and some are truly what I consider "essential" in one's musical exposure. Certainly each meets at least two of these criteria. On the obvious omissions, I've concluded that 100 are not enough, and even if it were, everyone's 100 would be different than everyone else's. I invite any of my three or so readers to make a comment and add their own full or partial lists.
I'm cheating a little; where multiple artists are listed, I imply that each artist's version of that song should be listened to, contrasted, and appreciated separately. With all due humility, here is my list:
1. (Anesthesia) Pulling Teeth, Metallica
2. Almost Cut My Hair, Crosby, Stills & Nash
3. Am I Evil, Metallica
4. And it Stoned Me, Van Morrison
5. Aqualung, Jethro Tull
6. As I Am, Dream Theater
7. Back in Black, AC/DC
8. Travelin Man+Beautiful Loser (live combo), Bob Seger
9. Black Magic Woman, Santana
10. Blue on Black, Kenny Wayne Shepherd Band
11. Bohemian Rhapsody, Queen
12. Born to Run, Bruce Springsteen
13. California Dreamin, Mamas and Papas
14. Cemetary Gates, Pantera
15. Come on in my Kitchen, Robert Johnson/Allman Bros. Band
16. Crazy Train, Ozzy Osbourne, Tribute to Randy Rhoades album
17. Cult of Personality, Living Colour
18. Descending, Black Crowes
19. Do You Feel Like We Do? (Live), Peter Frampton
20. Domino, Kiss
21. Dream On, Aerosmith
22. Eight Miles High, Byrds
23. Even Flow, Pearl Jam
24. Every Break You Take, Police
25. Everything is Broken, Dylan/R.L. Burnside/Kenny Wayne Shepherd Band
26. Fearless, Pink Floyd
27. Fight For Your Right (To Party), Beastie Boys
28. Fire And Rain, James Taylor
29. Flying High Again, Ozzy Osbourne/Tribute album
30. Folsom Prison Blues, Johnny Cash
31. Guitar Shop, Jeff Beck
32. Have You Ever Seen the Rain, Credence Clearwater Revival
33. Higher Ground, Stevie Wonder/Red Hot Chili Peppers
34. Holy Diver, Dio
35. Hotel California, Eagles
36. House of the Rising Sun, Animals
37. I Am the Highway, Audioslave
38. I Shall Be Released, Bob Dylan/The Band/Nina Simone
39. I Want A Little Sugar in My Bowl, Nina Simone
40. Imagine, John Lennon
41. Instinct Blues, White Stripes
42. Jenny Was a Friend of Mine, Killers
43. Kashmir, Led Zeppelin
44. Knocking on Heaven's Door, Bob Dylan/Guns N Roses
45. Life By the Drop, Stevie Ray Vaughn
46. Light My Fire (full length), The Doors
48. Lithium, Nirvana
49. Little Wing, Jimi Hendrix/Stevie Ray Vaughn
50. Living' on a Prayer, Bon Jovi
51. Mama Told Me (Not to Come), Three Dog Night
52. Manda Una Señal, Maná
53. Master of Puppets, Metallica
54. Maybelline, Chuck Berry
55. Mellissa, Allman Bros. Band
56. More Than A Feeling, Boston
57. Nights in White Satin, Moody Blues
58. One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer, George Thorogood
59. Pack Up, Eliza Doolittle
60. Piece of My Heart, Janice Joplin
61. Purple Haze, Hendrix
62. Rainbow in the Dark, Dio
63. Rock This Town, Stray Cats
64. Roundabout, Yes
65. Runaway, Del Shannon
66. Sea of Heartbreak, Gibson/J. Cash/R. Cash-Springsteen
67. Slaves and Bulldozers, Soundgarden
68. Sledge Hammer, Peter Gabriel
69. Someone Saved My Life Tonight, Elton John
70. Something Beautiful, Lynn Miles
71. Sometimes, Ours
72. Somewhere Down A Lazy River, Robbie Robertson
73. Space Oddity, David Bowie
74. Star Spangled Banner, Jimi Hendrix
75. Strawberry Fields Forever, The Beatles
76. Sweet Baby James, James Taylor
77. Sweet Child O' Mine, Guns N Roses
78. Sweet Euphoria, Chris Cornell
79. Taxman, The Beatles/Stevie Ray Vaughn
80. That's Alright Mama, Elvis Presley
81. The Distance, Cake
82. The Flame, Cheap Trick
83. The Great Gig in the Sky, Pink Floyd
84. The Pretender, Jackson Brown
85. The Weight, The Band
86. Think About Your Troubles, Harry Nillson
87. Thinking Of You, A Perfect Circle
88. Trouble, Coldplay
89. Voodoo Child, Hendrix/Stevie Ray Vaughn
90. Walking Blues, Robert Johnson/R.L. Burnside (acoustic/electric)/Eric Clapton
91. Wander This World, Johnny Lang
92. War Pigs, Black Sabbath
93. Welcome to my Nightmare, Alice Cooper
94. When the Tigers Broke Free, Pink Floyd
95. Whipping Post (Live recommended, not required), Allman Bros. Band
96. White Moon, White Stripes
97. White Room, Cream
98. Yesterday, The Beatles
99. You Got It, Roy Orbison
100. You Know I'm No Good, Amy Winehouse
Much thanks to the posters on YouTube, and apologies for possibly crappy versions of otherwise amazing songs. I found what I could, knowing these links may all be dead someday anyway.
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Score
It's a few days late; so sue me.
FFF-55 Vol. III.
* * * * *
They met in secret to settle a score. The rules were simple: no weapons, no friends, first to submit is the loser. Neither wanted to do it this way, but there seemed no other choice.
The date arrived and the men met. Not a punch was thrown.
They left the bar hours later, as brothers.
FFF-55 Vol. III.
* * * * *
They met in secret to settle a score. The rules were simple: no weapons, no friends, first to submit is the loser. Neither wanted to do it this way, but there seemed no other choice.
The date arrived and the men met. Not a punch was thrown.
They left the bar hours later, as brothers.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
On Manhood
Here is what I am: a man.
These simple three letters define a conflicting myriad of roles and responsibilities, of strengths and weaknesses, of truths and lies, of affirmations and contradictions. I cannot hope to elaborate on enough of these in a single entry to describe the full extent of a man's burdens, but I hope to explore enough of the surface of this vast sea to better understand and explain myself, if only a little.
By nature, all humans are conflicted. C.S. Lewis wrote (from the perspective of an experienced demon tutoring a novice in the ways of harvesting souls),
(I know that women are perhaps torn by a different, maybe even more potent, mix of pressures and expectations, but being male, I must leave that for others to explore.)
Skirtchasers
To be sure, men have gained a certain reputation in most (all?) of the cultures that have populated the earth characterized by their especial weaknesses, in particular their vulnerability to Lust. It's no use denying it, even though most polite adults do every day. No matter how elevated a society, or a man's role in that society, as soon as he falls victim to this vulnerability, everyone acts like it was inevitable, or praises him on his former chastity, but alas, now he's just like all the rest. Such a pity. So long as he is born with the typical cocktail of biochemical influences, no level of social upbringing or education can save a man from this, and no level of respect or status or social rank will excuse him once he falters. This is in the news every single day, and no adult that I know, of any gender, can claim to have been unaffected by this (negatively in every case) at some point (or several points) in their lives.
Breadwinners
Another burden unique to men is their expectation to provide. Now, I am a firm believer that our bodies and brains were designed to make this easier for us than for women, at least when this involved defending a village from aggressors or killing next week's main course. To an extent, we are still at this stage. Most of the world's military forces are male, and while a person of any gender can become educated and employed sufficiently to support a family, in some cases abundantly so, men have been given a characteristic motivation to do so, and the complementary capacity to beat themselves up when they perceive that they're failing. Society is no less forgiving. It's no secret that a man who is not the breadwinner of his family must distinguish himself in extraordinary ways to be respected as much as men who are. Nor is it a secret that women who take this role in two-adult households are often be stereotyped as agressive. This is magnified when the household includes children.
Men are judged on their ability to meet the expectation to provide, in some cases harshly, by both women and other men, particularly those who are seen/see themselves as better providers than the subject of their disdain. Traditional views sometimes go so far as to bestow special distinction to those who can (or cannot) meet this expectation to a great degree, or despite uncommon challenges. Where I come from, for example, men who really screw this up even get titles such as "deadbeat" and "loser" which enhance the perception that, again, nobody was surprised at that man's failure. The worst judges against this imposed standard are the men themselves. Many men who cannot meet a certain, internally and externally defined, level of success as providers often fall victim to their vices, such as addiction and gluttony, which of course leads to other personal and social failures. No amount of effort to provide, even for himself alone, is worth anything to a man unless it meets or exceeds this minimum level. Unfortunately for many, the resources a man has to meet that level can sometimes be out of his reach; sometimes the very cause of denial of resources to a man is his inability to meet other social expectations.
Suffer in Silence
A man is expected to carry his own weight, and not only be able, but willing, to carry the weight of others. He is expected to do so without complaining, at least publicly. Hiding one's emotions, indeed, feigning indifference or agressive passion, is viewed as a strength. A man who does not meet this expectation is given many labels that are not suited for polite discussion, but everyone uses on occasion. We are given countless examples against which to measure the men around us--cowboys and athletes and magnates and soldiers (who says the modern hero is dead?)--and as men, are we constantly comparing ourselves to others. Though a mark of maturity is the tendency not to indulge in such self-defeating behavior (there is always another man nearby who trumps us in one way or another, so losing a one-on-one comparison is inevitable), we still do so quietly, privately, because we know the people around us are doing the same thing.
To meet these many challenges, to succeed in being 'manly,' a man is rewarded with society's admission into a fraternity of common nobles who are all allowed, for the moment, to make the statement: I am a Good Man. To fail to meet those challenges, even a little, relegates a man to a lower level of acceptance, depending on how grossly he falls short. It's usually acceptance of some kind, yes, but the kind that make everyone smile politely then turn away in disgust. Society wants us to make the grade, but looks at us when we fail like a coach looks at a player who's made a game-killing mistake. "No fraternity for you, but we really didn't expect anything different. Try again later...but for now get out of my face."
I am not above any of these influences myself. Indeed, most of my ability to explore and discuss them comes from suffering numerous failures, and my conclusions on how to either hide the things about me perceived as weaknesses or enhance (or feign) development of those things considered strengths. I have even discussed some of this with my own growing boys, not necessarily because I have these expectations of them (though some of them I do), but because I don't want them to be confused (or, God forbid, humiliated) when they realize the world around them does.
The deepest truth here is that all these criteria, all these definitions, of how a man is ultimately seen by society, and sees himself, come from my own personal expectations of myself. I am plagued by Lust. I pressure myself to provide materially and emotionally for my family. I ignore or deny most of the pains endured along the way. I fear judgement, especially by those I love, especially from other men, whether they are important in my life or strangers. Maybe I'm not as mature as I ought to be; I certainly have reason to fear. I fail in one aspect or another at being the Man I want to be nearly every day, and I don't want anyone to know it. I know the nature of love is acceptance, but because I am a man my programming overrides much of my willingness to show my True Self to those around me, despite their claims that it won't affect how they view me as a person, as a partner, as a father. And because I am human, I am imperfect: I make mistakes and don't want anyone to know about it.
But my humanity is no excuse, not when Society is the Judge.
These simple three letters define a conflicting myriad of roles and responsibilities, of strengths and weaknesses, of truths and lies, of affirmations and contradictions. I cannot hope to elaborate on enough of these in a single entry to describe the full extent of a man's burdens, but I hope to explore enough of the surface of this vast sea to better understand and explain myself, if only a little.
By nature, all humans are conflicted. C.S. Lewis wrote (from the perspective of an experienced demon tutoring a novice in the ways of harvesting souls),
"Humans are amphibians—half spirit and half animal....a revolting hybrid... As spirits they belong to the eternal world, but as animals they inhabit time. This means that while their spirit can be directed to an eternal object, their bodies, passions, and imaginations are in continual change, for to be in time means to change."Though I haven't yet finished the book, what Screwtape undoubtedly omitted from his letters is the fact that, among humans, men in particular are affected by a potent mix of social and biological pressures and expectations. I am sure that, armed with this information, and pertinent details, any of our own Wormwoods have a solid chance at tempting us away from our intended paths. I know mine has on thousands of occasions. It's something I struggle with every day. I've written a little on this before.
(I know that women are perhaps torn by a different, maybe even more potent, mix of pressures and expectations, but being male, I must leave that for others to explore.)
Skirtchasers
To be sure, men have gained a certain reputation in most (all?) of the cultures that have populated the earth characterized by their especial weaknesses, in particular their vulnerability to Lust. It's no use denying it, even though most polite adults do every day. No matter how elevated a society, or a man's role in that society, as soon as he falls victim to this vulnerability, everyone acts like it was inevitable, or praises him on his former chastity, but alas, now he's just like all the rest. Such a pity. So long as he is born with the typical cocktail of biochemical influences, no level of social upbringing or education can save a man from this, and no level of respect or status or social rank will excuse him once he falters. This is in the news every single day, and no adult that I know, of any gender, can claim to have been unaffected by this (negatively in every case) at some point (or several points) in their lives.
Breadwinners
Another burden unique to men is their expectation to provide. Now, I am a firm believer that our bodies and brains were designed to make this easier for us than for women, at least when this involved defending a village from aggressors or killing next week's main course. To an extent, we are still at this stage. Most of the world's military forces are male, and while a person of any gender can become educated and employed sufficiently to support a family, in some cases abundantly so, men have been given a characteristic motivation to do so, and the complementary capacity to beat themselves up when they perceive that they're failing. Society is no less forgiving. It's no secret that a man who is not the breadwinner of his family must distinguish himself in extraordinary ways to be respected as much as men who are. Nor is it a secret that women who take this role in two-adult households are often be stereotyped as agressive. This is magnified when the household includes children.
Men are judged on their ability to meet the expectation to provide, in some cases harshly, by both women and other men, particularly those who are seen/see themselves as better providers than the subject of their disdain. Traditional views sometimes go so far as to bestow special distinction to those who can (or cannot) meet this expectation to a great degree, or despite uncommon challenges. Where I come from, for example, men who really screw this up even get titles such as "deadbeat" and "loser" which enhance the perception that, again, nobody was surprised at that man's failure. The worst judges against this imposed standard are the men themselves. Many men who cannot meet a certain, internally and externally defined, level of success as providers often fall victim to their vices, such as addiction and gluttony, which of course leads to other personal and social failures. No amount of effort to provide, even for himself alone, is worth anything to a man unless it meets or exceeds this minimum level. Unfortunately for many, the resources a man has to meet that level can sometimes be out of his reach; sometimes the very cause of denial of resources to a man is his inability to meet other social expectations.
Suffer in Silence
A man is expected to carry his own weight, and not only be able, but willing, to carry the weight of others. He is expected to do so without complaining, at least publicly. Hiding one's emotions, indeed, feigning indifference or agressive passion, is viewed as a strength. A man who does not meet this expectation is given many labels that are not suited for polite discussion, but everyone uses on occasion. We are given countless examples against which to measure the men around us--cowboys and athletes and magnates and soldiers (who says the modern hero is dead?)--and as men, are we constantly comparing ourselves to others. Though a mark of maturity is the tendency not to indulge in such self-defeating behavior (there is always another man nearby who trumps us in one way or another, so losing a one-on-one comparison is inevitable), we still do so quietly, privately, because we know the people around us are doing the same thing.
To meet these many challenges, to succeed in being 'manly,' a man is rewarded with society's admission into a fraternity of common nobles who are all allowed, for the moment, to make the statement: I am a Good Man. To fail to meet those challenges, even a little, relegates a man to a lower level of acceptance, depending on how grossly he falls short. It's usually acceptance of some kind, yes, but the kind that make everyone smile politely then turn away in disgust. Society wants us to make the grade, but looks at us when we fail like a coach looks at a player who's made a game-killing mistake. "No fraternity for you, but we really didn't expect anything different. Try again later...but for now get out of my face."
I am not above any of these influences myself. Indeed, most of my ability to explore and discuss them comes from suffering numerous failures, and my conclusions on how to either hide the things about me perceived as weaknesses or enhance (or feign) development of those things considered strengths. I have even discussed some of this with my own growing boys, not necessarily because I have these expectations of them (though some of them I do), but because I don't want them to be confused (or, God forbid, humiliated) when they realize the world around them does.
The deepest truth here is that all these criteria, all these definitions, of how a man is ultimately seen by society, and sees himself, come from my own personal expectations of myself. I am plagued by Lust. I pressure myself to provide materially and emotionally for my family. I ignore or deny most of the pains endured along the way. I fear judgement, especially by those I love, especially from other men, whether they are important in my life or strangers. Maybe I'm not as mature as I ought to be; I certainly have reason to fear. I fail in one aspect or another at being the Man I want to be nearly every day, and I don't want anyone to know it. I know the nature of love is acceptance, but because I am a man my programming overrides much of my willingness to show my True Self to those around me, despite their claims that it won't affect how they view me as a person, as a partner, as a father. And because I am human, I am imperfect: I make mistakes and don't want anyone to know about it.
But my humanity is no excuse, not when Society is the Judge.
Monday, January 31, 2011
My Village
My village is beautiful. Small and fragile, it lies in a valley lush and fertile. It is filled with color and song and laughter. It has no great history or heraldry, but it is built on plain ideals and and modest hopes for prosperity, though the steeple in the village square can be seen for miles by anyone who knows where to look. All who see it know this village is a place of uncommon nobility.
My village is rich. The population is gentle and simple, and look past their lack of wealth in favor of treasures within. Those from other villages may often scoff at my own citizens, because of what they don't have, or how they spend their free time, or who they choose to invite within the gates, or how they act when they are unseen, among themselves, but this does not matter. The people in my village know and love and accept each other as-is.
My village is imperfect. Despite the altruism of the day, the night is occasionally characterized by crimes both petty and horrific. It causes pain, to be sure. Not every crime is immediately apparent. The village is not without its dark secrets. What makes the village unique is that every perpetrator regrets his crimes as soon as they are committed. It's true that the people you hurt the most are the people you love.
My village is imperiled. Whether from those who threaten subtly from within, or malicious warlords without, or natural disasters, at any time the peace and beauty enjoyed by the citizens can be violently snatched away. Though it has weathered destruction before, the barricades built to protect it from this thing or that erode too quickly. All that will hold it together if the unthinkable happens are the bonds between the people therein.
Pray for my village, and I will pray for yours, and we may yet survive this life. SCWA
My village is rich. The population is gentle and simple, and look past their lack of wealth in favor of treasures within. Those from other villages may often scoff at my own citizens, because of what they don't have, or how they spend their free time, or who they choose to invite within the gates, or how they act when they are unseen, among themselves, but this does not matter. The people in my village know and love and accept each other as-is.
My village is imperfect. Despite the altruism of the day, the night is occasionally characterized by crimes both petty and horrific. It causes pain, to be sure. Not every crime is immediately apparent. The village is not without its dark secrets. What makes the village unique is that every perpetrator regrets his crimes as soon as they are committed. It's true that the people you hurt the most are the people you love.
My village is imperiled. Whether from those who threaten subtly from within, or malicious warlords without, or natural disasters, at any time the peace and beauty enjoyed by the citizens can be violently snatched away. Though it has weathered destruction before, the barricades built to protect it from this thing or that erode too quickly. All that will hold it together if the unthinkable happens are the bonds between the people therein.
Pray for my village, and I will pray for yours, and we may yet survive this life. SCWA
Saturday, January 29, 2011
The General's Campaign
‘Twas another successful campaign. The General sat atop a hill and surveyed the landscape. Before him, countless white tents filled with men who knew not the worthlessness of their lives. Behind him, burning paths of destruction, each dotted with bloodied, uniformed corpses surrounding a single, beautiful victim. Holding back bitter tears, he turned away.
“Poo-tee-weet?”
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. II.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. II.
Friday, January 28, 2011
To Live Is to Die
When a man lies he murders
Some part of the world
These are the pale deaths
Which men miscall their lives
All this I cannot bear
To witness any longer
Cannot the kingdom of salvation
Take me home
(Metallica/Paul Gerhardt)
Some part of the world
These are the pale deaths
Which men miscall their lives
All this I cannot bear
To witness any longer
Cannot the kingdom of salvation
Take me home
(Metallica/Paul Gerhardt)
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Tragedy
My attempt at a "flash fiction Friday" post: tell a story in exactly fifty-five words. More here. Enjoy, if you can.
FFF-55 Vol. I.
* * * * *
What happened was tragic, to be sure. And though she pretended outwardly to be unfazed, she wore her trauma like a spiny armor, preventing anyone from coming near her vulnerabilities ever again. Bitterness wound its way about her heart and head like a serpent. In the end, her distance from us was the real tragedy.
FFF-55 Vol. I.
* * * * *
What happened was tragic, to be sure. And though she pretended outwardly to be unfazed, she wore her trauma like a spiny armor, preventing anyone from coming near her vulnerabilities ever again. Bitterness wound its way about her heart and head like a serpent. In the end, her distance from us was the real tragedy.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Square One
13 August 2010 (Unfinished)
Well, here we are again. I'm making another run at finishing my education.
For the record, the primary reason I'm doing this isn't for the betterment of my self, my family, or my career. I'm doing this because, year after year, I stubbornly put something related to a degree in my annual objectives at work. And, year after year, I fail to meet that particular objective. I've now run out of viable excuses that will hold off the suspicions of not taking my job seriously enough for Salt Mine, Inc. to keep investing my annual salary. It's time to move.
Of course (for the record), I know the potential benefits of betterment for my self, family, career, etc. Sort of. I know them the way I know the contents of a book for which I've read summaries, or seen a movie version, or read the dust jacket over and over. I know what the book is about, who the main characters are, the plot, etc, but I still can't say I've read the book, and I'm missing all the intricacies and details which are truly essential to understanding it. It's the same with the benefits of finishing my degree. I don't really know them because, well, I haven't taken this step yet.
Not that I haven't tried. At the age when I was supposed to be finishing school, I was foolishly trying to work full time also, mostly because I had no idea how financial aid was supposed to work and neither did my parents. Bless them, they gave me the benefit of the doubt that I knew what I was supposed to be doing. And why shouldn't I? I'd just graduated from a prestigious college-prep boarding school. Also, I was tough, a real man finally stepping into the world. Unfinished, yes, but ready to grow and accept my role in life, whatever it may be, however unprepared I was for it.
The truth is that I had a wondrous ruse set up around myself. I was building/living the life I thought I was supposed to have at that point, not knowing the first step in how to get there for real. While most of my friends were off at some university (all but one person in my graduating class went to college right away, and that one guy had a law degree and had built and sold at least one financial firm in NYC by our ten year reunion), I believed I was experiencing 'real life' at 'ground level.' I considered most of my high school classmates pretentious, and wanted no part in how they saw the world. And though I fantasized about driving fancy cars and being able to buy expensive electronic things, those were really just fantasies, the way people imagine maybe they'll win the lottery one day. In truth, I didn't have any real interest in rising above the means and lifestyle to which I became accustomed in my parents' house. I was settled on a long, solid middle-class, blue collar life.
Maybe that's true. It's what I think being honest with myself means now. Another part of being honest with myself is saying that I was absolutely scared to death to step outside that box. Forget not knowing how to do it, I had no idea what was beyond those finite borders except a swirling vortex I wouldn't recognize and couldn't navigate. I knew other people had more things, went more places, spent more money, smiled and laughed more often... but I didn't know why, and I certainly didn't ascribe any of these things to their life experiences or education or income. The real truth is I was solidly, staunchly ignorant of what an adult life entailed. It's embarrassing to think it in such plain terms now.
And then, life happened to me. Between working 40 hours a week, and carrying 12 credit hours, I eventually was kicked out of the College of Engineering because I couldn't hold the minimum GPA and couldn't pass Calculus II. But I still had that 40 hour/week job, and I was in a relationship with an awesome girl who really had her life together, and I supposed that maybe I just needed to take a break. A tiny voice inside me told me then that if I stopped enrolling, semester after failing semester, I'd never go back. It was mostly right.
I know now that maybe the years following my academic charlie foxtrot were necessary to get myself together. At that point in my life, I'd spent all my 20 years building an impenetrable wall around myself. I grew up in an addictive home, watching my mother be emotionally and sometimes physically abused, and watching my father exist as a functional drunk. Our house was a terrible, dysfunctional drama made rich with beautiful hints of the real people my parents were under their codependent and addictive personalities. Needless to day, even in my twenties, I had a lot of emotional growing up to do. It didn't help that I tried doing it as a married man. But thanks to so many, many people and things, I started to uncover the festering state of my emotions, I started healing. I started to see that, not only could I really become the man I imagined I'd be, or that I could start to make real choices along the way, but that I could exceed my own expectations. That I should exceed them.
I gave myself permission to be happy and successful. It's a journey I'm still on, and a struggle I still put myself through, but I wonder what my life would be like if I'd been stubborn (or smart) enough to finish school way back then, get my Bachelor's degree and a good job, get married and have a family, and all the rest without actually discovering and starting to solve my emotional problems. Would I be having this same conversation with myself, but from the other side of the table? I will never know. Another very important lesson I have learned throughout this process is that I only get one chance at every day, and when it's gone, or when 100 or 1000 of them are gone, they're gone for good.
But now, here I am, back at square one, responsible for educating myself in order to fulfill a promise I should have made to myself twenty years ago. That promise wouldn't involve any wives or children or career plans, but if kept would more than satisfy any new responsibilities I may have to the aforementioned. This new attempt, forced upon me by my self-inflicted job objectives, will be my third and smallest attempt. I am not looking at degree programs or minimum requirements or planning graduation dates, I'm just looking for a math class.
That's right, a community college math class to not only get my feet wet but refresh so many of the skills I'll need to pass technical and science-y courses required for the eventually planned degree degree and graduation. It's appalling to me that I'm really no different than any of my graduate-degree holding coworkers in that I've forgotten how to take derivatives and integrate the area under a curve, but unlike them I'll be asked to re-learn these skills and re-prove proficiency. And that's just the math. Once this baby step is taken, I need to begin again at the point where my previous two attempts left off.
So I've started this process of learning how to get back into school. I'm looking at course catalogs and tuition and fee schedules. I'm reading up on financial aid. I have to contact my old institutions to get transcripts, work with my company on reimbursement, and make appointments with counselors. Most of this will have to be done on my own time. I don't even have time to cut the grass each week.
Not only is this process arduous and inconvenient, it's scary as hell. I'm finding the more I understand needs to be done, the more terrified I become. And it's humbling. The thought that I, at this age, not only have to go through this crap, but am having difficulty understanding it, is making me way less than happy. As I look at each website and print out papers and forms, I find myself hiding them from view because I don't really want people to know what I'm doing, let alone ask questions. I know this is for my betterment, etc., but so far this is proving to be one of the most difficult things I may have to do this year.
Well, here we are again. I'm making another run at finishing my education.
For the record, the primary reason I'm doing this isn't for the betterment of my self, my family, or my career. I'm doing this because, year after year, I stubbornly put something related to a degree in my annual objectives at work. And, year after year, I fail to meet that particular objective. I've now run out of viable excuses that will hold off the suspicions of not taking my job seriously enough for Salt Mine, Inc. to keep investing my annual salary. It's time to move.
Of course (for the record), I know the potential benefits of betterment for my self, family, career, etc. Sort of. I know them the way I know the contents of a book for which I've read summaries, or seen a movie version, or read the dust jacket over and over. I know what the book is about, who the main characters are, the plot, etc, but I still can't say I've read the book, and I'm missing all the intricacies and details which are truly essential to understanding it. It's the same with the benefits of finishing my degree. I don't really know them because, well, I haven't taken this step yet.
Not that I haven't tried. At the age when I was supposed to be finishing school, I was foolishly trying to work full time also, mostly because I had no idea how financial aid was supposed to work and neither did my parents. Bless them, they gave me the benefit of the doubt that I knew what I was supposed to be doing. And why shouldn't I? I'd just graduated from a prestigious college-prep boarding school. Also, I was tough, a real man finally stepping into the world. Unfinished, yes, but ready to grow and accept my role in life, whatever it may be, however unprepared I was for it.
The truth is that I had a wondrous ruse set up around myself. I was building/living the life I thought I was supposed to have at that point, not knowing the first step in how to get there for real. While most of my friends were off at some university (all but one person in my graduating class went to college right away, and that one guy had a law degree and had built and sold at least one financial firm in NYC by our ten year reunion), I believed I was experiencing 'real life' at 'ground level.' I considered most of my high school classmates pretentious, and wanted no part in how they saw the world. And though I fantasized about driving fancy cars and being able to buy expensive electronic things, those were really just fantasies, the way people imagine maybe they'll win the lottery one day. In truth, I didn't have any real interest in rising above the means and lifestyle to which I became accustomed in my parents' house. I was settled on a long, solid middle-class, blue collar life.
Maybe that's true. It's what I think being honest with myself means now. Another part of being honest with myself is saying that I was absolutely scared to death to step outside that box. Forget not knowing how to do it, I had no idea what was beyond those finite borders except a swirling vortex I wouldn't recognize and couldn't navigate. I knew other people had more things, went more places, spent more money, smiled and laughed more often... but I didn't know why, and I certainly didn't ascribe any of these things to their life experiences or education or income. The real truth is I was solidly, staunchly ignorant of what an adult life entailed. It's embarrassing to think it in such plain terms now.
And then, life happened to me. Between working 40 hours a week, and carrying 12 credit hours, I eventually was kicked out of the College of Engineering because I couldn't hold the minimum GPA and couldn't pass Calculus II. But I still had that 40 hour/week job, and I was in a relationship with an awesome girl who really had her life together, and I supposed that maybe I just needed to take a break. A tiny voice inside me told me then that if I stopped enrolling, semester after failing semester, I'd never go back. It was mostly right.
I know now that maybe the years following my academic charlie foxtrot were necessary to get myself together. At that point in my life, I'd spent all my 20 years building an impenetrable wall around myself. I grew up in an addictive home, watching my mother be emotionally and sometimes physically abused, and watching my father exist as a functional drunk. Our house was a terrible, dysfunctional drama made rich with beautiful hints of the real people my parents were under their codependent and addictive personalities. Needless to day, even in my twenties, I had a lot of emotional growing up to do. It didn't help that I tried doing it as a married man. But thanks to so many, many people and things, I started to uncover the festering state of my emotions, I started healing. I started to see that, not only could I really become the man I imagined I'd be, or that I could start to make real choices along the way, but that I could exceed my own expectations. That I should exceed them.
I gave myself permission to be happy and successful. It's a journey I'm still on, and a struggle I still put myself through, but I wonder what my life would be like if I'd been stubborn (or smart) enough to finish school way back then, get my Bachelor's degree and a good job, get married and have a family, and all the rest without actually discovering and starting to solve my emotional problems. Would I be having this same conversation with myself, but from the other side of the table? I will never know. Another very important lesson I have learned throughout this process is that I only get one chance at every day, and when it's gone, or when 100 or 1000 of them are gone, they're gone for good.
But now, here I am, back at square one, responsible for educating myself in order to fulfill a promise I should have made to myself twenty years ago. That promise wouldn't involve any wives or children or career plans, but if kept would more than satisfy any new responsibilities I may have to the aforementioned. This new attempt, forced upon me by my self-inflicted job objectives, will be my third and smallest attempt. I am not looking at degree programs or minimum requirements or planning graduation dates, I'm just looking for a math class.
That's right, a community college math class to not only get my feet wet but refresh so many of the skills I'll need to pass technical and science-y courses required for the eventually planned degree degree and graduation. It's appalling to me that I'm really no different than any of my graduate-degree holding coworkers in that I've forgotten how to take derivatives and integrate the area under a curve, but unlike them I'll be asked to re-learn these skills and re-prove proficiency. And that's just the math. Once this baby step is taken, I need to begin again at the point where my previous two attempts left off.
So I've started this process of learning how to get back into school. I'm looking at course catalogs and tuition and fee schedules. I'm reading up on financial aid. I have to contact my old institutions to get transcripts, work with my company on reimbursement, and make appointments with counselors. Most of this will have to be done on my own time. I don't even have time to cut the grass each week.
Not only is this process arduous and inconvenient, it's scary as hell. I'm finding the more I understand needs to be done, the more terrified I become. And it's humbling. The thought that I, at this age, not only have to go through this crap, but am having difficulty understanding it, is making me way less than happy. As I look at each website and print out papers and forms, I find myself hiding them from view because I don't really want people to know what I'm doing, let alone ask questions. I know this is for my betterment, etc., but so far this is proving to be one of the most difficult things I may have to do this year.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Beforethoughts: On the Road...Again
10 January, 2011
Once more I'm picking up the baton and trying to finish this race. My head is a fog of mixed feelings.
You see, what I've done is get myself a math course at the community college. Math, specifically Calculus II, was my nemesis in my First Attempt at Big University. The math program at BU was notorious for "weeding out" the less successful engineering students (my major at the time). I came in with a strong high school math background and went right into Calculus I. I passed, but with a grade typical of that time in my life, characterized more by my family and personal dramas than the traditional college experience. I went into the next course, Calculus II, and failed miserably. Four times.
I took as many gen ed courses as I could in the meantime, and everything in my curriculum that didn't have Calc II as a prereq. After two years, I'd run out of money and, more importantly, gumption. I guess I was a pretty classic college dropout. I knew it wasn't uncommon, and I was still more accomplished than many of the people I was working with, so didn't feel too awful about it. I began to focus on building the life I had.
That part of my life is still progressing; it constitutes what has been and will be the core of my time on this Earth: personal discovery, healing, family, career. I am proud of what I have, both in the sense of who I've become (so far), and what I've managed to 'collect' along the way. My internal trophy case is admirably full for a man my age, especially in non-material accomplishments, but one shelf is almost completely empty. I've been keeping that space open for twenty years; it's time to earn something to put there.
I'm starting to get a little panicked and a lot philosophical about what it will mean to be back in school. On one hand, I'm going through the familiar embarrassment of needing to go back at all. I'm 20 years out of high school and I still haven't finished a degree. Also, the course is elementary level for the ultimate goal: a Bachelor of Science. I have five more math courses to take, and I'm not even sure taking them at community college will do any more than boost my confidence in the subject. And if Big University doesn't allow the transferred credits, I'll have to repeat the courses there before I move into core curriculum.
On the other hand, I'm excited to actually be on the path again. Some fortune cookie I had once said something like the worst false step you can take is no step at all. That the direction I've been moving for a really long time. The idleness started with discouragement, continued with a straw house of security on existing accomplishment and skill, and has since been perpetuated by fear of looking like a fool. To satisfy the people around me who try to get me moving, and also satisfy the parts of myself that know damn well they're right, I talk big, make token plans, and ultimately use whatever seems most valid at the time to excuse myself for not acting. Now, if I can get over that hump and get into a routine of progressive coursework, I may actually get myself a degree.
The prospect simultaneously excites and scares the hell out of me.
I have no idea how a degree will change things. (Well, I have some idea, professionally, but zilch in ever other aspect). I concluded a bunch of years ago that it wasn't fear of failure that held me back, but fear of success. Because success always comes at a price. I have a good (enough) thing going to live a decent, modest life as long as I don't plan too big and nothing terrible happens, like the economy crashing, and waves of nationwide unemployment for instance. The fact is, unless faced with a real threat of loss of security, making the extra effort and upsetting everyone's routines doesn't seem worth the short-term trouble, and the long-term is too far away to make sacrifices. What I concluded is that even if I woke up one morning with a (real) PhD on the wall, without having actually gone through the motions of earning it, I still would be afraid of change.
Why? I know much of it has to do with self-confidence. Much of me believes I already have more than I deserve [link], and labels my inaction as Humility. In other words, you keep to your place in life and be happy you have so much already. Other parts of me don't want to stick out, are afraid to ask for more, fear the inevitable questioning of even legitimately earned credentials. Most of the reasons are rediculous. I usually play the role of smart underachiever, a big fish in a little pond. I fear that when I move to the big pond, I'll be a pretty small fish--really nothing special at all.
I know better than to seriously believe any of these things are truth. I've been a professional for years, and done work impressive, and in some cases superior, to people around me with advanced education and experience in my field. There's nothing stopping me from making the connections necessary to move up in my career, and the older I get the more I realize I have not only the technical expertise, but also the common sense and the people skills. There's nothing stopping me except one thing.
My boss calls a degree a ticket to the dance. I've seen over and over again that this is true. Although sometimes I get a temporary guest pass, and sometimes people will step out to interact with me, it doesn't matter that I can waltz my ass off in the lobby, I'm simply not allowed in the ballroom.
I do know of one change that will happen when I finish a degree: a huge weight will be lifted off me. What kind of man will I be when I no longer live with the fear of being judged an imposter, a charlatan who pretends to have legitimate and valuable skills? What will it feel like, for a moment in my life, to feel like a success in the one way I have always felt like a failure?
I am determined to find out. On your mark...
Once more I'm picking up the baton and trying to finish this race. My head is a fog of mixed feelings.
You see, what I've done is get myself a math course at the community college. Math, specifically Calculus II, was my nemesis in my First Attempt at Big University. The math program at BU was notorious for "weeding out" the less successful engineering students (my major at the time). I came in with a strong high school math background and went right into Calculus I. I passed, but with a grade typical of that time in my life, characterized more by my family and personal dramas than the traditional college experience. I went into the next course, Calculus II, and failed miserably. Four times.
I took as many gen ed courses as I could in the meantime, and everything in my curriculum that didn't have Calc II as a prereq. After two years, I'd run out of money and, more importantly, gumption. I guess I was a pretty classic college dropout. I knew it wasn't uncommon, and I was still more accomplished than many of the people I was working with, so didn't feel too awful about it. I began to focus on building the life I had.
That part of my life is still progressing; it constitutes what has been and will be the core of my time on this Earth: personal discovery, healing, family, career. I am proud of what I have, both in the sense of who I've become (so far), and what I've managed to 'collect' along the way. My internal trophy case is admirably full for a man my age, especially in non-material accomplishments, but one shelf is almost completely empty. I've been keeping that space open for twenty years; it's time to earn something to put there.
I'm starting to get a little panicked and a lot philosophical about what it will mean to be back in school. On one hand, I'm going through the familiar embarrassment of needing to go back at all. I'm 20 years out of high school and I still haven't finished a degree. Also, the course is elementary level for the ultimate goal: a Bachelor of Science. I have five more math courses to take, and I'm not even sure taking them at community college will do any more than boost my confidence in the subject. And if Big University doesn't allow the transferred credits, I'll have to repeat the courses there before I move into core curriculum.
On the other hand, I'm excited to actually be on the path again. Some fortune cookie I had once said something like the worst false step you can take is no step at all. That the direction I've been moving for a really long time. The idleness started with discouragement, continued with a straw house of security on existing accomplishment and skill, and has since been perpetuated by fear of looking like a fool. To satisfy the people around me who try to get me moving, and also satisfy the parts of myself that know damn well they're right, I talk big, make token plans, and ultimately use whatever seems most valid at the time to excuse myself for not acting. Now, if I can get over that hump and get into a routine of progressive coursework, I may actually get myself a degree.
The prospect simultaneously excites and scares the hell out of me.
I have no idea how a degree will change things. (Well, I have some idea, professionally, but zilch in ever other aspect). I concluded a bunch of years ago that it wasn't fear of failure that held me back, but fear of success. Because success always comes at a price. I have a good (enough) thing going to live a decent, modest life as long as I don't plan too big and nothing terrible happens, like the economy crashing, and waves of nationwide unemployment for instance. The fact is, unless faced with a real threat of loss of security, making the extra effort and upsetting everyone's routines doesn't seem worth the short-term trouble, and the long-term is too far away to make sacrifices. What I concluded is that even if I woke up one morning with a (real) PhD on the wall, without having actually gone through the motions of earning it, I still would be afraid of change.
Why? I know much of it has to do with self-confidence. Much of me believes I already have more than I deserve [link], and labels my inaction as Humility. In other words, you keep to your place in life and be happy you have so much already. Other parts of me don't want to stick out, are afraid to ask for more, fear the inevitable questioning of even legitimately earned credentials. Most of the reasons are rediculous. I usually play the role of smart underachiever, a big fish in a little pond. I fear that when I move to the big pond, I'll be a pretty small fish--really nothing special at all.
I know better than to seriously believe any of these things are truth. I've been a professional for years, and done work impressive, and in some cases superior, to people around me with advanced education and experience in my field. There's nothing stopping me from making the connections necessary to move up in my career, and the older I get the more I realize I have not only the technical expertise, but also the common sense and the people skills. There's nothing stopping me except one thing.
My boss calls a degree a ticket to the dance. I've seen over and over again that this is true. Although sometimes I get a temporary guest pass, and sometimes people will step out to interact with me, it doesn't matter that I can waltz my ass off in the lobby, I'm simply not allowed in the ballroom.
I do know of one change that will happen when I finish a degree: a huge weight will be lifted off me. What kind of man will I be when I no longer live with the fear of being judged an imposter, a charlatan who pretends to have legitimate and valuable skills? What will it feel like, for a moment in my life, to feel like a success in the one way I have always felt like a failure?
I am determined to find out. On your mark...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)